“No pizza, no wine, no chocolate— for full year! After a while, all the visits with nutritionists and 4 a.m. gym workouts just put you on a autopilot. But when you see the payoff onscreen, it’s totally worth it”
Traditionally, vampires could not see their reflection because mirrors were silver-backed. With the invention of aluminum-backed mirrors, a vampire sees their reflection for the first time only to find out they are the ugliest thing they have ever seen.
You will have to do without pocket handkerchiefs, and a great many other things, before we reach our journey’s end, Bilbo Baggins. You were born to the rolling hills and little rivers of the Shire, but home is now behind you. The world is ahead.
Just imagine: What if all aliens were completely colourblind (maybe this has another evolutionary advantage, i.e. better night vision, or they simply didn’t need it on their planet)? So far, humans are the first species anyone has ever encountered that has such a thing as colour vision, which confuses the hell out of the aliens.
And the humans? Suffer!
Because everything. Is. Absolutely. Hideous!
I mean, because they can’t see them, everyone wears the ugliest colour combinations ever! Everything they’ve ever built might have nice and fancy shapes, but it still looks horrid.
Just imagine that poor human crewmember walking to their post on the brisge for the first time, only to find that the walls and ceiling are fucking neon yellow! And all the chairs are either olive green or purple, no one else can tell the difference. And maybe there are some turquoise highlights.
(The captain standing in the middle in his hot pink and crimson striped uniform doesn’t improve matters at all.)
The human groans and looks like they just want to turn around and run away (not that the rest of the ship looks any better). The aliens are confused.
“What’s wrong, human? Are you sick?”
“No, but I will be soon, if I keep looking at this. The colours…!”
A few weeks later, the ship is safely docked in a space station and everyone is enjoying their shore leave. Well, everyone except the human, because they’re busy repainting the entire bridge because those colours definitely count as a hazardous work environment.
So the captain and first officer come back early to find their human still doing that, now covered in paint which has the exact shade of light grey the bridge previously had. For the aliens there is no visible difference.
“Sorry Captain, I promise I’m almost done!”
The captain just sighs and shakes xir head. Sometimes it’s better to let humans just do whatever it is they’re doing. Trying to understand them would be pointless.
(From that day on, the human is a lot more relaxed during their shift.)
Viktor and Yuuri are a blame-it-on-the-dog couple.
As usual, it works one of two ways.
Someone farts and no one wants to cop to it.
“Must have been Makkachin,” Yuuri says, not even looking up from his phone. Makkachin is in the kitchen and hasn’t left in ten minutes.
“What have we been feeding you Makkachin?” Viktor asks, and Makkachin hops into the room with tongue lolling and ears aflutter. Viktor rubs him behind the ears and coos, “What a smelly dog,” while side-eyeing Yuuri with a smirk. Yuuri kicks him.
On the other hand:
“Do you like this shirt?” Yuuri asks, standing in front of the mirror. It’s a sweater of a not entirely flattering yellow color, and about a size too big. It’s also made with some kind of speckled yarn that makes it look almost flea bitten. “My mother sent it to me. She said one of the ladies in town knitted it for me, which is sweet, but I just…I think it makes me look weird?”
“Well, as you know darling, I think you look good in everything.” Viktor crosses his ankles and clucks his tongue for Makkachin; Makka hops up onto the bed and curls up over Viktor’s knees. “But oh, what’s that Makkachin? You think that shirt makes Yuuri look like a molting canary? That’s so rude, Makkachin.”
Yuuri exaggerates a gasp. “That’s so mean, Makkachin! You mean you don’t like this sweater that Tanaka-san made me out of the goodness of her heart because she’s worried I’ll freeze to death in Russia? How could you!”
“That’s no way to talk to one of your fathers,” Viktor says, rubbing Makkachin behind the ears. ‘What’s that? You’d rather see Yuuri in that awful blue necktie than this sweater? Makkachin!”
Yuuri crosses the room and kisses Makkachin’s muzzle. “Shh, he’s whispering something to me. What? Oh, okay. Makkachin wants me to tell you that he thinks you’re a fashion snob.” Yuuri crawls onto the bed and straddles Viktor’s thighs, brushes the hair away from his face, and kisses his nose. “Isn’t that the meanest thing you’ve ever heard? Your dog is a bully.”
“Oh, so he’s my dog right now?” Viktor mumbles against Yuuri’s cheek, kissing noisily.
“Yes? He’s your dog when he says mean things and he’s my dog when he says nice things.”
Viktor leans around Yuuri’s shoulder and pats Makkachin’s head again, then moves his hands up underneath Yuuri’s sweater. “Makkachin says you should just take the ugly sweater off.”
Yuuri laughs and tilts his head back, lets Viktor nuzzle his face there. “I think Makkachin should leave the bedroom, now.”
Viktor bounces his knees to get Makkachin off the bed, rolls Yuuri over and physically removes the sweater himself.
Yuuri finds it at the back of their closet months later, during a round of spring cleaning.
“Makkachin says that it’s still the ugliest sweater he’s ever seen,” Viktor tells him, and gets swat with it in the face with it for his trouble.
I’ve come to a point in my life where “I love you” just doesn’t have the same meaning as it used to before. Sure, you can love me. You can fall in love with my eyes, with the way I tuck my hair behind my ears, with the way the sunshine hits the color of my skin. You can love me in a hundred and one different ways but it wouldn’t mean anything if you don’t choose me. So yes, you could tell me you love me and my heart will skip a beat and I’ll have butterflies in my tummy and I will feel the earth shake on my feet - I will feel so happy, my heart could burst out of my chest… but it simply just won’t be enough anymore.
So this is what I need from you:
Tell me you choose me. When I’m slumped on the floor ridden with guilt and grief from everything that has ever and will ever hurt me - hold me and tell me you choose me. When I’m pushing you away, when my fists are up and the ugliest of things come out from this mouth you proclaim to love - say you choose me anyway. When I’m broken, when you can’t fix me, when no amount of I love you’s in the world can assuage my pain - please, hold my face, shake me a little, say, “look at me, I choose you, okay?”
You can tell me you love me. You can shout it to the world. You can say it to me a million times and it will be what I want to hear. But telling me, “I choose you” - darling, that’s all I will ever need.