#source: memories of high school bio | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

byunbaekby · 3 years

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title — the things i know pairing — soccerplayer!jisung x female reader genres — angst, fluff, high school au, strangers to lovers au, first love au, long distance relationship, hurt and comfort, coming of age overall warnings — underage drinking, cancer, character death, language, mentions of hickeys, fainting, mentions and descriptions of hospitals, soccer inaccuracies, lots of angst (you’ve been warned!) word count — 14.8k summary — jisung has never been keen on growing up, or even understanding what adulting means. at seventeen, all he knows is: he loves soccer (and he’s damn gifted at it), and girls are very pretty but also plenty scary. then he met you, his first love who turned his life upside down and made his stomach roll like the soccer balls he loved to kick around the field. but when your cancer comes back after years in remission, jisung thinks, he doesn’t really want to grow up anymore. playlist — falling, harry styles ; your guardian angel, red jumpsuit apparatus ; my first and last, nct dream ; bye my first, nct dream ; orchid, jeremy zucker

additional — for the heartbreak hotel collab hosted by @nct-writers. my concept in the five stages of grief was “acceptance and hope.” thank you to my babes @suh-insane and @astroboy-lele for proof-reading!

The thing about knowledge is that you never know when or what you’re going to learn. There’s no way for you to predict what will be of your mind when you fall into bed that night, surrendering to the moon. In the morning, there’s no telling what knowledge your brain will choose to store away for remembrance over the course of the night, and what your brain will decide is unnecessary. What you decide not to remember is a memory you can’t even miss.

When you wake up every morning, you don’t know if you’ll go to bed having met someone who will change your life forever.

At seventeen, there are two things that Park Jisung knows. One, he loves playing soccer (and he’s damn good at it, the way his long legs carry him across the field in what seems to onlookers like seconds). Two, girls are very pretty but plenty scary as well.

The day starts out normally, like any other away game that the team plays.

He wakes up at six o’clock on the dot, and eats a large breakfast to hold him over for the game, then packs a few granola bars into his soccer bag and lets his sister know he’s leaving before he jogs the way to the park where the bus is waiting for his team. The ride is normally an hour long, so he either tucks his earbuds into his ears and tries to get in a short nap or he converses with his teammates.

Today though, the bus ride is three hours long. Crossing his hoodie-clad arms across his chest to act against the cold air of the bus, he focuses his gaze outside and watches as the town goes by.

“Yo, Jisung, check this out!”

At the sound of his name he turns his head, blinking when he sees a number of his teammates in the surrounding area nudging him closer. A few of them are leaning in towards a particular teammate, who displays a proud expression. “What’s up,” asks Jisung as he too leans forward toward his team member, curiosity slightly piqued.

Jaemin, the teammate in question, tugs the collar of his jersey down to reveal his skin. On the milky white curve of Jaemin’s collarbone, he sports a dark purple bruise, surrounded by a perimeter of yellow where the skin seems to be healing. There’s no question as to where that mark came from, and it definitely wasn’t from soccer.

“Ew, man, that looks sick!” comes from Donghyuck, along with a few comments from others, either approving or disturbed.

“Where’d that come from?”

Renjun slaps Mark on the chest, eyebrows furrowed at him. “Obviously, it was from Anne! Didn’t you see the way they were all over each other at last week’s game?” Jaemin grins, eyes going lovesick at the thought of his girlfriend.

Jisung’s expression contorts into one of disgust. “That’s disgusting, man,” he comments, nose still scrunched in distaste as he leans back into his original spot on the bus seat. Another thing he’ll never understand is why people are so desperate to grow up, as if giving hickeys and sneaking vodka into their Hydro flasks makes them somehow more adult.

He slips his earbuds into his ears, playing some light muzak to lull him to sleep with his head leaned rather uncomfortably against the cold window.

Jisung doesn’t think that he’s exceptionally smart; he’s gotten passing to above average grades his entire life. He’s not musically talented, nor is he particularly a smooth talker.

But hearing people call him gifted is a feeling he relishes every time.

With his long legs and strangely large and spacious lungs, soccer called the boy’s name from the time he could run. He dominated the peewee league, then the club teams until this point, at the ripe age of seventeen waiting to be scouted for college teams.

He wasn’t usually one to brag but today, he had shot the winning goal.

Everyone has their thing, the one thing that they excel at. For Picasso it was painting, for Yiruma it was piano, for Renjun it’s spending four hours every night researching alien conspiracy theories. For Jisung, it’s soccer. But he’s never been exceptionally good at speaking to people.

“What’s your name?�� He hears a voice, cheery and upbeat, behind him as he’s grabbing his bag on the side of the field. The game is over, and the crowd begins to dissipate while the team members are gathering their things to return to the bus. Turning over his shoulder he sees you, wearing a bright smile. Cautiously he responds, “Jisung Park.”

“Oh, so you’re Korean then. I’m gonna write that down, okay? How long have you been playing soccer?” You ask next, and now Jisung’s eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“Write what down?” He asks, trying to keep his tone as polite as possible. Even so, how is he supposed to react to a random person at a game suddenly appearing to ask him questions? As he wipes his forehead with his towel he adds, “Who even are you?”

Quickly you say, “I write in the high school newspaper, and wanted to get a close-up of today’s star.” It’s then that Jisung realizes the camera slung around your neck and the notepad in your hands.

“Why are you writing about me? I don’t even go here.”

“Because,” you say, a slight sigh creeping into your voice now. “Our team sucked today. You straight up stole the show, and no one wants to read about a team that lost. I’d rather give them a peek at the star.”

“14!” His coach yells his number once, causing Jisung to look over his shoulder to the source of the voice, where his teammates are already beginning to pile onto the bus. The boy in question slings his bag over his shoulder and tucks his soccer ball under his right arm before finally getting a good look at you. “Shouldn’t you be writing something to raise your team’s spirit or something? Giving them support, maybe?”

You shrug. “I don’t like underdogs. Don’t like writing about them. I’d rather read about the heroes. So how long have you been playing soccer again?”

“Jisung!” Now it’s Chenle calling after him, and he really needs to go. Eyes flickering to the street where his teammates are gesturing for him to hurry, he looks back to you. Your eyebrow is raised expectantly, right hip popped out as you wait. Before he starts to run off, he manages a small, “I’ve been playing eleven years. Um… bye.”

Then he turns away and his long legs carry him to the bus a few meters away. Even so, behind him he can hear your loud, proud voice yelling after him with the name of your high school: “Check the online newspaper! You’ll see my article!”

What a weirdo, he can’t help but think as the team cheers for their star player getting on the bus back home.

A week later, it’s another Saturday night following a victorious win against another team in the local area when Jisung gets a call from Chenle. “What’s up,” he asks immediately, leaning back in his desk chair to throw his soccer ball up in the air and catch it with one hand.

“Wanna party tonight? Celebrate our win a bit?”

“Where?” asks Jisung. He’d never been big on parties. For one, his long legs that were great for running weren’t exactly skilled in dancing or anything of the like. Secondly, he’d definitely be expected to talk to girls and he’s not really in the mood to make a fool of himself.

“Taeyong’s house. Me, Mark, Hyuck, and Jaemin are going. Renjun’s busy, and Jeno wants to spend time with his cat. What do you say? Wanna join?”

Jisung sighs. He was honestly just exhausted. “Think I’ll pass. My sister’s been getting on me about my bio grade.”

Chenle groans on the other line. “Lame.”

“Next time, promise,” says Jisung.

“Fine. Have fun studying, looooser!” This is the last thing Chenle says before hanging up, leaving his best friend alone to shake his head with a small laugh. Then he remembers something, some words that a stranger had yelled out to him a week before.

Sitting up at his desk, Jisung opens his laptop and types in the name of your high school, along with your town. A few clicks around the website finds him at the online news section, plus a scroll or two past some questionable articles, there it is: a picture of him mid-kick, the winning one if he remembers well enough. His nose is scrunched in concentration and strands of dark hair cling to his forehead.

Soccer Superstar from the opposing team steals the show and the win!

A small scoff leaves Jisung’s lips, trying to humble himself as he reads over the first few paragraphs.

Our school’s boys soccer team faced a devastating loss on Saturday in the face of the opposing team’s ace player (pictured above). The game ended promptly when the superstar player confidently kicked in the final shot, though the result had been clear from the first half of the game.

A short interview with the hotshot player revealed that he has been playing soccer for eleven years! A senior from Neo Culture Prep, it is clear as day that the school is very lucky to have such a prodigy on the team.

Who is this superstar player, you ask?

His name is Jisung Park.

Geez, Jisung thinks. He knew he was good but not that good. The article did a good job of spicing him up, making him look like he was a lot better than he really was. There’s too much fluff; sure, he’s skilled and he knows it, but—he touches his cheeks. They’re warm—the article makes him sound like a soccer god, and it’s beyond embarrassing. Who even are you?

A scroll to the bottom of the page tells him all he needs to know.

Article written by: (Name) (Last Name).

He doesn’t return to your town for almost two months. There’s a tournament today, the hours lurching between games giving him more than enough time to psych himself out about how he’ll play.

It’s noon, the sun shining overhead causing a sheet of sweat to amass on Jisung’s forehead. His team has just won their second match of the day, and in waiting for their next game, his eyes are scanning the bleachers set up for observers on the side of the field. It’s not hard to find you, same camera hanging around your neck.

With his long legs, he jogs over to you towel in hand. You’re not at all focused on him, eyes pressed into the camera’s viewfinder as you attempt to capture a good shot of the current game.

“I don’t like the stuff you said about me in your article.”

His deep voice suddenly intrudes your thoughts, and you jump in your place. As you turn to him and drop your camera from your face, he catches sight of the way your eyes widen at his appearance. A flood of recognition replaces the shock before you tilt your head. “Why? It was all good stuff.”

Patting at his forehead with his towel, Jisung responds, “Yeah, exactly. I’m not that good. I could’ve played better that day.” This brings a small snort from you. “Really! They were narrowing the angle on me, I should have flanked or lofted.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“It’s—”

You cut him off before he can explain. “You’re good. Why are you so shy to accept that?”

“Why do you keep trying to paint me as the main character of the team? Everyone works hard together.” He questions, eyebrows furrowed.

“Because you are,” you respond matter-of-factly, focused enough to press your eye into the viewfinder again. A few seconds pass, and Jisung recognizes the click of the camera as you capture something on the field. “You’re clearly the best player on the team by a long shot. You’re the main character, the hero.”

At your response, Jisung shakes his head in disbelief and scrunches his nose. There’s really no getting through to you. “I’m more than the hero you think I am.”

You turn to him, facial features contorted into a mischievous expression. “I’m sure you are.” Jisung realizes then that you’re holding something out to him. Taking it, he observes it. A… business card? With your name and number on it. “(Name). Aspiring journalist.”

“You have a business card? Aren’t you like, seventeen?”

You shrug, smile tugging on your lips. “Never hurts to be prepared. Call me.” It’s the last thing you say before you flitter away on quick feet, leaving to interview the team which has just won their match. He watches you leave, wondering if you know what kind of effect you have on people.

“I don’t know, man. She seems kinda crazy,” says Hyuck from the seat next to him, leaning his head back. However, a sudden bump in the road causes the bus to jump, startling the boy a bit. Jisung had just shared his thoughts about asking you out with his friend, who immediately made a face and shook his head.

“Crazy?” Sure, you’re a bit forward and maybe slightly reckless, but he doesn’t think you’re… crazy. It’s been a few weeks since he last saw you and from the conversations you’ve shared over text and phone… he thinks he likes you. Like, really likes you. It’s goddamn terrifying.

“Yeah, we all saw her article,” Chenle speaks up from the seat behind him. “She’s obsessed with you.”

Jisung rolls her eyes. “It was one article. That doesn’t mean she’s obsessed.”

“I think you should do it. It’d be funny to get on camera in case you fail,” snorts Renjun.

Jaemin pipes in from in front of them. “But if you do ask her out, she lives three hours away. That’s a lot of distance.” He’s the only one in a relationship, so maybe he has the only opinion that Jisung trusts.

“Other people have done more distance.”

Now, it’s Jeno’s turn to pipe in. “But you’re not other people, you’re Jisung Park. You’ve never had a girlfriend.” Should he feel insulted? Chenle also adds, “Jeno’s right. You’re a senior! It’s your year, and you wanna spend it tied down to some girl who lives three hours away?”

But you’re not just some girl. Mark’s the only one who hasn’t spoken, and most of the time, he’s the most level headed. Jisung turns to him with a sincere expression and asks, “What do you think?”

Though he had been trying to stay quiet throughout the conversation, he stretches a bit in his seat before finally saying, “I think you should go for it.”

“I think you should too!” Jaemin says. “But I think you should be prepared for what it means.”

“Whatever you decide to do, we’ll hype you up.”

“I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?” Jisung asks. “If she rejects me, at least she’s three hours away, right?” There’s murmurs of agreement around the seven of them. He tries to sound relaxed, but the thought of asking a girl out for the first time causes his heart to thump loudly in his chest. Oh god… should he do it?

“So?” asks Hyuck after a few seconds of silence, and it’s then that Jisung realizes everyone’s looking at him. “Are you gonna do it?”

He gulps. “... No idea.”

A collective groan emerges from the group of boys. Hyuck, ever the genius, straightens his back with a glint in his eye. “How about this? If we win, you ask her out. You’ll be riding on a winning spree and it’ll give you confidence. If we lose then… there’s more girls back home.”

That… doesn’t sound like a bad idea. But oh god, he doesn’t know which option he wants.

For the first time, Jisung feels like his legs are knotting into each other, tumbling over his feet.

Soccer had always come easily to him, like breathing. But for some unknown reason, he’s totally off his game today. He knows the play, his strengths, and even the weaknesses of his opponents, but he trips over his feet.

No, that’s a lie. He definitely does know the source of his nervousness, and it lives in the form of a girl with a camera and a notepad sitting in the bottom corner bleacher. His breath is frantic as he zips back and forth across the field. The sounds of the game are ringing loud in his ear, and he can hardly even focus on the black and white ball being kicked around, let alone what the coach is screaming at them. They’re so close, one more goal should do it.

He knows what’s going to happen. Jisung Park had always been known for his ending kicks.

But what if he messes it up? What if he fumbles the kick or whiffs it?

Then again, does he even want to win? That’s a dumb quesiton—of course he does—but the question is: is he ready for what comes with the win? He really shouldn’t look, shouldn’t peek for just one look at you, but he does. You’re scribbling in your notepad, and he swears in that millisecond that you look so pretty.

Yeah, he wants it. He really wants it.

He’s ready, and—oh god, Sungchan is passing the ball to him. Suddenly Jisung is on high alert, winding up toward the goal. He captures Sungchan’s ball with ease, no longer tripping over himself as he makes his way to the end goal.

One kick, just nail this one kick.

He winds up, turning his body to the correct angle; he kicks it and…

Please go in, please go in, he’s begging.

The ball flies in straight past the goalkeeper, who jumps toward it but there’s no use. It all happens so quickly, and suddenly his team erupts into celebration when the referee blows his whistle. Still standing there, Jisung catches his breath and stares into the goal.

He won.

That means… He glances at you. You’re wearing a huge smile on your face, and without noticing it himself, Jisung has his own proud smile on his. His momentary peace is interrupted by his friends running toward him, nearly knocking him over in their celebration.

“Yeeahhh, Jisung Park, you’re the man!”

A few minutes later, Jisung tries to calm his nerves after thanking the opposing team for a good game. When he returns to the sidelines where his stuff is, he can barely get some water down his throat before Chenle is pushing a soccer ball into his hand. “Good luck, dude,” he says, and Jisung can feel the others’ eyes on him. Oh no, it’s time.

He steals a glance at you, and—Oh. You’re looking at him too. A bashful smile spreads over your lips and you turn away, focusing back to your conversation with your friend. His heart is beating so loud, but Jisung doesn’t think it’s because of the soccer game. Turning back to his friends, he groans, “I need a pep talk.”

“Okay, uh,” Mark attempts. “You got this, you know you’re the man. Um… if she rejects you, then it’s okay, there’s other fish in the sea!” A groan erupts through the group. “That’s not a pep talk, Mark!”

“Listen,” says Chenle suddenly, grabbing Jisung’s shoulders to stare at him. “She’s not gonna reject you. You’re Jisung freaking Park! The star of the team and my best friend! Go get ‘em, and don’t take no for an answer!” With this, he gives Jisung a small push in the girl’s direction.

“Actually, uh—I think no means no,” pipes in Jisung but everyone cuts him off with a collective, “JUST GO!”

Pink spreads across his cheeks as he slowly walks in your direction. At a good distance away, he places the coveted soccer ball down on the ground and winds himself up for a kick. Okay, he just shot the winning goal of the game. If he can do that, he can do this. Running forward the slightest, Jisung gives himself a silent pep talk as his foot taps the ball. It goes moving from its spot, flying through the air… and that’s when Jisung realizes his mistake. Instead of gently tapping against your ankle like he had planned, the ball flies straight in the air, knocking the side of your head rather harshly.

“Not that hard, genius!” Chenle chastises from behind him, and Jisung has to hold back the desire to actually groan in that moment. He immediately runs toward you, hands out in surprise. “Oh my god, oh my god, I’m so sorry,” he repeats, reaching out for you. You’re rubbing the spot on the side of your head where the ball had hit, and he wants to disappear right there.

He never should have done this.

Why was he born again?

“I’m so sorry,” he says again for the nth time, feeling shame and humiliation speed up his spine at the way you wince when you touch the side of your head. “Oh my god, go get me an ice pack,” he demands over his shoulder at his friends.

“No, no I’m okay,” you reassure everyone. Now all the eyes are on the two of you.

A few moments of silence pass as you eye the soccer ball which has rolled some distance away, crouching down to pick it up. Ball in hand, you scan the outside of it… and destroying all of Jisung’s hopes and expectations, you burst into laughter.

You laugh so hard, the boisterous sounds leaving your lips so vehemently that you have to cover your mouth with your hand. Jisung furrows his eyebrows. “I just kicked you in the head and you’re laughing?” Oh god, he must have done more damage than he thought. You don’t answer, the only sounds leaving you are giggles and guffaws. It’s only making him feel worse; geez, he wishes he wasn’t so tall so he could positively disappear right now.

You finally look up at him and meet his gaze, your own eyes crinkled in delight. Flipping the ball over in your hands, you present to him the ball. Written on one of the large white spots reads a firm, “Go out with me?” in black marker.

“This is why you kicked me in the head?” You ask, still chuckling the slightest. Bashfully, Jisung nods. You laugh again. Every time you do that, he feels like getting smaller and smaller. “Of course I’ll go out with you.”

Wait, really?

He says these words aloud, eyes wide at your ease. He hadn’t expected you to actually say yes! “Sure,” you respond with a smile. “Though I could’ve gone without the head injury.”

This brings a laugh from the both of you. He really had been worrying so much about nothing. His frame instantly relaxes, taking the ball back from you. “You sure you don’t need the ice pack?”

“No, I could definitely use an ice pack.”

The first date happens two weeks after that game, and it’s his first real date so he has no idea how to act. Everything goes fine—he takes you to the local arcade in your town, and though he’d deny it to the ends of the earth, you beat him in foosball.

“Ha!” You had screamed. “Superstar soccer player Jisung Park, and you can’t beat me in table soccer?” His cheeks had burned pink at the sound of your voice reverberating around the public arcade, but honestly the mirth in your eyes was worth it.

His cheeks are red but the air is cold on the walk home to your house. He had promised to have you home by nine, and it’s—he checks the time on his phone—8:45.

A look at you, holding the giant stuffed teddy bear that you had won (he hadn’t won it for you, because lord knows he’s horrible at skee-ball), and Jisung can see the air leaving your lips. “Hey, you cold?”

“Nah,” you shake your head, though you scoot closer to him on the sidewalk. His tongue laves over his bottom lip quickly, and he almost wants to hold your hand. But that wouldn’t do much to keep you warm.

He purses his lips, then immediately his hands are working at taking off his hoodie. That’s a cute thing, isn’t it? Boyfriends giving hoodies to their girlfriends? “Here, take this.”

When you take one look at the hoodie in his hands and roll your eyes, Jisung knows he’s in for it. “Seriously? You can’t fool me with some cheesy rom-com moves,” you laugh.

Ouch.

That hurt his pride. He was just trying to be nice, maybe a tad bit romantic, but you clearly weren’t having it. He should have known you would be so tsundere, and maybe he does.

He knows you act strong, like there is no way on the face of the earth that you would ever swoon for his lame attempts at flirting. But when you reach upward on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek before you step into your house, he knows you like it just as much as he does.

For the longest time, it’s been just him and his sister Naeun.

His parents passed away shortly after his birth, so they stayed under the custody of their aunt. When his sister became an adult, she became his legal guardian. Since then, it’s been the two of them against the world.

Though kids had sometimes made fun of him for not having a mom or a dad, Jisung never paid those kids much attention. Sure, he didn’t have a dad to teach him how to drive or a mom to attend his parent-teacher conferences, but he had his sister and she was all he’d never need. Naeun gave up everything for him: she didn’t go to college, she traded nights out with her friends to help him with her math homework, she worked two jobs so he could play soccer. She had worked so hard, perhaps sheltered Jisung so much that he had always lived a comfortable life.

It never occurs to him just how much she had struggled until the morning she asks him to get a job.

She sits across the dining table at breakfast, and over his cereal, Jisung notes how shaken and guilty she looks. There must be something on her mind, but that’s how his sister’s always been; she doesn’t like to worry him, and speaks up when she’s ready. When she finally tells him, he blinks, confused.

“I can’t pay the bills alone. Not with soccer getting more expensive, and the landlord raising the rent—that bastard,” she mumbles under her breath, surprising Jisung. She hardly cursed. “It’s… It’ll just be for a short time. I promise.” She has tears in her eyes. Jisung furrows his eyebrows; she must feel guiltier about this than he thought. Immediately he nods in understanding. “It’s fine, Noona. Don’t worry about it. I’ll, uh, go out looking this weekend.”

He takes another spoonful of cereal into his mouth, thinking that the conversation will end there. But it doesn’t, his sister’s quiet voice reaching his ears. “Promise me you’ll go to college, Sung. Promise me you’ll make it. Make it all worth it.”

And it’s in that moment, in the way that his sister’s voice is on the edge of breaking, that it occurs to him just how much his sister has sacrificed for him. How quickly she had to grow up, having become his parent at eighteen, just a few months away from how old he was now. And he was nowhere near as responsible as her.

He swears in that moment that he’ll uphold his promise. He’ll get a scholarship, he’ll help his sister out. He’ll pay back everything she’s given up for him.

Finally, today you’re in town.

It’s the first time you’ve come to visit him in his town, and he’s so excited to show you everything: his school, his favorite ice cream place on the corner of the street from his apartment building, and even the park he grew up kicking soccer balls at. Even after all these years, him and his friends still came here to practice their soccer technique.

Today, the two of you are sitting underneath a tree at said park, his head in your lap. You’re running your hands through his dark hair, and wow, he’d never admit that it feels so good.

There’s a small laugh heard from you as you comb through his locks. “You should dye your hair.”

“Suddenly?” He asks. “I don’t even know what color I’d dye it.”

“You should do like, a blue or something. Oh, purple! Purple would be nice!” Your excitement causes him to roll his eyes promptly, sitting up. “I’ll dye my hair purple if you dye your hair purple,” he retorts to you.

“Maybe I will,” you say, standing onto your feet now that he’s gotten off of you. Wiping the grass from your legs briefly, you nod toward his soccer ball a few feet away. “C’mon, let’s play.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You wanna play soccer.”

“Yeah, is that so surprising?”

“Um, yeah, a little bit considering the fact that you said it’s boring and that you complain having to get up to go to the fridge at two in the morning,” quips Jisung with a laugh. You only roll your eyes in response. “I never said soccer was boring, I just said it’s only interesting when you play. And you’re gonna teach me right now, so stand up,” you say, extending a hand to him.

He takes your hand, rising to his feet before picking up the ball. “Fine,” he relents, a smirk making its way onto his face. “Try to keep up.”

For fifteen minutes, the two of you race up and down the park’s open grass field, chasing the ball in every direction. He evades you, long legs carrying him and the ball while you chase after him.

“Wait,” you say mid-sprint, slowing to a stop. Your chest is heaving, and slowly Jisung stops his running also. “You good?” He asks from a few feet away.

“Yeah,” you say breathlessly, reaching a hand up to wipe at your forehead. “Just… gimme a sec.” A minute passes of you catching your breath, but Jisung doesn’t pay it much attention—a person who didn’t play soccer and have trained lungs like him would struggle.

“Okay, okay,” you finally say, shaking your head a bit. “Let’s go again.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, worry seeping into his tone.

“Yeah, yes! Just—just go.”

So he does, beginning to kick the ball down field as he chases after it, stopping past center field to pass the ball to you. You’re racing after him, and though the ball is coming your way, you trip over it, falling straight onto the floor.

Your head hangs low, and he immediately rushes over to you.

“Hey, hey! You okay?” He asks, kneeling down but your eyes are closed. He swipes a hand over your forehead, and it’s that moment when he realizes your eyes are closed. Did you pass out? Had he pushed you too far? “(Name)?”

No response. Oh god, what is he supposed to do?

Is he supposed to check if you’re breathing? Where can he check for a pulse again? In his moment of inadequacy, he pulls out his phone and calls his sister.

She’ll know what to do, but it pains him that he doesn’t.

His sister arrives quickly, and immediately takes you to the hospital. According to her, you do have a pulse and you probably just had heat exhaustion. He sure hopes so…

For a few hours he sits in the waiting room as he awaits the arrival of your parents. They rushed over from your town, four hours away, and this definitely was not the impression he wanted to have on them. Head in his hands, he can’t help but worry about you.

You do wake up, eventually but he can’t see you until your parents arrive.

They take you back home. You’re walking and talking again, but as you shoot him a weak smile from over your shoulder, walking down the hall and out of the hospital, Jisung can’t help but feel that something has gone terribly wrong.

He swears he’s never been so tired.

Working at McDonald’s isn’t horrible, per se, it’s just different. But it definitely takes more out of him than soccer ever did. The second he walks into his room Jisung drops his backpack on the bean bag next to the door and almost collapses on his bed. Throwing his work cap on the floor, he runs a hand through his hair and pulls out his phone.

The best thing about coming home from work, is coming home to you.

He immediately fishes for his phone from his pocket and opens it to speed dial. Pressing on your contact, Jisung presses the phone to his ear and waits for his girlfriend’s voice on the other end. The line picks up.

“Hey,” he says, a smile spreading over his lips without him even knowing.

“Hi…”

Something’s wrong. Your voice is missing its signature excitement, the snarkiness he had grown accustomed to. He sits up in bed, eyebrows furrowed. “Is everything okay?”

Yes, you’re supposed to say. Everything’s fine. Everything’s just peachy.

But you don’t. “I got a call from the hospital.”

After you had fainted the other day playing soccer with him, the hospital had run a few tests to make sure you were okay. He knew this, you both did. They were supposed to say that you had been dehydrated, that you hadn’t eaten in a few hours. “I haven’t been completely honest with you, Jisung…”

“What, what is it?”

There’s a momentary silence on the other side, then a shaky breath. “When I was ten… I got really sick. I was always having nosebleeds, always tired—some days I didn’t even want to get out of bed. They took me to the doctor and they told me that… I had leukemia.”

Jisung releases a heavy breath, staring into his sheets. No… don’t say it.

“I fought it for two years, and I beat it. God, it was… it was really hard, and I got through it. It’s been five years now but—but the hospital called and…” Please, no. “My cancer came back.”

Jisung’s never felt this way before; like all the air in his lungs have been pulled from his chest, lost to the universe. Not even when he sprinted across the soccer field, not even when he had gotten punched in the chest. All those times, his chest burned with fire, be it anger or passion. But now… his chest feels empty and hollow and numb. He manages to spit out a few words.

It’s not supposed to be like this. You’re supposed to be okay, you’re supposed to go to prom together. Graduate. He’s supposed to get a soccer scholarship, you’re supposed to study journalism at the same school, and the long distance would cease to exist. You were supposed to be happy. “But it’s gonna be okay, right? You’ve fought it before, you can do it again.” Perhaps it was a bit selfish of him to ask for consolation when you were the one with the illness. But you were a journalist, never a liar. Your voice is weak, like you’ve already given up.

“I don’t know.”

“What’s up with you?” Chenle’s voice is almost worried, but Jisung wouldn’t be able to tell because his eyes are focused on the ground. He’s been kicking a soccer ball around with Chenle and Mark for a while now, but there’s clearly something very off about the teenager today.

“Yeah, is something wrong?” Mark asks.

Jisung blows some air into his cheeks. Should he tell them? It’s your private information but technically, you’re his girlfriend right? The news has been troubling him for a few days now, and he’s had no one to talk to. Surely, he can’t talk to his sister about it.

He should just spit it out. “(Name) has cancer.”

It’s like the world stops, his friends taking in his words. “W-What? What did you just say?” Chenle speaks first, then Mark quickly follows. “Did you say (Name) has cancer?”

Keeping his gaze on the ground, Jisung nods and gives the ball a small kick in Mark’s direction. “Yeah. She had leukemia when she was younger, and… the other day she went to the hospital and they said that it came back. Her cancer came back.” When he looks up, both his friends are looking at him with genuine concern etched across their faces.

“Seriously? Cancer? And you’re still dating her?” Mark asks, causing Jisung to raise an eyebrow in confusion. Did he just insinuate what he thinks he did?

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Chenle speaks up next, trying to defuse the sudden tension. “Jisung, you guys have only been dating like, a couple months. It was just like yesterday that you kicked her in the head asking her out!”

“And?” Jisung asks pointedly. Suddenly he’s in front of Chenle, and though he technically towers over the latter in height, Chenle’s chest is straight as he makes his point.

“Is it really worth it to stay on a sinking ship?”

Jisung’s voice reaches a new level of low, erupting from a place deep inside of him that he’s hidden away. It’s a place of rage, of anger sizzling and bubbling in his stomach. Suddenly they’re both chest to chest, unwilling to back down. “Now, I know you’re not talking about my girlfriend.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Mark interrupts, hands coming between them to tear the two boys apart. “Calm down. Both of you.”

“He started it,” accuses Jisung quickly, dark eyebrows furrowed in frustration. “My girlfriend is not a sinking ship. Neither is my relationship, and I don’t need you to comment on it.” He looks to Mark for guidance. Mark had always been the most logical one, the one he would look to for help, and though he thinks that Mark will agree with him, he almost looks guilty.

“But it’s true, Jisung. We’re worried about you. She’s just a girl. Is she really worth hurting yourself over?” He had trusted Mark to be on his side, but now Jisung just releases a scoff. He had been hoping for his friends’ support, but it seems like he’ll be going through this alone, then.

You’ve been avoiding him.

Of course, there’s not much that can be done to avoid him when you live hours away from each other. But you haven’t been responding to his texts, and when you do, they’re mostly short and taut. You’ve been cutting your phone calls short, often saying that you’re tired. Maybe you really are, but it hurts hearing the line cut off, not knowing how you’re really feeling.

Jisung can’t help but feel like he’s failing. He should be doing better.

It’s like your relationship is an hourglass, running out of time with every day that he spends going to school, work, or soccer practice. Like you’re getting further and further away with each short text message.

His entire life has been spent running. Speeding forward center field like a lightning bolt, long legs carrying him far ahead everyone else. But for the first time, Jisung feels like he’s falling behind.

It only takes a three hour bus ride (four, with the added stops) but in Jisung’s mind, it’s all worth it. It won’t be the first time he’s gone over to your house, but it is indeed the first he’s ever showed up unannounced, which is a strange appearance given that he lives three hours away. But with everything happening, he’s willing to give up the day and six hours worth of travel for you.

Sitting on the bus, he pulls out his phone. It’s early, like nine in the morning, but he knows you have a doctor’s appointment in a few hours so you’re definitely awake. He presses the facetime button, but you quickly reject his call. His eyebrows furrow, but lighten with an incoming text from you.

[ message from : (Name) ♡ ] : jisung, i’m using the bathroom rn. call you back in a bit.

He nearly rolls his eyes, but it’s a sweet one. You’re always so candid.

[ message to : (Name) ♡ ] : you act like you’ve never facetimed me on the toilet before.

[ message from : (Name) ♡ ] : wow, call me out more why don’t you

[ message to : (Name) ♡ ] : pick up my call, brat ♡

[ message from : (Name) ♡ ] : no, You pick up My call :p

Seconds later, his phone is lit up with an incoming facetime screen. A laugh almost leaves him at your tenacity before accepting the call.

The call opens up to the visual of his girlfriend, you in your PJs fixing the phone up against the mirror in the bathroom. He sees himself reflected in the mini screen, hoodie on and earbuds in wearing a boyish grin. “Hey pretty girl. Make sure you wash your hands.”

You roll your eyes at his remarks. “Hey ugly boy. I’m already doing that. What are you doing?”

“Just making sure, because I don’t think you brushed your teeth after you fell asleep on call the other night,” he teases, clicking his tongue as you’re the only person he can tease so easily. “I’m on the bus to practice.” A lie, but a white one at that. “What are you up to?”

You wack your still dry toothbrush in front of the camera, nose scrunching up in the slightest. It’s a habit of his that you’ve picked up. “I’m also doing that right now.” You wet the brush, putting some toothpaste on it. “I thought you didn’t have practice this Friday? Or was that next Friday?”

Your actions bring a low laugh to his lips, and his eyes momentarily focus on the passing landscape outside the bus window as he’s now three hours out of his normal perimeter. “Uh, Coach wanted to add in a practice today. Don’t you have a doctor’s appointment today?”

You nod at his answer, toothbrush in mouth. “I do, I think it’s like, in a hour or something.”

“Oh, okay,” he replies simply as the bus comes to a stop, your house only a short walk away. He stands, gathering his bag. “Gotta go, but I’ll talk to you in a bit, pumpkin honeysuckle,” he snorts, making his way to the front of the bus.

Your brows furrow as you give him a disapproving look through the screen, shaking your head slightly before moving to rinse your mouth. “Talk to you soon, don’t get hurt at practice or I’ll fight you.”

He scoffs as he steps out of the bus, into your neighborhood. “Like you could take me. Later.” You probably could, given your determination, but he gives you a nose scrunch before ending the call. He’s only taken a few steps when his phone rings with a text message.

[ message from : (Name) ♡ ] : you and i both know i could take you :)

A snort leaves him. Classic (Name).

When he arrives a few minutes later, he hesitates at the door, only praying that the person who opens up is you, not your parents or god forbid, your brother. It only takes a few hard knocks before he hears your voice on the other side, determined to see just who the hell had the nerve to interrupt your laziness this early in the morning. “Who the fu—”

He tsk’s in distaste. He shouldn’t have been surprised that the first words to leave his girlfriend’s mouth are cuss words. “You potty mouth. I thought you’d be happy to see me,” he says, opening his arms.

Jisung’s not quite sure what he expected. For you to jump in his arms? What a delusional boy. You blink for a few seconds, then suddenly you’re throwing yourself at him, fist first to land a deserved punch to his arm. “I thought you had practice? What are you doing here and why do you look so much cuter than when I last saw you?”

“Well, I lied,” he snickers, patting your head. “I’m here to annoy you, obviously. But you look too. For a—” A person dying of cancer, but he can’t say it. He won’t. “—person who barely got up twenty minutes ago.”

Your hand immediately begins rubbing the spot that your fist landed, worried that it might actually bruise in a bit. Jisung asks, “So are you gonna invite me in, or?”

“What are you, a vampire or something? I’m pretty sure you weren’t given permission when you entered my heart so just come in and cuddle me before my appointment.”

Your response catches him off guard so he blinks before entering in silently, sticking his hands back into the loose fitting pocket of his hoodie. Even after six months, he’s still not used to you saying those kinds of things. Hell, he still gets sweaty holding your hand.

“Hey Mom! Dad!” You’re grabbing onto his arm, tugging him into the kitchen. “Jisung’s here!”

After a small breakfast and conversation with your parents, he’s given the permission to go with you to your doctor’s appointment. The two of you take the bus, hands interlaced as you sit, and Jisung smiles awkwardly when an elderly woman compliments the two of you, calling you a cute couple.

He’s never really been in a hospital before.

For an arduous soccer player, he’s lucky enough to never have suffered a pain great enough to warrant a visit to the hospital, nor had he ever been sickly enough to send him there. It’s for that reason that he feels slightly out of place, tucked in his hoodie whilst trying his best not to gaze at the others in the waiting room. Instead, he tries to keep his gaze focused upon his girlfriend as you remain bright despite their surroundings. Your hands intertwined, he feels a comfortable warmth seeping into his veins, gold in color and feeling. Gold like the ring on your finger, and like your heart.

He’s so lucky to have you.

“I don’t really have anything planned,” he says softly, giving your hand a slight squeeze. It’s true that your itinerary is next to nonexistent for this impromptu date, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. If anything, a hospital is a strange starting destination for a date but your relationship is a bit strange. Quietly, he says to you, voice low in the hopes that no one overhears, “Don’t hospitals scare you?”

He knows that you spent a good portion of your time here; surely you must have grown accustomed to it, but Jisung was not. Hospitals were cold… white and bleak and much too quiet.

“Nah, not really,” you answer with a shake of your head. “Except for all the souls wandering around.”

Jisung blinks. “Souls?” He gulps.

“Yup. The souls of the passing.” You click your tongue, along with a wink in his direction now that you’ve successfully managed to creep him out. Do you ever stop making jokes?

The door to the waiting room opens and a medical assistant calls your name. “Hey, I’ll be right back,” you tell him, standing and releasing his arm. He gives a hesitant nod, watching as you leave through the door and disappear down the hall.

When you emerge, some forty-five minutes later, the mirth is gone from your eyes.

He knows right away: you didn’t get good news. His heart is pumping in his chest, like he’s waiting for you to collapse right there. Years could pass, and Jisung swears he’d never be able to erase that memory of you. “Are you—” Okay, he wants to ask. But you just give him a small smile and shake your head. It’s not the time. He cuts himself short, reaching a hand out to you with a small, albeit forced, smile. “Let’s go on our date.”

It’s a long afternoon, spent in the arcade where you had had your first date—this time, for memory’s sake, he gets another ring from the claw machine—then McDonald’s and ice cream. He treats you to lunch, courtesy of his employee discount, and the entire day is filled with laughter and mutual teasing. Everything feels like it’s okay again.

Jisung enjoys these moments the most.

The moments where he doesn’t feel like he has to be anybody: not the star soccer player, not the kind understanding younger brother, or a kid trying to look grown up at an adult party. With him he’s just you, awkwardness and quirks altogether. You’ve never hid yourself from him, and now he doesn’t have to hide himself either.

Now that the day is touching evening, the two of you sit at a park, relaxing mindlessly on the swings next to each other. Now that the romantic buzz is gone, the two of you have fallen into a comfortable silence.

“Thanks for coming this far, Ji. This was… nice.”

A small smile spreads over his lips. “It was nothing. I wanted to do it for a long time.”

“No, really,” you say, turning to him with a thankful smile. Your eyes are serious now, and Jisung feels the sunlight seep into his skin. “I really missed you.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. This moment feels heavy, like he’ll remember it for years to come. “... I missed you too. A lot.” You both turn back to face the sunset, watching the sun fade behind a hill. It’s setting, streaks of gentle reds and soft-spoken oranges staining the empyrean firmament. It’s then that Jisung feels his heart begin to sink, like the sun, into the pit of his stomach.

“Are you scared?”

A moment passes without you saying anything, then you speak up beside him. “Not really. I mean, it’s just the hospital. The only thing that’ll suck is not being able to leave. I never thought I’d say it but, I’m really gonna miss going to school.”

Did you think you were never going to return? “Are your chances good?”

The implications from earlier at the hospital return. What are the chances that things aren’t looking up? “They say so,” you breath out.

That’s not good enough. Anything could happen. Jisung needs clarification, confirmation. He doesn’t want to lose you. “What if you—”

“I might.”

A beat of silence.

Jisung feels like crying. It gathers in the back of his throat. “What would I do without you?”

There it is: the implication that you’ll be gone. That one day, Jisung will have to wake up and face a world without you in it, a world with less happiness and less passion. A world where there isn’t someone who will call him ugly when really they think he’s the cutest to walk to the earth, or where there isn’t someone to make fun of him the way you do. A world with less love.

Your voice is dry as you speak.

“You’d move on.”

“I don’t know if I’d ever love anyone like you,” he finds himself saying.

“L-Love?” You suddenly say, voice the smallest he’s ever heard. You’ve always had the loudest voice, most prominent in his brain, but his words seem to have caught you off guard. “Do you? Love me?”

He doesn’t know what love feels like. He’s just a teenager, what is he supposed to know about love? About loss? Is it all-consuming, like in the movies? Is it meant to hurt? “... I think I do. I think I love you.”

There’s a sniffle next to him, and he turns immediately, alarmed that he may have made you cry. There are tears in your eyes, but they don’t fall. Being a writer, you talk too much. Your words are eloquent and true, though sometimes Jisung has a hard time getting you to stop talking. But this time, you choose to abandon words altogether, instead leaving your swing to stand in front of him. Compelled by nature, he stands too. Instead of speaking, you reach upward on your tiptoes once more. Except this time, you kiss him.

Your lips meet, and everything is golden.

And against the backdrop of the setting sun, it feels like the closing scene of Jisung’s very own romance movie. But this isn’t the end, he knows.

When he walks you home, he offers his sweater again.

This time not out of obligation or the desire to appear more romantic than he is, but because you’re cold. Really cold. You’re shivering, arms wrapped around yourself not giving enough warmth.

“Here,” Jisung says, already beginning to take off his hoodie, but you stop him with a hand and a pointed look, though your chattering teeth cause you to stutter. “S-Still trying to woo me with cheap rom-com tricks?”

You’re stubborn. You’re so stubborn and he hates it.

“Just take it,” he says, pushing it into your arms.

“No,” you argue. “You have a three hour ride home, it’s late and you’ll be cold.”

It’s obvious your illness has made you even more sensitive to the cold, and for that reason, Jisung’s fine facing the biting cold as long as you’re okay. “You’re freezing, please just take it.”

“Jisung, I said no.” Your voice is stern now, and he gets the feeling that he’s upset you. He gives up, gnawing on his bottom lip in deep thought. He just wants to make you feel better, doing what he thinks will help but with you, it never does. You’re so independent, too much so and much too stubborn to admit you need his help… “Fine,” he says before putting his hoodie back on. If you won’t take his warmth, then he’ll give it to you.

He lifts his arm, placing it fully around your shoulders and pulling you to him so your bodies meet. “At least let me hold you,” he mumbles. Your frame freezes in his for a moment, until you wrap your arms around the circumference of his chest.

Burying your face into his side, you relent into him. “Okay, fine.”

And later, he finds that you’re right. When he sits alone on the dimly lit train, he realizes that the warmth he had been feeling earlier, bathing in the sun’s rays with your lips, is long gone. All he feels now, is cold.

“You skipped practice the other day.” Jisung looks up from where he had been sitting on the bleachers, tying his shoes after practice. It had been a tough practice; he had missed quite a few passes and whiffed more than just a couple shots. He can only blame himself. He’s been distracted; alongside his worries about you, he also has a job to attend to and even more, the results for his dream school’s soccer scholarship is supposed to come out soon. His gaze falls on all six of his closest friends, looking down at him.

“Yeah, something came up,” he says easily.

“More like, someone,” retorts Donghyuck easily. “We know you ditched to go see your girlfriend.”

“And what about it?”

“I don’t know what’s happened to you, man. You never want to play ball with us anymore, you don’t want to hang out with us. Whenever you invite you to a party, you raincheck. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore,” Chenle spits out, arms crossed over his chest.

“Chenle,” says Renjun carefully.

“No,” interrupts the boy in question. Chenle looks straight at Jisung, who stands now to meet the others’ heights. “He needs to hear this. Ever since that girl came around, it’s like you’ve lost your way. You used to be all about soccer and friendship. Now you always have her on your mind, and—did you see the way you played earlier?—she’s messing you up. Your head’s not on straight.”

“Chenle, stop.” Donghyuck speaks up now, voice low as he tries to stop the younger from going off. “You’re not the same Jisung I met in peewee camp, and I don’t know if I like who I’m seeing,” Chenle finishes.

That’s enough for him. His voice comes out before he can stop it.

“You know why I never party with you anymore?” Jisung suddenly says, voice booming and clearly at his limit. “Because I’ve always hated partying. Because I have a job now, and because I don’t want my sister to stay up worrying about me while I’m getting piss drunk. I hate drinking, I hate trying to look cool while actually looking fucking stupid, because I don’t know how I can even think about partying when my girlfriend is fucking dying.”

A hearty scoff leaves his lips, as though he can’t even fathom the words he’s faced today. “You don’t even know me anymore? That’s where you’re wrong, because you never knew me. Not all of me. You only see me as the star player who’s gonna get you your win. She knows me, she knows all of me, and she doesn’t try to change me. Well, sorry that I’m not the same kid you met years ago who let everyone walk all over him. I thought you guys were my friends, but clearly you only want me around for as long as I can play.”

Those are the last fiery words to leave Jisung’s mouth before he turns on his heels, storming off the field and away from everyone else. He just needs to get out of here, away from everything before he ruins it. Mark and Hyuck follow after him, while Jeno and the rest hold Chenle back.

“Don’t listen to him,” Mark says, ever level headed. “We know what you’re going through.”

Though he appreciates their concern, Jisung spits, “No, you don’t.”

Both of them stop walking, no longer chasing after him as Jisung pulls out his phone.

A new email.

He immediately opens it, eyes glazing over the text.

Dear Jisung Park,

Thank you for applying to our university’s soccer scholarship. We reviewed every application with our utmost dedication and attention. Unfortunately, we regret to inform you that we cannot accept your application at this time. Our soccer program is one of the most competitive at this school, however we encourage you to reapp…

What a load of shit.

The past few weeks have been horrid.

Soccer is as tense as ever, though Jisung would be lying if he said that his fight with Chenle didn’t fuel him to work even harder during practice. His job sucks, especially after someone spilled a bucket of old oil on him (it was cold, thank goodness but still gross nonetheless). So far he’s gotten another rejection. Who knew that getting into college would be this hard?

He wishes that he could say his relationship with you is the saving grace, but it’s really not. You’re in the hospital now, and the two of you have been talking less and less. Even now with his feud between his friends, he feels even more alone. Today when he calls, you sound even more tired than usual.

“Hey, chocolate honeycomb bunny,” Jisung says, giving his absolute worst at giving a cringe-worthy nickname. It seems you’re too tired to even give a repulsed response.

“Hey.” You’re quiet for a moment, only your breathing heard across the line. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” sighs Jisung, running a hand through his dark locks. “Just exhausted. My coworker is getting on my last nerve.”

“The same one you talked about last week?”

“Who spilled the dirty oil on me? Yeah,” he responds with a roll of his eyes. “We’ve both been working the same amount of time, I just want to know why he’s so slow to pick it up.”

It’s characteristic of you to agree, seeing as complaining is one of your favorite past times. But you don’t, voice only coming out softly across the call, “Maybe just give him some time.”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” he sighs. “How about you? Are you feeling better?”

“About the same,” you respond truthfully. God, you sound so tired. He almost feels bad for making you talk to him when you clearly sound exhausted. “Any more results?” You ask, regarding his college acceptances.

“No,” he shakes his head. He doesn’t understand. He’s a good student, he’s done community service. Just what more do they want from him? “You said I was special, but I don’t think the colleges see that.”

He can almost see your small smile in his mind. “You are special. Just ‘cause they don’t see it doesn’t you aren’t.”

“Eh, I don’t know,” Jisung says, playing with a loose thread on his bedsheet.

What you say next catches him off guard. “Maybe we can both be college-less, together.”

“What?” He asks, brows tightening in confusion. “Didn’t you get into the journalism program at that one university?” He’s caught you. You’re silent on the line for a few long seconds, but the quiet is deafening for him.

“I did, but Jisung, I…” You hesitate. “I’m not going.”

“What do you mean you’re not going?” He asks.

“I… I don’t know if I want to.” In a small voice, you continue, “I don’t know that I’ll make it that long.” What are you saying? What are you implying? Heart racing, Jisung tries to decipher these words in his mind. To him, it just sounds like the end.

“You’re giving up already, I hear it in your voice.”

“I’m not,” you say, a broken promise. “I just… want to be prepared for the worst.”

“The worst isn’t coming. You’re going to get through this. You’re going to beat it. I know you are.” It becomes blatantly clear in this moment that the person Jisung is trying to convince, is himself.

His pleas fall upon deaf ears, because you argue back in what seems like the strongest voice you’ve made in months. As though you’ve amassed all your remaining energy for this conversation. “I’m not a hero, Jisung. I’m not cut out for this. The doctors said it’s not looking good.”

“Then prove them wrong. You’re gonna beat it.”

“I don’t want to be the underdog either, Ji. You know I hate them.” What you say next has his blood boiling. “I don’t deserve it anyways, no one would want me to come back.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jisung raises his voice now, volume growing with each word.

“No one likes me,” you spit out across the line, and he doesn’t need to see you to imagine how incensed you are at the moment. “I’m rude, I’m loud, I cross boundaries and I say things that hurt without caring about who it touches. And before you yell at me that no one thinks of me like that, these are things I’ve heard from other people.” Your voice breaks, as does Jisung’s heart. “If this were a movie, no one would root for me to survive.”

“I do,” Jisung says, voice strong. “I’m rooting for you. Every. Single. Day. And who cares about how other people see you? You’re rude? You’re crass? I like you because of those things, because you’re different from me. Am I not enough?”

“You’re different,” you relent, voice tired. “You’re the only one who matters. But I—“ You choke up. “I’m just tired of fighting. I don’t want to go to sleep every night not knowing if I’ll wake up the next morning. I want to be strong, and I want to face every day knowing that it could be my last… I don’t want to leave anything behind—”

“You’re not leaving,” he cuts in.

“—and I can’t go through every day letting you think that everything is okay, because they’re not. But I’m ready to let go, Ji. Because I’m happy with what I had, with what we had, and I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

Tears are falling down his cheeks now, suiciding off the surface of his face and staining his bed sheets. He doesn’t know if the tears are the result of sadness, anger, or the pain of loving someone the universe would never let him have, yet it hurts all the same. “But I love you! I told you that I loved you.”

“I love you too,” you cry, and the sound is heartbreaking. “But I just wish that were enough.”

A pregnant silence consumes both of you. All that can be heard is the sound of your mutual crying, along with your breathing that Jisung had learned to fall asleep to. When you speak again, your voice is steady. You had always been the stronger one. “I don’t think you should call anymore.” A few sniffles. He can’t even speak. “Goodbye, Jisung.”

Then the line dies.

It’s Christmastime. He knows it’s cold, probably even colder in the hospital where you are.

Now, Jisung knows you don’t want anything from him. You don’t want him around. In the past weeks he must have become someone even he wouldn’t want around. And though he gets the feeling that you’ll never need him again, he figures you could use a sweater. It’s nothing much, and really he thinks it could be better.

A hoodie, not fit to your size but slightly larger because he knew you well enough to know you’d like it like that. On one sleeve, near the wrist, a patch of a soccer ball. He had learned how to sew it on himself. On the other, his initials. JS.

He sends it in the mail, in a box to the hospital with your name and room number on it. There’s no letter, nothing. Just his bare soul in the form of an oversized cotton hoodie. He’d send it himself, appearing at the door to your hospital bed, but something tells him he’s run out of things to say.

His phone rings at three in the morning.

He knows what it means.

February 2nd, at 2:39AM. The world lost you.

It would never be the same again, and neither would he.

Grief is an interesting thing, someone once told him.

He doesn’t quite remember who it was, whether it was his sister comforting him after the death of their goldfish, the guidance counselor at his school giving him a required appointment after the passing of a student, or yourself. But as the hours go by, it feels more and more like a weight in his chest that has been sitting on a hollowed place in his heart.

Grief is indescribable, and Jisung doesn’t know if this is because his limited seventeen year old vocabulary hasn’t collected enough fitting words to even begin to verbalize his emotions, or if because it really is indescribable.

The first few days had been hell.

He had almost become someone that he didn’t know, barely stepping out of bed and perhaps worrying his sister out of her mind. It was his way of ignoring the world, dissociating himself from the irrefutable truth that you weren’t really gone. You were still laying in bed, three hours away as usual, struggling but still fighting. If he could lay in bed, sleeping the days away and ignoring his text message condolences from his friends, he could pretend for some time that things were the way they were, eight months ago.

Eight months before it.

Eight months before he lost you. Before your relationship, a burgeoning dandelion in the nook of spring. But dandelions represent rebirth, the reappearance of hope like a beacon after an arduous winter, and you would never have another spring.

He could not pretend, because every morning the sun rose again, and he would have to reach his head out from the burrow of blankets he had buried himself in. He would need to face it for himself that he woke up, and you didn’t. His friends texted. His sister knocked on his door and begged him to eat, even going as far as to cook his favorite foods as a means to lure him from the darkness of his corner. He ate. But it was never the same.

Messy bedheads, earbuds tucked in with muzak playing gently like the thrum of his heart which beat enough for the both of you, tear-stained pillow cases, knees to the chest, light failing to shine in through the blinds which remained closed, counting the seconds between each breath, dreaming insubordinate dreams.

The first few days went like that. Empty.

Then he was angry.

Angry because the world had given him a love worth changing for, then ripped it from his inexperienced hands. He had never had anything in his life! Not a mother, not a father. Could he not have this one lily, this flower which sought to remind him of the fragility of life? And even more so, he was angry for you. You were a fire—you were a bottle of passion bursting at the seams, a well of untapped potential, a boldness which no one else could emulate—and the universe crushed you beneath its foot.

And suddenly, the emptiness of your hollow space reflected upon him.

He should have been better, should have done more. A soccer ball proposition? A sweater? It was laughable; that was the least he could give? If only he had called, if only he hadn’t listened to you like the meek child he was, things could be better.

And above all, he was sad.

What would he do without you?

Moving on seemed useless. A light at the end of a dark tunnel which stretched for ages. An epiphany that you would never reach.

He just hoped that it was not cold. That you left the world in a ball of light, surrounded in the warmth of family and love, not the rigidness of the unforgiving world. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but he hoped that the soccer ball sleeve had been clutched to your chest, and that his hoodie could have provided just a little bit of that warmth.

The walking pattern outside his bedroom door is different from his sister’s. So is the knock on the door; his older sister’s is much more quiet, reserved, as though she was afraid to wake him. This one is harsh, and it reverberates through the room before the door opens.

The air in the room is still for a moment.

“Jisung.”

It’s Chenle. And Mark, Renjun, Jeno, Donghyuck, as well as Jaemin. They all take their seats either on the end of his bed, the floor, or his beanbag, but Jisung doesn’t move from his place underneath the blankets.

“What do you want?” He manages to groan out in a small voice.

Someone places a hand on his leg, a comforting gesture. He thinks it’s Jaemin from the gentle touch. “We’re here for you.”

Donghyuck comments, “You haven’t been to practice this week.” Of course that would be what they would mention first. Jisung scoffs. “I’m kind of going through something.”

“And we’re here.” Mark’s voice.

“We wanted to apologize.” Chenle speaks now, and despite being best friends since they were five, he’s the last person Jisung expected to say sorry. In their decade-long friendship, Chenle was the confident one, the one who charged forward without consequence while Jisung trailed behind, cleaning up his mess. “We’ve been… assholes, simply put.” Had he been in higher spirits, Jisung would have snorted. “We thought we understood what you were going through, and we thought it was dumb. To let yourself get hurt over some random girl… but we were wrong. We didn’t understand your point of view.”

“Not even a little bit,” says Donghyuck, head hanging low.

“Yeah, we’re supposed to be your friends. Your team! We’re supposed to lift you up when you’re down and… well, we haven’t been doing that. And we’re sorry. I’m sorry.” Chenle says. Slowly, Jisung lifts his head from below the blanket to face his friends. They all wear a variety of expressions, all somber. “And we know now… she’s not just some random girl.”

Yeah, they’ve all been assholes, some more than others, and Jisung can’t exactly say that they were any help in his struggle. But perhaps this was something he needed to go through alone. At the time, he needed you. But now… he just really needs his best friends.

Tears sting at his eyes for the nth time.

“Come here, you crybaby,” says Jaemin, opening his arms.

It’s Monday, meaning he has to go back to school today. He’s not ready, how could he be? It hasn’t even been a week since you… left, but he knows he has to go back. His sister, God bless her, had let him take the first few days off but now that the weekend has ended and school has rolled back around, he has no choice.

“You look like shit.”

Donghyuck has always lacked a filter. It would hurt if Jisung didn’t know that Donghyuck meant that in the best way possible. You look like shit, he says. So I’m glad you found it in you to come to school, is what he doesn’t say.

Jisung closes his locker with a sigh. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” snickers his friend, and Jisung turns his head to find Mark and Jaemin approaching. “Morning,” greets Jaemin as he taps the top of Jisung’s head, despite being shorter.

“Hi,” responds Jisung quietly, clutching his chemistry textbook to his chest. The three of them look at him with quiet and somber eyes, but don’t say anything. Mark places a comforting hand on his shoulder, giving it a small rub.

“You got this.”

The truth is, he can’t do this. The world feels quiet and empty, lacking a particular passion that you used to always embody. It could be worse. Thank goodness your relationship was rather private; he doesn’t know how he’d be able to function at school had there been curious eyes on him, if you had gone to the same school as him.

The day goes rather slowly, and Jisung busies himself with catching up on his work that he had missed. He could almost pretend like things are normal. It’s not until fifth period calculus that something strange happens.

An office TA pokes her head in and scrambles over to the teacher, who was in the midst of a very enthralling lecture on integrals that Jisung was definitely not paying great attention to. The TA whispers something into the teacher’s ear, then hands her a piece of paper. Mrs. Huang nods, then suddenly Jisung finds her eyes on him. “Jisung, Mr. Moon wants you in his office.”

Him? Why him of all people?

Mr. Moon is the guidance counselor at their school, and Jisung has a moment of internal panic—had he somehow found out about you? Should he prepare himself for a lecture about grief and moving on?

With a gulp, he nods.

Mr. Moon is a fairly nice man, with a friendly smile and a reputation for being a pushover teacher. Jisung had met with him a few months ago to discuss his desire to pursue a soccer scholarship but he highly doubts that’s the case now.

When Jisung enters Mr. Moon’s office, the first thing he sees isn’t Mr. Moon but a tall man with a stoic expression standing behind his desk. In contrast to the stranger, Mr. Moon wears his trademark smile. “Jisung, good to see you. Still getting a kick out of that old ball?”

Of course, Mr. Moon doesn’t know that Jisung skipped practice all last week to mope in his bed, but Jisung nods politely. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” responds the teacher with a smile. “Take a seat.”

He gestures to the chair in front of his desk, and cautiously does Jisung take a seat. The tall, bruff man is still standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, having not yet said a single word. Somehow the atmosphere is tense, and Jisung’s quite sure he knows what this is about.

“Now, Jisung, I’ve called you in today because—”

“Is this about (Name)?” Perhaps it’s a bit rude of him, but Jisung doesn’t want to be prodded at, at least not by people who think they know him. The last thing he wants is pity.

Mr. Moon’s eyebrow raises just the slightest, and he leans forward on his desk. “Why, yes, it is. How did you know?”

A scoff leaves Jisung’s lips, but it’s much weaker than he would like. “My question is, how did you know? Who told you?” Who was it that shared information on his personal life? Was it his sister? His friends?

“Nobody had to tell me, Jisung. (Name) sent the letter to me herself.”

Wait… what?

Jisung blinks, hands falling slack on his lap. “W-What? What letter?”

Perhaps his staring is a bit too obvious, for Mr. Moon gestures to the stranger in question with a hand. “Jisung, this is Johnny Seo.” Finally, the intimidating stranger has a name. “Johnny is the head coach of the soccer team at Greenwood University—” Wait, Greenwood University? That’s Jisung’s dream school—well, it was his dream school, until they rejected his application for a soccer scholarship. What would they want to do with him? “—and he wants to offer you a full-ride scholarship.”

What?

Jisung’s mouth falls open. What? What the hell? Hadn’t they just rejected him three months ago? His eyes must be bugging out of his face, so he blinks repeatedly, trying to find the words to say.

“W-Wait, what? A… A full ride?” He stammers, unable to find his tongue.

The man named Johnny only nods. “Full ride. Covered tuition, dorming, and soccer costs. All you have to do is keep your grades up and keep scoring those fancy goals of yours I’ve heard about.”

“But—But, you rejected me… why now?”

For the first time, Johnny gives a small smile. “Because of the letter.” There it is, that letter again that Jisung has no idea about. He looks to Mr. Moon for guidance. All the counselor does is open his desk drawer and pull out an envelope, which he slides across his desk. “(Name) (Last Name) wrote a recommendation letter to the university, and honestly, it was stunning. It was enough to make the admissions board… bend a little, to say the least.”

Reaching forward, Jisung grabs the envelope and examines it in his hands. It’s opened, but yes, on the front is your handwriting. He’s cried so much this past week that he doesn’t know how many times tears have touched his eyes, but they sting once more. This time, he doesn’t let them fall.

“She… wrote a letter. For me?”

“That she did,” responds Mr. Moon.

“She’s right,” says Johnny suddenly. “In our work at the university, we’re always looking for the best of the best. We should look deeper, sometimes.” The words sink in the room, and Jisung finds himself staring down at the envelope in his hands. What things had you had to say about him?

Honestly, all he can think about is his failure. How he failed to be there for you, how he cowarded in your presence when you told him to leave you alone. He bites down on his lip.

“So? Will you accept our offer?”

Jisung looks up again, meeting Johnny’s expectant eyes. “I…” His mouth suddenly runs dry. “I don’t know, I… I need to think about it.”

“You’re not graduating for another four months. Take your time.” Slowly, still in glassy-eyed disbelief, Jisung nods. His fingers find the edge of the envelope, tracing its pointed edge. You wrote that for him. From across the desk, Mr. Moon speaks up. “You should read that letter, Jisung, and realize what’s coming for you: good things.”

To Whom It May Concern,

Hello. My name is (Name) (Last Name), and I am a high school student writing this letter to appeal a rejection by your university. Not of my own application, but of an extraordinary person with the name Jisung Park. In my humble opinion, I believe that your institution has made a grave mistake in not offering a scholarship to Jisung. So, I write this letter to appeal such a rejection, and to do something that he hated, though it was what I always did best: write about Jisung.

Now, Jisung is a humble person who never speaks up about his struggles, but the truth is that of all students, I believe he is the most in need of this scholarship. His parents passed when he was young, and he grew up in the care of his older sister who raised him. Their small but strong family made sacrifices, gave up luxuries, and endeavored to survive.

In the midst of this crisis, Jisung found his one savior: soccer.

He is, without a doubt, the best soccer player I have ever seen in my entire life. He can sprint across the field in half a normal player’s time, and I’ve never seen him miss a goal or a pass. But his soccer prowess isn’t what makes him great. Moreover, Jisung is the person you want on a team. He believes in teamwork, but is always striving to be better. He doesn’t want to stand out, but does so anyways. He is never arrogant, nor boastful. If there is one person who deserves this, it’s him.

But, I am sure that you are thinking: why should this letter mean anything to you? I’m not a highly valued individual in the community, nor have I done anything significant for my name to mean anything. I’m only a seventeen year old student, a struggling journalist.

The answer to that question is, I know Jisung Park. You only see his grades, the shallow things on his application. You will never get to see the Jisung Park that I knew and loved.

In my time alive, Jisung Park made an impact on my life that will never be forgotten. Even when life seemed the darkest, not a beam of light in the field's view, Jisung picked me up and made me see the sunset. I know now, the sunset is beautiful, warm, and comforting—everything that Jisung is. He never left my side, and never for a single moment did I ever feel alone in his presence. The world often overplays the saying “a heart of gold,” but the truth is that Jisung has one.

I used to think that love would be red, like the burning of one’s lungs racing down a soccer field, or black and white, made to be simple. But the truth is, love is golden. Golden like the sunset painting streaks against the floor, golden like Jisung. It’s a warmth that covers you from head to toe, relenting into a future that you don’t know.

He is my golden boy, and he can be yours too.

I may not have a future, but if there’s one thing that I know, it’s that Jisung deserves one.

I’m a journalist. I don’t write love letters, but perhaps this is the closest I can ever get. And should Jisung ever read this letter, I hope he knows that with this, I dedicated my last spark of sunlight to him.

Sincerely,

(Name) (Last Name)

Your funeral occurs on February 13th, a week and four days after your passing.

Jisung stands in front of the bathroom mirror, nose scrunched in concentration as he makes a feeble attempt on his necktie. This is surely not as easy as throwing on a soccer jersey. “Ugh,” he groans, fingers getting confused again.

“Need help?”

His sister’s dainty voice calls him from the bathroom door. Dressed in all black, she’s ready too. Turning his head, Jisung sighs. “Please.” She makes his way toward him, fingers coming to work on his tie already with steady hands.

“You’re too tall now,” she says softly, with a chuckle. It’s true; he used to look up to her, physically and figuratively, but now he’s an entire head above her. “You’ve grown up a lot.”

It was his eighteenth birthday just a few days ago but to be quite honest, he hadn’t had the heart to celebrate it. If anything, he had always thought that his eighteenth birthday would be like an epiphany for him. As though he would wake up the morning of, feeling like an adult with all the answers to the world.

The truth is, he’s eighteen now and he still feels like he has no idea what he’s doing.

“I don’t feel any different,” he admits. “I thought eighteen would mean something.”

“You’ll get there, trust me. And anyways, I always told you not to grow up too fast.”

For a moment there’s a silence as his sister swoops the tie in and out, weaving it to form the perfect knot. Feeling something scratch at the back of his throat, Jisung speaks. “... I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for, silly? I was the one who never taught you how to knot a necktie,” she chuckles.

“Not for that,” he says. “For last week. I… probably scared you.”

Suddenly, his sister is wearing that demure smile of hers again. The one that is small and polite, but always seems to carry more weight in it than he can see. “No. It’s okay, I knew you’d be better.”

Naeun finally finishes the knot, tightening it the slightest around Jisung’s neck. “There you go.” He offers her a small thanks as he turns to look in the mirror, and she begins to leave. A sigh leaves him; there’s no avoiding it now, he’s ready to go.

“You know, Jisung,” she suddenly speaks up from the doorway. “I’m glad that you met her. Even if it ended up like this… you’re different. In a good way, and I think she had a lot to do with it. Even if you don’t feel different… you are.”

In the months of your relationship, Jisung had come to learn your insecurities. You were loud and proud, but with that confidence came an unwavering insecurity that you were unliked by those you spilled your tongue to. At the funeral, Jisung sees that that’s not at all true.

People give speeches for you, place flowers on your grave. The school newspaper had even written an article to commemorate your presence on their team, and the president of the club reads it aloud. A number of hospital staff make their appearance.

Even Jisung’s friends show up, despite the clear memory of them calling you crazy early on. Maybe they were right, maybe you were crazy. But he probably was too.

It doesn’t rain a single drop, though it had been pouring for three days before. Instead, the sun peeks through the overcast clouds, gifting sunshine.

Jisung smiles.

He probably looks like an idiot, carrying the soccer ball around the entire funeral but he knows what it means to him, and what it means to you. When he places it on your grave, the grass still fresh, his eyes catch the carefully written words on a singular white spot.

I love you.

He knows that he means it.

At eighteen, there a lot of things that Jisung still doesn’t know. But even so, there are a handful of truths that he can hold onto forever. One, he’s still an incredible soccer player and girls are still very scary. But like soccer, maybe that just takes time and practice.

Two, growing up isn’t about a number. It’s not about partying or drinking, nor is it about rushing into relationships that have little meaning. For years Jisung had wanted to grow up, to face the world with no fears and be able to cruise through. But he knows now that growing up is about being strong in the face of sadness, pain, grief. About waking up every morning even if you feel like you have no reason to.

Love is the same.

Love isn’t about making out on the bleachers after practice or trying to copy the coy clichés seen in romance movies. It’s about the sacrifices, like four hour bus rides. It’s about communication and connection, like a recommendation letter traced in gold. Because of you, he’s moving forward. He can go to college, and the day will never come when he stops being grateful toward you and everything you’ve done. That’s love, and he will spend the rest of his life loving you. Maybe the love will change but it will always be love.

It hurts that you’re gone, it really does. Jisung doesn’t think it’ll ever stop hurting.

But the last thing he knows is that things will be okay.

Life moves on, and he will too.

#neowritingsnet #dreamwritersnet #nct-writers #neohbh #neothestars #park jisung angst #jisung angst #jisung fluff #park jisung fluff #park jisung fanfic #jisung fanfic #nct dream fluff #nct dream angst #nct angst #nct fluff #nct fanfic #nct dream fanfic

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darker-soft-starker · 4 years

Photo

Starker High School AU Pt. 6 (1, 2, 3, 4, 5)

---

tw: general howard stark warning

---

There is a buzzing by his ear.

At first, Tony doesn’t really notice it, waking up in short increments before being pulled back under. But he keeps waking, unsure what keeps tugging him out of his dreams, hand flapping around his face as he tries to stop the incessant ringing.

“Blergh,” he mumbles into his pillow.

Batting his hand around to quell the source of annoyance, he comes to grip his phone, squinting as it lights up inches away from his face and vibrates against his palm. For a second he thinks it’s his alarm, but then he remembers that he didn’t set one. It’s a succession of text notifications cascading down his screen that alerts him out of the slope of slumber with a start.

The only time his phone goes off like this is an emergency. The first thing he registers is that it’s only eight-minutes after seven. He blinks, sight clearing from the sleep wedged in his eye as he reads the flurry of still-incoming texts.

> so thanks for last night > yknow > for the ride > i mean > you know what i mean > anyway > so that folder i gave you had my BIO notes, not econ > im such a doofus > i need them back > don’t bother looking at them lol > can we meet up?

Tony groans, eyelids heavy as anvils. Jesus christ. He didn’t get home until four after dropping this guy off and he’s already up and bothering him? What gives?

Exhausted and annoyed, he tucks his phone under his pillow and sets it on do-not-disturb for extra measure. There ain’t no way he’s getting up at seven on a Saturday for fucking class notes. Prick.

In his opinion, he’s filled his quote of good deeds for the month and he doesn’t need to be up for another few hours. Whatever it is, he thinks, snuggling into his pillow, he’s sure it can wait.

---

The next time he wakes it’s just after nine. There’s a gap in his curtains allowing a sharp shard of sunlight into the room where it directly pierces into his eyelids.

He groans tiredly into the drool patch on his pillow, willing sleep to come back to him, turning on his other side, gripping the edges of the quilt and tightening it around himself until he is firmly cocooned within it. It’s nice and warm, and sleep is such a rare commodity to him so it’s novel to bask in its dregs. But there isn’t any more sleep to come he’s quick to realize, giving up after a few minutes and blinking up at the ceiling.

Nine is practically six. It’s criminal to be up this early.

There’s an unusual flurry of texts on his phone, some from Rhodey, but most of them are from Parker, an endless ladder of increasing franticness.

Tony tosses his phone to the end of his bed carelessly.

It’s been literally less than twelve hours since he’s had to deal with the shithead. Surely whatever was lodged up his ass couldn’t possibly be as important as Tony ignoring him.

Swinging his legs off the bed, he stands and stretches his arms up high, fingers curling. The stretch feels good and he takes a quick sniff of his armpits to gauge if he can forego a shower for the third day in a row.

The stench is wicked. It’s possible that he’s overdue.

He strips off as he heads towards the adjacent bathroom, naked and nursing a semi.

He can’t help but shudder as his back meets the cold tiles, the intuitive shower head following his body with a mechanical whir, miscalculating its aim and spraying him in the face.

Ah. That will need to be recalibrated, he notes.

But, he can’t say he really minds, tolerating the spray, even as it hits his mouth like a fire hose. He ducks his head to wet his hair, reaching blindly for the touchpad to dial down the pressure. Once the water is to his liking he reaches down to take himself in hand, leisurely stroking himself.

It’s just a perfunctory part of his morning ritual; he doesn’t really have anyone in mind as he brings himself to full hardness, just the fleeting memory of lips around his cock, the next of a well rounded ass, not feeling particularly creative.

Okay, so maybe he pictures some big, brown eyes and dark hair he can run his fingers through. And maybe he goes off like a rocket. That’s his business.

Anyway, once he’s out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, he inspects his appearance in the mirror. The bruises on his face are still pretty gruesome, deep purple and beginning to yellow around the edges. The cut on his lip seems to be well and truly scabby.

Turning to the side, Tony takes observation of his overall torso region; his stomach is not as defined as he’d like it to be - probably due to his affinity for carbs and sweets, if he’s honest. Between a few fingers he can pinch the skin and pull it a little -- and look, he’s a bit soft around the middle, but he lifts, alright. Maybe he isn’t exactly steel cut like the dudebros on the football team who have made being ripped their life mission, but he has musculature under the adipose.

Is he a little self-conscious about it? Sure. Is he worried about it enough to give up garlic bread and cronuts? No. Especially when he spots a new chest hair nestled comfortably between his pecs.

Probably a bit too proud of himself because of a singular piece of hair, Tony gets dressed in a pair of jeans that have seen better days, speckled with singe marks and thinning at the knees and a singlet, slinging on his leather jacket for the finishing touch.

He almost forgets the bot.

“Look at you,” he says, to the mangled mess of metal on his desk. Scooping the injured, beeping bot Tony stuffs it into his backpack. “Come here, darling. Shh, you’re okay.”

Peering both ways out of the hall to ensure the coast is clear, he quickly descends the stairs, shushing the bot the whole way.

On the ground floor, he pauses when he hears voices coming from his father’s office. It takes a second to recognise the voices, his father and Stane arguing over one another, loudly, then softly. He tries to listen in, catching somewhat audible hisses about the company finance officer.

Careful to avoid the floorboards that squeak he tiptoes to the kitchen to pocket a few muesli bars and a water bottle from the fridge.

The voices get progressively louder as he sneaks to the front door, silently saluting their maid as he passes. She waves back at him, offering a sympathetic smile as he goes out the door.

His heart pounds as he reaches his car, parked around the corner street.

“Alright, baby,” he grins, revving the engine. “Let’s go.”

---

“The fuck?”

It’s hard to be sure, but perhaps Rhodey doesn’t expect Tony’s unannounced arrival at his front door. Not if the furious scowl and bunny slippers on his feet are anything to go by.

Nonetheless, he slips past the front door, welcoming himself into his friends home, despite the exasperated outcry of for fucks sake Tony, it’s Saturday and it’s not even noon, can’t you call ahead?

No, he can’t call. Well, actually, he reconsiders, heading down the hall to the basement, his friends footsteps echoing behind him, he probably could, but it wouldn’t make anyone less mad at him, so what’s the point?

Besides, judging by the empty driveway and barren living room, Rhodey’s family is already out, he’s not sure what the issue is.

“The issue is I am tired, man,” his friend complains, following him down the stairs. “What are you doing here?”

“Me too, honeybear, freakin’ exhausted,” Tony mutters, skipping down the stairs. “Go back to bed. I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

“Oh sure, and let you solder your fingers together again. Nah. Not taking the fall for that.”

“I’m not going to solder my fingers together. I’m a pro.”

“Unless you need me to remind you of last summer,” Rhodey takes a seat at the workbench, “I suggest you shut up.”

“You’re rude, you know that?” Tony asks, retrieving the bot from his backpack and setting it upon the bench. “I’ll have you know that I’ve learned since then.”

“And yet you still refuse to wear gloves,” his friend sighs, settling heavily upon the adjacent chair. There’s a comfortable quiet between them while Tony works, carefully settling all the pieces onto the table, moving each with care.

It’s hard to miss the weight of observation on the back of his neck, but he lets his friend drink his fill before he’s ready to speak.

“You fuck up something?” He points to the bot.

Tony shakes his head, pressing the solder into the circuit board. “No. Well, yes. The coding is perfect, as usual, but this idiot isn’t any smarter than a Roomba. He’s meant to be smarter.”

“So?

“He is smarter. I dunno, sometimes he messes up,” Tony mumbles, reaching blindly for the bent-nose pliers before Rhodey places it in his hand. “He’s not bad, just dumb. It’s not his fault.”

“And again, what happened? Did you run him over?”

“No, the old man got sick of me playing with ‘toys’. Dumb-dumb here met the wall in a very dramatic fashion. It was an Oscar-worthy performance.”

There’s a sigh from behind him.

“Does that explain your face?”

Tony glances behind him and smirks.

“You mean my dashing good looks?”

“Tony.”

“Honestly? I got into a fight with a feral racoon that ran off with some old lady’s purse. It nearly cost me an eye, but I saved the day. She called me a hero, gave me some stale crackers from her purse and then gave me her number.”

“Tony.”

“Fine. I was skateboarding. I was in the middle of executing a super complicated kickflip but lost control when an enlarged gutter rat scurried in front of me. I flew headfirst into the gravel. Very embarrassing. That work?”

“Tony.”

“Look, just leave it will ya? God, you’re like a nagging wife. Pick whichever story makes you feel all nice and fuzzy inside.”

Rhodey is suddenly before him, waving something in his face. “Your phone, jackass. Your better half is calling?”

Huh?

Tony blinks, gently setting down the pliers and the chip he’d removed, taking his phone. It vibrates, Your Better Half flashing across the screen.

“Parker, ugh.”

He really should have changed the contact name by now, he thinks, swiping to answer.

“Alcoholics Anonymous,” Tony answers by way of greeting. “How may I direct your call?”

“Ha ha, very funny, asshole. So you are awake. I’ve been trying to contact you all morning.”

“I know. I’m beginning to think you actually might have separation issues,” Tony says. “I just got rid of you like eight hours ago.”

“I’m calling about the folder. Didn’t you read my texts?“

“Oh, I read them,” Tony settles back on the stool and continues to work on the main circuit. “See, I was just ignoring you. Hoping you’d take the hint, but I forget subtlety is lost on you.”

“Look, I need my notes. Can we meet up?”

“Right, for Bio,” Tony rolls his eyes. “Can’t it wait until Monday?”

“No. I, uh -- I have a test first period. I need to study for it.”

“Uh-huh. Just remember, the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. You’ll be fine.”

“I take AP Bio, asswipe, I’m aware of that. Can I just get it back, please?”

“You take AP Bio? Was that an admin error or something?” he asks, holding the chip he’d retrieved earlier up to the light to inspect for any damage.

It looks to be ok. The damage to the bot overall seems to be mostly cosmetic, couple of scratches, a few dents. Nothing that a few replacement panels wont fix. Whatever he hasn’t already got stored here Rhodey will surely have spare parts, it’ll be fine. God, what would he do if his friend didn’t lovingly tolerate Tony using his space for storage and barging in whenever he lucks. It’s lucky Rhode’s parents are so chill though, unlike his own. He may be a hot-head but he’s practically a saint compared to -

“ - hello? Are you still there? I can hear you breathing.”

Tony blinks. “Right. Your notes. Look, I’m kinda busy. I have a life outside of you and I don’t actually care about your academic integrity, so, you’re gonna have to wait.”

“For how long?”

“I’ll drop them off this evening, like six-ish. Hey, maybe we could do that interview with May if she’ll be around.”

“...I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”

“C’mon, I already told you I’m not actually hot for your aunt. I’ll be professional.”

Rhodey shoots him a bewildered look.

“That’s not what -- look, whatever. Just don’t be late okay. I have a life outside of you too.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. I’ll try and not get in the way of your weekend plans of crying while you masturbate.”

“I literally hate you.”

“And yet you aren’t denying the crying. Anyway, I have to go now, try to clean yourself up before I get there. See you at six, bubby,” he hangs up, cracking his neck before refocusing on his mangled creation. “Now where were we?”

“What the fuck.”

Tony pauses, pliers in hand. There is a particular expression on Rhodey’s face erring on the side of confused and haunted.

“What?”

“’Bubby’?”

“Don’t say it like that - it’s like an inside thing. Don’t repeat it to him, alright, he’ll get pissy. And then I’ll get pissy.”

“You know it’s just a project, right? You two aren’t actually married.”

“Thank god. Could you imagine being married to that guy?” Tony shudders. “Scary.”

“Two weeks ago you said he was the bane of your existence. Now you have ‘inside things’ with him? You saw him last night?”

He sighs, shoulders dropping. Yeah, he doesn’t really have a good explanation for any of that.

The thing about himself, Tony’s found over time and trial, is that he really, really likes to press buttons. He likes to test variables, wants to see what would happen if he did something he wasn’t supposed to, and map out the world as it occurs in motion around him. Curiosity means he likes to test the parameters, to see what can yield, what will bite back.

More often than not that kind of impulsive brand of curiosity has gotten him in some sort of trouble. Turns out not everything and everyone appreciates being tested - and many things like to lash out when pressed.

Parker, Tony has found, is somebody that doesn’t yield or bite. If Tony was a betting man he’d have placed his money on the boy being more of a yielding type - but what he does is he presses buttons just as much as Tony does, buttons he didn’t even know he had to be pressed.

And that very much interests Tony.

He just doesn’t know what to do with that information, except to keep pressing.

“I’ll explain later,” Tony promises, mentally crossing his fingers. “In the meantime, can we forget about Parker and focus on my broken baby here?”

Rhodey relents, but Tony knows that look in his eye. He’ll be hearing about it later and at the most inconvenient time. And he’s gonna tell Pepper.

Wonderful.

He really should change Peter’s contact name in his phone.

---

By the time he leaves the Rhodes residence and heads to his next destination, his robot is in somewhat in working order again. It remains fairly immobile though, just until Tony can replace the damaged infrared and touch sensor. It clicks its metal claws sadly towards Tony in the passenger seat as he drives.

It’s a Roy Orbison kind of day, so the music is loud and the guitar is heavy as he makes the drive to Harlem.

And if Tony frees a hand to pat the bot on its’ metal head every so often, that’s his business.

When he reaches the other side of the city he parks in his usual space at a nearby lot and contemplates whether or not he should leave the malfunctioning bot in his car for the sake of being professional. It clicks at his jacket, weakly grasping the material as if on a plea - and damn, Tony knows the thing isn’t actually sentient but what kind of asshole would he be if he left it here for the day.

Heart squeezing with sympathy, Tony delicately places him in the backpack, leaving the zip partially open for ‘air’.

Next, snacks.

While he’s retrieving a pack (or two) of Reeses, he comes across Parker’s folder that he’d stashed there last night. Their conversation from earlier returns to the forefront of his mind.

Look, Parker might not be the knuckle-dragging, monosyllabic dumbass Tony initially suspected that he was, and yeah he was savvy as demonstrated during their trip to the rental market - and yeah, definitely smarter than his social circle would suggest, and is absolutely and a source of constant surprise to Tony - but is he AP Bio - or AP anything material?

Time to find out.

The first thing that Tony notices is that the notes are definitely not for Bio. They’re for Econ, as initially prescribed.

The second thing he notices, as he flicks through the papers, skimming over the complicated graphs and annotated research, is that what he’s reading is actually good.

Well, I’ll be darned, Tony thinks, eyes getting progressively wider as he flicks through the pages. Not bad at all.

Makes him wonder why Parker thought he was missing his Bio notes though.

The answer to that becomes clear when a crumpled envelope falls out of the stack onto Tony’s lap. He picks it up, at first thinking it’s a part of the research, but pauses. It’s open and it’s addressed to May Parker.

“Um,” he says.

It’s from Queens Presbyterian Hospital, which should make him drop it as if it were burning. It doesn’t, though. Either it’s meant to be included in the folder, or it’s not and that’s why Parker has been acting like a crazy-ex all morning.

Hmm. Tony sits there, torn, debating whether or not to look into it, the overdue stamp standing out against the crisp paper like a warning sign. On one hand, he’s running kinda late and, y’know, privacy or whatever -- on the other, his fingers are already itching to know what’s in it.

Mind your own business, he can already hear Rhodey saying, mind your own business, Tony.

Curiosity and a distinct lack of a moral compass wins, as always. Just a quick peek, that should be okay, right? The envelope is already open anyway, so, it’s not like anyone will be able to tell.

God, this is none of my business, he tells himself, even as he’s retrieving the letter from within and starts reading it.

Oh.

Tony quickly stashes the letter back into the envelope and back into the folder. Yep, definitely none of his business.

Yeah, he really shouldn’t have done that. Big fucking yikes on his behalf. And yep, there’s the guilt -- or at least he thinks the stomach churning is guilt, it could be the stale muesli bar he ate on the way.

Nonetheless, it hangs over him like a dark cloud as he picks up his backpack and heads out to the garage across the road. What kind of asshole looks into someone’s mail because they can’t help themselves. This dick, that’s who.

Fixing a grin he doesn’t really feel, he heads to the back office. He knocks on the window, ducking his head into the open door.

“Yo,” he waves to the man sitting behind the desk. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Hey kid,” the man looks up, smiling before his face drops. “Tony, your face. What happened?”

“This? It’s nothing --”

“-- is that why you couldn’t come to work yesterday? Not that I mind,” the man stands up. “Are you okay? Was it --”

“-- Was it nothing to worry about? Absolutely,” Tony holds his hands up in surrender. “Just an unfortunate encounter with a wild, feral squirrel in Central Park. I tell you, they’re deceivingly cute, but they’re pests. Totally out of control.”

“Tony.”

“Jarvis,” he interrupts, gesturing to the cars in the garage behind him. “C’mon. Look, let’s get to work, okay? Save the violins for later.”

And by later he means never.

The man sighs, world-weary, looking at him like he knows exactly what he’s thinking. At first he’s certain his boss is going to push the issue, but it must be a day for dodging bullets because he relents.

“Alright, kid. I got a ninety-four Ford sedan back there with your name on it. Busted fan belt, overheated engine. Probably needs a new set of spark plugs while you’re at it.”

With a grateful nod, Tony heads back, locating the vehicle in question. It’s rusted to all hell and probably not worth the cost of repair, but he gets stuck into it anyway, keen for a distraction. He sets his bag and bot down near him while Jarvis blasts Alice Cooper’s Poison.

Tony might not have all the answers to life’s problems, but this is something he knows how to fix.

---

He probably distracts himself a little too well, because by the time he’s wrapped up with the Ford it’s already five-thirty and he’s a mess of engine oil and coolant.

It’s only when Jarvis squeezes his shoulder and points to the clock on the far wall does he realise that he’s lost his sense of time. How the fuck is he supposed to clean up and get all the way from Harlem to Queens at this time of night?

“Ah, crap,” Tony mutters, setting down his socket-wrench in his toolbox. “I’m late.”

“Late for what? You got a hot date or something?” Jarvis asks, stepping back to give him some room as he rushes to the staff bathroom.

“What, no,” He calls back, running the faucet and pumping soap over his hands. “I gotta go see about a guy.” He struggles to hear his boss over the running water but he doesn’t have time to stop and figure it out.

“From school?”

“Yes, and a prime pain in my ass,” Tony mutters, drying his hands on his jeans, walking back into the garage. “Anyway, see you Monday, chief?”

His boss nods, passing Tony his earnings for the week in cash. Tony should have known to dash and run because he starts hearing the proverbial violins when Jarvis clamps a hand on his shoulder, squeezing in a way that is more paternal than Tony is comfortable with.

“You know you can call me, you have my number. You come up and see me and the missus whenever you want.”

Tony fake snores.

“Jarvis.”

“We have a spare room,” he insists, shrugging sheepishly and stepping back. “It’s yours at any time.”

“I see you enough, okay, don’t push it. I’ll see you Monday,” Tony draws him into a one-armed hug and claps him on the back. “Don’t you worry about me.”

“Don’t make me worry.”

“No promises,” Tony salutes, slinging his backpack on shoulder and walking backwards out of the garage to the street. “Hug the missus for me.”

Jarvis salutes back.

With that he sprints across the street when there’s a gap in traffic, bot snapping gently at his hair as he runs.

Sweaty and sore, he is full of energy, a sense of accomplishment coursing through his blood, like an afternoon of work can only provide. He should fire off a text, he thinks, as he starts the ignition and heads out onto the road, yeah. Let Parker know he will be late.

And he does genuinely mean to send a message at the next traffic stop, but then Queen starts playing on the radio and Tony isn’t a fool, okay, he turns that up loud.

Next traffic stop, he promises himself.

---

“I’m beginning to think you can’t read the time,” Parker opens the door with a scowl. “You said six.”

Wincing in the hallway, Tony looks at his phone. Six-fifty-nine. It’s not totally his fault, okay. There was a pile up along the way and traffic was a nightmare of ridiculous proportions. He swears he’s gonna be the first person to invent a commercially viable flying car just for the sake of personally avoiding road congestion.

“Yeah, so. Here’s the thing: I had things to do, okay, priorities --”

“You and your priorities, I swear to god --”

“Here,” Tony cuts him off, passing him his folder, letter neatly inside where it isn’t going to obviously slip out. “Your folder, dumbass.”

Peter grips it, holding it to his chest as he stares at Tony for a moment, before passing it to the nearest flat surface, a weathered and small table that holds their keys.

“Okay, thanks,” Peter nods, smiling grimly, looking behind his shoulder. “Appreciate it. You can go now.”

“So where are the Econ notes,” Tony blurts, wincing as he plays dumb. “I mean, if you had something prepared.”

Peter blinks, surprised. “Oh, uh. Um, It can wait until Monday, can’t it?”

“The assignment is due Wednesday.”

“Right. Um, just give me a sec --”

“Is that Tony?”

May appears behind Peter, smiling brightly. Tony waves, rocking back on his feet.

“Hey, Missus Parker.”

“Hey there, handsome,” she hip-checks her nephew, joining him in the doorway and glancing between the two. “You didn’t mention we were having company tonight, Pete.”

“He’s not handsome and he’s not staying --”

“-- I was just dropping something off,” he looks to Peter. “And excuse you, the lady has spoken and I have to agree. I am handsome. Some might even say that I’m debonair.”

“And some might say that you’re deplorable.”

“Hmm, I think you mean adorable.”

That prompts a smile out of Peter. He crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his chin up, all haughty.

“Tony Stark, you are many things, but adorable isn’t one of them.”

He leans in, pouting playfully. “Oh come on, Parker. I’m a little cute, aren’t I?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“Uh, let me check,” Peter pauses before smiling sardonically. “Verdicts in - jury says you’re one-hundred-percent despicable. Sorry.”

"I’m sure I could sway the jury.”

“I think you mean you could pay the jury.”

Tony nods, pretending to be serious. “Well, yeah. You know, for consensus.”

Peter licks his lips, shifting closer.

“Consensus is important...”

“...Well, if you two are done,” May says after an extended period of silence, tying her hair back into a ponytail. “We were just about to head out to a Thai place around the corner. Tony, you should join us.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay. I should go --”

The rest of his words are cut off by a truly monstrous growl of his stomach. He winces, scrunching up his nose sheepishly. He probably should have eaten more than Reeses all afternoon.

“Well, I guess that settles that,” May says, stepping out of the doorway and beckoning Tony in. “Come in. Sorry about the mess.”

It’s with Peter still staring at him that he reluctantly enters their apartment, brushing past the other boy. It looks the same as it did the other week, mostly tidy and smelling like incense. There’s a sizeable stack of unfolded laundry on the dining table, however, that wasn’t there before.

Tony’s distracted by a pair of dancing-bulbasaur boxers sticking out of the pile when May leans in close to sniff at his hair.

“You’ve got something in your hair, honey. Is that paint?”

He runs his fingers through his hair, palm coming back streaked with green. “Oh, uh, radiator fluid,” he explains, holding up his hand.

“Can I ask what you did to your face?”

“I saved a homeless guy and his beef-sandwich from a pack of rabid, angry dogs. No need to call me a hero.”

May looks at him oddly. “Oh, well, if you say so. Go get yourself washed up and we can head out.”

The burn of Peter’s stare follows him all the way to their bathroom.

---

The meal is less awkward than Tony thought it would be.

Well, for him at least.

Over larb and khao pad they’d gotten through an informal interview with May about her experience as a caregiver with a single income. Not only was it informative for his own future financial independence, but she has been generous enough to speckle in colorful anecdotes of her nephew’s upbringing. Parker’s face has been getting progressively redder all night and it has nothing to do with the spice in his food.

Tony has enjoyed the evening thoroughly.

“ - and of course, we were lucky we hadn’t decided to go cheap on the health insurance. Especially when Pete here broke his wrist at gymnastics when he was eight.”

Tony barely holds back a snort.

“You did gymnastics, Parker?”

Peter tips his head back to stare at the ceiling and sighs. The flush seems to be creeping down his neck too, Tony observes gleefully. He stuffs a large mouthful of rice in his mouth to mitigate the urge to tease.

"Yes, he was very good, weren’t you, Pete? So talented, you should see his medals.”

“Stop, please.”

“C’mon, no need to be embarrassed, Pete, you were amazing,” she says. “You’re still a flexible little bug, aren’t you?”

Tony chokes on his rice.

Peter has his eyes squeezed shut and looks like he wants the earth to swallow him whole.

“May, I’m literally begging you.”

“Uh,” he beats at his chest with his fist, swallowing roughly. “So how long did you do that for?”

“Until I was fourteen.”

“Why’d you quit?”

There’s a very deliberate, weighted pause. May and Peter share a look between them and Tony gets a deeply uncomfortable sense that he’s just stuck his foot in it. Retract, he thinks, already regretting opening his mouth.

“Well,” May clears her throat, her tone light. “After my husband, Pete’s uncle Ben died, we moved away and we had to make some... financial cuts at the time.”

The bite he’s just taken goes to ash in his mouth. God, he really is a big idiot isn’t he. He’d assumed that May never got married to the man in the photos or that they’d just divorced, he didn’t realise that he’d passed - and so recently, too. Welling up with shame, he can’t stop himself from glancing at Peter, who’s staring at the table, lips pursed.

“Oh,” he clears his throat. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to - I didn’t know. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” May waves her hand dismissively, but her smile is strained. “Anyway, what about you, Tony? You’re severely asthmatic, right? That must have been hard, growing up if you wanted to play sports.”

Tony’s eyes widen.

“Yes, um, so hard. Luckily I’m not really an exercise-y kinda guy. I personally prefer to keep a heart rate below eighty beats per minute.”

“Did you have any hobbies growing up?”

“Yeah, driving my parents crazy,” Tony says, glad for the shift from the somber topic. “Escaping from nannies, seeing how quickly I could get them to quit.”

“You like tinkering,” Peter says quietly, looking up. “You mentioned, before. Cars and stuff.”

He shrugs, starting to feel as if he’s under the microscope, especially when Peter looks at him, eyes glittering with thinly-veiled interest.

“I mean, I don’t know. I like - building stuff, I guess. Machines and robots, y’know, cars. It’s like, whatever.”

“You want to be the next Elon Musk or somethin’?” Peter asks, not unkindly, resting his chin on his hand.

“Nah, I wanna be the first Tony Stark,” he scratches his cheek, suddenly bashful. It’s an uncommon feeling for him. One hard to avoid, however, particularly when there is a boy who Tony doesn’t really hate who’s asking about his life like it might matter.

He clears his throat. “Anyway, mostly it was just me cataloguing all the ways I could make the vein in my fathers’ head pop. I’m still working on that.”

May looks between them, smiling.

“Sounds like you were a handful.”

“Sure was.”

Still is, apparently, no matter how much he tries to stay out of the way.

The silence that follows is punctuated by the sounds of cutlery scraping across plates, of shrinking ice cubes rattling against glass. It feels pensive at the same time as it does thorny, like Tony opened the door to let someone in but accidentally let out a few ghouls.

And despite knowing he’d stepped on a landmine with the Parkers, he can’t help but wonder what other pieces of the puzzle he’s missing. Why Peter doesn’t live with his parents. Not that Tony is invested in him or anything.

He just doesn’t like mysteries, that’s all.

May excuses herself after to head to the bathroom not long after. It’s during that time that the waiter brings the check, which Tony takes immediately, slipping in some of the cash he’d gotten earlier, despite Peter’s protests. He was gonna do it anyway, even if he didn’t have the letter in the back of his mind.

“Stop paying for me,” Peter says after he passes the check-book back to the waiter. “Your family is rich, I get it. I’ve told you, I don’t need your charity.”

Tony shakes his head. It’s not worth mentioning that the only money he spends doesn’t come from his family.

“It’s not charity. Do you really think I’m that nice, eh? C’mon. Maybe I like lording it over you.”

“Well, at some point I’m going to pay you back.”

“And when that time comes I’m not going to accept your money.”

“You will,” Peter smiles wryly down at his plate. “I have my ways.”

“As do I, sweetums. Now, do me a favour: shut up and finish your larb.”

Peter does, but something about him shifts. It seems more quiet and contemplative, his eyes staying longer on Tony than they normally would. He wants to tell him to take a picture, but for once, Tony thinks it’s probably best if he keeps his mouth shut.

---

Back at the apartment, Peter goes to retrieve his ‘Econ notes’, taking the folder from the table and retreating to his bedroom. In the interim, May offers to let Tony stay over, inviting him for what he’s sure would be a rousing game of Mario Kart.

He politely declines.

“You sure? Winner gets to choose a movie.”

“I should really get home,” he says. “Thanks though. And thanks for dinner.”

“No problem. Thank you for paying, you didn’t have to do that. Let me pay you back.”

“No need. Think of it as payment for your services and letting us pick your brain tonight.”

She reluctantly accepts with a lot less pride than what her nephew displayed and that makes Tony feel a little sick, because it’s evident that she’s a proud and stubborn woman by nature. Her acceptance, albeit laboured, speaks volumes as to the reasoning behind it.

What takes him by surprise is when she hugs him goodbye and kisses his cheek.

“You’re a good egg, Anthony. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

It’s probably the most maternal touch he’s had since, well. Probably since he last went to stay with Jarvis and his wife. Fidgeting in the hold, he’s not sure if he wants to squirm or to sink into it.

May leaves when Peter comes back in, a familiar stack of notes in his hands that he passes to Tony.

“You gonna kiss me goodbye, too?”

“What?” Peter blinks.

"Uh, never mind,” Tony waves the papers at him. “Thanks for this.”

Peter looks around to make sure they’re alone before leaning in rather promptly.

“Wow, hold up on the proximity there,” Tony inches back, startled by their sudden closeness. “I was joking about the kiss --”

“You read the letter, didn’t you,” Peter whisper-hisses.

“What? Letter? What letter?” Tony says, voice strangled. “I don’t know of any letter.”

He gets a painful poke in his chest for his lies.

“Don’t play dumb. It wasn’t where I left it.”

“I’m not -- ow, quit poking me.”

“Then stop lying. You’re unbelievable -- don’t you know that opening someone else’s mail is a crime?”

Tony’s shoulders slump as he concedes.

“Look, it was an accident, it just slipped out. And also, it’s not technically a crime, if the envelope was already open.”

“Oh and the letter magically opened itself and forced you to read it.”

“That could be argued.”

“Why couldn’t you mind your own business?“

Sick of being poked, he shoves the papers between his arm and his ribs to hold them and takes Peter’s fingers in his hands, squeezing the digits when they struggle to break free of his hold.

“I should have, I admit it - I didn’t think, okay, I’m sorry. Is she okay?”

Peter stops struggling, looking over his shoulder again.

“I don’t know,” he leans in again to whisper, “I only found it yesterday, I haven’t spoken to her yet. Look, I know you hate me, but can you please not tell anyone about this?”

“Why would I tell anyone?”

“I don’t know, because you’re the devil, and you get a kick out of seeing me suffer?”

“True, but I’m not going to tell anyone. Promise. That would make me look like an asshole and you like a martyr. Ergo, I shut my cake hole and continue looking better than you.”

“You’re a real prince charming,” the other boy huffs, but seems to take him at face value. “If I find out differently I’m going to come after you. You’re going to need dental work afterwards.”

Tony lets go of their joined hands, balling his fists and raising them to his face, mimicking what the other boy had done last night.

“You wanna tousle, huh?”

He gets a light shove out the doorway for his attitude.

“Alright, smartass. Get the fuck outta here already.”

“Going, going. Goodnight, princess.”

He mock bows, peering up under his eyelashes, momentarily arrested as he watches Parker roll his eyes and bite his bottom lip in an attempt to smother a smile.

His heart continues to beat a bit oddly all the way down to the car, where he sits in contemplative silence for a few moments until the sound of metal clicking shifts him out of his thoughts.

“Oh, hey you,” he coos, gently retrieving his bot from his bag and placing it in the passenger seat, instantly feeling bad. “I didn’t think I would take so long. I’m sorry.”

Placing a seatbelt over the bot and buckling him in, Tony begins to narrate his night to him as he pulls off the curb and begins driving.

“I guess that Parker isn’t so bad,” he tells the bot, who swivels its head in response to his voice. “I mean, he can’t dress for shit and has questionable tastes in friends - oh, and cannot hold his liquor - but I dunno, baby-bot. He’s okay. Don’t tell anyone I said that, though -- and oh my god, did I mention he did gymnastics, what a fucking dork...”

The thoughts churn and buoy him until he pulls up to his house nearly an hour later. From the driveway he can see his fathers office light still on.

The sight of it makes his stomach drop, all good cheer gone in an instant.

“Damn,” Tony whispers to himself, tapping his knuckles against the steering wheel. This time of night on a Saturday can only mean one thing and he is really not in the mood to be in the crosshairs of whatever his father and Stane are up to.

But before he can work himself into a worry his phone vibrates in his pocket.

> hey, look, thanks for not being a total dick tonight about everything > and last night as well, I guess > yknow what i mean < ur welcome < by the way, i’m proud of you > for what < not finishing off ur aunts beer tonight < takes strength < asking for help is the first step > omfg i take back what i said > ur the worst < and ur a pain in my ass > they have creams for that u know > anyway, g’nite, butthole > p.s. you’re still not adorable Tony smiles down at his phone. < goodnight bambi The bot clicks at him, breaking him out of his train of thought.

“Don’t look at me like that. Let’s go in, but you gotta keep quiet, okay.”

He manages to avoid detection and attention from anyone, despite accidentally stepping on a squeaky floorboard. Maybe it had something to do with the record player and raucous laughter coming from the office.

In any case, Tony’s just happy to make it back to his bedroom. There, he toes off his sneakers and starts getting ready for bed, stashing the leftover cash into a drawer.

It makes him think about Peter’s reluctance for Tony to pay for over the last couple of instances, and how freaking annoying that is. And rude.

Honestly, the dude should count himself as one of the lucky guys - Tony is not that magnanimous. He doesn’t experience an impulsive, unthinking eagerness to provide for just anybody.

Oh.

Tony stills in the middle of his bedroom.

Oh no.

He knows what this is.

“This is bad.”

---

tagging: @bylerboyfriends @ravens-starker-stuff, @starker-rays, @ironspiderstarker, @muse-of-gods, @notfor-temporaryuse, @tabbycat1220, @sugarfreecult, @rebel13lion39, @plueschpop, @spideravocados, @jellybbunny, @booktrashme, @elfkido, @mycatislickingmybedsheets, @queerghostboyo, @disneyprincessdominatrix, @cherrygoldlove @starkerflowers @starkeristheendgame @thewolffearsher @starkersugar , @starkerforlife6969, @css1992, @parkerrbitch, @fuckmemrstark, @blankblankityblank, @ilovemoreid, @blaquedecember, @killmylonelysoul, @notfor-temporaryuse, @arvaen

#starker #ironspider #tony stark x peter parker #high school au

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madzfm · 3 years

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˛ ⠀ * ⠀ ★ ⠀ JESSICA ALEXANDER . CIS FEMALE . SHE / HER ⧽ ⠀ have you seen the 786 latest post ? sources say they have some serious dirt on the child of a big time COUNTRY MUSIC STARS . they haven’t revealed who it was yet but my best is on MADISON DARLING ! ever since that last update about how she ALLEGEDLY GOT CAUGHT SPORTING A BABY BUMP LAST YEAR BEFORE GHOSTING EVERYONE i don’t put anything pass them . i mean , these celebrity kids are just out of control . they do whatever they want , whenever they want and are ungrateful in the process !! i mean take MADDIE for example , they’re a TWENTY THREE year old DANCER , and what did they do to get there ? have famous parents ! like hello , just because you HAVE BEEN IN MUSIC VIDEOS WITH A-LIST MUSICIANS doesn’t mean you actually deserved it . i’m glad the 786 is taking them down a notch . it’s about time someone does .

𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐆𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐂 / 𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓 / 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

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hey ... hey ... how y’all doin’ ? i’m sooo excited to be here , besties ! sorry i’m late with the intro , it’s been a looooong weekend for me but i’m eager to get the ball rolling . so here’s the rundown , the google doc has a full bio + more stats + headcanons but i don’t expect anyone to actually read all that nonsense so i’ve tried my best to sum it up below ( it’s still kinda long tho i’m sorry y’all i ramble too much ). i’m always down to talk plots & threw a few wanted connection ideas at the bottom , so feel free to hmu on discord any time <3 but yes okay let’s get into it

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━━ ˊ * 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 . .

𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞. madison dallas darling . 𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞(𝐬). maddie , mads . 𝐝𝐨𝐛. april 14 , 1998 . 𝐚𝐠𝐞. twenty - three . 𝐳𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐜. aries sun , libra moon , leo asc . 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫. cis female . 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐬. she / her . 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. bisexual . 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞. nashville , tn . 𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. 5ft 5in . 𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. high school diploma . 𝐨𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. dancer / realty tv personality . 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬. robert “robbie” darling - father . dixie darling - mother . delaney darling - sister . 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐬. compassionate , imaginative , family-oriented , devoted , generous , sympathetic , idealistic , self critical , naive , competitive , indecisive , impressionable , elusive , sensitive .

━━ ˊ * 𝐛𝐢𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐲 . .

tw : things like shitty controlling parents , injury , & pregnancy are mentioned

born & raised in nashville , tennessee , madison is the daughter of two country music icons ( basically blake shelton & miranda lambert ) & has only ever known a life in the spotlight . her parents were a widely adored it couple who shared their lives with millions of viewers across the world with their reality tv show . at 7pm cst you could tune in to watch robbie & dixie raise their two daughters - having some good ol’ wholesome family fun while juggling responsibilities that come with being famous artists . to any outsider looking in , they seemed like the perfect family . a loving father , a supportive mother , two prim & proper daughters that collected accolade after accolade in every pageant & talent competition they ever entered . but you shouldn’t believe everything you see on tv , even if it’s deceptively labeled as “reality” .

when the cameras weren’t rolling , the darling sisters were left under their mother’s restrictive control . dixie darling treated her daughters more like dolls than living beings , madison & delaney were basically pretty little accessories . while robbie never dared to mistreat his daughters , he was around a lot less than the show made it seem - often touring the world rather than spending quality time with his girls . plus , dixie & robbie seemed to endlessly fight with one another - nearly every childhood memory madison has of her parents involves them yelling . if she wanted to see them looking happy & in love , she’d have to tune in to the fabricated reality on their own show to get a taste of what a happy , loving family looks like .

you can’t be a child of dixie darling without being exploited in some way . while delaney was pushed into the music scene , madison was shoved into the world of dance . she took every class that was offered & practiced for hours upon hours to perfect her craft . her sister had taken after their folks with the singing voice of an angel & the looks to rival that of miss universe , meanwhile maddie was good for two things : dance & doing whatever her mother said . so when dixie said to twirl , she twirled , when she said do a grand jeté, maddie asked how high & then over performed like the good little girl she was trained to be .

it wasn’t until her parents got divorced & maddie moved to miami to be with her sister , her father , & her father’s new girlfriend that she sort of came out ( or more accruately described as dragged out ) of her timid , non - confrontational , subservient shell . with a longer leash , she had more freedom to roam far & wide . no one tried to tell her what to do or who to talk to & considering she was just a privileged teenager with endless funds & the status to get away with just about anything , you can imagine how badly that went . every mistake she made was broadcasted onto people’s televisions or headlined in tabloids . it was stressful , growing up & messing up all under the watchful gaze of millions of people who felt entitled to berate her for her poor life decisions . just because they watched her grow up on tv didn’t mean they actually knew anything about her . & yet so many people shared their unsolicited opinions on her & her life . it drove her insame .

maddie wasn’t handling the stress of being well known very well . she wanted a break from it all , to just go somewhere far away where no one knew her name & just live by herself . it was a silly dream . nothing she’d ever actively pursue . but the universe has a funny way of giving us a taste of what we think we want just to teach us a lesson .

so over a year ago , maddie found out that she was pregnant . it was a shock to say the least . she kept it a close guarded secret from everyone but her sister for awhile . not only was it a life changing development , but it was one thing that she was determined not to share with the rest of the world . with the idea of running away in continuous loop in the back of her mind , she came up with a plan to buy herself some time . she faked a really bad injury during a performance & let the media run with saying she might not be able to walk , let alone dance ever again . pushing the cover story even further , she claimed to be in need of intense physical therapy & sought after it in a luxurious private lodge in new zealand . that’s where she stayed during her year away , letting no outsiders come visit while she figured out how she was going to move forward with this baby growing inside of her .

so maddie finally got the break she was looking for even if it wasn’t under the circumstances that she would’ve liked . but she adapted to the situation . in her time away , she went through the entire pregnancy but it was basically decided for her by her parents that it was best to give the baby up for adoption . the little girl would be in good care by a couple that was a family friend of the darlings . better to bless someone who wanted a baby but couldn’t have one than for maddie to keep her daughter when she wasn’t in a place to take care of her . it broke her heart , honestly . she had grown quite attached to the baby & even entertained the idea of being a single mom even though she knew her own mom would never let that happen - it would go against the strict narrative that they try to put out there about the darling family .

after a year away , maddie is back in miami without anyone knowing what really happened . she keeps using the “injury” as the excuse for her absence from the spotlight . anyone really close to her might be able to tell that something’s off , but she’s trying so hard to act like everything is fine & nothing has changed at all . she might even be able to get away with her lies - if it wasn’t for that damn 786 website threatening to spill the tea & make her life hell .

━━ ˊ * 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 & 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 . .

a wannabe good girl gone bad but harbors a deep rooted fear of being a disappointment & a failure due to her mom’s strict parenting style . so like she wants to be rebellious & come across as carefree but internally she’s panic screaming always ( honestly relatable like same , girl )

well - mannered in a sweet southern belle kind of way with her please’s & thank you’s & calling everyone ma’am & sir out of respect & what not

biiiig mom friend energy . she just wants to make sure that everyone is taken care of . she can get very protective & a little helicopter parent-y with her friends . it probably has something to do with control issues that she doesn’t realize she has but we don’t have time to unpack that rn akjsdbk

before her year away i want to say that she was a lot more people please-y / overly eager to please ?? like rarely said no to people that asked for favors , always agreed to any plans people invited her to out of courtesy , & what have you . but now i see her as being a little less patient than before & a little bit more unhinged & quick to shut down or snap

guillable ! naive ! dumb as hell ! believes that everyone was raised with the same values as her & has a big of a heart like she does so she’s easily subjectable to getting her feelings hurt & i say let it happen !!

wants to be mysterious so bad but there is very little known about her & her life that isn’t public knowledge . she could get shit on by a bird & it’ll probably become a twitter highlight idk she just wants to believe she’s imperceptible & acts all evasive in order to keep her private life private but that rarely ever has the desired effect

one of those annoying rich & famous people that’s like “i wasn’t meant to be famous . i was meant to have a normal life & be a normal person” but like !! she is actually so out of touch with reality & probably couldn’t tell you how much milk is at the grocery store because she has people to do mundane day to day things for her . spoiled little privileged rich girl , let’s be real . her dad tried to keep her humble , idk what happened

dance style / career is pretty much inspired by maddie ziegler but also not really bc i am very picky & choosey about which aspects of her career i’m pulling from

boring on social media because she hardly ever posts & is very short with her captions & tweets when she does make an appearance online every blue moon

dodges questions about what she’s been up to while she was gone like she’s in the matrix or something . all that pr training her mom put her through when she was younger is coming in handy because she has not given a single honest , straight answer in the months she’s been back . would rather talk about anything else than herself right now so don’t be surprised if she pulls some random subject changes out of her ass if people get nosy . i’m sure the common conspiracy is that maddie was so embarrassed by the fall on stage that she went into hiding

delaney is the kim kardashian & britney spears of the family while madison is the kourtney & the jamie lynn xoxo

━━ ˊ * 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 . .

ride or die , bad influence , frenemies , family friends , good influence , confidant , rival , girl squad , non judging breakfast club , childhood friend , unlikely friend , exes on good terms , exes on bad terms , neighbors , pr friendship , pr enemy , social media mutuals , party buddies , secret friend , secret hook - up , crush , friends with benefits , adventure buddy , enemy with benefits , dance partners , mentors , mentees , sibling like relationship , will they won’t they , people suspicious of her & her supposed “injury” , father of her baby 👀 jk ..... unless

#786intro #template credit to yeonjvnz on deviantart !#they're linked in the source <3

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iceofkhione2 · 2 years

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｡o°✥✤✣ introducing.... ✣✤✥°o｡

dahlia cederquist, khione incarnate. goddess of the snow & ice.

FULL BIO. WANTED CONNECTIONS. PINTEREST.

when dahlia was eight years old, she began figure skating. what started as a simple group lesson turned into a full blown passion; and while sweden is not known for their superstar figure skaters, dahlia stood an excellent chance of making a name for herself in the professional world. by the age of fifteen, her name was mentioned as the one to watch out for, and dahlia fostered big dreams of where this talent would take her.

unfortunately, her skating career was cut short five years ago, due to a severe knee injury. even after extensive physical therapy, she could no longer compete to her usual standards, and any chance of continuing to win the gold for years to come was diminished. it was the final blow to her dreams; ever since she was 17, dahlia had been trying her best to be good enough to make it high-stake competitions, and someday, the Olympics. with the weakened state of her knee, it was no longer even remotely possible.

when dahlia finally accepted defeat, she spent a little over a year in a weird place of darkness. she found herself awake often at night, taking long trips to the northern areas of sweden, even beyond norrbotten, visiting the frozen singing lakes at night and bundling against the cold. her parents thought she was losing it, but in that year of isolation, dahlia become more comfortable with herself; and the earth she existed on.

a new passion was slowly beginning to smolder, and dahlia turned her attention from the ice she carved with bladed feet, and to the nature and wildlife on the planet. she believed she was meant for something greater; and in her hazy dreams when her insomnia finally allowed for sleep, dahlia had strange dreams of powerful, icy blonde women just like her, from centuries past.

eventually, dahlia decided it was time to move on with her life, and since she never attended any sort of formal schooling (she’d been homeschooled and tutored privately, to focus on her sport), she first had to study enough to get a high school equivalent certificate. and then there was the task of acquiring a passport... but finally, her enrollment to QUEENSLAND UNIVERSITY was finalized, and dahlia was on a plane to a world so unlike the only one she has ever known.

living in australia has been quite the adjustment for dahlia. she misses home dearly, but she was inexplicitly drawn to magnetic island. she always believed she was more than simply human; and she is an avid super fan of all things mythology. since arriving last august at the beginning of the semester, she has been having flashes of what she believes could be former lives... and has been focusing on meditating more, to try and tap into this weird source of memory.

PERSONALITY

honestly, dahlia is not the most charming when attempting to socialize; she tends to be on the quieter side, a bit awkward, and never knowing what exactly to do with her hands. she needs a lot of alone time, and hates large crowds. that said, she does feel a little ridiculous only just now beginning university at the age of 26, and she never had much of a party/wild phase, due to her lifestyle choices. she wants so badly to open more, live a little louder, but may need help in doing so.

she is a big fan of cannabis, but she isn’t too keen on drinking. dahlia keeps up with her fitness and tends to be a bit on the obsessive side of healthy eating; she is a vegan, and loves to cook, and fosters a garden. you can catch her taking yoga classes, jogging on the beach, snorkeling, or studying in any water areas. her apartment is always extremely cold and the A/C is on full blast, at all times.

#eternal! intro #muse ; about

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tbhstudying · 4 years

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What was your first biology class like in college(if you've taken it)? I feel really lost aha

My plan is to do premed most likely major in biology, right now no major aha but I'm failing my first biology class:') there's no vidoes, just a textbook and I can't figure out what the professor wants me to know for the exams, sometimes the questions are vague and then other time it's really detailed/ I need to calculate something I don't even remember learning.

i’m assuming you’re the same anon? apologies if you’re not haha

i will admit that my college is known for being academically rigorous, but my first year was...... Rough. i found that the expectations were far higher in my 1st semester bio class than in my high school bio class, and my 2nd semester bio class was so horribly organized and communication between professors, lab instructors, TAs, and students was just absolutely terrible.

here’s what i learned from the experience though.

never hesitate to ask for help. never be ashamed of asking for help. there is no such thing as a dumb question, even if your peers make you feel that way. ask people to clarify what they mean, what will be on the exam, what they mean by the wording of a specific question, etc. what’s important is YOUR education, not what others perceive your education to be. the only person you hurt by not asking for help is yourself.

always take advantage of office hours, even if you’re terrified of your professors or if they’re terrible teachers. this factors into the previous point, but truly, office hours are important. not only do they offer sources of help for you in the class, they also give you a chance to connect with the professor. office hours were a large factor behind my successes in first semester, and they were likely part of my downfall in second semester when i didn’t attend them.

don’t passively learn. re-writing your notes, highlighting mindlessly in your textbook, copying every word down from the lecture, etc isn’t going to help you unless you actively process that information and place it into your long-term memory.

don’t try to blindly memorize the material. instead, you need to 1. understand the material and 2. how to apply it. the application part is the thing that will help you achieve on the hardest problems and exams.

don’t skip labs. they might cover easy topics, but they do teach you useful lab techniques and how to write and plan and experiment according to the scientific method. labs in higher classes tend to be more interesting and useful, but you can’t get there without getting through the intro labs anyways, so make use of the easy, laid-back environment while you can.

don’t skip class. there are some people who can get away with skipping class and still pass. i am not one of those people. also, some teachers put things on the exams that were in lecture but not in the textbook.

studying with your friends in the class is so much more important than i ever thought it would be. not only did i get better at identifying problem areas when my friends called me out on not knowing things, i learned better by trying to answer their questions and trying to explain and review the topics with them. i also made friends that got me through the best and the worst of days, and that is invaluable.

if there aren’t any videos, ask your professor to make some. if you’re confused about what your professor wants from you, ask them to clarify. if you feel like a question is vague, ask for clarifications. if you don’t remember learning something, go back and review that section.

also, i know that feeling like you’re failing never feels good but 1. there is always a solution and a path towards success and 2. learning from your mistakes is oftentimes the best learning you’ll ever get. good luck, anon!

#mmm this was long oops #biology #tips #science #anon #ask

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taee · 3 years

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Excuse me Julia but I wanted to ask for a lil bit of help pls, do u know where I could find the bios of each bts member and what each one did before debut / how old theyr were when they were chosen and debuted, how they got chosen and if they knew each other from before debut. Its alot ik but pls could u help me coz ur wise and is a sweet army whose been in the fandom for along time 😔💗 and do u know if tae and jimin knew each other from before and did they audition for bighit together coz i thought thy were besties or something

anywayz pls stay safe hydrated and remember I love you and could wrote essays on how absolutely amazing u are and how much of a queen u are in this fandom and out of it too ❤️💖

- Minju 💞

Hi Minju!! Thank you for showering me with nice compliments every time you send a message in, that’s really sweet of you and I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart ;; Sorry it took me awhile to answer all of your questions, more under the cut!!

Not a site I’d frequent but Koreaboo did a pretty nice summary here on how each member got discovered and what they did predebut. Also, here is cute little skit [21:18 - 27:44] they did back in 2017 for their DNA Comeback Show showing how they got into bighit! But do note that certain parts have been altered/exaggerated for fun. I don’t think any of them knew each other before they joined bighit, but Namjoon was huge in the underground rap scene so Yoongi saw videos and heard of him before they met as trainees [07:19] (the other members also shared their first impressions of each other in that interview as well so you might want to watch the whole thing). He also said ‘He was a guy who was really famous’ on episode 3 of MNET’s ‘4 Things Show’ that featured Namjoon back in 2014 [16:37]. There are some interesting facts and predebut stories about Namjoon throughout the show so if you want to find out more you can watch the whole thing.

Predebut stories about each member, how they auditioned and how they got chosen have actually been mentioned on multiple occasions and in countless interviews both by the boys themselves and by other sources. It is too much for me to link every single one of them so I'll have to stop here :// As for Taehyung and Jimin, they did not audition for bighit together, they only met each other after they became trainees. You can read more in this interview here. Also mentioned in there, Jimin later got transferred into the same high school Taehyung was attending. That is why you’d notice they’ll often bring up past memories they shared back then. Again, I can’t include everything because there’s just too much so here are some little tidbits: (1 2 3 4)

I'm sorry I can't compile everything for you but I hope these helped!! If you do have something more specific you need help looking for, feel free to ask me again then!

#i hope you're well and healthy too <3 #answered #anon

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bikeregret7 · 3 years

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#crystal trophy #glass awards #glass trophy #crystal awards

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tearsofthemis · 4 years

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Tears of Themis : Chapter 1 “Social Snobbery” Part 6

[Previous Part] | [Masterlist] | [Next Part]

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▌ Location- Break room

(By the time Zuo Ran ended his phone call, the break room was empty. He picked up the intermediate lawyer examination prep guide that was left on the coffee table, and flipped through the notes that she took in the pages.)

Zuo Ran: “To find a partner, huh…”

(Zuo Ran put down the book, and sent out a voice memo.)

Zuo Ran: “Zhai Xing, in regards to your suggestion that I find a partner to reduce my workload. Do you have any recommendations?”

(His message was read, and replied to instantly.)

Zhai Xing (voice memo): “Depends on what kind of person you’re looking for. If there’s no one in Themis that catches your eye, I can hire someone.”

(Zuo Ran paused to think about his reply.)

Zuo Ran: “I don’t have high demands, as long as they’re upright, persevering, and won't succumb to authority. In regards to qualifications they should be comparable to me- no, forget that, as long as they’re qualified, there’s no need for them to be like me in terms of ability or temperament. What I need is a mirror, not an imitator.” (Zuo Ran rarely sends texts, let alone so many at once. There was no response from Zhai Xing.)

Zuo Ran: “I guess she can’t think of anyone suitable…” (Zhai Xing’s reply came at last, as Zuo Ran prepared to head back to his office.)

Zhai Xing (voice memo): “You call this, ‘not demanding’?! Wake up, Zuo Ran! Those qualified to be your mirror are far and few!” (After hearing Zhai Xing’s outburst, Zuo Ran sighed. He drew his attention back to the spread of exam books on the coffee table, and brushed his finger over the cover.)

Zuo Ran: “Far and few… you say…”

~~~

▌ Location- Commerce Avenue

(On our way to QingPing restaurant, XinRan and I coincidentally met up with Xia Yan, a good friend of mine that I lost contact with eight years ago.)

MC: “XinRan said she hired a detective, it must be you!”

(A bio-engineering honors student from Capital University, abandoned his career path as a scientist, only to return as a budding detective?!)

Xia Yan: “Of course. I don’t understand why you’re so shocked, doing detective work is my lifelong passion. I’m finally able to fulfill my dreams!”

MC: “That, is unexpected to say the least…”

Xia Yan: “Then the lawyer that Miss. Xue was looking for, that must be you. It looks like you also fulfilled your goal of attending Stellis University’s law school.” (I was still reeling from the information overload, and I couldn’t pay attention to what Xia Yan was saying.)

Xue XinYan: “That’s right, it’s her. I didn’t know you guys knew each other.” (XinRan looked at us, but chose not to press any further.)

Xue XinRan: “Grandpa Fang lives on the second floor of the restaurant. He should be at home, let me call him down.” (XinRan went up and knocked on the door. I quickly composed myself, pulling my mind away from dwelling on our fateful encounter, but Xia Yan kept smiling, his eyes focused on me all the while.)

MC: “Why… do you keep looking at me?”

Xia Yan: “Even after so many years apart, you haven’t changed.”

MC: “That’s impossible, it’s been eight years, change is bound to happen. I mean, I’ve definitely grown taller.” Xia Yan: “But not in my eyes, you’ll always be my… Just like back when I was sixteen, exactly the same.” MC: “Must you speak so vaguely? Like you? Are you labeling me as a tomboy?”

Xia Yan: “No no...”

MC: “I was kidding, relax.”

(The restaurant door was opened by a man with snowy white hair. This must be Fang Yuan.)

Fang Yuan: “XinRan, I’ve already told you not to bother with the case. The health inspection team has already reached their verdict, there’s no point in investigating further.”

Xue XinRan: “Grandpa Fang, even if we must pay the settlement, we shouldn’t let those customers demand unrealistic charges. Look, I’ve found these two people that can help us.”

MC: “Hello, Mr. Fang. My name is-”

(I hesitated to finish my self introduction after I took in Fang Yuan’s exhausted state.)

MC: (Mr. Fang doesn’t look alright…)

~~~Investigation start!~~~

▌ [Examine Fang Yuan’s mouth]

AI:

“Ah, there, we can see his face clearer. But… Why are Grandpa Fang’s lips purple? According to the big data center, purple discoloration on the lips can be attributed to cardiovascular disease.”

[Select, “heart issues”]

MC: (Cyanosis present on the lip, should be a sign of his ailing heart condition.)

▌ [Examine Fang Yuan’s eyes]

MC: “He’s got pretty nasty dark circles. I bet he’s lost sleep over the incident in his restaurant.”

▌ [Examine Fang Yuan’s hand, select “bruising from IV”]

MC: (Did the countless IV drips leave behind such a deep bruise? A cardiac condition at Grandpa Fang’s age is serious and his health must have taken a big toll. I need to watch what I say when we interrogate him, it would be bad if we caused him emotional shock. It’s as XinRan said, Grandpa Fang is quite frail, and he looks tired. Considering the fact that he detests lawyers, I should hide my identity for now.)

AI: “It looks like you have come to your own conclusion, let’s finish this investigation.”

~~~Investigation end!~~~

MC: “I am PI Xia’s assistant, and this, is Mr. Xia Yan.” (Xia Yan did not react to my cover-up. Thankfully, he didn’t question it, either.)

Xia Yan: “Nice to meet you, Mr. Fang, my name is Xia Yan. My mother and father left this world when I was young, and if it weren’t for kindhearted people like yourself, there was no way I would’ve been able to attend university either. Ah, Miss Xue has informed me of your situation, and I admire what you have done out of the goodness of your heart. We’re here today because we would truly like to help. I sincerely ask for your permission to investigate your case, would that be alright?” (Perhaps it was Xia Yan’s convincing words, or his infectious and honest smile, that made Fang Yuan cave to his demand.)

Fang Yuan: “Let’s talk inside.” (As Mr.Fang let us inside, I purposely lagged behind so I could walk behind the group as any dutiful assistant would. Xia Yan leaned down and whispered by my ear, his hot breath sending shivers down my spine as I blushed.)

Xia Yan: “You sure got into character quickly.”

MC: “I’m only pulling from the childhood experience of pretending to be your assistant when we played detective. It feels like muscle memory by now. But aren’t you curious as to why I chose to hide my identity?” Xia Yan: “Of course I am. But you have my trust, and that’s not something a little bit of time between us will change, right? I trust you.”

~~~

▌ Location- QingPing Restaurant

Xia Yan: “Mr, Fang, can you confirm that you were the one that accidentally mixed the powdered pesticide into the spring water?”

(Once we were seated in the restaurant, Xia Yan began questioning Mr. Fang. The questions that he asked were the exact same as the ones we asked XinRan back at the law firm.)

[Flashback]

Xue XinRan: “Grandpa Fang said that he was the one who sprinkled the pesticide powder, and his poor eyesight is to blame for mistaking the water source. He wasn’t paying attention…”

Zuo Ran: “He claims he wasn’t paying attention, but afterward is so sure that it was caused by his misoperation. That’s a logical fallacy...”

[Flashback ends]

Fang Yuan: “It was me. Sigh, I’m getting old, and can't see or move around like I used to. I wasn’t careful…”

Xia Yan: “On the day of the incident, when was the spring water delivered to the restaurant?”

Fang Yuan: “The spring water is sourced from YunXia Mountain, and is usually delivered everyday around 6 AM.” Xia Yan: “After the water delivery, was there always someone present in the restaurant?”

Fang Yuan: “No, the restaurant was empty from 6 AM to 8 AM. The helper and I went out to purchase produce for today’s service. The waiter, Xiao Zhao, arrived at 9 AM…” (Fang Yuan’s sentence was cut short by a coughing fit, turning his face bright red with effort as he hacked.)

XinRan: “Grandpa Fang, are you alright?”

Fang Yuan: “XinRan, help me upstairs. My chest hurts, and I would like to rest…”

MC: “Mr. Fang, is it serious? Do you need to go to the hospital?” Fang Yuan: “No, that won’t be necessary. It’s an old condition, and I’ll be alright once I lie down and rest. The restaurant encompasses the entire first floor, feel free to check what you need. I use that computer there for bookkeeping, there’s no password on it. If you need to use it, be my guest. Although, it’s been two weeks since the incident. The restaurant is cleaned daily, and any leftover food or ingredients have been thrown away. I don’t know if investigating will help, I’m afraid.”

(We watched XinRan help Fang Yuan up the stairs. The moment they were out of earshot, I turned and whispered to Xia Yan.)

MC: “Mr. Fang’s attitude back there was a little strange. Hopefully we can find clues that they missed. The sooner we can crack the case, the better. But he’s been pessimistic from the start, emphasizing that the restaurant isn’t worth looking into. The way he answered your question was barely satisfactory.

Xia Yan: “The way I see it, he isn’t fully willing to cooperate with us, the reason why we weren’t denied earlier is because he didn’t want to seem suspicious. On the other hand, food poisoning caused by ingestion of pesticide itself is suspicious as well. Since the majority of pesticides available on the market are harmless to humans, why would Mr. Fang purchase anything dangerous for use in a restaurant?” MC: “We don’t have an answer for that either…”

-------

[Previous Part] | [Masterlist] | [Next Part]

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《CREDIT》 Translator: @humi-and-co Editor: @hallowsivy 《未定事件簿》Tears of Themis is a 2020 Chinese otome game by 米哈游Mihoyo. All original credits go to 米哈游Mihoyo.

#tears of themis #tears of themis translations #tears of themis trans #otome #otome game #zuo ran #xia yan #夏彦 #左然 #未定事件簿

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cursedtm · 3 years

Text

UPDATED BIO/STATS. carrd will be updated <24hrs. posted here for your convenience. trigger warning for suicide.

FULL NAME. august lenora singh-erriksen. BIRTH NAME. name withheld. ALIASES.

octavarium “o” no last name given (2014-). alternatively: OCTAVARIUM.EXE and OCTAVARIUM.CMMD

oberon “o” sweetwater (2031-2049). oberon, for their mother anita’s love for the shakespearan play midummer’s night dream. the name further signifies o’s character as they are known to be: cunning. mischievous. reign of tricksters. possessing the thought that they can do whatever they want when they want and knowing exactly how to do so. for their two sides. sweetwater, an ode to their mother, dr errikson’s involvement in its development. serves as a warning given the nature of the circumstances surrounding the creation of the alias.

LORRY V.156.43

AGE.

> the alias OBERON is twenty four years old.

> the alias OCTAVARIUM does not exist on public records and remains undisclosed to the public.

> august singh-errikson… retrieving data…

> ERROR 08. DIAGNOSING…

> in relation to the paucity of understanding encircling the duality of human – machine age when inquiring for data listed “physical age,” sufficient nor accurate data cannot be given.

> hypothetically, if user august errikson had not alienated to anomaly fifteen point three nine point x, in which system creator dr errikson had transferred user august from their biological body into the MODEL OCTAVARIUM SERIAL #730 008 002, august singh-erriksen would be at the physical age of 53 during december of 2058. however, the statistics for this variation does not correlate to pre-existing health condition: aggressive osteoblastoma occurring age nine leading to severe bone degeneration by age sixteen, leading to inevitable death at an approximate age seventeen with appropriate treatment. approx. death is age thirteen due to variant one point x three – lack of appropriate health care due to financial issues and healthcare policies. system configuration highly advises for readers to be aware that this data may be inaccurate for the current path and its future variations of august singh-erriksen. please contact dr errikson or DELOS inc. for further explanation.

AGE AT DEATH. fourteen.

CAUSE OF DEATH: suicide. exsanguination.

> system advises that this data is not currently known to officials and under the us death records august singh-erriksen had past away during the system malfunction of a host throughout the westworld pre-opening stockholders soiree. this incident also records the murders of delos stockholders, dr errikson and dr ford, leading to a mortality rate of 113. system further advises that the correct date of deaths for both user august and system creator dr errikson does not corelate to the us death records and is in fact incorrect and occurred three years and forty seven days prior to the date recorded.

AGE OF REBIRTH. fifteen.

AGE OF APPEARANCE. twenty five. variations in relation to alias are sufficient to change.

SPECIES. human – machine hybrid. cyborg, however, this is yet to be a scientifically approved term.

ETHNICITY. korean.

CITIZENSHIP.

> the alias OBERON is a dual korean and british citizen.

> user august singh-erriksen was a united states citizen.

GENDER. nonbinary. PREFFERED PRONOUNS. they/them strictly. SEXUALITY: bisexual (bisexual is inclusive of trans identities)

DATE OF ADOPTION. 17th of march 2013. AGE AT ADOPTION. ten years old.

BLOOD TYPE. AB+

BIRTH MOTHER. name withheld at request. BIRTH FATHER. name withheld at request.

NATIONALITY.

> the user august was of united states nationality. > the alias OBERON is of korean nationality.

D.O.B. august is of 12th of december 2003. P.O.B. august is of san antonio, texas.

EDUCATION. august has acquired high school diploma. attended internship with robotics engineers dr ford, dr weber and ai specialist dr errikson. internship terminated after ten months for unknown reasons as requested by dr ford and dr weber upon the leave of dr errikson. home schooled from adoption under dr singh and dr errikson, furthering their knowledge of robotics, ai theory, intellectual technology, english, creative writing and international laws. noted: an advanced learner. understood relevant principles for ai, it and robotics in minutes. lacked fluency in english, laws and writing theory as noted by dr singh, adopted parent.

OCCUPATION.

> the user OBERON “O” is a technologist hired for INCITE as per request of liam dempsy, co-CEO of INCITE, in the years 2049-2055 shortly after the pair met at a party in 2049. this was after serac froze jean mi after convincing his brother that his fiancée (o) left him for greed (2048) when in fact he, serac, forced o into the first instance of INCITE’s reconditioning therapy (2047). the goal o possessed in this instance was to gain control of rehoboam, mirroring delores’ in 2058. this, in both instances, proved futile. the reconditioning o was exposed to in the years prior sought to be constraining on their grip of self and memory, slipping in and out, and therefore was their downfall in gaining control and executing their initial plans, leading to their third loop.

AFFILIATIONS.

> the alias OBERON is a minor stockholder in INCITE. the alias holds <2% of company shareholds as a gift from liam dempsy, co-ceo and minor controller of rehoboam. in specific, oberon holds majority stocks in INCITE’s failed reconditioning therapy in mexico. the gift in and of itself has no real meaning and is useless for any financial benefit. however, they are the only stocks vital for o’s initial planning.

> the alias OCTAVARIUM is a major silent stockholder and silent director in DELOS inc. after accumulating the majority after the westworld massacre which saw stocks plummet (54% in the year 2019). amongst these stocks, o has distributed the stocks between thirty six people, of whom are active directors that act in o’s absence. whatever these stockholders, previously incomers living below the poverty line, chooses to do with their power is up to them, only until it isn’t. this is the terms of the contract they signed with the unknown o.

> the alias known simply as “o”, works alongside brothers engerraund and later lover jean mi serac, to aid (and thereby unknowingly – to the brother’s knowledge - sabotage) the serac brothers into creating failed prototypes sol and david whose goal is to predict and guide human behaviour (2029-2031). the goal to sabotage was to prolong the system’s purpose until o could find a use for it in their plans.

> “o” created the implant and its discs that correspond with the successful prototype solomon and its successor rehoboam. o’s disks and implants aid solomon in feeding the system updated information on the day to day decisions of the users in order to further predict their future outcomes – thereby predicting the course of humanity’s fate. the data is also anonymous syphoned by o to feed them information which is needed to formulate the accuracy of their plan.

DISKS and its daily ingested IMPLANTS help control a human’s bodily and mental behaviours. they regulate sleep, moods, senses, blood levels, hormones, surrounding technology such as home security (requires subscriptions), etc.

o’s disks and implants have become a systematic norm in society as it progresses thanks to INCITE’s influence over government procedures. those who neglect to activate their implant nor ingest discs are systematically doomed to fail and, due to their lack of jobs, healthcare, food and housing in association with their turned off implant, die.

> this allows o to create an application called RICO, an app that allows degenerates – those who are lower class and either cannot afford to keep their implants on or chooses to keep them off (in other words, people who are invisible to rehoboam – to engage in illegal activities warranted from and paid from anonymous sources. INCITE is under the impression that o conceived the program in order to allow INCITE the ability to engage reconditioned outliers to hunt the unconditioned ones who lie a threat to rehoboam’s plan. while the program does run under this purpose, the initial purpose was to allow o to hire anonymous and untraceable users to aid in conducting miscellaneous missions which help advance their plans, unknown to INCITE’s eye.

> it is later discovered by engerraund serac, after his knowledge of o’s true nature since forcing them under solomon’s experimental reconditioning therapy, that he takes control of o’s shared stocks in INCITE and DELOS. here, upon exposing the truth of o to jean mi, engerraund discovers from jean mi of dr ford’s library of guest data, knowledge that is only known by o and the ceo of delos.

LANGUAGES. infinite. subject to the delos mainframe.

HEIGHT. 166cm. WEIGHT. 52kg.

EYES. obsidian. HAIR. tidy but long. black. well kept. black. BODY. small. lithe. titanium. built to withstand.

FACECLAIM. jung jaewon. VOICE CLAIM. ashe.

SIBLINGS. none. biologically unknown as parental names are withheld from the system.

PERSONAILITY.

> the alias OBERON is a party goer. narcotics veined. dinoysus born. player, brilliant in their works, a low born who managed to outrank the lot of them. a value to INCITE. earnt the respect of the blue bloods by befriending the low self esteem liam stempsy when they were sixteen.

> o is aggressive. quiet. manipulative. cunning. serves no purpose in interacting with others unless the person is needed to advance their plans. this is met with a personality that contours to the need of the person.

due to the reconditioning therapy, the lines between themselves and the aliases blur.

PHOBIAS. hemophobia – the fear of blood.

ZODIAC. sagittarius

MBTI. INTJ

intjs are analytical problem-solvers, eager to improve systems and processes with their innovative ideas. they have a talent for seeing possibilities for improvement, whether at work, at home, or in themselves.

often intellectual, intjs enjoy logical reasoning and complex problem-solving. they approach life by analyzing the theory behind what they see, and are typically focused inward, on their own thoughtful study of the world around them. intjs are drawn to logical systems and are much less comfortable with the unpredictable nature of other people and their emotions. they are typically independent and selective about their relationships, preferring to associate with people who they find intellectually stimulating.

TEMPERMANT. melancholic

ENNEGRAM. 5w4

ALIGNMENT. neutral evil.

ABILITIES: LORRY allows o to similarily manipulate surrounding to their will like delores in s3. however, due to o’s outdated programming and overall bugs, their inability to do so in their current verse makes them as blind as a human in a technological advanced world.

DIVERGENCE & ANAMOLIES CAUSED:

UNKNOWN DATE - DIVERGENCE : SOUTH CHINA SEA 9° 55N, 115° 32E 6.06 ARC SECONDS

UNKNOWN DATE - ANOMALY DETECTED: LOS ANGELES, USA. 34.0522°N, -118.2437°W MINOR IRREGULARITIES. ANALYSIS REQUIRED.

12/09/24 – DIVERGENCE: BUENOS AIRES. ASSASSINATION OF THE PRESIDENT ELECT OF THE UNITED STATES.

UNKNOWN DATE – DIVERGENCE: LILLE, FRANCE 50.6292°N, 3.0573°E 2.011 ARC DEGREES

10/09/25 – DIVERGENCE: PARIS. THERMONUCLEAR INCIDENT.

UNKNOWN DATE – DIVERGENCE: DEHLI, INDIA 28.7040°N, 77.1024°E 1.014 ARC DEGREES

UNKNOWN DATE – DIVERGENCE: PERTH, AUSTRALIA -33.9505°S, 115.8605°E 12.624 ARC DEGREES

UNKNOWN DATE – DIVERGENCE: ATHENS, GREECE 37.9838°N, 23.72757°E 9.105 ARC DEGREES

UNKNOWN DATE – DIVERGENCE: SAN FRANCISCO, USA 37.7749°N, 122.4194°E 21 ARC DEGREES

#these violent delights.#its 3am no aes we die like men

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lonelyheartsclubhaze · 3 years

Text

Chilly mornings away from home

January 2019 // Chapter 4

Soft piano notes waded their way into my mind, rousing me from sleep. Erik Satie’s “Gymnopédie No. 1” complemented streaks of sunlight that seeped in from cracks between the window shutters.

I rolled onto my stomach, patting along the bedsheets, searching for the alarm’s source. Locating my iPhone under a fluffy body pillow, I quickly tapped the snooze button, earning myself nine more minutes of repose.

Mornings were always so disorienting. I still had yet to remember where and when I was. Such things could wait. Clinging onto that snoozy state of nonexistence, I didn’t want to wake up. I was eager for unmindfulness.

Inevitably coming to, dizziness hit like a military grade tank as I realized that my bed was facing the wrong way. My morning senses spun westward from their southern-facing expectations. Cracking my eyes open a few nanometers more, baby blue walls, rather than white, met my gaze. I faced a medium size flatscreen TV set atop a brown cabinet bordered by cream, cushioned seats and a black mini-refrigerator.

It was so easy to be surprised by mornings. Here I was, expecting one thing and receiving another. It wasn’t a huge deal, and they were natural mistakes, but jeez, was I caught off guard. My bed typically faced a window on the southern side of my room in Berkeley, confined by white walls under high ceilings. Unlike my room in Berkeley, however, the ceilings in this place were much lower with windows much wider. My forgetfulness fading, I remembered why I was in this barely decent Denver hotel room, namely, for a job interview.

Grimacing, I also remembered that the aforementioned job interview had taken place yesterday—giving me a sense for why I might have preferred snoozy states of nonexistence to waking life. It was for some technician role at a Pharma-lab. And while they didn’t pay anything close to what Ajay would be receiving at Facebook (while still remaining just as controversial), money was money. Plus, it seemed like a good way to boost my med school app during the summer. Worst case scenario: I’d just spend the upcoming summer studying for the MCAT, which had to happen sooner or later. At this rate, however, it was looking like the worst case scenario would be my only scenario.

Oh well. With a redeye flight the next morning and the interview out of the way, I had a day to kill in Denver. Classes were still on hold for another week-and-a-half and since everyone was home for the holidays, Grace had offered to put me up at her place for the day. She was supposed to come by around nine AM to pick me up.

I rubbed my eyes and pulled up the blanket. The AC units at hotels were always freezing cold—particularly on especially inconvenient occasions, like now, right smack in the middle of a January morning. I flipped over my phone and turned off the alarm. The clock read seven-twenty-one AM. Just enough time to get ready and grab a quick bite before Grace was to arrive.

My hands smacked against the headboard of the bed mid-stretch, my wrists rolling as I struggled to fully wake up. Sitting up, I checked my phone for missed messages, sending out short, succinct text messages where they were needed. I cracked my neck and thrust my legs off the tall bed, my feet grazing the hotel carpet. I stood up, stretching my arms toward the spinning fan that hung from the low ceiling, and started toward the bathroom, tossing my iPhone onto the bathroom counter.

The shower roared to life with the turn of a knob. I grabbed a hotel-provided toothbrush and some paste on my way to the shower, along with a travel-size bottle of CeraVe foaming face wash. Inside, water rushed over my short, black hair, splashing onto medium broad shoulders and size ten-and-a-half feet as I washed my face. After mopping my chest, toes, and everything in-between with an ivory bar of soap, I squirted some toothpaste onto the brush and got to work, counting out one-hundred-twenty seconds in my head. Finally, I turned off the water and reached around the shower curtain for a towel. Drying myself off, I stepped out of the shower and packed up my bath supplies into a compact travel bag.

I shook the towel over my head to dry my hair and tapped on my iPhone screen to find one new notification. Hovering my face over the phone to unlock it, a blue message from Maddie read:

To which I replied:

She followed with:

Heart racing, I replied:

Two minutes passed. I held my breath.

Four minutes—then, a small blurb of text underneath my last message read:

Read 7:46 AM

I sighed and put down my phone. My face contorted as a profusion of expletives rushed my thoughts. Shouldn’t have double-texted her.

I supposed that it didn’t matter too much. She was with someone, anyway. When I’d seen her in December, before we’d left for winter holidays, she’d been at Bear’s Ramen House in the Asian Ghetto—the food hub a block from Sproul Hall—eating with some guy I’d seen around, probably on campus. He was a moderately wealthy, white kid from Marin studying one of the various biology sub-majors offered by Cal. He was also a junior, like Maddie, so a year ahead of me, as if his towering six-foot-three-inch figure wasn’t enough to give him a leg up on me with regards to Maddie. I didn’t know him all that well, despite having had a discussion section or two with him, though we greeted each other with a polite nod of the head when passing by one another in the Valley Life Sciences Building (VLSB) or in the library. To be honest, I didn’t even remember his name, just his face. His outfits often consisted of athleisure wear from Nike and/or Champion, giving off the impression that he played sports. I wasn’t quite sure whether or not this impression was accurate, but I did sometimes see him on the Glade or other grassy campus sites playing Spikeball, accompanied by peers with faces I vaguely recognized.

We’d often talk, Maddie and I. Sometimes I’d run into her on the spiral staircase at VLSB—the stairs that’d curl around the large, plaster T-Rex model to face broad windows on the east, granting access to the morning sun. She’d be on her way to a bio lab downstairs; me, on my way to the private, grad student bathroom that I’d secretly gained access to on the second floor. The restroom upstairs was protected by a keypad, but the code was too obvious: 362 362, or DNA DNA.

“Wonder where you could be going,” she’d say.

“Just need to make sure my hair is okay. I’ll do whatever it takes to get a few extra points from Professor Meighan,” I’d joke back.

“Do you poop here everyday?” she’d ask with wide eyes. “Or maybe you just like seeing me, huh? Is that it?”

I’d freeze up.

She’d laugh, saying, “Maybe a little bit of both, right, J?”

“Nothing gets past you,” I’d mumble.

“You’re funny,” she’d say. “You should have your own TV show. Maybe once you’re done with your residency you can join Grey’s Anatomy, or Scrubs. Or maybe you can have a talk show! Like Dr. Phil, but more funny and less depressing.”

“What about me gives off the impression that I’d ever want to have a TV show, at all, in any way whatsoever?” I’d say, shaking my head.

“See? Just like that! Always asking the right questions! Like Ellen DeGeneres but all doctor-like.”

She tended to tease me a lot. I didn’t mind. In fact, it was probably part of her appeal—definitely was, on second thought.

Like a good portion of the many pre-med students out there, Maddie was a biology major. Berkeley offered a few different options for bio students, and I’m pretty sure she was studying molecular and cellular biology, though it’s hard for me to say. If I wanted to remember something about her, I’d write it down in my iPhone notes. Otherwise, my hippocampus tended to toss it out, preferring to form memories of her nose, her lips, and those low cut shirts that left me off balance.

We’d text back-and-forth about classes, sometimes. A lot less after I saw her eating with what’s-his-face. I didn’t blame her.

My phone read eight AM. I tossed on a waffle knit shirt and long johns, then a Columbia fleece and Levi jeans, topping it off with an aged ski jacket that I’d ‘borrowed’ from Adam, who was up in Tahoe at least twice a month in the winter. I slung the beaten, black JanSport backpack containing my belongings over my shoulders and headed out the hotel door, making for the elevator.

The room door shut quietly behind as I banked right into a narrow corridor housing four elevators, two on each side. I pressed a button to summon one and within a minute, the light above the furthest elevator on my right blinked on. The door opened and I entered, clicking the button indicating the main lobby of the hotel. The door shut and the elevator fell five floors before slowing to let in an older, Black woman wearing a fitted, bell-shaped hat.

“Ground floor?” I asked.

She smiled sweetly. “Yes, honey. Thank you.”

We descended the final four floors in silence. Arriving at the ground floor, the elderly woman smiled and nodded at me before exiting first. I followed her out, glanced down at my iPhone, then diverged from her path as I headed toward the central lobby to check out. After snapping my room key card in half, I left the hotel, walking toward a Caribou Coffee a few blocks north.

Under the warm skies of Seal Beach, California, where I was born and raised, people tended to take their coffee with ice more often than here in Denver, Colorado. Every Friday, my mother would pick up an americano for herself—black, with no cream or sugar—on her way to work. I’d tag along as a kid, but sooner than later elementary school drop-offs morphed into middle school bike rides, then high school walks with pretty girls I swore I had a chance with, and then the here-and-now, flying Economy for interviews that wouldn’t yield job offers.

It’s funny—when I was a kid I practically hated being seen with my parents. At back-to-school events—the evenings when parents conglomerated to celebrate the annual accomplishments of their children—I wouldn’t be caught dead near my family. Somehow, I thought it made me look childish, or immature. After graduating from high school, however, I started seeing them less and less, and I began to find myself missing mom’s morning espresso runs more and more.

It seemed as though I must have picked up my mother’s coffee drinking habits, because when I arrived at the Caribou Coffee on sixteenth street at approximately eight-twenty-five AM, I too ordered an americano with no cream or sugar.

“That comes out to three-thirty-nine,” said the female barista. She wore a black apron over red and black striped under-layers, with a white wool beanie on her head, and deep black mascara on her eyelashes.

I thanked her and handed over three dollar bills along with some loose change from my jacket pocket.

“On second thought,” I said, retracting my hand. “Can I also get one of those?” I gestured to a blueberry scone behind the glass counter.

“Sure. Just three extra dollars.” she said.

I counted out three extra dollar bills, handing the money to the barista. Then I walked over to a small rounded table situated near the entrance and sat down. Scanning my iPhone, I saw that Grace had texted me, so I responded, asking her to pick me up at the Denver sixteenth street Caribou Coffee. Then I put my phone away and tapped silently along the underside of the table, slightly impatient for my pastry and drink.

I wondered what Grace had in mind for the day. I hadn’t seen her since—well, I suppose it wasn’t that long ago—final exams last semester. Personally, Grace and I had yet to have a class together, but Adam always took one or two bullshit classes with her, so she was often around my house anyway—especially during the week of final exams, when they’d study together all day long. As an English major, she had it pretty easy schedule-wise. She hardly stressed, at least outwardly, and was rarely overburdened with work, so she never missed a chance to chat it up with my housemates or me when Adam brought her over. She was really likable too. Even Albert got along with her, making small talk about Proust or the latest Pulitzer Prize winning novel from Jennifer Egan, and that’s saying a lot.

She always made it a point to stop by my room upstairs, at 2231 Dwight, waving ‘hello’ to me before vanishing for hours into the recesses of Adam’s single downstairs. I really liked that about her.

A small vibration from my left pant pocket convinced me to reach in. I pulled out my iPhone and saw that Grace had texted me. She was to arrive a bit early, in fifteen or so, around eight-fifty-five AM. She was driving in a black Honda Civic, she’d said. I texted her back to let her know that I’d be ready.

“I’ve got a medium americano and a blueberry scone!” called the barista.

I stood up, pulling my jacket over the chair to mark my temporary territory, then hurried over to the counter to grab my order. “Thanks,” I said before hurrying back to my table, balancing the warm, paper cup in one hand with the scone in the other.

Sitting back down at the table, I huffed down the scone. Then I took off the lid of the cup, wisps of steam condensing on the furl of my lip. I blew gently, cooling the drink.

I sipped slowly, then decided to put on my jacket and wait outside. Grace would be here any minute and I didn’t want her to miss me. I was getting sick of waiting by myself anyway. Walking outside, an icy burst of air cut right through me. I shivered, then zipped up Adam’s ski jacket. It was a good thing that it wasn’t snowing, because it was cold enough as it was.

I paced around for a bit, rubbing my hands to keep warm, until finally, a black Honda Civic with a freckled girl at its helm slowed to a stop slightly ahead of the sixteenth street coffee shop.

Grace rolled down the passenger window. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I said back. My pace quickened as my feet approached her car.

“I missed you, dude,” she said. “Come on, let’s go. It’s freezing outside.” A crimson hoodie hid most of her delicate contours, though the graceful arcs that formed over her breasts hinted at something more. The left side of her chest housed a star-shaped sports logo with the words ‘Broomfield Soccer Club’ below in a decorative typeface.

I opened the car door and hopped into the passenger seat. Gusts of warm air ruffled my hair.

She reached over the center console and squeezed me in a close hug. “How was break?”

“Pretty good. I mean, I was finally able to—”

“Bruh,” she groaned. “Did you read Science?”

“What?”

“The magazine,” she said, squinting her eyes.

I cocked my head to the side. “Was I supposed to?”

Grace rolled her eyes and sighed. “Can you?”

“Is there something I should be looking for?”

“Oh my god. Take out your phone.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now. Jesus-fucking-Christ, J.”

“Okay,” I said, pulling the iPhone from my jean pocket.

“Okay.” She cracked her finger knuckles. “Google ‘butterflies’.”

“Grace—” I started.

“Come on. Look it up.”

“Okay. Just because you’re asking.” I opened Chrome’s mobile browser on my phone, typed in ‘butterflies’, and pressed ‘search’.

She cleared her throat.

“Butterfly,” I read. “An insect from the ma-cro-lep-id-opt-er-an clade Rho-pal-o-cer-a, from the order Lep-id-op-tera—”

“No!” She snatched my phone and scrolled down. “Here. California’s monarch butterfly count drops by eighty-six percent, just last year!”

I raised my eyebrows. “Is butterfly watching a hobby you picked up over break or something?”

Her jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

I coughed to cover a laugh. “I mean, I didn’t know you took butterflies so seriously.”

“God, and I’m supposed to go to a guy like you for my yearly checkups?” she gasped.

I put my hand on her shoulder. “Grace—”

“I don’t want to hear it, insect-killer.” She blew aside a tuft of hair from her forehead. “So, how was it?”

“How was what?”

“How was break?”

“Oh. Right,” I said. “Well, I finally got around to watching that show you and Adam were talking about last semester.”

“Peaky Blinders?” Her eyes lit up. “Oh my god, it’s really good, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I really like Tommy’s brother, Arthur. I think he’s funny. I’m not too sure how I feel about Polly yet, though, but then again I’m only on season three.”

“Adam fucks with Arthur too. Personally, I’m more of a John-kinda-person. I think he’s less murderous than Arthur. Kills too much. How’s Adam doing, though?”

“Honestly, you probably know better than me. Haven’t seen him since we left for home.”

“I feel it.”

Grace made a sharp right onto the I-25 freeway, accelerating until our speed plateaued around ninety miles per hour. I gripped the sides of my seat—ninety was a little too fast for my tastes. I considered myself a defensive driver. Dull buildings bordered the freeway shoulders, and I tried to focus on them to distract myself from Grace’s driving.

“What do you say we stop by a park or something, J? Not really tryna see my parents right now.” Grace glanced at me, her hands still on the wheel.

I felt a bit queasy watching her take her eyes off the road. “Yeah, works for me. Something going on?”

“Eh, the usual. Just get sick of ‘em being home for so long,” she said. “But anyhow, I have a ball in the trunk. We can kick it around or some shit.”

The road grew bumpier as we drove over a waterway on the way to Grace’s neighborhood. Spoiled by scenic coastal sights on the drive up to Berkeley, the glum scenes around me felt sobering. I tapped my foot, eager to get out of the car.

Eventually, Grace took exit 225 on the right, keeping left to merge onto East One-hundred-thirty-sixth Avenue. We passed a stucco structure with a sign that read ‘Broomfield’.

“Almost there,” said Grace. “I know just the spot.”

Finally, Grace made a left into a small parking lot bordered by bright green, grassy fields on one end and unkempt trails on the other. “Quail park. I grew up playing soccer here.”

I looked around. I was glad to be there—it certainly yielded better views than the drive had. “It’s pretty.”

Grace popped open the trunk and pulled out a soccer ball and pump. She filled it with air quickly, then gestured for me to carry the ball. We walked over to the open fields, brushing permafrost aside as we squished the grass beneath our feet. Back and forth, we kicked the ball to one another, Grace showing off every now and then by booting the ball over her head and onto her knees, juggling it for ten, maybe twenty bounces before passing it back to me.

“So?” she said. “Did you kill the interview?”

I winced. “Not exactly.”

Grace toed the ball inward, using its momentum to whip the ball onto the flat of her foot. With a touch of force, she tapped the ball into the air and into her hands. “Come on, J. It couldn’t have been that bad.”

I smiled a bit. “It really was though.”

She laughed and dropped the ball to her feet. Passing it back to me, she said, “Ah, whatever. You don’t want to work in Denver anyway. You’re not cut out for it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, look at you. You’ve been shivering your ass off since I picked you up, dummy. And I have heated seats!” she said.

“Hey,” I started. “You’re not wrong.”

“Rarely am. Anyhow, how are things with, uh, you know . . .”

“Maddie?” I finished.

“Yes, right, Maddie.”

“She texted me this morning.”

“Oooooh,” said Grace. “How’s Brandon gonna feel about that?”

Ah, right, Brandon. How could I forget?

“Brandon . . . Right. Well, I doubt that it’s a major concern of his at the moment. She left me on read anyway.”

“Oh. Well, it’s her loss anyhow. She’s missing out on a star athlete!” said Grace as she punted the ball, knocking me square in the chest.

“Fucking shit!” I howled.

“You sound like Adam more and more everyday,” she said.

“So dreams do come true.”

“Isn’t it funny,” said Grace, juggling the ball on her quads. “Don’t you feel like certain words belong to certain people?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, like, don’t you associate certain words with certain people? Like every swear word with Adam, for example, and or maybe, I’m sure there are some you have in mind for Maddie or whoever.”

“You sure you’re not projecting, Grace?” I asked.

This time she threw the ball at me, and it proceeded to hit me right on the head. We kicked around for another hour or so, talking about this or that—how final exams went; our plans for the semester; and Pac-12 Women’s soccer, despite an utter lack of knowledge regarding the sport’s conference on my part. Around five-thirty in the late afternoon, we decided to get something to eat, so Grace drove us to a Vietnamese spot called Golden Bowl Noodle House which she heralded as the greatest phở restaurant on the west coast.

We sat down in blue booth seats across from one another, red and gold walls bordering us on my left. A large, square, green painting depicting an ocean scene lined the wall between us. I ordered the same thing as Grace, the Combo Number One, which consisted of a small rare steak phở, 2 spring rolls, and an iced tea. Grace asked to change hers to a warm tea, which was probably the better move in hindsight. Our drinks arrived first, and we sipped on them slowly. I was hungry—blueberry scones could only provide so much sustenance.

A robed Asian woman, with a slight hunch in her back as she hobbled over, arrived with a tray carrying two bowls of soupy noodles; four translucent wrapped appetizers; and a small dish with bean sprouts, Thai basil, and other add-ons. She bowed slightly and left us to our meals, so I looked over at Grace who had already taken her first bite from a spring roll. I followed her lead, feeling the cool cloak of rice wrappers over fresh shrimp, cilantro, and basil. Taking a bite, my teeth met shrimp with just the right amount of snap, the unexpected tang of hoisin sauce gifting a pleasant surprise.

Grace smacked my hand. “Use the peanut sauce! You gotta appreciate it properly, cuz some people can’t. Did you know that the rate of food allergies is increasing rapid as fuck—especially in developed nations like the US?”

I did as she said, dipping the spring roll into the gloppy, brown sauce. She wasn’t wrong—it was better that way. After swallowing my last bite of the spring rolls, Grace tossed some bean sprouts into my soup and squeezed lime juice over my bowl.

“You know this isn’t my first time eating phở, right?” I said.

Grace hushed me and continued eating. I watched her twirl a handful of noodles into her chopsticks, lifting them to her mouth over a soup spoon. Noisy slurps concluded with sapid bites followed by quick sips of tea. Rinse and repeat.

I opted for a fork, twisting firm noodles around its prongs as best I could, gulping down spoonfuls of savory soup in between steak and noodle bites. I watched the red meat cook to a brownish hue, the hot broth’s steam parting like sea waves under my chin.

“I’ll give it to you,” I said. “It’s good.”

Grace glanced at me, nodded, and continued eating. Finishing promptly, she leaned back into her chair and exhaled heavily.

I rushed to keep up with her, but it took me significantly longer to finish. Sooner or later, the robed woman limped over with the bill. I rose to my feet and met her halfway. I pulled out a Mastercard and slipped it into the folded check before handing it back to her and sitting back down with Grace.

“Real gentleman, aren’t you?”

“It’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done for me today. Besides, you’ve just introduced me to the ‘best phở on the west coast’, right?”

“Suppose that’s true. Okay, you’re right, dinner on you.”

The restaurant owner signaled that I could take back my card, so I walked over, tipped four-and-a-half dollars, tucked away my card, and we left for the car.

Grace’s eyelids were a bit heavy, so I asked her if she wanted me to drive. She handed me her keys and jumped into the passenger seat. After I buckled into the driver seat and turned the key in the ignition, she directed me to make a right out of the parking lot. I drove slowly back to her house, which was only ten or so minutes away, then pulled into her garage. The garage led into a two-story, vinyl sided, upper-middle class home with a comely, green lawn out front.

“Come on. I’ll show you to the guest room.”

I followed her over hardwood floors into the living room, where a tall, white man with square sunglasses over his eyes and a black beanie atop his head shuffled through TV channels with a remote. The lights were off in the room even though the sun had set a little less than an hour prior.

“How are you doing, sir?” I asked.

“Wassup?” he said.

“Oh,” I said. “How are you today, sir?”

“All good.” He took a long draw from an IPA resting on the coffee table in front of him. “Catch y’all. Gracey—you got trash, yea?”

Before Grace could reply, a voice called from the kitchen around the corner, “I got today, hun!”

We nodded in acknowledgment to the man and turned to leave. “Must be your dad?” I asked.

“Yup,” she said. And that was the end of it.

I followed Grace into the kitchen. A woman—her mother, presumably—with a polka dot apron around her neck and a noticeable accent in her voice greeted us warmly. I was surprised by the speed of the woman as she rushed me with a sturdy hug, a tactic she then repeated on her daughter.

“Are you Filipino?” she asked, placing a motherly hand on my shoulder.

“No, ma’am.”

“Ayo,” she said. “No problem. Sleep good, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for letting me stay—”

“Sorry about him, mom,” said Grace. She hit me on the back playfully and the two women burst into laughter in unison. “You’re always welcome, J.”

I smiled, said goodbye, and trailed Grace as she led me up a winding staircase to a small bedroom encapsulated by canary yellow walls laden with rooster prints. The room housed a twin bed and two lamps with cube-ish shades. The bedsheets matched the walls, realistic rooster designs corresponding with the overarching theme of the bedroom.

“Don’t ask,” said Grace. “Night, J. Sleep up.”

I hugged Grace and thanked her. “Night.”

It was still early, only six-thirty or so, so I plopped onto the bed and pulled out my iPhone, intent on watching YouTube videos to pass some time. I chuckled to myself as I admired the chicken print theme of the room.

Clicking my phone to life, I was surprised to find text messages from Maddie that read:

I sighed and put the iPhone down as my heart rate spiked into the mid eighties.

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