if-he-writes-them-anyway

Paper Planes (Lin-Manuel x Reader)

Summary: Soulmate AU where if you throw a paper plane out your window it always makes its way to your soulmate. You can’t write your full name, your location, or any contact info, anything else is fair game. It’s up to fate to bring you together.

Word Count: 1,775

Warnings: Zero proofreading. It’s strictly fluff though so you’re safe here.

A/N: This was such a cute idea and also reminded me of that one Disney short. You know the one. Also, I will jump at any opportunity I can to write sappy love notes and Lin’s messy handwriting. Please don’t ask me about logistics of this, I have no idea what happens if your window is shut and your soulmate throws a plane, I’m just here to write fluff.
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Your parents had told you the story all through your childhood. They would always weave you intricate tales at bedtime about how you might meet your soulmate. Your favorite stories always had a prince playing that role. As you got older the stories evolved from fictitious plots to questions and conversations. 

You received your first letter from him at seven years old. It took you by surprise when the paper plane made of blue construction paper landed on the floor of your bedroom. You scrambled from you bed to scoop it up and inspect it. You unfolded it carefully, flipping it over.

‘ Hi! My name is Lin! ‘

You yelped as if the paper itself had spoken and ran into the living room where your mom was preoccupied with a book. She seemed to notice your panic because her eyes immediately left the pages to study your face.

“They wrote you, didn’t they?” she asked wryly with a twinkle in her eye. You squeaked out a yes, shoving the blue paper towards her. She unfolded it to see the note before chuckling. “Well, are you gonna write them back or not?”

You spent the entire night debating and when your mom came into your room to kiss you goodbye before she left for work she saw you sitting on the floor surrounded in papers. 

“For them or from them?” she asked with an amused smile as she leaned against your doorway.

“For.”

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6

*throws knb stuff at you* lately there’s so much aoka and takao on my dash all my feels are suddenly back o<-< rip my soul

someone in my class: my god this is so easy why are we going over it in class

me:

“Keith, my dear old boring friend,” Lance begins one day, intruding Keith’s personal space and flinging himself down on Keith’s bed like he owns the place.  “You know what’s been bothering me?  There is absolutely no one in this solar system to kiss.  How sad is that?”

Keith glances up from his book, frowning.  “Leave.”

“Oh, dear.  Is someone upset today?  Shocker.”  Lance stretches his arms up above his head, yawning.  “You probably haven’t even kissed someone.  How sad.”

It’s obvious bait, but Keith falls for it anyways.  “Of course I’ve kissed someone,” he protests automatically.

Lance snorts, rolling over on the bed.  He rests his chin on his palm, a perfect picture of laziness, and raises an eyebrow at Keith.  “Sure you have.”

Keith rolls his eyes.  “As if you have?”

Lance shrugs.  “I’ll have you know that at the garrison, I had my fair share of lady friends.”

“Poor girls.”

“Maybe, but that’s their choice.”  He angles one finger over at Keith.  “You, sir, are missing out.”

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I think Yuuri knows how to play the piano!

“Hm? Is that a piano?”

Yuuri looks up from where he’s sorting out his laundry, a sock in one hand and a shirt in another. He puts the sock to one side and begins folding the shirt, Victor’s shirt that he keeps forgetting to give back. “Oh, that? I got that keyboard a long time ago—before I went to Detroit, even.”

Victor tilts his head from where he sits on the bed, feet stretched out before him. Blinks and looks at Yuuri. “Do you still play?”

“Sometimes.”

“Play for me?”

Smiling, Yuuri sets aside one of Victor’s scarves and stands. “Any requests?”

“Your song,” the Russian says decisively after a heartbeat of thinking. “Yuri on Ice.”

“Hmm. I never learned it,” Japan’s top figure skater admits. He shakes his head and pulls out the keyboard from where it sits propped against his closet. “But I can try.”

“You can do that?” Victor asks. The words, You’re that good at playing? go unsaid.

Yuuri shrugs, plugs the keyboard into the wall and turns the machine on. “Sure,” he answers, fingers running over scales like water pouring from a fountain. The sound is crisp and clear, and Victor finds himself pleasantly surprised. He wonders why.

“I’ve skated to this song so many times it’s practically engraved in my head,” the brunet continues, moving into arpeggios and rhythmic exercises. The keyboard moves slightly as Yuuri presses into the keys, the device pushing into the yielding mattress. “Just give me a second to warm up.”

As Yuuri’s fingers drift over the keys, Victor swings his feet back and forth. “How did you start playing?”

Yuuri’s fingers don’t stop, unheeding of or perhaps disregarding the conversation. Yuuri turns to look at the older man and hums. “I saw a video of someone playing the piano and decided to learn.”

“Did you take lessons?”

“For a time, yes.”

“How old were you when you started?”

Yuuri huffs a laugh from his nose and tests out various chords. “Is this an interrogation now?”

“Well, I never knew you could play. Is it so wrong to want to learn more about your boyfriend?”

“Mm.” Yuuri pauses, looking down at his hands. “I started when I was relatively young. Six, I think?”

“That is young.”

“Well, I stopped being so serious about it when I began taking ballet lessons. And then skating took up most of my time after that.”

“But you still play?”

“I still play.”

Yuuri begins then, starting with the sixteenth note triplets, and Victor closes his mouth and just listens. It’s lovely—reminds him of when he first listened to it, half asleep and with Yuuri excitedly leaning over his lap. Reminds him of his former student, of his lover before they became lovers.

“You’re very good at this.”

Closing his eyes and letting himself visualize the music inside his head, Yuuri leans back and feels his lips quirk into a half-smile. “I’m not the type to let a skill atrophy without practice.”

“That’s not you, no,” Victor agrees.

And they both listen, then, to the music pouring out of the cheap keyboard roused from its sleep. He times his breathing to the swelling of the melody, to the rise and fall of the notes, to the cadence of the moment. Victor leans against Yuuri’s shoulder and Yuuri leans back, the two of them content to relive their memories through the passage of sound.

It’s a peaceful moment filled with peaceful feelings. Victor tells himself to ask Yuuri to play more music for him from now on.

procrastinatingbookworm  asked:

The thing that makes the whole conversation worse? The reason Maui is so broken isn't just the memories of his parent's abandonment. He's now been cast aside by his family, the humans, the gods, and his hook, the very thing that he believes GIVES HIS LIFE WORTH. He's still hurting about his past, yes, but it's so much worse now. Which is why Moana's speech means so much to him. She's reassuring him that he is worth more than everything and everyone that cast him aside.

YEAH and what makes it really horrible is that when his hook wasn’t working, it failed him when he ws trying to fight Tamatoa. Maui and Tamatoa clearly have a past together, and I personally like the idea that they used to be close friends. So not only is he going up against someone he used to care about, someone else who threw him away, but now the only ally he thought he had left abandoned him, too. His hook broke when he needed it most, and it’s hard not to blame yourself when that kind of thing happens. I’d probably be exactly the same way.

And the thing with Moana is that right away- he’s differentiang her from the group. When he’s talking about humans to her, he says they. I gave them islands. I gave them fire. Anything they could ever want. He’s viewing Moana as seperate from the other humans. Because she’s listening to him. He’s probably been dying to get this off of his chest for thousands of years, and Moana’s just sitting here listening, letting him talk. He seperates her from other humans, the ones who rejected him- becase Moana han’t given up on him yet. She’s not like the other humans. When he tells his story, Moana listens. Moana responds.

The reason Moana’s speech means so much to him, the reason he does that really discrete smile is because she’s telling him he’s worth more than they are. More than the humans who rejected him, more than his hook, more than the gods. It means a lot to him because he knows now- Moana’s not like them. Moana’s not going to reject him as easily as they all did.

holy hell, never ask me to draw ezra or design an outfit. i’m sorry u two.

ANYWAY i was thinking: you see a lot of ezra-corrupted-by-maul stuff (WHICH I LOVE) BUT rarely the other way around? ezra’s a good egg and i want more aus where he drags maul kicking and screaming into the light (or somewhere in-between the dark and light b/c lbr, maul is p. much surviving on pure dark side spite these days).

So I wrote a thing.

Untitled ficlet, Harry/Louis, PG, canon.


Harry sends him an issue before the photos even leak, by courier, as if he’s afraid Louis might not see it soon enough. Louis knew he’d been working on something, because Niall told him, but he had no idea the scope was so big. “A special document curated by Harry,” the magazine cover proudly proclaims. On it, Harry stares at Louis through a spiderweb, but it’s hard to pay attention to Harry’s eyes when Louis’s gaze keeps coming back to the collar around Harry’s neck. The bottom of the picture is obscured by text, but Louis’s quite sure there’s a leash dangling from the collar.

It’s admittedly not what Louis had been expecting.

Louis watches the cover for a long while before he flicks the magazine open at random…

… and falls on an ad.

It only takes him two more tries before he methodically rips off every page that isn’t to do with Harry, barely looking at the ones that do feature him, until there’s a pile of paper at his feet high enough for him to throw a good kick into it, scattering them everywhere.

This time when he opens the magazine, it’s to find Harry sitting on a trashcan. He looks so young that for a second Louis assumes they’ve used old pictures for the article, but the shot is quite obviously recent, even if Harry’s hair looks nothing like on those Dunkirk pics (which Louis only saw because Liam sent him some, it’s not like he trolled the #dunkirk tag on twitter or anything).

Louis flips back a few pages, stops on a picture of Harry sitting on a kitchen counter in the most hideous jumper Louis has ever seen; it looks like someone’s killed a muppet and made a sweater out of it. It should look ridiculous, but Harry looks beautiful, with his lips curled imperceptibly down into a bored pout, his slender fingers pressed against his chin, his eyes half-lidded.

Another picture shows him holding a pint, looking too young to be allowed to drink its contents. He looks like the Harry Louis met six years ago, like the Harry Louis used to call his best friend before they were driven apart… by the rumours, by fear, by time.

Louis loses himself in the pictures and the words, sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor of his hallway, fingers stroking the glossy pages. He knows every word and every photo has been carefully chosen, knows Harry has only shown precisely what he wanted to show, but he still gets fooled into believing he’s being made privy to the deepest corners of Harry’s soul.

Once upon a time, this wouldn’t have been an illusion. The memory only makes the deception more potent, and more painful.

Harry is baring his heart out for the whole world to see and he apparently wanted Louis to see it so badly he made sure Louis would get a copy.

When Louis types Harry’s name into his phone with fingers that are definitely not shaking from nerves, the autofill feature remains silent. There are no previous messages saved. He doesn’t actually remember the last time he texted Harry.

He doesn’t know what to write, so he goes for the expected.

Artsy, are we? he sends, not expecting any reply. He’s barely pressed Send that a happy little bubble pops up at the bottom of the screen to indicate that Harry’s writing back.

Did you like it?

He should lie.

He cannot.

Yes. he types, then adds, against his better judgement; It’s amazing.

Good.

He doesn’t ask Harry why the fuck his opinion suddenly matters. But he does something much worse.

Are you in town?

His treacherous thumb presses Send before he can stop himself and Louis looks at his phone, horrified, but there is no turning back. He doesn’t even know why he wrote this. He doesn’t even want-

Yes.

It’s like he doesn’t have any control over his fingers. They fly over his screen, while his brain desperately tries to hammer some sense into them, in vain. Louis knows every letter he types is a mistake, but the magazine in his lap is opened on that picture of Harry standing tall and long-haired, his naked torso framed by the lapels of a ridiculous red jacket, and Louis can’t think.

Dyou want to come over?

Harry’s answer takes ages to appear. It’s definitely for the best. Louis doesn’t even know why he asked, doesn’t know what he would do if Harry agreed. They have been strangers for too long now. There is no mending what fame has undone.

The answer pops up just when Louis’s managed to convince himself that he never wanted Harry to say yes.

Come to my place. Easier.

And just like that, Louis’s off.

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@anyone who thinks iemitsu is in any way a decent father - COME FIGHT ME

When Harry’s Away

I don’t really know why this happened in my head, but it did and I couldn’t be alone with it, so here. 


When Harry comes home and hovers in the doorway to the kitchen, wringing his hands anxiously, Draco knows something’s wrong and hurries over to him, demanding to know what happened.

When Harry tells him in a hoarse voice that he’s being called away on an Auror mission, Draco nods nervously, asking if it’ll be like the last week-long assignment.

When Harry shakes his head, Draco’s heart stutters. When he tells Draco he doesn’t know how long he’ll be gone, that it could be months, that they’ll have no contact, Draco tries to be strong for him, seeing the sadness in Harry’s eyes.

When Harry tells him he leaves in the morning, Draco breaks. He kisses him desperately, determined to make tonight count. They fall into bed and Draco sets about worshiping Harry’s body, memorizing every inch of him (as if he hadn’t done so years ago) and savoring every shiver and moan and arch, filing them all into a neat little box in his mind that he’ll go over and over while Harry’s gone. After Harry comes the first time, whimpering Draco’s name, he pushes Draco over to make love to him face-to-face, his expression so agonizingly adoring that Draco has tears streaming down his face when he peaks. Harry continues to rock into him, milking Draco for every last ounce of pleasure, licking away Draco’s tear tracts and whispering how much he loves him.

When Harry leaves in the morning, they don’t say goodbye. They treat it like a normal work morning, except it’s not, is it? They hold each other a bit more tenderly, their voices waver when they say I love you, and there’s a gentle, searing kiss before Harry’s gone and Draco’s left whispering Be safe to an empty room.

When Draco isn’t distracting himself with work, he’s home, unable to leave their empty house despite friends owling him to come stay with them or at least come out with them for a night. But he can’t bear to let Pansy or Blaise see him like this, see their knowing, concerned glances. And he can’t bear Harry’s friends even though they’ve gotten close, because without Harry it would feel like he didn’t belong anymore.

When Draco drinks tea, he drinks Harry’s favorite even though he’s always told Harry that Earl Grey is too common. Draco remembers how Harry told him that his aunt had discovered she was allergic to bergamot and had thrown all their Earl Grey away, and how he’d hidden it all in his cupboard and made himself cups in the middle of the night (lukewarm, of course, because he couldn’t risk the kettle whistle waking his uncle up). Draco remembers how Harry had said Earl Grey had always felt like his tea after that, because it was a fun secret he’d allowed himself.

When Draco is home, he wraps himself in Harry’s jumpers that have always been a bit oversized on him, that he’s always pretended he didn’t like even though Harry knows better. He never wears anything else when he’s not at work, just the jumpers and occasionally a pair of Harry’s joggers when there’s a chill. As the weeks go by, Harry’s jumpers start to smell less like him and more like Draco, and that terrifies Draco, who’s worried he’ll forget what Harry smells like.

When Draco tries to sleep, he curls up on Harry’s side of the bed- somehow still warmer even without him there. He rarely sleeps, but when he does, it’s only because he’s exhausted himself with sleep deprivation. Not that his sleep is resting, because it’s either filled with nightmares of something happening to Harry, or happy memories that only make him miss Harry more.

When Draco is itching to do something, he writes Harry letters. He can’t send them, of course, but he writes them anyways, filling them with love and anecdotes as if Harry would be reading them. Half the time he burns them later while drunk, but sometimes he opens them carefully and traces the parchment, imagining how Harry would respond to them.

When the months wear on, Draco starts to worry himself sick with fears that he hasn’t felt in a long time. What if, without Draco, Harry has remembered what a shit Draco is? How Harry can do so much better and Draco still believes this in his core, even after seven years of being together. Harry deserves so much more, someone everyone approves of, who doesn’t have such a dark past. Draco knows these things, but Harry’s always dismissed them. What if now, though, Harry’s realizing these to be true? What if he comes home and tells Draco he’s not in love with him anymore?

When one day Draco comes home from a quick trip to a local Muggle market to pick up some food while wearing Harry’s clothes, he finds Harry standing in their living room, exhausted and unshaven and wrought with anxiety. Draco drops his bag with a strangled noise and wraps himself around Harry laughing breathlessly through choked sobs and peppering Harry’s weary face with kisses.

When Harry smiles warmly at him with watery eyes and rasps that he can’t stand ever doing this again- that he quit the Auror department the moment he returned to the Ministry- Draco tells him brokenly it’s about bloody time.

my little girl - calum hood

pairing: calum + y/n

request: Your son/daughters birthday with anyboy

When you woke up in the morning and rolled over in bed, you expected to see Calum laying beside you, either fast asleep or wide awake. Instead, the bed was empty. You looked up, peering around the silent room until you heard something from the baby monitor on the nightstand beside you.

Calum was walking into the room with a smile on his face and your little girl immediately began jumping with excitement inside her crib. She was turning three years old today. You scooted forward in the bed and picked up the monitor, holding it to watch whatever he was doing.

“Hey, baby girl,” he said in a soft voice, adjusting the sweatpants hung on his hips before he was reaching aside and hoisting her out her bed. “Guess what today is!” Your daughter looked at him, tilting her head to the side with a smile.

She giggled and shifted on Calum’s lap when he sat down in the rocking chair across the room. “My birthday!” she exclaimed, making a grin appear across his lips. “I’m turning three.”

“Show me how many that is on your hand so that you can show everyone later,” Calum said, and your little girl raised her hand and proudly showed him three fingers. He beamed and pulled her close by her hands, wrapping his arms around her small back and nuzzling his face into her hair. Your lips were tugging up into a smile as you gazed at the monitor’s screen, watching your husband pull your daughter even closer. Calum leaned away and he looked down at her, tucking her hair behind her ear as she glanced at him in confusion.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, which made him chuckle softly.

Placing his hands under her arms, he lifted her up and onto his hip again, but before he left the room you were able to hear him say, “Because I love you a lot, sweetheart, and you’re always gonna be my little girl.”

anonymous asked:

Atomwave adopting a dog?

“Ray…”

“MICK!” He stopped dead in the door of the kitchen, clearly just coming down the stairs where Mick could hear water and splashing, eyes wide. “You weren’t supposed to be home for another hour!” 

“Why is your hair full of suds?” his eyes narrowed a little, coming forward and dropping his gun and supplies on the island in the kitchen, something that always made Ray’s nose curl up. Now was no different, but Mick was focused, “and why is your shirt wet?”

“Uh…”

Mick was sensing something awful was about to be revealed. He was almost hopeful when he asked, “laundry disaster?”

Uhhhh…”

There was, almost predictably, a high, almost squeaky little “ruff!!” and then a flurry of activity as a ball of energy thundered down the staircase and straight onto Ray, flailing and barking and absolutely soaking.

“Ahh! Sparky! You- - were – supposed to stay – in the bath!”

Mick just sighed. He wished he was surprised, even a little. “Sparky?”

The puppy was barking excitedly, long tail wagging, water droplets flung everywhere, and Ray still hadn’t successfully disentangled himself from the energetic creature. Mick just shook his head, walked over, took it by the scruff (ignoring the surprised yap it released) and deposited it carefully on the ground, kneeling so he was close to eye level.

“Sparky,” he lowered his voice to deep and gruff. “I’m the boss around here.”

The puppy whined. Ray whined too. Mick stood up and rolled his eyes. “You don’t know the first thing about having a dog, do you?” 

He stood up and started pulling over a pen and paper to make a list.

“No, I, uh…” Ray looked a little sheepish, the puppy more relaxed now, shaking his tail again at Ray’s feet, sniffing everything. “I was never allowed to have one. I bought some books though!”

Mick snorted, “don’t need ‘em.”

“You… know about dogs?”

“Farm kid.”

“Right! And you’re… not mad? I was just online and he was at a kill shelter and tomorrow was the last day and I couldn’t let that happen and it was going to be a surprise and he was going to be clean but I forgot his brush out here and…” the wind ran out of Ray’s sails and Mick tried to pretend it didn’t tug at his (not actually nonexistent) heartstrings, just a little, to see him so nervous. “…just say it’s okay and that you want to keep him.”

Mick was already sliding the list of supplies over to his husband. “I’d never turn away a stray you picked up, Haircut. It’s not how we do things.”

As if on cue, Sparky barked, bold, looking up at Mick from next to Ray. “Yeah, you get to stay. But we’re changing your name, pupp-o. No dog in this house is named after anything that reminds me of the Flash.”

A moment later, he had an arm full of suds-y and soaking Ray, hugging him and stealing a kiss before Mick got his bearings. It was an excellent apology for the surprise dog he decided, recapturing Ray’s lips when he tried to pull back. He had Ray pressed up against the island counter a moment later, a leg between his thighs, thinking kitchen sex was a great idea for a weekend afternoon.

But then Sparky announced in the worst possible way he wasn’t house-trained yet.

“Ray… is your dog pissing on our fridge door?”

“Uhh….”

Mick reminded himself that he loved his husband, his partner, he really did. “You’re cleaning it up.”

10

2016 Bones Challenge

Day 2: Favorite Character: Temperance Brennan

Temperance Brennan is honestly one of the most extraordinary characters I’ve ever had the pleasure of “meeting” on television. The casual or infrequent viewer may write her off as cold, awkward and unfeeling. But she has one of the biggest metaphorical hearts of anyone. She truly cares about people. She cares about her friends and family, and would go to the ends of the earth for any of them. But she also cares so deeply for the victims of homicide. And also for the loved ones they leave behind. Because she knows what it’s like to be left behind. She fights for justice for both the living and the dead. She is brilliant, beautiful, and so kind- and sometimes she can even be amusing (she’s always amusing to me). She was the first character who really made me understand that I don’t have to change myself for anyone. She makes no apologies for who she is. She knows her strengths and weaknesses. She may not be great with the living, though she has grown leaps and bounds over the years. But the people who love her know exactly what kind of person she is. And that’s enough for her. She is so strong. There was a time when she ran away from her feelings- any feelings of love. She had to protect her heart. But she finally took the risk, and slowly let down her walls. She’s a survivor. We’ve always known that. She doesn’t need anyone. She knows she can survive on her own. She’s fine alone. But she gradually learned how to open her heart to others. She didn’t need to be impervious anymore. And she now lives a full life. She doesn’t have to change for anyone. She never has. And she sees that now. She is so happy with and fulfilled by the life she is living. Seeing Temperance Brennan in pain devastates me to my very core. She deserves the world, and more. But seeing her deliriously happy makes my heart soar. Because she is an astonishing woman. She is, and always has been an inspiration to me.  I am so thankful I started watching Bones because I have grown along with this character. And I learn from her every episode. She is flawed. She has been broken at times. But she made it through it all. And now she is flourishing. She can handle absolutely anything that comes her way. And she will fight for her happiness. She is my hero. And it has been a privilege and and an honor to embark on this journey with her. 

They met in a Washington diner. It wasn’t a classy place, but then, neither of them was classy.  Trip was alone at one end of the bar, picking halfheartedly at a plate of greasy fries, waiting until he was needed at the arena.  At the other end of the bar sat Ig, nursing a short glass of something amber.

He didn’t know why, but Trip was interested in the guy his age drinking whiskey at 1pm on a Wednesday.  What was his story? Trip slid off his stool, red vinyl creaking, and hopped up on the one next to Ig. He smiled, more of a tightening of the lips than anything, and shrugged his narrow shoulders up a fraction of an inch. He rarely talked, but he was usually understood.

Ig returned the gesture.

Fluffcannon 5

Nice Cream guy sells nice cream in the winter and it makes BP really uncomfortable because it’s a cold thing to have in the winter. Nonetheless, BP likes eating them anyway because of the cute notes he writes in the wrappers for him.

-Admin StormMelody

The breaking point is a dropped bowl of popcorn.

Kei knows that Yamaguchi had had a rough practice, earlier.  He’d watched the gentle quivering in his back, the fists curled at his sides, as another one of his serves hit the net.  Kei’d almost reached a hand out to him, but before he could, another fake smile was stretching across his cheeks as he waved to Daichi and called, “One more, please!”

And then Yamaguchi’s day just gets worse in the form of a rain storm and a forgotten umbrella.  Kei offers his, which Yamaguchi shyly accepts, before making an attempt to split up–even in the rain–to head to his own house, insisting, “You don’t need to walk me all the way to my house, Tsukki!”

Kei catches his wrist, angling the umbrella over him.  

“Come to my house, then.  Your parents are working anyways,” he says, before turning and walking, knowing Yamaguchi would follow (and also knowing that Yamaguchi would blame himself for being a burden, once he reached a certain point, and that Kei would have to find the words to refuse this.  It wasn’t Yamaguchi’s fault that Kei was terrible at expressing how much he genuinely wanted Yamaguchi to be with him, and that it wasn’t a burden.)

By the time they arrive, Kei’s gotten Yamaguchi to agree to some new dinosaur documentary airing on the history channel, and Yamaguchi disappears into the kitchen for a few minutes to make some popcorn (knowing how much Kei actually hates cooking).

Kei snaps back to attention as he hears the shattering of glass on his floor, blinking and turning away from the commercials flashing across his television.  Yamaguchi makes a startled noise, and Kei quickly gets up, walking over to and hovering in the kitchen doorway.  

One of Kei’s family’s cheap glass bowls lies shattered across the floor, popcorn mingling among the glass shards.  Yamaguchi covers his mouth with one hand, keeping an iron grip on the counter with the other.  He refuses to look at Kei, instead keeping his gaze fixated at some spot on the counter.  

“Sorry, Tsukki,” he gasps out after a moment.  "Just…give me a minute, won’t you?  I’ll be right there.“

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