xlvnedrms

[xlvnedrms]

Forget Me Not

Chapter 2: Dittany

He awakes to the sound of the rain, heavy thuds against the windowpanes, obscured by the still drawn closed translucent curtains. There’s little light spilling in. He sighs. It appears his days are bound to be dreary in the worst ways. In an almost muted voice, the newsreader on the television drones on in rapid fire Italian. With another sigh, Lucsin heaves himself up onto his elbows then his knees, crawling to reach for the remote. He turns the volume up, despite it not proving much use considering he’s still having difficulty translating the ceaseless language. He watches on in an attempt to make sense of the news. At some point, he realises there’s a coverage on either cancelled or delayed flights – he can’t tell which – as a result of the poor weather throughout Italy. He huffs a breath; no chance of him flying out then. Right after, a weather forecast comes on, indicating a smaller chance of rain in the next four days preceded by nonstop showers. A day he won’t be around for. He flicks to another channel.

On the first one, an ad on some carwash product is playing. A man approaches his muddied-up Fiat with an expression of disdain, before he’s approached by a burly salesman carrying a shiny bottle of shiny liquid. He slathers it on the car and that’s that. A cooking show resumes to reveal a lady Lucsin presumes must be a famous chef filleting a fish. It’s pink-bellied and its large black eye that is visible stares unseeingly at the camera. He watches it for awhile, the way she expertly slides the knife under its gills, or whichever anatomy of the dead fish, chopped up herbs littering the counter. He watches, mainly the lifeless fish, until he realises the show doesn’t look like it’s going to end anytime soon, not with the way she keeps pausing to chat animatedly with the inanimate camera. He switches the channel.

It’s a show, two people walking briskly through a bullpen, talking in serious hushed tones. They look important, probably detectives of some sort, Lucsin guesses. He readjusts his position to lean more comfortably against the headboard and doesn’t switch away. Despite only catching half-conversations, it provides reasonable entertainment up until the show ends and the next programme is a documentary. He’s never had much taste for documentaries. He changes the channel, and changes it again and again, until he comes across a faded, texturised screen – even more so than the TV’s default – faint rustling sounds heard. It takes awhile for the rest of the scene to reveal itself; a woman in a nightgown walks up to a man puffing away at a cigarette, whilst leaning against an old car door. It looks almost similar to the car wax ad he’d seen earlier, but a slutty version. Which is apparent when the woman approaches the man, hand on his chest, dropping her nightdown to reveal everything but her lower half and her chest.

Lucsin reaches a hand, experimentally squeezing himself through his trousers, before deciding he’s really not in the mood at the moment. He switches off the television and swings his legs down, stretching and yawning grandly. He locates his phone to find that it’s nearing five, seemingly sunset time, he thinks with one glance at the darkened sky. He puts on his poncho and heads out.

Earlier, he’d turned left upon exiting the gates, so this time, he turns right. He walks along the fondamenta blindly until he finds a particularly scintillating neon-lit ‘Jazz Night’, surprisingly written in English. The entryway is narrow, only a single-person's width, and warm amber light overflows out and onto the cobbled street. He pushes and the door gives easily, a bell chiming overhead.

Jazz music, as advertised, immediately floods his senses, the murmurs of indistinguishable chatter floating over. It is the typical jazz, the piano and trombones keyed to a tune Lucsin’s never quite appreciated. However, the lighting further in is different, only the entrance illuminated by the welcoming glow. Strobe lights rotate around, but despite its vibrance, it doesn’t pulse, making it easier on the eyes. As Lucsin walks further in, the floor seating is full, but the bar remains mostly unoccupied. He slides into a seat at the edge, hanging his poncho on the under-table hook he finds there. The bartender smiles at him easily, his own hair shining indistinctly with the flittering strobe lights that Lucsin can’t make out the colour.

“Italiano?” The bartender asks as he approaches, voice deeper than Lucsin had expected for some reason.

“No,” Lucsin smiles back. “Just visiting.”

“Ah. What can I get for you, signore?”

Lucsin thinks. He’d come here for grub, still feeling rather ravenous.

“Haven’t had dinner yet,” Lucsin tells him.

“Two appetizers, along with a drink. Surprise me?”

The bartender stares at Lucsin with an intensity that rather fuddles him, eyes searching Lucsin’s face for an idea, eyes that could be purple or blue or any colour it wants to be in the lights. Lucsin forces himself to not look away, and the bartender’s smile widens.

“Wait a moment, signore,” he says, sliding his elbows off the counter where he’d rested it leisurely whilst Lucsin considered what to get.

Lucsin realises the man’s English isn’t accented, unlike what he’s come to expect of locals. Unless the bartender isn’t local, which would explain the easy manner in which he speaks, both languages seeming to run fluently off his tongue.

Lucsin spins around in his seat, observing the rest of the bistro. Most patrons are dressed to the nines, dresses shimmering in the low light, and watches winking. Lucsin pushes up his sleeve, his own watch seeming to catch the light. Back home, he rarely, if ever, embellishes the accessory, but during his missions, time is of the essence. He always sets it to the most accurate degree he can muster prior, and it’s never failed him. He’s opted for a stainless-steel band, its face a navy blue punctured by golden hands. The brand and aesthetic more for the theatrics than anything really.

He maps out the place in his head, noting a dimly-lit corner, where a couple snog fiercely. It makes him wonder how family-friendly the establishment is. Just as he thinks that, the bartender returns, setting down two plates on the table.

“Thought you might want your food first. Empty stomach, yes?” he says to Lucsin.

Lucsin smiles gratefully, looking at what he’s received. On one, a mushy pale mix he’s never seen before, the shape of a deep round tin, with two long fingers laying criss-crossed next to it. He can’t tell what it is. The other dish looks fairly simple – seared scallops with a slice of lemon.

At Lucsin’s questioning look, the bartender tells him, pointing a slim finger at the plates, “Creamed codfish with polenta taragna fingers, and seared scallops with smoky brown butter.”

Lucsin takes a bite, and it’s as good as overpriced European fare gets. Which is good, just not worth the penny if his wallet wasn’t bound to reset in some hours’ time. He enjoys it though, considering he wouldn’t normally indulge in creamed cod in England.

Lucsin decides to ask, “Is this a bistro or a club?”

“Ah. It is your first time, yes?” The bartender cocks a head at him, leaning in. “I’ll let you in on a lil’ secret. At nine, we close down for a bit, and at eleven, we open back up as a club. If you’re free, I recommend coming down again.”

It is an interesting idea, converting from bistro to club, and it explains the unique choice of lighting for a dining area. Lucsin thinks that he will definitely come by after eleven, if not today then another night. But for now, he truly is ravenous, polishing his plate despite his best attempts to savour the meal. It’s barely a few moments when the bartender returns to efficiently clear the plates.

“Ready for the drink, then?” He asks, eyes alight with amusement, and Lucsin nods.

Lucsin’s always enjoyed watching bartender’s working their magic, pouring long pulls of liquor and liqueur into a shaker, deftly tossing the closed shaker in the air before catching it. The bartender does just that, twirling the shaker behind his back, then on his finger much like a basketball player would a ball. With a final slam on the counter, he produces a stemmed glass, and with the other hand, torches a herby looking leaf. He slides the finished concoction over. Smoke rises enchantingly, the liquid a murky blue, almost black.

“Blue curacao and activated charcoal for the colour, dittany for garnish” the bartender announces. “Today’s special. On the house just for you, signore. You’ll be on your own for any other drinks, though.”

Lucsin inspects the dittany, voice coming out in a murmur just loud enough to hear over the din of the other patrons, “S’for healing?”

“Healing, yes, among others,” the bartender confirms, “like passion and love. The Cretan variety was known by the Romans as the herb of lovers.”

“Romantic,” Lucsin enthuses.

Then with a parting wink, the bartender leaves to greet a couple coming to order drinks. Lucsin takes his time with the drink, the alcohol burning pleasantly. And when he leaves, it’s barely gone seven, rain still pouring, diminishing the cheer he’d built up in the bistro-cum-club.

He stands in the rain for a good two hours, roaming from calle to calle, unable to tell apart the streets and buildings. Eventually, he winds up by the large canal again, only the speckled sighting of gondolas and the torrential downpour disturbing the currents. Following the canal, he somehow finds his way back to familiar grounds – and by familiar grounds, he really means the warm glow of the bistro/club, from which he needs to try his hardest to retrace his steps.

Back to safety, he spends the night uneventfully, turning the TV on and switching away from the depraved soft porn he’d left it on. He’d had to hurriedly turn the heater on when he’d first come in, anything to thaw sensation back into his fingers and toes, skin soaked with rain. His room isn’t all that heatproof, the thin walls apparently doing more – or less, whichever way you see it – than letting the incessant sounds through.

Once cocooned in his covers, he stares at more than watches the show, some romance movie with a cliché kiss-in-the-rain scene. He thinks about getting a data plan the following day, at least then he’d be able to use his phone. Might also be useful to check out must-visit spots considering he isn’t even sure which part of the city his apartment is.

Bored out his mind and not willing to start braving the rain just yet, he resorts to getting a full workout done. He’s sweating and panting in spite of the cold slowly seeping in, when it starts – the thuds of something against his neighbour’s walls. He decides to ignore it first, chalking it up to furniture being transferred around despite the gnawing in his gut telling him it’s anything but a coincidence. Then the thudding becomes more insistent, and soon, the unmistakable sound of moaning ensues. Giving up on his workout, he stomps over to the shower. Just his luck that his neighbours are going to have a go at it every night. Another night, maybe, and Lucsin could entertain himself with the noises, but not tonight.

The shower, he finds out, is utterly shite. The pressure control is poor, spitting out water without so much as a nudge to the knob, much like the rain outside, and it’s freezing to the touch. He jumps away and shuts off the water, cursing to himself. The water heater is on, he confirms, and stares at it stonily as though a look will make the water run hotter. Carefully, he turns the water back on, making sure to stay out of the firing zone of the cantankerous water jet, and waits. It takes awhile, but the water gets there eventually, allowing Lucsin short blissful minutes of scalding water. He even manages to rub one out, but just barely, water turning chilly again during his last few moments.

Once out, he towels himself dry with rough drags of the towel on his skin, dresses, and jumps back into bed. The sounds through the wall are still going strong, but Lucsin is relieved to note it doesn’t sound like it’s gone out of the range of vanilla; no wondering if his neighbours are killing each other in there. And despite the noise and the unsubsiding chill, Lucsin drifts off to sleep, fatigue dragging him under.

He dreams of a rainless Venice, walking along boat-filled canals, unfamiliar variants of shrubbery shimmering under the sunlight. He looks at one and it comes to him – dittany. Romantic, he thinks, is the sight of flowers flourishing and of oars rowing, Italians going about their day. It occurs to him that the scenery his imagination has conjured could very well be just that – a fantasy; he hasn’t seen Venice under the sun and he won’t.

In the dream, it turns dark quickly, but it’s unlike the dreary way in which day melds into night under the heavy clouds. A timeskip, rather. Under a sky where he can see the stars, he walks back to the bistro, but at this time, it’s the club.

He pushes open the door, bell chiming, and the first thing he sees is the bartender smiling, as though beckoning him over. But it’s dark, too dark, and even though the lighting is different in the dream, he still can’t see the features of the man.

Soon, features begin to warp and the bass of indistinct noise – jazz, he remembers it should be – becomes too loud, it makes his head pound. He shuts his eyes, squeezing them tight, and when he reopens them, there’s dittany everywhere. Littering the floor that it doesn’t look like the club anymore. Nothing looks like the club anymore, he realises. It’s raining again but he can’t feel it from how his clothes is already clinging to him, sticky with water. A clinical, floral scent wafts up, concealing any possibility of other senses. The blessing of dittany. When he looks up, a mark goes down, the red a loud beacon in the grey barren. He can’t smell the blood. And soon, he knows, he'll forget it all. He’ll never know the colours in the club.

Time slips away, and he wakes up, stomach turning and retorting, as time slips, slips, slips. And it’s November the thirtieth again.

Today, he decides, he is going to get a data plan. A data plan for his phone, and a plan to properly experience Venice, to enjoy sightseeing as a tourist would before the weather inadvertently sours his joy of the foreign city after one too many wet days.

He doesn’t want to bother with a shower but he’s sweating, the sensation of his dream still prickling at his skin, like a vivid reminder that he won’t remember.

That’s the way it always goes – he experiences weeks in unfamiliar places, in the company of unfamiliar strangers, until everything blends into a singularity and he’s memorised every nook and cranny, all the reactions he’ll receive to every variation of conversation he can come up with. Time ends – or rather, resumes – when he’s killed the target. The target and himself are the key players in this tragic game of death.

When playing with time magic, there’s a catch. There’s always a catch to powerful magic. When reversing and looping, one has to put it on someone’s life, in this case and every case Lucsin has done, his own and his target’s.

What this means is if the target dies, the loop ends after the day is over. Likewise if Lucsin does. However, the survivor will forget every memory of the previous repetitions, and only the last remains.

Forgetting does have its benefits, Lucsin believes. Even if he subjects himself to the repetitive state of hopelessness, of experiencing dull days under a duller sky, he will heal. After all, his soul is unmarred with no memory of things to upset him. He’ll be wiped anew, as though he'd spent one day in the time loop and come away with blood on his hands.

Even the wounds and bruises he sustains will heal after the loop ends, but for the sake of non-suffering, he would rather not get hurt. He is, after all, the master of time during this period. He is the one constant and proof that time is trapped; his physical state carries on as normal throughout the looped days until it’s over.

Like the previous time, the morning drizzle looks promising, sky almost clear enough to make Lucsin believe he’ll have a better day. But he knows that isn’t the case. Wanting to make the most of the relatively better morning, he slides out of bed, not liking but ignoring the biting chill that hits him as soon as his shield of cotton is off. He fares better against the adversary that is the shower this morning, learning to wait a good three minutes before he can step in without turning his skin blue.

His first stop is the quaint grocer, where the girl at the counter is once again watching her loud Italian series. He picks up a poncho again, and tries in broken Italian.

“Scusami. Ha data plan il telefono?”

When she stares at him, eyes squinted in confusion, he pulls out his phone and points to the web search button. She blinks once, twice, then looks enlightened, scrambling to pause her show.

“Si, si,” she’s saying, nodding her head.

She presents to him a tourist SIM, which looks about right for the price point. Not that it matters too much, he practically has infinite money at this point, and he’ll need to repurchase it tomorrow.

He thanks her and leaves her to resume her loud show. He wanders back in the direction of his apartment and past it. For some reason, he feels drawn to that side of the city after the night he’d spent in the enchanting bistro. He isn’t sure if it’s open at this time, but he doesn’t plan to go there just yet, no. He walks until he finds a creperie, which entices his still empty stomach.

His stomach decides what to get for him, settling on a sardine crepe – advertised to be sweet and sour – and requests an add-on of burrata. He takes a seat at a table facing the large windows overlooking the canal.

At this time, sunlight struggling to break through the clouds in peeks, there apparently are gondolas floating about. Unsurprising considering the still unvicious nature of the weather, and people do need to head to work. It’s entertaining people-watching under the barely-there rain. Even more so when his crepe is ready, steaming delightfully under his nose.

After letting himself enjoy the view, he starts on working the SIM card. He’s done this enough times in all his trips abroad to get it activated in a matter of minutes. The first thing he does is figure out his current location, mentally mapping out the districts. He finds out he’s in San Marco a spitting distance from the grand canal facing San Polo and Dorsoduro. Convenient, he discovers, to visit tourist attractions, the area saturated with those spots. Today, he decides, he’s going to visit Piazza San Marco and Doge’s Palace.

[xlvnedrms]

my mental be blocking

[xlvnedrms]

not me forgetting i've got 4 wips and a novel that won't write itself

[xlvnedrms]

PART 2 heavy summer air drive without you smokestacks the little things kasbo remix dynasty atlantis roman holiday now or never without me lights on back 2 u you seemed so happy i'll call you mine can i call you tonight? sextape cherry waves crossfire all i need the bomb water under the bridge atc cover blue your face pandora doomed only in my mind strangers inbred a house in nebraska summer nights killing me to love you light years away higher oxygen rain down on me on my own all over now mama's boy sex, drugs, etc. commit this to memory 1216 built for sin

[xlvnedrms]

i've put together a playlist for 'forget me not'. unfortunately, i don't have spotify/yt to share it, so here's hoping anyone is willing to listen anyway (or curate one for us). i add songs as i write so we'll see how i edit this. (PART 1)

billie eilish - nda coachella version (my inspo for the fic!) pvris - you and i ethel cain - gibson girl lewis capaldi - forget me maroon 5 - she will be loved the script - the man who can't be moved katy perry - hummingbird heartbeat ed sheeran - galway girl decoy! remix the vamps - middle of the night monsta x - middle of the night pvris - what's wrong pvris - heaven adam lambert - underground zaho - solo ft. tayc pierre de maere - un jour je marierai un ange the chainsmokers - roses the chainsmokers - all we know the chainsmokers - paris (story's not in france i know) angele - les matins chelsea cutler - crazier things anna of the north - lovers hey violet - hoodie hey violet - break my heart too close to touch - miss your face tate mcrae - dear god paramore - decode the 1975 - about you blood orange - champagne coast tv girl - not allowed the nbhd - reflections kendric lamar, sza - all the stars the northern - umbra sleep token - caramel sleep token - blood sport ghost atlas - skin cult seoul - stay with us trevor something - fade away mixed matches - enclosed tezatalks - wanna du lizzy mcalpine - ceilings girl in red - we fell in love in october harry styles - golden miike snow - genghis khan taylor swift - fortnight glass animals - gooey punching in a dream nightcall yellow never be the same again find a way back want it bad deep end skeleton talk bags the a team feels jai wolf remix little freak twilight zone love lies otw

[xlvnedrms]

forget me not

Chapter 1: Daffodils 

The blade glints on the chipped, wooden table, blinding and threatening. The snake head points its tongue at the man seated opposite of him, a warning. Its ruby eyes flash under the overhead fluorescent lights, which flicker English. “You – you have to! He killed my family – he will kill my family! If you don’t. They said you’re good, you’re so good. You’ll – you’ll do it, you’ll h-help, won’t you?” 

Lucsin raises a brow at the man. “I’ve been hearing a lot but I need details of my target if you want me to get anything done.” 

The terrified man nods, jerky head movements, hands trembling as he pushes a crinkled parchment onto the table and towards Lucsin who’s staring dispassionately back at the man. Lucsin snatches the paper up even before the man has let go, just to watch him flinch, the chair creaking under him. The flush on his cheeks is apparent despite the dim glow cast over them. Outside, the rain patters on.  

Lucsin observes the paper, the image reflected back at him rather yellowed, but it’s still possible to detect the colours in it. His target is a rather ashen-looking young man, gaunt cheekbones, hair a shocking bright colour that contrasts the roots, although Lucsin can’t tell whether that’s black or brown. He’s turned half away from the camera from which the picture was taken with, but the angle of his chin is clearly pointed up.  

“He’s a monster! A traitor! He’ll pay, he has to pay!” the man is babbling, and Lucsin raises a hand to rub his temple. “Uragiri!” 

Japanese, then.  

“If you’re just here to waste my time,” Lucsin warns, voice controlled despite the annoyance brewing. 

He’s interrupted the man mid-spiel, saying something about how the target has been after the man’s family for their past transgressions. Lucsin doesn’t want to know more, he never does. Not about his targets, nor his clients. He’s learnt early on that it makes the job needlessly emotionally-investing.  

The man, wisely, shuts his mouth, saving Lucsin the hassle of continuing. In one motion, Lucsin stands, picking up the blade, letting it scrape the wood as the man’s eyes stay transfixed on the sharp edges. Then he slides it into the holster hidden beneath his long cloak.  

Now comes the part he hates the most. Time-travelling. A technique he’d taught himself after poring through decrepit tomes on forbidden magic after numerous clients had come to him, begging for him to do more even at the expense of all their wealth. But with the power to reverse time, comes the catch: time loops until his target is dead.  

He's experienced, though, and fearless. He’d had to be to even venture into the shadows of the past with an illusion of claustrophobia. He’s done this over a dozen times and he’s yet to fail.  

The most unpleasant part of the experience is the feeling of time warping around itself after every daily reset. It leaves his stomach churning and gives him frequent migraines as the days wear longer. 

He just hopes wherever it is he’s going is less wet.  

He isn’t in any rush to start, sauntering out of the jettisoned warehouse, pockets weighed down by the documents in the Manila folder the man had passed to him early in the meeting. The documents detail all the information he had obtained on the target, which isn't much at all, except for a list of possible sightings and haunts – a list of bars and tourist spots. The target lacks excitement, apparently. However, Lucsin has a feeling there’s more, there’s always more when the person is a killer as well. Although it remains to be seen whether it’s a recurrent killing the target enjoys, or merely a crime of passion. 

Another page lists a whole autobiography of the target, but Lucsin hasn’t seen it. It will probably come in handy on one of those days he will inevitably rot away on a rental bed in lord-knows-where. He usually leaves accommodation up to the client, not bothering to find a decent place to stay at for himself, and this time it is a homestay, as listed on yet another page. He rips that page up and litters it around the bushes on the way to his car parked a distance away. 

He’ll begin at 7:48 sharp in the morning in two days time, he decides. He prefers letting the time reset together with the rise of the sun, rather than at midnight; he’s found it tends to cut his nightly adventures short. 

To occupy his time, he drives to the part of the city centre known for its grubbiness and nightlife, wandering aimlessly until he decides to enter a Soho stripclub, eager for a shot or two. He’s jittery, pent-up with physical energy he hasn’t expanded in weeks. His last hit had been nearly a month ago, which entailed three weeks of idle vacation he didn’t want. He just hadn’t felt like searching for clients, and yet he hadn’t been sought after until the pudgy Japanese man the evening prior. 

That night, he drinks until the bodies and lights turn into a mess of swirly, cacophonous noise, his own hands swimming in and out of his vision. A hand to his sweaty back, and he ends up in the filthy loos with a nameless, faceless man, with whom he ends up in bed with for yet another barely-satisfying round. At 7:47, he wakes up with a jolt, moving away from the warm body lain next to him with barely a glance. An odd cry to the next many mornings he’ll find the day resetting. He collects his belongings, speeds the way back to his apartment to retrieve his already-packed bag, and heads back out to hail a cab to the airport. Then begins his three-hour direct journey. 

The location is Venice, an ugly run-down apartment that has Lucsin wrinkling his nose at. Unlike some buildings where you really shouldn’t judge a book by the cover, the apartment is the reverse – the interior appearing much shabbier than its charming outlook. 

He could spend the time exploring the city, but he has practically unlimited time to do so, and the flight has his body aching, lending no help to the hard shagging he’d gotten prior to the flight. He’s sore and the bed looks inviting, so he flops face-first on the bed. 

For the second time in so many hours, he awakes to the darkness on a lumpy bed. He blindly reaches out until his fingers reach the cool casing of his phone. Sure enough, it is exactly 7:48 on the 30th November. 

The first few mornings are always the roughest. Oftentimes, he’ll jolt awake at the exact time that the day shifts, the sour taste still on his tongue, its spread all the way to the pits of his stomach and to the tips of his fingers. He groans, shifting himself into sitting, and his full bladder is immediately brought to his attention. With another groan, he lifts himself to his feet. 

He stumbles to the the first door he sees, which turns out to be the bathroom indeed. The floors are marbled, a faded carmine with specks of silver and marbles of black, stretching out rather generously. The bathroom is a decent size, and it doesn’t smell, although Lucsin supposes that might be just because he’s got a shit sense of smell. 

He takes one step and immediately curses. The floor is bloody freezing. It is winter, had been a miserable one back in London. He still has yet to see if the Venice weather is going to treat him any better, the curtains drawn tight and his bed buzzing unpleasantly so he hadn’t thought to listen. Gingerly, he tiptoes his way out once he’s relieved himself and onto the safety of the carpeted floor of the bedroom. From this perspective, it’s easier to examine the position his apartment is in. It's quaint, not the worst he’s had, a single cotton white bed laid at the centre of the room against the wall, framed on one side by rather ratty wingchair, and on the other, a chestnut bedside table, just big enough to fit his belongings. His suitcase is propped on the floor at the foot of the bed, where he’d deposited it upon arriving. 

He goes to pull open the curtains and one glance out the fogged up windows, and all hopes of a warmer mission are dashed; rain falling heavily against the glass, the sounds of it reverberating throughout the chamber. Experimentally, he raps a knuckle against the peeling wallpaper of the wall, and as he’d suspected, the walls are thin. He hopes he won’t have too hard a time sleeping, considering his neighbours are bound to be doing the same thing each night. In the past, he’s had neighbours engaging in discordant bedtime activities – such as arguing and throwing pots and pans at each other; juveniles throwing narcotised house parties; and once, a couple having such rough sex it became rather unenjoyable to wank himself when the woman’s moans turned into bloodcurdling screams he’d become rather concerned. 

Lucsin walks over to a high shelf facing the bed, but it doesn’t have any compartments, its sole purpose seeming to be to prop up the boxed television sitting atop it. As he takes the remote, he notices the layer of dust caking the wood, grimacing when it marks his fingers sootily. He wipes it haphazardly on his trousers and then flicks on the TV. It lands on a news channel, spoken in quick Italian. Lucsin thinks it’s a very lucky thing he’d decided to learn the language, lest he bore himself to death with a local language he can’t understand. Traversing a foreign country with little knowledge of the language had never really posed a problem to him, thankfully, scraping by with broken English and numerous attempts spread over the days if one interaction went sour. 

Turning down the volume, he tosses the remote onto his unopened suitcase, and walks back through the door he’d seen adjacent to the bathroom entrance. It leads out to a little hallway, so short it barely qualifies as a hallway, connected to a kitchenette. Beyond that, was another door, which upon closer inspection, had a pungent stench even he found difficult to stomach, shutting the door promptly and mournfully realising he’ll have to resort to washing his clothes by hand unless he finds a way to access the washing machine tucked in that smelly corner. 

A glance at the phone tells him it’s a minute to eight now, the date below still reading 30 November, of course. 

He mentally gears himself up for a month-long, if not more, 30th November. 

He pulls out a cashmere trench coat, one he usually reserves for the worst of weathers. He’s only used it during one of his time-loops, an especially grey London which was being hit by a flood on the daily. His least favourite weather to be caught in yet. 

He doesn’t bother with the rest of his clothes – they will end up in the suitcase by the next day anyway. Nothing is invulnerable to the time-loop, except for his own body. That also means unlimited money, really. 

His first task is to retrieve an umbrella or poncho. He doesn’t know where the shops are located, but he decides to head out in the rain. There are already people milling about, the sky brightening in the backdrop already. He sees a few people calling greetings at each other, no doubt familiar with one another already. Nobody pays him any mind, no doubt indifferent to the blip of a man who’s bound to vanish come December the second. Two blocks down, he’s delighted to find a cosy grocer brimming with newspapers set atop metallic racks facing the door. Pushing the doors open immediately let in a spray of droplets, wetting the tips of the whole stack. An impractical design he scoffs at. His hair is already sodden, dripping wetness onto the floor. The grocer is empty save for the store clerk slouched over the counter, watching some Italian show blaring loudly on her phone. He grabs a poncho on the shelf right before the counter and decides against purchasing anything to eat for the moment; he’ll try the local fare later. He’d exchanged some cash at the airport; he can easily change more if he finds himself in need. 

He clears his throat. “Scusami. Dove mi consiglio di mangiare?” 

The store clerk squints at him. She speaks with accented English. 

“Tourist?” She asks. 

Lucsin nods once. The store clerk grabs a piece of paper and pen from somewhere hidden by the counter and slams it on the counter. In messy scrawls, she draws lines around until it loosely resembles a path leading up to a square which she points an arrow to. Drawing a line across one narrow path, she raises her other hand and points Lucsin to the right of the store. 

“Ah,” he says, understanding the orientation she’s given him. “Grazie.” 

She smiles thinly and waves him off, resuming her loud show. It sounds like two women screaming angrily at each other, but he can’t be certain. 

Now wrapped securely in the waterproof plastic, he steps back out into the rain, now noticing the edges of dulled pink of the brightening sky around the pouring rain. He turns right and tries his best to follow along with the desultory map with no clear landmarks. He's always been bad with directions, but he supposes it would be fine if he winded up lost. He’d appear at the crack of dawn back in the room. 

He’s surprised himself when he comes across an empty square of cobblestones, pedestrians criss-crossing from every which direction. The only thing impeding the otherwise perfect square is an outdoor seating area that is unsurprisingly empty as the plastic seats are set slanted against the drenched tables, although connected to it is an unsuspecting cafe with a cramped indoor area with three tables only. Two of them are filled – a pair chatting quietly as they munch on flaky pastries, and an older man white around the head, reading a newspaper with a cup of steaming coffee set before him. Lucsin steps in and removes his now-heavy poncho and stares at the menu. 

He decides he can’t go wrong with a cappuccino and a ham and cheese stuffed croissant, and with his acquired breakfast, he takes the final table. In the background, Italian pop music plays, peppy and with satisfying beats. Lucsin doesn’t quite mind it. He’s hungry, he realises, one bite in. A casual side-effect of the time-travelling technique which expands energy, so much energy. It’s not unusual for him to spend a whole day sleeping to make up for it, which is what he decides to do once he’s done with his breakfast. Soft jazzy sounding music is playing by the time he’s done, and the couple have left. The elderly man is still there, the rustling of his newspaper rather incessant, if not an appreciated reprieve from the scratching of the rain on the windowpanes. 

He dusts off his hands, croissant flakes falling to the floor, and feels mildly apologetic to the lone staff at the counter for the mess he’s created; he’ll have to clean it. He brings his unfinished cup with him and pulls the soggy poncho back over his head. He’s hopeful and pleased to note the rain has started to abate, the downpour coming down in a pittering drizzle now. The pink in the sky has dissipated into a dull grey sky, and Lucsin squints hard enough that he thinks it must be blue now. 

Stepping back out, he has to gather his wits and then he’s retracing his steps back to the apartment. It doesn’t take long, he’s gotten vaguely familiar with the surroundings of the apartment, if blocky constructions made of forged stone and mortar that are far from colourful can be memorable. Leading up to the apartment is a wrought-iron gate, rust trailing sporadically, and its hinges creak deeply. There’s a keypad etched next to the gate that he remembers the pass to because the passcode he’d been told is an unimaginative ‘4 5 6 7’. 

Beyond the gate lies a mini courtyard with a fountain, its face a naked angel baby that Lucsin’s never been fond of. It isn’t turned on, though, the rainwater collecting in it marred with leaves and dirt, stagnant save for the drizzle still coming down. Doesn’t matter much, he supposes, since there’s the sound of running water, anyway. 

He walks past it to the infinitesimal lift lobby, the lift being a cagey box that looks like it’s come from a haunted mansion. The pulleys and cogs are visible through the transparent glass of the lift, barricaded only by yet another gate. He jabs the button, and red light comes alight overhead. He watches as the car travels down at a crawling pace, making him almost tempted to whack the gates. He has to remain patient though, if he is to put up with the lift for the unforeseeable future. Alternatively, he could take the stairs. He’s only on the fourth floor, but he's curious about the lift. 

It’s only once the lift has arrived that the gate unlatches itself and he’s able to pull it open. The lift car, he finds, is attached to a door too. A rather tedious mechanism he feels, but it’s amusing to pull it open as well, shutting the contraption after. He’d taken the lift upon arrival; he’d blearily lugged in his one suitcase, mindlessly undoing the necessary latches without paying much attention. He’d been too knackered then. 

His place is located at the end of the corridor, an attempt at privacy he appreciates. As he enters his apartment, he tries to listen for any noise from the neighbour he shares a wall with. There isn’t any, so he thinks he could catch some shuteye. 

He jumps on the bed, springs squeaking pathetically. The bed is lumpy, he notices not for the first time, the mattress stiff and unforgiving. He sighs and burrows deeper into the pillows, blinking one eye open to stare at a vase he hadn’t noticed before. It’s on the other side of the TV, which he hadn’t bothered to check earlier. A single white daffodil sits in it, swimming in water. It’s wilted and droopy, no doubt dying already considering he’d been told the landlord comes by every week or so for basic housekeeping, and no tenants had rented the place in months. He wonders what was the point of placing a potted plant there if there was nobody to care for it. 

He thinks of trying to revive it, replacing the water might do it some good. But he’s never cared for a plant, and the daffodil is bound to tread life and death again come tomorrow. Maybe he’ll try another day, when he’s bound to find the repeating days hopeless and miserable, and tending to a daffodil might provide a semblance of fresh air. 

He watches, and a single white petal peels away, fluttering to the floor. He’ll have to make do. 

[xlvnedrms]

moodboard for another fic! title: forget me not themes: time-loop, hitmen, rainy venice, flowers, mm romance aand yes, i forgot to put a literal forget me not in there...

[xlvnedrms]

men have one homoerotic rivalry and make it everyones problem for the rest of their life

[xlvnedrms]

working on a fic, currently i've banged out 11k. aaand here's a moodboard for it! title: frozen hearts don't start a fire rating: explicit about: mm romance, winter themed

[xlvnedrms]

“Okay,” he whispers with finality, taking one shaky step back, and then another. 

I can see his hands clenching and unclenching uselessly at his sides, a tremor running through them that makes me want to run towards him and hug him with all the strength I have. 

Every muscle in my being yearns to scream at him until I’m blue in the face, scream at him to take it back, take back his acquiescence, to tell him to take me back. 

But I can’t. 

Not when I’d screamed at him just minutes prior, and truth be told, I don’t want to yell another word at him ever again, not after seeing the way his face had fallen the first time I’d done it. 

After all, this whole thing had started because of me, and I plan to end it as well. 

I can feel my lips moving, feel the scratch in my now sore throat, but I’m barely aware of what it is I am saying. I might’ve been merely parroting his words back to him, or maybe I’d uttered another plea at him. 

I don’t know what it is I’m pleading for anymore, I just know I’d been doing it mindlessly on repeat the past however-many times. 

Until it’d taken everything from him, and now I can see him shutting down before my eyes. My very own undoing. 

He takes another step back, his glossy eyes taking in the sight of me, as though he’s searching for something in my face. Whether it’s because he’s found what he’s looking for or if it’s because he hasn’t, he turns around. He shuts the bedroom door behind him, and I listen for any sound of the lock clicking in place, but it doesn’t come, and it makes me want to fall apart all over again. 

But I’ve made up my bag along with my mind, the sack carrying all my essentials, clothes, remnants of memories of this place I’d called home for years now.  

I pick up the bag and turn around to leave the apartment, the ensuing bang, a resounding sound that shatters around my ribcage. And I don’t look back. 

~ 

It’s easier when I am able to go about my day, burying myself in my work, pretending I hadn’t made the worst decision I’d ever made in my life. It’s easier than when I have nothing better to do than to stare at the off-white walls of the place I’d fucked off to, thoughts and regrets and memories flitting through my brain until I feel myself going mad. It’s easier, but it doesn’t make it easy. It’s torture when I tread through the ministry grounds, and I see figments of him at every nook and cranny. Like the shadowed alley between two different blocks that we’d snuck off to one too many times, just to snog until we’re breathless, and then blush at each other like middle schoolers. Or, when I look out the window and down, and I see a shadow of him waiting for me below the willow tree. And the cafeteria where we’d pretend to run into each other and leave our respectful companies to have a quiet hour to ourselves.  

Hell, even my cubicle isn’t a place he hasn’t graced with his presence. I distinctly remember bending him over my desk after hours when everyone had long gone, taking my time with him. We’d done it the other way too. 

It’s a whole other brand of torture when I am forced to attend ministry parties, and I see the physical manifestation of him, lingering around the long tables. I just know it’s because he’s well within striking distance of the canapes on display. I would laugh if I wasn’t so choked up with emotion that I have to hurriedly turn away and find someone to talk to, anyone. 

He looks fine, smiling when people acknowledge him, exchanging pleasantries with him. He laughs when he’s surrounded by people I have come to recognise as the colleagues he directly works with. But beneath his controlled exterior, I can see that the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, just the slight shadow of a stubble he hasn’t - and usually does – shaved. His face more gaunt too. 

I inhale sharply and hope he’s eating well enough, hanging out with friends, not drinking himself into a stupor like I know he’s capable of. It’s moot, really, because I know him. And I know that I’ve broken him.  

But I’m broken myself and I don’t know how to fix us. 

~ 

The first two times, I show up alone, having not bothered with finding myself a partner to these events. It’s not smart, I know, not when the reason I’d given him that night we broke up that I’d found someone else. It had been a lofty excuse, in all honesty, because I doubt he believes I’m the type to move on from him, when he’d been my everything, and me his.  

But it had also been the one thing I could think of that would make him leave me. 

I’d considered going to Troy to ask him to play my new lover, but I can’t bear to see the pitying looks he’d surely send me every time I’m in his presence. It’d also be a cruel joke if he were to see me hanging off of Troy’s arm. Again. After everything we’d been through, I don’t want to subject him to that kind of heartbreak. 

Not that what I’m doing is much better, but at least I can breathe through my conscience. 

So, instead, I find a man through one of my numerous connections. He looks like Troy –always dapped in finely tailored suits and aged a little more than me – acts like Troy, from the way he flaunts his talents and easily oozes confident alpha male ego. He’s rich too, but his wealth comes from old money, but I can’t complain when he’s willingly spoiling me with gifts and his presence when I need him, in favour of, well, being his sugar baby. 

The first time he sees me with the man, I see his eyes harden, his jaw tightens. I hold my breath, half expecting him to throw a punch, or a fit, but when that doesn’t come, I have to bodily pull my partner with me to the loos. 

I remember his kindness and all the reasons I’d fallen for him all those years ago. Even when I’d broken his heart, he places me and my chosen happiness over his own. 

A part of me wants to see him come undone, to reveal the rage and sorrow I know he’s suppressed, and so at the next event, I kiss the man when I know he’s looking over. It’s a gentle one, because I don’t dare to take it further, not with the public eye on me. I know people will talk, even though there hadn’t been many to whom I’d admitted to my relationship prior, but rumours spread like a wildfire and I don’t intend to make him die in one with me. 

The next time I blink and look up, he’s gone. 

I don’t try that again. 

~ 

She taps her fingers against the cup patiently – or impatiently, I can never really tell with her – and waits for me to speak. When I don’t, she sighs, and picks up her cup, talking around a mouthful of straw. 

“Want to talk about it?” 

I snort. What’s there to talk about apart from the fact that I’d broken his heart in two and I feel like I’ve completely lost mine? 

I don’t intend to say that out loud, but I can’t help myself. The bitterness and self-loathing in me making me spit out the words with more venom than I intend to. 

She looks taken aback for a moment, but then her expression cools over and she’s looking at me with... concern. 

I eye her suspiciously. “I’m sure he’s talked about me enough for you to get the picture.” 

“That’s the thing,” she sighs again – and now I feel bad because I don’t want her ageing 10 years even though we’re only meeting for 10 minutes. “He hasn’t said anything!” 

She continues, suddenly raising her voice. I cringe when other patrons look at us, and she seems to take the hint, slumping over on herself. 

“He doesn’t want to talk badly about you,” she continues, tone softer and sadder this time, shaking her head. 

I try to think of something to say, but I draw up blank.  

Then, she clears her throat. “I’d like to know something. Was it a mutual decision, or did you dump him?” 

I inhale sharply, and I’m sure she’s heard it, but I can’t bring myself to say the words. I sip on my macchiato silently. Her face falls at my silent admission. 

“Oh, you...” she says. 

And then she’s standing up with the scrape of her chair, before I get a faceful of her hair, her arms wrapping around me fiercely. 

Why she’s hugging me when I’d basically confessed to jilting her friend, I don’t know, but then she’s pulling back and looking me in the eye so intensely until I scowl and look down at my drink. 

She returns to her seat, clasping her hands out in front of her on the table. 

“Why?” she hisses out in a whisper. 

And my heart aches to tell her everything, to admit to it all. But I can’t, after this many weeks, I still can’t, and that’s how I know for sure that my breaking up with him hadn’t been a spontaneous decision. I know myself and I know I’m a coward when it comes to matters of the heart, and that’s exactly what I’d done – prove my cowardice. 

I shake my head, pressing my lips together in a tight line. 

She nods as though she understands, but she can’t possibly when I’m not giving her anything to work with. 

“I just,” she licks her lips, collecting her thoughts. “I wanted to say that you’re both my best friends and I don’t know why you’ve ended up like this. But if love is worth anything to you, please reconsider. He’s not happy, and he hasn’t been since you left.” 

She chuckles wetly, continuing, “I know we haven’t seen much of each other since, but you’ve been so busy these days that even an earthquake couldn’t get you out of your office. Heaven knows I’ve tried with you.” 

And it’s true; she’s called me and messaged me and dropped by unannounced on multiple occasions and only now have I bothered to properly meet with her. 

The words are on the tip of my tongue, the need to know about what he’s been like since the breakup, what he’s been doing, who he’s been associating with, how his work has been. 

But it’s unfair to ask her for more, so I say instead, “How is he?” 

Her lips quirk up sadly, and she gives me a knowing look. She knows I still care. 

“Not great. But he’s functioning thanks to me and Adam and all the work he has, really.” 

“Thank you,” I whisper, and I mean it with all my heart. 

For everything she’s done for him when I couldn’t. 

This, she understands. Then she’s hastily clicking her phone open, and swooping up her cup with her as she stands. She grabs my hand with her free one. 

“I have to go now. Please, don’t treat me like a stranger. Let’s not meet only once a month, yeah?” 

I try to smile at her, but I’m not sure it comes out as intended, feeling strangled myself. She laughs, nonetheless, the twinkle in her voice echoing as she steps out of the cafe and leaving me to my thoughts once again. 

~ 

We’d never intended to get married. Sure, we’d talked about it, during the day when sharing a meal, nights tangled up in bed together, when wrinkling our noses judgingly at married couples doing married couple things in broad daylight. 

We’d agreed putting our names on paper had never borne much importance to either of us, but it wasn’t something we were against either. In fact, I’d never said it out loud, but a part of me did consider marrying him just to spite my mother. A fact I suspect he’s known for some time already. 

We did, however end up getting hitched one warm evening, both drunk out of our minds after hopping between one too many nightclubs and seeing how many rounds of fucking, drinking and dancing we could do before being inevitably kicked out. Not many, really, because we were ultimately only booted out of one, leading us to be up to a whopping two clubs. Only. 

I can’t recall the events of the night very clearly, nor could he, but we’d somehow ended up at some marriage centre where we’d apparently signed off our lives to each other. It’d been funny when we’d woken up, the laminated paper winking back at us. I wasn’t completely sure I hadn’t been hallucinating the damn paper, nearly falling out of the bed in my haste to show it to him. 

It had taken another round of sex – we tended to get distracted like that – two cups of coffee for myself and a whole brunch ordeal before we’d stared at the certificate together in complete silence, then stared some more. 

Until we’d both decided it was too funny to not laugh it off. And that’s how we’d ended up married despite not really wanting it to happen, and yet neither of us cared enough to make it not happen. 

~ 

I stare down at the divorce papers, the bottom right inconspicuously empty. Only my side had been signed, just as it had been when I’d sent the papers over to our old, shared address. 

I suck in a breath, pinching at the bridge of my nose tiredly. I’d hoped after our final showdown, that we’d end this amicably, but seeing as my one-sided breakup hadn’t been enough to convince him to sign the bloody papers, I’m not sure I can act civilly just to make him see to it that we end things. I don’t want to be a bigger arse to him than I have already been, but I’m not sure I can remain sane knowing I am still married to the man I never wanted to leave, and yet left anyway. 

And so, two months after that fateful fight – I’m not counting but it’s been exactly 69 days – I corner him just as he’s exiting his block. 

His eyes widen when he sees me, his usually beautifully tanned skin paling when he sees me, as though he’s seen a ghost. Which, perhaps, wouldn’t be quite as frightening to him than seeing me in the flesh. He falters, but he’s just reached the final step descending to where I’m stood, when he seems to trip over the air. I reach out before I can think better of it, and then I have a fistful of his collar in one hand, and his bicep in the other. 

I curse myself when I relish in the feel of his muscles shifting under my touch, much like the nights when we’d been...  

Fuck. 

He jerks back just as quickly, though, as if my very touch had scorched him. His eyes, though, they tell a different story. They shift around uncertainly like he can’t decide whether he wants me to touch him more, or touch him less. 

I step back surreptitiously, making the decision for him, and I can see his nostrils flare, just the slightest bit, as he breathes more easily, inhaling deeply now that I’ve put some distance between us. 

He opens his mouth to say something, but I beat him to it. 

“Why haven’t you signed it?” I thrust the papers at him. 

The papers I’d forgotten I was carrying with me when he’d fallen, and so I had to go through the trouble of picking it up before doing so. 

I raise one eyebrow in a way I know makes me look more threatening and serious than I ever want to be with him. My upper lip curls in a slight sneer as I look at him with disdain. I try to ignore the sound of my heart cracking when I see his face shuttering. 

He narrows his eyes at me, now cold where there’d been fire before. “Are you serious? Are you fucking serious?” 

“Absolutely. But do pray tell what exactly I could be unserious about,” I say flatly, doing my best to incite his ire. 

“You showed no sign of wanting things to end, and then I come home to you telling me to fucking shove it. Because of what? Because you’ve found someone else?” His voice is raised to almost hysterics now. 

I am beginning to feel concern over how his colleagues might feel if they were to see him acting out the parody that is our marital dispute right in front of his workplace. 

“Shut the fuck up,” I say, voice low and dangerous. Mainly because I don’t want to be having this conversation at all and I hate myself so fucking much with every second that passes. “I have nothing else I want to discuss with you. Because yes, you’re right. I’ve found someone else, someone my mother would wholly approve of, unlike she had you. And I intend to marry the person, so if you’ll be so kind so as to sign the bloody papers, that would be much appreciated.” 

The lies taste like poison on my tongue that I would gladly drink up greedily if only to make myself stop. 

A muscle in his jaw jumps, jaw clenching. Finally, finally, he takes the dreaded papers out my hand along with the pen I’d generously proffered. His movements slow, his eyes never leaving mine, face a blank mask. 

And then, to my muted horror, he rips the papers up and scatters it all over the fucking lawn. I might be gaping at this point, but I barely have control over my facial muscles anymore. He stalks past me without another word, taking my pen with him. 

“Fuck you,” I hiss at his retreating form, and I would bet good money that he can hear the outrage in my voice. 

~ 

Needless to say, my life is spiralling. It had been spiralling long before I’d made the decision to end things with him. It had been the reason I’d ended things with him. 

I’m also stupid. Horribly stupid, because of all the ways to go, surely knocking myself out with a bottle of painkillers and cheap vodka at my desk at exactly midnight, on day 71 now, is a surefire way to gather attention. 

I just hadn’t anticipated said attention to come so promptly. 

My plan had been as follows: 

Stay in my cubicle to tie up loose ends – I hold an important position and I have enough responsibility in my soul to not just leave things as is. 

Sneak in alcohol and drink it until I’m inebriated to the point I can’t even say my own name, and I’m hallucinating his touch, of all things. 

Painkillers. With it being the weekend and nobody comes in on a Saturday, I thought it’d be a good time to go through with it. 

Sure, having someone catch my cold corpse on the Monday would be quite a fright to them, but I’d strategically chosen the office since we both work in the ministry, and I’d wanted to be as close to him as possible when I go. Without making the trip back to our – his – apartment, because that would only serve to make me grovel for him to take me back. 

Another reminder that I’m a coward, choosing to end not only my relationship, but also my life when the going gets rough.  

Apparently, my plain fails spectacularly – and dramatically because really, a suicide attempt at work? – as I wake up to the clinical scent of antiseptic and the beep of what I can only presume is a heart rate monitor. 

The next thing I notice is hushed voices. It takes me awhile, woozy as I am,to place the voices and the words they are saying. 

“...someone else, but now I think this is why he wanted to break up,” I hear someone saying, and I know very well who it is. 

“I saw him awhile back, you know? He didn’t look well, but he wouldn’t tell me anything. Good thing I decided to go checking on him again yesterday of all days,” a female voice says. 

And hearing about how my scheme had been foiled, I feel a rush of cold fury. 

I open my eyes, and snap out a, “You shouldn’t have.” 

Three pairs of eyes turn to look at me, and now I see him standing closer to the foot of my bed, Alexandria-June and Adam seated on stools next to him. 

He reacts first, rushing forward to touch a trembling hand to my face. 

“You’re not okay, are you?” he says. 

And when I turn my face away, “Please, talk to me. Don’t do this.” 

His last words come out barely above a whisper, and I realise he’s crying. “I need you.” 

I blink away the hot tears that threaten to fall. 

I feel loved, and maybe, just maybe, it’s worth it to sew my heart back up, rip open my ribcage, and place it back inside. 

~ 

“So, was there ever another guy?” 

I snort. “What do you think?” 

“I always thought it didn’t make sense,” I see him shrug out of the corner of my eye. 

I keep my eyes trained on my documents, resolutely ignoring his thigh pressing into my shoulder as he sits atop my desk like a fucking child. 

He jostles me with his leg. 

“Ow. Fuck. What?” I finally drag my eyes up to look at him, and I immediately regret it, because he has a sinful smirk plastered on his face, and I know there’s no way I’m getting any more work done. 

Not when everyone has left and he’s a very welcome distraction. 

“Stop working so hard, it’s the weekend tomorrow.” 

“Yes,” I say, trying to sound irritable. “And I have therapy in the morning.” 

He gives me an unimpressed stare; there’s no way he’s buying my excuse. 

“Right. Anyway, there’s something I wanted to ask.” 

I make a sound akin to a grunt, prompting him to talk. It’s quite uncharacteristic of him when he licks his lips nervously. My curiosity is now piqued. 

“I know we already did, and technically your attempt didn’t count, but so we’re on the same page and I know you still want it as much as I do, because fuck knows I want it,” he rambles unintelligibly, and it’s illegally cute. 

Then he pauses, and I suspect it’s more for the dramatic effect than nerves now. 

“Will you marry me?” 

“Okay,” I whisper with finality, surging forward to kiss him. 

[xlvnedrms]

okay i've no clue how to use tumblr lol but i shall try