𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 ─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─ 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬
𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 ─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─ 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬
★ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: it's your senior year at the aerospace academy, and over the course of nine months, your connection with caleb shifts from mere classmates and acquaintances to something deeper. but there's one problem—the girl he loves back home.
★ 𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: first person pov, non-mc reader, feminine implied reader, some connections to caleb’s 4-star tender moments, angst/hurt + no comfort, kinda long but fast paced
★ 𝐰𝐜: 11.1k
★ 𝐚/𝐧: longest fic i've written yet, go me woot woot :p i wanted to write heartbreak so here it is. pls do not have your therapist bill me, thx! anyways when caleb goes, ‘i wont get a girlfriend’ in stage observer, he sounds kinda down, right? yeah imagine hes thinking about you (the reader) in this as he says that LOL. okay, (try to) enjoy lovelies!! <3
𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠, 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐬𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝!
I never believed I’d let something like this happen to me.
Yet it crept in quietly, the way all irreversible things do. A shift so subtle I almost missed it, until I was already too deep to turn back.
It was in the lingering glances, in the way the air felt charged in the spaces between us. In the laughter that came too easily, the silences that felt safe, the moments that stretched just a little too long. It was in the way he looked at me; like maybe, for a second, he saw something more.
But love, if you can call it that, isn’t always kind. Sometimes, it’s a quiet war. A battle between logic and longing, between what’s real and what’s only ever been wishful thinking. And when the person you want is still holding onto someone else, someone they can’t seem to let go of, where does that leave you?
I swore I’d keep my balance; though gravity has a mind of its own.
August-
It was breezy, as are most August days in Skyhaven. Fumbling my fingers through my hair, desperately trying to comb through any loose strands from the wind, I tried to make myself look somewhat presentable for my first day of classes. It was senior year, and I wanted to make the most of it for once, as it felt like the past few years had been me barely passing by.
I sat down in the lecture hall, music blaring through my headphones as I fidgeted nervously with the pen in my hand. It wasn’t long before a figure sat next to me in my peripheral, and I internally groaned.
‘You have this whole ass lecture hall with so many empty seats in this row, and you sit right next to me. Dick.’ I thought to myself.
Seeing the person tap on my desk, I glanced over to notice it was Caleb.
We had crossed paths before, orbiting the same social circles through mutual friends. Our interactions had been fleeting, exchanged pleasantries at gatherings or brief moments of conversation that never really dug beneath the surface.
His lips moved as he spoke but I didn’t hear a word he said over the sound of my music. I pulled one of the speakers off my ear, “What?”
“Well first I said ‘hey, what's up?’, then told you I’m glad to know someone in this class.” Caleb smiled, “But then I realized you weren’t listening.”
His grin was infectious. Then again, everything about him was. Caleb was a campus favorite, and for good reason; his effortless charm and magnetic charisma drew everyone in, leaving them captivated.
I smiled back, “I would’ve listened, I just couldn’t hear you.”
“Shoulda tapped you sooner then.”
We talked as more people trickled in, and conversation with him flowed effortlessly. He was almost unfairly likable, the kind of person who won people over without even trying, it was no wonder he had everyone wrapped around his finger.
“Yeah, I failed this class the first time around, so if I want to graduate this spring, I have to finally retake it,” Caleb sighed, shaking his head. “The Caleb failed a class? No way…” Gasping, I clutched my chest in mock shock. “I had no idea you were even capable of failure, Mr. Perfect.”
His lips twitched into a smile at the nickname, but his eyes betrayed him. He shrugged, “Well, I can do it this time around.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I totally didn’t realize I needed this credit.” I poked his hand resting on his desk with my pen, “We’re in this together.”
The professor was about halfway through the syllabus when Caleb started writing on my notebook.
Do you have class after this?
I looked over at him, mouthing “No”. Not for a few hours, I wrote back.
Hangout with me after this then
And that’s how I ended up sitting in the quad with Caleb, with the itchy grass prickling my legs and a sweating can of soda in my hand beneath the warm August sun. Yet Caleb’s presence was still warmer; my cheeks and stomach hurt from laughter, and every giggle of mine only fueled the fire of his jokes.
As the laughter died down, Caleb leaned back on his hands, squinting up at the sky. “Man, I forgot how nice it is to just sit around like this on campus. No deadlines yet, no stress… just kinda existing.”
I took a sip of my soda, nudging his knee with mine. “You make it sound like you’re constantly suffering.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “I mean, maybe a little. Gotta keep up the ‘Mr. Perfect’ image, right?”
I tilted my head, studying him. For a second, he looked almost… tired. Like there was more he wanted to say but wasn’t sure how.
“You know you don’t have to be perfect all the time, right?” I said, softer now. “You’re allowed to mess up. You’re allowed to breathe.”
He glanced at me, something flickering in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Or relief. Then, just as quickly, his signature grin returned. “Good to know I’ve got my personal cheerleader.”
I rolled my eyes, but my smile gave me away. “More like your reality check.”
“Even better.” He bumped his shoulder against mine, before laying down on the ground. The sunlight hit his eyes just right, making them glimmer like polished amethyst. With his brown hair tousled against the grass and his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a hint of skin, it wasn’t hard to see why all the girls fawned over him. When it came to looks, Caleb really did live up to the whole Mr. Perfect thing.
“What about you?” Caleb glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “What’s your kryptonite?”
I raised a brow. “Come again?”
He smirked. “Your weakness. What takes you down every time?”
I pretended to think it over, then shot him a cheeky grin. “Probably failure.”
Caleb let out a soft laugh, propping his head up on his elbow. “Alright, I’m sensing some hypocrisy here.”
“It’s not hypocrisy,” I defended, shrugging. “I just fail to take my own advice.”
He tapped his chin, feigning deep thought. “Mm, no, that just makes you a hypocrite. But hey, at least you’re self-aware, Miss perfect.”
Something between us just clicked, that unspoken feeling when you know you’re going to get along with someone. Nothing about our conversation felt forced, it unfolded with an ease that caught us both off guard. I don’t think either of us saw this coming, but somehow, it just made sense.
And so it continued; messing around with Caleb in class, then hanging out in the quad afterward. Our dynamic quickly shifted from casual acquaintances to good friends as our connection bled beyond the classroom. The progression was almost rapid; natural, but undeniable.
Conversations with him came naturally, filled with dry humor, shared ambition, and the kind of unspoken understanding that made being around each other feel easy. We started saving seats for each other without thinking, sharing notes even when we both knew we hadn’t written anything useful, and lingering just a little longer after class, stretching out the moments before we had to part ways.
Afternoons in the quad turned into grabbing coffee, which turned into late-night study sessions that often had more laughing than actual studying. It wasn’t just that we got along; we started to seek each other out, gravitating toward one another like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It wasn’t just about sharing space; it was about the way we easily fit into each other’s lives like we had always been meant to.
I found myself opening up in ways I never had before, trusting Caleb with thoughts I usually kept locked away. And in return, he let me see past the carefully constructed walls he had built.
I learned a lot about Caleb in our time spent together; I learned about his dreams and aspirations, his worries and fears, his home back in Linkon and how much of it still clung to him.
And her.
I learned about her.
MC; the kind of nickname all the cool girls had, lifted from their initials like it had always belonged to them. She was innocent, pretty, just the right balance of book-smart and blissfully unaware. The kind of girl who never had to try too hard because the world seemed to bend in her favor. She was perfect in that way, and maybe that’s why Caleb felt like he had to be perfect, too.
She had been his childhood friend, raised alongside him by his gran, their lives tangled together like roots beneath the same old house.
“She’s your sister?” I had asked, unsure of the dynamic.
Caleb hesitated, something unreadable flickering across his face. “No,” he said finally, his voice careful. “Not really. We just grew up together.”
She was everything to him, the quiet force that shaped him in ways he probably didn’t even realize. Everything he did, every careful step he took, was in her image. And suddenly, it all made sense.
The way Caleb kept people at arm’s length, the reason he didn’t have many real friends at the Academy. It wasn't because he didn’t want them, it was because a part of him was still anchored somewhere else; belonged to someone else.
Once, we had sat on the steps outside one of the buildings, his elbows on his knees, staring out at nothing in particular.
“You never really let people in.” I looked over at him, my statement coming out of nowhere.
He let out a short breath, almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Was it that obvious?”
“I didn’t get it back then. Thought maybe you just had too many friends to be really close with any of them.”
He was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. “It wasn’t that,” he admitted. “I just… I already had MC. Growing up the way we did, it was always just us. I guess I never really learned how to need anyone else.”
I glanced at him, but his eyes stayed on the horizon, lost in something I couldn’t see.
“You still do that, you know,” I said. “Keep people just enough away.”
He swallowed hard, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Some habits don’t go away easy.”
“So why am I an exception?”
Caleb exhaled slowly, rubbing his hands together. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because you didn’t try to push your way in. You just… stayed.”
I frowned. “That’s it?”
He shook his head, a small, almost self-conscious smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No. It’s more than that.” He glanced at me then, something raw in his eyes. “You just understand the way I think, and nobody has before.”
A silence stretched between us, thick with things neither of us knew how to say.
“You make it sound like some big thing,” I murmured. “Like I did something special.”
He tilted his head slightly, considering me. “Maybe you did.”
His words awakened something in me, an ache settling in my chest. A quiet, gnawing feeling that signaled the start of an internal war; one I never really meant to step into, but quickly became hard to ignore. A silent competition I didn’t sign up for, but suddenly felt compelled to win.
It wasn’t against MC, not even Caleb himself.
But against the undeniable truth that no matter how close we got, I may never be the one he chooses.
September-
I barely notice the shift at first; the way August hands things off to September, smooth and effortless, like they’ve done this a million times before. Like they were always meant to meet. It feels familiar in a way I can’t explain, like stepping into a conversation that’s already halfway finished but somehow still knowing exactly what’s being said.
Things with Caleb had settled into a familiar rhythm. On campus, we were either together or in class, our days stitched together by shared moments. Being with him was refreshing, like the first warm breeze after a long winter, a quiet promise that brighter days were ahead. Silence with him was never awkward; it was understood. He always seemed to know what I was thinking, what I meant to say, even when I didn’t say it aloud.
I’d known Caleb for a while, but the way we grew close so quickly felt natural, like we’d been moving toward this all along. It was as if there had always been a space in my mind shaped just for him, waiting for the right moment for him to step in.
The cloudy sky above turned dark with the impending storm coming, but in a rush to meet Caleb, I had hardly noticed until I was halfway to his dorm. Cursing to myself, I silently tried to manifest the rain would hold off until I got back to my own dorm later.
It was movie day; every Friday afternoon after Caleb and I finished with our classes for the day we would have lunch and watch a movie. He was on hosting duty this week, and his dorm was on the other side of campus. If I got caught in this rain, I’d still have a bit of a walk in the storm before I arrived.
Almost as if laughing at me, the sky cracked with lightning and thunder rumbled, and I heard the pouring of rain before I felt it.
“Shit!” I picked up the pace, my sneakers splashing through puddles forming on the sidewalks as I started to run. Thunder booming in the sky, I mentally prepared to get struck by lightning and hoped I would be eaten by the campus birds before anyone found my body.
Trying to take a shortcut through the grass was the worst decision I could have made, as I wasn’t even two feet from the sidewalk before I slipped, landing on my back and getting waterboarded by the sky. “Argh!” I screeched, tears of frustration welling in the corners of my eyes. I sat up, glaring at the students staring at me as they passed by with their umbrellas.
My whole body was drenched by the time I was outside of Caleb’s; my hair, jeans, and sweater caked with mud (and probably a few stray leaves).
Making my way upstairs, my cheeks were pink from the cold and embarrassment as everyone in the building looked at me with confusion as my clothes and hair dripped all over the floor.
Caleb swung the door open before I could knock, something he’d do as he watched for me through the peephole in his door. Looking me up and down, the corners of his mouth twitched upward as he coughed, stifling a laugh.
He leaned against his door frame, “What happened here?”
“Shut up.” I pushed past him, annoyed but a bit guilty as I continued to drip all over his floor.
“You look like a sad wet cat,” Caleb patted my wet hair, frowning when he saw I was shivering, “a cold, sad wet cat.”
He started to rummage around the room, going through his drawers and closet, pulling out clothes. Tossing them at me, he pointed to the bathroom, “Go shower, I don’t want you all soppin’ wet on my stuff.”
I glanced at the clothes he handed me; hoodie, sweatpants…his boxers?
“Um, Caleb-”
He shook his head, “It’s only weird if you make it weird.”
Pursing my lips together I nodded, heading into the bathroom. I called out to him, “Caleb, do you have a towel?”
“Just use the one in there.”
Okay, we were close, but I wasn’t aware we had crossed into this land.
Peeling my clothes from my body, I threw them into a pile in the corner. I nearly moaned when the hot water hit my skin, and basked in the feeling for a bit. I stared at Caleb’s shampoo and body wash, conflicted on if I should actually use them or just try to rinse myself off the best I could.
Feeling the mud and tangles in my hair, I accepted defeat.
By the time I was done, clad in Caleb’s warm clothes with every inch of me smelling like him, it felt like he was smothering me. Like I was enveloped in one of his bear hugs.
I looked at myself in the mirror, and I felt my heart jump a bit. There was something about wearing a boy’s clothes as is, but Caleb’s clothes?
A bit ago, I had felt the shift before I could name it.
It’s in the way my eyes flick to my phone more often than before, in the way my chest tightens, just a little, when his name lights up my screen. It’s in the way my pulse stirs when I spot him at our usual spot in the library, twirling a pen between his fingers like he’s been waiting for me. Like he knew I’d show up (and he always did).
And maybe that’s what unsettles me the most, not just that I notice these things, but that a part of me already expects them. Like I’ve been pavloved.
It was ignorable at first, but it’s become this nagging feeling at the back of my mind. A tugging at my heart. It’s annoying, like a mosquito buzzing in my ear that’s too quick for me to smack it away.
The feeling that I didn’t want to just be friends anymore.
Coming out of the bathroom, Caleb was already sitting on the floor in front of his bed with two cups of tea and food, and my mouth watered when I saw he made my favorite.
He smiled at me, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “You look pretty good in those.”
Heat crept up my neck, and I let out a nervous laugh. “You’re just saying that because I look like you.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Caleb nodded toward the bathroom. “Your hair’s still wet. Grab the towel.”
“It’s fine,” I shrugged. “It’s not that bad.”
He raised an eyebrow, arms crossing over his chest. “You already got caught in the rain once. Stay damp any longer, and you’ll catch a cold.” Then, with a cheeky grin, he added, “And I can’t be left alone in class. That’d be tragic.”
Rolling my eyes, I turned on my heel, grabbed the towel, and tossed it at him. “Right, of course. That’s all I am to you, entertainment in class.”
“For sure,” he said smoothly, catching the towel with ease. “Now sit.”
I sat beside him, reaching for the towel, but before I could take it, his hands found my shoulders, gently turning me away. I barely had time to protest before he took the towel himself, carefully running it through my damp hair.
“Caleb, I can do it myself—” I started, trying to shift back, but his grip was steady.
“Shush,” he murmured. “Let me help.”
I could have argued, but the warmth of his touch, the slow, deliberate way he moved, made it impossible to resist. My shoulders relaxed as he worked, the soft scratch of the towel against my scalp lulling me into stillness. Silence settled between us, easy and unspoken, the only sound the steady rhythm of rain tapping against the window. It was peaceful, grounding. For a moment, I let myself sink into it, let myself be cared for.
Before long Caleb tugged on a strand of my hair, “Okay, done.”
“Thank you” I pinched his cheek, his lips curved upwards and his eyes went soft.
“Now, what should we watch?”
“Nothing crazy, I don’t think my brain can function right now after today.”
Caleb laughed, flicking through the movies, before settling on some random cartoon. I sighed dramatically when I took a bite of the food he made, “Caleb, you’ve outdone yourself yet again.”
He looked at me mischievously before stealing a bite, and I punched his shoulder, “You have your own!”
His phone lit up and I saw the name, looking away as he picked it up to respond to the incoming texts.
MC.
A wedge of jealousy crept up my throat. It was our movie time, and here she was, almost on cue.
I always listen—really listen—when he talks about her. About how much she means to him, how she’s one of the only constants in his life. And it stings, sharper than I expect, because I want to be that constant. I don’t say it, of course. Instead, I throw myself deeper into the friendship, as if proving my place will make it true.
I laugh at his jokes a little too hard. Memorize the way he takes his coffee without meaning to. Notice the small things that make him tick, the way his expression shifts when he’s lost in thought, the songs he hums under his breath.
The internal competition I created against her wasn’t intentional, but once I noticed it, everything about it became hard to unsee.
He sets his phone down just as quickly as he picked it up, shooting me an apologetic look. “Sorry, MC just had a question about something.”
‘That stupid question could’ve waited’, I think, irritation curling in my chest. But I shove it down, nudging his shoulder with a forced smile. “S’alright. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, all good.” He settles back into the movie, but I barely hear it now. The feeling of her lingers, clinging to the space between us, and I try to shake it off.
His presence beside me soothes the sting, like a bandage over a wound, and I start to loosen up, letting my head rest against the bed. The warmth of his clothes, the comfort of a full stomach, the quiet rhythm of rain against the window; it all starts to pull me under, drowsiness settling into my bones. My eyelids grow heavy, and I barely register the way Caleb shifts beside me.
“Sleepy?” His voice is soft, almost amused.
I peek one eye open, managing a lazy smile. “A bit.”
Without a word, he moves closer, wrapping an arm around the back of my neck. His hand finds the side of my head, cradling it gently as he guides me to rest against his shoulder. The touch is careful, deliberate, something more than our usual play punches and casual grabs in a crowd. This is different. More intimate.
For a moment, I forgot about the competition. Because my head fits perfectly in the crook of his neck, and the slow, absentminded way his fingers trace shapes on my shoulder feels so easy, so natural. He watches the TV like this is nothing new, like having me this close is just the way things are meant to be. And for the first time I let myself believe, just for a second, that maybe he feels the same way about me too.
October-
There's a charge in the air alongside the change in leaves, a quiet pull I feel every time Caleb leans in a little too close or looks at me like I’m the only person in the room.
But then, there’s her.
She’s not here, but she is. Always lingering in the pauses between sentences, in the spaces Caleb leaves open without realizing it. She’s in the way his face softens when he says her name, in the light that sparks behind his eyes when he talks about her. And I hate how it makes me feel; petty, ridiculous, like I’ve stumbled into a battle I was never meant to fight.
I just can’t shake it.
Because lately, there’s been something else. An even bigger shift, subtle, but impossible to ignore. The way his hand lingers a beat too long when he passes me something, like he’s reluctant to let go. The way his gaze finds me, even in a crowded room, like I’m the only person worth looking at. The late-night texts, filled with thoughts that could have waited but never do.
Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m just reading too much into things, seeing what I want to see. But a part of me, deep down, knows he feels this too.
My phone began to ring as I was getting ready for the Senior Gala the Academy holds every year for those graduating in the spring.
“Yes?” I already know who it is without looking.
Caleb’s voice drifts through the speaker, soft and warm. “Are you almost ready, honey?” The pet name catches me off guard, a shy smile pulling at my lips before I can stop it. He’d started using it recently, and I hadn’t dared to question it out of the fear it would stop.
He was my date tonight (as friends of course), and I was running a little behind.
“I still have to finish my makeup, do my hair, and put on my dress,” I groaned in frustration, “I’m sorry Caleb, I’m trying to go as fast as I can.”
He laughs sweetly, “Well, I’m almost there. I can help you out.”
“Help me…?”
“Yep, Captain Caleb is gonna be there to save the night. See you soon!”
The phone clicks before I can respond, and not a moment later, Caleb is strolling through my door like he owns the place.
I turned to face him, and my breath caught in my throat. His suit was a deep navy that matched my dress, the rich fabric adorned with his pilot and aviator pins. His hair, tousled yet intentional, framed a face that always felt like home. Caleb stood there composed, sharp but still him; and there was something about the way the badges gleamed against his chest that nearly brought me to my knees.
His gaze sweeps over my desk, taking in the chaos of makeup scattered around, before pausing on my curling iron.
“Is this plugged in?” He picks it up, inspecting it.
“Caleb, you are not putting that anywhere near my head.” I instinctively flinch as he reaches for a lock of my hair.
But he’s quick, his hand firmly grasping the top of my head, holding it still. “I always helped MC with her hair. I know my way around a curling iron.”
The words land harder than he meant, and I can’t help but squint at him, a frown tugging at my lips. He misreads it, thinking I’m questioning him, and gives me a serious look.
“Trust me here.”
I let the assumption hang in the air, letting him believe my discontent is just doubt. I sigh, giving in, “Alright, but if you make me look bad for my Senior Gala, I will hate you forever.”
He starts to section my hair and I raise my brows in approval, ‘Okay, yeah,’ I think, ‘Maybe he does have this’.
Caleb’s touch is gentle as I apply my mascara and lipstick, careful not to mess me up, his hands steady as he moves around me. It doesn’t take long before he pulls back, setting the curling iron down as I finish up with the last touches of my makeup.
“We make a pretty good team, don’t we?” His hands rest on my shoulders as he leans down, chin lightly resting on the top of my head, both of us watching our reflection in the mirror.
I tilt my head, inspecting my hair with a playful smile, running my fingers through a few strands. “I suppose you did an okay job.”
He pinches the bridge of my nose, a mock scowl crossing his face. Laughing, I stand up, reaching for my dress hanging in the closet.
I headed to the bathroom, “I’ll be out in a sec.”
I slipped the dress on, the blue silk molding to my body, the delicate sleeves draping off my shoulders. It was beautiful, I was beautiful; but as I caught my reflection, doubt crept in. Would I look out of place next to Caleb? He was all polished perfection, and I was just… me. Not bad, but not him.
She would look perfect beside him.
‘No.’ I straightened my shoulders. ‘I’m Caleb’s date tonight, not her. He could have asked her, but he didn’t. He chose me. It’s just us.’
Fumbling with the zipper, I let out a frustrated breath before finally pulling the door open. “Caleb, can you help me with this?”
His head snapped up, eyes widening as a flush crept up his cheeks. “Of course.”
Caleb stepped forward, hesitating for just a moment before his fingers brushed against my back. His touch was warm, a stark contrast to the cool fabric clinging to my skin. Gently, he gathered the dress, his knuckles ghosting along my spine as he found the zipper.
I held my breath.
Slowly, he pulled it up, the quiet sound of the zipper filling the space between us. With each inch, his fingertips lingered, tracing the curve of my back, sending shivers down my arms. My skin felt hypersensitive, like every nerve was tuned to him and him alone.
When he reached the top, he didn’t step away. Instead, his fingers grazed the nape of my neck, adjusting the fabric, smoothing it into place. His breath was warm against my shoulder, his voice barely above a whisper.
“There,” he murmured. “Perfect.”
I turned slightly, just enough to catch his gaze. His eyes flickered down to my lips, then back up, as if caught in some silent battle with himself. The air between us was thick, charged, pulling me toward him.
“Thank you,” I said softly, my voice barely steady.
His hand lingered for just a second longer before he finally let go, stepping back, but not too far. Not far at all.
I turned around slowly, my heart pounding as I met his gaze. His eyes traced the length of me, starting at the hem of my dress and lingering as they traveled upward, taking in every detail before finally meeting mine.
Caleb swallowed, his lips parting slightly as if he had something to say but couldn’t quite find the words. Then, as if shaken from a spell, he smiled—soft, almost bashful.
“You look beautiful.”
His voice was quiet, reverent, like he wasn’t just saying it, but feeling it. Like the words weren’t enough to capture what he saw.
Warmth spread through me, creeping up my neck, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe. I’d spent so much time wondering if I looked right beside him, if I fit; but now, standing here, bathed in the glow of his gaze, I didn’t feel out of place.
I felt chosen.
“Hold your compliments until you’ve seen the whole look,” I teased, holding up a finger to silence him. “I still need to put on my shoes and pins.”
Caleb smirked. “Need help with those too?”
I rolled my eyes. “I think I can manage strapping on my own heels and pinning a badge to my dress, thanks.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” He plucked my heels off the dresser, twirling them lazily around his finger, his gaze practically daring me to challenge him.
I huffed but gave in, sinking into my chair. “Fine.”
Caleb knelt in front of me, his fingers warm as they wrapped around my ankle, steady but gentle as if I were something delicate. He slipped the first shoe on, fastening the strap with practiced ease.
“I can do most things myself, y’know,” I muttered, though my voice lacked its usual bite.
“I know.” His fingers lingered against my skin for a fraction too long before he reached for the second shoe. “I just like to be helpful.”
But he still wouldn’t look at me when he said it, and something about the way his voice softened made me think he wasn’t just talking about shoes.
I stood as he finished, reaching for my pins amidst the clutter of my desk and fastening them carefully over my heart. Turning to the mirror, I shifted from side to side, checking every angle, making sure everything was just right.
I glanced back at Caleb. “Are you sure I look okay?”
Without hesitation, he took my hand and lifted it into the air. “Twirl. Let me see.”
I spun for him, the silk of my dress catching the light, and when I turned back, there was something bright in his eyes, something warm, something real.
“You look more than okay,” he said, voice sure with conviction. “I promise.”
I held out my pinky. “Pinky promise?”
He grinned, hooking his finger around mine. “Pinky promise.”
“Lock it,” I reminded him, and he chuckled before pressing his thumb against mine, sealing the deal.
His fingers lingered for a second before he gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “Now come on, we’re definitely going to be late.”
When we arrived at the gala, it didn’t take long for Caleb to be swept away by a group of guys he often talked to. I lingered around, exchanging polite small talk with a few people I still considered friends. I didn’t see them much anymore, as most of my time was spent with Caleb.
“So, are you two dating?” one of the girls asked, tilting her head. “I thought he was seeing that girl from his hometown… What was her name again?”
“MC.” I said, a little too quickly.
“Right, that’s the one.”
I forced a smile. “No, we’re just good friends.”
But even as I said it, my gaze drifted to where he stood, laughing easily with his own friends, his posture loose and carefree. A quiet ache settled in my chest.
I wanted to be next to him.
But then again, I was; just not in the way they all saw. I knew him in moments no one else did, in the quiet spaces between conversations, in the unspoken gestures and late-night confessions.
And for now, that was enough. It had to be.
I excused myself from the conversation, weaving through the crowd until I reached one of the drink tables. Grabbing a glass, I slipped into the quieter halls, letting the hum of conversation and music fade behind me. The walls were lined with grand, extravagant paintings, each one demanding attention. I paused in front of a few, sipping my drink as I took them in, letting my mind settle.
I wasn’t antisocial, I could hold my own in a room full of people, I just needed a break from the carefully choreographed chaos of the ballroom.
The rhythmic click of shoes against marble echoed through the quiet hallway, followed by a familiar, soft laugh.
“How did I know I’d find you out here?”
I hummed against the rim of my glass. “Maybe because you can read my mind.”
Caleb shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “Sometimes I wish I could.” Then, extending his hand toward me, he asked, “Dance with me?”
I glanced at his outstretched palm. “Out here?”
He tilted his head playfully. “Well, my possible mind-reading powers tell me you’d rather not go back in there.”
A slow smile spread across my face as I laced my fingers with his. “I think you might be psychic.”
The distant music from the ballroom barely reached us, muffled and softened by the grand halls, but somehow, that only made the moment feel more intimate. Caleb’s hands found my waist, warm and steady, while mine slipped around the back of his neck.
He guided us into a slow, easy rhythm. I rested my head just below his chin, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the fabric of his suit.
We moved without words; his breath against my hair was the only thing I could focus on, like everything else had paused around us.
The world outside the two of us faded, the grand chandelier lights dimming, the chatter and laughter of the crowd becoming a distant murmur. All that remained was the softness of the moment, our steps in sync, and the quiet, unspoken connection between us.
I could feel his thumb tracing gentle patterns against my back, the touch soft in a way that wasn’t rushed. There was no need to hurry, no need to speak. We simply existed in this space, suspended between the melody and the quiet.
His fingers moved up to brush a lock of hair behind my ear, the gesture tender, almost shy. I looked up at him, and his eyes held mine, reassuring.
“You feel like home,” he murmured, so quietly I almost thought I imagined it.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. Instead, I leaned in a little closer, savoring the rhythm of our slow dance, the feeling of him holding me like this, as if the rest of the world didn’t matter at all.
“Do you want to get out of here?” Caleb tapped my shoulder lightly, pulling away just enough for the space between us to feel suddenly too wide. It wasn’t much, but the shift left a coldness in the air, and I immediately wanted to fall back into him.
“Where are you thinking?” I asked.
He pointed toward the window. “There’s a park across the street. We could go there. Away from all… this.” He gestured vaguely, as if the chaos of the gala was still buzzing around us.
I nodded without hesitation, and soon we found ourselves at the park, sitting on an old, rusty swing set. The contrast was stark; our lavish clothes against the worn, weathered metal, but I didn’t care. My dress snagged on the rust as I sat down, but I was too lost in the quiet to be bothered by it. All I wanted was this moment, the stillness, just the two of us away from everything else.
The night air wrapped around us, cool and still, with only the rhythmic creak of the swings and the occasional whisper of wind through the trees breaking the silence. It felt like we existed in a world separate from everything else, suspended in something fragile, something fleeting.
Caleb leaned back against the chain of his swing, his fingers gripping the metal tightly as he looked at me again. That look—like he could see through me, past all the walls I tried so hard to keep up. My pulse hammered in my chest under his gaze.
“You ever feel like… you don’t know where you stand with someone?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes flickered, something unreadable passing through them. “Yeah,” he said quietly, but with a certainty that made my stomach twist. “All the time.”
For a second, just a fleeting, breathless second; I wondered if he meant me.
I forced a smile, trying to ease the tension hanging between us. I nudged my swing into his, making it sway slightly. “You have a really good sense of self-restraint,” I teased, the words a shield to keep myself from feeling too much. “It’s almost a talent.”
His lips curved, but it was thin, hollow—there was something sad in it. “Is that a bad thing?”
I tilted my head, watching him. “No… well, maybe. Sometimes, I guess. I think you have a habit of depriving yourself of what you really want.”
Caleb looked down, his boot dragging against the dirt beneath him. “What if I can’t have what I want?” His voice was rougher now, lower. “What if it’s not allowed?”
I reached forward, gripping the chain of his swing, giving it a slight shake to bring his eyes back to mine. “If it’s within your reach, it’s legal, and you’re not hurting anyone, I don’t see a problem.” My breath hitched, and my chest tightened as I spoke. “If I had to guess, you’re trying to convince yourself you can’t have something.”
His exhale was shaky, and a bitter laugh barely escaped him. “Maybe, yeah.”
I saw it then—the decision in his eyes, the surrender.
And then, he moved.
Caleb leaned in first, closing the space between us with a quiet certainty that made my breath catch. I barely had time to react before his lips met mine; soft, warm, real. My fingers clenched around the swing’s chain for balance, but it didn’t matter. My whole world had already tilted.
The kiss started slow, tentative, but it didn’t stay that way for long. Caleb’s hand found my jaw, his fingers brushing my skin, grounding me as he deepened the kiss. There was no hesitation, no pulling away—only the quiet urgency of something inevitable, something long overdue.
I let myself sink into it, forget everything outside this moment. The cold night air, the weight of the past few months, the uncertainty of what came next—it all melted away as Caleb kissed me like he’d been waiting for this as long as I had.
When we finally broke apart, breathless and dazed, our foreheads nearly touching, Caleb let out a quiet, almost incredulous chuckle. His thumb brushed over my cheek, lingering there like he was memorizing the feel of me.
His eyes searched mine, and for a moment, neither of us said anything—just letting the silence settle between us like something sacred.
I tried to catch my breath, still feeling the warmth of his touch all over me. “I—uh, I didn’t think that was how tonight would go.”
“Me either,” he admitted softly.
I bit my lip, searching for something to say, but my thoughts were still tangled up in the kiss. The taste of him lingered, sweet and unfamiliar, like a song you’d heard once and couldn’t forget. The warmth of his breath was still etched into the space between us, and the silence felt heavy, like it was holding something fragile; something we both weren’t quite ready to name. I felt the words sitting at the edge of my mind, waiting, but they were lost in the echo of his touch, the weight of everything unsaid.
Caleb gently brushed a strand of hair away from my face, his touch so tender it almost felt like he was afraid to break something.
There was a quiet moment, just us sitting there, the air between us charged and delicate. Caleb’s fingers brushed along my wrist, and he gave a small, hesitant laugh.
“Is it weird to say I’m kind of glad we did this here?”
I smiled, the tension easing slightly. “Not at all. There’s something nice about having a moment that’s just ours.”
He glanced up at the dark sky, the stars scattered above us. “Yeah, it’s like we’re in our own little world. Just us.”
I took a deep breath, trying to settle the fluttering in my chest. “Then let’s not rush back. Let’s just stay here for a little longer.”
He grinned, that easy smile of his, and nodded. “I’m in.”
We swayed gently, both of us still lost in the quiet, the stillness of the park and the soft feeling that somehow, things were different now.
Better.
November-
The moment on the swings stays with me long after it’s over, a quiet echo that pulses in the back of my mind, haunting the spaces between my thoughts. It lingers in the way Caleb reaches for my hand without thinking, in the brief touches we exchange. The kiss, though, that’s the one that lingers the longest; the warmth of him, the certainty that wrapped around me like a promise.
He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t hold back.
I tell myself it was nothing, that it was just a rush, a fleeting spark that will eventually fade with time.
But it doesn’t.
Instead, it settles into the corners of me, a quiet undercurrent beneath everything else.
Everything is subtle at first, in the little things. His hand brushing against mine when we walk, his knee grazing mine when we sit side by side, the way his texts come more often now, careful and soft. When we’re together, it feels like we really have built our own little world, a space apart from everything else. And I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, it’s enough.
Though one night, I find him distant. His gaze fixed on his phone, jaw tight like he’s trying to hold something in. He barely speaks, his words sharp and short, his mind somewhere else entirely. I don’t ask, don’t press him for an answer. But I know.
It’s her.
And in that moment, something clicks.
I’m not the only one caught between two worlds. Caleb is, too.
The realization doesn’t ease the ache, it only makes it worse. Because if there’s a choice, I already know who he’ll choose.
Training’s getting harder, and graduation is only a few months away. The exhaustion is catching up to all of us, but I feel as if it's hitting me the hardest. Barely sleeping, too many long nights and even longer days, each one blending into the next until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. I can feel my body wearing down, but I keep pushing, because what else is there to do? Let myself stop and think?
Ha.
No.
Caleb notices, though. He’s just as drained as I am, but he’s still there, watching me. He always makes sure I eat, even when I don’t feel like it. Reminds me to drink water when I forget, and always seems to be there after training, hanging around like he’s making sure I don’t collapse right there on the floor.
I try not to let it mean anything, try not to read too much into it. He’s just being a friend, right?
But it’s hard to ignore the way he lingers, the way his eyes flicker with something I can’t quite place when I sway slightly on my feet, too tired to stand straight. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand is there, steady on my arm, holding me like he doesn’t want to let go.
Caleb picked me up from the Academy airport after a training flight. We were supposed to grab lunch, but when his eyes landed on my exhausted form, something in his expression softened.
“Let’s get you home, yeah?” he said, his voice gentle.
I shook my head, trying to shake off the exhaustion. “No, I’m fine. Let’s just go—” But before I could finish, my body betrayed me, and I stumbled forward, barely able to keep myself upright.
Caleb’s hand was there in an instant, steadying me by the shoulder and wrapping his arm around me like he wasn’t letting go. “I think you’d fall asleep in your food and suffocate. When was the last time you slept?”
“Yesterday… no, Tuesday? I don’t really remember.”
I threw on my coat, but Caleb’s gaze was still on me, studying me like he could see right through the act I was trying to put on.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I muttered, glaring at him. “I’m fine. Let’s hurry before we miss the bus.”
Standing outside at the bus stop, I shivered against Caleb's arm around me (that was still trying to hold me up). He asked me about my day, if I had eaten breakfast; simple questions that didn’t require much thinking on my part and patient, non-expectant responses from him. I pressed my body closer into his, trying to soak up his warmth, and maybe even share a bit of my own.
He looked down at me and chuckled, ruffling my hair, “Just a bit longer, honey.”
And he was right, seconds later the bus pulled up. I was practically bouncing to get inside and out of this weather.
Snatching the window seat, I stuck my tongue out at Caleb as he situated himself next to me. “You’re evil, you know that right.”
The bus was a welcomed relief from the biting cold outside, the warmth inside wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. My coat was serving as a blanket, and I don’t even remember when I drifted off, but at some point I found myself asleep on Caleb’s shoulder.
I half-awoke to him nudging me gently. “Hey, this is my dorm, let’s get off here.”
Groggily, I shook my head, struggling to form a thought. “No, s’okay, my stop is next…”
He chuckled softly, and I could hear the concern in his voice. “I don’t trust you not to fall back asleep and miss your dorm.” His fingers brushed through my hair to comb the strands away from my eyes, his touch tender as he looked at me. “Just come back up with me. You can sleep there until you’re good to go back.”
I barely had the strength to argue, so I let him lead me, sleepily leaning against him the entire way. By the time we reached his room, I was barely conscious. He helped me take off my coat and shoes, and without a second thought, I crawled onto his bed, curling up into a ball as sleep claimed me again.
When I woke, the world outside was dark, and it took a moment to realize where I was. The blanket was soft against my skin, and I noticed Caleb beside me, his face relaxed in sleep. It was the first time I’d ever seen him look so at ease, so… soft.
I felt a pang of guilt when I noticed the clock beside his bed. It was nearing one in the morning. He probably wanted to sleep, but I had taken over his space.
I started to sit up, but before I could move, an arm wrapped around my waist.
“Where are you going?” Caleb’s voice was thick with sleep, and I froze, my heart skipping a beat as I turned to see him blinking slowly up at me.
“I have to go home,” I murmured, my words barely above a whisper. I reached out, hand instinctively brushing his face, but then I stopped myself and pulled it back.
He toyed with the hem of my t-shirt, and I felt the warmth of his touch spread through me. I could feel myself melting under his proximity. “It’s too late,” he said softly, his voice almost a plea. “Just stay here.”
“Caleb—”
“Or I can walk you home,” he added, his eyes still half-closed, and he stretched as if to get up, but I placed my hand on his shoulder, stopping him.
“No, really, it’s okay.”
He smirked a little, still mischievous even through sleep. “You pick. I either walk you home, or you stay here.”
In that moment, the stillness of the night seemed to press in around us, and my heart ached. Caleb was a vice. He was dangerous.
“Okay,” I whispered, my resolve crumbling. “I’ll stay.”
The room is quiet except for Caleb’s steady breathing. The city of Skyhaven hums faintly outside, the night stretching endlessly around us. I’m awake now, but I can’t bring myself to move. Caleb’s hand rests lightly on my waist, like he’s afraid I’ll slip away if he lets go. It’s nothing, really. Just a small, almost casual touch.
But it feels like everything.
It sets my entire body on fire, this little contact. I shouldn’t be here, not like this, not after everything. But I don’t leave. Instead, I sink back down, letting the warmth of the blanket and his presence pull me under.
We don’t speak. There’s nothing to say. No explanations, no excuses—just this fragile moment, suspended in time, hanging between us. Caleb’s breathing evens out again, his grip loosening as sleep pulls him back under. I stay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft sounds of the night. I know this is a mistake. I know when the sun rises, when the reality of the world outside finally settles in, things will go back to how they were.
He’ll wake up, stretch, rub the sleep from his eyes, and we’ll pretend like this never happened. He’ll go back to talking about MC, and whatever this—whatever we—will remain suspended in the realm of “almosts” and “what-ifs.” But for now, in this quiet moment, I close my eyes. I let myself have this, just for tonight. Because even if it means nothing to him, it means everything to me.
Morning comes too quickly.
I stir first, blinking against the soft light filtering through the blinds. For a second, everything feels warm and comforting. Caleb’s steady breathing beside me, the weight of the blanket, the quiet hum of the city waking up outside.
Then, reality crashes back in. I shouldn’t be here. Not like this.
Carefully, I try to slip out from beneath the covers, but the moment I move, Caleb stirs. His grip tightens around my waist, pulling me closer just a little before his eyes flutter open.
He looks at me, caught between sleep and consciousness, and for a second, there’s something in his gaze; a softness that makes my breath catch in my chest. But then, he blinks, and it’s gone.
“You’re awake,” his voice is thick with sleep, raspy, and it twists something inside of me. He doesn’t let go.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I should go.”
Caleb doesn’t respond at first. His fingers absently trace the hem of my sleeve, like he’s thinking, weighing something.
Then, finally—
“You don’t have to.”
It’s quiet. Hesitant. It feels like a confession wrapped in uncertainty.
I swallow hard. “Caleb…”
I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. I just know this, this tension, this dangerous line we’re walking, is too much.
He sits up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, and then he looks at me. His expression is unreadable, and it makes my heart clench.
“Look,” he sighs, like this is some sort of explanation. “I know things have been… complicated.”
Complicated. That’s one way to put it.
I scoff and shake my head. “You think?”
He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
And that hurts more than it should. Because I know what I’m doing. I’m falling. I’ve been falling for so long, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to hit the ground.
“I can’t keep doing this,” I whisper, my voice barely steady.
His jaw tightens. “I don’t want to lose you.”
Something inside me cracks.
“Then stop making me feel like I’m something you have to choose.”
Silence. And that’s when I know.
He won’t say it, but I already have my answer. Because if I was ever truly an option, I wouldn’t be standing here, begging for clarity.
I nod to myself, standing up. “I need to go.”
This time, he doesn’t stop me.
December-
It hurts, it really hurts.
My chest aches like it’s been hollowed out, and every breath feels too heavy, too sharp. My body trembles, like it’s trying to hold itself together, but it’s already unraveling.
Is this what dying feels like?
Is this death?
The slow suffocation of something that was once whole?
Or is this grief?
Endless, suffocating grief—bleeding through my veins, consuming everything I am.
I can’t tell anymore. Only that it hurts. So much.
I don’t even know who I am anymore.
I feel like a hollow shell.
January-
The snow falls lightly, dusting the pavement with delicate flakes as I walk across campus. The world feels quiet, wrapped in winter’s cold embrace, but inside me? There’s nothing but noise, a clamor I can’t silence. Just as fast as everything had began, it ended just as quickly.
I didn’t expect Caleb to reach out. After everything, after the silence between us that’s stretched since November, I thought he’d let the distance settle. Let whatever we had fade into something unspoken, unresolved.
But then I got the text.
can we talk?
And because I’m weak, because no matter how much I want to convince myself I’ve moved on, I know I haven’t, so I agreed.
Now, I’m here, waiting outside the coffee shop, my breath clouding in the cold air. Caleb’s already inside, sitting by the window with his fingers curled around a paper cup. When he sees me, he gives a small, hesitant smile. He looks the same, yet it feels so foreign.
I steel myself and walk inside.
“Hey,” he says when I slide into the seat across from him.
“Hey,” I echo, my voice flat, unreadable.
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of everything hanging between us.
He exhales, looking down at his coffee. “I hate how things have been between us.”
I don’t say anything, just let him speak.
“I miss you,” he admits, and for a moment, my heart stumbles. But before I can process it, he adds, “I don’t want to lose you, I want us to still be friends.”
Friends.
I should have expected this. Maybe I did. Maybe I’ve just been foolish enough to hope for something else.
I swallow, my fingers tightening around my cup. “Friends.”
He nods, earnest, like he doesn’t realize he’s twisting a knife into my chest. “Yeah. I mean, we were good at that, right? Before things got… complicated.”
Complicated. That word again.
I take a slow breath, trying to force the ache in my chest to quiet. Maybe this is what we need. Maybe being friends, just friends, will hurt less than losing him completely.
So I offer a small smile, one that feels forced but I try to make it real. “Yeah. We were.”
Relief flashes across his face, and something deep inside me tugs painfully. But I ignore it.
We can do this.
We have to.
“Are we okay?” he asks carefully.
I hesitate for a second, just a moment, but then I nod. “Yeah. We’re okay.”
And maybe, if I say it enough times, it’ll start to feel true.
We step outside together, the cold air biting at my skin. We walk side by side, but it’s different now. Less certain, more fragile. But for now, it’s enough. We’re still in each other’s lives. And that has to count for something.
February-
The cold of February feels different this year. It’s sharp, biting at my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the way the distance between Caleb and me has settled; thick, suffocating.
We’re friends. At least, that’s what we tell ourselves.
But every interaction feels like a shadow of what it used to be. We pass each other on campus, exchanging forced smiles, awkward pleasantries. He texts me sometimes, but the messages are clipped, casual. The playful banter, the inside jokes—we don’t have those anymore.
I’ve gotten good at pretending it doesn’t hurt. I laugh at his jokes when we’re in class together, crack a smile when he waves in passing. I tell myself that being near him, even like this, is better than nothing.
But it isn’t. It isn’t better at all.
One afternoon, after class, Caleb waits for me while I pack my things, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jacket. His eyes meet mine, but they flicker away quickly, like he’s not sure how to look at me anymore.
“Hey,” he says, his voice quieter than it used to be.
I force a smile, but it feels too tight, too stretched.
We walk together, but the silence between us is thick. We’re not really talking anymore. Not like before.
“How’s everything?” I ask, trying to fill the space with something. Anything.
Caleb shrugs, his gaze far off. “Same as usual. You know how it is.”
I don’t know how it is. Not anymore.
“And you?” he asks, almost apologetically, like he’s afraid he’ll break something if he pushes too hard.
“I’m good,” I say, too quickly. Too easily. I wish I could say something that would make it sound like we haven’t drifted so far apart. But I can’t.
The truth is, I don’t feel good. Not at all.
The rest of the walk is silent, and when we reach the place where our paths diverge, Caleb gives me a tight, awkward smile.
“Catch you later,” he says, already turning away before I can say anything else.
I watch him walk off, the weight of all the things we never said hanging between us.
It’s painful. But I swallow it down. I have to.
The days pass, and we continue this dance; one of shallow conversations, stiff smiles. Every text feels like a performance. Every interaction, a reminder that we’re no longer who we used to be.
One night, I sit at my desk, the glow of my laptop screen casting a pale light over my face. My phone vibrates on the table beside me. Caleb’s name.
I hesitate before picking it up.
hey, are you free later?
My heart skips a beat, but I force myself to respond.
Yeah, what’s up?
There’s a long pause before his next message.
i was thinking we could grab coffee. but no pressure, just thought it might be nice.
The words “just thought it might be nice” sting more than I expected. It’s so casual, so simple—like the idea of spending time together doesn’t carry any of the weight it used to.
But I can’t back out now. I can’t keep pretending that I’m not still craving his company, even if it’s not the same.
Sure, sounds good.
When we meet at our usual café, the air between us is thick. We talk, but it’s like we’re strangers, circling around the things we used to share so easily. Caleb talks about his classes, and I nod, smile at the right times, but it doesn’t feel like we’re really connecting anymore.
I tell myself it’s fine. This is what we agreed to. That being friends is better than nothing.
And no matter how many times I tell myself I’m over it, no matter how many times I remind myself that this is what I chose; it still hurts.
When we part ways that evening, Caleb gives me a small, almost apologetic smile. “I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah,” I reply, throat tight. “See you.”
I watch him leave, and I can’t help but feel like a piece of myself is slowly drifting farther away.
March-
I can’t keep doing this.
April-
The months start to feel like a slow, inevitable slide into something I can’t quite escape. The air has warmed, and the snow is nothing more than a distant memory, but the silence between Caleb and me cuts deeper than any winter chill.
We still see each other every day. We still share the same spaces, the same halls, the same class. But now, we’re nothing more than shadows of what we once were. Just two people who used to mean something to each other, now standing on opposite sides of a wide, unbridgeable gap.
We promised to be friends. We promised we’d make it work. But those promises feel empty now. There’s no joy in our interactions, no spark. Every conversation is forced, every laugh hollow. We’ve become experts at pretending, at wearing the mask of “just friends,” even though neither of us believes it for a second.
I’ve tried to move on, but when I see him, it’s like a miserable cold wave crashing over me. His eyes, once warm and inviting, are distant now; like he’s holding back something I’m not allowed to know. Even though he’s still there, still around, it feels like he’s lightyears away.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, sitting alone in the student lounge, my books spread out in front of me though not really focused on them. My phone buzzes, and I glance down at the message, already knowing who it’s from.
Caleb.
I hesitate before opening it, my fingers lingering over the screen.
i’m outside the library, want to grab coffee?
My heart skips. I want to say yes.
I want to say yes more than anything.
But a part of me knows how this will go. Another awkward conversation. Another round of small talk and unspoken feelings.
I’m tired. Tired of pretending things are fine when nothing is fine.
I can’t, sorry.
May-
The day is warm, but there’s a crispness in the air, the kind that signals a transition; between seasons, between chapters, between what was and what will be. The hum of excitement fills the air, the kind only a graduation ceremony can bring. Students in their uniforms mill around the venue, laughter and shouts of celebration ringing through the open space.
I move through the crowd, my diploma and badges in hand, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. I should feel proud, should feel accomplished. And I do, somewhere deep inside. But there’s something else, something heavier, lingering beneath the surface. The kind of feeling I’ve spent the past few months pushing away, convincing myself I’ve moved past.
Then, I see them.
Caleb stands a few feet away, surrounded by the floods of people. I notice he’s staring ahead into the crowd, and a girl comes crashing into him with the kind of ease that twists my stomach; MC.
She leans in, close—too close. And then, as if the universe had been waiting for the perfect moment to shatter the fragile balance I had built, she presses a kiss to his cheek. It’s celebratory, happy, and by the look on Caleb's face, just enough.
The world tilts.
For a second, the sounds around me blur into static, the conversations and cheers fading into the background. The weight of months of restraint, of quiet acceptance, of pretending I was fine, collapses all at once. The carefully built walls around my emotions crack under the force of everything I had tried so desperately to move past.
I thought I had let go. I thought I had made peace with everything that had happened. But in this moment, watching him, watching them, it all comes rushing back. The late nights, the quiet moments, the unspoken words that once sat between us. The way he once looked at me, the way he’s looking at her. The realization that, despite all my efforts, my heart had never truly stopped waiting.
I force my feet to move, to carry me past them, past the reminders of what could have been, of what wasn’t mine to hold onto anymore.
The weight in my chest is suffocating, but I refuse to stop, refuse to break—not here, not now. Because this is supposed to be a celebration, the closing of a chapter, the start of something new.
Maybe in another life, it was never a competition. Maybe in another universe, I don’t have to worry about her. In that world, I am her—running into Caleb’s arms, stealing his hat, and pressing a kiss to his cheek.
Yes. In another universe, I am her.
More Posts from Cheriimo and Others
(x) Submitted by: fadingsaladhottub
ok but this hoe y/n is living her best life in all these fics. can I be her
would u ever do another part to the teaching some lessons series 🥹🥹
my lord, it's been so long since i wrote for yuuji but i love him sm to decline this opportunity. so, here you go. some filth for ya <3
🌸a lesson in jealousy!
synopsis: yuuji itadori knew he was lucky, knew that he was dating the most loyal girl ever, knew that his brother and you were nothing more than best-friends — knew all of that and yet, couldn't help but clench his jaw and fuck you into that ruined couch — jealous. pairing: afab!reader x itadori yuuji [aged up.] wc: 5.2k cw: MDNI. MDNI. MDNI. nsfw includes: jealousy, penetration, edging and denial, rough smex, pussydrunk!yuuji, slight bimbofication, yuuji's super-strength and stamina, yuuji is insecure, and sukuna is a brat as always. have fun. m.list
yuuji itadori was not a jealous man.
he was a bit dense, a bit too optimistic for his own good, maybe a teensy bit territorial — sure. but jealous? nah.
that was before sukuna made him reconsider his beliefs.
｡･:*˚:✧｡
strike 0.
"yuu, does this dress look good on me?" your voice shook with impatience, eyes sifting over your boyfriend's hunched form as he sat on your couch.
"hm?" the jock looked up from his phone, gaze all but devouring you as you stood before him.
you were beautiful, always were.
no matter when yuuji itadori looked at you, he was blown away like it was his first, like he was a kid on the playground who had just been offered ice-cream on a sweltering, hot day.
he nodded enthusiastically, a broad smile across his lips, "good is an understatement, babe. you look fuckin' amazing."
and he meant it. he always meant it.
"are you sure?" a soft pout fell across your lips, and you turned around as if to display yourself once more, giving him one more chance to take back his claim.
and despite not complaining about your little show, he muttered, "dead sure, babe."
"really? you're sure sure?" you tried again, getting the jock to swallow down his own words.
"yes—" yuuji tried to plead his case, tried to tell you that you were the love of his life even in a trash bag and aluminium foil accessories, but you cut him off.
"—cause 'kuna said it made me look fat."
'kuna.'
"huh?" and though the quarterback knew better than that, his eyebrow twitched at the mention of his brother's name. chucking the uncomfortable itch that crawled at the back of his throat down his stomach, yuuji laughed, "he's stupid, you know that."
"i knoww..." you drawled the word, your soft palms finding purchase against your waist as your unsure gaze tangled against his. you drew closer, till your sweet perfume permeated his figure, "but what if kuna's right..?"
pang!
there it was, that fucking little, fluttering feeling that traveled from yuuji's brains to his biceps, then to his ribs and finally settled somewhere in his lungs. was it annoyance? maybe irritation? or jeal— no. not that.
"i mean—" you huffed, smoothing the dress over your stomach once more as you peered down at him, "be honest with me, yuu. its my first christmas with your family, i wanna make a good impression."
the scar under his eyes twitched wickedly, flexing with the muscles of his cheeks as he put on a stained smile, "you've known them for ages."
"not as your girlfriend. they know me as kuna's best friend and he doesn't exactly have the best... eh, reputation..? yes. reputation." you refuted yet again, and yuuji would have laughed at your persistence to prove him wrong had it not been for that uncomfortable itch in his lungs.
'kuna's best friend.'
a slight tick built up in his jaw, his bones weighing down with your careless words, and breaths a stuttered falsetto.
nonetheless, yuuji extended his muscled arms, pulling you in to softly perch you on his steady lap.
nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck, the man hoped that the embers of anger frolicking about in his irises weren't evident in his voice, "who cares about sukuna? he's a mean fucking asshole."
shit. he could pick up on the slight edge to his tone, he just hoped you couldn't. what would you think of him if you knew the way he was feeling..?
after all, it's not like yuuji was jealous of his own brother or something. obviously not.
"i know." you raked your manicured fingers down his pinkish locks, and yuuji pasted chaste kisses to your exposed skin.
no longer was he the 6'2, hulking quarterback who would whoop someone's ass with one swift punch, but rather the same boy who had grown up with a massive crush on you. the same boy who had stayed up nights upon nights dreaming about the day you'd be his. the same boy who spent years in shadow as sukuna's ditzy younger brother before you liked him back.
but who cares about the past? you were his now, weren't you? and that was enough.
that was enough, right..?
he was knocked out of his sweet bliss when your voice kissed his ears, "i know it's dumb... but i think i'll just return it."
you didn't say the rest of the sentence, but yuuji found himself completing it in his head: 'but i'll just return it... cause sukuna said it didn't look nice.'
fuck sukuna.
｡･:*˚:✧｡
strike 1.
yuuji itadori hated the holidays with his family.
well, no, that was a lie. he hated the holidays this year.
every other year building up to now, yuuji was the first to help choso bring the tree and decorate it, first to help his dad cook and clean, and first to yell at sukuna for being a massive dick even through the holiday spirit.
well... given it was the season of giving, sukuna sure did his part by giving yuuji something — a fucking headache, or heartburn, or pure, unadulterated murderous rage.
point being, yuuji loved the holidays. he just hated how comfortably sukuna sat on the couch while you were sitting on the ground, both of you flipping through the ancient photo albums that choso-nii had insisted to unearth from the attic this morning.
it didn't matter that he was sitting next to you, it didn't matter when he could practically hear sukuna breathing on his fucking back, muttering jokes only you laughed at.
why was that man so close to you, anyways?
"oh my fucking god," you giggled — unaware of the very devil sitting behind you.
flipping through the pages of the scrapbook choso-nii had made when you all were still far too young, your index ran across the smooth texture of the photos, eyes trying to remember the incidents as if they had happened yesterday.
you pointed to the next photo with a sudden chirp, "and oh— yuu," you smiled, "that's you."
and it sure was yuuji itadori, aged two.
clad in an onesie, the small, pink-haired toddler was sitting next to you in the picture. you were playing with blocks, and when the picture was taken — yuuji had effectively knocked the tower of blocks over. you were crying next to him, blubbering with teary eyes and reddened nose while yuuji just gawked at you like a fool.
"that's me..." yuuji found heat run to the apples of his cheek, "yeah. sorry about that—"
"—knocking my blocks over?" you laughed, and yuuji almost considered building a time machine to go back in time and not knocking those blocks over.
you patted his thigh softly, "don't worry about it yuu, i forgive you."
"still don't understand what dad's fascination was with taking photos at awkward times." choso quipped from his spot next to jin in the kitchen. the pale, tattooed man was whisking batter for the cookies as jin was simmering something in a pan. jin itadori laughed at his eldest son's question, "well, it makes for good memories."
"sure does, dad." the three brothers almost replied in unison.
"and this—" you pointed to a photo of you and sukuna covered in mud, smiling at the camera with broken teeth and scrunched noses.
you looked over your shoulder, meeting the delinquent's eyes, "we got yelled so bad for this one, kuna."
"i remember that too." yuuji's dad piped up from the kitchen, stirring the pot with a rambunctious laugh, "i mean, i was there."
"still think it was an over-exaggeration." sukuna huffed, cracking his knuckles as he peered at the photos from over your shoulder, "we just ate some mud, what's the big deal? i mean— i turned out fine."
"hardly." yuuji muttered.
"what was that, brat?" sukuna cocked at eyebrow from where he sat on the couch, "talking 'bout yourself?"
yuuji found himself pressing his lips in a straight line, an unbroken resolve in the cresses of his face, "there's a reason nobody likes you, y'know?"
"your girlfriend does."
"hey—" you turned around to smack sukuna on his knee, even though a laugh had escaped past your lips, "shut up, kuna."
yuuji felt his nails biting into his palms with the force he fisted his hand with.
sukuna raised an eyebrow at his younger brother's reaction, stifling in a hearty, annoying laugh. "what? jealous, brat?"
jealous? obviously not.
it's just some unknown red, hot feeling that ran it's way across yuuji's body and charred it whole — it wasn't jealousy.
yuuji itadori didn't get jealous.
｡･:*˚:✧｡
strike 02.
"this is a terrible idea." you huffed, eyes strained against your green-haired-upto-no-good roommate. you repeated, "te-rri-ble."
"shut up," maki scoffed, a roll of her eyes following soon after, "it sounds fun."
what sounds fun, you may ask?
you see at a small friends-only gathering at your shared apartment, your flatmate — maki zenin had suggested with all her mighty braincell prowess, "hey, why don't we see who knows you more? your boyfriend, or your bestfriend?"
everyone had agreed — from maki's crush kugisaki to the black-haired ball of emo-ness, fushiguro. everyone had accepted except for you.
"absolutely not." you repeated yet again, and maki zenin scowled, "what a fuckin' killjoy— it's totally gonna be fun."
knowing maki, you knew she was doing this purely for her entertainment and nobody else's. this game would be fun for her.
you were sure there was something in the zenin's blood that made others suffering utterly amusing to them.
"i mean i'm down for it." yuuji shrugged, an unwavering faith in his voice, "i know i'm not losing."
"yeah?" sukuna rested the tip of his tongue against his sharp canines, almost laughing at yuuji's audacity to think that highly of himself. "ya think you'd win? i've known her 20 years. you even know how to count to 20, dumbass?"
see, despite being older in age, sukuna was definitely not the smartest tool in the shed — and yuuji knew that. so, as an act of self-preservation, yuuji let that comment go without further arguments.
instead, your boyfriend had just smiled at you reassuringly, "we should play, babe. i'm sure it'll be fun."
"yeah, loosen up." sukuna commented soon after, sipping the cheap booze, "it's not like me and yuuji will start a fight over this crap."
"fine." you had given up by the end, leaving the boys with their massive egos and terrible decision-making tendencies. you crossed your arms, vowing an unbreakable oath, "but i swear to god if you two get in a fight after this, i'm not gonna break it up."
that was five minutes ago, and now—
"—are you fuckin' stupid?" sukuna's eyes narrowed at his brother, "she obviously likes the mountains more."
"nah." yuuji retorted, dead sure in his assumptions, "beaches."
"mountains—"
"—yuuji's right." you dismissed the argument with a simple flick of your fingers, and yuuji grinned at the outcome: 3-4.
"next question." maki clapped her hands to draw attention to herself, "oh, this one should be fairly easy." she paused for dramatic effect, putting on a showbiz voice, "how many guys has she kissed?"
"three." yuuji simply answered, and sukuna waved him off with a cashmere, all-knowing grin, "nuh uh, five."
yuuji's eyebrows bunched, his eyes resting on you with a question: five?
"it's three." yuuji stated definitively and you shook your head, "kuna's right. the score is now 4-4."
you nodded as to acknowledge sukuna's nonchalant victory, and you swore your boyfriend's jaw slacked open at your words.
wobbling words and ticking jaw, yuuji itadori looked at you as if you had betrayed him, "w-wait, but i only know three."
"i've only seriously made out with three guys." you answered honestly, "rest two were when i was drunk, i don't even remember them."
"wait... why didn't you tell me that, though?" yuuji tried asking but already had the answer on the tip of your tongue.
"i was drunk, babe." you gave a half-impressed nod to sukuna, "I'm surprised sukuna remembers them too, given how shit-faced drunk he got each time."
"but—" your boyfriend tried yet again but the conversation had moved along.
now, sukuna was piping up about something that had happened when you and him were shit-faced drunk, and you and maki were laughing at his recounts.
heck, even fushiguro had cracked a smile. what the fuck?!
"holy shit." you face-palmed, laughing hysterically at whatever drunken adventure you two had embarked on without yuuji. you tried catching your breath, clutching your chest with your manicured hands, "a-and there was this buff dude— hah, ohmygod—"
sukuna added onto your story, nodding— and yuuji felt his blood boil.
yuuji itadori knew nothing had ever happened between you and sukuna. your drunken nights were just tomfoolery, your jokes were just jokes but... what if?
what if sukuna was one of the men you had kissed when drunk? what if he was more than that? what if yuuji was just a mistake and sukuna was the man for you?
what if..?
yuuji's ear's buzzed, blood roared through his veins and his bones rattled in a cursed rhythm as his erratic gaze shifted from one person to the next.
everyone was laughing.
yuuji itadori felt their — your laughter pierce through his skin and lodge square in his heart. for a minute, it felt as if the entire world was in on a massive joke and he was the only one left out.
at last, yuuji's gaze landed on sukuna. the hulking delinquent had a self-satisfying smile on his face as he yapped on and on and on—
a pulsating pain built in yuuji's palm as he felt himself squeezing down on something. his biceps bulged, a vein almost popping in his neck from the force he was exerting.
what if yuuji itadori was the butt of the joke he was being left out of?
"—yuuji?" you put a soft hand on his bicep, pulling him out of his entranced state. concern wrapped around your words like ivy, your laughter completely wiped off, "are you okay..?"
"y-huh?" the jock blinked once, twice, then once more before he could even process what you just said.
the roar in his ears subsided, the warmth in his face dissipated, and it was as the anger slipped off of his tired muscles did yuuji itadori realize that he had broke the arm of your couch with his mindless grasp.
"yuuji—" kugisaki heaved, panicked. and megumi stood up soon after, his words jittery, "itadori..?"
everyone was staring.
"shit—" his eyes travelled to the wooden splinters that had crumbled under the expanse of his muscles. frenzied eyes running from his palms to your scared face, he almost lost his voice, "s-sorry. 'm so sorry... i dunno— how."
you knelt down, nimble hands coming to take his larger palm in yours gently, "yuu—" panic overwrote every syllable of yours but your eyes stayed trained against his, "are you okay?! should we—"
"—no." yuuji pulled his hand back to his chest, shaking his head, "i'm fine... i'm okay. no."
everyone was fucking staring.
standing up, the jock almost felt too light-headed to even process what pain he was in. all he knew was that he needed to get away, and get away soon.
"i—" his mouth grew drier, words dying at the tip of his tongue as everyone's eyes bore onto his frame.
turning around, scrambling for the exit, the quarterback barely managed out an excuse, "i'll pay for that later."
before yuuji slammed the door behind himself, he heard sukuna's voice boom behind him, "yuuji, slow down."
but even the slightest sound of his brother's voice — no matter concern or mockery were enough to set his cells ablaze with a nerve-racking thunder.
yuuji itadori was probably jealous, and jealousy was unbecoming of a man.
｡･:*˚:✧｡
strike 03.
months had passed by, the arm of the couch changed and the incident had been long forgotten.
yuuji itadori had even successfully got you to belief that for a second that night, his 'super-strength' had activated. heck, he had even claimed to be the main character of a shounen manga in some parallel universe, and reasoned that perhaps he was fighting someone somewhere that night.
stupid man — that's what you had called him and yet the way you had doted on him for the next couple of days had turned any of his guilt on wrecking the furniture turn to an unsung victory.
what's a piece of furniture compared to his girlfriend, anyways?
you had sat yourself down on his lap, facing him as your trapped his cheeks between your palms as you had sighed, "i'm sorry i didn't tell you about those two extra kisses. i was just, um kinda scared if you'd judge me for drunk-kissing random guys."
"you drunk-kissed me too."
you winced, half-nodding at his words, "fair point."
but instead of judgement or scrutiny, yuuji had given you a broad smile, reassuring you with a soft kiss to your palm, "why would i ever judge you over that, babe? i'm just happy you told me now."
and that had been that. the incident had passed. it had been months. the couch had been repaired. you two had talked it out. that bitter feeling inside of yuuji had died. it had died.
so, why was it coming back with vengeance tonight?
he mumbled your name into the thick air, trying to call out to you over the beats and hollers, trying to talk sense into you.
you were at some house-party that a friend of a friend of sukuna's was hosting. the delinquent had dragged you two with him, and despite not knowing the dude, you had drank his booze and were now swaying to the beats on his darkened dance floor.
neon lights flashed over you in the sea of unknown bodies as yuuji wrapped his beefy arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
the pink-haired jock dropped his face in the crook of your neck, his mouth nipping softly against your pulse-points, "you should drink some water."
"mhmm, don' care." you groaned, turning around to wrap your arms around his neck as he looked down at you. waves of lust rocked your body and yuuji felt like you'd devoured him whole on that very dance-floor had it not been for the charges of public indecency. your words slurred deliciously, "i don' wan' water— wan' you."
yuuji laughed at your words, bringing his head down again to gently talk you through it, "but you do need water, babe. wait here and i'll get you some, okay?"
and despite your pout, yuuji patted your arm and let go of you with a soft kiss to your cheek.
the neon flashed in his irises, and his hazy vision couldn't quite keep up with your dancing figure as he eventually disappeared within the throbbing crowd. looking back once, twice, he had lost track of you completely by the time he reached the kitchen.
"water?" yuuji found himself confusedly asking another person for where the water was. "yeah, one bottle's enough. thanks, man."
yuuji navigated the stirring crowds with chants of 'sorry's and 'excuse me's lined up, with his eyes searching for your figure.
he wasn't worried about leaving you alone drunk. at worst, you'd be dancing. at best, you'd be standing still.
oh... except, he forgot to consider sukuna in his worst case scenario.
there he was — that fucking delinquent — leaning down to whisper something in your ear as you barked out a drunken laugh with a rough swat to sukuna's tattooed arm.
the plastic in yuuji's palm felt awfully easy to crush, but yuuji itadori decided to keep his cool.
heavy footsteps rung against the floor as he stepped towards you, scanning your figure. there was a glimmering glass in your hands, a matching one in sukuna's.
was sukuna getting you more drunk? why, that fucking asshole—
shit. calm down, yuuji.
"—hey." yuuji grit his teeth, giving sukuna a half-baked smile, "i don't think she should be drinking more."
"ah," the older itadori rolled his eyes, waving his younger brother off as if he was a waft of air, "calm down, it's just one more glass."
but yuuji pulled the glass from your nimble grasp, even when you pouted and reached out for it again. he swiftly replaced it with the bottle he had brought, "no, have this."
the jock never once let his gaze drop from his brother as he grunted, "i think it's enough. she has had more than enough."
"calm down, brat." sukuna repeated, giving his own glass in your hand, "she's a tough girl, she can handle herself."
yuuji itadori was sure a vein had popped somewhere in his neck as he found stepping towards his brother, grin feral, "i think you should stay out of my girlfriend's business."
"your girl—girlfriend..? hah—" sukuna laughed, and yuuji almost considered homicide to not be half-bad, "what's so fuckin' funny?"
"nothing." sukuna shook his head, still laughing about whatever delirious shit he was on about. the tatted man sucked in a breath, "it's just... if you two break up, i'll still be her best friend, and you'd..." he hummed, "you'd be nothing to her."
whatever happened after that is a blur to yuuji itadori.
all he knew is that he hadn't hit sukuna — or someone else, for that matter. he had simply clutched your wrist in his, dragging you out of that godforsaken party even as you called out his name every now and then. he had driven his car through the learned pathways in the dead of the night and now, he was jamming your key through your apartment door to let you both in.
creaaak!
the heavy door opened and yuuji pushed it to let himself in, still holding your hand in his wrist.
"yuu—" you mumbled, still dazed from all the alcohol as you trailed behind him and into your living room.
ignoring you, the jock disappeared into your kitchen after putting your purse down on the coffee table.
as you sat on the couch, trying to undo the heels off of your aching feet, he showed up with a glass of water.
you looked up at him, the whites of your eyes tinted the slightest red, "what..?"
"drink some water." yuuji commanded coldly, and your brows furrowed at his demeanor, "are you... mad at me?"
"no. don't worry." sighing, the jock bent down and undid the clasp easily. his eyes didn't meet yours as he stood back up and gave you another instruction, "just go to sleep after this, okay? you need some rest."
"but yuuji..." you pouted, drawing your palm to his wrist to stop him, "wh-where are you going..?"
maybe if you had been in a better state of mind, you would have noticed your boyfriend's clenched jaw and fisted hands, you would have heard the restraint in his words as he heaved out, "back home."
"but why?"
why?
yuuji itadori still did not meet your eyes, "I'm just not in the mood to hang out."
"but—"
"listen," the jock finally met your gaze, a silent warning imprinted onto his irises, "if i stay here, i'll end up doing something i regret."
"like..?" you still looked up at him oh-so-clueless, and yuuji couldn't help but crack open a strained smile, repeating, "like?"
like this.
"fu-fuck fuu k—" your breath hitched, eyes glossing over as it became harder and harder to breathe. your voice was muffled against the couch, the fabric eating away at whatever semblance of sanity you possessed.
yuuji splayed his palm on the back of your head, pushing it down and down into the fabric with reckless abandon as he fucked into your sopping cunt.
"tell me—" the jock grunted, using another hand to smack the delicious curve of your ass, "what is it hah about that bastard — 'kuna''", he heaved, mocking you, " that I don't fuckin' have, huh?"
"yuuji—" you tried but your mouth felt so awfully dry, your moans lodged in your throat helplessly as your boyfriend pressed your face further into the couch. trying again, you panted, "ple-please yuu—"
smack!
"hngh— fuck mmph—" your body jolted in retort as yuuji planted another smack to your ass, immediately soothing the skin with his broad hands.
your eyes burned, cheek rubbing against the couch fabric so helplessly as you tried clawing at whatever you could find.
manicured fingers dug into the the couch, and yuuji chased your actions mercilessly with deep plunges inside your quivering cunt. he growled out, "answer my fucking question."
but you were rendered useless.
your vision was growing hazy, air supply cut off from the way your face was pressed up and into the sofa. despite the sizzling hot sting against your ass, and the stretch of your thighs, a gnawing feeling churned in the pit of your stomach.
"ca-can't breathe—" your rasped, your manicured nails still digging into the soft surface as you tried to shake your boyfriend off of yourself with helpless trembles, "g-get off—"
"can't breathe?" yuuji repeated, using one broad hand to catch both of your wrists and pin them behind your back. vision misty, and light-headed — suddenly, you were pulled up into something hard.
despite his harsh actions, despite the relentless rolls of his cock into your gummy walls, yuuji husked behind you, "better?"
and you nodded, too cockdrunk to stop the man from using you like his personal fleshlight.
your boyfriend's heat radiated out of his chest and seeped into your aching bones as his cock still rammed into your heat. you finally breathed, inhaling deep breaths before the smacks of his pelvis against yours made you shake yet again.
your writhed your wrists, fighting against his phantom-like grip on you as your muscles spasmed and contracted, "y-yuu 'mgonna shit— 'm— cummin cummin'—"
"huh?" the jock gasped as your snug cunt pulsated around his rigid member. each little spasm of your walls against his ridged veins made the jock plow into you harder, "hah, cumming?"
you nodded, shivering and straining against his iron grip, "so close 'm so— close."
and then he stopped.
yuuji itadori pulled out of your snug cunt in one swift snap of his hips, leaving your syrupy folds clenching around thick air — so easily abandoned.
you turned your head back, jaw sagging open in a helpless whimper as tears brimmed your eyes, "wh-why'd you sto-p..?"
but the younger itadori was in the mood for no games tonight. flipping you onto your back, the man threw you onto the couch as if you weighed nothing to him.
"yuu—" your breath trembled as you tried supporting your jelly-like body on your elbows, staring up at the man who held held no remorse in his eyes for the way he was destroying you.
his hair was matted, locks clinging onto his forehead as drops of dew clung onto his skin. his skin was dusted pink, as his heavy cockhead smeared drops of his pre against his thigh.
"you know..." yuuji husked, tugging his mushroom tip lazily as he stared down at your shaky physique, "you still haven't answered my question."
"wh-what question?"
and yuuji cocked an eyebrow despite knowing better than to blame you for how mush-brained state.
the man guided his leaky tip to your hooded clit, massaging the thundering nub in slow circles, "what is it about kuna that's so much better than me, huh?"
"i d-dunno... what're y-you saying..?" you bit your wobbling lips, blinking your eyes so slow as he kept nudging his tip against your sensitive bud, "he's... he's just my best-frie..nd oh—"
"awh, he's your best-f-friend?" yuuji repeated, now tracing his tip in skilled eight shapes, "that's it..?"
and despite having half a mind, you nodded desperately, "y-yeah, yuu."
"tch," the man traced his tip downwards, collecting your honeydew on his hardened cock before plunging within your heat in one swift motion.
you gasped, toes curling as the younger itadori found himself ramming a bruising pace into your sopping entrance, "fu-fuck s-slower—"
but yuuji itadori was in no mood for mercy. bringing up a sharp hand to your face, he pulled your cheeks into a forced pout, "if he's just your best-f-friend, hah why is that fucker always just— hovering around?"
"i—" you tried to speak but your words were a wet gargle, constricting within your throat at his harsh actions, "mm—"
"can't speak?" and somehow your frenzied nod just made itadori clutch your skin in his grasp tighter — till he was sure he was indenting your face with his fingerprints.
"yuuji—" you groaned, words still so hard to come-by as he kept fucking you dumber and dumber. but at this point, yuuji didn't even bother knowing your answer, instead pussydrunkenly rambling on, "a-and the fuck is he so cocky about? you're my girlfriend, right? arent'cha?"
you nodded, and he pressed a sickly sweet kiss to your forced pout, "attagirl."
but he continued rambling, his words forgone and stupid, "and fuck does he think? that just— just cause he knows you longer, he—" yuuji nodded at you, "right? i've known you the sa-same amount of time auh— shiiit."
and despite not understanding whatever shit yuuji was spewing from his parched mouth, you nodded in agreement.
"alright," the man kissed your jaw in a wicked hurry, "you don't—" a sudden, deep shove within your velvety hole made the jock stutter out, "y-you love me right... you don't love him."
and he let go of your aching jaw, kissing up the cheeks as if to soothe your skin, "say you love me. say it."
"i—" your eyes rolled back as his persistent shoves hit right in the bullseye — marking your womb with his copious pre. despite your scratchy throat, and bruising thighs, you moaned out, "i- only love you, yu-uji. ohmygod—"
"—good." yuuji groaned, feeling his length twitch in anticipation as the muscles of his thighs tightened, "cause i'll kill him— I'll kill him if he tries to take you from me."
and with that warning, the jock released thick ropes of cum into your saccharine pussy. the liquid filled you to the brim, a drop or two beading out of your cunt and sliding down his length helplessly.
"sh—shit." yuuji collapsed on top of you, breathing in your scent and licking at your sweat-soaked skin like a man crazed, "i—i'll kill him if he... if he takes you away."
"o-okay."
"'m serious."
"hm." you raked your trembling hands over his sweaty locks, "'sokay, i'm yours."
"good."
creaak!
"oh mY GOD—" your roommate practically yelled, "WHY ARE YOU BUTT-NAKED IN MY LIVING ROOM, ITADORI?!"
managing some resemblance of coherence, yuuji snapped his head back to look at the green-haired athlete standing shell-shocked at the door, "S-SENPAI?!"
"PUT SOME CLOTHES ON!" and with that the zenin family member pulled the door shut.
"i—" yuuji snapped his head back at you — you, who had just been sobered up from maki's yelling, "we should probably... p-put some clothes on."
the jock nodded, "probably."
well, you could always continue the conversation in your own room. after all, yuuji itadori did have inhumane stamina.
a/n: i did not suffer through days of creative block just to give up on this bitch. here, have something i guess..? idek if this was any good omg but i hope it doesn't suck too much :// this idea was suggested by @peekawoocc literally ages back, so, due credits to her! tagging: @peekawoocc @9rvm @iminlovewqr0w @jellibean2018 @kingofthe-egirls [took me so long ahaha :/] m.list
a bit of sexy Daniel for your dash
(source: phans directory)
gurgle. spit. rinse. do not repeat. do not repeat.
18.3 k words [o mein gott!] / warnings - suicidal ideation/suicide, this bitch is mentally ill, unrequited love but it isn't but it is but it isn't, intentionally strange text formatting
summary - trapped on the tulpar. surrounded by your life's work, chemicals and blood stains. and then there's sweet daisuke, who wants you so, so bad.
[2 months after the crash]
ETHANOL POISONING RISK ⌧
IF YOU OR SOMEONE YOU ARE WITH SWALLOWS MORE THAN FOUR TEASPOONS OF ETHANOL CONTENT IT MAY LEAD TO:
ABDOMINAL PAIN CONFUSION, SLURRED SPEECH INTERNAL BLEEDING SLOW BREATHING DECREASED ALERTNESS VERTIGO VOMITING, NAUSEA DIARRHEA
IF DIARRHEA OR VOMIT CONTAINS BLOOD, OR IF SYMPTOMS DO NOT NATURALLY DESCEND, SEEK MEDICAL ASSISTANCE SUCH AS 9-1-1 OR LOCAL POISON CONTROL. 800-222-1222.
BEFORE CALLING, HAVE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION OF THE SWALLOWER ON HAND:
WEIGHT HEIGHT AGE TIME SWALLOWED AMOUNT SWALLOWED
IF NOT ALL OR NONE OF THE INFORMATION IS ON HAND, DO NOT DELAY CALLING. DO NOT WAIT. CALL HELP. CALL HELP.
CALL HELP.
“Got 14% ethanol,” Swansea croaks, rotating the opaque cyan bottle in one hand with raised brows. A piqued lip. Wrinkles stretching until the skin is smooth as he observes the sloshing liquid.
“Is that bad?” you wonder aloud, holding the bottle up over your face -closer toward the dusty orange overheads and swish the plastic until its contents cyclone, “That’s alcohol, right? Cleaning and shit?”
Anya grimaces, scanning the ingredients along the back of the bottle, “All the sugar in this eliminates the disinfecting properties.”
Daisuke sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, one hand covering the other around the bottle. Fingers tighten around the pearly cap, twisting it just enough not to break the plastic seal, “But then it doesn’t taste bad, right?”
“We can’t drink this,” Anya shakes her head, reaching out as if to snatch the mouthwash from the intern’s grasp. The same way one would rip chocolate out from a dog’s mouth.
“Why not?” Swansea’s tone is light enough to come as sincerity rather than derision. He flicks the cap open with all the ease of popping a button and roughly punches his bottle against the one in your hand, “Ten and a half years sober: down the drain!”
You were in a minor collision as a child. Your mother’s car rear-ended on the highway while you swung your feet from the backseat. The abrupt jerking flung you hard into the back of the driver’s seat before your seatbelt whipped you back. A rapid burning needled along your neck, leaving you a whiny blob while Mom grumbled out of the car and rounded toward her assailant. Through tinted windows and bleary lashes, you catch turned faces -even drivers slanting your way and back quicker than the crash even happened. Leering curiously, children pushing over each other to peek closer than their siblings and wives’ lips moving as fast as their brains can narrate the scene to husbands.
Currently, you’re no better: head swinging toward Swansea’s tensed gulping like malleable rubber.
Wrinkles vining by his eyes and throat bobbing unevenly, Swansea pulls back with misty, saccharine drool pooling in the corners of his mouth, wiping it up with the back of his hand before loudly sucking wind between clenched teeth. Even louder, he smacks his lips, clicks his teeth, and stares at the floor. From above a low buzz blankets the soft humming of machinery below, lights clawing to be heard in the still survey of Swansea swallowing way more than four teaspoons of pure mouthwash.
Daisuke pops the seal on his bottle, and Anya blinks wildly as if upon the fifth hundredth one she’ll awake to normality, Jimmy cringes with the slowest headshake of disapproval. You shift closer, scooting your shoes sideways rather than taking independent steps, and place a cautious hand between Swansea’s shoulder blades,
“How was it…?”
Expecting the old man to spontaneously buckle forward with a geyser of crystal blue vomit streaked with innards, you slink back as his pruny mouth falls open.
Broad shoulders straightening and eyes alight the closest thing you could call joy since the voyage began, Swansea tosses back another shot of Dragonbreath before looking at you, “Not fucking bad.”
*
[!] new message: kills 99.99999999999999999%
[sent by: CPT. curly, grant | subsection: the bathroom is moldy again]
*
[5 weeks before the crash]
Modus operandi declares you perform the most daunting and grotesque step first, then you can peel off the second skin you wrapped around yourself -- throw it into one of the yellow buckets meant to be incinerated -- and wash your hands thoroughly. After that due diligence, you earn the much less demoralizing honor of scrubbing the sinks.
Although. Ola kala dictates you’re being too harsh on the various thrones your crew occupies:
Pretending to find this deal disgusting after five years would be juvenile and beneath you, and nobody would care even if you did. If anything, they could get upset thinking you’d slack off and get the crew credits package reduced. Maybe Daisuke would be a little empathetic, at least. He’s new enough, face round enough, hands soft enough to still pity the janitor just doing their job. Maybe he’d offer to help (and then you could sigh and swoon gratitude before assuring that no, Daisuke, you’re not BBP trained).
Streaks of greying brown crust around the curve of the metal bowl, plumped just beneath the seat. Scrubbing down by the siphon jet, your sponge meant to be steel wool barely grapples reddish muck from the drain -- you assume because anything with harsher ridges would scar the company’s precious shitbuckets. Boxed off with the same greenish, blueish turquoise color that makes up your coveralls. Thin plastic boxes for the sake of privacy. Technically everybody in the ship could pile into this bathroom at once -- three in the stalls and two at the urinals.
It reminds you of malls back on earth, or grocery stores, not an employment bathroom.
Smaller gunk already stuck around the bowl’s interior needs to be scraped up beneath a solid silver putty knife. Each blackened chip cracks off easily enough that you can almost act like this isn’t the epitome of your job title.
At this point, you don’t bother wiping your eyes -- content to let them blur with tears until you’re finished. After all, it isn’t like trying to smear the waterworks away with your forearm will make stinging chemicals fumes drift anywhere else. It’d only make your skin damp.
Beneath the concoction of bleach and syrupy blue whiteners, is a new stale wafting.
Oddly: it’s almost sweet, the smell of the bathroom. Or maybe your brain tells you the stench is more pleasant than it really is because you’ve spent so long surrounded by it. Most of the perceived sweetness is from that earthy musk, the things Pony Express feeds you: Canned soups and processed meats and germinated water pouches, all chock full of corpo-grade nutrients and healthy minerals. Not just a couple of years ago, they even used to permit snack sacks like nuts and freeze-dried berries. You never knew why they stopped doing that. You suppose no answer is satisfying because it wouldn’t matter, the smell doesn’t change much, anyway.
After the feces settles up to your brain, and you’re certain the stink is caked into today’s uniform, you get the hint of piss.
Depending on who most recently took a leak, the smell is different. Sometimes it’s almost sugary, but like if a melon had sat in the sun for two days. Sometimes it’s electric and burns second-hand, making your entire face wrinkle up at the shock. Sometimes it’s got the quietest hint of cat litter. You don’t care to know who’s who. You just acknowledge that they’re all different.
Human bodies are an absolute nightmare. Most times the actual people those bodies host are not much better.
Years ago you learned that breathing through your mouth did not help at all, then you would just taste the mixture. And the idea of all those particles on your tongue was more than enough to make you hurl. Usually, the job isn’t all bad because at the very bottom when you scoop what should not be touched, you can catch the most relieving smell of cologne. With how many men occupy the ship, the least they could do is be some nasal comfort while you scrub their bowels.
Suds soak acorn-colored, slowly growing darker brown the longer they sit as you attempt to rid all evidence that anybody on this ship ever shit in their entire life.
Backing out from this stall to glance down the row, you see more blackish splotches painting beneath the seats. Staining where each toilet is bolted into the floor. Stubborn to be forgotten.
Yeah. You don’t think these things could’ve survived just one more day.
[1 month before the crash]
“Ain’t shit else to drink around here,” Swansea clacks his Pony Express mug -stained around the lip and Polle picture cracking from years of use- against your own empty cup, “Cheers, kid. Find something else.”
“You just admitted there’s nothing else!” you sigh, glaring after the man as he strides unsympathetically toward the door.
In fair humor, Anya shakes her head, clicking her tongue, “How could you, Swansea?”
“Yeah,” Daisuke jeers after his mentor, “Boo, Swansea!”
“Boo!” you copy, deciding against a morning drink altogether. Replacing your cup haphazardly in a random cabinet.
“What’re we boozing?” a gravely Southern drawl bawls from the doors, Curly just barely scraping himself to the side as his mechanic slips out.
Swansea thumbs over his shoulder and grunts, “Your idiots don’t understand limited supply.”
“Ah,” Curly catches the wave of brown liquid in his mechanic’s mug, “Coffee’s a hot commodity, what can you do?”
“They can not lose their Goddamn heads,” the man gruffs into the steaming cup, sipping as he returns to work.
Once the mechanic is out of earshot, Curly frowns your way and confesses, “I was hoping to get a last cup before the pot was dry.”
“Oh well,” Anya sing-songs, combing both hands through her messy shag, “At least we won’t have a fight over it anymore.”
Daisuke nods cheerfully, despite being alert and bright-eyed without any caffeine, you assume it comes with his youth (because the few-year difference between you two is soooooo massive), “Exactly!”
“We can just go back to cute family breakfasts,” you chide.
Curly snorts. Nodding shortly.
Then he mumbles, “Jim’ won’t be too happy about the coffee being gone.”
“Is he up yet?” before Anya’s question earns reply, she spins toward you, “I think I could use some help sorting meds.”
“Oh,” you shrug, “Sure.”
Daisuke perks up, looking rapidly from you to Anya and back to you, “Can I come?”
“Swansea won’t miss you?” you tease.
He pauses in earnest, though. Eyes sliding off toward the motion-activated Polle statue, a consistent ‘uhhhhhhhh’ slinking out from his throat before he shakes his head, “Nahh. I don’t think so.”
Curly’s head darts your collective way, tilting specifically at Daisuke, “You don’t?”
Daisuke does think so, but what’s got more importance to it: A workplace romp or some mechanic experience during his internship? Pretty obviously the answer is you.
“He’ll know where to find me,” Daisuke shrugs easily enough, sweat bulleting down his temple beneath Curly’s knowing gaze.
“If you say so…” the blonde grins.
[7 days before the crash]
Anya stopped you on your way out after mopping the floors. Given that Anya isn’t a pig and most on-ship accidents are related to Daisuke banging around in utility, you hardly ever go into her office without scheduling. But she’d pinged you specifically that the floors were a little more heather gray than eggshell white lately. By time you finished pushing watered-down bleach around the tiles, you realized the floor was always heather gray. This was a trap.
She’s shuffling papers, looking at you through thick, low-hanging lashes, and shrugging, “It’s that time again.”
“Boo.”
“Can’t boo your way out of it now,” she sits and gestures across the table, clearly a silver base painted over with sad beige. You follow with a rumbling groan and fold your arms.
“Okay, shoot,” you throw your head back over the edge of the chair, staring upside down at the digital cloudy sky hanging above the patient beds. You think it’d be a more serene touch if the clouds could stroll by, but Pony Express -regardless of how big the Tulpar is- apparently cannot comprehend such advancement and maintains their stance on stationary clouds.
“You’re not taking this seriously…” a treacherous accusation because,
“If I didn’t take this seriously, I’d tell you I wanna bang Polle.”
“How’d you know about that? These are confidential and- !”
“He brags about saying it, he thinks it’s hilarious.”
“Oh…”
“Anyway,” you check your wrist which does not have a watch on it, and say, “I gotta get to the kitchen in five, so? Can we get this rolling?”
“That was just rude,” she lays the papers in her hand flat and rests her head in her palm.
“Sorry…”
Anya gives no discernable reaction to your apology, pouty lips popping open blandly around a rehearsed questionnaire she can read with her eyes closed, “Have you been able to complete your mandated task as custodial engineer efficiently and to your fullest capacity?”
Perhaps feeling a little guilty about how you spoke earlier, you clear your throat and offer something just a tad meatier than your typical ‘yep’, “As well as the past five years I’ve been here. Maybe even better this time around.”
She’s unimpressed, “Are you capable of shifting multiple variables on a tight schedule?”
You recline, “Naturally.”
“Are you overwhelmed by sudden and unprompted changes in task when necessary?”
“Nope.”
“Have you experienced lapses in time or are conflicted by the day/night screening schedule?”
“Nah-uh.”
“Does prolonged silence and isolation upon the freighter concern you and/or inspire unpleasant thoughts?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you experiencing, whether of your volition or not, troubling thoughts of hurting yourself or others?”
“No.” you sweat. It’s a little hot in medical today, shouldn’t Swansea fix that?
“Hmmmmmm,” you already know the criticism about to fly from her at that testy hum, and those narrowed eyes -suspicion masked by playfulness, “You gave all the same answers…”
“Well, they’re the same because nothing about me changes!” she merely sighs in response, and you cut her next thought short, “Honestly, Anya, don’t worry about this all too much. Jimmy’s right, this job isn’t hard. Anybody could do it, and everywhere needs it.”
The only difficult part is finding a place to hire you.
[1.5 hours after the crash]
Sprays of blood are already browning onto the metal floor. Stretches of pure red skin smoking from between the floor grates, mushy fat parts caught in the lining. Gloved hands pull at the elastic tissue, gummy white slop plopping back onto the floor. Hurriedly, those gloved hands toss the skin into a round yellow waste bucket -the kind meant to be incinerated after one use- because you’re convinced that if you move fast enough you can pretend the hands aren’t yours.
Instead, a disembodied entity is what plucks shredded chunks of the captain out of the floor, where they’re starting to dry between the lining.
Smaller gunk already stuck to the ground needs to be scraped up beneath a latex-covered nail. They crack off easy enough, you can almost act like it never happened. Really, you could treasure the memory compared to what you know lies ahead.
Just inside the recoverable parts of the cockpit are the hands and feet Swansea axed off mere minutes ago.
If you stress your ears then beyond the shrieking from Captain Curly, you can hear Anya and Daisuke wailing also. Blubbering meaningless comforts Anya trips over herself to bandage him up. A cloth skin to replace what you’re stripping off the ship.
At this point, you don’t bother wiping your eyes -- content to let them blur with tears until you’re finished. After all, it isn’t like smearing the blood on your forearm will aid the situation, and it certainly won’t make the smell of burning flesh dissipate.
Not when the scent has successfully buried into the back of your nose, and is nailing toward your brain.
Sizzling fat and iron make for a nauseating sweetness, the faintest earthy musk just beneath. Then after the whiff settles, the most putrid sourness of exposed, warm meat chases.
Breathing through your mouth helps none, then you just taste the mixture. Making your stomach lurch, bile rushing up before you swallow it down in rough chunks that drag down the canal of your throat.
At the very bottom, when you scoop what should not be touched, you can catch the most relieving smell of Curly’s cologne.
Suds soak pink, slowly growing darker the longer they sit as you attempt to rid all evidence of how violently you each had to rip Curly out of the cockpit. He was unceremoniously dragged along the floor, and no amount of distance from here to the medbay would make the trail lighten. Meaning, as you work your way back, any more muscle stripped from the exposed grouts will be firmly stuck down onto the floor.
Looking down the hall, you see blood rusting on the floor. Lots of it. Stubborn to be forgotten.
You’ll be surprised if Curly makes it just one more day.
[!] new message [!]
Peace and quiet.
Static at either side, your hands have the politest little splay. Webbing tickles as wind whistles through and a moist tar nose pokes around, short auburn fur stabbing into your knuckles. Hot air fans your skin every offbeat. Yellow wings wink from below, dotting dew-slicked sage tendrils. Spiders wave from behind pale silky petals.
You pray to avoid the temptation of casting eyes any nearer above ground. At least this way, staring out into the horizon -- trying to peek over downy hills. Humble curves curling beneath a seafoam green sky, just tinging azure in the corners of your eyes. You hear a breeze blowing through trees -not unlike the sucking of big teeth- but nowhere in sight do you find thick trunks or brushes. You see flapping wings swiftly gliding fatty birds until they sizzle deep into the sun’s scorching image, but you hear no caws.
A mushy, sticky roundness skims your middle finger, making you flinch back wildly. Though you don’t dare drop your stare… it wouldn’t matter either way, you can see more than enough no matter how intensely you attempt to dodge it.
Thick gashes in a cluster-quad cover the top of the thin deer’s skull. Two beneath the eyes and along the snout with two more stretching across the top bend in bend, toward where antlers sprout. Each ragged sniff causes the pear shapes to suddenly inflate, folds stretching until you can make out the pinkish flesh beneath faint dark fur. You’d been desperate to avoid knicking the bulbs and discovering their feel, so to find that they felt like silly putty stretched around an elbow was plenty disturbing.
The most you’ll allow yourself to glimpse are those awful antlers. Frail and formed in straight zig-zags, sickly almost yellow. Despite splitting straight from the deer’s head, you can see where skin parts around the thin branches, looks… homemade. Like yanked chicken wire, or an unbound hanger.
And the closer you look, the more patches you see in its pelt. Pinky lumps glaring into flighty eyes.
Swallowing hard, you just try to keep your gaze locked outward -- into the wide expanse beyond smooth rolling earth. No clouds. No sun. Just seafoam pale light.
Another deep inhale has a warm, soft, almost gelatin-like corm thing filling the gaps between your knuckles. You think the glands are whiter than they used to be, and you think they’re staring, but you can’t be sure; you’re intent on not looking.
You just wanted peace and quiet.
*
[!] new message: the 00.00000000000000001% remaining
[sent by: zare, jimmy | subsection: stop leaving your fucking buckets everywhere i just tripped]
*
[1 week before the crash]
Fish. Green scales and an open slash down the rotund little gut. Flopping into one, mushy pile. Content in nature, to be eaten is to complete their cycle. Bred to be consumed and caught between molars, molars belonging to men with poor dental hygiene. Men like Jimmy, who scream in faces no matter how obviously and tightly they wrinkle in disgust.
“It’s unbelievable how many times I’ve had to talk to you about leaving out buckets, this shit is impossible to avoid when you stand it in the middle of the fucking walkway!” he spits in your face, snarling, and without pause to let you explain yourself he ramps up again, “You don’t listen when I ask nicely, so now I have to start yelling. And another thing- !”
“Heyyyy,” Daisuke waltzes in, a dramatic bounce to each stomp and hair bouncing around his shoulders, “I had the soft sponge you were looking for! Stole it for some spilled tonic, sorry!”
He lets out a quiet ‘eughh’, halting full force just after the door to examine your predicament. Jimmy is practically bent over you, stabbing a finger in your face with his mouth split, throat swollen with venom glands.
“What’s going on?” he drops the sponge-bound hand at his side and frowns at the co-pilot.
A violation, technically. Crewmates are not to berate one another on deck, but the reporting route is so demeaningly difficult that now you just let Jimmy go off. It’s easier that way.
“Sounds pretty brutal…”
Jimmy’s seething, fist clenching, and you dodge past him to slip the sponge from Daisuke, “Don’t worry about it,” you shoot a raised brow over your shoulder at the brunette, “We’re over it anyway?”
Your answer comes in a scoff and head shake -- resounding agreement.
[0 days before the crash]
Slamming sideways into a bolted shelf forces a hard guffaw from your lungs. You hardly get time to cradle your bruised core or question what sent you flying when suddenly the trusty old Tulpar rattles violently. Tripping you over hard, solid ground, you barely manage to catch yourself on the rungs of one shelf before your nose cracks on the supply door.
“Hey!” you shriek, another rocky bump shaking you off the shelf and sliding your shoulder into the opposite wall, “Jimmy! Help!”
Polle smiles at the yelp, calling an unhelpful, “Don’t drink undrinkables! If you or someone on ship does: call help at 800-222-1222!”
The doors part swiftly, clicking loudly as two hands force them aside faster. Hands that you’re sure are not Jimmy’s unless he spontaneously got more tan and started wearing thick silver rings. This is strange because you’re sure Jimmy was the one lingering outside the closet just seconds ago, sure maybe looking a bit spacey and distracted but not that spacey.
Your name isn’t called by Jimmy’s voice, either.
It’s Daisuke’s.
Doors clash against his elbows, fervently trying to squash him but he puffs out wider, stuck into the clacking jaws like a louse and he reaches out to you with the most concerned folds in his face. He screams for you again, “Grab my hand!”
You do, nails biting his wrists with enough teeth to draw blood. He makes no complaints, adrenaline masking any possible sting as he hoists you out of the custodial office. The momentum slings you both straight onto the floor, heads knocking against each other. He rolls each arm tight around you while scooching toward one wall with the strength of his thighs.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” he pants, “Captain just ran by and said to get low!”
“Where’d Jimmy- ?!”
You’re cut off by a blistering slam -- metal shredding against hard rock. Tulpar screams that way as she dies. Yet something screams louder: animalistic and ragged, pure terror dragging through the walls of the ship like barbed wire. Echoing in bubbles, filling each inch of the vessel until it’s overcome by the shirrrrrrrrrrrrr and whirl of thick, luscious emergency foam spewing out of Tulpar’s gaping wounds. Sparks spitting as fast as still-damp froth can put them out.
Fizzling out with surprising serenity.
Overheads once blood red blink blinding white twice before cutting. Drenching you both in pitch black.
Daisuke squeezes your arm in one hand and palms the flat of your spine with another, wrenching increasing bundles of fabric into his hand. He gasps and trembles, closing your body off between his legs. When all you hear is his thundering breath, you ask,
“Did we just crash?”
Silence consumes you.
No humming gears or hissing pipes. Just your tempered exhales and Daisuke’s gasping.
“I think so,” he sniffles, unwinding the arm wrapped around yours to scrub away the wetness dribbling down his face before it crusts.
You lunge off each other, still clasping hands, breaths mingling between your buzzing faces.
Lights flash hot white once. Then twice. Then red. Then they flicker back to normal.
“That must be the backup generator,” Daisuke assures before you have the chance. He nods unsteadily to himself, “Swansea must’ve flipped it…” he laughs tenderly and without humor, “He’s probably pissed. I totally ran out without saying anything.”
“Yeah…” your head is a little too thick with foam to realize the implications of what he said, “Probably.”
[9 hours before judgement]
teeny bopper thinking with his dick. some useless kid. a cute kissing buddy.
Daisuke can play lots of roles, just never the right one.
“It’s time to be brave, Daisuke,” Jimmy asserts, searching for any weak points he can exploit, “You want to impress that mop-pusher of yours, right? And Swansea’ll be proud, too.”
Daisuke rallies himself, radically stiffening. Both terrified and electrified at the proposition, “You really think?”
And Jimmy’s stark certainty just emboldens him, “You’ll get a recommendation and a date. Everyone’s counting on you. Captain’s orders.”
Daisuke knows you’ve been on edge, maybe if he can rescue Anya you’ll realize he’s worth something more serious than late-night makeouts.
*
[!] new message: polle says: “call help!”
[sent by: musume, anya | subsection: evals are meant to be like a pop quiz i cant tell you when theyre coming up… even jimmy knows that…]
*
[5 months after the crash]
Most of Pony Express’ provisional chemicals are Grade A: Windex watered down with literal H2O -- a stock of bottles pumped into the bottom of the ship before taking off. Meaning the only genuine water not provided by Dragonbreath bubbles in plastic cylinders beneath your feet. You’ve assumed the water to be from a sink in some warehouse, compound that with the fact it’s mixed with a bleaching agent and it has to have less germs than the water packets provided onboard.
Reaching blindly into the shelf at eye level, you grasp the first bottle that fits into your palm. Pulling and turning it. Full. Blue. Not electric blue, though, more like cartoon water. Not too much more saturated than the Dragonbreath water packets.
Sandpaper tongue scraping the ridges of your mouth, you try your best to remember how refreshing water is. You don’t think you can.
The synthesizer has run dry. And the vendor is dead.
Your lips are chapped, skinning each other as you push them together.
Rolling the bottle from one hand to the other, you take care to monitor its weight. Heavy. How much liquid lulls around. Over half, you think you could handle over half.
You’ve had mouthwash already.
If your kidneys can survive that, they can take this, right?
It’s just more alcohol with water. You don’t even think it’s ethanol, which basically means it’s safer than mouthwash.
IF POSSIBLE: WAKE AND MOVE PERSONS TO A COMFORTABLE PLACE TO SLEEP OFF EFFECTS. MAKE SURE PERSON WILL NOT: FALL, CHOKE ON TONGUE OR VOMIT, OR OTHERWISE SUSTAIN INJURY.
TO ENSURE PERSON DOES NOT CHOKE ON VOMIT, TURN ONTO THEIR SIDE.
DO NOT MAKE PERSON THROW UP UNLESS TOLD TO DO SO BY A HEALTHCARE PROFESSIONAL OR POISON CONTROL.
CHECK PERSON FREQUENTLY TO MAKE SURE CONDITION DOES NOT WORSEN.
WHEN IN DOUBT CALL FOR HELP.
CALL FOR HELP.
CALL FOR HELP. 98.9% 91.1% 80.02221222% KILLS99.9%OFGERMS
[4.5 months after the crash]
“I dunno if I can ever have a mojito again…”
Anya is the only one to look up from her cards, pouty lips sinking further and brows bending. Swansea makes a disconcerted grunt from the base of his throat. Daisuke doesn’t move whatsoever, blinking sluggishly down at his dealt hand -- mouth open and eyes listless. He doesn’t seem particularly inspired by anything before him, and you doubt the raw alcohol coursing his veins is helping any.
Jimmy has locked himself in medical to feed what remains of Captain Curly his painkillers. He requires absolute solitude and recently, nobody wants to disturb Jimmy while he prowls the ship for another fruitless task.
Swallowing pooled spit from the bowl of his jaw, Daisuke’s gaze rolls around the table with all the grace of a loose marble before he flings a hand forward. Knocking his bottle of mouthwash onto the side, it gushes out rolling across the table and wetting the spare pile of cards before he gasps loudly and picks it up. He watches you stretch over the table to move the cards.
Swansea snaps, slurring some scathing statement Daisuke doesn’t hear over the sight of you. Shirt sliding up your waist, exposing skin he shamelessly ogles.
Daisuke plays the hard rim of his uncapped bottle against his lip, tipping back until the hard minty taste is scarring down his tongue. With it comes the immediate urge to gag and spit, but he powers through like a man: the way Swansea says.
He has to close his eyes and dig all five nails into his palm just to get the stuff down. Maybe it’s because he’s not like you- he’s never had a mojito before.
“Are they bad?” he asks.
“Huh?” you copy, swiping damp cards against your coverall pant leg.
Anya quietly observes the interaction, laying her hand upright on the table for all to see. Though you and Daisuke are too preoccupied bumbling toward one another. And Swansea hasn’t been properly taking his turns since the second round.
“Mojitos.”
You don’t have the strength or mind to explain yourself so you just nod and keep rubbing the suit off onto your pants -moist red and black shreds sprinkled across your thigh, “Yeah. Like shit.”
[2 months after the crash]
A long time ago, back when you first joined the crew, there was a Polle poster advertising kitchen safety. They discontinued it a year later for ‘violent imagery’ and decided to loop kitchen safety beneath the Don’t be Daft issues. That poster was your favorite, though, and given the state of things you almost regret not stealing one before they vacated every copy from every freighter. It hadn’t been the cutest, but it was definitely eye-catching. Every time you passed, you couldn’t avoid paying attention.
A goldfish with delicate, silky fins swims toward the bottom of its slender tank. Full to the jet-black lid with water, tiny oxygen bubbles floating along the right-hand side, just near the handle. COOK WITH CARE! glubbed the fish SAFETY ISN’T TO SPARE!
An uncharacteristically careless Polle sipped coffee with a gloved hand while the other was hairs away from starting the blender. Silver blades jumping to dice a clueless friend as it inspected the glittery metal.
Don’t be Daft is much less effective, in your opinion. After all, the much less foreboding message has done nothing to prohibit you from giving into Swansea’s pressure.
”Don’t you miss it?” he teased. For a man fresh out of sobriety, he sounded so devoted to everything he once battled. But you know what?
He was right. You did miss it. At least the heavy-lidded, sleepy little high of it anyway.
Absolutely not the taste.
Sour and bitter works best not consumed at all, but you especially think the manmade minty freshness makes everything worse. Enhances that burning taste until it scorches out your nose and works up the back of your eyes. Heating your face from the inside.
Laying your cheek against the cold wood of your table, both arms coiled around your waist. Hoping any kind of familiar pressure will keep down what cannot be swallowed.
You think you only make it worse, like pushing on a tender bruise.
Woozy eyes swing to the half-empty bottle of sugary alcohol. Just the thought of another swig has you stumbling onto both feet, ankles rolling aside until you’re crashing into the wall. Clawing toward the sink to plop your head in. Slobber veining toward the drain as you moan once.
Then twice.
Then red stains shoot into the sink. You don’t get to gasp before another shot comes back up, foul flurrying from your mouth. So hard your head feels ready to pop open.
Rust companies you. Knowing it's your own makes you shrink back. Concern immediate, then shriveling: if that’s blood, you should seek the nurse. You should cry out for Anya.
Another acidic spout cuts through your stomach, up your throat, and takes out a tooth before clattering into the metal sink.
You watch it slide like thick slime into the drain. Pulling out the tooth and pocketing it for the trash. Rinsing blood from the rim with fresh mouthwash, then gargling and spitting the taste from your mouth. You nearly puke again just from the smell.
The gap in the back of your mouth shrieks out. You just push your lips together tighter, taking the bottle with you as you slink away from the scene and toward the custodial office. Conveniently and coincidentally across the ship from the medical room.
[1 day after the crash]
“Have you been able to complete your mandated task as custodial engineer efficiently and to your fullest capacity?”
You inhale the clinically stale air of the medical room, imagining it could dig out the remaining chunks of rotted, cooking meat from your nasal cavity. No matter how roughly you beat your coveralls or snort the chemical fumes in your office, the stench of grilled fat and blood persists. Clawing one nail beneath the other, you wonder if suddenly popping keratin straight from the bed would make Anya forget this evaluation.
“Do you have to do this?”
Anya shoots you an unimpressed glare, “Have you been able to- !”
“Yes, I have.”
“Are you capable of shifting multiple variables on a tight schedule?”
Pressing up harder from beneath your thumbnail until it stings, you’re sure the time is coming: she’ll forget all about this and just bandage you up. Cooing dull reassurances rather than poking for the softest part of your belly to slice open. Guts don’t need to be shared, you don’t think, there’s nothing to talk about.
“I didn’t suddenly stop being capable, no.”
“Are you overwhelmed- !”
“Anya,” you sigh, giving up on the nail torture to massage tensing temples, “Nothing changed. I’m fine.”
She stares at you too hard. No amusement in her straight face before she confesses, “I don’t believe you.”
“What does it matter what you don’t believe?” you groan, slacking into the seat across from her.
A thin teal curtain is drawn around the edge of Captain Curly’s bed. Aside from the offbeat squelch of his throat opening for air, silence radiates from that side of the room while he lies practically comatose. Anya told you she assumed the instant his adrenaline wavered, he was out from the blood loss. And he’s been out since.
“In the event of a work-related incident: are you fearful of continuing work with Pony Express?”
“None of us work for them after this,” you spit, if it wasn’t already faxed out then surely this crash would be enough to terminate your lot.
She repeats herself until you throw out a frustrated, “no! fucking- no!”
And she keeps flapping her lips, droning with procedure that’s on the bottom of your priority list, “Do you consider harming others when you otherwise would not have?”
“No, Anya! I’m fine!” i just smell a corpse in the back of my mind at all times. it won’t leave. i can’t get rid of it. i smell it now, and it reeks. it just makes me want to
“Have you considered harming yourself?” she trails off, blinking up at you. Papers flopped onto her desk, which was shuffled toward the right in the crash. Uprooted and askew.
Uprooted and askew, you slowly shake your head and answer, voice almost drowned out by the new sound of Curly breathing, “No.”
She muffles your name, bit-crushed beneath the captain’s impression. Strange how someone so big becomes something so small: you keck at the horrible passing thought. Curly the esteemed captain, a slab of cooked meat.
You salivate.
People salivate before vomiting, right?
You can say it’s that. You’re so sick you’ll vomit.
“I’m serious,” you think that’s what Anya says, “I know it seems pointless, but I need you to be open with me. This isn’t about Pony Express anymore. I’m just worried about you.”
You could tell her she should be, or you could spare her the piece of mind. Give her peace of mind.
“I’m fine, Anya,” you stand and grin, a firm perch of the lips, “Really.”
Anya rises before you have time to process the protesting screech from her chair, she darts around the edge of her shifted desk and latches onto you. Wrapping arms around your neck and squeezing air out, “Please… please...”
“You’re so thoughtful, Anya,” you return the embrace, shoulders drooping. Her nails scrape the nape of your neck. It’s bizarrely reassuring to have no choice in her arms, “You’re kind. I wish…” you sigh, barely clinging to the remnants of adulthood in you saying it’s too immature to bury your face into her jugular, “I wish my mom was more like you growing up.”
Anya’s claws sink into the top-notch of your spine, cutting sideways in harsh lines before she takes your shoulders in her hands. As if she really was your mother, as if you really did something wrong, as if you deserved all the ensuing agony: she shoves you back with a ghastly face. Onyx eyes swimming in a pearly sea, shock etched into her -down to her trembling hands. She jerks them into her sides to hide the shaking.
“Get out!”
“What?”
“Get out,” she steps back, “I’m not- I’m not your mother.”
“I- yeah, uhm… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I’m not saying…”
“Get out.”
“Anya, I’m sorry!”
“Get!” she flings papers your way, they fly away in every direction except toward you. When they float and drift onto the floor by your feet, you see the evaluation questions. Pencil notes beneath each one, “Out! Get out!”
You’ve never seen her so desperately upset. Not even at the news of layoffs. Not after her several rejections to medical school.
“Anya?” what’s wrong?
She skirts behind the curtain surrounding Curly’s bed.
You don’t get to ask. You assume the evaluation has been concluded.
[3 weeks before the crash]
A curved spine and furrowed brows are often the sign of an artist in deep concentration. With the way his knuckles are whitening hard pressed against Anya’s metal desk, you don’t doubt Daisuke envisions himself as an artist either. His little tongue creeping out the side of his lips. Pen swipes scratching through the room.
Anya smiles down at the man, “I can’t file my reports when you steal all the pens, you know?”
Daisuke grunts in acknowledgment, mouth opening like he’s about to respond only to let out a resounding, utter silence.
You laugh at the profound focus he exhibits, “I’ve never seen you so serious.”
“Hold on, hold on,” he’s muttering, then shooting up with the lemony post-it cupped to his chest, “Done!”
“Let’s see it,” Anya waves.
Daisuke flips the tiny square around to show off his work: a wide forehead parted by two obnoxious bug eyes and a thick nose.
“Is that Jimmy?” you tilt your head, Anya’s neck limping in the opposite direction.
“Yimpyyyy!” Daisuke cheers, pointing at the name scrawled beneath, “Yimpy!”
“Yimpy?” you steer closer, just to stick the note against your finger and push it nearer to Anya’s face, “Yimpy!”
“Yimpy…” she nods slowly, then shrugs and slicks her finger against the rapidly aging adhesive stripe. Laying it flat against her corkboard to tack in place, stepping back proudly with a soft giggle, “Yimpy.”
Daisuke beams over making the sullen and serene Anya laugh. Turning to you for a private celebration, only to see you laughing as well. It feels even better that way.
*
[!] new message: signed legal agreement
[sent by: juarez, daisuke | subsection: huhhh you had to sign up for that????]
*
[first day of expedition]
“Everyone, meet Daisuke.”
“I’m Daisuke!”
“Hi, Daisuke!” the room drones, in a slow little tune reminiscent of an Alcoholics Anonymous chant.
“He’s an intern, so technically all of us can teach him something but I figure he’ll learn the most under Swansea,” Captain Curly nods toward the mechanic. Swansea swears between gritted teeth while you snicker.
“And what about the esteemed custodian, can’t the kids stick together?” he weasels, “Bad enough to get another baby on board.”
“Please,” Curly sighs, the hand he laid on Daisuke’s shoulder tightening just so before he drops it altogether. Clasping both fists in a plea, “I’ve been assured this is nothing that will sabotage the voyage. We should just brace for rationing a bit tighter with the last-minute addition.”
“Ain’t excited for more babysitting.”
You, very maturely, blow a raspberry at the older man, “Don’t break a hip bitching about it.”
Daisuke giggles at the retort, nearly earning his own beratement if not for Anya quickly cutting in:
“Go easy on them, it isn’t like that’s anybody’s dream job.”
“Besides,” Jimmy sneers, “they’re the most reliable part of the crew, we might catch a cold from the shitters if this one wasn’t there to clean ‘em.”
Curly bends to clap his co-pilot on the shoulder, perhaps a bit harder than he has to, and shines that million-dollar smile your way, “You’ve been my lucky charm on every voyage. Highest credit payout when the rest of the crew is living clean!”
You roll the praise off with ease, locking eyes with Daisuke, “Most of what I do is shovel the shit Jim’ spews. You’ll learn more with Swansea, for sure.”
Daisuke’s never met you before. He doesn’t know you at all.
But he’s sure that the boiling coil in his stomach is disappointment when he’s hauled off toward the utility room with Swansea rather than wherever you’re going.
[1 month after the crash]
“I let you in there and you’ll tear the ship a new asshole,” Swansea swears, squinting over you as you lean against the opposite side of the door.
Daisuke looks your way as you shrug, “Alright, already, I don’t even care anymore. Not like fighting with you is worth it, stubborn geezer.”
Swansea scoffs, crossed arms tightening over his chest (Daisuke’s head flips back toward his mentor), “Yeah, right! I’m sure as soon as I walk away you’ll try ripping into that foam and get us all killed!”
“Why would I give a shit, Swansea?” Daisuke chuckles at your bite, bleached chestnut hair flapping around his shoulders.
“Because you’re young!” Swansea points right between your eyes, and Daisuke’s stare swings back around toward the older man, “You’ve got no ears,” you raise a brow at the accusation, “Everything I’m saying goes in one end and floats out the other, until you end up scraping the ship open and suddenly everything ole Swansea said makes sense!”
Daisuke’s head whirls back at you, chomping down a smile at whatever you’ll say next.
“What? You think I don’t listen?”
“I know you don’t.”
“Just ‘cuz I don’t have the patience to wait around until you’re ready for me to mop up utility…” you roll your eyes, “You know that rule is stupid.”
“I don’t know anything,” he mocks.
Daisuke’s neck will crick off how often he wrecks it back and forth, with all the thrill of a high-speed tennis match.
“So, what’s the plan?” that question only earns you a wrinkled glare.
Swansea knows you know the plan. And he knows you’re only dragging this out for the knucklehead beside him’s entertainment. It’s far more irritating than anything else.
Then, just to dig into his side, something somehow more irritating pounds closer and closer.
Jimmy appears over your shoulder -- Swansea makes a displeased grunt from the base of his throat, silently prodding the brunette for -what everyone’s sure is- his 500th rant of the day. Which is the worst, and funniest, thing about Jimmy, even if he’s entirely silent you can always read how pissed he is just by other people existing.
“Yeah, capitano?” Swansea scoffs when the man doesn’t just start prattling.
Daisuke straightens out, hands flaking at his sides. Brown eyes shooting to you, an almost comical bead of sweat dripping down his nose. You roll your eyes again and coo,
“Captain Jimmy, do you have orders for us?”
That, of course, is what sets him off.
Jimmy throws his hands in the air, aggravated, “I’ve been running around this ship, being helpful, while you three stand the fuck around?!” he jabs a shaking finger in your face, and you notice up close that it’s crooked after the first knuckle -like he broke it and never bothered having it set properly (something you wouldn’t put past him), “Go mop up Curly’s shit or something! This place is filthy, you’ve got things to be doing- I know it!”
“I already emptied his stupid bedpan and the catheter, whatever’s happened since is Anya’s business.”
Daisuke watches you with eyes positively sparkling as you sass a man on a higher wrung of the ladder without batting an eye. When Jimmy’s not looking, you catch him mouthing excitedly ‘you’re so cool’.
“Useless!” a hot glob of spit melts onto your cheek, he pays no heed to your grimace, “I pull my fuckin’ weight while you just stand here, a useless goddamn body!”
Yeah. Whatever.
You wait until Jimmy has stormed off again before playing off the infectious saliva stinging your face, smearing it off with the back of your hand, “Say it don’t spray it, dude.”
Daisuke snickers. That’s the best part of the interaction since your pseudo-captain forced his way through. Maybe since the crash, even. Not many things make your heart sputter or remember what it was like to beat, but for some reason Daisuke is different.
As for work... There isn't much to be done on anyone's part. Not yet at least. Daisuke can't do anything without Swansea's (extremely temperamental) supervision, and Swansea can't do anything until the foam is cleared, and you can't clear the foam until Swansea lets you, which so far he has been intensely clear about how little interest he has in that option. Three useless bodies.
Make four out of the incapacitated Curly. Then five anytime Anya isn't actively supervising or aiding the captain. As for Jimmy.... you aren't exactly sure what it is Jimmy does to keep busy except for maybe crawling around the Tulpar to nitpick everyone else. He raves about the responsibility he takes, but as far as you’re concerned each of his assignments have been childishly basic.
Perhaps his real work ethic translates into being as unapproachable as possible.
After talking to Jimmy, you always have the strongest urge to drink more. Swallow more. Bathe more. Purge the entire interaction from your system -kill 99.9% of him off until only the most vague and pleasant parts remain. The parts where he's fucking walking away and shutting up.
[4.1 months after the crash]
Aside from your hard steps down the rattling Tulpar, you can hear quiet lights droning: protesting their own existence. A blood orange hue staining the Polle Horse posters stuck down the walls, your skin glows too, but most of all: it turns the candy pink petals of a sweet hibiscus darker, kind of like a mildew eating out from the fabric’s folds.
You gently prod the ribs hidden beneath that fabric with your shoe’s toe, “Daisuke? You awake?”
“Eughhhh,” he rolls onto his back unsteadily, arms wiggly and he completely falls onto one elbow in a way you’re sure wasn’t intentional. Those suspicions are confirmed when his entire round face yanks toward the center, a wimpy whine escaping his plump lips as he cups the elbow with his spare hand and massages the afflicted bone, “I don’t feel gooooood…”
“I can tell,” you squat down, hesitating only a moment before soothing your hand from his shoulder and toward the injured joint. His body seems to go lax beneath your warm touch, he smiles up at you,
“You’re so nice to me…”
“Uh, I guess? I never really thought of it like that.”
He tilts his head back against the floor, stray bubbles of foam soaking into his dyed strands, thin black brows furrowing, “Whaddya mean…?”
“I just. I dunno,” you guess it doesn’t matter how you phrase it, or what it even is that you phrase, Daisuke won’t remember come tomorrow, “I just talk to you how I think everybody should talk to you, you’re really someone that I like. As a person.”
“Really…?” his mouth splits in a wide smile, even rows of teeth glinting up at you. You take a weirder, closer glance and see that some teeth actually aren’t even, the bottom front pair grow over each other and one canine is a little far to the left. He giggles quietly, “I like you, too.”
“Thanks, Daisuke,” looking down each end of the rounding corridor, you slip onto your ass and sit with Daisuke curling around you. His knees come up until they’re brushing your knees and he tries nuzzling his face into your thigh, “You’re real touchy when you’re drunk, huh?”
“I’m not drunk!” he breaks down immediately after the charge, “I didn’t have that much!” his hand clanks around the floor until it scoops up a nearly empty bottle of mouthwash, he drops it before managing to properly show off what he’s drank, “Swansea had a ton more…”
“This shit’ll kill you, Daisuke.”
“You drink it…” he pouts, wrangling his hands into the back of your overalls and pulling as if trying to coax you to lie over his belly.
“In, like, shots. Quick swallows. Kids do it all the time.”
“That’s still drinking!”
“I’m not a good person, Daisuke,” you laugh it off, but it feels weird to say. You don’t think you meant it, but it felt. Solid. Coming out of your throat so concisely it still startles you how it sits in the open air, “I deserve to drink it.”
He blinks up at you lazily, lashes batting and you feel him yank your overalls tighter, “That’s not true!”
“I’m just someone that got stuck here years ago, you don’t know…” you shake your head, “I didn’t mean it.”
And saying that felt chunky, like upchucking cottage cheese and curdled milk. So sour you can feel it singe the back of your nose.
“Good because you’re my favorite,” he uses your pantlegs as leverage to crawl around and lay over your lap, turned onto his back. His hands settle over his chest, fingers busying themselves wringing his sweatbands around his wrist, “You’re funny and really pretty. And you’re nice to me.”
“You said that one already,” you pat his cheek when his eyes drift closed a little too long.
“It’s true…” he bemoans, reaching up to copy the gesture. Popping his lithe fingers once, then twice, against your cheek -not even hard enough to leave an imprint, “I like you a lot.”
“It might be time for bed, Daisuke…”
“My mom would like you,” tiny grunts escape as you prop him upon his feet, one of his arms thrown around your shoulder and he lends most of his weight to your side. Sloppy feet borderline hindering your joint trek back toward the common lounge.
“Would she? She wouldn’t disprove of my influence?”
“Nahhh, she’d love you,” his drunken grin falters just a moment as you lay him onto his mat, “She got me this internship, you know?”
“Did she?”
“Mhmmmm,” he snags you by the sleeve, urging you into his bed, “Said I was too aimless but I just don’t know what to do with myself,” he blinks up at you, “Never took to anything. Never wanted to try anything… just partied and drank. Now I’m drinking away this internship, and I might not ever get to thank her. Or show her that I learned anything.”
Just as you see water swelling along his lashes, you fall onto his mat, combing fingers through his hair. The bleaching has made it feel a little rubbery, it stretches a bit before untangling around your knuckles, you scratch over his scalp and pray it drains the tears before they fall.
“I’m sure you’ll find a chance, people like you always make it through.”
“Like me?”
“I mean. Pony Express has got to be tracking us somehow, right? They have to know we crashed…”
“Yeah,” he sighs, bloodshot eyes drifting over your features, “You’re so smart, too, my mom would be totally obsessed with you…” content to let yourself drift off in the coupling silence until Daisuke is audibly swallowing and murmuring again, “You know, when I need some dreaming material before bed… I like to imagine taking you on a nice beach date. Like. A real beach, not the sunset window screen. And we could have a lot of fun, I think. I like you.”
You nod slowly, scrunching his hair in your hand.
Even with your eyes closed, you know he’s turned to look at you -feeling his nose nudge across your cheek and his damp eyelashes scuttering along your temple, he says louder, “I really like you.”
“That could’ve been nice,” you admit.
“I’ll make it happen,” he promises, finally closing his own eyes, and committing to falling asleep together again.
Then his brain zaps again, apparently too fired with curiosity to realize he could just ask in the many coming days you’ll spend stranded on this big ass rock,
“How’d you end up here anyway?”
He yawns. Loudly.
You yawn back.
Not bothering to open your eyes before blandly spitting, “If I didn’t find some kind of purpose, I could’ve killed myself.”
Then nothing. Not shock or disappointment or even a feigned gasp. It’s almost… offending, humiliating even. You swing up violently, lips twitching to scream when you’re stunned still:
Daisuke’s wholly asleep. And now you can hear his soft snoring, quiet sighs escaping his -you bet pained and burning- throat.
[5 months after the crash]
“Pfft, I thought you said this would work!”
“I thought it would!”
Daisuke giggles and lifts some of your dead ends, “You know I don’t think any amount of bleach could get these colored…” he’s mumbling, mindlessly, thinking nothing of it, “They’re so fried…”
Immediately your entire face twists unpleasantly, “Hey! Don’t say that…” you shove Daisuke’s hands away, clutching the dead ends by your neck, “Get scissors and just chop ‘em off, then…”
“Right now?” he tilts his head, blinking at you stupidly.
“Right now!” you shout, drunkenly.
Just as drunkenly, Daisuke stutters over while shaking his head, “No way! They’re just dead ends… I didn’t mean it mean,” then he’s tweaking his own bleached, frayed strands of hair between his fingers, “I got ‘em, too! Look!”
Peeking through your disgusted scowl, you reach out and yank, “You do.”
Daisuke snickers in your face, nodding, “Exactly! Sorry I said it weird.”
You nod sluggishly and Daisuke simply lets you hold his hair. You judge the splitting hairs, you think it’s strangely pretty -- maybe just because it’s Daisuke.
“You’re lookin’ at me funny,” he mutters, looking from your eyes to your lips. You do the same, “You look at me like you wanna kiss me.”
You shrug. Coy. Pouty. Perhaps not acceptance, but most definitely not denial.
“Can I?” he wonders.
You lean in first. He tastes like mouthwash, and you keep kissing him anyway.
[4.2 months after the crash]
Page two, subsection General Safety, paragraph seven states that in the event of shattered glass. The custodial engineer is the sole person capable of collecting and disposing of loose shards. There are thick gloves in the office and a hazard bin for exactly this moment.
After Jimmy stormed off with the emergency axe, Swansea stumbled down the hall toward utility. Grumbling about the apparent nerve of your new captain after burying the blade into the window screen. Red bathes the foamed lounge. Daisuke sits criss-cross from you: both your faces turned up toward the cracked screen. Starry-eyed at the glitches like two toddlers sat in front of morning cartoons.
Then a crimson glint catches from your peripherals.
You twirl in place, shuddering into the wall before drunkenly reaching out and grasping for glass.
There’s no time for gloves or bins- not when glass is littered everywhere! This is too urgent.
Bare prints pricked long ways, you know you’re cut before the bleeding even starts. It never outright hurts when you cut yourself by accident, there’s that momentary shock like ice pressed right against your skin. Then you bleed out onto the floor, and then it stings. Skin peeling back exposing the tiniest bare fragments of yourself to open air. It fucking stings.
You whine and pull back and Daisuke hurries over. He hisses at the sight and plucks your hands away from the scene. Blood drips from your fingertips and over the carpet, no doubt to fester a new commune of mold.
“Uh, shit,” he blinks himself as sober as possible, then has to close one eye just to see straight while clobbering for a bottle of the trusty stuff, “Disinfectant! Right? Gotta clean this…”
Daisuke holds your hand palm-up, clenching it like he believes what’s next will hurt at all. In his other hand is a backwash-frothy bottle of DragonbreathX mouthwash -- it tips hesitantly. Guzzling faded teal into the cup of your hand. You hold your breath, expecting that searing wave of alcohol draining a wound. Daisuke holds the bottle upright and stares through you.
It just feels like you have a slowly leaking handful of mouthwash. Sugar sticking around your cupped skin.
“Should I get Anya?” he asks, watching your blood turn the liquid brown before tipping over the edge of your hand. Drooling from the cracks between your fingers.
“No,” no, no you don’t think she’d help at all. You shove your fist knuckle-down into your thigh and smile wryly at Daisuke, “I think the mouthwash will be fine… It’ll take care of everything.”
It’s just some glass, after all.
[!] new message [!]
When you try raising your head, it hurts. But not really. Just an incredibly dull vibration that you know is meant to be a painful deterrent, so you choose not to fight it. No matter how badly you know you should look up.
Mom sits on one end of the couch and Dad on the other. They lean into their respective arms and do not cross the middle of the couch, where you sit. Every few minutes a bell rings from inside the television, but other than that all it plays is monochrome snow. Randomized pixels all buzzing across the screen. A white glow emanates from the screen. It looks cold, you think if you pressed your palms flat against the glass a chill would race up your arms.
Mom yawns, Dad shoots a brief slant her way before mumbling, “Tired?”
His thick voice and drawling tone mutilate the vowels, though, so all you can make out is a gentle, ”Terrred?”
Mom shrugs and speaks over your head without looking away from the television. Dad nods listlessly and they both rise and shuffle off down the hall, leaving you and TV buzzing. A bell rings.
It tingles sweetly, all gentle songbird and high. Sort of like the bell at school warning you from being late to class, or permitting you to charge into the canteen for soggy pizza and frozen milk.
When Dad comes back, he’s without Mom, and he’s got wavy blonde hair and a little scruff. And he doesn’t speak at all. His eyes are hidden beneath stray golden strands, but his lips are stretched pleasantly. Pressing the TV into pitch black before scooping you into two big arms, cradling your neck against his chest.
You hear his heartbeat; pulpy, it pounds in loud, viscous waves. As if it needs to prove that it's still alive. And the heat is overbearing, as though he’s melting from the inside out.
He lays you down and leaves.
A bell rings.
*
[!] new message: i am my worst moment i am defined by my past and i am fucking awful
[sent by: sender outside of network. please contact captain if messages from unknown senders continue to route to this machine. do not respond. do not respond. do not respond.]
*
[6 hours until judgement]
Sixty excruciating minutes drag by before five fingers are snapping over the edge of the mattress. A distinctly metallic click follows. Hinges squeak apart, clacking against the frame of the bed with finality. A wobbly elbow pokes into sight before that clutching hand pushes up, dragging his whole body sideways as you yank the sheets with effort. Standing upon squiggling knees, downcast eyes linger beneath the bed -- he can’t see that far down. But he’s sure he already knows what you’re looking at.
Get it over with he wants to hiss Just shoot me. Don’t keep me in suspense.
Your forearm writhes with a ‘click’, eyes heavy with discoloration. Somewhere between sinking into your skull and popping out like a cyst -- they finally rise upon him.
Somewhere between upset and stoic, your face remains unchanged as you lay the hidden hand just by his bandaged arm. Silver glints angrily into his eyeball -- he’d flinch away if he could.
Just do it already he screams in his mind, but all that escapes are wheezy whistles Just fucking shoot me!
You already said you would, didn’t you?
It’d help everyone. Meat would make the crew happier than when they still had those canned soups. That’s what you said. So just get him over with.
[10 days after the crash]
He always said the past is something that defines who you are, but not something you need to be enslaved by. You can be a terrible person, and become something shinier. Less obscure or offensive to observe over time, you just need to put in the work. You wonder how long you can be disgusted by your thoughts before they’re no longer your own.
this doesnt even look like curly anymore
Instinctually, and despite not having verbalized it, you clasp a hand over your mouth at that.
You unwind the bent arm to wrap knuckles in warm bed sheets. And he watches you. You think he knows what you were seething. You’re sorry. You don’t say that. Rather, you ask,
“Do you sleep anymore, Captain?”
He ticks his head just slightly, just enough as he can manage before the muscles shred and burn.
“I bet…” you murmur, uncapping the jade bottle of little white relievers, “it just hurts all the time now…”
He tips his head back, then shudders forward.
Shaking two capsules into hand, you look down at the panting crimson stain that is Captain Grant Curly and shake another two out. Then you tip six more out. Balling the pills in your hand.
His pupils shake around your hand with the pills, dilated to hell -his entire eye nearing black.
You notice now that Curly has no eyelids. But the muscle still attached and bound around his socket puckers as if there’s anything there to move. It all pulses with the best intentions, just to accomplish nothing. Same for his nonexistent lips, singed off just to show off bare nerves beneath crisp gums and gapped teeth. Blood dried into the bones’ indents. His teeth chatter as he moans, as if to speak but there’s only a stubbed tongue back there. Nothing he can use to shape the words to beg for
“Should we just…” his gaze snaps up to your face then, teeth clicking against each other, “Uhm…” open red muscle flexes around his neck but before you can see which way he moves his head, you clench shut.
can we kill you already?
Pure darkness swallowing your sight, you fiddle around the plastic green bottle and replace eight of the pills, “Here, Captain, open up.”
Barely peeking through your shrouded lashes, you slot the pills between gaping, warm gums where teeth should be. His tongue feels like fucking sandpaper, you cringe and clench your eyes harder.
“I’m sorry,” you shake your head, hand shaking at his jaw before soothing the caps down his gullet, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Logically, it makes so much sense: he’s in pain simply lying here -no skin, charred flesh, exposed nerves, chopped limbs- and you don’t imagine he will ever recover what he’s lost.
Emotionally, you clam up completely; rejecting the thoughts until you can claim they were never even yours.
You never got the question out, anyway. And you never saw his response.
So, practically, none of that happened. You just gave the captain his pills because you’re a good subordinate and a good crewmate, and more importantly a good friend.
Eyes still closed, you mutter, “Feel better soon, Captain…”
He moans in protest as you turn. Groaning louder when you call Anya back into the room, claiming to be finished.
“Thank you,” she sighs, stepping into her office with hands clasped over her heart. One soft palm laid over the other, “I’m sorry to put it on you like that, but I just…” she frowns, “The sound… I’m- well. I can’t- “
“Anya, it’s fine. I don’t mind,” you wave her concerns away, a thin, forced smile stretching over your face. And you pretend the huffing behind you is just the new sound of Curly breathing.
Escaping into the hall, you wait as long as it takes for the medical room to click shut behind you before darting for a waste bin. Clamping the sides between two shaking, clammy hands and heaving into it.
Your whole body jerks over the neon bucket. Something like a big ball races up your intestines and just beneath your uvula before falling back into the well of your stomach. Gagging again, you feel it just about to slip over your soaked tongue before: nothing. The thick coil shudders back down again with nothing in your stomach to offer up. Besides spit that burns on the way down.
Your stomach rumbles for something to puke up.
Begging for relief.
[13 hours before the crash]
“Woah.”
Gold tresses gleam beneath the digital moonlight, two pale faces shining your way. Deep lines cut beneath your captain’s eyes.
“Didn’t expect to see you out here so late, Captain…”
He shrugs, throwing an arm over the back of the lounge couch to better watch you, “I’ve had to think over some things recently,” you’re about to prod and he must be able to sense it because then he asks, “What are you doing up?”
“I wanted a sweet tonic, honestly.”
He raises a thick brow at the response, you merely shrug and meander toward the kitchen. Not sparing the code booklet a glance before punching numbers into the synthesizer.
“I’m basically already fired anyway, right?” you rationalize, sensing his judgments from across the floor, “Plus, there’s supposed to be fewer germs in the sweetener anyway, so it’s healthier than a regular tonic.”
When he doesn’t miraculously approve that response and spin back around, you scoff, continuing the one-sided argument,
“What? Will me sneaking another sweetener pack get you in trouble with your old bosses?”
Curly sighs and slumps back into place, “No. I guess not……… Look. Kid. I didn’t know any more than you all do. I didn’t. I didn’t know.”
“It’s not really my business, Captain. You heard Jimmy, I’ll be off to another shithole soon enough.”
Nothing back, not even an admissible chuckle.
Sliding squishy, silicone packets on either side of the humming fabricator is a simple enough task that you can look away without screwing anything. So you watch Curly as he watches the window screen -- silent. Stiff. Unsure, you poke again, “What’re you looking at?”
“There’s a dead pixel in the screen,” he scans left to right as he says it though.
Two glasses in each hand, you sit beside Curly on the white pleather. It squeaks at the sudden weight when you throw yourself back, slipping one tonic toward Curly while curling the other into your chest. Nestling it comfortably in the middle with the straw right beneath your lips, “Where?”
He ignores the offered drink, “I’m still looking for it.”
“Huh… okay,” you squint up at the screen, sipping the sweet mixture.
That look is back in his eyes. That vacancy. Pulling in and nulling all the light above, something reminiscent of a black hole. He stares down at Jimmy that way a lot.
“I just don’t see it, but I know it’s there,” he says: solemn, gloomy, “I know it’s up there.”
Curly has a wide face and wider shoulders. Blonde scruff has grown out around his jaw since his last shave on earth, and the hair on his head is almost waxy with how perfectly it falls and frames his head. Rosy cheeks, button nose. And those dull blue eyes. Captain Grant Curly, your beloved and trusted pilot.
“Uhm, you know, Captain…”
He blinks, eyes flicking your way before returning toward the screen.
“I’ve been thinking a lot more lately,” you sit up straighter, shoulders feeling lighter as you finally confess, “I usually do nothing but think, but now it’s stuff that’s actually… important. And it’s all terrible. After this crew disbands, I’ve got nothing and nobody to go back for. I’m not sure what else to strive for if I’m not being told what to do, I don’t know what else I should stay alive for. I feel like I’m watching someone else use my body to make all the worst decisions possible but I don’t know how to find the will to stop myself,” you feel nauseous in a good way, the way you feel when you lurch the last part of a hangover. Just before the stomach lining starts repairing itself. Getting everything you’ve let stain your back out into the open actually feels…
“I’ve just been thinking that maybe Jimmy was probably right about me… about everything…”
Good.
But if it’s good, then why does Curly shoot off the couch like you lit fire at his feet, and why does he scream like you did too?
“Goddammit, kid!” he scoffs, raking untamed tresses, “I’m not the ship’s personal diary!” he heaves, eyes wide, “We’ve got psych evals for this shit!”
He looks down at you, you’re still on the couch and you’re completely still. Your mouth agape and hands folded nervously over your drink. He thinks he could hear a bit of Jimmy’s blunt gruff in the back of his mind: he sharply turns away and marches toward the doors.
You feel nauseous. In a terrible way. Like your dad just called from the hospital. Suddenly your nose feels fuller than it used to, and suddenly your eyes are fucking burning, and suddenly your arms shake so violently you need to put your drink on the table. Next to Curly’s untouched one. You hiccup, short of breath.
Thudding steps pause just after the hiss and release of the lounge doors parting, a man sighs, “Don’t spend all night out here, kid.”
You don’t hear that over the sound of your own breathing, heavy and wavering. Pretty pathetic.
Befitting to be hidden away scrubbing some abandoned shithole. Desperate enough to hire a goddamn mess.
Jimmy was probably right.
*
[!] new message: neighhhh^7
[sent by: hotard, swansea | subsection: last i’ll say this, i need to be there when you clean utility.]
*
[3 days after the crash]
You get it, really you do. After a crash, some gears are bound to not work the way they used to, that’s just common sense. In the same way Curly is forever changed, Tulpar too is marred by her collision. And the same way Jimmy has already taken the helm and is pushing for rationing and repairing, doors squeal in agony as they open. The offside closet attached to Utility did when it opened for you to enter, and you were already prepared for it to do the same as it opened for you to leave.
Except it didn’t.
“What the fuck…?” you groan.
Slapping both hands against the metal door, straining your arms to manually glide the steel apart. Huff and puff as you might, nothing would budge.
It reeks of stale emergency foam, leaking through the cracked walls. One stumble too far back and you may be torn apart by space.
That could be preferable to starving alone in a closet, though.
You just wanted something to do. Something to get the smell of a breathing corpse out of your nose.
Banging into the door with both hands wide open, you scream hard for any pair of ears to hear. “Help! Help! Help!”s devolving into wordless, snotty trills and ceaseless violent slams on cold metal. Your voice echoes in the cramped space. Bouncing through one ear and out the other faster than wails leave your mouth.
You slowly become less upset about being trapped and more upset that nobody’s found you yet. It didn’t feel real until the third time you screamed: Nobody’s looking.
Dropping your arms, you just ball your pants into each fist and hang your head to whimper. Tears streaming down your face. Dripping onto the floor, rolling between grates. Hacking into the open air. Flem webbing down your chin.
It’s like being seven all over again. Strangers pushing rusty carts past you as you shiver in a tank top and jorts in the meat section. Shiny plastic swelled over beef and pale chicken watching high over your head. A big man with a round belly and a white plastic card clipped into his yellow shirt came upon you. He asked your name. He asked if you knew where you were.
“Do you know where you are, kid?”
“Did you get lost?”
“Hey, hey, hey.”
A big man with a round belly has no choice but to pop you in the cheek with the back of his hand. Immediately he apologizes.
“Sorry.”
Not a grimace crosses his features as he wipes a conglomerate of tears and snot and drool from your cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. His brows are creased so far down that they nearly hide his eyes. You reach up, snagging his wrists in your hands, burying a cough into your shoulder,
“The fuck happened in here?” he means it entirely, obviously expecting an answer as he jitters you by the neck, “You see
Whatever else he’s saying sounds too complicated. Underwater. None of your business. It makes you feel little again: watching another man with a plastic card over his chest, and a tie latched around his neck have a stern conversation with your mother. Who looks like she couldn’t care less while he’s red in the face.
“Are you fucking listening to me?” he scathes, “Do you wanna die or something?”
[12 days after the crash]
“Huh?”
“Do you wanna die or something?” Swansea swerves the axe in front of your face. Ticking it like clockwork.
“I’m just trying to clean out the foam,” you cannot fight back the yawn as it drags out, protruding the middle of your sentence like a fat beetle.
He merely tightens his stance and glares at you. Axe now against his chest, hugged between both arms.
“I’m trained for this, I know what I’m doing,” for a man of his age he’s more determined than he knows what to do with. Both of you have been at this argument for at least a couple hours. Not long now before the nighttime window screen illuminates, “Besides, if we’re really stranded here then isn’t it better to just die now than wait for something worse off?”
Rather than answer with sincerity, Swansea sarcastically bites, “Is that your way of saying we’re all gonna kill ourselves?”
“Starving, Swansea. Starving.”
Sighing, Swansea pulls a hand on the door and preemptively shushes you. Not that it stops you from nearly splitting ears as you cry “fucking dick!”
Clasping a hand over your mouth, Swansea swings you both into utility after a fleeting glance down the hall to ensure you were alone. Shutting the door so you’re locked into the vast floorspace of a fucking empty utility room. Foam clogs, maybe, a quarter of the room: stuck near the edge of the wall where most of the damage was concentrated.
Before you can bite his hand, or chew out more swears, he’s speaking again:
“I wasn’t lying, nothing in here works anymore,” he holds up a finger, letting it fall to the left, “Except that cryo pod. I’m hiding it from Jim’, I just know something about him ain’t right. I don’t want him or Curly to be the ones in it,” he must catch the confused twitch by your eye because he redirects his pointing toward the lounge where Jimmy and Anya and, most importantly, Daisuke are sleeping, “The thing might be big enough for you and Daisuke to jigsaw into place, and I’ll make sure it starts from the outside. Just gotta wait for Jimmy to stop fucking wandering,” then he sighs, mostly to himself but also for you.
He says, pretty evidently disappointed,
“If there’s not enough room for both of you. I’ll be making sure the kid’s the one that gets in, you know?”
You think you do. You assume you do.
Something about a
[8 hours until judgement]
“Please, please, please please please,” you’re slurring all the consonants together, flurrying out each word as if they could save him, “Please! Please, Daisuke?!”
Daisuke responds the only way he can: writhing.
His eyes are full circles of bloodshot white. Piercing through you ambivalently.
Malice and resentment, but also so so so much regret. Past all his grunting and squealing, no words have room to grow. Instead they stay buried with the rest of his feelings, deep in his chest right about where his lungs are filling with blood.
“Don’t leave me,” you gush, squeezing him on your lap. Devastated over a death you can physically feel coming. He’s getting so warm with all those weeping wounds, and he flexes with each passing breath -- every one taking more effort than the last, “Please, I need you. Daisuke…”
He knew you were selfish. A little flighty, too. And as much as he wants to grant your pleas, this task is just a bit impossible.
You’re asking someone to live when there’s no remaining quality of life.
[1 month after the crash]
Page five, subsection Poison Control, paragraph one -Polle pledges that if any chemicals are out of stock without proper logging, personal credits will be docked from the crew pay package. To ensure something like that doesn’t happen, custodians are required to perform stock counts. Often.
To distract yourself from the mounds of foam cobbling the Tulpar together, maintaining its air seal, you continue to perform this duty. Even if you’re sure it’s one of many less pressing matters.
“Ready and reporting for duty!” is what greets you. Daisuke pushing two fingers to his forehead with the other arm wound behind his back, a toothy smile parting his face, “Hi!”
“What’re you doing?” you skip past the intern, keying the walk-in open.
“Keep you company.”
“That’s against policy, you know? I’m supposed to be alone for this,” on the off chance he believes that you believe that, you force a tiny laugh out.
He takes the bait and shrugs, slotting against the gaping doorway. Picking and twisting his neon sweatbands absentmindedly. His eyes snaking after you, “Are you gonna snitch on me?”
Bending to lift a toppled bottle of blue, bubbly chemical -a motion you feel Daisuke thoroughly examine- you make a flippant hum, “I don’t see why I would.”
You spare all of two seconds trying to push the chemicals onto the top shelf -unsuccessfully- before your dear, sweet intern is charging into action. Bravely saddling up beside you and rolling up his sleeves somehow higher.
“Oh, you need help with that?” now Daisuke curls up behind you, already grasping the jug in your palms without any response.
Daisuke’s arms are not the biggest or broadest, but he’s certainly more capable than the aging Swansea or thin Anya. You’d just about rather die than approach Jimmy.
Besides, maybe the sight of his muscles flexing overhead is interesting. Bubblegum hibiscus flows around your waist and warmth flushes up your back. Hard chest rounding against your back, thick thighs nearly shuffling between yours.
Daisuke is breathing so heavily, but you don’t think it’s from any heavy lifting. Plump lips parted before he sucks his bottom lip between sharp teeth, eyes darting from your face -sickly in the pale freighter lights- to your own pulsing chest. Spindly fingers fumble out for your own, looping around the first two before he bravely snatches your entire hand. Scrubbing his thumb along your knuckle.
“Can we…” he has something in mind, and at the last minute you watch that pivot click behind his eyes, “Can we share a bed tonight?”
Smaller than the closet, you’re forced to slather Daisuke with your weight. Legs tangling and arm over his stomach. He’s got a hand up your shirt drawing shapes into your back; it’s about the calmest thing about him right now. Blunt nails crush the impression of lopsided, top-heavy hearts into your skin while his head is pin-straight forward. Gaze locked on the pumpkin-painted ceiling, the sunset projection across the room more interesting than saying anything he actually wants to.
“I feel like,” he has to close his eyes, visualizing himself on the edge of a cliff. Jumping off. If you don’t catch him, he’ll die anyway, “We do this a lot.”
“Cuddle?”
“Get close,” the pace of his breathing quickens, your head on his heart bobbing in rushed time, “And then we kinda pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Do we?”
“I think so,” he’s questioning himself even with a hand up the back of your shirt. Eyes squeezing harder until technicolor shapes are popping into little greyish stars, “I thought so, anyway…”
Mercifully, you lay a hand over his jaw, squishing round cheeks between thumb and forefinger. Scooching up on the lumpy medical mat to sweetly lay a kiss on his cheek. Instantly his face flares, the hand not shoved up your back latching onto your wrist -- squeezing but not prying, cooking your lips. The next moment his head falls and twists, lips puckered and sugary against yours.
Hand slithering along your arm until he’s cupping your cheek, arm curling tighter around your waist. Nigh pulling you on top of him completely. Plying the fat of your thigh, working toward your ass with cute whines. Grinding tenting jeans into your leg with little distorted jumps.
You pull back, kiss his cheek, and murmur, “Goodnight, Daisuke…”
He sighs quietly but grins against your face and nods, “Goodnight…”
Hugging you tight, Daisuke rolls you two enough so he’s able to hang off you like a backpack with arms wound around your waist. Legs entwining with yours. He kisses along your shoulder before burying his face in your neck. You think something wet drips on your skin, but you don’t ask about it -- too scared of the response.
Daisuke is sweet and kind and you know he likes you. You like him too.
You squeeze the hand he has rested over your stomach.
You just don’t know how to like him without ruining everything you liked.
(at some point in the night, you’re woken by anya -- asking with just the tiniest bend in her lips- asking if you knew daisuke was in your bed. you would nod sleepily and she would wish you goodnight. daisuke, then, drowsily smiled and mumbled ‘what’s up anya??’. she ruffled his stiff, bleached hair and wished him goodnight too.)
*
[!] new message: stop fucking ignoring me and answer these
[sent by: sender outside network. Please contactact captain if messages from unknown senders continue to route ot this machine do not espind. Do not respond. do not respond..]
*
[5 months after the crash]
The inside of Anya smells worse than the outside.
A thought you never imagined you would actively have, but something that makes sense logistically.
“Does logic help with team cohesiveness?” Polle asks over your shoulder.
In theory, it should.
“So how did your crew end up like this?” he sounds a little girlish, high-pitched and all. You think pointing that out could get you a visit to the HR office.
But also, the question is valid. How did you get back here, and at this point, is there a point to being back here? The rag is sopping wet and all the white threads have turned burgundy. Everything is so… ripe. Pungent. Pushing muck around the scratched tile. Everything not clinging to Anya seeks to stain you.
Why are you here?
Polle answers: “Biohazards! You are the first line of defense between your crew and disease!”
A janitor is important, after all.
Nobody else wants to play in shit and blood and oil so it’s best they seal off the slimiest grub they can find to roll around in it. Who better than you? If you get sick it’s fine.
“That’s what you’re paid for!” Polle chirps. Giving a mock salute. Obnoxiously clicking his black hooves.
Which is why Anya appointed you the one to wipe the captain’s shit out of a bent bedpan. Which is why Anya gave you one last task: mop up the vomit she choked out. Whatever you can’t mop, everything on her clothes and skin and tangled into those petite little framing hairs, should be burned. For sanitation.
“It’s about all you’re good for,” a deeper voice adds. Disgust grating each vowel.
Polle laughs behind the stiff veneer of his poster, nailed down years before you came here and no doubt hanging up long after you eventually croak.
Looking up at the red man on the bed, you find him already staring down at you with that single bulging eye. The fucking nerve: leaving you all here, free to venture out. Free of your nastiest thoughts, free of the grotesque thanklessness of sucking puss out of an open wound. Free of the concern of where you’ll end up next.
Free to just die.
“What did you just say?” you snarl, an unfamiliar fire encouraging you onto your feet. On a bridge, staring into crystal waters at a fish floating belly-up.
All his crispy lungs can get out is a quiet moan. Pained at the center. Gooey in all the wrong ways.
“Why did you watch Anya die?” his gaze darts down to your hands, now balled in blistering fists, “Why were you the last one she talked to?” he refuses to look back into your face, “And why does Daisuke want your fucking approval so much? And why is Jimmy obsessed with keeping you alive?” unsteadily your volume has risen, yet startling even yourself when you’re shouting. The cockpit safety gun -that spontaneously disappeared not long before the crash, that you’re pretty sure you spotted just now beneath his bed- would be comfortable in your hand right about now, “Maybe our crew would’ve been better off if we just fucking ate you!”
Curly’s chest convulses wildly. Now he’s looking you in the face.
Polle says: “Play nice! *unrest amongst the crew requires befitting punishment from the Captain, and will dock personal credits from the crew pay package.”
He looks afraid. Squirming away from your cinched hands and huffing inconsistently. Like he’d cry if he could.
Sympathetically, you crumble to your knees, bent over his bed and hugging the sheets while dry-heaving self-loathing, “I’m sorry- I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it!” you hack, snot and salt mingling in the back of your throat, clogging it as you rush to spew, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry- I didn’t mean it, Captain, I didn’t - sorry! I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit’s one year older for you, Captain! [6 days before the crash]
How’s it feel?” you tilt your head, bumping both brows lightheartedly.
“Surprise!” Jimmy jeers from beside you, arms folded.
“Surprise!” Daisuke copies, “Look at your face!”
“Gotcha!” Anya giggles, dainty hand curling over her mouth.
“Cheers!” Swansea, despite his eagerness to appear unenthused, is the loudest after Daisuke.
“Uh. Wow,” Curly blinks, shaking his head. You hope just clearing the adrenaline from his system… you wouldn’t think this party could be that much of a startle.
Unless something else had completely overridden his mind, he should’ve known this was coming.
Swansea was last year, after all, and your crew always moves the parties in a routine circle.
“Last year must’ve been wild, huh?” Daisuke nudges you with an elbow.
“Huh?” you wonder if he could read minds. You beam the number four into his third eye, waiting to see if he’ll snag the bait.
He doesn’t, confirming two possibilities: he either does not read minds or is committed to keeping his powers a secret. In both scenarios, you have no choice but to move on, so you do.
“Last year, I can’t believe I missed it! You guys got Swansea,” he points across the room, some would call it rude but you think it’s just another harmless Daisuke-ism, “Wish I could’ve seen him get loose!”
The old mechanic grumbles a vague threat to keep you silent.
“It was fun, he ate three whole slices of the company cake and puked. Real party animal shit,” while Anya recounts how Swansea stumbled over himself as everyone screamed ‘surprise’, you whisper to Daisuke, “I actually made the cake last year. Captain was too busy filing reports from corporate.”
“No way!” he hisses back, “You know the sweetener code?”
“Uh-huh, take notes,” you mimic a notepad and pen in your hands, “2-3-4-1. It was the first thing I scammed my way into memorizing on this stupid ship,” perhaps a bit unwise you’re just telling some new intern this, but oh well, “Captain pretends he doesn’t know.”
An overly dramatic hum breaks out over your shoulder, making you jump in place as a deep voice quizzes, “What’s that?”
Recovery is simple enough, you just twine your hands bat your lashes, and beam, “Ohhhh, nothing, Captain!”
He seems a bit out of things as he laughs. That usual spark in his eyes long faded and lips not quite quirking the way they used to. Even just a single day ago, his face seemed brighter.
Even as he brings the cake to your crew, sat around the cheap table. Anya and Swansea are on one side, across from you and Daisuke. Jimmy at one head by Anya. And Curly at the other by you.
“Speech! Speech! Speech!” Daisuke chants, encouraging you to join.
Swansea grins, lackluster and slight but full of mirth he would never show, leaning his chin against folded hands, “Yeah, captain.”
“Can’t be a party without a speech!” Anya giggles, head turned fully toward the blonde, “We won’t let you get out of it!”
Before Curly’s mouth opens, even a little, the man on the other side of the table prompts:
“What’s wrong?” Jimmy scours his friend with those wooden eyes.
Curly can’t maintain any mask in front of the slightest prodding, let alone from Jimmy. . . .
that’s all it said on the report from management we will receive the paycheck for this delivery I don’t know any more than that
Silence gnaws at the table before Swansea braves to break it: pony express finally kicking the bucket huh what a joke and we’re the punchline
You blink. The back of your neck is freezing cold. Your throat is too tight to swallow any saliva, so you let it all pool in your mouth.
i don’t have any savings they can’t just do this right
Anya’s voice wasn’t always so shrill, was it?
Are your ears melting off? They’re burning hot enough, you think. The temperature clash makes you push a shaking hand into your gut. Tissue bubbling beneath your palm.
A hand joins the one you aren’t pushing against your stomach, coaxing your nails out from puncturing your chair’s armrest. Daisuke squeezes your hand, turned away from Swansea in favor of studying your troubled face. Each minuscule slacken surveyed by him, he can pinpoint the exact moment your crewmates’ voices stop sounding like bland static impersonations and start sounding like themselves again.
Unfortunately, that exact moment is when Jimmy asks:
“When did they tell you?”
You actually look at Curly for his response, and Daisuke decides that maybe he should look over too. At least seem a little invested in anything that isn’t your obvious unrest.
“Earlier this week,” each body not belonging to Daisuke flinches at the brutal honesty, which he supposes is fair, “I was instructed to wait until we’re closer to the haul destination. But I can’t keep something like this from you all…”
“So, I guess you got what you wanted. Without the guilt.”
Not exactly the shot you assumed Jimmy would be taking, but you can’t say you disagree with it.
Captain Curly constantly had this greyed look in his eye. Watching a movie he could recite the ending to. Maybe even one he dreaded having to sit for again.
For a long time now, you’ve suspected he wanted to move on. Who better to confirm it than the longtime friend, co-pilot Jimmy?
“I can get back to my…” the brunette snorts inauthentically, “How’d you put it? ‘Struggle of a life’?” he swings a rabid arm across the table, “Anya never got into medical school because she’s, well, let’s be real. And how many employment years Swansea got left in him?” he sneers towards your more youthful half of the table, “Daisuke will be fine, mommy and daddy have him covered. So there’s that at least! And that one won’t be out of work for long, huh? Anybody could do that job, and everywhere needs it. Only worry there is finding the right dump desperate enough to hire a burnout!” Jimmy slumps back into his chair, leveling Curly with an almost painful glare, “But you. Headed for bigger and better, right?”
Curly clenches both fists, sighing through his nose and head shaking, “I’m just,” he blinks too hard, each drop visibly manual, “I’m just working on my life being a place I don’t have to fucking escape! That’s what I was trying to tell you: nothing more!”
Jimmy bangs a fist on the table before swiping it across to display you all, you and Anya recoil at the unexpected motion as he declares, “We’re the ones you’re trying to escape! Leave the dirt behind now that your boots are clean!”
“That’s not what I meant!” hearing Curly raise his voice is sickening. You turn your hand on the rest to now be the one squeezing Daisuke.
“That is what you meant,” Jimmy asserts, “You just couldn’t frame it to yourself in a way that kept you as the hero. Abandon the crew and make your escape.”
“What else could I do?!” seeing him so desperate, clawing for a way out of Jimmy’s needling like a declawed cat in plastic, has you doubling over yourself with a buzzing stomach.
Jimmy throws himself back into his chair at the head of the table, “Let’s have some fucking cake, hm? Props to the twilight crew of the Tulpar. Props to the captain and his new prospects.”
Even in a different light, you don’t know if you would’ve ever enjoyed here- hearing Captain Curly’s advancement from the Tulpar.
So when he looks to you for any cheap defense, you don’t find anything to say. You even congratulate yourself for not whimpering for him to talk the higher-ups out of this.
Jimmy does not find your bravery as inspiring, and instead scoffs, “Even your codependent maid can’t talk you out of this.”
Ashamed, you sink into the seat. Only Daisuke’s grip keeps you from slithering onto the floor. Slimy and wet and pathetic. And whimpering for some kind of miracle that means this won’t really be the last time you work with your crew. You lay your hand in the hand Daisuke doesn’t pulse, his gaze solely on you: now hunting for the moment you pick yourself up. Or at least for an opening where he can manufacture it for you.
Curly’s knife clinks as he picks it up, sawing through plasticine sugar.
You don’t raise your head.
[8 hours until judgement]
“Please, please, please please please,” you’re slurring all the consonants together, flurrying out each word as if they could save him, “Please! Please, Daisuke?!”
Daisuke responds the only way he can: writhing.
His eyes are full circles of bloodshot white. Piercing through you ambivalently.
Malice and resentment, but also so so so much regret. Past all his grunting and squealing, no words have room to grow. Instead they stay buried with the rest of his feelings, deep in his chest right about where his lungs are filling with blood.
“Don’t leave me,” you gush, squeezing him on your lap. Devastated over a death you can physically feel coming. He’s getting so warm with all those weeping wounds, and he flexes with each passing breath -- every one taking more effort than the last, “Please, I need you. Daisuke…”
He knew you were selfish. A little flighty, too. And as much as he wants to grant your pleas, this task is just a bit impossible.
It’s bizarrely greedy for everything he could have to give, gobbling him down and demanding more. In a strange way he could only accept in death, he likes it. Wanting to reach up and fondle your cheek -- tackle some hair in his fist and yank you onto his level -- Daisuke flails his hand up with a whimper and gargle. Blood spitting onto your shirt.
Jimmy nearly trips over you with a full, unopened bottle of mouthwash in his hand. Cracking it open ferociously before dumping it over Daisuke’s gaping gashes, dowsing you in the process. Fresh mint horribly scars the inside of your nose.
Finally.
Captain Curly’s corpse stench is wiped straight out.
Relief.
Relief. He’ll live!
“You’ll be fine,” you weep, though, hard and ruinously, “You’ll be okay, Daisuke. It’ll fix everything,” but you can’t say what it is because you already know that if you do, you’ll be wrong, “It’ll fix everything!”
Mouthwash can’t fix this.
Your hand is still wrapped, bloody and sticky and aching, infected from sugar poured over deep glass cuts. Mouthwash can’t heal anything properly.
But you scream for it anyway, “Please don’t leave me, Daisuke…!”
Rattling footsteps shake you from behind, followed by a meaty hand on your shoulder, “Out of the way, kid, I’ll take care of him.”
“No!” you bawl, frantically clawing into Daisuke’s flowy pink shirt as he flounders on your lap, “Please, no, no nono!”
“Get to the pod,” he curses down at you. Lifting the axe despite how you and Jimmy scream at him to stop, stop just listen fucking listen stop it stop!
Daisuke’s body lurches against your thigh. Pelvis jumping once. Chest sputtering twice. All ten fingers twitching.
Followed by punctuating silence.
Jimmy yells, as Jimmy always does. You don’t catch any of it.
The sight of Daisuke’s body was too captivating.
Swansea’s voice joins the mix, but he’s far away. Adults arguing overhead. Things you don’t care about nor do you want to hear. It takes you back to your childhood.
You wish you knew Daisuke back then, maybe you could’ve been sweeter with him.
And maybe someone better acquainted with the ship’s layout, like yourself, would’ve been a better choice for Jimmy. You’re not foolish enough for him to approach, but you almost pray you were. Younger and stupider.
Swansea said it himself. You have less quality of life. You’re the perfect candidate to die.
“Kid, I said get the fuck to the pod!”
Swansea butts you in the gut with the axe so hard you cough up stomach acid.
Rolling onto your back in agony before kneeling up, crawling out toward the hall as Swansea restrains Jimmy.
[7 hours until judgement]
The smell of death clings like a snarling dog to rope. Gnashing teeth growling around frayed, rotting strings. Blood and flesh slide off his bone as he lives. Painkillers could’ve dulled the sensation of twinging muscles but they don’t make him ignorant to the fact it's happening. Worse is the lingering stench of vomit. Which makes him feel worse than knowing he’s dying as he lives: Anya was his responsibility and now she’s had to take care of herself the only way she knew how.
He can’t even be upset she took the rest of the capsules. She deserved them if it meant some peace.
Now he prays Daisuke is dead. For as short of a time as he spent with the boy, he knows him well enough to say he does not deserve suffering. And as Daisuke had to pull himself out of that collapsed vent, skin caught and shaved off by metal scraps, he was only suffering.
He knows Jimmy very well.
He thought he did: but then, he should’ve expected this, right? If Jimmy was so capable of inflicting pain, then he should’ve seen those signs. He knew that Jimmy was unstable and mean-spirited and violent, but he never thought Jimmy could torture people.
Anya opened his eyes and he couldn’t. Function.
With that knowledge came such overbearing responsibility that Curly froze completely.
And now, because of Jimmy, he has no choice except to remain frozen.
Even as you crumble into the room.
Even as Jimmy and Swansea’s voices slough down the halls, ringing through after you.
Curly wants to soothe your terrible hacking, wants to get you back home. You’re a misguided thing with some frustrating parents. You should get to find another gig.
So why are you going for the [PONY EXPRESS PERSONAL PROTECTION WEAPON] case?
[ISSUED TO CAPTAINS IN CASE OF UNREST AMONGST THE CREW]
He watches through one eye as you kneel by the bed. A glint of confusion passes over your face, and in the next instance is gone: your thumb scrolls over the clicking digits.
Every muscle in his neck convulses as he swallows. Slow and pained before it goes down.
The case does not open. He exhales.
You calmly seat yourself on the floor. Both hands grasp the metal box. Both thumbs meticulously click through each possible combination to open the lock. [6 hours until judgement]
Sixty excruciating minutes drag by before five fingers are snapping over the edge of the mattress. A distinctly metallic click follows. Hinges squeak apart, clacking against the frame of the bed with finality. A wobbly elbow pokes into sight before that clutching hand pushes up, dragging his whole body sideways as you yank the sheets with effort. Standing upon squiggling knees, downcast eyes linger beneath the bed -- he can’t see that far down. But he’s sure he already knows what you’re looking at.
Get it over with he wants to hiss Just shoot me. Don’t keep me in suspense.
Curly watches, heart thundering so hard into his ribs his entire chest shakes. Just shoot me already.
One pulsing eye, twitching muscle lining the organ.
Your forearm writhes with a ‘click’, eyes heavy with discoloration. Somewhere between sinking into your skull and popping out like a cyst -- they finally rise upon him.
Somewhere between a pill-induced rest and knocking out beneath senseless, whole-body waves of pain. He prayed he’d just go cold after the third day, and now he’s not sure how long it’s been since Jimmy lashed out.
Somewhere between upset and stoic, your face remains unchanged as you lay the hidden hand just by his bandaged arm. Silver glints angrily into his eyeball -- he’d flinch away if he could.
Just do it already he screams in his mind, but all that escapes are wheezy whistles Just fucking shoot me!
You already said you would, didn’t you?
It’d help everyone. Meat would make the crew happier than when they still had those canned soups. That’s what you said. So just get him over with.
Slowly, your lips part -- eyes on his, and you draw the gun from the bed, laying it flat in your palm before turning the barrel. Finger snug around the trigger, teasingly curling tighter until it jerks in your hand, bucking into the meat of your palm.
You pull tighter, until the gun is firing.
Jerking your hand back; he can see that silver catches silver and clatters to the ground, but he can’t hear it. Can’t hear much of anything following the gunshot crunching through the back of your skull.
Iron pervades the room as soon as your body hits the floor. Brain matter clumped around the sliding med door, peeling off slowly and squelching onto indifferent tile. Bone shards sparkle from the puddling floor.
You cleaned that floor just today.
Who’s going to clean you up?
He’s self-aware enough to know why his first thought is something so callous and mundane, but he isn’t present enough to realize that heavy breathing -like a sprinter fresh off some marathon- is his. It startles him. Eye darting around the room to find the wind-sucking culprit, that sick bastard stealing all the oxygen must be the one! The one who shot you- he needs to find them- someone else in the room-
Someone else, surely?
Someone not previously seen on the ship, right?
Someone he’s never met before, you know?
Because he met you five years ago, and he’s seen you walk up and down the Tulpar corridors countless times since he’s known you, and you wouldn’t do this. You’d never shoot yourself, he knows that.
Just like how he knew Jimmy would never hurt anybody.
As if sensing those condemning thoughts, his dearest friend runs into the room just then. Wide-eyed and ripping the gun from your hand without a teary blink, screaming,
“Swansea’s gonna fucking kill us!”
Curly can’t see straight -blurry green splotches zig-zag around medical. He must not be seeing straight; no way he could be because Jimmy would also never kick aside the corpse of some unfortunate kid.
Swansea shouts the name of his co-captain.
Curly feels the laugh bubbling between his ribs before he even registers it's coming out. Raw throat croaking and exhales biting exposed nerves.
It’s just too funny- everything, really- it’s hilarious.
So funny he could just about throw himself into open space.
[!] new message [!]
Amber sands sink beneath your feet. And long ways above you, itching cloudless vermillion skies, are hot pink hibiscus flowers with gold stigma scraping even higher. Each flower casts wide shade from the sun -- it blares at you, dull vibrating from all directions that makes you so very deeply nauseous. It sounds distressed.
Dark ocean, frothy and black, still sparkles over the coast. White sprinkling far into the horizon.
Shiny onyx beads pop out of the vibrant sands; scorpions driving in lines down toward the coast.
All you hear is the gentle crashing waves.
Then a wavering voice, no distinct syllables, just a nonsense song. You turn, and there’s a picnic basket on a pink gingham blanket. You know the voice comes from inside. No matter how roughly you shove your feet through the sand, you’re slowed to a near standstill. But the basket waits, assuredly so.
Flopping onto the soft cotton, your eyes flutter shut with hands folded over your stomach. Lullaby waves coo you to blissful rest, and the voice inside the basket praises your hard work.
This could’ve been nice.
Peace and quiet.
* *
[five years ago]
“And this is the internal system for messages,” his lips press a bit too firmly, that universal misalignment saying you’re not gonna like this, “I’ve only ever seen it used for custodians. Specific requests and all.”
“So, like, if somebody fucks the medbay but that’s not on my schedule, they just get to message me here? Like an email?”
Curly jumps at your swear before nodding slowly, “Uh, yeah… Something like that.”
“I thought going into space, we were beyond email…” you step deeper into the dark closet, rusty shelves lined to the gums with white bottles, labels bubbling from age. Reaching out to tweak the receiver’s edge, tracing a single finger around the tiny screen, you raise a condemning brow.
“Well, we’re still just people,” the blonde watches in real-time as your amazed smile flattens and those stars in your eyes fade over with rippling fluorescents, “Most advanced part of the Tulpar is the idea it exists,” he shrugs, “And maybe the fabricator.”
“Fabricator?” that makes you grin again, “No shit- we got a fabricator?”
Your language could use some work, but that wide fucking smile reminds Curly of when he was starting out -- sure, his uniform still had more specs back then, and sure he was in a much better position. But still, he was just a kid (only nine years older than you now but sure, a 27-year-old kid) impressed by the idea of floating through the stars without realizing it wouldn’t be too different from earth life. Besides the fabricator, at least.
“We do,” he confirms, stepping back from the 6x7 foot closet with ‘CUSTODIAL OFFICE’ printed across the front in chipping white paint, already pivoting down the hall suspecting you want to witness the machine posthaste, “You want to see it?”
“Yeah!” you cheer, slamming the door shut behind you before speeding toward the lounge, calling back, “It’s gotta be in the kitchen, right?!”
* *
[!] no new messages [!]
@toxycodone / @maniacpixiedreamboy + @penguite + @morbiddog + @whoresinatrenchcoat + @voidcat / @fortheharbingers
trying another horror fic a la bug sluts @ da clurb
meow
⭒ crush
| hamzahthefantastic x youtuber!reader au
summary: hamzah has a crush that is extremely obvious to everyone except you ... somehow?! (both written & smau!!!)
a/n: happy new years!!!!!!
— march 2024
hamzah is hungry beyond belief.
martin's already assured him both over facetime and text that he's on his way with their full course meal of chinese takeout— currently sat in the basket of martin's rented bike, jostling up and down with every bump of the toronto pavement without a doubt. yet his stomach is still throwing a tantrum, depraved of any nutrients while his brain repeats in a neanderthal-like manner "food. coming. soon." in hopes of reducing the pressure within his poor stomach.
he opens instagram, needing some sort of an escape, because naturally a little doom-scrolling will ease his (dramatic but still very real) pain. somehow, among the ridiculous animal reels and comedic twitch clips on his explore feed, he stumbles upon a reel from you. a girl with a different quality and charm to your face and character than anything he's seen in other content creators.
not only does your bubbly yet elegant voice keep him watching but the subject matter is rather fitting— you're cooking a homemade chicken pot pie for the first time. in the video you talk about how often your mother would prepare it growing up and now it's become a popular craving for you. hamzah watches intently as if he were ready to get up and make his own pot pie alongside you.
"hey! the hell are you smiling at?" martin's voice is breathy due to his trek to and from the chinese restaurant. he walks into the living room holding a crinkly plastic bag reading: "thank you! have a nice day!" with that big, yellow smiley face in between.
"huh? nothin'." hamzah dismisses and adjusts himself on the couch, "come on, 'm starving!" he reaches his hand out to take the food from martin before patting the seat next to him.
ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅
— june 2024
"so when are you gonna come see us?"
it was a surprise to see hamzah follow you on instagram a few months ago. you'd heard his name thrown around in certain spaces of the internet but never really indulged in any of his content.
his instagram had the format of a shitposting ten-year-old but it only made you curious about the humorous twenty-something. eventually you'd watched a youtube video of his; completely laughing your ass off and finding your eyes chasing after hamzah whenever he was in even the tiniest of frames.
it was never a serious crush by any means, just a nice piece of secret eye-candy who also happened to have a great personality and an enviously good work ethic (the effort martin and hamzah put into their videos was astonishing to you).
so you were quite nervous to be the first to dm him, in hopes of a friendship or a least a quick exchange of "hey." it was only right — you two had been liking each other's poss and stories a consistent amount.
the mellow first exchange between the two of you in april blossomed into you both constantly talking in your free time; your friendship quickly to developed a flirty back-and-forth dynamic that sometimes borders on way more than platonic. eventually martin was added to your consistent facetime calls and you’ve even let them convince you to create a discord account to play minecraft and grand theft auto online with them.
and now you’re lying on your leather couch with both of their faces displayed in your laptop’s screen, eager to hear your response.
“i don’t know…” you play with a loose end of the sweater you’re wearing, “what would we even do?”
they both stay quiet for a moment before hamzah laughs, “why are you acting like you don’t wanna say yes right now?”
a smile slowly grows on your face “okay… gimme a second,” you begin to google flight information to and from toronto.
ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅
— september 2024
yourusername
Liked by clairedrake, hamzahthefantastic, and others
yourusername Y’all didn’t tell me they get wild in the 6 , Omg??!! Highly requested video out neow <3
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chaserutherford 🍽️8️⃣ • ♥︎ by author
yourusername I rlly do miss u already 😖😖😖😖
ynfan01 ohhhh this was so necessary thank u mother☺️!! • ♥︎ by author
yourusername Mhm!!! Olivia Wilde head nod 💞💞
slushieeee333 y/n: slurping pasta , hamzah the whole time: 😊👀😍😊
thatmartinkid hey look ma i made it!!! 🫵😂 • ♥︎ by author
ynsnumberone THE FLIRTING WENT CRAZYYYYY
slushedyn her and hamzah are obsessed with each other i fear
thatslushykid COME BACK 2 TORONTO ASAP I NEED MORE COLLABS RN!!!!!! 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
hamzahluver45 ok but like it’s so obvious that her trying to flirt was just irritating them the whole time !! Like girl ..💀💀
hamzahthefantastic Posting our dms is already one thing , but TAGGING ME is actually crazy 🤔🤔 • ♥︎ by author
yourusername R u mad @ me Bby???? 😕
hamzahthefantastic BruhLmaooooooooooo
freakzahfan that's one too many "o"s just say u wanna kiss her my boy
ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅
“oh!” you accidentally trip over yourself while walking backwards and stumble into hamzah, who was standing in front of the unfamiliar grocery store, watching you prepare to give an intro. “jesus,” martin laughs under his breath from behind the camera. he lowers the camera, showing his feet but still picking up his voice in the mic, “you good?!”
the clip cuts to you stood upright again, "i'm in the six!!!" you exclaim loudly, raising your arms above your head. "and i'm here with slushy noobz to add to my series where other creators "teach me" their specialty. you tug at hamzah's arm and pull him into the frame with you, "hamzah tell them what you and martin are gonna teach me," you look up a him while still holding onto his arm. you interrupt him before he even begins to speak, "oh yeah! martin is also here by the way!" you point and martin flips the camera to himself. "they're just leaving me out it's fine, i know i'm out already, just vote just vote," he references with a sigh before turning it back to you and hamzah. "don't start! chase is on his way to come and film for us-" "listen! this is our plan-- we're gonna teach you how to mukbang; everyone knows we're very qualified in this field and know everything there is to know about the subject, so, uhh, yeah we're kinda experts. i dont know, would you say that, martin?" hamzah rambles. "yeah, i think that's a good way to describe us" "perfect! then you're teachin' me how to kiss next, right?" you ask. hamzah goes from looking at you attentively (hanging onto your every word) to a face deadpanned as he glances over to martin trying not to smile.
the video cuts to a clip with the three of you, finally, all in one shot now that chase is behind the camera. you pull a cart out from its slot and push yourself on it before standing both feet on top of the tiny foot bar, gliding through the automatic doors.
next, a clip of martin speaking to the camera while you and hamzah look through different pasta sauces together, "okay we didn't really explain this well but essentially we're all going to cook a nice dish and then eat it together in front of you guys. isn't that cute?" "yeah, can't wait for us to mukbang together" hamzah speaks. martin turns back to the camera with a smirk, "i bet you wish you were mukbanging with us huh, chase?" "no. and you just made that word up." martin's face falls.
the entire grocery shopping trip is filmed with little moments like hamzah mispronouncing a few brand names, martin talking to strangers about which pasta noodle to try, and you randomly walking off into estranged aisles "just to see if things are really different here"
now, you're all back at martin's home; you read aloud the recipe and hamzah is stood practically on top of you as he also looks down at the phone, all while martin lays ingredients out of the counter. "okay simple enough," hamzah says. "yeah, and you're still gonna make me do all of the work anyway," martin huffs sarcastically. you giggle a bit, "martin the most you'll have to do is boil water, i'll force him to do the rest." "huh???!! who??" hamzah questions, his smiley face “accidentally” leaning far too close to yours. "you, duh!" you laugh and turn away to look for a large pot.
throughout the cooking process you slowly stop helping; talking to mandy while you two eat chips and salsa while leaning on the counter or petting the pets instead of doing any of the tasks given to you from the self-proclaimed chefs.
"this is literally your video! what the hell y/n?!" martin whines when he finds you and mandy making a tiktok in his "man cave" together after you'd told them you were going to the bathroom, "seriously mandy?" all of the audio can be heard from the mics on your clothing. "where was she?" hamzah says monotonous as he scrolls on his phone. "making freaking tiktoks with mandy of course!" you giggle as you walk into the kitchen behind him, "what? the food is practically done, we're just waiting on garlic bread!" you shrug and hamzah immediately turns at the sound of your voice. "well, you gonna at least show us?" hamzah asks casually placing his hands on the counter around you, trapping you in the space between him and the marble surface. "yeah," you tilt your head so you can look at his face as you make fun of his not-so-friendly gesture, "you wanna keep breathing down my neck like that while i show you?" he laughs and moves away to cover up the embarrassment of being called out. "stop!" you laugh and bring him back into frame forcing him and martin to watch you and mandy dance on your phone screen.
the four of you sit on the carpet with plates full of chicken alfredo and pieces of garlic bread laid out on martin’s coffee table. you all talk about your experience in toronto so far, how you and hamzah first met, … et cetera.
martin attempts to teach you canadian slang: “keener is big here.” “actually? what the hell does that even mean?” “it’s kinda like a try hard— people will call you a keener if you’re doing too much, basically.” “wait tell me more!” “i mean things like buddy is way too common here. some random old guys will call me that and it always throws me off??” “yeah they always say it so demeaning,” hamzah laughs. “do you guys actually say ‘eh?’ all the time? i feel like i haven’t noticed it a lot.” you ask genuinely. “i won't lie.. i say it more often than i like to admit!” mandy says. you’ve noticed that no matter if you’re the one speaking or not hamzah’s eyes keep glancing and sometimes full on staring at you (he really doesn’t mean to but he thinks he’s finally processing that you’re actually here with them after months of wanting this) you're flattered nonetheless.
at some point hamzah and martin recreate a scene in lady and the tramp, successfully slurping at the same noodle until hamzah retreats and martin sighs at his lack of commiting to the bit. you laugh along before asking hamzah’s to share a noodle with you with a smile slapped over your face, “me next?” he fights off any blushing with a roll of his eyes and his response of, “yeah? ask me again in a sec.”
after you’ve all finished eating, you complete the video with a big smile and a promise of more collaborations in the future.
ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅
•••
(x)
these two pictures have the same energy
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