#really wish a block went right to a person's ip

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

So I generally don't like to overshare on the internet, but sometimes a bitch has got to vent. There have been some things going on and I need to get this off my chest:

I never expected Kit to be a character anyone would like tbh, and as with most creative types a lot of her character is based around parts of me (even if she is a deranged monster of a person) she's not entirely made up out of nowhere.

Her backstory with her father, that desperate all-consuming need to hear him say he's proud of her is this writer's free therapy, it's my most cathartic part of Kit's story. My father died when i was 10, he was never there for the major moments in my life: he didn't see me graduate, didn't meet the man I'm married to, didn't get to hold his grandchild when he was born. These are all moments that I wish he had been there for. I will never get to hear him say he's proud of me for the things I've done in my life.

When i say Kit would literally crawl through glass to hear her father say that he's proud, that's ME!

So in saying this, to have that part of my character taken and repurposed by someone else who can't come up with their own original ideas, please know that I have moved past being hurt and sad, and I am now beyond pissed off

[phantom-howl]

BEWARE

(Original Link) (This post is a copy & paste of the original)

PLEASE READ! THIS SCAM IS VERY DANGEROUS AND MAY BE VERY CONVINCING TO SOME!

The scam will open with someone either from your friends list or from a server you share DMing you. They will send a message saying they accidentally reported your discord account for something really bad and if you don’t file an appeal, both your account and IP address will be permanently banned from discord. They will say how sorry they are and include a screenshot of a discord email that states this offense, a ticket number, and instructions on how to file an appeal. The email screenshot will look real and even has the official discord support email as the sender. However it is faked.

The person who was hacked will then ask you to reach out to the ‘discord support member’ mentioned in the email, encouraging you that they’re doing the same and if you act fast, you can save your account.

The ‘support member’ I was directed to went by the name of Chao Chen. This same scammer may be the one speaking to everyone who falls for this, or it may be someone different, but either way, be wary. They will have a profile on discord that claims they’re a discord support team member seeking to rid discord of scammers (the irony)

They will also send a transcript that contains some of your account details, to make you think the scam is real.

The scammer will ask for basic information like your age, date of birth, and other questions seemingly related to your account identity. They will send you an official-looking card affiliated with discord that shows their specialty and position in the company. They will also request your discord ID number and then request you to temporarily change the email associated with your account to a burner email for “screening.” I made the mistake of letting my anxiety best me and agreed to this, but this step is how they steal your discord account. Once you have changed the email, you require a code sent to that email to change it, meaning you are now locked in to the scam email.

After this step, your account will be stolen and near the end of the scam or once you find out something is wrong, they will change the email, kicking you out. I tried to log back in using that email and my password but to no avail; they will change the email as soon as they can so you can no longer log back in.

If you haven’t figured out til now that this is very suspicious and is likely a scam (sadly I did not) they will next ask you to complete a “federal security check” and request you send them a small sum using your bank, PayPal, or card. They assure that the money will be returned in accordance with policy, but this is a lie. This was the point I finally got some sense and realized I was being scammed, and blocked the fake support member before I had my money taken. They then kicked me from my account and are now using it to spread the scam to others.

The scammer will also say small things to sway you into believing their lie. Threats like they have higher-ups monitoring the situation and telling you to “be careful and follow the instructions exactly”, official-looking documents, transcripts, etc, and acting like above all else they wish to help you get your account back.

The friend/server member who initially sends the scam will have already fallen prey to it, so block their account and be sure to warn any mutual friends/servers you share.

TL;DR; THIS DISCORD SCAM WILL STEAL BOTH YOUR ACCOUNT AND YOUR MONEY! BE WARY.

If your account was hacked, please reach out to Discord Support immediately. I will update on wether or not I get my account back and what they did to help, as of right now I am still awaiting a response.

Stay safe and please share this information where you can

[arievir]

Chapter 8 - The oblivious flower

Masterlist TNBT

WN: mention of; domestic violence, injuries, hospital, sickness, suicide, homicide, blood, illegal activity, murder, kidnapping, death

________________________________

…When Hanami was 15…

Her family always told her that she would marry a man from a wealthy family. She was told to learn how to behave as a perfect wife. She must need to learn how to be a perfect daughter.

She was told to be prideful and not easily let anyone or anything take what was hers no matter what. She needed to look out, to support her future husband.

One day she met a man during a dinner meeting. She fell in love with him immediately. She loved the way he lifted the corners of his mouth. Loved the way his eyes landed on the food, the way his fingers delicately grabbed the chopsticks, or the way he drank the tea calmy.

The picture of how she and him would live happily together flooded her mind. She visualized what she would make for him for breakfast, where she wanted to go for the honeymoon, or how many kids she desired to have with him. Those dreams made her heart full.

When she was 20, her family announced the heartbroken news that she wasn’t going to marry him anymore. He was going to marry the woman he treasured whom he met in Germany.

Her family let out that she was worthless and not good enough. Consequently, she would marry the younger brother instead. She had to do it though she didn’t wish to.

The day she got to meet the woman arrived, the same one who ripped off Hanami’s dream. She discovered that the woman was a doctor. Hanami was even more discouraged to find out how perfect your mom was with the beauty and intelligence.

It was like reality was yelling at her to emphasize how useless she was when comparing to your mom.

When she knew your family was long gone, she cracked up that finally things were in the right place. She was satisfied until you walked back into her life again.

First, stole a man from her daughter, and now stole the family from her.

____________________________________________

At the present

The surface you lied on was rocky, rough, and dusty. Your body was quite heavy as you made an effort to move painfully. You drew your breath to concentrate on the situation.

Gradually, you adjusted the body to sit properly. You discovered your hands were tight together behind your back.

Once you got more comfortable with the position, you looked around. The reasonable guess would be you were at somewhere like a warehouse.

The gate of the warehouse opened after you sat up for a while. It couldn’t be helped, but you chuckled to see who was presented.

“Why are you laughing?” Hanami asked loudly and went straight to slap your face.

The force of the hit made you flop on the floor again. “Well, I was just surprised you did this. I may not stop doubting you for being the culprit. Yet, your personality doesn't show to be smart or brave. Planning something like this is too complicated for you really”

“Y-you!!!” she slapped your face a couple more times until you felt numb all over your face. Breathing became more difficult as the blood blocked your nasal.

“I-I did this because of you. I knew you were the one who released the info. I won’t let you take down my husband” she yelled.

“H…How did you kn…ow?” you asked faintly while struggling to breathe through the mouth.

“You came home from nowhere. We also checked the place of the IP address and…and we didn’t see you but I knew it was you from the CCTV. I remembered your disgusted figure” Hanami smirked. She felt high and mighty compared to you.

You closed your eyes. You predicted somehow some people may know it was you. You never considered your plan was the best or you were wiser than others.

You just calculated your best move carefully in each situation. Of course, there was nothing perfect, but they found out you did it this fast. It was amazing indeed.

“And….you’re sure it…was me?” you asked while breathing hard.

“O-of course. We saw you were out from the-”

“We? Aunty, you didn’t…figure it out by yourself….but someone…told you? Did you stalk me…or send someone to do it?”

“I I did. I’m smarter than you or your mom!!” she shouted at your face.

You sighed and nodded exhaustingly. You just didn’t have much energy left to speak. However, Hanami took it as a mock. She grabbed the rock from the floor and threw it at you.

It did hit your right eye. Slowly there was a red liquid coating your eye and the pain creeping around the orb.

At the moment, you prayed. You begged to see your parents after everything was done. You could even tell your consciousness was about to leave the body. You inhaled and exhaled to settle the body up again.

The thought you had was to remember everything, so that once you left the human world, you could share with your family how brave you were.

You chuckled to yourself after acknowledging how foolish your fantasy was. Well, it couldn’t be blamed. You were once optimistic before becoming the blue person anyway.

“I hate this method but I’ll do it for the sake of my husband. I don’t want her alive anymore but make sure it painful" Hanami commanded her people, turned back, and walked to the gate. Her people surround you with a pipe in their hands.

You received strong force on the body and head a couple of times. Swiftly, you heard the bang and scream of the woman’s voice. One of the guys just dropped on the ground into his ruby fluid.

“Y/n!” Kenjaku shouted out your name.

“I told you JUST to TALK with her NOT to HURT her!!!” Jogo yelled at his wife.

“Stupid woman” Kenjaku whispered and ran to where you laid on.

“W-what? B-but”

“Shut up” Jogo looked at her furiously.

“Y/n admitted she did it” Hanami shared.

“And it should be ENOUGH. She’s still my niece” Jogo strongly confirmed.

The voice was heard quietly in the background but it wasn’t clear to understand. The vague symptoms completely took over the senses. You caught a glimpse of your uncles and Hanami who was crying.

A voice murmured in your ear. “I’m sorry. I have no choice but to agree with them. I’m sorry. Hang in there. They are coming. The police are coming” Kenjaku carried your body in his arms. He moved fast to the gate before Jogo stopped him.

“Y-you can’t take her. She’ll tell the police” Hanami nervously shouted.

“Then, Jogo will tell them we know nothing about this” Kenjaku replied with a serious expression.

“W-what?” Hanami darted between her husband and his close friend.

“She’s still my wife, Kenjaku”

Kenjaku sighed. “Then, go to the jail with her. I’ve been doing my best to protect you and your position already”

“What do you mean?” Jogo‘s face got pale and revealed nervousness.

The police arrived and arrested them instantly. Kenjaku yelled that he was the one to call the police and cried out for the ambulance to help you since you got seriously injured. Kenjagu peeked at Hanami with a blank expression.

____________________________________________

You heard a sound incomprehensibly. The eyelids felt heavy to lift them up. You gradually managed to open them. After several times of blinking, the vision was clearer.

The sound sent beeping. The white ceiling was caught. The body was too heavy to move as fast as you hoped. You shifted your head to the right and left. Then, you sensed smooth blond hair on your arm.

You raised your hand to caress his head. He turned to your direction a bit before sealing eyes with you. You saw his almond eyes rise before he stood up instantly. He pressed the button to call out doctors and nurses.

His eyes were shimmering from tears. He smiled gently and muttered sorry again and again next to your ear. The soft lips pressed lightly on your lips. Your head was in pain, so you couldn’t process what was happening

The doctor did the check up for hours. When they were done, they announced that you would have to be monitored at the hospital for several weeks. The CT scan demonstrated there was no harmful injury

Nevertheless, bones around your eyes were fractured and needed time to recover. The bruises and swollen tissue were shown around the eye. You recognized chronic pain repeating around there.

Yuki cried in a low moan and Toge hugged her. His large purple sad eyes scanned your poor body.

“I’m alive,” you said quietly and smiled to soothe them. Nanami fondled your head lightly as if he was frightened you would break right there.

It took several days until you recovered. You managed to ask what happened. Yuki explained how Hanami set up everything. She reserved the whole restaurant and had her people pretend to be customers.

She confessed she attempted to kidnap and kill you and she did everything alone. It occurred she would be the only one who would get to prison. Deep down in your heart, you had empathy for her.

You doubted if Jogo wasn't truly involved with any of this. You were also skeptical about Kenjaku. However, there was nothing you could do at the moment, especially with the condition of your health now.

Everything happened because of the family business that people desperately wished for. You never wanted to be a part of it or even cared about it.

Nonetheless, you couldn’t deny that there was a slight worry about it. After all, it was something your dad worked hard when he was alive to make it rise for you and your brother.

“Arghh” your eye felt slightly painful.

“Y/n!” Nanami spoke softly while carrying your face in his large hand. You smiled back to reassure him.

____________________________________________

Jogo glanced at his hands while waiting in the prison canteen. A moment later his wife was in front of him. He always requested a private visit every time he came.

His eyes drifted to meet with her. She was gorgeous before, but now she looked exhausted. Yet, her eyes shone when she saw her husband.

“Jogo, you’re here for me”

“Did they take care of you well? I can request them if you want anything in your room”

“N-no. I’m fine. How’s Miwa?”

“I sent her abroad. I think she needs…time”

“Can you talk with y/n? Tell her there was nothing. It was her fault”

“Hanami, I can’t. Gojo’s family stepped in the case, so Kenjaku told me you’ll have to stay here a bit l-longer…”

“Longer? It’s been several weeks here! Why? Can’t Kenjaku take the blame? He’s the one wh-”

“He can't. He's my best friend and if he’s not with me how I can take care of business? I’ll figure out just stay here ok? You don’t want us to lose anything right?”

It was like her heart shattering in pieces. Her lips were trembling. She did everything for him. In the end, Jogo still chose his best friend over her. She too hated how he was right. They both couldn't come this far without Kenjaku.

“Just take care of Miwa” That was the last thing he heard from his wife and this was the last time they met each other.

Jogo got back home. He went straight to his office. He stared at his computer, the one he knew deeply you got information from. He knew you did it. He saw the CCTV, but he let it go. How could he not when he was one of the reasons his brother died…

He strolled downstairs to the living room. No one was home. His wife was in prison. His daughter was across the world. The maids had left after finishing their tasks.

He was alone in the large house where he grew up. He drank whisky in hope to reduce his stress and emptiness.

Remembering the time he was young, his brother was there to take care of him. Now, there was no one except Kenjaku. He looked away at the lovely garden where many kinds of flowers were planted in the middle area of his huge house.

“Jogo?”

“Kenjaku, I’m in the living room”

“Why didn’t you turn on the light?”

“Forgot”

“Jogo, you can’t forget the simple thing, ok?” Kenjaku walked to sit in front of him.

“Hanami wants to be out” Jogo spoke softly.

“I want her to be out too, but I told you Gojo uses his connection to pressure the Zenin family. We can’t do much, otherwise you know what could happen. Actually, I’m surprised you loved her that much” Kenjaku stated.

“She’s a mother of my daughter and a wife who has been taking care of me”

“Hmm, I’ll see what I can do. You must be tired. You should relax” Kenjaku stood up from the seat. His eyes were full of the wave of despair and guilt.

He slowly walked past where Jogo sat on the couch. Behind that couch, there was the man who was sitting on the floor. That man was ready to do his assignment when Kenjaku nodded.

It was a real tragedy. Jogo who was slightly tipsy and placed his head on the top of the couch, suddenly felt suffocated. The physical response alerted him to remove the object that was wrapped around his neck. His body was jerking.

The man behind his couch held both ends of the thick rope and hung with all the power he could pull. Jogo couldn’t even lift his head from the sofa headrest. At the last moment, he wondered if this was the same feeling his brother experienced that night.

“I’m sorry, brother…” at the last moment of his life, he murmured the most sincere apologies from the bottom of his heart.

____________________________________________

You finally got out of the hospital. You changed the cloths and saw the white hair man was there. Utahime was between two men, Gojo and Kento.

It was a lovely sight. You thought whoever ended up with Utahime must have been over the moon. You truly admired her She was kind, attractive, and brilliant.

“Y/n, are you ok?” Utahime asked.

You nodded.

“Can I help you walk?” she asked nervously.

You shook your head.

Her lips got tight. She was more nervous and anxious. She believed you both were at least friends or something that you should be comfortable enough to speak to her. Last time you talked to her a lot, even asked her many questions.

In fact, she was uneasy before she came here. Gojo shown a serious look and got busier lately. He did countless things he could, just to make sure the people who hurt you paid the consequence.

She knew Gojo was a good person. However, he never did this much to help anyone before. Unquestionably, no one in his life was harmed like this. It was still irritating to see how far he could go for you.

All the pieces slowly came together when she figured out the last time you talked to her because you wanted to ask questions about him. Her body was numbed. Her head turned to Gojo immediately.

Her iris expanded when she attentively observed how much he worried about you by the look he gave to you. His eyes kept following where ever you went and his body kept shaking like he wished to jump next to you.

The radiant blue sky turned gloomy because of you. That look used to be reserved for her and only her.

She then met Nanami’s eyes. His eyes were soft and tender toward her. However, it didn’t help to calm her heart at all. Actually, it never did.

Ironically, she admitted it now. The feeling she had toward Nanami was thrilled and fresh. Yet, it wasn’t love. She just knew when she was afraid to lose Gojo.

Utahime, Gojo, and Nanami walked behind you when on your left was Toge and on your right was Yuki. You all reached the front of the hospital. You sensed the crowd and flashlight. People were running to gather around you.

Reporter 1: What did you think about the news?

Reporter 2: How did you feel about the loss?

Reporter 3: Why did he decide to suicide? Because of the corruption and what happened?

Reporter 4: Do you think it was your fault to cause this?

“What did you say? Who did what?” you asked in confusion.

“Jogo was found dead this morning. He hung himself from the ceiling” Reporter 5 gave you information.

Report 6 “it seemed he did it several nights ago, but the police just found his dead body-”

“Go away” Gojo stood in front of you and stared furiously at all the people. He was so tall, so all the reporters could see how mad he was.

Suddenly, you flopped down on the ground. No tears. No voice. Your brain stopped working. You couldn’t hear anyone calling for you. It was like you only heard the voice of the television when it had no signal and went black and white.

____________________________________________

Kenjaku seated in the president's room. After Jogo’s news, he got promoted from the board to the position of director of hospital chains since no one truly knew about the hospital better than him.

He expected it would happen because he worked side by side with your father to make it bigger and for a long time behind Jogo’s back.

He picked up his phone and called his secretary. “Take care of Miwa. Make sure she has everything she needs. Have someone check with y/n too. Ahh, let Hanami be in there. Have a lawyer tell her to admit everything for the sake of her daughter”

Kenjaku sighed before he texted someone.

Kenjaku -

“I did everything as you said”

Unknown number -

“Good”

____________________________________________

It had been weeks since Jogo passed away. You were back to yourself. A person who never spoke much, or did not go out of the room in a day, was always embraced and loved by pain. You ate a bit and slept a lot. Sometimes, you rolled yourself like a ball and cried till you fell asleep.

Today was no different. You watched the ceiling. A moment later, you heard a knock on the door which called you back to the world. You opened it and met with Toge who delivered you an envelope.

The door was closed, you sat at the end of the bed, and checked the sender. It was sent from the prison. You were curious and opened to see what it was.

The letter only said “It wasn’t Jogo'' and ended it with Hanami’s signature. Eyes were quivering. You unconsciously chewed your inside cheek.

You decided the best way to apprehend the message was to meet her. Legs moved to grab the belongings and went out of the home to call a cab. An hour later, you arrived at the prison.

You were surprised by how you got a private meeting with her. You visualized it should be the booth like a phone call or something that you saw in the movie. For a moment, you gave attention to the door that was open and shifted your head to where the sound was produced.

Hanami was skinnier and her eyes were lifeless. She used to look elegant, but now you could actually see her cheekbones and the dark circles under her eyes.

“Because of Jogo, I got treated well even though I am here. He made sure I got everything I needed. He told me I would be out soon, but why he left me like that”

You simply listened quietly. Of course, you felt empathy toward her, but you could not forget she was the reason who put you in the hospital.

“I know what I did was unforgivable, but Jogo wouldn’t leave me like that. Someone killed him. Someone who was behind Kenjaku. I didn’t know much about this but that was what I heard from Jogo. Please I’ll stay in here but don’t let Miwa get hurt”

You were shocked when she asked for your help. Even more stunned, when she began to sit on the floor and hugged your right leg. You were about to say something, but people started coming in and taking her out.

You were dumbfounded how everything played in front of you. You didn’t know why they took Hanami away. You watched her scream helplessly as she was unwanted to go. Two things she said before being dragged out were, ‘To help Miwa and Jogo get killed’.

You were more dumbfounded when the staff quickly asked you out immediately. You were speechless but still followed them to the front of the prison.

You stood there for a while. The cool breeze from the end of the spring season caressed your skin. You looked up at the trees around you.

The colors of the leaves had changed to brown and red. Some trees, leaves were dry and fell on the ground. Unforeseenly, you felt the large jacket over your shoulder. You were surprised to get a glimpse of ocean blue eyes.

“You?!”

“Sorry, I-I visited you at the house, but I saw you left, so I followed. And..I-I I’m not a stalker, y’ know. I was just curious. We haven’t talked for a while. I-I just want to know if you’re ok. I mean I-I…Do you want to go somewhere or do you want to head home? Or if you want to go other places, I ca-”

“It’s fine. I want alone time. Thank you for this” you gave him back his heavy black jacket.

You were about to leave, but he grabbed your wrist first. “Don’t Don't go. Please, I beg you. If you want alone time, how about my place?”

You frowned at his suggestion. You wondered if he even considered using his brain before asking this kind of question or not, “No, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to see you or stay near you at all”.

“Please. Please. At least thinking of Yuki and Toge, I’m sure they want you to be with someone rather than being alone after what happened to you. I-I think if they know I’m with you they may feel better”

You glared at him in annoyance at how he used your loved ones as the upper card. “I don’t need you”

Gojo was panicking. He watched you walking away from him. His legs shifted to match your pace and stopped in front of you. “I was wrong. I didn’t mean to stand you up. I didn’t know it was your family…”

“No matter whether you knew it or not, it’s not an excuse to break a promise without telling. But it’s alright, you don’t have to go anyway. I have Kento” you told him flatly without looking at him and walked past him.

“But I want you!” Gojo shouted behind your back.

You stopped, turned your head to look at him, and spoke calmly. “You want her”

Gojo enlarged his eyes and ran to you. He knew without shouting the name out loud who you referred to, “ I’m worried about you. I just want to help you with the case of your family and Jogo and stuff. Please I beg you”

You closed your eyes before deciding to face him in an attempt to speak your mind clearly. To your surprise, he kneed on the ground.

You asked “What is this?”.

“Begging?” Gojo blinked innocently while pouting.

“Why are you kneeling?” you tilted your head to the right.

“To show how sincere I am?” he tilted his head to the same side as you.

“No, it’s pressuring me. I don’t appreciate it. People are looking at me. They may think I am bad if I don't forgive you, but in fact, we both know you and I don’t owe anything to each other. Do you understand? We’re using each other and that’s all”

Gojo was stunned by your explanations. Like a million daggers piercing his heart, he never thought that what you thought and felt at all.

He slowly stood up. “I’m sorry. Can you take me with you? Just think I’m one of your belongings like I'm your wallet? I won’t say anything to disturb you”

You observed him. His figure towered you. His shoulders slumped. He kept his head down. The wind played with his snowy hair glowing. You couldn’t see his sky blue eyes. Nonetheless, his hair mirrored the twilight shined on the waves of the ocean.

“Don’t leave me this time” you sighed.

Those blue eyes were glistering. The corners of his mouth lift up showing his bright tooth. He stepped forward close to you. “I won’t!”

In your head, this slash of blue shone brightness and warmth more than anything else.

____________________________________________

You waited for him in a tea pavilion at his house. Next to the pavilion was the big pine tree. The breeze from the beginning of winter was pretty cold.

However, the steam from hot tea and the heater warmed your body. The atmosphere was quiet enough to hear the leaves rustling and falling tardily.

Thud Thud Thud

The footsteps were heard loudly from someone who was running. “y/nnnnnnnn”

You swirled your head to his shouting sound.

“I got this. Hmm, don't remember who bought it. I think someone gave me a souvenir. It’s like an egg. Inside is a sweet black bean. Eat it, eat it. Ahhhhhhh open your mouth”

You were bewilded, but decided to do as he requested.

“Good? I like it a lot!” he crawled quickly to sit next to you.

You both enjoyed chatting with each other. He listened to what you told him, being with you made him feel nothing. It was like he was being with himself, nothing more and nothing less.

When you looked at him, he didn't feel longing for you, but it made him unable to find things to replace you. Your giggle wasn't so special, but he refused to hear anything else. Your sweet scent couldn't race his heartbeat, but he couldn't think of other scents he liked anymore.

Eventually, you told him about what happened when Hanami took you and what Hanami told you in the prison.

You didn’t expect his next move nor expect he would console you. Abruptly, an arm encircled around your head and another arm enveloped your body.

You sensed how two body had size differences. He stroked your back up and down. His warmth wrapped your body, “I’m here and I won’t leave you. Let's do this together. I’ll use all my power to find the truth and protect you”.

Your smaller body felt relieved in his delicate embrace. As if all the tension and sorrow were melting away because of him. Both of you didn’t hear someone coming until the soft voice of a woman calling Gojo’s name.

Gojo and you turned to see who it was. You both found Utahime stood still.

“Utahime?” Gojo voiced.

“Satoru, you didn’t pick up my calls”

“Huh?” he was confused with the first name she called.

“Sorry, I placed my phone in the living room I think?” Gojo tilted his head while one arm still hugged you.

You tried to move away from his body, but it seemed like his arm intended to keep you in his hold.

“What is it?” Gojo questioned her.

“I just came here to tell you that. Nanami and I came to agree to be just a friend” Utahime informed.

You could feel how he tensed his body just like you could tell how tight your heart was. Immediately, his eyes landed on yours. It was humorous, but his eyes didn’t show a sign of bliss at all.

You were used to looking at his eyes which were identical to a clear blue sky on a sunny day. However, at the moment, it was rather like dark blue clouds on a stormy day. You wondered if your eyes reflected the same sadness as his or not.

Chapter 7 < Chapter 8 > Chapter 9

[wildfl0wer-meg]

“So like cal and the reader have been dating for a super long time (...) and everyone just thanks they’re best friends and they mange to keep it a secret (…) and one day calums phone gets hacked and photos of them go everywhere and like imagine he proposed and didn’t say anything and now his engagement photos are everywhere and he’s super mad and the reader decides to make the best of it and do a live answering some questions?” - @bitterbethany

I haven’t wrote in a while because I got really sick and found out that I have some blood problems... but I’m on medicine and feel so much better now. This was requested a long time ago as well and I just got really bad writers block which sucked.

warnings : mentions of hate comments

fem!reader x calum hood

———

It was a widely known fact among the 5sos fandom that Calum was an extremely private person.

Even though the other guys opted to keep more of their personal lives to themselves, Calum went above and beyond when it came to ever the smallest things.

As his fiancé, you knew first hand how private he was, despite your years together everyone only knew you as Calum’s best friend.

It’s all he ever referred to you as, with the hate you had received for being as little as a best friend and he didn’t want to know what would come with being out as a couple: let alone an engaged couple.

“Hey baby,” Calum smiles as he walks into the room where your getting ready, “where’re you going looking so nice?” His arms wrap around your waist and his lips ghost over your neck.

“Just going out for a little,” you smile, “I want to do some shopping and get a few new outfits, do you need anything?”

Calum shrugs, burying his face in the crook of your neck, “not right now,” he hums and pulls away as you finish up your makeup,

After you finish getting ready and say your goodbyes you go to the mall, spending most of the day wandering shops and finding new pieces to add to your closet.

You hadn’t heard from Calum since you left, which is why it was such a surprise when your phone began to ring and Michael’s name popped up on the screen.

“Hello?”

You hear frantic voices on the other side of the phone, “it’s Calum,” your fiancé says through Michael’s phone, “we have a problem,”

——

You couldn’t believe what you were seeing when you finally arrived at Michael’s and they told you to get onto Twitter.

Pictures of you and Calum were everywhere. Pictures from the beginning of your relationship all the way through last night when you went out to dinner with him and the guys.

You frowned seeing the hate already rolling in, usually accompanying your engagement photo.

The worst hate though was on the couple inappropriate images that Calum had. They weren’t too bad, he was smart with what he kept, but there was a few unexposed pictures he decided were safe to keep.

“How did this happen?” You ask, voice firm as you look at Calum.

“I really don’t know,” he sighs, “someone hacked my iCloud and was able to get everything,”

“Well can we figure out who? Back track the posts on Twitter? Or find an IP address!” Your voice was frantic, while you knew that things stay on the internet forever you wanted to know who started it, and why.

“Management is working on it,” Michael sighs, “until then you both need to decide to address it or to ignore it,”

You sigh as he pull out your phone and look at Calum, “we need to address it, and quickly,”

——

“Hello everyone,” you say as you watch the view count rise exponentially.

“We’re going to address the pictures that came out today, and also answer some questions,” Calum continues, his eyes already scanning the comments.

“So yes, as many of you now know Calum and I are together, and we’ve been together for a very long time,” you look down at your hand, at your ring, and smile. “And last spring we got engaged,”

“We’re not sure how the images got out, and we didn’t want them to get out. Today has proved why even more, the hate that Y/N is getting is unacceptable.” Calum sighs to try to hold back his temper, “she’s the love of my life and I’m not going to apologize to you for that,”

“We’ll start answering some questions now...” you watch the comments and finally find a good one.

“Were we ever planning on revealing our relationship?” You look over at Calum who shrugs,

“I think we both knew that it was inevitable. Rumors have swarmed us for years because of the times that the paps have caught us out on dates, and we knew someday they would catch us doing something that we couldn’t shrug off as just being friends,”

“I mean yeah, if we have kids someday that would be kind of hard to explain, so it was inevitable but we wish we didn’t have to. It’s no one’s business but ours,”

Calum looks for the next question. “Has there been any close calls?”

“Yeah...” he shrugs, “especially due to COVID. She almost walked in during some interviews that she didn’t know I was doing,”

You both answer several more questions, surprised by how nice everyone is being.

“Okay final question,” Calum laughs after you answer a funny question.

“Was Wildflower about Y/N?” Calum smiles, a laugh leaving his mouth as he looks over at you. “Yeah,” he says,

“I’d hope so,” you smile, “if it wasn’t I would want to know who it is?”

“It’s only you baby,” he smiles before leaning over to kiss your cheek.

“Alright we’re going to go,” you smile, “thank you all who are supportive of us...” you glance over at Calum so that he can piggy-back off of you.

“Yes! Thank you! And we’ll talk to you all later!” He smiles and you both say bye at the same time before ending the livestream and falling backwards with a sigh.

“That was better than expected...” you say and Calum smiles as he reaches over to kiss your cheek,

“I knew they’d be,” he smirks and you laugh at him,

“Yeah okay,” you roll your eyes but continue to smile as you cuddle into his chest, exhausted from the events from the day.

———

Okay so quick announcement, I made a new blog! @fandoms-whore I will be writing mostly for YouTubers that I like over there so if you want to go check it out and see if you like anything that I like maybe you can request something?

Masterlist

[ohnobjyx]

A snowy summer

Part 5: June + Part 6: July

Wow, rl has keep me occupied so much that I almost forgot that I haven’t finished this series yet. I think I intended to make June and July into a single post and separate April and May, I don’t know it ended up like this, but let’s roll with it.

Disclaimer: I try to keep things objective (if I include my personal opinion, it’s in cursive and in brackets), but I’m biased because of the XZ friendly content I’m usually exposed to and by my own views of their situation. Open to discussion, but please make sure you’ve enough information to do so.

In June and July there were some incidents that really had me staring at my laptop speechless, brain completely fried by what I was reading. I suppose I don’t have so much energy to invest myself in issues like those (I have enough with my own rl problems, thank you very much), but still... wtf.

School uniforms

In recent June, the welfare project done by his fans got questioned for a project. It was about some school uniforms that they donated to a school, in collaboration with another organization (BYH Foundation).

However, it was questioned because the uniform has the letter 赞 (zan) in it. It means “to approve, to support or to praise” and it’s also the internet slang for “like” (thumbs up). Because it sounds similar to xz’s name, it’s often used as a substitution for his name in internet posts. In fact, in an interview, he was asked if he preferred “xiao (little) zhan” or “xiao zan”, and he said both were fine. Some commercials use phrases with this character to refer to him.

The antis accused XZ’s fans of trying to use the students to promote their celebrity. After this, BYH Foundation issued an apology, because of “their lack of consideration”. They had wanted the word to mean “positive”, and as a wish that the children grow up healthy and optimistic. But because of the misunderstanding, the foundation expressed their regret and took back all uniforms and other materials.

Faced with this, netizens again expressed their disagreement. “Why take away the clothes if the children liked them? Why must people who complain always be right? How disappointing!”

(Personal opinion time: so… giving the uniforms is criticized. Taking them away is criticized. Can someone tell me what can they do that it won’t be criticized?)

Charity in Yunnan

In mid-June, XZ participated in a charity event in Yunnan, promoting agricultural products. XZ’s fans support association changed their name to XZ Audio and Video official w/ibo, centering their efforts in promoting his works.

His activities in Yunnan were accompanied by an interview.

Offering legal help to those affected by cyberbullying

On July 1st, XZ studio issued another statement. I think we are familiar with this one, since it’s quite recent.

This issue began on June 22nd, when a w/ibo user berated XZ for not “controlling” his fans: “… and, by letting them do as they please, you let them think that there was nothing wrong in what they were doing. Today is Fathers’ Day, and your fans dare to curse my mother and my late father. I’ll not let this go. I’ll boycott you, and if I consider it necessary, I’ll report it to the police. I’ll leave this post here, so we can come back to it and look at the source of the problem. You reap what you sow, you can’t blame me on this.” She posted a few screenshots of some people insulting her parents.

A few fans wrote to her:

“Excuse me, I’m sorry for disturbing you, I know you don’t like XZ, but XZ has been leading us fans, and I’ve seen that your account isn’t XZ friendly. Every well intentioned critic, we’ll take it, but I hope you won’t involve XZ because of the words of others, there are a lot of rational fans out there.”

The user answered:

“From the beginning to the end, he has never said: ‘don’t report maliciously, don’t insult and humiliate others, don’t curse other people’s parents, don’t look for others’ private info, don’t threaten others’. Has he said them? He hasn’t. He never elaborates, hums and haws, pass over these topics. I’ll tell you, today’s matter, I must see an apology. Either from the ones that cursed my parents or from XZ on their behalf. If there’s not apology, I’ll chase this matter to the end.”

This user released a week later a document called “Assessment on the value and risk of XZ’s fans”. She took the data from several platforms, and analysed them, getting statistics about the type of XZ’s fans. This report depicted a very negative view of his fans.

This was a very controversial issue. The heart of the controversy is that there’s no evidence that the netizen who cursed her parents is XZ’s fan. And even if they “were”, nowadays many people are deliberately posing as XZ’s fans to insult and abuse others in order to frame him.

However, with her report, the people who don’t know the heart of the matter got more ammo to insult and humiliate XZ. She updated her post, saying that she had been being investigated, that someone had tried to get her address and name, so in the comments, more and more people blamed XZ for the issue. XZ’s teams then offered their help in the form of legal advice and lawyers to help her get legal support.

The user took the offer and agreed to receive legal advice. XZ’s studio then posted their update (the one linked in the first paragraph of this section), rejecting all king of cyber bullying and offering help to protect the rights of the netizens affected by cyber violence. The Studio also spoke clearly: they won’t tolerate XZ’s fans abusing other netizens, nor people posing as XZ’s fans to attack others.

The “stolen” account

On July 11, XZ’s Audio and Video official w/ibo posted an official apology. This time, the issue was this one: a w/ibo user had “passed away” due to mental illness (depression, the user followed the supertopic about this particular ailment and had posted a few times about it). However, after their death, their account was active again, and began posting about XZ.

People attacked the user for using a deceased person’s account (comments were like “don’t you know the history of the owner of the account you’re using?”), and consequently, all of the content in that account was deleted.

The same afternoon, XZ’s Audio and Video official w/ibo issued their apology. They contacted w/ibo, and asked the user to restore the deleted content and to respect the deceased.

This was also controversial, since they couldn’t know for sure that the one who bought the account is a fan of XZ. Because of this, XZ’s fans were attacked again. W/ibo issued a post declaring that the account had been accessed through the same device from last year to present, so the account hadn’t been stolen, and they continue to investigate it.

In summary: this time, XZ’s fans had apologized too quickly. This user was someone who used 3 different IPs and 3 different accounts. They had followed the “depression” topic, posted a few things and went silent for a while, making people think they had succumbed to the illness. Then, using the same account, they started posting about XZ, making people think that the account had been stolen, and manipulated other people’s sense of justice and compassion to defame XZ.

W/ibo took the initiative and blocked all of their accounts.

(Okay, when I actually read about what happened, I was like... wtf. Seriously wtf. This is some plot going on over there, I thought this kind of defamation plots only happened in Chinese historical dramas. I... really don’t get it. I’m speechless still.)

W/ibo and XZ Studio Conference

The topic of w/ibo and XZ studio conference went on hot search on July 14, in which, they talked about fan guidance and management:

“W/ibo believes that influential public figures and celebrities should bear the responsibility of guiding and restraining fan’s behaviour, essentially through the fans’ group. But in last months, because of failed guidance and reactions, all kind of fan groups had a disruptive behaviour online, causing a harmful impact on society.

W/ibo believes that celebrities’ studios and companies should reinforce the guidance and restrain over the fans. To those who pretend to be a certain person’s fan, they should be reported and people should collaborate with the platform in its management of the issue. We can’t ignore them if these people’s actions are suspected to be illegal, and protect our rights, fulfilling legal responsibilities.

XZ’s studio has expressed their agreement with W/ibo’s recommendations, and expressed their intention to increase their level of collaboration and support of this platform’s management.”

The announcement was ended by a statement on how the latest incident has showed a very ugly and harmful part of the society, and that everyone should collaborate to improve the society and Internet. It also included a list of accounts that were banned for fake rumours and leading other fans to arguments. 

This was accompanied by an apology by XZ Studio.

(This is what some anons asked me about on their asks. I hope you can all read between the lines to get what was the deal about this one.)

From start to finish, we all can see that the platform has a lot of responsibility to bear here. That’s something people in China have also pointed out. However, XZ and his team can only nod, and bear with it, because while there is only one platform that has all the right conditions, there are a lot of more celebrities. They have to rely on it for a lot of things, so they can’t just end things with them.

So last week, his studio issued a statement that said:

“This studio appeals again:

NO entering any kind of votes, control ourselves with our comments and not calling other to participate in events.

We reject mutual insulting and abusing, don’t start group conflicts.

Don’t go over your own economic possibilities to support projects, works and commercial products.

Make sure to take care of your studies and jobs first, before following a celebrity’s projects or music.

We hope that everyone can make the most of their own lives, have independent thinking. We hope that we can all go together towards a brighter future, and give more positive energy through our actions.”

The studio called the fans to stop voting him and placing him at the top of the charts for a while, so things can cool down definitely, in my opinion. And yet, he still topped as one of the most successful endorser, from March to July (it’s really a trend that hasn’t stopped, even after 2/27. In March, two weeks after 2/27, he even topped as one of the top celebrities in w/ibo anyway). 

I heard that people kept voting for him like crazy, because they didn’t want the general public to think that he wasn’t popular. However, facts remain that he is popular among his fans, but less neutral in the general public (I’ll explain this in my last post).

That’s why it’s going to be very important how his next project is received by the general public.

←Part 4(II): Plum blossoms in the snow (II) | Part 7: To the snowy summit side by side

[moduinne-and-redjamie]

Here We Go Again (its a long one)

You know in school when they said “ignore the bully and they’ll go away”? Yeah, that’s a load of bull. It never worked in the school yard and it clearly doesn’t work on SM either. 

It’s come to my attention that this guy is at it again, accusing me of another secret identity (seriously, I can’t make this shit up). As if I have time to have kids home 24 hours a day for months, run a household, make videos, and still have a SM presence AND keep track of secret identities??? I mean, it took me 2 days just to find the time to write this. I should be flattered they think I have impressive super powers. I’m not going to focus much time on that, I mean, he’s been proven wrong the last time, he said it about me and my sis before and we proved them wrong. They said they had the IP dress of the person “pretending to be Jess” so my sis offered her’s up proof on twitter for the whole world to see, and they didn’t come back with anything because they don’t have anything, and when Jess posted pics of her place, it’s proof she’s lived in Europe and we don’t, also Bernie-whatever-her-name-was attacked me and my sis on SM and even her friends told her to step back form us cause they knew it wasn’t true-oh yeah, and she’s been blocked off Twitter because of her vile harassment. If there was any sort of proof that I have another SM identity, show it, but you can’t, cause there is none. I’ve never been into crazy conspiracy theories. Most people with 2 brain cells aren’t. 

Everyone knows I used to be a shipper. That was never a secret. I never hid it and I never cared to. I shipped from 2015-2017 or 18 ?-whenever the video of Sam and Cait came out saying they weren’t together. I was never an extreme shipper by any definition at all. 

So first, it’s important to define what an “extreme shipper/troll shipper” is as William Shatner (WS) has said…

I totally agree with him.  I am also FULLY!!!! against doxxing (yes, you know who you are)

Now look at any of the tweets that this guy has shared of mine?  Did I once do anything WS defines as extreme? Nope! Even in 2016, I said I “HOPE” they would get married one day. That is the definition of a “wishful shipper” NOT an “extreme shipper. Nice try guy. Notice all the dates are form 2015, 2016 - 4 to 5 years ago!!!! OMG it’s beyond ridiculous. 

Therefore, I’m not an extreme shipper. In fact, I challenge anyone to find ONE tweet, comment, ANYTHING that I have sent to Sam/Cait their SO, or anyone involved in the cast and crew-guess what, you would never be able to because I never have-not once.  Theres a lot more about this bullies lies below 

Here’s another thing, I’m am not a WS fan, he does his thing and I do mine. I don’t care much either way. If he wants or anyone wants to believe crazy proven wrong conspiracy theories, go right ahead. People who know me don't believe the lies and anyone who does I just don't care about.

BUT I will defend his and other’s right to defend themselves when they’ve been attacked 

See, I even blocked this person who kept insisting I was wrong for defending WS. 

Now to this tweet by Nancy, sure, seems “nasty” BUT what I find interesting is how this guy takes EVERYTHING out of context. This tweet is in response to an Anti-shipper meme that was making its rounds around SM to shoot shippers (before Sam and Cait’s denial video) Now, as I said with WS, everyone has the right to defend themselves if they’ve been attacked. And being threatened to be shoot someone is very extreme. But hey, there are some antis that are very extreme and are trolls. And I don’t confuse them with regular respectful antis or NTS 

I couldn't find the meme, but this is the pic and they wrote that they would shoot us if we said Sam and Cait were together. Talk about extreme. 

This one actually made me laugh!!::: this guy says: 

The guy admits he has no idea what I’m talking about, but somehow uses it as an example of “extreme shipping” (how one can square THAT circle is beyond me-if you don’t know what I’m talking about, how is it extreme?) What’s most interesting is that that tweet is talking about a video that non other than his friend WS shares of NANCY talking about being a respectful shipper (you know, not sending Sam and Cait and their SO hate, doesn’t mean you have to like them, but don’t send them hate, the key-don’t send them hate!). The video was taken down with our YT page, you can type the link into your browser, and see that it isn’t there anymore. 

Here is what I was responding to; you know, what rational people call “context”: 

he even thought it was funny that Nancy called him “Shitner” because in the video she mentions stands AGAINST attacking him

Oh! and this LOL:

“Here’s Nancy tagging Julia on a meme of calling Anti-shippers cows.  I didn’t notice Juila disagreeing” 

oh my. She isn't calling antis cows anymore than Joey is calling Monica a cow! Its a line from friends about OPINIONS and how their moot vs. what Joes thinks “moo”! Goodness gracious. And me not responding means what? You know, it likely means that I didn't see, cause this is one of my favourite lines from Friends LOL Are you tired of being wrong yet? 

Let’s move on to this “ship on” tweet. Oh yes, LOL Again, doesn’t meet WS’s definition of extreme. But also, let’s see what the Straz exec says during the time I wrote this tweet. 

 “”fun kind of fantasy world...go on with your bad self”...so yes “Ship on” was in line with what the Starz president said. If it’s aggressive or harassment, then its an issue, Again, non of my tweets were aggressive or harassing. 

Let’s see what Cait has said about what crosses the line. 

Did I do what they define as “crossing the line”? Nope! Nothing abusive towards anyone from me and definitely NOT anything sent to Sam/Cait or any one associated with them. 

There is nothing wrong with shipping properly. Even Elle magazine is a cute shipper article after Sam and Cait went public about not dating.  

https://www.elle.com/culture/celebrities/news/gmp30165/sam-heughan-caitriona-balfe-outlander-pictures/ ). 

Are you going to now accuse Elle magazine of harassment? Please. I agree with WS, it’s when it gets into harassment of them that it’s a big problem. And I’ve never once done that. I’ve been incredibly vocal against it. 

That’s what I find so hilarious about this. All my tweets form when I used to ship fit perfectly with WS’ own definition of respectful shipping AND Cait's, as well as the Starz exec during the same time period! How on earth is the extreme?? Well, its not. 

Here’s another one he shared-of course out of context again LOL, but here's what I was responding to

Again, I was not rude to this anti troll at all, even though she did insult me. Again “ship on”...there is nothing against shipping as WS, Starz, and Cait has said, harassment is��wrong. 

Now, I came into shipping in 2015, I used to follow Puffy but stopped when she sent Sam and Cait hate. So why bring out a tweet with me laughing in response to something she and Nancy said is beyond me. I mean, if it would prove I was an extreme shipper, then he would have shared the whole context right? But he didn’t so I guess it doesn’t. I can’t even find that tweet myself to put the context up. 

The tweet about stalking? Yeah, I’m against stalking-always have been. Somehow that makes me an “extreme shipper”??? I’m against calling hotels to see if Sam’s there and who he’s with-you know who you are. I’m against standing outside people’s apartments to spy on them. I’m against taking pictures of people on the beach and trying to pass it off as Sam-ahem…you know who your are. I’m against stalking where people’s family members are buried (we all know who did this) And, like WS, I’m against doxxing (which extreme antis aren’t). I’m against ANY type of stalking.  

So lets take a look at the context about me saying getting sources from stalkers is wrong. In 2016 neither Cait nor Sam had gone public about any relationship then.  So how did they get the information about Cait's relationship for two years (before she even stated Outlander at this point) and Sam dating other women? Sam didn't go public with any relationship until Mackenzie. So any info would have been from “other sources”. Being against stalking is extreme??? Wow. That’s a new one! LOL. And this is the context of the tweet. 

So really, I challenge anyone to share a tweet or comment or anything harassing/insulting that I have ever SENT to Sam/Cait their SO or anyone in the show. Go ahead! Find one tweet or anything of MY comments that fits WSs definition of extreme/troll shipping. I dare you, go ahead. While we’re at it, any tweet or comment about them lying and being together AFTER their video. Go ahead. 

WS is not extreme so neither are my tweets.

This is the BEST he had to offer about me being an “extreme shipper”?? This the the most “extreme” I get? 

Seems like a bunch of malarkey to me.

Oh! and here are some other tweets from Nancy and me about NOT sending  Sam and Cait and their SO any hate. You don't have to like them, keep that in your own space,  but don't harass them-ever! 

In 2015, intrusive trolls were sending Cait congratulations on her “engagement” to Tony---in 2015! LMAO. Where would they even get this idea? I have no clue, because I never stalked anyone. 

[littleeyesofpallas]

The other day i had a kinda drunken rant I went on with a friend that I had wished I could’ve written down.  But today I read an article about the shift in hollywood marketing from star power to IP and character driven power instead: the idea being that an original movie used be able to draw crowds with the basic idea of “your favorite star as <insert role>” but we’ve moved more towards the appeal of familiar franchise names like “from the creator of XYZ.”  But I think this is an interesting place to draw the line because it does go back to that drunken rant.  So, here I go again... this is gonna be lo~ng and boring (and this is the shortest possible version) and without pictures, but god knows i have no idea what i would put to accompany this super tangent-filled tirade, so I guess just buckle up...

(I apologize now for all the weird side subjects that I’m going to name drop but just not take the time here to go in depth with.)

I don’t even remember where my drunken rant with my friend the other night started so my first obstacle is finding a place to even begin with this because it has so many entry points and none of them are any closer to where this all ends than any other so like.... whatever...  Shakespeare.

It’s a super complicated thing but in the first era of professional english theatre  that Shakespeare ushered in (from the mid-late 1500s to early-mid 1600s) there were strong strong associations with theatre and prostitution.  Maybe it was exactly what it sounded like, maybe it was elitist slander against the revolutionary accessibility of the arts to the poor as self debasing, maybe it was the church being really angry about literally everything all the time, maybe it was a little of all of that...  But either way the persisting notion was that a theatre, established or travelling, was a place one could ostensibly go to pay for sex with the troupe’s actors.  of course at the time women weren’t a part of that profession, and while they may have been as much a part of the theater going demographic as anyone else it’s hard to pinpoint how much of the already vaguely defined theatre sex trade they patronized --Point being when we talk about theatres prostituting their actors we’re talking about male theatre goers paying to have sex with male actors, and predominantly those young boys playing female roles.  In most classic academic circles this is either wholly ignored, brushed aside/glossed over, or sloppily chalked up to “homosexuality.”  But there’s a lot more nuance to that... which is part of the big mess of stuff I’m just not getting into here...

But this is where I draw my line of connection to Kabuki theatre.  Kabuki somewhat infamously had similar practices as all-male theatre and as duel industry for theatre and prostitution.  And as a parallel development it seems to make sense... In England and Japan alike, you have a group of people who by nature of their jobs charm people and constantly move from town to town.  Even if a community or government thinks what they’re doing is wrong, by the time they can take notice or do anything to stop them: they charm, they fuck, they leave.  But unlike Shakespearean theatre, kabuki has a slightly more convoluted history of development.

See, Kabuki started with Izumi-no-Okumo, a shinto shrine maid (ironically also in the 1500-1600s cusp, same as shakespeare) and although a lot of her personal history is lost to time you can imagine the basic development here: a shrine maid tells the myths, she tells the myths dramatically and with with character voice, then all that but with props, and costume, and then dividing roles into separate actors, and collecting donations for the shrine as regular practice anyway but hey look people donate more when they’ve come for a story they enjoy... and then oops you’ve invented theatre.  Also on account of this being started with shinto shrine maids, the form naturally took an all female slant.

Whether it started with Okumo herself or not, as theatre became an established form, and a lucrative one at that, non shinto affiliated women quickly seized the chance to make a living outside the bounds of common peasantry, and with the growth of travelling theatre as an industry that same side venture of prostitution developed.  But here’s where it gets interesting...

Due to things that, again I won’t dive into here, the untaxed revenues of prostitution painted a target on the backs of kabuki actresses, and women were eventually outlawed from theatre.  The art form was of course immensely popular however so to keep the gravy train rolling the theatre form continued but now with all young-male casts, to retain the feminine aesthetics of female kabuki.  This did absolutely nothing to stop the rate of prostitution however, so they outlawed it again and replaced the young boys with grown men.  This still didn’t stop the prostitution but there was other stuff going on in Japan at that point and legislative attentions were pulled elsewhere.

And here’s my weird little take away from this...  it’s not like Kabuki theatre suddenly went from being popular with horny straight men to horny gay men in a seemless and perfectly balanced transition. (and granted japan at the time was a lot more open about their grasp of sexuality compared to now and to the west in general) so presumably a lot of these thirsty theatre goers were just overwhelmingly indiscriminate in their tastes in fucking actors...  But stick a pin in that, we’ve got a tangent to go on!

So around this same time Japan was having kind of a second rennaissance: japan’s high arts culture had first really risen to prominence in the heian period right before the long long descent into the civilwar we all know and lover for all its flashy samurai drama.  When that 400-ish year civil war finally ended and then stabilized under the Tokugawa shogunate in the Edo period, the art scene finally had some room to breathe again, and among many other things ukiyo-e wood block prints saw a huge explosion in popularity.  And part of this tied into Kabuki theatre, as an extremely popular genre of prints were actor portraits and theatre scenes.  Actor portraits in particular are kind of culturally fascinating, because they weren’t simply prints of character illustration, they were frequently labeled with both the character played, the story they featured in, and the name of the actor playing them.  moreover, despite the reverence of classical art historians now, these weren’t fine art at the time; they were mass produced, affordable and disposable.  In major cities, everyone went to see theatre, and everyone bought, kept, and even collected actor portraits.  As theatre seasons and troupes came and went actor portraits came to occupy and kind of cultural value space a lot like American baseball cards in how prestige, rarity, and trading became an entire subculture in and of itself within the sports/theatre community.

Now we see how Japan had created this thriving popular/mass culture, and celebrity culture for itself.  And while the notion of a “parasocial relationship” wouldn’t be formulated and explored until the 1950s-60s in the wake of things like Elvis fever and Beetles mania, that brand of one-sided relationship where you as an audience member form a “relationship” with a celebrity that involves collecting information about their heavily curated persona is exactly what japan stumbled into some 300 years earlier.  And in fact Japanese pop culture would maintain a lineage of parasocial relationships during the intervening years (in a way the deification and worship of the emperor as a god-king was a kind of parasocial relationship in the way a secular monarch doesn’t quite achieve) So it’s no surprise that when Takarazuka Revue opened in the 1910s as a new modern all-female theatre form, it attracted a familiar old brand of horny theatre audience --one that maintained a very nebulous relationship with the now much more stringent notions of gender and its relation to sexuality.

taking this tangent a little further, Japanese pop culture has always shown this interesting, self-aware approach to the parasocial relationship dynamic that western cultures seems to lack.  I remember that when the 1990s put boy bands briefly into the spotlight, the thing that sunk them in the American eye seemed to be this weird sense of betrayal that the boys werent some garage band rags to riches story, and they didnt write their own music, or make their own dance moves, or even sing live at their own concerts.  America seemed to be repulsed by this notion of a manufactured pop hit.  Japan however (and Korea soon to follow) seemed to thrive in this instead; there was no pretense that J-pop idols weren’t manufactured, and in fact they took pride in the rigors of having been hand picked and raised to stardom --of course they were scouted and trained, because the idol could’ve been any of millions but it was them who got picked, it was them who sang the best, performed the best, climbed the charts, and fought to stay there.  Stardom wasn’t an art form, it was a contest, and they were WINNING.

And the manufactured nature of that J-pop idol business model is what gave rise to Hatsune Miku (in fact there were multiple attempts in the 1980s to design and market a wholly fictional pop idol, but if anything they were too ahead of their time and lacked the technology to really sell the idea in its best form) because when your entire product is about making and curating your performers’ public persona, to the extreme level at which them having their own lives actually starts to contradict their stage persona and hurt their marketability... why bother projecting the persona onto a real person?  Why not just cut the human component out all together and just market the persona for what it is?  And for Japan I think that kind of relationship was one that they were culturally always just a few steps away from being ready to accept anyway, so it just took a little persistence.

Then came the anime waifu thing...  Dating sims, and body pillow marriages, etc... and I think the pretty unanimous impulse to turn this into a enormous joke (and lets be real who could blame anyone for that) overlooks what actually happened here: paraosocial relationships in the purest form, with the fleshy middleman removed and with it the lie, not less false but somehow now false yet honest.  A bizarre paradox to be sure...

But now lets back this up...  Kabuki theatre.  Prostitution.  The change from women to young boys to men, and the almost hilarious unflappably bisexual audience who embraced it.  I don’t think it was a component of sexuality as any historians who have looked at that time period bothered to conceive of it.   Because even in an early japanese mass culture scene, the relationship was between the audience and the persona, and not the audience and the actors; The audience was always in love with the characters in their collectible trading prints, with their 15th century waifus, and they paid to have sex with those personas regardless of the bodies or real people involved.

...

okay, so, I typed all that out weeks ago and then just left it in my drafts, not even really intending to come back to it.  And now that I’m here, I don’t know that I had a point to this when i went on my drunk rant.  But i guess if there was any kind of a take away from this, it’s that I find that people have a lot of trouble separating personal identity from gender, from performance, from social dynamics... and in western culture, especially within recent history/memory, that’s kind of understandably hard to untangle. But historically people’s sexuality and sense of attraction have basically always been based implicitly on attraction to an idea made manifest in a persona first, and a body to match it only secondarily to that;

Society’s abiding dedication to forcing you into a gendered box, and to box gender into a narrow range of performance, is equitable to screeching fans being “in love” with celebrities they’ve never met and convinced that the steady feed of curated marketed personality traits constitute “knowing” those celebrity strangers.  The idea that the person and the persona are the same is a lie told to sell product.  Gender is just the brand.  You’re the rockstar.  Fuck marketing.

[jaimistoryteller]

Anon Answer

[ID: two anon questions: hi, saw you were looking to purchase a building through crowdfunding, and I was wondering why you didn’t just try to get a small business loan instead? it’s pretty selfish to use others’ money to fund your business without giving anything back. . . and no, a place where they can continue to throw money at you is not giving back to the community]

So, Anon, rather then post both of them, I just took a screen shot. Now I am going to gather that you are one of two types of people. 

Type 1. a flaming asshole troll who likes to cause shit, at which point you can go to hell in a handbasket. 

or

Type 2: someone who is too lazy to through my history. 

I’d like to say you were Type 3: someone who missed my general update, didn’t actually read the GFM page (because OMG one of the questions I answered in it is: who does it benefit besides me?), and was asking out of curiosity, but alas the fact both came from the same IP address according to when I blocked you it said I already had with the second, and the tone in the second, I’m going to politely tell you to Fuck Off. 

Now for others who might be wondering why, I will recap the last decade of my life plus my last update.

I was in a car accident, I now have permanent nerve damage, some days I can walk fine, other days not so much. But what about a wheel chair for those days you can’t walk? That’d be great, if I A. could use it with my house (I have steps between my room and the rest of my house, not counting the door to outside with even more steps) and B. if my hall was wide enough. So not a thing. Then there is the fact on those days all I can do is curl in bed and try not to cry from the pain, it’s something I wouldn’t wish on 99% of the world (I’m leaving space open for those people who really deserve pain, like mass murderers and what not). 

I tried working for three years following the accident, that just made things worse. I mean a lot worse. I stopped eating most the time, had a tricky time bathing, was in and out of the hospital for falling related injuries. It wasn’t good. 

So I decided, I tried the adult thing, I tried to work through the pain, even though all that did is make my pain worse and caused more physical damage, it didn’t do it. Let’s try applying for disability. 5 years worth of paperwork and court, just to have a panel of perfectly healthy judges tell me “You have a disability, we don’t think you are disabled enough to qualify for disability however.” 

Yep, they said that. I even took it to my therapist (yeah, I see one twice a month for depression, to go with the physical disability, I have annoying brain chemistry), and asked him to read it to make sure I wasn’t misreading. I wasn’t. 

Right. Well, I do commissions and ghost writing, but there are a lot of people who do both. Some months it pays the bills, others not so much. Then there are the months where things go wrong. I mean massively wrong. Like when I had to ask for help catching up the bills because I had spent 4 months sick and fell way behind, or when Sota got ill. 

I also sell my book Tales of Identity: Memories & Reflections.

Okay then. So, I haven’t been able to find a job in the area I can physically do, I can’t afford to move, I can’t travel to bigger cities because how would I get there and back since the pain would make it impossible to work or I would work and the pain would make it impossible to drive, but this living on commissions, ghost writing, and book sales in between working on my books isn’t providing enough money to survive healthily. 

So I did what I do, I went into figure-this-shit-out mode. The answer? Open a business of my own. Sweet! Except, I haven’t worked in 7 years, my credit is in the shit, and I have no one I can turn to as a cosigner. Well fuck. Now what? 

Oh! I know! GoFundMe and KickStarter! 

As I had used GFM before, it was the easier one to set up, so I set it up and began the sharing process. Do I expect to actually raise all the money on there? No, but it doesn’t hurt to ask. I am working on the KickStarter, but it’s a lot more detailed and takes more time to set up. Particularly when other things keep going wrong. 

If anon didn’t want to donate to GFM, they could have waited for the KS since that comes with various rewards based on money amount.

Now then, back to the anon’s question of who else benefits.

Well because of my disabilities, I included in the amount of money I am trying to raise, the money for a person to work there to do the lifting, stocking, and moving of stuff. That gives at least one person a full time job. If it works out the way I think it will, there will actually be three other people besides me working there, so that’s three people with full time jobs. Who will be able to pay bills and spend money in the community.

Then there is the fact I said an Indie Bookstore. Wait, why is Indie bold? Because my in pain self would like to point out that indie authors only get paid when their books are bought. Now with a traditional book store the book store goes to the publisher and says “I would like these books” and in a lot of cases they are fronted, aka the author gets nothing till they leave the shelf. In the case of an Indie Bookstore, at least with the ones I was talking to owners of, the owner buys the book, so the author gets the money then, and then it’s on the owner whether they sell or not. If the book does well, more of that book is bought. So, that gives any Indie Authors I know about (and yeah, I will be doing a call for indie authors to stock up on y’all’s books because lets support each other) at least a little bit of money. 

Then there is number three, if I am no longer having to ask for money because I have a stable or reliable source of income I can give back to the community by helping others. What a concept, if not needing help, can actually help other people. 

Which leads to number four, I also said market. Right now the farm market peeps are in whatever space comes open that week, which means their sales are not persistent because who knows where they will be. It will give them a place to sell their stuff from. But wait! There’s more, rather then having only one day a week they can sell stuff, they will have the option of ‘renting’ an area to sell stuff every day. So, it’s like they almost have a way to make a little extra money. Geez, what a concept. 

I apologize for the overwhelming snark and I appreciate each and every one of you people who have helped me in any way. You all are awesome, I hope you have a good day. 

GoFundMe for Cosmos Market - Indie Boostore, Arts & Crafts Market

[catsnuggler]

I’ve taken a few days to cool off. I’m going to make this post, then I’m going to stay off tumblr until August 25th.

I don’t know if Hussain &c were right, but I’m not so proud anymore as to doggedly insist that I am totally right. There certainly exists the possibility that they’re right, but frankly this post, this story, the notes, everything have ticked me off to the point that honestly, I’d rather just drop the damn thing altogether and admit that somewhere, I made a mistake in assuming a music magazine had got a political article alright, however critical they were of the US and however ignorant they were of Kareem’s alleged ties, rather than go through the trouble of fully finding out how wrong I really was. I’m tired of this whole damn thing. 

I certainly made a mistake in being mean to Hussain. I’m glad I’ve IP blocked him, though, because I don’t like him anyway, and if communications between us were still possible, I would likely continue to be the dick I was to him. So, granting that I do not like him and don’t want to talk to him, I am at total fault here, and I’m sorry.

There are a few things I want to make clear, though.

I insisted - likely incorrectly, I acknowledge now - that I knew more than Hussain despite being American. Despite. Meaning I assumed that I knew more than he did in this situation, even though I thought I shouldn’t due to my nationality. I didn’t think I knew more than him because I was American. As an anarchist who hates the American empire and rejects nationalities, I’m not trying to insist at all the empire is in any way superior to other people, because in fact those affected by it probably know a hell of a lot more than any imperial yokels like yours truly. I should have believed that statement more, though, to the point I didn’t start a confrontation. Instead, I wrongfully did start a confrontation, and went on being an arrogant bastard.

I’m not a liberal. I’m an anarchist communist. I don’t believe in free markets, I believe in elimination of the market. I don’t believe in capitalism; I believe in communism. I don’t believe in the state; I believe in anarchism.

Linked to the last point, I’m not sympathetic to Al-Qaeda. My biggest crime here, if this business about Kareem is correct, is being a totally oblivious dumbass who trusted an article way too much. As I am a Norse polytheist, who never wants to have anything personally to do with monotheism again due to the stiflingly authoritarian culture of the mormon faith I was born into (which isn’t fair, I understand, and I do respect Jews, Christians, and Muslims, I’m just never going to be any of those, just as they don’t want to be polytheists); and an anarchist communist; I am fully confident that the reactionary, fundamentalist insurgent group Al-Qaeda would love nothing more from me than my head skewered on a pike. And I want nothing more from them than their burning corpses, althoooooouuuugggghhh my country keeps killing civilians alongside those terrorist bastards while also supporting the next batch of terrorists - or, excuse me, “moderate rebels”, as the US likes to call them - so I understand it’s not really any American’s place to fight them, except as volunteers for leftist self-defense groups in the region like the YPG/YPJ, who I wish the best of luck for. I mean, I guess it’s complicated because fascism needs to be fought, but also not at the cost of supporting imperialism of a country which is increasingly fascistic not only to those it conquers, but its own people? But I’m no friend of Al-Qaeda, that’s for damn sure.

Anyway, I was a confrontational, hot-headed asshole, and I was very unclear because of my ignorance, and for all this, I’m sorry.

Now, as previously stated, I’m leaving this site until August 25th. Until then!

[yeonchi]

Dunking on the Undub page one last time

Two years ago, I retired from ranting about English dubs and over a year ago, I unpublished the English Dubbed Game News page (formerly known as English dubs in Japanese games or no buy, aka #NoDubNoBuy) with that same intention of retirement. Though I have since moved on to other ventures, I have recently discovered that the admins of the Undub page (full name I don't buy Japanese games if the audio is only in English) have decided to call it quits. This is my reaction to their announcement.

I really must scoff at them saying that they are “no longer needed in this world”, because aside from EDGN, they were the only page that bothered to collect data on what languages the games are voiced and subtitled in. Maybe some game companies weren’t directly transparent with providing this information ten years ago (which is when they claim they started even though their Spanish and English pages were created in 2012 and 2013 respectively) compared to now, but they bridged the gap when others never thought of it. There is a wiki that lists games that have Japanese voices or dual audio options, but they only list dub-only games on one page instead of on the individual console pages. While I understand that the admins of that page probably have their reasons for quitting their page just as I did, there will still be games that will be released with only English or Japanese voices and without people like us, information wouldn’t have been as easy to find.

For a few years now, the Undub page hasn’t been posting as frequently as they used to because they have been focusing on Own Your Game, a blog where they post about what games are released physically, with voice and text language information included. It’s like the admins of the Undub page started giving up after they discovered how toxic I was on EDGN and my rants. (Own Your Game is still active, so feel free to check out their blog and give them a follow on Twitter.)

In their announcement, they list some IPs that have adopted dual audio over the years, such as Final Fantasy, Nier, Bayonetta, Persona and Kingdom Hearts. They also claim that while there are some games that still only have English dubbing, dual audio is becoming the industry standard. No, you fucking Europoor cucks, that is not it. As a (former) fan of Koei Tecmo’s Warriors games, I know that Japanese game companies will happily forego dubbing a game during localisation if their budget won’t allow it and you along with the NPC sub fans and dub haters would celebrate like you “owned the dub plebs” (we did it, Reddit). I can even name a few more IPs that have gone on this path, such as Atelier, BlazBlue and numerous animes (particularly ones that have received a dub) that have received game adaptations. It’s all in the EDGN post archive (which is still up, by the way). But hey, you’re fans of the original Japanese voices, how was I to know that you only support dual audio in games when it’s the Japanese voices that are missing? So really, at this point, the industry standard is either dual audio or Japanese voices only (if such a standard existed in the first place).

Yes, I know it costs money to dub a game. Yes, I know it costs money to hire voice actors to dub a game. I don’t care if the game has 50 characters or 100, that’s not even an excuse even if it links back to money because it still makes them look lazy. I don’t care if I’ve sounded entitled or snooty, as long as there is a fanbase for dubs, then there is a market for dubs. If the Japanese could do it, why can’t the West do it? (inb4 union bullshit) Oh whatever, I’m too over this bullshit anyway.

Remember when your smoothbrain fans discovered EDGN and called us SJWs, even though looking back it’s more of a right-wing thing even though politics shouldn’t fucking matter in the dub-sub debate? Remember when you admins discovered our page and then decided to not only accuse us of copying your page’s format (even though you should have seen this coming), but also assuming that Admin A (the creator of the page) and I wanted games with English dub only even though we have no problem with Japanese voices, then blaming yourselves for allowing the birth of that “monster” that was EDGN and blocking me from your page? Remember when you unblocked me, claimed that we were fighting when we barely did in the first place and showed me your new project to which I invited you to share my rebranded page to your fans, but then you never did even though I went to the trouble of giving your new project some promotion on one of my posts?

Okay, maybe that last one was a bit personal, but my point is that you claimed that you’ve changed when you barely even did. This is typical of you sub fans - you claim that you’re cool with dual audio but you never have any empathy for dub fans because their preferences don’t align with yours. You never even criticised your own fanbase (enough) for the hate they sent us, which makes you just as complicit in enabling them to do so. You were the inspiration for EDGN and yet, this is how you treat us. This is why I think sub fans like you are the reason why some games (or their sequels) don’t get dubbed.

On a lighter note, even though we agree that dual audio options are good, it’s funny how the Undub page barely made an effort to rebrand themselves to be unbiased in voice preferences. To be fair, I once had plans to rebrand EDGN into Dual Audio Game News and show the voice/text languages under the game covers in the image instead of putting a prohibition symbol on the covers meaning that the game was rejected by our verdict, but I gave up on them when I decided to retire from the page. I wonder if we would have reached more people (and gotten less hate) if we just decided to post about the voice/text language options of games without bias in our names or intent, but I guess we’ll never know.

I know that this fight for dual audio may have been easy for you, being Japanese voice fans, because the original voice track is readily available, but this fight wasn’t easy for us, being English dub fans, because time, effort and money on the part of the gaming companies aside, you people have barely done anything to stand with us when we know that game companies won’t listen to anything we say or the complaints we make.

So in short, I respect the work you admins have done for the Undub page and I wish you all the best, but fuck you and your fans for your attitude towards us at EDGN and all the other English dub fans out there, because in the end, despite your altruistic intentions, you are just a bunch of selfish Europoor cucks, sub fans and dub haters. I came to you with an olive branch and all I got was insults and derision.

I leave you all with this video of Friendlyjordies dunking on an Australian politician of European descent for all the European dunks I’ve made in this post (and possibly once or twice in the past).

Oh, and for posture, here’s a screenshot of their farewell post in case they decide to delete their page:

[velvetchen]

Anonymous | pt. v

[ back to masterlist ]

Scenario: Tumblr AU Pairing: Chanyeol/Reader Word Count: 2226 Rating: T

Summary: Can you fall in love with someone you’ve never met? You just shot to tumblr fame when the latest chapter of your webtoon went viral. Messages start flooding in – hundreds of people saying things good and bad alike. One anon catches your eye, and you find you just have to reply to them…

<< previous part x next part >>

[12:03 AM] You: hey C, you awake? [12:05 AM] C: yeah what’s up? [12:05 AM] You: oh cool [12:05 AM] You: what are you doing~~ [12:07 AM] C: you know me, always working [12:08 AM] C: new song [12:08 AM] C: it’s coming along well i don’t want to interrupt it by going to bed [12:09 AM] You: you still haven’t let me hear any of your songs :( [12:10 AM] You: we’ve been texting for a while now and i still don’t even know your name [12:11 AM] You: i mean it’s fine like this but i can’t help but wonder [12:15 AM] C: trust me, S [12:15 AM] C: there’s a reason i’m so private

Anonymous asked: Lmao you think by blocking me you’re safe? I can do a lot, you know

Oh, you again

Anonymous asked: You don’t seem excited to see me :(

Anonymous asked: I just wanna know who my favorite author is, is that so bad?

oo3043j

posts about #webtoon and #me

You aren’t following this user. Do you want to report spam?

oo3043j: I know who you are

oo3043j: You think just because we’re your fans, you don’t owe us anything?

oo3043j: Lol bitch

oo3043j: Let me just say I’ve done some research on you

oo3043j: And I don’t just know your name…

oo3043j: I know C’s too

oo3043j: I don’t think it’s a name you want your fans to know. Given how much hate you’re already getting

oo3043j: Do I have your attention yet?

oo3043j.tumblr.com

Untitled

Meditate on this empty tumblr for a while.

[8:03 AM] C: hey how’s it going with that anon who was harassing you? :( [8:08 AM] You: oh it’s fine they backed off kinda [8:09 AM] You: well not really but i’m seeing if the cold shoulder works [8:10 AM] C: ahh i see~~ [8:10 AM] You: C just tell me one thing [8:10 AM] You: should i be worried about you? [8:12 AM] C: i get the feeling you’re not asking about my health... [8:13 AM] You: i’m serious [8:13 AM] You: who are you, really [8:16 AM] C: is that anon putting you up to this? [8:17 AM] You: what, i can’t have my doubts? [8:19 AM] C: come on, what are they saying about me [8:25 AM] You: i don’t have to tell you anything

Posted on 29 November with 44 notes

justanothershortcake:

So, webtoon developments aside (I’ll get to that in my next post, don’t worry) I’m sure all you shortcakes remember C? Yup, the guy who was flirting with S in the old days when SS was just starting to go viral. Yes, him. Well, if you’ve been keeping up with S as obsessively as I have, you probably know that they’ve been DMing ever since. Yup. And S said they’re almost best friends. Yuuuup.

So if you ship it, oh boy have I got some good news for you. It might not be from the most reliable - or ethical - source, but hey, gossip is gossip, right?

Should I post it on here or do you guys wanna shoot me a DM for the dirt?

soldmyseoul:

MINNIE I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DON’T TELL US

justanothershortcake:

I’m doing this for Chi @soldmyseoul …… if I go to jail, it’s her fault okay? Lol

The deets are: someone tracked C’s IP and figured out he’s an idol. A REAL LIFE IDOL.

You better believe it.

forgetmeright:

Update on this - they actually hacked S’s phone. I don’t know how much I trust this info but yeah they used C’s phone number to verify his location and the address on file for his number is apparently the address of the SM building in Cheongdam-dong, Seoul.  

Like I said this is probably false, they could just be making this up for attention. Everything seems super unlikely.

rxdvxlvxt:

yeah you’re wrong about it being false. they did hack S’s phone. idk who it was but they leaked some pictures on a blog and it’s since been taken down, but there are a lot of posts about how they hacked into her phone and how she’s a total no good bitch and whatever.... :/

[1:22 PM] You: C i need you to tell me [1:22 PM] You: i’m honestly getting freaked out [1:23 PM] You: they hacked into my phone and my pictures are being uploaded and i think they might have got your number too [1:29 PM] C: S i really don’t want to tell you [1:29 PM] C: i respect your privacy, don’t i? [1:31 PM] You: privacy isn’t even a goddamn issue here, it’s a matter of my safety [1:31 PM] You: and your safety too [1:32 PM] You: honestly when you’re as famous as i am, nothing is as simple as it sounds [1:33 PM] C: oh you wanna talk to me about fame? [1:33 PM] C: you know nothing about fame, okay [1:34 PM] C: this is nothing. compared to how some people live [1:34 PM] You: oh and how would YOU know

C is typing…

C is typing…

Anonymous asked: You really think because you’re famous you have a chance with an idol? Back off

I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about?

oo3043j: Aren’t you wondering how I found your photos? Hahaha

This user has been blocked.

[6:56 PM] C: okay fine [6:57 PM] C: you deserve to know [6:57 PM] C: meet me at midnight at this address [7:00 PM] C: sent a map location [7:01 PM] C: i’ll explain everything

[7:12 PM] You: jia he asked me to meet him [7:12 PM] You: should i??? [7:13 PM] You: i mean things are getting absolutely crazy and i just want everything to stop [7:13 PM] You: but what if he’s....you know [7:14 PM] Jia: a serial killer?? Lol [7:15 PM] Jia: i get why you’re worried, i would be too [7:15 PM] Jia: i mean, all this hate stuff started because of him in a way [7:15 PM] Jia: honestly i think you should go [7:16 PM] Jia: it would definitely sort things out [7:16 PM] Jia: i’ll come with you, if that helps [7:17 PM] You: thanks so much jia ;-;

It was a quarter to eleven when you finally left the house. By some stroke of luck, the location C had chosen happened to be close by. You’d been surprised, and not in a good way. What if he was a stalker? What if you were walking straight into a trap?

You let out a breath. You knew him - from what you had gathered, he was possibly the most harmless person you’d ever seen. Someone who wanted to hurt you wouldn’t have been so nice, would they?

You didn’t know.

The meeting place he’d picked was a children’s park. At night it was eerie, and the sounds of the wind through the metal structures sounded too much like whispers. Were you alone? It certainly didn’t feel like it. It felt like there were eyes on you from every direction. You shivered as you made your way over to a bench and sat down, flinching at the cold metal of it.

It was ten minutes later that you finally saw a figure coming down the pathway to the park, clad in black and making shuffling footsteps that grew louder as he approached. You held your breath. Was it him? Was it C? You wanted to stand up, but decided not to draw attention to yourself. Jia was waiting in the car within screaming distance. If he turned out to be anyone but C - or if he was, and he tried something - you were pretty sure you could make a safe getaway.

He looked right at you when he entered the park, footsteps ceasing as he stepped onto the sand. He wore a hoodie, but you could still make out his features: a round face, high cheekbones, wide eyes. “S?” He said quietly.

You stood up at last. “C? Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” He sounded exactly like you’d expected. It was definitely him. “You came.”

“I did,” you said awkwardly, crossing your arms over your stomach. “Are you going to explain?”

He reached up to run a hand through his hair and in the process knocked back his hood, exposing his bright red hair to the wind. Quickly, he yanked it back up. “I should, shouldn’t I? Sit - sit down, I’ll tell you.” You backed down onto the bench and sat again, pressing yourself to the opposite end to maximize the distance between the both of you.

“My name is Park Chanyeol,” he started, sitting down. The name was familiar - where had you heard it?

“And?”

“And I’m an idol. I’m Chanyeol from EXO.” He swallowed, the bobbing of his throat visible. Almost imperceptibly, he winced, like he wished he hadn’t told you.

You froze. “You’re...an….idol.”

“I’m an idol.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s why you were-” you looked away, frowning. “I get it now.”

“...Yeah.”

There was a pause. Even though you knew each other well, meeting him in the flesh was a whole new monster. He felt unreachable after his confession. A million miles away. “Well. Thanks for telling me, I guess. It clears up a lot.”

You stood, making to leave. Chanyeol’s hand shot out to grab your wrist, his eyes flicking from his grip on you to your face and back. “Wait, S, don’t go.”

Unsteadily, you sat back down, not taking your eyes off him. “I...you’ll still talk to me, right? Won’t you?”

You answered truthfully. “I don’t know.”

“Please.” He moved closer to you, eyes pleading.

You wanted to say okay, but you couldn’t believe it. He was an idol, a thousand times removed from your simple life. How could you go on talking to him knowing who he actually was, having met him? Realizing he had talked to you for no other reason than him liking your work and by extension, you? It was overwhelming. “Why?”

“Well, why not?” He grinned, a quick smile that lit up his features and then faded as fast as it had come. “Oh, did I make you feel uncomfortable? I’m sorry. I, uh,” he leaned away, pushing himself to the other end of the bench like you had. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t realize what it would be like for you. I’m sorry.”

You looked down at your hands. “Do you really want to talk to me?”

That smile was back. “Yeah. Obviously. Otherwise I wouldn’t have messaged you in the first place.” Gaining some sort of courage, he leaned back toward you, his hand lightly covering yours. “I’m just a normal person, S. I swear. You have nothing to be afraid of.”

You met his eyes. “I’m not afraid.”

“Good.” He swallowed again. “So I can go home and expect you to text me back?”

A tiny laugh escaped you. “Okay. Yes. Okay.”

He got up first, holding out his hand to help you, face falling just slightly when you didn’t take it and got up on your own. You might have agreed to keep talking to him, but you weren’t ready for anything else. Despite his assurance that he was just as normal as you, you still couldn’t feel like he was a real person at all. You wished it were easy to accept it - but it wasn’t.

“Did you come by yourself?”

You shook your head. “Oh, good, then. You can make it to the car alone?”

Again speechless, you nodded.

He looked reluctant to let you go. “Okay,” he finally said. “It was nice seeing you.”

“You too,” you choked out, and without another word, turned to leave. You could feel his eyes on you all the way back to your car. When you were out of sight, you ran.

[12:49 AM] C: did you get home safe? [12:53 AM] You: i did, thank you :) [12:55 AM] C: i should be thanking you [12:55 AM] C: again, i realize you might have been really uncomfortable [12:56 AM] C: shit, all that hate you’re getting is because of me [12:56 AM] C: i’m really sorry :( i didn’t know what i was getting you into [12:57 AM] You: it’s okay [12:57 AM] You: i just still can’t believe [12:57 AM] You: i’m glad you told me, i’m a little more at peace now [12:58 AM] You: there’s still some shit going on but this helps [12:58 AM] C: glad to hear that :)

[1:05 AM] C: by the way, did i mention you’re beautiful? [1:06 AM] C: i meant to tell you after comiccon, but i forgot [1:06 AM] You: don’t say things like that ;;;;; [1:07 AM] C: why not? it’s true [1:07 AM] C: i’ve never seen anyone more beautiful than you [1:08 AM] You: are you just saying that so that i’ll talk to you more? [1:08 AM] C: :) [1:08 AM] C: S, maybe you should know something else too [1:09 AM] You: oh god, what now, you’re a gang leader? [1:10 AM] C: come on [1:10 AM] C: i’m serious, S [1:11 AM] C: i meant to tell you at the park but stopped myself every time [1:11 AM] C: i should’ve told you then [1:12 AM] C: S, i think i’m in love with you

[cinderspewed]

CALLOUT: MUTUALS, BE CAUTIOUS OF YOUR ANONS.

                        If you’ve been following me for many moons, you know that I have NEVER made a callout post for anything or anyone. I have established myself in such a way, that when I tell someone to leave me alone ( aka: politely fuck off ), they do. I have also befriended the blocking button and have been good at leaving peoples names out of my mouth. Because talking about hurtful people isn’t worth it and usually the problem goes away when you avoid someone. However, my efforts for this particular situation have NOT been fruitful. I will be placing my experience under a read more.                         Prior to me addressing anything, I wanted to state that I am NOT asking anyone to do anything out of line, not to send anonymous hate, nor to even block a certain person. All I ask is that you be very mindful of the anonymous messages you might receive regarding certain users. Chances are, they probably didn’t send them and the context of the anonymous messages has gotten too out of line for us. You might think “what’s the big deal?” while you’re reading this. The big deal is this: if someone blocks you, you take the hint and leave them alone and you don’t send asks/IMs constantly asking about them no matter how “innocent” they seem.

                        Once upon a time, I was minding my own business when I noticed a certain user ( @coffeeiisms ) had followed me. They have since then deleted their blog, but at the time, they were sending me asks and IMs. I ignored them, because they were not a mutual and because their character was the type that would receive negative feedback from my own character. While I know Dei can be mean, I don’t LIKE having him be mean if I haven’t really established a connection with someone, because usually people think it reflects the muns feelings, so I ignored it all. It wasn’t until they IMed me asking to write that I politely told them no (x).                         I went out to get ice cream from the store. And I returned to a string of IMs essentially guilt-tripping me for not wanting to write with them (x). Unfortunately, I did not take screenshots, because I was content with the idea that I would never have to interact with this person EVER again. However, I did copy and paste their words in a skype conversation I was having, as you see in the previous statement. I remember making a post saying you should NEVER guilt trip someone or put them down for not wanting to write with you. To which, my friend Loke ( @loketratan ) messaged me and asked if I was having an issue with, YOU GUESSED IT, coffeeiisms. They were receiving the same kinds of messages from them. Loke was not interested and chose to politely decline as well (x, x). However, they also received guilt-tripping as well (x, x). Again, we didn’t think this would escalate, so we have minimal screenshots, just copy and pasted segments of their IMs to us.                         At that point, Loke BLOCKED that user. We thought we were finished. Unfortunately, we were not. At that point, coffeeiisms contacted a mutual of Loke and proceeded to, out of the blue, ask if this person knew Loke and explained that they had been blocked by them (x). Then proceeded to call her a jerk. First and foremost, you don’t do that to anyone. If you get blocked, you get over it and move on. You DON’T walk into another users IMs and name drop them like that.                         You know what you also don’t do? You don’t send someone an anon shaming them for blocking you (x). Which is what coffeeiisms did. It’s not impossible guys; as much as I wish people couldn’t contact you when they’re blocked, they DEFINITELY can. And that’s exactly what they did. And I’m bringing this up for a reason as well ( foreshadowing much? ).                         Loke and I foolishly assumed that nothing would escalate after this point. Realistically speaking, how often does this even happen? Things seemed pretty quiet. Until another user ( @thepureststar ) happened to follow Loke and then myself. We instantly noticed a pattern. This user also sent an influx of random asks that ultimately went unanswered and they also IMed us wanting to write or just randomly talk. But something suspicious came with these asks. . . We received odd anons asking about particular users. The anons I got were usually about Loke. However, the anons Loke got were usually about me and other users (x, x, x, x, x, x) and consisted of very inappropriate, sexually-charged, romantic-driven questions/commands. And that’s just some of the one’s we SAVED, honey.                         Some of you may be wondering what the big deal is. Don’t people like to receive anonymous messages regarding connections certain characters have with others? Sure. For the most part. However, you also have to realize some people are NOT comfortable with that attention and they are not comfortable with romantically implied content. Especially when it comes out of the blue. WOW, it’s almost as if I have that somewhere in my rules-. . . Oh wait. I DO. And all you were doing was making me extremely anxious and uncomfortable. But, fuck my feelings right? You think that just because I have you blocked, this doesn’t apply to you.                         Here’s also another kicker. When people namedrop on anon, some people might think that THAT PERSON was the one who sent the anon in the first place. In other words, if you’re asking someone what they think of cinderspewed on anon, that person might very well assume I might have sent that, because who else really knows me or talks about me with said person?                         Something peculiar also occurred: thepureststar was also contacting other people in IMs asking if they knew Loke (x). And, WOW. . . Would you look at that? They misspelled Loke’s URL the SAME way coffeeisms did. It’s almost as if-. . . GASP. They were the same person. Spoiler alert. THEY ARE. They also sent other people asks about Loke as well (x), which again were romantically charged. Again, please keep in mind...some people aren’t comfortable with this direct namedropping and attention, especially with people they are just starting to interact with. This gives off a negative impression, as if to imply that all Loke’s character wants is to have sex or get romantically involved with another muse. You obviously know nothing about her portrayal if you assume the mun is that kind of person.                         Loke had already blocked thepureststar. The similarities were too uncanny to coffeeiisms. In that moment, they had sent a personal blog to send Loke a message asking why they blocked thepureststar. However, we suspect that this personal blog was indeed YOURS, purest. Because, WHAT A COINCIDENCE, it’s deleted too. And thankfully for you, we don’t have the screenshot. Maybe that makes us fools, sure. But we wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt that you would kindly fuck off, leave us alone, and that you would cease your stalking tendencies when you went unanswered and ignored. You purposefully picked people you thought wouldn’t do a damn thing to defend themselves and you should honestly be ASHAMED of yourself. Just because we don’t publicly dismiss you, DOESN’T mean we tolerate you. We were trying to help you SAVE FACE, because we’re not assholes. We’re adults, we know when to put things to rest and move on. But you don’t.                         The the invasive anonymous messages kept coming ( as displayed previously ). Anything from Loke’s sexuality to who he’s writing with. You even sent me an anon about Loke as well...and then proceeded to send another message off anon just 2 minutes after (x) so I know it’s you. After all. . . I had already answered an ask regarding my thoughts on Loke. . .because Loke was the one who fucking sent it in the first place (x). I blocked you. I blocked your IP. I did it to help you save face, but it seems NOTHING has changed. Despite Loke’s efforts to completely detach from you, your invasive asks still keep coming (x) and we know it’s you, because you’ve asked questions like this before to the person you reference (x).

                        YOU’RE STALKING LOKE’S BLOG. It’s obvious and it needs to stop. A user who innocently wished Loke a happy birthday even got an anonymous message from you (x). They haven’t even interacted or written with each other yet! So it seems you’ll just hit up anyone just to keep Loke’s name in your mouth. And that’s disgusting. Your asks may seem innocent on the outside, but I see RIGHT through them. It’s almost as if you want to write with her so bad and interact with her. . .that you’re willing to go through other people to live out this facade and just have her respond to you in general. That’s obsessive, that’s extra, and you’re asking so many awkward questions without taking into consideration the person you namedrop’s comfort or Loke’s comfort in general!                         It’s Loke’s fucking BIRTHDAY today. And she has to wake up to your bullshit. And she has to live through this nightmare all over again, gathering proof to the best of her ability, about yet another stalking incident she’s unfortunately had to endure. I pray that this incident isn’t as severe and serious as the one she had to deal with in real life. I want to think of you as a desperate joke for letting things get this far, letting things get this big. You could have just walked away, but for some reason. . .you latched onto Loke and me. And you honestly found the two worst people to fuck with.                         So this is just a precaution to everyone. If at any point, you get an anonymous message about Loke or myself or even another mutual that says “do you know so and so?” or anything of that nature. . . All I ask is that you ignore it. That’s it. It’s honestly a simple request. Because I don’t want anyone getting involved with someone who could potentially become obsessed with them and incorporate them into inappropriate asks.                         I am well aware that we are all doing the same thing, we’re all writing and engaging in a fictional world. . . But we’re also human beings and we also know when to step out of this magic circle of fiction we’ve created. Or rather, we SHOULD. There are rules for a reason and we should all be considerate and mindful. And when someone blocks you. . .we should know NOT to pursue them or try to gain their attention. Because enough is enough. No one deserves to feel anxious over something so immature and petty. And I love my friends too much to see them get affected by this, especially someone as strong and outspoken as Loke. I PRAY I don’t have to make a part two for this. I PRAY we’re done here. I PRAY this is the most minuscule thing I have to ever encounter. Because this isn’t even me being ugly. . . But I damn sure can be.

[saikostories]

MysticMessenger - I’m Always Here (707)

Today was shit; a deal with a potential client fell through, you forgot your umbrella the one day it rained, and once again, your father had to cancel the dinner plans you'd had for months. All you wanted was to get a drink and relax. As you walked down the empty street to your boyfriend's apartment, you still didn't feel right calling it yours, you decided to open up the messenger and ask if anyone wanted to join you at your favorite bar.

MC has entered the chatroom.

Yoosung : Oh, hey MC! You haven't been on all day, how are you?

MC: Hello Yoosung. Yeah, I was a little busy today… I'm fine.

Yoosung : That's good to hear! Did you eat yet?

Jaehee Kang has entered the chatroom.

MC: No… not yet. I was actually about to head out and was wondering if anyone wanted to join me?

Jaehee Kang: MC I hope you mean you're going out to get some dinner; you can't skip your meals. All the same, I wish I could, but I'm swamped with work tonight.

Yoosung : Me too, my guild mates and I are doing a special event in LOLOL tonight. You're not?

MC: Ah, yeah it slipped my mind, maybe later. Well, thanks anyways guys.

Yoosung : Sorry MC! I've gotta go, we're starting soon.

MC: Good luck.

Yoosung has left the chatroom.

Jaehee Kang: I apologize as well; we will have to plan something for later. Say hello to Zen for me when you get home, I must return to work.

MC: Will do Jaehee, don't overwork yourself.

Jaehee Kang has left the chatroom.

MC has left the chatroom.

"Well, that was a bust. Maybe Hyun will be free and we can make it a date night, that would be nice." Just as you log out of the chat room you reach the door and readjust your laptop bag to shuffle around for your keys.

You walk into the apartment quietly so as not to bother Zen if he happened to be rehearsing his lines and silently make your way towards the bedroom to check on him. You heard gruff noises become louder and louder as you approached, but halted once you heard something more feminine in the background. Your blood began to run cold, in the back of your mind you knew what those noises were, and you knew that he wasn't alone, but you still tried so hard to think of something, anything else it could be. You tentatively reached for the door, and with shaking hands, opened it just a crack.

Your whole world was turned upside down. You only looked for a fraction of a second but you knew what you saw. Mind a blank, you quietly shut the door and grabbed what few things of yours were laying around the living room, stuffing them into your bag as quickly as you could. You found a pad of sticky notes and wrote two simple notes. I hope you enjoyed fucking my boyfriend, and Goodbye Hyun.

You didn't look back, you were never coming back. You would have ran if you weren't being weighed down by your belongings, you couldn't help but thank yourself for never caring much for material things. Fingers and legs moved swiftly as your mind tried to comprehend what just happened, before you knew it, you were on a familiar street, near your favorite bar, and you already had your phone at your ear, listening to the soft rings.

"Hellooooo MC! What can the Defender of Justice do for you?" You felt some relief hearing the chipper voice on the other end of the line.

"Seven, come to the bar. Please." Your voice was far shakier than you intended it to be.

"Uh, what's wrong MC?"

"Don't ask," you choked on the bile rising in your throat, "just please. Everyone is busy and I don't think it's safe for me to be alone right now."

"Are you-" you cut the line before he could finish, walking inside and taking the nearest seat at the bar.

Seven had no clue what just happened as he blinked once, twice, three times at his phone. "Not safe to be alone? What's going on?"

He shook his head before swiftly tracking your phone's IP to figure out which bar you were at. This wasn't the time to be pointlessly questioning what was happening when you needed him, you'd tell him when you were ready, whether he wanted to know or not, that was just the kind of person you were.

It hardly took him any time to figure out your location, and he mentally slapped himself for not figuring it out on his own, it was one of the only places you ever went to that wasn't work related, and where you always ended up at the end of particularly bad days. He grabbed the closest set of keys he could find and made his way to the garage, yelling out, "Saeran! I'm going to meet with MC, I'll be back later!"

He faintly heard, "You're whipped, idiot brother." as he was closing the garage door.

"Two more shots of fireball, please." The bartender nodded to you and you turned your back to the bar to scan the crowd. You weren't nearly drunk enough for this, you were still thinking clearly, still so monumentally upset and just angry at everything, the sight of people enjoying themselves actually made you a little nauseous. You decided it was best to turn back and down your fourth shot of the night, more accurately, your fourth shot in 20 minutes, but you couldn't be bothered to care. The cinnamon whiskey burned your throat and you could feel a tear prickle at the corner of your eye. You were unsure whether it was from the whiskey or your emotions trying to creep up on you, so you combatted it by quickly shooting down the next shot and taking a deep breath.

The bartender eyed you warily, you weren't necessarily a regular, but he knew you well enough, and he knew this wasn't just a normal drink-to-forget-night. "Got something on your mind miss?"

You blinked up at him and plastered on the most sincere smile you could manage, though anyone could see right through it, "Yah, but it's nothin' I can't handle. It alright if I leave my bag here while I smoke?"

He nodded and smiled, "No problem, no one will touch it while you're gone."

You shuffled through your bag to find your emergency pack as you stood from your seat, finally beginning to feel tipsy. You took another deep breath and made your way out to the smoking area, it was drizzling again, nothing like earlier in the day though. You lit up and scanned the area around you, everything was so peaceful, the stars you could see were twinkling brightly, the street was calm as one of the lamps down the road flickered, and you could see a couple walking in the distance, attempting to share an umbrella. It all made you so angry, why was the world allowed to be so serene when everything you knew was so violently flipped upside down? How was this fair?!

"Why does it always fucking have to be me?!" You half shouted as you punched the wall next to you. You sat in silence for a moment, watching the slow burn of your cigarette in your other hand as you waited for the world to answer you.

But it didn't. Instead, you found a hand reaching out towards your fist, still connected with the wall. "Why does what always have to be you?" Your head turned slowly until you met familiar golden eyes, "What did the wall ever do to you?"

You snorted at his attempt at humor, "The wall just… looked too happy was all…"

Now it was his turn to snort, "I guess you're right. But you didn't answer my first question, MC."

As his eyes dug into you, you could see the concern hidden in them, and you wanted to tell him, but you just, couldn't. Not yet. "You're right. I didn't." you sighed as you put out your cigarette and made your way back inside with him in tow, "Just… just let me get my things… I need somewhere to crash tonight first, and I'd… really rather not talk around so many people…"

You could see his eyes soften when you got back to the bar, "God Seven always has a place for his partner in crime."

You let a small smile escape your lips as you turned once more to the bartender, pulling out your cash, "Two more shots please, and I'll be paying my tab."

The man stopped for a second, eyeing you and your companion, you could see the hesitation in his eyes at your request. "He's a friend, I've got a ride, and I won't be going anywhere alone."

"Alright miss, I'll get that right out for you."

"Why two?"

You were a little confused at Seven's question, but waited to answer him until after downing the first of the two shots that had been placed in front of you. "Because," you hastily picked up the second, the burn from the first still stuck in your throat, and took a deep breath, "Seven's supposed to be a lucky number right? I need all the damn luck I can get... Cheers."

You shook your head and grabbed your things, slinging your laptop bag over your shoulder, stumbling a little at the additional weight. "Can we go before I punch something else?"

He blinked and smiled, "Yeah, sorry, let's go before you take it out on something less stable than a wall."

The ride to Seven's place was sufficiently awkward. The poor boy didn't exactly know what to do in situations like this, and he didn't want to pry. The best he could think to do was lend you his headphones. You hugged the headphones before putting them on and quickly blocked out the world.

Now there was silence, well relatively at least. No one spoke, the rain had only picked up, Seven fidgeted and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, occasionally looking over at you when a particularly loud part of the current song you were listening to had begun, and you just sat there staring off at nothing.

He sighed, he knew how much you must have been hurting to be so silent, you were never this silent. It gave him chills imagining what could have happened, and he found himself wishing he could hack into your brain. It had to be bad to break you like this.

You didn't speak again until you had your things settled next to the couch at Seven's place. He kept insisting that you could take his room, even Saeran offered to let you have his if it would make you more comfortable, but you simply stared ahead and sat down firmly on the couch, unwilling to move. You carefully removed the headphones from your ears once they gave up, Saeran settling across the room, not wanting to intrude but also interested in hearing what happened, and Seven plopping down right next to you on the couch, facing you.

"Tell me something first," you looked down and closed your eyes, fighting off the sting that was forming behind them, "how much pain is a person expected to endure before they're finally allowed to be happy?"

You waited in silence, you knew better than most that neither of these boys could answer that question. You spoke up again, "Why is it fair?" Your eyes were beginning to feel wet and you couldn't stop your voice from cracking, "Why is it fair that once we finally think we've found happiness, it gets ripped right out from under us?! Why do bad things keep happening to the people that try their hardest to be positive?! Why can't I just fucking be happy for once?!"

Tears were freely rolling down your face now, and you felt Seven's warm hands turning you to face him as you opened your eyes. "It's not fair, but MC, you don't have to hurt alone, I promise you don't. Remember, you can always yell 'Defender of Justice Seven Zero Seven, help me!', there's a 99.9% chance I'll be there."

You couldn't help but choke out a pained chuckle at that, "I know…" leaning your face on his shoulder, he tensed slightly, but quickly relaxed, "You're one of the only people I know that would never stab me in the back."

The room once again sat in a small silence, with him somewhat awkwardly patting your back as you mentally prepared yourself to tell him the heart of the problem, attempting to regulate your breathing once more, but catching your breath hitching.

"Saeyoung," you lifted your head and looked into his confused eyes, you hardly ever used his real name, "promise me right now that you will not use your hacking for evil."

Now he looked even more confused, "MC, what does that have to do with-"

"I said promise me Saeyoung!" you nearly screamed at him, tears still rolling down your cheeks. You refused to let him ruin another person's life just because you weren't enough for them.

He simply stared at you for a moment, you could see in his eyes that he was trying to understand why you would ask him something like this. "… Okay MC, I promise."

Your head was spinning now and you swayed just a little in your spot, all this crying and screaming was not good for you when you were this drunk, but you knew you wouldn't have had the courage to say anything without it. "Hyun… ZEN… he…" your voice was growing weaker by the second now, and the most you could usher out was a fragile, broken cry, "I saw him screwing another girl today."

The floodgates broke open, you couldn't stop the heart wrenching sobs that wracked through your chest as you folded over yourself, you couldn't be strong anymore. "I'm not… I'm not good enough! I don't deserve… to be happy!" It was all you could manage to get out anymore, and you were like a broken record on repeat.

The room was tense as the two boys stared at you in shock, neither of them really knowing what to do. Comforting someone who was crying was one thing, but this all out sobbing was something else entirely, and it made their chests ache for you. Seven looked to his brother, who had suddenly shot up and was beginning to make his way to his room, when he heard him say, "Don't just sit there, help her you idiot."

You were out of it, completely oblivious to anything around you at this point, your sobs seemed to shake your whole body, you could practically hear the blood rushing and pulsing through your veins, and you had begun hyperventilating. You didn't notice that you had been moved until you felt the fabric of a shirt beneath your fingertips, quickly grasping handfuls of it as if your life depended on it. You felt yourself being slowly rocked in someone's lap and you started to hear them whispering in your ear, "You are good enough, you're too good for this world and you deserve all the happiness it can give you."

You stayed like that for a long time, and even after you had stopped hyperventilating and your sobs had devolved into hiccups, neither of you made a move to leave. "Seven… why does this keep happening to me?"

He held you closer, placing a hand gently on the back of your head, "I don't know MC, but I promise I'm not going to let it happen again. Not as long as I'm alive."

You hiccupped into his chest and nodded, "Okay…"

The room was quiet and somewhat peaceful until you started hearing your phone buzzing nonstop in your bag. You instinctually went to reach for it but halted when you realized it was the messenger. You didn't want to know if it was him, you didn't want to talk to him right now, or anytime soon for that matter. Seven caught your hesitation and grabbed your phone for you, putting it on silent and placing it next to him before checking his own phone, looking to you for confirmation that it was okay. You simply nodded and couldn't help but look as he signed into the messenger.

3 missed calls. 9 new text messages. 2 new chats have been opened.

He quickly scrolled through your chat from earlier, scoffing when he read the part about you saying hello to Zen when you got home. He then opened up the newest chatroom.

707 has entered the chatroom.

ZEN: Seven! I need you to track down MC for me, she hasn't been answering her phone for the past 2 hours!

707: No.

ZEN: What?! Why?! Something could have happened to her!

707: Something already did. You should know about that.

ZEN: I have no idea what you're talking about..!

707: Cut the crap. Leave her alone for now.

ZEN: You don't even know anything! She's my girlfriend, not yours.

MC has entered the chatroom.

ZEN: MC! Where are you?! Come home princess, please!

MC: Not anymore. I have already said all I needed to you.

MC has left the chatroom.

ZEN: What? Come back!

707: I told you, just leave her alone. She's fine.

707 has left the chatroom.

You had chucked your phone across the room and he held you close as he quickly scrolled through his calls and texts to get rid of the notifications, though one text caught your eye and you took his phone before he could close out of the app. He gazed at you, not sure if he should take it back or not and you simply held a finger up to him as you opened Zen's profile.

You actually let out a short chuckle, although it sounded a little broken, and handed him back his phone. His background and picture had been changed to collages of cats and some of his worst photos, and his status now read as I'm Hyun Ryu and I'm the biggest moron on the planet.

"I thought I made you promise not to use your hacking for evil, Saeyoung."

He threw his hands up in defense, "I promise I didn't! How would I have even been able to, I've been here the whole time? Wait… Saeran you didn't!?" He had raised his voice at the end and recognition hit you as you heard the quiet steps coming from Saeran's room.

The younger twin entered the room with a small smirk, "She didn't make me promise anything, brother."

You spoke up as Seven was about to retaliate, looking to Saeran with pleading eyes, "Please tell me that's all you did…"

He rolled his eyes and avoided yours, "Well I couldn't just do nothing, but I also don't want you to kill me. So yeah, that was all I did." You heard him mumbling at the end and barely caught him saying that he didn't want to see you suffer anymore when you did so much for him and his brother.

You wanted to get up and hug him, but you knew he was still uncomfortable with physical contact, and that neither you nor Seven were going to let go anytime soon, so you simply gave him the most sincere smile you could. "Thank you, Saeran. I don't agree with it, but I appreciate it."

He waved you off as he made his way back to his room, "You're welcome I guess."

You turned your attention back to Seven now, "I'm really sorry for dumping my problems on you…"

He tilted your chin up and looked you dead in the eyes, "Stop that. You have nothing to apologize for. What kind of god would I be if I let you deal with this alone?"

You giggled and let a tear fall down your cheek, "A really shitty one… Thank you, Seven." You let your head fall onto his chest once again, not moving the rest of the night as you fell asleep on him.

Seven awoke very confused, to say the least. You were still very much cuddled up on his chest and lap, he remembered you falling asleep, but he didn't remember when he did. He decided it was best not to worry about it and instead looked down to see if he had woken you up. You were thoroughly knocked out, though he did notice that you had fresh tears on your cheeks as he did his best to gently wipe them away without startling you.

He spent a good 15 minutes maneuvering you off of him and back onto the couch, stopping every time you made any type of movement, but you didn't wake up. He rubbed his eyes as he made his way to the kitchen, his brain plagued with thoughts of the previous night. He really wished he could have made all this disappear, he loved you, but all he wanted was for you to be happy. "Ugh! What can I even do?"

"Well for one thing you can let her stay here and get her things from that asshole's house, idiot." Seven was a little startled when he found his brother already up and seemingly making breakfast.

"Already planning on that. It looks like she only has one of her laptops with her; don't think she really had time to grab anything else. I don't know what else to do though… and are you making breakfast?" He took a seat at the table and put his head in his hands.

"Obviously." There was a pause as the brothers were lost in their own thoughts.

"Hey… Thanks. I don't think I would have been able to stop at just fucking with his profile. I honestly want to punch him for doing that to MC."

Saeran turned off the stove and finished serving whatever food he had made, three full plates worth. "Maybe you should. Better yet, let her. If you ask me, he deserves worse."

"I'm not sure he'd be recognizable if she did… and she probably doesn't want anything to happen to him. Stubborn woman."

The younger twin simply nodded as he looked at his brother before leaving the kitchen with his own plate of food, "Yeah. Well you should wake her up before the food gets wasted."

Seven removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes once more before heading back over to the couch to wake you. "MC! Wake up, the grumpy one made food!"

He tried to convince you not to come with him, and as much as you didn't ever want to go back, you didn't necessarily trust him not to start a scene… and you had a key. You decided to knock first, just in case he was home, but after a few moments, you unlocked the door and let the two of you in. The house was empty and you let out a breath you didn't know you had been holding.

"So what are we getting?" Seven looked to you, his hands in his pockets and looking more than a little uncomfortable.

"All I have left are the rest of my clothes and my gaming laptops." You answered as you made your way to the bedroom, though you stopped abruptly in front of the door, causing Seven to bump into you.

"You okay?"

You looked back at your friend and tried to smile, "Yah… just peachy." Turning back to the door, you reached for the knob and turned it slowly, your heartrate and breath were slowed so much you felt yourself going lightheaded until the door was wide open and you saw no one inside. You took a second to breathe before walking in and speaking again, "Grab my laptops over on the desk while I search for my backpack, would you?"

"God Seven's on the case, I'll save your technology!" He did a dopey little salute as he walked over to collect your things and you couldn't help but giggle.

It took little more than ten minutes for the two of you to pack up what was left of your things, both of you cracking terrible jokes all the while to ease the tension. You were just about to leave when you heard the front door open.

Panic set in and for some reason you couldn't figure out how feet worked anymore as you looked to Seven for help. You were floored, and as steps drew nearer, you began to hyperventilate. Seven was beside you and attempting to grab your hand to calm you down and lead you out when you saw him in the bedroom doorway, blocking your only exit.

Zen looked worn down and tired, probably nursing a hangover if you had to guess. His face brightened when he saw you, "Princess!" he grabbed your arm and tried to pull you towards him, "You're back home! Can we please talk?"

You attempted to yank your arm away, but his grip was getting tighter, more desperate, "There's nothing to talk about Zen. I just came to get the rest of my things… I'm sorry; you can have your key back."

"What? I don't want it back, I only want you back! Please, princess."

His grip was so tight now that you could feel small bruises forming, "Zen, please, let go. It hurts!"

He had a pained look in his eyes as Seven ripped his hand off your arm and pushed Zen just enough to start leading you towards the exit. You could almost hear something snap in him as Seven was grabbed by the shoulders and yanked away from you. He was almost growling now, "Why don't you just stay out of this Seven? This is none of your business!"

Seven quickly grew cold; his eyes alone looked like they could kill as he stared Zen down. "This is my business, Zen. You made it my business when you hurt MC. She doesn't want to be here, and I suggest you let us leave. Now."

Zen was fuming, "Who do you think you are? I love her! All I want to do is talk and you're not even letting her do that? What do you know about what she wants anyway?!"

Crack! You hardly blinked and Seven's fist was firmly connected to Zen's face, the former speaking in a tone that wasn't quite yelling, but sent chills down your spine nonetheless, "You're not the only one who loves her! But apparently all that time you spent loving her was only wasted on yourself!"

Zen wiped the blood from his lip and glared, "You think you'd be better for her? Is that what this is?"

Before Seven could reply you hastily grabbed his hand and put yourself in front of him, "Zen just stop! This isn't about who's better! You destroyed whatever trust I had with you. We're done here, and I'm leaving." You don't know where this confidence came from, but as you pulled Seven back to his car and left your key behind, you felt a little more whole.

Neither one of you spoke again until you were back at Seven's place. The air was still tense around him, and you weren't exactly sure what to say, but you dropped your things and hugged him. He didn't immediately return the hug, instead tensing up in your arms as you hugged him tighter. "Thank you Seven, for being there… For always being there."

He still wasn't hugging you back, but he did relax a little, "Don't thank me MC. I'm sorry for making things harder for you… If you want to stay with Jaehee or someone else-"

You shushed him, "No. I'm going to stay. You've always been there for me, and I'm going to be here. I just need time okay?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now hug me back you idiot."

"Yes ma'am." You both snorted as he finally returned your hug.

***

Snap. It had been a week since the incident, one full week since you found him in bed with another woman. Snap. No one else in the RFA knew anything, aside from Seven, Saeran, and Zen himself. Snap. You had decided it would be better if everyone was kept in the dark, for your sake, his sake, and the rest of the RFA's sake. You couldn't bear to be the reason for animosity within the group. Snap. It was better this way, right? Snap.

You sat in relative silence on the floor of the living room as you stared aimlessly at your laptop, the only sound being the light snap of the rubber band on your wrist. You hadn't done any work in a week; you needed to finish up maintenance on multiple websites for clients. This was important, more important than your petty drama, at least that's what you tried telling yourself. Focus was near impossible; it was surprising enough that you had managed to get your laptop out at all when you'd done little more than stare at the ceiling for the past seven days.

You flinched as someone clearing their throat caught your attention, "So, uh, is the rubber band… helping?"

Your eyes met Saeran's as he looked at you with slight concern, "Oh," your fingers kept snapping the thin rubber unconsciously, "yeah. It's helped… a little. I just can't really focus."

He nodded slightly as he took a seat next to you on the floor, turning his attention to your computer, the code for one of your client's sites sitting untouched in front of you. "Have you finished?"

"Well… no. This is as far as I got. I feel like my brain is in overdrive but still… empty at the same time."

"Yeah, I get that. Umm, would you, like some help?" He mumbled out the end of his question, turning his head away slightly.

"I couldn't ask that of you… Besides, it's just cleaning up some sloppy code on my part; it's not that big a deal."

His hands were on the keys before you could protest further, "That wasn't exactly a question… I'd like to help, as long as that's alright. This doesn't look like much needs to be changed anyway. Besides, my idiot brother hasn't left his computer in over a day and he doesn't listen to me…"

You caught his pleading side glance as he began working through the code, his hands moving swiftly over the keys as you moved to stand. "I hadn't noticed… Alright, I'll go check on him."

Your feet moved mechanically as you walked to the door of Seven's computer room, you knocked lightly and waited for a response on the other side. After a minute of waiting, you silently opened the door and made your way through the dark room towards the blaring wall of monitors. "Seven." No response, "Seven, hey, how long have you been in here?"

He flinched at your light tap on his shoulder, motioning for him to take off his headphones as his eyes unglued themselves from one of the bright screens, "Huh? Do you need something?"

You sighed as you realized he hadn't heard you, though you could empathize with getting lost in code. "I was wondering how long you've been in here. Saeran's getting worried. Have you eaten anything?"

He motioned towards the empty bags of Honey Buddha chips lying around his desk, "I've been eating. It hasn't been that long, maybe 30 hours?"

You glanced at his monitors, seeing that he had multiple projects open, though it looked as though he was at a good stopping point on all of them, before gently grabbing his arm to lead him away. "Come on, you need some real food and then you need to sleep. I haven't eaten yet today either, we'll find something together okay?"

He grumbled slightly, but let you pull him out of his chair, glancing at your wrist as you let go and began snapping again. "Alright, fine, I guess I can take a small break, but I can't afford to sleep, I'm nearly done."

He grabbed your free hand mid snap, startling you as you walked towards the kitchen. "Saeyoung Choi, if you don't get at least three hours of sleep I am going to sic Saeran on you."

You both chuckled as you crossed the living room, hearing a brief snort coming from said brother, still swiftly typing away. "Okay, okay, you got me! God Seven wouldn't dare face the wrath of his dear brother AND his partner in crime at once! But only three, and then I really need to get everything done."

You conceded, attempting to free your hand from his grasp as you reached for the fridge door, "Alright, but Seven, I need my hand to grab the food."

His gaze shifted to your wrist, red from your constant snapping, before reluctantly letting you go. "Right. Uh, so what are we having?"

You scanned the fridge's contents, blissfully unaware of his gaze glued to your wrist, "I think there are leftovers from my dinner last night. Should be enough for both of us… I didn't eat much."

You watched in silence as Seven scarfed down the leftovers, having picked at your own already. You ate enough to waive off the hunger that ate at your stomach, but you had reached a point where eating made you nauseous more than anything. Handing your plate to Seven, he eyed you warily as you sighed and placed it next to his own, "You have the rest, you look like you were starving with the way you're eating."

He stopped to meet your eyes, "You hardly touched it, you need to eat too."

Your eyes shifted to the wall next to you, unable to keep his gaze, "It's fine, I ate what I could. I'm just not feeling too well… I'll eat something else later."

He hesitated as his eyes went from you to the plate now before him, his brain working a thousand miles a minute, "If I have to sleep, you have to promise to eat later then, okay?"

"Yeah," you left your chair and turned to return to your computer to check on Saeran, "I will. Promise. Eat all you want and get some sleep."

He watched your retreating form in silence, not missing your hand moving to your wrist once again, and went back to his food.

Saeran averted his gaze from your laptop as you sat next to him, "He's going to get some sleep, right?"

"Yeah," you smiled lightly as your eyes found their way to the current line of code he was on, "three hours. If he doesn't, I will personally hide every single bag of Honey Buddha chips and can of PhD Pepper in this house until he does."

Saeran smirked, "Vindictive woman."

You met his smirk with your own while drawing attention back to the laptop, "Only when necessary. So you're almost done? I can take over; I think I can focus now."

Always snapping, and Saeran, much like his brother, did not miss the redness of your wrist, but elected to ignore it for the time being, "It's fine, there's only twenty lines left. There was hardly anything to change. Can't believe some idiot was worried enough about it to make you change anything."

"Well my clients pay top dollar for this, I'm nowhere near the best, but that's what they pay me for."

He scoffed and began typing again, you scanning carefully as he continued, "I guess."

Three hours had passed. Saeran finished editing and you had submitted it. You were now sitting alone, idly eating chips as the sounds from whatever was on the TV played in the background. You couldn't make out a single word, the thoughts in your head blocking out everything. This was fine, right? No. Nothing is alright, you're a mess and you're only burdening them. You couldn't even do your own work.

You hadn't noticed Seven standing next to you until he stuck his face right in front of you, "I said to eat, not be like me and only eat chips all day."

You blinked your eyes as they adjusted to the sight of him, your hand stopping midway to your mouth, "Well hey, only those who are stupid, lost, or have no will to live eat snacks all day, right?"

The dark chuckle that left your mouth surprised you both as Seven's eyes darkened and his hands clamped onto your wrists, "MC, don't talk like that. If something's wrong you can talk to me. I told you I'm always here, right?"

He saw your eyes flash with fear before you blinked and plastered on a smile, "I'm fine Seven, it was only a joke. I know you're here for me, nothing's wrong."

The two of you stared at each other in silence, you trying to suppress the fear of him asking any more questions, and him searching your eyes for any hint that you might want to talk. After what felt like forever, he gave up, causing you to mentally sigh in relief as he slowly let go of your wrists and backed away. "Okay, I'll believe you, but please don't hesitate to talk to me if you need to…" He snatched the bag of chips away from you with a smile and made his way to the computer room, "The Defender of Justice must return to his work!"

You waited to hear the click of his door before falling back on the couch. You knew he didn't believe you, he knew you too well for that, but he didn't push, he never pushed. You began counting the bumps on the ceiling, snapping with each labored breath you took. This couldn't go on much longer, Seven knew you still weren't alright, even Saeran knew, and that killed you. How long could you keep doing this to them? How long before they got tired of you? How long before their kindness ran out? They have more important things to be worrying about than you, you can't count on their pity forever.

Seven stretched as he walked into the living room, having finished all his current work, making a beeline for the couch to watch his favorite show, "Mister Chef". He half expected you to be working, so he was surprised to see you had fallen asleep. As he got closer, he gently picked up your feet and put them on his lap as he took a seat, quickly changing the channel. He didn't expect to see tears streaming down your unconscious face though, tenderly wiping them away before turning back to the TV, not wanting to wake you.

You woke with a start, heart pounding and breath hitching as you clutched your chest. You had only been dreaming, but you couldn't shake the feeling of dread as you attempted to slow your breathing, ultimately unsuccessful and unaware of your surroundings. Hands clutched your shoulders, and you could feel the tight grip on you, but you couldn't see, couldn't breathe, everything was fuzzy.

Seven began to panic as he gripped your shoulders, trying to figure out the best course of action. He knew this was a panic attack, having had a few of his own and helping his brother through a few, but everyone was different, he had no clue how to help you. "MC! MC, please listen to me okay? I'm right here, I'm with you. I will help you however I can, please, is there anything you need? Can you tell me?"

You hardly even heard him between your gasping breaths, but you managed to force out a short reply, "Steam."

"Steam? Okay. I'm going to carry you now alright?" You did your best to nod as he picked you up bridal style and headed towards the bathroom.

He sat you down in the corner next to the tub after hastily throwing down some towels for you to sit on. He made quick work of turning on the shower and cranking it up as high as it could go before taking your hands, "MC, is there anything else you need?"

You shook your head, though you couldn't tell if it was visible as you felt your whole body shaking, "N-no."

He sat down right in front of you, though far enough away to give you some space while keeping your hands firmly in his. "Alright. Just stay with me then, okay? I promise you'll get through this, it will pass, and everything will be okay."

He had you breathe with him until the bathroom was full of steam. Once you had begun breathing more normally he had you touch the things around you, asking you to tell him what they were, constantly reassuring you that it was okay and that he was there for you. This went on for twenty minutes until you felt you could finally breathe again and were sure you were safe.

You breathed in deep and leaned forward until your forehead was resting on his shoulder, "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry, Seven…"

He traced circles on the tops of your hands and scooted a little closer so you wouldn't fall over, "You have nothing to apologize for, MC. It's okay. You're here and you're safe and that's all that matters."

"I-I haven't had one of those in months. I don't… I'm sorry, for making you deal with all of my shit. You don't have to."

You felt him squeeze your palms as he shook his head, "I don't care if I don't have to, MC, I want to. I promised that you don't have to hurt alone, didn't I? I'm here for you 606."

You felt your lips twitch up slightly as you exhaled, "Yeah… I know." But for how long?

Snap. Two more weeks passed. Snap. You had managed to get the rest of your work done, slowly but surely, but nothing changed. Snap. In fact, it seemed like things just kept getting worse. Snap. You hardly ate, you logged into the messenger a total of two times since that night, and your panic attacks seemed to come back at you with full force every other night. Snap. Things could still get better, right? Snap.

You were tired, so, so tired. It felt like ages since the last time you had gotten more than a few hours of sleep at a time, and it was wearing you out. You awoke on the couch to the sounds of voices in the kitchen and made your way over. There was one more voice than usual, and you found it to be Yoosung's as you stood next to the doorway, just out of sight.

"Is she really okay? She hardly logs into the messenger anymore and I haven't seen her in LOLOL for weeks." The younger boy's voice sounded concerned.

"I forgot that she played." That was Saeran, the same monotone he had when he didn't want to talk.

"She used to be number three on the server! She's dropped down a lot, but I thought she liked the game. Seven, are you sure everything's okay? You've read the messages; it's not just me who's worried!" Yoosung was pleading now.

You heard a sigh escape from Seven before he started speaking, "She's just busy, like I told you, she has a lot going on…"

"Seven, I thought we were all done with secrets. Don't lie to me! Everyone is worried and this isn't normal!"

You couldn't bear to hear anymore, quickly grabbing your phone and leaving, sneaking out of the house as quietly as you could. This wasn't fine. You hated making people worry about you, and it seemed to you like that's all anyone was doing anymore. This couldn't continue.

The room was tense as the three boys stared at the floor. They had been arguing about this since Yoosung got there, and Seven was tired of it. He was thankful to his brother for keeping Yoosung fairly calm, but the guilt of a secret that wasn't his to tell was eating him alive. He wanted to tell him what Zen did, how it broke you, how you hadn't been eating, how you stared off at nothing most of the day, and how you were losing sleep because of the panic attacks, but he couldn't. You hated when people worried about you, you liked dealing with things on your own and not burdening others with your problems. Regardless of the fact that he knew no one in the RFA would ever feel burdened, he respected your wishes.

They were all broken out of their silence as the familiar notification of the messenger rung out from all three of their phones. Yoosung was the first to check, "Wait, she's in the messenger? I thought she was asleep."

This piqued everyone's interest as Saeran walked to the doorway to see that you were no longer on the couch, "Well she's not anymore."

All three quickly opened the chat.

Yoosung has entered the chatroom.

Saeran has entered the chatroom.

707 has entered the chatroom.

Yoosung: MC!

707: MC where are you?

Saeran: You're not on the couch…

MC: I'm not. I just came here to say some things.

Jaehee Kang has entered the chatroom.

Jaehee Kang: MC, it's good to see you.

MC: Jaehee…

Jaehee Kang: Yes MC?

MC: I just wanted to say that you are a beautiful person and I truly hope that you find happiness in your life again.

Jaehee Kang: I… thank you. What brought this on MC?

MC: Please tell Jumin to say hello to Elizabeth for me, and that I hope he reaches out to people and expresses his emotions more.

Jaehee Kang: Okay… I will tell Mr. Han.

Yoosung: MC, what's all this about?

MC: Yoosung. I want to thank you for always being kind, please never stop supporting Saeyoung and Saeran and everyone in the RFA. You have a beautiful future ahead of you if you just apply yourself.

707: MC, I searched the whole house and you're not here, where did you go?!

MC: Saeran, thank you for helping me out. You have come so far and I am so happy for you, please don't stop moving forward, I know it makes Saeyoung happy.

Saeran: Uh…

Yoosung: MC, why aren't you responding to us?

MC: Someone please tell Zen that I hope his career only continues to soar and that I wish nothing but the best for him.

707: If you don't answer I'm going to track you down!

MC: Saeyoung… Luciel… Seven… I'm sorry. Thank you for everything. Thank you for always being there for me.

MC: Goodbye.

MC has left the chatroom.

Yoosung: MC!

Jaehee Kang: This is troubling…

Saeran: Crap.

707 has left the chatroom.

Saeran has left the chatroom.

Yoosung: I don't know what's going on but they just started walking really fast, I'm going to follow them.

Jaehee Kang: Please inform me if something is wrong.

Yoosung has left the chatroom.

Seven was running to his computer faster than he thought possible, Saeran and Yoosung not far behind. This was not okay. His only thought was finding you as fast as possible. "I knew I should have put a tracker on her…"

He booted up his computers and immediately went to work tracking down your phone's IP, once again. Yoosung was asking questions a mile a minute, but Seven didn't hear any of it. "What's going on? Why was she saying all that stuff? Is she leaving the RFA?"

Saeran was the one to answer as Seven bolted out of his chair towards the garage and they followed closely behind, "Yoosung, think about it for a second. None of her things are gone; she left without saying anything, if she were just leaving the RFA, would she really leave all of her things behind?"

The tension could be cut with a butter knife as they piled into the car and Seven input coordinates into the GPS. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK! Why didn't I put a tracker on her?!"

You stared at your phone, tears streaming down your face as you chucked it over the bridge, "I'm so sorry… Everyone, please just be happy…" You waited to see the phone submerged in the water below before climbing over the rail yourself. Standing between the metal slats and holding onto the railing behind you, you looked down at the water and took a deep breath. It would be better this way, it had to be.

You weren't sure how long you stood there, staring at the water, but you knew you were ready when your fingers began loosening their grip on the railing without your telling them to. You closed your eyes and leaned forward, "I'm sorry…"

The world went blank. One moment you were falling, the next you were pulled back over the railing, and now you were being crushed in an embrace by desperate arms. You couldn't tell if your eyes were simply clenched shut, or if everything around you went dark, but you could feel the body holding you shaking as choked sobs wracked through their body.

"W-why?" The voice was familiar, the one thing you could recognize in the void that was your world, and you tried to pinpoint it, tried to follow it back to reality, but you couldn't speak, couldn't see. "Why would you try to throw your life away?! MC… MC, I can't live in a world without you… why would you…"

"I-" your eyes began to focus on the form around you, your mouth moving on its own, "I can't do this anymore… I can't keep doing this to myself. I can't keep telling myself that everything will be okay. It's not okay…" all you could see was Seven, shaking and crying on your shoulder, his arms desperate to keep you there, as if he would break the second he let go, and you fell against him. "I'm not okay… I'm an inconvenience, a burden to everyone I meet. Just… just be happy without me… please… I can't…"

"I can't…" his voice was quivering, the strain to hold back sobs as he spoke was evident to you, and it tore you up inside, "MC, I can't be happy without you, none of us can. You… you're my best friend, one of the most important people in my life. You gave me my brother back, you gave me a reason to hope and feel happy again, and… and I know everyone in the RFA feels the same."

A new voice spoke up, Yoosung, his voice twisted with pain; you could see the look on his face in your mind, "He-he's right, MC! I couldn't imagine a world without you in it! You gave us all a reason to be happy again! How could the RFA continue without you?!"

"Ha!" you choked, your chest and throat tightening as you struggled to push words out, "The RFA was always fine without me, anyone could have done what I do. I'm not special and I never was, no one needs me. I'm not worth your tears or your thoughts. This… this is me. I'm not a happy person, I just, pretend to be, because it made everyone else happy. I don't deserve to have people care about me, so just… stop."

Seven's arms tightened around you as he lifted his head from your shoulder, waiting for you to lift your face to meet his gaze. You could see tears still streaming down his face as he spoke gently, "I refuse. MC, I refuse to stop caring about you, I always have and I always will, and I promise you that everyone else cares too. You've kept us together through everything, even if you were falling apart yourself. You deserve so much more than we've given you and I'm… I'm sorry that we weren't there for you. I didn't realize… I'm so sorry MC. Please let us be there now, let me be here for you, we can get through this. Please don't give up."

You felt your eyes burn as he finished, finally giving in and crushing him in an embrace to match his own, "I just wanted to make everyone happy… You all mean so much to me, but I couldn't even make everyone happy, S-Saeyoung! I'm broken! I c-couldn't make Zen happy and I can't make you happy. I'm no good… W-why would anyone want someone like me in their life?"

A small flash of anger flashed through his eyes, but was quickly replaced with warmth as he placed his forehead against your own, "Zen was an idiot… he hurt you, and you didn't deserve it, but you did make him happy... You make everyone who meets you happy, and he was stupid to throw that away, that doesn't mean everyone else would throw it away though. But your happiness matters too, MC, and I'd give anything to see you find it again. You fixed me when I was broken, and you helped everyone else too; give us a chance to help you."

"I… I don't know how to do that."

"Then we'll figure it out together, okay?"

"I… I-I'll try." Your voice was now a whisper, "Thank you for not giving up on me…"

"Of course," he kissed your forehead and buried his face in your shoulder once again, matching your tone, "I will always be here for you if you let me, and we'll figure this out."

In the background, Saeran grabbed Yoosung, still a blubbering mess, and started leading him to the car, stopping to whisper to you, "We'll wait in the car. Take your time, and, uh, you can talk to us when you're ready."

[fatis-bibliotheca]

//- Also, ‘cause I feel I have to get this out there after seeing some people still having Aku in their rules (and I think P still has me in hers for some reason):

I’m her friend but I’m not her defender.

(kind of a rant/explanation beneath the cut)

I’ve been working with others to teach her how to properly act and how her actions can be wrong and hurtful. I have never been ‘sent’ to talk to anyone on her behalf like the second callout said : I messaged a person who had been mutual friend at the the time out of concern, after getting Aku’s blessing to do so. I did not need her blessing but given that these two had been fairly close (or so I’d thought), I felt it would be proper to check since I was still getting to know them.  I had thought there had been a fight so I wanted to make sure everything was okay. The person in question then lied to me that it was strictly a business related departure, not personal. 

How I know that was a lie is because of the callout that happened a month later. There were personal feelings involved and no one wished to actually talk about them, instead it all built up into one hell of a mess. When they got upset and vagued on their blog about a friend stealing their graphics ‘style’, two of their friends (one being Aku) approached them and asked if they needed to change what they were doing they said nothing was wrong with what was happening. Yet this point made it into the callout anyway - proving they had not actually been upright about how they felt. Additionally, many other people continued to use this same ‘style’ for promotional images without getting called out or asked to stop. 

I did make a jump assumption that their had logged into her Discord (because they had been in her Tumblrs and had tried her gmail - there is IP proof of this), but that was just Aku sharing screenshots all over the place without permission. This misunderstanding I did admit responsibility for on another blog of mine because some misinformation had spread in regards to that one particular incident. This was definitely a mistake on my part, but at the time everything pointed to that being the case.  After her Goro blog was hacked and her theme deleted, she temporarily restored the code while I modified her a HW theme for the new background she made. I think she’s still using my stupidly buggy modified code on some blogs actually, which probably isn’t the best but eh. If it works it works (except it really doesn’t I never could figure out how to fix those links).

I’ve made it very clear with her I will not defend her for continuing to act against my advice and continuing to contact people who have blocked her. I will not stand for guilt-tripping behaviours. 

Anyway, I want to make it clear I respect the boundaries of others. While I may have had a misguided image of some people I do not , under any circumstance , wish to talk to anyone about someone they do not get along with. I do not want to be in the middle of any of this shit and just because I am someone’s friend does not mean I can not be friends with people who don’t get along with them - of course, unless they do not wish to. I’m not playing petty high school / teenage games of ‘if you like them I can’t like you’ and I refuse to become involved in isolation tactics.

Please, if someone’s behaviour is bothering you, talk to them. If talks fail, then proceed to block them and give yourself space. Simply ghosting someone is a poor tactic that does not teach a person (especially a person on the spectrum) what they did wrong and dragging the situation public does nothing to help them either.  It is my sincere hope that we are all able to move on from this and in the future that people can clearly articulate and discuss the issues that bother them instead of letting it build into something massive because things went unsaid.

That is all I will say on this matter. I am not bringing any of it up here again , nor am I getting involved with anyone who wishes to perpetuate any of this. I’m honestly at my wits end with both sides of this nonsense right now because it is senseless drama that continues to go on.

[sending-the-message]

My synesthetic Korean friend tried the elevator game [PART 1] by igottagat

Hi all, I’m Angus, and it’s my first time posting on Reddit. Hope I'm doing it right. I have a crazy story to tell and I feel nosleep is the best place for it.

This isn't actually something that happened to me. I have this friend over in Korea who I met through- of all things- the comments on an article on lifehacking. He’s called Kim Sijin and he’s got a pretty voracious mind as well as incredible English, plus he’s synesthetic which makes him...fun...to talk to. Do you know synaesthesia? No worries if you don’t.

I live in Shanghai and Sijin is a bit of a low-key Sinophile, so generally the idea is I share bizarre China stories in exchange for updates on his exploits in Seoul.

We like to keep our messages long and infrequent, and a little stilted. Kind of in the Victorian tradition, you know.

What’s coming below is amalgamation of several very emotional messages Sijin sent me following the loss of his closest friend, Han-Jae. I merged some messages and fixed up his typos. As you’ll see while reading, I kind of just took a backseat as he broke open his proverbial dam and unloaded. A wise choice, I think.

Sijin gave me full permission to share this story. By the end you will see why.

It's not a short tale, so I will follow this first post up with a Part 2 and so on.

Make of it all what you will.

SIJIN

I like to spy on people.

ANGUS

That’s new to me.

SIJIN

Yeah, I didn’t tell you? I peer through their webcams. Actually it’s not even about the people. It’s about the places. So many of these windows into the world exist, and it’s very easy to open them.

Modern webcams have IP addresses. That’s why they are called webcams. They are connected to the internet, which is a public, open network before you strap logins and paywalls onto it. Most webcams, however, are intended for private use, usually as CCTV. They only use the internet as a convenient networking mechanism. So, as they ought to, webcam manufacturers fit their network cameras with username and password logins, to keep out strangers. All well and good. But many of those manufacturers fit their cameras with default logins, and default passwords. This brings out a human flaw in the system, because when it comes to certain parts of their lives, even the most hardworking people are very lazy.

The branch manager of a budget hotel franchise. The security officer of a countryside engineering college. The granny in charge of a noodle shop for grannies. An uptight father who wants household ‘security’. All of these will usually not think or bother to alter the default username and password of their cameras. And so, someone like me- or you, Angus- can get in. The ‘hack’ involves dropping keywords into Google that turn up the camera control panels. Click the link, enter a default factory login, and presto, you have opened a gateway to another place on earth.

What you can see through the gateways is mostly very dull, but the scope of it all is incredible. All these portals puncturing the mundane. And the mundane is, I think, quite otherworldly. You realise quickly that most of the human world is made of empty spaces. Restaurants. Swimming pools. Offices. Lobbies. Cupboards. Car parks. Long, well lit hallways. While you are huddled with your friends, family, or co-workers on the bus, at home, or at the computer, you forget that all the other places where you spend your life are queer abandoned zones which turn pitch black at night, unless someone is there to switch on the lights.

The videos can only really hold your interest if you are watching life in motion. Anglican Church services in England. Family barbeques in France. City centres in Africa rammed with cars. Silent pet shops in rural America. Up close you see a lot of conversations but you don’t hear the words. Even my synaesthesia isn’t much help here.

ANGUS

Don’t you feel very detached when you’re watching? And then eventually, just, bored?

SIJIN

Yes, but. Sometimes no.

There was one vision early on that stuck with me. I saw a granny in Hokkaido, not so far across the sea, staring into a mirror with a bitter red frame and a shelf that was decorated with pictures and jewels. She was dressed for the cold and her hair was short and boyish. I was looking straight down on her. There was no obvious emotion on her face, but she seemed at peace. I wanted to know what she was thinking about. I wanted to know who she was and if she would sit there all day, and why there was a CCTV camera in her living room.

ANGUS

Shouldn’t that have been the point where you stopped?

SIJIN

Han-Jae said the same. Maybe because that last description is so intimate. ‘Intimate’ turns into ‘wrong’ so quickly, don’t you think? I spoke about that granny with affection she never asked for, nor even knew about. There’s something intuitively wrong about imposing your feelings onto strangers in such a way. Han-Jae pointed this out, quite rightly. I said yes, I would stop, but only after I saw something awful. Eventually, of course, I did.

Other friends and even family have said I pay too much heed to Han-Jae. They say I should take care not to appear to be involved in some kind of boy love thing with him. Well to them I’d say they only cry ‘boy love’ because they do not understand our friendship, because our friendship is not normal, or traditional. I’ve never claimed to be a normal Korean boy, nor do I ever wish to be. Han-Jae feels the same, though he would never say as much.

That’s one reason I like sharing all this with you. You’re outside this society. You don’t judge.

Han-Jae and I are both synaesthesiacs. (That’s the wrong word in English but I happen to like it.) We don’t fit. Actually, no. He has always fit. I am the real freak.

Even my synaesthesia runs counter to Korean thinking. Everything ‘good’ is to my eyes, red. Red for we Koreans is not exactly a death colour, but it means nothing good. For me, death is signified by the smell of copper, and red is everything beautiful. Like chocolate bars: dark chocolate bars are a solid block of rich crimson. Milk chocolate is lovely traffic light red. White chocolate is pastel red, like you’d find in a kindergarten. When I talk about the red things I see Han-Jae talks back at me using the name ‘Jinshi’, which is what my given name ‘Sijin’ sounds like when you render it in Chinese. Did I mention that before?

ANGUS

No. But that’s fascinating. Is that Jin like ‘gold’? 金?

SIJIN

Yeah, I think so. But I’m not a Chinese master. Most Koreans these days don’t know much about it.

Han-Jae went to the effort of converting the name because the Chinese have the same ideas about red, of course. They think red is good. I think red is good. So I must be Chinese. So I must be Chinese Jinshi, not Korean Sijin. Han-Jae’s sense of humour. Don’t let the formidable grades and the sharp mind fool you– deep down, he’s a pretty simple-minded guy.

ANGUS

Oh no, haha. I’d noticed that. 厉害.

SIJIN

What?

ANGUS

‘Awesome’. Just testing.

SIJIN

Oh. Anyway, I’m not done talking about myself.

Computer code doesn’t have a colour. But, most coding interfaces colour different tags, commands and formats in specific colours in order to help we programmers interpret the huge walls of text that code presents to us. This is kind of an artificial synaesthesia. As you can probably guess, I need no such aid. Every block of code I see is a separation of the spectrum. Dozens of shades burst out at me, and for each one there is a specific meaning that comes to me immediately. I never had to deliberately create this system or memorise how it works. The connection between each colour and each command is just as obvious to me as the fact that water is wet to you.

Now on to Han-Jae. You may find his ‘power’ a little less boring than mine.

Really, he is an asshole. His synaesthesia reflects the problems in his personality. If something is boring to him, or too easy, or just difficult in the sense of being beyond his skillset, then it will seem further away. To understand how his vision is organised, you really have to understand his own internal logic. I do. I am one of few.

Han-Jae tells me that his favourite movies have a lot of extra depth and tone. Shitty movies will look muddy and flat regardless of their original colour palette, so under his discerning gaze you really cannot polish a turd. Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is a good example. From a technical standpoint, it’s a movie with visual depth, a wide tonal range, and a painfully vibrant colour palette. But from a critical perspective, Han-Jae and I agree the movie is a fucking disaster. Therefore, to Han-Jae, the film’s visual frantic energy literally vanishes– he says it looks a ‘greasy sepia Western, recorded on rotten, wobbly film paper’.

If you play music to Han-Jae, the notes float past his face. If you feed him waffles and a BLT, he will see the heat, texture, and flavour of the food flash around the room. He has a calendar and abacus that he can generate any time he likes, and then use to outthink you using only his eyeballs. He once correctly measured the speed of a friend’s electric bicycle down to one decimal point just by watching it pass him by. He sees the colour of people’s emotions, flushed around their face, and he uses this to charm girls. What I am trying to say is that Han-Jae is a real bastard.

ANGUS

Hahahaha!

SIJIN

I don’t get many dates. Han-Jae does. Blah blah blah. You’ve heard all this moaning before.

So anyway my point is that with Han-Jae I do things beyond the usual juvenile playtime. You remember the time Han-Jae and I went looking for ‘ghosts’? I never quite said we were really looking for ‘holes’. Localised instances where the logic of the world- physics maybe- is no longer consistent. If you ever exploited a bug in a video game for fun or to cheat, you can grasp this. Think of any time you had déjà vu. You deeply, deeply felt you were reliving a moment you have not yet lived. In other words it is some form of time travel. Whether the form is true or simulated, and whether déjà vu occurs in the mind or somewhere else...these are beside the point. The point is that déjà vu breaks the rules of everyday existence.

Imagine the introducing the concept of saving to disk and digital rewriting to, say, an Imperial Japanese typist working in Seoul during the occupation period. In fact, imagine you told a medieval European typist that you could duplicate a hundred copies of his Bible in the blink of an eye. To each typist it would seem that you have broken some rule of the universe and opened up an exploit.

ANGUS

Hacking.

SIJIN

Of a kind.

Synaesthesia is arguably one such ‘hole’. Look at how easily Han-Jae and I breezed through the Korean education system. We process text, figures, and diagrams faster than normal people. We can read novels, music, and the emotions on an immediately deeper level than anyone bar the experts. We are incredibly well organised, and as such have extra time and energy to spend chasing after world-hacks.

Maybe you recall some of our attempts. The first thing we tried was to hack our own vision by instigating voluntary hallucinations. This proved a total failure. Next we tried the occult. As in, summoning demons. Remember that? Total failure again. Next we tried local legends. I never told you this part. It’s cool. There’s supposed to be a restless fox girl who swims underwater in a canal just a few kilometres from our residential district. There’s a rather convoluted backstory: it involves UN soldiers, a Communist cell, a nuclear waste barrel, and an old medicine man. You can imagine. It was a good excuse to explore the streets at least, and I liked getting a feel for the local history (Han-Jae didn’t– he’s smart as hell but there isn’t an intellectual bone in his body), but of course we saw no canal ghost.

Han-Jae and I talked pretty seriously about whether to give up or whether to press on. We decided, mostly thanks to my line of argument, that we would press ahead, but with a narrower focus. We had to hone in on real exploits. No more kids’ games. Together we once researched something really interesting: in a country called Scotland there is a place called the Electric Brae. It distorts perspective so that objects appear to roll uphill when left to rest. That sort of thing would be our target. Glitches that call the world’s fabric into question.

I warned that this might require travel, but Han-Jae believed quite firmly that if any country could provide, it would be South Korea. When I chided him for this warped version of patriotism he conceded that Japan might also be a candidate. I had to agree. It’s a pretty weird place. The strange thing is...Han-Jae was right. After a few wasted days of searching the Korean-language internet, we found something on a dead forum. I'll paste in an English translation. It is the instructions for something called The Elevator Game. Brace yourself...

[holmessexual-subtext]

like a secret (or a sin)

Title: like a secret (or a sin)

Pairings: Ian/Anthony

Rating: NC-17

Genre: Angst, Smut

Warning: cheating

Summary: Contrary to popular belief, distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder.

There’s Ian, there’s Anthony, and then there’s Ian and Anthony. While doing the press tour for Ghostmates in New York, Ian and Anthony struggle to figure out where one label ends and another begins, finding out that sometimes, the lines aren’t as clear-cut as they seem.

This is their (love) story, told in hotel keycards and plane tickets from LAX to JFK.

Author's Notes: I haven’t written anything in a while, so I’m trying to shake off the writer’s block. Hello again, fandom! The title comes from “Only You” by Matthew Perryman Jones.

I know there’s a million other fics about cheating out there. I thought I would try my hand at it. I’m not trying to romanticize cheating, and I apologize if it seems like I did.

Fic is here (archiveofourown). I no longer post fics on livejournal.

Disclaimer: I do not own Smosh. I do not make money from this. I also don’t own Matthew Perryman Jones’ “Only You”.

Contrary to popular belief, distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder. It’s quite the opposite, actually.

Ghostmates is coming out, and while Anthony cannot be more excited for the premiere, he wouldn’t give this up for the world. This is what he has been looking forward to. Doing a press tour means isolation, means leaving the west coast for the east, means being alone together (or maybe being together alone?).

Of course they’re not truly alone (they never are). There will always be someone watching—a young fan, the press, someone’s camera, the world—but here, they’re not as closely watched. It’s one of the things Anthony likes about New York; everyone’s too busy with themselves to watch other people. Here, he and Ian could be anonymous.

(Is there really such a thing as being anonymous? There’s IP addresses and browser histories and website cookies and—)

They’re in LAX and Anthony can feel his palms sweating, can feel the beating of his heart. He’s almost there—they’re almost there—and this, this is what he lives for. The painful anticipation and the sweet release. Poetic, that.

The gate opens, and Anthony and Ian stand up at the same time. They fall in line, quiet (for once). Anthony hands his boarding pass and watches through unseeing eyes as the ticket attendant smiles at him and hands him his ticket back. He thinks he nods, though he’s not quite sure.

(He’s not sure of anything, these days.)

He walks forward, careful not to let anything show on his face. He’s so close. He just needs to make it to his seat and wait, that’s all he needs to do. All he needs to do is wait.

He puts his carry-on luggage in the overhead bin and sits beside Ian, quiet as he makes sure he has his seatbelt on.

There’s something funny about safety, he thinks as he watches people walk down the narrow aisle to their seats. Safety’s subjective. Anthony’s the kind of person to strap himself to a seat, but at the same time, he’s the kind of person to risk compromising a relationship for a week of escape.

(Alone together or together alone?)

When the plane finally, finally, takes off, Anthony looks around and slowly puts his hand on the middle armrest.

Ian holds his hand through turbulence.

(When the cat’s away, the mice will play—)

   There’s falling, and then there’s flying, and then there’s this: travel in the form of turbulence, love in the form of betrayal.

(Mosaic art is still art, regardless of the broken glass pieces that comprise it.)

He and Ian get (separate) rooms down the (same) hallway. It’s easier this way, he reasons as he opens his door and turns the lights on. This way, they can meet up before breakfast more quickly.

(This way, there’s less distance.)

He doesn’t know whose room they’ll end up using more, but he has an idea. He has an idea, because even though this is only their second press tour in New York, they’ve done this thing before, and Anthony knows, it’s him who will break, him who will seek out Ian, him who will leave the (safety of his) room for Ian’s.

Anthony knows better than to think he will ever know better.

He lies on top of (undisturbed) sheets and looks at the ceiling for a little while.

He should get something to eat, maybe. He should (probably) text Miel to let her know they’re here (safe). There’s a lot of things he should do.

There’s a lot of things he shouldn’t do.

He waits.

He waits until he eventually has to get up and find a nearby restaurant that has vegan options.

He orders his food.

He vlogs.

He stays in his room the entire night.

A part of him knows why he’s doing this. He’s doing this because a part of him needs the lie, and to make a convincing lie, one has to have some sort of proof.

This is his proof: pristine sheets and lying (alone) in the darkness.

He wonders what Ian is doing at this very moment. Is he waiting for Anthony to come? Is he enjoying his night?

(Is he even in his room at all?)

It’s his birthday. Anthony would go and see him, but he knows himself too well to pretend that he has the kind of self-restraint needed for him to still end up in this room at the end of the night.

Thinking about Ian has become more consuming since they landed in New York. Miel is a star, but Ian is a black hole, heavy and all-consuming and—

(unexplored?)

(No.)

Ian is an adventure Anthony can only have when he’s away from home.

Home is such a funny concept, Anthony thinks. Miel isn’t home, despite how much he wishes she was. Los Angeles is a close second, but with the constant traffic and the ever-changing landscape, it doesn’t feel right the way Sacramento feels.

Ian is: home and an adventure away from home, trust and betrayal, an alternate reality Anthony chooses not to think about when he’s not in a hotel he can forget about (but won’t).

Ian is: temptation incarnate.

Anthony is: weak.

(Maybe he’s not as weak as he thinks. He’s waiting, isn’t he?)

He’ll call Miel tomorrow, right before he eats breakfast.

Maybe.

(Miel is: too good for him.)

   “How is it so far?”

Anthony looks out the window. Gray overcast skies hang over the skyscrapers, looking like it can’t quite decide if it wants to rain. Below, people are walking, locals and tourists alike, minding their own business as they head to their own destinations.

“Cold,” he says, turning away from the window. “Colder than I thought it would be.”

“Maybe I should visit you,” Miel says, off-handed, and Anthony feels his heart sink like a stone in his chest. “LA’s hot as balls.”

Anthony laughs, small and just that little bit forced. “It seems like an overcorrection to fly here just because it’s hot there.”

“You’re right,” she says, and Anthony feels relief wash over him like cool water. “It’s just, you know, I miss you, you big goof.”

I miss you is probably the right thing to say here, but the truth is, Anthony doesn’t miss her.

Anthony wouldn’t give this up for the world.

“I’ll be back in a few days,” he says instead, because there are too many lies already, despite the fact that he hasn’t done them yet. He doesn’t want to add to his (growing) list of sins, if he can help it.

(Anthony isn’t particularly religious, so he doesn’t know: does it make a difference the number of sins if he’s going to hell anyway?)

“And I’ll see you then. Until then, though…text me.”

“Of course,” Anthony lies.

Miel ends the call and Anthony turns around, looking at his (packed) suitcase.

He’s not staying here tonight, he knows. He has (re)packed his things like he has (re)packed his morals, giving up basic human decency for a chance to relive a fantasy he and Ian had hit the pause button on for a year.

This, he thinks as he takes his suitcase and leaves the room, is his new start. His second (third, fourth, et cetera) chance at an alternate reality. This is forgetting and remembering, is one step forward and two steps back, is breaking something for the sole purpose of making something new out of it.

This, he thinks as he knocks on Ian’s door, is a new him from the old.

Ian opens the door, takes one look at Anthony and his suitcase, and wordlessly steps to the side.

(Ian is a new partner from an old friend.)

Anthony puts his suitcase near the left side of the bed.

Ian closes the door and approaches Anthony slowly, letting him call the shots, the pace, the everything.

(When they had talked about stopping this back then, Ian had still let him call the shots. He’s considerate like that, Anthony supposes, though Anthony can’t help but wish that Ian had fought just a little bit harder for his case, for the desire to be in a relationship without all the pretense and the hiding.)

(Anthony wishes he hadn’t fought the idea off as hard as he had.)

The curtains are closed. Reruns of something called Deadly Wives play on the television screen.

Ian takes one step forward, and Anthony can’t take the waiting anymore.

Anthony walks toward him with single-minded purpose and kisses him, lips hungry for something he hasn’t tasted in a year. His hands find their way to Ian’s waist, gripping just this side of being too tight, creasing the dark sweater he has over a long-sleeved button-up shirt.

Every time he and Ian take a break from this, whatever this is, Anthony’s always afraid it would be the last. Now’s not an exception to the rule.

All his fears are chased away by Ian kissing him back. He feels Ian’s hands make their way up his sides as Ian’s tongue darts out and seeks permission from Anthony’s closed lips. Anthony opens his mouth, and it feels a little bit like offering a part of himself for the taking.

Ian’s arms rest on Anthony’s shoulders, his hands reaching up to tangle his fingers in Anthony’s curls, and Anthony feels goosebumps erupt on his skin.

Slowly, they part. Anthony doesn’t back away much, eager to stay where he is.

“You went to the gym?” Ian asks, soft.

Anthony keeps his eyes closed. He can feel Ian’s breath on his face, intimate. “Yeah,” he answers, equally soft, unwilling to let the loud sounds of the outside intrude on this private moment.

He’s been waiting for this for a year.

“Breakfast?” Ian offers, not bothering to pull away, and Anthony wants to say no, wants to shake his head and convince Ian to stay here in their little space for just a little longer.

He doesn’t want to go outside just yet.

“Yeah,” he eventually says, opening his eyes to find Ian’s concerned gaze on him.

“You okay?”

It’s that concerned tone, that soft, welcome voice that rolls like honey in Anthony’s mind, still the same after all these years.

“Yeah.”

Ian furrows his eyebrows. “We can get room service instead, you know.”

Anthony shakes his head. “Nah,” he says.

It’s time to face the music, anyway. They can’t stay here forever no matter how much Anthony may want them to.

“Okay,” Ian says, as understanding as he has always been. “Okay.”

   It’s CBS first, then it’s NBC.

In between interviews, he and Ian find time to walk to the New York Public Library and basically enjoy what little time they have with each other.

“I forgot it was your birthday last night,” Anthony lies with a half-laugh, holding up his phone with one hand as he looks over his shoulder to see Ian’s reaction.

“Yeah, how dare you,” Ian says, eyebrows furrowed but unoffended.

“I said ‘happy birthday’ in the morning, and then I was like ‘oh yeah, we’ll just hang out tomorrow night’, and then we get back to the hotel and I just stayed in the hotel—dude. I’m sorry.”

“You’re gonna have to make it up to me,” Ian says, and Anthony feels his cheeks warm.

Anthony looks down, not bothering to mask his smile. “I’m gonna make it up to you tonight.”

“You don’t want to lose your best friend card,” Ian says in his unflappable tone of voice, and it’s a warning, a reminder.

“I know!” Anthony says, and it’s not just an answer to what has been said, it’s also an answer to what is staying unsaid. “I’m so sorry, man.”

This, this is what he does best. He puts friendly (manly) titles to remind himself of the situation. He says man and dude so effortlessly; it has become second-nature to do so. It feels like shedding skin every time he calls Ian nicknames that aren’t necessarily romantic, but at the same time, it feels like putting on armor, feels like chainmail made out of words that cannot be misconstrued to mean something else, something deeper.

(Eventually, the heavy armor will make his thinning skin bleed, but he doesn’t want to think about that. Not yet.)

They go to a place called Blue Dog Café for brunch. Ian orders pancakes and a hot chocolate. Anthony orders a salad. They sit together and hold hands under the table when they can.

From there, it’s interview after interview after interview. They don’t really get time to themselves beyond sitting alone together (or together alone) in dressing rooms, green rooms, and building lobbies, and even then, there’s always someone or something watching.

When they’re waiting, they mostly focus on their phones to pass the time. Ian watches Youtube. Anthony makes his move on the Scrabble game he has going on with Mari. They might not be alone, but Anthony still enjoys it.

There’s something to be said about just being with Ian in a comfortable silence. He feels safe, welcome—he feels at home.

(Safe, welcome, home—funny words, all of them. Maybe that’s what Ian is, in the grand scheme of things, a concept explainable by phenomena that contradict themselves.)

“What is it?” Ian finally asks, looking up from his cracked phone screen and meeting Anthony’s eyes.

“Nothing,” Anthony says, a small smile playing on his lips.

   The restaurant is low-lit. It would be the absolute perfect place to just have dinner with Ian without worrying about snoops or eavesdroppers, if only they had managed to be alone. Sadly, Anthony hadn’t quite managed to get the two of them away from their press tour manager and assistants, so it’s not just the two of them like Anthony would have liked.

Ian leaves the table to go to the bathroom.

Anthony (barely) stays where he is.

“Excuse me, miss?” Anthony says, ignoring the questioning looks of his co-workers as he calls the attention of the nearest waitress.

The woman—Angie, her nametag says—walks toward him with a smile. “How may I help you?”

Anthony checks to make sure Ian isn’t on his way back to the table yet. “So, the guy who was sitting here? It’s his birthday. Do you guys do anything special, or…?”

Their press tour manager laughs, finally getting what Anthony’s trying to do.

Angie nods, smiling. “Of course! A few of us will sing, and we have a little bit of cake for the birthday celebrant.”

“Perfect,” Anthony says. “He’s in the bathroom right now, but maybe later? When we’re done eating dinner? That way he doesn’t expect it. His name’s Ian, by the way.”

“Of course!” Angie says, enthusiastic.

It’s not long before Ian’s back from the bathroom. Angie takes their orders and they lose themselves in easy conversation.

When all their orders are on the table, they all take a few pictures before going back to the conversations they paused. Somewhere to his right, he can hear their manager complaining about traffic.

“Hey,” Anthony says, voice dropping to a low whisper as he looks at Ian across the table. “Happy birthday.”

Ian smiles, and it’s not the one that he always has ready for the cameras. It’s the one that’s reserved just for them, a private kind of smile that only Anthony has the honor of seeing. It’s soft and genuine, a barely-there twist of the lips that promises something more.

(Anthony wonders if Pam gets to see that smile too. He knows it shouldn’t matter, knows that he has given up the right to be jealous the moment he told Ian that they could not make this into a real relationship the way they both want to, but he can’t help it. He has always been bad at sharing.)

“Don’t think this gets you out of making it up to me,” Ian says, teasing. His voice is equally soft, soothing. It’s that smirk now, still familiar and welcome. Ian’s lips are curled up at the edges and his eyes hold a knowing look to them, genuine even when teasing.

Anthony takes a deep breath and meets Ian’s eyes. “Of course not,” he says, voice low and serious. “I’m still making it up to you, don’t worry.”

And this, this is what Anthony lives for: the heated look Ian shoots him, the anticipation bubbling under his skin, the knowledge that even for just a few days, he gets to have this (have him).

Pam and Miel are faraway thoughts. For now, it is Ian and it is Anthony, and it is them alone.

Anthony subtly calls Angie’s attention.

“So I know I still owe you for missing your actual birthday,” Anthony begins when he sees Angie walk back to the kitchen, presumably to grab Ian’s small piece of cake.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees their manager grin.

“It’s okay, dude,” Ian says, contrary to what he and Anthony were just talking about in hushed tones. Besides the roles they play in front of the camera for their Youtube channels, this is another role Ian is familiar enough with to play in his sleep. Ian can pretend with the best of them, Anthony knows. He’s seen him pretend to be content with what they have for years.

It’s selfish, Anthony knows. He’s selfish. He has never been a risk-taker the way Ian just naturally is—he knows there’s uncertainty there, something that he isn’t entirely sure he’s ready to face. A relationship is steady and built to last. A relationship is living in a reality he has helped create.

This is different.

This is exciting and new and not falling into (old) patterns. This is something Anthony can fully enjoy without worrying about fucking things up and completely losing the person who means the most to him. This is Anthony and Ian, and despite this not really being a formal relationship, they make it work.

Because that’s who they are. They make things work even without meaning to. Or maybe that’s just Ian, somehow always calm even in the face of a storm, the one constant Anthony can rely on. Even in the mess that is whatever the hell this is, Ian is the serenity within it, the peace that Anthony just wants to bask in.

Maybe that’s why he had said no before. Relationships are messy, sometimes even messier than this, and Anthony’s not going to risk losing that peace just because of a title. He doesn’t even care that they don’t call each other boyfriends.

…Right?

(You can’t have your cake and eat it too.)

“No,” Anthony replies, watching as Angie walks out the kitchen doors with a couple of coworkers behind her. He takes out his phone. “Listen, I told you I would make it up to you, so—”

“—happy birthday to you,” they all begin to sing, “happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, dear Ian. Happy birthday to you!”

Angie puts the cake in front of Ian, and Ian looks at Anthony with that look, the one that’s just a little exasperated and a little amused. He’s smiling though, so Anthony laughs when Ian flips him off.

He can think about these things later, Anthony thinks as he watches his coworkers greet Ian and engage him in conversation. There’s time for these things later. For now, Anthony gets to celebrate Ian’s birthday with him.

(What does it say about Anthony that he’s willing to let the important things wait?)

One by one, they all bow out and head back to the hotel until it’s just Ian and Anthony left. Their manager reminds them of their early day tomorrow before heading out, shooting a smile at them as she grabs her coat and heads out.

Anthony is familiar with this. In the end, it’s always just going to be him and Ian. No one else stays, and Anthony thinks he’s okay with that.

He would rather have no one than someone else.

And that—that’s the truth, isn’t it? Even beyond this, what little time they have with each other, Anthony would still prefer no one over someone else if Ian were out of the picture, would rather have nothing in his hands than a broken imitation of what he could have.

(No one looks for their reflection in broken glass pieces clumsily pieced back together.)

   “What do you say? Was that the—the best, uh, birthday of your life?”

They’re walking down the streets of New York. It’s probably dangerous to have his phone out at this time of day, but Anthony doesn’t particularly care. He wants to have this.

“One day-late belated birthday?” Anthony continues, looking at Ian and barely suppressing a smile as he sees Ian waddling in his coat in the cold New York night.

“Yeah, it was definitely the best belated birthday ever,” Ian says in a such a matter-of-fact tone that Anthony can’t help but chuckle.

“But we sang Happy BirthdayHHaahdhH to you and embarrassed you.” Anthony looks at Ian. “I think that’s—that’s all you need for a good birthday, right?”

It’s a question laced with uncertainty. He’s far too aware of the fact that he had let Ian’s birthday go by without doing anything with him, bound by the fear that he won’t be able to hold himself back at the end of the night. This—this is way less than what Ian deserves. Ian deserves everything.

(Anthony doesn’t deserve Ian.)

“Actually, I don’t know if that’s ever—I’ve—if I’ve ever gotten that before,” Ian says, matter-of-factly.

Anthony raises his head, eyebrows rising. “Are you serious? No one’s ever sang—”

“—yeah, cause,” Ian starts to say, shaking his head, “I’ve always made people the victim of that, but I don’t think I’ve ever been the victim of it.”

“Oh my God,” Anthony says, his mind running a mile a minute, because surely Ian has gotten this before, right? It’s not a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Everyone experiences this sort of thing at least once before turning 18.

Anthony thinks back to all the other birthdays they celebrated (together):

Ian’s 14th, when they had a sleepover at Ian’s house, determined to play video games throughout the entire night and only making it until one in the morning before they passed out on each other’s shoulders in the living room.

Anthony’s 16th, when he and Ian celebrated the fact that Anthony could finally get a driver’s license by driving down the freeway and stopping at an IHOP at two in the morning.

Ian’s 18th, when Anthony was invited to go on a camping trip with Ian’s family, discovering that there might just be something more to these thoughts Anthony’s been having about Ian lately and realizing that these thoughts won’t ever really go away.

Anthony’s 20th, when Ian took him to a secluded part of the beach at three in the morning and kissed him sweetly, hesitantly, and with all the desire to let Anthony know that all these things he’s been feeling are not only real, but reciprocated.

Ian’s 20th, when Anthony realizes that they can’t possibly have a relationship and have it end well for the both of them while they juggle this new business and this new fame.

Memories upon memories crowd Anthony’s mind. There’s just no way that no one’s ever done that to Ian before.

There’s just no way that Anthony’s never done that to Ian before.

(And yet.)

“Uh,” Anthony says, suddenly speechless. “Uh, what do you want to do with the rest of your night?”

“Um—um, let’s see,” Ian says, thinking. “I got Pokemon.”

And Anthony—Anthony laughs. It’s such an Ian answer that there really isn’t anything else to do but laugh. Ian has a tendency to move the spotlight when it’s (rightfully) on him, has a tendency to answer serious questions with deliberately underwhelming answers, has a tendency to make Anthony fall deeper in love with him despite resistance.

Ian is push and pull, is time and space, is attraction and repellency. Ian is all the basic laws of physics and all the paradoxes in the world combined, and Anthony—

Anthony is the experimental lab rat that can’t quite decide where to go, is the uncertainty present in every room, is the friction that slows down movement.

(Friction is a force that both resists movement and allows it.)

   “You think any of these books are worth reading?”

“Uh…all of them. Let’s read all of them.”

Anthony laughs and brings his phone in front of him to capture Ian’s expression.

There’s something about Ian’s smile, Anthony thinks, that makes it impossible to resist him. It’s the kind of thing that grows on you, the kind of thing that’s difficult to just forget. It invites you to share the moment, to smile, to forget anything else exists but him.

It’s that very smile that Anthony wants to capture with his phone. He fails, of course, what with the low lighting and the dark backdrop, but he continues on doing it anyway. A crappy iPhone video beats no video at all.

“Let’s read all of them tonight,” Ian says, looking at Anthony. “Let’s just, like—let’s just go crazy.”

Anthony smiles and brings his hand forward as he gestures toward Ian. “That’s my birthday gift to you,” he says, barely stopping himself from laughing outright, “I’ll read the books to you before bed.”

“Oh thanks,” Ian jokes, his voice high-pitched.

It’s not long before they order their respective drinks. It’s a moderately classy place, the kind where you don’t just down six bottles of Budweiser without getting a few judgmental looks at best and a stern talking to at worst, and everything feels just that little bit more intimate. This is vastly different from their respective 21st birthdays, when they celebrated being able to legally drink by hitting as many bars as they can, seedy or otherwise.

They’re older now, Anthony thinks, and as he takes his drink from the waiter with a smile, he also thinks they’re more mature. Gone are the days when they can just down shots of whatever they could afford without any thought of the consequences. Now, they’re more aware of themselves, to an extent.

Anthony looks at the small circular table separating him from Ian, looks at the lone candle on the tabletop, and thinks, isn’t there a saying about how with age comes wisdom?

He looks up from the candle to meet Ian’s eyes, and remembers the next part of the saying.

He knows what’s going to happen tonight. He’s going to be utterly powerless to stop it, because what’s the point of waiting longer when he’s here now? When there’s nothing else to stop him?

Ian knows it too. His eyes are dark in the low lighting of the restaurant, knowing and expectant. This—this is movement from point A to point B. That’s all this is.

Right?

It’s not as simple as that though, because Anthony finds that he can’t quite meet Ian’s eyes, because Anthony looks away as his mind runs through all the different scenarios that can happen, or could have happened, if only he had allowed himself the privilege of doing so.

One more year. One more year until they both turn 30, until they both have to start figuring out what they really want. Anthony thinks he knows what it is that he wants—he just doesn’t know if he’s ready to make the choice yet.

And isn’t that the thing? You’re supposed to be sure of the important things when you’re 30, right? This year—their last year before the hit the big 30—is supposed to be a time for fresh beginnings and endings. They’re supposed to have figured things out by now.

Anthony should have figured things out by now.

(With age comes wisdom, the saying goes, but sometimes age comes alone.)

Anthony clears his throat, suddenly finding his mouth dry. “One year until you’re 30,” he starts to say, “what do you think?”

Ian shrugs. “We’re getting older,” he says, unaware that he’s just stated what Anthony thought about earlier. “Kinda weird, huh? We didn’t really think the Youtube thing would happen, and yet here we are.”

“Here we are,” Anthony agrees. He takes a sip of whatever the hell it is he ordered.

Here they are. Men on the cusp of being 30, unsure of the future and what it is that they both really want.

Maybe that’s just Anthony generalizing. Ian has always been the more forward-thinking of them, he thinks. He’s sure that Ian knows what he wants. It’s not fair for him to say we, when really, what he means is I.

(I’m not sure about what I want, I’m lost, I want you, I love you—)

Anyway.

“So,” Anthony begins, raising his glass to take a sip from his drink, “any birthday wishes?”

Ian shakes his head, a small smile curling the edges of his lips upward. “I don’t know, world peace?”

Anthony laughs, his worries swept away by just being in Ian’s presence. “Sounds generic.”

“It does,” Ian agrees, nodding his head. “I don’t know. I mean, I want a good year. I want to stay healthy.” He looks down at the table, his fingers still curled around the thin stem of the glass. “I want to be happy,” he murmurs, voice low and soft, and Anthony knows what Ian’s talking about, knows that this is Ian’s way of requesting Anthony to figure things out and to figure things out fast.

Anthony swallows past the lump in his throat. His hand grips his glass tighter as he forces himself to keep his eyes on Ian.

“Hey,” he finally says when it doesn’t seem like Ian will be looking up soon, “look at me. Please.”

Ian looks up, hesitant, and here, in the low-lighting of a restaurant in New York, thousands of miles away from where Anthony first met Ian, Ian looks impossibly young.

Anthony never meant to do this to him. He never meant to make Ian feel this way, to make him emotionally strained, to keep him pulled taut like a string between an actual romantic relationship with a wonderful woman and whatever the hell it is that he has with Anthony.

Anthony never meant to hurt him.

(Anthony very carefully doesn’t think about how the road to hell is paved with good intentions.)

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, because he can at least begin with that. This is something he knows he owes Ian.

Ian shakes his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says, adamant.

“You’re wrong. I do.” Anthony sighs and lets one hand creep up to rub the back of his neck. “I have everything to be sorry for.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ian asks, curious.

Anthony takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

Ian looks back down.

Anthony continues.

“I’m sorry that you’re stuck in the middle without a choice. I’m sorry for ending things between us and then starting this—this clusterfuck. I’m sorry that I haven’t made a decision yet.”

(I’m sorry I can’t be enough, he doesn’t say.)

“Do you really want to talk about this here?” Ian asks, and even now, he still wants Anthony’s opinion. He’s still considerate, still understanding, still so frustratingly him that Anthony finds he almost doesn’t know what to do.

This isn’t the kind of thing they should be talking about (in public). Hell, this isn’t even the kind of thing they should be talking about on Ian’s birthday. There’s something about New York though, something about the kind of freedom it allows Anthony to feel whenever he’s here, something about the kind of recklessness it fans into flame inside Anthony, something about being anonymous (again) in a sea of unknown faces.

New York makes Anthony want to be something else.

There’s still that part of him, however, that knows better. It may not be a part of him that Anthony listens to often, but it’s still there, and it still gives him unsolicited advice.

And that—that’s enough.

“I—you’re right.” Anthony licks his dry lips. “I’ll get the check.”

   The walk back to the hotel is uneventful. Anthony is too lost in his thoughts to start a conversation, and Ian is too understanding to start one for him.

An uncomfortable silence masked as a comfortable one. A masquerade consisting of the two of them against the rest of the world.

By silent agreement, they both head to Ian’s room.

Ian closes the door behind him with a soft click. Anthony finds that he doesn’t really know what to do, so he walks to the bed and sits down with a soft sigh.

Ian sits beside him, close, yet not close enough. He’s silent, content to let Anthony think over what he wants to say, and Anthony finds that he’s so unbelievably thankful that there can’t possibly be any words for what he feels.

This (amazing) man. Ian has given him so much without even thinking about what he has been giving away, and Anthony has been taking everything that Ian’s been offering, (always) without regard for what Ian’s been sacrificing.

It shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is. He’s thought about this plenty of times—

(unbidden, an image of him lying awake at night with Miel lying next to him appears in his head)

—and yet none of those times has accomplished what this single night has. Never before had he been struck so immensely by this guilt, a stabbing pain in his chest that intensifies with every breath he takes.

This is what Anthony does to people he loves: he asks them to offer him their hearts while ignoring the blood dripping from their palms.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, because that, at least, will never change. “I know I’ve been saying it a lot, but you—I just.” Anthony sighs and lets his head fall forward. He puts his arms on top of his thighs, clasping his hands as he tries to think of words that will be able to adequately express everything that he feels.

A pause. And then—

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

Anthony would like to believe that. He really would. It would be so easy to forget that this entire thing is just a fantasy, to forget that this entire thing is not only hurting his girlfriend Miel who is waiting for him in Los Angeles, but also Ian, his best friend and maybe, just maybe, something other than that, a relationship Anthony doesn’t quite dare naming yet.

It would be so easy to think that he doesn’t have any fault in this.

(Except.)

Except there’s a reason why he’s so careful to make sure he takes vlogs inside his own room, there’s a reason why his heart thuds louder and quicker every single time he thinks about the possibility of Miel actually flying here and visiting him, there’s a reason why every thought of going back to Los Angeles in a few days or so makes his chest hurt and his every thought stutter to a stop.

There’s always going to be a reason.

(Ian will always be the reason.)

“You’re wrong,” he says, his voice quiet. He doesn’t want to admit it, doesn’t want to turn away from what Ian is offering—a fantasy to be lived for a few days without guilt or worthless sacrifice—but there has always been a time and place for everything, and just like how now is the time and New York is the place for this little make-believe world of theirs to be indulged in, now is the time and this is the place for Anthony to finally be held accountable for his actions.

Anthony clears his throat. “I just. I know I’ve been sending mixed signals lately, and no, before you say anything, let me just say that even though we both know what my decision is, I never really outright said no.”

Ian shakes his head. “I don’t, I mean—okay? Even if you didn’t outright say no, it was pretty clear what your decision was,” he says, his voice soft and defeated, entirely without malice the way his voice should be. Ian sighs. “Let’s just—I don’t know. Let’s not bring that up, okay? As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t have much to do with anything anymore.”

“No,” Anthony says, vehement as he pushes himself off the bed and stands in front of Ian, unable to sit still as he tries to make sense of the million thoughts running through his head. “You’re wrong. This has everything to do with everything. And you know what? You’re right. I didn’t have to tell you ‘no’ for you to realize what my decision was.” Anthony’s hands clench into fists at his sides. “After all, what could be a stronger ‘no’ than not showing up where I was supposed to a long time ago?”

There’s a time and place for everything, Anthony thinks, and his time and place had been in early 2015, at his and Ian’s house in Sacramento.

(Anthony remembers this: Ian asking him if he wants to give this—them—a try)

“What do you want me to say?” Ian asks, voice soft. He sounds defeated and confused, and Anthony never meant to make him feel this way.

Then again, there’s always that saying about good intentions.

(Anthony remembers this: not saying no.)

Anthony sighs and kneels down in front of Ian, needing Ian to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Ian shakes his head, unwilling to accept the apology he so clearly deserves. “What do you want me to do? What do you expect me to do, Anthony? Because I think at this point we both know there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

And isn’t that the (godawful) truth?

The thing about wanting is this: Wanting is abstract, a feeling that isn’t necessarily positive in its effects. Anthony goes after what he wants the way thieves go after things that shine, and he knows it’s high time to understand that not all that glitters is gold, but Ian has always been more than that. Ian is worth more than his weight in gold.

(Anthony remembers this: an agreement to end relationships they both knew they weren’t happy in to give what they had—what they still have—a chance.)

“Punish me,” Anthony says, pleading. “Forgive me. Fuck, I don’t know.”

“Jesus, Anthony,” Ian swears under his breath and stands up, walking as far away from Anthony as he can without leaving the room. “You don’t even know what you want.” He raises a hand to run his fingers through his hair in frustration. “You still don’t know what you want.”

Anthony bows his head, ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

Ian tightens his jaw and drops his hand to his side. “What the fuck are you sorry for?” he asks, voice rising, disturbing the illusion of calm the room previously had. “Are you sorry for doing this in the first place? You agreed, Anthony!”

Anthony stands up, still not quite able to meet Ian’s eyes.

(Anthony remembers this: not being sure about the future of his relationship with Ian, but being so damn sure of his unhappiness with his fiancée that he breaks up with her.)

“Don’t—don’t be sorry for this,” Ian pleads, though he still can’t quite approach Anthony. “Apologize for anything, just. Not this. Anything but this.”

Anthony walks towards Ian slowly, approaching him the way wildlife rescue would approach a wounded lion. “It’s not that, Ian.”

Ian freezes.

(Anthony remembers this: an agreement to meet at their house in Sacramento at a specific date and time to prove their dedication to trying to make their relationship work.)

It’s not that, Ian.

Anthony could smack himself upside the head.

“I didn’t mean that.”

Closing his eyes, Ian takes a deep breath. Anthony can practically see Ian internalize the tension the way he internalizes everything else, emotions included. Anthony sees it in the way Ian hands curl up into fists at his sides before he forcibly uncurls them, fingers extending outward. He sees it in the way Ian’s eyes—normally so expressive—devoid of any kind of emotion. He sees it in the way Ian’s look is deathly calm, the eye in the storm.

Ian nods. “Yeah, no, I know.” He takes a deep breath. “What did you mean?”

He doesn’t know, Anthony thinks as he watches Ian stand as still as a statue. Gone is the fidgeting Ian always seems to be doing, the minute movements that endear him not just to Anthony but to every single one of their fans, the little quirks, the little twitches, even aborted movements wherein he starts to move before stopping himself. He doesn’t know, because there’s lying, and then there’s lying, and no matter the fact that it in itself is a bad deed, the intentions change everything, despite what people may say.

All this time, Ian’s been lying to save Anthony from everyone else. Anthony can’t begrudge him finally lying to save himself.

A step forward.

Another one.

Another one.

Anthony keeps on going, watching for signs that Ian truly does not want him near him at all, before coming to a stop just in front of him.

They’re older now. This close, he can see the evidence of this on Ian’s face—the smile lines starting to form at the corners of his eyes, the freckles on his cheeks that have only darkened with time, the small crease on his forehead that tells Anthony that Ian has absolutely no idea what Anthony is about to do.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, voice only slightly trembling as he tells Ian what he should have told him a long time ago, “for not being there when I should have been.”

(Anthony remembers this: not going.)

Ian releases his breath in a shaky exhale, his eyes slipping closed. Anthony watches as the fight melts off Ian’s shoulders, the tension that has been keeping his entire body standing leaving him in one exhale.

Slowly, Anthony leans in.

Ian opens his eyes.

With barely two inches between them, Anthony looks into Ian’s eyes and whispers, pleading, “please let me kiss you.”

Ian looks at him, his expression inquisitive, as if truly doesn’t know just how much he affects Anthony by just being in his life, as if he doesn’t know how much gravity his every word and every action has in Anthony’s world, as if he’s not aware that there are moments when Anthony feels like he is the sole reason Anthony exists.

Ian nods, a small minute thing that Anthony would not have noticed if he weren’t just two inches away from Ian.

The press of their lips is soft at first, a hesitant movement that is both too much and not enough. Ian’s lips are chapped, an effect of both the cold, biting wind of New York and the way Ian worries his bottom lip whenever he’s deep in thought.

The movement of their lips together is a study in contrast and contradiction—smooth lips against rough ones, rough lips smoothing out a kiss into something gentler, something slower, something Anthony has no patience for. A meeting of two lost souls, maybe, if Anthony were the kind of person to write poetry in the midst of immense feeling, if Anthony were the kind of person to have that much faith in something as abstract as the idea of romance.

Love—what a funny word. There is no direct way to quantify it, and yet here Anthony is, his lips parting against Ian’s as his hands uncurl from his sides to slowly make their way up to cradle Ian’s head. He has never been surer of anything in his life than the fact that this, what he feels for Ian—it’s something else.

Truth be told, the word love cannot quite exactly encompass everything that Anthony feels about Ian, the word love isn’t exactly enough, but he will settle for it. It’s the word that comes closest to it, he thinks.

(Not betrayal, he thinks. Never betrayal.)

Know this, he thinks as hard as he can, as if by doing so he will be able to let Ian know everything he’s been feeling without saying them out loud, there will never be anyone like you.

Ian’s lips part under his in a soft, barely-there moan, and Anthony smiles, the edges of his lips curling up as he thinks about the privilege this man has given him, allowing him to share in his successes and his failures, allowing him to kiss him as thoroughly as he would like, even if only for this one moment.

Anthony’s right hand makes its way around Ian’s neck to cup the back of his neck, fingers in Ian’s hair. Vaguely, he feels Ian put his hands on Anthony’s hips, not quite pulling him forward, but not pushing him away either. He’s just…holding him there, as if afraid that Anthony will disappear the moment he lets go.

Anthony pulls away and presses his forehead against Ian’s. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice soft in the empty room, “I’m so, so sorry.”

In the distance, a siren rings, but Anthony doesn’t pay any attention to it. He and Ian are in their own world now, far away from the city that never sleeps and the various noises that characterize it. Here, all that Anthony can hear are their breaths, slightly labored and interspersed with gasps and moans. Here, all that there is is the two of them. Nothing else matters.

Anthony watches as Ian’s eyes slip closed even as he instinctively leans forward. Here, they share warm breaths and something else—something more—that Anthony isn’t ready to vocally acknowledge yet.

Pressing a kiss to Ian’s left cheek, Anthony whispers, “I’m sorry.” He follows that with another kiss, bending lower to press a kiss on that spot under Ian’s ear, then another, this time at the point where Ian’s neck meets his shoulder. All the while, he feels Ian’s hands clutch him tighter, nails biting into his skin.

“I’ve forgiven you,” Ian says in a breathy whisper as Anthony proceeds to suck a hickey into a spot just an inch or two from the junction between Ian’s neck and shoulder, making sure, even at this point in time, that whatever mark he leaves, Ian will be able to hide.

Anthony knows. “I know,” he says simply, once he’s done marking Ian and his lips have escaped the almost painful clutches of the collar of Ian’s button-up that he still hasn’t removed yet. “I know, but that won’t stop me from saying it.”

Truth is, he doesn’t think he deserves forgiveness.

“I know,” Anthony begins to say, pausing in between words in favor of pressing chaste kisses up Ian’s neck until he reaches his lips, “that you don’t blame me.” His hands slide down from the back of Ian’s head to the bottom of his dark sweater.

Ian’s lips fall open the moment Anthony’s lips press against his once more. Slowly, his hands slide to Anthony’s lower back, encompassing Anthony in a hug that isn’t quite enough. There, his fingers make a home for themselves as his hands grip tight, undoubtedly wrinkling Anthony’s sweater beyond repair.

Pulling away from the kiss as much as he can without banging his head against the wall, Ian catches Anthony’s bottom lip in between his teeth, fanning the sparks in Anthony’s belly into a full-blown fire. Anthony watches as Ian’s eyes open, the blue replaced by a thin dark ring surrounding his dilated pupils.

They’re both out of breath now, sharing the same warm air the way they seem to share everything else with each other—without complete and utter regard.

Anthony tightens his grip on Ian’s sweater and slowly pulls it up, giving Ian enough time to stop him if he wants to. The material is soft against his hands, and as he raises it up, up, up until it isn’t on Ian’s person anymore, he thinks about what they are about to do.

This is what they are now: lovers that can only exist in a specific space and a specific time. They may love each other, but only under the cover of darkness, like thieves in the night.

Anthony tucks his head in the junction of Ian’s neck and shoulders, mouthing the spot that he knows drives Ian wild. Ian tilts his head even further, giving Anthony more space, and Anthony smiles against Ian’s skin as he hears his low, rough groan, as he feels the vibration of his vocal cords just a few inches below his skin.

What was it like, before this? Surely there is a before, in the way that there is a now, in the way that there is an after that Anthony is doing his best not to think about. Try as he might, though, he can’t quite seem to remember never doing this, can’t quite seem to recall moments when he didn’t miss the feeling of Ian’s skin against his, of Ian’s lips against his, Ian’s beard scratchy against his cheeks and chin.

“If you know that I don’t blame you,” Ian says, voice shaking as one of Anthony’s hands snakes up to bury itself in his hair, “then why the apologies?” Anthony’s lips move to his throat, his mouth closing over Ian’s Adam’s apple, and he breaks off with a moan.

Anthony pulls away from Ian’s neck and leans in. “Because,” he says, his lips gently touching Ian’s with every word he forms, “you deserve them.”

(I don’t deserve you, he doesn’t say, because surely, Ian knows that.)

Moaning, Ian untangles his fingers from Anthony’s sweater and reaches down, eager to remove both the sweater and the shirt underneath it. Anthony helps him, unable to wait any longer for the press of skin against skin, and when Ian’s hands drag against his torso as he lifts up Anthony’s shirt, Anthony feels twin lines of fire burning through his skin.

(Is this what Pam feels, when Ian’s with her?)

Dropping Anthony’s shirt and sweater to the floor, Ian’s hands find their way to the back of Anthony’s head and brings him down ever so slightly, his lips meeting Anthony’s without difficulty, the both of them used to this dance of theirs. Anthony feels the warmth blazing in his belly go further down, a raging inferno that can no longer be ignored.

Shaking hands reach down to unbutton Ian’s shirt. Anthony is more than just distracted, so it takes him a few tries before he finally gets the first one undone, then the second, then the third. At this point, Ian has abandoned Anthony’s lips in favor of his neck, tongue darting out to lick a stripe just below Anthony’s ear. He gives a shaky exhale, and Anthony moans, closing his eyes and tilting his head to the side just a little bit more, feeling goosebumps rise on his skin.

“Jesus,” Anthony breathes out, his voice shaky as he tries to make sense of the slew of sensations.

Ian smiles against his skin. “Blasphemy,” he murmurs, before pressing kisses down Anthony’s neck, towards his left shoulder.

Ignoring the electricity running up and down his spine, Anthony opens his eyes and continues unbuttoning Ian’s shirt. “You know I’m not—ah,” he breaks off when Ian bites down just hard enough to leave a mark on his shoulder, “religious.”

Ian hums in agreement against his skin. “Good,” he says, before pulling back and batting Anthony’s hands away as he unbuttons his own shirt quickly, unwilling to wait any longer.

“Good?” Anthony asks as he pushes Ian’s shirt off his shoulders.

“Yeah,” Ian says, hands already unbuckling Anthony’s belt. “Some people would say that what we’re doing is a sinful act.”

Anthony swallows past the lump in his throat and leans in, catching Ian’s bottom lip with his teeth before kissing him, tongue slipping in and exploring the nooks and crannies Anthony has been trying his best to forget. He feels Ian’s hands pause in their mission to unbutton his jeans, and he clutches him closer, heaving chests pressing together.

After a few moments, he pulls back, feeling his lungs burning as he struggles to take in air. “I’ve already accepted that I’m going to hell,” he says in a low voice, meeting Ian’s eyes.

Ian raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“In every religion,” Anthony confirms, and Ian laughs, surprised.

There’s something about Ian’s laugh, Anthony thinks, that makes it stand out against the rest, that makes Anthony want to seek it out in a sea of people, that makes Anthony want to hear it for the rest of his life.

(Is this what Pam hears every day?)

From there on, everything is a blur. Ian succeeds in unbuttoning and unzipping Anthony’s jeans and Anthony helps him out by toeing off his shoes before slipping out of his pants. It’s not long before Anthony undoes Ian’s pants as well, before they’re both moving towards Ian’s bed without any care for the clothes littering the floor.

“What do you want?” Anthony asks, falling back onto the bed with a small bounce. The bed squeaks under him.

Ian takes his time watching Anthony, eager to have the image burned in his mind. Anthony’s skin looks like burnished bronze under the dim lighting of the hotel room, and the way he’s positioned on the bed makes him look ethereal, something too beautiful to look upon, let alone touch. The shadows make him look untouchable, and his black Calvin Klein boxer-briefs leave nothing to the imagination, making him look like art, personified.

“You,” Ian finally says after a few moments, tongue darting out unconsciously to lick his lips.

Mouth dry, Anthony watches as Ian bends down and starts crawling up the bed until he can fully lie against Anthony and kiss his lips without difficulty. He returns the kiss eagerly, moans slipping out as he does so.

“You’re amazing,” Ian breathes out when he pulls away for more air. One hand comes up to affectionately bury itself in Anthony’s curls, and Anthony, upon feeling this, smiles.

“So are you,” Anthony says, because he needs Ian to know.

Nothing else will be like this. Nothing will compare.

Ian grins at him. “Cheesy.”

Anthony rolls his eyes. “You like it.”

Ian huffs out a laugh. “You’re right,” he says, even as he shakes his head fondly. And then he leans down and whispers it right against Anthony’s ear, his lips moving against the soft, sensitive skin, and Anthony shudders, his cock jumping against the tight, restraining fabric of his boxer-briefs.

“Fuck,” Anthony murmurs, eyes slipping closed. He places his hands on Ian’s shoulders, fingers holding on tight. He might end up leaving marks, but that’s okay. He doesn’t really care. They have a few more days. They’re fine.

A low chuckle, and then Ian says, “that’s the idea.”

Anthony opens his eyes and glares at Ian, though it is entirely without heat. He feels too much love for this man to ever feel genuinely angry with him, he thinks. “You’re too coherent,” he says, voice low.

“Make me incoherent, then,” Ian says with that gleam in his eyes, the one that tells Anthony that Ian’s pushing him because he has a plan.

(Is this what Ian is like with Pam?)

Using his hands, he pulls Ian down towards him and kisses him thoroughly, tasting alcohol and chocolate when his tongue slips back in and entwines with Ian’s own. Without warning, he removes his right hand from Ian’s shoulder and brings it down, down, down, and cups Ian’s erection through his boxer-briefs.

Groaning, Ian pulls away from the kiss and tightens his hold on Anthony’s hair. Anthony swallows back a moan and continues rubbing Ian’s erection as much as he can in the awkward position he has his hand in. Ian bows down until his head is pressed against Anthony’s right shoulder, wordless moans slipping out his mouth as Anthony continues pressing his fingers against the outline of Ian’s cock.

“Incoherent yet?” Anthony asks, taking his hand away from Ian’s cock.

“Fuck you,” Ian mumbles against his skin.

Anthony chuckles. “That was kind of on the to-do list, yeah. You need to keep u—oh,” he says, breaking off into a moan when Ian presses down and moves up, effectively rubbing his clothed cock against Anthony’s, making Anthony’s cock jump and spurt pre-come.

Leaning up and placing his hands on either side of Anthony’s head, Ian starts to buck into him in earnest, the bed squeaking as it moves with him, the headboard just slightly tapping against the too-thin wall. Anthony lets out a whimper as Ian brings one hand down to cup his erection, Ian’s pale fingers in stark contrast against Anthony’s dark boxer-briefs, made even darker by the wet stain of pre-come. Ian thumbs the head of his cock just so, and Anthony’s hips buck up, eager to follow the sensation.

“Fuck, please,” Anthony chokes out between strokes. He’s not too sure of what he’s asking for, but he knows that he wants it, and he wants it now. Skating his hands down Ian’s chest, Anthony turns his attention to Ian’s boxer-briefs, fingers hooking into the elastic waistband and bringing it downward, making Ian shudder as he struggles—and fails—to keep himself from moaning when the elastic waistband rubs against his erection just so.

“Yeah, no, I got you,” Ian says, voice breathy. He slides his boxer-briefs down his legs with little assistance from Anthony, and then proceeds to tug down Anthony’s boxer-briefs as well, looking up and straight into Anthony’s eyes as he does so. “I got you.”

Ian sinks down slowly, and Anthony has to stop himself from thrusting against the tight, wet heat of Ian’s mouth and choking him. His eyes screwed shut, Anthony blindly reaches for Ian’s hair, needing something to hold onto as wave after wave of sensation assault him. Ian hums around his shaft, and Anthony bucks up, unable to stop himself, making Ian groan low in his throat and continuing the cycle of pleasure Anthony finds himself the willing prisoner of.

Needing to catch his breath, he grips Ian’s hair and just barely stops himself from coming when he feels the deep vibrations of Ian’s groan. “St—stop,” he says, breathy with exertion.

Almost immediately, Ian stops, lifting himself up and looking at Anthony, a silent question in his eyes.

“No, no,” Anthony says, seeing the worry in Ian’s eyes. “I was, uh, about to come.”

Ian smiles, then slowly lowers himself back down onto the bed, making his intentions clear. Anthony raises his torso a little bit to follow Ian’s movements, head tilted to see just what Ian has in store for him, but he quickly gives up on looking when he feels the first tentative lick of Ian’s tongue on the head of his cock, his upper torso falling back onto the bed and his head making a home for itself on the white pillow.

“Ah, ah, shit,” Anthony says, hips bucking up uncontrollably as he feels Ian’s tongue form figure eights on the head of his cock, his tongue paying particular attention to the slit in unpredictable intervals. He feels Ian’s hand close around his shaft, warm and tight, but not warm or tight enough. His hand stays there, present and undemanding, Ian seemingly content to hold him as he pays attention to the head.

“Shit, shit, shit, ah Ian, please,” Anthony begs, breaking off when Ian brings him into his mouth once more, sinking until his nose is pressed against the wiry hair on Anthony’s groin. Anthony feels the tentative touch of Ian’s fingers against his balls, feather-light as they skate against the taut skin.

The air is hot with anticipation. Anthony feels the edge, feels himself about to cross the barrier between tension and pleasure, and he grips Ian’s hair even tighter as his moans get louder, as his thighs shake harder from the onslaught of pleasure.

Ian pulls away just enough to talk, his lips moving against the tip of Anthony’s cock. “That’s it,” he says, voice low and gravel-rough, “come for me.” He presses against Anthony’s perineum, unhesitating, and Anthony feels himself come apart, the almost-unbearable heat in his groin leaving him in a blinding climax as he spurts white all over his chest.

Distantly, he can hear someone sobbing out a moan, and then—

Silence. Or at least, as much silence as there can be in the city that never sleeps.

“Jesus,” Anthony manages to say, voice hoarse. “C’mere, Ian, I wanna see you.”

Ian obliges, crawling up until he’s face to face with Anthony, darkened eyes meeting blissfully relaxed ones. There’s a smile on his face, the one that lets Anthony know that Ian is proud of what he’s done to him, the one that speaks of possessiveness, the one that Ian doesn’t often let other people see.

This is Ian’s talent. He takes Anthony apart and puts him back together, somehow making him feel more whole after being broken into pieces. He is an artist, and Anthony is both his muse and his art, and God, how humbling it is to be the sole recipient of that kind of focus—of that kind of drive—from a man like Ian.

Though his limbs still feel like jelly, Anthony turns onto his side so he’s fully facing Ian. For a few moments, he can do nothing but look at him, his entire being doing its best to commit everything that it can about this moment to memory. He looks at Ian’s eyes and memorizes the dark rims surrounding his dilated pupils, looks at Ian’s lips and lets the image of kiss-stained lips burn into his eyelids. He breathes in and lets himself enjoy the smell of this—of them—of sex and sweat and the tiniest scent all hotels seem to have. He lets his hand reach out and touch Ian’s hair, fingers running through the soft strands, and he commits to memory the feel of it against his skin.

Ian smiles, relaxed and uncaring of the sheer need he must still be feeling, and Anthony commits that to memory too.

He’s supposed to know better, at this point.

He’s stopped caring, he thinks.

He reaches down and grips Ian tight, enjoying the way Ian’s eyes slip closed as he groans. Anthony is careful to keep his eyes open for as long as he can, because this is something he doesn’t know when he’ll get to see again.

Anthony leans into Ian and kisses him, tongue seeking out the warm heat of Ian’s mouth. Ian unhesitatingly parts his lips and lets Anthony in.

A twist of the wrist, and Ian is falling apart in his arms, a low groan spilling from his lips as he unconsciously thrusts against Anthony’s hand, thick ropes of white coating Anthony’s thighs and hand.

Uncaring of the mess between them, Anthony hugs Ian tight as he waits for him to come down from his blissful high, Ian’s tremors calming instead of worrying.

For a few moments, they’re both content to silently bask in the afterglow. There is nothing quite like this, after all, and even the sirens outside and the distant sounds of a lively gathering can’t destroy the world that Ian and Anthony have created here, in (Ian’s) bed in his (own) hotel room. Anthony, for his part, is content to lie there as he waits for Ian to catch his breath, his own hand lightly rubbing Ian’s back up and down in an effort to soothe him.

There will never be anything like this.

(Ian is: irreplaceable.)

Eventually, Anthony pulls away and leaves the bed for the adjoining bathroom. He finds a small towel and wets it with warm water, cleaning up the mess on his stomach and thighs before rinsing the towel again and bringing it into the bedroom with him.

He meets Ian’s eyes as he gently wipes him down.

Does she do this for you? Anthony doesn’t ask, because he doesn’t have the right to ask, because Ian will never answer him, because that way lies madness.

Dropping the towel on the floor, Anthony crawls into bed and lies (close) beside Ian. For a few moments, he can do nothing but lie there, still catching his breath as he looks at the plain white ceiling of Ian’s hotel room like it has all the answers to all the questions he’s ever had about the two of them.

This is their (love) story, told in hotel keycards and plane tickets from LAX to JFK.

Ian turns on his side and looks at Anthony, quiet even as he tries to catch his breath. Anthony looks up from where he’s settled snugly against Ian, silently lifting his torso up when Ian offers to put his arm around him.

Settling back down, Anthony turns on his side and looks at Ian once more, content to bask in the relative peace and quiet that surrounds them. Right here, it feels like they’re safe from anything else, feels like they’re far away from New York even as he hears sirens in the distance.

Anthony takes a few moments to observe Ian. This close, he can see the constellation of freckles on Ian’s face, can see the thick eyelashes resting against his cheeks as he closes his eyes, can see the fine hairs of his beard.

Anthony is never allowed to be this close, and so he settles in and proceeds to memorize as much of the moment as he can. This isn’t something he can have once they’re back in LA—Ian is an experience that Anthony won’t ever get enough of, but won’t be able to revisit.

“You know,” Ian says, voice low and hushed as he opens his eyes to look at Anthony, “you’re wrong.”

Anthony raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

Ian takes a deep breath. “I may deserve to be apologized to,” he says, leaning forward until his nose is practically touching Anthony’s, “but you don’t deserve to constantly do the apologizing.” With careful fingers, he touches Anthony’s bottom lip before lifting his chin to direct his attention back to Ian. “I don’t blame you, and there’s a reason for that. Just…trust that I know what I’m doing.”

“I do,” Anthony says, because it was never a matter of not trusting Ian. It has always been more a matter of not trusting himself.

Ian smiles, a small upward curve at the corners of his lips. “Good.”

Anthony closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy the peace and stillness of the moment. The sweat has mostly dried on his skin, making him feel colder than what is necessarily comfortable, and he burrows into Ian’s side further, chasing the warmth of his skin. He feels Ian’s arm tighten around him, and he sighs.

“I should go,” Anthony says, though he doesn’t move.

Ian hums, indicating that he heard him.

This is the way he responds. He never says no, because to do so would be to ask Anthony to do something Ian knows he’s not ready to do. He never agrees or says okay either, because Anthony knows it isn’t okay.

(This is the way Ian responds: while between a rock and a hard place, Ian stops and lets Anthony decide if he wants to bash his head against the rock or against the hard place, accepting Anthony’s decision—whatever it may be—without question or comment.)

Anthony bites his lip.

(This is the way Anthony responds: while having Ian between a rock and a hard place, Anthony decides to bash his head against both surfaces.)

“I don’t want to go,” he admits.

These words won’t do anything. Anthony says them anyway.

(Why?)

(Because.)

These words won’t do anything to help him, but he says them anyway, because this is the place for privacy, and this is the time for truthfulness. He is (desperately) in love with his best friend, and he doesn’t want to leave (his side).

He’s been so careful of what he’s been saying or doing lately that finally breathing out the words makes him feel relief.

He opens his eyes and looks at Ian, (un)surprised to see the pain in his own blue ones.

Anthony takes a deep breath and presses a kiss to Ian’s bare shoulder in apology, feeling the back of his eyes burn.

The words won’t help him, maybe, but they will hurt Ian.

Maybe he should have thought of that.

“So…stay,” Ian says, voice quiet.

(It is: a question plea statement.)

“I can’t.”

(It is: an answer apology assertion.)

Ian sighs. “I know.”

(It is: what it is.)

Anthony shivers as the cold air hits his skin. “I should leave.”

Ian takes a deep breath. “Yeah, you should.” He smiles a sad facsimile of a smile, lips curled up at the edges, but a wrong kind of curl somehow, like a part of a slinky that’s been bent out of shape.

Ian rolls away, and Anthony feels goosebumps erupt on his skin. Without Ian’s body heat, he starts to shiver more, and for a little bit, he actually thinks he can take it if it means that he’ll be able to stay here. Eventually, he remembers, and he sits up and scoots to the edge of the bed, already looking around for his own clothes.

It takes a little time for him to put his clothes on, but in the end, this is how it goes:

“I’m sorry,” Anthony says, watching Ian put a new pair of boxer-briefs on across the room.

Ian looks up and smiles at him, that same sad smile Anthony doesn’t like seeing on his face, and says, “I understand.”

When Anthony leaves, he closes the door softly behind him.

   Hey, Anthony types on his phone, you up?

Still feeling half-asleep, Anthony lets his eyes drift closed and his hand holding the phone fall back down on the bed. He feels sleep-warm as he tries to get even more comfortable under the blanket and comforter, and as he turns, he can feel himself drift off further even as he feels the sun’s rays on his skin.

Wait.

Sun rays?

Anthony’s eyes fly open, only to be met with the sight of an open window.

Fuck, he texts.

Ian’s reply is quick. Why? And yeah, I’m up.

Anthony forces himself to sit up, one hand coming up to rub the sleep out of his eyes. He’s careful to gather the comforter on his lap to cover the essentials—he’s not trying to give anyone a free show. He blinks at his phone, thinking simultaneously about what to reply and what to wear.

I left my curtains open. And I’m naked under the covers.

Sucks, man.

Anthony raises his eyebrows, a small smile forming on his face. What, no offer to help?

Ian’s answer is immediate. Nah, you’re on your own.

Laughing, Anthony shakes his head. Asshole.

Thanks.

Sighing, Anthony clicks on the camera app and proceeds to take a short video for the vlog he’s forming in his head. When that’s done, he very gingerly shifts and puts his feet on the carpeted ground, careful to bring the blanket with him. A lot more awake now, he looks out the window to see if anyone’s looking into his room.

“Jesus,” he mutters, standing up and holding the blanket around his waist with one hand, making sure to cover not only his front, but also the back. He shuffles to the window and slowly shuts the curtains, blocking the light and immersing the room in darkness.

With the inside of his room completely blocked off to any onlookers outside, Anthony feels comfortable enough to walk back to the bed and place the comforter and blanket there. He then pads over, fully naked, to the bathroom, fingers absent-mindedly scratching his head as he tries to figure out if he should shave.

A shower and shave later, Anthony finds himself in front of the mirror with his phone. He feels silly doing this—it reminds him too much of Kalel back when she would vlog about her outfits and clothing hauls—but he does it anyway, telling himself that he needs material for his vlog. The next few days wouldn’t be included in the vlog, he thinks, because those will be just for him and Ian, and no one else, not even Pam or Miel.

When he’s finished vlogging, he nods to himself in the mirror and makes sure to grab his wallet and hotel card key. With a slight twist of the wrist, he opens the door, locking it behind him when he steps outside.

It takes him only a few moments to find himself in front of Ian’s door, rapping his knuckles against the door in a steady rhythm.

Ian opens the door, hair still a little wet even though he’s fully dressed, and Anthony finds himself overcome with the desire to go inside and never leave. He feels his heart thud heavily in his chest, feels his palms sweat with anxiety or excitement, he doesn’t quite know, and this…this isn’t normal. He isn’t supposed to feel like a teenage boy about to go with his boyfriend to prom. He and Ian are grown men, and grown men don’t feel like this, do they?

Do they?

Anthony has never felt like this with anyone else. Never did he once open the door to the sight of Miel and have his first thought be, oh God, I’m in love with you. Never did he once open the door to the sight of Miel and be bombarded with memories of when they first met.

And yet.

Ian opens the door and Anthony feels himself falling further in love, feels himself want to walk into his room and accept everything he’s been silently offering all these years. Ian opens the door, and Anthony is standing in the carpeted hallway, suddenly aware of all the different times this has happened before, a kind of déjà vu that hurts more than Anthony expected it to.

How many different times has this happened before? Anthony has lost count of all the times he stood in nondescript hallways in various hotels, waiting for Ian to open his own door and welcome Anthony in.

It would be so, so easy, he imagines. It would be so, so easy to just give in and walk inside, to just accept everything that Ian’s been silently offering all these years without thinking about the repercussions or consequences.

But that’s not exactly true, is it? He thinks about everything, always mindful of what might be seen. He knows every consequence and repercussion, knows every lie to say and every proof to fabricate, anything to save…what? His image? Himself? Ian?

Miel?

“Are you okay?”

(no.)

Anthony focuses back on Ian and smiles, the brittle edges of his smile showing more of what he actually feels than what he intended to show. “I’m fine.”

Ian gives him a knowing look, but doesn’t comment further. “Okay,” he says, accepting Anthony’s answer, before stepping outside and locking the door behind him, one hand still grasping his wallet and key. “So.” He looks at Anthony, worry present in the furrow of his eyebrows and in the narrowing of his eyes, and stops a few steps away from Anthony, looking like there’s nothing else he would want than to be allowed to touch him and console him (in public).

Anthony meets Ian’s worried look with a determined expression. Ian has always been a worrier—worried about his mom and dad and their failing health, worried about his sister and her relationships, worried about his nephew and his studies, worried about his friends and their lives, worried about Anthony and his—

—well.

The thing is that Ian has always been worried about the people he loves, and though it is an honor to be loved by him, sometimes Anthony wishes that he doesn’t worry as much. It makes him feel like he’s a goldfish in a fish tank, always watched and observed. And Ian has always been an observer.

“I’m fine,” Anthony repeats, this time with a steadier voice as he tries to convince Ian that he’s fine. It won’t work, of course, because at this point, Ian has spent more of his life knowing Anthony than not, but Anthony does it anyway. The point here is not to convince Ian that Anthony’s just fine; the point here is to convince Ian that Anthony’s fine enough to go through with their plans for the day, both the professional and the personal.

Ian still has that look on his face, unbelieving and worried at the same time, and Anthony finds himself wanting to hug him tight and place his head in that space where his nose will be in that junction between Ian’s neck and shoulder. He wants to breathe him in and fill every space inside of him with Ian until he doesn’t feel empty anymore.

He wants everything with this man. He wants a private lover and a public significant other, wants both the inside of the room and everything that lies outside of it.

“Okay,” Ian says, though he clearly doesn’t believe him. He shakes his head a little bit, as if to clear the thoughts from his head, before starting to walk down the hallway, slowing down until Anthony’s walking beside him. “So. Plans for the day?”

Anthony exhales in relief, grateful for the change in topic. “We have that interview with Wired, the Build Series,” he says, counting off the interviews with his fingers, “and there’s that, uh, food thing?”

Ian raises his eyebrow, amused. “Bon apetit?”

“Yeah, that one,” Anthony says as he stops in front of the elevator and presses the button with a downwards arrow. He watches the button light up in red light before turning back to Ian. “We have to go to Youtube Space too.”

“Oh yeah,” Ian says, prolonging the “yeah” in realization. “We’re doing breakfast first, right? I didn’t order room service.”

Anthony nods. “Yeah, sure. I didn’t order room service either. We’ll do lunch after we do Bon Apetit and Wired. After the Build Series interview and Youtube Space, we should be free.”

“Sounds good,” Ian says, nodding.

The elevator doors open with a quiet ding, and Ian and Anthony both step into the elevator in silence. The inside of the elevator is all stainless steel and chrome, the inside of the elevator doors showing their reflection as they close. Anthony watches Ian press the button for the ground floor and notices the fact that they’re alone here.

Anthony closes his eyes and feels himself slip into an old, worn fantasy the way another person would slip under a soft, hand-made quilt. The image of him just pushing Ian against the wall of the elevator and kissing him within an inch of his life splashes against the inside of his eyelids, and somewhere in the back of his head, he hears the sound of Ian’s moan, something hardwired into his brain that he’s not likely to forget.

The elevator dings, and Anthony’s eyes snap open, immediately seeking the floor number at the top of the doors.

Level three. Not ground.

Anthony moves to the corner of the elevator with Ian as an entire family walks into the elevator complete with an infant in a stroller and an elderly grandmother with a gummy smile and a foldable aluminum walker. A guy that Anthony assumes to be the dad turns to them with a friendly smile and a “sorry, folks.”

This crowded, no one’s paying attention to them. Anthony looks at the security camera in the other corner and realizes that because of the tall dad, he and Ian would be barely seen.

Here’s his chance, he thinks as he watches the mom scold her children for shouting in the elevator. With everything so crazy, here’s his little moment of solitude, a pocket of calm in a sea of activity.

Not allowing himself to hesitate, Anthony reaches for Ian’s hand and holds it, fingers finding the spaces between Ian’s own and squeezing.

Beside him, Ian inhales deeply before squeezing back, his hand warm and (un)surprisingly a little rough in some parts. That would be from constantly holding a pen, Anthony thinks as he looks at the number at the top of the elevator doors change. His hands are that way because of the fact that back when it was just the two of them handling Smosh, Ian did most of the writing, most of which he’d done by hand.

Ian used to write a lot on his hand back then too, Anthony recalls. Ian doesn’t have the best memory, so to avoid forgetting important memos, he would write in either blue or black ink on his left palm.

In front of them, the family doesn’t pay them any attention. The kids, thank God, don’t seem to know who they are.

Anthony lets himself revel in the experience of finally getting to hold Ian’s hand in a semi-public place. There’s something about it that’s different. Maybe it’s because it feels like an informal declaration, or maybe it’s because it feels like another step out the door of the space in Anthony’s head that’s labelled specifically just for him and Miel.

(Intimacy is such a funny thing.)

Anthony sighs when the elevator dings once more, ringing in the hollow space. The elevator doors open, and the family slowly exits.

Anthony lets go of Ian’s hand and walks out, refusing to let himself look back and see Ian’s reaction. He curls his hand into a fist before opening it wide once more, fingers splayed out as he feels the ghost of Ian’s touch, the memory of Ian’s fingers entwined with his own.

(It’s funny how simply holding Ian’s hand affects him in a way that’s so vastly different from making love with him in an anonymous room in a hotel thousands of miles away from where they live.)

Aren’t things supposed to be easier than this?

   There’s a saying somewhere about how some things are supposed to fall apart first before they can fit back together.

Anthony’s not much of a love quotes kind of person, but sitting in a small French-Italian café with too much lighting and not enough space, he figures out what he’s been slowly putting together in his mind.

He shifts, and his knee bumps against Ian’s under the dark, wooden table. Ian looks up from his blueberry pancakes with a silent question present in his furrowed eyebrows, his mouth slightly downturned in worry, and the question in his eyes slowly turning into concern when he realizes that Anthony hasn’t touched his food.

Stop being concerned about me, Anthony thinks as he averts his gaze to look out the window instead of meeting Ian’s eyes. Stop caring about me. I’m not worth it.

I’m going to break your heart.

Anthony inhales sharply at the thought and lets himself imagine what that would be like. Ian would be the consummate professional. He would internalize his emotions the way he internalizes everything else, would make sure that the work gets done despite the situation. He would be calm, cool, and collected, Anthony thinks, but that would just be that. They wouldn’t hang out anymore, and though they wouldn’t risk letting the crew even begin to suspect that something’s different between the two of them, they wouldn’t be able to be near each other if it isn’t absolutely necessary.

(An eye for an eye, right? Break Ian’s heart and let Ian break his own. Aren’t relationships supposed to be a two-way street?)

Anthony looks at Ian, and his heart thuds painfully in his chest.

(This isn’t a relationship.)

“Hey,” Ian says when he sees Anthony finally looking at him. It’s hushed and meant to be private, a reminder that can barely be heard above the late-morning hustle and bustle of the café.

“Yeah?” Anthony replies, finally starting to cut into his own stack of pancakes for lack of anything better to do. He looks down and watches his own hand make a clean diagonal cut with a stainless-steel knife, feeling a little bit like an outsider looking in, like someone other than him is controlling his body and there is nothing for him to do to stop it.

“Look at me,” Ian says, and if it sounds like a plea, that’s because it is.

Anthony looks up. “What?” he says, his tone sharper than what he intended it to be. Immediately, he feels ashamed for snapping at Ian, but before he can apologize, he looks at him with a keener eye and realizes that the sharp tone has slid off his back like water down a turtle’s shell.

Ian has always been good at knowing when Anthony doesn’t mean something, such as this anger that’s just as easily gone as it appeared.

“Listen,” Ian says, voice hushed as he puts his hand palm up on the table, in that little space between their plates, “this is supposed to be our time, right?”

Our time. A hard and heavy lump shoots up Anthony’s throat and gets stuck there. It’s hard to ignore, and harder still to swallow past. “Yeah,” he eventually chokes out.

“So stop overthinking.” Ian’s voice is simple and to-the-point. He smiles ruefully, and immediately Anthony knows that under the table, Ian’s knee is bouncing up and down the way it usually does when he’s restless or anxious. “I know that’s hard to ask from you, but I just.” He takes a deep breath. “I can’t keep you from thinking what you want to think or, well, doing what you want to do for that matter, but I just…fuck.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Anthony says, shaking his head and putting his hand on the table as well, grasping Ian’s hand without any concern for who might see them. “Don’t be sorry.”

It’s funny, Anthony thinks, how sometimes it’s the writers who run out of words.

(It’s funny, Anthony thinks, how sometimes it’s the comedians who laugh at times like these.)

The thing is, Anthony knows what Ian’s trying to say. He says stop overthinking and means stop thinking about her, like he still hasn’t figured out that Anthony’s entire world revolves around him, that he’s in Anthony’s thoughts night and day. Anthony can’t blame him for thinking like this, though, because Ian’s a smart man, and he’s figured out that Anthony still hasn’t figured out everything yet.

And isn’t that what he’s supposed to have done by now? Figuring things out shouldn’t be this hard.

(What does he want?)

Ian smiles from across the table, his blue eyes somehow brightening in delight, and Anthony feels his head thud painfully in his chest.

(Him. Anthony wants him.)

   Wired is an easy interview. Every time Anthony watches Ian explain to someone why his phone is in a Ziploc bag, he has to stop himself from laughing out loud. It’s such a ridiculous situation that Anthony finds it hard to keep himself from grinning. Ian’s normally very careful with his things, and so to have this happen to him feels unreal.

Bon Apetit is easy too. Doing press tours usually gets boring pretty quick because of the repetitive and unimaginative questions, but today seems to be different. It’s gimmick after gimmick, and soon enough, Anthony realizes that he and Ian don’t have to entertain each other during interviews anymore the way they used to before to avoid falling asleep.

Lunch is easy and less angst-ridden than breakfast was. Chatting easily with the rest of the press tour crew in a small Mediterranean restaurant takes so much of Anthony’s focus that he doesn’t get the chance to think about his and Ian’s relationship as much as he thought he would. It doesn’t matter anyway—Ian is seated far from him, nestled between their press tour manager and an assistant sent by Google to accompany them to Youtube Space later in the afternoon.

It’s hard to find time alone. When they’re not with the crew, they’re in front of the cameras, filming interviews with various people. Anthony finds that he’s restless, eager to get everything finished so he and Ian can finally be away from prying eyes.

There’s only so much Anthony can do to try to ignore the phantom itch in his fingers.

“You know,” Ian says when they’re (finally) done for the day, opening the glass door and exiting the Youtube Space building beside Anthony, “today was a lot more hectic than I thought. I thought we would be free to do anything we wanted two hours ago.”

Anthony shrugs, one hand absently zipping up his jacket the rest of the way. “We need better work on our schedules, I guess,” he says, already looking for a taxi. He and Ian had waved away the rest of the press tour crew, choosing to just head to their hotel on their own time in a taxi.

Ian hums. “So…what are we doing tonight?”

Anthony looks at Ian, carefully gauging his expression. “I don’t know,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets. This time, he’s going to let Ian make the decisions. “What do you want to do?”

Ian shrugs, looking up at the sky. “I was hoping we could maybe hang out,” he admits, voice low as if the admission is shameful, “but you know, it’s up to you.”

Anthony looks at him. Just once he would like Ian to stop thinking about Anthony and start thinking about himself.

“What do you want?” Anthony asks, curious, because he’s done with taking liberties and making all the decisions.

(This is the new him, remember?)

Ian looks at him. He’s searching for something, Anthony knows, because his eyes are roaming over his face with a purpose. He must find it, whatever it is, because he smiles at Anthony and admits, “I don’t really know. I just know I want to spend time with you.”

Anthony sucks in a deep breath. Around them, people continue walking to their destinations, uncaring of the two of them, or the fact that they’re just there, stationary on the sidewalk. The entire world keeps on moving, and yet Anthony doesn’t feel like he’s moving with everyone else. He feels half a step out of sync with everyone else, and hearing Ian say those words makes him feel like he’s stumbling, like he’s falling further out of step with everyone else.

The amazing thing is this, though: Anthony exhales, and he feels all right again, like stumbling was the only thing he needed all along to fall into step with everyone else again.

Sure, it’s a cheesy thought, but it matches Ian’s cheesy line.

“Okay,” he responds, even though it’s not okay, because Ian isn’t supposed to affect him like this. Anthony didn’t sign up for feeling like drowning whenever he’s away from Ian and feeling like falling whenever he is.

(What did he sign up for?)

Anthony flags down a taxi and gets in.

(He doesn’t know.)

Their taxi ride is a surprisingly short one. The driver weaves in an out of traffic in a way that only an experienced New Yorker would know how to do, and within a few minutes, Anthony’s handing money to the driver and stepping out of the taxi into the cold New York afternoon.

For a few moments, Anthony can’t do anything but merely look at the hotel he and Ian are staying at. He only has a few days here left. He might as well make the most of them, right?

“I’m going to pack up my suitcase,” Anthony mumbles as he and Ian step into the lobby. “I’ll be in your room soon.”

Ian looks at him, eyes discerning. “Okay,” he replies, but Anthony hears the (unspoken) worry and the questions that Ian didn’t breathe into life.

They step into the elevator in silence. Elevator music, soft and unobtrusive, plays in the background, something Anthony didn’t even notice earlier that morning, busy as he was focusing on other (more important) things, such as the rowdy family they rode with and the feeling of Ian’s hand in his.

Anthony closes his eyes and inhales deeply. If he thinks hard enough, he imagines he can feel Ian’s hand against his up to the very minute detail, the contrast between his rough palm and his soft fingers, the difference between the warmth of his touch and the coldness of his fingertips.

Here, with no one else in the elevator but the two of them, Anthony doesn’t dare reach for his hand, no matter the fact that he (clearly) wants to. Too many people might be watching their every move. It’s just not safe.

(When did he start to value safety over happiness?)

Opening his eyes, Anthony bites his lip and directs his attention to the changing floor numbers at the top of the elevator doors instead of trying to subtly look at Ian through the corners of his eyes. Anthony finds himself impatient to get out of the stifling silence of the elevator, and weird doesn’t even begin to explain it, because—

—didn’t he want to be here?

Didn’t he spend weeks counting down the days until he and Ian were supposed to fly to New York from LA? Didn’t he spend hours already planning when he’ll (inevitably) stay in Ian’s hotel room? Didn’t he spend (too much and yet not enough) time covering up his tracks and being careful by vlogging in his own room so he can have evidence against a relationship (with Ian) that no one has accused him of having?

Doesn’t he want this?

The elevator doors open with a low whoosh, and Anthony steps outside without looking back at Ian. He forces himself to move, step by step, until he’s right in front of his hotel room and taking his room keycard out of his pocket with slightly shaking hands.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters under his breath when the light remains red. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and releases it in a shaky exhale.

He knows what this is, of course. He knows all too well the feeling of a heart beating (too) loud and (too) hard.

This is guilt.

He (finally) gets the door open on the sixth try. He walks in and quickly closes the door behind him, his hands shaking less once he’s alone in the relative privacy of his hotel room.

“Get a fucking grip,” he says, though he doesn’t quite move away from the door. Instead, he leans back against it and closes his eyes.

What is he doing? Hurting Miel and Ian at the same time just because he can’t decide what he wants more—this isn’t what he wanted.

Anthony sighs.

Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Him, knowing what he wants but unwilling to choose between one or the other?

(Sacrifice safety and familiarity with Miel for passion and adventure with Ian? Or is it the other way around?)

He swallows past the lump in his throat and pushes himself off the door, forcing himself to move to the bathroom and start taking his things, his hands absently grabbing his toothbrush and razor from the sink as his mind struggles to wade through all the things that he knows about his current situation (with Ian).

One hand grabs his shoes by the door and he thinks about the way Miel looks in the morning, when she’s sleepily kissing him goodbye on the lips right before he leaves to run through the streets of downtown LA. Another hand grabs a plastic bag from the table to put his shoes in and he thinks about the way Ian looks in the morning, smiling at him in that trusting way when Anthony leans over the (hotel) bed and kisses him on the forehead.

He grabs his laptop from the table, and he thinks about going home to Miel and her dog, about eating dinner with her as he tells her all about his day and she tells him all about hers. He puts his laptop in his backpack, and he thinks about (possibly) going home to Ian and his dog, about eating dinner with him as they exchange jokes and business commentaries.

Anthony thinks about loving her (him) passionately and without limitations, thinks about the way her (his) legs intertwine with his under the (hotel) sheets, thinks about just how seeing her (him) brightens his entire day. He thinks about her (him) in his life and how much better his life has become because of her (him), thinks about the way his heart seems to skip a beat whenever he sees her (him), thinks about the way he loves her (him) so much that it seems like love cannot even begin to describe what he feels, this gaping space that could be filled with so much more if he only let it.

(In the human body, there are potential spaces, cavities that can exist between two bodily structures that are normally pressed together.)

This is what he’s done and what he continues to do: he finds the similarities between them and focuses on them instead of on the differences because then maybe he can ignore the fact that he’s settling for something (someone) else when he doesn’t really have to.

So why settle for something (less) else?

(punishment?)

(no.)

It’s fear, he decides. Mask fear as selflessness enough times—reason to himself that this arrangement will be better for him and Ian in the long run enough times—and maybe he’ll eventually start to believe the lies he’s been telling himself all this time.

(Lie to himself the way he lies to Miel whenever he talks about trips with Ian away from LA, right? Maybe then he’ll start to believe himself the way Miel does, too.)

He looks at the haphazard pile of his belongings in his suitcase and sighs.

Thing is, there isn’t even any contest. There hasn’t been one since he started justifying this new-old relationship with Ian.

(Unbidden, the memory of Ian’s hand in his springs to mind, the feel of his fingers intertwined with Anthony’s branded into him so completely, it would be impossible to forget it.)

With high risk comes high reward, right?

Question is: how much is he willing to risk?

(Not enough, he thinks as he looks at the small box sitting in his suitcase, beneath a pair of jeans and wrinkled polo.)

Anthony takes out his phone.

He vlogs.

   They’re both lying naked in Ian’s bed, Anthony nestled against Ian. Outside, New York City is bustling with activity. Inside, the soft hum of the hotel air conditioning accompanies Ian and Anthony’s breathing.

It’s as close to a feeling of peace Anthony will ever get.

Ian shifts a little, and Anthony moves to let him get settled before lying close beside him again. This close, he wishes he can just take out his phone and start recording this the way he records everything else. He needs the reminder, he thinks, that this really did happen. That this isn’t a figment of his imagination.

“We’re going to need to get dinner soon,” Ian idly comments, one hand absently coming up to play with the curls of Anthony’s hair.

“Do we really need to?” Anthony asks, just this side of whining.

Ian chuckles, a low, affectionate sound. “Food is a necessity, yes.”

Anthony smiles. He closes his eyes and turns on his side so that his body is facing Ian’s. He feels Ian’s arms tighten around him, and his smile grows just that little bit more.

“You’re making me not want to leave this bed,” Ian says, voice soft.

Anthony opens his eyes, laughing. “I hope I’ve been making you not want to leave this bed since I got in this room.”

“Well,” Ian says, pausing to think about his next words, “for a moment there, I did want to leave the bed to pin you against the door. Does that count?”

Anthony thinks about Ian pinning him against the solid wooden door with his fingers wrapped around Anthony’s wrists, and he blushes. “Yes,” he lies.

Ian shakes his head in amusement, or at least tries to with his head still comfortably positioned on one of the soft, white pillows. “Come on,” he says, starting to pull away. “Get up. Let’s do something.”

Anthony groans as he feels Ian retract his arm from underneath him. “What is ‘something’ in this scenario?” he asks, enjoying the view of a naked Ian walking to the window and peeking between the curtains to look at the view they have of the busy New York streets. Ian turns around, and Anthony says, “am I the ‘something’?”

Ian snorts. “Cheesy,” he says, though he walks back to the bed and leans over Anthony. Anthony leans toward him and kisses him softly, familiar lips moving against his own in the way only the two of them know—brief and without tongue and so, so good.

“It worked, didn’t it?” Anthony says, a little breathily, when they both pull away. “You don’t fix what’s not broken.”

Ian smiles, and Anthony watches, as if in slow motion, the way his eyes crinkle at the sides, the way his lips curve up at the edges, the way he looks ready to burst out an amused chuckle in the moment.

This is a memory he would like to keep forever.

“You’re right,” Ian says, before holding Anthony’s hand and tugging him up just enough that Anthony is forced to sit up. “However, I am starving, and we need to get up some time.”

Anthony sighs.

“If you get up,” Ian says, smiling that cheeky, convincing smile of his, “we’ll do something special.”

Anthony raises an eyebrow in question, not moving from his spot on the bed.

“We’ll do something you want to do—”

“—so we’ll stay in bed?”

“—that is not staying in bed,” Ian finished.

Anthony thinks about it. Truth be told, it’s hard to figure out what else he wants to do with Ian that doesn’t involve both of them naked and, preferably, a bed. It’s one of the few things that they can only do here, away from LA and all the craziness it entails. And right now, Anthony wants to take advantage of this entire thing while he can.

They only have a few days left. He’s going to make every single moment count.

“I want a dance.”

Ian’s eyebrows furrow. “A dance?”

It’s not often that Anthony can catch Ian off guard, so he revels in the feeling for a few moments before nodding.

“All right,” Ian says as he shrugs in the way that perfectly conveys the expression of fuck it. “Come on, we’re dancing.”

Smiling, Anthony graciously admits defeat and finally puts his feet on the ground. He stands up from the bed, uncaring of the fact that he’s buck naked. “I mean serious dancing, okay? Not dancing to, like, club music, or whatever.”

“Serious dancing?” Ian says, grinning as he taps his phone. Almost immediately, an instrumental music begins to play on the tinny speakers of his phone, familiar and yet not quite.

“Mozart?” Anthony guesses, because he’s not the best at this sort of thing, and really, the only two composers he can name are Mozart and Beethoven. And he can’t even remember Beethoven’s entire name.

“Nah,” Ian says, stepping closer to Anthony. “Tchaikovsky.”

Anthony shakes his head, amused. “I am not dancing to this with you,” his voice turning into a whisper when Ian steps even closer to him, until their toes are touching and there is only a few inches between their lips.

“Why not?” Ian whispers back.

“Because this is ballet music.”

Ian grins. “You said you wanted serious music.” He pauses, looking over his shoulder to see his phone on the nightstand. “This is fancy, too. Oh, and it’s Nutcracker, by the way.”

“Ah,” Anthony says, nodding. “I couldn’t figure out the name.”

Ian holds out his hand. “Come on, let’s dance.”

Anthony raises an eyebrow. “To this?”

“I have Youtube on autoplay,” Ian says by way of explanation. His hand is still outstretched, patiently waiting for Anthony to grasp it with his own. “Maybe Beethoven will play after this. Or Mozart.”

“Knowing what you watch, there’s a big chance that the next video might end up being a GTS episode,” Anthony says, shaking his head, but he takes Ian’s hand anyway and steps closer to him. He smiles and closes his eyes, content.

“That’s even fancier,” Ian says, his voice soft, like he doesn’t want to break whatever spell they’re in. “We’ll just have to see, I guess.”

Anthony opens his eyes. “You’re wild,” he says dryly.

“I like to live dangerously,” Ian whispers back, and Anthony throws his head back in laughter.

Eventually, the music ends, and something more soothing comes on. At this point, Anthony removes his hand from Ian’s grasp and puts his arms on Ian’s shoulders, leaning forward to place his forehead against Ian’s. His eyes closed, Anthony sways in place, moving when and where he instinctively wants to.

Here, it’s just the two of them. Their breathing is soft, and their feet are steady as they try to sway to the tempo of the piano piece playing on Ian’s phone. Ian’s hands are just barely on Anthony’s waist, reverent, as if Ian can’t quite believe that his hands are allowed to be there, as if Anthony is something precious to protect.

Anthony opens his eyes to see Ian looking at him intently, eyes roaming over his face like he’s looking for something important.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Ian says, meeting his eyes. “I’m just…I want to remember this.”

It’s as close to an admission that this isn’t enough for Ian as Anthony will ever get.

(why cheat?)

Anthony looks at Ian’s lips, red and plump and kiss-sore, and he leans in, closing his eyes the moment their lips meet. This kiss is passionate, but not hurried—a kiss shared by two lovers who are kissing for the sake of it.

Anthony pulls away from the kiss and doesn’t stop swaying with Ian to the rhythm of the music. His feet make tiny steps, and he watches as Ian follows his lead, watches as Ian tilts his head until he has his head on Anthony’s shoulder.

(because.)

They’re not even dancing anymore. The most they’re doing is swaying in place while they have each other in their arms in the middle of Ian’s hotel room in New York City. It feels magical, almost, feels like something Anthony hasn’t felt before.

(he makes me feel alive.)

The music comes to an end, and suddenly, the sounds of New York come rushing back to him. He hears the honking of cars in the distance, hears sirens, hears the crackle of thunder as the clouds threaten to bring about rain.

Anthony opens his eyes.

This close, Anthony thinks, Ian’s eyes are so, so blue.

“Hey, Anthony?” Ian’s heart is almost heartbreakingly soft, like he’s asking for something he’s not sure Anthony will give him.

“Yeah?” Anthony answers, equally soft.

Ian gives him a small smile, almost self-deprecating in the way it is presented. “I love you.”

He says it simply, says it in the way he does everything else. It’s a statement that doesn’t need a response, the way Ian meant it to be.

(This is how Ian loves him: he keeps everything open-ended, never forcing Anthony to give him an answer, never pleading, always understanding.)

Anthony, feeling that burning feeling in the back of his eyes, leans forward and presses his head against the side of Ian’s neck. He closes his eyes as he feels Ian start to move them once more, one tiny step to the side followed by another tiny step to the other side.

He presses his answer to the pale skin on Ian’s neck, just a few a couple of inches away from an angry red hickey. “I love you too,” he confesses, lips brushing over sensitive skin, quiet and yet loud enough in this pocket of space and time that they have managed to pause for just a few moments and have all to themselves.

Anthony feels Ian suck in a sharp breath, and he settles in closer. “I love you,” he says, letting his words leave his mouth and immediately sink into Ian’s skin until Anthony can imagine the words branding themselves onto Ian’s neck, “I love you.”

(There’s a saying, somewhere.)

Ian stops swaying and leans back, forcing Anthony to remove his head from where it is comfortable nestled on Ian’s shoulder.

Anthony opens his eyes.

(It’s a Catholic thing, mostly.)

Ian smiles at him, genuine and happy, like he got something he wasn’t even hoping to get, and Anthony feels his heart thud painfully in his chest.

Ian leans in and presses a soft kiss against Anthony’s lips.

(It’s about hating wrongful deeds, but being compassionate to those who have done them.)

Anthony lets out a happy sigh and pulls Ian in closer, kissing him back with all he’s got.

He feels Ian’s hands let go of his waist to slowly make their way up his naked back.

(Anthony thinks he might have overdone it.)

“Bed?” Anthony asks in between gasps of breath once they both finally pull away.

“Bed,” Ian answers.

(Truth is, he’s never been a good Catholic.)

Ian walks Anthony over to the bed and follows Anthony as he falls down, one hand coming up to brace himself against the mattress.

Ian presses his mouth against the side of Anthony’s neck.

(He thinks he might have overdone it, at any case.)

“Jesus,” Anthony breathes out, eyes shut tight as he feels electricity run down his spine and settle in his groin.

He feels Ian grin against his skin.

(But still.)

Anthony opens his eyes as Ian pulls away and leans over him, the artificial lighting of the hotel room somehow bathing him in light like a halo, making his hair seem more golden than it really is.

“I love you,” Anthony says.

(Hate the sin and love the sinner, right?)

   Central Park at six in the morning feels relaxed in the way that nothing else about New York feels quite like it. Starbucks cups in hand—a cup of hot chocolate with almond milk for him and a caramel latte for Ian—they sit down on one of the benches and quietly sip at their drinks.

They’ve done this before. While on the press tour for their first movie, they had gone here too, had taken a few moments out of their busy schedule to just sit and think, to enjoy the (relative) stillness this place can offer.

No place is perfect. Anthony fully expects some fans to make their way here and ask for pictures with him and Ian.

“We only have a few days left,” Ian says, quiet.

Anthony looks up from the ground. It’s the first time Ian has addressed that issue since they got here. “I know,” he says, for lack of anything else to say.

For a few moments, they’re both silent. Anthony watches as various joggers pass them by, absently sipping his hot chocolate. New York weather at this time of year is indecisive, and today it is even more so. While the day promised them warm sun and an okay weather, they stepped out of the hotel to biting winds and a weather that’s threatening snow.

“What do you want to do with the rest of our time here?” Ian asks, putting his drink beside him and rubbing his palms together.

(Not: what do you want to do when we go back to LA?)

Anthony shakes his head.

Another sip of the hot chocolate.

“I don’t know.”

There are limits to what they can talk about here. Even while in a (mostly) quiet space, there’s always the possibility that someone’s watching, or that someone’s approaching. By now, making sure their tracks are covered has become second-nature to both of them.

Here they are, older and more experienced and maybe, just maybe, a little more jaded. Not more mature, no, but jaded, the way people who hope for the best and are constantly disappointed tend to be.

The problem with him is he’s never learned.

He’s supposed to have figured things out by now. To be fair, there’s a lot of things he’s supposed to have figured out by now, but this, especially, is at the top of the list.

(Some days, it’s the entire list.)

Thing is, they’ve fallen into a familiar pattern, an infinite loop filled with things they shouldn’t be doing. Goodbye has stopped being final and started being temporary. Love has stopped being a feeling and started being a label. Betrayal has stopped being filthy and started being pure.

Truth is, Anthony’s been feeling like this for a while, like he’s in front of the camera filming another Smosh video with Ian even when he’s not. Try and try again, right? Do a take, do another take, do as many takes as you need until you get the shot you want.

(Kiss Ian. Kiss Ian again. Kiss Ian again and again until you feel like you’ve managed to tell him through actions what you really feel.)

Lather, rinse, repeat.

“Let’s do something new.” Ian bites his lip. “Let’s do something interesting.”

Anthony raises his eyebrows. “Ideas?”

“Touristy shit,” Ian says, with the determination of a man walking to his death sentence.

Anthony laughs, a surprised burst of sound. “You don’t have to sound so pained about it, man.”

Ian shrugs. It’s his go-to reaction for everything, these days. “Technically, I don’t have to do anything.”

Anthony snorts. He shakes his head and grabs his drink. “Don’t get philosophical on me.”

“Okay, how about this?” Ian asks, turning in his seat to look at Anthony. “Breakfast, then touristy shit. We can even go to the Empire State Building.”

“Why the Empire State Building?”

“I don’t know,” Ian says, voice quiet. “I’ve never been there. Figured now is as good a time as any.”

Anthony smiles. Ian never did like going to touristy places. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to go there.”

“I know,” Ian says, meeting Anthony’s gaze. “And yet I’m asking.”

It feels like a privilege, somehow.

Maybe it is.

   Breakfast goes like this:

A table near the back of the small café they found near Central Park, an order of blueberry pancakes for Anthony and an order of eggs and bacon for Ian, quiet conversations lost in the din of other people’s conversations.

Breakfast is the two of them sitting on the same side of a small, secluded booth, knees touching under the table and their fingers intertwined while they wait for their meals. Breakfast is soft, secretive smiles shared over large plates of freshly-cooked food, their casual conversations ranging in topics from their press tour to the weirdest Youtube video they’ve seen lately.

The Empire State Building trip goes like this:

Overpriced tickets bought from a random person on the sidewalk, heading into the lobby and immediately avoiding all the tourists trying to get their pictures taken in front of the Empire State Building replica, walking into the elevator with a crowd of people and ignoring the desire to hold each other’s hand while no one is watching.

The Empire State Building trip is getting to the top deck and watching Ian take multiple pictures of the New York skyline, is giving in and asking a stranger to take a picture of the two of them, is not bothering to resist the urge to put his arm around Ian’s shoulder while their photo is being taken.

It’s not anything new, at least for Anthony. He’s gone to the Empire State Building plenty of times before, and breakfast has always been uneventful for him. There’s something about experiencing both with Ian, however, that makes everything feel brand new to him.

This is the acting out of a fantasy.

Anthony looks at Ian, looks at the appreciative expression on his face, the awed smile gracing his lips, the way the wind is ruffling Ian’s hair into slight disarray, and knows he would take him everywhere, if only he were allowed.

Tokyo, London, Paris.

(What would it feel like to be alone with him somewhere else?)

   This is wrong.

Anthony wants to believe that he’s never deluded himself into thinking what they’re doing is right, but at this point, he’s not entirely sure anymore. Too often he tries to justify actions despite the consequences.

They’re back in Ian’s hotel room, hands wandering as they blindly lead each other to the bed by the lips. Ian’s hands are pools of fire on Anthony’s skin as Ian tries to remove Anthony’s shirt without pulling away from his lips. Anthony raises his arms to help Ian out, immediately leaning forward and capturing Ian’s lips into a kiss that speaks of (too much) emotion when Ian finally has his shirt in his hand.

From there on, everything is a blurry mess.

Ian kisses his way down Anthony’s neck, reverent, like he’s marking parts of Anthony to prove to himself he still has this, no matter what. He keeps on his way until he reaches Anthony’s nipple, dusty rose and peaked from arousal, and takes it into his mouth without warning.

Anthony releases a breathy exhale and brings his hands to Ian’s head, trying to keep him where he is. He feels a line of heat go straight down his spine and pool in his lower belly.

Ian pulls back, only to lavish attention onto Anthony’s other nipple.

Pushing through the haziness in his mind, Anthony directs them both to the bed and falls down onto it without any sort of grace, pulling Ian down with him. Ian pulls back from his torso and takes a minute to just stay there, on top of him, looking at him like he’s something precious, and Anthony finds that he’s more breathless now from a look than he was before from actual contact.

There’s something about Ian, he thinks as he takes Ian’s shirt off with Ian’s help. There’s something about how he can look at you in that way he has and remind you of just how much you mean to him.

(Is that how he looks at Pam, too?)

“I’ve missed you,” Anthony admits, his hands roaming up until they’re both on Ian’s bony shoulders. His skin has always been smooth, Anthony belatedly thinks, despite the fact that he’s never been a fan of lotion. He lets his thumbs rest in the small dip between Ian’s shoulder and collarbone. “I’ve missed this.”

Anthony watches as Ian removes his right hand from the bed, raising it to remove Anthony’s hand from his shoulder and bringing it to his lips. His mouth a little dry, Anthony swallows as he feels the soft warmth of Ian’s lips against the back of his hand.

It’s a chaste kiss and nothing more.

Amazing, how much a simple action like that can make Anthony feel so much.

As soon as Ian lets go of Anthony’s hand, Anthony leans up and kisses him, lips immediately sliding against eager lips, a kiss that cannot be called as chaste as the one Ian just pressed against the back of his hand. He feels his eyes slip closed the moment Ian’s lips open to let his tongue in, feels a moan growing in the back of his throat as Ian’s tongue curls against his, feels that moan slip out when he feels Ian’s hand slip to the back of his neck to hold him steadily against him.

Hands moving downward, Anthony lets out a shaky moan when he feels Ian through his pants. Anthony pulls away from the kiss in an effort to get Ian’s belt unbuckled, but his effort immediately goes to waste when Ian moves in and starts kissing down his neck, his mouth hot and moist against Anthony’s skin. Anthony curls his hands into fists and closes his eyes, feeling that almost unbearable line of heat zap down his spine and pool in his groin.

Letting out a sigh, Anthony uncurls his hands and presses them against Ian’s crotch. Ian lets out a quiet sigh, his hot breath making goosebumps erupt on Anthony’s skin.

One simple touch.

Concentrating to the best of his ability, Anthony opens his eyes and manages to unbuckle Ian’s belt after a few tries, his hands slightly shaking as Ian continues his way down the side of Anthony’s neck. It’s not too long before he has Ian’s jeans unbuttoned. He’s about to go and unzip Ian’s jeans when Ian sucks a hickey an inch above his nipple and lights his nerve endings on fire.

His hands go slack and his eyes slip closed. “Fuck, Ian,” he half-stuttered, voice broken and just this side of gravel-rough. Ian moves even lower, capturing his nipple in his mouth, and Anthony’s hands fly up to grip Ian’s hips, unyielding underneath his fingers. He arches up, eager to chase the sweet heat of Ian’s mouth, and his mouth falls open in a silent groan when he inadvertently presses against Ian’s groin.

“Shit,” Ian breathes out against Anthony’s skin, no doubt having felt the same thing Anthony just felt, that pool of immense heat in his lower belly, that teasing brush of hard heat against hard heat.

It feels almost unbearable, the constricting tightness of his own underwear against his erection, and Anthony suddenly feels like this is too slow, like there is a time for passion that takes its time, and that is not now.

Now is supposed to be moving against each other with wild abandon, rough kisses marking its territory in sensitive spots only the two of them will be able to see in these few days they have together, short fingernails raking down each other’s back and leaving thin lines of redness nonetheless. Now is frantic and easy and taking pleasure as freely as it is given.

Holding Ian in his arms more securely, Anthony turns until he’s on top, until he’s looking down and seeing Ian looking gorgeously debauched against rumpled white sheets, his hair ruffled beyond any hope of salvaging, his lips kiss-sore and his torso stained with handprints.

This is a painter’s wet dream, Anthony belatedly thinks as he settles on Ian’s lap and moves forward to feel his own denim-clad groin brush against Ian’s. Too bad Ian is all his.

(Or is he?)

Eager to push away the thought before it can fully form in his head, Anthony unzips Ian’s jeans with unhesitating fingers, pulling down his jeans when Ian lifts his hips up to help him. He leaves the jeans pooled around Ian’s ankles, letting Ian remove them himself by wiggling his legs, and zeroes in instead on the wet spot on Ian’s black boxer-briefs, his cock clearly outlined by the fabric.

Anthony watches as Ian captures his bottom lip with his teeth, biting down before letting go. Anthony leans in until his nose is just barely brushing against that wet spot on Ian’s boxer-briefs, until he has Ian’s legs bracketing the sides of him. For a few seconds, he lets himself just breathe in and out slowly, Ian’s scent so much stronger and headier where Anthony is.

Teasing is half the point here, anyway.

From the corners of his eyes, Anthony can see the minute shaking of Ian’s thighs, tense with anticipation. Smiling to himself, Anthony moves in and licks right around the wet spot, where the head of Ian’s cock should be beneath the opaque fabric. Almost immediately, Ian bucks up against him with wild abandon, and Anthony places his hands on Ian’s thighs, gripping them tight in an effort to minimize movement.

Ian’s fingers slide into Anthony’s hair, and Anthony lets out an open-mouthed groan against Ian’s crotch.

“Fuck, Anthony,” Ian stutters out, gripping Anthony’s hair tighter when Anthony leans back in and licks a stripe up his cock. “Come on, please.”

There’s something about hearing his name come out of Ian’s lips like this, Anthony thinks. There’s something about how Ian stutters out Anthony’s name, breathy and low, like a filthy confession. Anthony doesn’t hear him moan out his name enough, in his opinion, but there’s nothing to be done about that.

(Is that how he moans out Pam’s name too?)

Anthony drags in a sharp breath and viciously reaches up and tugs Ian’s boxer-briefs down.

He’s not going to think about that (today). This is for him and Ian. No one else.

As he continues dragging Ian’s boxer-briefs down his legs, he lets the knuckles of his curled fingers skim down Ian’s skin in a teasing caress. When he finally gets Ian’s underwear off, he takes a moment to press a gentle kiss to Ian’s ankle, smiling when he sees Ian’s toes curl, before moving back up and capturing Ian’s mouth in a kiss.

Ian’s tongue curls against Anthony’s, and he feels lightning shoot through his veins, feels another moan bubble up his throat. His skin feels too tight and too loose at the same time, somehow.

Anthony’s head feels light. It may be because of the lack of breath in his lungs, yes, but then again, it may be because of something else. Like Ian’s hands, for example, the way they’re steadily making their way down until they’re just above Anthony’s cock, his thumb a mere inch from the head, or Ian’s tongue, clever as it twists and curls and explores every single nook and cranny in Anthony’s mouth.

Opening his eyes—at what point did he even close them, he wonders—Anthony reaches down and unbuckles his own belt, mouth slipping against Ian’s until their shared kisses are as messy as the sheets they’re on. The moment he has his jeans unzipped, he feels Ian’s hands against his still-clothed cock, hot and teasing and not even remotely enough.

Anthony breathes out against Ian’s mouth, his eyes slipping closed as Ian’s hand cups him through his boxer-briefs.

Ian pulls away from Anthony’s mouth just enough so he can press kisses up Anthony’s cheek until he reaches Anthony’s ear. “I’ve missed this too,” he whispers, soft lips brushing against the shell of Anthony’s ear. “I’ve missed you too.”

He presses a kiss to Anthony’s ear, chaste, and it should be weird, but it really isn’t. Instead, Anthony feels a little ticklish, a sensation that is quickly forgotten when Ian moves down to suck a hickey on Anthony’s neck, just below his earlobe.

Completely lost in the sensation of Ian’s lips against his skin, Anthony nearly forgets about Ian’s hands on his erection, at least until he realizes that one of Ian’s hands has wriggled itself into his boxer-briefs, clever fingers touching his cock in an almost-reverent manner, feather-light.

“Jesus, Ian,” he breathes out, head bowing down as he succumbs to the pleasure. His skin feels on fire.

Too soon, Ian removes his hand from Anthony’s boxer-briefs, and for one moment, Anthony finds himself bereft. That is, until he realizes that Ian removed his hands so he can help Anthony undress. The moment he feels Ian tug down his underwear and jeans, he sits up all the way so he can do it himself, too impatient.

When he falls back down on top of Ian, skin sliding against sweaty skin, it feels right. Ian’s body is an oasis against the flame that Anthony can feel consuming his being.

“Fuck,” Anthony breathes out when he accidentally moves against Ian, their cocks brushing. Beneath him, Ian is flushed, his eyes tightly closed as his mouth opens in a silent moan.

He doesn’t know what it is that makes him think. Maybe it’s the way Ian looks against the sheets, a wet dream consisting of pale skin and dark red fingerprints, or maybe it’s just the way everything feels, raw and tender even as they’re both impatient for completion. He doesn’t know what it is, but the thought comes to his mind anyway, unbidden.

(What would it be like to have this in his own bed, in his own house, instead of an anonymous hotel?)

Ian chases the thought away by bucking up, purposefully rubbing against Anthony. “Shit,” he mutters, eyes opening when he bucks up once more. “Fuck, Anthony, please.”

With an amount of self-restraint that surprises him, Anthony stays where he is, unmoving even though every single nerve ending is begging him to move, Goddamn it, just move, until his entire body is slick with sweat, until his cock is rubbing insistently against Ian’s, until he can hear Ian utter his name once more in a broken moan. “Please what?” Anthony asks, struggling to remain cool, his abdomen quivering from the effort it takes to remain still.

Ian watches him, and despite the fact that his irises are nothing more than a thin rim of dark, stormy blue around dilated pupils, Anthony can tell that he’s planning something, can tell that there’s a gleam in those eyes, the way they do when Ian thinks of something mischievous.

Anthony feels Ian’s hands grip his waist, tight and unyielding, and has to struggle to rein in a groan. One hand moves until it is flat on Anthony’s back, his touch like a searing brand on Anthony’s skin.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Ian pushes down, and Anthony follows, leaning down until there’s barely any space between their chests, close enough that their chests brush against each other with every heaving breath.

“Please what?” Ian whispers against his ears, lips brushing his ear as he carefully enunciates each word. “Is that what you’re asking, Anthony?”

Anthony gives a slight nod, anticipation making him feel more jittery than he appears. He wants to know what Ian will do next. This has turned into a game, somehow, and it feels like Ian’s about to win.

He’s okay with that, he finds.

(There’s not much he wouldn’t do for Ian, at this point.)

“Well, here’s what I want,” Ian continues, unaware of the thoughts running through Anthony’s mind. “I want you to move against me with intent. I want you to stop teasing me. I want you to leave marks on me. I want you to use me, Anthony, in the best way possible.” He bites lightly on Anthony’s earlobe, tugging it softly before letting go. “Please.”

And just like that, Anthony loses it. He feels electricity run down his spine, feels precum spurt out as Ian’s words ring in his ears.

His hips move, and Anthony throws his head back, liquid heat running through his veins as he feels that brief contact with Ian’s cock. He moves again, making sure to open his eyes this time, and his effort is quickly rewarded. Underneath him, Ian is half-lidded with pleasure, bottom lip caught by his teeth in an effort to reduce the moans coming out of his mouth.

Anthony moves again, viciously, chasing that sweet hot pleasure-pain. “I want to hear you.” He adjusts his hands on the bed to allow himself better leverage. “Come on, Ian.”

Ian releases his bottom lip and immediately gasps when he feels Anthony move against him. His fingers grip Anthony even tighter, urging him to move against him faster, harder, with more abandon, until they’re both coming apart and coming together. He trails one hand up to press against a hardened nipple, smiling when Anthony moans.

“Shit,” Anthony breathes out. He feels drunk, almost, feels lightheaded and warm all over, feels like he’s on the very edge and that the slightest push will send him tumbling over into depths unknown. Panting, he removes one hand from the bed and wraps it around Ian’s cock, easily moving up and down using Ian’s slick. Beneath him, Ian is vibrating with tension, his head thrown back on the white pillows and his mouth deliciously open, sinfully red and gleaming with saliva.

“Fuck, Anthony, ah,” Ian groans, voice gravel-rough.

His name coming out from Ian’s mouth like that feels like something holy.

(He wants to make him scream his name out like a proclamation.)

With a clever twist of the wrist just underneath the head of Ian’s cock, Anthony pushes Ian further up at the edge. Underneath him, Ian is a mess, his head turning back and forth as if he can’t quite decide where he wants to settle, or if he even wants to settle, for that matter.

As revenge, perhaps, Ian removes his hand from Anthony’s nipple and reaches down to hold Anthony’s cock instead, his grip just this side of too-tight, the way he knows Anthony likes it. Ian’s hand around him feels hot and heavy and not enough, and his own hand falters on Ian’s cock before resuming its up and down motion, eager to make Ian tumble to the edge before he does.

Anthony reaches down with his other hand and cups Ian’s balls in his hand lightly, enjoying the soft groans coming out of Ian’s mouth as Anthony feels the warm weight of his balls in his hand. He tries to ignore his own building pleasure, focusing instead on the way his thumb teases the tip of Ian’s cock with every upward stroke of his hand, but it gets harder and harder to focus the longer Ian keeps up with his steady strokes. It’s harder and harder to maintain his position as well, his abdomen tensed up as he braces himself over Ian using only one arm, and every time Ian pumps his hand around him, he feels himself quiver and lose just a little more control.

“Come on, Anthony,” Ian pants out, “let go for me.”

Anthony grits his teeth. “You first.”

He doesn’t know why it’s suddenly so important to him that Ian comes apart first. After all, it’s not like this is a competition he needs to win. There is no prize and there is no punishment. There’s only him and Ian and this, a memory that they can never talk about again, borne in secrecy and betrayal.

(So why the challenge?)

It’s control, he thinks. He needs to feel like he knows what’s going to happen, needs to feel like he’s not just stuck in a train wreck he can foresee but not avoid.

In the end, it’s him who comes first. Ian’s hand is perfectly rough around him, the pressure of his thumb swiping the pre-come across the head of his cock with every upstroke too intense for Anthony to bear. He comes with his head thrown back and a shaky groan rumbling through his throat, his hand slack on Ian’s cock, his nerve endings buzzing with what feels like electricity.

When the heat finally dissipates, Anthony opens his eyes and resumes stroking Ian up and down, his eyes never leaving Ian’s face. Ian letting go of himself has always been a kind of beauty Anthony can never hope to replicate, and he’s not missing his chance to see that now. Beneath him, Ian is a sweaty mess, his head tilted on his pillow and his mouth open in a constant stream of profanity. His hands are clenching and unclenching on the sheets.

He’s gorgeous.

Another twist of the wrist, and Ian is gone, flung over the edge. He comes with Anthony’s name on his lips, white streaking across his sweaty abdomen.

Anthony falls to Ian’s side, his chest still heaving as he tries to breathe as evenly as he can.

When his heart rate is back to normal, Anthony turns his head to find Ian looking at him intently, like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle with missing pieces.

“What is it?” Anthony asks, his voice soft.

Ian shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

“You sure?”

In response, Ian smiles at him, fond, and moves his hand. He entwines his fingers with Anthony, and Anthony feels his heart lurch in his chest.

“I’m sure,” he says, and Anthony believes him.

   The feeling of soft sheets around him, the feeling of a warm body against his back, the feeling of a hand curled almost possessively around his stomach.

(home?)

Anthony sighs, content, and shifts, not quite leaving the embrace.

(depends.)

He opens his eyes slowly, eager to revel in the stillness of the moment, this pocket of relative peace they have somehow managed to save for themselves. Beside him, Ian sleeps soundly, his head bent toward Anthony, his breathing coming out slow and steady.

(Home is such a funny concept.)

Sleep-warm and truly relaxed for what feels like the first time in ages, Anthony feels no desire to leave the bed, much less leave Ian’s side. Instead, he shifts and turns on his side to curl an arm around Ian’s waist, smiling when he sees Ian burrow into him even closer.

Ian is affectionate in his sleep, and Anthony lets himself have this. He doesn’t see Ian like this enough, after all.

The white sheets are bunched around their lower backs. The cool air of the A/C is refreshing against his bare skin, but Ian doesn’t seem to agree, if the way he’s constantly shifting and curling up against him is any indication. Anthony watches as the sheet slips down, down, down, until Ian moves once more and the white sheet exposes a bony hip, milky white except for a spot where Anthony’s fingers left small bruises.

Ian shivers, and Anthony carefully raises his arm and grabs the white sheet, bringing it up to cover Ian’s chest. He’s careful not to wake Ian up, wanting to let him have his rest, but he seems to have failed, because when he puts his arm back around Ian’s waist, Ian’s eyes slowly open. Anthony watches as sleepy confusion gives way to alert understanding, watches as a yawn turns into a fond smile.

“Hey,” Ian whispers into the small space between them. “Good morning.”

It’s hard to describe in words just how peaceful this entire moment is. Anthony doesn’t even know where to begin, if he were asked to describe this. Then again, he has never been the writer between the two of them—that’s always been Ian.

If he were asked to paint a picture of this moment for others to experience, where would he start?

Would he start with the way the sunlight, though blocked by the heavy hotel curtains, casts a welcome glow in the room? The way the New York traffic seems distant this high up? The way everything feels like background noise compared to the intimate silence they have right here, in this bed?

Or would he start with what he can see in the hotel room? Would he start with their clothes, haphazardly arranged in various areas of the room? Or would he start with the way their belongings are mixed in their temporary home the way their lives are intertwined in a knot they can never hope to untangle?

What would Anthony pay attention to?

(Ian. It’s always Ian. It’s always going to be Ian.)

He would start with Ian, he thinks. He would start with the way Ian’s arm around his waist is a solid, comforting weight, the way Ian’s skin is soft against his, the way Ian’s smile is fond and indescribably happy. He would start with the way Ian is pressed close against him, comfortable and safe, his body free of tension and his face free of worry.

He would start with his eyes, vividly blue and open, trusting, he thinks, or maybe his smile, easy and content, a gentle curve upwards that conveys more than words can ever hope to convey.

He would start with the way he feels for him, the way a simple smile can get his heart racing, the way a simple touch can get his nerve endings sizzle with heat.

“Good morning,” Anthony replies, smiling when he feels Ian’s arm tighten around him.

Is this what Pam wakes up to every morning?

A stab of jealousy makes Anthony’s heart jump in his chest.

He’s not going to think of that. He doesn’t have the right to be jealous, after all. He gave up his claim on Ian when he didn’t meet him in Sacramento all those months ago.

Ian yawns, his eyes closing and his nose scrunching in a way that makes Anthony think, adorable.

“What do you want to do today?” Ian asks, shifting even closer. At this point, it’s frankly surprising that there’s any space left between them, what with the amount of times Ian has moved closer to Anthony and vice versa. “Our flight’s tomorrow morning. We should make today count.”

Anthony’s heart sinks as he thinks about their flight the next morning. He tries not to let it show on his face, however, because this is supposed to be a peaceful moment, not one that is filled with heartbreak and thoughts about whether or not they’ve covered up the events of these past few days well enough that they can go (home) to their girlfriends and convincingly lie.

Now is not the time for worrying. That’s for later. Now is the time to enjoy his last day (alone) with Ian for the foreseeable future.

(Or ever, he thinks. He sees the way Ian looks when he opens his phone and sees his wallpaper—a picture of him and Pam under an umbrella with his arm around her. The sight of it makes Ian’s face shut down with guilt and regret. The sight of it makes Anthony want to punch something.)

Anthony hums in agreement, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. “What do you want to do? I’m down for anything.”

Ian smiles, closes his eyes in contentment. “I don’t know,” he says, settling under the covers, “but for now, I think I’d rather stay here.”

I’d rather stay here, too, Anthony thinks, but doesn’t say.

(There’s no use in saying things that have already been heard.)

“That’s new,” Anthony says, smiling. “Usually, you’re the one who’s pulling me out of bed to get breakfast.”

Ian opens his eyes. “I never pull you out of bed and you know it.” He shakes his head as much as he can while still lying down. “You’re the weird one in the relationship who insists on running in the morning. If anything, you pull me out of bed.”

Trying to ignore the goosebumps forming on his skin when he hears Ian say “relationship”, Anthony moves forward and presses a kiss to the tip of Ian’s nose, chaste and simple. A kiss freely given without any expectation of something more. “Yeah, well,” he says, pulling back, “you pull me into bed, so we should be even at this point.”

That smile again, sweet and fond. “You pull me out of bed more than I pull you into bed,” Ian protests half-heartedly. “That’s not equality.”

“Okay,” Anthony begins, voice soft, “so how are we going to solve this problem, then?” He moves his arm from where it is curled almost possessively around Ian’s waist so he can run his fingers down Ian’s bare back. “Do you have any suggestions? Maybe you should pull me out of bed for a change.”

A low chuckle erupts from Ian’s throat. “Or maybe you should pull me into bed instead,” he says, joking.

Anthony lets a grin slowly appear on his face. “Maybe,” he says, shrugging. He sees the pleased look on Ian’s face morph into something slightly more serious and a lot more knowing, and he allows himself to smirk even as he tries to say his next words in the driest tone possible. “I mean,” he says, only just barely managing not to laugh outright, “equality is important, yeah?”

Another smile. This time, it’s knowing and not at all chaste, accompanied by devious eyes and hands that are starting to wander. “You’re right,” Ian concedes, nodding toward him even as he has his head on the pillow. He turns and Anthony turns with him, his arm around Anthony’s waist shifting so he can settle on top of Anthony and support himself with his hands on either side of Anthony’s head.

The sheet has slipped. Anthony shivers, feeing the cool hotel room air on his bare skin, but he doesn’t mind. He likes this.

Ian bends down to press a kiss to the side of Anthony’s neck. “We have time, right?” he whispers.

I don’t know, Anthony thinks. I’m starting to think that we don’t.

“Yes,” he lies, breathy, his hands curling into fists and crumpling the bedsheets as Ian’s hot mouth comes in contact with sensitive skin. This close to their departure, Ian can’t leave marks. They both know this. He toys with the idea of letting him leave one anyway.

(What would Miel think when she sees the marks? Will she immediately assume the worst?)

Ian pulls away so he can press a kiss to Anthony’s lips, tongue delving in and curling against Anthony’s own tongue.

(Will she immediately assume it’s Ian who left the mark there?)

Gasping, Anthony barely notices it when Ian pulls away from the kiss and makes his way down, down, down, until he’s under the sheets and his head is only just visible from under the white cotton. Anthony feels his hands, light and careful, as they caress Anthony’s inner thighs before pushing them outward, undoubtedly exposing his hot length to him.

Anthony feels Ian’s hot breath against the tip of his quickly hardening cock.

Oh God.

   It’s nearly time for lunch when they (finally) manage to get themselves out of bed.

They make a point not to follow each other into the bathroom, knowing all too well that they will never get to leave the hotel room if they give in to temptation. Instead, Anthony goes and showers first, taking the time to scrub himself clean, before wrapping a soft white hotel-provided towel around his waist and exiting the bathroom to Ian’s approving gaze.

Sometimes, he imagines what it would be like to end things with Miel the way he ended things with Kalel.

(End relationships for Ian the way he would do anything else—everything else—for Ian.)

It will be hard. Their fans will almost certainly be divided on the issue. It will be his second failed relationship in five years.

But then, the traitorous part of his mind thinks, think of the possibilities.

Getting out of the shower to find Ian’s gaze on him like that, happy and disbelieving that he gets to have this—have Anthony—every single day. Anthony thinks of early morning lie-ins and kisses shared in the privacy of their own bedroom, freely exchanged without having to think about the consequences or the lies and alibis they’re both going to have to make up for when they get back.

No more lies.

It could be so easy.

For a moment, Anthony is frozen where he stands. It’s a beautiful scene in his mind, but that’s all it is—a scene. A fantasy.

The thought slips away like a wisp of smoke and he lets it go without a fight.

Ian walks into the bathroom, smiling at him fondly, unaware of the thoughts running through his head. The door closes behind him.

Anthony lets out a shaky breath.

He needs to end this.

(It will hurt in a way no other break-up has ever hurt him before despite the fact that this, whatever the hell this is, is not a relationship, no matter how much he wants it to be—)

When Ian gets out of the bathroom, Anthony’s dressed except for his jacket. He’s slowly folding and refolding his clothes, trying to figure out how to make them fit back into his suitcase.

“Packing already?” Ian asks, holding one small towel up to dry his hair.

Anthony hums under his breath in affirmation. “Might as well get started.” Anthony makes the mistake of looking up from the pair of jeans he’s trying in vain to fold properly to look at Ian, and for a few moments, he finds himself unable to speak. He feels his breath catch in his throat.

Ian’s bare chest is exposed to the chilly air of the hotel room. His nipples are hard from the cold, and Anthony watches as a stray drop of water makes its way down Ian’s neck and chest, until it reaches the edge of the white towel wrapped around Ian’s own waist.

Anthony swallows past the lump in his throat and forces himself to tear his eyes away from Ian’s half-naked body and focus on the pair of jeans in his hands. “We both know I’m probably going to wake up ten minutes before we’re supposed to leave the hotel tomorrow, so.”

Ian laughs. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says, walking to where his own suitcase is opened on the floor by the nightstand. “I should probably start packing too.”

“You have time,” Anthony says, resisting the urge to look up. He hears the distinctive sound of Ian’s towel hitting the floor, and he has to wet his suddenly dry mouth before he can speak again. “You actually get up when your alarm sounds, unlike me. Plus, we still have tonight.”

“True,” Ian says, sounding distracted. Anthony sneaks a look and finds him bent over his suitcase, presumably looking for a clean pair of jeans. His ass is clothed in a tight pair of black boxer-briefs, and Anthony can’t quite look away.

Anthony clears his throat. “Maybe we shouldn’t leave the room today,” he suggests, his gaze back on the pair of jeans he still hasn’t folded properly. It’s starting to crease worse in between his hands, the dark fabric looking worn out despite only being worn once during the entire trip.

“Shouldn’t?” Ian asks, standing up straight.

Anthony meets his gaze. “Couldn’t,” he corrects. “Maybe we could just stay in.”

“We already stayed in this morning,” Ian says, shrugging into a short-sleeved polo and buttoning it up. “We should probably get used to being seen in public again.”

It is: a reminder.

(It is: as close to a rejection as Ian will ever give him.)

“Yeah, you’re right,” Anthony says, sighing as he gives up on the pair of jeans and folds it the improper way. He can’t quite manage to be calm, however, and he ends up jamming the pair of jeans into his already too-full suitcase, his anger and frustration just barely restrained by his willpower.

“Hey.”

Anthony looks up. His jaw is tightened and his entire body is tensed beyond belief.

“What’s wrong?” Ian asks, finally finishing buttoning up his shirt and moving to where Anthony is standing by the other side of the bed.

“This!” Anthony shouts, hand carelessly flying out to encompass everything in the room. “I hate this! I hate what we’ve become, Ian. I hate that we have to hide everything. I hate that whenever we’re somewhere else I’d rather stay in than actually go out and see the sights because we have no privacy. I hate that I can’t hold your hand in public, much less kiss you in public, without having someone proclaim to the rest of the world what we’re doing, never mind the fact that it’s okay.” At the end of it all, Anthony is gasping, struggling to take in air, and for a few moments, he takes his time breathing, uneager to have another panic attack. Eventually, Anthony takes in a deep breath and says what he’s been thinking for longer than he can remember. “I’m sorry. I just—I wish things were different.”

Beside him, Ian is waiting, as patient as always. He’s as steady as a rock even as he watches Anthony fall apart, silent as he waits for his turn to speak.

“I wish things were different too, Anthony,” Ian says, voice soft, “but Anthony, you chose this. Not me.”

(You chose this. Not me.)

Here is a list of things Anthony has chosen:

-       An invitation to a party in 2010

-       A phone number from a girl named Kalel

-       A chance to move away from Sacramento to live in LA

-       An engagement ring

-       Two tickets to Tokyo

-       A kind of commitment he wasn’t really sure he was ready for

And here’s another:

-       A break-up with a fiancée for the chance to live a life wholly different from what he had planned when he proposed

-       A conversation with a friend (lover) about the possibility of them being together, freely and without fear of being discovered, for the first time in what feels like forever

-       A meeting time and place as confirmation that they both want this

-       A deliberate ignorance of the time and date, resulting in him not going to Sacramento.

And yet another:

-       A relationship with another wonderful girl who makes him laugh almost as loud as his lover (friend) can

-       An agreement made in secrecy to meet each other in the dark during trips away from home

-       A kiss to seal the deal

-       An abundance of lies to cover up the sins

-       A trip away from home to promote an upcoming movie

-       Stolen glances and moments, like holding hands in a crowded elevator or kissing each other senseless in a hotel room they’re not supposed to be sharing in a random New York hotel

And there are too many things he’s chosen for himself, too many escape routes he’s made but never used, and isn’t there a saying about how hindsight is 20/20?

“You’re right,” Anthony finally says, defeated. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. That’s—that’s not your fault.”

(It’s mine, he doesn’t say, because he knows Ian hears it though it is unspoken.)

Ian gives him a tight-lipped smile. “I’m sorry too.” Before Anthony can respond that Ian has nothing to be sorry for, Ian sits down on the bed, bouncing a little bit before finally stopping. “Do you realize that this is how it always ends?”

Anthony sits down. He’s not quite close enough to be touching Ian, but his hand, from where it is placed palm-down on the bedspread beside him, is mere inches away from Ian’s own hand. He wants to hold Ian’s hand in his, but at this point, he’s not entirely sure if he’s allowed, much less welcomed.

“What do you mean?”

“This,” Ian says, gesturing to the two of them with the hand that isn’t near Anthony. “The two of us. When the time is running out, it’s always like this. Tensions run high and we inevitably snap at each other.”

Anthony lets out a short, humorless laugh. “I snap at you and you take it, you mean.”

Ian shrugs. Anthony very carefully notes that he doesn’t quite disagree with him.

“I’m just saying,” Ian says, looking down. “Maybe this is why we didn’t work out. Why we wouldn’t work out.”

Anthony’s eyebrows rise. Ian has never suggested ending this weird agreement they have before.

He ignores the sharp stab of pain in his chest.

(Are you doing this for Pam?)

“You know what?” Anthony asks, his voice rising in pitch as he feels panic start to slowly but surely settle in the pit of his stomach, “you’re right. We should go outside today. We should be in publi—”

“—Anthony,” Ian interrupts, his voice soft but firm. “This was bound to happen sooner or later.”

And he’s not wrong. Anthony had expected this to happen sooner or later. But not once did he ever think Ian would be the one to break it off, not once did he ever even consider the possibility that Ian would ultimately be the one to change the rules—

And there it is again, a question in the back of his mind, something that cannot be ignored: why did he never think Ian would be the one to break it off?

He had trusted that Ian would remain the same, would be the patient lover and caring friend, letting Anthony call all the shots in the (selfish) way he had always done. Somewhere along the line, it had slipped from his head that Ian is human too, that there is bound to be a line somewhere that he himself has drawn, like a line in the sand created with the use of a twig, a demarcation between areas that neatly separate things into acceptable and unacceptable.

Hysteria starting to bubble in his throat like poison, Anthony stands up from the bed, palms curling into fists. “What do you want me to say?” he spits out, barely able to see past the frustration clouding his head. “Of course I knew that this was bound to happen sooner or later. I just—” Anthony looks up at the ceiling, unwilling to let his tears of frustration succumb to gravity. “I guess I just didn’t expect it to happen now,” he finally lets out, his voice whisper-soft and broken.

He doesn’t notice Ian, too wrapped up in his thoughts as he is. It comes as a surprise, then, when he feels Ian’s arms around him, enveloping him in warmth in the middle of Ian’s hotel room. His own hands are stock-still at his sides, tension running through his veins.

Slowly, the tension seeps out of him, and he allows himself to lean into Ian’s embrace, his own arms wrapping around Ian’s waist. He places his head on Ian’s shoulder.

“Do you really think we will never work out?” Anthony chokes out, not entirely sure if he even wants to hear Ian’s answer. “If we were together, I don’t think we’ll run out of time the way we do now.”

Ian’s voice is soft as he speaks close to Anthony’s ear. “What does it matter?” He pauses, before continuing. “You won’t let that happen anyway.”

The saddest thing is: he’s right.

   Lunch is a silent affair in a nearby Italian bistro with a large selection of vegan options on the menu.

Ian and Anthony are led by a petite waitress with dark brown skin and corkscrew curls down a narrow hallway to a booth near the back of the restaurant. It’s not quite as spacious as Anthony thought it would be, and beneath the table, his knees knock into Ian’s as they both take their seats on opposite sides of the table.

Smiling, the waitress leaves them be, assuring them that she will be back in just a few moments with a couple glasses of water and the menus.

Anthony finds that it is impossible to meet Ian’s eyes, much less talk to him. Here, they are basically guaranteed privacy—no one will be able to overhear their conversation over the loud din of the homey little bistro, provided they keep their voices soft—and yet Anthony finds that he wants anything but that, wanting the public eye to be attuned to their every move so that Anthony won’t suddenly blurt out things he’s not in his place to say, like are you doing this for Pam or do you love Pam the way you love me or I wish I chose you.

“Hey.”

Anthony looks up. Ian is looking at him with worry in his eyes, his eyebrows furrowed as he takes in Anthony’s form.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” Anthony asks, sitting up straight on the table and looking at Ian. Somehow he knows they’re about to have another one of those talks, and it’s never a good idea to look down when they’re about to have an important conversation.

“That,” Ian says simply. “You don’t need to overthink everything, Anthony.”

Anthony shrugs. “It’s hard not to. You’re ending this.”

Before Ian can respond, the waitress—Naomi, her nametag says—comes back with two glasses of water, drops of condensation present on the glasses she holds in her hands. There’s one slice of lemon on the rim of each glass, precariously placed and bright compared to the color scheme of everything else.

“Here you go,” she says with a polite smile, handing Ian and Anthony the glasses of water. She removes two menus from under her arm, handing them off to Ian and Anthony. “Have you guys been here before?”

Anthony accepts the menu with a smile and looks at Ian. Ian is looking at the first inside page of the menu, and though Anthony himself hasn’t opened the menu, he knows Ian is looking at the appetizers.

Have you guys been here before?

(Ian’s 20th, when Anthony broke up with Ian, Anthony’s 27th when Anthony broke up with Kalel for Ian, Ian’s 29th when Ian broke up with Anthony for Pam—)

Do you realize that this is how it always ends?

“No,” Anthony finally chokes out, and he can see from the corner of his eyes that Ian is looking at him strange, but he doesn’t pay (too much) attention to that. Instead, he smiles at Naomi and says it again, “no, we haven’t been here before. What would you recommend?”

“I personally really like the stuffed mushrooms,” Naomi says, leaning over and pointing to the item on Anthony’s menu. “Our homemade bread is pretty fantastic too. Now, keep in mind, we do have vegan and gluten-free options for most items on the menu, so there’s that. So, what can I get for you?”

“Ah,” Anthony says, looking at the menu for a perfunctory glance before looking up and meeting Ian’s eyes. Truth be told, he doesn’t quite have the appetite to eat right now, but he’s not about to miss this just because he’s not hungry.

“Do you know what you want?” Ian asks, and it’s a question with the sort of ambiguity that Ian knows Anthony won’t miss.

Naomi, smiling and attentive, doesn’t know the second layer of the conversation only Ian and Anthony understand, doesn’t understand the double entendre in the question, and Anthony finds that he almost envies her for it.

You, Anthony doesn’t say. Instead, he says, “we’ll have to take a minute to look at the options.”

Naomi grins at them. “Okay, you guys take your time. I’ll be right back.”

Anthony can tell from the corner of his eyes that Ian is looking at him with that look again, the questioning one, the one that tells Anthony that Ian’s just as confused as him, if not more so.

“Listen,” Ian finally says, putting the menu away and placing his hands on the table, “we need to stop with the ambiguity, Anthony.”

“Do we?” Anthony asks, putting his own menu away. Though his voice is challenging, it is also soft, (too) aware as he is of the people around them. “You asked the question first, not me.”

He’s being petty.

(You don’t get to this point in your life without learning the art of being passive-aggressive.)

“Maybe you need to stop reading in between the lines,” Ian challenges.

Anthony snorts. “Maybe you need to stop thinking you know everything.”

“I never thought I did!” Ian whisper-shouts. “For fuck’s sake Anthony, don’t you notice that I let you make all the decisions? I never know what’s going on in your head. I know jack squat about what you have planned in there.”

This. This is why they fall apart.

(Constant. Perpetual. Unending. Like Groundhog Day, except instead of Bill Murray, there’s Ian and there’s Anthony and there’s whatever this is between them—)

Here it goes again.

“I’m sorry,” Anthony says, heartfelt. “I’m sorry for fucking up. I’m sorry for trying to blame this on you. I—you’re right. I end up making the decisions most of the time, and to be completely honest, I think it’s because you’ve been letting me decide for so long that I’ve just gotten used to it.” Anthony pauses. “I also think I’ve been making all the decisions because it scares me to finally hear you say no.”

“Like now?” Ian asks.

“Like now,” Anthony confirms. “Sometimes, I want to tell you to just give me a few moments to think about this, about—yeah. And I can’t blame you, you know? I’ve been thinking all this time, and I still haven’t chosen anything. And I can’t be mad at you for finally deciding for both of us. That’s not fair.”

Ian inhales deeply. He lets his breath out, and it sounds final. “It isn’t,” he agrees.

“I want to ask you to give me some more time,” Anthony continues, because now that he’s saying all this, he doesn’t think he can stop, “but I know that no matter how much time I get, my answer will still be the same for the foreseeable future. And that’s not fair to you. I can’t begrudge you wanting something more than that.” Anthony bows his head, letting his gaze linger on his hands, restless on the table. “But Christ, Ian, it’s—it hurts. And I know I should understand, and yeah, maybe to some degree I do, but it’s still painful, and I just. I don’t know.” Anthony takes a deep breath, then takes his time to release it. “I guess I just wish it didn’t have to end this way.”

With a careful hand, Ian raises Anthony’s jaw to make him meet his eyes. “You were never going to choose me,” Ian says, soft.

“I already have,” Anthony says, truthful, and there he is again, saying words that won’t help him but will hurt Ian, because he’s never been good at this sort of thing the way Ian is, has never been good at walking the fine line between speech and silence.

“That’s not enough,” Ian says, taking his hand back and placing it on the table. “Choosing me isn’t enough. You were never going to do anything about it.”

He sounds so sure. Anthony hates that he sounds so sure, because he’s (absolutely) right.

Choosing is easy if you don’t have to do anything but choose. Choice without commitment is meaningless.

(Choosing Ian, yet staying committed to Miel, choosing Miel, yet staying committed to Ian; where does one choice end and another begin?)

“I’m sorry,” Anthony says (again).

“You keep saying that,” Ian points out.

“That doesn’t make it any less true,” Anthony replies.

Ian sighs.

Naomi soon appears, her cheerful grin in place, and Anthony doesn’t even think about it, just goes and orders a random item from the menu. Ian orders the stuffed mushrooms for both of them and a lasagna for himself, and then Naomi is walking away from them once more.

“So that’s it, then?”

Ian shrugs. “That’s it.”

(This is how the world ends.)

Anthony takes a sip of his water.

(Not with a bang, but with a whimper.)

   After lunch, Ian and Anthony walk to the nearest subway station.

They end up in Chinatown.

There’s too many people in a too little space. Everyone’s minding their own business, too busy trying to get to wherever they’re trying to go to actually apologize when their elbows hit someone else on the street. There’s all kinds of people as well: businessmen in suits and college students with pastel-colored backpacks and Asian street vendors trying to sell cheap-looking iPhone cases and selfie sticks.

For a few moments, Anthony revels in the anonymity.

Then he realizes: he doesn’t need that anymore.

He and Ian are done with that. For all intents and purposes, they’re just friends now.

And the thing is, Anthony thinks as he absently avoids walking into a fire hydrant, he can’t even mourn this like a proper break-up.

No one knew. No one even suspected. He can’t mourn something that never officially existed.

This isn’t the kind of last day Anthony wanted, but there’s nothing else to be done. Ian’s right. They both knew this had to stop. It wasn’t like there was any other choice.

Ian ends up buying eggrolls at a small, yet packed, store in between a Chinese herb shop and a small fruit stand. Somehow, they both find themselves walking further down the road, the crowd thinning out until there’s actually room to breathe.

“You know,” Anthony says as he watches Ian bite into an eggroll, “this is what we talked about the last time, too.”

Ian raises a hand to wipe the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin. “What?”

Anthony shrugs. “I don’t know. I think we both talked about needing space.” He smiles, wan. “And yet we ended up in this situation anyway.”

Ian looks at him. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, I don’t know.” Anthony puts his hands in his pockets. “Maybe things aren’t as final as they seem. We seem to end up in the same situations. Maybe this,” he says, gesturing to the two of them with one hand, “is never really off the table.”

“Maybe,” Ian says, “or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.”

“Maybe,” Anthony concedes. “Even then, somehow I don’t think I’m the only one hoping.”

Ian lets out a humorless laugh. “You don’t have to hope. You could always just make a decision and commit,” he points out.

This is the closest Ian has ever come to actually pushing Anthony for a decision.

(Anthony has to wonder: is the reason why Ian never asks him to decide because he’s afraid of what Anthony’s decision might be?)

“You’re right. But as you’ve pointed out, we both know I won’t do that,” Anthony says, shrugging.

Ian hums under his breath in acquiescence.

Here they are in New York with its dirty side streets and its faceless crowd, walking with a respectable amount of distance between them, talking about why they fell apart (and how, when, where, etc.), standing in being the personification of the aftermath of a ruinous relationship.

They’ve been here before. They’ve gone through this time and time again. And though they’re supposed to know better, they never really do.

A few more steps, and then they decide to turn around and walk right back. Slowly but surely, the crowd starts to grow the nearer they get to the subway, various people going about their day.

“Didn’t you go here with Miel, once?” Ian asks, conversational. He finishes the eggroll and throws the wrapper onto a nearby pile of garbage.

Anthony shakes his head. “No,” he says after a moment. He supposes he should feel guilty for not thinking about Miel as much as he thinks he should as her boyfriend during this trip, but there are other, more important things to be guilty about. Like this, for example, or for the lies he’s about to tell her when he touches down at LAX.

Miel’s going to pick them up, is the thing. He’s going to have to hug and kiss her in front of Ian, going to have to lie to her while he can still feel the phantom pleasure-pain of the bruises Ian left on his body just a few days prior. He’s going to have to tell her he missed her and that he loves her, all the while knowing that Ian is watching and that Ian knows better.

And this—isn’t it supposed to alleviate the guilt?

Breaking up before anyone can find out about them—isn’t that the smart thing to do?

(But guilt isn’t a simple stain to be washed away with a break up and an apology, guilt isn’t a mistake erased by putting an end to a relationship the way a period ends a sentence, guilt isn’t forgotten and forgiven like petty crime—)

“Listen,” Ian says, looking at him, “I’m sorry. For ending it this way, I mean. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

It’s sincere.

Anthony doesn’t think he can take sincerity, at this point.

“No,” Anthony says, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t be. You were right. There was no other way to end it. And I hurt you more than you hurt me.”

Ian releases a shaky breath. “Maybe next time it will end better for us.”

Anthony’s eyebrows rise. “Are you saying there’s going to be a next time?”

Ian sighs. “Yes. No. Fuck, I don’t know.”

But no, there isn’t going to be a next time, Anthony thinks, despite wanting it. There isn’t going to be a next time, because when all this is over, they’ll probably end up avoiding each other, because after this trip, they’re both going to be (more) attentive to their girlfriends, because there’s an engagement ring in a black velvet box in Anthony’s suitcase and it isn’t, as much as he wants it to be, for Ian.

(He knows himself better than to think he will ever know better, remember?)

Their ride on the subway is a silent one, and when they’re finally in front of Ian’s hotel room, they’re both somehow even quieter.

It feels a little like goodbye, and they’re not even away from each other yet.

   “I think,” Ian says later, much later, when the sky outside Ian’s window is dark with only the glittering lights of New York City skyscrapers serving as a source of light and they’re both lying on Ian’s bed, on top of the sheets with the clothes they wore to Chinatown still on, “you should probably sleep in your own room tonight.”

Anthony doesn’t even try to fight it. “You’re right.” He looks at Ian, seated beside him with his head on Anthony’s shoulder. “Do you want me to go now?”

“No,” Ian says simply. He breathes in, deep, then exhales. “I want you to stay.”

Anthony inhales sharply. He places one hand on Ian’s head, fingers running through soft brown hair. “Do you know what you want?” he asks, because he didn’t get to before.

(Here they are, men on the cusp of being 30—)

Ian doesn’t reply. For a few moments, he breathes in and out, content to stay silent, and Anthony doesn’t press for an answer. Ian’s been patient all this time for him. He figures it’s time to offer him the same courtesy.

And anyway, this is peaceful. The calm after the storm. This is when they get to pick up the broken pieces of whatever they used to have in silence.

Anthony breathes in and out with Ian. Outside, New York moves on.

“I don’t think I do,” Ian finally says, his voice soft. It sounds like a confession he’s ashamed to be making. “I used to think I knew what I wanted, but I guess—I don’t know anymore. And that sucks, you know? Not knowing what you really want. I thought I would have gotten everything figured out by now.”

Ian has never been the type to talk about his feelings freely like this, but then again, Anthony has never been the type to cheat. He supposes there are exceptions to the rule for everyone.

“I don’t think you ever really figure it out,” Anthony says, tilting his head to lean against Ian’s on his shoulder.

Ian sighs. “This is why I’m a ‘go with the flow’ type of guy, I think.”

Anthony smiles. “Let life decide for you so you don’t have to?”

“Yeah.”

A few more moments pass in silence.

Anthony tries not to think about how by this time tomorrow, they’ll both be in their respective homes with their (respective) girlfriends. The day after that, they’re going to have to go back to their (old) dynamic of being (just) friends.

(Isn’t this what he signed up for?)

(No.)

This is where reality and fantasy blend, where Anthony gets to hoard memories before stepping into the real world once more, a world where Anthony can’t tell Ian just how much he loves him, or run his fingers through Ian’s hair just like this, or hold his hand in public, or kiss him in private.

You can always try having this in LA, a traitorous part of his mind suggests, and he sucks in a sharp breath. They could, yes, but the risk is too high and the consequences are too severe. There, anyone can see.

Please let me stay, he wants to ask, but no, that’s too dangerous. If he asks, he’s not sure if Ian will be able to say no. And right now, someone needs to say no for the both of them.

“I think,” Anthony begins, before pausing and clearing his throat. He tries again. “I think I’m going to propose to Miel.”

Beside him, Ian freezes. He is hesitant when he asks, “so soon?”

Anthony swallows past the lump in his throat. “I—yeah. I think so.”

(He sounds unsure. Truth is, he’s never sure of anything anymore, these days.)

“Okay,” Ian says. He starts to fully sit up, removing his head from Anthony’s shoulder, and Anthony sits up himself. Anthony’s hand falls away from Ian’s hair, and he puts it on his lap

This is Ian’s way of putting distance between them.

(There’s a saying about how distance makes the heart grow fonder—)

“Okay,” Ian says again. He’s looking down, his gaze firmly settled on his lap where his fingers are restlessly tapping an impossible beat against his clothed thighs. When he notices Anthony watching him carefully, he stops, his fingers going still. He places his hands palm down on his lap and looks up, eyes unreadable as he looks at Anthony. “I think you should go.”

(And haven’t they had this discussion before? Leave, stay, go, don’t go—)

“Yeah, I should.”

(And just a few nights ago: “I should leave.” “Yeah, you should.”)

Slowly, Anthony gets up from the bed, even as every nerve ending in his body is screaming at him not to go, not to leave things like this between them.

“One last thing,” Anthony blurts out.

“What?” Ian asks, confused.

Anthony walks around the bed to Ian’s side and leans down, pressing a firm kiss to Ian’s mouth with lips that don’t quite want to leave.

The uncertainty fades away when Ian starts to kiss back, his hand rising to cup Anthony’s head, his lips moving against Anthony’s own. Anthony feels Ian’s tongue touch the seam of his lips, asking for permission, and he moans his answer, his tongue meeting Ian’s as they curl against each other.

The need for air finally makes Anthony back away, one hand coming up to let his fingers rest on his bottom lip, plump and red and kiss-sore.

This doesn’t feel like a goodbye kiss.

It feels like a see-you-again kiss.

(Maybe it is.)

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Anthony says, soft.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Ian confirms.

   In the end, this is how it goes:

Breakfast is a stilted, entirely too formal affair in the lobby of the hotel, both of them entirely too aware of the people around them. Anthony gets a bowl of Cheerios with almond milk. Ian makes himself a little waffle and smothers it in syrup.

They both check out of the hotel, handing the receptionist their respective room keys. Anthony has a belated thought about what the housekeepers might think when they see his room so clean and unlived in. He pushes the thought away quickly.

The ride to JFK is silent, Anthony careful not to sit too close to Ian in the back of an Uber. He pays for the ride when they get to the airport, thanks the Uber driver, then thanks Ian for grabbing his luggage from the back of the car before heading in, the automatic doors sliding open with a whoosh and a blast of comfortably warm air.

They wait for a little bit at the gate, both of them busy with their own phones. Anthony sneaks glances of Ian from the corner of his eyes. Ian doesn’t look up.

It takes a little time, but they make it to their own seats, with Anthony having the window seat. They place their luggage in the overhead bins and quietly sit down, settling in and buckling their seatbelts. Neither of them initiate conversation.

And later, much later, when the plane is speeding down the runway, preparing to take off, and everyone is silent as they listen to the head flight attendant telling them to stay in their seats with their seatbelts buckled:

“This was a nice trip,” Ian finally says. He places his hand on the middle armrest where Anthony’s hand is and takes Anthony’s hand in his, their fingers intertwining effortlessly like they’ve been doing it for years. “Thank you for this, Anthony.”

And there it is, that (too-loud) beating of his heart, that pain his chest that seems to radiate outward with every minute they’re closer to landing in LA.

Anthony squeezes Ian’s hand. “Thank you,” he manages to choke out.

“Welcome aboard,” the flight attendant says, “and thank you for choosing American Airlines. We hope you enjoy your flight.”

The plane begins to ascend. Outside, the city gradually becomes smaller and smaller until there’s nothing left to see but white clouds in a blue sky.

Ian pulls his hand away.