How I study with severe depression: A guide, mostly to remind myself that I'm not a complete failure.
🔸When you get a planner (end of the year, begining of school year, ect.) set aside 30mins-1hr to write in some encouraging messages to yourself. They are a cute lil pick-me-up after a long day🔸
🔻If you really, truly feel that you cannot study today/tonight, do something small and productive that will help you out tommorow (set out your clothes, pick up some trash in your room, organize your bookbag, drink water). It may seem small, but it can help motivate you in the morning.🔻
🔹Don’t cut class! Even if you think you can’t make it, at least show up! You have to do this for yourself. Just think how close the weekend is. And, if you’re on a block schedule, think of thursdays as a mini-friday! It helps me get through my day.🔹
🎶Take some time during a study hall, or afterschool to just zone out, listen to some music, and relax. Make this time reasonable to your schedule though. The more time, the better, but don’t exceed over 2 hours.🎶
🔳Set a specific time and amount to work on your hardest subject. For me, it’s APUSH, do this, and if you can say without a doubt that you did your work, treat yo self.🔳
Not a single hot blooded man had uttered a word to you since Jin’s death, not even Minho, Jin’s biological brother. You didn’t know how many times you’d cried yourself into hysteria, or how many times his final declaration of love flooded your brain. The manor house was cold and quiet, like the sunshine and laughter had been ripped away from a once beautiful playground. Jimin hadn’t spoken to you since your return that night, Taehyung had to carry you in his arms as he jogged back to the manor house through the trees, you couldn’t move your body a single inch after witnessing your beloved brother die. Jackson, Yugyeom, Bambam and Jaebum had kept their distance from you, you’d only seen Jaebum once when sneaking back inside after a night out with a girl on his arm. And then there was Minho; he couldn’t even look at you, he blamed you for Jin’s death and the thought alone was enough to send sparks of grief and even guilt through your cold body.
Today was the funeral.
Smoothing out the material of your black mid-thigh length dress you exhaled slowly, mentally building up the courage to go downstairs. As the outside world didn’t know the truth behind Jimin’s company, it meant that they were ignorant to the truth behind the car explosion too, in fact, nobody knew that the explosion was linked to Jimin at all. Taehyung had told the media that Jin died of an underlying heart condition nobody was aware of, and specified that his funeral was limited to invitation only. Everybody loved Jin, even those who didn’t really know him.
i truly stan only one (1) woman i don’t know anyone else katie mcgrath is really out here saying she had a crush on princess leia, signing supercorp fanfic, and insulting mon el katie mcgrath is really out here saving my life and stanning supercorp today on this day today
“Someone said this:
“Even if you have no memories of being loved, for as long as you have memories of loving someone, you can continue to live.”
…But how is someone who has never been loved be capable of loving someone else?
A child who wasn’t able to receive the minimal love they required at the time they needed it the most will continue to gaze at the illusion of affection and never know how to love until the day they die.
Well, how about me? Can I continue to live?”
Furuta grew up without love, surrounded by the products of Tsuneyoshi’s fucked up harem. The only person who seems to have shown any affection at all for him, as seen in the flashback in this chapter, is Rize. Rize who cared if he died when she ate him. Rize who played with him. Rize, whose fate he was fully aware of. Who he saved, because at some point, or maybe deep down still, he understood that that fate is wrong. She was the only thing he had, and he let her go, for her sake.
In this explanation to Kaneki, he mentions explicitly that as a child, he had these childish ideas of love and marriage in the future for them. Things he gave up for her safety from the men of the main Washuu house.
Even when he’s being crude and creepy, talking about Rize having all of those children for him, he references 101 Dalmatians. A Disney movie. And one with some of the healthiest romances, both between the dogs and the humans.
Even now, he’s looking at a Disney movie where two dogs snuggle each other. Where these two dogs have 15 puppies who they risk their lives to save. And who adopt 84 other puppies who would otherwise be dead. When you think about him as someone who grew up surrounded by who knows how many half-siblings, in the Garden like he did - this is basically him saying he wants a Disney Romance.
Which is not to say that the way he’s speaking isn’t terrible. That the tropes he’s using aren’t horrible and misogynistic. They are. Furuta, as he always has, is falling back on farce and drama, on systems of power that he himself as already explicitly told you he condemns. Furuta switches between honest and lying, between truth and exaggeration, between real emotion and fake dramatic flare over and over.
He speaks in this weird mix between a cynical jaded, crude adult, and a desperate, sad, idealistic, stubborn child. Like with his big speech to Eto about V in 66, I think this chapter he is mixing truth and fiction. Sometimes strategically, sometimes just because.
@linkspooky pointed out to me that it almost seems that the more honest he’s being, the less of his face is shown. Times when he’s really approaching sincerity and seriousness, he’s shown from the side.
Where as most of the time, he’s hidden under his flare and his masks and his drama.
Furuta, for all his fake emotion, is clearly uncomfortable with the real thing. Uncomfortable when people make him feel things and uncomfortable expressing emotion. Uncomfortable and unskilled and really parsing it.
Instead, he falls back on theatre and performance and lies.
When he says he couldn’t bare the thought of her having a kid after being free for so long… was he talking (just) about jealousy, or was he talking about the fact that the CCG, and thus V, was gaining on her - had almost captured her in the 6th ward and gotten Shachi in the struggle, and was well on their way to tracking her down again? Was he talking about not wanting her to be free, or about after all that time, still not being able to accept the idea of her being recaptured by V and used by the Washuu men like that.
He used her too, of course - and brutally. I think he was mad at her not only for wasting the freedom he helped her win, for almost getting caught again - but also because he still cares. And he doesn’t want to still care about her. So he punished her for his own feelings. Furuta is… not a fan of his own feelings. And he’s childish.
Its not an excuse for what he did to her, but I do think he acted when he did, if not the way he did, because if he hadn’t, there was a very real chance she’d have returned to her old fate. And that, he could not abide. Even now.
What he did, to Rize, in taking her power and undergoing that surgery himself, in killing off all the Washuu, taking leadership of the CCG - he gives multiple reasons for it even in this one conversation with Kaneki. On the one hand, in his proposal to Kaneki, he sets up a clear role for himself - as a villain to unite ghouls and humans against (Kaneki’s team, rather than the CCG and Clowns in this case) and introduces it as a big production, culminating in his own, rather than Kaneki’s death - ever suicidal as he is.
But explicitly, he also claims that people don’t need reasons for what they do. He also claims that he is doing what he wants to do, and that he is doing what he wanted to do as a child.
I think all of these have a grain of truth to them. He talks in such a way that mixes narratives, mixes truth and fiction, and sometimes just because its easier to talk with (half)fake emotion than real ones.
I think that Furuta, the nearly 6 year old child wants to destroy the toxic terrible “family” that used and abused him, and create in its place a 101 Dalmations style family, with him and Rize as Pongo and Perdita. A big loving, new Washuu family. This part of Furuta doesn’t care about ghouls or humans or Kaneki Ken or Eto Yoshimura or any of that at all.
But Furuta is also an adult, and became one probably much too quickly, if he knew what awaited Rize and helped her escape because if it. And the Adult Furuta knows he can’t have any of that. That Rize forgot about him and doesn’t love him back and that he burned that bridge by dropping those beams. His children with her are going to be via Kanou. Anything new will be born from death and fire and war. Adult Furuta has plans. Adult Furuta wants.…something… out of all of this. Some grand finale.
Part of Furuta is still that child - still wants Rize to come back to him and love him and play with him (and maybe kill him). Wants a big happy Disney ending for them. But he also knows he can never really have that. He’s known that he could never have that, because of how he was born. That’s the irony of that line, about the life he has and how he might as well. Because he was born to NEVER get what he wanted, ever. (And yet - and yet he fights back - viciously and endlessly and savagely, despite being born only to serve.) Because he has grown up now, and he’s done terrible things, and he knows that that happiness is impossible. But he’s also 6 years old and desperate and lonely.
I personally have thought for a long time that Rize is being set up as the one who will kill Furuta. I just hope (though I don’t necessarily expect) that they will get a chance to talk before it happens, or when he’s dying, or something. A chance for him to thank her for finally killing him, after all this time. A chance for him to say sorry, or not to - to say he’s glad he did it if it ended there, with him dying in her arms.
I still don’t think Furuta thinks any way about women, in general, though I understand why people see this pattern. It’s certainly a power structure highlighted by his character, either way. I think he probably has a good deal of the background misogyny of the culture and of the Washuu clan in his upbringing, but he also has a deep seeded hatred for everything about that upbringing. His understanding of things is so twisted and bent around this terrible place he was raised in, and the world he was forced to live in, that its honestly a miracle he’s still fighting for something different.
But Furuta sees every structure as a farce, as a mask, as a tool, rather than a truth. And he plays with these tropes of misogyny and discards them just as quickly. He’s making himself out to be a villain, to be crude, to be cruel. And it’s no excuse for his actions - for the very real fate Rize suffered at his hands. But he deals with Matsumae as a failed knight and a hypocrite, not as a woman. He plays with misogyny and its masks and its power system when he’s mock-flirting with Eto, but the next second he throws it away. He has no regard for masculinity or its virtues. Its a game to him. And that is a nasty and dangerous way to look at a very serious thing. Which is a great metaphor for Furuta who sees farce in everything. And is setting up a grand theater with all of Tokyo as its stage, possibly to write his own death into the final act.
“When I unveil this, won’t you come play with me?” He knows what Kaneki wants. He knows who Kaneki will save. He knows who Kaneki will kill. He still wants to die, and he seems to like the idea of dying to make things better, in a sense. And still, he’s speaking like a child. Come play, Kaneki.
“Doesn’t it make you want to die?
If you die, you can get cured you know. (This is true.)
So if you were planning on giving me something.
In this year, I want four times more of that love or hate.
me realizing they really zoomed in on even’s face while the song went “that bitch is crazy, crazy, crazy” for no reason at all and being baffled but also knowing that’s what usually happens with the representation of mentally ill people in the media anyways so i shouldn’t be surprised and i’m glad i know better and life goes on
Can I request Viktor with a stomach bug? (Viktuuri) thank you!! 💕💕💕
thank you so much for sending these asks in, i’m glad that i finally got around to filling them!!! sorry it took so long, i hope it was worth the wait!!!
WARNING: descriptions of vomit below
read the warning
read the warning
read the warning
okay, you’ve been warned
Despite having been entirely unproductive even after retching for the past half hour, Viktor’s head was still in the toilet when he heard Yuuri’s knock on the bathroom door.
An overwhelming nausea forced the older man into yet another dry heave before he was able to respond. “Ah,” Viktor swallowed thickly, putting everything he had into resisting the sick feeling in his gut. Unfortunately, nothing he did seemed to have any impact, so he reluctantly cleared his throat and continued speaking. “Sorry, Yuuri, do you need the restroom? I’ll be - huuurk! - out in just a minute!”
With that, Viktor’s stomach lurched and back into the porcelain bowl went his head. He wasn’t sure how he would manage to vacate the bathroom in this state, but if Yuuri needed him to, he would figure something out. As he coughed and wiped spit from his lips, he could hear Yuuri moving around just outside the door.
“I can hear you heaving all the way from the bedroom,” Yuuri said quietly. Viktor’s heart ached.
“Oh,” Viktor whispered, a wet cough interrupting him briefly, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Yuuri sounded confused, which was adorable; Viktor could picture him, leaning against the bathroom door with his face scrunched in the most endearing way. The thought alone was enough to leave Viktor yearning for the younger man to be by his side, but he couldn’t possibly ask that of him.
“Why are you sorry?” Yuuri murmured, almost as if to himself.
“I didn’t want to - urk! - bother you,” Viktor explained, feeling guilty because a large part of him wanted the exact opposite. “Did I wake you up?”
“I couldn’t sleep anyway,” Yuuri murmured. Viktor imagined him running a hand through his hair, sweaty from tossing and turning. The sound of Yuuri’s shaky sigh was loud enough to reach Viktor’s ears through the closed door. “Viktor, can you let me in? You sound miserable.”
“I’m - urp! - okay,” Viktor tried to argue, though he didn’t sound very convincing even to himself, with a belch puncturing his argument. Not to mention his energy level had hit rock bottom, so every word he spoke came out dry and monotone.
“Vitya. Don’t lie to me,” Yuuri’s voice hardened.
“I-“ Viktor wanted to tell Yuuri. He really, truly did. Unfortunately, his mouth didn’t seem to agree, and if he listened closely enough to it, he could tell that something in his heart resisted as well. He let out a long belch-turned-retch before speaking again in a hollow tone. “I’ll be fine. Go back to bed, Yuuri.”
When Viktor heard Yuuri’s footsteps walking away, he knew he had no right to feel upset or disappointed or lonely; Yuuri was only doing as Viktor had instructed. And yet, regret coursed through him as he continued to heave fruitlessly into the toilet. He wanted Yuuri to stay. Stay close to me, he thought. It had been a mantra in his head since the moment he’d met the younger skater, and yet he’d gone and pushed him away.
The words spun around in Viktor’s dizzy head. His stomach contents continued to slosh uneasily inside of him, but Viktor had all but given up on getting anything out, so he laid his head on the toilet seat and focusing on quelling the nausea.
He must have dozed off, because he woke with a start.
Yuuri was at the door again. Viktor had no idea how much time had passed, but apparently not enough for the bug to pass. The nausea was, incredibly, worse than ever, and he couldn’t repress a harsh heave.
“Viktor, I’m sorry to do this but I’m coming in.”
The door was locked, Viktor had made sure of that when he’d first started feeling ill. Amazingly, that didn’t seem to phase Yuuri at all. He entered the bathroom moments later with tea - and a paperclip.
“Did you - huuuurgh! - just pick - hiccurrup!” Viktor coughed violently, forgetting to finish his sentence in favor of focusing on his struggle to breathe.
“Picked the lock,” Yuuri murmured, but he was clearly distracted, staring at the sick man. Viktor flinched.
“Yuuri, don’t - huuuurp! - look.” His throat was tight. Yuuri ignored this demand and brushed a hand through Viktor’s sweaty hair, shooting him a fierce look.
“No one’s judging you right now, Vitya, not when you’re sick,” Yuuri said firmly, raising an eyebrow as if daring Viktor to object. “Now. Let me help you.”
Viktor frowned, and his mouth ran ahead of him, “Thought you - hurgh! - went to bed?”
Yuuri shook his head. “I made you something - some tea.”
“I’ll puke, Yuuri.”
“That’s-” Yuuri faltered a bit before forging on in a pained voice. “That’s kind of the point, love. It will make you feel better, and then you can rest.” He handed Viktor a mug of tea, and the older man inspected it slowly. Its scent was familiar, a Russian brand that Yuuri must have dug up in one of Viktor’s cabinets. He hadn’t drunk it in years, but it was a comforting smell, in a way. Not to mention, Yuuri was right, and Viktor did want to empty his stomach. Still, he hesitated.
“You should go,” Viktor said quietly, staring bleakly into the mug.
Yuuri glared at him, and though Viktor would admit it was adorable, it wasn’t enough to make him reconsider.
“I don’t - urp! - want you to see me like this, Yuuri.” Viktor’s voice - and in fact his whole body - shook as he spoke. Shook from fever, from nausea, and from being torn between his desire for comfort and… fear? “Please,” he whispered, voice trembling.
“No,” Yuuri said, softly, firmly. He gently brushed Viktor’s sweaty bangs away from where they clung to his face, frowned when the older man flinched. “Vitya, I love you. I won’t leave you alone when you’re this sick.”
As if on cue, Viktor started heaving again. He really couldn’t stop. Tears sprung to his eyes as it became hard to breathe. “Yuuri-“ He gasped. “Please-“
Yuuri looked conflicted. “Will you drink the tea if I leave?”
Viktor nodded, tears streaking his face. Yuuri pressed a kiss to the top of the older man’s head, hesitated a moment longer, and then stood.
“Shout if you need me, love.”
Viktor nodded again, and Yuuri left. A whimper escaped Viktor’s lips, and he raised the mug to them, then drank.
The effect was immediate.
Vomit, thick and heavy, came hurtling up Viktor’s throat, splashing into the toilet in a projectile stream. He tried to catch his breath, but only ended up chocking on another stream of sick as it evacuated his body through both his mouth and nose.
“Yuuri.” It was hardly a shout. More of a desperate breath that just happened to take the shape of a name. But in a metaphorical sense, it truly was a call for help, and somehow, Yuuri heard it.
He’s hands were on Viktor’s bare back in a moment, kneading out the knots in the sick man’s shoulders, cooling his feverish skin as his muscles continued to clench and unclench. Viktor threw up again and again, and he felt like he was drowning.
“Vitya.” Yuuri’s voice grounded him. Yuuri’s hands grounded him. Yuuri was Viktor’s lifeline, and the older man sobbed as the younger spoke his name. “Vitya, don’t cry.”
Viktor couldn’t respond for a minute or two, still preoccupied with puking up his guts and unable to stop. When he did get a chance to speak, his voice was raw and vulnerable.
“Don’t leave me,” he cried. “Don’t leave.”
“Oh,” Yuuri breathed. “Sweetie, no. I couldn’t- I wouldn’t! I would never leave you.”
Yuuri hugged Viktor’s trembling body even as he lurched over the toilet, watery stomach contents splashing into it once again.
“Vitya, I love you. No matter what.”
Viktor shuddered, nausea making it hard to breathe even when he had a break from vomiting.
“Even if,” he coughed wetly. “I’m sick and gross and weak?” Viktor belched, and the action turned into a heave that brought up another mouthful of sick.
“Sick, yes. Gross and weak?” Yuuri pressed a kiss to Viktor’s sweaty temple. “Never, Vitya, never. And even then-“
He paused as Viktor retched, waited until Viktor managed to force up a meager amount of stomach acid before speaking again.
“Even then, love, it’s not that easy to get rid of me.” Yuuri smiled when Viktor glanced at him. “Not when I’m in love.”
Finally, Viktor relaxed into Yuuri’s arms, crying softly as the younger man showered him with love and kisses. Eventually, Viktor sniffled and cleared his throat.
“Stay with me?”
Yuuri’s smile warmed Viktor’s chest in a way he’d never known he needed.
I followed all the rules, when I came here the first time. Listened to all of the stories, the tips, believed all of the warnings and the worries. Watched some classmates disappear, sometimes covered with excuses of transfers, sometimes not, watched suspiciously or with awed eyes to those who were suspected to be other.
But I never saw a single thing. I never saw the creatures late in the library, I never heard things scratching on my windows, and I never felt eyes on the back of my neck walking home in all the dark, clutching iron nails in my jacket pockets. I’m from the South, you see, and down there we don’t have this Fae nonsense. There’s no flimsy fairy circle to be warned about, no rock in the middle of the road; sure, I’d read the fables, but that’s all they were to me. Fables.
I believed in something different. That’s all it came down to; belief. So when I brought the shrine with me, and gave it its own shelf, I shouldn’t’ve been surprised that everything left me alone for the first year. I shouldn’t’ve been surprised that, as I was deaf to my gods, so was I blind to the Fae. (You learn to listen in other ways.)
It was only that first summer, when I wore something other than a t-shirt for the first time, and my ankh tattoo finally was blessed by the sun for the first time, and my friend flinched away from me when I turned to talk to someone, it was only then that I started to take note. I couldn’t see them - of course, this will come as no surprise - I couldn’t see them, I couldn’t hear or touch them, not like some of my friends swore they could, but. When I was holding that ankh necklace, when I was wearing that tattoo, when I was believing, they could tell. I learned which days to wear the necklace over my shirts, and which days to hide it under the binder.
It wasn’t until two years later, when I painted gold onto my eyelids, that I could see for the first time. But that’s getting ahead of myself. I had two years of knowing nothing; of seeing friends Taken and gone, of some of them coming back, of wondering what it was that I wasn’t seeing, and wondering when my belief wasn’t going to hold me safe anymore. I brought my cat up to campus, in one of the apartments nearby (did the campus own these? were they just affiliated with it? I’m still not sure, to this day) and then when I set up my shrine, certain friends stopped coming in without permission. My cat followed me about the small space, over and over again, waited for me by the door every single day, and purred on my lap for hours. (It wasn’t until years later that I would call him a “familiar” for the first time.)
The next year was rough. I still never saw a thing; I made friends, I joined clubs, I branched out to new places and new people and new classes, I drew fantastical things in my sketchbook, I wondered and wondered whether the softest tone of a bell I heard in one class was something Other, I wondered and wondered whether the thunderclap that we all heard one day with clear sky was something Other, and yet I never knew anything for sure.
I stopped carrying iron, stopped wasting my ramen packets (that stuff is so, so bland without it, so I savored every possibly last bite I got) stuffing them in pockets, stopped wondering. I stopped looking at certain students with awe and wonder, stopped darting glances over my shoulder late at night, stopped pretending to have seen something my classmates had. I had followed all the rules; done everything right; and never seen a thing. I had friends who would swear up and down and around the mountain that they were real, that the Gentry (their word, never mine), had done this or that, that they had seen something or other, but never me. It was a quaint university, that was for sure, but was it really magical?
And then I saw her. She was the first person to ever seem More, to me, the first person to shine in my eyes like she had some kind of luck brimming in her smile, the first person to freeze me solid with her laugh (oh, there were others, who sent shivers all up and down my spine in the best ways, but this one, this one was different somehow) and the first person to touch the fox tail I’d worn for years with wonder, and not disgust or barely-hidden half-curiosity half-abhorrence.
I bribed her with gummy sharks, all the while thinking about the fables - for, to me, they were truly only fables - of eating food in the Fae world, of being stuck there forever. All the while wondering breathlessly about the idea that maybe, for the first time, I was Seeing.
I met her again on the lawn, looking for someone else, and I sat and found that she, too, drew fantastical things and creatures without name. I found that she wore no shoes, and when she laughed I wanted to listen to the sound forever. And when her eyes glittered just so, then I wanted to drown in their blue.
I bribed her with gummy sharks, and dances, and honesty; the greatest gift that one could give on this campus, I had learned, and I’d honed mine to a brutal point. And, eventually, when I tangled my fingers finally in that curly ocean of teal, dyed colors and colors that I did not know could come in a tube or a on a brush, I felt like magic for a moment.
It wasn’t until she flinched at the first mirror that I started to suspect anything, for real. It wasn’t until then that my heart knew, and my mouth started speaking with that brutal honesty it was so good at. It wasn’t until then that something in my gut changed, something in my heart stirred, and something in my hearing clicked. I heard padding footsteps on the path behind me, that night, felt something curling in the mist around me, that night, as I walked away from her dorm.
I still didn’t believe it. Not really, not truly; but I did clutch to my necklace when I walked away, a little too fast, and I did relax in my car, sheathed in metal, a little too much.
She changed me.
And when I told her my stories, her eyes lit up, and when she told me her worlds, I listened with rapter attention than I had paid anyone here, shivers dancing on my spine and gooseflesh on my arms (no feathers; I was embarrassed to admit even to myself that I had checked, later, in the bathroom, alone with my cat.) and something shivering new in my heart. And when she looked at me, I felt like I had become the center of every vision on earth; and when she laughed for me, the feelings that swelled in my heart swelled without name; and when I kissed her, I thought that it was nothing more than what it was; smiles and flattery and - daresay - love.
But then the meat in the dining hall tasted a little bit different that night. But then the salt burned my tongue a little more than it should - how should salt burn your tongue, anyways? How do you describe what should and shouldn’t taste, how things changed just enough to notice them but only once, because pineapple and oranges taste so good, how had I never tried those before?
I’m getting away from myself again. It’s easy; easy to get lost. Maybe that’s what they mean by Taken, sometimes. Maybe that’s why english majors and storytellers and musicians are the most oft to come back.
Anyways. It entered my life in bursts, leaps and bounds, fits and starts: the half feral cats purred at my touch, the crows regarded me with careful eyes, the rain kissed my lips and dusted my eyelashes like gems. The music spoke back to me, random patterns finding less random and more sass; the tarot deck she would push into my hands would speak louder, eventually.
She called me beautiful; and I had no words to reply. She called me divine, and my heart sung out in response so loud and so unerringly that I could not say no, and within a month I had inked it into my skin.
The artist gave me rose quartz to hold, told me that there is no divinity without pain, and the sigils on my arms burned like fire the first time I stepped foot back on campus. But that was alright. Because I could hear them now, because I met the fox eyes and lightly glowing gazes with my own raised high, with a proudness that had infected me, somewhere, when someone a little less human and a little too magic had told me I’ll have enough confidence for the both of us, and at the end of that winter everything had changed.
I mean that mundanely, of course. I couldn’t See anything yet, but new scars stretched across my chest and suddenly, shirtlessness was possible, and suddenly, my tattoos meant something more, and suddenly, I was myself and there was no other way to be. I convinced her she was Fae at some point, over that break, too. With whispered words beneath blue fairy lights, and the snow trapping us alone, with my heart beating so much closer to the outside world than it had been, wrapped in a form that wasn’t quite mine, we spun tales at one another until she was half joking to worship me, and I was half joking to change my piercings out for less iron ones.
The joke stopped the day I painted gold onto my eyelids. With her supervision, and my nervousness - just a little bit of makeup - just a little bit of makeup - we surrounded my eyes in gold and she smiled, by my gods did she smile, and my heart felt so radiant I could not want for anything else in that moment.
And then I left her dorm to trek my way home, to my cat, and my lights, and my bed - sorrowfully empty - and when I raised my head to meet the eyes of another student, I had to look twice as high as I ever had before.
As it turns out, the Fae have an agreement - this Court with others, that Court with some, ancient beings with ancient beings, and - for me at least, far be it for me to speak for others - occasionally, the child of the divine. All it takes is belief - belief in the Fae, belief in the rumors, belief in the iron around your fingers and the salt in your pockets - belief in what will and will not work, belief in the world around you and the one that you cannot see - and belief in your own kind of magic.
I believed hard enough in the divine touching me - and, maybe, roped a child of the Fae into speaking it into truth - that maybe they did. And now I never leave the house with my eyes unburdened by gold, without my fingers wrapped in a carefully picked pattern of gold and iron rings, without the glitter of divinity speckling my skin, without the pride in myself decorating my features, inspired by someone who won’t use her roommates’ iron cutlery anymore.
“I cannot believe I beat you, Em!” I exclaim unbelievably, placing my game controller beside me as I lace my fingers together and turn my palms to face outward in front of myself as far as I could.
Sighing in content, I plop back onto the cushioned sofa in the Cullen living room. The living room always seemed to have been brought to the highest level of design with the use of ecletic furniture, and many modern accents.
“Please,” Emmett scoffed, as he went back to restart another game. “It was simply a warm up. I let you win this one.”
In my small triumph, I smirked, much like the Cheshire Cat - a small pouting of the lips; a narrowing of the eyes and a tilting of the head. “Is that so?” I question, with raised brows. “Well, I believe I beat you fair and square. You just hate to admit it.”
I just want you to know that I care about you, that I care about what you have to say, about what you’re thinking, about what you’re doing. I want you to know that I’m here for you always, doesn’t matter how much I’m hurting, how much I’m not okay myself. You’re my priority. I made that commitment the day I laid eyes on you last year on January 30th at around 7:30pm. You’re the love of my life. I made that decision when I told you I loved you for the first time. I still remember what was going on that night. I won’t repeat it because I figure you don’t want to rethink it but I just want you to know I remember. When I said you’re my dream girl when we broke up. I guess I really did truly mean it. Although I tried so desperately to suppress it while we were broken up, everything fell into place. I’m with my dream girl now. I want you to know that every moment that passes, I’m more and more in love with you. I want you to know that I always want to be yours and I always want you to be mine. I want you to know that through thick and thin, through sickness and through health, for better or for worse, until death do us apart, I promise to love you and to cherish you. Forever and ever. I want to marry you. I want to have kids with you. I want my life to be with you. I want you to steal my last name like you stole my heart on Saturday January 30th at the table in the conference room at Terra Nova when you looked at me with the absolute most beautiful smile I had ever seen. I want to wake up to that smile. I want to kiss that smile. I want to cherish that smile. I want our beautiful children to grow up to that smile. Their momma’s beautiful smile. And they’ll have your smile. Our beautiful children with their momma’s smile. I know one thing every girl is scared of; that they’re boyfriend will love another girl. Well, like you’ve most likely seen before on the internet, I will love another girl. She’ll call you mommy. Hunter Elizabeth Bauer and Isabelle Marie Bauer, both calling you mommy with their big brother Ezekiel Thomas Bauer running up behind them. I want you, Stephanie Kristin Heron, to know that I, Caleb Matthew Bauer, love you with absolutely everything that I am. And I always always will.