#not beta'd

Kwei left out a sigh, relaxing his shoulders, “There is a problem with a ship—we are merely disagreeing on where to land.”

“We should land before it becomes a bigger issue.” I nodded, “I’ve had my fill of crash landing for a lifetime.”

“It was one time.”

“Once was enough for me. I felt like a jarred pickle when we crashed on Genna.” My comparison earned me a quirked head, “Never mind, I-I just prefer not to crash land again. You may not remember it, but I do—that was terrifying.” My hand reached up towards his face, “Do we really wanna chance it again?”

Kwei huffed, his hand resting against mine, “You have a point-” He pulled me into his chest, wrapping his arms around me, “I hate when you do that.”

“You know I’m right…” I smirked, “Plus what’s the harm- I survived Genna. Anywhere else would be a piece of cake- plus you’re all here.” I pulled back a little to look up at him, “Who would mess with two Yautja, a Synth, and Bud.”

“You are also formidable, Mi’esui.”

“That’s right.” I nodded, “You should keep reminding yourself.”

This planet was stranger than Genna. The plant life on the planet was huge and plentiful. But what was plentiful in plant life was lacking in fauna. With trees that reminded me of redwoods on earth, atop trunks as wide as elephants. There were even flower bushes that dwarfed even Kwei. I had felt small before, but now I felt tiny—the universe was definitely trying to make a point. I disembarked with Thia and Bud, after a very stern lecture from Kwei about “staying in sight of the ship” and “not disappearing on my own”. I promised him I’d stick close to Thia, after all, what could happen?

I hated myself. I hated myself. I should’ve known, I would jinx myself.

Thia, Bud, and myself walked to the edge of the clearing we landed in, still in sight of the ship. We were taking in all the flora—the colors, the smells, the textures. Thia, in all her infinite Weyland-database-knowledge, was pointing out different plants, what their properties were, their uses, and if we should steer clear of them. We were walking along the line of plants when they parted. There was a worn path between the plants, faded bits of grass transitioning to the reddish dirt beneath them.

“Woah-”

“That’s not suspicious…” I chirped, looking at the height of the plants that parted in front of us, “So… I vote we don’t go in there.” Bud nodded, grabbing my hand, ready to lead us away.

“Aren’t you curious what’s going on here?” Thia beamed. I quirked my head at her, an eyebrow raised as I glanced from her to Bud. I was curious, but I was not about to be the first one to die.

“Uhh-no. Not really- Thia, this is how people die in movies-” My hands flew outward towards the sea of plants, when a rush of air slammed into us, knocking Thia and me forward. My arms flew up around my face to guard it from the whipping air as a swirl of foliage engulfed the area around us. The wind died down, and the plants settled. The plants around us looked different from those we had seen before. I glanced around, finding Thia on her knees staring straight ahead of us.

“Thia, we are so screwed.” I muttered, trying to catch my breath.

“Uhh- we have a bigger problem…” Thia whispered, her eyes zeroing in on something in between the plants, “We need to move now.”

I looked in the direction she was looking, and between the leaves and vines, I found three pairs of eyes, glowing and focused. On us, “What do you think the chances are I could outrun whatever that is…”

“Probably not likely…” We slowly rose to our feet. My hand went to the hilt of my knife, and I positioned my feet, ready to sprint for my life.

“You go left… I’ll go right.” I whispered, the eyes slowly creeping up, “We run in the general direction of the ship…”

“That’s your plan?” Thia’s eyes finally snapped in my direction.

“Do you have a better-” There was a growing whirring sound, familiar as the hum sank into my ears, “Shit!” I dove towards Thia, knocking her to the ground as a blast shot through the foliage, past where Thia stood, and through the foliage behind us. I looked up at the blast mark and saw the metal peaking.

“Thia! Go!” I pushed myself up, grabbing Thia’s bicep as I took off running. I was running, sprinting, as the familiar whirl saturated my hearing. The foliage waned in thickness. Some parts were standing thinner in some areas. I changed direction, turning abruptly to our right. There was another wave of wind, a wall of foliage, and then I was alone. I couldn’t hear Thia behind me anymore. I glanced behind me, but the foliage was too dense to see anything. My foot snagged on something, bringing me back down to earth. I groaned as the wind ripped from my lungs. Fuck… this is why we don’t turn around…

I rolled over, my arms folded against my chest as I gasped for air. My eyes raked across my environment, searching for any disturbance. It was quiet… too quiet. My hand reached for my knife, where it landed. Once it was in my hand, I rolled up, my eyes landing on a dip between two plants. They may have been stealthy, but they weren’t minding their place between the hued foliage. It moved like lightning. Fast and jagged. I braced out of instinct, my arms guarding my chest as something slammed into my left side. I flew through a thicket of leaves, branches, and vines snapping around me. I pushed myself off the floor, trying to steady my vision. I was so preoccupied with the creature stalking me that I hadn’t realized the heaviness in the air. No sound to be perceived. Like my eardrums were smothered in honey.

I could faintly hear my name in the wind, shouting, roaring. Well, they’ve noticed we’re gone… Now I really can’t die—god he’d be so pissed…

I gripped my knife once more in my hand, waiting, listening. The ruffling of the plants, the quiet hum in my ears, and then I heard it. A growling breath at the back of my neck. Whatever it was, it was right behind me. I spun around, the blade of my knife slashing through the air, catching resistance and dripping neon. I glanced at the essence on my blade, dripping into the damp dirt below. Shit… what’s better in this scenario—running or fighting?

Without giving it a second thought, I lunged forward. I tore through the branches in front of me, a whizz through the air bringing me to my knees. I rolled along the ground, dirt flying in my face. I coughed as the dirt settled, before me emerging a towering figure. It was a massive creature, corded muscles, sharp claws, and focused eyes, “What…the fuck.” I grunted as I pushed myself up.

It didn’t say anything, a heavy growl coming from it. I glanced around, lost in the maze of foliage. Think. Think. I steadied myself, slowly lowering my blade, “I don’t know who… or what you are… I just want to get back to my ship.” Just under the deafening silence of the branches, I could feel a rumbling under my feet, “There are others—they’re looking for me. If they don’t find me-or worse, find you here with me, it’ll end badly for you…”

There was another deep growl, this time it shook my ribs. What the fuck am I doing? There was a beep in my ear; my translator was processing something. A language it was struggling to translate. When it spoke, the words came through garbled and broken, “Scent… Yautja… hunt… kill… before… find- take.”

Well, that…doesn’t bode well for me.

I took a small step back, wanting more distance between it and myself. In an instant, the creature was on me, one of its clawed hands wrapped around my throat. It raised me off the ground, my throat feeling tighter, and my lungs fighting for air. I thrashed in its hold, my knife coming up and slashing its arm and then its face. The slash to its face caused its grip on me to soften, and I used the slight freedom to shove myself free. The creature stumbled backwards, and I crashed to the floor. I kept my eyes on it as it stumbled back, its neon blood trickling down its face and blinding half of its vision. I flipped my knife around, gripping the blade, and threw it straight into the meat where its leg hinged from. A roar ripped from its chest as it blindly reached for the weapon lodged in its flesh. Before it could rip it out, I lunged forward, throwing my weight into the hilt. The blade plunged deeper, causing the creature to pull its weight to one side. I tried to roll out of its reach, but its clawed hand sank into my right shoulder. I screamed as its claws sank in deep, and it ripped me from the ground. All at once, I was enveloped in air, the searing pain in my shoulder gone, and the whipping sting of vines encasing my skin.

I crashed into the ground, and dirt exploded into the air around me. I wheezed, craving air, and got dirt instead. I tried to push myself up, but there was a twinge of pain in my shoulder and my ankle. When I finally opened my eyes, there was a blue hue to the air, and a sweetness that clung to my throat. Coughs shook my body as I tried to breathe through the dirt. The rumbling I felt under my feet earlier was stronger now, in my hands. My mouth felt dry, drier with the dirt coating it. A tightness was growing in my chest, making me gasp. My vision started to waver, as if I were looking through dirty glass. A whimper broke through my lips, “What-what’s ha-happening…”

The wall of greenery in front of me split open, the corded monster towering over me. It’s growl vibrating in my chest. If my father could see me, he’d be so disappointed… He’d call me weak…

Why can’t I breathe… Why can’t I move…

The creature stepped closer to me, and I scrambled to grab something, anything. I felt the rough edge of a rock and wrapped my fingers around it. A feral sound rumbled through me, and I tried to stand—pushing past the twisting pain and my empty lungs. My throat spasmed, and my feet came off the ground again. The creature had me in his claws again. I brought my hands down again and again against its arm. More and more black splotches filled my vision, and my chest felt like it was burning. The sweetness clung to my throat. The last pieces of my vision were filtering through when a booming roar pierced the muted buzz of the foliage. The creature snapped its attention towards my left. I lolled my head, following its hardening glare. I could barely make out the blurry outline, “K-w-ei,” I choked out, before glancing back at the creature, “Y-yo-u… are s-so sc-re-wed…” The weight of the rock strained my muscles; it felt heavier than it should’ve been. It tumbled from my hand, and everything felt heavy and shallow.

There was a tremble in the air, a dense wave, and then nothing. I could hear mumbled, garbled sounds. Like someone was rubbing Styrofoam next to my ears.

⥈⥈

The creature's grip on her throat, her now limp body, consumed Kwei’s vision. Every inch of him vibrating, seething, he could see the warmth in her fading. Thia and Dek were right behind him. Thia was spouting facts about the planet she had to dig for. But the sound of her broken voice was repeating in his head, over and over again. The way she said his name. Like she had been waiting for him this whole time. It cracked the last bit of composure he had. Like someone threw a match to kindling. He didn’t move at first, not wanting to hurt her, but needing to get her free of his grip. There was blood coming from her shoulder, crimson and thin—like her wound was weeping. Her hand was bloody too, less than her shoulder, but stained all the same. She had a thin trail slipping free from her lips and her nose. He’d never seen so much blood leave her body. It froze something in him. Like when she charged Njohrr. He craved holding her, he needed her—on the ship, in his arms. Safe.

The creature glanced from Kwei to his mate, dangling in his clawed hand, and a rumble shook from its chest. He found the whole scenario amusing. From her empty threat to the rigged posture of the Yautja in front of him.

“Let. Her. Go,” Kwei growled, though his words were foreign to the creature.

Thia finally arrived, dirt dusted her cheeks, and there were green streaks along her clothes like she barreled through the foliage haphazardly. She stopped just behind Kwei, looking between the two massive figures.

“I don’t think he can understand you.” Thia’s voice carried across the small distance, her universal translator still active.

The creature garbled out a few words, her software filtering through a bunch of languages. A whirring noise, similar to what Dek heard when he first met Thia, echoed between the tense space. The noise cut off, and Thia spoke louder, “Release her. We do not wish to hurt you-”

“Speak for yourself.” Kwei interjected.

“-Let her go and we will be on our way. We only stopped to make repairs. We only wish to leave.”

Kwei growled again, his fists clenching at his side, the heat within you dimming more, “Tell that beast to release her. If she dies I will make him wish for death. Tell him I will only wait so long.”

Thia glanced at Dek, not for permission, but for acknowledgment. She knew once she spoke those words, it would supercharge the tension in the air, “She is his mate. You must release her. If she dies, he will make you wish you’d die. Let her go now.”

“You come to my planet, disturb my peace, and think I will just let you go?” The creature's voice spilled out, deep, guttural. Thia heard him clear as day.

The trails of neon blood that spewed from wounds that must’ve been inflicted by Kwei’s now-unconscious mate. Seeing the wounds, Kwei felt a sense of pride sprout in his chest, which was swiftly smothered by the rage and worry he felt as the warmth, her color dimmed. Thia repeated the creature’s words; halfway, they stopped reaching Kwei’s ears. They were muffled. Seeing her limp body, dangle and sway with each word the creature spoke.

Kwei didn’t think twice. He charged forward, a roar ripping through and shaking the air around them. The creature tossed her body aside. Thia moved, using her body to catch her wounded friend. For a split second, Kwei’s attention followed her as she landed in Thia’s grasp, and then back to the offending creature. It wielded no weapons, so Kwei charged without his.

Thia pulled her body more to the side, away from the battling creatures. There was a smear of light blue dust covering most of her face; it looked like it was coming from her nose and mouth. It covered parts of her clothing. Thia looked around them. At the indigo-hued dirt around them, “Uhh-guys. We should get out of here.” Her eyes moved from Dek to Kwei, but neither of them seemed to acknowledge what she said. They were too engrossed in the battle, “Dek! We need to get out of here!”

Dek’s attention snapped back to Thia as she cradled the limp body in her arms. Dek rushed over, leaving the battle to his brother, “What’s wrong?”

“The dirt. It’s the dirt. There's something in it and it’s killing her. We need to get her out of here. She needs medicine.” Thia spoke urgently, the natural lilt in her voice gone.

“Get her to the ship! Now!” Kwei roared, still fighting the creature, splotches of neon traded between the two. Dek and Thia didn’t argue. Dek picked up the limp body from Thia’s arms, and they took off for the ship.

Once inside, they raced for the medical supplies. Dek could see it, the warmth fading from her body, the shallow movement of her chest, “Stay with her. I will join Kwei.” His tone was final, though, it’s not like Thia was really going to argue.

Thia stood there for a moment, searching her memory for the right information. She moved around the room, around the metal slab on which her friend was placed. She moved towards one of the cases lining the room and grabbed some supplies, stocked for human needs. When the brothers raced in sometime later, the blue dust had been wiped from her face. She lay there, still and peaceful. Kwei and Dek looked worse than they felt. A couple of wounds here and there, but nonetheless on their feet.

“Mi’esui…” Kwei approached the metal slab, reaching for her still body, “What do I do…”

Thia rounded the table next to Kwei and looked at him. “I need something of yours.” She held up a hypodermic needle, “I need your blood.”

Kwei had heard stories of Yautja using their blood to help prolong the life of their non-Yautja mates. He never thought it had any weight. But Thia stood there, and she looked so sure of herself. He didn’t ask any questions, anything to help her, he’d do. Thia wasted no time; she extracted a full syringe of his blood and then turned right around and injected his mate with it.

“This should help her… The poison within the dirt on this planet… That’s what’s killing her. There’s a record of the dirt samples from this planet eradicating a settlement and research team. Your blood should help her fight it and speed up the recovery process.” Thia then began examining the other wounds that littered her body. Wounds that no longer wept, but left dried trails along her body.

⥈⥈

The tightness in my body felt like the ebb and flow of water. It came and went in spurts. One second, I’d feel like I was drowning, the next, I felt like I was flying. There was nothing and everything around me. A heat began blooming in my chest, radiating through my body and back. One by one, my senses came back.  I could feel the wounds left by the creature; I could feel a breath slowly fill my lungs, like I was breathing through a straw. My shoulder was on fire, my back was sore, and my legs felt tight. I wanted to move. I wanted to escape the cacophony of silence.

What the hell happened…

The warmth in my chest started to rise, getting hotter. It spread over me, like a fever. My lungs began to ache, a hunger for oxygen straining the muscles around them.

There was a calm feeling rising on my cheeks, fuzzy but smooth.

What the hell is happening…

The dullness in my ears slowly dissipated, replaced by a low hum. A white noise that felt familiar. Voices, soft, like they were far away. And then a weight. Rough and warm, against my side. Soft chirps and trills. The weight in my limbs evened out. Like I wasn’t floating, just flat. But my lungs still ached, my shoulder burned, and my throat felt like I swallowed sandpaper.

“K-Kw-ei.” My voice didn’t sound right, muffled and strained.

There was a clatter, shuffle, and then more warmth, “Mi’esui… can you hear me?”

I pushed and pushed, trying to get my eyes to open. I could hear the buried pain in his voice. When my eyes opened, it was dark, dimmed. But I still squinted; something about the light hurt. Kwei came into view, his eyes molten and… worried. The normal fire that always lurked in them was gone.

The chirping got louder as Bud’s eyes crept towards my face, “H-ey y-you.” My voice was still rough.

There was a subtle wince as I spoke. Kwei vanished, coming right back with a cup. He propped my head up, the tightness in my shoulders protesting any movement. As the liquid touched my tongue and slipped down my throat, tasting like honey, I felt an ease settle in my muscles. Kwei sat behind me on the slab, sitting at an angle so my back rested against the side of his chest. Mindful of my shoulder, he wrapped an arm around me, like he was scared I’d vanish.

“Wh-at… happ-ened?” I asked, as I swallowed the last of the liquid.

“You were attacked.”

“By- what?”

“We’re not sure… Thia checked and there is no recorded beast like the one we faced on this planet.” Dek’s voice carried from my left.

As I turned to glance at him, there was a twinge from my right. I hissed, my hand reflexively reaching for my shoulder. I glanced at my shoulder, and it was covered in a thin layer of pink-stained gauze. Taking in the rest of my appearance, there was a brace against my ankle, and a bandage around my thigh again. I looked at Dek; he had a small cut along his face and arms. “Damn, I missed all the excitement, didn’t I.”

“You were the epicenter of it.” Thia entered the room, an almost sad look on her face.

“Hey- I-I’m ok, I didn’t die.”

There was a growl behind me, a rumble from Kwei’s chest that shook mine. Oh crap… “Everyone out.” He didn’t sound mad, but it was final.

Dek grabbed Thia’s arm and led her out just as she was about to protest, mumbling something to her that I didn’t catch. As they exited through the door, Dek popped his head back in and called for Bud to follow. She hesitated for a moment before following. Kwei stepped away from me, lifting the back half of the slab so I could lean against it. I could feel the lecture that was brewing on his tongue.

There was a flicker of shame in my stomach, and it kept my eyes glued to my legs… If I don’t look at him, it won’t hurt that badly.

“Pl-ease d-don’t lect-ure me. I kn-ow it w-as stupid of m-e to tr-y and fight… what-ever that was.” The rough feeling in my throat felt less, but each word that passed through my lips sounded less and less.

Kwei placed a hand on my shoulder, and the other lifted my chin to look at him. He didn’t say anything, he just looked at me before he huffed, “I thought you’d died. It held you. Limp in his claws… and all I could think of- all I could see was my father, your blood. You grew cold in his grasp, and I was worried if I charged him, he’d take you from me.” His forehead pressed against mine, “I do not blame you for choosing to fight. I know you didn’t choose to enter the forest. I can’t blame you for what you can’t control.”

I was shocked… This was different than last time. Though I guess last time in his eyes, there was no need for me to charge Njohrr. My eyes shut as I pressed my forehead back against his, my hands resting against his armored chest, “I-I thought for a second… that I was going to die- that you’d never find me. I didn’t want to leave you like that… I was sure fighting would give me time… I knew you’d find me.”

“I will always come for you.” He pulled back. His eyes softened as he bore into my shoulder, “It wasn’t the beast that almost took you… There was a poison in the dirt… When you were fighting it made it’s way into you. It caused a fever, your muscles spasmed, and you stopped breathing. You couldn’t breathe.”

“How-how am I alive then?”

“Thia- she took some of my blood and gave it to you.” He paused for a second, letting me absorb that answer. “I had heard stories of Yautja giving their blood to non-Yautja mates… I was unaware of what it could do… It saved you, made it possible for you to live.”

“You-what? Ah-Wh-H-… Hold on-” They just gave me a blood transfusion based on a campfire story??? “Ok… well, I’m alive… I mean… I’m not gonna just start growing fabulous locs like you, grow a good 5 feet, or wake up one day with a set of mandibles, right?” I teased.

“You might.”

“I-” Did he just…

“You should be fine, Ma’thwei. There shouldn’t be any spontaneous evolutions.”

Translations: Ma’thwei - my blood // Mi’esui - mate

---

It takes three weeks for Soap to learn more about the mer. It’s a normal day, Soap chattering on about some story or another at the end of the dock, when the mer makes his way all the way over, head breaking the surface closer than he’s ever been. 

Soap startles so hard he almost drops his laptop in the water. 

“Christ, ye oversized fish, don’t do that to a man.” Soap puts a hand over his racing heart, “I almost dropped my-” 

“Ghost” the mer says. 

Wait—the mer says something. 

“...What?” Soap asks, very eloquently. 

“My name,” the mer says slowly, the words rasping out, like a knife over sand. “is Ghost”. 

Soap stares at him for a long moment. The mers—Ghost's whole head is above water, his face visible for the first time since arriving. Like a man seeing a sunset for the first time, Soap takes in Ghost's features. From his strong brow, dark brown eyes, sharp nose, and full mouth, to the scars across his lips and cheek, a particularly deep one cutting across his brow and disappearing into his hair line. 

“Ghost,” Soap's smile is radiant, as he meets Ghost's eyes. “It suits ye”. 

---

“The infection’s finally passed. Clean readings for the past three days show that, but his swimming’s not improved,” Price says, not even looking up from the paperwork at his desk.

“Naw, he’s nae gettin’ any stronger. I need to get a closer look at him,” Soap replies, brows furrowed in thought. “He told me his name the other day. I tell ye that?”

Price looks at him in shock. “Really now? That’s a surprise. So, what is it?”

“Ghost.”

“Suits him.”

“Aye,” Soap laughs. “That’s what I said.”

Soap claps his hands, standing from his chair. “I’ll start getting in, get 'im used tae me bein' in his water. Then hopefully, I'll get him tae let me gie him the once-over, sort oot a PT plan for him.”

“Sounds good, Soap. He’s in good hands.”

Price gives him a warm look, and Soap carries it with him as he leaves the office.

---

Soap is pulling on his flippers, sitting at the edge of the dock, when he sees Ghost appear again, head popping fully out of the water a few feet away. 

“How's it gaun, Ghost? Wee bit o' a change today. I’ll be getting in wit’ ye.”

Ghost sinks in the water a few inches, brows furrowing. 

“Don’t you worry, Ghosty, I'll no be comin' tae get ye. Just gonnae take a wee swim, eh?” Soap reassures, securing the final clip on his flippers. With a push off the dock, Soap slips into the water. 

Ghost disappears from view. 

Trying not to let his disappointment show, Soap paddles around the pool. Ghost doesn’t reappear. 

The next few days go much the same.

Soap slips into the water. Ghost disappears. Soap swims around, pretending not to notice the dark shadow getting closer each day. 

By the third day, Ghost keeps his head above water as he follows Soap at a distance. 

By the fourth day, Ghost is close enough to make out the colors of his scales, the shine of his blonde hair as it flops across his forehead. 

By the end of the week, everything changes. 

Soap is making his normal rounds in the pool, swimming around, diving underwater and paddling through the vegetation. Ghost is close behind, always just out of reach, but closer than they’ve ever been. He likely hasn’t spoken again since he first shared his name, but Soap is sure he’ll get him to open up again someday. 

Soap hooks one arm around the ladder as he unclasps the buckles on one of his fins. He pulls it off and plops it on the deck. 

Then something brushes along his foot. 

Soap goes very still. 

Not a fish, and not near any vegetation. 

Fingers. 

Soap feels another cold, careful brush against his toes—then along the delicate arch of his foot

Unable to hold back, Soap flinches at the tickling feeling and looks down. Ghost is below the dock, pale hair drifting around his face as he stares, transfixed, at Soap’s bare foot. 

“They’re a funny thing, aye?” Soap slowly unclasps his other fin, throwing it up on the deck next to the first. He settles one foot on a step of the ladder, and wiggles the other out towards Ghost. “Human feet aren’t made for swimmin’, so we slap on fins tae gie us a hand.” 

Ghost doesn’t reach back out again. Hesitantly, he makes his way around to the side of the dock and surfaces. 

“I’ve never seen ‘em so close before.” Ghost's voice is scratchy again, like it’s rough from disuse. “Sorry, I–um didn’t mean to startle you” 

“Nae, yer a'right. Just kittled me a wee bit.” Soap clears his throat. 

Ghost’s head tilts as his brows furrow. “English, please.” 

Soap laughs, “It means tickled, ya bawbag.” He hauls himself up the ladder, sitting on the edge as he towels off his hair. 

Ghost doesn’t leave. “Why are you swimming” 

“Why not? Swimming’s fun, innit?” 

Ghost's eyes narrow, mouth pulling down in a frown. 

“Nae, you’re right, I do have an ulterior motive. Need you comfortable with me tae get ye feeling better. I want to examine you–would you let me?” Soap keeps his voice steady and looks away as he talks, his heart warming with hope. 

Ghost doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move away either. Soap considers it a win. 

“It’d be right in the water! Nae need to go anywhere else. I just need tae see what’s holding ye back from swimmin’ right. I can see ye favor one side and I’d like to help. I’m here tae help.” 

Soap pauses, before speaking up again. “It doesnae have to be today. Maybe tomorrow, after breakfast?” 

“Will you have needles?” 

“Och no, avoid those myself when I can.” Soap waves him off, “Nae, it’ll just be you and me in the water, givin' yer fins a wee keek, see what's troublin' ye. Just a wee touch—nae even that if ye'd rather no.” 

Ghost is silent for a long time. Long enough Soap starts to gather his stuff, determined not to pressure Ghost. 

“I’ll do it.” 

Soap’s head snaps up, eyes brightening with excitement. “Ye mean it? That's pure dead brilliant, that.” Ghost isn’t meeting his eyes, body turned away. 

“Ghost,” Soap waits until he looks over. “Thank you,” he says, looking him in the eyes.

Grabbing his things, Soap makes his way from the dock, calling out behind himself. “Dinnae fret yersel', ye'll no be regrettin' it! I’ll be back in the morra. Goodnight Ghost!” 

‘’You know that’s not what I meant.’’ With your arm slung over your eyes you tried to block out the last bits of sunlight. It was starting to get dark and you had done nothing today but lay in bed. Which is also what you did yesterday.

And the day before yesterday.

The world and work could wait. You just wanted to lay in your misery like you have been doing for the past few weeks. Crying almost every night was routine at this point. God forbid you also wanted to lock yourself in your room for the remainder of the month. Or forever.

All of a sudden a piece of cloth got thrown in your face.

‘’What the-‘’

You shoved the dress off of your face and saw it was a halter neck, little black dress. Quite basic, still timeless and looks amazing with the right accessories.

‘’We’re going out!’’

Rose shoved one of your pairs of kitten heels, that were tucked away in your closet, in your face.

‘’Absolutely not.’’ You turned your back to her while attempting to fall asleep again.

‘’The shoes or the ‘going out’ part?’’

‘’The ‘going out’ part. Leave me alone so I can be sad and miserable while binge-watching garbage shows.’’

Meanwhile the sun had gone down, leaving you and her in the darkness. You loved being alone, especially when life got too much to bear. But being alone always turned into ghosting everyone you knew and being stuck in solitude. The bedroom walls became a cage you were too comfortable in.

‘’No. My colleagues invited me to go out to this bar I have never been to. You have to come with me. It should be fun, let’s just do pre-drinks here. I know some guy I work with would love to talk to you.’’

‘’Not interested.’’ You would rather blow out your brains than try and date again. As of now you technically were still with Simon. Or maybe that was just in your head.

‘’I’ll pay for the drinks when we get there and we’ll leave the second you want to.’’

‘’If that’s what it takes to get you out of my apartment.’’

You were already tipsy when you walked into the bar with Rosa. There was nothing special to the place. Dimly-lit, lots of clatter and the sound of banter. Your heels clicked on the mahogany floor, your dress fluttered and accentuated your waist. With eyeliner on your waterline, golden jewellery and cherry red lips, you felt like you were wearing a mask. The sadness behind your eyes weren’t visible to anyone but you. To the rest of the world, you were a gorgeous girl at a bar. So for tonight, you could pretend. Being tipsy already helped. Rosa led you to the booth where her colleagues were sitting at. She tried to introduce the group to you while you were slowly zoning out.

Until you saw a familiar face. It was a guy who lived in your old neighbourhood, the one you lived in until you were 19. He recognized you too, apparently. You sat next to him, sparking up a conversation. It was friendly, just conversations about the past, how you two were doing now. His name was Marco, he was tall, dark-haired, average looking. Worked with the company for a few years now. Nothing too interesting. You were only intrigued because of the alcohol in your system. 

Two hours later you noticed you had only been talking to him. Rosa went outside to smoke with some others and you two were sitting closer than before in the booth. Trying to keep some distance, you suggested sitting by the bar on the stools in the disguise of wanting more drinks. When you noticed you were stumbling a little you felt a flair of panic well up inside you. You did not plan on getting drunk with a bunch of strangers in a bar you had never heard of. You were on the edge between tipsy and drunk. Or maybe a little drunk. Marco pulled out a stool for you and helped you sit on it. Luckily he only ordered two beers and you two continued your conversation. You tried to be blind to his clues. It was obvious he was enjoying his time a bit too much with you. His lingering touches felt like bruises on your skin. It would have been fine if the touches were just friendly. You thought you two were acting like friends. You laughed at his jokes, would hit him lightly when he teased you. That Marco thought you looked hot didn’t even cross your mind at first.

Simon roamed through the streets with his hands in his coat pockets. It was another sleepless night.

Bloodshot eyes that burned, hood over his head.

They gave him a psychologist. The army gave him that for free, obviously. So why not utilise it? That’s what Price recommended him years ago. He had scoffed at the idea. The mere thought of having to share your feeling with a stranger made him want to puke.

The hopeless look in your dimmed eyes were worse though.

So he put his fears and his pride aside. At 17:00 today he walked into the office of a psychologist, whose name was already forgotten. She spoke to him softly, as if he was a kid. The voice was meant to comfort him, yet it felt like chalk on a blackboard. Her pen would annoyingly scrape against her notebook. Everything about her bothered him.

 Yet he won’t forget today for a while. This wasn’t some therapist who worked specifically for the army, the one you’d go to for the standard psych evaluations. This was a civilian psychologist who specialized in PTSD, depression, anxiety, and childhood trauma. She mentioned something else: C-PTSD.

Simon had never heard that term.

He didn’t really want to know what that meant.

He thought of it as a test. He could pass this, he had done this before. Just answer vaguely, tell them what they need to hear. Don’t get send to a psych ward.

All so he can walk out thinking he was fixed.

And then she struck a chord he forgot he had. It all started with questions about his father.

‘’Why does it matter?’’ He had asked, voice full of uncertainty, laced with venom. This was uncharted territory. He had talked about his childhood a little to only one other person. And that person was currently not speaking to him.

‘’It matters. That is why I am asking. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’’

There was a minute of complete silence. Simon stared at his paper cup, the coffee was atrocious, but it gave him something to hold on to.

‘’You didn’t really answer my other question. What was your childhood like? Describe it to me’’

Violent. A nightmare. Bruises

‘’Uneventful.’’

She sighed heavily and put her glasses down.

‘’Why are you here?’’

He didn’t have the effort to lie or be stubborn anymore.

‘’My girl broke up with me. Sort of. She wanted space. I get in my head, I can’t leave the warzone where it belongs. I take it home with me. We both suffered, she couldn’t take it anymore. Something in me still wants to believe I can get fixed so I can be more of a human.’’

‘’You could start by perhaps answering some of my questions. Don’t feel obliged. Just try to open up a little.’’

Simon didn’t pour his heart out. He started telling her bits and pieces about how his life was like when he was a boy. Then about the reason on why he decided to join the army. Where he thought his problems started. Betrayals, frauds and dying soldiers. He suggested he had trust issues. (Among other things). Before he knew it, the hour was up. The woman smiled up at him as they both stood. She shook his hand firmly and thanked him for his candor. She hoped she would see him again next week. Simon nodded, walked out of the building, stepped into his car.

Nothing was wrong.

It went well.

He didn’t cry. He wasn’t zoning out on the drive back to his apartment. His hands definitely weren’t shaking. His step only faltered because of the faulty pavement, not because he wanted to fall to floor and let the world swallow him whole. 

Only when the front door closed behind him did he let himself break down. The wooden floor became his blanket as he cried soundlessly. After a while he stood up and went to the bathroom. His reflection stared back, there was no ounce of life in his face.

His fist collided with the bathroom mirror. Shards of glass flew in the air. Little pieces littered the floor. The mirror still showed his lifeless face, now with cracks in it. The blood oozing out of his knuckles spilled onto the porcelain sink. He knew it was going to be another sleepless night.

A walk might make him tired.

The quiet streets, the dark sky. 

Then he saw a few people smoking outside of a bar he hadn’t seen before. There was nothing special about, just a regular bar. A drink could help him go to sleep.

One drink won’t hurt.

He noticed as soon as he stepped inside that the people in there had been here for a while. Some were stumbling to go throw up in the bathroom, others were loudly having their conversations. Everyone seemed at least a little drunk.  

Simon should have turned around right then. But he couldn’t ignore the woman by the bar who had hair like yours. Her frame seemed familiar. Her laugh had echoed in his mind before.

That woman was you.

You were talking to the man sitting next to you. You shoved him playfully after he teased you and laughed a little too loud at his esoteric jokes.

The man’s hand suddenly came up to brush the hair away from you face. You didn’t stop him, too inebriated to care.

Something dark and ugly twisted in Simon.

The bartender came up to you and the guy, handing you two the beers. Simon frowned at that. It was clear the guy had bought you your drink. The guy was too touchy for Simon’s liking. Everything in him made him want to drag the guy away from you. The other man wore polished shoes, expensive and neat. His shirt had not a single wrinkle in it. He had a typical million dollar smile. The man looked straight out of a magazine.

Simon watched it all unfold before him. He was just a bystander who couldn’t do anything to make you come closer.

The way you smiled, the way you laughed and the way you talked so carefree pulled at his heartstrings. Simon’s face hardened at the sight. He hadn’t seen you like this in weeks. All this time, was it him holding you back? He clenched his fists to maintain his composure. Counting the months he spent without you, the weeks, the days, endlessly. It was all he could do these days. Think about you. 

So seeing you enjoy your time with a man who wasn’t him, like Simon had never even existed, hurt his soul in way it never hurt before. The sight of you looking all gorgeous for somebody else made his heart tachycardic. Rubbing his hand over his chest to try and calm himself down while his eyes kept shifting over between Mr. Perfect and you. Fury overtook his mind. Not at you, never at you. But at the piece of shit who couldn’t keep his hands to himself. The guy who kept leaning closer and closer to you because you needed to ‘’speak a little louder’’.

Simon decided to do what he did best: become a shadow. His face was obscured by his hood, his feet walked off to the only quiet area of the bar. As a result, you were perfectly in his view. He needed to see for himself how you were doing.

Watching you potentially move on while he was adamant that it was always going to be you was killing him a little.

It’s gut-wrenching, you thought, because as soon as your glass was empty and you started to sober up a little you were reminded why you were drinking in the first place. The man in your mind wasn’t the one you were exchanging glances with. Marco offered to take you on a date tomorrow, you had politely declined. Distractedly, your paranoid couldn’t help but shake the feeling of being watched. You have been feeling it for about 20 minutes. You tried to look around the bar in way that wasn’t conspicuous. Luckily you were with a guy who was a bit too self-absorbed to notice you weren’t listening to another one of his stories.

Your eyes found his dark brown ones. He was standing in the corner behind Marco. Far enough to stay undetected, close enough so you could see the haunted look in his eyes. You let out a shaky breath. For the first time in weeks, you two were in the same room. This wasn’t how you imagined it would go. Simon nodded solemnly at you and quietly exited the bar. You were aware of who he was. No one could find him unless he wanted to be found. Ghost wanted you to know he had seen you.

‘’Fuck.’’ You muttered. That caught Marco’s attention, he asked what was wrong. You stood up and told him there was an emergency. You thanked him for the drink without sparing him another glance.

Heels clicked hurriedly on the pavement. The streetlights were blurry in your vision. You regretted not taking a jacket with you. The cold air raised goose bumps on your skin. You were shaking a little when you found him in an alleyway. Per usual, his hand held a cigarette. His face was hidden in the shadows, yet you knew it was him. His black jacket, the hood over his head, his broad shoulders, you could recognize him even if you were blind.

‘’Simon?’’ Your voice was fragile, as if the cold air had tried to take it away.

It made him exhale shakily. He could act tough and strong all he wanted, but in front of you he could never hide his pain.

His gruff voice rumbled from his chest, as if he hadn’t used it for months. Or like he had been screaming mere hours ago. 

‘’Darling.’’ It rolled off his tongue so naturally.

You hesitated, what could you even say in this situation?

‘’…How have you been?’’

‘’Not too great. You seem to be doing just fine though. I’m glad you’re doing good.’’

‘’Simon…’’

‘’Nah it’s fine, love.’’ He clicked his tongue in disapproval before he continued:

‘’He’s nothing next to me.’’

He tossed the cigarette bud on the ground and crushed it with his boot.

‘’That guy is no one to me. He’s my friend’s colleague who used to live three blocks away from me. That was like years ago. I know what you’re implying but it wasn’t that.’’

‘’You don’t have to lie to me, you two seemed awfully close.’’ He chuckled bitterly. With his hands in his pockets he looked at the dirty floor and mumbled:

‘’Didn’t like the way he touched you.’’

Simon’s gaze found yours then. The way you stood there shaking because of the cold; making his chest tighten. Silently he slipped his jacket off of his shoulder and stepped closer. He helped you slip your arms in the sleeves, then stepped away again.

‘’I know you didn’t like that. You know I get friendly when I’m drunk.’’

Noticing he wasn’t convinced you softly added:

‘’didn’t like his touches either. Would’ve much rather have you.’’

The ghost of a smirk lingered on Simon’s face at that. His hands slowly came up to gently hold your face. Deliberately done to make you come closer. One of his calloused hands went lower and gripped your waist firmly.

‘’Could have fooled me, thought you’d much rather leave with him.’’

He walked forwards, making you stumble back into the wall behind you. He made sure his hand was at the back of your head before your back hit the wall. Without a thought, you clung your hands his biceps. Simon’s gruff voice was the only thing that could be heard in the night.

‘’Were you even aware of what I was going to do to him?’’

The lieutenant you knew didn’t mind getting his hand bloody every now and then.

‘’I think I have the slightest idea of what you would have done to him.’’

Simon saw the coy look on your face, the stumbling and the haze in your eyes. He created a little distance, his hand leaving your face.

‘’Call your friend, ‘m taking you home.’’

‘’Thanks, but my place isn’t far from here.’’

‘’Wasn’t a suggestion, love.’’

His hand moved to linger close to your back. Barely touching.

‘’Besides, you’re drunk. You’re not making it far, love.’’

Silence filled the space between you. Except this time it was comfortable. His eyes darted towards any sign of suspicious movement on the streets. His hand ghosted over your hip. You two kept walking at a slow pace until your feet were killing you. You knew you’d see blisters on your feet in the morning. Simon didn’t even hesitate before he smoothly picked you up, carrying you bridal style. You quickly wrapped your arms around his neck.

How could he even falter in his step like he did hours ago when he held something so precious in his arms?

The lieutenant realized that no fear would compare to the fear of losing you.

Even if you did walk away, he’d never stop protecting you. He could never not care.

Finally seeing you’re front door made you upset that the bar wasn’t further away. Gently, he put you down and unlocked your door.

Fuck, he still had the keys to the apartment. You had forgotten about that.

He held the door open for you and held out his hand to help  you over the threshold.

You then turned to face him. He stood there with uncertainty in his eyes. As if this wasn’t the home he had lived in for the past three years.

Invite him in, a voice said in your head. Looking up at him you saw the Simon you wished had come back weeks ago.

‘’I talked to someone today.’’

He paused for a beat.

‘’A psychologist.’’

‘’I wanted to let you know, but we’re not really on speaking terms.’’

‘’I’m really proud of you.’’ A small smile formed on his face at that.

‘’This must be really difficult. I’m here for you, truly am. And thank you for bringing me home and keeping me warm.’’ A little laugh escaped past your lips, making Simon’s eyes linger on them. You handed him back his jacket.

Then wrapped your arms around his neck, hugging him tightly like you wanted to hide him in your ribcage forever. Simon didn’t hesitate to hug you back. He buried his face in the crook of your neck. Your familiar scent brought him a little closer to the heaven he lost.

After being taken by kitchen staff, made to do unpaid child labor, he's found and subsequently snatched up by the previous generation Qing Jing Peak Lord. He finally meets Yue Qi again too!

When Yue Qi binds himself to Xuan Su in the Ling Xi Caves, Yuan Lei stops his qi deviation and promptly sobs and yells at Yue Qi for doing something so reckless. Yue Qi confesses that he did it to save Shen Jiu and Yuan Lei basically takes it upon himself to

Curse out the previous generation Qiong Ding Peak Lord (which prompts said Peak Lord to get the Qing Jing Peak Lord and tell him to "take care of your brats")

Get Yue Qi to take care and not fucking destroy himself or try to rush his recovering out of his desperation

Starts secretly planning how to save Shen Jiu himself and pushed himself hard (hypocrite)

Around a year later, Yuan Lei feels like he's ready and heads out to the Qiu manor. Not before saying goodbye to his martial siblings and shizun, of course. The System's kind of on his ass for how much he changed the plot before the protagonist was even born.

Look, it's not like he thinks he will surely die! But he knows that this will not be easy at all if Shang Tian, eventual Shang Qinghua— Airplane, that god damn hack!— is to be believed. There's going to be a lot of people there, and also, they're rich and well known, so there's a high likelihood he's going to be on a wanted list VERY quickly. Wherever he ends up, he knows that he's probably going to have to bid his life on Cang Qiong goodbye.

Yuan Lei is already well-liked by many of his fellow disciples and his shizun. There's trust when he says that he's off to research some plants because the time of the year is right. They believe him.

The manor is already burning and Qiu Jianluo dead when Yuan Lei arrives.

Shen Jiu has already killed a good amount of people, but not everyone. He almost continues with his goal before he sees Yuan Lei's figure through a window. He briefly thinks he's hallucinating in his final moments before Wu Yanzi attacks Yuan Lei and almost kills him.

Shen Jiu rushes out and injures WYZ, the thought of joining him no longer a viable option because he dared put his hands on what is Shen Jiu's.

He's about to do the final blow before Yuan Lei grabs him so they can hide while the coast is still clear.

Once they're decently away, he throws his outer robes over Shen Jiu's shoulders and gives him a hand fan from his shizun. He very quickly explains to Shen Jiu the landmarks to Cang Qiong Mountain and instructs him to show the fan to the Qing Jing Peak Lord or any of the Qing Jing disciples he sees close by. "I'll try to meet you, Jiu-ge," he says, "but if I don't—" Shen Jiu is about to yell at him. 'Don't you dare leave me when I just finally have you again!' The words are on the tip of his tongue But there are footsteps getting closer, and Yuan Lei shoves him into a hollow tree before running off.

When the commotion is down, the survivors of Qiu massacre seem to be oddly silent about the incident.

Wu Yanzi is dead.

Yuan Lei is missing, and Shen Jiu couldn't find him no matter how hard he looked.

So, he moves forward, follows Yuan Lei's wish for him to get to Cang Qiong, because it's all he has left other than the will to live. He'd given up on Qi-ge saving him a long time ago.

In Yuan Lei's now tarnished robes, Shen Jiu gives the Qing Jing Peak lord the fan of his beloved disciple.

He reunites with Yue Qi soon after.

Yue Qi does tell him the truth of what happened with Xuan Su eventually!!! Not long after becoming Peak Lords!!! Yay :) but that doesn't automatically fix thing, of course.

Now they both grapple with the guilt of Yuan Lei, now that this is the second time they've both lost him. And as they slowly rebuild the trust they had in each other, it gets shattered in minutes.

Shen Jiu overhears Yuan Lei's name ("Ren Lei" is what he's referred to here, as he learned— but in private, it seems many still to refer to him with 'A-Yuan' regardless.)

Yue Qi is speaking to Mu-shidi.

He confesses something that fills Shen Jiu with a burning rage.

Everyone believed Yuan Lei when he said he was off to research seasonal plants. Except for Yue Qi. Yue Qi caught on to Yuan Lei's plan very early on. Yue Qi knew that Yuan Lei prepared for worst case scenerios, how he'd try to simulate the feeling of dying or getting hurt in various ways. Every time he'd try to say something, he freezes up because he remembers Yuan Lei's desperate face when he qi deviated in the caves. How Yuan Lei cried out as if he'd die if Yue Qi died, how Yuan Lei hugged him so when Yue Qi was finally safe. And with Yue Qi's current condition at the time, unable to save Shen Jiu in such a state... Yue Qi told himself that Yuan Lei will live. In the end, he said nothing. When Yuan Lei said goodbye, Yue Qi acts oblivious. "A-Yuan," Yue Qi calls out. "Hm?" "Actually... Nevermind. Stay safe."

Annnnd that's where we are now!

Subject to change and adjust of course :D

As you probably can guess, they do eventually reunite with Yuan Lei as Ren Hongyuan in the future! But that takes some time. A-Yuan is very alive so don't worry!!!!

“How long has it been?” Your friend, Shoko, asks as you poke your strawberry scone around. The menu offered a vanilla and peanut butter one, but you found yourself suspicious of the combination and turned it down.

That’s a good question. 

Your room is bare now—posters you just can’t seem to get rid of fill your closet in messy, loose rolls, rare CDs collect dust in a far corner (should you ever be in a financial bind, you’ll sell those on Depop), and faded, five-sizes-too-big band t-shirts are hung up with the nicer, store stolen fabric hangers in the darker spot of your closet. 

He’s someone you’d rather not remember.

There is one thing, though. The guitar that he lent you—the one he taught you how to play on. Marks lace the middle bout of the guitar, courtesy of years of contact. The fork goes clean through your scone as you think of him with a greater lucidity now; his hands on yours as they guide you through the most fundamental songs, the vibration of his chuckle against your back when you try to play on your own, his string calloused fingertips running across your nape to pull your hair out of the way so he can scrutinize your choppy F sharp work in all of its negligible glory.

It doesn’t matter now. It never did. That worn guitar lays under your bed, never to be touched again. Never to be played again for any ear.

Suguru Geto isn’t yours anymore.

“I dunno,” you mumble, obviously out of it. Your eyes are unfocused, so you keep them low to hide their comfortable asymmetry. “Six—five months?”

Shoko sips her matcha and looks at you from over the cup. “Right. And you don’t miss him one bit?” 

You shrug, pushing your plate to the side and taking a heavy gulp of your latte—hopefully long enough to signal to Shoko this conversation isn’t one you feel like having. Now or ever. Your tongue starts to feel numb in your mouth, and you can’t tell if it’s because of the drink’s scalding temperature or your sudden lack of verbosity.

Shoko doesn’t get the hint though, because she just stares at you until your theatrics are over. “Yes you do,” she teases with a haughty laugh and then leans back. She begins to grab a cigarette out of her pocket, but the café worker bussing the table next to yours gives her a glare. She promptly returns the box to its righteous place.

“I don’t.” You lick your dry lips and look up, mildly annoyed. The conversation was beginning to sound like one of an elementary schooler: “You so like Geto!” met with the exhausted rebuttal of “Not true!” 

But it was true. In some deep part of you, one you have long since buried, you missed him. You missed the way he held you close even in front of whipped fans, one after another begging him to sign their boobs or bare chests—his androgyny made him a particularly strong item—you missed the way he lent you all of his T-shirts to sleep in. You missed the way he ran his fingers through your hair, still listening when you were going on about nothing in particular. That’s the thing about Geto. It’s hard not to miss him, but you figured you were doing a pretty good job at it.

Shoko pinches your cheek and begins to rise from her seat, laying down a couple of bills. “I’ll pay. Your heart’s already hurting. I don’t feel like doing the same to your bank account.” You mumble a “thanks” to the lame joke and grab your bag, stepping outside of the stuffy café.

Here, she is finally free to smoke, so she lights one and sighs after puffing it. “You know,” she coughs, “Choso said Geto’s pretty torn up about you.”

“I seriously doubt it.” You laugh bitterly, tightening your hold on your bag strap. Geto? Torn up about you? “I’m sure the millions of girl fans he adores would die for just a night with him. He has options. Probably why he ditched.”

“I just don’t think he would just give up on you two. I mean, he sai—”

“Can we go?”

Shoko senses she’s overstepped a boundary, so she nods and steps towards her car. It beeps and she opens the driver's door. She pauses for a minute before ducking her head down, though, surveying your face. Looking for something. 

You don’t give her any reaction. You simply enter the passenger seat, parking your purse upon your lap, and staring out of the window into the café. The anti-smoking barista is wiping your table down. He looks left, then right, and pops your untouched scone into his left front pocket. Good on him—food shouldn’t be wasted.

The rest of the ride is silent.

—

𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑

PLAYING @ ATLANTIS SQUARE

ON 7/8 and 7/10 MIDNIGHT

𝗗𝗢𝗡’𝗧 𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗦 𝗜𝗧

TICKETS ON SALE NOW

You pause at the glossy poster once again, for the third time this week. Plastered conveniently on the everyday walk to your apartment, it annoys you. It has been since last week. On it, there are three men: Gojo, the white-haired one stands at the front in a captivating still shot. You’ve met him before, he’s the singer and token—self-proclaimed, but still—comedian. He stands tall in the picture, wearing a well-fitted ROCCCKER tee and raising his hands up. Choso, a member you’re relatively closer to, has his face obscured by the way he’s moving his head to the beat of the drums he’s playing. The last member, the guitarist, has his bottom lip tucked in as he focuses on playing the correct strings. In this captured moment, he’s looking directly into the camera. He’s looking directly at you. This picture is old though, because the tattoo of a name—your name—around his bicep isn’t there. 

You also know this because you took the picture. 

Two years ago.

You walk away from the poster, rolling your eyes. It’s childish, you think, to keep using your pictures, old ones at that, when you have no association with the group anymore—but then again, you figured, that you were paid for your work and that you shouldn’t have had such a close relation to the group either way. 

You dig in your purse for your apartment keys. When you finally enter your living room, you flop onto the couch and begin scrolling through your carefully curated, mildly fake Instagram. Beautiful, professional pictures of cherry blossoms and fairy light-decorated city alleyways decorate each corner of your page. 

Five months ago, they were rudely punctuated by the occasional dark-set photo of a long-haired guitarist on a stage, glistening in sweat under dark blue stage lights and flame machines. They threw off the balance of your page, you knew, but you and Geto simply laughed at the juxtaposition of the scenario, poking fun at your contrast. 

You purged your page of him—and all related photos, even if they were suggestions of him—when you were told by him, verbatim, that he “can’t do this anymore.” The only things you remember are his eyes widening as you slapped him, straying from their previously bored expression and your ears feeling hot as you turned on your heels and speed-walked out of there. You didn’t turn to check if he was following you, because you thought you didn’t care. In hindsight, you regret it. You wanted to see if he would chase after you. 

If he would miss you.

Now, your page is back to being an aesthetically pleasing wonderland of tulip fields and matcha that tastes terrible but looks cute. You’ll never disturb this kind of peace and social conformity for a man ever again.

Working as a freelance photographer is nice. It’s, well, as the name suggests, freeing. As your own boss, you get to choose which clients to pick up and which ones to not. What gigs to immortalize and whatnot. In light of recent events, you haven’t necessarily taken pictures in any concerts. You usually turn them down, even if they pay well. Jobs like weddings and birthdays are much easier.

You pick your CANON camera up out of its fabric case. The personalized keychains on the zippers jingle as you open them. It was expensive—a birthday gift, so you take good care of it. Wiping down the lens and adjusting the settings, you check the reminders on your phone. 

Wednesday, July 10th

Park Engagement Photos

Ruby Ten Park

3:00 P.M.

These clients of yours are one of your favorites. They’ve been a long-time customer. From first day of school photos to eccentric birthday shoots, they’ve called you each time. It’s nice to see that they’re getting engaged. Silently, you hope that they invite you to the wedding as a photographer.

Packing what you need into a dedicated tote bag, you exit your apartment again, your rest being short-lived. The park is only about a ten-minute walk from your complex, so you choose not to call an Uber. This is a choice you begin to regret as you feel your face begin to sweat three minutes in. On days like these, Geto would’ve offered to pick you up from your apartment and drop you off, no matter the distance.

You kill that thought immediately. Should’ve called that Uber.

You take your wool cardigan off, wiping beads of sweat from your hairline and adjusting your blouse. Your clients, a couple in their mid-twenties, aesthetically sit on a checkered picnic blanket. The scene is one from your Pinterest home feed. You’ve been ordered not to be spotted until the actual proposal, so you opt to sit against a tree facing a performing stage that is commonly used for indie gigs and mini-festivals. The park is nice—the trees and shrubs are well cut, the walkways are often clear of obstruction, and the benches are relatively new, save for the chewed gum under the end bars. A five-star recreational park, truly.

When your ex-boyfriend’s band begins to set up speakers on the stage you’re facing, the park shoots down three full stars on your mental Yelp site. Two stars. My annoying, ungrateful ex-boyfriend made a surprise appearance, never go here if you are looking for peace and quiet.

You stiffen, watching Choso gesture to where he wants the drums placed, presumably, and Gojo flailing his arms around for who-knows-what. 

Then, it’s him.

Geto. The man you love—loved—ducks under a branch and sets up a microphone. He doesn’t seem to spot you though, because he runs a hand through his hair and pats Gojo’s back, going back to the bus to, probably, bring more of their supplies.

You take this opportunity to escape, opting to move to another tree. Thankfully, you begin to hear the starting lines of every engagement repeated ad nauseam:

“I feel so happy with you…” You begin to adjust the settings on your camera to reduce the sun's glare. 

“I never want to part from you…” Positioning yourself comfortably far, but not too far, from the couple on the blanket, you scrunch your face as you bring the camera up into frame, ensuring you capture the beautiful scenery.

Your finger hovers over the shutter button, and you hold your breath. The couple rises to their feet and the fiancé-to-be (hopefully) drops to one knee, pulling out a beautiful navy blue suede box. And then…

“Hey.” You take the photo. It’s beautiful—wait. 

What? 

“Hey?” That’s not “Will you marry me?” You bring the camera down, scratching the left side of your face in confusion as you turn to your side, looking for the source of this unwelcome disruption. 

Geto is standing there, with a dumb look on his face and a stickered guitar on his back. Definitely unwelcome. Your clients are kissing each other now, and you think you should get that, but you’re frozen in your spot. Your hands grip your camera and you don’t respond to Geto. You just stare. 

It’s like your tongue is inflated in your mouth and your face is numb when you finally do respond. It’s flat, though. “Hello.”

“I didn’t know you were going to be here—if I did, I wouldn’t have interrupted your work—”

“Just—it’s nice seeing you. I’m sure you’re busy.”

Geto clicks his tongue. “Right.”

You raise the camera to your face again, taking a rapid amount of pictures to compensate for the ones you lost just standing there. 

“How have you been?” Geto presses on.

You lower your camera again, refusing to give him eye contact. “Good.” You don’t bother to ask him how he’s been either because you don’t want to give him any further talking incentive. You hear him inhale, though, obviously preparing for another round of useless chitchat, and you decide to cut him off. You whip around, giving him a mildly irritated look. “It’s nice seeing you.”

Geto presses his lips together. He clenches his fist—he looks like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything further. He just stares vacantly.

The twinge in your heart intensifies as you gather your things and approach your clients, showing them the clear pictures as they fervently nod in approval of each perfectly positioned picture. Their chatter passes through one ear and through the next as your stomach churns at the interaction with Geto.

Geto is left there, staring at you in your peripheral vision, until he turns around and roughs up his hair, either in frustration or resolve, getting back to what he was doing before you.

Can he even remember before you?

—

Suguru Geto isn’t yours anymore, but was he ever? 

The journal under your bed has laid empty and untouched since the day Geto left. You stand in the shower and think of things to write each day, but when you pick up the pen, you draw a blank and end up closing it. 

Today, you write one sentence but don’t get much farther than that.

Your phone vibrates annoyingly on the ceramic of the bathroom sink, and you’re forced to get up from your bed and trudge your way back to the washroom. The name Choso is splayed across the top part of your phone. Your hand hesitates—considering recent events, something repelled you from picking up Geto’s right-hand man’s call. 

Ultimately, you decide it’s unfair to ignore Choso on that basis considering your friendship, so you pick up the call anyway. It’s loud: Choso yells something over the discordancy of the environment, and you “Huh?” multiple times before you can decipher a “hold on.” 

The sound clears up, and Choso sighs in relief when you finally return his “Can you hear me?” prompts. 

Choso silently gears up on the other end of the phone. “Are you doing anything tonight?”

Your face morphs into a scowl at the realization of how this could’ve been a text. “No,” you laconically reply, “why?”

Static picks up on Choso’s end. “We’re performing at the venue thirty minutes from you tonight. Atlantis. It’d be nice if you could come—we’re going on tour after this. Just wanna hang out with you one more time.” 

You sigh. “And tickets are free?”

“No—well, yes, for you. Just come. Shoko’s going.”

The mention of Shoko stirs you slightly. They obviously knew getting her there would get you to go. “Sure. And it’s in two hours?”

“Yeah. How’d you know tha—”

You hang up before Choso questions you further.

—

It’s midnight and you’re getting into an Uber you really hope is going to kidnap you before you make it to this venue. The collar of your shirt lays lazily across your shoulders, dipping under one. You decided not to wear a ROCCCKER band tee for this concert. You support Gojo and Choso, but… whatever.

The Uber hits the curb on the turn to the entrance of Atlantis Square, and it knocks the sunglasses on your head onto your lap. Seeing that it’s midnight, the driver gives you an inquisitive look in the rearview mirror. It’s a fashion choice, you mouth to yourself. You reposition them, murmuring a disdainful “thank you” to the driver and exiting the awkward car. 

People are lined up at the first entrance, waiting for their turn to be either accepted or denied into the concert. The name of the venue is a grave misnomer—it resembles more of a club spot than an open park. You push your way past a particularly rowdy group of people when you spot Shoko tapping her foot impatiently at the second entrance. 

“I’m surprised you showed.”

You breathe heavily. “Me too.”

Shoko shows the security guard something on her phone and gestures to the two of you before entering the pit of the venue. It is full. People holding drinks end up just handing them off to someone on the side near a trash can, people are on each other's shoulders, and the opener of the concert is being unfortunately ignored. 

Shoko pushes her way to the VIP area, which you guys use to cut the pit to be able to get barrier spots. Some pretty girls holding signs that say, in crude scribble, “CHOSO BLOW A KISS” and “GETO I’M FREE 2NITE” grumble as you apologize your way into getting somewhat close to the stage. The opening act shouts her “thank you” and waves her way off of the stage. As soon as you settle in and are able to see the stage, the lights dim.

“New York, are you ready?” Gojo’s voice reverberates through the venue—fans begin to flood your space with anticipatory screams. 

A guitar strum sounds through the venue, and just as much as you hear it, you feel it in your feet. 

You begin to feel it in your heart when the lights finally turn on, revealing the three men. Revealing Geto. Gojo is saying something into the mic, but you can’t hear any of it. All you hear is your heart threatening to thump out of your ribcage, into your throat, and out of your mouth. 

Geto scans the crowd, looking for something. His head drops to his guitar when he doesn’t find it, and he doesn’t look up from that. Shoko waves her hand around frantically, getting Choso’s attention.

Choso’s face brightens as he does a corny fist pump and waves to both you and Shoko. He steps around his drum set and whispers something in Geto’s ear. 

It’s obvious what Choso told him because Geto immediately glances in your direction and the tips of his ears redden. By now, you feel as if you’re going to projectile vomit all over the hardcore friend group in front of you. He returns his gaze to the rest of the crowd. After his unheard speech, Gojo looks at Geto, as if to ask if he’s ready. Geto nods and Gojo returns to the mic.

“Everyone,” he annoyingly yells into the already too-loud mic, “this is a song off of our upcoming album.” His announcement is met with excited cheers from your section, and Shoko’s hollers in your ears nearly deafen you.

Choso begins to tap his sticks into the mic and Geto strums a low note. The song starts, and it is loud. The crowd doesn’t know the lyrics, so instead, they opt to shout incoherencies.

You can’t lie—it’s a good song. All of them are. They go through the album one by one, and the crowd further obstructs your already limited view with phones, recording videos that will definitely be on music leak pages at the end of the night. At the start of the eighth song, Geto pushes his guitar to his back. The fretboard peeks out over his shoulder and he begins to approach the mic with a slow stride.

No.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into the mic.

No.

He looks at you—directly at you—with a mournful countenance.

“Every single song is about you.”

He’s crazy.

You’re leaving. You’re leaving, you say to yourself, but your stubborn feet won’t uproot themselves from their place. Shoko stills next to you, and you can see her glance towards you. Fans begin to pick up on where Geto’s looking, and by the time he tears his gaze from you to check if Choso and Gojo are ready to go, it is as if a faux spotlight is on you. Your body feels hot, and you’re angry he’s embarrassed you like this.

But you feel something else. Like someone has taken your heart and stomach and is jocularly throwing them around inside of you. Your breath remains held as Gojo begins to strum—you question how he’s playing the guitar so adeptly, but then you hear the loud backtrack—and Geto begins to sing. Your eyes dry, unblinking, as you stare at him. 

Sometimes a man gets carried away

When he feels like he should be having his fun

You mumble an unheard apology to Shoko, still staring at Geto. The way his jaw flexes in the light doesn’t go unnoticed. You track his every movement.

Much too blind to see the damage he’s done

He returns your gaze while singing, and you tear your eyes from his, glossy and focused, swiftly turning around and pushing musically enthralled fans out of the way.

Sometimes a man must awake to find that

Really he has no one

You hold your throat and wince. You can’t cry here—not now. 

So I’ll wait for you, love

And I’ll burn

Will I ever see your sweet return?

The knot in your throat tautens. He’s confessing to you via song. In front of everyone. He’s sick. You’re gasping for air now and pushing through the blurs of people. You don’t know if Shoko is chasing you; frankly, you don’t care.

Oh, will I ever learn?

Oh-oh, lover, you should’ve come over

You need to get out. Out of here. Tears break the wet film of your eyes and wet your cheeks. You’re sobbing, and now, people are offering you concerned glances.

‘Cause it’s not too late

The volume of the concert muffled your sobs, but as you finally break your way out of the pit and to the quieter, roomed bar area, Geto’s song turns muffled and your sobs fill the empty, probably restricted, room. 

You fumble with your phone. Shoko is calling you. It’s only then you notice the lack of Geto’s voice in his own song—the backing track sings the filler vocals, but he is evidently gone from the stage. You can hear muffled, curious murmurs from the crowd. 

Shoko is video calling you—obviously to catch a glimpse of where you are, but you deny her request. She texts—spams—you and you defiantly put your phone on silent, propping yourself up on a bar stool and sobbing into your hands.

Yes, you were angry.

Yes, you were upset.

Yes, you were torn.

But yes, God, yes, you missed him. And you hated that. With every fiber of your being but one, you hated the way Choso baited you here, the way Shoko probably knew what would happen, the way Geto knew how to get to you.

In more ways than one, because he pushes the door open, and sees you hunched back on the empty bar counter. 

He whispers your name as he quietly approaches you, and you hic in response. 

“Please,” Geto aimlessly pleads, “just listen.”

“I don’t want to,” you sob into your hands, picking up your phone and erratically scrolling through your apps in a teary haze, “leave.”

He breathes a sigh, cautiously seating himself on the table facing your seat. “I can’t.” 

You throw your bag at him, your somber turning to rage now. Keys hit his chest and clatter against the floor. He’s only able to grab hold of the handbag, so he holds the leather near his chest. It’s greedy, but now that he has you here, in one spot where you’ll listen, he takes advantage of the setting. 

“God, ‘missed you so much...” he blurts out, low. “I know. I know. Please just stay here. Just let me speak, okay?”

He takes a deep breath, surveying your reaction, and continues as he hears your sobs quiet. You refuse to turn to face him—to let him see your face, so instead, he entreats to your back.

“I thought I didn’t deserve you,” he says in a hushed tone, “you had your whole photography thing, based here—” he gestures with his arms, making a big motion to suggest your career was taking off “—and I was never around. I was always out and touring. You’d text me and I selfishly wouldn’t respond. Nothing about us mixed. I was young and high on success.” He curses under his breath, setting your bag aside and running a hand down his face. 

You begin to shake your head, rising from your seat. You should’ve known better. “I don’t even know what I expected from y—”

“But I can make it work.” He stands as if his presence will make you stay. “God, I’ll kill myself to make it work. To make us work. ‘Was stupid—I’ll admit. But being with you made me feel so dumb. I was whipped. I’m serious, baby, please. Every time I was with you, I—” he begins to scratch his head in an almost confused frenzy “—I don’t even know what I felt like. Felt like flyin’.” 

He inhales, preparing for another part of his ramble. You hush him before he continues. 

“You could’ve told me this,” you angrily refute his pleas, “instead, you’ve left me stranded for five months. Didn’t you?”

He nods obediently at the words almost immediately, and it's as if his head is empty as he continues his begging. “I did, baby, I did,” he admits, “N’ I’ve beaten myself up every day for it.” 

Something shifts in his face, and he drops to his knees. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Please,” he blubbers, “just one more shot at you n’ me?”

His bangs stick to his sweaty forehead as he looks up at you, expectant. He bites his tongue in anticipation and his palms feel clammy.

You take his face in your hands, and his shoulders relax for what seems like the first time in forever. You think of what to say. But instead, you begin to cry again, and in response, he rises to his feet and begins to wipe away your tears with a tender thumb.

Wordlessly, he allows you to cry into him—your cheek fits perfectly in the divot of his chest and for once, for the first time in five months, he feels whole. You feel whole.

The other two band members have gone back to playing their known discography. Later, on social media, you’ll begin to see circulated videos of Suguru Geto frantically leaving the stage, hopping down into a parting crowd. Fans will speculate, critique, fawn, or praise. Maybe all of the above.