In which I am predictable.
Stolen from carolinecrane and jengeorge:
Post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
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Glee: The Hercules fic. I swear I'll finish it someday. Until then, here's an excerpt that I haven't posted before.
On Thursday, he snaps. Kurt lets the force of the hit rebound him off the lockers and takes off after Karofsky. "Hey! What is your problem?!"
Karofsky's not running, just stalking fast, but he still manages to outpace Kurt and barrel into the locker room. With a deep breath, Kurt pushes in after him. "Listen-"
"No, you listen!" Karofsky yells, then he catches himself, says lower, harder, "I saw you."
"You've never seen me," Kurt snaps. "Everyone in this school thinks they know who I am just because they know I'm gay, but not a single-"
Karofsky growls. "With Puckerman. I saw you."
Kurt stops; he's suddenly aware of how quiet the locker room is. How empty. He wishes he'd kept up with karate when he was little. "I don't know what you think you saw-"
"Really?" Karofsky laughs. "All that 'I'm here, I'm queer' bullshit, and then you pretend like you're not screwing with guys?"
"Puck is... he's my friend. He's not. Not."
"What a joke. He didn't used to be, but then you started hanging around him-"
"That's not how it works," Kurt cuts in. "You can't... you can't be turned gay."
The look that beats over Karofsky's face, a mixture of anger and fear and something dark and wanting, leaves Kurt suppressing shudders. Then he's leaning in, hands coming up to cup either side of Kurt's face. Kurt closes his eyes and swings.
The first hit only grazes Karofsky's cheek, but it's enough to stop him for a breath. He stares at Kurt, goggle-eyed, still holding his face immobile. Kurt keeps his eyes open for the second hit, the one that smashes across Karofsky's nose. Kurt barely has time to register pain flaring thick over his knuckles before Karofsky slams him back against the lockers and heaves a fist into his gut. After that, everything gets smeared together; he can pick out a hand locking down on his shoulder, his nails snagging on something, a leg between his flailing calves, the rasp of breath and pounding footsteps and when his vision clears, Bieste is standing over Karofsky and Mr. Schue is hauling Kurt backwards by his (thankfully, strategically pre-ripped) cardigan. There's a ringing that rapidly clears into his name being said repeatedly. He blinks up at Mr. Schue.
"Kurt, what happened?!"
Kurt remembers sweaty fingers on his face. Firm, but not violent. Almost tender. "I." His voice cracks; he tries again. "I don't know."
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Glee: Puck and Kurt end up playing Mom and Dad in a daycare playhouse. I didn't even get to Kurt's introduction.
Puck starts his volunteer hours on a Thursday right after football practice. The only other person working is a tired girl with stringy hair. He'd still hit that, except she snaps her gum in a really annoying way. That's a dealbreaker. And anyway, there are children all around. Nothing kills the boner quicker than screaming kids. So Puck sucks it up, does his best to not stare too openly at hobo-girl's tits, and watches the clock.
Friday goes better. A brusque woman with roll after roll under her chin (Puck still eyes her up) lets him know he's on his own before she signs out and just about sprints to the parking lot. There's no one else over the age of 10 there. During naptime, he finds a beat-up acoustic guitar buried beneath some wooden blocks in a corner. It sounds like shit even after he tunes it up, but it's better than nothing. To his lack of surprise (because he already knows how fascinating he is, especially when he's playing guitar), the kids straggle in as they wake up to crowd around him with wondrous eyes. He takes a couple requests reluctantly, pushing through "Wheels on the Bus" and some horrible thing he heard on the radio that he thinks is by Justin Beiber, but then a high voice trills, "Rock and Roll All Night!" and Puck breaks out into a grin. Okay, this "community service" thing might not be so bad.
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Glee: I read a disturbing and dark prompt that for some reason stuck with me. Not sure I'll ever have the guts to really tackle it.
Puck sees him on his very first day in New York, though he doesn't realize it until later. He's too busy gawking at the house - no, fucking mansion - in front of him.
His Aunt Rhona rolls her eyes. "Noah? Are you gonna stand there catching flies or are you gonna bring your bags in?"
"Oh. Yeah." When he turns to grab his suitcase, it hits him like a punch in the gut. In the yard across the street sits a young man with a lace-swathed baby in his lap. He can't see the guy's face, but the baby looks ecstatic, bubbling and flapping as he lifts her in the air. The guy's hair is brown, a little too shaggy; almost right.
Puck shakes it off. He gets deja vu like this almost every day. There's always someone who looks just close enough... it's getting old.
He rolls his shoulders under the padded straps of his backpack and heads inside.
He forgets.
A few days later, sprawled half asleep across the loveseat while Rhona pours tea for both him and her friend Shaynah, he barely catches the name Ken in their string of babbling gossip. Again, the closeness jolts him.
"He's so skinny," Shaynah whines. "I don't know what they feed the poor boichik."
Rhona sighs. "Well, what worries me the most is how little he goes out. I mean, I didn't even know the boy existed until last month!"
"Who are you talking about?" Puck blurts, and he feels just as startled at his voice as Rhona and Shaynah look.
"The family across the street," Rhona says with an exhausted shrug. "They moved in... what, a year ago? And they've got this teenage boy who's a little..."
"Feygele," Shaynah says over her teacup, and Rhona shoots her a sharp look.
"... Quiet," Rhona finishes. "It's a bit weird."
Shaynah snorts. "A bit? They have a brand new baby, but do you ever see Lena care for her? No, it's always Ken, carting that worm around as if it were his own. I guess she figured it was the only way he'd ever have a kid."
That sets off another bout of squawking, this time about the horrible parenting on display in this day and age, but Puck tunes it out. There's no way. He knows that. Even if the timing makes it seem plausible, it's not. New York's so far, and there's been no sign of Kurt, no attempts at contact. If he was just living somewhere new, wouldn't they have heard something? A letter to Burt? Anything? He's been gone for a year (and 17 days, Puck's mind adds). The odds of him being okay are...
Maybe he should meet this Ken, just in case. Maybe he'd be close enough to help him forget for a while. Couldn't hurt any worse than it already does, right?
He quickly finds out that Rhona wasn't kidding about Ken's lack of activity. It takes a week before Puck manages to catch him. Puck's hefting a weedwhacker along the edges of a flowerbed when the front door across the street opens and Ken, head bowed, shuffles out. He's wearing loose jeans slung low across his hipbones and a faded green t-shirt and Puck's heart sinks. Maybe he won't be close enough after all.
But then Ken turns from the mailbox, flipping idly through a stack of ads, and Puck sees his face. He's shouting before he can even turn the weedwhacker off.
Ken - Kurt - looks up in alarm, and Puck can see his eyes barely flare in shock before Puck tackles him in a hug. They both almost go toppling to the ground. "It's really you, huh?" Puck breathes into his sloppy, unfamiliar, but really his hair.
Kurt's silent for a heartbeat, fingers clutching at Puck's back, before he lets go all at once and tries to stumble back. "You have to let go," he squeaks. "They might be watching. You need to play this off like you're flirting and you have to let go."
Puck just grips him tighter - Rhona's right, what the hell do they feed him? - and Kurt squirms uncomfortably before planting his hands on Puck's chest and shoving him back hard. They stare at each other for a minute, breathing way harder than they should be from a hug, but Kurt doesn't waver. In the back of his mind, Puck cheers. Now that's the Kurt he knows.
"Sorry," Puck says, and he doesn't sound sorry at all, "You, uh, you look just like this guy I knew in high school."
Kurt smirks at that. "Really."
"Yeah. Begged me to date him."
Kurt rolls his eyes, but holds out his hand like people should when they're meeting for the very first time. "I'm Ken."
"I'm Noah," Puck grins, "and I'd love to make you arc."
Kurt rolls his eyes again, but his face goes bright red and he can't quite hide the sputter. Behind him, the door opens again and a pretty woman with bleached out hair and a baby on her hip peeks out. "Ken?" she calls. "What's going on?"
"Just introducing myself," Puck says with a toothy grin. "My aunt lives across the street."
The woman licks her lips and her knuckles flash white as her grip on the baby tightens ever so slightly. "Ken, you shouldn't talk to strangers."
Kurt's face goes blank. "Sorry."
"Come inside."
It's just for an instant, but Puck can see the hesitation plain on Kurt's face before he crumples and starts back towards the house.
"Hey," Puck shouts, "see you later?"
Kurt closes the door.
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Glee: Kurt has wings. Puck pets them.
In retrospect, the timing should have tipped him off. Kurt's born with the wings, but in the beginning they're just little fleshy nubs between his shoulder blades, barely even noticeable. As he gets older, they get a little longer and joints became apparent, first bending up, then down in a tidy arc. They're still mostly nothing, though. He can keep them tucked under a shirt no problem. It isn't until he hits puberty that the feathers start sprouting. His dad is the first other person to know, of course, and he tries to look up past cases, but nobody has ever really had this mutation before. Most wings are vestigial and either get amputated or are simply ignored, just like Kurt's had been. Until they got huge. And feathered. And if Kurt concentrates on making the movements just so, he can flap hard enough to get his feet off the ground, but he hasn't told anyone that. It's weird enough being the gay kid and a mutant.
So it goes without saying that the first time Mercedes goes to pet his wings and her fingers ruffle between the feathers instead of just coasting over top, he doesn't tell anyone about the horrible hitching moan he has to bite back. He thinks it's kind of like kissing - innocent enough when you're little, but at some point, it takes on a more intimate vibe. His dad used to pet his wings all the time when he was younger, and it was soothing, but now that Kurt's taller and manlier (and girlier), it doesn't happen nearly as often. Of course, after he threw the "Defying Gravity" audition, his dad just had to clasp him tight and run a fond hand over those wings. Kurt had to work really hard to fight the sense of wrong from that one.
It's not nearly as bad when Finn curiously pokes at them (though the pink that Kurt's sure is staining his cheeks must clash horribly with his cashmere Prada scarf) or even when Brittany pets him (she must have learned the careful way she strokes him from spending so much time with Santana when her feral side takes over and no one but Brittany will come near her for fear of getting clawed). Artie's touch is barely even there, though he can control the wind and always carries a breeze with him, and sometimes it prickles just right through the quills and it takes all of Kurt's willpower to not shudder. Tina and Mercedes are the worst. Both touch his wings all the time, roughing the feathers up playfully between classes, smoothing his plumage down after washing slushie out, toying idly with the snowy white tips while Mr. Shue outlines the day's lesson on the board. At least Tina gives him a break every few weeks. She says angel blood smells delicious and she shouldn't risk being around him too close to a feed. For his part, Kurt doesn't really think he's an angel so much as a boy with fabulous wings and an even more fabulous eye for fashion, but he'll take what compliments he can get. Mercedes is always there, though, and he loves her, he really does, but it's frustrating to be single in the face of all this... stimulation. He's going to get Popeye forearms at this rate and he'll never fit into tailored jackets again.
He's molting the first time he spots Puck watching him. Mercedes, Tina, and Quinn are all "helpfully" combing their fingers over his wings, raking rough, faded plumes away to reveal his gleaming new coat. He's instants away from just burying his face in his hands to stifle the groans and hide the blush, and as he awkwardly tries to find something, anything in the Glee room to focus on besides the tight need tingling its way down his stomach, his eyes lock with Puck's. He expects Puck to look away or make some snide remark or something, but he doesn't. He just smirks knowingly. Kurt gives up and sinks his head into his hands.
Nothing happens that day. Nothing happens a week later either, when Tina sinks her fingers just right into the crook of his carpal joint and he tenses up and Puck stares, or the day after that, when Sam awkwardly asks if he can touch them. Really now, how could Kurt say no? Sam's fingers are deft and quick - Kurt bets he plays a lot of video games; who ever thought that would be a plus? - and he intuitively hits the majority of the spots that make Kurt's blood sing. Kurt doesn't even realize Puck's there for that one until he watches Sam wave and walk away, takes a shaky breath, and turns to head to his locker. A few feet away, just out of the corner of his eye, Kurt can see Puck suddenly jolt and stalk away.
It's not until the next week that something happens. Kurt's sitting in the choir room, legs crossed and wings folded primly as he chats with Mercedes. He barely even registers the chair scooting in on his other side. Then there are fingers tracing confidently down the sweep of bone that ends snug against his left shoulder blade. It takes all of his honed poise to not squeak. Kurt spins around, face blazing, to hiss at Puck, "What in the world do you think you're doing?"
"Dude, chill," Puck says with a grin. "I'll be nice."
Kurt coughs. "I don't care how nice you think you're being, dude. I'm asking why your clumsy fingers, which I sincerely hope you've washed since lunch, are... touching me!"
"They're soft, huh?" Brittany says. She leans in close from the row behind them and twirls her finger around one feather. "And pretty. My cat ate a teddy bear once and his puke looked like Kurt's wings."
Kurt turns wide eyes to her, absolutely stricken.
Mercedes shakes her head as if she could clear that image from her brain like an Etch-a-Sketch. "Okay, puke aside, Kurt has a point - why are you touching his wings?"
"Never have." Puck shrugs. "Thought I should see what I was missing." His thumb rubs, grinds right into the point where wing melds with shoulder and tickles over the short, downy feathers there. Kurt actually bites his lip to stop from moaning.
Mr. Shue starts the lesson then, and Kurt wants to sigh in relief, but Puck's fingers just glide to the inside of his wing's elbow. Kurt glances back over his shoulder and gets nothing but a small smile and a dismissive gesture towards the whiteboard in return. As soon as he starts to relax, Puck's hand starts up again, delving deep between the feathers and stroking the rippled flesh where they're rooted. He actually squirms in his seat and when his legs press together just that much more tightly, the petting stops. There's actually a small rest period then, five minutes maybe, where Puck just lightly skims over the curves of his wing joints. Kurt almost finds it nice. It doesn't last, though; soon enough Puck's working his way back in deep. He kneads at the carpal joint, finds the thumb-like digit and presses in, works over the base of feathers with light skipping touches and massages hard into the muscle. Mercedes shoots Kurt a look when he whimpers and mouths, "You okay?"
Kurt hopes his mouth isn't hanging open as he nods.
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Persona 4: Souji's parents show up in Inaba unannounced. This. This will be finished. I love the idea too much to let it die.
Souji must be hallucinating. He’s not sure why Igor would want to show him this particular image (or why he’d want to show him anything now - they defeated Izanami, right?), but that must be what’s going on. It’s the only logical explanation for why his mother and father are in front of him, standing on Dojima’s porch, bags in hand.
“Um. Mom. What?”
“Surprise!” she sings, dropping her suitcase in favor of smothering him with a bouncing hug. Over her shoulder, he can see his father staring at him impassively.
“What?” he blurts out again. Judging from her giggling, his mom didn’t hear. He pulls his head back, blowing errant curls of her hair out of his face, and raises his voice. “Mom, what’s going on? Does Dojima know you’re here?”
“Of course, of course.” Her hands are flying, patting his hair smooth, snapping the wrinkles out of his dress shirt, and he wilts unconsciously. “He knows, and Nanako-chan too, but you!” She taps him on the nose as if he were a puppy. “You we wanted to surprise.”
“I...” Souji stands, mouth open, as his mom scoops up her luggage and bounds past him into the house. Finally, shoulders slumped in defeat, he weakly manages, “I just got here on Monday. I saw you two days ago.”
Peering down at him with dark slits of eyes, Souji’s father just shrugs.
There’s laughter behind him, and Souji turns around to see his mom sweeping Nanako up into a hug. Sock-clad feet trace out arcs as they spin, voices raised in one high pitched hum. Dojima walks right past them and leans on the doorframe. He rubs the back of his head. “Sorry. I wanted to tell you, but to be honest, her threats are still as scary as ever.”
Souji blankly watches the clouds. One of them looks like a fox. “My friends are coming over.”
“Mitsunobu. Good to see you.”
“Likewise.” Souji’s father extends one hand stiffly, and Dojima shakes it with a twisted smile.
“For dinner,” Souji mumbles. “The girls are going to try cooking again.”
Dojima pops out a pack of cigarettes, offers one to a stoic-faced Mitsunobu (who only frowns in response), and then flicks his lighter alive. “So, how was your trip?”
“Naoto’s going to be a test subject with Kanji, Teddie, and me this time.”
“Long,” Mitsunobu says. Dojima laughs, and the smoke puffs out around him like the fluffy clouds in the sky.
“It’ll just be Chie, Yukiko, and Rise working to feed my whole family.”
“You haven’t changed,” Dojima chuckles around his cigarette.
Mitsunobu’s face is as a zen garden, raked with wrinkles, dotted with black stones for eyes and a deep trench for a mouth, and utterly, completely still. “I’ve seen no reason to.”
“We’re doomed.”
“Mmm?” Dojima snuffs out his cigarette and pops the remaining stub in his shirt pocket. “Did you say something?”
Souji can’t even bring himself to nod. This is horrible. The idea of this dinner was horrifying enough as it was. Now, not only will he have to protect Nanako, but both his parents will be there for the slaughter. Meeting his friends. Asking personal questions. Telling embarrassing stories. Eating poison. If there’s one blessing in this, one spark of hope he can cling to, it’s-
A pointy chin lands on his shoulder, and that sing-song voice chimes, “So when do I get to meet the love of my son’s life?”
“No!” Distantly, Souji registers his father and Dojima carrying more luggage inside, the door falling shut behind them. He swallows. “No, not... not tonight.”
“Aw, and here I thought I’d planned out everything perfect!”
He does his best to eye her suspiciously - which doesn’t work well at all, considering that she’s pressed against his back, hugging him so tight their cheeks are squished together. “What do you mean?”
“Ryo said your friends were all coming over, to celebrate your visit.” At that she pulls back and spins him around, examining his face worriedly. “Did something happen? Is it rescheduled?”
“No, it’s tonight,” Souji sighs.
“Don’t tell me you broke up!”
“What makes you think I’m dating someone?!”
“Oh, Souji.” She clucks her tongue at him disapprovingly. “I’m your mom.”
“Sorry.”
“Plus, you’re really loud on the phone.”
“What.”
Letting go of him completely in favor of folding her hands over her mouth demurely, she blushes and recites, “‘I miss you too.’ ‘I wish I could help you at work; we could get dinner together after.’ ‘I l-o-v-e you.’”
Souji’s face goes blank and pale, like a piece of paper. “I don’t talk like that. And those were private conversations.”
“Like I said, you’re really loud on the phone.”
He takes a moment to weigh his options, wondering if there’s any way to jump back a week’s time and set things up to make this less awkward, before offering, “Okay, I... have a girlfriend?”
Squeaking, Souji’s mom grasps his hands and twirls him so fast he almost expects his feet to kick out in the air like Nanako’s did. “I want to know everything, Souji. Her name, her job - that you wish you could help her with. I knew I raised you right - her favorite food, her-” She freezes, and her head tilts up until Souji can only see the line of her profile, backlit and thin. One hand flies to her ear, presses the small bit of plastic wedged there. “Hello, Seta speaking. Ah, Taka-san! How’s the Narita job going?”
Souji doesn’t bother to wave before he heads back into the house; she wouldn’t see it. He’s spent enough years talking with her long-distance. The only thing that changes is whether the tunnel that drops their call is physical or not. When he glances into the living room, Nanako smiles at him from in front of the TV. Neither of their fathers is anywhere to be seen. He frowns. “Nanako, do you know where everyone went?”
“My dad went outside to smoke, and... umm... Seta-san...”
And just like that, Souji’s tension melts away into familial warmth. “You can call him Uncle Mitsu.”
Small and monotone in the TV’s flickering light, Nanako nods nervously. “U-Uncle Mitsu’s outside too. I thought he said he was gonna check the mail, but he went out back, and he had a big cell phone with him.”
“That’s for his work.” Souji sinks down next to her, casually laying a hand on her head and smiling. “He’s checking his e-mail on the internet. Do you know about computers, Nanako?”
She scoots in closer to him, wiggling her fingers on an invisible keyboard. “A little! My teacher says it’s important we learn the,” and here her voice clips the words like a robot, “basics of technology.” Nanako grins. “We even get to take turns practicing on her computer. It’s really fun!”
It’s easy for Souji to fall into the conversation, pausing only to fiddle with the remote long enough to change to a quiz show at 6:30. A few minutes later, while Nanako scolds the man on TV for not knowing that platypuses lay eggs, his cell phone chimes. He glances at the screen, then flicks the sound off and tucks the phone back into his pocket.
“You can answer it, big bro,” Nanako says. “I don’t mind.”
Souji starts to explain, getting as far as, “It’s okay; it’s,” before his phone rings again. Same caller. “I’ll be quick.”
Nanako clicks up the volume, and Souji takes that as his cue to exit, jogging up the stairs and into his room as he groans into the phone, “You will not believe the day I’m having.”
“Hello to you too.”
“Sorry. Really. I’m tired already.”
The voice on the line sputters. “You haven’t even had dinner yet!”
“I know. That’s the kind of day it is.”
“Well, your luck’s about to change.”
“Oh?”
“Guess who managed to get the night off work and is coming to dinner after all?”
Souji chokes back a scream. “You can’t.”
“Wha...? Oh, real nice.”
“You don’t understand.” Souji actually fists a hand in his hair, tugging in frustration. “My parents are here.”
“Hey, cool! The whole gang can meet your folks!”
A rapid flurry of knocks cuts off whatever argument he was about to launch against that idea. “Sooooouji!” his mom hollers through the door. “Souji, there are people here for you!”
There’s a real, physical jolt in his stomach at that. “I need to go,” Souji hisses into the phone. “Trust me - don’t come.”
“But I already told Chie! She’ll kick my ass if I ditch now!”
Souji infuses as much desperation as he can into one last whispered “Please,” and he hangs up just as his mom opens the door.
“Heeeeey,” she says slyly, creeping over to him like a predator after prey. “Was that your lovely lady? Let me say hi!”
Souji’s not sure if he manages to pull off remorseful or if his smile just looks relieved. “Sorry. Just hung up. She’s really busy with work tonight.”
“That’s why I can’t meet her tonight?” She presses her fingertips against her chin and sighs heavily. “Poor thing! You know, we should go out after dinner; give her a nice surprise. Where does she work?”
Coughing lightly, Souji starts towards the stairs. “So there are people at the door?”
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Persona 4: Souji and Yosuke get an apartment. It doesn't go as planned.
On move-in day, there are exactly thirteen seconds where Yosuke is happy.
He sets down the last of his and Souji’s boxes on the pile.
Stretching his arms and with his back arched, Yosuke inhales deep.
He holds the breath.
He exhales, and Souji’s eyes meet his.
Souji grabs his hand.
Squeezes.
Smiles.
And Yosuke smiles back.
Then Souji lets go.
Reaches into his pocket.
Rummages a bit.
Pulls out his key.
And as he turns, ready to open their very first apartment together...
The door thrusts out, revealing a glimpse of waxy hair clinging to the folds in what might’ve once been a face, mottled skin billowing out under one dull eye. Yosuke throttles his yelp of terror into some semblance of a greeting. “Hi, um, hi. Sir. Hi there, sir. Sir?”
He’s hoping for some sort of reassurance, for Souji to take over and diplomatically handle this, for his freakin’ kunai to be in his hands instead of wrapped up in the moving boxes so he could dispatch this thing that is definitely, absolutely, 100% not human. Instead, Souji palms the key silently and waits.
The troll inside croaks, “Too early.”
“E-excuse me?” Yosuke stammers.
“You brats are too early,” it says, or at least, that’s what it sounds like. It’s hard to make out words over the odd whining rattle echoing from somewhere inside the apartment.
Finally, Souji shifts uncomfortably and says, “We were told today is the start of our lease. Was that an error?”
“Guess so.” And the door slams.
It takes three roundtrips from the main office to the apartment, relaying messages that consist primarily of “You need to leave,” and “Fuck off,” before someone follows them back, paperwork in hand and glasses bouncing from ridge to ridge on his wrinkled up nose. This time, when the not-a-human peers out, its eerily dark eyes go wide. The door slams again.
“By tomorrow morning,” the man with the glasses clips out, and his tone makes Yosuke’s skin prickle. There’s a muffled screech that, judging from the way the man smirks, must mean, “Yes, sir!” in Evilese.
Souji eyes everything cautiously - man in pressed slacks and shining gold-framed glasses, worn wooden door shut crooked and yet tight, precarious stacks of boxes - before asking, “Will we be moving in tomorrow?”
“Assuredly. For tonight, I’ll find you accommodations nearby.”
Yosuke thinks he probably doesn’t want to know the answer to this (and his arms are certain they don’t want to), but he can’t help it. “What about all our stuff? Our boxes...”
“Are a fire hazard.” From inside what is soon to be their apartment, something howls, then breaks off into barking coughs. The man adjusts his glasses. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take them with you.”
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Persona 4: Souji/Sayoko/Yosuke dubcon threesome. Don't ask.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. All he really wanted was for the night to be done already. Yosuke’s still not sure why he followed Souji to his part-time job at the hospital. It might have been because he wanted to see the scary (hot) nurse that was interested in (molesting) his best friend, or maybe just because he likes spending time with him. Either way, he had tagged along. When they got to the hospital, though, the nurse was nowhere to be seen. In fact, all there was to see were some oddly furry clumps of dust in the hallway and a sticky patch on one of the bedside tables, that might’ve once been milk, shaped like that salesman who’s always on TV on Sundays. Oh, and Souji in his dorky uniform, of course. That alone had almost made the night worthwhile. Then Souji got called away to clean one of the lab’s storage units, a more tightly guarded area than the patient rooms they’d been lingering in, and Yosuke was left with nothing to do. He tried wandering around and taking in the sights, but nothing new materialized during Souji’s departure. Plus, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him. Bored and creeped out in equal measure, Yosuke climbed into one of the patient beds in a room Souji had cleaned earlier, slipped his headphones over his ears, and ended up napping, still as the hospital around him.
When he opens his eyes, he’s surprised to see nothing but darkness. Did someone turn the light out or something? For a moment, he thinks that Souji forgot about him and he’s locked in this place until morning, and his heart hammers wildly, but then a hint of light shines through and there’s a soft chuckle next to his head. “H-hello?” he stammers.
“You’re friends with that high school boy, aren’t you?”
Yosuke still can’t see much of anything. He tries to wipe at his eyes, but his hand won’t cooperate.
“Oh, allow me,” the voice purrs, and someone delicately lifts gauze pads off of his eyes. When his eyes focus again in the sudden brightness, Yosuke sees a pretty woman with dark hair, darker eyes, and a sharp smile. “Cute,” she says, gazing at him through flitting eyelashes. “Not as cute as your friend, but still cute.”
“We can’t all be Souji.” Yosuke rolls his eyes - just his luck, right? Souji’s not there and the girls still only care about him, even when said girls are slutty nurses. The playlist he had fallen asleep to has long since ended, and he tries to tug his headphones back down around his neck, but just like before, he can’t get his hand to move. Yosuke lifts his head up to peer down. Thick nylon cuffs are cinched tight around each of his wrists. “What the hell?”
“A precaution,” the nurse giggles, and she sits down in a chair next to his bed. “Can’t have you leaving before the lesson’s over.”
“Lesson?” Yosuke gulps. “Look, lady-”
“Sayoko.”
“... Sayoko-san, I don’t want any part of any lesson you have planned.” He tugs at the restraints experimentally and discovers much to his chagrin that even when he whips his arms as hard and fast as he can, they don’t budge at all.
Sayoko giggles again, resting with her elbow on one shiny pantyhose-clad knee, chin in hand. “Those are designed to hold the unwilling, sweetie. I don’t think you can break them. Why don’t you just relax and find out what I have planned? I promise you’ll like it.”
Yosuke tries to lever his body up. His legs, spread apart with one foot at each bottom corner of the bed, are held firmly in place.
“Restraints aren’t just for arms, you know.”
“Hey,” he growls, and she cuts him off with an amused hum.
“Be good,” she says in low, thrumming tones. “If you keep misbehaving, I might have to gag you.”
With that, she stands up, smoothing her skirt out languidly with splayed fingers, and casually walks out of the room. Yosuke can hear her walk a short distance, likely to one of the rooms nearby. She calls out gently, “Hey there. Your friend was sleeping in that room over there, right?”
Souji mumbles something, but Yosuke can’t make it out.
“I think he needs you,” Sayoko says, and then there are footsteps surging his way, slowing just before the doorway so Souji can walk in nonchalantly. If the situation wasn’t so fucking weird, Yosuke would laugh. Instead, he waves one of his hands (from the wrist; hard as he tries, he can’t move it more than that) and says simply, “Help?”
Souji pauses halfway into the room, eyeing him cautiously. “What happened to you?”
“I woke up like this.”
“Woke up?” Absent-mindedly adjusting his baseball cap, Souji takes a few tentative steps towards the bed. “Why are you restrained? Did you... did something happen?”
“No, dude! I laid down here, and I must’ve fallen asleep, and then-” Yosuke jerks one of his arms, and the buckles on the cuff rattle. “-this!”
Something clicks - the door lock? - and Souji spins around to face Sayoko, who walks towards him coyly, slowly, hips twisting side to side like a pendulum. “When you talked about your friend, you didn’t mention he was good-looking,” she chuckles.
Souji glances at Yosuke, and there might be a hint of red creeping across his cheeks, but Yosuke reasons it away as his eyes still adjusting to the light.
“I told you I’d teach you things you don’t learn in school,” Sayoko says, face so close to Souji’s that she could kiss him without even moving her feet. “I’m a woman of her word.”
Yosuke waits for Souji to stand up to her, demand she back off right now, and then come undo these stupid cuffs so they can get out of here five minutes ago, preferably. In his head, they run out together, back to Souji’s house, where they collapse on his couch laughing. Souji said she was scary, didn’t he? He told him. Souji was right, really, and Yosuke’s sorry for ever doubting him. Then they have one of their awkwardly close moments, where Yosuke knows without a shadow of a doubt that if Souji was a girl he’d try for a kiss, before they break away to opposite ends of the couch and read manga or watch TV, or just stay where they are and ignore the gut reaction that this isn’t how normal guy buds feel about each other.
That’s how it happens in Yosuke’s head. Reality isn’t like that.
Souji freezes, licks his lips quickly, nervously, and asks, “What are you planning to teach me?”
--------
Persona 4: Blatant porn in a train station bathroom.
Yosuke should’ve known something was up when he was the only person waiting at the platform. To be fair, he was a bit concerned, but that passed when Souji chuckled, his voice tinny through the cellphone speaker, “They’re waiting for you to bring me home.” There are a lot of questions crowding his head now that should’ve occurred to him then. Why would they be waiting? Why wouldn’t everyone want to be there to greet him the second he arrived? At least Nanako-chan should’ve been there to get the first hug, right?
“What’s wrong?”
Yosuke manages a breathy, “Eh?”
“You’re not kissing me back.” Then Souji’s leg slips between his, knee thumping against the tiled bathroom wall, and with one forearm braced beside Yosuke’s head, Souji kisses his ear. “Am I that out of practice?”
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Persona 4: Based on a conversation I had with mysticnocturne - her idea on how Souji/Yosuke happens.
The first time he really notices it, Yosuke thinks he ate something bad. It’s January, and the breeze across the rooftop has a bit of bite to it, but despite that the day is still too clear, too beautiful to waste inside, and so everyone agreed to gather up there for lunch. Yosuke’s offer to grab instant noodles for Souji is quickly overruled by an enthusiastic Rise with matching bento sets for her and him. He ends up instead buying bowls for Chie and Yukiko (how they always manage to spend his money, he’ll never know) and the three of them settle next to an already eating Kanji. Yosuke watches Rise flit between Naoto and Souji through the steam rising off of his cooking noodles. The first pulse of it hits him then, but he waves it off as a hunger pang.
“Hey, earth to Yosuke!” Chie jabs him in the arm with her chopsticks.
“Ow! What the hell-”
“Our noodles should be ready,” Yukiko says, and Yosuke gets the distinct feeling this is the third or fourth time she’s tried to tell him this.
“Alright, let’s eat!” He pulls his chopsticks apart, doing his best to ignore Chie’s snickering when they break horribly unevenly at the top, and digs in. He’s only a few bites in when someone sinks down next to him, casting a shadow over his lunch. Yosuke laughs without looking up. “Done with your special bento already?”
“It’s really spicy,” Souji sighs. Sure enough, the food in front of him is coated in an impossibly red sauce and flecked with black bits everywhere.
“Is that fish?”
“I have no idea.”
“Are you actually going to eat that?”
“Want to share?”
“Dude. No.” Yosuke slurps up a mouthful of noodles. “I wanna live, thanks.”
When Souji leans towards him, his first reaction is to flinch back and guard his mouth. This unfortunately leaves his bowl completely unguarded. Souji hefts out a bunch of noodles into the lid of his bento.
“Hey!” Yosuke scowls down at his half-empty bowl. “I offered to buy you noodles, and you passed.”
“Rise passed for me,” Souji says calmly, and he scoops up a bite with a small smile. “I don’t want to die either.”
It’s at this moment that Yosuke feels it. Souji is looking at him, chopsticks halfway to his slightly open mouth, his bangs lifting off of his forehead with the wind, and Yosuke’s stomach knots up. Then it’s over, and Souji’s looking at him with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Y-yeah,” Yosuke says weakly, struggling to keep his head from spinning. “I think you got some of that sauce in my noodles.”
“Sorry. I’ll buy you another bowl.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it. Lunch’ll probably end soon anyways.”
“Then I’ll get you something after school. Want to go to Aiya?” Souji touches his arm, and Yosuke fights back another wave of nausea. He doesn’t remember eating anything after Souji brought that poison over here, but he must’ve, since he feels like crap. When did he take the deadly bite? He stews over this all through the rest of lunch and never comes up with an answer. The trip to Aiya after school goes a lot better, but the feeling doesn’t disappear completely until he’s at home, working on math. Even then, he thinks it might just be that the pain of homework overpowers it.
The next morning, he’s back to his usual self. It takes another week before the feeling comes back. He’s on the roof for lunch again, but this time it’s only him and Souji, sharing a meal Souji cooked himself. “How do you do this?” Yosuke marvels as he snags another croquette. “Your food is always the best.”
Souji laughs under his breath, so quietly that the sound is swallowed up by the light gusts of wind that skip across the roof.
Glancing at him anxiously, Yosuke says around a mouthful of food, “What?”
“It’s because I know I’ll be sharing it with you.”
And it hits Yosuke again then, chokes him up, makes his head swim. His vision narrows down to the boxed lunch between them, packed with crisp golden croquettes, and Souji. Souji sitting, smiling, with the sun smoothing over his face and neck, illuminating his skin soft against the sharp lines of his uniform, and with his pale eyes wide and reflective, painted by the cloudless sky. This time, Yosuke knows it isn’t the food. This is some of the best damn food he’s ever had.
Souji talks again. “I don’t want to let down my best friend.”
Yosuke slurs something that sounds vaguely affirmative, and for some reason the word “friend” sticks out in his head like a pin. He forces a smile, though, and says, “I wouldn’t want to let you down either.”
They sit in silence for a few heartbeats, still save for wind that weaves around them both, ruffling their clothes and hair.
“Is it really good?”
Yosuke jumps. “Eh?”
His mouth a small line, Souji nods towards the food.
“Oh! Oh, yeah, it’s amazing. I’m just... I guess I might be getting sick or something. I don’t know.”
The next day, Souji brings him an orange. The Vitamin C should ward off illness, he tells him. Yosuke doesn’t have the heart to mention that he was feeling fine up until the orange - as soon as he starts peeling it, chatting with Souji as his thumbs work the sweet skin, that horrible churn in his gut comes back. By now, he’s getting used to it, and he barely falters when it hits before carrying on as if nothing was wrong. He doesn’t need Souji to worry about him more. That just seems to make it worse.
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SYTYCD: On tour (at least in Orlando), Jess took Tadd's place in the Love Story number with Melanie. I may have thought about that too much.
"Hey," Tadd says as he recaps his water bottle, "who said you could take this dance, anyway?"
"Don't know. Whoever decided to put two of 'your' numbers back to back, I guess." Tadd quirks an eyebrow, and Jess grins lopsidedly. "It might've been Melanie."
Tadd laughs. "I can see that."
"Honestly, I can't. I'd rather dance with you."
"Hey," Tadd says, as he grips Jess's shoulders and tries to ignore the tug of pale fingers on his belt loops, "don't start. We gotta practice."
Jess rests his forehead against Tadd's and sighs too loudly to be authentic. "I knew it. You have no confidence in my ability to pull off the sexy choreographer persona."
Pecking Jess quickly, chastely on the corner of his mouth, Tadd pulls away. "One more time."
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Final Fantasy VIII: Post-game. Missing person. It's not who you think.
“Is there any news?”
“No, sir.” At Squall’s nod, she releases the salute and snaps her hands behind her back. “There’s been no sign of her anywhere between Deling City and Timber. I took the liberty of sending scouts out to Dollet, though I doubt she’s made it that far. If that was irresponsible of me, I apologize and will order them to return immediately.”
“Send scouts to Esthar. Tell them to seek Presidential Aide Kiros for help.”
She starts, head tilting curiously before she catches herself and jolts back into position. “Forgive me for questioning you, sir, but I highly doubt that’s necessary.”
His pen never stopping, Squall flips to another page in his notebook and frowns down at his own notes. “That’s an order.”
“Sir yes sir!” She whips her legs together and salutes him once again, holding the pose without a wiggle. After a few long moments, he peers up at her.
“Well?”
“I have yet to be dismissed, sir.”
He shuts the notebook and sighs. “Dismissed.”
Pivoting sharply on her heel, she takes a few steps towards the door before pausing and asking, “May I speak freely, sir?”
There’s no answer. She takes his silence as assent.
“Why is this case receiving such attention, sir? The girl’s been gone less than two days. Missing persons procedures don’t apply until 72 hours have passed.”
Squall’s quiet for a few breaths before he says in a slow, measured tone, “You’re dismissed, Lan.”
She lowers her head and clips out of the office.
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Original: Jezebel
It's a simple little thing - she doesn't think much of it at first. It's resting on her doorstep one morning, damp against the dry concrete (and she doesn't even notice that until her fingers came back clay red from the paper wrapping), a simple parcel no bigger than a fist. Inside, a chunk of stone, not glossy or round or sparkling crystal jags, just gray. The largest plane on it reads, in shallow, even letters, "It's we you are for only." There's a chill up her spine the first time she notices the inscription, of course, but it doesn't last long. She rolls her eyes and wads up the rusty paper around it and throws it into the garbage, or she means to, but instead she throws out the paper alone and gingerly slides the stone through the dust on her desk and into a niche next to the phone. She doesn't know why. She just does it.
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Original: Windchill
Lost is a strange word. It can mean you don’t know where something is; it can mean you don’t know where you are. It can mean something’s just gone.
“What do you mean, ‘we’ve lost him’?!” she screeches into the phone, and I drop my pencil.
“Mom,” I say.
“Not now,” she mouths at me, flapping her hand in useless empty swats. Her eyes are tight and red. “That’s not possible!” she shouts. “There’s no way he could-”
And then her lips peel back like a dog’s, and she throws the phone against the wall without even hanging up.
“Mom,” I say.
“Not now!” She huffs in place, the breath whistling through her gritted teeth, takes a few planted steps towards the window, and then she’s on the ground, screaming, pulling, and I’m frozen.
“Mom.”
The phone chatters away. The moment my fingers touch plastic, she sobs, and I flinch, but the phone continues its numb arc up to my ear. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Reynold?”
“No. This is her daughter.”
There’s a rush of air that crackles through the speaker, and while it’s likely that the person on the other end exhaled, I’m hit with the mental image of all air currents, everywhere in the world, simultaneously jolting to a stop. The whoosh was their last surge. “Her daughter,” the voice repeats. “I... it’s about your brother.”
I can’t remember packing the red shirt that I find at the top of my suitcase when we land in the city. I know I grabbed at everything black I could manage to see through half-closed eyes, and Mom rushed in, upturned the whole thing, shouted that we weren’t going to a funeral, we were just going to figure this out. Maybe I just like black, I told her. She left the room choking on nothing.
“Mom,” I say.
She pauses in her pacing to glance up the upheld sweater. “That one looks good on you.”
I throw it over my arm alongside a set of undergarments, carefully select the lightest, most blue pair of jeans I have, and push into the hotel bathroom to shower.
“You see?” Mom says with a smile when I emerge (and no cloud of steam follows me - any heat felt scorching). “A quick shower can fix anything, and that shirt looks great on you.”
Rumbling in the backseat of a taxi, she murmurs, “I can’t believe this.”
“What?”
“Ridiculous. There’s no way.”
“Mom. Listen. We’re going to meet up with Dad,” I say, and it doesn’t sound right. My tongue’s not cooperating. “Then we’re going to identify the body.”
She shakes her head. “It can’t be him.”
I stare at the taxi driver’s head, locked mechanically on the road ahead of us, waved hair gummed up against a sunburned scalp. “I know this is hard, Mom.” I swallow. “It’s really hard for me too. But I need you to be ready for what we’re about to see.”
Her head drops, and her hair falls, precision cut slanted askew over her tension-ridged nose. The taxi driver’s head tips back ever so slightly and his crinkled gaze meets mine in the rearview mirror. I don’t blink.
It’s under my hands when we step out of the car. That’s the first time I notice it, but it’s not necessarily the first time it happens. I rub my palms on my pants as we stumble towards the front door. His face, slimy and stretched beneath a cowboy hat, is so bloated that I almost don’t recognize him, but then he smiles, all tobacco-teeth, and I can’t fend off the shudder.
“How dare you?!” Mom screams. “What the fuck is there to smile about?!”
The mask slips just like that, and he fish-gapes, says, “She looked like she needed a smile.”
“She doesn’t.”
“Can we just get this over with?” I say, hoping I imagined the pitiful water waver.
“Sure,” Dad says. He holds the front door open for us, and as I walk by, he whispers, “It’s good to see you again, kiddo.”
It’s there again. This time it’s puffing out the skin under my eyes.
Post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
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Glee: The Hercules fic. I swear I'll finish it someday. Until then, here's an excerpt that I haven't posted before.
On Thursday, he snaps. Kurt lets the force of the hit rebound him off the lockers and takes off after Karofsky. "Hey! What is your problem?!"
Karofsky's not running, just stalking fast, but he still manages to outpace Kurt and barrel into the locker room. With a deep breath, Kurt pushes in after him. "Listen-"
"No, you listen!" Karofsky yells, then he catches himself, says lower, harder, "I saw you."
"You've never seen me," Kurt snaps. "Everyone in this school thinks they know who I am just because they know I'm gay, but not a single-"
Karofsky growls. "With Puckerman. I saw you."
Kurt stops; he's suddenly aware of how quiet the locker room is. How empty. He wishes he'd kept up with karate when he was little. "I don't know what you think you saw-"
"Really?" Karofsky laughs. "All that 'I'm here, I'm queer' bullshit, and then you pretend like you're not screwing with guys?"
"Puck is... he's my friend. He's not. Not."
"What a joke. He didn't used to be, but then you started hanging around him-"
"That's not how it works," Kurt cuts in. "You can't... you can't be turned gay."
The look that beats over Karofsky's face, a mixture of anger and fear and something dark and wanting, leaves Kurt suppressing shudders. Then he's leaning in, hands coming up to cup either side of Kurt's face. Kurt closes his eyes and swings.
The first hit only grazes Karofsky's cheek, but it's enough to stop him for a breath. He stares at Kurt, goggle-eyed, still holding his face immobile. Kurt keeps his eyes open for the second hit, the one that smashes across Karofsky's nose. Kurt barely has time to register pain flaring thick over his knuckles before Karofsky slams him back against the lockers and heaves a fist into his gut. After that, everything gets smeared together; he can pick out a hand locking down on his shoulder, his nails snagging on something, a leg between his flailing calves, the rasp of breath and pounding footsteps and when his vision clears, Bieste is standing over Karofsky and Mr. Schue is hauling Kurt backwards by his (thankfully, strategically pre-ripped) cardigan. There's a ringing that rapidly clears into his name being said repeatedly. He blinks up at Mr. Schue.
"Kurt, what happened?!"
Kurt remembers sweaty fingers on his face. Firm, but not violent. Almost tender. "I." His voice cracks; he tries again. "I don't know."
--------
Glee: Puck and Kurt end up playing Mom and Dad in a daycare playhouse. I didn't even get to Kurt's introduction.
Puck starts his volunteer hours on a Thursday right after football practice. The only other person working is a tired girl with stringy hair. He'd still hit that, except she snaps her gum in a really annoying way. That's a dealbreaker. And anyway, there are children all around. Nothing kills the boner quicker than screaming kids. So Puck sucks it up, does his best to not stare too openly at hobo-girl's tits, and watches the clock.
Friday goes better. A brusque woman with roll after roll under her chin (Puck still eyes her up) lets him know he's on his own before she signs out and just about sprints to the parking lot. There's no one else over the age of 10 there. During naptime, he finds a beat-up acoustic guitar buried beneath some wooden blocks in a corner. It sounds like shit even after he tunes it up, but it's better than nothing. To his lack of surprise (because he already knows how fascinating he is, especially when he's playing guitar), the kids straggle in as they wake up to crowd around him with wondrous eyes. He takes a couple requests reluctantly, pushing through "Wheels on the Bus" and some horrible thing he heard on the radio that he thinks is by Justin Beiber, but then a high voice trills, "Rock and Roll All Night!" and Puck breaks out into a grin. Okay, this "community service" thing might not be so bad.
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Glee: I read a disturbing and dark prompt that for some reason stuck with me. Not sure I'll ever have the guts to really tackle it.
Puck sees him on his very first day in New York, though he doesn't realize it until later. He's too busy gawking at the house - no, fucking mansion - in front of him.
His Aunt Rhona rolls her eyes. "Noah? Are you gonna stand there catching flies or are you gonna bring your bags in?"
"Oh. Yeah." When he turns to grab his suitcase, it hits him like a punch in the gut. In the yard across the street sits a young man with a lace-swathed baby in his lap. He can't see the guy's face, but the baby looks ecstatic, bubbling and flapping as he lifts her in the air. The guy's hair is brown, a little too shaggy; almost right.
Puck shakes it off. He gets deja vu like this almost every day. There's always someone who looks just close enough... it's getting old.
He rolls his shoulders under the padded straps of his backpack and heads inside.
He forgets.
A few days later, sprawled half asleep across the loveseat while Rhona pours tea for both him and her friend Shaynah, he barely catches the name Ken in their string of babbling gossip. Again, the closeness jolts him.
"He's so skinny," Shaynah whines. "I don't know what they feed the poor boichik."
Rhona sighs. "Well, what worries me the most is how little he goes out. I mean, I didn't even know the boy existed until last month!"
"Who are you talking about?" Puck blurts, and he feels just as startled at his voice as Rhona and Shaynah look.
"The family across the street," Rhona says with an exhausted shrug. "They moved in... what, a year ago? And they've got this teenage boy who's a little..."
"Feygele," Shaynah says over her teacup, and Rhona shoots her a sharp look.
"... Quiet," Rhona finishes. "It's a bit weird."
Shaynah snorts. "A bit? They have a brand new baby, but do you ever see Lena care for her? No, it's always Ken, carting that worm around as if it were his own. I guess she figured it was the only way he'd ever have a kid."
That sets off another bout of squawking, this time about the horrible parenting on display in this day and age, but Puck tunes it out. There's no way. He knows that. Even if the timing makes it seem plausible, it's not. New York's so far, and there's been no sign of Kurt, no attempts at contact. If he was just living somewhere new, wouldn't they have heard something? A letter to Burt? Anything? He's been gone for a year (and 17 days, Puck's mind adds). The odds of him being okay are...
Maybe he should meet this Ken, just in case. Maybe he'd be close enough to help him forget for a while. Couldn't hurt any worse than it already does, right?
He quickly finds out that Rhona wasn't kidding about Ken's lack of activity. It takes a week before Puck manages to catch him. Puck's hefting a weedwhacker along the edges of a flowerbed when the front door across the street opens and Ken, head bowed, shuffles out. He's wearing loose jeans slung low across his hipbones and a faded green t-shirt and Puck's heart sinks. Maybe he won't be close enough after all.
But then Ken turns from the mailbox, flipping idly through a stack of ads, and Puck sees his face. He's shouting before he can even turn the weedwhacker off.
Ken - Kurt - looks up in alarm, and Puck can see his eyes barely flare in shock before Puck tackles him in a hug. They both almost go toppling to the ground. "It's really you, huh?" Puck breathes into his sloppy, unfamiliar, but really his hair.
Kurt's silent for a heartbeat, fingers clutching at Puck's back, before he lets go all at once and tries to stumble back. "You have to let go," he squeaks. "They might be watching. You need to play this off like you're flirting and you have to let go."
Puck just grips him tighter - Rhona's right, what the hell do they feed him? - and Kurt squirms uncomfortably before planting his hands on Puck's chest and shoving him back hard. They stare at each other for a minute, breathing way harder than they should be from a hug, but Kurt doesn't waver. In the back of his mind, Puck cheers. Now that's the Kurt he knows.
"Sorry," Puck says, and he doesn't sound sorry at all, "You, uh, you look just like this guy I knew in high school."
Kurt smirks at that. "Really."
"Yeah. Begged me to date him."
Kurt rolls his eyes, but holds out his hand like people should when they're meeting for the very first time. "I'm Ken."
"I'm Noah," Puck grins, "and I'd love to make you arc."
Kurt rolls his eyes again, but his face goes bright red and he can't quite hide the sputter. Behind him, the door opens again and a pretty woman with bleached out hair and a baby on her hip peeks out. "Ken?" she calls. "What's going on?"
"Just introducing myself," Puck says with a toothy grin. "My aunt lives across the street."
The woman licks her lips and her knuckles flash white as her grip on the baby tightens ever so slightly. "Ken, you shouldn't talk to strangers."
Kurt's face goes blank. "Sorry."
"Come inside."
It's just for an instant, but Puck can see the hesitation plain on Kurt's face before he crumples and starts back towards the house.
"Hey," Puck shouts, "see you later?"
Kurt closes the door.
--------
Glee: Kurt has wings. Puck pets them.
In retrospect, the timing should have tipped him off. Kurt's born with the wings, but in the beginning they're just little fleshy nubs between his shoulder blades, barely even noticeable. As he gets older, they get a little longer and joints became apparent, first bending up, then down in a tidy arc. They're still mostly nothing, though. He can keep them tucked under a shirt no problem. It isn't until he hits puberty that the feathers start sprouting. His dad is the first other person to know, of course, and he tries to look up past cases, but nobody has ever really had this mutation before. Most wings are vestigial and either get amputated or are simply ignored, just like Kurt's had been. Until they got huge. And feathered. And if Kurt concentrates on making the movements just so, he can flap hard enough to get his feet off the ground, but he hasn't told anyone that. It's weird enough being the gay kid and a mutant.
So it goes without saying that the first time Mercedes goes to pet his wings and her fingers ruffle between the feathers instead of just coasting over top, he doesn't tell anyone about the horrible hitching moan he has to bite back. He thinks it's kind of like kissing - innocent enough when you're little, but at some point, it takes on a more intimate vibe. His dad used to pet his wings all the time when he was younger, and it was soothing, but now that Kurt's taller and manlier (and girlier), it doesn't happen nearly as often. Of course, after he threw the "Defying Gravity" audition, his dad just had to clasp him tight and run a fond hand over those wings. Kurt had to work really hard to fight the sense of wrong from that one.
It's not nearly as bad when Finn curiously pokes at them (though the pink that Kurt's sure is staining his cheeks must clash horribly with his cashmere Prada scarf) or even when Brittany pets him (she must have learned the careful way she strokes him from spending so much time with Santana when her feral side takes over and no one but Brittany will come near her for fear of getting clawed). Artie's touch is barely even there, though he can control the wind and always carries a breeze with him, and sometimes it prickles just right through the quills and it takes all of Kurt's willpower to not shudder. Tina and Mercedes are the worst. Both touch his wings all the time, roughing the feathers up playfully between classes, smoothing his plumage down after washing slushie out, toying idly with the snowy white tips while Mr. Shue outlines the day's lesson on the board. At least Tina gives him a break every few weeks. She says angel blood smells delicious and she shouldn't risk being around him too close to a feed. For his part, Kurt doesn't really think he's an angel so much as a boy with fabulous wings and an even more fabulous eye for fashion, but he'll take what compliments he can get. Mercedes is always there, though, and he loves her, he really does, but it's frustrating to be single in the face of all this... stimulation. He's going to get Popeye forearms at this rate and he'll never fit into tailored jackets again.
He's molting the first time he spots Puck watching him. Mercedes, Tina, and Quinn are all "helpfully" combing their fingers over his wings, raking rough, faded plumes away to reveal his gleaming new coat. He's instants away from just burying his face in his hands to stifle the groans and hide the blush, and as he awkwardly tries to find something, anything in the Glee room to focus on besides the tight need tingling its way down his stomach, his eyes lock with Puck's. He expects Puck to look away or make some snide remark or something, but he doesn't. He just smirks knowingly. Kurt gives up and sinks his head into his hands.
Nothing happens that day. Nothing happens a week later either, when Tina sinks her fingers just right into the crook of his carpal joint and he tenses up and Puck stares, or the day after that, when Sam awkwardly asks if he can touch them. Really now, how could Kurt say no? Sam's fingers are deft and quick - Kurt bets he plays a lot of video games; who ever thought that would be a plus? - and he intuitively hits the majority of the spots that make Kurt's blood sing. Kurt doesn't even realize Puck's there for that one until he watches Sam wave and walk away, takes a shaky breath, and turns to head to his locker. A few feet away, just out of the corner of his eye, Kurt can see Puck suddenly jolt and stalk away.
It's not until the next week that something happens. Kurt's sitting in the choir room, legs crossed and wings folded primly as he chats with Mercedes. He barely even registers the chair scooting in on his other side. Then there are fingers tracing confidently down the sweep of bone that ends snug against his left shoulder blade. It takes all of his honed poise to not squeak. Kurt spins around, face blazing, to hiss at Puck, "What in the world do you think you're doing?"
"Dude, chill," Puck says with a grin. "I'll be nice."
Kurt coughs. "I don't care how nice you think you're being, dude. I'm asking why your clumsy fingers, which I sincerely hope you've washed since lunch, are... touching me!"
"They're soft, huh?" Brittany says. She leans in close from the row behind them and twirls her finger around one feather. "And pretty. My cat ate a teddy bear once and his puke looked like Kurt's wings."
Kurt turns wide eyes to her, absolutely stricken.
Mercedes shakes her head as if she could clear that image from her brain like an Etch-a-Sketch. "Okay, puke aside, Kurt has a point - why are you touching his wings?"
"Never have." Puck shrugs. "Thought I should see what I was missing." His thumb rubs, grinds right into the point where wing melds with shoulder and tickles over the short, downy feathers there. Kurt actually bites his lip to stop from moaning.
Mr. Shue starts the lesson then, and Kurt wants to sigh in relief, but Puck's fingers just glide to the inside of his wing's elbow. Kurt glances back over his shoulder and gets nothing but a small smile and a dismissive gesture towards the whiteboard in return. As soon as he starts to relax, Puck's hand starts up again, delving deep between the feathers and stroking the rippled flesh where they're rooted. He actually squirms in his seat and when his legs press together just that much more tightly, the petting stops. There's actually a small rest period then, five minutes maybe, where Puck just lightly skims over the curves of his wing joints. Kurt almost finds it nice. It doesn't last, though; soon enough Puck's working his way back in deep. He kneads at the carpal joint, finds the thumb-like digit and presses in, works over the base of feathers with light skipping touches and massages hard into the muscle. Mercedes shoots Kurt a look when he whimpers and mouths, "You okay?"
Kurt hopes his mouth isn't hanging open as he nods.
--------
Persona 4: Souji's parents show up in Inaba unannounced. This. This will be finished. I love the idea too much to let it die.
Souji must be hallucinating. He’s not sure why Igor would want to show him this particular image (or why he’d want to show him anything now - they defeated Izanami, right?), but that must be what’s going on. It’s the only logical explanation for why his mother and father are in front of him, standing on Dojima’s porch, bags in hand.
“Um. Mom. What?”
“Surprise!” she sings, dropping her suitcase in favor of smothering him with a bouncing hug. Over her shoulder, he can see his father staring at him impassively.
“What?” he blurts out again. Judging from her giggling, his mom didn’t hear. He pulls his head back, blowing errant curls of her hair out of his face, and raises his voice. “Mom, what’s going on? Does Dojima know you’re here?”
“Of course, of course.” Her hands are flying, patting his hair smooth, snapping the wrinkles out of his dress shirt, and he wilts unconsciously. “He knows, and Nanako-chan too, but you!” She taps him on the nose as if he were a puppy. “You we wanted to surprise.”
“I...” Souji stands, mouth open, as his mom scoops up her luggage and bounds past him into the house. Finally, shoulders slumped in defeat, he weakly manages, “I just got here on Monday. I saw you two days ago.”
Peering down at him with dark slits of eyes, Souji’s father just shrugs.
There’s laughter behind him, and Souji turns around to see his mom sweeping Nanako up into a hug. Sock-clad feet trace out arcs as they spin, voices raised in one high pitched hum. Dojima walks right past them and leans on the doorframe. He rubs the back of his head. “Sorry. I wanted to tell you, but to be honest, her threats are still as scary as ever.”
Souji blankly watches the clouds. One of them looks like a fox. “My friends are coming over.”
“Mitsunobu. Good to see you.”
“Likewise.” Souji’s father extends one hand stiffly, and Dojima shakes it with a twisted smile.
“For dinner,” Souji mumbles. “The girls are going to try cooking again.”
Dojima pops out a pack of cigarettes, offers one to a stoic-faced Mitsunobu (who only frowns in response), and then flicks his lighter alive. “So, how was your trip?”
“Naoto’s going to be a test subject with Kanji, Teddie, and me this time.”
“Long,” Mitsunobu says. Dojima laughs, and the smoke puffs out around him like the fluffy clouds in the sky.
“It’ll just be Chie, Yukiko, and Rise working to feed my whole family.”
“You haven’t changed,” Dojima chuckles around his cigarette.
Mitsunobu’s face is as a zen garden, raked with wrinkles, dotted with black stones for eyes and a deep trench for a mouth, and utterly, completely still. “I’ve seen no reason to.”
“We’re doomed.”
“Mmm?” Dojima snuffs out his cigarette and pops the remaining stub in his shirt pocket. “Did you say something?”
Souji can’t even bring himself to nod. This is horrible. The idea of this dinner was horrifying enough as it was. Now, not only will he have to protect Nanako, but both his parents will be there for the slaughter. Meeting his friends. Asking personal questions. Telling embarrassing stories. Eating poison. If there’s one blessing in this, one spark of hope he can cling to, it’s-
A pointy chin lands on his shoulder, and that sing-song voice chimes, “So when do I get to meet the love of my son’s life?”
“No!” Distantly, Souji registers his father and Dojima carrying more luggage inside, the door falling shut behind them. He swallows. “No, not... not tonight.”
“Aw, and here I thought I’d planned out everything perfect!”
He does his best to eye her suspiciously - which doesn’t work well at all, considering that she’s pressed against his back, hugging him so tight their cheeks are squished together. “What do you mean?”
“Ryo said your friends were all coming over, to celebrate your visit.” At that she pulls back and spins him around, examining his face worriedly. “Did something happen? Is it rescheduled?”
“No, it’s tonight,” Souji sighs.
“Don’t tell me you broke up!”
“What makes you think I’m dating someone?!”
“Oh, Souji.” She clucks her tongue at him disapprovingly. “I’m your mom.”
“Sorry.”
“Plus, you’re really loud on the phone.”
“What.”
Letting go of him completely in favor of folding her hands over her mouth demurely, she blushes and recites, “‘I miss you too.’ ‘I wish I could help you at work; we could get dinner together after.’ ‘I l-o-v-e you.’”
Souji’s face goes blank and pale, like a piece of paper. “I don’t talk like that. And those were private conversations.”
“Like I said, you’re really loud on the phone.”
He takes a moment to weigh his options, wondering if there’s any way to jump back a week’s time and set things up to make this less awkward, before offering, “Okay, I... have a girlfriend?”
Squeaking, Souji’s mom grasps his hands and twirls him so fast he almost expects his feet to kick out in the air like Nanako’s did. “I want to know everything, Souji. Her name, her job - that you wish you could help her with. I knew I raised you right - her favorite food, her-” She freezes, and her head tilts up until Souji can only see the line of her profile, backlit and thin. One hand flies to her ear, presses the small bit of plastic wedged there. “Hello, Seta speaking. Ah, Taka-san! How’s the Narita job going?”
Souji doesn’t bother to wave before he heads back into the house; she wouldn’t see it. He’s spent enough years talking with her long-distance. The only thing that changes is whether the tunnel that drops their call is physical or not. When he glances into the living room, Nanako smiles at him from in front of the TV. Neither of their fathers is anywhere to be seen. He frowns. “Nanako, do you know where everyone went?”
“My dad went outside to smoke, and... umm... Seta-san...”
And just like that, Souji’s tension melts away into familial warmth. “You can call him Uncle Mitsu.”
Small and monotone in the TV’s flickering light, Nanako nods nervously. “U-Uncle Mitsu’s outside too. I thought he said he was gonna check the mail, but he went out back, and he had a big cell phone with him.”
“That’s for his work.” Souji sinks down next to her, casually laying a hand on her head and smiling. “He’s checking his e-mail on the internet. Do you know about computers, Nanako?”
She scoots in closer to him, wiggling her fingers on an invisible keyboard. “A little! My teacher says it’s important we learn the,” and here her voice clips the words like a robot, “basics of technology.” Nanako grins. “We even get to take turns practicing on her computer. It’s really fun!”
It’s easy for Souji to fall into the conversation, pausing only to fiddle with the remote long enough to change to a quiz show at 6:30. A few minutes later, while Nanako scolds the man on TV for not knowing that platypuses lay eggs, his cell phone chimes. He glances at the screen, then flicks the sound off and tucks the phone back into his pocket.
“You can answer it, big bro,” Nanako says. “I don’t mind.”
Souji starts to explain, getting as far as, “It’s okay; it’s,” before his phone rings again. Same caller. “I’ll be quick.”
Nanako clicks up the volume, and Souji takes that as his cue to exit, jogging up the stairs and into his room as he groans into the phone, “You will not believe the day I’m having.”
“Hello to you too.”
“Sorry. Really. I’m tired already.”
The voice on the line sputters. “You haven’t even had dinner yet!”
“I know. That’s the kind of day it is.”
“Well, your luck’s about to change.”
“Oh?”
“Guess who managed to get the night off work and is coming to dinner after all?”
Souji chokes back a scream. “You can’t.”
“Wha...? Oh, real nice.”
“You don’t understand.” Souji actually fists a hand in his hair, tugging in frustration. “My parents are here.”
“Hey, cool! The whole gang can meet your folks!”
A rapid flurry of knocks cuts off whatever argument he was about to launch against that idea. “Sooooouji!” his mom hollers through the door. “Souji, there are people here for you!”
There’s a real, physical jolt in his stomach at that. “I need to go,” Souji hisses into the phone. “Trust me - don’t come.”
“But I already told Chie! She’ll kick my ass if I ditch now!”
Souji infuses as much desperation as he can into one last whispered “Please,” and he hangs up just as his mom opens the door.
“Heeeeey,” she says slyly, creeping over to him like a predator after prey. “Was that your lovely lady? Let me say hi!”
Souji’s not sure if he manages to pull off remorseful or if his smile just looks relieved. “Sorry. Just hung up. She’s really busy with work tonight.”
“That’s why I can’t meet her tonight?” She presses her fingertips against her chin and sighs heavily. “Poor thing! You know, we should go out after dinner; give her a nice surprise. Where does she work?”
Coughing lightly, Souji starts towards the stairs. “So there are people at the door?”
--------
Persona 4: Souji and Yosuke get an apartment. It doesn't go as planned.
On move-in day, there are exactly thirteen seconds where Yosuke is happy.
He sets down the last of his and Souji’s boxes on the pile.
Stretching his arms and with his back arched, Yosuke inhales deep.
He holds the breath.
He exhales, and Souji’s eyes meet his.
Souji grabs his hand.
Squeezes.
Smiles.
And Yosuke smiles back.
Then Souji lets go.
Reaches into his pocket.
Rummages a bit.
Pulls out his key.
And as he turns, ready to open their very first apartment together...
The door thrusts out, revealing a glimpse of waxy hair clinging to the folds in what might’ve once been a face, mottled skin billowing out under one dull eye. Yosuke throttles his yelp of terror into some semblance of a greeting. “Hi, um, hi. Sir. Hi there, sir. Sir?”
He’s hoping for some sort of reassurance, for Souji to take over and diplomatically handle this, for his freakin’ kunai to be in his hands instead of wrapped up in the moving boxes so he could dispatch this thing that is definitely, absolutely, 100% not human. Instead, Souji palms the key silently and waits.
The troll inside croaks, “Too early.”
“E-excuse me?” Yosuke stammers.
“You brats are too early,” it says, or at least, that’s what it sounds like. It’s hard to make out words over the odd whining rattle echoing from somewhere inside the apartment.
Finally, Souji shifts uncomfortably and says, “We were told today is the start of our lease. Was that an error?”
“Guess so.” And the door slams.
It takes three roundtrips from the main office to the apartment, relaying messages that consist primarily of “You need to leave,” and “Fuck off,” before someone follows them back, paperwork in hand and glasses bouncing from ridge to ridge on his wrinkled up nose. This time, when the not-a-human peers out, its eerily dark eyes go wide. The door slams again.
“By tomorrow morning,” the man with the glasses clips out, and his tone makes Yosuke’s skin prickle. There’s a muffled screech that, judging from the way the man smirks, must mean, “Yes, sir!” in Evilese.
Souji eyes everything cautiously - man in pressed slacks and shining gold-framed glasses, worn wooden door shut crooked and yet tight, precarious stacks of boxes - before asking, “Will we be moving in tomorrow?”
“Assuredly. For tonight, I’ll find you accommodations nearby.”
Yosuke thinks he probably doesn’t want to know the answer to this (and his arms are certain they don’t want to), but he can’t help it. “What about all our stuff? Our boxes...”
“Are a fire hazard.” From inside what is soon to be their apartment, something howls, then breaks off into barking coughs. The man adjusts his glasses. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take them with you.”
--------
Persona 4: Souji/Sayoko/Yosuke dubcon threesome. Don't ask.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. All he really wanted was for the night to be done already. Yosuke’s still not sure why he followed Souji to his part-time job at the hospital. It might have been because he wanted to see the scary (hot) nurse that was interested in (molesting) his best friend, or maybe just because he likes spending time with him. Either way, he had tagged along. When they got to the hospital, though, the nurse was nowhere to be seen. In fact, all there was to see were some oddly furry clumps of dust in the hallway and a sticky patch on one of the bedside tables, that might’ve once been milk, shaped like that salesman who’s always on TV on Sundays. Oh, and Souji in his dorky uniform, of course. That alone had almost made the night worthwhile. Then Souji got called away to clean one of the lab’s storage units, a more tightly guarded area than the patient rooms they’d been lingering in, and Yosuke was left with nothing to do. He tried wandering around and taking in the sights, but nothing new materialized during Souji’s departure. Plus, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him. Bored and creeped out in equal measure, Yosuke climbed into one of the patient beds in a room Souji had cleaned earlier, slipped his headphones over his ears, and ended up napping, still as the hospital around him.
When he opens his eyes, he’s surprised to see nothing but darkness. Did someone turn the light out or something? For a moment, he thinks that Souji forgot about him and he’s locked in this place until morning, and his heart hammers wildly, but then a hint of light shines through and there’s a soft chuckle next to his head. “H-hello?” he stammers.
“You’re friends with that high school boy, aren’t you?”
Yosuke still can’t see much of anything. He tries to wipe at his eyes, but his hand won’t cooperate.
“Oh, allow me,” the voice purrs, and someone delicately lifts gauze pads off of his eyes. When his eyes focus again in the sudden brightness, Yosuke sees a pretty woman with dark hair, darker eyes, and a sharp smile. “Cute,” she says, gazing at him through flitting eyelashes. “Not as cute as your friend, but still cute.”
“We can’t all be Souji.” Yosuke rolls his eyes - just his luck, right? Souji’s not there and the girls still only care about him, even when said girls are slutty nurses. The playlist he had fallen asleep to has long since ended, and he tries to tug his headphones back down around his neck, but just like before, he can’t get his hand to move. Yosuke lifts his head up to peer down. Thick nylon cuffs are cinched tight around each of his wrists. “What the hell?”
“A precaution,” the nurse giggles, and she sits down in a chair next to his bed. “Can’t have you leaving before the lesson’s over.”
“Lesson?” Yosuke gulps. “Look, lady-”
“Sayoko.”
“... Sayoko-san, I don’t want any part of any lesson you have planned.” He tugs at the restraints experimentally and discovers much to his chagrin that even when he whips his arms as hard and fast as he can, they don’t budge at all.
Sayoko giggles again, resting with her elbow on one shiny pantyhose-clad knee, chin in hand. “Those are designed to hold the unwilling, sweetie. I don’t think you can break them. Why don’t you just relax and find out what I have planned? I promise you’ll like it.”
Yosuke tries to lever his body up. His legs, spread apart with one foot at each bottom corner of the bed, are held firmly in place.
“Restraints aren’t just for arms, you know.”
“Hey,” he growls, and she cuts him off with an amused hum.
“Be good,” she says in low, thrumming tones. “If you keep misbehaving, I might have to gag you.”
With that, she stands up, smoothing her skirt out languidly with splayed fingers, and casually walks out of the room. Yosuke can hear her walk a short distance, likely to one of the rooms nearby. She calls out gently, “Hey there. Your friend was sleeping in that room over there, right?”
Souji mumbles something, but Yosuke can’t make it out.
“I think he needs you,” Sayoko says, and then there are footsteps surging his way, slowing just before the doorway so Souji can walk in nonchalantly. If the situation wasn’t so fucking weird, Yosuke would laugh. Instead, he waves one of his hands (from the wrist; hard as he tries, he can’t move it more than that) and says simply, “Help?”
Souji pauses halfway into the room, eyeing him cautiously. “What happened to you?”
“I woke up like this.”
“Woke up?” Absent-mindedly adjusting his baseball cap, Souji takes a few tentative steps towards the bed. “Why are you restrained? Did you... did something happen?”
“No, dude! I laid down here, and I must’ve fallen asleep, and then-” Yosuke jerks one of his arms, and the buckles on the cuff rattle. “-this!”
Something clicks - the door lock? - and Souji spins around to face Sayoko, who walks towards him coyly, slowly, hips twisting side to side like a pendulum. “When you talked about your friend, you didn’t mention he was good-looking,” she chuckles.
Souji glances at Yosuke, and there might be a hint of red creeping across his cheeks, but Yosuke reasons it away as his eyes still adjusting to the light.
“I told you I’d teach you things you don’t learn in school,” Sayoko says, face so close to Souji’s that she could kiss him without even moving her feet. “I’m a woman of her word.”
Yosuke waits for Souji to stand up to her, demand she back off right now, and then come undo these stupid cuffs so they can get out of here five minutes ago, preferably. In his head, they run out together, back to Souji’s house, where they collapse on his couch laughing. Souji said she was scary, didn’t he? He told him. Souji was right, really, and Yosuke’s sorry for ever doubting him. Then they have one of their awkwardly close moments, where Yosuke knows without a shadow of a doubt that if Souji was a girl he’d try for a kiss, before they break away to opposite ends of the couch and read manga or watch TV, or just stay where they are and ignore the gut reaction that this isn’t how normal guy buds feel about each other.
That’s how it happens in Yosuke’s head. Reality isn’t like that.
Souji freezes, licks his lips quickly, nervously, and asks, “What are you planning to teach me?”
--------
Persona 4: Blatant porn in a train station bathroom.
Yosuke should’ve known something was up when he was the only person waiting at the platform. To be fair, he was a bit concerned, but that passed when Souji chuckled, his voice tinny through the cellphone speaker, “They’re waiting for you to bring me home.” There are a lot of questions crowding his head now that should’ve occurred to him then. Why would they be waiting? Why wouldn’t everyone want to be there to greet him the second he arrived? At least Nanako-chan should’ve been there to get the first hug, right?
“What’s wrong?”
Yosuke manages a breathy, “Eh?”
“You’re not kissing me back.” Then Souji’s leg slips between his, knee thumping against the tiled bathroom wall, and with one forearm braced beside Yosuke’s head, Souji kisses his ear. “Am I that out of practice?”
--------
Persona 4: Based on a conversation I had with mysticnocturne - her idea on how Souji/Yosuke happens.
The first time he really notices it, Yosuke thinks he ate something bad. It’s January, and the breeze across the rooftop has a bit of bite to it, but despite that the day is still too clear, too beautiful to waste inside, and so everyone agreed to gather up there for lunch. Yosuke’s offer to grab instant noodles for Souji is quickly overruled by an enthusiastic Rise with matching bento sets for her and him. He ends up instead buying bowls for Chie and Yukiko (how they always manage to spend his money, he’ll never know) and the three of them settle next to an already eating Kanji. Yosuke watches Rise flit between Naoto and Souji through the steam rising off of his cooking noodles. The first pulse of it hits him then, but he waves it off as a hunger pang.
“Hey, earth to Yosuke!” Chie jabs him in the arm with her chopsticks.
“Ow! What the hell-”
“Our noodles should be ready,” Yukiko says, and Yosuke gets the distinct feeling this is the third or fourth time she’s tried to tell him this.
“Alright, let’s eat!” He pulls his chopsticks apart, doing his best to ignore Chie’s snickering when they break horribly unevenly at the top, and digs in. He’s only a few bites in when someone sinks down next to him, casting a shadow over his lunch. Yosuke laughs without looking up. “Done with your special bento already?”
“It’s really spicy,” Souji sighs. Sure enough, the food in front of him is coated in an impossibly red sauce and flecked with black bits everywhere.
“Is that fish?”
“I have no idea.”
“Are you actually going to eat that?”
“Want to share?”
“Dude. No.” Yosuke slurps up a mouthful of noodles. “I wanna live, thanks.”
When Souji leans towards him, his first reaction is to flinch back and guard his mouth. This unfortunately leaves his bowl completely unguarded. Souji hefts out a bunch of noodles into the lid of his bento.
“Hey!” Yosuke scowls down at his half-empty bowl. “I offered to buy you noodles, and you passed.”
“Rise passed for me,” Souji says calmly, and he scoops up a bite with a small smile. “I don’t want to die either.”
It’s at this moment that Yosuke feels it. Souji is looking at him, chopsticks halfway to his slightly open mouth, his bangs lifting off of his forehead with the wind, and Yosuke’s stomach knots up. Then it’s over, and Souji’s looking at him with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Y-yeah,” Yosuke says weakly, struggling to keep his head from spinning. “I think you got some of that sauce in my noodles.”
“Sorry. I’ll buy you another bowl.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it. Lunch’ll probably end soon anyways.”
“Then I’ll get you something after school. Want to go to Aiya?” Souji touches his arm, and Yosuke fights back another wave of nausea. He doesn’t remember eating anything after Souji brought that poison over here, but he must’ve, since he feels like crap. When did he take the deadly bite? He stews over this all through the rest of lunch and never comes up with an answer. The trip to Aiya after school goes a lot better, but the feeling doesn’t disappear completely until he’s at home, working on math. Even then, he thinks it might just be that the pain of homework overpowers it.
The next morning, he’s back to his usual self. It takes another week before the feeling comes back. He’s on the roof for lunch again, but this time it’s only him and Souji, sharing a meal Souji cooked himself. “How do you do this?” Yosuke marvels as he snags another croquette. “Your food is always the best.”
Souji laughs under his breath, so quietly that the sound is swallowed up by the light gusts of wind that skip across the roof.
Glancing at him anxiously, Yosuke says around a mouthful of food, “What?”
“It’s because I know I’ll be sharing it with you.”
And it hits Yosuke again then, chokes him up, makes his head swim. His vision narrows down to the boxed lunch between them, packed with crisp golden croquettes, and Souji. Souji sitting, smiling, with the sun smoothing over his face and neck, illuminating his skin soft against the sharp lines of his uniform, and with his pale eyes wide and reflective, painted by the cloudless sky. This time, Yosuke knows it isn’t the food. This is some of the best damn food he’s ever had.
Souji talks again. “I don’t want to let down my best friend.”
Yosuke slurs something that sounds vaguely affirmative, and for some reason the word “friend” sticks out in his head like a pin. He forces a smile, though, and says, “I wouldn’t want to let you down either.”
They sit in silence for a few heartbeats, still save for wind that weaves around them both, ruffling their clothes and hair.
“Is it really good?”
Yosuke jumps. “Eh?”
His mouth a small line, Souji nods towards the food.
“Oh! Oh, yeah, it’s amazing. I’m just... I guess I might be getting sick or something. I don’t know.”
The next day, Souji brings him an orange. The Vitamin C should ward off illness, he tells him. Yosuke doesn’t have the heart to mention that he was feeling fine up until the orange - as soon as he starts peeling it, chatting with Souji as his thumbs work the sweet skin, that horrible churn in his gut comes back. By now, he’s getting used to it, and he barely falters when it hits before carrying on as if nothing was wrong. He doesn’t need Souji to worry about him more. That just seems to make it worse.
--------
SYTYCD: On tour (at least in Orlando), Jess took Tadd's place in the Love Story number with Melanie. I may have thought about that too much.
"Hey," Tadd says as he recaps his water bottle, "who said you could take this dance, anyway?"
"Don't know. Whoever decided to put two of 'your' numbers back to back, I guess." Tadd quirks an eyebrow, and Jess grins lopsidedly. "It might've been Melanie."
Tadd laughs. "I can see that."
"Honestly, I can't. I'd rather dance with you."
"Hey," Tadd says, as he grips Jess's shoulders and tries to ignore the tug of pale fingers on his belt loops, "don't start. We gotta practice."
Jess rests his forehead against Tadd's and sighs too loudly to be authentic. "I knew it. You have no confidence in my ability to pull off the sexy choreographer persona."
Pecking Jess quickly, chastely on the corner of his mouth, Tadd pulls away. "One more time."
--------
Final Fantasy VIII: Post-game. Missing person. It's not who you think.
“Is there any news?”
“No, sir.” At Squall’s nod, she releases the salute and snaps her hands behind her back. “There’s been no sign of her anywhere between Deling City and Timber. I took the liberty of sending scouts out to Dollet, though I doubt she’s made it that far. If that was irresponsible of me, I apologize and will order them to return immediately.”
“Send scouts to Esthar. Tell them to seek Presidential Aide Kiros for help.”
She starts, head tilting curiously before she catches herself and jolts back into position. “Forgive me for questioning you, sir, but I highly doubt that’s necessary.”
His pen never stopping, Squall flips to another page in his notebook and frowns down at his own notes. “That’s an order.”
“Sir yes sir!” She whips her legs together and salutes him once again, holding the pose without a wiggle. After a few long moments, he peers up at her.
“Well?”
“I have yet to be dismissed, sir.”
He shuts the notebook and sighs. “Dismissed.”
Pivoting sharply on her heel, she takes a few steps towards the door before pausing and asking, “May I speak freely, sir?”
There’s no answer. She takes his silence as assent.
“Why is this case receiving such attention, sir? The girl’s been gone less than two days. Missing persons procedures don’t apply until 72 hours have passed.”
Squall’s quiet for a few breaths before he says in a slow, measured tone, “You’re dismissed, Lan.”
She lowers her head and clips out of the office.
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Original: Jezebel
It's a simple little thing - she doesn't think much of it at first. It's resting on her doorstep one morning, damp against the dry concrete (and she doesn't even notice that until her fingers came back clay red from the paper wrapping), a simple parcel no bigger than a fist. Inside, a chunk of stone, not glossy or round or sparkling crystal jags, just gray. The largest plane on it reads, in shallow, even letters, "It's we you are for only." There's a chill up her spine the first time she notices the inscription, of course, but it doesn't last long. She rolls her eyes and wads up the rusty paper around it and throws it into the garbage, or she means to, but instead she throws out the paper alone and gingerly slides the stone through the dust on her desk and into a niche next to the phone. She doesn't know why. She just does it.
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Original: Windchill
Lost is a strange word. It can mean you don’t know where something is; it can mean you don’t know where you are. It can mean something’s just gone.
“What do you mean, ‘we’ve lost him’?!” she screeches into the phone, and I drop my pencil.
“Mom,” I say.
“Not now,” she mouths at me, flapping her hand in useless empty swats. Her eyes are tight and red. “That’s not possible!” she shouts. “There’s no way he could-”
And then her lips peel back like a dog’s, and she throws the phone against the wall without even hanging up.
“Mom,” I say.
“Not now!” She huffs in place, the breath whistling through her gritted teeth, takes a few planted steps towards the window, and then she’s on the ground, screaming, pulling, and I’m frozen.
“Mom.”
The phone chatters away. The moment my fingers touch plastic, she sobs, and I flinch, but the phone continues its numb arc up to my ear. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Reynold?”
“No. This is her daughter.”
There’s a rush of air that crackles through the speaker, and while it’s likely that the person on the other end exhaled, I’m hit with the mental image of all air currents, everywhere in the world, simultaneously jolting to a stop. The whoosh was their last surge. “Her daughter,” the voice repeats. “I... it’s about your brother.”
I can’t remember packing the red shirt that I find at the top of my suitcase when we land in the city. I know I grabbed at everything black I could manage to see through half-closed eyes, and Mom rushed in, upturned the whole thing, shouted that we weren’t going to a funeral, we were just going to figure this out. Maybe I just like black, I told her. She left the room choking on nothing.
“Mom,” I say.
She pauses in her pacing to glance up the upheld sweater. “That one looks good on you.”
I throw it over my arm alongside a set of undergarments, carefully select the lightest, most blue pair of jeans I have, and push into the hotel bathroom to shower.
“You see?” Mom says with a smile when I emerge (and no cloud of steam follows me - any heat felt scorching). “A quick shower can fix anything, and that shirt looks great on you.”
Rumbling in the backseat of a taxi, she murmurs, “I can’t believe this.”
“What?”
“Ridiculous. There’s no way.”
“Mom. Listen. We’re going to meet up with Dad,” I say, and it doesn’t sound right. My tongue’s not cooperating. “Then we’re going to identify the body.”
She shakes her head. “It can’t be him.”
I stare at the taxi driver’s head, locked mechanically on the road ahead of us, waved hair gummed up against a sunburned scalp. “I know this is hard, Mom.” I swallow. “It’s really hard for me too. But I need you to be ready for what we’re about to see.”
Her head drops, and her hair falls, precision cut slanted askew over her tension-ridged nose. The taxi driver’s head tips back ever so slightly and his crinkled gaze meets mine in the rearview mirror. I don’t blink.
It’s under my hands when we step out of the car. That’s the first time I notice it, but it’s not necessarily the first time it happens. I rub my palms on my pants as we stumble towards the front door. His face, slimy and stretched beneath a cowboy hat, is so bloated that I almost don’t recognize him, but then he smiles, all tobacco-teeth, and I can’t fend off the shudder.
“How dare you?!” Mom screams. “What the fuck is there to smile about?!”
The mask slips just like that, and he fish-gapes, says, “She looked like she needed a smile.”
“She doesn’t.”
“Can we just get this over with?” I say, hoping I imagined the pitiful water waver.
“Sure,” Dad says. He holds the front door open for us, and as I walk by, he whispers, “It’s good to see you again, kiddo.”
It’s there again. This time it’s puffing out the skin under my eyes.