#probably sick because ive got a runny nose too

[ordinarytalk]

I've been playing a fun game for the last two days called "is my throat sore because I was yelling and breathing in fog machine all weekend, or am I actually sick?"

[starg1rlie]

hihi! hope youre doing well! ♡ ive never done one of these ask games before but they seem sups cute so i thought id give it a shot ! 💍 for scara please !!

im ambivert!! i really enjoy talking to people and love being around them! id describe myself as a rather calm and go with the flow. im a very patient person and like to see the brighter side of things. im a very physically affectionate person and generally just a pretty happy person 😭 i dont really like confrontation all too much but i will engage in some teasing if i know the other person is okay w it. unfortunately im also the victim of being a HUGE sappy hopeless romantic too 😔 i really enjoy writing :> music and nature are huge inspirations for me and are a big part of my life ! i also draw quite a lot too, it helps relax me and i love making things. i hope you have a great day and thank you for your time! <3 (apologies if this is too long! ^^;;)

(hello, my apologies for taking so long to get to your request, i hope that you haven't been waiting too long...i got a bit sick and i lost my motivation to write, since i dont feel like i'd be pushing out anything worthwhile for my readers at the time, but here i am <3 hope you enjoy)

biking around the city

its dangerous, he says, and yet, he still goes along with it. you first suggested it as a way to get some fresh air (as if the two of you couldn't receive fresh air from the front porch of your house), and he agreed, only because he knows how much you enjoy taking in the scenery of mother nature. of course he didn't expect for you to ask him to hold hands while doing so. if he had, he'd have refused to accompany you and would probably force you to do something else inside the house that wasn't quite so dangerous. he went along with it anyways, linking his fingers through yours as the two of you biked around the neighborhood for a bit. then scaramouche insisted the two of you head back, because it was getting late and your parents would probably murder him if he kept you out for too long.

he'll play the piano in the middle of the night

even though his mother had previously forced him to learn how to play the piano, he still secretly enjoyed it, despite all the smacks to the hand he received from his instructor. he hadn't played in a while and he felt a little nostalgic one night, so he plopped himself down in front of the grand piano, flipping the cover open and letting his fingers brush against the piano keys. slowly, he dipped into a simple melody he first learned, then ascended into a more complicated tune. all the while, he never looked up from his work, playing and playing until he played the last note. a clap startled him and he jumped up from his seat, whirling around to face you. you didn't tell me you played the piano, you'd say as he came over to wrap his arms around you. that's a one-time thing, he replied. only it wasn't; he started playing more and more every night, and you, upstairs in the bedroom, would listen contentedly under the covers, happy that he continues to play.

introduce him to romance

he legit hasn't had a single romancic occurence in his life (poor boy), and does not understand how you can be so sappy and romantic all of the time. so when you sat him down one night, scaramouche couldn't help but feel a little skeptical about the whole ordeal. romance wasn't his thing, not really, anyways. but you tossed a copy of "to all the boys i've loved before" and left him to "do his thing". a few hours later, you hear sobbing from downstairs and rush to see what's the matter. why are you crying? you asked him, rubbing a hand soothingly over his back. this book is so fucking sad, he'd say, wiping at his runny nose first and then his eyes. honey...it's a romance book...you replied, a little confused. i know. it's so fucking bad.

he'll teach you how to waltz

scaramouche isn't much of a dancer himself, but since there is a formal dance coming up at his school, and he wants to take you as his date, he practiced for weeks on end, ever since the school announced the dance. when he finally felt good about his performances, scaramouche invited you to his living room and placed a hand over your waist, the other gently clasping your hand in his. together the two of you swayed around the room until you collapsed into an exahusted heap, erupting into giggles. what's this for? you inquired, gesturing at his tuxedo and neatly combed hair the next day. what did you think i asked you to dance with me for last night? he shot back, re-adjusting his tie. we're going to the dance. with that, he promptly drags you out of the house to drive to the dance.

listens to your onslaught of playlists

it seems every day you manage to make a new playlist for him to listen to. him? he prefers indie pop and would rather slit his throat than listen to anything other than his chill music. however, since you put time and effort into the playlists, he'll scroll through it and play some of the songs in there. eventually, he'll find his head bobbing along to the songs and will scowl to himself, ripping his headphones off and glaring at his phone. your playlists...aren't as bad as i thought they'd be, scaramouche said the next day. his eyes narrowed just a bit. but we'll be talking more about your music taste in the future.

he'll organize a hike and picnic

since you seem to love nature so much, scaramouche mentally mapped out a plan for taking you out one weekend for a hike, and then a picnic at a pretty area, even going so far to take the scenic route instead of the shorter route. backpack and picnic basket in tow, he'll determindely hike up the hill with you, even though his feet are killing him and he'd much rather be relaxing back at home, watching riverdale. when the two of you finally reached the summit, he keeled over on his hands and knees, gasping and panting heavily. nope, this man is not in shape. want some water? you offer him, holding out a bottle of cold water for him. scaramouche accepted it gratefully and gulped half of it down before swiping at his chin. you're lucky that i decided to go through with this, otherwise we'd be rewatching riverdale again at home, he said pointedly, wiggling his index finger at you while he tried controlling his breathing.

[37q]

so ive been bedridden allllll day because i got home from work at 5:30 yday and slowly started getting sicker and sicker like kais been the past few days... congestion and slight headache last night -> migraine, joint and muscle aches, congestion and a runny nose, and clamminess today! i dont trust my thermometer tbh because it says both kai n i are well below fever when were both hot and clammy etc. shes been soooooo coughy too but i havent at all like my sore throats probably from my post nasal drip tbh. so ive been stupid sick and in a literal drowse-daze all day until kai got some pain meds delivered from target (did not know that was a thing) at like 5:30 and then when it started kicking in around 5:45 im like oh im fine now :) literally all my symptoms are gone i love drugs. its good cuz ive been at like a 8 on the pain scale groaning and crying and sobbing all day and its really been killing my throat and my electrolyte levels LOL so im gonna see how i feel tmrw and if im ok im gonna get tested again so i can work bruh

[1-2-4sudoku]

Snapped Restraints: Chapter Four: The Last Straw

AU: This is a long chapter, folks. If you’ve been waiting for the ‘snapped’ part of Snapped Restraints, this is where your wish comes true.

“What happened to your room?” Alfred asked me suspiciously.

“Um, I had an emotional breakdown.”

“I’m well aware of that, but I was told it happened at school,” he replied with one eyebrow raised.

I shifted my weight from one leg to the other and twined my brown hair around my finger anxiously I wasn’t stupid. I knew that Alfred knew that I was lying.

“You’re sure, Miss Juliette. that it was you who destroyed every one of your precious origami, which you spent hours on, which I’ve heard you refer to as your ‘pride and joy’?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and said:“Yes, Alfred. I just lost my temper, is all.”

I felt bad for lying to someone who had been good to me. He had saved me from training sessions, defended me, made me my after school snacks, and so much more. I knew he wanted to help me, and I lied to him.

He couldn’t prove I was lying, though he knew I was. There weren’t any cameras set up in my room, no honest eye witness report. If he tried to dig deeper with no solid evidence, he could fail and Bruce would be angry and it would be worse for me.

On Friday, Dick picked up Damian to spend the weekend with him in Bludhaven. When Dick brought him back, he talked to Bruce. That freaked me out. I thought that Damian told our brother about Bruce hitting us. I felt it was my fault for encouraging him to stand up for himself.

I came into his room without knocking, and discovered that Tim and Cassandra were already there. Damian saw me come in and immeaditely blurted out: “I didn’t tell Grayson what you think I did. I only said anything at all because he asked me why I was sad!”

“Fill me in,” I demanded.

“I only told him about what happened at school and Father being angry with us, not that he hit us, and now Grayson is angry with Father.” Damian looked scared and pale and very small. He was on his bed with his arms around Titus, who he was holding onto like a lifeline.

“Okay. Okay.” I began pacing rapidly with my fingers woven tightly in my hair as I desperately wondered: What now? What the fuck do we do now?

Cass was sitting next to Damian, looking just as lost as he did. Tim sat in a desk chair with his elbows on his knees and his hands supporting his gaunt face.

After a few long moments, Damian inquired in an appropriately childlike voice: “Are you angry with me?”

Tim responded the fastest and the most harshly. “Um, YES!”

“Zip it!” I told him. “I need to think.”

“That’s funny,” Tim stood up. seeing his face, I noticed that he seemed to have worry lines despite his age. He started towards Damian. He wasn’t replying to me. He had concentrated his anger on Damian. “Because you know what I’m thinking? I think-”

“Quiet!” Cass snapped.

“Thank you!” I said empathetically. “Don’t try to redirect your anger at anyone else, Tim. It’s Bruce who hurt us, Bruce we should be angry with.”

“Hero. Helped me.” Cassandra interjected quickly.

“He hurt you, too, Cass,” Tim replied. “After all you’ve been through, of course you’d like the world to be black and white and Bruce a hero. But it isn’t and he’s not.”

“Tim is right,” I agreed. 

Tim inhaled deeply. “When he found out that you were suicidal, Bruce should have tried to find you therapy. Instead, he locked you in a sinking ship to make you want to live.”

“Got out. Lived.” Insisted Cassandra fervently.

“What if you didn’t?” Tim demanded of her. “What if you had wanted to die so badly that you lay on the floor and let yourself drown?”

“You were suicidal?” Damian asked. “Why?”

Cass nodded. After a period of silence she admitted: “Killed before. Hated myself.”

Cass’s feelings were a welcome distraction from my own panic and turmoil. I instantaneously jumped on the new topic.

“You stayed with Barbara for a long time, right?” I asked. “Did she try to help you with those feelings?”

She nodded.

“Tell me about that.”

This time Cass waited a long time to talk and said a lot when she did. “Barbara was kind to me. Tried to teach me words. Helped me... socialize. 

“She told me everyday that I was good. Said I wasn’t my father. Wanted to know my feelings. If I said I was bad, Barbara told me all the good I did.” 

After that speech, Cassandra brought her knees up to her chin and and wrapped her arms around them. She closed her almond eyes, clearly exhausted from saying so much, and put her head down. She told me without words that she was done speaking.

“Cass,” Tim concluded gently. “Barbara loves you like a daughter. Bruce appreciates you as a weapon.”

“Amen,” I verified with passion. “Bruce doesn’t love us. The sooner we come to terms with that, the better.”

Damian muttered something from his bed.

“What’d you say?” Tim inquired tiredly.

A short pause. A child’s voice muffled by his sadness. “I’m difficult to love.”

“You only think that because Bruce never tried to love you!” I cried. “I know! Tim filled me in on everything about this family when I got here. Bruce didn’t try to know you, didn’t try to be patient with you, didn’t try to help you, didn’t try to bond with you. If that shitbag can’t love you, he’s got no one to blame but himself.”

Damian started crying. The tears streaking his face and his runny nose were good reminders as to how young the little soldier was. 

Without a word, Cassandra and I wrapped our arms around him. After a few moments, Tim did the same with an accepting mutter of, “Oh, what the Hell.”

Silently, we all agreed that we were going to stick together through whatever happened.

As for what all Dick said to Bruce, I’m not sure what exactly it was, but I know it made him angry and I know it affected Alfred’s view of him.

After that day, he was never not home when Bruce was. And sometimes, when the Batman looked at me, I could see it in his eyes that he was full of burning hatred of me. I knew he wanted to hit me. The feeling was mutual.

Three weeks later, Alfred decided that is was safe to leave all us kids alone with Bruce while he went to the library. Big mistake.

That fateful Tuesday afternoon,  I  was working on a puzzle at my desk. As I did, Nadia chased a small rubber band ball across the floor.

Foolishly, stupidly, absolutely moronically, I had left my bedroom door wide open. I felt Bruce come in before I turned and saw him, because kids like me have a sixth sense for danger.

I stood up and we looked at each other silently before that bastard spoke. He watched Nadia studiously. She was stock still with quivering whiskers; a deer in the headlights. “I know you love that rat.”

A lot of things happened in the ten to fifteen seconds following his words. They didn’t blur together to me; instead they were all very clear in my mind.

I knew exactly what he was thinking. I thought: Hell no, you motherfucker.

Adrenaline flooded my system immeadietly. I started moving, and moving fast.

“It would be a sha-” Gargoyle Face began, but I interrupted him, yelling: “OVER MY DEAD BODY!!!”

As I uttered those words, I pinned my beloved friend to my chest with my arms and arched my back over her with my legs bent beneath me.

Gargoyle came at me screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs, but I didn’t try to run.

He kicked me hard in the side. He grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me so my back was to the floor. I must’ve learned something after all from all the training, because I manged to kick him fairly hard in the balls.

After that was when everything started to blur together. I think he threw me across the room to try to shock me into loosening my hold. I think he tried to stomp on my hands to break them. I think it’s a miracle that he couldn’t, a miracle that I somehow kept Nadia safe.

I know that I was crying hard and swearing and Nadia was screaming and shitting herself and the demonic excuse for a hero was yelling and beating me and I knew better than to try to fight him and out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw Cassandra and then suddenly it stopped.

She knocked out Bruce with a nerve paralyzing move on, I found out later. She finally stopped standing by and helped me.

Tim and Damian came in moments later.

Tim was the first to speak. “Oh, Jesus Christ!”

Cass said: “Bruce hurt Juliette. I hurt Bruce.” She said this in a very quiet and flat voice, like she was in shock. Later I decided that she probably was.

“Damian, try to take Nadia from her, and you take care of her,” Tim ordered. He spoke in a calm, professional manner. “Cass, you help me move Bruce to his bed.”

After a long time, Damian somehow managed to pry Nadia from my grasp and hold her for me so that I could take a hot bath.

Most of one wall in my bathroom was covered in mirror. When I stood up and looked at my body, the bruising was so bad that the freckles that covered every inch of my skin were no longer visible in some places.

Damian began cleaning my room while Tim looked for pain medication and cold packs. 

“I’d give you morphine if I could, but that means an IV, which there’s no way Alfred wouldn’t notice,” he said miserably. Then Tim helped Damian clean up.

My brothers and sister put me to bed and arranged ice packs around me. They planned to help me fake being sick so that I could stay in bed and recover.

I lay there staring daggers at the ceiling, nowhere near sleep. My wounds pulsed to the beat of my heart, as rage simmered and boiled inside of it.

One thought played on repeat in my head. That’s it. You don’t fuck with me or the people I love, because there’e Hell to pay if you do. Oh, that bastard’s gonna pay.

[suave-ish]

tw depression anxiety and covid-19

hello everyone, my name is mercedes and i don’t know who will read this i have no followers but i hope it reaches someone. i don’t use this blog much but here we are. im typing this on mobile so please forgive me if it’s messy.

i woke up at five in the morning today and i checked my emails. ive been waiting for results for 4 days. i saw the notification. clicked on it, logged in, and read, “positive.”

and although i am considerably healthy and have a strong immune system, i cried and i cried and i cried.

i have covid-19.

i want to talk about the symptoms i had before i got my results and about how i’m feeling now. mentally and physically.

everyone i’ve ever heard talk about covid-19 says the FIRST thing to look for is a fever. and that’s valid! it’s a very common symptom amongst most people. except for me! i took my temperature every single day and it never exceeded a 97.4. the first symptoms i started showing was a headache and dry throat. the next day i started experiencing cold-like symptoms. runny nose, coughing, itchy throat. around day 3-4 of noticeable symptoms i started having trouble taking deep breaths.

i also experienced extreme fatigue. (i’m not a napping type of person but i found myself taking more and more naps. i didn’t think much of it because i’m pretty much always tired. ive been like that since i was young. i only ever took naps when i was sick. lo and behold).

i started feeling better after a week of experiencing symptoms so i thought that was it. just a mild cold. no fever. i was wrong. one morning i got up and i felt extremely nauseous. i felt sick to my stomach, i was dizzy, and the world was spinning. and yet i got in my car and headed to work.

yeah that lasted an hour. i called my boss and i told her i needed to go home immediately. i had to wait another hour for someone to come in and cover the shift. i have never felt that kind of nausea in my entire life. that’s when i decided to take the test. my instincts told me, you’re sick. you have it. but (as one does) i hoped to god that it would be negative. i did everything to protect myself and yet i still got it.

anyway. today i feel extremely tired and weak. my stomach still feels a little nauseous but that’s about it for how i’m feeling physically. on to the mental side affects of this all.

i want to mention that i have severe anxiety and depression so lockdown hasn’t been great for me, i don’t have stable coping mechanisms for either illnesses so i just have to bare the brunt of it all when i’m experiencing episodes.

today has been the worst since i just found out i have covid-19. i live in a household with 6 people (including me). three children and one person with a compromised health. my mother had valley fever and although it is currently inactive, it still affects her health and immune system. if you’re from the valley you’re probably familiar with it and so you might understand how scary this pandemic is for her.

i went through a lot of emotions. shock. fear. guilt. i’m already feeling the brunt of isolation (not to mention the way my fucking ass hurts from laying in bed for 5 days straight.) but all those other feelings made it worse. especially knowing i could put my mother in danger.

and if you’re self isolating and you’re like me, you need social interactions so your mental health doesn’t suffer too much, please reach out to people. anyone. i talk to my friends and grandma over facetime. sometimes my siblings yell “i love you!” from across the house. i’m grateful to be in a position where i will most likely recover soon. i’m thankful to have a roof over my head to protect me and others from spreading the virus. not everyone has that privilege.

please. if you show any symptoms, get tested! i went to a testing center in my city that provides free self swab tests and i hope that you can find something similar.

and please please please. stay home if you can. if you can’t, wear a mask. prevent the spread.

[veinsinneon]

“How is it like? Heroin I mean… how does it feel like?” Syd cut dryly through the silence from his restless, leg shaking position. The atmosphere was relaxed but he sensed it as tense, thick enough to slice with a knife. The tight alley the balcony was facing echoed with a short, sour laugh and words that followed. "I’m not sure I can say, I don’t want to prompt you to trying it yourself.” Logan leaned back, staring intently at the man in front of him. He was surprised at the sudden shift of the subject, at how he was put in the spotlight of Syd’s attention. "If I wanted I would get out of this place and buy some, yet I am still here talking to you, so I guess it’s safe to tell me.” Sunlight was lazily seeping through the trees, lighting up the small space. Particles of dust were dancing in the light, raising up then slowly falling down following their own choreography. Silence was only interrupted by muffled ticking of the clock from the back of the room behind. "I will preface this with the mandatory, it’s not a drug to be messed with and I mean it completely, take it from someone who overdosed twice and was found once by a friend and second time by my then girlfriend. I lost a loved one and a friend to addiction. I tried to quit cold turkey four times, only followed by relapse after relapse, then finally detox, rehab and proper therapy. I know people who ended up in jail. I was the biggest, lying asshole to everyone around me, because I didn’t care anymore, I wanted to stay in that heroin bubble and tried to push everyone away. I am sitting here only because I had someone who fought tooth and nail for me, who believed in me so hard I started to believe too, I understand curiousity and I don’t mind your question, from one addict to another without bullshit… it’s like-”, blue-eyed turned his gaze from Syd and pinned onto his own hands. "It’s definitely not how you think it is. If we take an IV use it’s an universe of experience on it’s own. But it’s not making you feel energized… there’s no fireworks. It is a great fucking feeling, like sinking into a warm bath. There’s no care that you could give, because everthing is meaningless. Not in a depressive kind of way, but more like, all that matters is what’s in your veins. You just float.” It’s a feeling that could never be forgotten, and then gets chased like the white rabbit. Logan sighed, immersed in his dark and hazy thoughts. You never forget your past lovers and this is exactly the same. "Your body naturally produces dopamine, it can turn off the feeling of pain or fear.” He continued. "Heroin binds to the opioid receptors and turns into morphine and you get the feeling of a rush of endorphines, your heartbeat slows, your breathing gets shallow and slower, you’re experiencing an absolute pleasure… If you could have an essence - it’s all of the best things you can think of; the best food you ever had, every happy moment of your life, sex – combine it all and you can loosely imagine how heroin feels like.” World moving at light speed while you’re stuck in heroin haze. Logan’s mouth corners twitched as a bitter smile plastered itself on his face. His thoughts swerved back and forth between gray colored memories. "That’s why it’s such a dangerous drug, it makes you think ‘oh, it certainly isn’t that bad right?’ There was no come down, you didn’t feel awful, no hangover, maybe a nice glow after, that’s all. So, there comes another opportunity to do it and again, you don’t see why would anyone be so scared since it’s doesn’t appear to be that bad. You do it and it’s great. You can get a balloon for $15, so like a pack of cigs and a nice beer, right? So, why not try. You can still go to work while on it. It’s how I functioned, getting dope, going to work to make more money to get dope. It makes everything that you hate totally bearable, maybe even makes you enjoy it; you love all the people around, ah a small talk during the lunch break? Lovely.” The sun got covered by a blanket of thick clouds and the balcony deprived of light source darkened. "You go on and on… until one morning you wake up at 4 am, you feel sick, you’re cold, you have a runny nose, you hate life, you hate everyone. Oh, time to buy some heroin to make you feel better. Oh, it’s 60 dollars now? Your usual dose is not enough? You’re spending $250 daily? Shit, what are you going to do now? Now, you need it not to get high and drift motionless through space, you need it, to feel normal, to function, to not feel like you’re dying. Because withdrawals after prolonged use are a pain. Literal pain, in every little part of your body, you can’t really tell where it’s located, because you feel it everywhere. Take every broken bone, tooth aches, open wounds; but it’s the mental thing that’s coming with the withdrawals, where you just feel the worst anxiety and the worst fear, sadness and dread at once. I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone. It’s not like with alcohol where the withdrawals can kill you, heroin withdrawals will not kill you, but it sure will make you wish it did. First few days are like this, even thinking hurts, you can’t move without being in pain, you’re shaking, can’t even get up from the floor that’s covered in your own vomit. It stops being a casual drug habit and turns into a chore.”

What’s the word that could describe it best? Agony. Your own personal hell that was created by your hand. Carefully designed… "All of that comes crushing with this ultraviolence that’s beyond anything imaginable. To a normal person you could put syringe filled with watered down tea and say that it’s heroin and they would be like cool, take it away, I don’t want to do it. But if you put that syringe in front of me, tell me that’s heroin in there I will get fucking uncomfortable, I would probably have to leave the room. I think it’s the part of the allure of heroin. Since I got sober I don’t want to get fucked up at all, but there are moments in my life, sometimes when I think Jesus, I would love to get some dope, but even though I have those moments, this desire, I don’t want to act on it. And meeting addicts and working with people trying to get sober and trying to stay clean is reinforcing that thing in my head, thoughts of I don’t want to have that life anymore. I don’t want to be at this point we’re all I think about every day is how I’m going to get in contact with my dealer, then go buy dope and try to not get caught with either having it on me or using somewhere, it’s a whole ritual that’s coming with usage. And when you’re in rehab everyone says how it’s so amazing you’re getting clean and your life will be wonderful. It sounds like lies, because sobriety is a bitch. Addiction is like taking your life and smashing it into million pieces, and then sobriety is taking all of those pieces and trying to put them back together but nothing fits, nothing will ever be right.” Logan blinked rapidly, realizing how his words have taken on a somber tone. The man next to him calmed down, his hands rested together, legs no longer bobbing to their own rhythm, his dark eyes fixed on a dead spot somewhere behind Logan. "The thing is… one dose is too much and hundred never enough. If you manage to stop – and success rate is extremely low – all you’re feeling is boredom. Emptiness, depression that cuts straight to the bone. It follows you for months, years, you are unable to feel anything. Happiness becomes a myth that only makes you despise people who feel it. It’s like mourning a loss, because heroin was like a friend, always there. It will always be there, in the back of your mind, long before you’ll feel like a human. You will think about it, it’s like an itch that you can’t scratch. People who never experienced it will never understand. They think that since you were sick and then quit means you’re completely healthy. Poof, problem gone.” Logan took a deep breath, and smiled as the alley was once again bathed in sunlight. "Heroin may be the best thing you ever experienced, probably is, but that’s hardly a living, and you can only be a dead man if you choose to be.”

[septic-dr-schneep]

Omg I just got to In Times of Need Part 2 and WOW. Are Schneeple and Jackie going to be okay?

Well, as it turns out…

JSE Fanfiction - In Time Of Need (Part 5: Discord #3)

Summary: Jackieboy wakes up dazed and confused in the hospital and realizes that somewhere in the room, someone’s crying. 

My head…aches…Where—?

Jackieboy found it surprisingly difficult to form full thoughts as hedrifted back into consciousness, but as soon as he remembered the last facehe’d seen before darkness swarmed in, he went rigid, wide eyes flying open,adrenaline surging to all systems. Recon—Anti—he had to—

The few inches he shifted sent a scorching blast of pain to his side andhe lost his breath, easing gingerly back against the pillows and anxiouslyscanning what he could see of the room from there. This wasn’t like any hideoutAnti had ever imprisoned him in, he realized. It smelled sterile, sick, and sadsimultaneously—and someone was crying.

Jackieboy lay very still, unsure of where the sound was coming from; thepounding in his head and the beeping of his heart monitor were throwing himoff. Below him? A few feet away? He couldn’t sit up to see anyone withoutgiving away that he was awake. Should he risk it? What if this was a trick? Hewould never put it past Anti to test him by letting him think that he was safe,leaving bait in his “hospital room” and rigging some kind of death trap to killhim as soon as he tried to intervene. The more he strained his ears to listen,however, the more realization trickled into his mind and his heart begantwisting his stomach into knots.

He knew those sobs. He’d heard them more than he ever would have wantedto. They were for patients he’d agonized over, patients he’d lost, patientshe…blamed himself for creating. It was a wrenching sound, shuddery andbreathless and guttural, like his heart was being torn out of his chest pieceby piece.

If Anti would use anyone tobait him, it would be Henrik, Jackieboy mused frantically, wishing he couldclaw at his ears, block out the noise. He remembered the Glitch’s taunts aboutthe doctor and his failure to save Jack as they’d fought, as the knife had tornthrough Jackieboy’s skin like shredded paper. He remembered Anti growlinggleefully into his ear as he’d gouged the blade into his side.

“Y͟ou’ve do̴n̶e me a f͜a͜v͝or̵, J̛ack҉i̸e̷boy͡.You aban̶don th̶e͡m, I͢ ͟di̢s̢po̡s͡e o͡f̶ yo̢u…and now D̕a̷dd͜y͡ and hisl̵įt͠t͝le ̴h̨e̵lper have n̨o͠ ̢o͜n͞é to savethem.” Jackie had no answer but a wet, heaving cough, and Anti had chuckled anddragged the knife upward, opening the wound farther as his voice fell to a vindictivelygentle whisper. “Don’t ́yo̡u w͢ish͠ ͞h̢e could̷’v͘e foŗgi̢ve͜n y̧ou?”

There was a memory missing. Whatever had happened after was too fuzzy,too distant—there were lights? Jackie remembered lying on his back, watching fluorescentlights fly past overhead, but what had Anti been doing then? Where had he been?Had he—?

At the thought of what Henrik and Chase would endure if Anti tried to go through them for Jack, any fear for hisown safety was flicked out of his mind. His side—he couldn’t breathe, but hetried to force words.

“Anti…” he wheezed, barely a whisper. His face tightening as each sharpmovement sent a shock to his nerves, he groped desperately for the bars on thesides of his bed, trying to reel himself upright. His voice cracked as he triedto raise it, but he persisted, coughing raggedly. “Anti! You laid a hand on anyof—an’ I’ll—ghh—!” The heart monitortrilled warningly at him as he huffed out a breathless curse, curling in onhimself.

Because his eyes were closed, he couldn’t see it coming to brace himselfas he was knocked backwards by arms flung around him. Stunned by the unexpectedblow, he couldn’t even cry out, but his pain was pushed to the corner of hismind as he felt more than heard the same familiar sobs against his hospitalgown.

“Hen…?” he croaked out as a damp spot in the crook of his shoulderbloomed. Gingerly lifting a hand to the doctor’s trembling back, he tried tocatch his breath and register what was happening. He felt real, sounded real, smelledreal—the same clinging scent of sweat and metal and peppermint—but somehow it stillfelt entirely wrong. “Henrik…”

“’msorry’msorry’msorryJackie’msorry—”

“What…?”

Schneep sobbed with force at the faint, uncertain question, clutching athis neck, weakly rocking the both of them. “’m sorry,” he choked out again. “’m sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t mean tohurt you!”

“What…?” Jackieboy could only repeat, giving him a hesitant side glanceand instinctively rubbing his hand in reassuring circles over his back. “Youdidn’t…hurt me, Henrik, what’re youtalking about?”

“I let you go! I should’ve stopped you—or I should’ve gone with you—I should never—I can’t lose both my friends this way! Y-You…andJack…I f-failed you just the same as I failed him! I turned my b-back on you and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

“Whoa, no, what are you talking about?” the hero demanded for a thirdtime, more strongly this time, as he carefully extricated himself fromSchneep’s grip to finally get a look at him. He regretted it almost instantly.If Henrik had looked terrible when he left, he looked like death warmed overnow—no, with red-rimmed eyes, smeared, smudged glasses and a runny nose helooked like death set out to be chilled in the rain overnight.

“You didn’t turn your back on me,” Jackieboy stammered out at last. “Ileft.”

Schneep hiccupped emotionally, childishly, at that statement, shaking hishead. “I tell you to go.”

“But I was leaving anyway…How’re you blaming yourself for that?” hequestioned, eyes narrowing in concern. Schneep tensed and shivered, his breathscoming too harsh and too fast, and Jackie forewent an answer, tightening hishand on his friend’s shoulder and wincing deeply at how the skin at his sidepulled.

“Ow—Okay. Okay, you’re gonna hyperventilate. C’mon, slow it down,” hesoothed, keeping their eyes locked and lowering his voice to the steady professionalismhe used to reassure people in shock while they waited for their ambulance. “Deeperbreaths, buddy, you know how this works. Hold ’em deep down…and then out slowly.Shh, shh, shh, it’s okay…”

When Schneep finally gave him the hurried nod to let him know he was okayto continue on his own, Jackie released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, slumping back andscrewing his eyes shut, pressing his arm flat against his burning side. After aminute or so, he felt Schneep shift off the bed and pull on the IV lead in hisright arm. A few clicks later, the tension in his body was draining away, aswas the burn. Jackie made a light noise of surprise and relief as a mellow,pleasant tingle spilled over him.

“S’that the good stuff?” he asked rhetorically, laughing a little as hepeered up at his friend. Schneep sniffed and nodded, scrubbing a hand down hisface and trying to force a smile in return, but his eyes were still overlybright. Jackieboy’s wry smile faded, the initial euphoria dissipating as hethought back to their last real conversation. It still hung in the air betweenthem, unaddressed. Sure, he had apologized, but it was just as Anti had said,ironically enough. He wanted Schneep to forgive him. He wouldn’t be able toforgive himself until then.

“I shouldn’t have said those things,” he stated softly. “They weren’ttrue. I just…wanted to get you to back off. I—I wanted to hurt you. All I couldthink of was Anti. I know it’s no excuse but I couldn’t just—”

“No, no, you were right,” Schneep cut him off tightly, not quite lookinghim in the eyes as he fiddled with the edge of the blankets. “I know, believeme. I am not stranger to failure…Nothing I do is helping. It’s not your faultit’s true. I do not help Jack or Chase; you just didn’t want to stand there andwatch me fail every day. Is notproductive. I only wanted you to stay because you are more effective than I am,Jackie. You save them. I don’t.”

Taken aback, Jackieboy opened his mouth but no words were immediatelyforthcoming. What on earth could he say to that? Did he actually think that wastrue? Chase would have been longgone, lost to a bullet, if Schneep hadn’t operated on him! They wouldn’t evenhave the hope of a coma for a Jack if he hadn’t been there! But as much as hewanted to say these things, he could tell by the doctor’s expression that heprobably wouldn’t be able to really hear it.

“Henrik…You saved me,” heventured at last, causing Schneep’s hands to still over the blanket’s folds. “Iknow these stitches I got in this ribhere are yours. I’ve had ’em before—same side, even, when we first met. Youremember that?”

Schneep’s nod was so small that it was almost imperceptible, but it wasthere. It didn’t seem like he was getting through to him. Biting back a sigh,he reached out and snatched at his friend’s sleeve, ignoring how the needle inhis arm stung.

“It’s cold in here.”

Instead of understanding, Schneep glanced toward the door. “I can steal anotherblanket from the patient down the hall—”

Huffing, Jackie snatched at the folds that had just been so carefully pulledsmooth, dramatically flinging the top sheet open and then re-extending hishand. “It’s cold,” he repeated, wiggling his fingers expectantly. “I’m cold.”

When Schneep offered no answer but to blink in surprise, Jackie kickedthe bare foot that was exposed to the air and put an extra whine into hisvoice. “Come o-o-on, Marvin’s not here to be our human heating pad. I’m gonnago hypothermic—wait, what’s that? My doctor’s trying not to smile? He would let me shiver underthese itchy hospital blankets without sharing my suffering? The nerve!” Even aswarmth curled in his chest at the sight of Schneep’s grin—a rarity these days,to be sure—his voice softened as he concluded, “I just wanna give him the hughe didn’t get before I left.”

At that the doctor paused, cautiously tilting his head, and Jackie patientlybeckoned a third time. Finally Schneep offered another tiny nod, his smilelingering as he slid under the top sheet, leaving a few blankets between them sohe wouldn’t disturb any of Jackie’s bandages as he tucked his face into his side.

“…Ich habe dich vermisst,” hemurmured at last, his voice muffled.

“I missed you too,” Jackieboy assured him, lightly ruffling his friend’shair and then combing it back into place immediately after. Schneep didn’tgive any indication that he minded, so he did it again. With repetition, themotion became mindless. Jackie could do it with his eyes closed…

Eventually his fingers stilled, sliding out of his hair to catch on thefold in his collar, and neither of them was awake to notice.

[summerstainedandtemporary]

I decided to overthink my fear. Sue me, I’m a Scorpio.

“What is your biggest fear?”              

“Blood.”  

Growing up, I had been a sickly child who didn’t get to go to my nursery classes because I was confined at home, watching Looney Tunes over the smoke and noise of a nebulizer to treat my frequent asthma attacks. When I mean “sickly”, it’s when I was confined both at home and at the hospital majority of my childhood. Dengue fever, UTI, Asthma. Most of my childhood memories were made up of trips to the albularyo because of fevers or coughs that would never go away. I’d also remember the bitterness of medications I drank that took an hour of persuading, coercing, and pleading from my parents for me to drink. I took too many medications back then that I developed black teeth when I was a kid.

Most of all, I had too many encounters with blood-related sicknesses or accidents. The most distinct one was that there was a point in my childhood where I’d wake up every night with a nosebleed. I used to sleep in between my parents back then. Imagine the horror of waking up to your child with blood dripping down their nose like some kind of an exorcism film. I would hear the panic and worry in Mama’s voice as she would wake up Papa. I rarely hear that kind of voice from her, so in turn, I would also panic. Was I dying?

It went on for weeks but we never really went to the doctor to know the cause or treat it. But I heard from them that I might be probably just suffering the consequences of the abrupt changes in temperature and weather. My parents just got used to the routine of sleepily tilting my head up in the middle of the night until the bleeding stops. But not me, I never got used to it. I was still on high alert long after the bleeding stopped with the lingering taste of copper at the back of my throat. There were nights that I’ve mistaken the nosebleed for a runny nose and the next morning, I would wake up to the sight of bloody shirt and hands like I just murdered somebody in my sleep.

I like to think that this was where I started to develop my fear of blood.

One would say that the experience could have made me used to the sight of blood. But, it didn’t. The gamble of opening my eyes to blood or not traumatized me. Up until now, when I’d be having a runny nose at night, I would almost always turn on my phone’s flashlight to check if it is blood. I’m not grossed out by the dark thick liquid, no. It’s the implication that something serious might have happened.  

Like that one time in grade school where I wondered what would it feel like to run with my eyes closed. The feeling was liberating, with the wind against my body. It was like that scene from The Sound of Music where Julie Andrews was singing on a grass field with her hands held up. But it didn’t felt so freeing when I smacked my head into a concrete post. I bounced back and fell on my behind, eyes still closed. There was that horrifying moment again. The uncertainty of what liquid was dripping from my nose. Was it blood? It was. I saw it coating my hands again. Like those many nights. There was blood. Something terrible happened.  

I didn’t know why everything was hazy and I felt so sleepy. My aunt, who was taking care of us that time, had found me and wiped all the blood from my face that I couldn’t bear to do. The parents and yayas waiting for their children along with Aunty Upeng were alarmed once they saw my state. The clinic was closed during that hour as it was exams week, so the parents fussed over me while I drowsily leaned over my aunt. They bought an ice candy from the canteen and put it to my forehead which apparently had a bump. I also remembered throwing up a lot. In the bathroom. In the pavement. Even in the tricycle we rode on the way to the hospital. Aunty Upeng apologized to the driver, but I still felt bad. I didn’t say anything though. I just wanted to sleep back then. But I was continuously woken up by my aunt who was dragging me to the hospital where my mother was waiting.

I had a concussion that afternoon. And apparently, I also broke my nose. Fortunately, I wasn’t confined which relieved me so much from my worries. However, when I discovered we were going to the hospital, I panicked. Hospitals are for emergencies, accidents, deaths. It’s the place I’ve been confined in too much in my life with lingering scents of rubbing alcohol, squeaky wheels from metal carts containing rattling needles and syringes that have been injected on my arms too much too count. The main problem I had that time was if I were to be confined and injected with an IV drip. Not my concussion or broken nose. It was the IV drip and how they would puncture my skin. The act of opening my flesh with a sharp object.

My fear of blood came hand in hand with hospitals. When I see blood, I think of being in the hospital. I hate how stark white hospitals are. White bed sheets and pillowcases. White walls and floors. White uniforms. White cottons, tissues, and bandages. I hate it so much because dark red blood looks so glaringly daunting on white objects or surfaces. Somehow, it amplifies its presence in a room. And it is inevitable to encounter blood while in a hospital because of my frequent nosebleeds and injections. I’ve learned the skill of not moving my left arm for hours because of the fear that blood would appear on the tube connecting my hand and the IV drip.  

This reminds me of how I had always been longing to donate blood in a blood drive despite this fear of mine. But I’ve always made up excuses whenever there’s a blood drive in the university. I’d say, “I’m busy with school work that day” or “I slept late last night, it’s not allowed”. The truth is I’m really just avoiding this confrontation with blood and needles. Will I faint? My friend told me once how her blood stopped flowing out because she was nervous. Would I experience the same thing? It would be like an IV drip all over again. Only this time, it won’t be clear liquid flowing from the tube. It would be what I was avoiding: dark red warm blood.

Mama convinces me to this day to take up Medicine and be a doctor. This is the very reason why I didn’t and would not. I still panic even when the blood does not come from me.

Like that one night when my family and I were on the road to eat somewhere after the Sunday mass. There was no traffic because Papa was driving smoothly. I was at the back leaning in between the driver’s seat and passenger seat in front and we were all happily talking over each other; each with our own different stories to tell. I remembered someone was singing – it could have been me – and was abruptly cut off. I was thrown forward the same time Papa hit the brakes and something crashed into the front of the car. Thankfully, I had taken a hold of the car seats so my face was still intact. No noses broken.

               I remembered Papa being calm, despite having a known personality of being too sensitive and caring for the condition of our car. He exits the vehicle along with Mama, then, there was a blur of commotion outside. My brothers and I were asked to be seated at the back of the vehicle and the car’s sliding door was opened and a man was laid on the floor of the car. The door wasn’t closed the whole ride to the hospital as his feet dangled over. We were discouraged to ask questions or look over the man. But I had seen his foot. I was overtaken with the feeling that I should not move or else something will happen. The seats covered the rest of his body, but I saw his foot. His were wounded; blood and dirt covered his foot to his ankles. It was unmoving. And it looked pretty pale. To this day, I never knew if he survived. All I knew was that he was the one who hit our car with his motorcycle because he had been drinking. I wasn’t the one bleeding that night, but the image still haunts me to this day.  

“But what about your period?”

I’d scoff. Maybe if they’re an acquaintance or someone I just met, I would politely smile. This question really comes off as patronizing for me when one asks this in a teasing manner. It’s like assuming someone with glasses cannot see the number of fingers you’re holding up. They can see it, only a lot less clearly. People seem to exaggerate the irrationality of these situations and try to know to the extent of these irrationalities mockingly. Like maybe they’d expect me to faint then die while sitting on a toilet upon seeing my bloody underwear. Or maybe they’d expect that I’d avoid going to the toilet and handling the bloody mess. Yes, blood makes me anxious but I have no choice but to get used to the sight of it. Actually, period blood does not alarm me for the most part. But sometimes, I’d be horrified by the amount of blood leaving my body. Or flushing the toilet becomes dreadful because I have to take in the sight of a bloody toilet. It’s similar to saying “Oh you don’t like blood? But it’s inside you….” then comes their how-is-this-possible­-I-need-to-know-more gaze with a little bit – just a little bit – of judgement in their eyes. This tiny glimpse of judgement would rile up something in me, a need to justify my fear, despite knowing that I don’t need to defend myself. I’d explain anyway.

What people typically assume is that blood scares me because it’s blood; it’s gross. What they don’t know is that bleeding gives me an overwhelming feeling of anxiety and panic because the feeling is so much like the idea that something is leaking from you. And it’s oozing in the colour of a hauntingly dark red, something-terrible-happened red, dangerous glaring red. Might it be from a cut or wound, a part of you has been forcefully opened and that scares me more than anything. The body should be intact in the assurance that you’re okay. Blood is supposed to be INSIDE the body. The intact body. And when it’s not, it automatically turns on a panic alarm in my head with the bold words of SOMETHING HAPPENED flashing on and off in my mind because blood’s not inside me where it should be. It has made its way outside through an opening I don’t know where. I’m open somewhere. Vulnerable. The very thing that sustains my life is flowing out. And the idea that it’s already outside my body leaves me a feeling of not being in control. I don’t just simply cover up a wound with a band aid and call it a day. I still have to sit for a while and convince myself I’m not dying.

When I say blood, I also mean pain. Of flesh being sliced opened. People would tell me stories about how they were cut or wounded by an accident and I’d imagine the whole thing. Mama once told me a story of how she cut her arm up because she draw her arm back while a jewelry box closed on her, so the clasp tore her skin open. My mind would close in on the description of her flesh being torn and imagine it in every detail. The smooth flesh being run over with a sharp metal. At first, nothing will happen, or at most, the affected, marked skin would slowly turn pale like a chalked sketch of the outline of the cut. A few seconds in, little droplets of blood will seep through, slowly peeking out from the cut as if asking for a permission to come out. You move the injured arm and blood will flow out of it like dark red wine slowly dripping from a bottle. You move it more, and then you can see the skin opening, forming a mouth. Through the blood, you can see bits of pink flesh, the texture and appearance so similar to tocino ­– not the ones you order in carinderias where the pork is still a vibrant light pink; it’s the colour of the tocino you cook at home where you overcook it somehow because it tastes sweeter when burnt. The colour bordering between pink and red. I could immediately visualize it happening to my own skin. And then, a phantom of the pain would follow. The intensity of the phantom pain dependent on what my phobia tells me how painful it must be. That’s the routine. As a joke, my friends would share images of their fingers cut up or hold them up to my face when we’re together. As a habit, I’d clench my fists, my nails forming red little moon marks on my palms. I’d look away, of course. But my mind has already conjured up a visualization of how it came to be. It gets easier once the phantom pain pass.

When I say blood, I also mean death. I do not mean that bleeding automatically leads to death. It is the possibility of death that haunts me. That when I see blood, I am filled with the overwhelming panic to not die. So, maybe I fear blood because it implies a painful death. Maybe what I really fear is the thought that the last thing I’d feel when I’m alive is excruciating pain from mutilation, from my own flesh being torn open. But then again, I also fear the uncertainty of death. Death. How peaceful I envision it to be, but also how disruptive it is to a life I like to control. Dying means confronting the fact that I didn’t get to live my life the way I wanted it to be. Seeing blood haunts me with the concept of life flashing before my eyes. I wouldn’t say that mine would be boring to watch because I’m sure the flashes would contain several experiences of mine that I enjoyed. Flashes of me in the middle of a laugh while on a road trip with my family because Mama was teasing Papa’s funny English pronunciations. Flashes of me waking up on our terrace to the view of a pink sunrise; my friends still asleep on the mess of pillows and blankets I snatched from my room and laptops still open after a night of editing a film. Flashes of me floating peacefully on my back in Pasacao; my body being rocked by the constant waves of the sea and my ears drowned out by the sound of shallow waters, as I stare up the night sky and try to find a Scorpio constellation I once memorized from ninth grade. Seeing blood taunts me with the possibility that these could stop existing in an instant.

However, these flashes are not only limited to the good parts. I expect a re-run of several of my breakdowns; those caused by little petty things, like not getting to watch Jojo Circus peacefully because of a noisy construction happening in our living room, to those breakdowns caused by serious things like my parents constantly comparing me to my neighbour who could sing flawlessly to the high notes of Aegis songs or to my classmate who have been the top of my class since kindergarten. Maybe the flashes could surprise me and show me memories I’ve repressed and pushed too much to the back of my brain in hopes of completely erasing it from my memory because of how painful it had been. Flashes of a dark, cold room; my bed a witness to many of my sleepless nights asking God the million dollar question “what is the point anymore?” Or maybe a glimpse of Mama having a panic attack, mumbling “ayoko na, beh. ayoko na” while I have to hold her and calmly tell her to breathe with me as I desperately tried to keep my lips from trembling or my voice from cracking. God forbid the flashes show me a hunched figure of myself on the floor of our dorm’s cr, staring blankly at the white tiles, a razor in hand. Pathetic. Vulnerable. Not in control.

And then, death starts to look like a good idea. I never even willingly made the choice to be in this merciless rollercoaster ride we call “life” in the first place. So is it really scary to stop existing? Death seems so quiet and still. A possibility of nothingness. And in my life, there have been too many instances where I am desperate for that stillness, that nothingness. Buried underneath all the sunshine and rainbows we constantly try to project in our lives, I have been yearning to stop feeling altogether. I am reminded that maybe, just maybe, a part of me actually craves death. If it takes pain to stop existing, to stop feeling, then a painful death looks a lot less threatening and more inviting.

Then and only then, it gets a little easier seeing blood.              

[baesketballers]

iv-b. i knew i loved you then

but you’d never know

ft. midorima shintarou

This is the thing that made me want to rip my hair off my head because of my PC randomly blue-screening me. To those who responded to the rant, thank you for your understanding!

@ourneverendingpossibilities​ it’s nice that you have such a positive outlook in life!! I was so mad when it happened, but since it’s complete now I guess everything’s okay ヽ(＊>∇<)ﾉ 

@squirrelsass13​ thanks for the encouragement! I rarely ever write on Word (it transfers weirdly when I copy and paste the text on tumblr) so I was typing straightaway on my Drafts... I click on “Save Draft” every paragraph now lol

Faint connections to the previous installation of Cantabile

Fem!Reader. Semi-NSFW. Long (2728 words).

I’m sorry if this sucks but... yeah.

Why do you play?

Isn’t being a doctor busy enough for you?

I’d ask you to tutor my son if you weren’t so busy!

Wow, you’re very ambitious. 

Those are words spoken by housewives, small medium enterprise owners, and white-collar workers. Midorima doesn’t think that they’re somehow lower than him in any aspect—sure, they earnings are technically lesser than his, but how does that define someone as a person? He meets these people everywhere, the people that make up his community, his society: at the clinic, in parties, at the grocery store... It’s no secret that he’s seen as an outstanding person by these people. 

Twenty-seven, has the letters “M.D.” behind his name, helps people get over all sorts of sicknesses from light ones like a common cold to not-so-light ones like diabetes, plays piano as a hobby.

It’s not really surprising to the people who ask him “what do you do in your free time?” because, you know, doctors. They’re classy and smart and all. Sure they can play the piano—he can probably play the violin, too.

But you can see their eyes significantly widen when they know he has a diploma in piano, certified by the Associated Board of Royal Schools of Music. Where is that name from? The United Kingdom. Why did you take it?

He always tells them it was just for fun, but a small voice inside him knows the truth: somewhere deep in his heart, he wanted to be a pianist.

His first words to you are: “It’s a common cold.”

“That much I can see, Doctor,” you deadpan, holding a tissue against your runny nose. He sighs. 

Midorima is used to handling all sorts of patients: naggy, rude, stubborn people... he’s seen them all in the past four years of his practice. Today, however, it’s only after lunchtime and he already wants to go home already. Maybe attending Akashi’s party last night isn’t really a great idea. Sure, it’s not a DJ-inviting or dance floor grinding kind of party, so he’s not physically tired—he’s tired from all the socializing with fake people. “Meet new people,” was Akashi’s reasoning for inviting the doctor, and of course Midorima did, but none of them were enjoyable.

To be precise, he can’t tell if they’re really enjoyable or not through layers of faux talk. Akashi texted him earlier, expressing his regrets that it was somewhat an unpleasant experience for Midorima. He also wrote “but I won’t stop inviting you to these social events—I understand how you think they’re superficial, but I can guarantee you that they genuinely enjoyed your piano very much.”

Well, if there’s one thing Midorima likes about those parties, it’s that he’s presented the opportunity to play.

“As a doctor, I have to announce the diagnosis to you, don’t I?” He replies, scribbling a pen on his prescription pad. “I’m prescribing you to these basic medications, but since your cold isn’t a serious one—yet—I highly recommend that you consume home remedies before resorting to these medicines.”

“M-hmm.”

“Turmeric tea, ginger tea, a mixture of lemon, cinnamon, and honey.”

“Got it.”

“Control your diet; you don’t want to eat food that’s going to worsen your cough.”

A sound of ripping paper. He hands the slip to you.

“You don’t remember me do you?”

That takes Midorima by surprise.

“Have we met before?” He asks warily as you take the prescription paper from his hand and fold it, putting it inside your handbag. Your lips form a small smile, and Midorima eyebrows furrows.

“You sang last night, didn’t you.” It sounds like a question, but his tone makes it clear that it’s rhetorical. He knows for sure that it was you who was dragged by one of your acquaintances that claimed you to be the best singer in a ten-mile radius—the expression itself is a horrible exaggeration, but when Midorima hears you sing, he has to admit that you do have an exceptionally lovely voice.

His first words to you turns out to be “what key?” instead of an illness announcement because he was the pianist accompanying you.

“You look different, Ms. Fly Me To The Moon,” he says aloofly, writing something on a document. You chuckle at the nickname, not knowing that the stoic doctor-slash pianist has the capacity to be somewhat playful, and towards the opposite sex, nonetheless. Midorima can only admire how melodious your laugh is, even when your voice is nasally from the cold. 

“At least you remember what I sang.”

“Like I said, you look different,” he repeats. You were clad in an elegant evening gown for the party last night, and although Midorima doesn’t have the eye to identify expensive clothing brands and such, he is able to appreciate how attractive you looked in the attire. Your hair was done simply in a style that matches your dress, and among the slight make-up you applied, he notices the suppleness of your colored lips first. 

The person sitting in front of him doesn’t carry the glamour of the party—you’re slightly pale, dressed humbly in a sweater and jeans—but the lack of make-up, fancy hairdo and dress doesn’t affect how beautiful you look, in his opinion. Your eyes still glows the same captivating way as he witnessed last night.

“Yes, well,” you sigh with a smile as you stand up, “you better engrave how I look last night deep in your memory, doctor, because I’m never going to attend one of those high-end social events ever again.” The first part was sarcastically said, but Midorima finds himself doing as you told, picturing the details of your gown and hearing your singing voice echo in his mind. Being a quite introvert doesn’t mean he’s immune to any of your charms.

“Shame,” he finds himself saying. You smirk, pausing right before you walk out the door.

“What, not being able to see me all dressed up again?” Ten years ago, Midorima would’ve easily flushed red at the teasing remark. He’s way past that now, and instead of reacting like the teenage boy he was, he looks straight into your eyes when he says:

“I was talking about how it’s a shame that I won’t hear you sing again, but that too.”

Two months later what you said proves to be a blatant lie. You’re standing beside Midorima, arms hooked with his, a casual sign that the two of you are attending together, presumably as a romantic couple. This time it isn’t Akashi’s, but a business partner of his—he nevertheless invited Midorima along to provide him the audience for his piano, and regarding yourself... well, you’re accompanying the pianist. It’s not like you’re crashing this party or anything.

It’s only your third “date” with the man, so to have the opportunity to see him up-close in a formal setting that requires guests to dress up is exhilarating, to say the least. Midorima’s handsome enough in his casual attire—having to stand next to him wearing a nicely tailored, dark-colored suit while having to keep your hands to yourself is almost some sort of punishment. And the collar button of his shirt! He always buttons his shirt all the way up and wears a tie to complement the outfit, but for some unknown reason he’s left it open this time and disregarded the tie.

If you didn’t know any better, he’s trying to tease you. 

“It’s rare to find you with someone by your arm, Midorima-kun.”

“Akashi,” Midorima acknowledges the voice. You turn to meet the redhead face to face, smiling softly.

“Good evening, Akashi-san.”

“Hello, _________. Good to see you,” he replies smoothly, as you reply in a similar manner. “Even more surprising finding out that you’re with him tonight. Are you two...?”

The two of you exchange looks as if telepathically deciding who should answer, and turns out you are. 

“Sort of,” you say, and the hint of mischief in your smile cannot be missed by even the most oblivious person in the room. Akashi surely isn’t one, but thankfully he doesn’t push you further.

“It’s a long story,” Midorima chips in, as if his relationship with you bloomed out of a blackmail kind of situation of some sorts. You chuckle, and so does Akashi —the latter is gracious enough to show the two of you to where the piano is.

“What are we?”

You are in his arms, as naked as he is, leaning your face against his chest and feeling the beat of his heart when you ask the question. It’s a summer night, and the sheets are loosely resting on your waist, the two of you too hot and sweaty from your previous activity to pull it all the way up to your neck. One of his hands is drawing soft circles with his thumb on your bare skin, while the other one that is untaped (very uncharacteristic of him, but it’s a sign of a good night) brush your hair in long, loving strokes.

He doesn’t respond. You snuggle closer into his chest, relishing the sensation of his nakedness against yours while you think of all the times you’ve spent with him. That one time you had lunch together, those meaningless parties you go to just so you can watch him play and he can hear you sing, the nights you stay together at his place. You’ve spent at least a hundred hours with him, though it doesn’t feel long or dragged—those hours are cherished and enjoyed to the fullest, arguments (petty or not) included.

But it’s his reserved nature that makes you feel insecure sometimes. Tonight is one of those nights.

You move up so that your face is right in front of his because you want to look at him in the eyes. He’s beautiful, the viridian undisturbed by the lenses of his glasses—the eyewear is carefully situated on the nightstand before all this began. You’re sure he can see you clearly from this proximity, your nose against his, your hand caressing his cheek. His hands drift down from the crown of your head to your chest, cupping your breast and playing with a nipple as his eyes grow half-lidded.

Midorima is the one to lean in first, engaging you in a chaste kiss, a perfect juxtaposition what with his hand groping your chest and the other slowly travelling down to your ass, stroking every inch of skin possible. You are the one to pull away, arms around his neck and eyes clouded with lust, thanks to the things he’s doing to your body.

“Do you love me?” The question comes out as a whisper.

“I’ll show you how much,” he answers in a heartbeat before he kisses you again, bringing your body under his. 

He never fails to convince you.

The afternoon sunrays shining through the high glass windows of the music hall are almost blinding, considering how dark it was just a few moments ago in the auditorium. You’re by Midorima’s side as per usual, looking around nervously with a bouquet of daisies and orchids in your arms. Your husband seems to be scanning the area like you are, and when you hear a shrill yell of a young child you know it’s who you’re looking for.

“Mama! Papa!”

The little girl, currently nine years old, runs towards the two of you with two or three large bouquets in her arms, the majority of her face covered by flowers. You laugh at the sight, crouching to hug her tightly once she reaches. Noises of plastic being scrunched can bother you less, as you feel your daughter burying her face against your chest. She pulls away to immediately look up at his father with bright eyes.

“Papa, how did I do?!”

“You did good, nanodayo,” he answers, a faint smile on his face as he fixes his glasses, “although there’s room for improvement in terms of arpeggiation—”

You gasp exaggeratedly, drowning the remaining of Midorima’s sentence. 

“Shiina! Papa says you did a good job! Do you know what that means??”

“No!” She replies, confused but ecstatic.

“I promised you we can go have dinner wherever you want if Papa praises you,” you reply, and the confused expression on her face melts into real unabashed excitement.

“Mama, are you serious!?” Shiina’s voice has become high-pitched from the bubbling enthusiasm that seems to have taken over her whole small body. “We can go anywhere I want!?”

“Yep,” you nod for further affirmation. “Papa has agreed on this, too,” this time you look over at Midorima, only to be amused to find the deadpan expression on his face. You give him a wink, and Midorima, witnessing his own daughter having such a great time just because you told her she can eat whatever she wants for dinner, can’t help but melt a little.

“Maji! I want Maji!”

“Sure, we’ll go to Maji tonight,” you say accommodatingly. Midorima can only smile down at the girl when she looks up at him, a face-splitting grin on her face. Even though her physical attributes are definitely inherited from him, she obviously takes after you in terms personality.

“And then I want to have ice cream after dinner! Can I, Papa? Let’s go home so I can prepare for dinner!!”

“You may, Shiina,” he sighs amusedly—what does a nine-year old kid want to do to ‘prepare for dinner’? “But before we go home you must meet Uncle Akashi first. He came to see you perform, you know.”

“Uncle Akashi is here!?” 

You chuckle. It’s a wonder how said man is viewed as intimidating and merciless among most adults dabbling in business, but is the opposite in the eyes of children. Shiina is almost obsessed with Akashi, what with his gentlemanly behavior that reminds her of Prince Charming. Shiina once even told you that since she can’t marry Papa, maybe she’ll marry Uncle Akashi instead—you have yet to tell Akashi this, but you have a feeling he already knows.

Speak of the devil, the redhead can be seen from twenty feet away thanks to his hair color, maneuvering amongst the crowd to approach your family. Shiina’s acting very much like an excited puppy, and you wonder if it’s immoral to compare the behavior of your human child to an animal (despite said animal being unbelievably cute as well), but that doesn’t matter anymore because Shiina is already in Akashi’s arms as he lifts her up in the air, chuckling amusedly.

Midorima looks at the scene with mild jealousy in his eyes—not that his eyes aren’t green in the first place.

“Mama?”

The usually animated voice of your daughter is now tired and soft as you tuck her in. She must’ve been exhausted after the performance.

“Yes, honey?”

“Can you tell me a bedtime story?” This piques your interest a little, because she’s stopped asking for stories before bed for almost a year now.

“Sure. What would you like to hear?” 

“The other day... Mai-chan and Reika-chan were talking about how their parents met and fell in love,” she says shyly, hiding her face behind a beloved doll. “Can you please tell me how you and Papa met, Mama? You’ve never told me that story before.”

You chuckle.

“You’re gonna have to ask Papa for that, honey. It’s a long story anyways, and you’re tired. Best go to sleep soon.”

“Okay...” Shiina says, and it’s not hard to pick up the disappointment in her voice.

“Goodnight honey,” you kiss her cheek before turning off the lights.

“’Night, Mama.”

Truth be told, there is no ‘long story’. Midorima just called you one day to ask you out for coffee with a tinge of nervousness in his voice that you can spot even from the other side of the line. You ended up scheduling a lunch instead, and if Shiina asks him to tell her how you fell in love with each other, he’ll have no explanation except of how breathtakingly beautiful you look with sunshine on your skin and a smile on your face as you talk about music and food and the stars. 

He will ask Shiina to keep it a secret from you, of course, because if you know he’s been in love with you for that long, he knows you’re never going to let it go.

[dailywithaly]

January 18,2020

Haven’t blogged in a long time and I’ve decided that I’ll attempt to try to express my emotions more on here like I used to. Reflecting back on a lot of the things I didn’t even blog about:

Self: I received my masters in social work and I am currently a mental health therapist for a non profit mental health agency called Mending Matters and I’m located at El Cajon Valley High School everyday of the week. I’m still learning, I’m still growing and I am still attempting to get rid of this imposter syndrome that I feel every day. It’s crazy that I know I love working with youth and with students, but lately (especially coming back from winter break, It’s been more apparent) I’ve been feeling it more often. I feel so incompetent, inadequate and simply in the wrong field. And I don’t know if that’s because I’m constantly doubting myself and I have gained back this low self- esteem feelings about my capabilities. Regardless, I am hopeful. Hoping that I continue to learn and grow into this profession. I hope that I don’t give up and to keep going especially when things are tough, similar to this past week. I am undoubtedly so nervous and anxious everyday I come to work and I guess that comes with the work and the field that I entered, but I enjoy helping empower students and destigmatizing the idea of asking for help and getting therapy. Speaking of therapy, I have been wanting to seek out a therapist but my work medical insurance is too expensive to just try and schedule and per session. I am in so much debt, credit cards and student loans and I honestly don’t know how to get myself out of that whole. Granted, I am part of the reason why I am in so much debt but I know i am not the sole person to blame for that. Which I’m struggling understanding and accepting everytime I only have $30 in my bank account the same week I just got paid.... ive been struggling so much with my own well-being. It’s so odd that as I assist students with their well-being, but I can’t seem to be in equilibrium with my own life. I am what you call, a mess.... I have been in debt (deep debt) since 2016 or 2017.... and it’s 2020.... how did I get myself into almost 100,000 in debt (okay that’s an exaggeration, but I am 50,000+ in debt with loans and 38,000ish in debt with my credit cards) and I can’t seem to maintain a savings account. What happened to me? I really don’t know. I outwardly like to blame ryan, but i find myself feeling bad doing that. I outwardly put the blame on whoever is giving me shxt or is making me struggle, but I know I shouldn’t be. I have no right and i am in no position to be doing that. I need a lot of work and I don’t know how to start working on myself when I ended 2019 and started 2020 soooo effing sick.... I honestly think it’s the stress and how unhealthy I’ve been. So physically, I’ve gained probably 40 pounds more than how much I weighed prior to starting GradSchool. In the span of just 2 years, I am in the worst shape of my life. My stomach is always hanging, I have love handles, I don’t feel good about myself (ever), I can’t fit in any of my clothes, I don’t look good in bathing suites, I can’t workout consistently.... I don’t know what to do, I always say I want a personal trainer, but I can’t afford that and how committed will I really be at this point when I can’t even commit to taking care of myself in other ways.... aaaah, I think I’ll wrap my self update with.... I feel shitty about how and who I’m becoming, personally and professionally....

Romantic Relationship: I have been with ryan for 5 years now. We celebrated 5 years in October 1,2019. It’s crazy to think that it’s been 5 years of life experiences with my man. Honestly, it’s been good and bad, equally. We’ve traveled to many places (various states and internationally, and even a cruise), we’ve done crazy things (like skydive), we’ve both survived school post-Berkeley (yay MSW and nursing school). We’ve also been living with each other for 3 years under his mom’s house (whom I will always be thankful for). Side note: ryans family provided me with a different light since I got kicked out of my grandmas house. They gave me a family that I wish I was born into, they gave me a mom that cares about me just the same amount as my own mom, they gave me similar aged cousins that I wished I closely grew up with, they gave me a home. Anywaaaays, although I like to publicly claim and state that ryan and I ate at a good and healthy place, I sometimes think that we’re not. I find myself easily getting irritated lately, we’ve been getting into arguments that are useless and unnecessary. I’ve been less lovey, and just more angry. I guess you can say the amount of money that he owes me and the patience I’ve endured in this relationship is growing thin. Ever since ryan gave up the idea of going to MedSchool and changing his career path to being a Nurse has been such a plot twist. Ryan settled, and I just wished he saw the potential I saw in him. Honestly, living together for 3 years has challenged us in so many ways. I’ve learned that we live differently: I’m organized and clean, while ryan is messy, I’m lazy and ryan is inconsistent, I don’t know how to cook and ryan cooks all the time, I like to clean and wash the dishes, ryan likes to do the laundry and dislikes leftovers, I like to read and be out, ryan likes to stay at home and watch sports. Granted some of these things we both share, but i don’t know. There’s something about living with each other (under his moms roof) that has put such a strain in our relationship. Fast forward, lately ryan finished nursing school (woohoo!) and he has been studying for his NCLEX exam, which forces me to not make plans and to stay home and be patient... with that, Ryan’s career and job is still unknown. I’m not a big fan of not having control over my life and it’s crazy that I wish I can control ryans..... I want to do so much this 2020 and to go to so many places..... but I’m crippled.... financially and partnership wise. I find myself feeling more frustrated as I thing forward or even reflect on what I really spend with my time... I haven’t been feeling motivated to passion planner, I haven’t been feeling motivated to stay on top of work documentation, I haven’t been feeling motivated to eat healthy or work out and I’m not sure if it’s because ryan is in no way able to help keep me motivated.... I feel like I’ve become intoxicating in this relationship. Controlling, mantipulative, and rude.... three words that I can’t admit verbally, but I am aware of and I have been pondering about.... I’m neither happy or sad.... I’m just going with the flow.

Friends: as my relationship with ryan has gotten longer, my friend circle has gotten smaller. I honestly don’t have a person to call best friend at this moment in life because ryan has become that person. However, I’ve come to realize that I can’t keep up with everyone that I want to, I can’t checkin with everyone that I would love to chat and catch up with. Not much updates... maybe in my next blog I’ll be able to reflect more about my friendships.

Family: similar to my friends section, I feel that I’m so drained discussing about my struggles personally and with ryan that I have no energy to discuss friends and family. So I will do that next time.

Additionally, I’m not making excuses about not being able to reflect, I’ve just been sick with a runny nose, body aches and rough cough that is making me not discus it.