#so this is a delayed reaction post as i'm about to leave for lunch

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

Has anyone asked for any proposal details for Break yet? It’s so fun to revisit all of your stories!

Hello, Anon! I'm so sorry it took me this long to get to this one. I've actually had this in my drafts for literally years but it never felt quite right, so I didn't post it. I'm so glad you asked for it, though. It gave me the kick I needed to revisit it and figure out what was wrong. Hope you enjoy! And also, here's a link to the last chapter of Break, since it kind of helps to remember what happened in it for this to make sense.

<3 kdnfb

He thought about doing it on the twenty-third. That’d be exactly four months. July twenty-third. But she’d be expecting that, and a part of him still wants it to be a surprise. Well, not a surprise, but spontaneous. At least seemingly so. Hard to be spontaneous when they not only set a deadline of sorts, but he’s also practiced what he’d say in front of the mirror when she’s not home and has planned the evening nearly to the minute.

Wanting to catch her at least a little unguarded, so he can see her real reaction, he decides to ask her on the twenty-fourth. Just late enough to make her wonder, but not enough to make her think he’s forgotten.

Only, she calls him at work over her lunch break on the twenty-fourth and spends fifteen minutes venting about her boss being an inconsiderate, drunk dickhead. Not keen on the idea of proposing to an angry Katniss, Peeta decides it can wait one more day.

The next day, he leaves work a little early to prepare, but when he walks through the door of their apartment, he’s greeted by laughter. When the door shuts behind him, announcing his presence, Katniss and Prim call out a cheerful greeting to him from the couch before returning to their whatever show they’ve clearly just started to marathon. No big deal. He adjusts, making dinner for the two girls and staying out of their way, keeping a smile on his face and not fretting over the ring still sitting in his bottom drawer, buried under his jeans. He can wait until Prim’s surprise visit is over.

Two days later, when Prim has finally left, Katniss herself delays his plans. He inserts his key when he returns home that afternoon, but before he can turn it, the door flies open and Katniss yanks him into the apartment by his tie. She doesn’t even undress him all the way, just unzips his pants, pushes them and his shorts down enough to free his cock, and shoves him down onto the first chair they come to in their living room. 

“Katniss, what—“ he doesn’t get to finish his question because she climbs on top of him, pulling the skirt of her filmy sundress up as she straddles him. He notices that she’s not wearing any panties. “Holy shit.”

He gasps as he feels her wet lips caressing over his cock. Her mouth descends on his and he grips the arms of the chair for a second, until he can’t keep his hands off her any longer and grips her hips instead, holding her steady as she rocks her body back and forth, coating him with her arousal.

He’s hard in seconds, aroused and dazed enough to go along with it when she sinks down on top of him and starts moving. Slow at first, her knees jutting up and her thighs working hard enough to quiver. He cups her cheek in one hand and kisses her softly, drinking down her throaty moans and gentle sighs.

Peeta’s heart aches with how beautiful she is when she lifts her head and looks down at him, her gray eyes like molten silver, overflowing with love and need. He whispers to her the truth, about how incredible it feels being inside her. Joined to her. Feeling her orgasms unfold around his cock. 

Something he says snaps her loose, though, because she whimpers his name and then bites her lip. Bucks her hips wildly. She curses loudly and digs her nails into his shoulders. She throws her head back on a tortured groan when he slides his thumb down in between her lips until its wet, then drags his touch up to her clit. She comes within minutes, the powerful clench of her walls enough to milk his own release from him. 

When she collapses onto his chest, moaning about how glad she is that their house guest is finally gone, Peeta figures now isn’t the time to propose. Not with his semen and her release mingling together and seeping from her body, soaking his shorts and his suit pants. He probably could, but he wants his proposal to be clear. 

Their relationship may have gone from friendship to sex to love on the surface -- he’d always been in love with her, long before that first game of strip pool -- but he’ll be damned if she has any reason to think he proposed to her because he was stupid with sex.

Besides, Katniss doesn’t seem to notice or care that their arbitrary deadline from their bet over four months ago has come and gone without Peeta asking her to marry him. Not when they spend it naked and grinding against nearly every flat surface and a few not so flat surfaces in their apartment. After that, there’s no chance to propose, since they fall asleep, tangled in sheets and one another’s arms.

But today, he is determined. He’s going to ask her. And hope to everything sacred to them both that she hasn’t changed her mind. She would never have sunk that eight ball if she didn’t want him to ask. It’s part of why he distracted her the night of their game. To give her a way out of her impulsive wager if she wanted it. But she hadn’t. She deliberately walked out the next morning, smirked at him, and took her shot, all but declaring to him that she wanted him to propose to her.

And while Katniss might be many things, he’s never known her to be deliberately cruel. If she wants him to ask, it means she wants to say Yes. Knowing the probable outcome does nothing to soothe his nerves as he leaves work early to get the dinner started. 

He’s just about got everything ready to go, except the flower petals he’d planned on scattering over the floor, when Katniss opens the door and calls out to him that whatever he’s cooking smells amazing. Peeta wipes his palms on his slacks. Well, he thinks, the flower petals would’ve probably been too much. Katniss doesn’t care for ostentatiousness.

“Ready in five minutes,” he tells her as she kisses his cheek and then disappears into their room to change out of her work clothes. While she’s doing that, he serves up the dishes and lights the candles.

When she emerges, dressed in maddeningly short cotton shorts and one of his ratty old college t-shirts, his heart sinks a little and he rethinks his plan. No girl wants to be proposed to in loungewear, do they? She smiles at the setup, the candlelight glinting off her irises, turning them a darker mercury lit from within, and he’s momentarily stunned by how beautiful she is.

“What’s all this for?” she asks, sliding into her seat that he holds out for her at the table and pulling her legs up to cross them on the chair.

“Just because,” he says nonchalantly and sits beside her. He’s not even settled before she’s begun eating, and he smiles at the relish with which she consumes the food. Katniss eating is one of the most pleasurable and erotic things he’s witnessed. The way she savors every bite and moans around both new and favorite flavors alike.

His cock twitches to life, and he flushes, mentally scolding himself for his unchecked lust. But it’s not just lust. They share small glances and talk over the meal. She snorts once when he makes her laugh, claps her hands with glee when he serves dessert, and in the soft glow of the candle light Peeta relaxes. This is who they are, after all, and ratty t-shirt or not, he wants more than anything for his proposal to reflect who they are to each other.

“Katniss,” he says, twining their fingers together when she puts down her fork and licks the last of her dessert from her lips. She lifts his hand to her mouth and kisses his knuckles. The gesture so tender and soft that he’s momentarily rendered speechless.

“Dinner was incredible. You must’ve worked so hard on it. Wait here while I clean up?” she murmurs.

All he can do is nod and let go of her as she stands, gathering both of their plates. She leaves him and as the water starts in the kitchen, he can hear her singing, along with the accompanying clanking of the dishes.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Pull it together,” he berates himself. It still takes him until she’s done to work up the nerve to join her in the kitchen, and he starts talking before he even makes it there. He’s looking down, tugging the ring from his pocket.

“Katniss, there’s something I need to…”

But he trails off when Katniss comes into his line of sight. Kneeling on one knee right in front of him. She’s still wearing her comfortable clothes, but now an almost frightened smile quivers over her lips.

“I know you’re an utter romantic and I’m probably stealing your thunder here, Peeta, but I can’t wait any longer to ask you. And well, this is me after all, right? Impulsive and messy and more likely to propose in my pajamas than in a dress but you love me anyways.”

“Katniss,” he breathes out, his heart pounding so hard, he doesn’t care that he’s stealing his thunder.

“And I know the bet was for you to propose to me, but I need you to know that would’ve asked that day. But I really wanted to cream you in pool again and was definitely willing to play dirty for it.”

He laughs at this and then manages to pull his scrambled brain together.

“I play dirtier.” He holds the ring out in front of her. “Katniss will you marr--”

“Yes!” she shouts elatedly, cutting him off and practically leaping into his arms. He almost drops the ring as he slings his arms around her to catch her. Then she’s laughing and kissing him. “In a hundred different lifetimes, the answer is always ‘Yes,’ Peeta.”

He grins and pulls her mouth down to his, forgetting his carefully planned speech. He guesses he can save it for their vows.

[alivingfire]

okay but au where louis, liam, and niall are in a punk band, think early 90s green day, and all they do is smoke weed all day and talk about writing songs that stick it to the man, and by the man i mean, like, the government, dude. louis dyed his hair red to symbolize the blood of the innocents on the hands of politicians but also, like, ‘cause it looks cool, and niall doesn’t own a single piece of clothing that doesn’t have a dozen holes in it, and liam has a septum ring that his tattoo artist pierced for him, but he was high so it’s a little crooked. 

louis is the in-your-face, talk-shit-get-hit, outspoken undereducated but overenthusiastic voice of the band and the lead singer, and he’s also working on learning how to play the bass guitar but he’s not that good at pouring all his emotions into the lyrics and also thumbing the g-string like a heartbeat at the same time, so he mostly doesn’t bother. liam is the drummer, niall is on lead guitar. 

they book a gig at the biggest punk bar in oakland and are pumped, at least until they celebrate by going to another band’s show that night and realize that they can’t perform and get the same kind of reactions if they don’t have a real bassist, someone who lives up to their expectations and will also somehow take them as they are, scruffy and skinny and loud, and make them into the greatest band that ever was. 

they put up flyers all around town and hold auditions in the tiny living room of their apartment, and it goes terribly: the first guy doesn’t even know who Sid Vicious is, like, what the fuck dude, the second girl is hot (and louis has to clap his hand over liam’s mouth to keep him from saying immediately she’s in the band) but doesn’t own her own bass and probably can’t make their daily band practice and also doesn’t even know if she’ll be free for the Big Gig, the third guy sucks, the fourth guy sucks, the fifth guy is, like, fifty, and would probably break a hip in the mosh pit. 

louis is about to give up. his throat hurts from singing all day, his buzz wore off ages ago, they’re out of beer and don’t have money for more, and they’re going to be pathetically mediocre at the show on saturday. 

and then in walks one more person to audition. 

he’s got some ridiculous floral shirt on, and louis is not sure he’s ever seen jeans that tight (and this is the 90s, so that says a lot), and when he talks about his influences he mentions stevie nicks and patsy cline and elvis, like, what the fuck. but they gave everyone else a chance, so they’ll give this guy a chance too. 

and he rocks.

he’s amazing, louis has never heard a bass line so smooth. the guy’s a natural fit, playing off of liam’s crashing cymbals, trading riffs with niall, boosting louis’ voice without covering him up. 

louis asks for a minute to discuss and the guy -- “harry!” he reminds them cheerfully, all wide smiles and fucking dimples -- agrees easily, ducking away to inspect the band posters tacked sloppily on the wall to cover the holes and cigarette burns. 

“louis, he’s perfect,” niall urges. 

“but,” louis protests. “look at him.” 

they turn just in time to see harry picking a bit of lint of his grandma’s-wallpaper-inspired shirt, and liam snorts. 

“so he’s weird. that’s what punk is about, being outside the ordinary, punching norms in the face.” 

“yeah, but-” 

“c’mon, lou.” 

“okay,” louis sighs, loud enough for harry to hear. “you can be in the band. but,” he interrupts harry’s effusive thanks, “we have got to get you a different shirt.” 

“like sandy in grease!” harry says brightly. “am i about to be a pink lady?” 

louis groans, drops his head into his hands. 

the week before the gig is filled with hours of practice, going through the songs with harry until he knows them well enough to start adding his own spin. he asks louis who played bass for them before and louis admits he did, a little, and harry offers louis some lessons. louis doesn’t have anything better to do, and he’s going out of his mind worrying about the gig, so he agrees. 

and so he and harry start bass lessons too, just on the off times between band practices, usually when niall or liam are at work. they spend so much time together that little by little louis learns more about their mysterious new bassist. he’s a mama’s boy, loves his sister, loves his friends and reading and, god, does he love music. 

“punk is angry, though,” louis points out. “punk is about being pissed off that the world isn’t what you wanted, so you yell about it.” 

“that’s not how i see it,” harry disagrees easily, combing his curls out of his eyes. “ii think our society has built up this myth that people are unlovable, and that we have to be fixed by buying things or wearing certain clothes or having a certain hairstyle. the biggest form of rebellion right now is loving yourself, and loving others. love is the most punk rock thing there is.” and then he smiles, dimples and all. “now c’mon, let’s go find someone with a working TV. there’s a new episode of friends on tonight, monica and chandler are finally getting married!” 

and so the gig rolls around and louis has never been more confused; the band is fucking amazing, they’ve never sounded so great, liam and niall absolutely adore harry, and they’re playing their biggest gig so far. it’s all louis ever wanted. 

but harry’s words keep hanging over him. it makes sense, is the thing, and he doesn’t know how to reconcile it with himself. he’s punk rock. his badly dyed hair and the jean jacket that’s so worn out it doesn’t really have shoulders anymore and the safety pins in his jeans and his righteous indignation at everyone and everything -- that’s punk rock. 

but also. 

he loves his family. loves playing the bass, loves writing music and singing. loves niall and liam, even when they’re being total shits. 

and he loves harry. 

it hits him just as they tromp out on stage, the lights dim but the music loud, the crowd ready to go. louis takes a deep breath, looks to his left and sees harry watching him, waiting for the signal to start, his sheer blouse unbuttoned indecently low and a flower tucked behind his ear. 

and louis loves him. 

“oakland!” he screams, and the crowd echoes it back. “let’s fucking go!” 

the gig goes off like a smash. by the end of it liam’s playing with a broken drumstick because he destroyed all his backups, and niall has ripped his shirt off and done a stage dive, and as harry holds the last long note of their final song louis grabs him by the neckline and hauls him in, kissing him fiercely in front of two hundred drunk and cheering punks. 

when they break off, harry’s grinning. “way to stick it to the man, lou.” 

and louis says, “shut up, sandy,” but kisses him again. 

because that’s what punk rock is all about.   

[eldritchqueerture]

Chapter 7: Threads

Hello! Long time no see! The delay was unplanned and I'm sorry about that. I had an idea in the meantime to add more fluff chapters before shit starts to go down but then I couldn't get to writing them while telling myself that I will write them eventually, and then I had other ideas, and I was writing for Summer in the Archives, and so we are where we are. I decided to just keep posting what I have and if I do feel like adding fluff that would be happening in the meantime then I will just make a separate work in the series. I'm aiming to go back to my weekly schedule (haha), so I hope I can get the next chapter out next Friday. As always, please leave me a comment or come yell at me here on tumblr, it always brightens my day and keeps my motivation up! Enjoy <3

Martin looks at Jon’s sleeping face and thoughts swirl inside his head like tendrils of the mist that has been following him, tendrils that meet in one specific place – his feelings for him. He’s not proud of the fact that this is where his thoughts end up turning every time he thinks about Jon, considering the severity of the situation Sasha explained to him, but he cannot help wondering – despite his better judgement – if Jon doesn’t share them. He replays the worry in his brown eyes, the tight hugs, always ensuring he’s there, safe, and whole… He might be adding meaning to otherwise ordinary actions, of course, but he can allow himself to hope, for when that hope sparks inside him, the fog withdraws.

Jon is wrapped in a blanket on the cot in the storage room, where Martin has laid him. They found him sleeping on the desk in his office, his eyes all red-rimmed and puffed up; they didn’t comment on it. Martin carried him to the storage room and placed his glasses nearby. Tim went to take Sasha home, so she can get some rest, too, and was supposed to come back with lunch; the events of the morning are laying heavy on all of them and have left them quite hungry.

Martin closes the door to the storage room and comes back to his desk. Working seems a bit pointless when you know that your boss is scheming an apocalypse somewhere behind your back and you can’t quit the job, but he finds himself needing a distraction, so he opens up his computer to do some follow up research on Jason North and the alleged ritual site he found in the middle of a Scottish forest. Martin’s never been good with research, not like Sasha, so he soon stumbles upon a dead end. He ends up researching pictures for Scottish forests and cottages, and he daydreams, with his poem notebook by his side. How nice would it be to just move to Scotland, to a cottage like that and forget everything. Grow your own vegetables and herbs, welcome the sun every morning with a cup of tea; go down to the town for some groceries, meet some good cows; and maybe Jon is there with him, and he finally gets through to his head that he shouldn’t make tea in the microwave, and they cuddle on the couch while reading—

“’scuse us,” comes a deep voice and Martin looks up, startled, to find two delivery men standing there, in the Archives, with a big package next to them.

“Looking for the Archivist,” the other man says, but Martin figures that just because the voice is coming from a slightly different direction. They sound exactly the same; he finds they look similar, too. Their clothes are identical; they’re different makes and all but somehow, he can’t tell these two men apart. There’s… something off to them.

“Sorry, are you two meant—” Martin blinks, but one of them interrupts him.

“Won’t take up your time.”

“Just got a delivery.”

Martin opens his mouth, trying to process the fact that they seem to be two parts of the same whole. He wouldn’t be able to explain this thought if asked, but this is what runs through his head.

“Look, you really can’t actually—”

“Package for Jonathan Sims.”

“Says right here.”

He looks and yes, there, on the package, says ‘Jonathan Sims’ in a very ordinary, unassuming writing. He glances over at the door to the storage room and back at the two men.

“Well, he’s not—”

“We’ll just leave it with you.”

“Be sure he gets it.”

Martin struggles for words.

“Okay, I will, but you really have to actually—”

“’course. Much obliged.”

“Stay safe.”

“I’ll… try?” He responds with the first thing that goes into his head.

“Your recorder’s on, by the way.”

“Might wanna change that.”

Martin looks at his desk and he notices a tape whirring steadily in the recorder.

“Oh… so it is. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“At all.”

They both turn as one and leave Martin, the recorder, and the package alone. He hums, looking from one to the other and back.

“Well, I know for a fact that I did not turn you on,” Martin speaks to the recorder. “Maybe Tim felt in a mood for a prank. It is April Fool’s after all,” he huffs out a laugh. “Would be his style to do something, even with… all this happening.”

He stops the recording and turns to the package; before he can do anything else, though, the recorder clicks itself back on. Martin gives it a sideways look and his heart picks up the pace. He frowns and clicks stop again. One second. Two. There; it clicks the red button on its own.

Martin stands up and takes a step back.

“What the hell,” he breathes out.

Suddenly he hears a familiar laugh from the top of the stairs and energetic steps running down. Tim emerges from the doorway and gives him a surprised look.

“You okay, Marto?” He asks and places a paper bag on his desk, then points his chin at the package. “What’s that?”

“Uh…” Martin collects himself in a second. “Two delivery men just came by. It’s for Jon, apparently.”

Tim places a second paper bag and his coffee cup on his desk and walks around the package.

“No sender. Interesting.” He strokes his chin and looks at Martin with a grin. “We should open it.”

“Tim!”

“Look, boss is asleep, the package came to the Archives and not to his house, how private can it be?” Tim throws his arms up but seems to be watching Martin’s reaction more carefully. He doesn’t look very bothered, Tim assesses; he seems to be equally interested in the contents. He sighs and tosses him a letter opener.

“Fine, but you’re taking the blame,” Martin rolls his eyes with mock exasperation, and Tim’s grin gets wider.

“That’s the spirit!” He cuts the tape at the corners and opens the packaging to reveal an old wooden table; there’s a hole in the centre, Tim reckons about six inches square, and its surface is covered in intricate patterns resembling optical illusions. He frowns at it. “Huh. A table. Why would Jon…” He trails off as his eyes follow the hypnotizing patterns. “Interesting…”

Martin watches as Tim drops the letter knife to the floor, enraptured by the table. He wants to say something, to call out his name, but the fog from the edges of his vision spills out at the sight of the table and it blocks out the world; Martin stops feeling the chair underneath him and finds himself stranded in a sea of grey, thick fog.

“Tim? Tim!” He calls out but there’s no answer. There would be no answer, ever; he’s all alone here.

—

Jon wakes up to a nagging feeling that something is wrong. He blinks, trying to get rid of the sleep weighing heavily on his eyelids and gathers his bearings. He realizes he’s on the cot in the storage room, a blanket thrown to the floor next to him. He still feels too hot, and he takes off his sweater vest. What’s this feeling, gently pricking at the back of his mind?

He gets up, wobbly as he feels, and makes his way to the door. As he opens it, a voice makes its way to his ears.

“…friend mentioned poetry?” Jon squints his eyes, as light reaches him, yet he immediately recognizes the voice.

“…Gerry?” He asks and blinks – yes, he can make out the thin and long figure dressed in black, sitting on top of Tim’s desk. Tim is there too, leaning against Martin’s desk in front of Gerry, and Martin sits in the chair, his cheeks coloured just a little with faint pink. They all turn to him with surprise when he emerges. He can feel tension in the room, and he acknowledges the presence of something that looks like a table covered with a blanket in the middle of the room; the nagging in his mind grows into anxiety. “Something happened.”

“God, Jon, did we wake you up?” Martin jumps up to him with genuine worry and Jon smiles slightly, as he shakes his head.

“No.” He blinks again, to chase away the sleep and looks at Gerry and his inscrutable expression. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching a zombie rise from the dead, apparently.” Gerry gets down from the desk and crosses his arms. “Also saving the lives of his assistants by accident. I know you said you’re a mess but good God.”

Jon frowns with worry.

“Gerry, I’m serious.”

Something in Gerry’s demeanour changes as he sighs, and his expression clears.

“Well, I wanted to tell you that I’m in,” he says. “Whatever your crazy plan is, if you even have one, I want to hear it or help you make it; you weren’t picking up your phone, so I decided to come, pay you a visit.” He glances towards the table and his eyes cloud with a shadow. “And it turns out it’s good that I did.”

“What is this?” Jon walks over to the table and three pairs of hands shoot out to stop him. Gerry’s touch lingers comfortably, because apparently that’s what he does, and Jon isn’t so sure he minds it.

“An old table, with weird, hypnotizing patterns,” Tim says, and Jon detects a tinge of guilt in his voice.

“Did it have a hole in the middle?” He asks urgently and Tim nods.

“We need to get rid of it,” Jon looks in the direction of the stairs. “Put it in the Artifact Storage and make sure it’s covered.”

“Are you familiar with it?” Martin asks and Jon nods.

“Amy Patel case; the one where a person got replaced. Why would they—” Jon’s face falls and he turns to Martin and Tim. “Who delivered it?”

“It was two delivery men, really big, quite intimidating, but—uh, now that I think about it I can’t remember what they looked like…”

“Shit,” Jon sighs and rubs his face. “Okay, we really do need a plan.” He looks over their faces and his eyes stop at Martin’s disgruntled expression. “What is it?”

“What you need is rest,” he crosses his arms. “You pulled an all-nighter with Sasha, and you haven’t even slept for two hours now.”

“You do look like shit,” Gerry offers his insight and Jon fixes him with a glare.

“I can’t protect you when I’m asleep,” he says and looks pointedly at the table. “Clearly. Tell me wha—” He stops when Gerry squeezes his arm sharply. He takes note of the static in the air and clears his throat. “I want to know what happened.”

Tim sighs.

“Alright, it is kinda my fault,” he admits looking away. “I insisted on opening your package to see what’s inside. But in my defence, I thought it would be something funny; at least a bit humiliating for you, and we could laugh it off. The mood’s been horrible lately,” he grimaces. “The lines kind of… hypnotized me. I couldn’t look away and I started getting lost in them. It… It felt like being trapped in a web; the more I struggled to look away, the harder it was. I don’t know how much time had passed before your resident goth intervened. Then I came back to myself and Martin… he was grey again.”

Jon glances worriedly at Martin, who starts fidgeting with his fingers.

“I didn’t think you guys could see that,” he confesses. “It’s… it’s that fog you mentioned,” he says to Jon who nods, his lips pressed together. “It was… stronger this time.”

“He was a step from disappearing,” Gerry says, looking at Jon curiously. “I thought you guys were new here.”

“We are,” Tim says, looking at Jon pointedly. “You said you know why that happens.”

“I did,” Jon sighs and leans against the desk, next to Gerry. “I’m—Martin, I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

Martin looks away and he mutters something along the lines of “don’t worry about it”.

“The fog is… another one of the fears; called The Lonely or The Forsaken,” Jon says, looking somewhere into space. “It’s the fear that you’re all alone, that you can’t connect with anyone. Martin…” He exhales. “I have reasons to believe that your connection to the Lonely might have appeared in this… reality, along with my memories.” He finally looks up at Martin; there are no emotions on his face. “When did the fog first appear?”

“S-Sometime when I got transferred into the Archives,” he nods. “I thought it was just anxiety, but… y-yeah, it makes sense, I suppose.”

“You still don’t remember what you did to end up here?” Gerry asks and Jon shakes his head; Gerry clicks his tongue.

“So, what do we do now?” Tim looks at Jon. “What is Elias’ plan?”

“I…” He rubs his forehead. “I don’t remember exactly. I…” He trails off looking at them. They are waiting for him to tell them what to do. Martin, with colour in his eyes and something else there, something Jon doesn’t let himself think about; Tim, whom he hasn’t hurt yet, who still has hope and who isn’t filled with bitter anger and sorrow; and Gerry who’s alive, here with him, offering his help. Jon thinks about Sasha, the real Sasha who’s still there. He can’t protect them all from other Entities and Elias. Even with all of his knowledge, Elias still has more power here than him, and Jon sees that his threats weren’t a bluff. Jon deflates with a sigh. “We need to know if there’s a way to fill the tunnels with CO2 before the Hive attacks; and I need the table sealed shut - it’s not getting anyone this time. Other than that, I think we need to work the statements, like before.”

“Are you kidding?” Tim raises his eyebrows. “Elias is serving an Eye power and not letting us leave, and I’m supposed to still work for him?”

Jon swallows.

“Elias… He’s dangerous. Even with everything I know, he can still hurt us. I’m not risking an open war with him.”

“What is he gonna do, kill us?” Tim scoffs but he goes quiet when Jon gives him a hard stare. “Fuck off.”

“Murder isn’t usually his style of dealing with things, he generally prefers threats and blackmail, but he can definitely do that, too,” Jon says. “Let’s just say we don’t want to piss him off more than is necessary.”

“You literally punched him in the face today.”

“Yes, I know.” Jon grits his teeth and looks away. Tim narrows his eyes.

“He threatened you, didn’t he?” He asks and takes a step towards Jon. “What did he say?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jon says coldly. “We need to get back to work.”

“Oh, no, you’re going back home and getting some sleep,” Martin shakes his head. “Or we refuse to work.”

Jon groans but Gerry places a hand on his shoulder.

“Go, Jon, I’ll keep an eye on them,” he promises and after a second of searching his face, Jon gives in.

“Fine. Be careful.”

“You, too,” Martin says and hands him the paper bag from his desk. “Eat this.”

Jon gives him a grateful smile and, with a last look at them, walks to the stairs and climbs up.

—

Gerry Delano sits comfortably on a park bench with a cup of coffee in his hand and sips on it slowly; he thinks about the things the new Archivist – Jon – said to him this morning. He looked tired; the bags under his eyes, the messy hair, the absolutely horrendous smoking habit (at that Gerry just chuckles to himself) and the clean but messy clothes speak for themselves, and Gerry didn’t want to say it, obviously, but it was this entire image of an absolute mess of a confused man that made him believe him. The marks are curious, yes, but Gerry has seen many things which he doesn’t understand, and he’s okay with that. No, this man is clearly in need of support and if he’s really taken over for Gertrude (and, judging by the sheer amount of his energy just screamingBeholding, that was very probable), he is in for one hell of a ride.

If Gerry would have to describe his perfect life, with his mother and Gertrude gone, he’d probably say he wants to find a normal job and get some peace and quiet; that being said, he did try that as a teenager, running away from his mother and her life. He told himself then that he didn’t belong in the normal world and would always find his way back to his mother. He abandoned that dream for a while, until Gertrude offered to help him get rid of his mother’s ghost. He thought that maybe if he helped Gertrude for a while, burned some Leitners in the meantime, maybe he’d have enough and manage to build a life that didn’t always border on getting killed by something supernatural; and so his life went on and he never really grew to feel at home in the “normal” world. He’d about accepted the fact that he’ll probably die on the job with the old Archivist, and he wasn’t very surprised to find how quickly he accepted it. It seemed fitting; much more so than getting a job at a coffee shop or other, and just living among people who had no idea what’s really out there. Then he got shot in Pittsburgh – a Slaughter case he’d tried to prevent – and he was forced to stay behind in the hospital. In some fleeting moments of consciousness he saw Gertrude holding the Catalogue of the Trapped Dead and he prepared himself to wake up as a ghost any time; instead, he woke up to an empty hospital room and a note in her handwriting – “Build your life here. Stay safe.” He thought if this weren’t his chance to build the life he’d imagined for himself then it would never come; and he was right. He soon discovered that making friends is way too difficult when you’re able to tell which Fear Entity marked them in that supernatural encounter they’re too scared to talk about, and he returned to London, searching for Jurgen Leitner himself. He thought he found him, but he ended up beating up someone who turned out to just be some pathetic old man. And here he is, back in the world his mother dragged him into without his consent. Gerry sighs and takes another sip of his coffee. Maybe the universe simply needs a pyromaniacal, angry goth who did in fact end up in the business of helping strays.

He directs his thoughts back to Jonathan Sims and the Institute. They need to form a plan and Jon said he would fill his assistants in on at least the basics. He takes out his phone and checks the time – 1 PM. He rules that’s enough time to explain the basics of the metaphysical functioning of the Fear Powers in the world.

He finds his last messages and opens the one Jon sent at his request for contact saving purposes – “Here. – Jon Sims”. He’s a creative one, isn’t he? Gerry saves the number as Jon Archivist, then changes it to Jarchivist, and grins; then swipes to call.

No answer. He tries again and it still goes to voicemail.

Gerry shrugs and finishes his coffee. He burned his last Leitner in the alley just before he met Jon, so he doesn’t exactly have any new leads. He thinks he might as well pay the Archives a visit; it’s been a while since he was there last time, with Gertrude.

The street is quiet when he walks up to the building. The aura of Beholding is quite strong here already and he looks at the Latin words above the entrance. “I watch, I listen, I wait.” Tacky.

He comes inside and turns towards the stairs leading down. He’s not surprised when the lady at the reception calls out to him.

“I’m sorry, sir! Can I help you?”

Gerry turns to her. She’s a small Chinese woman with a bob cut and huge glasses; she smiles but Gerry can recognize a customer service smile when he sees one.

“Oh, actually, I’m a friend of Jonathan Sims, the, uh, Head Archivist. Saw him this morning, I promised I’d drop a few notes.”

“Notes?” She glances over at the papers at her desk. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Gerry Delano,” he tries to smile as she checks something.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I have you anywhere as a potential source—”

“Oh, that’s weird. I worked with the previous Head Archivist, Gertrude Robinson? Jon had a couple questions about her management style, you know how it is,” he waves his hand. “New job can be stressful.”

She looks over his clothes and tattoos with a frown for a second and then sighs.

“Alright, Jon’s office is right downstairs, through the Archives, Mr. Delano.”

“Thank you very much,” he nods his head and runs down the stairs.

Gerry doesn’t know what he expected to find down in the Archives, to be honest. Probably Jon being interrogated by his assistants, or maybe no one at all; he definitely did not expect to find one tall man staring into swirling patterns of a table that gave him very mixed signals of the Web, and another man in his desk chair, staring into space with a very unnaturally grey stare and his form dissipating into mist.

“Oh, I swear to God,” Gerry curses under his nose and looks around. “Can’t I meet people normally once in a blue moon?”

He picks up a blanket that lays stranded on the ground and covers the table. He then snaps his fingers in front of the tall man’s face and waves his hand.

“Hey, you still there?” He asks and the man draws in a breath, rapidly, and blinks, then looks around in confusion.

“Wh-Wha…” His eyes land on Gerry and he frowns. “Who are you?”

“Someone who just saved your ass from something nasty,” Gerry says, turns to the other man and touches his shoulder. Still there.

“Oh, God, his eyes are grey again.” The tall man grabs his shoulders and shakes him. “Martin? Martin!”

“How did he manage to go so deep into the Lonely with you there?” Gerry asks and moves to look inside the Head Archivist’s office. Empty.

“Into the what? Martin!” He shakes him again and Martin blinks and exhales but does not acknowledge him at all. “Do you know what’s happening to him?”

“Where’s Jon?” Gerry looks at the man sternly.

“Jo—who the hell are you?” The man exclaims. “We need to snap him out of it!”

“It’s not that easy.” Gerry rolls his eyes and looks through Martin’s desk. “What does he love?”

“What?” The man looks at him confused and Gerry stifles a groan of frustration.

“Martin. He needs an anchor, something that he loves that will bring him back here.”

The man’s eyes search the desk frantically.

“Come on!” Gerry rushes him and the man groans.

“Can he hear me?”

“Allegedly.”

“What does that mean?!” He looks at him pressingly.

“It means I don’t know!” Gerry grabs one of Martin’s hands. “He might, if he’s not too far gone.”

“Martin,” the man grabs Martin’s other hand. “Martin, think about tea. Poetry. Um, about—” He’s cut off by Gerry’s groan of frustration. “What?!”

“That won’t work,” he shakes his head. “He’s in the fogs of The Lonely; he thinks he’s alone and that it’s never gonna change; that he can’t ever make meaningful connections with other people.”

The man’s eyes move frantically as he puts something together in his brain.

“Martin,” he squeezes his hand again. “I’m here with you, you hear me? You’re not alone and Jon is here too, and Sasha will be here soon, and we will all be with you here because we are your friends, okay? We’re—” His voice catches when Martin’s grey gaze lands on his face. Gerry unknowingly nods for him to continue. “Look, I know you’re convinced that you’re no help here because of that fake resume that everyone pretends not to know about, but you’ve been such an amazing friend through these couple of months and—” he searches for words before continuing. “And I know you have feelings for Jon, and you need to think about him because if you ask me, he’s head over heels for you too, and you’re just too oblivious to realize, both of you,” he laughs and a tear streams down his face. “So you need to think about him because he needs you to be here and stay here, and we need you too, okay, Marto, we—we really do…” He inhales, as Martin squeezes his hand back and blinks. The man sighs deeply with relief and leans his forehead on their joined hands.

“Tim…?” Martin speaks up with a very gentle, detached voice and then his gaze lands on Gerry who has now let go of his hand and stands back up. “Who’s that?”

Tim looks up and wipes away another stray tear, then stands up to face him.

“Yeah,” he frowns. “That’s a good question.”

Gerry smirks and climbs up to sit at one of the desks.

“Seeing how I just might have saved your lives; I’d rather think some thanks are in order.”

“I’m not kidding, who the fuck are you?” Tim crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. Gerry notices he stares at his tattoos like he’s trying to remember something.

“Eh, fine.” He rolls his eyes. “Name’s Gerry Delano, but you may know me as Gerard Keay.”

Recognition flashes in Tim’s eyes.

“We had a statement about you!” He says and immediately frowns. “You killed a man.”

Gerry chuckles.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

“What are you doing here?” Martin asks and Gerry crosses his legs.

“Waiting for Jon, actually. I thought I may find him here, but it appears I must have found his assistants, am I correct?”

“And you know Jon how?” Martin follows up; his voice gains a bit of depth to it, and he tilts his head, much more present than a second before.

“We met in an alley outside the Institute this morning,” Gerry shrugs. “Or, late night. Morning might be pushing it. He didn’t mention it?”

Tim sighs and rubs his face and Martin shakes his head.

“Eh, that’s fine. You two look like you have enough information to process for the next two months.”

“Something like that,” Tim nods and leans against Martin’s desk. “Jon’s getting some sleep and we’d rather have no one disturb him. It’s been a… hard morning.”

“He did look like he hasn’t slept in a week, I’ll give you that.” Gerry shoots a glance at Martin; his skin is regaining color, but his eyes are still unnaturally grey, and the edges of his form are blurry; the fog still lingers. “Hey, um… Martin?” He asks and Martin looks at him with surprise.

“Yeah…?”

“Just getting your names since you haven’t introduced yourselves. But that’s okay, I’m good at picking up from context.” He smiles and continues before Tim can speak. “So, Martin, what is it that you do here?”

“Uh… excuse me?” He blinks.

“I’m just interested, tell me what your usual day consists of. What do you do for fun? Your friend mentioned poetry?”

He notes the blush on Martin’s face with some satisfaction; the dark green colour returns to his eyes, though, still, his edges remain blurry. Martin can’t answer however; as he takes a breath, he’s interrupted by the door to the storage room opening.

Jon looks, frankly, even worse than he did before; in addition to everything aforementioned, his eyes are now puffed up from sleeping and he has apparently ditched his sweater vest, leaving only a creased, light blue shirt.

“…Gerry?” He frowns at him and takes in the room. “Something happened.”

“God, Jon, did we wake you up?” Martin shoots upright and the edges of his form become solid for a second. Just a second.

“No,” he shakes his head and blinks at Gerry. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching a zombie rise from the dead, apparently.” Gerry jumps down from the desk and crosses his arms. “Also saving the lives of his assistants by accident. I know you said you’re a mess but good God.”

“Gerry, I’m serious.” Jon gives him a look and Gerry sighs, but it’s a sigh of mock exasperation which hides only fondness. From the moment he learned Jon is the Head Archivist, he knew he would be a lot different than Gertrude; even if at first it was “this kid is a proper mess” contrasted with Gertrude’s calculated craft. He can see that what actually makes him different, better, is that he cares. Even though Beholding has him in its grasp far stronger than it ever had Gertrude, he has that spark of human empathy that she deemed an obstacle. He wouldn’t be the kind to sacrifice his own assistants to stop the Apocalypse, which maybe doesn’t give them big chances of success, but makes Gerry trust him. It makes him feel safer and it makes him stand stronger, and maybe that is exactly what is needed. And that one detail, that seriousness in his voice when he asks what happened to his assistants – to his friends – and the worry in his eyes when he checks if they’re okay, that’s what fully convinces Gerry that this man is worth his effort. If they can’t save the world with a strength like that then maybe no one really can.

—

Martin opens the door to Jon’s office to see the man reading something in a book. He looks up at Martin and his lips twitch towards a smile.

“Hello, Martin,” Jon says and immediately yawns. “God, sorry.”

“I was about to ask you if you’re still working.” Martin takes a look at his desk; there’s two empty mugs pushed to the side, a tape recorder (not recording), and some books and papers. Martin notices Jon’s glasses are still where he left them after he found them near the cot in the storage room. “You’re wearing contacts now?” He asks and Jon raises his eyebrows.

“What?”

“Well, I- I noticed you didn’t wear glasses today,” Martin shrugs and points his chin at them. “You forgot them yesterday.”

Jon’s eyes stop at the pair of glasses, and he frowns.

“Huh.” He rubs his chin. “Checks out, I guess.”

“What?” Now Martin frowns and Jon looks up at him, breathing in.

“The, uh—The Eye powers,” he grimaces. “This happened before too. I don’t—I don’t need them anymore.”

“Oh.” Martin shifts. “Well, I just wanted to tell you, you should get some rest. It’s—It’s late.”

Jon smiles fondly, staring into the air. Martin wonders what he's thinking about. Is he going back to memories he doesn't have?

“I really should, shouldn't I?” Jon asks no one in particular and sighs. “Thank you, Martin.”

“F-For what?” Martin laughs a little bit confused, and Jon looks at him for a moment before he shrugs.

“For caring. For being there.”

Martin looks away and shifts awkwardly again. Jon's stare, though gentle, is piercing; overbearing. Martin can't yet decide if it's good or bad, but it is certainly a lot.

“I should—”

“Could you—”

They start at the same time and look at each other. Jon shakes his head and gestures with his hand.

“Please, go first.”

Martin takes a deep breath.

“Could you tell me what—what it is that you want me to remember?”

Jon opens his mouth and closes it. His forehead ripples.

“I...” he begins and sighs, looking at his desk. “I don't think it was you. I mean—I think that... that it was a different version of you. In my past.” He looks up and his brown eyes are sad. “So it makes sense you can't remember because it never actually happened for you.”

Martin deflates with a little “oh” and looks down. The hole in his mind is settling nicely in the fog and he doesn't question it. Why would he? It was always there. He’s only lived this life, not anything else – if anybody would know it would be Jon. And obviously, it was a different Martin that Jon fell— That Jon cared for.

“Were we…” Martin stops, the word “together" left hanging in the air, and Jon looks at him for a second before something flashes in his eyes.

“We don't—I mean, I can't really— It's, it wasn't you so...”

‘I can’t really expect you to have the same feelings now’ is what Jon does not say, but Martin, of course, has no way of knowing that.

“Right,” Martin nods, and he can see Jon's cheeks blush, much the same as his own must right now. Martin swallows the awkwardness and nods again. “Alright, I'll, uh... I'll leave you to it. Then. Get—uh, get some rest.”

He closes the door and exhales deeply. Well, that was disastrous; he thinks, as he walks towards the document storage. There’s something heavy weighing down on his chest but he chooses not to dwell on it; it wouldn’t provide him with any insights he didn’t already know.

[yume-fanfare]

translation - the whereabouts of the roast beef

this is a translation of one of the four short stories HoneyWorks posted at the beginning of the pandemic!  it’s written by Kosaka Mari, you can read it in japanese here. this was translated from this spanish translation by mieltrabajos.

Other stories:

Two people at the school festival

Who is the owner?

Aiming towards the heroine, Suzumi Hiyori!

The whereabouts of the roast beef

By the time Shibasaki Aizou finally finished his work it was already night, and he was longing to get home.

Since he debuted as an idol in the unit LIPxLIP he had had a very tight schedule and, as it was to be expected, it only got worse each day.

“That manager… She gives us way too much work…”

When he got home and turned on the lights, his cat, Kuro, ran under the table from the couch where he had been sitting. 

Aizou left the plastic bag he'd been carrying on the table.

“Even this feels like we're in school.”

His partner and him were partly responsible for that day's dance class delay.

He hadn't realized that so much time had passed while he argued about the choreography with Yuujirou. In fact, just remembering his partner's stubborn face, as he wouldn't listen to anyone but himself, made Aizou sick, furrowing his brow.

“I wish he'd listen to other people's opinions sometimes… Hey!”

Kuro leaned over and tried to shove his face inside the bag as Aizou raised his fist while speaking alone. When he noticed, Aizou picked up the cat and placed him on a chair.

“You stay here! This is not for you!”

But even with those words, the cat just licked himself with a mischievous shine in his eyes.

Aizou had no other option but to bring Kuro his food bowl and fill it. That way, the cat started eating next to him.

“Well… what should I do?”

Aizou put his hands on his hips and took the meat out of the plastic bag.

On the way back home I suddenly felt like “Meat… I want to eat meat…” so I went to a 24-hour supermarket and bought some.

He pulled out his cellphone and looked for a recipe online. Once he'd decided what he wanted to cook, he took off his uniform blazer and put on some apron that was lying on a chair.

Two hours later, Aizou had accidentally made roast beef.

“Yes! Perfect!” he cheered and did a victory pose.

“Wait. What am I doing.”

Suddenly recovering his sanity, he leaned over the kitchen table, putting his hands on it.

Why was he roasting beef instead of saving his precious hours of sleep?

Kuro, who was walking around him, sat down and looked up. Aizou looked up too and saw the clock. 2:30 AM.

He had finished, but the tiredness overtook his appetite. He yawned.

“Should I leave it for tomorrow's lunch?” he mumbled in a sigh and grabbed a bento box from a shelf. “Oh, before that.” He pulled out his phone out of the apron's pocket and took a picture of the roast beef.

He sent it to his partner. And, as soon as he did so, the reading receipts showed up. It seemed like he wasn't the only one awake.

He didn't get a reaction or text back, so Yuujirou was probably annoyed too.

Good. I can easily picture his face.

During the dance class he had thrown a ridiculous tantrum after being called “rhythm tone-deaf”.

Aizou packed his food inside a bento box with some rice as a side dish and closed the lid, satisfied. 

“Ok, I finished. Now, I'll take a bath and go to sleep.”

He put the lunch on the table and left the room hugging Kuro.

---

Shibasaki Ken walked down the stairs still half-asleep, carrying Kuro. He placed him on the floor and refilled his water and food bowls.

When he opened the fridge, he found it completely empty except for the cream bun he bought the day before and a plastic water bottle. When he pulled them out and put them on the table, he saw an unknown bento box.

“What's this…?”

He unpacked it and lifted the lid to find some tidily placed roast beef with rice. Ken looked at it, admired, and then started laughing.

“Ohh, this is here to be eaten, right~?”

Kuro walked towards him and Ken picked him up. The cat answered with a meow. Ken put him down again and wrapped the lunchbox.

“I’m so lucky!” he exclaimed.

He put it in his bag and thought about the cream buns, which he ended up leaving in the fridge again.

“Thanks for answering!” he told the cat and left the room in a good mood.

---

The next morning, Aizou woke up later than usual. He ran down the stairs as he put on his blazer.

“Oh, before anything else…!”

He went to the kitchen and pulled out a plastic water bottle. He poured some in a glass and drank from it, then moved to the table.

However, the bento box that should have been there had disappeared. No matter how many times he looked for it, it wasn’t anywhere to be found.

“Uh, why…?

Instead, the only thing left were the convenience store-brand cream-filled buns.

(There’s only one person who could have done this.)

Aizou grabbed one of the buns, angry.

When he left the living room towards the main door, he didn’t see the shoes that were always there, next to his. Even though he usually left at the very last minute, when the first period was about to start, it seemed like he’d left early today.

(He escaped!)

Aizou dashed towards the living room, grabbed the cream buns and put them in his bag, which he had thrown on the couch before.

He went back to the doorway and put on his shoes, waved Kuro goodbye, as he had come to see him off, and left the house as he yelled: “I’m leaving!”

“I won’t forgive you!”

He jumped on his bike and started pedaling vigorously.

He had worked hard on roasting the beef after coming back from work.

(In any case, I have to get it back!)

Aizou gained momentum, went down the hill and turned the corner at the next intersection.

---

When the morning classes ended, the girls approached Aizou at his desk.

“Hey, Ai-kun, why don't we have lunch together?”

Aizou got up, mashed cream bun in hand, and ran out of the class saying:

“I'm sorry, I have to leave, there's an emergency!”

Yuujirou, who was sitting at his desk drinking chocolate milk, eyed him. “Huh?”

(I wasn't able to get a hold of him this morning because he was flirting!)

As he ran down the hall, the girls screamed: “Oh, Aizou!”

He pushed them away and kept going down the stairs. Then, someone grabs his collar and pulls him aside.

“Hey, Shibasaki, no running in the halls.”

When Aizou turned around, he was met with his homeroom teacher, Akechi.

(While I'm here, my roast beef is being…!)

“Teacher, I'm on a rush!” he said hurriedly and teacher Akechi let go off his clothes.

However, it seemed like he wouldn't be able to leave yet.

“By the way, it seems like Someya and you are the only ones who haven't turned in the club orientation form?”

“Do we have to do this now?”

“You're quite behind the deadline, aren't you?”

Mr. Akechi put his hands in his lab coat's pockets and gave him a look of disapproval.

“Ooh, Aizou is being scolded by the teacher~” some of his female classmates giggled as they passed by.

(Why am I receiving a lecture right when I have to leave?)

Aizou made eye contact, although he was uncomfortable, and tried to make an entrance to escape.

“We don't really want to enroll in any clubs… I mean, we're already idols!”

“Don't run!”

Ignoring Mr Akechi's upset voice, he ran away again.

---

(Where are you….)

As he looked around the second year halls, he heard a girl call out to him.

“Hey!”

It was most likely because there weren't many students around.

“What's the matter, Aizou?”

“What are you looking for?”

(Ugh!)

He involuntarily tensed up and he backed down a couple of steps.

“No… It's just…”

It was hard to look for him with that group of students.

“I'm sorry, I think I made a mistake!” he blurted out and ran away from the scene.

“He's so cute!” the older girls giggled.

He blushed at those words as he ran down the stairs.

(There's so many obstacles in the second year classrooms!)

That way, he couldn't get near the classroom.

(Wait… I don't know which one he's in!)

The realization hit him as he reached the first floor, doubling over and putting his hands on his knees.

“Oh, but I only have to find wherever he eats lunch!” he accidentally said out loud, and a passing boy looked at him confused.

(Maybe at the courtyard?)

Aizou was running again before realizing.

“My roast beef~”

---

When lunchtime came, Ken invited Kotarou and Kodai to the rooftop, and as they sat against the railing, he took the bento box out of his bag.

“You're eating bento today, Shibaken? That's rare to see,” Kodai commented in disbelief while eating his own yakisoba bread.

Usually, Ken just bought some rice balls and bread at the convenience store.

“It was on the table when I woke up this morning.”

“Wow!” Kotarou side-eyed the bento box as he ate his rice balls. “Did you make it yourself?”

“I don't know who made it. Someone who occasionally shows up at home?” when answered with a smile, his friends were glad to see him happy.

“I'm kind of jealous…”

“It's okay, you can eat my leftovers,” he waved his hand and started downing the food.

(Um…)

“Can he cook…?” he asked no one in particular, but then smiled and answered himself I don't think so.

---

“Where could you be...?”

The girl standing next to the vending machine stared at Aizou as he yelled and ran down the halls. Her long hair swung from side to side.

“Shibasaki's little brother...?”

When she asked that Aizou's legs stopped to a halt.

(The girl who brought Kuro!)

Someone I met in my neighborhood once.

I don't know what kind of relationship they have nor I want to know, but she's at least an acquaintance of mine. And it seems she's in the same class as my older brother.

“What's the matter?”

“I'm… looking for someone.”

Holding eye contact with her wasn't easy. He was an idol, but he didn't get along well with women. Plus, if he was seen talking to one, who knows which future rumors might spread.

Usually, he'd just ignore her and keep going, but this was an emergency so he couldn't flee.

“Well, I don't know what it is but… it seems like it's difficult.” Maybe, Aizou thought, the senior girl was trying to sympathize with him.

He finally met her eyes and sighed.

“Maybe they're at the rooftop… Why don't you check there?”

“The rooftop…?”

Aizou lifted his head. The school's rooftop had flowerbeds and benches, and some students had lunch there when the weather was nice.

(There!)

“Thank you, senpai!” He grinned and turned around.

Holding the juice box she'd gotten from the vending machine, she stared at him with wide eyes, a bit surprised about the term he'd used.

---

After dashing up the stairs that led to the rooftop, Aizou flung the door open. The strong breeze moved his blazer.

“My roast beef!” he yelled, and the three people eating at the rooftop turned to look at him.

My brother Ken and his friends.

Then, he saw that the bento box Ken was holding was empty except for a bit of parsley.

“My…! My…!”

Aizou fell to his knees.

(I was too late!)

Kodai turned towards Ken.

“Looks like it was him after all.”

“Huh? Shibaken's got a little brother?” Kotarou looked at both of them while holding a rice ball.

“You didn't know him?” Ken threw an arm around Aizou's shoulders.

“Why don't you make your own lunch instead of stealing other's?” his voice shaking with rage, Aizou slowly got up. “It was my lunch!” He pointed at Ken angrily and left with a sigh.

Ken walked towards his brother, not troubled in the slightest.

“What?!”

With a cheerful tone, Ken handed his brother the empty bento box. 

“Delicious.”

He patted Aizou's head softly and walked inside the school building in a good mood.

(What the hell…!)

Holding the lunchbox with only parsley, Aizou teared his hopes into pieces.

At least, he felt like his brother's friends sympathized with him.

---

The next Saturday morning, Aizou did a decided pose.

“All right, let's do it again!” he said as he finally put roast beef inside his lunchbox again. “I could become an expert on this,” he murmured happily, putting the bento inside his backpack.

Since they didn't have class that day, his brother must still be asleep. Or at least there weren't any signs of him going downstairs.

(I won't let the same error happen again!)

Aizou laughed softly and declared: “This time, I'll eat roasted beef! Let's go!”

He petted Kuro's head, who was sitting in his chair, grabbed his backpack and ran towards the door.

That day he had to meet up for some recordings and magazine interviews. After that, he had lessons, so he'd be back home by midnight, as usual.

When he left his house, their manager's car was waiting for him outside, engine running.

---

When they finished their morning work and went back to the office, they took a small lunch break.

Aizou bought a can of coffee from the vending machine on the first floor and hummed as he got onto the elevator.

As he got to the office floor, a staff member congratulated him:

“Aizou-kun, good work!”

“Good work~!” he greeted back with a smile and then laughed and said to himself: “What am I doing?”

“Did this morning's recording go well?”

“Indeed!” he grinned and waved before leaving for the break room.

(The roast beef is waiting for me!)

When he opened the door, he saw that Yuujirou was already having lunch there.

“Good work!” he told him.

He got a tired “good work” in return.

Aizou grabbed a foldable chair and sat down next to him. He glanced at the bento Yuujirou was eating.

“...!!!!????”

He looked at it again.

It was the lunchbox that Aizou had brought.

And it was almost empty.

Yuujirou was making a grimace and his mouth moved with disgust.

However, on the table laid two convenience store rice balls. Probably it was the manager in training who bought them.

(I… had left it on the table!)

He had only left it alone for a second when he took it out of his bag and went to the vending machine to get coffee. Since he had gotten to the office, he'd been glad it wouldn't be like last time.

Aizou banged the table with his hands.

(Noooo!)

“I didn't need the bell peppers.” Yuujirou had pushed them to the side and looked at them with disgust.

“You didn't need any of it! So eat the peppers too!”

“They're bitter, so no.” Yuujirou frowned and turned around.

“Eat them! You already ate it, so at least eat all of it!”

“No way. Why did you put bell peppers in it!?”

“It wasn't for you. Don't be stingy when you're eating someone else's bento!”

Since he was losing the argument, Yuujirou stomped on the floor like a child.

“Roast beef shouldn't be so dry. You overcooked it!”

“Hah?!? What are you talking about. It was perfect!”

(Ugh, today, today's being absolutely the worst!)

“I'll let you know!”

“Haah?! Try me!!”

Right when a physical fight was about to break, the door swung open.

“Hey boys, good work~ … !!!!” Hiyori, their manager in training, dropped her plastic water bottle on the floor. “You’re fighting again!”

Aizou and Yuujirou pointed at each other and said at the same time:

“This guy is the worst!”