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Maria in the Schnee Family Au texting Winter
#rwby#death's whiterose#whiterose#plus young maria#cinwin#mac2#she does it just to fuel the hatred Winter feels#idk why i have them always pranking each other#and winter hating her#but it's hilarious to me and canon now#ofc cinder pretends to be annoyed#but she loves how fired up it gets winter#and finds it funny too#especially because with her semblance she blocks winters number every time she's about to send her reply that took 10 minutes to make#only to unblock her right afterward#maria calavera#best girl
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when the snow falls | j.jh
jung jaehyun x reader genre - angst first, fluff later details - childhood best friends!au, ghost!au, platonic relationship, genderneutral!reader, ft. boyfriend johnny warnings - grieving/mourning, mentions of death, lots of crying, explicit language (swearing) word count - 8.3k inspiration - A Christmas Carol synopsis - Jaehyun visits you every holiday season since his death to bring you out of your self isolation and hatred for the one season you both once loved.
a/n - this is for my first collab ever: a taste of winter collab hosted by @dearyongs & @pastelsicheng ! again, thank you for letting me participate and i hope this fic brings more warmth for everyone during the winter!! happy holidays everyone & i hope you can check out the rest of the fics in the collab as i will be, they’re written by such amazing writers! :)))
An iridescent frost covers the tall windows of the apartment and a bright white sky greets you this morning. The fallen sheets expose your bare shoulders to the bitter crisp cold air and goosebumps rise to remind you to wear a fucking sweater for once. However, the cold isn’t what bothers you this horrid day as you’re leaping out of bed to glance out at the world. It’s the first thing that you lay eyes on: it covers the streets, it’s falling from the blanket of grey sky, it’s others’ joy when it’s your trauma. What Mother Nature has brought upon this winter season, as she always does this time of the year, is snow.
The first sign of snowfall marks the first day of your self isolation period until the holidays pass. It marks the anniversary of your best friend’s death and an agonizingly long winter, but in spite of that, it also means the appearance of a rather special guest. A guest that is only visible to you and though resembles much of your passed friend, does not share the same memories as you do.
“The snow is just so comforting, isn’t it?” Though you live alone, a sudden voice erupts from behind you and has you turning rather quickly to face the truth of this season. Your greatest treasure, yet haunting demise. “Hello, y/n. How has your year been?” Jaehyun stands with a lean at your door frame, his arms crossed at his chest and hair full of fluff.
“Hello, Jaehyun’s spirit. I happen to hate the snow, if you have forgotten.” Your hip presses against the cold glass and you’re no longer afraid of being half naked in front of what this form of imagination possesses itself to be.
“Remind me why again.” Jaehyun casually sits on your unmade bed, looking as about your age now. There is a brief silence as you examine how he’s grown with you, you’d imagine this is how he’d look if he was still alive and well.
It would be his third year in college, same as you, possibly studying engineering due to his past fascination with the mechanics of roller coasters. With such a strong jawline and a definite lean built, girls would be running all over him. Not to mention, his dimples remain one of his charms.
Kicking off the icy window, you walk carefully and slowly up to Jaehyun. A hand reaches to caress his cheek, but it goes right through him and leaves your hand to hang in mid-air. This happens every time you see him again, wondering if you can get one last touch of his dewy complexion, and you simply can’t. Despite his ability to touch you, there is no possibility for your senses to travel through to the other side of the supernatural dimension.
Jaehyun gently rests your hand back to your side and repeats his request, “remind me again why you hate the snow.”
“It’s how you died.” A small croak gets caught in the back of your throat and tears well up to blur your vision. “So when the snow falls, it brings me back to the dreadful memory of me losing you, of you leaving me.”
“I died from snow? That is so lame.” Jaehyun grumbles and rolls his eyes.
You chuckle, but the tears roll down your cheeks as if they know no happiness. “You died from a car accident in the snow. Your tires slid, you couldn’t brake … and so, you crashed. Full trauma to the head, an instant death.”
“Where was I going?” He wasn’t this curious last winter, and so you’re unaware if it’s your mind playing sick tricks on you or if his unrest spirit is this forgetful. You wish it was the latter.
Choking on your tears, the droplets hit the hardwood floors below you. An overwhelming feeling of melancholy overtakes your chest and you’re suffocating underneath an unknown pressure. Your throat is drier than your mother’s gingerbread cookies, but you swallow the frigid air around you.
You’re so choked up by your sobbing that it’s too difficult to speak. Any words you say feel like thin ice, ready to crack at the lightest touch. “O-On the way to … my house. You were coming over to tell me a secret.”
“And I never got to tell you.”
“No, Jaehyun. I’ll never know what you wanted to tell me that day.”
when the snow falls.
There has never been a time before Jaehyun and all that you knew, all the memories that fill your brain, every growing pain you could possibly share, was with him and all until it wasn’t. Had there been a time after Jaehyun, you would not have expected it to come as soon as it did.
For the months following his death, you were in denial of his missing presence because every. single. thing. reminded you of him. Jaehyun remained in his assigned seat in school, although it was clearly empty. He lived through others’ mourning stories, where they spoke of fond memories that they shared and things he liked. The worst of them all, you still texted him every day in hopes to see the tiny three dots pop up that he was typing. And the warped reality in your head, the first stage of grief flooding every possible corner, was that he has always just been slow at replying back.
Then, his funeral rolled around and his parents asked you to share one happy memory of him. There were so many, how could you possibly have chosen just one? And so you didn’t. The moment the frame of the church entered your view, your legs stuck to the ground and refused to enter. There was going to be a point when you entered the building filled with crying people and a gripping, horrid smell of death and you wouldn’t be able to forget it. That scary thought, not only frightened you, but angered you.
The large attendance of people walked past you as teary eyes blinked up at the dark wooden frame of the door, but every one of them had never visited him for more than once when he was alive. His older cousins that had forgotten about him when they flew away for college, his acquaintances from piano lessons who never bothered to remember his full name, his old friends from primary school that he had lost connection with after graduation, they were all here.
And you can’t help, but fester a fueling frustration in the pit of your stomach and as it grew into your chest in the matter of seconds, you wondered the single thought that picked up your feet to run home: where were they when he was alive?
After a year and the appearance of Jaehyun’s ghost became less of a shock during winter, you were stuck in an odd and uneasy place of what if’s. Talking to him once a year was never enough, texting his old number was never enough. It was just never enough.
Missing him grew into a dark sense of yearning, longing, bargaining. Long nights of twisting and tossing in your bed, many thoughts and endless possibilities ran through your unhealthy thoughts. The description and police report of his accident played like a reel in darkest contemplations.
The first year of college had to be the hardest to go through without him and thus, aiding in your regrets of not cherishing him enough when he was around. A rabbit hole of universe paths drove you wild, wishing and hoping that you could turn back time and stop him from coming over in the middle of a blizzard. And the one lasting thought still haunts you to your present: if only you hadn’t encouraged him that night, he wouldn’t have died.
The saddest part has barely been acknowledged, even by yourself. That this one tragedy tainted the one holiday you two loved the most --- Christmas. Every year since his passing, you locked yourself in your room for two weeks before the holiday and waited through it all. Truthfully, there was nothing in the universe that was going to allow you to enjoy the holiday when it wasn’t with him. Even his ghost, who very randomly popped up on a December day and cluelessly never brings much comfort as the live him did during this season.
Jolly holiday music lost their joyous sound and became awfully low tempo. The bright red and green signature colors of Christmas became dull and rather grey; the long strings of colorful lights that hang from houses and around large trees were absolutely drained of their color. The warmth of the fireplace went cold. The cheesy Hallmark Christmas movies no longer entertained and lost their spark.
The Christmas themed decorations that covered the windows of shops, the city, your own house, became an overwhelming sore sight to look at. The love from your loved ones… you couldn’t feel anything remotely close to love anymore, just meaningless affection. The one gift that the Earth blessed your region with, snow, became the one petrifying thing that it had to offer. And your favoritism for the holiday, the so-called ‘Christmas Spirit’, slowly died out, along with Jaehyun.
Now that it’s been three years since his passing, you’re here spending your third lonely holiday season inside your apartment discussing your yearly recap with your ghostly best friend.
“That ridiculous final exam lowered my grade and I walked out of that class retaining none of the information. When will I ever need to know about pirates in the 1800’s?” The chocolate wrapper crinkles in your fist as you finish your overly passionate recollection of the most useless class you could have taken this whole year.
Jaehyun sits by your side, facing you as he hugs his knees close to his chest. A small grin dots the dimple on his left cheek when you peer over at the huddled boy and the sad reminiscent glisten in your eye does not go unnoticed. “You used to love pirates. Dressed up like one for Halloween and went up to every house yelling,” Jaehyun clears his throat and perks up, ready to perform.
A balled fist in the air, paired with a look of utter gusto and passion, Jaehyun speaks in an attempt to horribly reenact your once embarrassing pirate impression. “Argh! You scoundrel, give me all the treasures in your possession… preferably chocolate sweets.” He holds his stomach as he bursts into a fit of his baritone laughter. His wide mouth grows into such a big, open smile that his eyelashes dance on his glowing cheeks.
“For a ghost, you sure look like someone who’s very much alive.” Naturally, you’d swat lightly at his knee or arm whenever he would joke around. However, the pain of your hand passing right through him breaks this habit and you’re left scoffing at the way Jaehyun is consumed with laughter.
“You know, for someone who is alive… you sure look a bit … lifeless. When was the last time you were happy, y/n?” Jaehyun finally settles down and gently nudges at your elbow.
His question hits you like a wall of bricks. Unexpected and completely straightforward, but that’s just always been the way he is. “This past weekend when I turned in my last assignment for the semester.”
“No. The last time you were genuinely happy, not relieved. You mentioned a boyfriend, right?”
Rolling your eyes, you grow a bit silent and annoyed at his comment. “Listen, hopeless romantic. Not every relationship is perfect sunrays and gushy unconditional love.” Perhaps, your gaze drops down to your hands and the wrinkled wrapper between your fingers has worn out from your fidgeting.
Johnny Suh. If you could move mountains for this man, you would. It all started due to an accidental happenstance of you abruptly walking into your campus’ coffee shop to seek shelter from the rain and him, the attractive barista behind the counter, chasing after you in a stained apron and an immensely strong aroma of coffee beans. Jaehyun practically swooned over hearing how you two met, hearts in his pupils and a dreamy grin resting fondly as he attentively listened.
Jaehyun has always wanted a relationship, though he did have many admirers in high school, he never had the opportunity to experience one true love and to play out every sappy romantic thing rom-coms taught him. Hearing about your love life is the closest thing he can get to it, unfortunate for him, but fortunate that his best friend still has some romance in them.
Nevertheless, it’s only been a few months together. Though Johnny has seen intimate parts of you, he’s never experienced a winter with you and frankly, he won’t ever experience one with you if you keep this up.
“Johnny doesn’t make you happy, then why are you with him?” Jaehyun knows Johnny makes you feel something that is hard for you to put into words. He also knows the type of person you are, pushing your buttons to get you to defend something you love. Boldly. Loudly. Strongly. He knows how to get you to spit out words of truth, even when they’re difficult.
“My partner is the literal definition of happiness, okay?” The defensiveness drives your assertiveness further. “The last time I was happy was when…” your eyes are frantically examining the floor for any source of focus as a highlight reel of this whole year flashes through your mind.
“... On my birthday, he planned me a picnic. Bought me roses, the whole grand scheme of romance. I started to cry, out of happiness… it was the first time in a while that the reason behind my tears was something good.” There’s somewhat of an epiphany when you finish your sentence. Your voice gets lost in your train of thought as the blissful scene plays out.
“Why were you crying?” Jaehyun snatches the distracting wrapper from your fingers, it being unrecognizable from the wear and tear. It causes you to meet Jaehyun’s round eyes: empty, but not sad. They’re lost, yet filled with purpose.
Jaehyun has always been able to open up the darkest parts of your heart. “Because it reminded me of the time when you and I walked up that steep hill over on Fifth Street… and we forgot the picnic blanket. But it didn’t matter because after the strenuous journey, all we wanted was to sit down and enjoy some fucking sandwiches, along with some hot chocolate your mom packed us.”
“y/n, you cried over the memory of sandwiches and exercise? That’s so---”
“Before you insult me by calling me lame,” you bring your finger to stop him mid-way and narrow your eyes, “I was so happy to be able to share our same experience with someone else. Even though you’re gone, I can still have these happy moments with other people.”
Then, Jaehyun gathers both of your hands to hold and brings them to his soft lips. Everything about him feels cold, like a harsh chill that bites at your skin. In spite of it all, his delicate kiss on your knuckles somehow feel warm and slightly comforting. Jaehyun peers up with kind eyes, “you’re almost there. I will do everything I can to get you there.”
Blinking at him with confusion, your expression asks the questions for you. When he sets your hands in his lap, a soft pat on the back of your hand reassures you. “Can we bake Christmas cookies?”
Rolling your eyes, you tear your hands away from him. He leaves you with unspoken words and an oddly comforting feeling, but it’s not enough to dissipate your deeply rooted dislike for this particular holiday. “You ask this every year.” Getting up, you walk towards your bedroom to get away from feeling too vulnerable.
Jaehyun watches your back intently as you’re stumbling over your feet. He whispers to himself, “and I think this year is going to be the last year I’ll ask for it.” And a hopeful smile appears joyously as he anticipates the storm before reaching still waters.
The sound of the doorbell awakens you and Jaehyun is nowhere to be seen. He comes and goes as he wishes, however, he’d usually accompany you during the mornings. You’re particularly sluggish, finding it difficult to adjust to the blinding white sky outside as snow continues to drift upon the city.
“Good morning, gumdrop.” Your boyfriend is rather chirpy today. Johnny engulfs your fragile body in his long arms and you’re lost in his scent of peppermint bark.
“This was unexpected.” His shirt muffles your tiny voice and Johnny is setting down bags of groceries on your kitchen countertop.
“I texted you last night that I was coming over to do some grocery shopping for you. Did you sleep early?” Your very helpful boyfriend starts unloading all the parcels of fresh produce and your favorite snacks. However, there is a slight tinge of annoyance and possibly it’s due to the fact you weren’t expecting to see anyone during your isolation. Johnny couldn’t have known though.
A deep sigh escapes your lips and you walk over to stop his movements. A hand holds his arm and the other intertwines with his own, but you stand under him with the sweetest smile you could wear during the holiday season. “How is it that your mom invited me to your family holiday party, but tells me that you’re not going to be there?”
Your smile automatically falls from your lips and a hand retracts from his warmth. It’s the sudden truth that you must face, the confession of your sadness that you’ll eventually need to tell your partner. Wondering how he’s going to take the news, your mom probably gave him a brief breakdown about how you’ve been this way for the past few years now.
Nonetheless, Johnny has always been bold with his statements and though you’ve adjusted to his abruptness, this one is hard to give a quick answer back to. So as you’re racking how to present your dark narrative, Johnny sets you down on the couch with the utmost gentleness. You don’t even feel the cushion underneath you when the million different answers streamline their way into your brain.
Johnny notices your frantic eyes and unfocused gaze, growing a bit concerned at how cold your skin feels at his touch. Taking off his sweatshirt, he carefully slips it over your shaking figure. When the softness of the polyester cotton blend brushes upon your bare arms, you’re snapped back facing a worried expression.
And you say the one thing on your mind, the only thing you can think of in your scattered brain. “Jaehyun died during this time of year, so it just makes me very emotionally unstable to… participate in any festive events. I’d rather be alone, the whole holiday season.”
Johnny nods, but his face remains with his eyebrows together and lips pressed into a tight line. He’s well aware of who Jaehyun was and means to you. Though you don’t talk much about him, your eyes light up with a bright twinkle whenever you do. It’s like the world spins ‘round and everything feels restored. Johnny knows enough about your good friend to deduct how hard it must be for you during the winters.
“Can I help you in any way?” Johnny peers over at you with a small smile, and you wish there is something in your decaying heart to keep it up forever.
“I hate to say it, but please just leave me alone for the winter.” Flopping on his lap, you’re burying your face in your hands to cower away from seeing your sunshine hurt. There are no more sugar coated kind words for you to pick and choose from.
While Johnny can understand how difficult it must be for you, he still holds onto a sliver of hope that you’ll come around. “Come on, don’t be such a Grinch. No one should be alone for Christmas.”
Groaning, you sit up and roll your eyes at the familiar references. “Listen, Cindy Lou Who. Don’t call me that.”
“It’s still a cute nickname, you don’t think?” Johnny snickers lightly, but your expression turns rather grim and serious. A faint overcast of melancholy washes over your expression as you’re staring off into your memories again.
In a faint voice, your voice is barely above a whisper, “that used to be one of Jaehyun’s favorite movies.” Your arms drop from your puffed up chest, but Johnny catches your hand and kisses your fingertips.
“What was yours?” Johnny keeps the atmosphere as light and playful while he still can.
“The Nightmare Before Christmas.” Ironically fitting and that’s one of the sole reasons you don’t watch holiday movies anymore. There have been too many parallels with your life and the wrenched holiday. As twisted as the joke may seem, you’ve lived your own nightmare before Christmas, except you never got the happy ending to it all. It’s like a nightmare that continues and you can’t escape it.
Having said, Johnny pulls you up to stand and draws you into the biggest hug. “I can’t leave you alone, even if I tried my very best. I still get butterflies every time you smile at me, so you think I wouldn’t be addicted to that feeling?”
“Johnny…” This man is in love with you until the ends of this Earth, until the horizon stretches so far that it’s unimaginable to see where it stops.
“I’ll respect your wishes as much as I can, but know that it’s not the best form of healing.” The final word causes a chill to run down your spine. It implies that you’re still hurting, although he’s not wrong, it’s rather disheartening to hear someone else speak it aloud. “I’ll come around less.”
“If I’m grumpy, then you’ll know why. And don’t try to shove the whole Christmas spirit act on me, I don’t want to hear a single thing about it! I can’t spend a Christmas without Jaehyun.” Johnny squeezes your shoulders at your bold declaration.
“You can’t or you won’t?” A painful tick at your heart leaves you speechless at his question.
For as long as you could remember, every Christmas was spent with Jaehyun. Picking out a tree for both of your families and getting lost together between the evergreens brought laughter and excitement. Baking cookies and drawing the ugliest faces in tacky colorful frosting always happened a few days before the holiday. Drinking hot chocolate by his family’s fireplace and watching Christmas movies were one of your favorite activities. Christmas Eve was always so special, where you and Jaehyun made it tradition to open your gifts from each other right when the clock struck midnight.
Then everything simply stopped. And when you tried to participate in those same activities, selfishness and guilt preoccupied your heart. What do any of those things mean without Jaehyun? Jaehyun was the reason you loved Christmas as much as you did. Then, his death became the reason you hated it as much as you do.
“I think that’s enough for today.” Johnny knows he’s hit a nerve, he can see it in your glossy eyes and subtle drop in the corners of your mouth. There is no protest from the taller man when he accepts his sweatshirt without a complaint. The bitter cold air bites at your bare shoulders again and you’re practically existing in its lack of warmth. Gathering the rest of his belongings, you two bid a kiss goodbye and shut the door.
It’s almost a relief that he’s gone and the tear runs down your cheek when your back hits the door. Suddenly, Jaehyun appears across the living room leaning on the door frame to your bedroom. “He seems like a nice guy.”
“He is.” There is a hang at the end of your sentence and Jaehyun walks toward you. A few sniffs fill the empty apartment, but you’re rubbing away any sign of sadness from your face.
“But?”
“But, he’s so optimistic about… everything. He lives by the sun and every waking day, he just lives it to the fullest. There’s nothing in the world for this man to possibly understand how sad I feel.” It’s the heaviness in your voice that has your heart sinking to the pit of your stomach.
Jaehyun’s freezing hands graze your chin and as he lets go, his stare doesn’t leave yours. “Learn from him.” Your best friend’s ghastly voice reminds you that he’s not real. He’s a ghost. He’s very much gone and not for a split second, should you be wanting to cave into his embrace or else, you’ll hit the floor hard. Nevertheless, you’re entirely vulnerable and the next few words that leave Jaehyun’s mouth causes your throat to close up.
“Keep him close. y/n, he is the sun.” It’s a moment you thought you’d never witness, your best friend complimenting your significant partner. Moreover, it hurts to think about how great of friends Jaehyun and Johnny could have been. “To be very honest, you need some heat this winter.”
“Then, what were you?” It’s the curiosity that nips at your tongue as it leaves no space for a pause. The thumping of your heart being so loud in the dead silence, but you know Jaehyun doesn’t have a heart to beat recklessly as yours.
Jaehyun smirks and chuckles fondly, despite how desperate and serious you may have sounded. “I was a pain in the ass.”
Scoffing, you break the immensely intense eye contact. “You still are. This whole haunting thing is very creepy.” Gesturing his entire being in front of you, he just looks so alive and breathing. Before Jaehyun, you always thought ghosts were floating entities with a white transparency. But your best friend stands before you, well aged and all together.
It still tosses you into shambles as to why Jaehyun exists, but you’ve given up on figuring out his purpose. He could be a form of your own imagination for all you care, perhaps you’ve grown so sad that you started to seek things.
Companionship from the one person you wish was still alive?
Like before, you’ve always spent Christmas with Jaehyun… alive or in ghost form.
It’s another one of those long days that seem to never end. The bright white sky seems unchanging, stark with a dusty and imminent endless overcast of snow. It’s blinding and you’re regretting the moment you overlooked the curtain blinds at the department store.
Your phone has already been lost somewhere underneath your bed and there isn’t a single desire to reach for it. Missed calls pile up, voicemails clutter your inbox, texts flood your messages, and your social media notifications fill your screen. Despite everyone’s effort to contact you, there is no sense of joyous cordial nature to even glance at them.
Jaehyun has been appearing more frequently and staying for longer periods of time. The conversations bring an empty comfort, most of the times you feel the need to remind yourself that you’re not actually talking to someone, are you?
“What’s that sad look in your eyes?” He startles you when you’re off looking vacantly out the window. Your mind has been completely distracted lately by meaningless thoughts and the sweetest reels of Jaehyun that have turned blue.
The more you wrap yourself in your white sheets, the less you can feel any source of warmth. And perhaps you haven’t realized that you no longer felt any heat the past few days, that you’re at a freezing point and it’s made you numb.
“Not sure what you mean.” Your voice remains dull and monotone, lifeless almost. Jaehyun takes a seat against the window and for the first time, you can see right through him.
“It’s not your fault, y/n.” Is he a mind reader too? The thought that always circles your mind when Christmas draws near is not only that Jaehyun is gone forever, but how you could have prevented it all. The guilt eats you up and no matter how hard you’re searching for acceptance, it slips away from you before you have a chance.
When you don’t answer, Jaehyun heads over to your bed and he’s alarmed at how cold your hands are. “It was never your fault.” Your best friend pulls you into a hug, but it can barely be felt. What kind of hug can’t be felt?
“I never said it was.”
“No, but you thought about it.” The chilly draft causes you to shiver and it’s hard for you to concentrate on anything else besides the night of his death.
“I should have stopped you from coming over.” Although you’ve confessed this many times to him before, it never gets easier to say. Jaehyun sighs and ultimately frowns at your tears slipping from your eyes again. Like the snow that drifts from the heavens, your tears know no end to their downfall. It’s become too natural for them to appear. The closer it gets to Christmas, the harder it is to stop from crying.
“It’s hard for me to speak about it since we don’t remember much of the same moments---”
“Jaehyun! I remember that night as clear as it was just yesterday that it happened.” There’s no reason to yell, but a strong sense of pain erupts from your chest.
He’s so calm at your sudden outburst, turning his head to face you with a deadpan expression. “You weren’t there, y/n. You were home, safe and sound as you should have been. I’m more than grateful that you’re the one alive.”
“I’m not!” But when the confession leaves your lips, you’re shaking and fearful. The entire room is stiff and silent. You couldn’t even believe what you had just said, wondering if that is anything close to truth. You look up at Jaehyun, who blinks at you with furrowed eyebrows and wide eyes. “I mean,” you clear your throat in the midst of the tense atmosphere. “I could have saved you.”
“You’re not a hero and I didn’t need saving when I was already gone.” He taps his temples lightly, “full trauma to the head. It was just my time to go.”
“The secret. I wanted to know so bad that I didn’t stop you from coming in a snowstorm!” Jaehyun pats your head in an attempt to soothe your aching heart.
“And I wanted to tell you just as bad that I didn’t care about the snowstorm. y/n, stop blaming yourself for something that happened to me. The universe is much more complex than that, give it some credit.”
“You’re even philosophical as a ghost? Give me a fucking break.” Groaning, you pull the sheets over your head to somehow run away from the conversation.
Jaehyun lies down next to you, smiling cheekily to himself and glancing over at the lump that you had become underneath the blankets. “Do you remember the time I taught you how to ride a bike?”
“I thought it was your dad who taught me.” You grumble, tossing away the sheets to glance over at him. It always puzzled you how Jaehyun never remembered the same memories as you do, and even if you did, one of you remembered it differently.
“He was probably there as supervision. I was the one who helped you take off your training wheels and strap on your impressively thick knee pads.” You’re lying on your elbows now, fists pressing into your cheeks and a fond attentive gaze upon Jaehyun’s resting figure. He’s staring up at the ceiling that protects you two above, yet can cave in at any moment.
Dimples dip into his round supple cheeks as his toothy smile comes into view, reliving the happy memory. “You rang your little bell so many times that day.”
“Because I was scared!” You protest, muttering something incoherent. “Didn’t we go downhill when I said I wasn’t ready?”
“We went downhill because you said you were ready.” His hair ruffles in your sheets when he turns to face you, and he just takes your breath away. It’s the stars in his dark eyes that sweep you off your feet, like the gleaming star on top of a tree. The color that oozes from his smile, like Christmas lights that line a rooftop, make it hard not to stare. Jaehyun looks just like Christmas, the most wonderful thing of the year. In someway, he resembled an angel or the soft sheet of snow ready to fall right through.
You’re encompassed by overwhelming effervescent emotions from listening and watching Jaehyun glow and gleam. “Then, what?”
Jaehyun’s low chuckle illuminates the room, dazzling the boring grey interior. “Little ol’ you, hurt yourself real bad that day, scrapes and wounds you thought you’d never heal from. You didn’t talk to me for a week, but you ended up learning how to ride a bike.”
“Is that right?”
Jaehyun rests on his side now, only an elbow supporting his body and he’s leaning in close to your face, you’re almost too sure you could feel a breath on your lips. “No matter how painful it gets, I’m always here to push you through it all.”
When your heart beats sporadically at his proximity, you didn’t realize that you are holding in a breath, being quite afraid that if you let it out, it would simply blow him away for the night. And you’re not ready for him to leave you again.
Christmas Eve;
It had to be a miracle that anyone got a hold of you this week when Johnny comes practically banging at your door. Though you are so close to ignoring his loud thumping, the sound of your boyfriend’s soft sniffles alarms you greatly.
“y/n, holy shit!” It’s deja vu when you’re in his arms again, a horribly warped version of it when the smell of peppermint bark tickles your nostrils disgustingly. “I thought something happened to you. You weren’t answering my calls or texts.”
“My one wish for Christmas was to be left alone and I meant it.” The attitude in your voice becomes jarringly evident and Johnny blinks back at you with a new found annoyance as well.
“Can you at least think of the other people around you?” He holds your shoulders lightly, but staring into his eyes seems to be harder to do lately. Jaehyun appears on the couch, lying flat on his stomach and a hand resting underneath his chin. This is no longer a private conversation, but you learned long ago that no one else can see him.
“Who are you talking about? My family? Because they’ve all given up on me.” This is the first time Johnny has seen you act so cold and distant, yet entirely vulnerable. You’re stripped of everything that you usually hide in --- oversized clothes, happy smiles, and a beaming warmth.
All Johnny ever wants is for you to be loved, not only by him, but by the world. And interestingly enough, he loved you for your vulnerability and your rawness. This is until he realizes, in this moment, that it stems from your trauma of losing Jaehyun.
“What about me, y/n? I’m still here.” Johnny is frantic, and by all means, hurt by your aloofness. Brushing off his hands from your body, you’re taking several steps away from him.
“And why are you still here when I kept telling you to leave me alone? Whenever I was upset, Jaehyun always gave me space! Haven’t ever thought about how that is something I need?” You’re saying nonsensical statements that are fueled by anger and annoyance.
He’s pushing your limits and for once, you’re pushing him away. But this isn’t new to you, in fact, you’ve pushed so many people away just like this and that’s why they’ve decided to just let you be.
Johnny is taken aback, “you know, I feel like I’m competing with Jaehyun and I’ve never even met him.”
You scoff and throw your arms in the air, visibly in disbelief at what your boyfriend is saying to you. May you lose your temper, you’re unsure about the future of this relationship. Yet, something in your cruel and painful heart no longer cared, snapping your wits and patience at your beloved.
“What are you saying?” You’re pacing back and forth, fuming with an inexplicable infuriation. Jaehyun catches your eye, and for a brief moment, you’re holding eye contact with him instead. “Jaehyun is dead,” facing Johnny now, you say words that jumble in your chest, regardless of their true meanings, “and even if he was alive, there would be no competition.”
“Because you were always going to choose him over everyone else in your life, is that right? Exactly like how you do now.” Johnny’s words sting like daggers at your skin, worse than the layer of frost that bites at you for the past two weeks.
“Please, don’t attack me for hurting.” With that, your voice breaks and cracks all over. Your tears hit the ground without you feeling them run down your cheeks.
Johnny is quick to wipe them away, not minding that his hands will now be wet from your salty droplets. He instantly regrets it all, the unwarranted questions, the fighting, the barging in unexpectedly. It pains him more to see you like this.
“I apologize. I’m sorry that I’m not saying the kindest words to you when you need to hear them the most.” Your partner is frowning, a true rare sight to see. “But, you’re still grieving and there is going to have to be a time that you move on.”
It’s one of those tip of the iceberg moments or when the ball finally hits the ground and a rush of cathartic enthusiasm washes over you. However, you’re not happy. You’re not even remotely close to happiness. You’re fucking sad, you’re aching with a pain so deeply rooted that it isolates you, that it rips apart anything that used to bring you joy.
And this causes you to scream your lungs out, sobs that choke you up. “I can’t! You don’t understand, no one understands! I just fucking can’t. He was my best friend and that night… he was going to tell me something.” Jaehyun can’t bear to hear your piercing wails, as he’s disappeared completely from the setting. When you’re panicked and searching for him, you only see Johnny staring back at you with a very concerned expression.
“And I will never know what he wanted to tell me.” Your tone grows soft and rather delicate, like a sad realization at the possibility that the secret died with Jaehyun that night.
“Some things are better left unknown. Do you really think you’ll feel better knowing?”
“Listen to him, y/n.” Jaehyun randomly appears next to Johnny’s stature. He stands a few inches shorter than him, but the sight of them together has you blinking in awe.
You’re darting between the two of them, “I don’t know what will make me feel better.”
“Come, tonight. Your whole family wants to see you for the one holiday that brings people together.” But when Johnny steps forward, you’re taking a step back.
“Please, just go.” With an assertive point to the door, your head does not lift up to watch your boyfriend leave. Despite every person you’ve done this to, Johnny’s hurts the most. His flame dies out tonight, providing no sense of security or heat. And with a toss of his arms of exasperation, he shuts your front door and leaves without a goodbye, without wishing you a merry Christmas.
Jaehyun calls your name, but you’re rushing to your bedroom and slamming the door shut. “Don’t you dare travel through the wall.”
Your apartment has grown so dark due to the shorten winter days. It’s pitch black all around you and the sky is no longer a deafening white. It’s the first time you notice the dark blue scattered clouds and the intricate snowflakes that drift carefully down to the streets. And, you’re all alone in the quietness. You truly are isolated every Christmas.
“y/n, let’s talk.” Jaehyun is beyond fed up with your behavior, that has to be the last straw. This is the first year since his death that he’s seen the evident spark in your eye, the hope that is hiding behind your depression. He sees it in the way Johnny looks at you, like you’re the greatest present he could receive in life. In your proclamation, as hard as it was to witness, is a spirit that wishes to be freed. There was a chance this year. There still is one.
“Jaehyun, you left me! You left all alone, and no matter how hard I try to stop thinking about you, it never works. In the end, no one is here for me like how you were.” Hands in your hair, you’re losing yourself at a rapid rate. It hurts to keep your eyes open, tears sting as they well up around the rims.
“Find a part of me in the people around you.” The door to your bedroom swings open and Jaehyun takes note of you by the window again. You want to leave, you want to be out there and he knows, before you can actually realize it yourself. You’re turning to face him and in the dark, he looks solid. He looks so real and whole.
“How do I do that?” It’s a genuine question that you’ve pondered before, but never feeling like you had the strength to do so. You’re always dwelling on your past with Jaehyun, indulging in the sacred memories only you two shared.
“What are things that you associate me with?” He is found leaning against your door frame again, hands are shoved into the pockets of his faded jeans.
You say the first thing on your mind, “snow.” When the words hit the air, your ceiling light flickers briefly. Jaehyun doesn’t flinch, however, still focused on your crying figure. Snow, the first sign of snowfall is when he appears for the winter.
“What else?” He encourages.
“Familiarity.” The light flashes again, for a mere second longer this time before it resumes darkness. Familiarity, for he grew up by your side for as long as you could remember.
There is an odd feeling that enters the room and you’re fearful of the unknown. But, Jaehyun’s cadence doesn’t falter, he’s not distracted by the random spurts of light. And if anything, it all could be his doing. “Keep going.”
“Comfort.” Flicker. “Warmth. Love. Excitement.” With each word, the light builds stronger and stronger. You’re speaking memories into existence now, “making snow angels until it got dark, laughing until our stomachs hurt, watching movies until the clock struck midnight, dancing until our legs gave out!”
Streams run down your face and you’re yelling until your throat feels raw, but you don’t wish to stop as the light glows brighter and brighter with each spoken word.
As you listen to every listed attribute and memory, you recognize a central theme in all of them and one thing that Jaehyun embodies, the one thing he’s always been associated with.
“Christmas.” A shaky breath exhales and a loud spark pierces your ears. The light illuminates intensely all around you, lighting up the darkest corners of your room and blinding you more than the sky has been lately.
“Jaehyun?” Closing your eyes, you can see the brightness through your eyelids and you’re beyond confused as to what is happening. When you mindlessly reach for his hand, you actually feel it and your heart is soaring due to strange unquestionable physics.
Jaehyun intertwines your hand in his own and caresses your face gently. For once, he doesn’t feel cold. He’s blazing hot, melting away the long days of isolation. “Open your eyes, y/n.”
What lies before you is an incredible, marvelous sight. Snow dusts the roof of your family’s house as green, red, yellow bulbs light the frame of it. Your parents really went all out; round snowmen sit perfectly together on your lawn. A decorative wreath hangs at the front door and a distinct chuckle catches your attention.
From the window that looks into your kitchen, your mother rolls a sheet of dough on the counter as clouds of flour erupt around her. Your father is preoccupied at the stove, with the silliest gimmicks for decorating the feast they’re about to hold. Silver tinsel line the dinner table with a festive table cloth draped upon it. The remarkable tree shines in the center of the living room, a glimmering star on top.
“I know we probably won’t see y/n again this Christmas…” The sound of your mother’s voice rings a bell in your yearning heart and Jaehyun is gazing at you with a wondrous look in his eyes. The grip on his hand is tight, your breath enters the night in puffs of smoke, and regardless of this all being real or imaginary, you’re so immersed in this reality that he knows you’re anticipating what your family has to say.
“... but something about this year really makes me miss them.” Your mother puts the rolling pin off to the side and rests her hand on the kitchen counter, trying to hold back any form of her own tears from falling.
“May Jaehyun watch over them tonight, our little angel doesn’t deserve to be alone.”
Your dad walks over to embrace your mother in a long hug, kissing the top of her head gently. “Merry Christmas, y/n.” Your father speaks into the air, without the knowledge of you outside, he’s thinking of you.
Something in your heart shatters, but it’s entirely different from the pain you’ve felt over the years following Jaehyun’s death. It’s a warm, bubbly feeling that spreads across your chest and you’re covering your mouth out of pure shock at the sight of your parents.
Your parents, who you’ve neglected every holiday season, still think of you. You recognize the ingredients that scatter the table, they make your favorite dish every year in hopes you’ll come join them.
Jaehyun whispers, “y/n, know that I’m always going to be here. I may physically be gone, but I live in your heart and the joyous memories we’ve shared together. I live through the many people who love you now, through Christmas. This spirit is also very much alive in the other people around you.”
When you peel your eyes from the scene of your parents, the vision suddenly disappears and you’re facing Jaehyun right back in your cold, empty, dark apartment. But you wish the moment lasted a little longer. For the first time in a long time, you wish to be with your loved ones. You wish to celebrate Christmas with the people who still care about you, the ones that are still alive and well.
“What if I’m not ready?”
“This signifies my final push down the hill. You’re all strapped up in your knee pads, y/n. You’re never truly going to be ready, but that shouldn’t stop you from trying.” Jaehyun pats your head lovingly and mimics the motions of securing a helmet on your head.
You’re letting go of his hand, running around quickly in search for the appropriate outerwear for the snow. It’s like a switch went off in your heart and a cathartic feeling settles in the pit of your stomach.
Every Christmas since his passing, you thought it was best to be alone. You thought it was selfish to live your favorite holiday season without your best friend, that you lost the spirit of Christmas.
However, this entire time… Jaehyun’s ghost has been a reminder that the Christmas spirit has always been alive. It’s not about the enthusiastic festive events or the cheerful themed activities or the distinct colorful decorations, it’s about the appreciation and love you have for the people who have made your year so special. You’ve associated the holiday so much with your best friend, that you’ve lost sight of it in your family, your current friends, your own boyfriend.
When you’re rushing out the door, you stop in your tracks and peer back at Jaehyun leaning against your door frame, just as he appeared a few weeks ago. He has the warmest, brightest smile on his face, “y/n, I think I finally remember the secret I wanted to tell you.” You’re afraid of the answer and the outside world, but your hand doesn’t slip from the door handle. Could it really be? The long anticipated secret that has been gnawing at your conscience since his death?
Nevertheless, he’s giggling and holding his stomach slightly from the immense amount of joyous laughter. “I wanted to tell you that I... finally learned how to shave.”
At first, you’re stunned at the simplicity of the beheld secret. All this time, you thought it had been something so meaningful, something so mind blowing, that needing to know practically destroyed your mental state. Then, a wholehearted and genuine laugh erupts from inside of you and you’re lighting up the darkest parts of yourself. Jaehyun looks at you fondly, like a beauty that he hasn’t seen in awhile.
“That’s fucking it? You came out in the middle of a blizzard to tell me you learned how to shave? How lame.”
Jaehyun chuckles, “when did I ever need an extremely valid reason to see you?” The laughter falls short at his confession and in the midst of all this enthusiasm, you bid him the softest smile. His purpose has been fulfilled, as the best version of you he’s always known and loved stands before him at last.
“I guess... you’re right. What’s going to happen to you now?”
“I’ll always be here for Christmas, even when you’re old and grey surrounded by the warmth of your loved ones in front of a large, extravagant Christmas tree. When the snow falls, I’ll be here.” Jaehyun’s dimple smile is the lasting image you see, the one you’ve always hoped to remember him by.
“Merry Christmas, Jung Jaehyun… I--”
“Love you too, y/n. Merry Christmas.” He ushers you out the door with a small kiss on your knuckles.
That is the last time you ever see him again. Now, when the snow falls, it marks the anniversary of your long awaited healing, the journey to acceptance, and the beloved memory of your best friend. May you never lose the spirit of Christmas and the warmth from your loved ones.
#nct scenarios#neowritingsnet#nct-writers#neothestars#kpopscape#nct scenario#nct#jaehyun scenarios#jaehyun#jung jaehyun#nct fluff#nct angst#nct imagines#jung jaehyun scenarios#jaehyun scenario
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Horror themed geraskier fic recs
all that was good, all that was fair (all that was me is gone) Somewhere, deep in a forest, a man drags himself from his grave by sheer power of will. He lies gasping on the forest floor and does not know who or what he is. The world is wide and wonderful, though, and there is so much to see.-Or, Jaskier is so stubborn that he literally comes back from the dead.
An All-Consuming Creature Following the events on the mountain top, Jaskier and Geralt have parted ways. Months pass and winter comes, brining with it stillness and the ever-pressing silence to remind Geralt that someone is missing. But spring is late in coming. Worry and work pours in through every part of the country as the people consult every power available: witchers, sorceresses, kings, and countrymen, for nothing is growing in the fields. Nothing flowers. What can be the cause? And why in all this time has he heard not a single note from that familiar lute, whatever tavern or pub he's come upon? Rumors abound of the terrifying prospect that spring may not return and the bard's disappearance is lost in the shuffle. When the witcher lost his dandelion, had the world lost so much more?alt — Jaskier gets kidnapped by a strange entity that calls itself Love who attempts to woo him. Meanwhile, the world is dying and no one has answers. Therein lies a mystery and a connection.
A Twist in Time When Jaskier looks over the witcher has his eyes shut tight, his whole body seeming pained. Jaskier realises he wants to soothe him, and the strength of feeling surprises him. He’s been too long without company.“What happened?” the witcher says finally.Jaskier blinks. “That’s quite a big question. I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific.”“With Nilfgaard,” the witcher clarifies, growling slightly. “It shouldn’t – it didn’t happen like this.”In 1240, Jaskier the bard leaves Posada earlier than planned because of a devil in the mountains.In 1263, three years after Nilfgaard conquers the north, Julian Pankratz, viscount of Lettenhove, hires a witcher and learns about the path his life should have taken.This is not an AU.
ghosting “Why are you doing this,” Geralt asks- he is tired. He has not had the time to mourn Jaskier with him right there at his side. “Jaskier. Why are you here?” “Where else would I go?” Jaskier says- bloody teeth.
Hibernating with Ghosts Getting stuck in Kaedwen in winter had never been on Jaskier's plan. It's cold, they don't appreciate his music and nobody likes their national beverage anyway. The only redeeming thing Kaedwen has is Kaer Morhen, so Jaskier does what any reasonable bard would do in this situation: he decides to charm his way into Kaer Morhen to hibernate with Geralt and the other witchers. If nothing it will be an experience no human has ever had, fuel for songs and poems for years to come, while finally teaching him a thing or two about witchers he's just dying to know.Curiosity tended to kill the cat, but Jasker had always seen himself as more of a bird anyway.
Him In his time as a witcher, Geralt has killed just about everything that can be killed: monsters, beasts, constructs, men, even the undead can die again if you know the trick to it. Wraiths, he knows, are the lingering troubled spirits of people who died tragically, violently, unjustly and unavenged. Their unfair fate spawns in them a jealousy and hatred of everything living that quickly drives them mad and makes them dangerous and deadly, driven to torment those responsible for their plight. Usually he feels no more than a twinge of pity as he sends them off again with silver and fire, but then again usually they aren’t haunting him. Usually they aren’t Jaskier.Geralt learns that Jaskier never made it off the mountain after the dragon hunt and, if that’s what it takes to appease the monster that now wears his face, neither will Geralt.
I'd Be the Choiceless Hope “Such a nice, beautiful sound,” the fae crooned. “If only he were this way always.”Julian’s mother stood up. She claimed she was prepared to stop the fae, to protect her baby, but in Julian’s darkest moments he doubted this part of the story. His mother loved him, of that he had no doubt, but she had been young and weary, and even years later, she couldn’t quite get the twinge of exhaustion out of her eyes when she recalled Julian’s infancy. Even if she had been keen on protecting him, the fae was too close, too fast, too set on his plan.“A gift, for the new mother,” the fae continued. He leaned a hand in to stroke Julian’s cheek. “I give you the gift of obedience.”As a baby, Jaskier was visited by a fae, who gifted Jaskier's mother with Jaskier's obedience. As Jaskier grew older, the "gift" became more of a curse.
Silver and Copper Geralt is just supposed to pass through the quiet Lettenhove area. He's not anticipating being begged by its people to help save their viscount from a curse that keeps him from daylight. Lord Jaskier, they call him, and he's likely dying.As Geralt struggles to untangle the ugly web of history that has lead to the increasingly complicated curse, he finds himself spending more and more time with the strange young viscount and wondering just what he might have been before the curse, and who he might be after. But things are not always as they seem, and as the curse tightens its grip on Jaskier, Geralt is forced to face the fear of failing yet another person whose choices were stolen from them.Or-Jaskier is kept from becoming a bard. Geralt finds him anyway.
Singing Silver Jaskier had not noticed that he was falling apart until he found himself looking into Geralt’s golden eyes and realized that he had no defense.“I don’t play for the dead,” he said. Geralt’s gaze held him fast. His heart sped and he wondered if the Witcher could hear it. He wondered if Geralt knew the exhilaration and terror that burned the dread away like flame to oil. “Not anymore.”
The House of Gwyn Carraigh (geralt x eskel x jaskier) A curious boast of luck sees Eskel into the nowhere town of White Stone, the promise of Geralt and Jaskier's company quickly souring with what he finds: Jaskier, alone and half-mad in a nightmarish torment, and Geralt gone missing on a contract. Trying to keep a cool head, Eskel's window to save both Jaskier and Geralt quickly closes.A tale in two acts.
The skin that crawls from you The contract seemed like any at the beginning. But it turned out to be much more.Jaskier would never describe himself as a coward. However, he couldn't help but feel afraid when he found the monster before Geralt, if one could even call it a monster.
Where the Hearts Are Rotted Out Taking the route through Crookback Bog has its risks. So does Jaskier's making fun of the shrine to the Ladies of the Wood. Illness, curses, wraiths, and ancient hags lurk in the fog.Or it could be a regular human cold.
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BNHA Chapter 311 Quick Spoiler Analysis: Searching For Answers
The new chapter is out after waiting 2 weeks! I hope Horikoshi and every other mangaka had a good Golden Week! Anyway, there was a lot of dialogue in this chapter and it was primarily focused on the Top 3 Heroes: Endeavor, Hawks, and Best Jeanist. The last few pages had All Might and Deku in it and 2 surprise guests! I don’t think I have too much to comment on, so this might be a short one:
The chapter starts off with Endeavor taking out a couple of villains who broke out of prison with Detnarat support items on them. Endeavor quickly takes them out with a new Super Move called Ignited Arrow. Well, I say new, but I think we’ve seen this move before back in the Stain Arc. It was that fire spear that Endeavor threw at the winged Nomu. I think that it was only in the anime and it didn’t have a name then. Well, it does now.
Anyway, the Top 3 are trying to capture as many villains as they can in hopes they can trace back to Muscular and ultimately Shigaraki and AFO. No luck so far though. It’s not like finding AFO is going to be THAT easy, c’mon...
But, of course, there are people who have lost their faith in Heroes and are now actively protesting against them picket signs and all. The Top 3 tried to convince them that they’re still Heroes during their big press conference, but it’s clear that wasn’t enough for some people so they just leave in the Jeanistmobile. The ironic thing is that none of these 3 are “False Heroes” Even Endeavor, while he was still a shitty dad, was a great Hero in his own right. Right now, the Top 3 are the last people who should be getting yelled at by the public.
It’s a short detail, but Hawks makes sure that Edgeshot is still looking into the Liberation Front. I’m glad to know that it’s confirmed that Edgeshot is still doing Hero work by gaining intel from the enemy. I don’t think we knew about Edgeshot’s status before.
Another small detail: During this long talk, Hawks calls Izuku “Midoriya” and Endeavor calls him “Deku”. They’re both treating Deku like the kid he is, but it’s interesting that they address him differently. I think that Endeavor is trying to see him as a hero just as much as a child. He did mentor him after all.
The Top 3 have agreed that they should still keep their distance from Deku since they don’t want Deku to be caught with the mass media. Endeavor comments that Deku shouldn’t be burdened anymore than he already is. Even if all this is his idea, Deku shouldn’t have to do this in the first place. I remember reading a comment somewhere that basically said that it was refreshing to see adult characters remind us and our Shonen protagonist that, at the end of the day, they’re just kids. Characters like Reigan from Mob Psycho 100 and Nanami from Jujutsu Kaisen are good example of this. I’m kind of glad to put Endeavor into this category now too. Big improvement from the beginning when he straight up tried to intimate Deku during the Sports Fest.
As Endeavor’s talking, there’s this one panel that shows Deku presumedly when he told his idea to the Top 3. Ngl, this panel makes me sad. Deku just looks so serious and detached in a way. The light in his eyes is still gone. Someone here on Tumblr pointed out that the light in Deku’s eyes have basically been gone since he went off on his own. I quickly went back to the last 5-6 chapters and yeah... That light is just gone. I honestly can’t even tell if that light was there when he woke up back in Chapter 309. Deku’s been through too fucking much. I don’t know if my heart can take it anymore 💔😢
*sniffle* Anyway, the Top 3 are taking about their plan in all this, the status of Shigaraki and AFO, and why they’re after OFA. It’s basically things we already know, including why AFO needs Shigaraki, how much power Shigaraki actually needs and why (they call it “Hatred”), and how they can lure AFO and Shigaraki out. These 3 are just putting all the pieces together into this one massive puzzle that we’ve all been trying to figure out. There’s an interesting focus on Endeavor at one point when he figures out that Shigaraki has a “Lack of Heart” which is probably what’s fueling that Hatred to begin with.
We transition back to All Might who’s keeping track of Deku’s GPS in his own car. All Might comments that Deku’s not getting a lot a of sleep lately. He thinks of what Sir Nighteye said to him back in the day, that All Might should get some rest. For one, Deku needs to get some rest. Sleepless nights aren’t going to help this kid at all. Second, I’m worried that Deku’s going down the same path that All Might went. Being broken down, but still hanging on to that heroic spirit enough to keep fighting even when he probably shouldn’t. Third, I wonder why All Might was thinking of Sir Nighteye specifically here. I feel like All Might still has some regrets about how he didn’t listen to Sir Nighteye before he died. I do wonder why now though?
Suddenly, Deku’s GPS signal is gone and All Might is ambushed with an explosive! Horikoshi please don’t let this be how All Might dies! I highly doubt he’s dead, but god I’d be mad if this is how All Might goes out. He deserves a more ceremonial goodbye when that happens. I’m hoping the car he’s driving his has some sort of extra shield on it like Nick Fury’s did in Captain America: The Winter Soldier.
Finally, we go back to Deku who’s nearly shot at by a mysterious assassin. That assassin being the mysterious women in Tartarus who freed Overhaul! She has a sniper rifle oozing out of her elbow and she has new gear on. It’s also stated that she was sent by AFO himself, so Deku’s plan is actually working so far. I wonder if her Quirk is similar to Momo’s Creation but with only weapons as opposed to almost everything under the sun. We all thought she had an electric-type Quirk earlier, but maybe she made a taser of some sort. IDK, I’m spitballing here.
Speaking of Overhaul, HE’S RIGHT NEXT TO HER TOO! I wasn’t sure with the early leaks because I could only see his head and hair, but the cleaner leaks are out and that’s definitely him. He’s sitting on the roof flappy sleeves and all. I can’t tell if he’s conscious or not, but it’s interesting that the Assassin woman brought him with her. I wonder what his role is going to be? He’s not doing anything at the moment. The Ultra Analysis book said that Overhaul’s Quirk developed somehow without his arms, so I wonder how he uses his Quirk now? With his feet maybe? Also, how’s Deku going to react to this? Will he kick Overhaul’s ass again? Will he try to turn Overhaul to a better path away from the Yakuza and villainy? He wasn’t able to do it last time, so this might be Overhaul’s second chance. Though I’m not sure given that he’s probably one of the biggest pieces of scum in the series. I mean, what he did to Eri especially is straight up unforgivable. I don’t know how Deku’s going to try to redeem Overhaul if he tries. But, I wouldn’t put it past him if he doesn’t.
Yeah, that’s the chapter! It’s good to be back! No sign of Bakugo or Shoto though😭. I want my kids, Horikoshi! But, I’m glad to see that we’ll get to know who this mysterious Tartarus women is. It’s time to simp again, my dudes. I need to know if All Might is ok and I need to know what Overhaul is going to do too. I need to know what Deku’s going to do now too. Things have gotten a lot more interesting now that it seems like Deku’s definitely going to encounter former Villains from the past.
Me rooting for our Heroes and admiring our new villain 💙:
#My Hero Academia Spoilers#Boku No Hero Academia Spoilers#MHA Spoilers#BNHA Spoilers#BNHA 311#MHA 311#Endeavor#Hawks#Best Jeanist#All Might#Izuku Midoriya#Deku#Sir Nighteye#Overhaul#this is getting interesting#Deku needs sleep tho#and All Might better be alive#Spoiler Thoughts#spoilers#my post#my writing
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Oneshot: Substance - Bucky x Reader
Summary: After stumbling upon certain things on your boyfriends phone, your self-esteem drops below zero.
Warnings: Self-hatred, Angst, Fatshaming, kinda Self-Harm (like withdrawal, not eating enough and overly excessive sport), one or two Swear Words.
Words: ~2900
A/N: Didn’t want to keep you guys waiting any longer, so this has been written in an hour without proof-reading. please have mercy with my soul
“Heya, sweetie-pie. Mind giving me the usual?”
There he was, 12 o’clock as usual. Bucky was leaning over the counter and staring at you with his piercing blue eyes.
He gave you a wink as he shoved the money over the counter, looking around the small but full diner. It was always that crowded at this time of the day.
“Come on, you doofus. You know it’s on me” you chuckled as you pressed the coins back in his hand, relishing at his warmth for a brief second before stepping back.
It has become a ritual to prepare his favourite on almost every single day, even though he claimed to love everything on your menu. His therapist once told him that a certain routine would help him adapt to society again, and he stuck to it pretty closely.
And visiting your restaurant was an important part of his day.
“Do you think we can spend the evening?” Your boyfriend was sipping on his coffee, eyes lighting up when you finally got him his piece of plum pie with whipped cream.
When you watched him eating it in almost one bite, you kind of admired him for being able to eat basically anything without gaining weight. But well, on the other hand, training and fighting were his daily bread, so it was no wonder those calories would be burned like it was nothing.
“Gosh, delicious as always” Bucky mumbled and you couldn’t surpress a quiet laugh at your dork while you were serving another customer. “And I mean you in that dress, not the food. Love your style.”
You usually avoided to fuel his stupid way of flirting, no matter how flattered you felt anyway. So you simply changed the topic. “Dunno. Might get late. Today seems to be very profitable.”
It was just wonderful how understanding Bucky was. Well, he knew he was a piece of work as well. Why should he be mad if you were sucessfull anyway?
So he just shrugged with a wide grin as he handed you over the empty plate, saying “Well, then I’ll tidy up the flat until you’re done. Guess who’s gonna get a back rub when they’re back home?”
“Sounds like a Netflix and Cuddle evening?”
“Everything you want, doll.” He gave you a quick kiss on the cheek, knowing you weren’t all that comfortable with PDA - at least at work. “I won’t bother you any longer.”
“You’re never bothering me.” Smirking, you admired the way his muscles bulged through his sleeveless top. “Distracting is a far better word.”
He won’t comment on your statement, rather winking at you and mumbling something like “You just wait until later...” as he already rushed out of the entrance.
Six hours later you were finally able to end your twelve hour shift and close the restaurant almost on time - well...plus the few customers who came about five minutes before closure, and having to clean up the mess you’d always leave behind when cooking as quick as possible.
“I’m home, darlin’!” you cheered as you threw your bag into a corner and got rid of your shoes.
Seems like he was in the shower, at least he yelled something like ‘having something for you when he’s done’.
Well, if the surprise was something cute or nasty - you’d have no problem with either one.
“Hey, babe!” his voice called you out of the bathroom. “Can you look up when we made the reservation for cinema? I made a screenshot from the booking confirmation.”
He’d always ask for that kind of stuff in the weirdest situations. Probably because he knew he’d forget it otherwise.
“Alright.” His smartphone was placed on the nightstand, as usually. It was a miracle that he learned to use it that quickly, but on the other hand he’d always been very invested with new technology.
The two of you had no secrets. And even if: Taking each others cellphones wouldn’t really tell you something you didn’t already know about each other, so it had never been a no-go to use the others phone.
You sat down on the edge of the bed after throwing your sweat-soaked and stained clothes into the basket, wishing Bucky would hurry up so you could clean up and enjoy some hot water.
Scrolling through his picture folder, you hummed a happy little song, already wondring what you’d do on your day off tomorrow.
James is still pretty awkward in todays society, but hell he knew how to treat a woman. And dates were his speciality.
“I can’t fi-” Your words turned into a loud gasp as you saw the preview image of a seemingly naked woman. Shocked, even though you felt bad for prying instead of trusting your partner, you klicked on it to see the whole picture.
It was exactly what you thought it was. That sort of picture drunk elderly men would send each other in Whatsapp Groups.
A beautiful woman, only wearing a thong and presenting it in a - let’s call it ‘seductive’ pose.
And the worst of all was the headline, floating above the models face:
“The Perfect Woman”
This was not the only pic of some sort - you found a dozen of it, videos as well.
Disgusting was the only thing that came to your mind.
Not the woman, though. You were not one to slut-shame anyway.
But a feeling of disgust came up when you layed down the phone and went to the mirror, watching yourself closely. And for the first time, you were not satisfied with what you were seeing.
Sure, you’ve always been kind of chubby. But up until now you’ve never doubtet your beauty.
Curves were always something beautiful to you, even though you had to admit that some days, you were asking yourself why you had to be the only one of your friends who had that hard cellulite and stretch marks.
Maybe if you’d already have kids or were older, you’d be fine with it, but...
On the other hand, your friends would admire the fact that you had bigger breasts and a ‘peach ass’, as they’d call it.
Your mother used to call it ‘atomar boobs’ and ‘birth-enthusiastic hips’, always making you laugh about how self-ironic she was. But on the inside you knew how much she was struggling as well.
There were so many forms of beauty, and you loved every single one of it - including your own. But now..
“Ugly” you told yourself again and again, while trying to find a suitable pose that didn’t make you look like a small, wobbly piece of fat.
Did the opinion of a man really matter more to you than your own? Now you also felt kind of pathetic.
Actually, you were just hurt. Of him not being honest, and obviously searching for something...you didn’t want to say ‘better’, but rather ‘different’ than you.
As former Winter Soldier, he might not be that popular, but his looks sure did the trick anyway. So why not searching for a thin woman if he loves them so much?
Or does he already know them? What if those were not mere pictures, but woman he actually contacted?
The thought alone made you tear up.
You’ve tried. Your whole life you did and he knew that.
It’s a problem you’ve been struggling for your whole youth, after all.
No matter how much sport or diets you tried out, your body just wouldn’t change. Even after you’ve got diagnosed with hypothyreosis, the medication would only do so much as prevent further weight gain.
Things got a lot easier when you were grown up, and the bullies would decrease.
You learned to love yourself, and realized that many people were into exactly your kind of body-type. After finding your own style and way of living, things became so much easier and you could finally be yourself.
“Heya, there” a familiar voice snickered behind your back, “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”
The only reaction Bucky would gain was a pained groan, yet you didn’t dare to make a scene just yet. You wanted him to take the hints and be honest with you, that was what you had decided.
“Didn’t find the picture. Go look yourself.”
With that said, you’d walk straight past him and towards the bathroom. It took you quite a while to cry to your hearts extend, sobs being deafened by the pattering sounds of the shower.
You wrapped a towel around yourself, but when you saw your reflection again as you put on some lotion, you decided to wear the bathrobe.
No matter how you moved, you felt like some fat would always wiggle or roll up somehow - and Bucky felt your discomfort as soon as you greeted him with a twisted face.
“C’mon here, babydoll. We can talk.” He patted the spot right next to him on the bed, and goddamn it was just too unfair how he was posing there on the mattress, looking like a fucking adonis compared to you.
The very second you stiffly layed down next to him, you felt his hand slip under your bathrobe and squeeze your thigh, making you gasp.
“Maybe I can cheer you up otherwise before we talk...” he breathed into your ear, adding a bittersweet “I missed you.”
“Bucky, please. I’m tired.” Perfect. You managed to get that sentence out without your voice cracking once. Now you just needd to turn around and wrap yourself in your comforter before he’d see the tears in your eyes.
You didn’t want him - or anyone else - to touch you ever again.
“O-okay...” James stuttered, already reaching out his hand to touch your shoulder. But in the end, he retreated it, realizing you needed some time for yourself. “Imma be at the sofa if you need me.”
“Or tell me what the fuck is wrong all of a sudden...” He kept himself from saying that.
The following days were the hardest ones yet to come - for both of you.
It all started with you declining all offers from friends to go swimming or visiting some food-places, slowly but steadily withdrawing you from the happy, active life you’ve built up out of anger and shame.
You had grown quite distant as time passed, at first finding any kind of excuse for intimacy, and afterwards not even bearing any kind of physical contact. Not to speak of simple and carefree talking...
The air had become strained around the two of you, but Bucky was too afraid to ask you what was wrong.
Instead of letting off some steam through work as always, you took a few weeks off. It wasn’t like you needed the money anyway, looking at how successfull your work was.
Your restaurant, even though being more of a small diner, had been on the top of New Yorks most popular ones for years. And you were damn proud of it.
Bucky would always say you’re the only one who cooks just like home, and meanwhile you knew all of his favourite dishes.
An unconscious smile ghosted your lips when you thought back to the day where Bucky would go all Winter Soldier on a dude that made fun of you for being “a wandering cliché: a fat woman running a kitchen”. Ouch.
You didn’t go on vacation those days - there was different work to do.
Actually, you liked sports. For fun, that is. Like going to swim with your friends, or going for a walk. Sometimes visiting the gym, even. To you, it was more part of a healthy lifestyle instead of a competition for appreciation.
But now, things were different. You tried to built up your confidence again through secretly visiting the Avengers training rooms - yet to no avail.
Steve kindly offered you help with any certain training, but you declined. This was something you wanted to achieve yourself.
As if that would change anything about your feeling of betrayal...
“Fuck!” you exclaimed after almost falling off the treadmill, having to use the emergency turn-off. Even though many people assumed it, you weren’t really unfit. But those past days, you’ve just overloaded yourself through excessive training and eating almost nothing.
You kneeled down, desperately trying to catch your breath. Looking down, you saw your bruised knuckles from punching the bag earlier and thinking of that damn beautiful woman on Buckys cellphone.
If only you would have the courage to talk this through with him...but you were afraid of the outcome. Of the truth.
Knowing you were all alone on the floor, you finally gave in to your emotions, huddling to a fetal curl and starting to sob over your deadlocked situation.
“Y/N?”
Dear god no - it was Bucky. What was he doing here? It was not his usual training time!
On the other hand: What else did he have to do in his free-time, now that the other Avengers are on a mission and his girlfriend is avoiding him at all costs?
Actually, he wanted to let off some steam as well. But seeing you like this swung his mood in an instant, and he aided you immediately.
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?!” There was genuine compassion in his voice, sorrow even. As if it was his fault.
He was kneeling right next to you, and for the first time in two weeks, you wouldn’t flinch at his touch. “Let me help you...”
“You don’t need to play anymore, James” you whimpered, slapping his hand away. “Just get this over with.”
Now you’ve got him mad. “What the fuck did I do wrong to deserve this, Y/N?!” he screamed and his metal fist would meet the floor, cracking it broken.
“I know damn well I’m far from the perfect boyfriend...” Bucky began to sniffle, still clenching and unclenching his fists. “But I thought you’d love me as I am.”
“You’re one to talk.” Fuck it, now that you seemingly screwed up anyway you could talk freely. “I’ve seen the photos, Bucky. Of the perfect woman. Many of them. Seems like you prefer something not remotely close to me.”
For a while, there was only silence.
Bucky dug his face deep into his palms, as if he wanted to disappear in them - or simply to facepalm in a pretty weird way.
“Doll, is that what all this is about?”
His reaction made you feel kinda strange. “Y-yeah.” Did you overreact?
“You know I don’t possibly know her. Don’t care about her or her body either.” He sat there, cross-legged and with a face as dark as your heart had been those past weeks.
“Then why do you keep a ton of photos of naked models on your phone?!” You jumped onto him, effectively knocking him over and pinning him on the floor. Out of a whim, you wanted to run away, but he trapped you in his hold.
“Gosh, why can’t you talk to me for once?” It almost sounded like he found it funny. “You’re usually one to be upfront about everything.”
A sole tear escaped every eye, but Bucky would catch them with his thumb.
“Sam sent them to me. We have that Whatsapp-Group, and he’s simply that single, horny dude that finds that kind of stuff funny. You know I never delete anything. I have over 5000+ photos on that shit phone.”
You were stunned, looking at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry, doll. I should’ve know you’d stumble across them eventually. But you were always so confident and strong, the thought of it bothering you never crossed my mind.”
“Y-you-” Gosh, what a fucking idiot you were. “You’re not at fault, Buck! I’m so sorry! I feel so stupid right now.”
“And I thought you wanted to leave me...” he murmured, mainly to himself.
“Wha- how could I ever?! You’re the love of my life! Why else do you think your opinion matters this much to me? Look where we are right now!”
“And you know that the beauty-standarts of the 40s are exactly what you look like, right?”
The situation changed so drastically, it left both of you in boisterous laughter.
When you finally catched your breath, holding your thummy at how much you laughed, Bucky would not give you a break - rather cupping your cheeks and pulling your lips onto his.
“Look” he breathed out calmly, his cheek barely brushing yours. “I feel stupid for even saying this, but: My girl doesn’t have to be a model. Beauty is a concept, dear. Everyone pictures something else when they think of it. And I think of you.”
You had already snuggled up onto his chest as he swiftly picked you up, your ear able to sense his heartbeat. Absentmindedly running your hand over his prosthetic one, you realized that you were not the only one who was self-conscious about their appearance.
But just like you never doubted the true beauty of your lover, neither did he.
“Y/N...You’re strong and smart and kind. No one had ever touched my heart the way you did. That’s all that counts.”
_______
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#Bucky x Reader#Bucky x You#Bucky/Reader#Bucky/You#BuckyxReader#BuckyxYou#Winter Soldier#Bucky Barnes#James Buchanan Barnes#White Wolf#Marvel#Avengers#Self Insert#Chubby! Reader#Fanfiction
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the eighth hour | ot7
⇢ pairing: hoseok x reader
[other members - namjoon, seokjin, and jimin]
⇢ genre: (long ass) one-shot, angst, partial fluff, thebreakfastclub!au, highschool!au, badboy!hoseok + fosterchild!hoseok, jock!jimin, nerd!namjoon, and seokjin as just your classic seokjin, childhoodfriends!au, friends to enemies to lovers
⇢ word count: 38.1k
⇢ warnings: explicit language, underage marijuana usage, mentions of alcohol, mentions of sex, themes of bullying, themes of depression/anxiety, mentions of mental abuse, cliché high school tropes, mutual pining (as always), homophobic themes, mentions of physical violence, mentions of explicit pictures
⇢ summary: who would have guessed that five separate events could converge into one shared Saturday detention? what emerged as an even bigger, yet pleasing surprise was the bonds that could form despite the contractual bindings of the high school cliques that you, jimin, namjoon, seokjin, and hoseok were assigned to.
♪ playlist: apple juice - jessie reyez • around - niki • ivy - frank ocean • friends - bts • dont you (forget about me - simple minds ♪
a/n: holy shit this was super fun to write!!! i was going to make this a series but instead i just impulse wrote this as a super long one shot. anyway i hope you enjoy! <3 also the playlist really does match the ~vibes~ so i hope y'all give it a listen :)
8:00 - 10:00
You blamed timing. It had been the only scapegoat to somewhat reconcile your seething frustration, though there was always that part of you that scorned your own poorly executed decisions. Maybe if you hadn’t stopped to say hi and discuss something as unimportant as the temperament of the weather with your teacher in passing, or if you didn’t skip your semi-weekly coffee, or if you hadn’t spent as much time inspecting the new flyers pinned onto the bulletin board then you could have avoided this conundrum. Timing, however, was completely out of your control, making it ideal to place blame on. That and the troublesome deviant who had you being held accountable for actions that were not of your own doing.
Jung Hoseok. Your once childhood best friend turned bitter and drifted towards a life of immorality and mild misdemeanors due to his series of unexplained personal calamities.
Even the nonverbal idea of his name had triggered aggressive animosity in you. Well, it felt like hatred; the burn in your chest whenever you thought of him felt like hatred, but you never dug deep enough to figure it out.
It was shocking that you could feel this despise with such severity, but Hoseok had that particular quality about him that seemed to make anything possible, though you could never quite place what that quality was. And of course, your path intersected with his at the exact wrong time and the exact wrong place. That particular quality had drawn a treacherous curiosity to influence you to linger a few seconds too long, another poor decision of yours. To top it off, the exact wrong person had caught you in this perfectly timed and unfortunate situation and convicted you on the grounds of guilt by association to land you a Saturday detention. Mulling over these consecutive misdirections was punishment enough to drag you miserably through the rest of the week; the detention waiting for you at the end of it was simply the cherry on top.
Apprehensive questions had always been your mom’s go-to tick when it came to you. The car ride to school had been flushed with them being that this was your first detention, let alone run-in with authority, in your entire academic career and your annoyance to her queries was more fuel added to the already monstrous fire of regret. This had produced some odd concoction of eagerness to escape this interrogation. Though you had no real desire to start this long day, your mom’s questions were the closest to giving a reason to that.
Your mother pulled up two blocks away from the library where you would be jailed for the next eight hours, and she packed in a few more questions to delay your departure. You and she sat in the car, marinating in the discomfort, waiting for the minutes to tick by until eight o’clock arrived. Your mother looked to you with pity and guilt as if she were delivering you to a slaughterhouse, not aiding to relieve the guilt of your own harbor.
“It’s just detention, Mom. It’s fine.” And you wished you believed it as much as you wanted her to.
“Did I remember to pack the apple?”
“Yes.”
“And the water bottle isn’t leaking anymore, right?” Her worried voice and demeanor had not been subtle in the slightest for this question had been asked about eight minutes ago in this same car ride.
“No, mom.” The bite in your response had warned her to relent her questions.
“Okay, I’ll see you at four.”
“I’ll see you.”
“I love you, ___.”
“Love you.”
Stepping out of that car, finally escaping from the perpetual, suffocating questions had you identifying the crisp Winter air as a comfort. The fog decorating the school’s roof and treetops looked like it wouldn’t recede. It was abhorrent, not being able to get a glimpse of the sun before an epoch of detention stole your last few seconds of freedom.
Your deep inhalations had formed a few puffs of clouds mixing with the surrounding fog, and you began to prepare entry into the penitentiary that others called the library. Your heart had been pounding from the momentum of frustration with your mom’s doting. However, it hadn’t ceased even when you parted ways because of the dread of facing Jung Hoseok once again.
If the thought of his name was enough to send you into a hurricane-like rage, you couldn’t imagine what type of disastrous storm awaited you being confined with him for the next eight hours.
The walk down these couple of blocks was paced intentionally to stall the beginning of this tortuous Saturday. Your strides had slowed substantially as they carried you down the halls of your high school, past the bulletin boards that hammered more guilt upon remembering that was one of the fatal mistakes that led you here, then past the school’s cafe that drilled the regret even deeper in your bones.
As you approached the doors to the library, you gripped the cold handle until it grew warm from your hand. A bit of time to breathe, compose and mask your nerves granted you half an ounce of dignity needed to open the door and step through the threshold. You walked over to the two rows of three desks and exchanged a cordial glance with the school’s renown football star, Park Jimin, seated at the front right table, in a manner that disguised your guilt with indifference. Then, you settled in the seat at the table behind his, finding this the optimal place to draw the least amount of attention.
The quiet boy sitting in the back of the rows had reacted with a noticeable surprise to see your face in this setting. He looked as embarrassed to be here as you felt, however, while you refused to show it, he draped it on his expression with little to no restraint. Both of you did not bother with the formality of a nod or smile, but a simple acknowledgment for the lack of proper acquaintance.
Though you had never had a personal interaction with him, you still knew his name to be Kim Namjoon and that he was characterized by everyone who knew him as the nerdiest kid in school. Quite a cliché, though you had no reason to think he was anything beyond that since his rounded eyeglasses and turtleneck sweater certainly upheld the truth in that stereotype.
The remnants of your intruded sleep felt heavy in your eyes which numbed your endurance to stay awake. Soon after the bothersome exhaustion almost conquered you into a sleep, a disarrayed body had fumbled through the doors snapping the heads of you, Jimin, and Namjoon towards him. He stood in front of the door, glancing back to it as if he were considering a swift escape from the concerned glares and embarrassment of the scene he had just made. And though there had only been three others to witness the progression of him rattling the handles, pushing against it with just enough force to unbalance him, and then nearly tripping into the eyes of his peers, it had been just enough to elicit a sizable amount of anxiety.
“Sorry, the door um…” He gestured towards it then towards the handle, then after bringing that same hand to his head to itch away his nervousness, “the door was jammed.”
None of you sitting in that book-filled jail cell cared, much less wanted to know the reason he barged in to interrupt the silence, but the way he fumbled through his words had been far too interesting and entirely ineffective in dismissing the unwanted attention.
Jimin had found this particularly amusing as he choked down a few laughs as not to raze the other boy’s ego completely, but his efforts had just drawn more awareness that he was laughing at him. The lanky figure with red-tinted ears and cheeks scuttled with a low hanging head to the front table, next to the one Jimin was seated at, without another word as to avoid further demoting his dignity.
Dignity was a funny thing to everyone in the library. It was handled differently by each body during this Saturday detention. Some were trying to protect it, some had paid no mind to tend to it, some (you) were trying to pretend it was undisturbed, and one had felt the weight of his diminishing dignity as no heavier than a feather.
This one, the same one that tormented you with his mere existence, had shoved the door out of his way in a manner of excitement. He strutted through the room to suggest he had some sort of twisted pride to be here and that his dignity fluctuated from the various looks of disgust, annoyance, confusion, and attraction.
Hoseok didn’t offer you more than a glance, although the scan of his eyes could hardly be counted as any sort of acknowledgment. In fact, he glared longer at Namjoon who had done everything in his power to surrender any dominance, already in scarce supply, and appear meek to avoid an altercation with Hoseok.
The other boy, Kim Seokjin, who had previously made a fool of himself, waved at Hoseok expecting to make a quick friend through his naive opportunism. Hoseok responded by lurching forward with his fist raised level with his shoulder in an advancement of hostility. Despite Hoseok being about ten feet away from him and in no realistic position to actually hit him, Seokjin flinched. His juvenile bullying proved to be ineptly humorous to everyone else in the library, except Seokjin who successfully lodged himself deeper in embarrassment.
For some reason, you were agitated that everyone else’s presence but your own was enough to earn his attention. It was beyond reason to want this man’s eyes to meet yours, and yet when it failed to do so, there was an unmistakable disappointment sitting in the place where you wanted Hoseok to look.
You knew it stemmed from the unsatisfied hope that he wouldn’t act like he didn’t know you once, that maybe he’d let the guarded past seep through and guide his eyes to rest on you gently, as they often used to do. But what did that matter? You hated him.
There was some shame that followed how you counted yourself lucky that he sat at the desk right behind you, giving you a perfect trajectory to shoot him a snide look. You hoped it would arouse guilt that he had been the reason you were here and that he couldn’t even present the decency of proper eye contact, though he most likely found it flattering from the way his lower lip slid between his teeth and a twisted grin formed. The quick avert of his wandering eyes had replaced the heat rising in your body with more disappointment.
“Hey, tool.” The voice behind you passed over your head to the target sitting in front of you. Jimin turned back to assure Hoseok was audacious enough to call him that name, “Yeah, I’m talking to you.”
“What do you want, dickhead?” Jimin had been over this conversation before it even began, but he still played into Hoseok’s little game. He too had succumbed to that particular quality of Hoseok’s that had many people wanting to argue with him. Nowadays, it seemed to be the only way to get a bit of his attention.
“Ooh, dickhead.” Hoseok’s low scoff had interrupted him momentarily, and the toss of his feet on top of the desk and lean in his chair drained a bit of suspenseful tension into the air, “Those are big boy words. Someone’s been drinking their big boy juice!” His voice was caked in a sharp taunt that had Jimin’s fists contracting into themselves, leaving crescent-shaped dents in his palms from his fingernails.
“What’s your problem, dude? Just leave me alone. I didn’t even say anything to you.” Turning his body to face away was not nearly enough to evade Hoseok’s mission of infuriating Jimin just for the hell of it.
The boy, layered in a black leather jacket over a red flannel, mounted the desk and jumped onto yours then Jimin’s with a racket of stomps that echoed between the shelves of books. You looked over to the spot on your table where his foot landed, grimacing at the dirt residue of his shoe print and the whiff of nicotine Hoseok left in his wake. Your attention, along with Namjoon’s and Seokjin’s, was soon shifting over to Hoseok who slumped into the chair beside Jimin, all in deep anticipation of what the delinquent would do next.
Your focus was trained on his fingers that pushed through his hair, exposing his forehead, and if you weren’t so invested in his interaction with Jimin, you might have noticed the pesky butterflies flitting around your stomach.
“Can I help you?” Jimin didn’t give Hoseok the satisfaction of another turned head, making Hoseok greedy and frustrated with Jimin’s passive protest.
“I just wanna know…” The glance he shot to you sent shivers through your body, but you knew there was some mischief in this look, “You and princess over there are fucking?”
“What the hell?” These words had escaped from your mouth before you had the chance to fully construct a more dignified response. Jimin looked to you in attempts to apologize on behalf of Hoseok’s foul tongue. Seokjin’s ears had grown into a much deeper red upon hearing these obscenities and Namjoon’s eyes had widened almost as large as his jaw-dropped mouth.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? I don’t even know ___ like that.” Hoseok sat on the desk to face you with a smirk of such arrogance that it riled a combative sneer from your face.
“So, you’re telling me, you’ve never slipped him the tongue, ___? I swear I could cut the sexual tension with a knife.”
“You’re delusional.” Jimin cut in.
“Maybe. I couldn’t be as delusional as you, being concussed probably a hundred times from rolling around in the grass with your football friends.”
“As if a loser like you knows anything about me or my friends!”
“You like rolling around with your brain-dead guy friends?”
“What did you say?” What Hoseok was alluding to hadn’t been a reference to what Jimin perceived it as, though it had gashed against a rather sensitive spot. More so a personal, secretive spot and Jimin sewed his lips shut in fear to push Hoseok any further.
“Shut up, Hoseok! Everyone stop acknowledging him. He just wants attention.” Though what you had said was true, and everyone surely agreed on that, Hoseok had drawn in each of you and had you all completely wrapped around his finger in minutes.
You seemed to be spooled around it the tightest as your eyes were now at war against his piercing glare. A small ten seconds grew into eternity when you were under his gaze and the canopy of memories it seemed to hold, and when it was torn away from you there was a sense of relief and exhilaration tilling through you.
Hoseok would never admit to it, but your eyes had almost faltered his own, almost moved him to an obedience that would have him sitting down at his desk and shutting up. There was a bloated discomfort with his recollection of your power over him, especially uncomfortable with the fact that the years of distance hadn’t diminished it in the slightest. Nor had it given him the time to muster a tolerance against your gleaming eyes. This pushed him to look towards the nerdish boy sitting in the back.
“What about you, nerd? Ever gotten down and dirty? I’m sure you haven’t but maybe ___ could help you out with that.” Namjoon was stiff except for his hands that had been quivering the moment Hoseok began directing his torments towards him. Maybe it wasn’t the hollow comments that had angered you, but the fact that he still wouldn’t find the nobility in himself to face you when he disgraced your name in such explicit ways. Or the fact that each time he failed to meet your eyes, you only felt yourself wrapping tighter around his finger.
“You’re an ass, Hoseok.” Jimin muttered under his breath because part of him was too afraid to address him with full confidence.
“Jealous, meathead?”
“Didn’t you hear ___? No one cares for the bullshit that comes out of your mouth.”
“Yeah, that’s the point. If no one cares, then I can say whatever the hell I want.”
Someone did care, not that he had the mind or attention span to notice how even in hatred, you felt natural to be at his side again. Or rather, in between the crossfires of Hoseok and Jimin’s deafening stare-off. The letterman jacket covering Jimin’s torso had instigated Hoseok to flick the flap of his collar against Jimin’s cheek. He was swift to knock Hoseok’s hand and now his anger gave him the motive to speak louder.
“Don’t start with me again, asshole.”
Hoseok performed a fake shudder in the face of the confidence born in Jimin’s tone. The two have now risen to their feet and inches away from their noses brushing against each other. Jimin’s hands had repositioned into the same fists of enragement while Hoseok called Jimin’s aggression and raised him with his arms folding across his chest. Seokjin’s nails were being fervently trimmed by his teeth and Namjoon shifted to the edge of his seat. It was clear neither of their prideful masculinities would allow for them to subside from this standoff. Who would make the first move, however, had yet to be unraveled and thrilled everyone to oblivion in the dimly lit library.
Again, your eyes couldn’t be ripped from Hoseok and how his white tank top had clung against his heaving chest. The way his cocked eyebrow and ego had the strength of a crazed hurricane, one that swept you up in its winds with no trace of mercy. Still, there was nothing that could peel your eyes away from him, not even the rampant air currents thrashing through the library. Your focus had nearly distracted you from displaying your shameful affinity towards his arrogance and intimidation. Internally, you were sure you would have been salivating profusely with the way your mouth hung open. On the outside, you only stared, leaving the rest of what that meant up to Hoseok’s imagination.
Has it really been long enough to note that his shoulders broadened and his jawline sharpened?
Timing played its incessant role as the overly suspicious Vice Principal Donald Dickson walked in, ridding the library of what could have resulted in bruised eyes and busted knuckles. Jimin and Hoseok sat down upon hearing the tick of the door handle, before the supervisor fully walked through the door and set his eyes on this group of expectant students. A beat of silence clung onto the space between the five of you, now six including the Vice Principal, and Dickson took in the sights of what he perceived were cowardice troublemakers sitting in the desks before him.
“Hello, everyone. You’re here today because you did something wrong. A wrong that needs to be punished. And what better way to do that than wasting away your Saturday?”
His words had been spoken from an embittered tongue, eager to thread more guilt into each one of you. Truly the only thing more distasteful than his mustard colored tie paired with a navy blue collared shirt was his arrogance. In seconds, he squeezed the excess space between the five students, cramming you all, almost unwillingly, into a team against him. The surplus of space, flushed out by his own demean, drifted him further away. He stepped closer to the desk, specifically to the leather-coated boy slouched in his chair and leaned forward intending to tempt Hoseok into picking a fight with him.
“Welcome back, Hoseok.”
Dickson's arrogance began to singe the air, making the space smell rancid as if something had been rotting in this library for months.
“Good to be back, buddy!” His sarcastic chide sat horribly with Dickson, feeling this pet name as a challenge to his authority. And if something as trivial as the word ‘buddy’ stung him so, he couldn’t have been less prepared for the comment about to spill from Hoseok’s mouth, “How ‘bout we go for dinner after this, Donald? Oh, actually never mind. Looks like you’ve been eating enough for the both of us.”
Normally, his empty insults would have passed through Dickson’s head but he had been in a bad mood today. The heckling had sent him right over the edge and gave him the opportunity to take his frustrations out on Hoseok.
“It’s Mr. Dickson to you. And you just earned yourself another Saturday detention.” Said with the slam of his hand against the table. All but Hoseok jumped from the slap that reverberated through the halls. The underlying tactic to put his foot down, or rather his hand down, lost its effect on the one person it was meant for; Hoseok saw this as a reciprocated challenge and was always up for a way to reclaim his domain.
“Don’t be stingy, how ‘bout another one?” Doing the exact opposite of what Dickens wanted, testing his power even more, though to Hoseok his power was nothing more than a pathetic hunger for any sort of authority, something missing from his life outside of work. If bossing around children was the only outlet to feed this obsession, Hoseok saw to it to make this worth his while.
“Fine! You got one!”
“Can’t wait to see you again, babe.”
“That's it! All your Saturdays for the rest of the month are gonna be spent here, with me. You happy now?”
“Over the moon.”
“Hoseok, stop it.” Even though your plea had been a whisper, it was loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. Hoseok snuck a glance to your disapproving face. You’d been surprised to meet his unworried expression, despite arguing with Dickson and sacrificing all his Saturdays for the sake of knocking the vice principal down a few steps on the hierarchical ladder. His attention to you was stolen by Jimin.
“Dude, what are you doing?” Jimin had his head facing down in compliance as if he were setting an example for Hoseok. Just minutes ago, they were at each other’s throats, but Dickson had this vulgarity in his threats that excelled in earning him the title as the most hateable person known to humankind, of a much higher rank than Hoseok, and that forged some unspoken solidarity between all of you. If it hadn’t been for Dickson, Jimin and Hoseok would have broken into an all-out brawl. Instead, it smoothed the dynamic between the two boys to a shielding defense of one another.
“Shut it, Park. Or you’ll get one too.”
It took everything in your willpower to not scoff at Dickson’s insolence. You, personally, had quite a bone to pick with him as he was the exact wrong person that caught you, withheld the opportunity to explain yourself, and unjustly held you responsible for simply being in the vicinity of the crime scene. As much as you hated Hoseok, there had been nothing so compelling of your hatred than Dickson.
“Now, each of you will write an essay.” All five mouths groaned in response to this, “Yeah, yeah. You’ll write an essay whether you like it or not. You will sit here for eight hours, not say a word, not move unless it's to write your essay, and not even think about trying to leave.”
“What if we have to go to the bathroom?” This was a genuine question masked with innocence, however it doubled as a ploy for Namjoon to aggravate Dickson.
“Well, you’ll hold it!”
“Mr. Dickson, you’re definitely supposed to let us go to the bathroom.” You added.
“Even prisoners get to go to the bathroom.” A comparison laid out by Hoseok, quite fitting as Dickson seemed to treat you all lower than the dirt lodged between the ridges of his shoes.
“You don’t tell me what I can or can’t do!” Dickson grew red in the face, a sight for the sore eyes of the five prisoners in this library.
“So, you expect us to hold it all day?” Jimin tossed his own objection in this dispute.
“I expect you to do what I say, or do you three want to join your little friend next Saturday?” Dickson didn’t hold his tongue or restrain the volume of his voice that was barking this unreasonable demand. The wag of his fingers was as if he had truly asserted any real or respectable power over the five of you. Seokjin released the chuckle that had been brewing in his chest ever since Dickson began spouting his hollow threats.
“Something funny, kid?”
Yes, you’re making an ass of yourself, you thought.
“Nope just… thought of something that happened earlier today. Like, way earlier today, uh, a joke! It was funny, so…” Now you were all at the mercy of Dickson’s comical attempt to have students worship him.
Jimin’s head had buried deeper towards his chest to mask the tears forming from holding his laughter behind his teeth, while Namjoon utilized the cover of his hand to fence in his. You and Hoseok had been trading off with noiseless snickers that exhaled as huffs of breath when Dickson had turned his back to check the time.
“It is eight thirty-two. You punks have a good six and a half hours until four comes, so I suggest you take the time to work on your essays. If you don’t finish, you’ll be back here next week to do just that. You’re going to write about what you did wrong, and why it was wrong, along with a long, thoughtful apology for what you did.” Dickson paced back and forth in the front of the desks with the sets of eyes, minus Hoseok’s, following his body. Two things stood with a backless stance in yet another empty threat of Dickson’s. One, there were not any grounds for Dickson to mandate another Saturday detention if the five of you didn’t finish an unrequired essay. Hoseok had the pleasure of pointing out Dickson’s other incorrect claim.
“Seven.”
“What?” One could see the steam pouring from his ears and nostrils as he halted as if Hoseok’s retort acted as a hurdle placed in his path.
“We have seven and a half hours until four.”
“That’s what I said.”
Jimin’s eyes had rolled back at Dickson’s inability to ever admit he was wrong, a trait only painting him into a bigger joke. You shook your head softly because the stillness you were trying to maintain was too overwhelming to handle, and this seemed to ease the second-hand embarrassment raging through you each time Dickson opened his mouth.
“No, you definitely said six. You said ‘you punks have a good six and a half hours until four’. Then Hoseok said ‘seven’ and then you said ‘what’ and then he said ‘we have seven and a half hours until four’ and then you sa-”
“Enough!” Dickson exclaimed.
Seokjin spoke innocently to give a correction to Dickson. His shallow grasp of social cues often had his well-intentioned actions trilling off his tongue with a sting to Dickson’s pride. Though, nothing had done more harm to Dickson’s pride than the prance of his half delusional authority before the eyes of those who had their own reasons for being stuck here. None, however, had been as lewd as the tyrannical reasons that drove Dickson here.
“Watch your tone, kid.”
“Who else heard Dickson say six?” Hoseok asked after raising his hand high, followed by Jimin, Namjoon and you casting your concurring votes. Seokjin’s slow uplift of his hand was soon diverted to play off his affirmation as scratching his head. Hoseok’s smirk bloomed from the majority’s favor with him, and the one effortful but ultimately silenced support of Seokjin.
“Looks like the Is have it!”
“Whatever! I’ll be back to check on you all in a couple hours. No moving from your seats. No talking.” He felt the slight of each of your hands, depleting his once esteemed title of vice principal to a speck of dust that did nothing more than agitate the noses of unimpressed students. The stiffness in all your muscles began to deteriorate from Dickson’s reluctant retreat, having you loosening the clench of your jaw. Watching Dickson wrangle the handle of the broken door before a gruff exit had assisted in soothing your nerves.
Not long after he left, not even a few seconds after the door closed, Hoseok felt an itch for not-so-civil disobedience and scratched a sweet relief to that by walking over to Namjoon, who had been scribbling on the paper that should have been filled with the assigned essay. He snagged the paper from the pencil once being grazed against it and jerked his hand away to evade Namjoon’s attempt at retrieving the stolen item.
Everyone else’s attention had been forthcoming, and all found the contents of Namjoon’s paper much more worthy of their time than the essay was. Hoseok took a second for his own inspection as his lips curved to a quiet grin. Before Namjoon got the chance to explain it, Hoseok cruised along to the front of the room to behold to the rest of you the picture etched onto the paper.
“It looks like we got an artist on our hands.” Though it was heavy with teasing, there had been a cloaked adoration in Hoseok’s word. It was almost as if he were showing Namjoon’s talent off through the guise of badgering. You hadn’t known the man before you in the same way you knew him as a child, yet you still picked up on this through the lilt of his voice.
It dawned on you then; no matter how many years past and how the roads of change diverted you in life-altering directions, there would always be a piece of the inner child in you. Small and fainter than the drop of a pin, but still there. You saw the kind child that Hoseok used to be still rummaging around deep within, trying to find its way to the surface.
Hoseok took notice of your perceptive glare that had differed from the others; your eyes always whispered something more that made him equal parts elusive towards you and troubled that maybe you’d been able to crack open his once impenetrable veil. The crusted formation of his toughened skin soaked in your eyes, making it softer and easier to see through.
“Is that-” Your eyes squinted to focus on the detailing of the drawing, “Is that me?” The simultaneous glares of everyone onto Namjoon had caused a slight perspiration to fog the lens of his glasses.
It was unmistakable, the face and shadowing were a near perfect imitation of yours, but the sharpness of each line exuded a striking tenacity quite the opposite of the demure front you upheld. A tenacity that felt indicative of a desperation for something; to Namjoon, it was clear in your eyes there had been a facet in your life missing which left you feeling robbed. This tore through you like lightning, leaving you to discover the source of what had been robbed of you.
“Looks like I was wrong. The sexual tension wasn’t between meathead and ___, but bookworm and ___.” The blush on your cheeks wasn’t nearly as red as Namjoon’s entire face. “My sincerest apologies, please tell us how you and ___ fell in love. I wanna know every little detail.”
He’d considered various routes of excuses, such as the picture wasn’t of you, or that maybe he’d absentmindedly sketched your features simply because you were in the same room but there would be no avail in either. He knew Hoseok wouldn’t accept that, backing him against the wall of shared curiosity between the other four, so Namjoon resolved that telling the truth was far more becoming of him than protecting the last of his dignity.
“To be fair, I drew almost everyone in the room.” He slipped a few papers from underneath his notebook, accompanied by an exasperated sigh, all depicting his own interpretation on his peers sitting before him. Each one held some unfeigned element of you all, not of intention though also not of coincidence, that drained the multiple facades to ineffectiveness until they were completely impotent. Everyone had gathered around Namjoon’s desk looking for their own picture, and neither Jimin nor Seokjin were prepared to face theirs.
“Yo, this is sick!” Jimin had his portrait between his fingers, eyes scaling the led sketch that accentuated his more flattering features. It was pleasing in the beginning but as he examined with more scrutiny that feeling had been sullied into fear. There had been a glint of worry in the eyes of Jimin’s drawing that had his once excited smile fading into a humbled concern of the growing nuances this small detail suggested. Jimin was just glad everyone else was concentrated on their own portrait so no one would be able to see this unsettling vulnerability strewn into the drawing.
Seokjin’s was a rather accurate paradigm of his eccentric expressions and attitude. To his surprise, this was given a more favorable look to what most people thought were awkward tendencies; it had become the focal point of the portrait as if there had been some unadulterated goodness in his heart that Namjoon seemed to be the only one to see. And below that surface of the painting, there was a tired expression bleeding through the excited one. All at once, his burdens seemed lucid and bare within the positivity intended to circumvent those exact burdens.
“I didn’t know you drew.” Jimin broke the silence with what he believed to be a keen observation. Namjoon found it quite daunting of him to act like this had been some revelation that the rest of you shared.
“Well, you never asked. In fact, I don’t think we’ve ever had a conversation.” There had been an edge ruminating within the words Namjoon spoke that blew through the air and raised a few hairs on Jimin’s neck.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that we’ve been in art class together all year and my art has just now caught you by surprise.” The accusations in his tone shriveled Jimin into a corner of odd mortification for his ignorance of those who didn’t run in his circle. What made matters worse was there could be no proper objection to what Namjoon said, as he looked around to each of your faces trying to recount any memorable interaction with you all. It would be more fitting to call the rest of you strangers than acquaintances, let alone schoolmates, and least of all friends.
“I-” All words had been brushed to a place unworthy of being verbalized.
“Meathead has better things to attend to than talking to us lowlifes, Namjoon.” Hoseok cut off Jimin’s already lost train of thought.
You and the four others were now positioned in a circle, though some sitting on the floor and others finding a seat on top of the desks, you were all in this circle, together. The outside world had given you all the freedom to choose who you talked to, what kinds of people you associated with. Perhaps too much freedom that amounted in severed connections and missed opportunities to meet those who might serve as beneficial to your life. However in this room, in the crowded library which held that freedom from you all and granted you an even better gift of contingency, there had been an irresistible gravitation to seek entertainment through each other and learn what would have gone unlearned if not for the five different mishaps that led the five individuals to this room.
“I never said you were a lowlife!”
“Oh, but you were thinking it. Admit it.”
“Are you ever going to stop talking?”
“Are you ever going to stop using the entire bottle of Axe body spray or do you want us to lose our sense of smell?” Namjoon and Seokjin were more humored by this comment than you had been. Not because you didn’t find it funny, and it was all too true to foster any denial from Jimin and anyone in a ten foot radius of the boy, but because you kept busy wondering how the transition of the once sweet-tongued Hoseok had developed him to acquire such a thirst for belittlement. Or perhaps, why he had undergone this caustic transformation.
“Oh, like you’d ever be caught with me or Jimin at one of your parties with all your hoodlum friends.” You shot him this retort aspiring to sour his praise from the two other boys.
“You wanna party with me, sweetness? I think I can arrange that.” It was surprising, the sarcastic offer, and it suggested that he wasn't the one who initiated the drift of your friendship. That had struck some chord with you because you were certain it was all his doing, and subsequently cleared your tongue of a witty retort that would shut him up. He shifted from his crossed legged pose to dangle his legs from the end of the table that sat behind where your back had been. The tip of his foot had nudged against your shoulder blade in a tease to which you hastily swat his dark boot away.
“Fuck off, Hoseok.”
“You’re the one who brought it up! Don’t be shy, I’d love to see you get plastered with me and my, as you call it, hoodlum friends.” He had been a few more light kicks away from you landing your hand against the side of his cheek. To his luck, your resolve had kept your hands folded in your lap.
“In your dreams.”
“I’d party with you!” Seokjin’s idealism had interrupted your exchange with Hoseok as his eyes, now raked with astonishment, moved to the boy sitting diagonally from himself.
“I'm sorry, did you say something?” Hoseok asked. Jimin’s fingers pinched the bridge of his nose while you had surrendered to the foot still digging into your upper back to turn towards Seokjin as well.
“Um, just that I’d hang out with you.” A bit of regret had a stutter leaking through his words.
“I wouldn't want to interrupt your bible study with my hoodlum parties.” Thickly layered sarcasm was just another social cue Seokjin was wholesomely unaware of, or perhaps he’d caught onto Hoseok’s aim to insult but didn’t care about it as much as you and the others had.
“I’m not even religious and I can handle parties! I’ve been to lots of parties.” He had fooled no one in the library with that statement. Seokjin’s volume had tapered off towards the end, filling the quiet of his voice with even more regret. There was a force out of his control that had him spewing the first thoughts that popped into his head through an unfiltered mouth.
“Bud, you are the human embodiment of an unwanted boner. Stiff? Yes. Annoying? Check! Something no one wants at their parties let alone in their pants? One hundred percent.” The rest of you, but mostly Jimin, had given up on taking the high road. This was made obvious to Seokjin and Hoseok through the contagious laughter afflicting the three of you, and even Seokjin couldn’t resist the smile tugging at the ends of his lips.
“Hey Hoseok, come look.” Namjoon’s beckon was said seconds before a few more taps of his pencil against the paper. It wasn't in his nature to call out to someone like Hoseok, but the need for him to face his painting had given his words the momentum to be spoken.
His approach had been a bit too unsuspecting; he didn’t think to craft a strong guard for seeing his portrait that he’d been waiting for. That had been a grave mistake.
Hoseok stared at the page as if he had seen a ghost. Though it was not one of an unfamiliar face, the apparition had been the mirror image of him. With the glide of his pencil, Namjoon haunted the man with the impenetrable veil to a state of uncharacteristic lethargy. You were sitting right behind him, giving you the perfect vantage point to witness the picture of a man being stripped from his conceit. In the drawing, he was crying. This had nearly gone unnoticed from the obstruction of your vision by his shoulder.
Nearly, but it was the first detail that caught your eye. It was eerily familiar, like Deja-vu. Even if the others were to see it, they wouldn’t have distinguished how this had illustrated a portrayal awfully close to the innocence of a younger Hoseok, of which only you had been acquainted with, and he immediately crumpled it to a ball before you were able to collect any more of the details to your memory.
“What kind of shit are you trying to pull, huh?” His demanding question stripped the lighthearted atmosphere from the room. The cuff of Namjoon’s turtleneck joined the shriveled paper in his hand as Hoseok yanked him to a weak stand and an even weaker defense.
Jimin compensated for Namjoon’s frailty with a firm grasp on both of Hoseok’s arms followed by pulling him away to stop what could have been a brutal beating. The paper had fallen from Hoseok’s hand which went unseen because he was struggling to free himself from Jimin’s strong grasp, which was cultivated through his athleticism.
“Bro, calm down!”
“Hoseok, stop being like that!” Your voice had his scowl now directing towards you, still maintaining the weathered clutch on your heart. There was no ambiguity in fear. One thing often scarce in Hoseok's eyes, but you saw it then. You knew his anger wasn’t of shallow disliking to the picture, but what it exposed of him that he was trying so desperately to mask.
Seokjin had taken it upon himself to see what triggered the fumed reaction from Hoseok by picking up the paper and stretching out the wrinkles enough for proper inspection. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion as to why Hoseok would waste his temper on something as trivial as a few fictitious tears. With one more thrust of Hoseok’s shoulder, he escaped Jimin’s distracted hold and swiped the paper from Seokjin before anyone else had the chance to see it.
Hoseok wished you hadn’t seen it, as well as the other boy. The troubling fear in the painting, and how it reflected that particular quality onto him, though in an entirely new light. He wished it were gentler, the reflection; he wished it didn’t cut deep enough to carry a brutalizing truth. He wished it wasn't a reflection at all, that instead it was a misjudgment or an oversight. And he had no idea you saw past what Seokjin saw as just penciled tears on a paper. His shields of iron and skin were in no position to stand against your eyes.
They never were.
“What the fuck are you looking at, freak?”
“Hobi, don’t call him that.”
And with the utterance of the long-abandoned nickname, Hobi, it had sparked a sequence of memories to rattle through Hoseok’s mind. He was collapsing into himself, into the memories of you and your voice possessing exclusivity to the nickname that held a sentiment of which he’d almost forgotten. The scenes had tranquilized his boiling fury to a light simmer. Such nostalgia had that effect on his mind, as well as expelling the surroundings of the library from each of his senses and replacing them with sweet, untouched memories.
The fragrance of fresh linen and lemon crowded his nose, the same way it would when he would walk into the comfort of your home. Long ago, when his arrival required no invitation, but was an expected, weekly affair. And during tough times, it grew in frequency.
His nose would grow to associate the smells of linen and lemon with your home of pure safety, then into the arms of your mother whose delight had gone almost unmatched when she saw him. However, it never surmounted the ripples of joy you would feel when you were greeted with his arrival, and you believed you would never have to miss that feeling. This scent sailed him into the tragically estranged feeling of safety, now a malicious craving for it to return pooled in his chest; missing the feeling of safety he once had with you almost hurt more than the actual absence of it.
Though he wondered if it truly was the nickname ‘Hobi’ that swept him in a melancholic reminiscence, or the stark smell of fresh linen and lemon invading his nose. He wondered why it was that no other person had ever made him remember such insignificant details of his past that were too good to hold onto. He wondered if it really were the nostalgic scents and nickname, rather than the person who they reminded him of; all the good, safe things that left with you and your budding friendship.
The muffled voices of those around him were just enough to crack through the tent of reminiscence.
“It’s okay to cry, Hoseok. We all know you just act tough but inside you care about what others think just as much as the rest of us.” That comment had been restitution for Hoseok’s previous jab at Jimin’s body spray misusage.
“Yeah, I cry all the time! Just the other day-” Seokjin chimed with agility from the quickly fading regret.
“Please stop talking. Please don’t make me punch you.” Jimin’s interruptive threat crammed back the thoughtless anecdote about to spill from Seokjin’s mouth.
“Wait, I’d actually like to see that. Seokjin, keep going.” To Namjoon, the idea of a boyish fight between the two sounded far more entertaining than whatever story Jimin had stopped Seokjin from sharing. “Why are you so afraid of crying anyway?”
“Yeah why?”
“Tell us, Hoseok.”
Consecutive questions such as these held a violence equivalent to assault in Hoseok's mind. He’d been cornered, his eyes that once couldn't bear to rest on you before now seemed to plead with yours for a salve from these bombardments. And you couldn’t tell if you hated him or the fact that with one look, he had winded you tighter around his finger.
“Hoseok is just mad because he cried during Marley and Me.” You said, quick to scavenge for a decent distraction. Your memory of watching this movie with him about ten years ago had been far too riveting to keep to yourself.
In fact, you rationed it positively selfish to hoard something as enthralling as Jung Hoseok crying real tears, not like the ones on Namjoon’s drawing. And part of you, part of him too, knew this was done in favor of Hoseok to misdirect the rest of them from the actual root of his anger. Exploring the soul-bearing secrets he kept hidden beneath his thick skin was a venture overwhelmed by terror and discomfort. You felt this through that look glazing his eyes, and figured the Marley and Me incident was a worthy sacrifice to protect something far too fragile to tread on. The four of you were now swimming through a lake of laughter as Hoseok tried to suppress his annoyance, and especially his gratefulness to what you had done for him.
It began then, the struggle. He found the constant maintenance of keeping his skin intact over his heart forfeiting to your offer of kindness. As much as he tried to press the skin back onto himself, it would shed almost a bit too easily.
“What kind of heartless monster doesn’t cry at a dying dog? You’re all insufferable.” Hoseok stood up, turning away from the belly-aching giggles still erupting from you and the other three, “And I was eight years old. And ___ cried harder.” His trudge to the back of the room, away from the commotion of the drawings, was gorged in a strange distrust.
There was the possibility he had spilled one too many secrets with his long, catatonic silence after the way you called him that name. How you all had established a comfort to open yourselves to a partially amiable conversation together and that Hoseok felt like he was the one standing on the outside looking in.
Thus, leaving Hoseok feeling betrayed, distrustful, and fumbling over where to place the blame.
With himself, the full-fledged outing of his feelings that were ripped from his chest by his own hand without the consent of his mind. It felt unlawful, like he was unwillingly breaking his own rules. Or perhaps blame lied with the people who took one look at his leather jacket and paid zero caution when shedding a few layers of the deceitful front of his skin. What was left was the outer shell, the once impenetrable veil lying on the floor, and a man without his protective skin, open and raw and sensitive, though scared of vulnerability above all else.
The rest of you followed suit to return to your empty chairs, ignoring how the air was damp with a complex rigidity that none of you felt equipped to handle. No one, least of all you, had been sure of what to do with the discomfort that sterilized the air with nothing but the sounds of five syncopated breaths, longing for some release of this silent torture.
You were sure of two things.
First, you hated Hoseok and he showed his reciprocation of that through the flipped middle finger when you braved a glance back to him. Second, you concluded that the reasons pillaring your hatred for him had changed within two of the eight hours in this library. It was astounding, torn between being impressive and pathetic the way he’d roped you back into the sentiment of the young, inseparable children residing in the darker caverns of your hearts.
The younger you that handed him a tissue and a shoulder to lean on, a gift of nothing close to judgement, when you had seen him crying at that sad movie. The younger him that in many ways held a strapping debt over your head for rescuing you from numerous bullies throughout elementary and middle school and a long spell of loneliness from your lack of friends in your younger years. The two mellow hearted friends attached at the hip, and the heart, that skipped along the steps of life as if misery and loneliness were nightmares lived out by those who didn’t have a person like Hoseok in their lives. They were locked away for quite some time and remained that way due to the abundance of freedom that this library had suspended.
Because in the library, you couldn't run or hide.
Hoseok was sure of one thing, and one thing only. It was far clearer than the tainted air of the library along with the fogged arena of the outside world, and brighter than the way your eyes still outshined the shadow of his own pain; the irrefutability was beyond the depths of the ocean.
His heart had been broken, pulverized to a dust, for far too long and it was because of how dearly he missed you and the safety that accompanied you.
If you looked closely, you could see past his skin to his bones and all the secrets and scars carved in them.
10:00 - 12:00
Timing. What you thought was an incarnation of the devil itself, seemed to torture you through today like it had a personal agenda against you. The five students and their endurance of boredom had been eroded from the minutes that felt like hours and the confiscated cell phones leaving you all to the devices of screenless misery.
The silence continued stalking the air, still just as heavy and nuanced as before. You wondered why the quiet didn’t feel all that quiet. In turn, it was nothing less than an earthy rumble at this point, like the ground was ready to shake and knock every book from the shelves around you. Every time your eyes would meet with another one of your peers, they’d be instantly veered with a quick glance towards the ceiling or down at the blank papers sitting on the desks before them. Hoseok fell asleep long before you had the chance to read the hints of his mind that were lightly seasoned in his eyes, that seemed to have a way of avoiding you today.
Still without some of his skin, and now the loss of his dignity joined. Because of that, he was tired and needed to sleep. It had more or less been Hoseok’s melodramatic efforts to recoup for the loss that put him in a moped mood; you not being in his life was the little secret that fringed his heart far worse than Namjoon’s portrait.
Maybe if you would have let him know that yours and the others’ dignities had been left at the broken door of the library then he wouldn’t be as mortified. At the time, you didn’t feel like it had been your job to do so which was retrospectively an all too uncompassionate choice. A bad choice. Far worse than the ones you made to lead you to detention.
Seokjin and Jimin had been tossing crumpled pieces of binder paper and shooting them in the trash can with high spirits, the heavy boredom of detention being cut through by their makeshift basketball game.
“That's fifteen.” A gloat followed Jimin’s victorious fist shaking but soon to be shut down by Namjoon.
“No, that was fourteen.” He held the paper where two sets of tallies were marked side by side under the initials J and S.
“What? I was counting too and that was fifteen!”
“Ha! Read it and weep.” Seokjin teased.
“Jin, shut up! You've made like three.”
Namjoon checked the paper and confirmed Jimin’s rebuttal with a thumbs up. Your resting head on the palm of your hand shook with laughter at the scowl plastered across the boy's face, which had made a habit of blushing a bright red in regret of his comments.
Seokjin said nothing to this, instead proceeded to crumple four more pieces of paper now encased in his hand.
“Well now it's gonna be seven.” He had made this claim a bit too soon after the sling of his arm amounted to all four paper balls bouncing off the rim of the trash can and scattering onto the floor. Having all three of you laugh broke the fourth boy’s slumber, but he went about it calm. Hoseok’s eyes opened, quiet and slow, and none of you noticed he had regained his consciousness.
Dickson’s return had hushed the last bit of laughter along with the surprising enjoyment circulating through the third hour of detention. This time, Dickson was mindful of your collective vendetta against him which was why he had been armored with even more aggression than the last time. The mix of you four riding off the delights of playing with the little entertainment made available and Dickson’s heavily loaded disdain would make for quite a reactive outcome. There had been a lewd displeasure of finding littered papers along the floor adding to his frustration.
“Which one of you imbeciles were tossing around paper balls when you should have been writing your essays?” The unresponsive silence pushed him over the edge of annoyance, “Well?”
His earth-shattering holler had fully awoken Hoseok who joined the unconcerned teens in this noiseless stare off. A yell or a whisper wouldn’t have made a difference by the means of intimidation since none of you could take seriously a man who missed the step of re-zipping his fly after going to the bathroom. The five of you were urged to point it out, though none of you felt the need to bury him even lower in all of your regards; he did that quite adequately and consistently on his own.
“We all just really want to do well on our essays! What you call paper balls were the triumphant efforts of remorseful students, sir.” Any resistance to Hoseok’s humorous antagonizations towards Dickson were depleted by the second round of his arrival. Namjoon demonstrated his agreeance with a snide head nod joined by Jimin who also nodded some proof to Hoseok’s lie.
“Really? Is that true, Seokjin?”
“Yes, we all just want to better ourselves, sir.” Singling the evidently weakest willed student did not go over the way Dickson had hoped. He stood by Hoseok’s lie even if he couldn't bring himself to make eye contact with Dickson. There had been some unknown element of surprise that had Seokjin just a few steps ahead of Dickson and a few steps behind the rest of you. Still, he was far ahead of Dickson, whose temper seemed to be strained.
“What about you ___, any thoughts?” He asked you this as if there was any evidence for his disbelief. And he was right of course, to be disbelieving, but the derogation of his voice did render his correct assumptions as nothing short of foolish dictatorship. Again, there was space. It was the five of you, a dividing space, and then Dickson.
Space is meant to be empty, or it is not space at all, and Dickson’s unwelcomed invasion into it had made him the target of five unrelenting students.
“My English teacher says writing multiple drafts before turning in the final product is a clear-cut way to do well on essays.” Your eyes weren't level with his. They had been glancing back and forth from the desk to the unzipped fly of his pants that were now unfortunately a foot too close in your peripherals. Provided you had nothing to lose, maybe another one of your Saturdays, but even that seemed to be worth pointing the zip, or lack thereof, of his pants. “Sir, your fly is down.”
He hastily corrected this and his authority had been running too thin from the jabs sent his way, diluting any call to action he made into a watered down whine. It wasn't enough to spread over himself or each of you, making his second retreat taking place faster than the one before. On his way out, he tossed three out of four of the papers in the trash and kept one to inspect. There was no draft of an essay written on the paper, and for once he was right and it felt awful.
You would have felt bad, but no one could empathize with his fatal arrogance.
“You kids are a piece of work. I don't get paid enough for this shit. You better be done with these essays by the end or I swear.” And he didn’t finish whatever he was about to say before walking out of the library, hurried and belittled. Jimin was, of course, the first one to burst through the silence with giggles and the sound had doubled, tripled, and so on until all of you had been absorbed in a fit of laughter. Even Hoseok released a smirky chuckle, and felt attuned with you, Namjoon, Seokjin, and Jimin.
For lack of skin, one could assume. Or maybe he genuinely liked the way he felt around you and those who were on this team that was too diverse to give a definite label.
“___, I can’t believe you actually said it. God, I was going to but I thought he would have cried.” Jimin pushed out this appraisal through gasping for air.
“I couldn’t help it. It was right in front of my face! I think I have to go wash my eyes out.” You were rubbing your temples to massage away the increasing disgust upon picturing it.
“If anything, I thought Seokjin would’ve been the one to do it.” Namjoon said, keeping busy with another illustration.
“Nah, ___ handled that perfectly.” Jimin managed to level his breath by now.
“I wonder if your bite is as big as your bark.” Hoseok said, just to get another one of those annoyed glares, which seemed to be the only way he knew how to get your attention now. His affluence of communicating, especially to you, has been sloping off to quite elementary levels. Still, he did what he could.
“You wanna find out?” Your voice insinuating you wouldn't falter to his bereavements. Your eyes looked back to the smirk of satisfaction painted over his face, boiling a bit of frustration in your chest. Mostly, frustration with yourself for finding your eyes trailing along the length of his admittedly handsome face. Frustrated that, no matter how insufferable he was, you were undeniably attracted to him which made you struggle to suppress your own smile.
“Guys, look.” Namjoon held up a stick figure sketch of Dickson. It wasn’t nearly eligible to be considered a sophisticated piece or technically accurate to Dickson’s appearance. Though the elementary style of it had a stronger sense of accuracy than any proper portrait of Dickson would have. The grimace of the stick-figured Dickson and the detailed pants that included a dropped fly upstaged whatever ornate cross-hatched or contoured lines that had been applied to the four of your drawings.
“You have a talent, you gotta give me some lessons sometime.” It felt like Jimin meant more of this. Perhaps he had been referring to what Namjoon had said before. As if he were realizing his range of friends left Jimin destitute in the terms of social circles and in some way, Namjoon had been entirely unique from anyone he’d ever met. He didn’t want to be another cart in a train of unexpanded minds due to a case of the status quo.
Namjoon was alluring, to put it simply. Outside of his long undisturbed comfort zone.
“Well, you haven’t seen my art skills. I like to call myself the Van Gogh of our high school.” Seokjin did nothing but embarrass himself, but it had a normalcy you and the rest had grown used to. Now it was not just expected of him but looked forward to. Things were changing before the eyes of the five different faces with five different stories. Changing, yet at the same time, feeling as if things had been returning.
“Yeah, all you have to do now is cut off your ear!” Namjoon said sarcastically.
More laughter, more good feelings poured into the library that once felt nothing more than a temporary, barren jail cell and a source of guilt and boredom. It was full now. Full of something much warmer than before.
You were looking at Hoseok, now with a little less hatred. Seeing him smiling, laughing even, had softened your hatred to something else. It was still painful, and just as hard to identify as that particular quality of his. Whatever blame you directed towards him hadn’t been as hampering as this new feeling you got when you looked at him. He felt your gaze, louder than the chime of a bell, and wondered if he had shed enough skin yet to look back at you. To be filled with fresh linen and lemon and all the pieces of safety latched onto the exchange of glances that were not of the seniors in high school, but the childhood friends that long ago shared one heart.
Sadly, he didn't look to you, not yet. Not when he felt unready and unaccustomed to the ripe, underlying skin covering him now. He couldn't be brave enough to risk disappointing you with how his gaze might not have measured up to how sorry he felt for being the loose cannon in your life.
You looked at the clock that read it was twenty-two minutes until the third hour of detention. Watching time tick by had proven to slow it nearly to a full stop, so you took to the sights displayed by the library window. The fog was still heavy, trading the perimeter of the parking lot with thick invisibility. Somehow, you had acclimated to the unseen sectors of what was within the fog. You couldn’t see through it, all you could truly see was fog, but that was not as pronounced as what you felt and what you knew. There was, without a doubt, something beyond the fog; that was what you knew. And what you felt was consoled in knowing there was surely something, anything beyond the fog, thus leading your eyes to Hoseok, again. You looked at him, right at his face, at his thin skin, and knew there was something beyond the fog.
“Stop leaning against the table, you’re gonna knock it down.” Namjoon had been referring to the tower of dusty books gone unread for a considerable amount of time for anyone, even the librarian, to notice they were missing.
What, you wondered, could be more captivating than the mysteries hidden between the fog? To Jimin, Namjoon, and Seokjin, the antics of stacking books was that and more. There were about ten, maybe thirteen books piling taller than Namjoon. Though it had the advantage of resting on the already raised table, it was still admittedly impressive since Namjoon was on the taller side. Jimin stood on the table with arms flattened and extended to steady his balance and to still his body from any shaking that could derail their handy work.
“Yeah, Jin, stop leaning.” What Hoseok said was clean of genuine concern, made clear from how he’d bumped the table with his knee causing the pile to teeter side to side, yet not enough to actually knock it down. The other three boys held their hands toward the books as if the gesture would have actually saved it from toppling over.
“___, come over and help us steady the books! Hurry!” Seokjin’s request had you rushing over try and balance the stack wobbling nearly to a complete collapse.
“Do you guys wanna do something actually fun?”
If not for the almost bewitching inflection of Hoseok’s question, you would have maintained focus on keeping these towering books from falling. Though, he spoke with an implication that he possessed something that would whisk you away from boredom and you were still, a bit less unapologetically, reeled tight around his finger. So, your attention was spent on Hoseok until there was no more. Same with the others. All four eyes tossing an unrestrained marvel in place of a verbal answer to his question. The vigilant silence was enough to have Hoseok’s hand digging in the pocket of his leather jacket and pulling out a neatly rolled joint.
“No fucking way, we can’t do that in here… Right?” Although he wanted to sound doubtful, repulsed by the stick of weed between Hoseok's fingers, the question threaded along the end of Jimin’s doubt had a faint enthusiasm.
“Dickson’s stupid. We can just tell him it was a skunk.”
“I think we should really evaluate our actions before we do them.” By we, he really meant Hoseok. Seokjin tried to act in place of a sort of parental guidance, though he knew now how unlikely his influence would take effect.
“You’re right. Let’s see.” He paused and inspected the joint pinched between his fingers, “I’m bored, in fact, we’re all bored. I have weed, I want to get high, being high is fun. My evaluation says we should definitely get high.” Mocking the frail advice from Seokjin, Hoseok evaded the logic behind what the other boy had presented with yet another sarcastic remark. No one else argued, even those who were strongly opposed to drug usage, because there would clearly be no avail in discouraging Hoseok. Not to mention, deep down, all your inexperienced hearts had a slight curiosity for the coveted thing in Hoseok’s hand.
“That’s hardly an adequate evaluation, Hoseok.” Namjoon said, though he was already crawling with a rising inclination since a much less favorable boredom would have tormented him if he declined the offer. Jimin, Seokjin, and Namjoon drove through the traffic of worries and doubts and arrived at the destination where Hoseok was impatiently waiting.
“Fine, then I guess I’ll just enjoy this by myself then.”
“Wait! I’ll- um, I’ll go.” Jimin said and it was enough for Namjoon and Seokjin to admit defeat to their desires. Football season had not begun yet, neither the periodic drug tests, and there was a growing stress looming over them all that could be displaced by getting high.
The only one still fraught with a neurotic hesitation and clinging opposition that pushed back from the cohorts all in agreement was you. Marijuana had always deterred your fascination, even though you knew it was on the safer side of most drugs, and your virgin lungs feared it in the same way your stomach feared alcohol and your heart once feared Hoseok’s return in it. However, Hoseok had slithered his way back into your life and that wasn’t scary in the slightest. It was exciting and comforting, even, to be graced with his return and it made you question what else you had been missing out on.
“Alright. Dickson usually falls asleep around now because he gets tired after eating lunch. God, I hate that I know that. Anyway, this gives us the chance to sneak out to the second-floor bathrooms where there aren’t any fire detectors.”
The timing of his plan mapped out a perfect escape, however timing was never one to do you any favors.
As the others snuck past the ajar door to Dickson’s office, inside the vice principal was sure enough sound asleep, you remained in the library and watched the others, one by one, throw all caution to the wind. Hoseok’s stalled exit from the room was ushering you to a state of indecisive pacing. It was clear he was waiting for you, though Namjoon’s, Jimin’s, and Seokjin’s company would satisfy the quota for a proper smoking circle.
“You don’t have to come if you don't want to. The offer still stands either way.” He spoke tentatively and his eyes were habitually resting on anything, your hands, your chin, your lips, the floor, and even the fogged window, but not your eyes. He could resist the magnetism of your eyes because he felt like he needed to, but surrendered to the way his feet carried him a few steps closer to you. Enough steps to work a fast beating into your heart.
“I’m not going to pressure you. I wouldn’t do that, you know?”
You knew he meant this genuinely. The only thing thus far that came out of his mouth without the stain of sarcasm. It was because of how genuine he sounded that made the rattle between your bones far more feverish than the shallow, meaningless jabs he’d made to and about you during today.
Why does it hurt when you talk softly? Why does what should feel like soft fleece burn like the friction of gravel against my skin?
You branded these questions in the eyes unseen by Hoseok. It aches to know that you hated him all this time, and you just now realized his soft spoken voice had been reigned by you. Softly, like the inner child begging to be liberated from Hoseok’s protective skin. Softly, like when he said he wouldn’t do that to you, it came from a place in his heart ten years in the making and reserved wholly by you.
“I just…” His steps hushed you. The proximity of his body to yours had placed you in the eye of the hurricane, where it was quiet and calm and even softer than his voice. He radiated an energy that reminded you of something strong that was tired of being strong and on the verge of withering away; like a tall, old oak tree. Mighty, beaten down from the weather, and readying to lay in its tomb.
You always were able to admit he was attractive. Anyone with functioning eyes could see that. The delicious sharpness of his facial features made for quite a face to look at. He was damn near perfect. But when did he become so beautiful? How did his sharp features soften to become delicate and lovely? The duality of this man was flexible, ranging from rough edges to rounded, gentle surfaces.
You believed his approach was to lead his quiet, soft voice to your ears because one had to be close - very close - for another to hear such a gentle tone. But he wouldn’t have achieved such closeness if it weren’t for the fortitude of longing and the smell of fresh linen and lemon that emigrated from you. Nor the gentleness of his voice could have been procured if the other three were still here. When it was just you, there was no reason to be anything but honest and gentle and close. Resistance was now undone by being with you and the timing of it all. It was peeling away more of Hoseok’s skin down to the bone and he allowed you to do this. Finding a place, the library, with someone, you, filled the hollow chasm of his chest with an oasis one could only classify as safety.
I want you to stay here with me.
Wherever that thought surfaced from, whether it be the spirit of a younger you or the sentiment of the current you, it was too real to keep from choking back a few tears.
“___, I-” Before the words of an unbarred tongue expressed how he wanted to admit he missed you and lay out every reason for pushing you away in order to annul all the pain he caused both you and himself, Seokjin had peaked his head through the door quite similarly to the frantic way he previously exited it.
“Hey, are you guys coming or what?” His urgent whisper had melted the overwhelming feelings being exchanged through silent pauses and simultaneously reconstructed the wall that severed your friendship, or whatever you had with Hoseok.
“___, you’re not coming?” Seokjin sounded friendly in his disappointment. If it weren't for the fact that what he was referring to was smoking pot then you would have joined simply because his tone had flipped into a sweet, inviting plea.
“No, sorry. I think I’m gonna hang back. Someone’s gotta keep watch for Dickson.” Hoseok exhaled with relief that you didn’t come. He didn’t want you to feel pressured and at least he could accomplish doing that.
The skin retraced its steps back onto Hoseok. And when you looked out the window, for you didn’t want to watch Hoseok leave you again, the fog was impervious. The tepid steps of his departure sounded similar to that of a ticking clock. Each tap moved time forward and Hoseok away from you.
When you looked back to the emptiness of the library, you wished you could follow him. It was too difficult. Not the walking itself, and joining them had only been one staircase away, but the following aspect of it. To follow him, to chase the man that left you like he did years ago, like a decomposed afterthought, was difficult because you feared to be met with dry rejection. You’d rather not venture off into the fog, and stay unharmed in the clearings.
Hoseok should have, in the wise words of Seokjin, evaluated his actions before making any official commitments to them. His constant neglect of this crucial step had led him into quite disturbing situations, including this one.
It was a few minutes after the joint had been smoked to the stub of the filter. Hoseok tossed it in the toilet of the large stall they occupied. For the most part, the boys were silent and enjoying their highs. And Hoseok was silent as well, but his thoughts were under completely different circumstances. They were blaring around in his head with a sharp ringing.
The memory of you, his awareness of missing you, seeing you again, and finding that his ability to look into your eyes long expired had been a taxing precursor to getting high. It was a first to have his emotions heightened taller than a mountain because of his intoxication; most of the time it numbed his emotions and the world around him. Though, there is a first for everything and Hoseok was clamming up from all the guilt, loneliness, and longing ensued by the Indica making its way to his brain.
They were all talking by now, describing how they felt or if they were feeling any buzz at all. Namjoon was the first to be hit with a wave of high and he unceremoniously stood up to wash his hands because he insisted that he could ‘feel the germs crawling on his hands.’
Jimin and Seokjin were the next victims of the unspared joint. Jimin had been repeating the word “woah” until it was devoid of all meaning.
Hoseok slipped under the spell last, but his high wasn't fermenting in the same light-hearted ways as the other boys’ highs. His harnessed a colossal weight that was an ounce away from being too much, from sending him into a fight or flight reaction. The stressor could only be the pent-up emotions that were billowing from his chest so wildly that there was no chance to inhibit or ignore it. Hoseok was not as high as the others, but high enough to send his dignity into the unreachable air. Soon, he couldn't tell if the discomfort in his skin was because of his high or his new discernment for this stifling barrier.
The depth of this emotional hole was deeper than that of a dried well, and had left Hoseok to be somewhat of a benign lump to the conversation at hand.
“Guys, I think I’m peeing. I feel like I’m peeing. Am I peeing my pants right now?” Seokjin rose to a panicked stance, spinning and bending to check if there was any wetness seeping down the pant of his leg. Namjoon, who was still washing his hands, and Jimin had fallen into a debilitating laughter. Though even in a state of sobriety it would have perpetuated a hearty laugh, their elevated reactions were that of the high they were still riding, and based on Hoseok’s observations, wouldn’t be coming down from anytime soon.
“Holy shit. Dude, just pee! we are literally surrounded by toilets.” It was a difficult task, but Jimin managed to squeak this out between his giggles.
“I can't pee in front of you all! I get… I get pee shy.” They all noted, Seokjin was an exemplary companion to get high with.
If Hoseok weren't entrapped in his thoughts of you, of fresh linen and lemon that seemed to be far more pungent than the remnants of weed wafting in the bathroom air, he would have tallied Seokjin as one of his go to smoking partners. Nothing deemed lucrative to distract him from what really mattered to him:
Fresh linen and lemon and you, and his damn skin.
“You guys may make fun of me for my axe body spray but at least it’ll cover the weed smell.” Jimin gloated, hunchbacked and head lowered to check if the scent of weed clung to his clothes or hair.
“We’ve been in a closed room for like twenty minutes. Obviously, you’re not gonna smell the weed. ___’s probably gonna tell us that we smell like a walking dispensary.” Namjoon said with a chuckle.
“Now you smell like Axe body spray and weed.” Seokjin hadn’t stopped patting down the inseam on his pants to make sure nothing was inordinately wet while throwing in an additional jab.
“We should be heading back soon.” The faucet finally shut upon hearing Hoseok’s suggestion. “You three go ahead first, I’ll hang back so Dickson doesn’t catch me with you all. God knows he would be way angrier to see me walking around with you three.”
Namjoon dried his hands and nodded with red glazed eyes covered by partially deflated eyelids. Jimin stood up and yawned from the weed-induced drowse blanketing his own eyes and Seokjin’s eyes still scaled the expanse of his pant leg with hulking paranoia.
In a line, they left the bathroom to house no one but Hoseok, the pungency of weed, and his memories. In Hoseok’s eyes, they were blindsided by one thing and one thing only.
Ten years ago…
White faded to grey in the clouds hanging above your inattentive eyes. The sandbox with worn plastic digging tools and a red bucket was the only part of the world that mattered to you. Soon, everything else blurred into nothing. You liked the sandbox not for the majesty of castle building or the sandy canvas to carve the visions in your young, creative mind with the swipe of a finger, but because of its smallness and how there was no room for others to play in it if you were in it. That was undoubtedly a strange reason to enjoy a sandbox, especially since youth usually carried along with it a craving to meet the first friend you could find and stick with them through the trials and tribulations of elementary school. You were harder to please in the sphere of friendship, leaving you to take to the sandbox where there breached no worries of finding a companion.
Your finicky little heart made you a feeble target for young, boyish bullies. The pleasure of picking on the loner of the grade often satisfied little boys of their brutish desires. You’d always been a bit docile, and perhaps too much for your own good. There was no need to fight back and usually their torments were no more damaging than paper cuts that would heal in less than one or two days.
Today, however, you were proud of the sand replica of the Andes Mountains, which was quite accurate in your own opinion. Having it grinded down to nothing, to a footprint of a bully’s unforgiving torture was the last straw.
“What are you gonna do about it, loner?” One boy asked.
“Ha ha, good one!” The others cheered on his infantile belittlement.
You didn’t think words sanctioned a fitting reprimand for their actions which led you to throwing a handful of sand, aimed at their face. It wasn’t enough to do any physical damage, but it had been more than enough to elicit anger and fill the opened-mouthed laughs of the three other boys with the specks of dirt and other fine sediments. One boy cupped a clump of sand around a medium-sized rock and pelted your arm with it.
Hoseok, who had been sitting a few yards away, turned to see where the pained yelp originated. When his eyes laid on you and the way you had been rubbing a rock-shaped red mark on your left arm, he felt the muscles in his legs moving him before his brain told him to help you. Quite heroically, he leapt between the blockade of three boys and you, fists clenched and eyes narrowing to push the little roughness he had in his soft facial features against them.
“Leave. Go pick on someone else.” Hoseok warned with an edge that had two of the three boys tutting their heads down in shame.
“Oh yeah? What are you, ___’s boyfriend?”
“I’m the guy who’s gonna beat you up if you don’t leave.” It had been the conviction in his voice that held all the power. The voice of an angel to you, and to them, the voice that made picking on the defenseless loner not worth the trouble. They all retreated to kick around dirt at each other giving Hoseok the chance to turn around and check your arm’s injury.
“Are you okay?” He sat down next to you, and to your surprise, there was just enough room for him in this tiny sandbox.
“Yeah, it’s just a bruise. It’ll go away.”
“I’m sorry about those guys… I- I think they’re dumb jerks.” This little slight towards them was quite modest in comparison to how Hoseok spoke in his later years. It wasn’t intended to insult the bullies necessarily, but to show he was on your side. That you didn’t have to play in the sandbox alone anymore if he was lucky enough for your picky taste in friends to acquire a bias towards him
“Yeah, major jerks. They ruined my Andes Mountains.” You were shoving around some sand to piece together the broken sculpture.
“Why the Andes Mountains?”
“I don’t know. They’re cool! They’re super tall, have you seen them?” In some way, it wasn’t the mountains that were feeding your excitement and the discussion, though short, was much longer than anything you experienced before Hoseok. Not only did you ward off the few people that stumbled into your sandbox, but many kids began avoiding you altogether.
“No, but I’ve seen pictures of other mountains.”
“I’ve seen them! They’re big and rocky and they go alllllll the way up to the sky!” Your arms shot up to mimic the mammoth Andes mountains.
“I’ve never seen a mountain like that but I’ve seen a volcano.”
“Woah! Where?”
“It was on some beach. I don’t really remember.”
“You’ve been to the beach? I’ve always wanted to go! The beach is like one giant sandbox.” Hoseok chuckled at your fascination. If he could travel back in time, he would have befriended you long ago so you wouldn’t have to wish to go to the beach. You would have already been there - with him.
“It’s so fun! I found a jellyfish on the shore and threw it back into the ocean and it didn’t even sting me!” Now you had been laughing at his whimsical personality.
“You’re weird… I like you.”
“Could I- Could I help you?” Hoseok asked this, already preparing himself to an untimely demise of his efforts to befriend you.
You paused. Your empty arena of friends had gained a candidate well-suited for your liking. Even as a child, you knew the trope of ‘boys who bully you only do so because they have a crush on you’ was just a way to excuse the brazen attitudes of entitled little boys. Hoseok wasn’t like any of those boys. He was kind, he spoke gently when he asked to play with you. He fit into the sandbox with you and you didn’t mind the company.
The answer was clear.
“Yeah sure. Grab a shovel!” You didn’t bother looking at him, though his eyes were immovable from you.
“If you wet the sand it sticks together better.” He said, attempting to prove himself an asset to your sand mountain construction.
“I never thought about that. Thank you.” This piece of advice was the first of many gifts this boy would give to you.
One could assume the rapid advancement of your affection towards him could be due to how easy it was for younger children to build attachments with one another. However, that could not single-handedly explain the way you already felt close to him and how when he wasn’t in the sandbox with you, the vast space was not comforting as it once was. Not in the slightest. It could not explain how you and him never fought over petty things such as sharing the red bucket or whose sandcastle was better. He, without fail, insisted yours was always best. How your fondness of him only grew whenever he handled you in a much more tender way than he handled the bullies, no longer coming around to throw rocks and mean words at you.
“Wanna have a playdate?” You proposed in an uncharacteristic lapse of valor.
“Um…” The hesitance wasn't because he was opposed in the slightest to this offer, but the little details of his life that often got in the way of building normal relationships, “Yeah.”
“Yay! I just have to ask my mommy first. She will probably want to meet your parents.” You said while molding the sand into a pointed mound.
“I don’t…” He stilled his fingers against the dampened sand, hoping it would calm the fast pace of his heart. “I don’t have parents. I’m a foster kid.”
You didn’t give an immediate response, instead turning your attention over to the boy who was unable to move from mortification. It confused you that he felt ashamed of this, your young, well-intentioned mind unaware of the negative implications and stigmas that surrounded being in the foster system. You simply smiled.
“Well, that's ok! Mommy will just be happy I’m finally having a playdate.” You said, shearing away the depth to this aspect of Hoseok. He was surprised, and also comforted in the fact that him being a foster child was no bigger of a deal than the color of his hair or the size of his shoes. As if this trait of his was something normal. He felt normal with you, and his inexperienced heart couldn’t decorate the thankfulness he felt with the right words.
“I’m Hoseok, by the way.”
“I’m ___.”
And the rest was history.
With him, the world didn’t matter. The end of recess didn’t stalk your mind. The threat of mean boys had become unthreatening. The lonesome life that you were comfortable with now felt like pins and needles against your body. The idea of friendship that once felt like pins and needles was comfortable, with Hoseok. To think, you had been fooling yourself into believing you were okay with being lonely and that you would have never come to terms with the emotional poverty that being alone subjected you to if it weren’t for him. Because with him, you believed the byword adults would regularly preach ‘sharing is caring���. You nursed a considerable affection towards Hoseok to care for him and had now realized you had far too much space in your sandbox to not share it with him.
“Thank you for being my friend.” You said, in the wake of all the goodness of friendship he had introduced you to.
In sixth grade you weren’t worried about a new school or leeching onto a clique. The burden of belonging didn’t barge in on your life like it had most of your peers. You had the privilege of being best friends with Hoseok. He told you on the day of your fifth-grade promotion that middle school wasn’t so scary, not when he had you. There was nothing for you to do but trust in him, not because you had to, but because you wanted to and because you knew he would always be honest with you.
It was you, Hoseok, and the little sandbox against the world… until it was not.
Unlike the end of elementary school, the end of middle school was met with no such promises of the kindling allegiance Hoseok used to assure you of. You assumed it was because his consistency in your life now went without being said. However, you learned this was a terribly incorrect assessment.
The start of high school was when everything changed. The seasons cycled through right before your eyes, and you weren’t ready for the new semester of school that Autumn brought. What you had been even more unready for was the gradual disappearance of Hoseok from your life. When he’d been drawn to certain promiscuities and stopped coming over for the weekly visits and soon forgot the comfort of fresh linen and lemon. You wanted to ask him, or rather, plead that he wouldn’t drift. The only certainty in your life was becoming more and more unseen and, in his place, an evasive fog to renounce him from your vision altogether. There was nothing for you to do but let him go, not because you wanted to, but because you had to.
Because he stopped looking at you and forced a cold divide between you two without negotiation.
Eventually, you made friends though not nearly of the same caliber as Hoseok. Most of your connections felt shallow and a bit forced and you knew there was no way in hell you would have let them into the sandbox with you if you were a kid again. Not in the way you let Hoseok; you hated living with that knowledge.
It was horribly painful the way he tore the plant of his body from your life. He’d buried the seeds and began to fertilize your world with companionship and intimacy. He grew with every step that you grew, however the bud of your friendship hadn’t the chance to blossom before he ripped out every root tangled within the inner workings of your life.
He had abandoned you in the dark night of doubt and confusion and aloneness. Half of your broken heart was somewhat glad he didn’t tell you why he had done this because it would have been devastating to find out he simply didn’t like being around you anymore. That horrific thought that the need for you to be in his life grown to a rusted nonessential was second to aloneness in being the worst thing he left you with. The other half of your heart was dedicated to wishing he would walk into your life again.
Why would he do that to you?
And more importantly, how could he do that to you? He knew there were no two things more fitting for each other than the two of you. So how could he dispose of the one thing that meant everything to you and leave it to rot in the soil with the rest of the broken, decaying promises?
There was a reason, and he forbade himself from telling you. He was so ashamed of his bones that he decided to cover every fond memory and every scar that turned his skeleton textured with permanent divots with endless layers of skin.
The half of your heart that longed for him eventually merged with the other half that felt nothing but complete abandonment. The sandbox was of single occupancy once again. You hated him for that.
Present day
Hoseok’s eyes were full. Not of bloodshot vessels along the whites of the eye and not of worry that Dickson would catch them. They were full, almost outweighing the irises, with none other than melancholy and tears. Real, wet tears. He could blink away the tears and wipe them on the sleeve of his flannel, but he couldn't disengage the melancholy, the utter sadness from infecting his eyes.
Looking up at the tiled walls of the bathroom, there waxed a bitter disgust in his chest for going so long, far too many years, looking at anything that wasn't your eyes. His labored efforts to keep away from you, not even allowing himself the option to explain the purge of you from his life, was bitter. Disgusting. It filled him with more guilty tears.
He wasn’t crying for himself or the pressing torture he had endured for the majority of his life. He was crying for you. He was crying for the fact that he couldn’t tell you all the reasons he’d left you and tarnished the purity of your smooth skin. He was crying for hurting you, he was not oblivious to it.
Yes, he was crying. The portrait held a valid hypothesis of the future. An older Hoseok, crying for fear of losing you. For you.
He waited a few minutes longer, giving enough time to account for any sudden stops or distractions that might have been littered in the path of the other’s transfer back to the library. Hoseok stood, checking the mirror that the tears were dried, and the melancholy was clouded with a redeeming fog, and then made his way back to the library.
No one, not you, not even the thick skinned Hoseok could be immune to the commands of timing. It was unavoidable, the misfortune that timing would always sweep over the lives of you and Hoseok. Dickson was second to timing on being an unavoidable force of annoyance and persecution. Walking down the extensive, closed hallway gave Hoseok no possible divergent path to escape the hunt that Dickson seemed to be on.
“Well, well, well. Look who we have here? I’m disappointed to say I’m not surprised to see you breaking the one rule I enforced.” The completely irrational and dictatorial rule that he had been referring to, of course, had Hoseok’s rejection of it written all over the way he strolled through the halls.
Any number of excuses would have cushioned the blow of Dickson’s repercussive actions about to be set in a meticulous line. He could have said he honestly needed to relieve himself or that he was feeling nauseous and needed some air and a quick lap around the halls. But he didn’t want to make excuses for himself.
Hoseok had been parading around this Saturday as if he had enough skin to protect him against the external forces of you, Dickson, even the other three boys. He was tired, reaching the apex of a tall cliff, climbing and climbing to what seemed like an abstracted end without the comfort of a hand to hold or a shoulder to lean on during this tiresome journey. And now, he just wanted to let his body fall down the agglomeration of his own barricades.
“I was smoking weed in the bathroom.” His defeat from trying and his apathy towards Dickson’s belligerent blows left him on the bottom of the cliff. There was no use in standing, in climbing again. No use but to fall and wait for the day to end.
Dickson took this vulnerability to his advantage. He was all too quick and far too eager to sink his teeth into the thin skin on Hoseok. As he was drinking the juices of all the power he felt entitled to, his thirst grew morbid, thinking the only way to quench it was to swallow every last drop of dignity from Hoseok’s body.
“You, Hoseok. You act like you’re top dog. You do whatever you want, whenever you want, and what does that leave you with? You’re never going to be satisfied. You’re gonna end up empty and broken just like the family you never had.” This was beyond crossing the line. Dickson had stomped over it, pummeled it into mush, spit his dirty hatred in it, and perverted every aspect of Hoseok’s life that had once been latched safely behind the line. “No wonder you’re such a troublemaker. You’re desperate for any sort of attention or authority because you never had the father figure in your life to set you straight. And even if you did, even if the world gave you every privilege and shortcut to living a better life, you would still probably be empty, broken, and useless to everyone around you. What are you gonna do? You’re gonna graduate in a year and I can safely bet you have no plans. You’re going to end up a nobody. A loser. Just another unwanted orphan.”
The Hoseok four hours ago would kiss his knuckles against Dickson’s lip before he had the chance to finish grinding him to a pulp with those words. The Hoseok at twelve o’ clock, four hours older, was tired and swept in his anguish of losing you, or perhaps letting you go, or even worse, pushing you away. The tonnage of all these put his head into a haze and he couldn’t see Dickson, not that he wanted to. He couldn't see you, your eyes, even when he fell to his knees and begged the universe for that. He couldn’t smell fresh linen and lemon, only the faint memory of them which was quickly fading. The fog was surrounding, enclosing, imprisoning him but for what crime? For being the one who never seemed to be at the right place at the right times?
“Get your ass back to the library, Jung.” Dickson let this command roll off his tongue as if he’d been dubbed a place on a shiny pedestal. As if anyone in their right minds would have honored him for degrading the most fragile parts of Hoseok and shredding the sensitive skin of the man already fallen to the base of a cliff.
Wordless, visionless, Hoseok walked in a slump past Dickson to the library. Though, this book-filled prison felt safer than outside. Because it had you, it had the memory of your laughs and your eyes. It had the people who, though annoyed, still cared to give him more respect than he deserved.
And everyone, especially you, were increasingly worried about the amount of time it took Hoseok to get back. The others almost settled on the conclusion that he had been caught and put in some sort of solitary confinement by Dickson. Toes curling and hands fisted, you prayed that he would return. You prayed and it cleared all the hatred from you, still leaving a few stains of resentment for him. You resented him, but hated? Not in the slightest.
It was shocking, more so than your hatred of him, how in just four hours your animosity transformed into something tame and a little bit bruised and quite dramatically opposite of hatred. In hatred, one wants nothing to do with the other. In resentment, one seeks resolve with the other. You wanted him here and you wanted his eyes to make contact for longer than thirty seconds to make some sort of amends.
“I’m guessing what's worrying you right now isn’t your essay?” Namjoon tacked a concern in his question and through the way he had been staring at the empty seat behind you, there was no doubt he was talking about Hoseok.
“I don’t know why I care. He’s the one who decided to leave.” The low hanging grin was the best ‘I’m fine’ face you could pull. It was no use against someone like Namjoon who, within seconds, painted a part of you gone unvisited by anyone, including yourself. “He probably ditched. He can never commit to anything.”
“Ouch. Didn’t know you took detention so seriously.” You and him were well aware that these questions were void of their surface meaning. The connotations strung onto his every word had encoded his knowledge of what was really going on and he was about to get it out of you. “You and him were friends in middle school right? I think I remember. You guys would always eat lunch together.”
You were about to correct him and tell him you’d actually been friends since the first grade, but you decided against it. What were you trying to prove by saying that, anyway?
“Yeah, well, that was a long time ago.”
“Sorry, I didn't mean to pry.”
“No, it's nothing you have to be sorry about. It’s probably nothing he has to be sorry about either. It's just me setting my expectations too high and disappointing myself.” You paused to stilt the quiver in your voice about to crack through your words. No one had ever asked about what happened with you and Hoseok. No one had ever cared enough to even wonder. This was a first for you.
“I don’t see it that way. I think he’s lonelier than he lets on.” Namjoon wasn’t sure of what he was trying to prove, but he certainly harnessed more emotional intelligence than you had assumed.
You suddenly felt guilty for doing the lazy thing of resigning him to a label, a slightly dehumanizing one at that, without even having one full conversation with him.
“Sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?”
“I don't know. I’m not sure why I said that, but I just felt like I needed to say sorry. You’re a good guy, Namjoon.” The grin bubbling from your lips was not a front this time. You were genuinely, profoundly touched by the way he’d shown you compassion about the Hoseok situation like no other did.
“Thanks, I guess.” He chuckled at the randomness of it, but knew you meant well and that you fully knew why you were apologetic. Feeling seen past the stigma pinned on his back, he knew you only meant well.
Right when you were about to give up and mark this as another self-designed hope that failed to be upheld, timing came to your aid.
For once, it did and it brought Hoseok with it.
“I just got chewed out by Dickhead.”
Despite the sting, the way he rubbed against the raw wound left by Dickson, it felt better than admitting it hurt him so. To make light of his deepest cuts and sprinkle a bit of his own salt in the wound, well, that was what Hoseok specialized in.
Seokjin, still riding on the waves of his high, walked over to Hoseok and wrapped him in a hug as if he had been gone for days. Hoseok stood still, he didn’t return the hug, nor did he shove Seokjin off of him. It wasn’t because he fancied a hug from this strange boy, but more so he felt too awkward to move or even react.
“Dude, we thought you died. We thought he killed you.” Eventually, Hoseok gathered the resolve to lightly nudge Seokjin from his personal space.
“Well, I’m alive so you can stop hugging me.”
“Hoseok, what happened? Did he get you in trouble?” You sounded far more concerned than the rest. You really wanted to know if he was okay, but you found that it filtered through your throat with an overly mild expression of that. Still, he caught this, along with every other subtlety in your voice, and wanted more than anything to tell you the truth.
No, he thought, He did something far worse. I would have rather taken a lifetime of detentions than to have been forced to witness the sickeningly honest criticisms Dickson threw into my already melancholy, tearful eyes. How he left that interaction unscathed and I was drenched in the pain of facing my truth.
But the words didn't come out. He didn’t feel like anyone would care about what he said anyway, and he didn’t feel like dragging you into more of his issues.
“He just got all worked up about his no leaving the room policy. The usual ‘how dare you go against me’ sort of speech. I honestly didn’t really pay attention.” His eyes trailed to the floor.
“What a dick. Sorry, man.” Jimin said while yawning, unrecovered from the Indica induced drowsiness.
“Yeah sorry, but I’m sure you got in a few good comebacks, right?” Namjoon asked.
“Yeah, for sure.” Hoseok would have otherwise been boasting about the way he fired back against Dickson. You were expecting that, and when it failed to come you knew something was wrong.
Namjoon had been drawing a new picture while he asked this. Absent-mindedly enough to not notice Hoseok’s shaken behavior. The sketch was of the five of you, sitting in a circle. It was laid back, with a touch of delight that shed the new bond forming between you all into a visible light. No one in that room would have guessed this Saturday to turn out the way it did, however none of you really cared for the alternative outcomes. You were all just glad you were living through this one.
The one that was encapsulated by the painting, the erasure of circumstantial union by a wave of perfectly crafted comradery. This wasn’t some deep insight of Namjoon’s, not like the ones in the individual portraits he drew. This was not of blind guesses or improbable hopes. This was clear to him, to you, to everyone.
There were no such distractions to clamor your notice of his timid mannerisms. The way he walked a bit too quietly to his desk as if someone had stripped him down to nudeness for all eyes to witness. And just like before, when he first walked into the library, he found his seat without a single glance in your direction. Though, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel frustrated with him. Not when his worries were more real and devastating than his portrait.
This time it was different on two accounts. One, your ambition for him to look to you was not so you could relish in the guilt tripping stare he would be met with. The reasons you wanted him to look to you now was because you wanted him to know he was seen and was anything but alone. Whatever Dickson said or did was not a burden he had to shoulder on his own. And two, he didn’t sit behind you, didn’t try to avoid the unavoidable. He sat right next to you, in the scant space of your table, and there was enough room for him; even in the smallest spaces, there would always be enough room for him anywhere you were.
The scenery of him was bringing it all back. The sandbox, the mountains of sand, the young savior with the heart of gold. The love of having him by your side and the pain of his gutting absence. The roots of him were sliding back between your veins, once again seeking habitat for the bloom of friendship, or something more.
Look at me, you wanted to say. I’m finally able to see you again. Can you see me? We’re all here, Hoseok. Jimin, Namjoon, Seokjin, and me. We’re all here, waiting for your eyes. Waiting to see the bones beneath your skin.
“Hobi, are you okay?” This time you made sure your whisper only touched Hoseok’s ears.
“I don’t know. I don't know anymore.” He couldn’t see you and he had no idea you had been waiting for him, in the fog, all this time.
One week ago
The text read that the study group you had been invited to join, courtesy of your friend Lisa, had a study session on the second-floor study room. It wasn’t to hang out, just to study, and you wished it would be more than that. At least a part of you did. The other part of you, the one still hung up on something that happened long ago and the same part of you that liked to play in the sandbox alone, didn’t care that most of your friendly interactions had been surface level.
One day, you’d meet with a few friends for coffee, or another you’d meet up with a group to study, and the more you hung out with people, the less personal friendship began to feel.
Friendship without Hoseok began to feel like a business exchange, or a mechanical interaction that had become overproduced and of less quality. Like pulling the same lever repeatedly, until it became a boring chore. Not to say you didn’t appreciate it. Though shallow, trite, and forced, it was more than Hoseok ever gave you these days.
But the text made you feel lonely, like an add on or an afterthought. Simply someone to fill an extra seat at the table. You wanted to feel like you weren’t just going through life without connecting, but connections were placed at such a high standard, thanks to Hoseok, that they were hard to come by.
Your teacher passed you through the halls, you tried to avoid eye contact but that made it even more obvious you didn’t want to talk to her. You both exchanged a cordial greeting and flung a few thoughtless comments about the weather into the mix to prevent any awkwardness. It was raining, you said. The rain looked like it was going to clear up, but still looks foggy out there, your teacher responded. She walked to her office and you returned to reality.
Your reality. Alone.
You stared at the bulletin board and the dozens of neon colored flyers for new clubs and campus organizations. Band? You were hardly the musician. Physics? Barely passing Chemistry answered that quickly enough. Chess? You’d rather be lonely. Maybe it was pathetic, but you wondered why there wasn’t a club for finding people. No underlying activity, no common hobby shared amongst the group, just a club to help a few lonely souls feel a little less lonely. For people who had a hard time meeting friends and an even harder time keeping them. Where was that club?
You walked past the school’s cafe, not needing the caffeine to wind yourself up over the impeding awareness of how alone you felt today. Monday. The day of reckoning it seemed. When you felt alone, as you did today, your thoughts could only gather memories of Hoseok to cheer you up. To remember that once you weren’t so alone, it definitely felt better than remembering you were alone.
You and Hoseok had been diametrically opposed ever since the gradual end of your friendship. He’d become somewhat of a rebel and you stayed humbled and quiet. The once parallel lines of your souls running along the span of seven years together had diverged, his line east and yours, west, by the time you hit the eighth year.
Today, all alone, you decided to start walking east. Not that you were looking for Hoseok necessarily, you were simply hoping to find something, or someone. It was that decision, along with the various others, that had you walking east and trying to get home before the rain fell again. You could have been surrounded by a group of classmates by now, who were half discussing the contents of the next Statistics exam and half meandering about what they were going to do this weekend, but that wouldn’t change the fact that you felt alone.
Just like the one who played in the sandbox, you’d rather be alone while feeling alone. Though solitary walks in the rain meant you weren’t of any access to distractions. You began to wonder, which was never a good thing in your case, why you felt alone? There must be something wrong with you. Everyone else seemed to get along with the idea of friendship no matter the depth of them. You had concluded maybe ‘sociable’ wasn’t programmed in your DNA because sometimes you found yourself absolutely hating the idea. But that couldn’t be true because there was a part of your life that you spent loving the idea. Not just the idea, but the real deal as well. What could it be then? What was the reason you walked alone this Monday afternoon?
There he was. The moment you saw him you knew he was the reason.
“Hoseok.” You hadn’t felt those syllables in that order fall from your lips for quite some time, only hearing it in your head made him seem nearly unreal. But he was real, so was his name.
He had a cigarette stuck between his lips, then soon his fingers, leaning on the seat of his jet-black motorcycle. You were walking closer to him, slowly, like the way one would approach a wild animal so not to scare them off. Your steps drew you back to first grade again, and proximity wise, you were just as close to him as you were in the sand box. However, your hearts hadn’t even been in the same country.
“Do you need something?” The worst part about what he said was the fact that he didn’t mention your name. As if your name hadn’t crossed his mind in four years unlike how his was practically branded between the wrinkles of your brain. As if, to him, losing you was nothing more than a check off of some to-do list, a chore, a burden he was just trying to get over with. So, it was absolutely pathetic what you thought immediately in response to what he asked.
I need you.
“You smoke?”
“No, I just like holding cigarettes in my mouth.” Your eyes rolled to this, feeling a shockwave disassembling the Hoseok you remembered in your head. He was entirely new, not the boy who liked to go to the beach and played with sand, and you had a hard time recognizing him with this new skin he wore and the fog that, as your teacher guessed, was thickly lurking through the air.
“How are you?” You thought this was a dumb question because you knew he would answer with some short winded, meaningless ‘good’ or ‘fine’ or maybe he wouldn’t even say anything at all, leading to a fateful dead-end to this dragged out conversation. It was enough to make you equally eager and exhausted. If you could call what you felt for him with words, it would be hate. Probably.
His face looked paler than it had before, and his hands looked like it would feel like ice if you touched them. You used to touch them all the time, and they were warm and looked just as warm as they felt. If you touched them now, would they be as cold as his voice? Would he even let you?
“I’d say I’m quite annoyed that someone decided to interrupt my peace and quiet.” He flicked the butt of the cigarette to shave a few ashes off the end of the stick. You just shook your head at how he didn’t hide the way he dodged your questions with insincerity.
“Sorry, jeez... How the tables have turned.”
“What?”
“Oh just that,” You paused to wonder if him asking what you meant was some subtle indication he wanted to continue talking to you but you settled your bets on that being wishful thinking. Besides, you hated him so why should you care? “Way back when, I remember the roles were reversed. You were the one interrupting my peace and quiet.”
“I distinctly remember saving your life.” To you, no matter how desperate it was, any sort of mild banter with him was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, treasured with the memories stored in your chest. This was certainly the case being that in almost four years, the little he said to you now was the most he’d probably ever say to you in the rest of your lifetime. You took what you could get, after all, beggars can’t be choosers.
“Okay, calm down, you saved me from getting sand in my hair and down my pants.” You laughed and took a subconscious step closer to him. Carefully, lightly as not to scare him away because Hoseok looked stiff and distant minded when he saw you move towards him.
The mumble was registered clearly by Hoseok from the way you watched his partial scowl transform into a barely intelligible smile. You saw it, despite how small it was, and you missed the way he looked when he smiled at you. You missed knowing why he smiled, since right now you had no idea what prompted him to curve his lips the slightest bit upwards. More than that, you missed being the reason he smiled. That was selfish, maybe, and far-fetched from the looks of the gaping distance he seemed to be as comfortable with as you were uncomfortable.
“Li-”
“You-”
“Oh, you go.” His and your eyes were both fixed on the cigarette twirling between his fingers. And though you haven’t talked to him in a while, you knew that the tapping and twirling of his fingers was one of his habits to soothe his nervousness.
Was he nervous?
You wanted to carve the part of your brain dedicated to overthinking, specifically when it came to Hoseok, out of your skull. You hated the fact that you overanalyzed his every movement down to the twitch of his ears more than the fact that you cared enough to do so in the first place, and you hated that more than the man himself.
“You shouldn’t put that stuff in your body.” From the way his eyes didn’t move from the cigarette, it felt like you could have said nothing at all. He brushed it aside as if he was never intending on listening to you in the first place.
No, you thought, not Hobi. He would care, I think. He has to care enough about himself to keep his body healthy. And for some reason, above all the other overthought thoughts, that one seemed to scare you the most. If he didn’t care about you anymore, and he didn’t care about himself, then did he care about anything at all?
“Mm.” His gruff response fit unfortunately well with his hand, the one with the cigarette, that was moving towards his mouth again as if it were some act of defiance against you.
Your hand moved to curl around his wrist, which began a new set of overthought thoughts about how rough his skin felt against your hand. Soon, you found your thumb grazing softly along the underside of his forearm. It was you double checking to make sure this was the same skin as the Hoseok you knew before, an accidental gesture born out of instinct rather than methodic planning, something that, if he asked, you wouldn’t be able to explain. For the time being, you did everything you could to investigate where his new nihilistic attitude had bloomed from.
Before the ten second mark of this abnormal, slightly familiar contact, you channeled every neuron in your body to signal your hand to let go of him. He seemed blind sighted enough for you to snag the cigarette out of his hands and into your own.
“Do you want a hole in your neck?”
“What are you doing?” He didn’t sound as angry as you expected him to be. Moreover, he looked worried which under sighted your awareness of the deft approach to reach for his cigarette back.
“Like I said, the tables have turned. Now, it’s me who’s saving your life.”
Before you could throw it on the ground and flatten out the flame with your shoe, you braced for the unforced mistake of looking into his eyes and seeing nothing. All that was sitting in the socket of his eyes was a lusterless fog. You wanted to see his eyes more than you wanted him to care, which was an odd transition being that his care had been the top priority ever since freshman year. Your hands were gloved by warm cotton, but you would have taken them off to hold his hand and make them warm with yours.
“Hey!” You thought that was just in your head. Maybe the voice of reason to advise you from holding his hand because that would be extremely weird to do to an estranged friend. But it wasn’t a voice of reason that stopped you, it was quite possibly the worst person to stumble upon this encounter. “No smoking on campus!”
You turned around and saw Dickson’s manic expression then immediately turned to the cigarette that was in your hand.
Shit.
“I can explain! It wasn’t-”
“Can it, ___! No excuses.” Dickson’s eyes trailed to the pack of cigarettes that the one in your hand was sourced from. He didn’t say anything, just shook his head and reached into the pocket of his blazer to pull out that notorious pink pad of detention slips. With nothing more than a smug grin flashed like bright headlights against you and Hoseok, one that you would grow to hate more than anything, Dickson turned and strut away with long strides and an elevated self-esteem.
“Looks like I’ll be seeing you this Saturday, princess.” He smirked. To you, it was a mockery and some sort of reprisal for taking his hand and his cigarette soon after.
“Fuck you.” You turned away to walk a petty five or so yards away from him before some gravitational force pulled your head to turn back to him. To see if he was watching, perhaps waiting for you to walk back over to him but sure enough he’d kicked his leg over the seat of his motorcycle and started the engine long before you walked halfway towards where you were left to do nothing but watch him leave. He became smaller and smaller, hazier and hazier, and then unforeseeable in the fog.
You watched him leave, and you were almost sure you hated him.
One week ago
[Hoseok’s POV]
It was enraging and inconvenient for the weather to fog up right as school let out. Hoseok had more trouble driving his motorcycle when there was too much clutter in the air that disoriented the view of the road. He rarely stayed on campus for longer than he needed to, but it looked like he needed to. On the brighter side of things, Hoseok didn’t have to return to his foster house that smelled of old, wet, rotting rags and sounded of strained but persistent screams of his foster parents.
Even sitting in the fog, sucking in the burn of nicotine, was better than going back there. Days similar to these, days intruding his week more often than not, he found himself stuck between a place he wanted nothing to do with and a place he could envision through a pixelated glare that brought him warmth, quiet tranquility, fresh linen, and lemon. The arms that would meet his body and wrap him snug against another body, then the excited face of yours that met with his equally excited face.
It was a shame he could only live out these delights through an array of distant artifacts far too old to expel the loneliness from his heart.
Monday was whirling him through a pool of memories he’d rather keep covered up; it was winter and there was no need to swim in such a pool unless he deemed the risk of freezing to death a tenable substitution for smoking cigarettes in the fog. But it was not a matter of whether he would willingly dive into the pool, rather it was whether or not he could keep himself from falling in or even being pushed in.
Hoseok hadn’t seen your face in nearly four years. Of course, he saw you around the campus, strolling the halls or sitting in the cafeteria. He hadn’t seen your face, however, the way he used to look at it before high school. When he was a child free to flagrantly admire what his heart fancied as beautiful, there was no remorse or guilt from the way his eyes brazenly printed the details of your face into his memory. The creases at the sides of your mouth, the ends of your eyes that were pushed closed by the force of your cheek, and the number of teeth visible when you would smile had been graphed out like a mathematical equation; he was of the few that could solve it between the interval of two seconds. He knew where the inner portion of your eyebrows began and how far down the tip of your nose rested on your face along with the lining of your hair scaling the top of your forehead better than he knew any geographical map studied in school.
Most importantly, he studied your eyes more meticulously than he had his own eyes. Not your arms, or hands, or even the support of your legs could carry as much as your eyes. Hoseok liked to look at them when you smiled because they held the softness of a blanket after a tiring day burdened by a snowstorm. He could see it so clearly, a vast cloth in your eyes made specifically to wrap around a body in need of warmth.
But when you were angry, they held the wildest fires that would burn down anything in their line of vision. No matter how difficult it was to look at your eyes when they were sad, he was familiar with the molting roses that made your tears look like wilting petals; it was unsurprising that even in sadness, you shed beauty from your eyes.
To him, you were the most beautiful being he’d ever gotten the chance to see.
He loved seeing your face, even if the only way he could do so now was through the partially disfigured memories of his younger self. He was sad to say he had no current frame of reference to jar in his mental gallery of you. There was no way he could look at you on the will of his own because he was afraid to unsheathe the distance and repression set to protect you from him
There was no way, because he would have probably fallen in love with you all over again.
He was about to leave, but a gust of wind blew him towards the decision to smoke one more cigarette before surrendering to the house that smelled and felt quite the opposite of one place he truly considered his home.
And then he saw you. Walking slowly, and you looked so frightened of him. In all fairness, there was no reason for you to look at him with anything other than repugnance and unease because he turned quite jagged over the years.
You, however, were a relic of the past. Like a highly revered piece of art in a museum of grandeur, with the flawlessly manicured, picturesque beauty that couldn’t be bothered with the touch of Hoseok’s calloused hands. He could only stare from behind the velvet roped boundary that kept his body from melting into the art of you.
“Hoseok.” Your voice doubled down on the apprehension that tensed your walk up to him. He pulled the cigarette from his lips, feeling it inappropriate to have such a foul thing in his mouth if he were to greet you.
You looked so beautiful. So different from the thinly spread memories of your face; your cheeks had grown into maturation but still maintained a soft innocence. When he looked in your eyes, he did not see roses or raging fires or warming blankets, in fact, he could barely recognize them let alone see what they were holding. It hurt more than the smoke battering his lungs.
Get your shit together. Get away from ___. He reminded himself in an incriminating manner.
“Do you need something?” How he had the ability to keep his mind wrapped around you but spewed words forcing you away was beyond any comprehension. Nonetheless, he did it, simultaneously scolding and applauding himself for not reverting to the version of him that would have greeted you with a soft hug or loving smile.
“You smoke?” The disappointment packed into your voice put him at an odd with himself.
Finding the frustration plowing through his chest, he processed these self-aggressions through a misdirection onto an unsuspecting victim. One he never thought deserving to be the target of his projected anger, but then again, it was the only way to hinder your warm hands from digging beneath his skin.
“No, I just like holding cigarettes in my mouth.” He exhaled relief, along with the rest of the smoke inhabiting his lungs, that you had rolled your eyes. His charade was fooling you into annoyance, keeping you just out of his reach where you belonged.
“How are you?” Or maybe this act of his was not working as well as he thought, since you padded these questions down like you had nothing better to do. Hoseok began to feel worried, the brimming loneliness was about to unleash through the conversation you were, for some reason, trying to initiate.
If you were to go away, it would break me again. But, at least, it would keep my skin intact.
“I’d say I’m quite annoyed that someone decided to interrupt my peace and quiet.” He freed his cigarette from the ashes bunching at the end, hoping you would mimic this riddance. Maybe you would see he had burnt your body to an ash, and sooner or later the entire cigarette would fall away to black dust. If you saw that, would you finally have the sense to leave him?
He couldn’t stand looking at your eyes. To behold such beauty, suspended from any chance to have your body against his was nothing less that torture to him because he was so very cold, and you looked like you harbored enough warmth in your fingertips alone to cure him of it.
“Sorry, jeez… How the tables have turned.”
Hoseok bit down against the side of his cheek hard enough to steal a bit of blood from his gums and to keep him from asking what your eyes were holding today, and if you would be so kind as to give him a piece of it to feed his empty, starving eyes.
So, he settled on:
“What?”
“Oh just that,” Hoseok panicked in the span of your brief pause. Could you notice he was asking for a bit of your eyes and warmth? He was fucking everything up as usual, he thought. “Way back when, I remember the roles were reversed. You were the one interrupting my peace and quiet.”
The jig had not been up yet, thankfully.
“I distinctly remember saving your life.”
“Okay, calm down, you saved me from getting sand in my hair and down my pants.” When you stepped close to him, the film of fear once guarding your walk was scraped clean which led to more silent punishment for letting his selfish indulgences of your company get the best of him.
His muscles couldn’t resist the smile bubbling under the thick skin on his lips. Not even skin, or fog, could hide the smiles that never seemed to run short with you.
And it was the step, or how miserably trapped in the purgatory he felt, or how he smelled fresh linen and lemon exuding from your hair and clothes that pushed him into the pool of memories he’d been walking around, but avoiding submergence.
It was deathly freezing. Now, he was fully submerged in the fluid-filled vat of your memories, however. It wasn’t the bone chilling frigidity of the water that had him reaching his arm out and gasping for air, but the enticing warmth of your body that stood above him, as if you were waiting for him to reach to your aid, for you to fill his depraved lungs with linen and lemon tinted oxygen.
“Li-”
“You-”
“Oh, you go.” He believed it was better that you spoke.
“You shouldn't put that stuff in your body.”
The broken levers and switches and pulleys which made up the inner mechanisms of his body found your banal suggestions as the only surge of kindness his old machinery had felt for a while. He’d heard it before; the Health Education segments, the anti-smoking adverts, the doctor’s orations tunneling out of his ears as quickly as they entered. But your words were caught like traffic in his head, so much that it blocked all entry of a fiery retort to pass through his mouth.
“Mm.” He mumbled because you were right. He shouldn’t be smoking; he shouldn’t be doing a lot of things but some of his actions felt out of his control at this point of his life.
Unprepared could not describe the intense degree of shock Hoseok felt when your fingers wrapped around his wrist so attentively. He was reaching his arm out, waiting to be removed from the cold and isolated pool he’d fallen into (or perhaps pushed into by you), but he never expected his hand to be met. He predicted he would spend eternity reaching to no avail, left to drown in this chilling pond of memories that rendered him frozen in the world of the past. Instead, his body reunited with the dryness of the air.
Hoseok hoped you couldn't feel the embarrassingly quick speed of his pulse with your thumb that rested right against his artery.
“Do you want a hole in your neck?”
He would have responded with: Could it be any worse than freezing to death?
“What are you doing?” His expressionless visage, one labored with hiding his worry, had fallen away from his face.
The way the cigarette looked in your hands had him nearing a faint. To him, it felt like an accessory, like a bracelet or a belt, like it belonged in his hands. But when you held it, the small stick looked like it was going to leave permanent stains of corruption along your skin. It was absolutely abhorrent in your fingers. Any second, your entire body would be lurking with his repulsive residue and he thought it would kill him before it killed you.
“Like I said, the tables have turned. Now, it's me who’s saving your life.”
That was the tipping point for him. The surge of tender nostalgia. The last bid of persuasion he needed to grab your wrist instead and press his mouth against yours, warm and wet and gentle. And he would have done exactly that, he would have kissed you and offered his last breath to your lungs if not for the unexpected saving grace that arrived in the form of a bitter vice principal.
“Hey!” Dickson’s approach was followed with the inevitability of detention. Hoseok only knew this to be true because even when he wasn’t smoking on campus or doing something that would elicit a detention, Dickson always found a way of weaving in reason to prosecute Hoseok. “No smoking on campus!”
“I can explain! It wasn't-”
“Can it, ___! No excuses.” Hoseok was in his own world now, counting down the seconds until the pink slip of detention would be presented in front of him on a rusty silver platter. When Dickson walked away, he found it fitting to begin breathing once again.
“Looks like I’ll be seeing you this Saturday, princess.” The mischief in his smirk bred the annoyance back into your chest, which was his goal of course. Before he got the chance to enact his sinful deed to close the space between your lips and his, he hopped on his motorcycle and wheeled himself to a safe distance.
Cold and lonely, but safe.
He had the rest of the week to figure out how in the hell he was going to spend an entire day with you without looking into your eyes and breaking through the already vulnerable skin.
12:00 - 2:00
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”
About two minutes after Jimin’s head took a dive, landed against the solid wood of the table, and snapped back awake, he looked a bit confused and tried to reattach himself to reality.
“Does anyone know what time it is?”
“Twelve ten.” You and Namjoon answered in unison like you had been keeping track of every minute that passed since eight o’clock.
“Time isn’t real.” The still high and rosy cheeked Seokjin mumbled out through a cluster of thoughts bumping around the otherwise empty space in his brain.
“I’m going to punch you.” Hoseok said, feeling sensitive to irritation after the denigration he had just undergone courtesy of a washed-out vice principal.
“Hoseok.” Your tone was a punishing command that needn’t more than the one-worded sternness to make Hoseok huff lightly in adherence.
“It’s been,” Jimin paused to count with his fingers, “four hours already? It honestly hasn’t felt like it’s been that long.”
“Well, you know what they say.” Namjoon commented this with no further explanation as if Jimin had any actual clue to what the other boy was referring to.
“What? What do they say?” Jimin responded, expectant for the explanation.
“I know. Is it that time isn’t real?” You tried not to laugh at Seokjin’s re-utterance of his thoughts that were polished over with an intoxicated glaze, knowing your approbation to him would further aggravate Hoseok into actually punching Seokjin.
“How are you still that high, Jin?” Namjoon said through a soft chuckle.
“I don’t know it’s kind of freaking me out now. Am I gonna be high for the rest of my life?”
“No and no. It’s that time goes by faster when you’re having fun.”
“That’s rich.” Hoseok took it upon himself to point out the irony and wicked hypocrisy of the insinuation that Jimin was having, of all things, fun with the four of you.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jimin had almost forgotten Hoseok seemed to get the most satisfaction out of picking at Jimin specifically.
Jimin wasn’t the easiest target since he was the furthest from a social pariah, Seokjin and Namjoon filled that slot, but he had both a namesake of being a star football player and a pyramidal structure of friends to lose from Hoseok’s unforgiving tongue. This made it much more satisfying to Hoseok.
“I just would have never guessed you would get off your high horse for a few hours to join the rest of us lowlifes. Consider me flattered.” This wasn’t the first or last sarcastic remark to whip tirelessly against Jimin however it was enough for Jimin to feel deserving of answers.
“Where do you keep getting this idea that I think of you guys as lowlifes?”
“Oh, you wanna know?” Hoseok said, finding the clutter of denial Jimin had congregated around himself both ignorant and audacious. Even Namjoon and Seokjin found it astounding how gullible Jimin was towards his own refusal to admit an all too terrible truth.
“Please, enlighten me.” In the simplest terms, Jimin was in over his head to take on such a challenge with the amount of overzealous egoism in his voice. It felt like an affront, the ignorance shrouding him, to the experiences of the minnows that had to walk the halls with their heads hung low in order to avoid an unsolicited and traumatizing attack from the sharks of your school.
As much as Jimin didn’t want to acknowledge it, he was a shark, and the rest of you were minnows.
“Why don’t you tell everyone why you got detention?”
Jimin stiffened to a stone-like manner. It was petrifying to even move, let alone speak on behalf of his actions that led him here. He didn’t have his posse of dim-witted friends to protect him, nor the freedom of avoidance being trapped in the library. There was, for once, nowhere for Jimin to turn to other than the four faces of those deserving of his explanation.
“Well?” Hoseok coaxed.
“Damn, was it that bad?” Seokjin was worried he placed too much hope on Jimin’s shoulders. He wanted to believe Jimin was one of the good ones, or better ones at least. That out of his friends, Jimin would be the one to do the right thing because it would have been nothing short of betrayal if he relinquished himself to the cowardice of the ‘follow the leader’ mindset plaguing Jimin’s group of friends.
Perhaps it was the razing hues of the cheap fluorescent lights in the library, but there was a strange brightness illuminating this room in particular. Out in the halls, it was darker and easier to miss the faces of passing students. So dark that when you first stepped into the library, your eyes felt a slight burn and was forced to readjust to seeing with clarity for once in quite a long time.
In the library, there was no way to miss their faces. Maybe if you closed your eyes it would have been easier and the burn of the lights infiltrating your retinas would be boiled down to a grazing sting but now wasn’t the time for closed eyes. The rarity of brightness and clarity was too good to return to the blindness of the halls and the fogged space of the world outside. It was safe to keep them open, just for now.
“Don’t tell me it was one of your dumb football friends who put you up to something.” You said as if you already knew this to be true.
“They’re not dumb.” “What? Are you trying to defend them? Defend yourself?” Hoseok said and it was not caked in indifference or sarcasm. It was angry and driven by some demented sort of care for Jimin to take accountability for his actions; it was as if he knew Jimin was better than that but he wouldn’t admit this even with a gun to his head.
“No! It’s not that. It’s just…” Jimin had reached his breaking point. There was nothing left to hide. Not when the library was so damn bright that it singed his vision enough to well a few tears to collect at the base of his eyes. “They’re fucking cruel. I don’t think dumb people can be as cruel as them.”
Jimin’s eyes were spaced out to the floor as if he had seen a ghost, or many ghosts in the form of the untracked amount of students that were swept into a relentless attack by those Jimin dared to call his friends. Those who he stood by, even if it cut through every moral instinct in his body. The most shameful ghosts were the ones sitting before him, listening attentively.
And the most haunting ghost of all was none other than himself.
“Jimin, what did you do?” Namjoon, walking on eggshells or rather shards of glass, asked this of him apprehensively knowing how overwhelmingly displeased you all would be with his answer.
“I didn’t have a choice! I-” The tears once held at bay on the bed of Jimin’s eyes had now been pushed over and down his cheeks from the guilt crowding the space where they once rested. “You know my friend Connor right? Well, I don’t know if I can call him a friend. Not anymore at least.”
The four silent nods didn’t give him enough time to construct the strong foundation of courage he needed to build upon this. However, Jimin had exhausted the last of his courage. All there was left for him, for all of you, was to be vulnerable. To be welcoming of his pain seemed to be the only source of strength to say what was needed to be said. What, for once, he felt like he could openly admit to.
The library was bright. He began to feel seen because of it and the noiseless juncture gave him a chance to be heard.
“I, um, I made the mistake of leaving my phone out. God, I was so fucking stupid. I can’t believe I did that.” He took one deep breath to energize himself, “I, uh, I got a text from Kim Taehyung and,”
Jimin had been instilling frequent pauses between what he was saying. Talking, especially to those whose opinions held a measurable importance to him, was the most difficult thing he had to do. Jimin spent over ten hours in the beating sun, extrapolated his muscles of their ability to move with the intensive workouts he had to do for training, ran over seven kilometers nearly every other day, and shoved an integral piece of his heart to a place of hateful and regretful shame for his whole life. But this, the uncomplicated act of talking had twisted into an unsolvable maze with Jimin placed right at the center.
“Connor looked. He- he fucking looked through my texts.”
The mention of Kim Taehyung, the only uncloseted person in your grade, had given you all the information needed to know why Connor looking through Jimin’s texts was not just an invasion of privacy but an infestation to the immunity Jimin built against how he loved; who he loved. The boundaries had been set and had been wrongly trespassed over, and to someone like Connor, that didn’t register as a violent act of homophobia. Jimin didn’t have to explain the contents of the texts for you all to know that it was far beyond platonic.
Suddenly, everything made sense to Hoseok. Being that he was the only one who knew what happened, but not as much to know the reasons behind it had him feeling almost as guilty as Jimin.
“You don’t have to explain yourself. I didn't know all that.” Hoseok had given Jimin an opt out, a shortcut to escape from the maze Jimin was still wandering through, which was his way of apologizing and clarifying he would never cross that boundary, the boundary that Connor ravaged with a hateful heart.
Jimin turned it down. He turned down the shortcuts. This wasn’t a journey that would be accomplished by taking the easy way out. Sometimes, one must run right into the eye of the hurricane to be freed from the shackles of self-despair.
“No. I need to tell you guys. I don’t want you guys to think that...” Jimin pushed past the final wall, realizing the very mask meant to protect him was the thing that had been turning him into someone he couldn't recognize when he looked in the mirror. “I just… I want you guys to know.”
The low social status of the others in the room wasn’t why he felt like he could be honest. It wasn’t the fact that even if you all knew, it would have been diluted to an unverifiable and petty rumor because no one took what the delinquent, the loner, the nerd, and the freak said seriously. What motivated him, or more fittingly, what inspired him to be honest was your gift of listening, not just hearing to hear, but hearing to care and understand Jimin.
“I’m gay.” And he finally found the end of the maze. “I’ve never said it out loud before. It sounds weird coming out of my mouth.” What he expected was awkward silence, a few uncomfortable or disapproving grimaces, or a complete rejection of what he revealed himself to be. These expectations weren’t met, by the grace of God or more likely the grace of those who listened with care and understanding. And Jimin cried harder.
“I don’t think it sounds weird. I’m so happy you shared that with us.” You said in place of the expected rejection, and you smiled in the place of the expected turned back. “I’m proud of you for being so brave.”
“You are?”
“We all are.” Namjoon added to the support.
No longer did Jimin feel the need to rely on the fractured confinement of the closet, but on the open, warm support of the four others and the brightness of the library. When he gathered the reactions for the four of you, the soft expressions directed towards him, he knew he was in a safe place. Even Hoseok, without outwardly smiling, gave him more acceptance than any of Jimin’s football teammates would have given him.
“No disrespect but what does that have to do with why you got detention?” Seokjin’s bluntness corralled Jimin back on topic, even if it wasn’t the most empathetic way of going about it.
“Oh yeah. Well, Connor started saying all this shit about telling everyone if I didn’t um…” It felt like the words coming from his throat weren’t hot air from his lungs, but jagged rocks scraping the sides of his windpipe, “If I didn’t beat Taehyung up then he’d tell everyone and leak our conversations.”
“Would people finding out about you two be so bad?” Seokjin asked naively.
“You don’t understand. There weren’t just messages.” He had been fidgeting with the end of his shirt, engulfed by the regret of how he handled things. Though, his choices had made him a parcel between deciding on the lesser of two evils and this was never a fair advantage. “There- there were pictures too. He threatened to leak them and I… well, I thought I was protecting Taehyung from him, but I was being selfish. Weak. I was protecting myself.”
“Jimin, that’s not fair. Connor put you in such a fucked up position! God, how fucking dare he?” Your face was red with anger. Hoseok had been tracing the distress lines on your forehead and between your brows with reverence because it was too heartbreaking to look at the defeated expression tolling Jimin’s. “You know Connor also sent around my friend’s nudes after he was begging for them. He’s fucking vile.”
“There has to be something we can do to get him in trouble.” Namjoon had already been willing to risk having to voluntarily interact with Dickson to rat Connor out. However, Jimin objected strongly.
“No! Then word would get out. You don’t know half the shit my teammates say about gay people. There’s no way they would let me stay on the team. And my parents don’t have a clue. I have no idea how they’d react.” Jimin brought his forearm to wipe away the tears still spilling from his eyes. “I’m scared. I already lost the one person who I really cared about in this damn school because of that asshole. I can’t lose anything else.”
“Why would you want to be on a team with people who hate gay people? Or be on the same team as the guy who literally blackmailed you into beating up your boyfriend.” Jimin didn’t take too kindly to Seokjin’s unthoughtful assertion.
“You wouldn’t understand. I- I’ve built my life around football! I wouldn’t have any friends and my whole future is riding on my football career. God knows my grades aren’t enough to get me accepted into college let alone get a scholarship. You don’t understand the social pressure of not being a part of something.” Now, it was Jimin who made thoughtless assertions against Seokjin. “Someone like you just wouldn't understand.”
“Someone like me?”
“Do I have to say it?”
Internally, you pleaded with him not to say it. Namjoon already knew the hurtful assumptions Jimin had placed upon the four of you this whole time.
“Well, you're the one who brought it up.” Seokjin retorted.
“Say it, Jimin. Admit you think of yourself as better than us just because you're popular and on the football team.” Hoseok spat with a determined bite to his words.
“Fine! Someone like Seokjin is an outcast. It’s true, okay? It’s not my fault he doesn’t get the pressure that I’m under.” The admittance was torrid and vain but nonetheless true to Jimin’s prerogative.
“Are you kidding me? You don't think all of us don't understand the social pressures of feeling like we don't belong?” He was never one to argue or get upset about things. He often felt like he had no place in ever standing up from the many instances when he’d been pushed to the ground for his entire life.
Seokjin, and Namjoon too for that matter, have been casted as a sort of boot licker trapped in between the cogs of the social hierarchies in high school. Being at the very bottom, on the receiving end of the brute force from those who are lucky enough to be a part of something, hadn't been easy. They didn’t get the leverage to misstep or speak out, and their consequences had always been enforced with an expensive debt of hiding what was really on their minds.
“You don’t think I see and hear the way people talk about me? I’m a freak, a low life, a joke. No one wants to be friends with someone like me. And yeah, I guess I am the joke of the school! The inside joke that everyone is a part of except for me. I've never had the fear of not belonging because that was a given ever since I started high school. At least you have something to lose. I never had that and I have to pretend like I’m okay with it all! I have to pretend that everything people say about me or make fun of me doesn't affect me. In fact, I feel like I have to constantly make a fool of myself because that’s the only way anyone pays attention to me! That's pathetic! If I didn’t, if I just shut up or if I-” His voice cut off momentarily from the lump impeding on his throat, “If I were to just disappear… or… if I were to die no one would care. And I have to pretend to be okay with that. But I’m not- I- I just hate it.”
You didn’t have to look at his eyes to know he had also been crying. And he was right, everything he said. The way most people disregard him and when they do acknowledge Seokjin, it’s only to place hate or insults to titillate their sick amusement. It brought you to tears in the most gut-wrenching way, because part of you attuned to his loneliness. His feelings of unimportance, that if you were to fall off the face of the Earth one day, your tombstone would be just as undeclared and forgotten as your once beating hearts.
“Do you know how many death threats I’ve gotten in my locker? Yeah, they’re probably empty threats just to piss me off or scare me but they still affect me. I- I start to believe maybe I should be dead. I just… I just want to be seen.”
In some way, Jimin felt decided for just like Seokjin did. Decided by external forces that he should be manly, straight, and nothing beyond what had been expected of him. Though the oppression of heteronormativity chained around his neck was vastly different that the shackles that kept Seokjin at an arm's length away from ever making a true friend, there was a communion within the unwelcomed and pervasive loneliness.
And that kind of loneliness drives someone to a deep and unyielding kind of depression. The damaging isolation from having no one to tell you they love you when you feel unloved ricocheted against your insides, and it begins to feel like a hunger but a million times worse.
You couldn’t feed it on your own. You just have to wait for someone else to want to feed it, to want to love and accept you. But no one could wield such compassion when they were too occupied with fitting in, until now.
“I don’t think you’re a freak or a joke. I’d never make fun of you, and I would notice. If you left, Jin, I would notice.” Namjoon said to give Seokjin shelter and company in feeling out of place. He felt it too and it was heavy, crushingly heavy.
“I think we’re all just pretending to be okay. Pretending that living and existing doesn't hurt and that every day doesn't leave a scar on our body in some way. Being alive when you are pretending is lonely because it isn’t you who’s living and existing. It’s the shell of you, and the real you has to watch from a distance. That distance is so lonely. And when you try to crawl back into that shell, and maybe become whole again, you just can’t. You’re stuck because you've been hurt too many times to feel safe in your own body. I’ve felt it, now I know Jimin and Seokjin feel it. Even ___ and Hoseok, I know you guys feel it too. I wish we could stop. I wish we didn’t have to pretend. If we could stay in this library, together, we wouldn’t have to. But the end of the day will come and we’ll all have to go back to pretending, won't we?”
A speechless agreement filled the air.
“I don’t. I don’t want to feel lonely anymore.” Seokjin said.
“Me neither, I don't want to go back to pretending. I want to be able to love who I want to love.” Jimin looked to Seokjin, scared and unsure of whether or not they could face the world again. Oddly enough, comfort surfed over fear and uncertainty because they were not alone anymore. To be in a state of apprehension with those who take time to understand one another lightened the load tenfold. If one can be lonely with other lonely people, then maybe they weren’t alone after all.
In this library, bright and giving, they certainly weren't alone.
There was nothing to say or refute. Hoseok had in fact been pretending, his skin just as fake as the leather jacket covering him. Though now, unlike when he saw his portrait, he felt the absence of his skin to be freeing. He felt uncomfortable in his skin; he wanted it off completely. Being strong, pretending to be unhurt led him to come crashing down as hard as he did when he faced you again. You and all the mistakes he’d made and Dickson’s hostile attack in the halls. Perhaps weakness is a form of healing.
Letting the guard down just enough to let the kindness of another’s heart in.
“Do you guys… to me, you guys are my friends.” Spoken with an intentional rephrase and delivered without an expectation that the four of you returned this projection of friendship, Seokjin felt less alone than he did in the dark of the hallways that, although physically narrow, were wide enough to have him walking through alone.
“You’re my friend.” You said this quickly, to not give any chance for silence to settle doubt. You were his friend, truly, more so than the friends you made to fill the Hoseok sized void in your life. “I don’t have a lot of friends either.”
“Me neither.” Namjoon said.
“I mean, I have a lot of friends, but I think it’s all bullshit. I think you guys are the only ones close to anything real.” Jimin said through a smile.
And though Hoseok had come to realize what it felt like to be seen, to have his bones exposed to the eyes of the understanding, there was still that adjustment period. Letting go of the habitual usage of rudeness and sarcasm as a defense mechanism against the rawness of being human with other people was not an easily dropped reflex.
“Wow, well this love fest was certainly something.”
How could he do that? How could he reduce the trauma and bravery piled between the five of you to another crass, insensitive comment?
“Oh, god. Can’t you just quit it already? Can’t you take anything seriously?” You were well beyond the brink of holding your tongue. Beyond the point of patience that was placating your owed explanation for Hoseok’s drastic change and unannounced desertion.
“No, that part of my brain died a long time ago. Sorry to burst your bubble, princess.”
“Oh, is that what your excuse is?”
The other boys sensed there was some unsaid history between the two of you which placed them as silent audience members, serving a watchful mediation to this long-awaited performance.
“What’s your deal? Calm down, it was just a joke.” His insensitivity came from a place that grew used to pushing you away and stonewalling the idea of emotionality, yet another defense mechanism brandished to become second nature to him. And with the attentive eyes of the other three, there was no chance of loosening the skin and veered away from showing his bones. Hoseok knew exactly what ‘your deal’ was but he didn’t have the slightest idea of how much his feigned indifference packed more dirt in your wounds.
Or at least, you hoped he didn’t. It would have made it far worse to know he was aware of the way he hurt you.
“What’s my deal? My deal is that you don’t care about anyone! You never cared about me and you made me believe that I could trust you. You’re just an asshole, when you get down to it. You have no heart.” You spat, feeling the heat rising just as quickly as your body which collected the strength to take a stand.
He too stood up, facing you and it overspent the little energy he had to look into your eyes as you said these harsh things, unhidden in the library’s brightness. Of course, you didn't believe anything you just said. You knew he cared, or at least he did once, and that he had a heart, no matter how emptied of love it felt in his chest. His heart was there, beating slowly as if waiting to stop completely.
You were speaking through the frustrations of trying to reach out to someone who held their guard up stronger and mightier than a brick wall and seemed to want nothing to do with you.
He didn’t know this. Hoseok was up to his neck in regret and guilt. He was tired, and his heart was weary from doing its job of maintaining his breath. A breath he didn’t feel worthy of harboring anymore. He had been tired for a while now and just wanted to be vulnerable, like the rest of you. However, no matter how many times he thought it over or talked himself into it, the skin just seemed to regenerate faster than it shed.
He wanted to take you in his arms, never let go, tell you where it hurt and hoped you would love him there in the same way you would when you were young, and when his heart didn’t fully understand the hefty price of being the unwanted orphan who dragged misery into the lives of everyone associated with him. He wanted the sandbox, the Andes mountains, Marley and Me, the first grade, the aromas of linen and lemon, and you all over again. But he knew, he never stopped wanting that.
“You don’t know that, ___! You don’t know anything so how dare you make claims like that about me when you don't know half the shit I’ve been through!” He was screaming, though not so much in the literal sense. The high pitch of his voice was him trying to talk over the secrets that he kept from you. It seemed like the only thing that would drown out the loneliness itching to be liberated was his hurtful words. It sent you into a rage
“Then tell me! Let me help you or be there for you! Stop running away. For once in your life stop running!”
“Why would I tell you of all people?” The true meaning behind this was unclear through his spiteful tone and sandpaper skin. The one person he wanted the best for, he wanted to protect, wasn’t the person to dump all his problems on. Not you. Not your kind eyes and soft, warm hands and skin. He couldn't drag you under the bus with him and make you solve the unsolvable. To put you through that, it would have been better to drive a dull sword right through your chest.
You wanted to slap him or shake him. Shake the secrets out of him and place him right under the bright lights of the library. You wanted to reach into his chest and pump the slowly dying organ with your own hand so he could keep on breathing.
“I hate you, Hobi. I fucking hate you.” You said this and you said his name. The name owned by your tongue that carried too much sentiment to mean anything of hatred. Both his name and your hatred flew through the thick fog surrounding Hoseok, but only one of those two met with his skin and melted it off his bones completely.
“I hate me too.”
He couldn’t let you, or anyone see him cry. So he ran, just like always. Hoseok walked out of the library, right into the dark halls, but it was him running again. Running far away from you just like he did over three years ago.
It seemed like he didn’t reveal nearly as much as Seokjin and Jimin had. Even Namjoon, with the few words he’d offered on his place in the grips of loneliness seemed to be loads more than Hoseok gave.
But to you, it was enough. To you, his silence and grim avoidance told you everything you needed to know about Hoseok.
Dry eyes, dignity, skin, the defensive masks once mounded over your faces were nowhere in sight of this library. Becoming emotionally undone and disarmed was nothing more than becoming honest with yourselves and others. It came just in time before those mighty walls broke down to leave you all sitting ducks to the much harsher grasps of your peers’ judgements
It felt like symbiosis. The mutual giving and receiving between those who had been pretending, but were worn out by the last few hours of detention. To give the skin that covers and protects and hides the things unwanted by most of society. The things often put to shame or denial or negligence and root loneliness deeper into one’s body. And to receive a mindful ear that cares and listens, empathetically, to the words locked away, as well as a place where these insecurities and inner torments can be put to rest through the form of words.
No longer were these secrets kept. There was no one to shun or misunderstand or commit the crime of breaking the bones of those who stand out to fit in the mold of what was considered acceptable or worthwhile.
Four out of five coats unworn, laying in the center of your circle, safe and understood.
The question remained, if and when the fifth one would be shed?
Namjoon broke the tense silence.
“Are you going to go after him?”
If it was your freshman year, you would have been racing out of those doors before Namjoon had to ask. The you of the past would have climbed over the Andes mountains, the you of elementary school would have swam across the vast oceans to drag him back into your life. The you of the past, the one that had only a sandbox and Hoseok, would have gotten to the door before he had and blocked any exit from this room.
But you were not in the past, and Hoseok was already gone. Namjoon had to ask whether or not you would go after him and that meant there was a chance you had given up, for good this time. There was a chance you wouldn’t go after him.
“I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”
Five years ago
For the better part of a year, Hoseok tumbled through life without any cadence for feelings and emotions. He was an adolescent boy, after all, and each week brought a new challenge to his plate that left little room to focus on the chaos of his life and guidance of his heartbeat. This week, he set his sights on getting you to race him on your scooters down the steepest hill in your neighborhood.
Dusk was orange and warm, sending its hues along the streets and faces who were under it like an important message one must read with the utmost care. Hoseok liked this part of the day specifically because the end of the hour would take his tired body into your home to eat dinner with you and your mom. He saved that for later and for now, he and you were occupied with scraped knees and tired knuckles from gripping the handles of your scooters, and a hill rolling down so far it seemed like it would take a lifetime to reach the bottom of it.
“Come on! We’ve been practicing for hours! You can do it!” His scooter was edging to slip off the slope and down the hill in eagerness. Yours stationed a foot behind with your helmet strapped snug around your chin and a grip around the handles so tight, you left the divots of each finger on the rubber padding.
“What if we die?” You looked at the back of his head soon turned to become his face as he peeled away his determined glare to a soft reassurance. Wheeling back to align the front of his scooter with the front of yours, he was left to subside to the beatings of his heart, fed by the sun placing itself on the crest of your helmet and the luminescent rays drizzling like a serene waterfall down your face and body.
He never thought about beauty much, being that he was no older than thirteen years, but seeing you under the aging sun had put it at the forefront of his focus.
“If we die… then you’re mom’s gonna be mad. So, I won’t let that happen.”
“Hobi!” You swung your arm that braised the bone of his shoulder not without a laugh at his rather playful response to your worries.
“Trust me. We don’t die. And whoever gets to the bottom first wins.” Your laugh served as a catalyst that quickened the pace of his heart. Whatever it was trying to tell him in this moment, it was surely of sizable importance being that it sent waves of warmth through his cheeks and down to his legs. The challenge now hadn’t been the epic scootering down the hill but putting his heart aside long enough to last the rest of dusk.
“Wins what?” You asked with intrigue.
“I don’t know. A piggyback ride all the way home.” Tired legs and a heavy head convinced you this prize had been worth the risk of falling, akin to dying in your perspective. Your head turned to the hill, looming over the intersecting street at the base of it, notifying Hoseok that backing down was no longer an option.
“Alright. Ready, set, go!”
Opening your mouth didn’t come with the expected release of terrified screams but laughs of thrilled enjoyment. The wind was cut through by your body, now rocketing down the gradient that felt much less steep than it looked, and you commended Hoseok for convincing you to tackle this seemingly trifling challenge.
“This is so fun!” Your yelp was lost in the rapid descent, but Hoseok, a few feet ahead of you, had been in range of your acclaim.
It was then when the young adolescence in his brain was overtaken by the guidance of his heart. His own tired body became alive and light. When you said this, the joy in your voice made the decision for him to discreetly apply pressure to the metal brake of his scooter with his heel, to realize he couldn’t make you carry him home.
Not because it was tiring for you, but he wanted to see the look on your face when you won. He needed that smile and the warm blanket of your eyes that would heal his aching muscles and tired body. And it was your open-mouthed smile and celebratory hops, along with the showering glints of sunlight and the end of dusk that turned his loss into an incredible win. His covert efforts to draw this joy from you came from a place none other than pure love.
“I won! Hobi, I won!” Without a second to spare, you ran and mounted his back with legs wrapped tight around his torso and your arms snug, but not quite choking, his neck.
“Alright, fair is fair.” Though, it wasn't fair. Not in the slightest, and Hoseok made sure of that.
The feeling of your soft, jaded breath against his neck was energizing, and every so often you would give his body a tight squeeze when he was struggling to trudge back up the hill, as if to thank him. And you were because you knew he let you win. You squeezed him in your arms, keeping firm to the memory of him and this triumph gifted to you. Though, it was not as great of a gift as Hoseok was to your life.
“Thank you, Hobi.” Your soft whisper was followed by an even softer kiss on his cheek, damp from the sun and the hill and the piggy-back ride. Soft enough to communicate to him the gratitude in your heart, which translated and directly manifested into his lungs now fanned of all the burning once inflaming them; his face sporting quite a bashful smile too.
He was not tired, not when he was holding you because it felt more like you were holding him. Like you were always going to hold onto him.
The neatly lined houses had little to no variation. Individuality in this small, suburban town was like finding that needle in the haystack. To him, your house was that shiny little pin. Your house was a home, and he saw that through the partly uncurtained windows that gave him a view of the scene inside. Most of the time, you were already seated by the sill, waiting for him to arrive.
You and Hoseok had arrived at the base of your driveway, staring up at the small incline that looked like it was taller than the Andes Mountains themselves to Hoseok.
“You know how I said we won't die?” You turned to his lightly blushed cheeks upon hearing this to see he was smiling. “Yeah, well, I think I’m going to die.”
His pearly whites cemented with metal braces and strands of his unkept hair stuck in the sweat of his forehead were sightly. You began to laugh, looking at the goliath hill separating you and him from a home-cooked meal courtesy of your mom, then back at the odd, awkward boy who had yet to discover the wonders of deodorant and properly fitted clothing.
Hoseok wasn’t all too desirable in terms of the traditional realm of attractiveness. His arms were lanky, unable to place themselves naturally at his sides without looking uneven, and his posture did him no favors either. And you took in all five foot five of him, before he hit a spur of growth, and thought he was the loveliest little thirteen-year-old in your grade and in the whole world.
“Come on, you know my mom won’t allow that. I got you, Hobi.” You weaved your hand through his, pulling with all the force your muscles could exert to haul him up the driveway. You made it to the top and your hand didn’t let go of him. Your mind was trying to deny the twists and turns of your stomach and the fast pumping of your heart any credence.
When all else fails, you must listen to your heart.
Both you and Hoseok discovered in your very young, inexperienced lives that hills and driveways and scooters and all the other trivial barriers were no match to hearts.
It was in first grade that he knew he was going to be your best friend. It was by eighth grade he knew he loved you. So much he’d carry you with bruised knees and broken arms to the ends of the earth.
2:00 - 4:00
Hoseok’s memories of you became sort of a mosaic. The little pieces of you were, singularly, a bit insignificant in the time they were being experienced. Often overlooked, and taken for granted, he couldn’t realize the beauty they captured until he stepped back. With distance, he saw the full picture, the ethereal mosaic had brought him a far and lonely appreciation for the past.
All throughout the day, he didn’t want to look into your eyes like he did the day you convened with him in the parking lot where he was smoking. His fluency of your eyes had unraveled with time, leaving him feeling illiterate in the language of you and completely lost. When he felt lost, he wanted his heart to guide him again, but it would instruct him to return to you and replenish the deserted friendship. However, from what everyone told him, even Dickson, he wasn’t worth the effort.
You had been staring at the door opened and closed by Hoseok, waiting to be opened and closed by you. As if there were a part of you deciding on letting him go, you tapped your hand against the table synchronically with the seconds ticking by on the clock. The door had eroded the rest of the library away, along with the three sets of eyes staring earnestly at you.
“So, are you gonna go or what? We have like two hours left and God knows whether he actually stayed on campus or not.” Seokjin sliced the wordless atmosphere with heavy hopes you would make any indication of your next move.
“Seokjin, shut up! ___, don’t feel pressured to do anything.” This overlaid Jimin’s pounding urge to hoist you up himself and throw you into the wiles of the halls.
“What? ___ clearly wants to find him.”
“Well, he clearly doesn’t want to be found. He’s such a child, honestly, I shouldn’t waste my time.” You knew you only said this to try and talk yourself out of the decision which had been established by your beating heart the minute Hoseok walked out. The obvious desire to follow him had been expressed through the discomfort you felt for tearing your eyes away from the door; you were guilty, above all else.
Each tap of your hand could have been a prelude to your inevitable pursuit of the man who, in fact, did want to be found. It was effortful but insincere to attempt leveling the scale between the two options of chasing or letting go; the opportunity of Hoseok was a weightier one than the life without him, executed through repetitive, passionless motions. You were bored, repulsed by the way you had lived out each moment of your life just to wait for the next and the next until your life was over.
“Come on, you know that’s not true.” Namjoon added, “We’ll cover for you if Dickson comes back. I really think you should go.”
“Yes, please. Go.” Seokjin placed his desires proudly once again.
“In all honesty, I think you should go t-”
“Enough! I’ve already gone down that path. All I ever got from it was unheard voicemails and ignored texts.” You were still looking at the door, and still trying to talk yourself out of it - and still feeling guilty.
“Love is hard, I get it. But-” You didn’t let Namjoon finish his well-thought out life lesson that would have coerced you into going after him.
“What? I don’t love him.”
“Ooo, ___ and Hoseok? Fire and ice. Rain and sun. Winter and Sum-”
“Seokjin, don’t you have an essay to write?” You cut his words down as well, finding none of their entertainment in your inner psyche appropriate. They were placing themselves in your mind, but to them it wasn’t so much of a locked door than a door wide open with its secrets spilling out faster than the tick of the clock and the tap of your hand.
“Well, he clearly loves you. I don’t know him that well, but I can assure you he doesn’t get like that around just anyone.” Whatever ‘like that’ meant, you were annoyed that you knew exactly what Namjoon was implying. It didn’t stop you from perpetual, stubborn denial.
“He doesn’t love me.”
“Oh… Are you being- Is ___…? Are- You’re stupid.” Seokjin’s words crumbled to near incoherency due to his complete astonishment for your lack of judgment. Perhaps if your belief that he didn’t love you was a genuine judgment, then his assessment would have been correct; you were being stupid.
“Well, fuck you too!”
“What he means to say,” Namjoon’s pause was to shoot Seokjin a disapproving glance, “is that it's really obvious you guys are into each other. I don’t know your history but there are definitely some unresolved feelings.”
“If you’re not gonna talk things out with him, at least tell him to come back so Dickson doesn’t get him into even more trouble.” Jimin’s addition only vegetated your inclination to find him again.
It made sense. It was rational, reasonable, and therefore possible. You couldn’t let him get in trouble. You were just doing him that small favor. In your head, it caked over the real reason; to know he still cared or to see his eyes looking back at you, and figuring out what was the wedge that drove you and him apart. Maybe this would somehow re-cultivate the half of your heart still hanging by the thread that tethered you to him.
“I-” You stood up, walking towards the door that was about to be opened and closed, and looked back at the three boys now favoring much more satisfied and slightly smug looks on their faces, “Oh, shut up.”
Jimin held his hand, palm facing the ceiling, in front of Namjoon who greeted it with a victorious high five. Seokjin held his pencil up to signify you that he could now peacefully start his essay, to which you smiled warmly. You couldn’t thank them out loud, because you had nothing to ‘thank’, or so you thought.
You were just making sure Hoseok wouldn't get in trouble. That’s all it was. Then, you opened and closed the door and began the chase again. This time, however, the fog that once hurdled your vision was easy to sift through with the loud beats of your heart navigating you through the moors of the hallways.
You turned left, then stopped to ponder on turning back and going right instead. Hoseok didn’t make this easy and you wouldn’t have expected anything less from him. Eventually, you just let your body wander the many halls for about ten minutes before you decided on furthering your search to the roof of the main building.
There was a new revenue of motivation that moved your legs forward. Before, they were struggling to keep up with everything life hurled at you. Now, it was far more determined and self-assured because you were moving towards a goal. You wanted to find him, and this time everything you had faced, all the loneliness, self-blame, forced smiles and friendships couldn’t keep up with you.
The stairs proved to be quite a test for your determination, and you passed with flying colors, heavy breaths, and inflamed hamstrings. You were lucky to push through the door and find him standing, staring off into the expanse of the fog. Towering over the haze had you realizing the entire school had been submerged, not just Hoseok and you and the library. Everything was under that sheet of blindness except for, as of now, you and Hoseok. The roof served as a platform to look upon the fog and stand safe from the numbing effect it debilitated on those in it. You knew he heard you. The perk of his ear as you ungracefully fell through the door to the open air told you he knew you were there.
You stood a few feet behind him, and he offered only the view of his back facing you. There was a line to be crossed if you were to go towards him, place your hand on his shoulder, and ask him to face you. Whatever line that was, you knew it was Hoseok who set it and you wanted to know why.
“It’s cold out here.”
He said nothing, but did provide the tenuous gesture to turn his head, giving you a side profile of his face. In turn, wiring through your eyes was the stains of what could only be deduced as tears along his cheek.
“Aren’t you cold? Let’s go back inside, Hobi.”
Hoseok couldn’t look, doing so would only invite you to join him. It would plot his every desire along the pavement and undress how much he wanted to have and hold you. But you were no one’s, least of all his, to hold.
“Dickson could be back any minute.” Your footsteps towards him raised the clarity of your voice. You were doing a fine job at hiding the real reason you came up to get him, both from yourself and Hoseok. It pinched his weathered heart that you had just come up to warn him about Dickson.
“Okay.” He answered curtly to bitter the atmosphere and showed no sign of leaving.
“Well, I’m not leaving here until you get your ass down there, so, you’ll be getting me in trouble too.” You crossed the line which felt more like walking over a burned bridge, and placed yourself next to him with perfect access to see his face.
He was even more beautiful standing above the fog.
You leaned your elbows next to his on the ledge of the building. His eyes, glistening from the tint of resisted tears, plowed over the treetops peeking through the top layers of mist. It was difficult to tell whether or not he was listening when his eyes were busy whispering secrets to everything in the far distance and the close proximities. To everything but you.
“Why?” Hoseok’s eyes were nudging towards the direction of you. He wanted so badly to look at you, to brave a glance but he was so cold out here that he had frozen over into ice.
In this ice, he couldn’t move or even breathe for that matter. Looking at you and not being able to move towards you was an unnecessary torture of which he'd rather not look at you at all. So, he remained in his calcified state, eyes edging dangerously close to you.
“Why what?” Your eyes moved away from him, to the fog instead, trying to see the ground below. “You’re staying up here, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m staying with you.” Hoseok was shocked that you said this with such decisiveness; it was difficult to decipher whether this proposition came as easily as it was said. The lonely glades of mist were entrenched by a new plurality, like a double-edged sword ready to cut through the veil of secrets. The more you would push through Hoseok’s skin, the more it penetrated your own.
“God! Why can’t you just leave?” He removed himself from the ledge, pacing over to the space in the middle of the roof. Thinking this would suffice the desperation for distance was a gross miscalculation. You too pulled away from the ledge that overlooked the foggy plains and placed your steps consecutively with his.
“Don’t you see I clearly don’t want you here?” That lie tasted much more sour when spoken out loud.
“I don't! Okay? I really don’t. I don't understand… I- Why did you leave? What the fuck did I do?” Your voice had matched in elevation with your frustration; you were not referring to him leaving the library, but to his cold departure from your life over three years ago. And with that, was the unending pursuit of him.
“___, you just have better places to be. So go! Stop staying with me. Jesus fucking Christ! Look at me!” His hands angrily emphasized his sharp features that would surely draw blood if you came too close. “You shouldn't be hanging around with someone like me.”
“Is that what this has been all about?” You stood paralyzed; your body was stunned from this all too underwhelming reason. You were hoping that this wasn’t it, there was surely a much more redeeming explanation for how he ripped your heart right out of your chest. The thought that this was the reason for the cut tie had cornered you in a fiery rage. It made you furious. “Are you fucking kidding me, Hobi? That’s what this is about?”
What better place to be than right here, with you? You knew he would not be generous in giving any further explanation, so this question remained in your head.
“Yeah, actually, it is.” A shiver riddled its way under his jacket. He turned towards you, finding that revealing the truth which cemented him into a miserable, solitary life was not as climactic as he expected. Nor did he expect it to be revealed in the first place.
But it was, unceremoniously, rolled onto the roof. He had nothing to hide anymore so he looked at you. Your eyes, that he could finally see since you were above the fog, were close to tears. Years and years of denial and repression compounding against your heavy heart now alleviated, but it was not the least bit rewarding. You thought he was absolutely delusional to believe the gesture that his abandonment was rooted in the effort to protect you, when all it did was hurt you.
“No I-” You swiped your hand against your cheek, though it was useless as tears soon replaced themselves on your face, “That’s so stupid. That’s- You think I care? I don’t give a fuck about what you look like or what you do, Hobi. Don’t you understand I-”
“No, you don’t understand. I’m not good.” His voice wavered through his throat, releasing more as a cry for help than an assertion of truth.
“How could you say that?” You did him the favor of taking the strides towards him. The initiative fell to you and your body moved through instinct to close that distance Hoseok kept trying to re-establish. His body was weak up close; when there was no space or fog and the jacket draped over his body could no longer keep his skin collected along his bones, he was weak and it was far more relieving to see him vulnerable.
“You were the best thing to ever happen to me. You were the only little first grader that wanted to be my friend and not just that. You showed me that someone could actually want to be my friend. You gave me so many years of happiness that would have been dreadful without you. I would have hated life without you. And I do! I hate life without you, Hobi. I’m so lonely.” You were unsure how you came to finally reveal every message your heart pumped through your veins and up to your brain for all these years, but you were glad it happened.
It wasn’t Hoseok’s lack of effort that kept all the good things he’s done under the rug of unimportance. It was the mounds of contempt the world held for kids like him. The stigma of abandonment and undesirability that was clamping down on any part of him brave enough to reach out, making it difficult for any feelings to be shown without irreparable harm or discouragement.
“You don't mean that.”
“I don't mean that. That’s it? That’s all you can say?”
It was, for the moment, all he could say. The feelings of unworthiness facilitated utter shame of himself like congruent figures now inseparable from each other and had molded a cage of confinement around Hoseok. His body was trapped under the scrutiny of everyone who expected him to fail, and one day he was afraid your eyes would join. That one day, you would look upon him with nothing of warmth, love, or admiration. Nothing of the eyes populated with blankets and storms and bountiful roses.
“You’re so fucking persistent!”
“Why are you pushing me away?”
“Because!”
“Tell me why! You know I deserve it.” The conversation metered out with a lot less organization and structure, which was the result of many untouched feelings released between the two of you. The blizzarding words were combative and destructive as well as reparative and conjoining, but most of all it was grievously uncivilized.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Three years. Three fucking years, Hoseok. I’ve wasted three years of my life blaming myself for losing you. Blaming myself for being lonely. God! I'm so mad at you! I'm so mad at myself for still loving you!”
And there it was. The last stroke of courage slipping from your mouth into the words spoken through an unfiltered and unrestrained heart. It was beating fast right now as if it had been unmoving in your chest for the past three years. Finally beating again, you felt all the blood return to your limbs in waves of pricks along the expanse of your skin.
Hoseok was not ready to be cast into the shallow, yet inescapable oasis of your testament. The remoteness of the past three years had him crawling through an emotionless desert, purged of any source of water or food or nourishments to keep his thick-skinned body functioning. The moment he was presented with a bit of the revitalizing water, Hoseok, like many starving people, dove into it too much, too fast.
He felt the atrophied muscles in his legs gain traction to glide towards you. The force was a savage agent of his tightly packed emotions which erupted the moment you said you loved him. He loved you, he knew that now, and his body wouldn’t allow him a second longer to sit desolate and starved.
Without stopping him, his lips planted roughly and passionately against yours. You were wrapping your arms around his neck before the logical sense of what was happening had been granted permission into your conscience.
Your heart, his heart, were guiding and deepening the kiss, only tangling you tighter into your dedication for him as much as it was twisting the confusion and unanswered questions into a larger, messier knot.
His tongue slid against your lower lip, assuming an entrance to slip himself into your mouth. Your jaw hung slightly agape and gluttonous at the way his lips spilled such tender movements against yours. His hands were running along your back fervently, holding your body firmly in place, like he was trying to keep his own body from disassembling.
Your lips were moving messily against his, though unchoreographed, they moved with a near perfect synchronicity. Refinement had seceded to your hunger to taste him. His mouth was sweet and hot, gentle and forceful, loving and angry, and the light pinch of his teeth that took your bottom lip between them had you moaning lightly into his mouth.
Then, everything once expounding into inexistence flooded back into reality. You divorced yourself from him as every empty promise claimed their demands to be fulfilled. The push against his chest was strong and it had to be in order to dissect that long awaited act of closeness.
“What the hell?”
A long interval of silence tormented the rooftop since Hoseok could only explain himself through guilty looks directed at the concrete floor. The surface upholding him was solid, of course, so it was strange that he suddenly felt like he was sinking into the ground below. His hand ran through his hair, trying to bring himself to words. To say anything or do anything other than take you in his arms and hold onto you so that his body wouldn’t sink beneath the roof’s malleable surface.
“I’m sorry.” And that was not good enough for you. Not when he kissed you like he loved you and didn’t let you fill three years with desperate, lost hopes.
“Sorry for what? For kissing me or for giving up on our friendship? Or for breaking my heart? Or for making me feel like I did something wrong or wasn’t enough for you? Or for making me think that everything built between us was just my imagination?” The list could have lengthened into an unplanned admittance of all the pain he caused you, however, it wasn’t the time for you to speak.
It was his turn.
“I guess I was just…” Afraid you wouldn’t want me anymore, “I guess I just didn't see it that way.”
“Stop lying.” You said and could only hope he wouldn’t revert to his evasive and insincere responses. Your hand came to rise and press against his chest. There was nothing to testify what came over you in this moment, but you wanted to feel his chest and know his heart was still beating. That, like yours, it still sent life throughout his body with its consecutive pumps. It was.
Ever so harshly pounding away at his rib cage as if it were trying to break free.
“I never… I never had anyone care.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t wanna drag you into my shit.”
“What? What the hell are you talking about?” Your hand moved from his chest to his chin, holding it in place so he couldn’t get the chance to look anywhere but into your eyes.
“Don’t be stupid, ___. My life isn't exactly picture perfect. From the beginning, my parents didn’t even want me.” He felt like he was being held emotionally captive by the years of trauma he had endured. Of the cycle of abuse and repression that crushed his will to feel anything at all. He was trying to break free. Despite all these facets of struggle, he spoke gently to you and it made your heart bleed empathy for his pain.
“Listen, there’s always that kid that everyone knows is trouble. Everyone knows that they’ll end up in a bad place. You know what I mean... That was me. I was that kid. I didn’t wanna drag you in that shit with me. You think I wanted to push you away? I had no other choice!” To you, he did have another choice. He could have stayed with you, but of course, he had no idea.
Hoseok looked at you so sadly, with eyes begging to be loved and a voice softened by his tender, bruised heart. He felt so isolated. The imminence of his downfall became prevalent ever since he began to pay attention to the judgmental whispers of teachers and parents on open house nights when he showed up parentless, or when he was the last one at extended day care when everyone else’s parents came to pick them up from school. Paying attention to detail was the wrench thrown into his life, unhinging the naivety, and drilling in its place the knowledge that society had ostracized him for being an orphan.
Maybe it was because you loved him so much, and it was blinding. You didn’t see much of the world outside of the lens of Hoseok, but you didn’t feel the need to see such a place. Your figment of him was always in a good light; you couldn’t fathom shedding darkness or disappointment or repulsion anywhere near him. So, when he said this, you were completely oblivious of that dehumanizing label many teachers, parents, and fellow students grouped him under.
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t.” He jerked his head away with a scoff. Though to no avail, your hand still mounted onto his chin.
“No I mean,” Your head turned down, attempting to process this information into coherency, “I don’t understand how anyone could see you like that.”
“See, this is exactly why I can’t be around you. I’d ruin you! You see the best in me and that's the worst thing you could do.”
‘Ruin you’? You still didn’t know what that meant.
“Were people really that bothered that you were an orphan?”
He said nothing. He simply looked at you as if you had pointed out an observation so universally accepted that it went unneeded to be discussed. Like it was a given to cast someone like him off, or to repeat his worthlessness until it was purged from a tongue bored of belittlement and moved onto the next victim of verbal assault. He was simply one of the dominoes falling into place. Falling on top of each forgotten and neglected child.
“You wanna know what Dickson said to me?” He paused, not to wait for your permission but to prepare himself to recount the hurtful things still pronging against his open wounds, “He told me I’m unwanted. He told me that I was going to end up some loser not even worth considering a part of society. Basically, I’m damaged goods, ___, and you shouldn’t be hanging around me. You actually have a chance to make something out of yourself. Don’t waste that chance on me. I can’t let you do that.”
“You know that's not true.” Your hand moved to his cheek since he slipped too easily away from your grip of his chin. You held him in place, you held him with you.
“Why shouldn’t I believe it? ___, think about it. I am pathetic. My own parents didn’t even want me. And my foster parents told me I was just a financial asset. That my only worth was their monthly foster parent check.”
It was crushingly difficult to hear such punishing words coming from Hoseok. That he not only had to endure the unfeigned demoralization of those who saw his worth to be instrumental but that he had come to believe them. He came to resent himself for a choice that was not his to be made but still suffered every waking day for it.
“And I guess I thought you were going to leave me behind like everyone else seemed to do. Like everyone eventually just wants to get rid of me.”
“What?” The core pillar of your relationship with Hoseok relied on his permanence in your life, so hearing him fear what didn’t once cross your mind took you back as well as your hand. “Hobi, how could you think that?”
He shrugged distantly.
“Don’t. Don't you dare.” Almost out of nowhere, your soft cries were emulsified by the dryness of the air and turned into a heavy sob. But, it was not out of nowhere. It was from somewhere deeply upset that you let him think so lowly of himself all these years. That maybe, you hadn’t fulfilled your job as his best friend. “First of all, don’t you dare say that about yourself and second of all Dickson is a piece of shit.”
“___, please don’t cry.” He was urgent in his request.
Not over me. Don’t waste your wilting petals of tears over my corpse.
“You thought I would leave you? You weren’t protecting me from whatever inferiority complex you’ve carried around your whole life. You were protecting yourself.”
“It’s not like that.” He stepped towards you, trying to ignore the wince worthy pain when you dodged him as if he were a bullet. “___, I love you.”
You were astounded by the signals so contrasting of each other that they led you to a plight of hysterics. You had to let out a flustered chuckle at the way he told you he would be heading left then turned right when you were already walking on the opposite path.
“I love you.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“I love you.”
“You have a fucking horrible way of showing it.” Your arms folded over your chest and he realized it was his turn to keep your gaze locked with his. To chase you and to be put in the position that he forced you into three years ago. “I can’t understand you.”
“I was weak. If your hands were covered in blood would you walk up to something good and clean and force your stains on it? Would you leave disgusting prints of yourself on something so pure just because you were the only person in my life that didn’t see me as just an orphan?” Hoseok drowned himself in his words, but obtained and kept a soft hold on your cheeks with his hands.
He was unable to register how distorted his perception of himself was in your eyes, feeling as though everything he said drowned his lungs with waters that almost choked him from speaking at all.
There was a borderless delusion which fraught the comparison Hoseok just explained. It fell close to thoughtless and hollow, the way he reduced you to some virginal, helpless and unattainable prize on a pedestal; he subjected you to some paradigm of pristine stature that wouldn’t have the good nature to be anything less than empathetic for him. Though, you were not the image of purity or unmarred of pain and suffering; he was the reason for that.
“I'm not some little innocent kid. I know bad shit happens, but I’d never let that change the way I see you.” Filling the vacancy of your heart wasn't all too touching. You were distraught, distrustful, of everything in this world that led Hoseok to such a destructive mindset. To ruin the sweetest boy and subject him to undeserved misery. “You’re not just an orphan. You will not let that define you, you hear me? You are you. You are Jung Hoseok. To me, you will always be Hobi.”
The most frustrating part of this was tied between the fact that no real blame could be placed on one contender and the difficulty of understanding someone’s story when it went untold for far too long. Perhaps you had been pretending his pain didn’t exist because it was easier to see him as a stone-like, uncaring heathen. It was easier to cover your deep grief for losing him with hatred, but it did nothing to solve the division between you two; at the end of the day, you were still lonely and you still needed him. Wasting three years away to bitter resentment was nothing compared to knowing the truth of it all but having no power in redirecting yourself to compassion rather than anger.
“I should have been honest. I was scared.” He said. “I just thought I could never be enough for you.”
The fog was fully cleared. Your eyes panned from the edge of the roof to Hoseok’s needful gaze and down his addicting lips. All this time, he was just as alone and just as afraid, existing no less than a car ride away from you and still light years from ever being able to garnish his defeat with an admittance that he needed someone.
What more was there to say? Hoseok could have droned on about the way his foster parents stripped him of innocence and tossed him into the frigid hands of self-reliance or how he felt himself sinking into failure when the world of no mercy pulled him by the ankle and dragged his thrashing body through life without the guidance of someone who knew what was best for him. He could have explained how every unmet expectation put him against the world, in constant competition with not just everyone else but himself. Fighting against his need to be cradled and cared for with his resistance to tenderness enacted to thicken the skin on his body so the weaponry of an orphaned life, unearned glares of contempt and disapproval, and predisposed low regards wouldn’t dig as deeply.
He could have relayed all his nights lost to wondering why he wasn’t worth keeping. Why a child without the slightest clue how to dress, or bathe, or speak, or trust was turned away by the very people who brought him into this world and had to figure out all these lessons on his own.
It was the depletion of his own self-worth that drove him to loosen his grips, and how that was not of apathy but instead caring too much to let himself get in the way of your opportunely life. Letting you go was a loss that came with a painful imminence.
He said none of this because you looked at his eyes and he looked at yours. Through the clean air, the ripe and unhazed space among reuniting stares, he saw what your eyes carried. It was an ocean. A place of immeasurable depth and complexity, never still and constantly giving the sand something to shelter and love. A wide body of life and water that replenished the seared collection of bones under the parched skin of Hoseok’s flesh.
In loving you, in gazing into you, he let the water diffuse his skin until he was skinless, fully bone.
“I never stopped.” You redacted the fact that you were referring to loving him, because the unsaid implications were communicated much more beautifully and accurately than what the entire collection of the English language could attribute.
“Me neither.” Hoseok paused, dropping his hands from your face to his sides knowing with full confidence you and your gaze would remain with him, “I don’t know what to do.”
“About what?”
“I hate living. It's terrible. Everything about my life is terrible and I hate it.” His face turned wet quickly. Seeing this brought a natural desire to hold him again and to cast off his despair with your loving touch.
“Am I terrible?” You asked, hoping your words would serve as that gentle caress.
“No, how- Why would you say that?”
“Because I’m a part of your life. You might have gotten rid of me once, but I’m here to stay. Am I so terrible?”
“No. You’re wonderful.”
“Can you look at me and tell me I’m wrong when I say I need you in my life just as much as you need me?” The stagnant exchange of undeterred eyes was a comforting overture. A beginning that was not quite new, but a dormant adventure ready to be reborn into fruition.
“No.”
“So, I’m going to tell you. Hoseok, I need you in my life because I love you. Because no matter what people may say, you’ve brought nothing but love and happiness into my life.” The words, like a needle and thread woven into him, stitched the fabric of his heart back to fullness. “Do you understand? I believe in you. I will be there for you. That’s what friends are for.”
“You’re my friend.” It constituted both a question and an irrefutable statement.
“Yours.”
“Mine.” He smiled softly, a gentle disparity against his tears.
“Life won’t be so terrible. I promise. If we have each other. If we have people who care, life is not so terrible. You have me, Hobi, you have someone who cares.”
There was no profound revelation with what you said. Nothing that was original or unordinary; it was quite common to be told you were cared about. One could refine your words to about three, maybe four, with the same tact. But that is exactly what made it original and unordinary to Hoseok. Countless people said the words ‘I care about you’, trillions of times and in hundreds of different ways and languages. It was said over and over again but Hoseok was never familiar with the comfort of being on the receiving end. To be cared about, and to be told he was cared about was quite revolutionary, and a completely profound rarity to him. And to him, these words were invented by your caring tongue; the first utterance that transformed the radical concept of care into something plausible.
Sometimes, that’s all one needs. To be told they are cared for. Sometimes it’s enough to clean the bone of its wretched, heavy skin.
“What’s going to happen now?” You and he had migrated to look out to the fog ejecting itself among the trees and stretching all the way to the horizon. The trees were sitting so close together yet far enough for fog to slide between them. You wondered if the trees knew that they weren’t alone.
“At this point, it's up to you.”
Once again, it wasn’t said. The beautiful things were expressed through silence because it somehow fertilized the sincerity with greater effect. Verbalizing them would have tainted what was kept clean and loving inside the warmth and safety of your hearts. You never knew to have such a connection with someone where the most important things that should be said aloud were somehow louder when they weren’t. Somehow, with the gentle brush of his arms against your sides as he was embracing you from behind, it was louder than words.
There was a stillness encompassing every piece of this moment. A stillness of the air, of time, of the two bodies placed above the fog. You and Hoseok were arrested from reality, lounging in the freedom of each other’s presence. The bright orange sun permeated through the grey clouds, reflecting specks of light along the faces of you and him. Seeing your skin once again carrying soft ornaments of the sun’s rays returned him to the only place he felt like he belonged: your heart. Being taken away from the chaos of life, Hoseok felt that this Saturday fell within the bounds of eternity.
“Are we going to be okay?”
“Together, we will be. We have each other.”
You took his hand in yours, fingers sliding together. His attention was stolen by you, or maybe it had belonged to you this whole time and was simply being returned to its rightful owner, still soaking in the sweet rays of the sun. He had no facetious, obtuse comment to tack along the tenderness of the roof. For once, he was vulnerable. It felt euphoric, like his heart truly began to pump life blood into his body.
“Okay.” He readied himself for the new world he was about to embark on, though this time, it was hand in hand with you.
“Ready?” You took a few steps back, towards the stairwell, your arm pulling Hoseok along, “I got you, Hobi.”
He nodded, no longer afraid of the dark halls. His narrative was not a singular venture. There was a partnership, a force of love perhaps, that pushed him to step forward.
Hoseok once feared no one would get to his bones; to see the skeleton of himself underneath the epidermal armor. After many years and many layers of skin, no one had attempted much less succeeded in exposing his bones that yearned to be seen by the eyes of someone brave enough to face this quagmire.
And by chance, by timing's watchful eye, you had done just that. Lovingly exfoliated each layer of skin, washing away the scars and bruises of everything they had endured, and held his bones bare in your hands. Standing in the glimmering ocean waves of your eyes, feeling his bones, purified of all grief, against the air and conflated four years’ worth of the lonely, blinding fog once surrounding him.
Standing in the sandbox once again of double occupancy.
“I love you.” The words cascaded off his tongue with the same grace and earnest of what being in love felt like. Hoseok couldn’t do a lot of things and had quite a bit of trouble expressing himself for these past few years, but his love for you was something that couldn’t be anything less than accurate and sincere to do his heart a bit of justice.
“You said that already.”
“Are you going to say it back or not?” He pulled you in by your waist, leaving you no other option than to oblige the requests he flew into the air.
“I love you, Hobi. I do. I love you.” Your hands lifted to his face, and his cheeks were warm. Though soft skin covering it, you could feel his bones. They were being caressed, loved, touched by your hands.
He closed his eyes, trying to remember the last time he felt this at home when he wasn’t in your home of linens and lemons. His face shifted to the side to press his lips into your palm.
“I love you.” He said again, seeping into skin, printing the words into your bones. Hoseok had to repeat it, just to hear you say it once more, to make sure it was all real. That it wasn’t just him that was melting into the art of you, but the art of you touching him, coalescing with him.
“I love you.” Tears of his face were brushed by your thumb and they didn’t feel like the sad ones shed before. They were a sweet and gentle ode to everything he’d ever wanted since the moment he asked to play with you in the sandbox.
You were crying as well, holding him in your hands. Holding him. You could not see the fog, the only thing rapturing every sense was Hoseok. Your lips pressed lightly against his, feeling him smile into the kiss, and that drowned out the crisp, punishing air that pricked chills against your cheeks.
Hoseok knew he was going to be okay.
The two of you made your way back to the library, greeted with three suspenseful eyes, trained against the doorway partly from apprehension that Dickson would return and partly from hoping you and Hoseok would make a swift return. They, too, cared and wanted to see if Hoseok’s skin had finally shed.
“Heeeeey.” Seokjin drew out his coy greeting to tease you and Hoseok for the all too noticeable gesture of holding hands. Jimin and Namjoon were captured in the physical intimacy that you two casually displayed as well.
“You two took your sweet time, didn’t you?” Namjoon said to the pair of smiling faces now returning to the table behind Jimin without further explanation. He was implying the long absence of you and Hoseok was not delayed through a reprimand from Dickson but by your own insatiable desires for each other.
“I found this idiot on the roof. Took me a bit to convince him to come back down here, but I did it.” You turned over to Hoseok who was investing his efforts in rearranging himself back into an outwardly tough manner.
“Oh, I bet you had to do a lot of convincing, huh ___.” Seokjin’s comment was met with a light slap against his shoulder by your hand for his lewd teasing, and the way his fingers imitated quotation marks when he said the word ‘convincing’.
“Hey! I actually had to convince him. This man is very, very stubborn.”
“Yeah, ___ wouldn’t leave me alone so I didn’t have much of a choice.” He stared at his hand once being held in yours, trying to shovel over the smile simmering on his lips. Jimin shifted to face you and Hoseok, eyes squinting to slits from reading the overwhelmingly happy expressions on your faces.
“So, Dickson came back.” Jimin said, smiling widely.
“Oh shit. What did he say?”
“We all pretended that we could see you and he was the only one that couldn’t see you guys. It was hilarious, you should have seen his face.” Seokjin intervened with his own account of the story. Jimin turned to him and burst out laughing harder than when Dickson walked like a defeated soldier out of the library.
“He was like, ‘You kids need to learn respect. You mess with the bull, you get the horns’ whatever that means. But he didn’t even end up doing anything because he knew we wouldn’t snitch. But, damn, you should have seen his face.” Jimin’s hand covered his mouth during the process of him laughing and wedging in pieces of the story in between.
“That sounds like the dumbest cover up ever, but I guess Dickson is somehow dumber than that.” The count of five smiles amounted to each of you hunching over with laughter at the vice principal’s idle reactions to the detentionees displaying a clear sign of insubordination.
“He is. He really is that dumb.” Namjoon said during a pause from whatever he was drawing.
“Well, either way, I appreciate the effort. And Hobi does too, even though he won’t admit it.” His stubborn disavowal of expressing appreciation contrived through rolled eyes that then landed onto the four others accompanying his space. Though shadowed through his many apathetic modes of emoting, he found this Saturday detention not only bearable, but enjoyable. He found himself attached to other people after severing all ties from actual intimacy. Being connected and vulnerable was an easier way of going about his life. And, he didn’t realize it then, but he planned on keeping it that way.
“Hey guys?” Seokjin tossed aside the Dickson debacle with this conversational prelude, “What’s gonna happen when we go back out there?”
“What do you mean?” You asked, absentmindedly reaching over to grab Hoseok’s hand at the mention of leaving the safe space of the library. He responded to you with a gentle, reassuring squeeze that eased the contraction of your worried muscles.
“We’re still gonna be friends, right?” The prospect fell into consideration as the five of you were moved to silence. After a few exchanges of ambivalent and uncertain glances, Namjoon worked in a soft smile to soothe the frightful thought of returning to the harsh reality.
“Yeah. We are.” His confirmation spoke for the rest of your benevolent agreement.
“Well, I better see you guys at all of my games.” Jimin set this expectation as a receival of the newly polished friendships, grooming quite a bit of fondness being that the four of you knew more about Jimin than his own parents. “And, we’ll be sure to go to Namjoon’s.... Art competitions?”
“Not quite, but I appreciate the thought.” Namjoon laughed.
The commonalities that were once so obscured between you all had become clear by the arrival of the eighth hour. Though there were many obstacles placed to stint any form of connection between five polar adversaries, you all found a salve from the relentless feeling of loneliness through each other. Your essays were never written, finding Dickson’s call for another Saturday detention of probable cause. Even if you were to write an essay on what you did wrong and why it was wrong as well as why you were sorry, there would be no truth unveiled in it. You all found that living unapologetically had been a far more effective catalyst for growth and maturation than any half-hearted essay assigned by a man with no credentials to call himself a student administrator.
There was that phrase, "down to the bone", that had hung over Hoseok's mind for quite a bit today. Some say it implies when you've spent all you had, and are left with the poverty of dry marrow. That, to him, was a mutilation of the phrase which he couldn't accept.
This colloquial, "down to the bone", could not be a reference to having nothing left. Not in his case at least. Not when he felt so full of safety with nothing but his bones under the home of your eyes and hands
Hoseok looked at you, then to the other three and knew things would be different. Eventually, things would get better, he just had to wait long enough for those better things to come.
You found each other, and that was all that mattered.
A week later, you met up in the campus’ cafe with Jimin, Namjoon, Seokjin, and Hoseok discussing the rather insignificant topic of which contestant was going to be eliminated from the reality television show you had all been keeping up with.
“Hey, did you guys ever actually write that essay Dickson told us to write?” Seokjin asked, knowing he had failed to do so.
“Nope.” Jimin said unregretfully, almost with a prideful twist.
“Of course not.” You replied.
“Well, I might have written something on behalf of all of us. It wasn’t an essay per say, more like a letter to Dickson.” Namjoon said smugly into the cup of his coffee.
“What? What did you write?” Jimin put forth the curiosity shared by the four of you.
“Oh nothing too special.” But, of course, if it was anything of Namjoon’s doing, it was something entirely special.
You decided not to further pry on the specifics of what was written, rather sipping your coffee and learning not to regret how the hot liquid burned your tongue. Those eight hours spent in the library gifted you with a wider perspective. Maybe you burned your tongue on this coffee, and tomorrow you might miss the bus to work. Or, sometime in the near future, there would be a new store in the mall that lured you away from the errands set to a schedule and you would have to rush back to work a few minutes late. You learned that these small misdirections in life happen, at the exact right time and the exact right place.
The grateful receive of every moment, deliberate or erroneous, was like a single grain of sand. One grain might pinch out some annoyance. Ten was too textured to ignore. Dozens and thousands padded down as a sandbox where two childhood friends could play. And millions of grains of sand, of gratefully received moments, cultivated a soft shoreline; a place where the deep blue tides had a comfortable bed to tumble onto when it was tired from the tempestuous ocean. Where the contents of the ocean could spill along the wet sand, and it would humbly the tired water’s offerings. A place where a mass of misty, opaque air could roll in, cover every inch of the ocean and would blind the eyes.
But, never the heart.
The hearts, joined since the first grade, were free of scars because of the plethora of love that continued to flourish even in your absence. Love always keeps the heart safe.
Timing was a fickle arbiter, always tearing you from one thing to the next and the next and the next, but somehow leading you to exactly where you were meant to be. It has a way about itself, inevitably delivering you into the lives of those you were meant to be with.
With Jimin, with Namjoon, with Seokjin.
And once again with Hoseok.
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a/n: thank you so much for plowing through this long, angsty one shot! i am so happy to finally release this and hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed creating it. as always, i would love to hear feedback from you lovely readers!
#bangtanarmynet#btswriterscorner#btsgoldnet#bts fanfic#bts one shot#bts fluff#bts angst#bts x reader#jung hoseok#hoseok x reader#hoseok angst#hoseok fluff#hoseok fanfic#bts ot7#bts high school au#hoseok bad boy au#namjoon x reader#jimin x reader#seokjin x reader#hoseok one shot#bts writing#rubycoast#the eighth hour
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1. Happy Mabon! Every autumn, I forget that the darkness comes clanging down in a great rush in the mornings. One day, I am greeted by a pinking sunrise. 48 hours later, it’s so dark on my run to the river that I have to stop a passing runner and check the time, in case my disturbed sleep sent me dressing and leaving the house at 2am. This summer may not have given us those mornings where it’s so hot I can barely get out of the water, where those early hours feel like full silent days carved out just for me to sit in the light and wait for everyone else to wake up, where the only extra thing I put on to run home is my trainers — I look at my waiting winter gear, neoprene socks and gloves, head torch, two more thickening jumpers, hat, thermal mittens — but every season, every day, is beautiful.
Today we go early for celebrations, and the water is silky, and Orion hangs over us with his phallic sword dangling and Betelgeuse winking on one shoulder. The near-full moon spotlights us and I feel almost ready for the shortening days.
2. Hilary Mantel continues to be a literary god. How does she write with that clarity? How can I ever speak with her calm good sense and wit?
3. We have two main problems at the moment, as far as I can see. a) What we’re doing (“curating” our lives; twitter spats; purity spirals; division and isolation; wanting ‘debates’ that can only be won or lost; encouraging people to buy more things; trying to buy our happiness; letting marketers tell us how we feel about the world rather than encouraging major moral lessons from throughout the ages to challenge us on our weaknesses; refusing to accept that life is suffering; asking self-care to be a plaster for everything we don’t have) and b) what we’re not doing (joining together to stand against those with more money and power; protecting the people who have even less power and voice than we do as a matter of course; learning from history; protecting nature above all else; prioritising going for walks; learning to repair things and campaigning to make things repairable; having a basic belief in human dignity for all, not just those with whom we agree; accepting that truly, we are all different and no amount of shaming or disgust will change that; working to shape our societies, culture, economies, production, food supplies and communications around improving — not just sustaining — the air, water and land, and fighting to ensure all of those new shapes protect women and children).
Individualism has morphed into something so completely self-destructive that we’ve forgotten we need nature more than anything — literally, more than anything — and we need to unionise and unite and put aside differences and work together even with people we don’t like.
Because when there are wicked people in power, when it’s genuinely exhausting to think about all the corrupt, venal, toxic, divisive, false, and cruel things they have done since coming to power, those people love to watch everyone below pointing their fingers at one another, saying, You, You’re The Enemy, You’re The Problem, while corrupt populist leaders rub their bellies and chuckle at another promise broken, another mass death on their hands, another building site on a protected forest. Do you understand the stakes here? Do you understand that it’s actual survival? It’s not about being right any more, it’s not about besting someone in the argument. It’s about having decision makers who can not only ensure there is still food to eat and air to breathe, but that relations both within a country and between countries are built on care, and support, and compassion, and believing in human dignity. And while it sounds wishy-washy and hands-clappy it’s the schmaltzy, sentimental truth. It’s the only one, really.
If we instead continue to believe every single day that my feelings are the most important, that my beliefs are the right ones, that I’ve got to prove those baddies there are evil and awful and wrong, then honestly, what the fuck? If we’re happy to live in a country where hostile architecture is the starting point for all public builds, where we send refugee boats away from our shores, where affiliate links are a career goal, where we haven’t stormed the Daily Mail offices with accounts of all our lovely immigrant friends and family and had a huge feast together and compared our long and tangled family trees, then come on. It’s only a race to the bottom if we all keep running.
Because, pressingly, whatever the spark of a major global conflict — assassination, fuel shortages, hyperinflation, invasion — the kindling is almost always a populace fed pure hatred for months, for years, until they can’t even taste it anymore but are ready to spew it out again, and are ready to use another populace as the receptacle. And hatred is brewed up in silence and isolation, and in the ashes of bridges burned between disparate groups.
And on that note, I’m not a conspiracy theorist, mainly because I don’t believe governments are generally competent enough to manage Grand Plans, but it’s annoying that technology and social trends and culture have developed in such a way that no one knocks on anyone’s door for a chat as a matter of course now, that it’s a given that a ringing phone triggers anxiety, that it’s not the norm for cups of tea with your neighbours, that we don’t know each other’s neighbourhoods, that we don’t even talk on the phone, with live words and intonation and synchronised laughter, but in text, in WhatsApp chats, in tapped out words and symbols that we know can be screen-grabbed and misinterpreted, that we know are kept, filtered and sold by the tech companies. It’s not a conspiracy. It’s just a reality that every single one of us can choose to do differently.
Sometimes exactly the right thing comes along at the right time. All of us here watched About a Boy at the weekend, a film which is so wonkily weighted and oddly rhythmed, but a perfect depiction of everything I’m banging on about here. Hugh Grant’s character likes being alone. He’s happy that way. It suits him. It’s his choice. Then, between one thing and another, he finds himself drawn into a world of a suicidal single mother, a duck-murdering young boy, more single mothers, more tricky teens, plus exes and mothers-in-law and awkward support groups. And it turns out that actually, being with people is better. Being uncomfortable often develops you as a person. Constantly prioritising only yourself produces a waxen, pointless baby. Making shared sacrifices might just be the point of being alive. Remember that to be human is to be flawed. That no one is ever completely right, and no one is ever completely wrong. That the boring stuff makes us feel good, and the glossy stuff, if all we strive for is gloss, doesn’t.
If you want anything practical, here are the things that have really helped me over the last few years:
Writing a letter or email regularly to my MP, to CEOs of organisations, to anyone I want to communicate my strong feelings and how I’d like things to be done better. Tweeting eats your soul. It’s a horrible myth the media pretends is important. It really, really isn’t.
Inviting people to go in front of me in queues, in traffic, getting on to buses and trains. It lowers my stress levels right down.
Learning the names of my neighbours and people I meet regularly on walks and letting them learn mine. (I definitely haven’t just decided I loathe a neighbour because they cut a bird-hatching tree down in their garden on the last day of the year it was legal to do so. It’s fine.)
Joining a few political parties, and the closest thing I have to a union
Making something, anything — everything can be done with love, and learning to not get sucked into the capitalist conceit of having to make it perfect, sellable, exhibitable is a genuine gift to yourself; making a cake or a film or a coaster and not putting it on social media, letting it be ugly or serviceless and loving it anyway. I felt extremely overwhelmed the other evening, but instead of doom-scrolling I knitted a… I don’t know, something flat and woollen, and it helped to have my hands and eyes working on directionless introspective creation.
Trying to stop hating. Every time I want to tell a negative story in my head about someone, I attempt to turn it into something positive: how unhappy that person must be, what they must be missing out on. It’s so nauseatingly Pollyanna-ish, and of course it isn’t always successful, and of course every single day brings a hundred thousand examples of cruelty and injustice and wickedness, but the alternative only makes my life feel worse, so why would I indulge that?
Teaching myself the names of birds, trees, flowers, clouds and constellations. I’m still at the most basic levels on all of these, but the difference one feels in the world when you can name things — let alone use them and know their stories — is a very real sort of magic. (For that reason I hope to read this book very soon.) This episode of The Cut is also good on the wonder and power of learning the names of the weeds that grow in your nearest pavement crack.
4. Creating anything is always a gamble, isn’t it, but writing a book you actually like for once and seeing it slowly and beautifully sink to the bottom of a river never to be seen again is ever so slightly crushing. However, it turns out even Thom Yorke feels that way, so I am comforted.
5. I’m sure I’ve mentioned plenty of these before, but if you want some suggestions of where to find joy, here are my favourites from the last year or so:
I was given Lucy Easthope’s book, When the Dust Settles, for work recently, and I was surprised and delighted to discover the most uplifting, hopeful, human and rightfully angry book I’ve read in a long time. Do yourself a favour and preorder it. I bought this other book for my own birthday, gave it to a housemate to give to me, forgot about it, and was delighted to later unwrap He Used Thought As A Wife. Laughed a lot, cried twice. Marvellous.
Now even the youngest housemate here can recite John Finnemore sketches and sing the songs. Has also taught them various composers, gods, logical fallacies and gothic story tropes. Also v funny. Oh, Kate Beaton! Her two books (Hark! A Vagrant and Step Aside Pops) are a bit like a comic-book version of Finnemore, but swearier and sexier and utterly unsuitable for all the housemates who have read it and been educated about the Brontes, Katherine Sui Fun Cheung, Tom Longboat, Nancy Drew, Ida B. Wells, Sacagawea, and the Borgias.
Had to give Inside a restraining order against me for the sake of us all, but Bo Burnham’s Eighth Grade is a masterpiece of writing, acting, sound design and optimism. Spy is dumb action comedy polished to perfection, and Yasujirō Ozu’s Good Morning seems like the inspiration for almost all US arthouse films since 1990, and is also beautiful, funny, thoughtful, and good.
Taylor Swift’s Evermore, like all brilliant albums, isn’t completely perfect. But most of the songs are. And Hole’s classic Live Through This is still just ideal for turning up very, very loud after a tricky day, for the enjoyment of any neighbours who may have hacked down a bird-friendly tree on the last day of February.
Watched both series of Liam Williams’ Ladhood when I had a week off this summer, and really relished the location, the intention, and the writing. More please.
Miles Jupp and Justin Edwards continue to be my comforting bedtime listening in In and Out of the Kitchen. Has it ruined Nigel Slater for me? Well, a bit, but no more than any of us deserved.
I thought this would be a book I’d mumble through the first chapter of, then let get buried in my To Read pile, never to re-open. Instead, I found Whatever Happened to Margo? laugh-out-loud funny, drily written, and full of humanity. Excellent Women has made me want to read everything written by Barbara Pym, a goal I am slowly but surely working towards.
6. I’ve spent the last few years trying to find hazelnut trees, and finally found a copse between a car park and a play area, full of nuts the squirrels hadn’t noticed. Now I’ve found them, the spell has been cast and I see hazel trees everywhere, on walks and on pavements and running along motorway slip roads. A tray of green and brown frilled hazelnuts now dries with the laundry. They are so beautiful.
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on ch 82 and what the hell is the deal with phos
super long wall of words ahead, you've been warned. also, im not qualified to discuss the emotional effects of trauma, so please correct me where im wrong and don’t hesitate to add on this post
contains an analysis of phos’ character arc, explanation on why and how they snapped and what might happen to our child next:
1. genki phos 2. post winter phos 3. laphos 4. on trauma 5. on snapping 6. speculations about the future
so, first things first, I could not help but notice the sheer number of parallels between this chapter and other significant points of the story. it seems to me that parallels are becoming more and more frequent as the moon arc goes on, and that’s not just because there are simply more chapters to draw parallels from as the story grows in size.
I believe that we’re at a turning point in the story, or even that the turning point has been reached, (aechmea telling barbata to fix phos for the umpteenth time is most likely going to give phos the last treasure, but ill get to it).
so, to try and understand what in the seven hells is going on with our baby at this point (the fandom collectively adopted phos since chapter 2, sign the papers if you haven’t already and donate to the fund to send phos to therapy) let’s retrace phos’ character journey.
1: genki phos
the phos who is too good for this world, too pure, the cinnamon roll who has no idea what the hell is gonna happen to them. oh joy.
hnk sets off as a coming of age story. phos is the youngest, they’re seemingly useless in a society that values usefulness above anything else so genki phos is initially driven by lack of purpose.
i’ve speculated already on the characteristics of the lustrous society, a society that emphasizes sameness over difference and that has no place for outcasts like phos and cinnabar. your value, in lustrous society, is dictated by how much and in which way you can contribute to the survival of the species, with elite fighters (the diamonds) being at the apex of the social pyramid and everyone else coming after.
additionally, while gems live in a highly interdependent and close-knitted society, such interdependence never takes into account emotions, loss, imagination, introspection and free-thinking. the society is extremely practical, apathetic, immobile, and everyone is expected to conform to that.
think about antarc: they’re the poster child of lustrous society: a 3 mohs hardness gem who managed to become an elite fighter out of sheer willpower, who’s blindly loyal to sensei, who sacrifices themselves for the greater good (the group’s interests > the individual’s interests), that does little if any introspection and that is happy about all of this and wants to leave it this way.
phos isn’t like this at all.
since the very beginning of the series we learn that phos is an anomaly. and that’s okay, other gems have been anomalies, like padparadscha, cinnabar, even antarcticite, but while those gems found a way to tip toe to the margins of lustrous society to remain unobtrusive exceptions, or forge themselves into proper, useful members of the group, phos cannot do that. which is ironic, because we know that one of phos’ core characteristics is that they’re able to change and to bring about change in a world that is as immobile and still and stiff as… well.. rock.
like @ruddy-rutile pointed out in a past analysis, phos’ problem wasn’t so much that they didn’t fit in, but that they didn’t fit in the appropriate way: they’re emotional, they’re loud, they’re unreliable, they’re not apathetic. they’re kind. compassionate. imaginative. and imagination is something the other gems lack.
this fuels a deep sense of self-hatred that even at this early stages of the story is lying just beneath the surface and oozes out quite easily, like when phos wants to help ventricosus and mumbles that it’s no problem if they die in the attempt, they’re a good for nothing after all, what difference would it make if they dont come back. at least they were able to help someone, contrary to how they were unable to help cinnabar.
this is the leitmotif of the series: phos is a kind, selfless gem who cultivates a deep sense of self-hatred. the internalized pressure and need to feel useful turns into a necessity for change. they need to save cinnabar, they need to save ventricosus, they need to become a fighter, they need to help sensei.
contrary to most of the other gems, phos loves and loves openly and unconditionally, they’re self-less by nature and that selflessness is a barrier that hides the real reason theyre so ready to put their life on the line for other people: the fact that phos thinks that their own life isnt wort a scrap.
as someone who believes to be worthless, guided by shame and guilt just for being alive and fueled by a deep desire to feel loved and accepted (just like a child), phos is unable to cope with grief and emotion if not by guilt tripping themselves even further.
the fact that the amethysts were almost taken is their fault, the fact that cinnabar is suicidal is their fault, the fact that antarc was taken is their fault, same with ghost’s abduction. the only way phos knows to cope with this guilt is by doing what every other gem does: bury these feelings deep inside their head and throw themselves into work. be useful, like alexandrite, rutile or red beryl.
2. post winter phos
what was a story about purpose, about phos’ coming of age, reaches an end at this very point, with antarc’s death. phos has become stronger at this point of the story, they have agathe legs and gold arms and they have grief to cope with, trauma.
just like alex’s job is studying the enemy and red’s job is making clothes, phos’ job is the one they originally desired for themselves: to fight. because there is nothing as valued as a good fighter in gem society and probably young phos unconsciously hoped to overcome self-hatred by taking on the most useful job there is.
post winter antarc is a skilled soldier, so skilled that bort wants to pair up with them. phos has reached their old goal: through loss and maturity, now they have a place within their society, they’re accepted and appreciated, valued but not loved. because these gems are so, so bad at emotions.
and this is where ms ichikawa begins to fool us all. she had us think that this story would be simple, but now hnk starts its steep and unrelenting detour toward existentialism and phos begins their dance toward madness and bottomless grief.
post winter phos is a soldier, they can fight off lunarians, but theyre still blaming themselves for antarc’s death.
we already said that phos is a very emotional gem and they possess a fervid imagination (probably just like lapis). so what do they do? they start thinking. “maybe i can retrieve antarc if we collect enough pieces. if i can communicate with the lunarians. if i can understand why we’re fighting.”
thinking quickly turns into questioning: why are we fighting? why are we so weak? why am i different? what changed me? is it the new additions, is it just life experiences? can we change? how can we change? antarc told me i shouldnt shy away from life, so im gonna push myself further and further.
that’s when shiro’s arc happens and sensei seems to know something about it, something he won’t tell the gems. phos’ questions suddenly turn to him.
phos is pretty much paranoid at this point of the narrative: they have experienced loss for the first time. consumed by guilt and grief for antarc’s recent abduction (even if phos still doesnt know what death means, we’ll get to that in a while), phos cannot think straight. they can’t be questioning the one authority every gem recognizes, the person phos and everyone else wants to protect, their leader, father, teacher.
phos feels like scum just for even thinking about it, as loyal and young as they are. and yet once you start questioning one minuscule thing about the way you have always lived your life, more and more will follow. it’s a cascade effect and it becomes faster the higher the number of questions, until you’re left with nothing but doubts and you must take into your hands the responsibility to find out for yourself.
this is more or less what happens to phos. they feel awful for doubting sensei the first time, in chapter 27, so they spill their guts to cinnabar, confessing their sins. but what cinnabar says does anything but put phos at ease: of course phos is doubting sensei: he’s shady, everyone knows.
however, while cinnabar is a quiet outcast, extremely prudent (and cowardly if you want) in the way they decide to face life, phos is the total opposite. they just needed a little nudge, they were already on the edge of a cliff of doubts and existential fears. cinnabar’s words are the second, big step that sets phos off on their path to the moon.
chapter 28 is when we see phos self-destructing because of this inner conflict for the first time, a pattern that will be repeated again and again the more phos loses sight of the truth, of a reliable something, a goal to cling onto and find direction.
it is ironic, because phos becomes a direction, a goal, the gems and the moon people’s hope (ch 59 and 72), but in doing so they have no hope left for themselves. let’s not forget that phos is very young by gems’ standards, not to mention in comparison to the moon people. how fair is to expect from a traumatized child to save the world and find answers to questions that run thousands of years deep and give phos nothing in return?
the pressure is enough to break phos and it does, quite literally, over and over and over again.
3. Laphos
lapis’ head comes at a time when phos was literally no longer able to manage this pressure.
it brings a waft of fresh air, it brings what emotional, kind phos needed to detach themselves from grief: coldness, rationality. and yet, it takes something away from phos as well: laphos is the phos that can no longer talk with cinnabar, the phos that brings cairn to reject the gems altogether and launch themselves into their kin’s killer’s arms. laphos is the gems and lunarians’ hope for a brief time, then it becomes the enemy.
i find it interesting how phos feels responsible for goshe and morga’s abduction too, even if phos was unconscious when it happened. phos has no clear boundaries between themselves and the rest of the world. they feel responsible for everything and guilty for everything. whatever they do will never be enough neither to make up for their past mistakes nor to find everyone a clear sense of purpose, safety, truth.
ichikawa plays with truth a lot. truth is that the lunarians are bad people and the gems must defend themselves, truth is that sensei is shady, truth is that the moon people are actually good, truth is that death is real, truth is that sensei is evil, truth is that cinnabar hates phos, truth is that the gems are evil, truth is that sensei is the only one that loves phos. who knows what the next truth will be, but can you call it truth, at this point?
if there is one point, i believe, that ichikawa is trying to make clear is that truth is subjective and that it changes, just like phos’ goal, the more knowledge you acquire and the more mistakes you make. truth is subjective but it must be sought after: you gotta keep fighting, you gotta move on even if you keep making mistakes, even if you cant undo your actions.
and another thing i think she’s trying to say is that you cannot make it alone. the moment phos tried to take it all on their shoulders, they moment they acquired lapis’ head, is the moment everything came crumbling down ten times faster than before.
and the most ironic part is that phos is still kind, even underneath that mantle of aloofness: they tried to do everything by themselves because they didn’t want to put anyone in danger, but in doing so they manipulated the gems just like aechmea. and aechmea knows and he’s been using phos for this.
4. Even more trauma
running after truth and after newer and more nuanced goals, phos has completely lost sight of themselves.
where do their alliances lie? what about their history? phos wakes up in ch 72 after the night raid and immediately breaks into pieces because they’re reminded of how cinnabar attacked them, the one gem they thought was their friend. one of the few truths phos had been clinging to.
phos wakes up after the night raid and asks the enemy “to the lunarians i look like a gem and to the gems i look like a lunarian. what am i?”
they break into pieces because they still believe they’re useless. they couldn't save cinnabar, they couldn't save antarc, they couldn't communicate with the earth gems, they couldn't even see adamant.
this is reminiscent of the very beginning of the manga: phos needs to feel useful, they need a goal, they need to be good at something. and just like they were ready to get lost at sea forever to help ventricosus they’re ready to die for someone else’s cause (not even phos’ own because they have no idea what to believe in at this point) just to be of use. after all, to phos, phos is nothing more than a scrap.
euc disagrees. ch 71 “we need you in our future” is a sentence that phos has probably ached to hear for centuries. “we need you. you are loved, you mean something, you are enough. you belong. we cannot build a future where you aren’t part of the equation. you matter”
and look at the way phos looks at euc. they can barely believe them and in fact they don’t. phos expresses some concern about dying (”after all, those less than 5 includes me”) but they still throw themselves into danger, they still take no care of themselves.
Phos’ self hatred and self-destructive tendencies run deeper than euc’s words could ever cut. those words meant well, but they were too little too late. phos thinks they don’t deserve this kind of hope, they cannot understand it, cannot fathom a world in which they are true and so they will go on believing that they are alone and worthless. next time they go on earth, they’ll go alone and unharmed
it is ironic. they did so much, they went to the moon and back multiple times, put their life on the line multiple times, made more progress toward unveiling the truth about the lunarians and finding a way for them to be free of samsara than anyone else did in hundreds (presumably) of thousands of years. they did it by themselves. in barely three hundred years. that’s impressive. and yet it’s not enough for phos. in their mind, they just keep failing.
so what’s the big deal? they can sacrifice themselves, it’s the least they can do and no one will miss them after all. unfortunately, this is true, at least to some extent.
im appalled by how little even the moon gems care about phos. they’re so self-centered it’s almost funny.
even alex, who has gone through loss and grief if not as much at least in a way similar to phos cannot find enough compassion in themselves to be concerned about phos’ wellbeing after a few months on the moon.
ive heard people mention how this could be a result of the moon people injecting who knows what into the gems or manipulating them someway or another, but i believe that there was no need to. phos is an anomaly after all, their kindness is an anomaly. the lustrous are little more than self-centered children: they are able of little if no introspection and they cannot process complex emotions like grief if not by shutting off those emotions altogether.
the moon gems are still vaguely concerned about phos. in ch 76, when phos departs for earth for the last time, they do tell them to be careful and come back if things get bad, but they do little more than that. it’s little comfort and too little emotional closeness and by no means close to the huge amount of support and (emotional) assistance that phos needs at this point.
phos tries to make do with what they have: a will to end this war and the superficial words of what should be their family, but it’s not even remotely enough. and yet phos, just like any other lustrous, is very bad at introspection: they don’t notice or if they notice they repress it. what’s one more thing down the subconscious after all? it’s fine. phos can take it, until they can no more and they snap without having any idea that they will snap.
phos’ journey, which has made them increasingly more emotional, fragile and human (the last one quite literally) has also made phos even more alone than they were at the beginning of the story. more alone, with the same sense of worthlessness, the same urgency to be good for something or self-destroy, and so much more grief, trauma, guilt and repressed emotions.
5. snapping
“I mustn’t think of anything” phos reminds themselves in ch 76. because thinking never brought anything good and because euc would see right through it.
once again, phos is repressing emotions. here they go, trying to be a cold blooded killer, ready to betray sensei again, the one person who has been good to them and that phos tried to hate with all their heart but just couldnt.
as ive written in a previous analysis, one of aechmea’s lowest blows was to tell the gems he was exploiting and manipulating to reach a salvation he doesnt deserve that if the gems want to acquire freedom they must do so by themselves. talk about coherence.
but that isnt all, he sinks even lower than this: he makes phos and the others question sensei’s affection for them. he says that sensei’s love is fake, it’s synthetic, the gems should totally make him pray or destroy him, no remorse, no strings attached. it’s such a dirty move.
no wonder it confuses phos even more. phos believes it, or tries to, they say they want to break sensei into pieces, but after the night raid they realize that it cant be that simple. sensei never attacked them. he has always been good to phos. and phos feels even more worthless, more of a traitor for daring believe in love, in sensei’s affection, when here they are, on the lunarians’ side, ready to betray him again.
how dare phos hope for anything? they dont deserve love, they dont deserve hope, they dont deserve happiness. they can try to give it to other people, they’ll kill themselves in order to do so, but they have no more hope and no love left for themselves, and they had so little to begin with.
as ive said, phos has little self-awareness and little introspection. i do believe that they had no idea they were going to snap until they did. even in ch 77, when sensei tells them he cannot pray, phos spends their last seconds of consciousness (before being attacked by all of the gems) to kindly ask him to pray. they dont care about themselves, but they dont reflect long enough to consider that reaching out to sensei like that could be interpreted as hostile by the paranoid earth gems. i think this is the first sign that phos is about to snap: they’re quite literally desperate.
tired beyond measure and forced to spend 220 more years in isolation, broken into pieces scattered all over the island, when phos comes to their senses again once kongo reassembles them they’re beyond despair. this war is taking the last toll on them and phos has no more energy to go on.
“please,” they say “pray. do it for no one else but me. grant me mercy,” from one bodhisattva to the other. they’re still somewhat normal, but when sensei fails to pray again phos can’t take it anymore. desperation and rage, fueled by hopelessness, worthlessness, grief and exhaustion make phos launch themselves against sensei, which, ironically, it’s exactly what the story needs.
apparently, phos is human enough to activate sensei but not human enough to make him pray. however, when the two of them join hands, sensei can actually pray. maybe it’s because both phos and sensei are intended to be bodhisattva? maybe because human voice commands are not as strong as contact? i have no idea.
phos has snapped by the way, and it’s weird how they go from “If only you weren’t here” to “sensei actually loves me” in a couple of chapters. in a certain way, we’re seeing phos going back to their roots: they love sensei and trust in sensei’s love, they’re once again openly emotional and impulsive, they’re once again ostracized by the gems (of course, much more violently this time).
i have written about how, after ‘fusing’ with sensei for a brief second, phos doesnt speak for the entirety of ch 81. they look and act like a literal monster, a scared animal, which is ironic since we know that they’re now human. i hypothesized that they might be reborn and that’s why they don’t speak, they’re a literal infant, but in light of ch 82, i think they’re simply hurt beyond measure.
they reversed to their old emotional persona, vomiting out all the emotions and pain and rage and hate they repressed during these 300 years. and yet they still don’t hurt anyone, not as much and as deliberately as they could at least.
they’re conscious enough to recognize the notebook and be reminded of their lost friends, realize how little the earth gems care for phos and for what they’re doing. and, i believe, when phos is rescued and comes back to the moon, they are, for the first time in the whole manga, enraged by the earth gems’ stupidity and sheer ungratefulness.
phos has been fighting for the wellbeing of everyone for centuries, putting their life on the line, never asking for anything in return and always believing that they were doing the right thing. and yet it’s not enough.
aechmea is a clever politician, and like every good politician he’s good at picking up changes and turning them in his favor.
he notices that there’s something wrong with phos and with the way they feel about the gems. maybe he doesnt yet realize that phos is angry at them for being ungrateful, but he senses something so he provokes phos: “you said to leave you on earth last time. did you change your mind?” that is “i’m not your enemy. see? im doing what you want me to do. not quite like those people down there on earth. oh, wait, were those your friends? aw, such a pity. to think they attacked you after everything you’ve done for them. but they’re your family, right? i’ll send you back to them if this is what you want. see? i’ll listen to your wishes. i am grateful.”
look how intently he looks at phos as phos incoherently and obsessively repeats the same thing over and over: “he would have prayed. he would have prayed for me. he loves me. he would have prayed.” if you want, this is also a syìubtle way for phos to apologize: they still feel responsible for their failure, but aechmea must understand: phos did everything they could, it would have worked, it was the gems’ fault.
adamant put phos back together, showing phos that he still cares. he is the only one that loves phos, while the gems (all gems, phos doesnt care much for differences at this point) keep hurting phos even if phos is only trying to help. so they must be killed. to hell with them all. and, notice, phos doesnt include themselves in the ‘gem’ category: they’re no longer a lustrous. they’re a monster, a liminal creature.
with nothing left to believe in if not sensei’s love and a promise to make him pray and then die in peace, phos wants to destroy the only thing that they believe stands between them and finally being useful, but also between them and freedom (freedom from suffering, from guilt, from existing, from their pain, from being): the gems.
this isn’t the first time that phos wants to kill something: in ch 68 they spoke about crushing sensei to pieces. it’s heartbreaking how phos went from “if only the moon people weren’t here” to “if only sensei weren’t here” to “if only the gems weren’t here.” will it turn into: “if only i weren’t here?” who are phos’ allies? who does phos feel kinship with? who is phos? they no longer know, and they’ve not known for a long time.
aechmea has noticed and he’s quick to turn the situation to his advantage. he shakes phos’ hand, he’ll grant them freedom just like phos will grant the lunarians’ freedom. he’ll forgive phos for failing, for their sins, for the bottomless despair and guilt that phos has been living with for centuries. salvation, hope, that is all phos needs.
as @rinboz pointed out, phos’ gold in ch 82 takes the shape of a lotus seed pod, a direct reference to when antarc was abducted and the gold had turned into a lotus flower.
through pain, phos had blossomed into a new character that day, marking the beginning of their long journey toward truth and toward discovering that there is no truth. the day the story changed from a coming of age manga to something much, much more intricate.
phos’ pod is empty, they have nothing left to lose, it’s a dead flower. this is the end of the journey that started with antarc’s abduction. when phos wakes up again, it will probably be with new memories and a new addition to their body, possibly red diamond.
phos’ self destruction has reached its apex because it finally became so intense to extend outwards, to other people that, in their immense grief, phos wants to bring down with them. this might be a minuscule form of progress: anger is better than repressing emotions at least, but phos’ problems are far from being solved.
6. on the future
what will be of phos then? it really depends.
the fact that they’re finally showing all that sufferance and those emotions they tried so hard to repress is good, but aechmea is still there to take advantage of it.
phos will never be free as long as they dont associate themselves with someone that truly loves them and as long as they cant find someone that can help them deal with their emotions. aechmea is just using them and only ichikawa knows what he meant when he told barbata to be careful with those 200 years emotions.
theoretically, phos was unconscious during the timelapse, but if there are emotions to treat carefully maybe they weren’t? maybe the change we’ve seen in phos this chapter depends on what they had to endure during that time. or maybe aechmea simply wants to make sure that his pet is easy to use.
i do believe we’re close to the end. i dont know if it will be the end of the series or just the end of phos as we know them. i could hope for something good to finally happen to them and for them to heal, but it would take a therapist or someone that loves phos.
maybe euclase could side up with sensei, they seemed the most concerned about phos’ status and the most prone to believe them. maybe goshe and cicada could do something again, maybe rutile will fix padpa once more and padpa will talk with the earth gems (not very likely, but im throwing theories left and right at this point), or maybe barbata will refuse to follow aechmea’s instructions, at least in part, and try to help phos.
as always, im afraid we’ll have to wait. in the meantime, please hug phos. if you read up to this point hug phos. hug them now and shower them with love, because no one else will
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Oh No, He's Hot - Ending
Subtitle: Till The End of Time
Summary; The trial is over now, but a new challenge arises. Immortality is a fate Y/N cannot escape from, tensions rise between covens as she has to make a choice, and will a new vampire join the Olympic coven?
Warnings: Swearing, so much angst, tension between some vamps and reader
Word Count: 2.7k words
Author notes: Thank you all so much for the support on this series! It did take me a while to finish this one but I’m glad I’ve finally written an ending I’m happy with! I have enjoyed writing it, I hope to you readers I did it justice and here’s to more Felix x Reader stories down the line.
A year.
You had one year of mortality left, so it had been decreed. There wasn't any fighting it - after all, your choices were slim. It was that or death, potentially by the hand of your own boyfriend if Caius had his way no doubt.
The movement against your back brought you out of your shell shocked state. You only just remembered that Felix was still standing by your side, and lifting your gaze up to his face you saw that he was speaking.
"... Don't know if I can do it," you caught the last string of his sentence as your senses slowly returned to you.
Who was he speaking to? you wondered. You couldn't be bothered to turn your head toward the other speaker, instead opting to bury your face into Felix's side. The arm around you tightened just a little bit more, his hand massaging your side in what you knew was an attempt to soothe you.
"Y/N?" Felix's concerned voice roused you.
Slowly lifting your head to meet him in the eye, you noted that he wore a rueful smile. A sadness has crept onto his perfect face and you wanted so badly to make that sadness disappear, to bring out that honest-to-all-hell ridiculously handsome smile of his.
"I'm afraid I have to go now," he informed you. As your eyes grew wide he cupped your face with his free hand. "This doesn't have to be goodbye, you hear me? It doesn't have to be at all."
Frowning, your slow human brain processes the urgent words that came from his mouth. "Are you... asking me to come with you?" You stood a little straighter, leaning back a bit but not enough that your embrace breaks. "To Volterra?"
He nodded, affirming the conclusion you were coming to.
“Like hell she is,” Rosalie glided over to join your side, glaring daggers at Felix. “She wouldn’t be safe.”
“Are you doubting my capabilities of keeping my mate safe?” he growled back with equal ferocity.
Rosalie stepped towards Felix, now inches away from his face. Emmett joined immediately and placed a hand of her shoulder. “They’ll use her! You may be part of that coven but you surely aren’t blind to Aro’s eagerness to collect people like her for his own gain.”
Jaw clenched, Felix didn’t give her a response, fueling Rosalie’s fire.
“Of course you know,” she spat, baring her teeth at him. Emmett pulled her back just a little, rubbing her shoulders. “Look at you, you’re not even denying it because you know.”
“I... I don’t know if Volterra is a good place for me,” you whispered, barely audible. Shaking your head vigorously, you reached up to cover your eyes. “This is so sudden, so soon.”
A year left to make the most of your mortal life, your humanity. It left you with so many questions running through your brain all at once and with no satisfying answers.
It only made you feel conflicted further when Felix’s face contorted in what you could only describe as pain. “Then... I have to leave.”
“Can’t you stay?”
“I wish I could, I wish-”
“Then what’s stopping you?” you cried, grabbing fistfuls of his clothing.
“Felix,” another voice interrupted, smooth and low.
You both turned towards the source. The tracker, Demetri, was there looking on with a sad expression.
“We have to leave now. Aro and Caius are demanding your presence immediately.” He told your mate, sparing you a quick, apologetic glance. “I’m sorry.”
Another separation. Your heart ached and you clung onto your lover’s clothing tighter, unwilling to yield on your hold. Trembling, you steeled yourself as best as you could and fixed a fierce gaze on Felix. “I am willing to become a vampire. I am, I’ve known this would come for some time now. But what I am not willing to do is become dear kindred with your masters.”
Felix took you by surprise by cupping your face with both his hands, stroking your cheeks gently. “Is there nothing I can do to convince you?” he whispered, low enough that the words were on for your ears. “I’ve waited so long for you, I can’t lose you.” He moved one of his hands to the back of your hair, pulling you closer so that there was no space between you two. “I can’t lose us.”
“Then please, there has to be a way we can go about our lives together.” The tears were beginning to fall freely, the wetness cool against your cheek in the cold winter air. “There’s always a way.”
Felix closed his eyes. Pressing a kiss gingerly to your forehead, he back away, releasing you. As your heart began to break, his parting words mended the forming cracks. “This is not goodbye. I refuse to let it be. I’ll figure something out. I beg you to keep faith in me Y/N.”
Once he and Demetri had vanished, you were frozen in place.
He better not break his word.
You traveled back to the Cullen’s home with a heavy heart. It was though a black fog had shrouded your mind, your heart, your very being. Of all the ways you expected to be reunited with Felix again, this wasn’t how you pictured it. You pictured happiness, elation, not the angst and dramatics of how you to parted ways.
You stood on the porch of the second floor, watching as everyone below you celebrated. Lost in your thoughts, you almost didn’t even register someone saying your name and touching your shoulder lightly.
Turning your head slightly, out the corner of your eye you saw someone who you didn’t expect to see; Edward Cullen.
“How’re you holding up?” he asked, a look of genuine concern etched onto his face as he studied you. “Things uh, looked like they got tense for you back there.”
You snorted, unable to help yourself. “You could say that.”
“I know we may not know each other very well,” Edward began, coming to stand beside you to lean over the railing, “but I just... wanted to say something.”
“Shouldn’t you be down there with Ren?” you pointed to the little girl who was currently dancing with her mother, giggling away happily.
Edward’s expression softened. “She’s okay, I know she’s safe.” He paused a moment. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Of course you do, reading minds is your whole schtick, Ed.”
“I know you’re afraid, and doubting everything. Your decisions, Felix, yourself even.”
He’s in my head! “Edward,” you warned him, eyes squeezing shut as if that would block him out of your thoughts.
He ignored your warnings, however. “Look Y/N, all I’ll say is this. If that... man, loves you as much as he says he does, he’d do anything for you. I don’t approve of course -”
You interrupted him with a snort. “Oh I’m aware,” you replied, your voice sardonic. “That didn’t stop me from loving him though.”
Edward sighed. Pushing himself off the railing, he opened his mouth to speak when his eyes changed from a look of exasperation to a cold distant stare.
“Edward? What’s wrong?” you watched as his nostrils flared and his lips pressed into a tight thin line.
“Speak of the devil and the devil shall appear,” he quoted grimly, storming away from you and leaping over the balcony.
You spun on your heel and bolted through the Cullen’s home, sprinting down the stairs and almost skidding on the ice as you hurried to see what ticked Edward off so badly. You saw him with his back to you, standing defensively in front of his wife and child as he faced the forest line that surrounded the house. Night had begun to fall so you could barely make out anything within the trees other than darkness.
Until a figure came forward.
A familiar tall figure, who no longer donned the medieval robes and stepped forward wearing a thick jacket and trousers.
Your body moved before your brain could even respond. Running past the Cullens, you practically threw yourself into the tall vampire’s embrace. “What are you doing here?” your voice came out in a sob, both elated and fearful that he was going to leave again.
“Taking what’s mine,” came Felix’s reply, arms instantly wrapping themselves around you, holding you tight.
“Felix,” you heard Edward call out.
Turning around in Felix’s hold so you could look at the golden-eyed vamp, you silently begged him not to make a fuss. To let you go with him without kicking up a storm. I’ve barely been able to even see his face outside of imminent danger situations, Ed. Let me have this.
“Perhaps I need to remind you that his coven is the reason those imminent danger situations arise,” he snapped, teeth bared, causing Felix to let out a low warning growl that you felt vibrate through your whole body.
“Oh for fuck's sake Cullen, if I remember correctly that red-headed woman that came for your coven and could have taken her out was not one of ours.”
Felix swearing so crudely took you by surprise. He was always very composed whenever you spoke that hearing him swear like that shocked you... and ever so slightly - just a teensy bit - turned you on.
Okay, focus. Angry vampires. Now’s not the time.
“What is he doing here?” a third voice hissed.
You turned to see Tanya, Kate and Garrett approach - and boy did the two blondes look pissed.
“You killed our sister,” Tanya snarled, glaring at the two of you with unyielding hatred.
“Your sister got herself killed,” Felix snapped back, “perhaps if she had checked the situation with the half-child herself before coming to the Volturi, she’d be alive.”
“Tanya,” Edward warned, flitting to the angry blonde’s side and placing a hand on her shoulder, which she shook off. “Bella take Renesmee home,”
Not wasting any time, Bella took her child away from the situation. Ren looked back at you with an unreadable face as she and her mother disappeared into the forest.
“I’m not here for a fight,” Felix tried to diffuse the situation, “I’m just here for this one.”
“So you can turn her into a monster like you?” Kate hissed, letting out a bark of a laugh. “How romantic.”
Wiggling out of Felix’s grip, you felt the electricity in your veins rise as you screamed out of frustration. “Enough!”
Thunder clapped out of nowhere above you, making everyone jump. Edward and Garrett frowned as they studied you, watching you closely, one concerned and the latter fascinated. As you stared the opposing vampires down, your body twitched uncomfortably; you felt like a human live wire.
Your powers were growing stronger.
“I think I can speak for both myself and my mate when I say we do not want to fight, or argue or have any hostility between us - we just want to fucking exist together, damn it!” you snarled the last part of the sentence, your eyesight becoming sharper, clearer than before as the blue hue appeared.
“Edward! Tanya!”
Carlisle and Esme approached, Carlisle with his hands raised as if he were telling a couple of naughty dogs to sit down. “Let them go.”
“You can’t separate mates, you know this Sweetie,” Esme said with a sad smile, taking a few steps toward you.
Nostrils flaring as he tried to calm himself, Edward’s face became blank as he stared at you and Felix. Everyone held their breath as he slowly walked towards you; but he ignored you, instead opting to stand right in front of Felix, glaring up at him. “Hurt her, and we’ll know.”
Felix met the glare with his own. “I would never.”
A humorless snort came from Edward. “So it appears. But the warning still stands.”
While their confrontation went on, Esme very gingerly placed her hand on your back and rubbed it. It did soothe you, making your powers ease off, the glow in your eyes fading away.
With a nod to you, Edward turned his back and left the scene, taking off in the same direction his wife and child did.
Well, that could have been worse. You let out a sigh, running a hand through your hair. At that moment, Rosalie and Emmett came over as the Denalis left.
“So you’re taking off with this one finally?” she said with a haughty expression on her face, lips twitching to hide a smirk.
You nodded and looked back to Felix, who watched you with a small smile on his face. His posture was still tense but less so now that Edward and the Denalis were gone. “Looks like it.”
“Hey now, before you scram you better not leave without a hug you little shit.” Before you could respond, Rosalie had embraced you in a tight hug, which you returned.
As she let you go, you felt your feet leave the ground as Emmett scooped you up. “You better be careful out there Thor,” he teased as he spun you around, making you laugh.
Good old Emmett, you thought to yourself, the king of being able to make a tense situation light.
He set you down and you went to Felix’s side. At long last, you were going to get some peace with the one you loved.
“Felix?” Rosalie called out, gaining the attention of the large vampire. He raised an eyebrow, waiting to hear what she had to say. “Y/N is a dear friend of mine. Hurt her and Edward won’t be who you need to worry about. It’ll be me. Is that clear?”
To your surprise, he chuckled. “Yes ma’am, I’ll remember that.”
The two of you turned to each other. A small smile crept onto your face as you stared into his vermillion eyes. As the two of you shared this moment, the Cullens quietly left you; you barely noticed.
“So we’re doing this, huh?” you breathed.
“By ‘this’ you mean me whiskin you away to begin our lives together, then yes I’d say that’s accurate,” he replied smoothly, winking at you.
You playfully pushed him. Before you could even comprehend it happening Felix swept you up into his arms, holding you bridal style. Your brain felt like it was short-circuiting in response. With a fit of giggles and happy laughter from Felix, he did exactly as he said he would and whisked you away into the forest.
“You called me your mate.”
Sprawled out in a comfy hotel room bed, you let out a small hum as you curled up against said mate’s chest. You blushed, but you were unashamed. “I did, didn’t I?”
Turning his body so the two of you were no facing each other, he cupped your face and kissed you, slow and sweetly. He pulled away after a few moments and sat back with an incredulous look. “This feels like a dream to me. A very good dream that I never want to wake from.”
Shaking your head, you snuggled your way back into his side again. “And you won’t ever have to wake from it. Hate to break it to you, but you’re stuck with my ass.”
“Now that I can’t complain about.” You didn’t fail to miss the flirtatious implications of his tone.
During this night in the hotel room, you’ve learned two things. One, that whatever was happening with your powers today made you incredibly tired and you just wanted to fall asleep next to your mate.
Secondly, that Felix was the biggest god damn flirt in a bedroom setting ever, holy shit. Not that you minded, but boy he was fantastic at driving a certain part of you crazy despite you being exhausted. You couldn’t wait to be intimate with him - but for now, baby steps.
Big baby steps, as Felix admitted after a rather heavy make-out session that he was afraid of crushing you like a watermelon.
“You’re a flirt.”
“You love it.”
Sighing contently, you drifted off to sleep in his arms. Who would have thought a battle against newly-made vampires would gift you with such a blessing as this love you had blossoming between the two of you? Certainly not you. Certainly not Felix either. But here you both are, and now all you can do is ride the waves of life together and simply exist with one another, with full hearts and content souls.
#at long last#this series is officially complete#my fics#felix volturi#felix volturi x reader#the volturi#volturi#twilight saga#the twilight saga#twilight saga imagines#twilight saga fanfiction#volturi imagines
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Brick Club 1.5.10 “Outcome Of The Success”
It’s long, I’m sorry. There’s just so much in this chapter!
The chapter’s first paragraph is a description of the misery of winter weather, bookended by sentences about Fantine. It’s been nearly a year since she was fired. The bit about winter is a description of Fantine’s descent as well as the weather. Winter brings short days which means less work; Fantine’s position in society means she’s finding less work as well because she is essentially freelancing rather than working for an employer with steady jobs. “No heat, no light, no noon, evening touches morning” is such a good description of the way everything is miserable and just blurs together when you’re trying to just stay alive. All the awful stuff is sharp and dull at the same time. “Winter changes into stone the water of heaven and the heart of man.” Fantine is starting to harden here; we see her become more shameless, tougher.
Fantine wears a cap after cutting her hair “so she was still pretty.” And this disappears so rapidly in this chapter. Her beauty is so important. Fantine is the only character aside from Enjolras who is repeatedly described as beautiful in a way that seems to really matter. (Cosette is also beautiful, but that description is almost entirely through Marius’ POV, rather than from a more general POV with Fantine.) The slow destruction of Fantines beauty--the discarding of her pretty clothes for peasant ones, her frequent tears, the loss of her hair and teeth, the torn and threadbare clothing--mirrors her social destruction. She desperately clings to her beauty by wearing a cap, but she obviously gives up pretty soon.
What fascinates me here is that Hugo mentions that Fantine admired Madeleine, like everyone else, but he also implies that she didn’t hate him straight away for her dismissal. In the previous chapters, her reaction is to accept the dismissal as a “just” decision. She works up her hatred by repeatedly telling herself it was his fault. It seems as though she lands on the right conclusion in the wrong way. She blames herself first, and only through gradually convincing herself does she start to blame Madeleine. He and his crap system are the ones to blame, but she comes to that conclusion in a roundabout way that feels like she still blames herself but is trying not to. Fantine has been a scapegoat for everyone up until now; Madeleine has become her scapegoat to avoid (incorrectly) blaming herself.
“If she passed the factory when the workers were at the door, she would force herself to laugh and sing.” She’s trying so hard to make them think they haven’t gotten to her, but it just makes it so much more obvious. The laughter and singing is the “wrong” reaction, and it makes everyone notice her even more, and judge her even harder. It’s just so sad because I can understand that behavior of trying so hard to act the opposite way of how you think people will expect you to, only it backfires and makes your true feelings all the more apparent, which gives even more fuel to the cruel people.
Fantine takes a lover out of spite, “a man she did not love.” There are a few things here that contrast with the grisettes of 1.3. This lover is someone Fantine does not love, her first relationship since losing Tholomyes, who she was in love with. The man is also a street musician, which reminds me of Favourite’s actor/choir boy. The difference being that Favourite’s boy had at least some connections through his father, and Fantine’s lover is only a street musician. Fantine takes this lover in for the same reason that she sings and laughs outside the factory: to try and show that she’s unaffected, which really only serves to do the opposite. She has this affair “with rage in her heart,” which seems to be the only emotion left for her for anyone besides Cosette (and maybe Marguerite).
“She worshiped Cosette.” My only comment here is that this is something that Valjean will later echo. Both worship and adore Cosette as a point of light, something to cling to and love and care for.
Okay maybe I’m missing something here, but Fantine can read but she can’t write? This is probably my “been good at reading/writing my whole life” privilege talking, but wouldn’t she be able to write if she could read? I suppose maybe it’s like how I can look at numbers and understand the numbers but I can’t do math for shit? I don’t know. That just caught my eye.
Fantine is starting to lose her inhibitions as she begins to lose control of everything in her life. She’s laughing and singing and running and jumping around outside in public, she’s acting loud and brash and odd. Her reactions to her misfortune and the terrible things that keep happening express the “wrong” emotion. It’s an attempt to cope, and a courageous one, but it’s drastically different from the quiet Fantine who barely spoke that we were introduced to.
“Two Napoleons!” grumbled a toothless old hag who stood by. “She’s the lucky one!”
This line really struck me. We’ve been tunnel-visioned on Fantine’s misery this whole time. Suddenly the focus pulls back a little bit and we get a little bit of perspective. Fantine is not at rock bottom yet. She could still go so much lower. To this toothless old woman, she’s lucky because she’s pretty and because her teeth have worth. Fantine is poor, and cold, and worried about her kid, and most of the town laugh at or scorn her, and yet this old woman still thinks she’s the lucky one of the two of them. It’s a much more subtle commentary on the levels of poverty and abjectness that exist. Once you’ve fallen through the cracks in society to the level of homelessness, to the level of selling your teeth and hair and body, to complete aloneness, anyone who has even a scrap more than you seems “lucky.” And Fantine’s not too far from that existence.
The conversation between Marguerite and Fantine about military fever is so weird. Is Marguerite just saying stuff? This dialogue sounds like a conversation between two people who have no idea what they’re talking about. It’s like those scenes in comedies where one person pretends to be super confident about something to impress the other even though both of them are completely wrong. Oh okay wait! I just did some googling and I’ve realized that neither of them know what they’re talking about because Thenardier did his bad spelling thing! “Miliary fever” is an old medical term for an infection that causes fevers and bumpy skin rashes. (Mozart’s death is attributed to it; it seems to have fallen out of use as it became easier to pinpoint certain illnesses.) I think this isn’t just Marguerite not knowing what she’s talking about. This is a misunderstanding due to Thenardier’s misspelling (whether deliberate or not, I don’t know) and neither Marguerite nor Fantine know enough to realize it.
ETA: Okay wow I’m keeping that whole “miliary fever” thought journey in just to record my thought process but I’ve just double-checked against the Hapgood translation and the original French, and the mistake isn’t with the Thenardiers at all! It’s entirely the fault of the translators. The original French says “miliare” and Hapgood has translated it as “miliary”; Fahnestock and MacAfee clearly did not notice that the French was “miliare” and not “militaire,” and neither did their editors.
“During the night Fantine had grown ten years older.” Off the top of my head, I can only think of three instances of not-old people being blatantly described as looking old. This description here, Valjean when he returns from Arras, and Eponine. There are probably more I’m missing, but the connecting factor between these three is severe, prolonged trauma. Trauma and a difficult life can prematurely age people (I always think of that Dorothea Lange photo of the migrant mother who was only 32 but looks 50) and Hugo uses this fact to bolster his descriptions of what they go through. But Fantine and Valjean both age almost suddenly; Eponine is already old-looking the first time we meet her as a character with dialogue. Fantine’s sudden aging is another level of departure from her old life. In Paris, she was the youngest of the group, and now she looks far older than she is.
“Actually, the Thenardiers had lied to get her to get the money. Cosette was not sick at all.” As readers, we know this. We’ve seen the Thenardiers lie over and over and we see Fantine sacrifice with no idea. But this one hits harder than the others. Partly, I think, because Hugo puts it so bluntly in a sentence that has its own paragraph. But also because this is the first sacrifice that is truly unalterable. Fantine’s hair can grow back. There may have eventually been some slim chance of a job opportunity or something coming up somehow, or an influx of things needing mending or something. But she cannot regain her teeth. This is also the first sacrifice that physically disfigures her in a visible way. She can hide her lack of hair under a cap, she can hide her lack of money by using and reusing things. She cannot hide her missing teeth.
It’s interesting that we do not hear about Mme Victurnien here. Rather than the last chapter, this would be the one where Victurnien would be “winning.” The consequences of Victurnien’s actions have now permanently affected Fantine’s life. Except I think the reason we don’t see her here is that she wouldn’t face it. She can look out her window at Fantine walking down the street in distress with her beauty intact and feel satisfaction, but if she saw Fantine walking down the street, toothless and hairless, I don’t think she would feel satisfaction, because she wouldn’t be able to connect her actions to this Fantine. Feeling satisfaction towards this level of misery would require acknowledging her participation in causing it. It’s one thing for the townspeople to laugh at or gawk at her, but I think claiming responsibility for her condition is something else altogether that I’m not sure Mme Victurnien would do.
Fantine throwing her mirror out the window is a strange sort of contrast compared to Eponine’s reaction to a mirror. Fantine cannot face her descent. Eponine is already there, and her excitement at Marius’ mirror is a weird sort of distracted examination of herself. Fantine cannot bear to examine herself because unlike Eponine, she can remember what it was like before this. Tossing away the mirror is tossing away the thoughts of her past life and her past self; she can’t ever go back to that.
“The poor cannot go to the far end of their rooms or to the far end of their lives, except by continually bending more and more.”
God I don’t really even know what to say about this line except ouch. It’s just so poignant and intense. The older you get the harder it is to survive, to get up with each new stumble. And we can also take into account things like the cholera epidemic that will occur a few years later in the book, which mostly affected the poor. There’s so little access to any sort of help or assistance. And clearly Valjean’s few little systems of aid aren’t good enough. He may have set up a worker’s infirmary and a place for children or old workmen, but there doesn’t seem to be assistance for single, unsupported women, or the homeless and unemployed. They’re left to bend more and more under the weight of life.
“Her little rose bush dried up in the corner, forgotten.” I can’t help but read this as a parallel to the Thenardier’s treatment of Cosette. As Fantine falls apart and falls behind on her payments, Cosette is growing up which means the abuse from the Thenardiers has probably increased. It also feels like a weird sort of throwback to the spring/summertime imagery of beauty and chasteness and modesty from back in 1.3, which has now completely disappeared and dried up as Fantine loses her beauty, her modesty, and her coquetry.
I love the little detail about Fantine’s butter bell full of water and the frozen ice marks. It’s such a small detail but so evocative. It also feels like a metaphor for each of Fantine’s new hardships. Every time the butter pot freezes over, it leaves a ring of ice for a long time; each time Fantine encounters a new trauma, she hardens and becomes tougher. She keeps her dried up, long gone modesty and youth in one corner and the suffering that has hardened her in the other. On a side note, I’m wondering if there is actually butter in her butter bell or if she’s now using it only for water? I would imagine water only; butter seems like something that might be expensive. Also, would the building she’s living in have had indoor plumbing, or would she have gotten water from a well or a pump somewhere? My plumbing history knowledge is lacking.
Hugo describes Fantine’s torn and badly mended clothes. At this point she’s working as a seamstress, which means she’s at least proficient in the skills needed to sew and/or mend clothes in such a way that they stay together. This means that the repairs done for herself are likely careless and messy. I think this is partly an indication of how little time she has for herself--if she’s sewing for work for 17 hours a day, she has very little time to mend her own stuff, and definitely can’t afford better quality material--and partly an indication of the ways in which she is falling apart. She doesn’t bother mending her things properly, she goes out in dirty clothes. She doesn’t mend her stockings, she just stuffs them further down in her shoes. It seems she has only one or perhaps no good petticoats, which means she’s probably walking around in just a shift and a dress. Not only is her stuff threadbare and falling apart, she’s also probably freezing due to the lack of layers.
“A constant pain in her shoulder near the top of her left shoulder blade.” This makes me wonder if Fantine’s left-handed. If she’s sewing by hand, by candlelight, in a shitty rush chair, for seventeen hours a day, that is absolute murder on the back/shoulders/neck. Whenever I do hand-sewing I’m usually sat on the floor or my bed, and my back and upper shoulders tend to get sore if I get in the zone and I’m bent over the work for a long time. I don’t know about French dressmakers, but I know around that time the English were really big on very small, neat, almost invisible stitches. Which would hurt to do for seventeen hours a day by candlelight.
“She hated Father Madeleine profoundly, and she never complained.” The Hapgood translation of this line is better, I think. Still, I think it’s important that it’s pointed out that she never voices her opinions or her complaints. It’s only when Madeleine is in front of her that she announces them at all (despite not speaking directly to him then, either). She hates Valjean, she blames him, and yet obviously some part of her still thinks that she deserves it, or that her dismissal was right.
“She sewed seventeen hours a day, but a contractor who was using prison labor suddenly cut the price, and this reduced the day’s wages of free-laborers to nine sous.” Reading this book is always a lot because aside from the still-relevant general overarching commentary about society and poverty and mutual aid and goodness and all that, there are so many smaller details that are so painfully, strangely relevant to the present day. Even today there’s fear that employers will come up with a new policy or a new labor shortcut that means less income. Employers who pay their employees less because the workers get tipped, or outsourcing that causes layoffs. Prison labor, too (and behind that, the fact that prison labor doesn’t guarantee a job in a similar field after release if desired).
In the next two chapters, we jump ahead somewhere between a few weeks to a couple months. What happened to Marguerite in the interim? Hugo describes her as a “pious woman [...] of genuine devotion,” but I have this sad thought that maybe when Fantine made the decision to become a sex worker, Marguerite may have turned her back on her as well. As we’ve seen with Valjean, being poor but modest is Good, and being poor and desperate enough to do something improper and “immoral” is Bad. Despite Marguerite’s canonical generosity towards the poor, I wouldn’t be surprised if Fantine’s decision overstepped some moral boundaries of hers.
“But where is there a way to earn a hundred sous a day?” I’m a little stuck on this. Would she make this much money? I’m basing the following information off of Luc Sante’s The Other Paris, so the monetary info might be slightly different a for non-Parisian area. According to Sante, someone like Fantine, a poor woman working without a pimp or madame and not in a legal brothel, would basically be working for pocket change. 100 sous would equal about 5 francs. If her earnings are basically pocket change, I don’t think she’d make 5 francs a day. Just considering the fact that a loaf of bread might cost about 15 sous, which seems like pocket change, or even slightly more than pocket change. Fantine probably becomes a sex worker and finds herself in the exact same position that she was in before, not making any more money than she would have if she had continued to be a seamstress.
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-The Vow-
Alex, in all of his observational prowess, still somehow got separated from Valarian as they passed through the large cave system. His mother's lab was elusive, and she wanted it that way. He pressed on through the dark, and began to feel a peculiar odor infiltrate his senses. Everything grew fuzzy as he stumbled through the blackened corridors, moving forward on will and instinct alone. At last, he found that he had arrived in the familiar, empty tiled room.
The same room he had seen once a week since was a boy. It made him shiver to hear how silent it had become. In his memory, there were faint voices in the distance, guards at the dyoors, the brewing of concoctions and dull humming of devices, but now... now there was nothing. Dead. Still. Empty. Not even equipment remained in the room.
He couldn't wait for Valarian here, but after locking eyes with the cold golden orb that had appeared before him, he knew it wouldn't matter. “Mother...” he growled, “...what have you done?”
She shifted from the familiar throne-like chair that he was often chained to. The low scent of blood making him dizzy. He shouldn't be here like this, he knew this. Yet he couldn't move.
“My dearest son, I knew my husband was going to tell you, and yet you are too late,” she sneered. A sinking feeling rose in his gut as she stood over him. She held a chalice in one hand and a syringe in the other. “Your father had a good reign, but I fear its time for one of my own beautiful creations to take over, don't you agree!” Her voice was as chill as a desolate, frozen cavern; lifeless and hollow. “You two were always meant for this, destined for it. To fight to the death.” She ran her fingers along the rim of the chalice. “I raised you both so well, so methodically, so carefully, and this, my son, will be my greatest achievement.”
Suddenly, Cigfran swooped in, breaking her concentration, clawing and pecking before being struck away. She fell to the ground, breaking one of her delicate wings on impact. She slinked away in pain as Alex used this chance to free himself of her grip, readying his magic. His glare was met with a soured expression from his mother. “You are an insult to our family name and have betrayed all that our house stands for,” Alex cursed. “This marks the end of your wicked farce! Face me!”
With that they took into a clash of blades, ultimately ending in his sword driving deep into her side as her fist made sharp contact with his chest, knocking him back with surprising strength and precision. Everything ached, and she began to reach once again into the recesses of Alex’s mind.
“So you've bested me...” she huffed, blood dripping from her lips, “I’ll not die here. No. You will wait here and act to my will. You can hear me, you are bound as my fledgling, duty bound to my word and whim. I have won my child. Relax, embrace me, you can see me, I am family.”
Worn from the fight, Alex found it harder this time to resist her influence. He winced as he felt her voice creeping into his thoughts.
“I must say it took a lot of work to learn how to manipulate such an ancient bond... but I've finally done it. And it only took driving you deeper into your vampire nature.” She readied the syringe as Alex dropped helplessly to the ground. “A fair trade that I hold all the cards in.”
He couldn't think as a fire consumed his mind. Everything hurt, but he couldn't scream. He felt the needle pierce his skin, and the dreadful sensation of losing to the dreadfully familiar beast looming in his mind. The last remaining strings of rebellion cut, Alex dropped into unconsciousness while his body moved completely under her will. He stood, and sat in the throne to wait, much as a puppet on a string would, drinking from the cup in his hand. His mother slid away into the long dark caverns, leaving the room once again silent. Alex, or what was left of him, sat, silently waiting.
Beneath the foundations of the castle, Valarian waited patiently for Alexander’s return. He had told him that he would scout ahead, and would only be a moment, but that moment had come and gone five times over, and uneasiness was beginning to brew in Valarian’s heart.
His eyes, now gilded with dhampir sight, were not burdened by the darkness. He could make out every shape and shadow, and realistically knew he would detect anything that approached him, but just the knowledge that he was sitting in pitch darkness roused a kind of primal fear his humanity left in him.
“I should search for him...” he reasoned to himself. “If everything is truly alright, he’ll be able to find his way back to me.” Valarain ran his fingers tenderly over the ring that adorned his finger. “He always does.”
He stood up and began tailing Alex, following the twisting tunnels and caverns, searching for their conclusion, but it seemed the deeper he delved, the more they opened and sprawled.
He wandered awhile longer, beginning to worry they’d truly been separated when he felt a tingling sensation crawl through his senses, familiar and fond.
“Alex!” he whispered, detecting his scent.
Then it was like a trail had been laid for him, the scent in his mind manifesting into a whispy path that pointed directly through the caverns. He turned and followed, his pace quickening.
At long last the path led him to a narrow corridor, at the end of which stood an ancient iron door. Valarian braced himself against it and pushed it open, the harrowing creak echoing down the tunnel behind him.
He recognized what lay inside immediately. It had been rifled, the strange equipment had been all but stripped bare, but he knew it.
This was the queen’s laboratory, and in the grand seat opposite him, sat Alexander, appearing limp and unconscious.
“Alex..?” he whispered, approaching him cautiously. “Alex... can you hear me?”
Alex raised his head slowly at the sound. A voice. It grated on his senses and made him grit his teeth. He held his hand up to stop whoever had been approaching from coming closer. How long had he been there?
"Who are you?” Alex glowered, disdain crossed his features as he sat up. There was so much pain. Everything hurt, and did nothing for his mood. Something whispered to him that he hated this being before him.
Valarian halted in his tracks, perplexed at the question and visible hostility in Alexander’s stare.
“It’s me, Alex, it’s-“
He felt a chill through his body as his senses picked up another scent. A cold one, icy and forsaken. The scent of the queen. She was near... or rather, she had been until very recently. Valarian put together the pieces and looked into Alexander’s eyes, now burning with hatred.
“Alex... whatever she’s done to you...” he said, gentleness in all his tone, “...I know you’re still in there.”
This thing knew him, Alex thought. How? Had it always been this way? He wanted to stand, but when he tried, he stumbled down to his knees, pain ripping through him. His head was aching. He still couldn't push through this fog. Talking seemed to help. “Just tell me who you are!" He was frustrated. Don’t let him get close.
The sight of Alexander as he was now was ghastly. But the way he stumbled. The way he convulsed, the way he struggled to breathe and speak... this was a transformation. He’d felt that way before when Alex turned him all those years ago... but this was far more sinister. Alex had been there for him while he struggled to regain control. Valarian could barely remember the transformation itself, but he remembered Alex. He remembered his voice calling to him, telling him to hold on, to come back to him, and had it not been for that voice, he would have gotten lost in the void.
And as little experience as Valarian had with vampiric ailments and transformation, if he had to be that voice for Alexander, calling him back from the void, he would do it gladly. Without hesitation.
His resolve strengthened as he approached him.
“Come now. You know me, Alex,” he coaxed, laughing gently, “After all we’ve been through together, I don’t think you could forget me...” Slowly, he reached a hand out to him. “...and I certainly couldn’t forget you. Even after five years of trying, I couldn’t forget you.”
Alex charged forward, whipping his arm across Valarian’s body, digging his nails into his skin with a deadly grip. The force from his blow pushed Valarian backward, almost toppling him to the ground. He gasped in agony as the claws sank through his skin, but the pain only fueled his determination to burn brighter.
“Do you remember when we first met?” he asked, regaining his breath. “When we crafted that salve together, and I doubted the recipe, you told me to trust my heart.” His flesh quivered under the stabbing pain of Alexander’s grip. “You told me... to trust my heart then, and I’m trusting my heart now when it’s telling me that you aren’t a monster, Alex.”
He brought his hands to where Alex latched onto him, trying to ease his grip.
“Do you... do you remember when we went scavenging for pearl agates along the riverside?” Valarian winced, focusing completely on Alex, “It was in the heart of winter, and it was frigid. When I slipped on the rocks and fell into the water? And you-you dove in after me... and you brought me back... and that was the first time I felt your lips on mine, breathing life back into me, and I didn’t even notice how cold they were because I was nearly frozen myself... but you warmed me... you saved me Alex. You brought me back. And I think I fell for you that night, Alex. Beside that fire, warmth coming back to my bones... do you remember?”
Alex let go, his throat burning being so close, fangs aching as his....(his mind?) pushed him.
“Drain him. Let him lay.”
Releasing his claws, he laced a hand forcefully around Valarian’s neck, drawing his head back in one motion. His other hand wove into Valarian’s hand and held it tightly.
"Val....Please help me... I can’t get her out."
His words slurred, dizzy and desperate. His memories came and went as brief, incomprehensible flashes. This person was his friend? His name was Valarian. They've know each other a long time. He seemed to know him... to love him. And perhaps... he loved Valarian too?
She wanted him gone. His mother would get rid of him. His master. Her commanding voice flooded his thoughts once more:
“Do as I say. End it. Don’t push for him to kill you here and now. Do not give him that chance.”
His face drew closer, breath dancing over his long hair as deadly daggers threatened to rip every ounce of life from his prey. His scent was like home, each ragged breath pulling in the intoxicating smell. In the brief moment the voice in the back of his head was silent, Alex’s eyes caught sight of the face he had pulled back. Gold eyes met brown as they locked on to one another.
Valarian’s eyes widened with terror as Alexander grabbed his hair and pulled back his head, exposing his neck. One of his hands gripped predatorily in his hair, the other clinging desperately, pleadingly to his hand. He whimpered, gripping Alex’s hand back with all his strength, gathering all his courage to continue.
“S-see?” Valarian assured him between breaths, “you-you do remember me.... I knew you would,” he trembled, chuckling lightly. He continued:
“Alex, do you remember when-when you told me... you loved me?” Valarian could feel Alex’s fangs nearing his throat. “And you tried so hard to hide, but I knew what you were going to say before you said it... and I know... even though... even now, you’re hiding in there, I know you’re not-I know you’re not going to hurt me. I know...”
Valarain brought his other hand up and caressed Alex’s face.
“Alex...” he swallowed, “You always came back to me... even after I ran... like an idiot, I ran from you, and I hid for years and years and you still found me...” He sighed remorsefully. “Oh Alex... my Alex, such pain you must have been in, but you found me, Alex... you fought and fought and you found me... and you brought me back. You always brought me back. Just like you vowed you would.” Valarian stroked his face tenderly with the edge of his fingers, feeling the hunger and heat of the breath on his neck. “Our vows Alex? Do you remember? That day on the bridge... we took shelter from the rain, and you-you promised... I remember.” He traced Alex’s face with the back of his hand, running the solid texture of the ring across his skin. “I remember our vows, Alex.”
Alex grasped his hair threateningly tight. Valarian covered his hand with his own and squeezed it. He took a deep breath, grounding his voice, and ceasing the trembling.
"I say these words...” he recited, “...with the hope that one day... we may be bound forever in a complete union of souls...”
A growl came from Alex’s throat, but Valarian continued.
“In this most sincere vow one heart can make to another. Should we ever be parted, I will seek you with every part of my being.”
He closed his eyes tightly.
“You... shall never... be left to suffer the lasting pang of loneliness, nor the ever-flowing passage of time. I will be your sword and sheild, call and I will answer. This is a vow by lifelong devotion....”
He gripped Alex’s hand tighter, feeling his fangs graze his neck.
“My love is true, by my blood do I swear this to you... Alexander Vallentyne...”
His recitation closed with devoted finality. Under the deadly besiege of Alex’s grip, Valarian’s face was a picture of absolute peace.
“...I love you...”
A beat, a breath, Valarian felt the fangs lift from his throat.
"By this vow I am bound..." Alex mumbled closing his eyes. He rested his forehead against Valarian. The voice was purged from his mind, and he knew he only had moments before he was released back to the troughs of agony.
Lifting his head from his shoulder he caught the other’s lips in deep but short kiss, having to tear himself away lest his control faltered again.
"My love,” he gasped, “I’m so sorry... I... Have I hurt you?" His voice was still shaking. Never had he felt so out of his own control. So entrapped. So Defeated. He was tired and could no longer stand, and expending the last of his strength, he dropped to his knees. Valarian hurried to his side, shifting his weight to support him.
“No... of course you didn’t! Alex, I’m fine! I’m here!” He cradled him, burying his face in the crook of his shoulder. “I’m here...”
He held him like that, shielding him, sheltering him, as Alex had done for him so many times before.
Alex leaned into him. A light, pained laugh slipped through his clenched teeth. "I didn't realize... how much it hurts to die."
Valarian felt a lump forming in his throat. He knew he wasn’t losing Alex, but the grief was swallowing him all the same. It hurt, but nonetheless, he held him tightly, squeezing his hand through his spasms and convulsions. Every time Alexander winced or gasped in pain, Valarian would grip his hand, and whisper gentle words to him, assuring him, staying with him till the very end.
After awhile, the pain began to subside. Alex fell limp with an expended numbness allowing him to relax his body. "I am... I am so glad you are alright,” he trembled. “I don't even want to think... where I’d be without you.” His eyes fluttered, too exhausted to focus. “You've done so much... driven me to be so much better. To do what for years I hadn’t strength to do. Valarian...” His hands traced along his lover’s face. “Thank you for staying beside me."
Valarian continued to hold him, bringing a hand up to his face to meet Alex’s. He laughed sweetly.
“I told you when you found me, Alex, after I ran, after I hid, after I made it so very difficult for you...”
He pressed a kiss against the prince’s hand.
“I’m never leaving your side again.”
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TAYLOR BLEDSOE for @sojusimmer‘s Olivia Salinger
Childish, Neat, Good
Warning: Loooooooong backstory ahead!
Taylor Bledsoe was born in Britechester to a prestigious UBrite dean and sickly mother. In elementary school, he was usually found pulling pranks with his rambunctious older and only sister Zoey. As he got older, he began to mature and was dubbed “The Golden Boy” in his teens--and you’ll find out why. His father is a dean and his mother was a literature professor until her declining health no longer made teaching possible. Unsurprisingly, considering Mr. and Mrs. Bledsoe’s respective prestigious academic posts at the University of Britechester, they made sure that their children always placed the highest priority on their education.
The Bledsoe family comes from a long line of ambitious academics. Taylor’s great-great-great-great-grandfather was best friends with the founder of Britechester, and together they founded one of the top-tier universities known to simkind. Everyone in relation to UBrite is guaranteed to have a passionate rivalry with anyone or anything related to Foxbury. It gives them chills just hearing the name of their nemesis--and not in a good way.
Taylor was a competitive swimmer, captain of the debate team for three years in a row, won several piano and violin competitions, was a math tutor on the side for kids, and wanted to get PhD in literature just like his mom did. He was the kid that everyone wanted their sons to emulate and all of their daughters to marry. On top of all of his accomplishments, he was known to be kind to everyone he meets, never drink, smoked, or did drugs, nor does he plan on doing any of those things; his family has always had strict standards when it came to health and addiction. Just like any other Bledsoe, Taylor was used to working hard and working smart, and was expected to do great things. He was always found in his room studying and was revered for his top-notch Bledsoe brain. Howecer, he was sometimes dubbed a “party pooper” and could come off as dense when when jokes or sarcasm went over his head, but it just goes to show that you can’t have it all.
Imagine the shock that hit the community when Taylor went to Foxbury in order to go to school with his secret girlfriend! When Foxbury admissions were told that a Bledsoe wanted to attend their university, they welcome Taylor with open arms to anger their enemies. The betrayal caused a large rift to form between Taylor and his family, but Taylor was on a high during his first act of major rebellion. He just wanted to know what it was like to do what wasn’t expected of him, and he was enjoying himself. For so long he felt like he conformed to the expectations of others and never did anything for his own pleasure. What’s the harm? Things would normalize soon enough anyway.
However, as if Taylor wasn’t a hot enough topic already, news broke out near the end of Taylor’s first semester that he got his girlfriend pregnant. She dragged him to a party and he had his first drinks. A drunken mistake led him to disgrace his family further. A month later during the winter break, his girlfriend miscarried and Taylor snapped back to reality. He gently broke things off with the girlfriend he only got out of spite, and worked on getting his family--especially his parents--to forgive him. Deep down, his rebellion wasn’t fueled by unhappiness, he was just curious to see what a loose lifestyle would be like. He’s still a good boy and always has been.
Now, that was five years ago. Taylor and his family are on better terms now, though things aren’t quite the same despite his many apologies and explanations. Zoey was the only one that didn’t judge him. Taylor graduated with a bachelor’s degree from UBrite and was about ready to start working on his master’s when Zoey signed him up for this bachelorette challenge behind his back. He was infuriated at first, but is now curious to see how things will go. He’s not quite over the mistakes he made and regrets it. Yet somehow, he hopes that he can be admired and respected again, and that maybe, somebody like Olivia can bring out an even better Taylor.
Quick facts:
His favorite colors are baby blue and beige. He thinks baby blue brings out his green eyes!
He can do many, many things, but he cannot cook.
He has an irrational hatred for tank tops and refuses to wear them. Ever.
He only goes shirtless for sleeping or swimwear.
He’s very intelligent but can also be dense. He often fails to detect sarcasm and misses when people use word substitution to talk about a different subject.
He hates that people feel intimidated by him. He loves having friends and loves to be with others as a stress reliever.
He secretly feels alone in a crowd of people and just wants to be genuinely loved by somebody.
If he actually stayed in the dorms, he’d be the roommate that wouldn’t let you leave until you washed your dishes.
He somehow found the time to watch enough movies to become a lowkey geek and 30% of his vocabulary is movie quotes.
#this was loooooooong#if you fall asleep halfway through reading this i don't blame you#i had this idea for a sim though and this entry was a good excuse to use it#hope you like him! if he doesn't get picked or win the bc i might just use him later on#ts4#sims 4#the sims 4#sojusimentry#my sims#*
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Cinder’s a Good Character
I have favorites! Let it be known! Qrow! Raven! Penny! Ironwood! Neptune! Yang! And the travesty that is Cinder!
We first meet Cinder in V1E1. She’s our longest running antagonist (outside of Roman up until...V3 and Adam...until V6) and the one with arguably the most focus. Salem we meet officially in V3 and we have her larger than life backstory dropped on us in V6. But Cinder, this character we’ve had since V1, who has thwarted our heroes time and time again, who has failed and succeeded in her plans, who is absolutely hilarious in RWBY Chibi, has about as much history as most of our supporting cast’s supporting cast. I feel like we know more about almost everyone else. We know about Neo, mostly from the exposition-heavy “One Thing”, although she’s still mysterious enough, Mercury we get a good deal of knowledge about and with Emerald, although we don’t get as much, we see at least how she’s inducted into the Salem army.
So what gives with Cinder?
V3 was, like, the height of her coolness factor until V7. She manipulated everyone perfectly. She was intimidating. She killed Ozpin. She killed Pyrrha. And then Ruby one-shot her. YEET
When we see Cinder again in V4 she’s injured, can’t speak, and can’t fight. She struggles with the aftermath of Beacon. We see how it’s hobbled her and how angry that makes her. We see how she overcomes it and shows her commitment to Salem’s cause. And then we see her flub all of that at Haven. We watch Raven defeat her in maidenbowl 2k18. And back then maybe we thought she died. But she re-emerges in V6, kills a woman, steals her clothes for a disguise, and immediately goes to the city’s underbelly to attempt to find team RWBY. In doing so she encounters Neo and the two team up, get a bomb-ass glow up, and make their way to Atlas. When we meet Cinder in V7, she’s the same slick and sneaky villain. Her placing a chess piece on Ironwood’s desk seems, somehow, classic Cinder (even though I don’t think I have the expertise to dub anything she does as classic). But then we get to her fight with Winter and Penny. And we see her go positively buck wild. I thought this was a new side of her but...honestly, she’s done this before.
Her shock at seeing Ruby use the silver eyes is the first real glimpse we have of her being this desperate woman with untamed anger. She thought she had it in the bag. But Ruby ruins it all. V4 muted her, but it’s always been there.
When her fight with Winter and Penny becomes desperate, and her loss palpable, we hear and see this side of Cinder emerge once again. Her cool, calm facade broken in front of this potential failure. (Also Jessica Nigiri owned it this season). And yet Cinder fails again. She gets a relic, but not the maiden powers. She returns from her tantrum in the sky and grabs the relic from Neo, portraying little of her frustration to her (reluctant, to put it kindly) partner. We assume she’s taking it to Salem. But we don’t really know.
Because throughout all of this we still don’t know a single thing about her character’s backstory.
We know she’s based off of Cinderella, glass slippers and all that, but not why she wants what she wants. Why she’s loyal to Salem, how she even got caught up in that fight. And I think that’s fascinating.
Cinder gets a bad rap for being a flat character which I totally understand, and this is definitely just my opinion on her, but I think the reason I love her and, by effect, Raven, is because they’re both women who unabashedly seek power. Who prioritize it over family, over friends, over everything else, albeit for different reasons and with varying degrees of guilt. It’s why, as much as I think she’s wrong, I find it absolutely crazy that Raven is painted as this complicated character who left her family in order to lead her tribe. Because we see her regret at the end of V5, and we come to understand her more. My love for Raven’s character knows very few bounds and these few points fail to encapsulate my feelings on her.
We can fill in Cinder’s backstory with whatever we’d like, but I think what’s so great about having this character without motivations that we can see fueling her is that it appears, for right now, that she’s literally just hungry for power. It’s a phrase repeated again and again with her character. In V3 we got her describing the missing half of the maiden powers as a hunger she enjoyed. But then, in V7, she says something that prompted everyone to pry a little more at what her backstory could be:
“You Atlas elites are all the same. You think hoarding power means you’ll have it forever. But it just makes the rest of us hungrier. And I refuse to starve.”
This gives us a small glimpse that maybe Cinder, aside from being from Atlas with potentially personal stakes in these “Atlas elites”, has always resented those with power because once she had none. Which would make sense with her inspiration. But even though Cinderella faced a tough time but didn’t become a power hungry villain. There are a lot of characters in our main cast who suffer and don’t let it create vengeance in them or hatred. But Cinder’s desire is absolute. She let it get in the way of Salem’s plan. She lets it get in the way of everything. It drives her. And as much as I want to know why, I’m also just fascinated by that drive itself.
It’s characters like Cinder and Raven that make me realize female villains, when given proper nuance, vibe with me, yah feel? Especially when the story doesn’t rely on them being sexual beings to get what they want. I understand and respect that trope when done right but I’m tired of the burden being on woman to tell those stories, especially in speculative fiction where historical rules can be bent.
Because having power after you’ve felt powerless for so long must be intoxicating. And it makes Cinder feel...well, kind of human.
We’ll probably definitely learn more about her character in future seasons, we have to. Whether she’s going to have a redemption arc, a descent into further darkness, or whatever else have you, we need to find out more about her. But I think the drive for power right now is meaty enough. At least for me. And I’m excited to see where they take her character in V8.
So this is, conclusively, why I think Cinder’s a good character.
#cinder fall#rwby#this is my OPINION#rwby meta#i swear im working on qrow prt II and III I SWEAR#i just get caught up in thoughts sometimes....
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RWBY and the Shades of EEEEEEVIL!
Villains aren’t exactly uncommon, in fact, you could say they’re a constant thorn in the side of reality that only exist to make a story complicated. They hurt our favorite characters, monologue a second too long, spout threatening one-liners they probably spent weeks in front of the mirror preparing, and sometimes they even have the audacity to have sympathetic qualities just to mess with us even more. In short, they’re a bit rude. However, we’re not here to talk about the sympathetic and redeemable qualities of our nefarious opposition. No comebacks here. No, we’re here to discuss the bushy mustache twirlers, the little Hitler youths, whiny brats and the candy thieves who have a pronounced hatred of puppies.
With pure evil characters who are there to break the story over their knees and practice their maniacal laughter, it’s often that writers forget to incorporate the character’s motivation, or at least fear the mention of that motivation. See, I find that many people find it hard to recognize that even for the most insane and cartoony of bastards, there is a reasoning, however twisted, behind their actions. The Joker commits crimes to spark chaos, push Batman to question his moral code and prove life is just one big joke. Darth Sidious wants to control the entire Galaxy and believe that nothing can be allowed to surpass him, not even his legacy. Zamasu wants to fulfill his image of a perfect universe and see’s Mortals as a stain upon reality. Prince Lacroix wants a bigger dick... Oh yeah, and something about fearing super powered Asians and the apocalypse, but I think he’s just racist. They have motivations and their actions are fueled by how they reason they can achieve their goals.
In RWBY, we have our fair share of evil ice cream flavors. Power hungry Fem Fatal? Darwin’s Edgy Fangirl? Sinster Overlord shrouded in mystery? Extremist swallowed by his hatred? Mustaches? We have them all, so feel free to choose your poison. But the one I want to talk about to illustrate this trend is the most pure evil of the bunch: Jac-ass Schnee.
This blight upon the good name of a bitching stache has been a point of apathy for me in the show, both as a character who always managed to feel like a background character forced to be an antagonist and as poorly done part of Weiss’s arc. He’s the best example of what happen when you need a character to always be a villain, no matter the scene, no matter the context, he always has to be hatable and pathetic to make sure you still hate him. This leads to a rather inconsistent character.
There’s a previous point of contention the fandom had with his post-volume 3 portrayal, where both in the way Weiss acts and how he’s mentioned prior to volume 4, there seems to be a disconnect to the abusive corporate worm we’d eventually meet. In the first three seasons, he and his company is something that Weiss clearly tried to emulate, something Weiss seemed to take enough pride in to be such a snob about it, something that Weiss goes out of her way to defend against accusations from Blake. You get the idea that Weiss’s father is harsh, distant and negligent, but that he’s still someone Weiss seems to hold a little affection for. Go to volume 4 and the way the two interact make it suddenly makes prior Weiss moments rather questionable, she seems suddenly very clear about how much she doesn’t like him, he’s very obvious with how much of a dirt bag he is and the everything we learn about the SDC and Atlas elite in general make it hard to think Weiss wouldn’t have agreed with Blake back in volume 1. Hell, I found it odd how Winter back in volume 3 cared about Weiss not returning her abusive father’s calls, you’d think Winter would be like “Yeah, fuck ‘em.”
But okay, maybe it’s just some subtleties missed, Jacques is the straight up corporate sleazebag, doing anything he can to get that payday. He has money, and he knows how to use it, dominating the market and knowing which shortcuts to take to move things in his favor. Now, let’s strip away these elements to the concrete core of the the type of evil Jac is. His evil is one of apathy towards morals in the face of greed. He wants money and power, and doesn’t care what he has to do to get it. He’s a good business man who’s worked his way up the ladder. This worked for volume 4, he uses Weiss as a symbol of sympathy towards future buyers at a party, he pretends to care about the fall of Beacon to look good and slaps Weiss when she starts to threaten that with her antics.
And then here comes volume 7 to take him down in the lamest way possible. We have the build up: Weiss running away, the songs about her wanting to break free, the whole motivation of bringing the SDC back to it’s former glory, the fear of having to return to Atlas on her own, ect. He’s her personal villain and as such you’d expect her returning home after he’s had two volumes to build up his already substantial power during a crisis where his business is needed more than ever, he’d take on a rather daunting role as secondary antagonist to Watts and Tyrian. Our first scene with him in volume 7 tells us the answer.
He storms in, easily loses his cool, is revealed that no one really likes him, Ironwood makes it clear he has very little power here, he’s unable to do anything other than throw petty insults at Weiss and immediately he’s stopped being the corporate bastard he’s supposed to be. This continues with the rest of the volume with him, where the writing seems to make him multiple villains at the same time and reduce him to Watts’s mindless flunkie who could have been replaced by any character. His actions don’t connect to his motivation and situation, there’s nothing that makes me believe that he actually reasoned that this would advance his goals.
He’s a ruthless business man who brought the SDC from poultry earnings to a global monopoly. But he doesn’t have one lick of charisma or cunning to the point he thinks taking away people’s jobs will get them to support him rather than hate him.
His company is constantly facing controversies, accusations and attacks with apparently everyone hating him. But he has shit security and isn’t the least bit paranoid of bugs from potential journalists in his house.
He wants money, power and security. But goes along with Watt’s plans that clearly weaken Atlas’s defenses and isn’t suspicious at all at Watts wanting admin access to Mantle’s entire system with no attempt at insurance in case the clearly suspicious mad man doesn’t stab him in the back.
He doesn’t care about Weiss at all, she’s simply a means to an end, even disowning Winter for joining the military. But he still let Weiss attend Beacon, went back to get Weiss from Beacon when he had Jac 2.0 on standby to be his heir.
He’s a man who’s been in the game of feeding people bullshit for years to justify his bad deeds. But he immediately crumbles the moment he’s accused of anything.
He wants to sweep all accusations of unfair labor practices under the rug so they don’t damage his business. But apparently he allowed faunus to get branded with his logo.
On and on it goes, where his motivation is thrown away because “He’s evil, he doesn’t need a reason to do bad things.”. Joker wants to push Batman over the edge, thus he creates a situation that fucks with Batman’s moral code. Sidious wants to crush the Galaxy’s hope, so he constructs a symbol of fear big enough that it can be seen looming overhead from the planet below. Zamasu wants to purge the universe, so he takes the body of the man who embodies the ‘sins’ of mortals and travels to another timeline to make sure the much more powerful Gods and Zeno can’t interfere with his plans. La Fuckwad knows that everyone is looking for an excuse to get rid of him and knows the apocalypse might be coming, so he manipulates a fledgling vampire to get him the sarcophagus of an ancient vampire so he can absorb that refine ‘87 vintage blood wine and become powerful enough to survive.
You can see how they reason they need to do the things they do to achieve their goal. What connects A to B. The only way Jac’s action sync up with his motivation is if he is such a profound moron that Weiss besting him means nothing. “Wow, you beat the illiterate kid at reading, well done.”
As I stated earlier, Jac is viewed strictly as a bastard, strictly as Weiss’s antagonist, in every scene the show has to push in our faces that he’s the bad guy and that Weiss is superior to him. He never gains an advantage over Weiss, or puts Weiss in a difficult situation, he never has a real chance in this story. He is there to be arrested by Weiss. Every scene changes him to be the villain it needs for him to be for us to hate him the most. So, in some he will be calm and composed to frustrate us, while others he’ll be made to yell like a petulant child to make him pathetic and other’s he’ll just be stroking his mustache. His first confrontation with her ends with him getting slapped down and humiliated, then he’s just a yes man who does what Watts tells him to do with no thought or agency, then Weiss just walks into his party, get’s handed victory on a silver platter and arrests him.
That’s it. You got your ice cream flavors, and all of them can be pretty good on their own. However, if you get a bunch of them, stick them in a bowl and then just take a few bites and leave ‘em out in the sun, all you’re gonna get is regular intervals of a muddy looking puddle that eventually becomes grey sludge.
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Trusting the enemy - Pt. 01
(A/N: Loki’s relationship with his wife and his enemies from both sides’ POV; respectively from the POV of Heimdallr, Baldr, Óðinn and Sigyn.)
Heimdallr – Understanding
(Set after Baldr’s and Höðr’s deaths, but before the Lokasenna and Loki’s punishment)
.
He doesn't trust Loki.
No one should, so it used to baffle him, that the inhabitants of Asgard do.
But it doesn't surprise him anymore.
Loki is beguiling, a handsome charmer with a silver tongue, a sweet voice and a captivating smile. His lies are beautiful, so beautiful, that it's hard for most people to believe the truth from his mouth. Not that Loki tells the truth often. Either he lies, or he withholds the truths he knows and keeps silent.
Heimdallr finds it funny. He can't help it.
It's funny how Laufeyjarsón can risk his own skin with his big mouth, hot temper and rash acts, but manages to keep certain things to himself. He gets himself into trouble, when he slanders and insults everyone and yet there are things he would never say, not even when he's completely drunk.
Heimdallr sees and hears everything.
He knows what the fire giant really has done, he knows the wicked schemes going on inside that red-haired head of his, he knows of the grief and hurt, that fuel Loki's bitter hatred.
Óðinn too knows almost all of it and what he doesn't, Heimdallr knows.
That's why Heimdallr doesn't trust Loki.
And yet … in a certain, inexplicable way he does.
He trusts in not trusting the other.
He trusts in their mutual animosity, which will lead to their demise at each other's hands during Ragnarök.
He trusts in Loki's silence about certain things.
.
It is the same for Loki.
He doesn't trust the guardian of Bifröst, his adversary, his nemesis.
He hates Heimdallr.
Despises him with a passion more scorching than Múspellsheimr, where he was born.
The Son of Nine Mothers knows him, he understands him.
He is reliable, unlike Loki himself and yet, he is just as unpredictable.
Their unpredictability is something they have in common.
That, and a few other things, things neither of them ever brings up.
Loki is cunning, but he will freely admit, that he isn't wise.
He will not admit, that he acknowledges Heimdallr's wisdom, envies it even.
He will never say just how much he knows about the other.
It's not necessary anyways; Heimdallr knows everything.
He knows of the terrible things Loki has done without the slightest hint of remorse.
He knows the truth behind his skilfully woven lies.
He knows, what Loki will never say.
That is why Loki hates him.
Why he doesn't trusts him.
And yet, in his own twisted way he does.
Because Heimdallr knows everything and says nothing.
The guardian is silent and that is the only thing Loki trusts about him.
He trusts in Heimdallr's understanding nature, as much as he despises it.
.
It is rare that Loki actually gives him company, other than during feasts and assemblies, yet he is currently sitting next to him, oddly silent.
Not that Heimdallr minds – it's night and he has always preferred the dark and quiet night over the noisy, bright day.
Neither of them speaks for a while.
It's Heimdallr, who breaks the silence: “You haven't said anything in three hours, Laufeyjarsón. Should I be concerned?”
Loki raises an eyebrow. “You're always concerned, Bifröst's Guardian. Besides, until now you haven't said a word either.”
Heimdallr shrugs: “I don't talk, unless it's necessary. You know that, Loki.”
The other is playing with his thick, flaming red braid.
The guardian finds it funny, that Loki, who is a shapeshifter and can look however he wants, chooses the cliché appearance of red hair, freckles and green eyes as his regular shape. At least he doesn't sport a goatee; Loki doesn't like having a beard. The thought of someone as androgynous as Loki having one makes Heimdallr chuckle.
Finally Loki stops toying with his hair to look back at him.
“Yes … I know”, he says and Heimdallr knows that he means his statement from earlier.
The fire giant's green eyes wander over the watcher, as they often do.
Heimdallr is the whitest of the gods, even more so than Baldr (Baldr, who is dead, who dwells with Loki's daughter now, who will never come back). Baldr's cheeks were rosy, Heimdallr's are a deathly white, like sea foam. Heimdallr's hair is so white, it almost looks blueish, especially now in the moonlight. The only not-white thing about him are his polychrome irises (and his golden teeth, which the redhead finds kinda freaky).
Loki doesn't like how ghostly Heimdallr looks. Millennia over millennia of sitting out here, guarding the rainbow bridge and Asgard and the grandson of Ægir and Rán hasn't gained any colour, nor has the weather left a mark on him.
Loki would tell him how much he dislikes it, but it's not necessary.
On the other hand he knows that his own colour scheme is funny to Heimdallr. The Watcher doesn't need to say it. And even if he did, Loki would just retort that his shrill disguise befits his nature.
A gust of wind blows around the watch tower and Heimdallr pulls his fur cloak closer around himself.
It's a harsh, deep, endless winter, because Baldr is dead and spring will never come again, as long as this old world still is. And it lacks the beauty of previous, normal winters, the strange warmth and rest that used to reflect the blind god Höðr's inner calm (but he's gone, just like his brother Baldr, and with him the beauty of the season).
Despite his thick fur cloak, Heimdallr shudders.
Loki notices and spontaneously takes the other's hands – a rare gesture of kindness towards his nemesis.
Heimdallr doesn't say thank you, but he doesn't have to, because Loki sees the appreciation in those all-seeing rainbow-coloured eyes.
Heimdallr is a son of the sea. He is rarely cold, but he is never warm either. His body is just cool, like the North Sea and the Atlantic. Feeling the heat radiating from the fire giant is so foreign to him, but it's not necessarily a bad kind of foreign.
Loki is never cold, born from the all-consuming flames of Muspellheimr, like all of his kind. He can hide his true shape, but his body is burning hot. Sometimes it feels like the fire consumes him from within. He doesn't feel the iciness of the winter. Just the more it surprises him, that he feels the coolness of the Watcher's hands, as he takes them to warm them up.
“Your hands are cold”, he notes.
“And yours are burning”, Heimdallr replies. “If I didn't know better, I would think you're trying to make my fingers melt.”
Loki chuckles: “But you do know better, don't you, Guardian.”
It's not a question.
Then the red-haired trickster says something that catches Heimdallr by surprise: “I like that your hands are so cold.”
The Guardian of Bifröst smiles, which in turn surprises Loki: he has never seen Heimdallr smile before.
They fall back into silence, each enjoying the other's temperature.
An outsider who saw them like this, wouldn't suspect, that they're mortal enemies, destined to kill each other.
In a moment like this, no one would guess that Loki and Heimdallr are adversaries, who hate each other.
Their enmity is legendary and ineffable; impossible to comprehend even for Óðinn himself.
The Allfather knows, that they are sitting here and keeping each other company, of course he knows, but he will never know why.
Because Loki and Heimdallr loathe each other and it makes no sense, that they are sitting here in the silence of a winter night, as if they were friends. The fire giant and the son of the sea are opposites in almost every way. They have next to nothing in common.
Except for a handful of things, that – once in a blue moon – allow them to spend time with each other without feeling the urge to kill.
Of course those moments pass quickly and once the sun is up, this night will be forgot.
The silence lingers, until it's broken again, this time by Loki:
“I have to leave soon. If Sigyn wakes up and doesn't find me, she will go nuts.”
Heimdallr suppresses a grin. “And yet, you're in no hurry.”
“The last days were rough for her”, Loki tells him.
“And whose fault is that?”
Loki snorts in response, then continues: “Whatever. She's sleeping in today.”
Now the Guardian actually does grin, as he remembers how the trickster and his spitfire of a wife have argued the evening before: Sigyn almost never actually obeys her husband, which frustrates Loki and amuses Heimdallr. The fights with his wife about her well-being force Loki to be stern, which goes against his nature. But last evening Sigyn has given in a little sooner, probably because of her exhaustion.
“You must be tired too”, Heimdallr states. “You have been sitting here with me all night.”
The fire giant just shrugs. “Not my first all-nighter.”
“I know.”
Loki, in his boundless energy, doesn't need much sleep.
Neither does Heimdallr. Which is good, because the enemy doesn't sleep. The Guardian often wonders how many of the Aesir are aware, that he's already within the walls of Asgard. Maybe it's just Óðinn and himself, although the White God suspects, that Frigg and Sigyn know.
“They know”, Loki confirms his unspoken suspicion. “Our wives both know.”
To anyone else it would seem strange, that the Lie-Smith would admit to not being a friend of the gods.
But trying to deceive Bifröst's Guardian is pointless.
Thus Loki doesn't lie to him when it's just the two of them.
He lies to Óðinn, knowing that the Allfather sees through it, but never to Heimdallr. A rare display of common sense from the most unreasonable person in Asgard.
“Speaking of fatigue though”, Loki starts again, “I know that you don't need much rest physically, but do you ever feel … weary? Just tired of everything? Aren't you ever done with all the bullshit?”
“When it comes to your bullshit, always.”
He gets a snicker in response, but goes on: “As for everything else … no. Not really.”
Loki grins, not quite a sneer, but just as ugly and his scarred lips make it even worse.
“Now look who's lying.”
“…”
“You're a hypocrite.”
“And you're a prodigal arsehole.”
Loki's grin widens. “That I am.”
But he keeps holding Heimdallr's hand; his way of telling the other that he isn't vexed.
He feels a gentle squeeze from the other's larger hand, which startles him at first. But then he chuckles softly, seeing the gesture for what it is: a sign that the Watcher hasn't meant to insult him.
Loki knows, that the jabs weren't meant seriously. When he and Heimdallr fight seriously, they never resort to petty insults (unless Loki is drunk; then he has the tendency to insult everyone).
Suddenly he notices the Watcher's gloomy expression and is once more caught by surprise.
It's not the accustomed serious expression that everyone is so familiar with. It's the not-quite-sad, not-quite-neutral expression that masks world-weariness. Sombreness; that's the word.
And Heimdallr allows Loki to see it, a silent admittance, that he is, indeed, weary.
The Sly God doesn't know why, but it doesn't suit the White God at all. Strange, he should delight in how tired his nemesis is on the inside. Instead, he decides, that he doesn't like it.
And he lets the other know so.
Heimdallr looks a bit startled at the gentle squeeze he receives from Loki's scorching hand. But he relaxes quickly and his face brightens up a little, although he doesn't smile. That's more like it.
Suddenly Loki has an idea and grins again.
Heimdallr's eyes narrow. “What are you plotting now, Laufeyjarsón?”
The trickster snickers: “For once, nothing! I just thought of something funny.”
The Watcher decides to humour him. “Oh? And what would that be?”
“Remember that one time we dressed Þórr up as a bride, so we could get Mjöllnir back?”
Heimdallr chuckles: “Oh yes. He was a beautiful bride indeed.”
“I will never get over the fact, that it was your idea and not mine!” Loki's giggling stops and he smirks: “Then again, it was your fault the hammer got stolen in the first place.”
The memory of his own failure makes the Watcher's blood run colder than it already is.
“But cheer up”, the trickster continues, “As you said, he was a fine bride – until he killed Þrymr and his entire court, of course. A fine bride with a finer bridesmaid. Don't you think so?”
Heimdallr feels no need to stroke the other's ego.
But Loki knows the answer already and giggles coyly, like the cocky prick he is.
However, he doesn't feel like rubbing it in.
Instead he returns his focus on the hands he is warming with his own. Heimdallr's hands are much larger and more calloused than his. And even though by now they have absorbed a lot of his warmth, they are still cool enough for him to feel it, like cold water on a scorching summer day.
Now that Loki thinks about it, the last summer dates quite a while back. But how could he ever regret the reason why?
Heimdallr can tell by the look in Loki's eyes, that he is thinking about the twins. He doesn't comment on it, doesn't point out, that it's all Loki's fault; no need to point out the obvious.
Instead he continues reading the other's thoughts from his face. They are now on his older children, on Fenrir, Jörmungandr and Hel, his monstrous spawn, who are far, far away, because they are frightening and dangerous and the Aesir collectively want them out of reach.
For a moment, Loki lets go of Heimdallr's left hand and his own wanders to his cloaked neck (reflexively, as always, when the trickster is thinking of his brood).
The fire giant notices that the Watcher's eyes are following his hand, grins and opens his cloak to reveal a necklace. It consists of a curl of Hel's yellow and black hair, a tooth from Fenrir and a green scale from Jörmungandr, bordered in gold. Sigyn gave it to her husband, but maybe – just maybe – Heimdallr is just as responsible for its creation.
Loki has never thanked either of them, at least not out loud. He doesn't have to. They know, because they know, that this necklace means all nine worlds to him, just like Baldr once did to the others.
Heimdallr doesn't speak, as he watches the other's long, spidery fingers caress the ornament.
But he blinks in surprise, when Loki's right hand returns to his own left one again.
“Your hands are still cold”, the smaller god says.
They are, although not as freezing as they were, before the fire giant decided to warm them.
“And yours are still hot.”
“Everything is hot, where I come from.”
“I know.”
“Believe it or not, I have never felt cold before in my life. Even now … I can feel the blowing of the wind, but I don't feel how cold it is. I know it is, but … well, you get the idea.”
Loki hesitates, before he goes on: “But now that I'm holding your hands, I actually feel how cold they are.”
Loki doesn't need to say, that he hates and loves it, because it reminds him of a certain lost loved one. He doesn't need to tell the Watcher, that touching Angrboða has felt similar to him (though she was a frost giant and presumably much colder).
“Why am I even telling you this?”, Loki questions with a bitter sigh.
They both know the answer.
The Guardian has never loved, but he is sympathetic and understanding by nature.
They hate each other, but even so, if the shapeshifter wants to pour his heart out, Heimdallr will listen and then never speak of it afterwards.
Heimdallr never pours his heart out, there is nothing to say. The closest thing he comes to doing so is letting Loki see. Let him read between the lines and decipher his silence. And Loki could take advantage of it, rub those moments of weakness into his face. But he never says anything; he sneers and provokes, but he never mentions those moments.
It's not necessary. After all, they will kill each other at the end of days anyway, so why dwell on insignificant moments?
After what seems like an hour, the Guardian speaks again: “This will be the last time we sit together like this.”
“I know.”
Heimdallr doesn't question, why Loki is crying or why he keeps holding hands with him, rather than dry his face. Instead he gives those scorching hands another comforting squeeze.
“Since this is the last time”, the trickster rasps, “I have to ask: why do you never say anything?”
“Because you don't.”
Both know, what the other means.
The trickster cries and laughs bitterly, because he begrudges their fate, because he is tired, sad, angry and hurt that it all came to this and because the only ones he can confide in are his wife and his nemesis.
“I hate you, Heimdallr. I loathe you with a burning passion. I can't wait to kill you at Ragnarök. I hate how cold and pale you are, how you keep foiling some of my plans, while staying silent about the others. I hate your disgusting kindness and sympathy. I hate, that you're honourable and honest to a fault. I hate, that you listen to me and that you see through my charade. I hate how easily my mask slips, when I'm alone with you. I hate that you know me. I hate you.”
In spite of himself, Heimdallr smirks.
“And I hate you, Loki. I despise you with every fibre of my being. Ending your vile existence will be a pleasure. I hate your burning touch and shrill red hair and that you delight in my discomfort, yet keep my secrets to yourself. I hate your malice and your lying, wicked tongue. I hate your mind games and that you, my arch foe, are the one who understands, what I do not say. I hate how you read me like an open book. I hate you.”
Loki giggles.
Then he finally lets go of the Watcher's hands to dry his face. He is feeling better now, and his way of saying thank you is asking: “Are you still cold?”
Heimdallr shakes his head, smiling.
The fire giant can't help but smile back.
“I must go now”, he says with his mouth, as he stands up. Thank you for these quiet hours, he says with his eyes.
“Indeed that would be best”, Heimdallr replies out loud. Thank you for your company, he responds silently.
Loki nods and grins, then he hops off the tower to return to his house inside the walls of Asgard.
Heimdallr is left alone again.
Nothing but the noises of the nine worlds, nearly drowned out by the howling of the icy wind.
But it doesn't bother him as much as before.
He shifts on his bank to sit on the spot his enemy has just vacated and finds the wood still very warm. It's not just there; the Guardian feels the lingering heat of his nemesis down to the bone.
The feeling is foreign, but in a good way. It's strangely comforting in a way that doesn't fit to Loki Laufeyjarsón at all. It warms him to the core of his soul and makes him feel less lonely.
It's ironic, how Loki, whose heart is ice most of the time, who finds delight in causing trouble and sowing strife, has given his worst enemy a warmth he has never known.
Heimdallr laughs at the irony and pulls his fur cloak closer to keep that precious warmth for as long as possible.
He hates Loki.
He doesn't trust him.
But in a strange way he does.
It's truly a peculiar enmity they have.
Almost friendship, but they don't trust each other, they want to kill each other.
They understand each other.
They don't trust each other, yet in a twisted way they do.
There is a strange freedom in trusting the enemy.
----
“Know yourself and know your enemy.”
#norse mythology#loki#heimdallr#this isn't supposed to be slashy#but you'll probably interpret it as such anyway
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falling down, like angels fighting
TW: car accident, underage drinking, mentions of major character death, blood mentions, descriptions of vomiting, angst
Word Count: 7,500
Prompt: Klaus’s first Christmas without Ben
Read on AO3
It wasn’t particularly unusual for the house to be quiet. Reginald Hargreeves quite preferred it that way, in fact; would go out of his way to keep any and all noise as hushed as he could so his work could continue undisrupted. Not ever really silent, per se, but suppressed enough to feel like it.
But this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Right now, this is different. The quiet is no longer a hovering presence, it’s haunting and clinging, dripping and dragging along every surface like spilled syrup.
It isn’t really even a lack of noise. Silence isn’t a full lack, not always. It’s the lack of voices, specifically, because there’s plenty of noise, but Klaus’s ears still ring at the nothingness. A house full of sixteen-year-olds, and not one of them with a word to part with.
You don’t realize how grating the sound of clinking and scraping forks on china is until it’s all you can hear.
Klaus has a plate piled with Grace’s cooking, potatoes and honey ham and prime rib and casserole and seemingly every other food imaginable, enough to cover every inch of the long oak dinner table in trays, pans, and bowls. Klaus can hardly see any of his siblings over the food, sees even less of them when he ducks his head and lets his overgrown curls flop down and cover his vision. His vision, which is swimming and unfocused, and has been for a while.
His hands are in his lap, twitching and fidgeting, and his silverware and plate of no-longer-steaming food are just as Grace left them nearly a half hour ago. Somewhere on the other side of the table, a fork clatters to the floor. There’s an awkward mumble of apology and a scrape of wooden chair legs on tile. Klaus doesn’t bother to look up and assess it.
You see, he’s thinking. He’s thinking, but he’s also not, at the same time. Klaus, Number Four, he’s got his eyes trained on a set of chair legs under the table, has his hands gripping and clawing at his thighs while he looks at the empty chair his father couldn’t be bothered to move. Or rather, left there on purpose.
Yeah, I’ll bet that sick bastard knows what he’s doing, keeping it there, Klaus thinks without meaning to. Maybe he mumbles it aloud, too, but his stomach is churning and his mind is teetering too much for him to be able to know for sure.
Right now, he doesn’t know a whole hell of a lot. Doesn’t really want to. He knows what he needs to; knows that his dear old dad is going to rot one day. Knows that when the old man kicks it he’s gonna spit on his grave.
And knows that doing that isn’t going to change anything. Nothing is going to change the cold hard fact, the big picture.
Klaus spares a glance up and to his right. He puts a real effort into focusing his eyes, wants to get a good look at his sister.
Vanya is looking right back, but there isn’t any discernible meaning to her gaze. She’s got shadows beneath her eyes fit to rival the ones that crawl and thrash beneath Klaus’s bed and scream for him to save them, and if he could make himself do it, Klaus would lift the corner of his mouth in a smile to soften her pain. But he can’t right now, he can’t do much of anything besides hold himself upright with a hand on the table’s edge and hope she can feel his solidarity.
Directly beside him, Allison sets her glass down with a muffled thunk, and reaches for her fork to poke aimlessly at her potatoes. Klaus has better things to do than pay attention to that, though. He needs to seethe, needs to clench his teeth and eyes closed and let his anger loose to pool in his stomach, to writhe with the half bottle of liquor he downed before dragging his ass down to this miserable Christmas dinner. It isn’t a hard thing to do, let the leash on his anger go limp. At this point it really isn’t even a choice, just something that comes with using booze as a shield. The hard part, the part he has to focus on and put his effort into, is keeping it down.
His stomach is burning warm, coiling up on him, nasty words and bile rising nice and steady, like mercury in a thermometer. But Klaus holds it; the boy’s had his share of practice at this, one of the few things he’s good at.
He breathes. In and out, good and slow. It’s far from refreshing, but it’s steadying. The air is stale and too hot, the thermostat turned up way too high to compensate for the winter air. It smells like cold food, smells like dust and unease.
Klaus’s chest spasms when he exhales. He ignores it, grips the table harder, breathes in again. He knows he’s being looked at, but now isn’t the time to open his eyes and see who’s staring. He has a pretty good feeling he already knows, anyway.
More clinking, more scraping, silver on porcelain.
Klaus bets Luther is nearly done eating, bets Allison is too. He can picture them, scurrying off and away from the table, trading secret looks like they’re getting away with something. Like they aren’t obvious. He jolts, stomach clenches and threatens to rise up into his throat.
His eyes scrunch tighter, but he holds it together, digs his uneven nails against the thick wood of the table and breathes, breathes, breathes. He can vaguely hear his father clear his throat in that haughty way he does when he has some shit to spit in Klaus’s face, but that doesn’t matter.
Lock me up in the mausoleum for as many hours as you’d like, fucker, I don’t care. I’m done.
He may have said that aloud, too, but that’s neither here nor there. If he did, no one offered any reaction.
“Number Four, you must eat. You’re scrawny as it is, at this rate you’ll waste away and join Number Six in the grave.”
That sick fuck, that disgusting, awful, absolutely unfazed man.
God, Klaus wants to slam his father’s head against the wood of this table. Wants to land his elbow right into the old man’s eye socket, break his stupid fucking monacle in the process. His fingers twitch in his lap, scratch at his thighs through his pants hard enough that it might be painful, if he could be bothered to care enough. He cracks his eyes open long enough to give his father a hard glare, all dark dilated eyes and fury. As much fury as a sixteen year old can, but shouldn’t have to, hold.
He doesn’t mean to, doesn’t want to, but he trembles, something like rage and pain climbing up his spine and streaming out of his pores. He holds eye contact with his adoptive father and grits his teeth, scrunches his face involuntarily. In the corner of his vision, Vanya tap tap taps on the table with her fingers, and shoots him a pleading glance begging him Don’t, but he pays her no mind. This doesn’t concern her, doesn’t concern anybody but him and his old man.
“Oh, you would just love that, wouldn’t you? Be some sweet irony, huh? Kid who speaks to the dead becoming one of them?” Klaus spits.
He wants to die. He wants it as much as Ben didn’t, but he knows better than to entertain the thought, doesn’t want to give the tyrant at the head of the table the satisfaction of winning. Worse, for every ounce of his being that craves to be put out of his misery, another part fears it, revolts and shivers at the idea of finding out just what torment lies beyond the veil even a moment sooner than he has to. He wants the idea of death.
Klaus gags, forces the nasty mix of emotions and alcohol down. Keeps all of his focus, all of his intensity on his dad’s ugly mug.
His face tints pink, flushes down to his neck. He’s got his father’s attention now, it’s too late to take a step back. Allison is tense beside him, fingers gripping her fork like her life depends on it, but what she does doesn’t matter. What she thinks doesn’t matter. Nothing matters like this does, nothing is as important right now as the red-hot hatred swelling at the front of Klaus’s skull, the same anger that’s begging to spill out and right into Reginald Hargreeves face.
The old man looks detached, but what else is new? Klaus supposes he can’t really even be detached, was never really attached in the first place. All the same, the man sets his silverware aside on a napkin, turns his full attention to his seemingly least favorite kid of the hour.
Klaus is huffing for breath, he realizes. He doesn’t stop, though. Keeps breathing heavy, eyes locked on every miniscule movement his father makes, waiting, just waiting for that rat bastard to say something to fuel the fire. He doesn’t give a shit that Allison is cringing away from him and the liquor on his breath, doesn’t mind Luther’s warning glare, won’t look at Vanya. Diego’s vision is locked onto his dinner plate, hands passing a butter knife back and forth to keep busy.
“I’d suggest you steady yourself, Number Four.” Is all he gets, no anger, no insult, just an unimpressed stare and disciplined tone, and in truth, that’s even worse. That’s all Klaus needed.
“How about you-” Klaus leaps to his feet too quick, hits his leg on the table’s edge and knocks his chair backwards with a painfully loud THUD in the process. He doesn’t notice all of his siblings flinch. He keeps his hands planted on the table, knows he would wobble obviously if he didn’t do so. “How about you, you steady yourself.”
Reginald raises an eyebrow, quirks his mouth. He looks so utterly unsurprised, so wholly unbothered. Maybe even a little disappointed that Klaus couldn’t come up with something better.
In this moment, Klaus hates him. Hates him. Knows he couldn’t make humour of this feeling, that his blood feels hot enough to burn through his veins and bones and skin and melt him down into a mess on the floor. Klaus’s teeth could break with how hard he’s biting down on nothing, but he doesn’t care, can’t feel anything but burning and can’t see anything but his father’s pompous, arrogant face.
Then it’s gone.
The boy’s shoulders slump, the muscles in his face relax. Hatred is hard. It’s draining, even for just a second of it. Oh, he wishes he could hold it in for longer, but it isn’t a choice. It drops down to his feet and into the floor below them without Klaus’s permission.
How anticlimactic.
“Sit down. Eat what is on your plate, and we will talk afterwards.”
The thing about Reginald, a little detail about him when it comes to Klaus: talk doesn’t mean talk. Talk means Klaus screams and cries and claws at the freezing stone walls of a mausoleum, listens to the clack of his father’s shoes become distant. Talk means Reginald pierces Klaus with his cold, unforgiving gaze while he declares that Klaus needs just a few more hours of terror; slams the door shut to finalize it, but not before Klaus begs for him to Please, let me out!
Talk is a threat.
Klaus is gone from the table and halfway out the door before he really understands what he’s doing, and even then he doesn’t really know the why of the situation. His father is shouting something or other at him from the table, but he doesn’t stand, won’t leave ‘family dinner’.
The spare keys to the car find their way into Klaus’s hands, though he doesn’t recall lifting up the matt to get them. Doesn’t matter, he has them and he’s going to use them.
Klaus lets the door slam behind him, huffs for breath once he’s outside, chest falling, lifting, falling again, rapid like his pulse. His legs are shaking, and so is the rest of him, but it isn’t because of the fat snowflakes drifting down in flurries, white flashes in the porchlight. The shake and shiver in Klaus’s bones is all adrenaline and alcohol; energy and emotion and fear and fury that he plans to use, he just doesn’t know what for, yet.
And he’s off.
The path to the car seems to be paved in ice, with the way Klaus slips and slides and falls on his ass, nothing but the thin pants of his academy uniform to cushion the falls. But that’s just another thing that doesn’t matter, another thing that stands to fuel the stifling fever in his belly that demands that he DO SOMETHING!
He does something.
Oh, he does something alright.
He sits his scrawny ass down in the driver’s seat of Reginald’s car and starts it up, buckles himself in, puts it in drive. He’s got a junior license, an empty stomach save for liquor, no supervision, and no idea what he’s going to do now.
So, he drives. Not particularly well, but he does it. And as he drives, he decides what he wants to do.
He wants to do everything that he shouldn’t. Wants to hit the gas as he approaches his turn and twist the wheel until the car swerves as sharp as it can, red light be damned. Klaus wants to go as fast as he can, push his anger out through the pressure of his foot on the gas pedal. He wants to move the car from too-far-left to too-far-right in the lane, wants to test just how rotten his luck can get.
Of course, he doesn’t really want to do any of this. Doesn’t like how his shaking hasn’t stopped, how it’s actually gotten worse. He knows he shouldn’t be driving right now. But it doesn’t matter if he wants this or not, if he should be doing it; it’s happening and Klaus doesn’t know if he can stop, so he has to bluff.
He’s only circling the block. He figures that out after seven laps, but it’s just something that clicks in his mind. He tosses it aside after a few seconds, can’t really keep any one thought in the spotlight for long. It’s starting to feel dizzying, the flash of lights from all around reflecting in the snow, the same path over and over again. It’s all looking blurry, but blurry is kind of nice. Doesn’t take much of his focus to decipher blurs. His foot eases off the pedal, a bit unsteadily, but it does all the same.
Too late does Klaus realize that his eyes are, and have been, unfocused, that he’s been slumping forward against his seatbelt, hands slackening on the wheel. He’s thankful for how much his speed has dropped, though he doesn’t remember slowing, when he feels the slam and jolt of collision.
The cars collide hard, hard enough that Klaus clenches his eyes closed like he’s done several times tonight, and keeps them that way, body tense in his seat and airbag deployed. He waits, in terror, to feel the sensation of a spirit leaving a body, a trickle of cold water down his back, but there’s nothing. Nothing but his heart beating against his ribcage and the sound of himself swallowing breath after breath after breath.
Someone nearby is screaming, but it isn’t pained, Klaus is sure. It’s the voice of someone angry and scared and ready to beat his ass at the first chance they get, but whoever is yelling is okay, and it’s such a relief that he goes slack against his seatbelt, hands dropping from the wheel long enough to put the car in park, then into his lap.
He doesn’t get to simply sit and simmer for long, though, the universe decides. Does he ever? Has there ever been a time Klaus has been allowed to just be?
There’s a rap on the window, three taps followed by a rush of cold air and a flood of yellow light from above the dashboard, signalling the opening of a car door Klaus would later recall having locked.
The light and chilled breeze aren’t enough to mean anything to him, aren’t enough to click in his mind that he just may want to sit up now and see whose car he’s wrecked, besides his father’s. Klaus isn’t asleep, mind you. Sick would be a better word. A near empty stomach, a mind full of emotion, and veins full of the worst sort of adrenaline are all heavy things to carry, they all take their toll.
Right now, Klaus wants to be in his room. Klaus wants to hold one of his flat pillows to his face and scream until the case is covered in spit and snot and tears, then throw that pillow across the room, retrieve it, and punch it until he collapses, until he can’t hold himself up anymore.
He wants to do the same to his father, and maybe even himself. Scratch that, especially himself.
He wants to dig through the middle drawer of his dresser until his fingers brush either a glass bottle or a tiny, rattling baggie, whichever he finds first, and he wants to forget about the leftovers that will be overflowing the fridge and fill himself up with his self-medication instead.
He wants a lot of things, right now, but to open his eyes and face this mess is not one of them. Good thing he’s used to doing things he doesn’t want to.
Looking in the car door is a woman, mid-thirties maybe, dark skin, tired eyes, and a blue coat paired with pajama pants. Klaus wonders where she was going before he rear-ended her car, wonders how much worse this could have been if he was going faster, or if he hit from a different angle. For a second, he feels like a child again, though really he still is one.
He feels like he did three years ago, when he tagged along with the academy at a bank heist. He remembers watching.
Watching, from across the room while so much happened at once, gunshots and yelling and hostages running past him. And what was he to do? What part did he play? None. He was to be still, to stand by while his siblings (besides Vanya, of course) all played their part. He remembers Ben, too, on that day. Ben, soaked in quickly drying, tacky blood. Ben, who stayed silent the whole drive home, and the rest of the night too. Ben, who later confided in Klaus that he was so drained from what he’d done, what their father made him do. The same kid who drew puppies in sidewalk chalk when they were younger, the same Ben who used to talk and talk and talk about anything and everything, the new book he’d gotten, the weird bug he’d seen earlier; laying on Klaus’s bed, staring at the ceiling, and whispering I wish I hadn’t looked when I did it. I wish I didn’t see their faces, and Sometimes it still feels like there’s dried blood all over me, and I can’t get it off.
Klaus opens his eyes and blinks. Hard.
“Kid?”
It takes a minute for him to register that this is the same woman who had sounded ready to throttle him moments before. Her voice is low and hesitant when she speaks that one word, scared to startle him, scared that her impression that only the cars were damaged is wrong.
Klaus doesn’t reply, not verbally. Instead he slaps his hands against his chest until they find his seatbelt and rips at it, but there’s no give. He clutches it tight, pulls and pulls and panics and kicks his feet and wriggles in his seat until he hears the telltale click. He wastes no time flinging the belt off, pays no mind to the woman whose car he wrecked snatching her hands back and away from the buckle.
As soon as he’s disentangled, Klaus leaps to his feet, out of the car and onto the icy sidewalk that takes him right back down again. The woman offers assistance, but he can’t bring himself to take it, feels selfish, feels awful for ruining her night and feels too guilty to accept her kindness.
He crawls until he finds the pole of a streetlight to grip and use to haul himself up, and once that’s done he falls again, smacks his head against the pole on his way down. He’s too intoxicated for this. He’s too overwhelmed.
He lets the lady help him up this time.
“Jesus, kid.” Either her hands are warm, Klaus’s are cold, or both, because the contact burns when she heaves him up and onto his feet, they sting uncomfortably. She tosses a glance at the wreck over her shoulder, bites her lip and sighs. “I don’t know just what in the Hell you were doing out here, boy, but you had better thank everything Holy that you didn’t kill yourself or someone else.”
He doesn't know what to say to that. It doesn’t seem like the kind of comment that begs a response, so he just nods. The woman keeps a firm grip on his hand, and tilts her head, one part irritated, the other concerned.
“You… really aren’t dressed to be out in this weather.”
“Yeah, well I’m not fit to be driving either, and yet.” Klaus’s tone tries for joking, but misses hard, lands on miserable with a hint of hopeless. He sounds weak, it’s amplified by the cracks in his voice and the bob of his Adam’s apple directly after his words. His breath whistles while he waits for her to say something, and his throat burns. The air is icy and thin, feels dry in his lungs.
She, this stranger with a newly wrecked car, shakes her head, but she doesn’t speak again. He wrenches his hand from hers, blinks a few times, then nods to his father’s car.
“My dad’s insurance information is in the glove box. He’ll have somebody take care of this.”
He’s gone, after that. Turns tail and starts walking, and if that poor woman yells after him or speaks any parting words, he doesn’t hear.
Driving laps around your block, it doesn’t get you very far from home. In fact, Klaus doesn’t have to walk more than five hundred yards before he’s on his father’s property again. Rather than aim for any particular door, Klaus simply keeps moving, goes wherever he goes, stumbling all the while.
He’s cold. That woman was right, his uniform was built for formality, not warmth. Most of his backside is wet with melted snow from his falls, and his shoes and socks are soaked through with slush. His face stings and feels chubby, swollen from the cold and probably from being whacked against a streetlight, too. But it’s whatever. It’s just like everything else, doesn’t matter.
Klaus trudges on and on. He keeps walking along, though he can’t help but lean one way or another, and his legs are stiff and his stomach is revolting. But he keeps going, makes it within twenty feet of the shitty statue of Ben that his father put up no more than a month ago before he collapses, falls to his hands and knees in the snow.
The statue is new, shiny despite the weather, and it looks down on Klaus, firm, unmoving, and cold, as statues often are. Klaus pries one of his hands out from the snow, shakes it a bit to get the wet clumps from between his fingers before bringing his hand to face and clawing, scratching at the numb itch frantically for a moment before planting his hand back down. His fingers are fat and pink, his legs are getting there too, he can feel it. Itchy, really itchy all over, and it stings and tingles.
Klaus doesn’t mind the pain all that much, though; at least, not the pain brought on by the cold. He’s more focused on the quick lurch of his stomach and the creeping sensation in his throat, more focused on the fact that he’s going to vomit, and, more importantly, that he’s going to vomit directly in front of a memorial to his dead brother.
He does. Vomit.
He spills his guts out in the snow, though there isn’t much to spill. He heaves and jolts, full body shudders blend seamlessly with the trembling of his lips. It’s all bile and alcohol, smells awful, but the smell doesn’t bother Klaus that much. He’s locked onto two things, one of them being catching his breath.
And the other being that damned statue.
God, he loathes it. Doesn’t know why Reginald had it built in the first place, considering the man hardly even took a moment to glance at the final product before having it placed smack in the middle of the courtyard. It’s his fault, Reginald’s, that Ben is gone now, anyway. Always pushed too hard, got that glaze over his eyes when he made Ben do the exact things the kid never wanted to.
Klaus retches again, but this time it’s just spit, just an empty stomach wanting to be even emptier, wanting to turn inside out. His hands are balled in the snow, but he can’t feel them, certainly can’t feel how hard his nails are digging into his palms or the blood freezing to the skin of his fists because of it.
The statue remains, stiff in posture and staring down at Klaus in an unforgiving way that Ben never would have. His neck hurts, all of him hurts, in truth, but he makes himself lift his head anyway, forces himself to look into the eyes of the shitty representation of his brother. There’s Christmas lights all over his father’s house behind the statue; the bluey-white LED kind that hurt to look at for too long, especially when there’s lots of them.
Paired with the clear sky and crescent moon, the lights are just bright enough to reflect off of Ben’s statue and the snow around it, to shine in Klaus’s eyes and make them water. There’s something building up in him, some tide crashing against a dam in his head when he looks up at the face frowning down at him, but he can’t tear himself away from it now.
So he sits and waits for whatever happens, feels his lips begin to tremble and lets them, feels hot tears build up and spill. He feels a lot of things then, on his hands and knees and thigh deep in snow.
“IT DOESN’T EVEN FUCKING LOOK LIKE YOU!”
That’s what he was waiting on, the words that broke the dam. They echo quite a bit, bounce off his father’s mansion and twist in the wind with the still-falling snow, but he doesn’t hear it over the screaming sobs that are shaking him, rattling his ribs and wasting the breaths he gasps and pants for. He’s all he can hear, his own pulse in his ears and every huff and whimper too loud. He wants to throw himself down in the snow and let it muffle him, let it catch his grief and hold it until it melts in the spring, but he’s aware enough to recall that directly in front of him is a pool of his own puke, and he isn’t going to crawl a few feet away to drop, feels too planned, too dramatic.
He stays as he is. Hunched in on himself, wailing and weeping and whimpering, he does it all. Sits there for long enough that once he’s calmed enough to breathe properly, has run out of tears and can see clearly, he isn’t sure he’ll be able to get up. Wouldn’t that be funny? Dying beside a memorial to your brother not two months after he kicked the bucket? What would his father think, seeing his son laying frozen and dead outside? Would probably be pleased. Probably make it into some sort of lesson for the others, Klaus thinks.
But he manages to stand.
Struggles to do it, but in the end he makes it to his feet. He’s sobered a bit by now, enough that his eyes will focus and he could walk in a decently steady line. But, now he’s got a new problem. Now, his legs are frozen stiff, his hands too. His fingers stay curled into claws, and he lets them hang at his sides while he walks, one numb step at a time.
Klaus slips once. That isn’t bad, isn’t bad at all for someone as wrecked as he is, someone as exhausted and frozen and miserable, but it isn’t good either.
He takes his eyes off of his legs to look at the statue one last time, does this at the same he decides to try and walk faster, and it ends in him sliding, cracking his knee hard against the metal base of the memorial, right beside the plaque. Klaus knows it will hurt later, when he’s thawed and rested enough to feel. He’ll bet that it will bruise dark enough to match his navy uniform, bets when he gets out of bed tomorrow it will feel like his knee flipped itself inside out. In fact, he’s sure that all of him will feel like that. But that’s Future Klaus’s problem. Current Klaus needs to focus on the now, on getting himself inside (is the side door locked? It usually is, fuck) and getting to his bed. So he gets up again, using the statue for leverage until he’s certain his legs are under him right.
From there, he makes it to the side door. Once he gets to it, he notices to the crack of light leaking out onto the snow, shoulders the door enough to open it and slides inside. The door catches on something, doesn’t latch, and when Klaus dips his head to look, he sees a water bottle placed so the cap just barely blocks the door from shutting. It’s full, and Klaus knows better than to think it’s a coincidence.
It hurts, and it’s difficult, but Klaus bends enough to pick up the bottle without losing his balance. It’s his biggest, and, really, only triumph of the night. He can bend his fingers enough to keep a good grip on the bottle, and he does so, carries it with him all the way to his room.
The stairs make for a challenge, but Klaus’s legs are beginning to heat up (he can tell by the god awful heat they radiate, can tell because he can feel the swelling, feel how blotchy and red they are) and that makes it a hell of a lot easier. He can’t control his steps fully, can’t tip-toe or sneak, but it’s such a large house that he doubts his father will hear a thing, or care if he does. He obviously didn’t wait up, it seems.
Klaus gets past the stairs. Makes it to his room without seeing or hearing anyone. He has a hand on the doorknob when someone clears their throat behind him, but it isn’t his dad, he can tell right off the bat. He turns.
Vanya. He should have known.
She’s in her pajamas, pale blue and striped, and her hands are clutching at a water bottle of her own. She lifts the corner of her mouth in a smile, but it’s vacant, and Klaus feels the smallest bit of shame for leaving her alone tonight. Or maybe last night? What time is it?
“Hey.” They both cringe. His voice sounds anything but good; scratchy and hoarse and absolutely brimming with grief. When he shifts, the floor squelches. His clothes are a lot wetter than he originally thought, dripping melted snow onto the floor.
“Hey yourself.”
Klaus can tell that she wants to ask him where he’s been, he can tell that she’s been crying maybe as much as he has. He can picture her, violin tossed aside in its case and curled up on her bed, facing the wall. He can imagine where her thoughts went, the car gone and her brother with it. First Five, then Ben, then Klaus.
There’s that thrum of shame again, a tug in his chest and a grimace on his face. But Vanya doesn’t ask, just nods vaguely in the direction of their father’s room.
“He’s gone. He went to deal with the car.”
So she knew about the car wreck, then. God, that must have made it all so much worse.
“Oh.” Klaus licks his lips. They’re chapped, he notes, though he probably should have expected that. “Vanya?”
“Yeah?”
She looks fragile right now, so breakable. Klaus knows this is his time to make a joke, make her laugh. It wouldn’t fix it all, but it could be a start.
Klaus isn’t in the mood to make a joke.
“Vanya. I’m sorry.”
He wishes she didn’t look so torn up. Being able to read her so easily, having her be such an open book, it’s shitty. He can see all of the trouble he’s caused her, can’t ignore how hard life has been hitting her.
Klaus feels selfish. He feels like a waste of space, looking at Vanya right now and thinking about every moment she’s spent alone since Ben died.
The thing about Vanya, it’s that she’s almost always alone. Ever since they were little, she was treated as someone separate, like some sort of outsider. Klaus understood that. It was the same way with him; always being dragged off by their father for ‘training’ or smoking something to forget it, cracking pills between his teeth, and recently, drinking. So, he got it, knew what it was like to have that barrier. And he had put in the effort to break it.
He, Vanya, and Ben? They were a dream team. With Ben to chatter, Klaus to make jokes, and Vanya to play her violin when things edged on just a bit too quiet, there was hardly ever a dull moment.
And now, with Ben gone, Klaus has been centered on the track to ruin what’s left of their dynamic.
“I know you are.”
The words aren’t harsh, surprisingly, nor are they what he was expecting. Understanding is written all over Vanya’s face, and somehow that makes Klaus feel even worse. She’s looking at him so softly. Looking at the dark circles under her eyes, it clicks in his mind again just how late it is. He sniffs a bit, clears his throat.
“What are you even doing up?”
Waiting for you to get back.
“Oh. I was just thirsty.” She raises her bottle of water, shakes it for emphasis, then lets it drop to her side again. Klaus nods.
“Ok. Well.” His voice cracks; he takes a pause. “I mean it Vanya. I really am sorry. About tonight, I mean. And, uh, every other day.” He chuckles awkwardly, and she copies.
“I…” she pauses, and Klaus can see it again, can see how bad she wants to ask What happened tonight? Or What did you do? Or Can this be fixed? Or some other, equally loaded equivalent that Klaus isn’t quite sure he can answer, right now or ever. But she doesn’t ask. Instead, she takes a long look at him, up and down at his ruined uniform and his face that he’s sure is bruising but can’t recall how it got that way.
Vanya steps forward, and Klaus flinches, can’t help it, it’s a reflex. But he adjusts quickly. Realizes what she’s doing, although he can’t imagine why she would want to. He lets her, regardless. Lets her hug him.
She tucks up against him, arms around his back and holding tight, face pressed up against his chest. Where her head rests, she can vaguely feel the ridges of her brother’s ribs through his jacket. He never had much meat on his bones to begin with, but these past few months, he’s lost most of what he did have. It’s a little scary, seeing him transform from scrawny to almost skeletal.
Klaus allows himself to hug her back, even though he’s freezing and soaking wet and probably (definitely) smells like puke. He’s wise enough to know that even though he feels, and is, disgusting right now, Vanya needs this, and he probably does too.
And it’s nice. For a moment, everything is alright. His sister is infinitely warmer than he’s been in hours or maybe days, and this is the closest to understanding he’s received from anyone lately. It isn’t often anymore that anybody in the family embraces, and Klaus had forgotten just how much of a need this sort of comfort is. This is good, it’s soothing.
Klaus has missed Vanya.
It may be a bit late for the realization, but it’s one hundred percent truth, so he says it.
“I’ve missed you. A lot.”
Vanya steps back, and he concedes. His arms return to his sides to pick at the threads of his uniform jacket.
Vanya rubs at her eyes like she’s tired, and she most likely is, but Klaus knows that that isn’t the only reason. He knows she’s swiping away tears as casually as she can. He does her a favor and pretends not to notice.
“I’ve missed you, too.” If her voice shakes, and a few missed tears streak down her cheeks, neither of them pay it any mind.
Klaus makes an unspoken promise then, wordless but palpable nonetheless. It isn’t something he has to think of, or something flaringly obvious. Just a change in the air that they both know the other can sense. I’m going to do better, I won’t do this to you again. Something in that ballpark. He knows better than to speak the promise, doesn’t need to. It just has to be one of those things that’s known, not stated. A fact not worth arguing, common sense.
This new promise feels more honest than his apologies somehow, though those hadn’t been lies. This is far less remorseful, much more hopeful.
“Klaus?”
“Yeah?”
He’s smiling now, just a little bit. He isn’t happy, not really, and he certainly isn’t alright, but he feels a lot better than he has been lately, and it’s something he won’t take for granted. He keeps the corner of his mouth lifted and leans on his closed bedroom door for support, though he has a feeling he won’t be standing out in the hallway for much longer anyway.
Sure enough, Vanya steps closer long enough to give him another quick hug, then nods in the direction of her room down the hall.
“I’m heading to bed. I’ll see you at breakfast, ok?” Klaus nods his assent, and Vanya turns away, but she doesn’t leave. After a moment, she turns her head back to face him.
“Take a shower before breakfast. You reek.” She scrunches up her nose, and Klaus comes close to a genuine laugh. He doesn’t quite reach it, but that’s ok. He’ll get there.
“See you in the morning.”
He waits for her to finish creeping down the hall, waits for her to close her door before opening his own and lumbering into his room. He doesn’t have the grace to be silent like his sister right now, can’t really maneuver his leg in the way he would need to take light steps, but it’s a short walk to his dresser and an even shorter one to his bed.
He struggles a lot more than he should getting his wet clothes off, but in his defense, he’s stiff all over and still thawing. His jacket goes first, hits the floor with a wet thwap! that feels loud enough to wake the whole house, but there’s no pause. He moves on to his shirt, then his pants, then underwear. He changes, with even more struggle and a careful focus not to hit his knee, into some new boxers and a pair of pajama pants. He doesn’t bother with a shirt. He’s cold, but he’s also exhausted. His comforter will have to be enough.
He permits his body to give up, and falls onto his back on the bed. He’s a little off-kilter, laying at an odd angle, but he hardly even notices. Just snags his blanket and wraps himself in it as quickly as he can. As he gets settled in, eyes closed for the night, he definitely isn’t comfortable. He has to piss pretty bad, and a throbbing sensation deep in his knee is making itself apparent along with many other aches and pains, but none of it is enough to keep Klaus awake. He takes a long drink of his water, recaps it, then tosses it somewhere near his pillows. He falls into a fitful doze less than a minute later. ----
In Klaus’s room, there aren’t a lot of flat surfaces that aren’t scattered with dirty clothes and knick knacks and, usually, drugs. His dresser is coated in said paraphernalia, along with the floor and his nightstand and half of his bed, but one place kept decently clear is his window sill. Not for any particular reason. Maybe it’s too thin for Klaus to want to set anything on it, or maybe he just likes having a clear view, but for whatever the reason, it stays empty, and Ben is thankful for that.
Sitting on the floor, in a seat, or on the edge of a bed was never really his style. Tables and counters were more like it, and his death hasn’t changed his taste at all. Rather, it’s amplified it. His risk of falling or having to deal with a sore ass from sitting on flat oak and marble has dropped to zero, and that’s its own type of freedom, at least for him.
But that’s really a minor thing. As much as he’ll joke later about enjoying the quiet, being dead is lonely, especially when someone who could talk to him has detached himself from that ability.
Watching his brother waste away like this, it’s something else. It’s miserable, one of the worst ways to spend his afterlife, but Ben isn’t so sure staying away would be any better. He’s got the choice to either watch his brother destroy himself and hope he eventually sobers long enough for Ben to get his attention, or leave and live (or unlive, I guess) never knowing how things could have played out.
And besides, it’s not like Ben has anywhere better to be.
So he sits on the window sill, right in front of the window. The light from outside is the same bright shade of the LED Christmas lights that line the house, but is thankfully much softer. It shines through Ben like he isn’t even there, but he’s used to that, used to things going through him, used to no longer having a shadow.
He doesn’t know why Klaus doesn’t just close his blinds. Ben would have never been able to sleep with his room so bright, not to mention how cold it is with the blinds open. Or maybe that’s just him.
In any case, Ben stays perched where he is, legs dangling far enough to almost touch the floor, if he could ever really touch anything anymore. He sits in the window, he bides his time. He’s a little anxious, and a little excited for tomorrow.
While Klaus was out doing who-knows-what, Ben nosed his way into every nook and cranny of Klaus’s room, and amazingly, found nothing but some scattered trash, dirty clothes, and a few sparkly rocks he vaguely recalls his brother pocketing from the sidewalk near Griddy’s Donuts.
Meaning?
Klaus is fresh out of drugs, and with the harsh eye Ben knows their father will have on his brother, he won’t be getting any more anytime soon. Klaus is more sober now, passed out, than he’s been since Ben’s death, and it seems like he’s going to have to stay that way. For a while, at least.
Right now, all Ben has is hope and two months worth of determination. He has no clue how the following day will go.
(But between you and I? It goes wonderfully.)
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