Sargonna Persepolis

firefly; i was cracking myself up just writing this, sukuna probably:

Quite honestly, he doesn’t see the appeal in those gothic books of yours. Sure, he loves to read as well, but he’s always struggled to appreciate the flowery words on those beautifully decorated books. It was even worse when you read poetry. You’d be loving the sonnets and artfully spelled out words, immersed in pages upon pages. He’d just sit back, confused by the sheer amount of words that seemed too long to be real.

But, if there was one thing he actually really liked about your books, it was the topics.  He has always considered himself a hopeless romantic. Apparently, you outrival him in that aspect tenfold. Your books dealt with almost exclusively topics of the romance variety.

In the beginning of his relationship with you, he had learned that about you slowly. 

You were a romantic in the classical sense. You didn’t seem to like big declarations of love or grand gifts. Instead, there had been little things.

One afternoon, he had found you pressing a daisy flower in between the pages of your most recent book, carefully arranging the petals to lay correctly. The flower was perfectly preserved, sandwiched thoughtfully between sheets of yellowing paper. He had questioned you about it, a brow raised.

You had just given him a quick smile, petting over the dried flower with a careful finger.

“It was pretty. Isn’t that reason enough?”

Then, there was the time that you two visited a local town. You both had been walking through the town square, when an elderly couple walked past you two, hand in hand. They hadn't been doing anything remarkable. Just moving slowly together beneath the evening sun. You'd watched them disappear around a corner with the softest smile he'd ever seen.

You’d turned to him, smiled, and pressed your lips to his cheek.

“I hope we’re like that someday.”

Your tone had been wistful, eyes dreamy as you looked off into the watercolor evening sky.  Luis, by opposition, had been so taken aback he had nearly walked into a lightpost, cheeks flushed. 

Then there were the letters. Madre de Dios, the letters.

He'd grown accustomed to finding folded scraps of paper in the oddest places. Inside his coat pocket before leaving for the lab. A small one tucked beneath his coffee mug. Another note folded into the pages of whichever scientific journal he happened to be reading. Most weren't long, no. But they struck him as deeply as a sonnet could.

Remember to eat lunch today.

Or, even:

Don't work too hard. I'll be waiting for you.

Sometimes they weren't even words at all, just a tiny pressed violet taped to the corner of the page. Or a little heart sketched in the margin.

The first few times, he'd laughed. Tucked the little piece of paper in his wallet for safe keeping, making a mental note to kiss you extra hard when he got home.  By the tenth note, he'd started checking his pockets before leaving the house. It was the little things that you did that seemed to make you, well, you. And it warmed his heart to think about it.

Which is why, instead of interrupting your reading, he chooses to press a kiss to your hairline instead. You don’t even seem to notice it. Your nose is buried in another one of those enormous gothic novels, your finger absentmindedly tracing along the edge of the page as you read.

Every now and then, your expression changes. Your eyebrows knit together, then soften. A tiny smile appears, before your eyes go glassy.

"How’s the book, Cariño?"

No response. You're gone. Completely lost somewhere inside those pages. It makes his lips quirk upwards into a smile.

"...Amor?"

Still nothing. Finally, he reaches over and gently nudges your sock-covered foot with his own. You jolt, blinking up at him as though you'd forgotten he existed.

"...Welcome back." He nuzzles your cheek, delighting in the way you do it back to him.

A sheepish smile spreads across your face. “Sorry, Darling. Just a good book, you know?”

"I wasn't complaining, mi amor. Just checking up."

You tilt your head, looking over at him with a soft gaze in your eyes. Luis leans back against the sofa, folding one arm over the back cushions.

"I've just accepted that whenever you pick up one of those books, I lose you for at least two hours."

You giggle a little. “Three, if it’s a good one.”

"I stand corrected." He laughs, giving you one final kiss before patting the front of your novel, “Now, keep reading. Let me know how it ends, hm?”

Jaafar bit back a smile, looking back at the computer screen, "Well, maybe with the new mattress you won't be complaining about how much your back hurts every time we have sex. Plus, a nice bed is something everyone needs to invest in."

"I mean, listen, if you wanna get a whole new bed set up, I'm not complaining, just make sure whatever sheets you buy aren't ugly." You smiled and kissed his cheek.

He let out a laugh, "Alright deal."

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

A few days later, you returned home to find Jaafar hovering over the kitchen island. At least 10 different swatches of fabric were laid out on the marble counter, Jaafar staring down at them with the utmost concentration.

"J, baby, sweetheart, love of my life, what are you doing?" You asked with a small smile.

He kept his gaze on the small squares, "Thinking. I can't decide what fabric to go with for our bed sheets. I need a second opinion." He waved you over.

You tossed your bag onto the couch, joining him in the kitchen. You stood on the other side of the island, leaning over it on your forearms. "Mhmmmmm, they all look the same to me."

"That's cause they're all the same color. But they all feel different." He handed you two swatches, "See? This one is supima cotton, and this one is bamboo."

You ran your fingers over both of them, brows furrowing. "They feel the exact same to me."

His eyes widened, "HOW!? They're completely different! See the cotton is much more durable, and it's resistant to pilling. But the bamboo is much more breathable and will keep us cool."

You stared at him in disbelief, taking his hands gently, "Baby, they feel the same."

He rolled his eyes, taking the samples back protectively and shooing you away. "You just don't know luxury."

Your jaw dropped, "You calling me broke?!"

He eyed you for just a second before looking back at the squares of fabric, "No, but I'm not saying you rich either."

"This bedding debacle has changed you."

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You hated to admit it.... but Jaafar was right. The whole new bed set up was fucking amazing. He had completely started from scratch; new frame, mattress, topper, sheets, duvet, pillows, blankets, the whole works.

The bed was like a cloud, it was unbelievably comfortable. If someone had asked you what it felt like you would've said that it was a mix of a warm marshmallow and a pink fluffy cloud. And Jaafar was so smug about it.

You came home a week after the sheet sampling incident, finding Jaafar waiting for you with a smug little smirk on his face. He looked unbelievably proud of himself, which of course immediately had you suspicious.

"What did you do?" You began your interrogation.

"Oh nothing.... just changed your life." He crossed his arms over his chest.

You glanced down at your ring finger, "Hm, weird, I don't see a ring."

He rolled his eyes, "Not that, even better."

You gave him an exasperated look, "Bitch, if this is about that damn bed again..." His face told you it was, "Are you saying this bed is better than you finally proposing!?"

He shrugged, "You'll just have to see for yourself." He leaned off the wall, heading back to the bedroom.

As agitated as you were, the second you sat down on the bed... you completely understood what he was saying. You glared up at his smug face, "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything!" He laughed and flopped onto the bed beside you.

You eyed him, "Didn't have to, I can see it written all over your face."

He laughed, wrapping his arms around your waist. "Admit it, this is nice."

You cuddled into him, body relaxing into the fluffy duvet instantly. "Yeah, it really is."

Jaafar peppered kisses all over your face, "I could stay here all day."

You smiled, looking up at him. "Then why don't we? I say we put some movies on, maybe have some breakfast for dinner, and just snuggle in our nice new bed."

He nodded, shoving his face in your chest, humming in pure delight. "Yes please."

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The bed became a safe space of the two of you, a shelter you could go to when you needed to relax. There was a comforting energy to the bed, you always felt peaceful when snuggled up in those ridiculously expensive sheets. And of course, even more peaceful when Jaafar was by your side in bed.

The bed came with a lot of great additives: a looooot more sex, more cuddling, more naps, and better sleep. Holy shit, you had never slept better in your life, especially after particularly rough rounds with Jaafar.

It was like the bed practically sang you a lullaby every time your head hit the pillow. You were out within seconds, lost in a deep sleep. Jaafar found it hilarious. He would be mid conversation with you, spooning you carefully, when all the sudden your responses would be replaced with gentle snores.

Oh and he now had an album in his photo library dedicated to pictures of you sleeping. He would snap quick pictures of you first thing in the morning, mouth slightly ajar, one leg hitched up on the mattress, a fluffy blanket wrapped tight around you. It became something he looked forward to seeing. He especially liked it when you would wear next to nothing to bed, the morning sun lighting up your skin beautifully. Your large sleep shirt would rise up in the middle of the night, leaving the sun to illuminate your stomach and the dainty panties that made your ass look otherworldly.

Morning sex became a regular occurrence within the first week of the new bed. And you were certainly not complaining either. On the occasion that you woke up before Jaafar, you would find him shirtless and radiant. His broad shoulders looked impeccable against the cream duvet. You could practically feel your mouth watering at the sight of him.

Jaafar was overly content with himself for the amazing splurge, constantly rubbing it in your face whenever you went straight to the bedroom for a power nap after work.

"And you thought it was stupid, look at you now. I think you love the bed more than me."

You side eyed him hard, wrapping yourself in the sheets. "To be fair, the bed doesn't make fun of me."

Jaafar smiled, slipping under the sheets and pulling you close. "You know it's all in good fun."

You kissed his chin, tangling your legs with him, "Mhm, but you better watch your back. You keep putting off that proposal and the bed might beat you to it."

He let out a laugh, a hand slipping under your shirt and drawing random shapes on your skin. "You're so impatient."

You gave him a look, "Jaafar, it took you exactly 9 days to research, order, and set up a whole new bed arrangement. I want that damn rock you keep promising."

"Hey, the bed was a necessary prerequisite to the ring."

"Why?"

"Cause I needed to make sure we had a sturdy enough bed for the occasion." He smirked lightly, pinching your sides.

You let out a small yelp, shifting closer to him by instinct. "Well we've got the bed, so what's the hold up?"

He held you tighter, "There is no hold up, in fact... make sure you wear that dress I got you the other day to dinner on Friday."

You smiled brightly, letting out an excited squeal before kissing him passionately. "Screw the nap, let's double check to make sure the bed is sturdy enough."

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(Sometimes, you wonder about them. Nine years is a lot to erase and emotional wounds don't fade overnight. You preemptively blocked the three on social media when you first got your new phone so you wouldn't hurt yourself trying to get a glimpse of their lives. It was a good choice. More than once you tried to take a peek at their Moments' page, and only your past self saved you from another night of heartache.

Still.

They were your closest (only) friends for nine years. It's only natural that you'd miss them.

You've been missing them for a long time, long before you ever left.

It's a wound that will never fully heal.)

You take your cello back inside, then check on the garden, hunting for any weeds that have popped up between the flowers. Butterflies drift past and the sun sinks into the golden hour that makes everything shine like magic.

The weather is so nice you can't resist the urge to take a walk on the beach, going barefoot to enjoy the warm sand beneath your feet.

The waves crashing against the shore is a soothing white noise, keeping your mind from wandering too far. Whitesand Bay is popular for tourists, the ideal beach for any type of trip. The main beaches are always crowded and busy, but the residential areas keep the beaches private to prevent disturbances in neighborhood. That means only a few other people are out on the beach at the same time as you, letting you enjoy the peace and quiet.

There are a few sculptures and murals farther up near the road that you like to visit when you go on walks. This neighborhood is apparently popular with artists of all kind. You're beyond lucky to have gotten the house you did, able to practice for hours on end without getting a noise complaint. Instead, your nearest neighbors tell you often how much they love listening to you play when you run into each other. Some of the other neighbors have slipped notes into your mailbox, requesting certain songs. You make sure to practice at the same time everyday so they know when to listen in for their request.

Sure, you're not particularly close to anyone these days, but this little neighborhood and your own passion for the cello is healing something in you that you thought would forever be broken.

You're a rising star in the world of classical music. People seek you out for your talent with the cello.

No one's around to overshadow you. For once, you get to be special, to take pride in your skills. You've already got plans to travel with an orchestra, playing around the world in grand venues.

But that's for later. For now, you practice for you current orchestra, a local one that plays in theaters and opera houses.

You can't help but hum a portion of the song you've been practicing most recently, walking along the beach. Hermit crabs scuttle away from you and sea shells poke out from beneath the sand. The sun sinks farther, golden light disappearing in favor of purple turning into the blue of twilight. Soon enough, the moon will be out, shining bright enough to hide the stars.

You reach the end of the private beach, sand turning into tide pools and rough sea rock. From there, you turn and make the walk back, thinking about what to eat for dinner.

It's such an ordinary day, but it makes your heart swell with light.

It really is shocking to look back to your time in school and remember how unhappy you are. You never once thought life could be so good to you. You wish you could go back and give the girl from six years ago the reassurance that she's making the right choice, that things will work out and she'll be happy.

The urge to look into your past friends hits again.

You call your parents instead.

The next day follows routine: you wake early and make breakfast, water the plants, take care of chores, attend rehearsal, then explore Whitesand Bay a little more by choosing a new place to get lunch. After that, you return home and practice the cello some more, setting up in the little tiled corner beneath the arched trellis covered in jasmine.

The low, somber tones of the cello sing into the air, drowning out the ocean. You play from memory what you rehearsed earlier in the day, then play a few requests. When you finish a piece you decided to play just for yourself, someone claps.

You startle, jumping in your seat as your eyes snap open.

Standing on the other side of the garden gate is beautiful woman with dark hair swept up into an elegant bun.

"Hello!" she says with a warm smile, "I didn't mean to scare you. You play so beautifully, I couldn't help but stop to listen."

"Oh, thank you!"

"Are you part of an orchestra?"

"Ah, yes," you nod. "Right now I'm with the Whitesand Symphony Orchestra. We've got a show in two months, if you're interested."

"Very interested! I've had the pleasure to work with the Whitesand Symphony Orchestra before. A wonderful group, no doubt more wonderful with you in it."

"You flatter me," you say, unable to hold back a smile.

"It's only the truth. Would you mind very much if we talked a bit?"

You put your cello away and tuck the case beneath the arched trellis. "Not at all. I'd be happy to."

"Wonderful." She holds her hand out from over the gate. "I'm Talia, a soprano singer."

You take her hand and introduce yourself in return. She invites you out for a walk on the beach, half small talk and half business. She's got a show she wants to put on soon, performing songs she wrote for herself, and was seeking musicians to play with her.

"I am simply enchanted by the way you make your cello sing," she says, breathlessly, "I would just love to have you play for a performance of mine."

Talia is bright and warm, a comforting person who is the perfect mix of polite and friendly. She's attentive too, in a way you're not used to. It's enough to make you flustered, unsure of how to handle that steady attention, the careful consideration of every word you offer her.

Your curiosity about her singing is what pushes you to agree to play with her once she gets the performance planned.

It's nothing you've ever done before and nerves twist in your stomach. But the excitement pushes you forward.

To think that someone heard your playing, saw the efforts of your years dedicated to cello, and wanted you to play for them…

You're glad you chose to go down this path.

She promises to attend the concert in two months before she heads off to return to her evening. You expect that to be it until the performance is over, but Talia returns at least twice a week, happy to listen to you practice and then talk to you afterwards. She mentions that she's in Linkon for the time being to support her nephew, and that she's excited to bring her husband over from Verona for her performance. She slyly suggests introducing her nephew to you, since you're apparently around the same age.

You laugh it off, unsure about meeting anyone else while your orchestra performance is coming up soon.

Besides, being introduced to someone by a family member is always awkward. There's a reason you don't like having your parents trying to set you up with people.

The conductor gives everyone in the orchestra a few tickets to pass along to family and friends. You immediately mail two over to your parents, then save the last two for Talia.

She's overjoyed when you present the tickets to her, promising to listen for you specifically during the concert.

Both of you become too busy to meet up regularly two weeks before the concert, but Talia makes sure to text you often, never caring when your responses are late coming or awkwardly short and formal. Her usual kindness helps you loosen up to lightly joke around with her the more you text, and you even gather the courage to ask for her opinion in which black dress you should wear during the performance.

Orchestra takes over your life completely in the last week as everyone practices nonstop for hours on end, playing in the venue to get used to it. Familiarity chases away nerves and the conductor is determined to have everyone play at their best.

Time seems to pass by in the blink of an eye. Suddenly, you're setting up for the concert, smoothing down the fabric of your dress. Around you, the rest of the orchestra members chat lightly as they set up their instruments, making sure everything in clean and put together properly, playing test notes that echo through across the stage.

Spotlights come on, the crew above the stage adjusting everything to make sure everyone is in the light. There's just another half hour before your first official performance with an orchestra and your take several deep breaths to keep calm. Your palms are sweating. As one of four cellists in the orchestra, you can't hide within a row of the same instruments. Any mistakes you make will be very noticeable.

"Nerves hitting you?" Jason asks, leaning closer to you. He's another cellist, one you've played with several times in university.

"If I pass out, make sure you drag my body away to someplace where no one can see me," you respond.

He laughs, then reaches out to pat your shoulder. "Relax, you're gonna be fine. You're one of the best cellists I've ever met. Trust yourself a little more, yeah?"

"I'll try," you offer, taking your bow in hand.

He mimics you, and the two of you play a quick set of scales to make sure everything sounds right.

People begin to settle down in their seats, positioning their instruments to begin playing. The conductor smooths down his suit lapels, then stands on his podium. He claps his hands together to get everyone's attention, waiting just a few seconds for the light chatter to die down as everyone turns to face him.

He lifts his hands, nodding to the winds section. They follow his lead to play a portion of the opening song, getting into the rhythm together. He does the same with all the other sections, making sure the whole orchestra is in tune and on time, no discordant notes jumping out of the symphony.

The conductor lowers his hands, and everyone lowers their instruments. You take a final centering breath, pulling yourself into the focused state where the rest of the world fades away.

"Everyone," the conductor begins, "Doors will open in just a few minutes. In half an hour, we'll begin the concert. Now is the time for any last minute restroom runs or water breaks. And above all else, I want you all to know that I am immensely proud of how we've come together over the past few months. This will be a wonderful performance, and I'm excited for the audience to celebrate your skills just as I do."

You join in with the others in applauding, calling out their own thanks and appreciation to the conductor.

The stage becomes a rush of movement, everyone hurrying to run to the restroom or grab some water. You join in the small crowd of people leaving the stage just to walk around the halls backstage, getting rid of some of the anxious energy that's built up.

This is hardly your first performance. You've done solo concerts plenty of time in university. You've played with the orchestra there, too. But the lingering doubt of your own talent never leaves you and you always fear letting the audience down, suddenly forgetting how to play and making a fool of yourself. It'll never happen, of course, with the muscle memory of just how much you've practiced guiding you through every song, but the fear remains nonetheless.

You're called back to the stage with the other stragglers, hurrying to get to your seat while the curtain is still down. Jason gives you a good luck fist bump, a custom the two of you started in your freshman year at university, and then you're both setting up your cellos, bows drawn and ready, sheet music open on the stands.

The rest of the orchestra settles down around you. As you all become still and focused, the sounds from the audience begin to filter in: shuffling feet, the low din of conversation, a few coughs here and there.

A hush falls upon the crowd. The curtains lift the next moment, revealing nothing but darkness, and then the lights come on, shining down on the stage.

The conductor lifts his arms. You take a deep breath, lifting your bow up to play the first note, and the concert begins.

Time moves differently while you're performing.

While preparing for it seems to last several centuries, decades upon decades collapsing into themselves the hours before opening night, the moment you begin to actually play before the audience, it speeds by in the blink of an eye. Music rises into the air and you add to it with the notes you've learned by heart over the past few months. Everything falls into place and you're no longer just you on the cello, but a part of a greater whole, interconnected. The world narrows down to the music sheets, the cello, the growing dull ache in your wrists as you play for an hour straight until intermission.

The ten minute break is spent rolling your wrists out and stretching with the other cellists. Part of you is still floating somewhere off in the distance, making this momentary pause from the music feel dream-like and easily forgotten.

The rest of the concert passes by similarly, and you almost can't believe it when you draw the bow on your final note, extending it, letting it echo through the stage and slowly fade out.

Applause rises from beyond the stage. The lights blind you, keep you from seeing anything pas the first few rows, but of those rows, you can see people give a standing ovation. The conductor turns and bows to the audience, then spreads his arms wide to prompt the audience to give even louder applause to the members of the orchestra.

You stand with the others at the conductor's cue, then take a quick bow, holding onto the neck of your cello with one hand.

Once the applause peters out and the lights brighten, people begin to leave. You join the others backstage to put your cello and bow into their case and pick up your purse, then say your goodbyes.

The performance trance fades and you're left exhausted but pleased. The only thing on your mind is dinner and sleep.

You almost don't notice the calls of your name as you enter the lobby. It takes a few seconds of searching to find your parents waving at you. Smiling, you change course to meet them, hugging first your mother then your father. They congratulate you on the successful concert and praise your skills with the cello, then eagerly pry details of your current life out of you with the skills of a master interrogator.

Your father is the one to help you escape, clocking how tired you are. He makes you promise to visit them for dinner once the concert finishes out in two days, then pulls your mother away as she throws one last insistence that you start looking for dates soon.

Shaking your head fondly, you pick up your cello case again and head out the door make the walk back home.

"Wait up!"

For a moment, you think that call is for someone else. Then you place the voice as Talia's and turn to face her.

"I'm so glad we caught you before you left!" she says, speed walking towards you in her heels. Following after her is a man with purple hair and bits of paint staining his white shirt.

This must be the Rafayel she's been wanting you to meet for so long.

"Hey, Talia," you greet, "I'm glad you could make it. What did you think of the concert?"

She claps her hands together, delighted. "Oh, it was beautiful! The conductor wrote some truly stunning pieces. I would love to work with him some time. And what did you think, Rafayel?"

"It was nice," he answers blandly. "I couldn't really pick out your playing from everyone else's, but I'm sure it was decent."

Talia slaps his shoulder. "Don't be rude!" And she turns to you, apologetic. "I'm sorry, he's a little sour that I pulled him away from a painting while he was 'in the zone'. Though he really needn't take it out on you."

"I don't mind," you say, shrugging. "I wasn't expecting him to be able to pick out cellos from the rest of the orchestra anyways."

Rafayel glares at you. "Wow, excuse you? My ears are great. I can absolutely pick out cellos."

"If you say so," you reply, disinterested. He's not really the silly sweetheart Talia described him to be; the attitude he has on display right now makes you glad you've refused to meet him before. At least now you can say that the two of you have talked so there's no need for her to push for you to meet him again.

"I totally can," Rafayel insists, pouting.

…Okay, so you're not done with this topic apparently.

"Defensive much?"

"Am not!"

"Literally proving my point," you say. "Are you always so determined to make a bad first impression? I'm almost impressed by how quickly you put your foot in your mouth."

He flushes, all the way up to his ears, and you can't bite back your grin. Talia rolls her eyes, but smiles at you as she lightly slaps Rafayel's shoulder again.

"I'm sure you're eager to rest after your performance," she says, "We won't keep you for any longer."

"Good riddance," Rafayel mutters under his breath. You graciously pretend not to hear him, even as he eyes you for a response. Talk about immature.

"Alright. Thank you again for coming! It's always nice to know the tickets I gave away were put to good use." You take a step back. "I'll get going now. Got a long walk back."

"Wait, you're walking?" Talia asks.

"Carrying that?" Rafayel adds, pointing his chin to your cello case.

Your gaze darts back and forth between the two of them. "…Yes? Is that a problem?"

"As a matter of fact, it is," Talia says primly. "We'll drive you back. His car has plenty of trunk space for your cello."

"Thanks for asking, Auntie," Rafayel grumbles, "My car is totally yours to offer to whoever you please."

"I'm glad we're in agreement. Help her with her cello?"

He rolls his eyes, but doesn't protest, moving to take the case from you. You frown and move it away from him. "I can carry it just fine myself."

"I know, but she wants me to do something nice for you. Let me or neither of us will ever hear the end of it."

You glance at Talia, who is watching you two with an expectant expression. Hesitantly, you hand it over, watching warily as Rafayel takes hold of the handle and lifts the case up with ease. He fishes a set of car keys out of his pocket and tosses it to Talia, who snatches them cleanly out of the air and turns on her heel to walk to the parking lot.

With no other option, you follow after them, anxiously keeping an eye on your cello case. As a fellow artist, though of a different field, you don't think Rafayel would purposefully damage your cello. But since he's not a musician, you're not sure he knows how walk around with a giant instrument without causing harm.

Despite your worries, he's careful with your cello. The earlier friction between the two of you is left behind as he keeps the case off the ground, stabilizing it with his other hand as he walks.

Talia leads you to a fancy sports car. The sight of it makes your eyebrows rise, wondering how rich they actually are. You quickly smooth out your expression to something more neutral when you catching sight of Rafayel smirking at you, clearly pleased by how impressed you were with the car.

What an annoying guy.

She pops the trunk open and Rafayel lays the cello case in it slowly and carefully. You let out a relieved breath once it's safely down. He doesn't slam the trunk closed either, which you're begrudgingly grateful for. Most people use too much force, not accustomed to being careful with instruments. Apparently Rafayel is a little more thoughtful than that, thankfully.

He opens back seat door for you with a flourish. "After you, fair lady."

You roll your eyes, but get into the car.

He closes the door once you're seated, then moves to take the passenger seat. A glare from Talia and a finger pointing to the back makes him circle around the car to sit next to you.

"Got put in time out, huh?" you can't help but comment.

"It's not time out," he protests as Talia sits down and starts the engine. "She just wants me to make friends with you and thinks this is what's going to do it."

"So not time out, but a play date?"

"You know, I liked you better when your mouth was closed. Can we go back to that? I think we should go back to that."

"I think you should instead reflect on this experience. It's how people feel when you open your mouth. Maybe it's time to do a little thinking on that."

"I can't believe she told me you were a 'sweet girl' with a talent for music. Where's the sweetness? I only see a sour old maid in the body of a twenty-something nobody."

"I'm only a sweet girl to people who deserve it," you say with a bright grin. "Perhaps one day you'll be worthy of it. I highly doubt it, though."

Rafayel gasps in offense, then begins a long monologue about why he does deserve it, listing out everything he thinks is a positive trait about himself. You wonder to yourself if he's ever going to question why he even wants your sweeter side when the two of you have been like cats and dogs from the first second together, but Rafayel is on a roll and clearly doesn't intend to stop. You listen with half an ear, amused despite yourself, and catch Talia's eyes in the rearview mirror.

You don't burst out laughing, but it's a near thing as you wretch your gaze away and try to keep your composure as Talia drives down the streets of Whitesand Bay.

A hand snaps by your ear, making you jump. You glare at Rafayel, batting his hand away.

"Are you even listening?" he demands, "I'm clearly talking!"

"Talk about something worthwhile and I'll listen."

You really did intend to ignore him for the entire ride, then go home and never see him again, but Rafayel keeps drawing you back into this verbal spar. It's more fun than you want to admit. You've never been like this with anyone else, always preferring to go quiet and let yourself fade from the conversation rather than be rude out loud. Something about Rafayel brings out a fire you didn't know as burning in you, and you can see in his eyes that he's enjoying this too.

It's almost a disappointment when Talia pulls up outside your house.

Rafayel goes quiet, peering out the window to get a good look at where you live.

"My place is bigger," is his observation.

"Compensating for something?" you suggest as you unbuckle your seatbelt and open the door. He follows suit, opening the trunk before you can and lifting the cello case up.

"I'll carry this to your door," he says, "So you can have your hands free to unlock it."

"Oh. Thanks." His sudden moments of thoughtfulness throw you, cracks in your understanding of his characters. He's annoying and easy to rile up, but surprisingly considerate at the same time. You've never met someone so confusing and entertaining.

You dig your house keys out of your purse, then lead Rafayel up the walkway to your door. You open it and set your purse on the small table at the entryway, then take your cello from him. He keeps a hand on it until he's sure you've got a good grip on it.

"Thanks again," you say, "And thank Talia for the ride from me too."

"Sure thing," Rafayel says, stepping away. "I'll see you later."

"Please don't."

You wave to Talia as Rafayel gets back in the car, allowed in the passenger seat this time. They drive away and you close the door. Now that you're home, you kick off your heels with a great big sigh of relief and make your way to the bathroom, eager to have a relaxing bath with the lavender scented salts you rarely let yourself use.

You unwind for the day. A successful opening night means you treat yourself to take out from your favorite curry restaurant on Linkon. Once your stomach is full and sated, you fall into bed and are asleep in no time.

With opening night done, there are only two nights of concert left. You expect the second day to be quieter and more boring since no one you know will be in the audience. Closing night will come with a celebratory dinner afterwards, so you have something to look forward to, but that's still a day away.

Day two goes similarly to opening night. Pre-performance nerves come back, but they're easier to shake away now that you've played each piece for an audience. You yawn as you leave the venue, wondering if you should bring a pair of flats to change into for the next night so you don't have to walk home in heels with the weight of your cello against your hip as you carry it.

"Need a ride?" comes an unfortunately familiar voice.

You freeze, close your eyes and hope it's not who you think it is, then look at Rafayel.

"What are you doing here?"

He's leaning against the wall of the lobby, idly spinning his car keys around his index finger. "I thought you could use a ride home, since you were ready to walk all the back to your house last night. And look at that! I was right."

"I haven't agreed to let you drive me home."

"But you will. I mean, between walking home in heels and getting a ride in my car, the answer's obvious, don't you think?"

You hate that he's right. Part of you wants to insist on walking just to spite him, but you wouldn't but it past him to slowly drive beside you the whole way, window rolled down to annoy you.

"Fine," you relent. "Since you're so kindly offering, let's get going."

He moves to take your cello case from you again, and you figure you might as well indulge in his politeness while it lasts. Though, you do show him how to properly carry the case so it doesn't bump into anything and damage your cello.

The two of you fall back into rhythm, cheerfully sniping at each other as you get in the car and join the slow moving line of people leaving the parking lot.

He brags about an exhibition he's done that ended with all his paintings sold and more prestige to his name. You retaliate by calling him desperate for attention and saying that your own skills are too good to be bought like that. You don't give material objects, but experiences that people chase after.

Rafayel never gets seriously offended and every insult carries an undertone of laughter. He very unfortunately endears himself toward you and you can't help but wish that the drive would last longer. He doesn't seem eager to say goodbye either, happy to let the car idle in front of your house as you move from the fun back-and-forth you're having to complaining about overbearing managers and conductors.

It's only after your stomach growls, reminding you of important things like hunger and how tired you are, that you force yourself to get out of his car. Rafayel follows once again, carrying your cello up to the door for you.

"Should I be expecting to see you tomorrow?" you ask as you unlock your front door.

"Obviously. If I'm committed, I'm committed."

"Cool. Tomorrow, then."

He hands over your cello and stares at you for a long moment after you smile at him in thanks. Was that weird of you to do? You're not rude, unlike him, and you know how to thank someone for what they do for you no matter your personal feelings.

You heft your cello case up to get the weight of it on your hip and awkwardly nod to him. "Alright," you say, "See you tomorrow."

Rafayel blinks like he's coming out of a trance. "Right," he says, "Right. See you." And then he turns and retreats back to his car, though he doesn't leave until you wave at him and go inside.

When the concert finishes the next night, closing out the weekend of performing, the orchestra is in high spirits. The joy and relief of a successful concert sweeps you away as well, hugging the other cellists backstage. The conductor reminds everyone of the reservation he's made at a popular restaurant in two hours, wrangling promises out of everyone to be there on time.

You say quick goodbyes to the other cellists then head out to the lobby. Instead of waiting by the door, this time Rafayel waits right where you enter the lobby, snatching the cello case out of your hands before you can even process that he's there.

"Rude," you say, allowing him to carry it for you.

"The correct thing to say right now is thank you," he returns, already walking to the door.

You decide to play along for once. "Thank you," you say as dramatically as possible, holding the door open for him. Rafayel sticks his tongue out in response because he's secretly never left middle school.

You open the backseat door of his car as well, watching to make sure your cello is placed gently and held in place by the seatbelt. Before you can move to the passenger seat, Rafayel grabs hold of your shoulders and says, "Wait for one second."

Curious about this change in routine, you do, watching as he grabs something from the driver's seat.

The bouquet he pulls out is large and colorful, full of white, pink, and purple flowers, wrapped with a gold ribbon. He passes it to you with a sincere smile. "Congratulations on a successful show," he says.

You take the bouquet gently, feeling touched to the point of tears. You lift the bouquet to hide your face in the flowers, grinning helplessly.

The only other flowers you've ever gotten were from Zayne at your high school graduation, and your parents at your university graduation. You would have never expected Rafayel to get you anything, especially for a show he only attended because Talia dragged him along.

"Thank you," you manage to say, blinking back happy tears, "These are lovely."

Rafayel shrugs awkwardly, looking away. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I've got great taste. Don't make such a big deal out of it. Let's get you home."

He opens the passenger seat door for you and you carefully slide in, taking care not to crush any flowers.

He's clearly uncomfortable with your sudden display of gratitude and brings up all sorts of topics to distract himself. It takes you a few minutes before you feel composed enough to fall back into the easy banter that springs up between you two. You then discover how easy it is to send him into angry, impassioned rants when you get common art history knowledge purposefully wrong.

Insisting that the Mona Lisa was painted by Mona Lisa herself nearly made him miss the turn onto your street, furiously arguing with you and bringing up facts that you happily ignore in favor of pissing him off more.

"Get out of my car," he says angrily, "I can't believe I'm sharing space with someone so uncultured."

You laugh at him, hopping out. Even while grumbling, he gets out to carry you cello to the door again.

"Can't believe you," he continues as you open the front door, "I don't even want to show you my paintings anymore. You clearly won't appreciate them properly. Ugh. Whatever, get some sleep or something."

"Sure, sure. I have dinner with the rest of the orchestra later tonight, but I'll be sure to get plenty of sleep after that."

"Wait, really? Where?"

You give him the name of the restaurant the conductor has reserved for the night. You've never gone before, but you've heard nothing but good things. Now that the concert is over and you can focus on other things, you figure it would be a good idea to look up where it actually is so you don't get lost trying to find it.

Rafayel glances around, brow furrowed. "Do you have a car?"

"No, I don't really need one. Linkon's got decent public transportation and I usually just take my bike during the day."

"Hmm. No."

"No, what?"

"You're not taking the bus. I'll drive you," he decides with enough finality you don't feel like arguing. It's his time, anyways! You'll just kick him if he complains about driving you around when he's the one who offered.

Besides, it'll be faster than taking the bus and walking. And maybe you want to keep spending time with him, too.

"If you say so," you say agreeably. "Pick me up in an hour and a half? I need to showed and get changed."

"How about I just hang out here until you have to go? That's way more convenient than driving back home just to come back here again."

You hesitate. With the concert taking up so much time, you haven't really been able to clean as you normally would. You're in no state to host a guest, much less one you've known for barely three days.

"Won't you be bored?"

"Nah, I'm sure I can find some way to entertain myself. What do you say? Gonna invite me in?"

Well. It's not like he can say anything about your house that will actually hurt you. You shrug and push the door open. "Fine. Come on in. Shoes off at the door, please."

Rafayel shuffles in with your cello. You hurry to take your heels off, and run to the kitchen to set the bouquet on the counter, then take your cello from him so he doesn't accidentally drop it as he tries to toe off his shoes. You leave him at the door to set your cello down in the living room, near the back door to the garden. Rafayel appears soon after, looking around with clear interest.

"Feel free to take a seat," you tell him, nodding to the couch. "Remote's on the table if you want to watch anything. I won't be long, so don't go poking around while I can't see you!"

"I make no promises," he says with a grin as you head for your room.

You shake your head, amused, then close the door behind you. Normally, you'd take your time and enjoy a nice hot shower before getting ready for the dinner. With someone else in your house, you speed through your usual routine, blow drying your hair instead of letting it air dry. You get dressed in comfortable black dress pants and a pale blue blouse, not too formal but still classy enough that you won't feel out of place in a nice restaurant.

Rafayel is on his phone when you reemerge, the television on and playing a medical drama at a low volume.

"You're not playing with any other groups for the next few months, right?" he says without any context.

"No?"

"Cool. Auntie's gonna buy your plane tickets to Verona so you can stay with her for a month and practice for her performance."

"I can buy my own tickets."

"But you won't! Just accept it, she's excited to host you."

Apparently your next month is spoken for. No time for any other plans. You'll reschedule with your parents for some time when you're back in Linkon City.

It is incredibly flattering that Talia wants you to play for her so much.

You drop down onto the couch next to Rafayel, checking your own phone for any messages and notifications that came in while you were performing.

Rafayel peeks over to see what's on your screen, rudely, and you shove him away with your elbow. "Nosy, much?" you say.

"You can't blame me for being curious! What, you can invite me in but you can't let me see what's on your phone?"

"Exactly."

"You're ridiculous," he complains, slumping back. "I just wanna know what your other friends are like."

You hesitate, good mood plummeting. Rafayel frowns at you, clocking the suddenly change in mood. You shrug and say, "I don't really have any friends."

"You have me," he argues.

…You didn't actually know he thought of you as a friend. The two of you just met, after all.

"It's been three days since we met."

"And? We get along well enough and I enjoy spending time with you. So we're friends. Don't be weird about, okay?"

"Sure, I guess. Bet you'll get bored of my in a week's time."

"I would not," he replies confidently, "Listen. We clicked instantly. Finding someone I can talk shit with so easily is practically unheard of. You're out of your mind if you think I'm ever going to stop bothering you."

That's such a weirdly sweet thing for him to say. You wish you could believe him, but nine years of friendship all for nothing but silence and hurt remind you why you shouldn't put much faith in his words.

Rafayel gives you a hard look. "You don't believe me."

"It's a nice sentiment and all," you say, "But it won't last. No one else ever did."

"Old friends treat you bad?"

"I'd rather not talk about this with someone I met three days ago."

He lifts his hands in surrender at your tone, then glances at the time. "Want to head over now? You'll be a little early, but that also means you can grab a good seat before everyone comes in fighting for a chair."

"Sure." You take the escape he's provided, eager to leave the uncomfortable conversation behind. You have to keep reminding yourself that you don't really know Rafayel, that three nights of being driven home hardly equate to trust. It's so easy to talk to him that you almost forget that you haven't known each other all your lives. Nothing has ever been this easy with your old friends. It scares you a little, how smoothly Rafayel fell into your life.

He talks about random things the whole drive over, easily accepting your silence and not prodding you for details, though his frequent glances betray his curiosity.

"Let me know when you're ready to be picked up!" he calls as you head into the restaurant. You give him a thumbs up and walk inside to get started with your dinner.

You're not the first person there, despite being early, and you're deeply relieved to find Jason already sitting at a table. The two of you talk about future plans until the rest of the orchestra starts filing in, settling around tables in the largest dining hall the restaurant has.

The conductor gives a small speech once everyone's seated. His clear pride in the success and efforts of everyone there makes something warm settle in your chest.

Then waiters are flitting around, grabbing everyone's orders, and you let the good food distract you from everything else for the next few hours.

Rafayel texts you two hours later, asking if you're still alive. You let him know you're doing well and that you'll be heading out in another hour. As soon as that hour passes, he sends a barrage of stickers, artsy bird bonking its head against a window, demanding attention. You send back a cat rolling its eyes, but say your goodbyes to Jason and the others at your table, thanking the conductor for everything as you pass by the leave the restaurant.

Out front, Rafayel taps the steering wheel impatiently.

"You didn't have to wait out here when I hadn't called you yet," you say, putting your seatbelt on.

"Well, you weren't communicating enough! Besides, it's late and I didn't want you to be drinking too much."

"Oh, I don't drink."

"Not a fan of the taste?"

"More like I never had a reason to?"

He side eyes you. "How did you get through university without drinking until your liver cried for mercy?"

"I just never went out. Not like I really had anyone to go out with anyways. The club and bar scene isn't really for me."

Rafayel looks at you thoughtfully. "Well, if you want to experience some of that scene, I know the best bars in Whitesand Bay. I promise they're all quieter places that you'd enjoy."

"I don't know…"

"Tell you what. You think up a list of everything you haven't been able to do because you didn't want to do it alone, and we'll do them together."

"You don't have to—"

"Apparently I do! Usually people just accept when I say that we're friends. But you're making me work for it. I'm gonna get you to admit we're friends soon enough," he says, vaguely threatening. "It's only a matter of time."

"Weirdo," you say with a laugh. "Fine, I'll make the list, but you're not allowed to complain about anything on it. Think you can handle that?"

"It's a deal."

…

True to his word, Rafayel insists on going out with you every chance he gets to cross things off your list. You were hesitant to share some of the things on it, embarrassed by how much you missed out on by being unwanted and uninvited, but Rafayel refused to let you be ashamed of trying new things. His insistence and patience helped you become more comfortable, looking forward to the days when he would text that he's on his way.

So far, while in Whitesand Bay the two of you have done: 1) roller skating through a park, 2) snorkeling, 3) rating the drinks across three of Rafayel's favorite bars, 4) picnics on the beach, 5) a trip to the farmer's market.

And when you went to Verona to begin practicing for Talia's performance, Rafayel tagged along and dragged you outside every time you finished practicing. He became your tour guide for Verona, taking you to the best hole in the wall cafes and restaurants, local artist galleries, antique shops and boutiques, even a hidden cove on a beach that only locals know about.

It's the most fun you've had in a long, long time. Laughter comes easy when you're with him and you barely notice the time passing by, too distracted by all the stupid things he says.

Rafayel is both determined to make you accept his friendship and incredibly sincere in his affection for you.

He doesn't ask about your old friends, thankfully, but sometimes he gets a look on his face, almost looking through you to your past, offended on your behalf for how you've been treated before. It usually comes when you thank him for waiting for you while you bought a souvenir, or how startled you are when he remembers something about you.

Talia never seems to mind that he steals you away so often. She's content to wave the two of you away with a warm smile as soon as practice finishes.

Everything is going smoothly and you're comfortable with the pieces you have to play. None of them are complex, meant to accompany Talia's singing in the background rather than demand attention from the audience. The other musicians, a cellists, flutist, and violinist, are easy to work with and just as dedicated to their craft as you are.

It's only a week before the performance that Talia reminds everyone to have their clothes prepared. She requests everyone to wear light gray formal wear and minimal accessories. You realize rather belatedly that you haven't packed any clothes fit for performing in and quietly start to panic as everyone else nods and assures her that they have everything ready.

"I need to go dress shopping," you tell Rafayel when he appears to spirit you away after practice.

"So suddenly?"

"I didn't bring anything I can perform in for Talia's concert. I need to get something decent today so I don't have to do panicked last minute shopping the day before we perform."

"I know a few good places to start," Rafayel says, "Come on, I'll help you pick out something nice."

Relieved to have his help, you follow after him as he leads you down the street and to the charming main street of Verona's seaside district. The stone roads are smooth and clean, and lights are strung up between the buildings, giving it a magical feeling. It's always busy here no matter the time of day, filled with tourists wanted to indulge in luxury. Rafayel walks with the ease of a local while you scramble to keep up, dodging around people.

He takes you to a fancy boutique that most people pass by without entering, instead choosing to look longingly inside. You feel out of place as soon as you enter; the place is fancy and modern and you're jeans and tank top stand out like a sore thumb.

"Start looking over there," Rafayel directs you to one side of the store, "I'll look on that side. We'll meet in the middle and have you try on everything that might work."

"We could just go to a normal store. I don't have the money to just get a fancy, high end dress suddenly!"

He gives you strange look. "Who said you were paying? I brought you here and I have the money to spare. Don't worry about it and start shopping!" He gives you a light push to the rack of dresses, then quickly hurries away before you can retaliate.

By now, you know he's not going to relent. He'll trip you and run ahead to pay if he has to. He's done it before.

Whatever, you'll just find a way to pay him back later.

Shaking your head fondly, you beginning to look through the dresses available, looking for first any that are light gray, then seeing if any fit your tastes. With those criteria, the selection is sparse. You end up with only two dresses to try on: a satin floor length mermaid gown with a slit going up to mid thigh, and a sweetheart pleated satin ballgown with a lace corset.

Rafayel only brings back one dress for you to try on: a metallic silver drape gown with a neckline a little too low for your comfort.

He catches your expression when he presents it to you and rolls his eyes. "At least try it on," he says. "It won't hurt to see how it fits you."

The store attendant helpfully guides you to the dressing room, hanging the dresses onto an empty rack outside the door so you can try on each dress one at a time.

You start with Rafayel's pick just to get it out of the way. He nods approvingly when you exit the dressing room, doing a little spin for him to see.

"It looks good on you," is his verdict, "It's your confidence that needs work, not your appearance."

"That's not helpful," you say, escaping back into the dressing room to try on the next dress.

He politely claps with the other two dresses, reluctantly impressed with your choices. You like both of them and can't choose which one to go with. When you say as much to Rafayel, he starts grilling you on accessories and shoes to help decide which dress would work best. You just give him wide, befuddled eyes, and he breaks off laughing, promising to help with those as well.

With his advice, you go with the sweetheart ballgown. It's wrapped up and packed into a hard bag at the counter, and then Rafayel is shoving you aside to hand over his card.

The attendant smiles at the action and comments on how sweet it is for him to be treating his girlfriend to a new dress.

You both choke and sputter, denying it.

"I promise you I have better taste than this," you insist, pleadingly.

"Excuse you, I'm a catch!" Rafayel gasps. "But yeah, we're not dating. I'm too high maintenance for her to handle. Her loss, honestly."

The attendant laughs and apologizes for the assumption, then wishes you a good evening.

Rafayel grabs the bag before you can, and steers you out the store with a hand on your shoulder so you can't snatch it back from him. He's weirdly insistent on carrying your things for you and you still don't know why. It's been weeks. Surely you should have an answer to this by now that isn't 'he's just weird like that'.

But here you are.

You go through two more stores to get all the accessories chosen and your shoes bought. It's overwhelming, so you gladly let Rafayel handle everything. Most of your own clothes shopping is at small, quieter stores, where you go in and out quickly. You know your own tastes and what you want, so it's just a matter of finding those things in your own size. No need to deliberate over everything the store has to offer when you clearly know what you want.

At the very least, Rafayel seems to be having the time of his life. He takes his time, looking through various accessories and holding them up to you with a considering eye. He gets you way more than what you need for one performance, but he insists that you have extra for future concerts, so you give in and let him spend his money as he pleases.

Most of the accessories he buys are adorned with pearls, but he does get a few simple silver pieces as well, and a pair of earrings despite the fact that your ears aren't pierced.

Going to the shoe store after that was a relief, if only because you got to sit down while Rafayel wandered the store, looking at what's offered. He darts back every few minutes with another pair of heels for you to try. You do have to draw the line at five inch heels; you're not athletic in the slightest and just looking at how high those heels are make you feel like you're falling.

He does jokingly return with an eight inch pair that you threaten to hurl at his head.

Rafayel has a discerning eye. He's an artist, it should be expected that he has more refined tastes. After seeing the dresses you chose for yourself, he's clearly got a better idea of what your tastes are and accordingly searches for things he thinks you'll like.

You're really going to owe him so much for this.

He insists on getting two pairs of heels for you: simple silver strap heels for this concert, and a pair of golden heels with angel wings extending from the backs.

With all the bags your shopping trip had ended in, you're able to take half from Rafayel, teasingly spinning out of reach when he tries to take them back.

You think you're starting to understand why people like shopping with their friends so much. With your old friends, you always ended up watching MC dress Caleb and Zayne up until Caleb forced her to put on the outfits he put together for her. You had to pick out your own things and only occasionally got one of the others curiously looking at what you had chosen. The only time you asked about why MC doesn't dress you up the same way, she had said that you had a quieter vibe and wouldn't like how much energy is needed to try on all those clothes. She didn't want you collapsing in the dressing room after she runs you ragged with outfit after outfit!

…Yeah. You preferred to go clothes shopping by yourself after that.

Though you are tired from shopping with Rafayel, you don't want the evening to end just yet. It doesn't take much convincing at all to wander around the streets of Verona with him, enjoying the night life that arrives as the streetlights turn on.

You take in the sites, gently ribbing Rafayel as he complains about his manager Thomas insisting he return to Linkon City soon to finish a painting. All his groaning and grouching about people interrupting his 'pondering time' means he can't get the mood of the paintings right, as he needs such specific circumstances to create anything. It's clearly not procrastination, so you take to coming up with more absurd reasons as to why he does all of that until Rafayel can't argue with you, laughing too hard to speak.

You return to Talia's house well after the moon has come out, struggling to bite down your laughter so you don't interrupt her night. Rafayel shushes you frantically between giggles, sneaking up the stairs to leave your newly purchased outfit in your room.

The light, giddy joy that settles in you from that night stays for the rest of the week, all the way up to the evening of the performance. You can't remember the last time you spent so long laughing, your cheeks a little sore with all the smiling you've been doing. Rafayel just makes everything fun. It's as if all your worries melt away the second he bursts into the room, already in the middle of a dramatic monologue of whatever is on his mind that given moment.

Talia does forcefully shoo him away after lunch, stating that she can't have him distracting everyone as they set up.

He still sticks around long enough to drive you and Talia to the hotel where she's rented out a ballroom for her concert. She has enough ties in the community that such a large, extravagant space is needed, and you have no doubt that there will be others who are visiting Verona just to listen to her sing.

The staff have already decorated the ballroom, a few round tables and chairs at one end, close to the tables where food will be set out for people to pick through at their leisure. There's a spot in the corner, slightly elevated, for another small group of musicians to play at after Talia's concert.

The actual concert will take place outside, in the gardens that overlook the ocean. It's apparently a very popular place for weddings, so it's always kept in good shape and carefully decorated. Chairs are set out for people to sit and enjoy her singing, and the stage has chairs for you and the other instruments accompanying Talia's voice.

You and Talia are the first to arrive, but within ten minutes, everyone is there and preparing. You've all been given a room for the night, just to have a place to leave your cases and so you can change into your formal clothes before the concert begins. The hotel staff have been happy to have you all in, no doubt due to the open invitation Talia gave them to sit in on the performance as well, and you're all welcome to stay the night and get a free, complimentary breakfast the next day.

You're more interested in trying a new cafe with Rafayel the next day, so you doubt you'll stay the night, but you appreciate the gesture nonetheless.

With everything set up, you practice with the others for a few hours to make sure you're all ready to perform at your best.

Talia does a few vocal warm up, but saves singing for the concert, not wanting to put too much strain on her voice.

An hour before the concert is set to begin, you head back to your hotel room to change into your dress. You grab something small to eat as well, generously provided from the hotel's restaurant.

The dress fits you well, and you can't help but admire yourself in the mirror, doing a small twirl just to see the fabric move. Then you get to work on fixing up your hair, using a hair stick Rafayel got you to sweep your hair up into a simple, elegant updo, carefully held in place. You add a thin necklace with a pearl pendant and a matching pearl bracelet to complete the look.

Satisfied, you head back to the garden to sit down and wait for the concert to start.

People are steadily filing in as the other musicians join you. They gather in small groups, chatting, or find seats immediately. Everyone is dressed to the nines and you're immensely grateful that you let Rafayel get this dress for you; the usual, semi-formal ones you are more comfortably buying would not have been enough.

Talia enters with Rafayel and her husband, who walk her up to the stage, then into their reserved seats in the front row. Just her presence is enough to have people sitting down and quieting themselves, looking up at her with admiring eyes.

She begins with a quick welcome, thanking everyone for taking the time to attend her concert. Then she shifts her feet, and you take your cue to lift your bow.

The flute comes first, a single smooth note that lingers in the air. It invites the other instruments to join; first the piano with a gentle series of falling notes, and then the violin and you on the cello, coming in with low notes in the background to give the music more depth. You lose yourself to the familiar songs, carefully threading each note of your cello with the singing of the other instruments as Talia's voice rises and falls, a perfect harmony each time, captivating the audience. It still captivates you, honestly, but you're here to play for her, to make her shine, and that's all the motivation you need to keep your focus strong and steady, bow dancing across the cello strings.

The evening darkens around you as the concert goes on. The sun has fully sunk below the horizon and the soft pinks and purples of the sky fade into the night. Stars glimmer overhead and the moon gradually brightens, shining down on Talia.

She looks magical. Mythical. Like she walked right out of the pages of a fairy tale just to enchant the audience for a night.

The crowd is enraptured. The moment her voice drifts down and steadily fades out, an awed silence settles over the space. Applause comes a little late, but it's large and loud, thunder breaking apart the spell she cast on everyone.

Talia beams and takes a bow. Then she gestures to the musicians behind her, and you join the others in taking a small bow fo your own.

She thanks the audience and invites them into the ballroom for dancing, eating, and socializing, taking her husbands hand to walk with him down the aisle between seats. The rest of the crowd follows, swept along in her wake.

You stick back and linger with the other musicians, rolling out your wrists and shaking out your fingers. Rafayel is already gone, needing to stick with Talia for the first hour in the ballroom, but he promised to grab a plate of the best finger foods while you put your cello away, so you don't bother seeking him out yet.

Only the piano player goes into the ballroom immediately after the performance. Perks of playing such a large instrument: moving it around is someone else's problem.

You hurry to get your cello packed up again in your hotel room, and take the time there to take off your heels for a few minutes. They look great and you're glad Rafayel found them for you, but wearing them for hours on end is deeply uncomfortable.

Well, there is a reason why people say beauty is pain.

Once you feel rested enough, you put your heels back on and make your way to the ballroom. You're not used to staying after a performance. Usually, you go back home after saying your goodbyes to the people you played with, and then pass out for the rest of the night. It's odd to return to a venue without your cello in hand. It almost feels like you're doing something wrong.

You slip in through the main entrance and skirt around the edges of the room, looking for Rafayel in order to get the food he promised you. People are gathered around Talia, talking to her eagerly.

Off to the side, Rafayel speaks to someone, giving them their full attention.

That's interesting. You begin to walk over, wondering what could have him so focused on someone when he's usually so quick to wander off and pay attention to nothing but his own thoughts.

"Hey, Raf," you say as you get closer, "I hope you got that plate for me—"

He shifts, turning to face you with a grin. In doing so, he reveals the person he was talking to.

MC.

You freeze right then and there, rooted in place as you meet her wide eyes. She's shocked; she must have just gotten her and missed the whole performance if she didn't know you were here. She's not dressed for the night either, wearing what you recognize as a hunter's uniform.

She says your name, breathless and hopeful, and you feel sick.

Five years.

Five years and all it takes is hearing her voice again to revert you back into the insecure teenager whose only friends didn't want her. You had been doing so well, chasing happiness in your life without them in it, and now she's come crashing back to make it all mean nothing.

Rafayel looks between the two of you, brow furrowed. "Do you two know each other?"

"No. Not anymore," you say, just as MC says, "Yes."

He looks at MC closely, and you can see him being pulled in towards her, unable to escape her gravity.

You know how this story goes: she is everything you're not and no one has ever chosen you before her. Rafayel will see how she's more fun to be with, more interesting, more everything and will only find you lacking in comparison. He'll pull away, focus his attention on her, and you'll be alone again.

Stupid, you tell yourself, This is why you don't get close to anyone.

"Okaaaaay," he says, stretching out the word, "I'm getting some mixed signals here."

"We're old friends," MC says before you can even open your mouth. "Childhood friends. We grew up together."

"That's in the past," you cut it, "We don't have any kind of relationship anymore."

She has the gall to look hurt by that. Rafayel looks at you with a sharp gaze and you can see him begin to turn against you. The hurt of that betrayal, expected but still devastating, makes your heart ache.

"Can we talk?" MC tries. "Somewhere quieter, maybe."

"No."

"Please. You left so suddenly and we never really got to have a conversation before graduation—"

"I said no. I cut ties with you and everyone else for a reason. I'm going to head back. See you later, Raf."

"Wait!" She begins to move towards you, no doubt trying to grab hold of your wrist to stop you from escaping her, but Rafayel bodily blocks her. "Rafayel?"

"She said she didn't want to talk," he says, voice hard.

You blink at him, the sight of his back filling you with a strange comfort. Is he… choosing you? Even with MC here, he's taking your side and keeping her away?

…That's not how things usually go.

"Please, we ended things on such a bad note. I just want to make things better," she pleads. "You don't understand how important it is to me."

"No, but I can understand why she rarely talked about her old friends. I knew she had been treated badly before, but I didn't know it would be you. I know you can be better than this, so why are you ignoring everything she's saying just to get your own way?"

Your chest feels tight. The confrontation is getting too much attention from the people around you. You need to get out.

You turn on your heel and start walking back to the door, eager to get away. You hear both MC and Rafayel call out to you, but the room is getting too hot, the walls closing in, and you're not sure you can keep from stress puking if you stay any longer.

Rather than return to your room, your feet lead you back into the garden. Around the back, past the stage set up for Talia's performance, is a little gate that opens up to a small path that goes down to the beach. You slip through and walk away from the hotel. The wooden steps soon turn to sand and you take off your heels before you can fall over, walking towards the waves that turn silver in the moonlight.

You let out a slow breath, then sink down to sit in the sand. No doubt it's getting all over your dress and you'll be shaking sand out of it forever, but you just can't bring yourself to care.

This was not how you were expecting the night to go.

How long has Rafayel known MC? Has he been friends with her this whole time? He never mentioned her, or anyone else, to you and you figured he was a reclusive artist who only really talked with his manager and his family. Somehow, you manged to get onto the exclusive list of People Rafayel Seeks Out, without ever knowing that MC was there too.

Behind you are muffled footsteps, sands shifting beneath weight.

"You okay?" Rafayel asks, coming to sit down next to you.

"Fine," you reply shortly, keeping your gaze fixed on the ocean.

"That was… rough, wasn't it. Here, eat something." He grabs your hand and balances a plate on it. "There's nothing worse than being upset on an empty stomach."

"I'm not hungry."

"Try? Please? Don't let all my effort to get you the best pieces go to waste."

You glance over at him and catch him pouting, making his eyes wide and watery and extra pathetic. You can't help but let out a little huff of laughter, bring the plate up to balance on your knees.

"Fine," you say, giving in. "I'll eat."

As much as you hate to admit it, the food does lift your mood a little. Rafayel got you fancy little cakes and plenty of chocolate covered goodies. He keeps quiet as you eat, leaning back against his hands as he takes in the view, completely relaxed as if you hadn't ruined his night by reacting so badly to the sight of MC.

It makes you embarrassed now. You're an adult who pays taxes and you're now a successful cellist. You can be mature in dealing with people you don't like. So what was with that overdramatic reaction to MC? Why get so defensive and run away so fast when she's supposed to mean nothing to you now?

This really is the worst.

At least the performance went well, even if you completely flubbed the event afterwards.

Once you clear off your plate, you sigh and set it on the sand. "You're not going to ask about what happened back there?"

"Not unless you want to talk about it. Do you want to talk about it?"

You shrug.

"Hm. Well, it sounds like you want to talk about it. Just get it off your chest, and if you don't want me to bring it up ever again, I won't."

You fiddle with the hem of your dress. Just as you suspected, it's covered in sand, the fine grains getting into the threads. There's a lot you can say, a lot of history you can reveal that you've kept close to your chest these five years. But there's a more pressing question on your mind. "How long have you known her?"

"Just about a year now. I met you a few months after I met her. She walked into my studio unannounced while I was painting because I was s suspect in a case. Apparently, some guy died after buying one of my paintings and she thought I did something to it that attracted Wanderers. We kept running into each other afterwards and got to know each other better."

"I never knew."

Rafayel sighs. "Yeah, well. She's usually too busy for me. Our schedules don't line up easily. I invited her here tonight, but I honestly didn't think she'd show."

"…Why are you out here with me?"

"What do you mean?"

"You invited her here. She's your guest. And she's been your friend for longer. Should you be inside with her?"

"Nope," he answers easily.

"Why not?"

"Because you're here. I may have known her for longer, but I'm closer to you. And if my best friend is upset, then I'm not going to leave her alone."

You duck your head, trying to hide the pleased flush at being called his best friend. You've never been anyone's best friend before. He's really choosing you over MC. He means what he's said.

"I'm fine on my own, you know," you say.

"Sure. I am too. But that doesn't mean we have to be alone. I want to be here for you."

"And not for MC?"

"She's got plenty of other people," he replies. There's some bitterness in his tone, one you've heard in your own voice plenty of times back in high school. "I know she's got a wider support system and plenty of people in her corner. She doesn't need me. But you do."

"I better not just be a charity case to you."

"Of course not! I'm vain, not shallow. I wouldn't be your friend just to make myself feel better. I'm your friend because you're fun to be around with. It just feels like we click, you know? Like we get each other. You don't expect anything from me and it's great, because you've accepted all of me so far. It's been really nice, having you in my life."

"Shut up," you say, shoving him, "I can't believe you. You're usually so annoying and you choose now to be sappy? I'm trying not to cry!"

"Cry all you want, it's fine. Better get all those feelings out now, right?" Rafayel scoots closer and puts an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into him. You lean against him and stop holding back the tears, letting them fall as they please. You've very glad you skipped the mascara today; at least cleaning up will be easier without streaks of black running down your face.

Rafayel holds you without comment as you cry. He doesn't offer any more comfort or needless platitudes and it's just what you need. It means to world just to have someone there with you, patient and kind.

It takes some time for the tears to finally come to a stop, and by then you're tired and slightly dehydrated. With a deep breath, you sit up straight, pulling out of Rafayel's arms.

"Feeling better?" he asks.

"Yeah," you answer. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Want to go back?"

"I really just want to go to sleep. I'm probably going to spend the night here."

Rafayel sighs. "Guess I'm staying the night too."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to. Don't worry about it, okay? I'm doing this because I want to. Come on, let's head inside." He stands, brushes the sand off of his pants, then extends a hand to you. You take it, letting him haul you up to your feet.

A cold breeze sweeps in, making you shiver. Without wasting a second, Rafayel takes off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, then picks up your heels and the plate from the ground.

Normally, you'd complain about him trying to do everything for you, but you're exhausted and emotionally wrung out. You don't have the energy to do it all on your own. The warmth of gratitude grows in your chest and you take a moment to thank the universe for letting him come into your life.

He takes care not to run into many people as you return to the hotel. No one stops you to talk and MC is nowhere to be seen. You tell him your room number and he walks you there, then stays for a while to make sure you're alright on your own. He only leaves when you kick him out, insisting that you're fine and that you'd like to sleep now, something you can't do while he's pacing the length of the room.

Rafayel promises to swing by in the morning so you can get breakfast together, then leaves. You take quick shower and leave the dress on a hanger, then fall into bed, eager to put the night behind you.

True to his word, Rafayel is up bright and early, waking you up for breakfast. He's cheerful and a little too determined to keep you in high spirits, but it's effort you're not used to receiving from others, so you don't complain about it too much.

With the concert over, there's no need for you to stay in Verona any longer. You say your goodbyes to Talia and her husband, and return to Linkon City with Rafayel. He insists that you give him the rest of the week to spend time together, cross more items off your list of things you've never done before. He even helps you add new things so that there's always more to do.

The pain of running into MC is quickly swept away by Rafayel dragging you all over the city.

That doesn't mean the thought of her doesn't linger. Despite his best attempts to distract you, your thoughts keep circling back to your old friends. You made the right choice is cutting ties and moving away, but it's been so long. The wall you put up to stop any thoughts of them from coming through has crumbled into dust. Have they changed? Do they regret how they've treated you? Do they think about you at all?

The marks of their friendship is an open wound. The scab has been ripped open. You're bleeding all over again.

It's a terrible idea, but you can't help but want to talk to them all one last time. You just want the answer to the question you've been asking all this time: why did you treat me like that?

Reaching out is daunting. Terrifying. You don't want to do this alone.

"Don't be stupid," Rafayel says, flicking your forehead. "You're not alone. Obviously I'm going to go with you when you meet up with them."

"When?" you repeat, leaning away from him and sinking back against your couch.

"Yeah. You've clearly been thinking about this a lot. Just get it over with! Talk to them one more time and then it'll stop haunting you!"

"It's a terrible idea."

"Oh, definitely. But you want some closure, don't you? Even if it ends badly, at least it'll end. It won't keep hurting you like this."

"You're terrible. Stop enabling me," you groan.

"Well, someone clearly needs to do it! You're too passive. Take the risk and get it over with. I'll be with you the whole time, promise."

"I don't have their numbers anymore," you try. As much as you don't want to see them again, you also really want to have this conversation. You weren't ready for it back then, but you think you are now.

Rafayel pulls out his phone. "I gotchu. I'll give you MC's number, and she can organize the rest of your old friends into this meeting. Make it her problem, not yours."

…Well, there goes your last excuse. Sighing, you input MC's number and start typing out a message. Rafayel leans closer to read over your shoulder as you type and retype endlessly, rethinking every word you use.

Unsurprisingly, he gets bored of it very quickly. "Do you want me to write it for you?"

"Please," you say, handing him your phone.

"Kay." He types out a quick message and sends it before you can panic any more about it. "Done."

You take your phone back to see what he said. I'm ready to talk. Meet me at Rafayel's place with the others in three days at noon.

"Why your place?"

"So they don't have to come here, and we don't have a whole big scene for the public to watch anywhere else. My place is big and can be neutral ground. Plus, it'll be easier for me to kick everyone out if they upset you."

"My hero," you say drily, "Let me guess. It's also because Thomas is bugging you about a new painting and you want to have an excuse for why you're not done with it yet."

Rafayel grins. "You caught me."

You roll your eyes and turn your attention back to the movie the two of you were supposed to be watching. You're not really sure what's happening in it, at this point, but there's a body on the floor, people yelling, and an alarm blaring so clearly something important must be playing out. You gently nudge Rafayel's foot with yours and say, quietly, "Thanks. For all this."

"Oh? What was that? I don't think I heard that right! Say it again," Rafayel needles, annoying. You push his smug face away, biting back a laugh. "Noooo, come on! This is a momentous occasion! Genuine thanks! From you!"

"Shut up, I've thanked you before."

"Only when I buy you stuff because you have manners. This is different!"

"You clearly heard it, so I'm not repeating myself. Watch the damn movie."

He sticks his tongue out at you because his favorite hobby is imitating grade schoolers, and you reach for the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table to throw a piece at him. He tries to catch it in his mouth, misses miserably, and glares at you, daring you to comment as he picks it up from his lap and eats it.

You kindly don't mention it and put all thoughts of your old friends out of your mind. You'll deal with them in three days. Until then, you want to enjoy the time you spend with Rafayel.

Three days pass far too quickly. It's like you blinked and suddenly you're at Rafayel's house, following him as he tries to clean up a bit upstairs.

The office Rafayel never uses is a mess of hastily put together art supplies. Bottles of half empty paint cover the table, along with extra canvases and old bedsheets, stained with paint. He's managed to clear enough space for five chairs to fit, all the other furniture shoved against the walls.

When you asked why you weren't using any of the other larger, cleaner rooms like the other guests he entertains, he primly remarked that using the nice rooms is a courtesy he doesn't feel like extending to them.

Fair enough. It is his house, after all.

He doesn't bother bringing out refreshments, but he does make sure you get brunch with him an hour before noon.

The relief you felt at finally dealing with this years old problem with Rafayel by your side has dissipated. All that nervous energy is back, making you fidget and pick at the skin around your nails. Rafayel keeps slapping your hands, trying to get you to stop, but the urge is too strong to fight for more than a few minutes.

Even with three days to prepare, this is a lot. There's a part of you that will always been a lonely fifteen year old, wondering why your friends don't seem like care about you, and she's terrified of what they'll have to say to you. The loneliness they gave you is one you can never put down. You have no idea what to say, and though you want to keep your cool and pretend you're unaffected by them, you're sure you're going to make a mess of things.

As if knowing what thoughts run through your mind, Rafayel brings his hands up to squish your cheeks together and sternly says, "Everything's going to be fine, okay? Don't get lost in your head. I'll be here the whole time. Promise."

You feel touched only for a moment. Then he makes you nod your head, snickering as he moves your head around. You slap his hands away and jab him in the stomach as retaliation.

The doorbell rings a moment later and you take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what comes next.

Rafayel goes down to bring everyone up. You take a seat, tapping your foot against the floor as you wait.

The sudden confrontation of your past is not big and dramatic. It's not a tearful reunion full of apologies or old feelings rekindled. When your old friends file into the room, it's quiet. All you feel is the old dull pain of what you once felt for them. For all the years you spent wishing they would really see you, having their eyes on you now makes you want to hide.

MC can't take her eyes off of you, drinking in the sight of you as though you came from a dream and you'll vanish at any moment. Caleb's eyes skate up and down your figure, as if cataloguing all the changes, trying to see all of you, committing you to memory. Zayne stares for a long moment at your face, then smiles—a soft, sad thing—and looks away.

They all sit down and don't say a word.

Rafayel is there a second later, dropping in to the seat next to you, crossing one leg over the other at the knee. He's reclined back, the image of careless arrogance, his very posture screaming how much he doesn't care for the other people in the room.

It's very intentional. In the months you've spent together, one of the first things you've noticed about him is how he wields image and body language as a weapon.

You force yourself to look back at your childhood friends. MC is the same height, but she's put muscle on, no doubt from her job. Caleb seems to have gotten taller, somehow, and the last softness of youth has fallen from his face. Zayne has settled into his looks, much more mature now, a pair of thin frame glasses perched on his nose.

"Sorry for suddenly calling you all here," you start, hesitantly.

Rafayel loudly makes a buzzer noise, as if you've given the wrong answer in a competitive T.V. show. "Nope, start over. Don't begin with apologies when you've done nothing wrong."

"Do you have to be here?" Caleb asks, glaring at Rafayel.

"I'm the only one she actually wants here," Rafayel gloats.

"Cut it out, you two," you snap, "This is hard enough as it is. Ugh. Fine. Long time no see, I guess. How have you all been?"

"I've been well," Zayne says, politely reverting to small talk to prevent any awkward silences. "And you?"

"Ah, same I guess. I play the cello professionally these days."

"I saw a performance of yours online. You're very talented."

How unexpected. You didn't think any of them would care about what you were doing, much less take the time to listen to you play. "Thank you."

"Why did you want to talk so suddenly?" MC asks suddenly. "You cut contact with us completely and refused to talk to me at Talia's concert. What changed?"

Well, no more stalling it seems. You take a moment to gather your thoughts and put pick out the words you want. You don't want to mess this up. This is the last time you'll see them and you want it go well, just so you can finally move on without feeling guilty about it.

"Honestly, I'm still not ready to face all of you, but I don't think I'll ever be. I wanted to put this behind me before I go any further." You take a deep breath. "Was I ever really your friend? Did I matter at all? Why did you keep me around for so long just to treat me like I was nothing?"

The guilt on MC's face is clear. She pulls down the sleeves of her light cardigan, keeping her hands busy. Zayne lowers his gaze to the floor, regretful. Caleb, though, doesn't stop glaring at Rafayel.

"You were our friend," Caleb says, "If you wanted to be closer to us, or wanted us to treat you differently, you should have said something instead of running away and hurting all of us."

You blink, shocked. There's genuine anger in his words and it hits you like a physical blow.

Rafayel leans forward, flames beginning to dance between his fingers. "Watch it," he warns.

"I did try," you say, thinking back to all those attempts to reach out to them, to be heard, to change things for the better. But it was never something you could do on your own. They had to meet you halfway, and instead they left you stranded. "You just never wanted to listen. How many times were the plans I made canceled by you? How many times was I left out? How many times was I pushed out of the conversation and ignored? Don't give me that shit about trying harder, I did my best! So why didn't you?!"

"You really hurt us all, leaving without warning," Caleb says, stubbornly pushing the blame onto you.

"And you've been hurting me for years! What is your problem, Caleb?! I am still trying to recover from the many years of being treated like I was worthless by you, and you're making it my fault?!"

He goes to open his mouth again, but MC puts a hand on his arm and shakes her head. That's all it takes to make him back down. Figures.

Even now, he doesn't listen to you.

"This was a mistake," you say tiredly. "It was never going to go well. I have my answers, I guess. You can see yourselves out."

"Wait," MC begs, "Give us another chance, please. Just to talk. I am sorry. So so sorry. I really didn't realize until you pulled away. Can't we try again? I'll be a better friend this time, I promise."

"No. Do you really think I'd ever trust you again? It's because of you that I don't trust anyone to be my friend or actually want me around."

"Um, hello?" Rafayel interjects, hurt.

You pat his shoulder. "Except for you, I guess. You're too stubborn to let me keep my distance." You turn back to the other three, feeling bone weary and exhausted. MC is teary eyed and Caleb is scowling, looking away even as he crosses his arms, squeezing himself in some semblance of a hug. He always did that when he was upset when you were younger. It looks like he hasn't broken habit.

Zayne is quiet. You glance at him curiously, but he doesn't say anything.

"I don't think there's anything else for us to say. We can move on now. Thanks for coming by, it's been enlightening."

Rafayel stands and summons a dagger into his hand with a swirl of fire. He idly twirls it around his fingers, a clear warning. "Let's go," he smiles dangerously, "Office hours are over. Time for you all to go."

Caleb stands and pulls MC with him, leaving without looking back. His shoulders are a tense line as he hunches into himself somewhat, and MC tries to catch your eye as she's dragged out, a final apology tumbling from her lips.

Zayne stays where he is.

"Aren't you going?" you ask.

"I would like to talk without them here," he says. "They tend to… complicate things. I never got to say it properly before you left, so I'd like to take that chance now: I'm sorry. I was a terrible friend to you and I didn't notice until it was far too late. There's no excusing my behavior. I should have known better, but I treated you like you were disposable even as you quietly supported me through so much."

Zayne bows his head to you and all his words are sincere. There's no attempt to make you think it was all your fault, or to make it about himself instead. He keeps the focus on you and how you were hurt. He apologizes without expecting anything in return.

Was it because he moved away after getting into medical school so young? He got to grow up partially away from Linkon City, to mature without MC and Caleb influencing him.

A weight lifts from your heart. It's easier to breathe suddenly. "Thank you," you say softly. "I appreciate your apology. I don't know if I can forgive you for all those years just yet, but I think I can get there one day."

He looks up slowly, hope shining in his eyes. "Truly?"

"Yes. You were the first one I met, remember? And you were the only one to see me that last week. MC and Caleb are more stuck in their ways, but you've changed."

"For the better, I hope."

"I think so."

He nods. "Thank you for hearing me out. And it really was nice to see you again. I'll head out now, I have a shift at the hospital in a few hours."

You stand to go with him, biting your lip as you fight the urge to do something stupid. But isn't today all about facing your fears? About doing what you can to live with no regrets?

You gather your bravery and reach out once more.

"Zayne! Before you go… can I hug you? Would that be alright?"

He pauses, startled, then his expression softens into something lovely. "Of course." He opens his arms and waits for you to come into them. You wrap your arms around him slowly. When he carefully holds you, arms around your upper back, you relax and sink into him.

Somewhere, sometime long past, there is a little girl who is scared and lonely and in a new neighborhood. Somewhere, sometime long past, there is a young boy walking up to greet the new neighbors. She peeks at him from behind her father, and he will make a split second decision right then and there. He'll hold out his hand and invite her to play. She'll hesitate but reach out and this one choice will set the rest of her life in motion.

Somewhere, sometime even now, that little girl is inside you and she clings to her first friend in Linkon, who is back in her arms after so many years of distance and heartache, and she will still be young enough to believe in new beginnings.

"I don't think I can ever have a relationship with Caleb and MC again," you say into his shirt, "But if you'd like to try again… I'll give this one more shot."

He squeezes you lightly. "I would like nothing more. I will be better this time, I swear. And if I'm not, then you are more than welcome to send your new friend to set me on fire."

"…Don't you have an ice EVOL?"

"And what of it?"

You can't help but laugh, pulling back to look at him fully. "I'm gonna need some time to process everything that happened today, but I'll talk to you soon. Okay? Here, give me your number." You pass him your phone so he can add himself to your contact list once more.

He does so, and leaves shortly after with little fanfare. Rafayel returns to his office, no doubt having eavesdropped from outside, and gives you a long look.

"So, you're forgiving the doctor?"

You nod.

"Better than the other one. What a jackass."

"Says one to the other," you tease, laughing when he flicks embers at you. "Thank you, Raf. Seriously. As rough as that was, I'm glad you pushed me to do it."

He shrugs, looking away with something sad in his eyes. "Closure is important. Otherwise you just end up clinging to ghosts. Take it from someone who's lost a lot of people: cleanly cutting ties is the best way forward, even if it hurts."

"Did it hurt for you?"

"Of course it did. But I got you in return, so I think it's worth it." He shakes his head. "Never mind all that! Let's go do something fun. How do you feel about a beach picnic?"

"Sure," you smile, "That sounds nice. Let's go shopping, buy some fancy charcuterie board foods, really make a day out of it."

"You just want an excuse to go to that fancy grocery store with my money."

"And? You get to buy stuff too. Let's go!"

You take hold of his hand and pull him out the door, eager to leave the past behind. He follows, grumbling dramatically but still allowing you to have this.

The old wounds will always remain, but they don't seem so devastating any more. Time and care have let them fade. The last weights of that painful friendship finally fall away; you hadn't even known you were still dragging it around.

You will never be that lonely girl ever again.

In her place is an accomplished cellist with a dear friend in a famous artists, and a new beginning with a renowned doctor. Her life is quiet and filled with little joys. The world sings around her and she hears not what she lacks but all she can gain should she have the courage.

It's about time for you to be braver.

"Ooh, the claw machine is open!" MC says, jumping up from her seat. "Come on, let's go! I want to break my plushie winning record today!"

Caleb follows after her easily. "You mean I'm going to win the plushie winning record today. You know my skills are unbeatable."

Zayne leaves the table a second later, content to follow along silently, watching them bicker.

Not a single one of them looks back at you. You stay seated, slowly sucking up the dregs of your drink.

Was it high school when you finally started noticing? Sophomore year, without any shared classes with MC or Caleb. The three of you had the same lunch period, and while you were grateful for it at the start of the year, it soon became the hour you dreaded most during the school day.

Suddenly, instead of it being the three of you always together, with Zayne only returning during summer, you were stuck watching Caleb and MC get closer with new inside jokes, never looking away from each other. You couldn't complain about the same teachers or work on homework together. The invites to Caleb's basketball games stopped coming and you decided against going, unwilling to be ignored after the school day ended.

MC took all of Caleb's attention. She took most people's attention, being so cheerful and perfect. Most guys had crushes on her. A few girls did as well. She was everything you weren't and the rest of the school could see that too.

You overheard too many whispers about how you were clinging to her like an idiot, unwanted but unwilling to take the hint.

It hurt to hear. You didn't want to believe it, stubbornly digging your heels into a friendship that had already started fading years ago. You made an effort to join their conversation some more, but it rarely went anywhere without MC changing the topic. You tried to make plans to hang out during the weekends but they were almost always turned down or canceled last minute. You tried to be more active in the group chat, but the sudden silence after you sent a message was too awful to keep up at it for long.

You wondered if it was just you, or if Zayne was being excluded too. Was it just that Caleb and MC were too close? They did live together. It would explain some things.

But when summer came, Zayne slid back into place like nothing changed and MC and Caleb made space for him. He was never ignored when he spoke, his messages always answered, his presence welcomed easily. Your first friend in Linkon City didn't pay much attention to you either.

Invitations to hang out were sparse that summer. You're sure they spent more time together without you, and only occasionally remembered that you existed.

You can vividly remember the day you trailed after the three of them, going downtown to get lunch at a new restaurant that MC had been excited to try. You caught sight of your reflection in the display window of a boutique and the sight of such a plain, unremarkable person following after a group of incredible people hit like a punch to the gut. It was the first time you really realized how pathetic you've been, always rushing to catch up when they're so clearly trying to get rid of you.

It was a long lunch. An even longer day. You spent the evening looking back through your chat history, seeing all the unanswered messages and cancellations. To rub salt into the wound, you checked MC's stories and found pictures and updates about all sorts of things she's done with her friends — all without you in them.

You got the point. It didn't need to be spelled out for you anymore.

You know when you're unwanted.

You wanted to ditch them completely and make new friends that would actually want you around, but by then, social groups had been set in stone. No one wanted you around. They were friendly, but you didn't speak to any of your classmates outside of school. Any attempt of finding a new place to sit at lunch or other people to talk to lead to MC suddenly remembering your existence and physically dragging you back to join her and Caleb.

They refused to let you go, but treated you as if you didn't exist.

You wanted to rage, to start a fight, to scream that if they didn't want you around so badly, the least they could do is let you go. But you bit your tongue and lowered your gaze.

What good would lashing out do?

At least the promise of university reassured you. Soon enough, you'd be out of Linkon City entirely and you can do what you have to in order to never see them again.

And now, two years later, it's almost time to go. Graduation is a week away. Zayne's university already entered summer vacation, the timing lining up perfectly for him to attend graduation. He's only got a few years left of his degree before he can get a residency, and after that it'll be much harder to meet with him.

Good for him. Whatever he or any of the others do won't matter to you soon.

Hang on a little longer, you tell yourself. Just another week, and then you're gone.

"Are you not joining us?"

You look up from where you've been staring blankly at the table. Zayne is by your side, frowning at you.

"Oh," you say, voice flat. "No. I'm going to get another drink, actually."

"I see. I'll join you, then."

Why now of all times? Frustration squeezes your heart and it takes a deep breath to keep yourself calm. "I was thinking of going down the street to that boba shop. I don't think they have the sweet drinks you usually like."

"I'm always open to trying new things," Zayne replies easily.

You eye him, a little thrown off by his insistence to join you. He hasn't spent time with you one-on-one in… years. He's only ever around for MC, and without her there, you never get to see him. Not that he sees you while she's around.

"Alright," you say slowly, getting up. You glance over to the arcade, where MC is focused on lining up the claw to get her next plushie. Caleb leans against the machine, eyes fixed on her. You're not going to bother with telling them where you're headed. They'll be fine without you.

You take your empty cup and toss it into the trash, then leave without looking back. Zayne picks up his pace to walk beside you on the sidewalk. You can feel him staring at you and it makes you want to scream. He's a few years too late to start caring about you.

The silence holds steady as you head to the boba shop. There's a line inside the store and you're quick to join the queue, looking through the menu options hung over the back counter. You're not a fan of overly sweet drinks, and most of the ones offered are fruit based or interesting flavors such as creme brulee or strawberry shortcake. Oolong boba tea sounds decent enough, so that's what you go with once you're called to the counter to order.

After you, Zayne orders something with a long, baffling name that is sure to be 80% sugar.

You wait together off to the side as your drinks are made. Had this been any previous summer, you would have been trying to fill the silence and get a conversation going, but you're too tired to try anymore. The silence stays, lingers, remains unbroken even as Zayne looks at you strangely, a furrow in his brow.

"Let's find someplace outside to sit," he suggests once your drinks are in hand.

You nod and let him take the lead, exiting the store and walking through the streets, dodging other people on the sidewalks. You're getting father away from the arcade where you left MC and Caleb and you're surprised that Zayne doesn't mention them at all. Something's clearly up.

He leads you to a small park, where other people sit on the grass having picnics, watching kids play in the sandbox and swings. There's an empty bench in the shade of a tree that the two of you quickly claim.

You sip your tea, enjoying the flavor, popping boba pearls between your teeth. The day is pleasant, warm but not hot, a cool breeze keeping you comfortable.

Being so frequently ignored means you've given up on having conversations with any of your 'friends'. You've spent a lot of time this year getting lost in your own thoughts, attention drifting off to a space where no one can hurt you. It's second nature to let your mind wander by this point, idly watching people move through the park as you enjoy the mild, slightly bitter tea.

The presence next to you is hard to ignore, but you've had months to master to the art of stubbornly not caring.

Let him glance at you all he wants. Soon, you'll have nothing to do with him and you can start over from scratch.

What kind of life do you want? You've never really thought about it much. Most thoughts about what you want to do with your future devolve into comparing yourself to MC and Caleb, chipping away at your confidence. They're so sure of everything. Caleb already has his eyes set on Skyhaven, following his childhood dream of becoming a pilot. MC's been researching the Hunter's Association and spending more time at the gym to prepare for the entrance exam for the Hunter's Academy.

Zayne is someone you stopped comparing yourself to years ago. He's always been above everyone else; a true genius, making waves in the medical world with his youth and talent.

You, on the other hand, have no promise. There are no special skills for you to show off, no guiding dream to help you figure out what your future will be. To add insult to injury, you're the only one in the group to not have an EVOL.

The universe must really want to make how worthless you are sink in.

You wonder if you can convince your parents to let you take a gap year. Travel around a bit, grow as a person once you're no longer held back by this farce of a friendship. Perhaps you'll even discover something you love, something you can pursue for the rest of your life.

"You're quiet today," Zayne say suddenly. You almost don't catch his words, too distracted by the future.

You give a light hum in response.

"Is everything all right?"

"Yeah. Why do you ask?"

"You just…" Zayne hesitates for a moment. "You seem distant. Did something happen? Are you… upset about anything?"

How ironic to be noticed just as you're preparing to disappear. This attention is coming a year too late to be any use now. "No," you say mildly, disinterested, "Nothing happened and I'm not upset. Just getting ready for graduation."

"Ah. You must be excited to be done with high school."

"I am." This, at least, is honest. The sooner you can leave behind every judgemental gaze and pitying whispers, the better. You'll be happy if you never seen any of your classmates again.

He doesn't say anything after that, so you return to slowly drinking your tea, letting your thoughts spin in whatever direction they please. You risk glancing at him just once and catch sight of Zayne frowning, looking uncharacteristically awkward.

The you of the past would have kept the conversation going. You would have rambled about any number of things to fill the air and help his shoulder's loosen up, eagerly waiting for him to speak as well. Now, you leave him to his discomfort. A sharper, more bitter part of you is glad that he can experience a taste of what he and the other two have put you through.

You finish your tea and stand up. "I'm gonna head back now."

Zayne hurries to stand and follow. "I'll walk with you. I'm sure MC and Caleb will be wondering where we've been."

"Oh, no. I'm not going back to the arcade. I'm going home. You can let them know I headed out early." You start walking away, turning to give him a small wave. "It was nice to see you again. Bye, Zayne."

He stares after you, eyes dark and conflicted. "I'll see you later," he returns. You don't bother replying; there's only one meeting left for the two of you at graduation, and after that, you will silently, gracefully exit his life.

You don't go home right away. Instead, you wander the streets of Linkon City, taking in the small details you rarely ever pay attention to. The city is so full of light, people everyone living their lives. The architecture is all neat and clean, plants decorating the streets and hanging on balconies.

Not a single soul spares you more than a glance. You are just another face among the crowd, free of the burden of being unwanted. No one knows how little your friends care for you and it's a relief.

Yes, this is the right move. This is what's best for you.

After graduation, you'll join your parents in moving to a new city for your mother's job. You'll get rid of every trace of MC, Caleb, and Zayne in your life. You'll make a place of your own in this cold world and find happiness alone.

When you get home, your parents are already in the kitchen, cooking dinner together. They look at you with such obvious concern, worried about you as they have been since you told them about not really being friends with anyone anymore.

At least you'll always have them. Your parents love you, and that's more than you deserve.

"How did it go?" your father asks.

"Same as always," you answer, "Left early too. Can we go shopping tomorrow so I can get a new phone? I want a completely new number so they can't contact me again."

"Sure. We can also buy whatever else you want as a graduation gift."

"I don't need a gift," you say, the same line you've been repeating all month. "Really. I'm just ready to leave and go someplace new. Take a gap year and worry about university once I figure some things out."

"I can see if any of my new coworkers have children your age, try to get you some friends," your mother offers.

You laugh. "No need. I can manage just fine without you setting up playdates for me. I kind of want to find a new hobby, see if there's something I can dedicate myself to."

"Why not pick up an instrument again? You used to play the violin when you were really little."

"Really? I don't remember."

"That's because it was while we lived with your grandparents. Your grandmother used to be quite the musician, and she taught you the basics of the violin."

"Huh. I'll think about it," you say. "When will dinner be ready?"

"About an hour."

"Alright, I'll come back down later to eat." You head upstairs to your room, already half packed. You've thrown away quite a few mementos and pictures of you with MC, Caleb, and Zayne. It had been hard at first, getting rid of the things you treasured for so long, but your own peace of mind is more important than any nostalgic relic. After the first few days, it became easier to just toss it all out, erasing the history you shared with them.

It's not like they'll care about you remembering them. There's no point in feeling guilty, so you kick those emotions right to the curb.

By this point, it's more surreal to see you're bedroom mostly packed up, years of your life put away in boxes. One more week, and you'll be somewhere completely new. The thought both excites and terrifies you.

You scroll through social media to pass the time until dinner; seeing the classmates you follow share snapshots of their teenage adventures, always surrounded by friends, no longer causes envy to stab your heart. These days, you just feel hollowed out and wanting. You must have done something wrong, made a mistake somewhere all those years ago to be where you are now. You wish you could go back and try again, live out your teenage coming-of-age movie the way everyone else seems to be.

Abruptly, halfway through watching a video of someone decorating a cake, you get a text notification from MC.

Hey! Zayne told me you went home first. Hope you feel better soon!

You swipe it away quickly, refusing to open it. Zayne must have thought that you were feeling under the weather. As expected of the future doctor. It's all so… performative. Every time they reach out to you now, you can see how it's just obligation rather than genuine care.

Caleb, of course, doesn't send anything at all. The last message you sent him, two months ago, was read but never replied to. The past year, all the conversations have been started by you, save for when he asked you about what you were getting MC for her birthday.

It's going to be so cathartic to throw your phone into the ocean once you get a new one. You've already moved all your precious pictures of family into an external hard drive and plan to get them printed and saved in an album, so everything else can be lost forever.

The urge to see what they've posted on their Moments is too strong to resist. You know it's a terrible idea, one that always ends with you upset, but it's like poking a bruise. You just can't help it, needing to feel the pain to know that it's real.

MC's Moments is full of pictures, random updates, and Caleb and Zayne tagging her in random things. The last photo you're in is from last summer, a group shot of everyone in line for an ice cream truck at a park. Even in that picture, you're stuck in the back, behind everyone else, fighting to be seen, strained smile and all.

Your own Moments page is quieter. You don't post much, never having much to say and unable to copy everyone else in how they're so comfortable sharing every aspect of their lives online. What you do have are candid pictures of your parents, of MC with Caleb and Zayne, of your classmates on field trips. But never of you. Even in your own eyes, you're rendered invisible.

Well. You did know it was going to upset you!

You toss your phone aside and collapse onto your bed. You'll just stare at the ceiling until you're called down for dinner. It's just as productive as making yourself feel worse through social media, really.

…

The final week of school seems to drag on endlessly. There's nothing for you to do in classes anymore, so you're left just daydreaming until the hour's up and you can move to the next period.

In an effort to avoid MC and Caleb, to make cutting ties feel more natural, you avoid them completely. You leave extra early to get to school before them, you hide in various spots around campus during lunch, then stay twenty minutes after classes end to make sure they've left before you start making your way home.

MC texts a few more times, but you ignore each message, swiping away the notification as soon as you see it.

It almost feels like they give a shit about you now that you've set into action your exit strategy; you catch sight of Caleb and MC walking around campus more than once, clearly searching for someone. Hell, you even get a text from Zayne asking if everything's alright since no one's spoken to you in a while, as if it's not obvious that you're avoiding them for a reason.

Or maybe they do get that you're avoiding them on purpose, they just can't wrap their heads around why.

Whatever. It's too late for them to start caring about you. They've had plenty of opportunities for the last nine years.

Luckily for you, you've mastered the art of being unseen. You can slip between any group of students and disappear. Caleb and MC can search all they please, they're not going to find you unless you want them to.

And then they start trying to invade your house.

Halfway through the week, two hours after school has ended, the doorbell rings. You're up in your room, watching old videos of your grandmother performing in her prime before the Chronoshift Catastrophe. Some of your memories are coming back, though they've remained faded with time: sitting in her lap, awkwardly holding the bow and dragging it across the violin she held, the smell of rosin, the smooth wood beneath your fingers.

She died when you were young, before you moved to Linkon City, so you don't remember much else about her, but the music makes you wish you did. Something about seeing her perform on stage, just a few years older than you are now, makes your heart ache. It's part missing her and part longing, wanting the same peace that seems to settle over her as she brings a piece to life underneath a spotlight.

The doorbell rudely interrupts her performance. You pause the video and listen to one of your parents go to the door, figuring it's just a package.

And then Caleb's voice filters in from downstairs and your body goes cold.

Numbness settles against you, then it's chased off by anger.

How dare he come here. After so many years, this is the day he decides to ruin your peace when you finally decided to choose yourself? All these years, you've been going to them but now is when they decide to come to you instead? To trap you in your own home?

He doesn't come in, thankfully. You've never been more grateful to have shared your frustrations and heartache with your parents. They liked your friends before, but those affections have cooled after being confronted with your pain.

MC comes the next day while you're in the living room, and you get to here your mother's cold voice say, "I'm afraid she's out right now. If it's really urgent, why don't you text her, Emily Claire?"

Fulling naming MC is the clearest indicator that she has been pushed away from your family. She doesn't come back after that, though Caleb isn't so easy to chase away.

On the last day of school, you don't bother going home until hours later, waiting for the all clear text from your parents. You pass the time by treating yourself to taiyaki ice cream, wandering downtown, enjoying your last free day in Linkon City.

Despite all the pain you've been put through with this friendship, Linkon City is where you grew up. It's been your home for so long. You'll miss it when you leave, though you're sure you'll come to love your new city just as much given enough time.

You take a few pictures with your new phone, just to have a few memories of these streets to take with you. It's a relief to be able to use your phone without feeling like you're suffocating; the growing number on your messaging app haunts you, and MC has yet to give up on getting a response from you.

The only numbers in your contact list right now are your parents, and you're more than happy with that.

Naturally, it's when you've let your guard down that you get ambushed.

Zayne, of all people, is out on the street. He spots you first and quickly crosses the street to reach you. You see him too late, and by the time you start looking for someplace to hide in, he's grabbed you by the wrist, looking a touch panicked.

"Why haven't you been answering anyone's messages?" he demands, "We're all worried about you."

You yank your arm out of his grasp. "I didn't answer because I didn't want to. That's all."

"And what's with avoiding everyone? MC's been distraught. She thinks she did something to upset you, but doesn't know what. You need to talk to her."

"I do not," you reply sharply.

"Please," Zayne pleads, "We just want things to go back to normal."

Normal?

They want normal?

Normal, to you, is being ignored and forgotten, feeling alone even when surrounded by the people you call friends. It's being unwanted but stuck in place, unable to leave for someplace better. It's feeling ugly and worthless and pathetic. It's clinging to whatever scraps of affection they feel like tossing to you. It's watching them laugh easily with each other, fitting into each other like puzzle pieces, while you watch from the sidelines, never invited in.

The only thing that's out of the ordinary is that you're not desperate for their attention, clinging to any opportunity to be with them, struggling to be heard or seen or wanted while they get to enjoy their time together.

You've decided to care about yourself for once. To put yourself first and say, this is enough. I'm not putting up with this any longer.

"Do you?" you say lightly. "Do you want normal? The normal where you get to laugh together and talk all the time and know that everyone else is listening to you? The normal where you walk together on the sidewalk while I'm stuck in the back, alone? The normal where I'm talked over and ignored? That normal?"

"We don't—"

"The three of you can still have normal. Nothing has to change at all about how you spend time together, just because I'm not there. You still have normal. But now that I'm not clinging to you all and trying to keep you all happy, you have to think about how you've been treating me and come to terms with being shitty friends."

Zayne opens his mouth to speak, to refute what you've said, but you give him a glare sharp enough to stop him in his tracks.

"Don't interrupt," you hiss. "I am so unhappy when I spend time with you all. You've never had any issues ignoring me while I was around, but now that I'm not there you all suddenly want me back? Quit the bullshit. I've had enough of being treated like this. I never once deserved it."

The shame crawling across his expression is slow, but it's still there. You can practically see him thinking, casting his mind back to all the time you've spent with them, trying to find the truth in your words.

He finds it. You can see the moment he understands why you're so upset.

"I didn't realize," he says quietly. "I'm sorry. I did notice something was off last week, but I didn't think much of it. I thought you were just tired or stressed about graduation."

"I was just tired of pretending everything was fine. I stopped acting like everything's fine. You were the only one who even bothered to look at me, really look at me, that day."

"Is there no way to make things better?"

You sigh, looking down the street. People are giving the two of you a wide berth, unwilling to interrupt the argument. Normally, you'd be embarrassed about behaving in such a way in public, but you can't bring yourself to care about anything right now.

"No," you say, "I'm done. I've spent all week avoiding everyone to make cutting ties easier. I'm moving out of Linkon the day after graduation and then I'll be gone from your lives for good."

"You're leaving?"

You blink. You've never heard him sound so wrecked before. It makes your heart clench in sympathy and you stomp it down. This is the natural consequence for how he treated you. There's nothing you need to feel bad about.

It still makes you feel like the worst person in the world.

"I need to get out. I need to put this facade of a friendship far behind me. I want to start over, someplace new, and learn how to feel like I'm worth something. The three of you are bad for me. Do you get it now, Zayne? I'm tired. I've been tired for years."

Zayne is silent and shame-faced, staring down at the ground. He can't even meet your eyes anymore.

The conversation has drained you of all you had. You can't even feel upset anymore, just hollowed out.

"You can tell MC and Caleb whatever you want. But I'm not talking to them again. Bye Zayne." You almost add a vague well wishing about residency, but stop yourself in time. It wouldn't be sincere, so why bother wasting your breath?

When you walk away from him, he doesn't stop you.

Zayne lets you go. You wish you could feel relieved, but mostly you just want to cry.

But that's a common enough feeling for you that you push it down and keep walking all the way home.

You don't have to say anything when you come home. Your father takes one look at you and sweeps you up into a hug, holds the fractured pieces of yourself together.

When the doorbell rings later that evening, he doesn't bother to open the door. Your parents keep the door shut and locked until Caleb and MC leave as night covers the city.

Graduation is a time you've been dreading. Your entire graduating class together in the auditorium, ready to walk across stage to get their high school diplomas. You're ready to leave the school behind completely, and this is your final hurdle to getting out of here.

It's pure luck that you aren't approached by MC or Caleb.

For once, they've spotted you almost as soon as you walked in, but the vice principal is strict about everyone staying lined up in order of who's walking first, organized alphabetically by last name. You listen intently to her explain the scheduling of the ceremony: the welcome speech from the principal, the valedictorian speech, walking the stage, and then a closing speech which is when they can toss their graduation caps into the air. She gives repeated reminders for everyone to keep their graduation robes on for the entirety of the event, and no never go barefoot in the auditorium. You idly wonder who was responsible for causing those rules to be implemented.

All the while, you ignore the stares burning into the back of your head. Caleb and MC are separated in the line, but both keep their eyes on you and the weight of their attention honestly makes you nauseous.

If it weren't for the vice principal keeping everyone in line, you're sure they would have already dragged you out someplace more private to demand answers for everything Zayne's told them.

You keep your gaze focused straight ahead, counting the seconds until the ceremony begins. It seems to take an eternity before everyone is seated and the lights dim, the principal walking onto stage to deliver a speech to the graduating class and all the attending families.

He goes on at length about how proud he is of the students, encourages everyone to seize the rest of their lives with strength and bravery, to make the most of their futures. The valedictorian goes up next, a girl you recognize from being the lead cheerleader at pep rallies. She talks about everyone's struggles to get here, making the most of their four years in high school. You tune her out a bit; most of what she's saying in her speech is for the more socially active students and therefore have nothing to do with you.

Once that's done, you begin the long wait for your row to be called up to walk the stage. You're in the third row out of the eight total, so it's comes faster than you expect.

Suddenly, you're walking across the stage to polite applause from the audience, shaking hands with the teachers, the vice principal, and the principal. You take your diploma and make your way to the stairs leading off the stage, then following the student in front of you back to your seat.

The next hour and half is dedicated to watching everyone else walk the stage. You let your mind wander, running your fingers over the diploma. It doesn't feel real. Four years, all coming to a close because of this one piece of paper.

After a quick closing speech, the principal congratulates everyone on graduating, and you join your now former classmates in moving the tassel to the left and tossing your cap into the air.

You can't help but smile. It's a small act, but it feels like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

All around you, people move. Friends hug each other with great big grins and laughter, and families swarm the aisle, reaching for their children. You move with the crowd, hoping to escape the chaos before MC or Caleb can get a hold of you.

There's a dinner reservation for just your family at the fancy place you only get to go to on birthdays.

You manage to make it outside where you promised to meet your parents to avoid the crowd in the auditorium. You find them as expected, but what's not expected in Zayne standing awkwardly with them. He holds three small bouquets; one of orange flowers, one of red flowers, and one of white and blue flowers.

"Hi," he says softly, stepping towards you. Your parents watch him with critical eyes, ready to jump in the moment he upsets you.

"…Hi," you return.

"I wanted to congratulate you on graduating. Regardless of anything else, I wanted you to know that I'm proud of you, and I wish you nothing but the best in the future." He hands over the white and blue bouquet, which you take with hesitant hands.

He's not apologizing or asking for forgiveness. He's not bringing up anything you said to him the day before. He's not taking away from your night to make you go through an emotionally draining conversation.

Zayne is a thoughtful and wonderful friend when he tries.

He just never really tried with you.

"Thank you," you say. "They're lovely."

"I'm glad you like them."

"MC and Caleb are still inside."

"I see. I'll go to them now, then. I… hope we'll be able to speak again someday. I'll be looking forward to it, no matter how long it'll take."

"And if I refuse to speak to you again?"

Zayne dips his head toward you. "Then I'll accept that. But if you ever change your mind, know that I would be happy to see you again."

"I'll keep that in mind," you sigh. "I'll be heading off now. Bye, Zayne."

He nods once again, then visibly steels himself and heads inside.

As soon as he's gone, your mother is quick to pull you into a hug. Your father joins in, wrapping the both of you up in his arms. They congratulate you and go on about how proud they are of you, for school and the maturity to decide what you want your relationships to be like.

This has been the hardest choice you've ever made, and you made it again and again for the course of the year. It's finally starting to feel like the right choice instead of the desperate one. It finally feels like you can breathe again.

Your graduation dinner is small but delicious. The night fades away quickly. You all go home as soon as you're done and settle in to sleep.

In the morning, you'll make the long drive to your new home. In the morning, you'll leave Linkon behind without another word, cleanly disappearing from everyone's life. In the morning, you'll start over anew.

In the morning you'll figure out the rest of your life and find the courage to go after it.

But for tonight, you curl up in bed and cry; the mix of relief and grief is hard to work through, but this was inevitable. This was always going to end with you alone, and as much as you wish things could have been different, you also feel so much freer knowing this chapter of your life is over.

Whatever comes next, you will be ready to face it. You'll never put yourself through this pain again.

“I barely coughed.” 

He says, even while knowing his scratchy voice gives him away instantly. You hop off the bed to take the heated blanket Jon offers and lay it over your grumbling boyfriend.  

“He’s been sniffling and coughing all day, but I finally got him to take some meds.”   

“Which was a waste because I have the immune system of a-” 

His sentence is cut off when Jon sits on the bed --his weight dipping the mattress almost comically-- and leans over him to place a hand on his head. Damian lays there frozen and Jon, oblivious as always, gives a hum.  

“You're burning up, and your heartbeat is faster than usual. Seem pretty sick to me.” 

You snicker from behind Jon, watching your boyfriend’s flustered face turn into a scowl. He huffs and turns over so he doesn’t have to face either of you.  

Jon gives you a concerned look and you only shrug, crawling into bed next to your lover and getting comfy under the sheets.   

“Now that you’re here, you can help me keep him in bed, so he actually gets some rest.” 

You prop your head up on your hand and softly poke at Damian’s face, watching his sharp eyebrows scrunch and his lips pout. In all your years dating him, he’s only gotten sick a few times and every time rendered him an irritable, miserable mope of his former slightly less-irritable self.   

“Right. Good idea.”  

Jon slips off his shoes and then his shirt and then reaches for the button of his jeans. You pat Damian on the shoulder to make him roll on his back so you’re both watching the half-kryptonian, neither saying a thing lest he stop halfway through shoving his pants off.  

It's only when he's hopping around with his jeans stuck on his ankle that Damian speaks.  

“What are you doing?”  

Jon pauses, looking up at you both, his glasses askew. “I can’t sleep in outside clothes.” 

You meet your boyfriend’s eyes for a silent moment.  

"Ah, of course.” “...Obviously.”  

You both telepathically decide not to mention the fact that he could just go fetch his own pajamas in Metropolis and be back in a second, or that he has extra pj's in your drawers from the other times he's slept over. 

He places his glasses on the bedside table and clambers onto Damian's other side, spooning the former vigilante from behind while you keep him snug to your chest. You take a few moments to shuffle around and get comfortable before settling into a quiet, calm state of existence.  

Your legs are an incomprehensible tangled mess, Jon's arm rests under your head and Damian rests his head in your warm chest, all kept close together by Jon's strong arm reaching over Damian and resting on your lower back. The faint sound of Gotham traffic a few stories down and slow breathing is all that fills the room.  

Your fingers lightly card through Damian’s dark hair, catching Jon’s lidded eyes.  

“Thanks for coming, Jon.” 

Damian gives the quietest, shortest little hum in agreement, shuffling back a bit so he’s closer to Jon’s chest, who pulls you closer in response, warm fingers lightly brushing where your shirt has ridden up and sending heat all the way up your spine. 

“Don’t thank me.”  

He gives a warm smile, and nuzzles a little closer to Damian, who shivers slightly, fingers digging gently into your waist. You realise it might be a little overwhelming for him to be squished in the loving embraces of the two people he- 

“It’s just what best friend's do for each other.” 

You hide your grimace in your boyfriend’s hair, he hides his frustrated sigh in your chest.  

ᯓ★ 

The sun was blazing hot, the sand was worse, but neither could beat the sight of Damian Wayne stepping out of the waves; toned muscles flexing as he sweeps a hand through his wet hair, droplets slipping down his abs and past his swim trunks, his well-defined thighs flexing with the strain of stepping through wet sand.  

Jon let himself stare longer than he usually would, only turning away when he hears you clear your throat. His neck snaps towards where you lie on your side next to him on the blanket you're sharing, giving him a smug look. 

“Good view, huh?” 

Jon’s eyes widen, flicking from you to your boyfriend and back to your growing grin.  

“Yeah, we’re lucky the weather’s really great today and the waves! Nice waves!” 

Your smile only gets more cat-like, but you hum in agreement.  

“Very nice waves.”    

You both silently watch Damian walk up to your little set up on the empty beach and collapse next to Jon, cocking his head at the man. 

“Why is your face so red, Kent?” 

The second man of steel stammers for an answer before you pipe up from his other side.   

“Yeah, Jon? Did you put on sunscreen?”  

"Uh, yeah. I mean, no. I don't really need-" 

Before he can stammer any more, you're already getting your sunscreen out your beach bag and shuffling closer. His heart and stammering halt when you straddle his hips, uncap the tube and place a tiny pea of the white cream on your palm. 

You take a little with your finger and dot some on his red cheeks and across the bridge of his nose while Jon tries desperately not to stare at your chest, including the faint love bites that travel down your swim top.  

He can’t see Damian smirking at him, but definitely hears it in his voice.  

“Didn’t know Kryptonian’s could get sunburnt.” 

Before Jon can fumble through an answer, you pass the sunscreen to Damian.  

“Well, he’s only half Kryptonition.” 

Damian takes it and moves behind Jon to start massaging sunscreen into his tense shoulders. Jon clears his throat, avoiding your eyes.   

"I didn't know you guys were so... sun conscious." 

Your thumbs trace over his red hot cheeks, making him look you in the eyes.  

"Only because we care about you.” 

The sun reflects in his eyes, you feel his shoulders relax under your boyfriend’s skilled touch and his eyes ease shut as you rub soft circles on his red cheeks.  

“I care about you guys too.“  

You dip your head just a little closer, almost close enough to touch noses.  

“You’re such good friends to me.” 

You're glad his eyes are still closed so he can't see you deflate like a balloon. Damian's pained groan from behind him causes him to open his eyes again and give you a raised brow. You sigh, pat his shoulder and slip off his lap.  

ᯓ★  

Jon’s eyelids are heavy, sleep still weighing on his mind as he tries, though lazily, to remember where he is.   

"-and we have to be subtle about it." 

"You think we've been subtle?" 

Jon blinks the haze away, the hushed conversation only barely registering in his mind. 

“This is tiring, Beloved.”  

“I know, but we can’t overwhelm him.” 

“We won’t, we’ll explain-” 

The conversation stops abruptly when the couch creaks with his weight as Jon adjusts his sore body.  

He groans and stretches, wincing a little as his joints pop with the strain. He hears someone approach and feels fingers gently comb through his hair.  

“Did you sleep well?” 

He nuzzles into the touch, nodding his head with a croaky hum and mumbles something like, "HwamIhere?" 

He hears your chuckle, the sound making him smile. 

“You flew in here after a mission talking about an inter-dimensional imp or something and then collapsed on the couch. You looked pretty knocked up so we let you sleep and changed you out of your suit for you.” 

He doesn't even register the last bit of that, too caught up on how disappointed his mom would be if she heard he barged into a friend's home and took up their space without even asking! 

“I’m sor-” 

You completely stop him in his tracks with a playful kiss in his forehead before he can finish. 

“Don't apologize, Kent. We're glad you came to us.” 

You grab his wrists and pull him up off the couch.  

“Dami’s almost got dinner ready.”  

Jon's never heard a better sentence in his life. He hangs weightlessly on your shoulders as you walk over to the kitchen so he doesn’t have to use his still unconscious legs.  

You lean against the kitchen counter and Jon’s head leans against your shoulder as you both watch your lover in his element. You can help but smile, remembering how awful he was at cooking or really any house chores when you started dating. 

“If you two would stop gawking and set the table, that would be helpful.”   

You both huff in amusement, but do as told. Jon floats over to the cupboard, taking out three bowls and placing them on the counter.  

“Come and taste this.” 

Jon floats over to Damian, who holds out a steaming spoon for him. Jon slips at the soupy contents and lets out a moan. Damian scoffs, eyes rolling but smile unhidden. He lifts Jon's chin slightly,   

“Good?” 

 Jon’s eyes widen a little but he nods wordlessly and Damian gives a short hum before turning back to his stove. The half-kryptonian speeds over to help you set up the table as Damian finishes up the rest of the food.  

Soon, all three of you stuffing your faces with soup and buttered bread sticks. Both you and Damian can tell there's something on your friend's mind by how quiet he is. He only speaks after his second serving, swirling his bread stick in his almost empty bowl.  

“So uh, I have a date.” 

Neither you nor Damian react immediately, save for the look you throw each other from across the table. You pipe up with a smile you hope looks more genuine than it feels.  

“That’s great! Do you think it’ll go well?” 

Damian rolls his eyes as if to say, "Real subtle." and you shoot him a glare. 

“Well, he’s nice and I think he’s into me.” 

He hears Damian scoff and mumble, “Nice?” under his breath. He also hears you kick his foot under the table.   

“If you’re nervous, we could join you. For emotional support.”  

You shrug as if it’s a normal thing to bring your two best friends along for a first date. He rubs the back of his head.  

“Thanks, but I think you guys scared away my last date.” 

You scoff awkwardly, Damian doesn't look up from his soup. 

“What? That’s ridiculous.”  

“She wasn’t worthy.”  

You glare at Damian from across the table and Jon just gives you a raised brow, gesturing to your boyfriend.  

“Okay, fine. But it’s just because we want the best for you.” 

You place your hand in his, giving him a very cautious smile. 

“Because we love you.”  

Damian gives a short nod down at his soup and Jon feels his heart warm and his cheeks flush. 

“Jeez, I love you guys too.”  

His thumb strokes the back of your hand, he looks like he’s glowing.  

“I’m lucky to have you guys as frie-” 

Damian roughly sets down his bowl, cutting him off before Jon can utter the word. You give him another glare, one that he returns this time as Jon looks between you with concern written all over his face.  

You win the staring match when Damian lifts his bowl back up to angrily slurp at the rest of the contents.  

“We’re lucky to have you too.” 

 You pat Jon’s hand and Damian grumbles all the way back to the kitchen to wash his dish and sulk for the rest of the night.  

ᯓ★ 

The moon is high in the sky, a random movie is playing on the tv, and Jon has once again found himself stuck snuggly between his two best friends.  

You were already attached to his bicep not even a minute into the movie, curled into his side. 

Damian’s on his other side, arms crossed, thighs spread apart lazily. Jon’s been trying not to stare at where his pajama shorts have ridden up, the heat of his skin burning where his thigh presses against Jon’s. His head tips back against the couch, lidded eyes gazing at the screen with a bored look.  

Safe to say, Jon can’t seem to focus on anything going on in the movie. Especially not when your fingers idly trace up and down his forearm like that.  

“so... how did your date go?”  

It’s quiet for a moment as Jon thinks up a proper answer. He shrugs,  

“It was nice.” 

It’s always just nice, if even that.  

That might not have been the proper answer because he can feel both of you looking at him and then look at each other and then look at him again. He hates it when you do that, it makes him feel more left out than if you guys just kissed in front of him. Not that he thinks about that often. 

Damian shuffles a bit at his side, his arms flex ever so slightly as he readjusts. 

“What happened?” 

He’s trying to sound nonchalant but both Jon and you know how protective he can be and how out of hand that can get. Jon shakes his head and answers a little too quick. 

“Nothing! Nothing happened.”  

He shoves his hands in his lap, keeping his eyes on the screen. There’s another short silence and Jon just knows you’re doing the couple telepathy thing again. 

You take one of his hands in yours, in the gentle way you always do.  

“Is there going to be a second date?”   

Jon bites the inside of his lip, shrugs and gives a noncommittal, "Maybe." 

His date texted him a few hours ago asking about just that, but he doesn't want to tell you why he hasn't responded yet. You nod slowly and take a deep breath.  

"Y'know, we could help you out? Give you some advice?" 

He wants to laugh. He already knows you can’t help him because you’re the problem. He can’t go on a date without thinking about how he’d rather be hanging out with you and Damian or wondering if you’d like the person or imagining your lips or Damian’s hands instead of the person he's supposed to be on a date with. 

He hasn't gotten laid in ages because the last time he did, he almost said both your names and the guilt almost ruined him.  

He huffs an awkward laugh,  

“I don’t need advice.” 

Damian scoffs and Jon whips his head around, 

“Clearly your dates would disagree.” 

Jon gawks and turns to you, clearly looking for some backup, but the only thing you offer him is a pained expression and a shrug. Damian continues,  

“Your string of failed dates has become embarrassing to watch. You clearly need help.”  

Jon goes to argue again but stops himself with a scoff when he realises there's no point. He rubs his palms into his eyes, already burning with embarrassment. You place a hand on his shoulder. 

“Its okay to be nervous on a date, Jon. We can at least help you feel more...experienced.” 

He throws his hands up,  

"I am experience-" 

"I know. But maybe you just need more practice?" 

He turns to you, searching your face for what that could possibly mean. You're biting your lip in a way that's clearly meant to be hiding some excitement behind it, your hand moving down his arm.  

“Damian’s a good kisser. He could show you.” 

Jon’s eyes go so wide you have to stifle a laugh, waving your hands placatingly. 

“Just for practice, obviously.”  

He spins his head around to Damian when he hears the man’s huffed laughter.  

Damian has his head tilted back against the couch, waiting with a confident smirk. His eyes flick down to Jon’s lips making the man's shoulders tense and his heart stumble.  

“I don't- Well if- I mean-” 

Damian rolls his eyes, and without drawing it out further, pulls Jon by his collar into a hard kiss. Jon makes a high-pitched yelp sound against Damian's lips, one that almost matches your stifled scream of excitement as Damian keeps him close, deepening the kiss.  

When Damian pulls away you can tell it’s too soon for both men. They look forward at the TV, Jon blinking with his mouth agape while Damian schools his face into a deadpan expression.  

“That was terrible.”  

“What?!” 

You can’t help but laugh, only making Jon's embarrassment burn brighter. 

“You don’t reciprocate enough. Just stayed still like a dummy and made me do all the work.” 

Jon holds his hands out in exasperation, more offended than he should reasonably be. 

“That's because I wasn’t expecting it!” 

“Are you expecting it now?” 

Damian takes his jaw and turns his head towards where you've been patiently waiting your turn ever since they separated.  

You give him a moment to back away before meeting his lips, softer than Damian, just getting a taste before diving deeper. He slowly melts against your lips as you deepen it, reciprocating every kiss with his own. His hand stays on your back, keeping you close when you mumble against his lips.  

"Terrible. Needs lots of practice."  

You hear Damian scoff and Jon lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched sound as your boyfriend nips at his neck, trying in vain to leave any marks on the Half-kryptonian's skin. You feel Damian making his way up Jon's neck and pull away, letting Damian have another taste while you work down his neck. You hear Jon moan into the kiss as Damian bites down on his lower lip, trying to get him to open up so Damian can slip his tongue into his friend’s mouth. You slowly start unbuttoning Jon's sleep shirt, each button revealing that toned chest you just have to lay kisses on, trying not to get distracted by the growing tent in his pants. 

When you get to the last button, Jon pulls away from Damian, panting even though he doesn't need to breathe air.  

"You guys don't have to do all this just- just to help me get a date." 

There's a second of silence before both you and Damian let out frustrated groans. Damian grabs Jon's face, looking him in his big blues.  

"Are you serious?" 

Jon doesn't answer and you sigh wearily, playing with the waistband of his plaid pajamas.  

"We'll have to make it more obvious, Dames." 

Damian takes one hand and, without breaking eye contact with your stupid, oblivious, beautiful friend, he takes your hand and grabs Jon's half-hard cock. 

The man hisses, looking down at where you both cup him over his pajamas and Damian squeezes harder, grabbing him by the jaw to meet his eyes again.   

"Call me your friend again, I dare you." 

Jon can only let out a pained groan. You feel his cock twitch in your hand, the wet spot worsening.  

"Oh, he liked that." 

Damian huffs in snide amusement. He backs away from Jon, looking down at you and suddenly, Jon seems to realise how truly fucked he is when Damian leans down to meet you in a sweet kiss.  

He watches the way you both seamlessly trade positions, your hand leaving his cock so Damian can palm him at his own pace while you kiss up his neck. He tries to lean back and relax, but Damian’s hand is so warm and strong, and your lips are so soft and they mumble so gently against his neck. 

“Are you feeling overwhelmed?” 

He nods, unable to say much else with his heart in his throat. He's been dreaming of this for so long and, of course, when it somehow is finally happening to him, he can barely react with anything other than choked sounds.  

“That's okay, we just want to make you feel good.”  

You hold both his cheeks in your hands, he stares up at you like a deity who came down to bless him.  

“Jon,” You place a kiss on his forehead, “Can we do that?” 

He swallows, noticing that Damian's hands have stopped moving, waiting for his answer. He swallows and then nods his head rather dumbly, lifting his hips from the couch so Damian can slip his pants off. 

“Good boy.” 

Jon’s cock twitches. Damian murmurs, “He liked that.” before giving a soft kiss to the his swollen pink tip, smearing the generous amount of pre down his shaft and working him up from the base with the deft hands of an artist and doctor.  

Jon lets out absolutely debauched moans, tipping his head back against the couch and pinching his eyes shut, all while feeling your gaze watching his every reaction. You play with his hair idly, and when Jon's eyes flutter open and meet yours again, all pretense of being the good cop in this situation has evaporated. 

“Kissing is far from the only thing he's good at, but you knew that already.” 

Jon's barely cognizant enough to understand what you're implying and just when he does, Damian's tongue on his cock wipes any cognitive function left, turning him into a whining mess under his two most loved people.  

His hips buck up just slightly as he nears his first release of the night. You keep one of his thighs wide open with your knee, not taking your eyes off his pretty face for even a second. His eyelashes flutter, his lips part and his curls bob with every thrust of Damian's. He feels everything at once; Your fingers in his hair, your lips fluttering softly against his cheeks, Damian's hands, his fingers, his mouth.

Just when his moans reach a crescendo, just when you know he's reached his peak, Damian lifts both his head and hands, leaving Jon's cock bobbing in the air with no stimulation, ruining the man's orgasm completely. 

"Damian!" 

Both you and Jon cry, Jon out of painful betrayal and you out of amused shock. Damian watches the man struggle without a lick of sympathy, wiping his hands on Jon's shirt. 

"Serves him right for putting us through all that." 

Jon lets out a broken whine, not helped by your barely stifled laugh.  

Damian holds out his hand for you and you take it, letting him lift you from the couch and off to your bedroom, calling back,  

"Come, Jonathon. Don't be dramatic." 

You can hear Jon's pained groan from down the hall. No doubt asking any higher being for mercy. 

ᯓ★ 

The room is dark, air still cooling down from a very eventful night. Three bodies lay in tangled sheets, Jon in the middle while you and Damian huddle into him for warmth using his chest as a pillow. It's been quiet for a while, Jon's fingers gently trace your hip and up Damian's back. 

"So...does this mean I should cancel that second date?" 

In unison, you and your boyfriend shoot up to look him in the eyes, expressions holding a cocktail of emotions; anger, exasperation, bafflement, mostly anger. 

He lifts both hands in surrender, a self-satisfied grin on his face. 

"I'm kidding." 

He's then assaulted with pillows and yelled at by both his lovers and almost sent to the couch for the rest of the night. 

ᯓ★ 

--- God. Finally, this fic has haunted me for a week! There may be mistakes but I'm free!!