the state of mind in which someone acts against their better judgement through weakness of will.
enduring, she said. enduring was the word that described her relationship with calum. ever since calum had met her in his first day of school, and she split her peanut butter sandwich with him because her older brother was teasing him during lunch break, they had endured quite a lot together and only come out stronger as friends. truly, best friends.
inseparable, that was another word for them, especially as they grew up. throughout all of primary school, they were attached at the hip, and attached by the ankle during robbie wilkinson’s birthday party during the three-legged race. robbie laughed at calum for being the only boy to run with a girl, until she and calum won. she’d always save him the spot next to her on the bus, no matter how bad she wanted the love of her life, max detterming, to sit next to her. but calum would never disappoint, bringing his headphones for them to listen to music with, and an extra pack of gum so they could blow bubbles together before school even started.
at the time, calum preferred the word ‘connected’. with her, he never felt so understood. it was like there was a wire running between the two of their brains, because he knew exactly what she was feeling even when she wouldn’t say (like how she said it was fine if calum ate with michael during lunch, but calum knew that she didn’t mean it and sat with her anyway), and she always seemed to know exactly was he was thinking, and would say it so that he didn’t always have to. she was always outspoken, and he liked to be quieter, so when kids made fun of his lisp in third grade, she knew exactly what to say to get them to shut up for good (”hey, robbie, if i knock your front teeth out, you’ll have a lisp too, jerk”).
‘surviving’ might have been the best term as the duo entered their preteen years. because while calum stayed scrawny, she was getting a lot of attention from boys suddenly. she thought she was over max years ago, but boy oh boy, when he came up to her after school and asked if she wanted a ride home on the handlebars of his bike, she couldn’t say no. calum got on the bus alone that day, and while he didn’t know it yet, the best word to describe him then was ‘sulking’.
as their final schooling year approached, the tides turned. calum filled out because of his love and talent for football, and growing a foot helped him out with the ladies as well. on the other hand, she had earned a false reputation because max lied after they broke up, saying that they’d had sex when all they’d ever done was kiss. calum knew the truth, but the damage had been done to everyone else by that time. she was branded the school slut, who didn’t deserve to be best friends with the golden boy. as hard as they tried, it was hard to stay close with the entire school trying to rip him away from her. even harder when calum dated lexi van plasse. lexi was one of the worst shamers in the school.
‘heartbroken’ described her best, then.
they found each other again the summer before university. calum was going to flinder’s university on a full athletic scholarship; she had gotten a guaranteed acceptance into her program due to her high test score. they ran into each other on orientation day, and caught up over coffee in the library after the presentation was over. calum and lexi had broken up by then, and she was dating a guy she had met at her job. although quite a lot had changed since the day of the peanut butter sandwich, they were able to talk as though nothing had. on move-in day, they discovered they were rooming in the same building, which left them both jubilant.
freshman year, they spent a good portion of time together, as much as two busy university students could. sharing an on-campus job in the rec center office helped that as well. they’d talk about classes and professors, roommates and RAs, and reminisce about all the times they’d shared and spent apart. calum got to meet her boyfriend, sam, a few times, and while he seemed perfectly nice, there was just something off about him to calum. or maybe it was something off about them. they just didn’t seem suitable for each other.
and over the next year, calum’s word became ‘concealing’. he didn’t like hiding things from her, he hated leaving any part of his life unshared from his best friend... but he knew if he didn’t, it would ruin everything. they had just become best friends again, and he wouldn’t lose her a second time, not over a silly little crush. that wasn’t silly or little or even a crush. it was far more than that, so much more that he had to call it a crush for fear of acting on his feelings. she was happy with sam, and that was that. he wanted her happy, and jeopardizing that and their friendship was unbearable. she was too important to lose, so he resigned himself, and convinced himself he was happy.
until the night she was in his dorm, laying up on his bunk while he tried to finish his essay on philia versus pragma vs eros at his desk. she was texting someone, probably sam, though calum tried not to think about that, and watching some crime drama on his tablet. she had shown up at his door ready for a night out, but once he told her about the essay, she quickly pulled on a t-shirt of his and some football shorts, completely fine with a night in. and he was getting along with the essay completely fine until he reached the part where he had to combine all three and compare them. (now might be the time to mention that philia means friendly love, pragma means practical love, and eros means passionate love). he had to name the point where they might intersect, and no matter what he typed, the only word he wanted to use was her name.
finally, he sighed, saying, “want to help me with something?”
“sure,” she replied, pausing the episode. “whatcha need?”
“i’m writing about--” he paused, deciding how to phrase it. “--kinds of relationships, and i was just wondering what word you’d use to describe us. like, our relationship.”
“damn, that’s loaded,” she responded with a little laugh. “um... uh... any word? can i use a phrase?”
“i’d prefer just one word, honestly,” calum answered.
“okay, um... enduring,” she said.
“...enduring.” he repeated her flatly, spinning his chair around to look at her. “enduring? that’s all?”
“well, what do you want, calum?” she asked exasperatedly. “you wanted my opinion! i think we’ve gone through and ‘endured’ a lot together, don’t you?” and as dumb as he knew it was, that dumb word was the breaking point. enduring.
“felicitous,” he said in return. “unerring. ardent. veracious. perfervid. impetuous.”
“calum, you might want to speak english,” she said, rolling her eyes and jumping down from the bunk. “i don’t know what part of my answer wasn’t good enough.” she crossed her arms then, taking a step forward. while she and calum bickered all the time just for fun, she seemed to realize that there was more to this than just fun. which is what completely pushed him over.
he leapt up from his chair and closed the distance between them with two short strides. before she (or he) could fully process what was happening, he had reached for her jaw, holding her head as he crashed his lips into hers. as he did, he could feel every part of him tense and relax, and all he could think about was this, and her, and them, and how her hand was touching his chest, not pushing him away, just resting there, feeling his heart as it attempted to beat out of his chest.
slowly, they broke apart, lips lingering and foreheads pressed together. it had just processed in calum’s brain, the whole ‘that just happened’ wave that goes through someone’s brain after they kiss, when quite suddenly, she did push him away. his eyes flickered open, and he was shocked to see the look of anger on her face. before he could say anything, she spoke.
“what the hell was that?” she spat, eyes wide. he chest was rising and falling rapidly as she stared at his speechless form. after a moment of this, she scoffed, leaning over to grab her things and make for the door.
“acrasia,” he whispered as her fingers grasped the handle. she paused, then shook her head as if shaking off a bad thought. the door opened, and with a flash, she was gone, and the slam echoed through the room.
#TBT Brand New Cedes Benz Cedes Benz Cedes Benz...🎶🎶 @ThekingDream @TrickyStewart @contra_paris #lyricvideo watch it on @vevo #TheDreamVevo #cedesbenz #crown
in which you study abroad in florence, italy and find a guide to the city in ashton, artist and overall art geek – a soulmate au inspired by prompts from this list.
disclaimer: i don’t speak a lick of italian (nor have i actually been to florence, italy), which means i relied a great deal on google, so if anything’s not entirely accurate, correct me if you wish, but kindly don’t jump down my throat when you do so. :-) momentary mentions of death and alcohol/drug use near the end, so this is a heads up that it’s there – skim through, scroll past, do what you must.
word count: 9124
Of all the artwork in Florence, for some reason, this portrait was what struck you the most. Not Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, not Lippi’s Madonna and Child, and not even Michaelangelo’s David (which just the sight of had made a few tourists faint, a symptom of Stendhal syndrome according to another fellow museum goer), but rather, this particular portrait right in front of you.
You supposed your fixation with the portrait had to do with the fact that looking at it was like looking into a mirror – the image looking more like your own reflection than a painting. The only difference between you and the subject of the portrait was that you both wore different clothing – you in 21st century attire and her in attire appropriate of the time period…of the Renaissance, at least 400 years ago. That one minor difference aside, as eerie as it was to acknowledge, there was no doubt about it – the portrait’s subject was definitely a split-image of you.
You looked around the museum, wondering if anyone else were observing the same portrait and realized what you did, but you were the only one. Everyone else was admiring the more widely known artwork. You wished your best friend were here to share in this unnerving revelation with you, but her and her soulmate were taking advantage of being in love and being in Florence, leaving you no choice but to visit the city’s museums by yourself if you wanted to see any artwork while you were studying abroad here.
You turned back around to face the portrait again, still perturbed by the subject’s uncanny resemblance to you. Maybe you were just blowing the situation out of proportion. Maybe this wasn’t as strange as you thought it was. Maybe this was just a coincidence. After all, you’d read click bait articles before about Keanu Reeves and Nicholas Cage – hell, even Vladimir Putin – that asserted the men were immortal simply because they looked similar to the subjects of portraits from centuries ago.
Your uneasiness didn’t even have to do with the thought that you could be immortal, because you knew that was possible – what, with reincarnation and all – but from all that you’d retained from what you’d heard and learned about reincarnation, you knew that when a person was reincarnated, they were reborn with their past memories and the only memories you were born with were the one from this life. You had no memory of a single past life. Of course, you’d also heard and learned about people being reborn without a single memory from their past, but these anecdotes always finished with past memories later returning to these people. Considering you’d gone this long in life without any past memories returning to you and people like Keanu Reeves, Nicholas Cage, and Vladimir Putin – who have been alive for far longer than you – have never said that they were reincarnated though, you felt you could safely say that the same could be said for you…right?
“Beautiful.”
You bristled at the new male voice. “Excuse me?”
The owner of the voice chuckled and out of the corner of your eye, you saw the male step forward to stand a respectable distance next to you. He jerked his chin in the direction of the portrait. “I meant the painting.”
“Oh.” You felt your body deflating as the tension left your body. You also felt stupid now and cleared your throat like that could erase what just happened. “Yeah, it is,” you lamely agreed, hoping you sounded convincing as you looked for the painting’s description. For all the time you’d spent in front of it, you realized now that you didn’t even know what the painting was called.
Ashton Eryvine (1390–1441)
Forever Yours, 1438
Oil on canvas
“Per sempre tuo,” the curly-haired brunet said.
“Huh?” you questioned, looking away from the painting’s description and back at him while he pushed his tortoise-colored glasses up the bridge of his nose.
You noticed his attire – all-black from his t-shirt to his skinny jeans to his combat boots – and the badge attached to the lanyard around his neck. Ashton.
“It’s Italian,” Ashton explained. Your blank stare prompted him to further clarify. “That’s what the painting’s called in Italian.”
Chuckling again, Ashton turned his head back towards the painting, but you continued to face him, noting how he seemed to revere the painting.
You shrugged. “The description has the painting’s title in English, so that’s how I know it.”
“Do you know of that painting of Mary embracing child Jesus?” Ashton asked, his eyes still trained on the portrait.
“There were a lot of paintings of Mary and child Jesus,” you muttered. Seeing the corners of his lips twitch, you realized that maybe the words you’d said under your breath weren’t said that quietly.
As you tried to figure out which painting Ashton was referring to exactly, you imagined that the task would’ve been even more difficult if you weren’t conveniently an art history major. Eventually, you guessed, “Madonna of the chair?”
“Madonna della seggiola,” Ashton translated. “Or Madonna della sedia.”
You turned your head to look at the portrait again, if only to not have to see the (hint of a) smirk on his face. “I feel like I deserve some credit for at least correctly guessing the painting you were referring to, even if in English.”
“Fair enough,” Ashton agreed with a smile, turning his face to look at you now. “You certainly seem to know more than the average tourist.”
He momentarily averted his eyes to survey the rest of the museum goers before returning his gaze to you. The weight of it made you unable to help but to look at him as well, drawn in by the intensity of his eyes, the vivacity of their beautiful hazel hue. Though this was your first time meeting him, there was a comfort you felt from looking into his eyes, a familiarity akin to returning home.
After a moment, you forced yourself to look away, shifting your gaze back to the painting. You cleared your throat again. “I would hope so,” you replied as evenly as you could, “considering I’m majoring in art history to become a high school teacher.”
“Ah,” Ashton said with a nod of his head, seemingly unaffected by the staring contest you two just had. He stuck his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “I majored in art, myself. Are you just visiting or studying abroad?”
“Studying abroad,” you answered, hyperaware of his gaze on you. Determinedly, you kept your own gaze fixed on the portrait. “Just for the summer though.”
Finally, you no longer felt eyes on you, and a peek out of the corner of your eye told you that Ashton had moved his gaze back to the portrait. “No one else from your school is interested in art?”
“Not really. I’m the only art history major. Most people are here because they thought Florence would be a cool place to spend their summer,” you explained. “My best friend’s here too. She’s an anthropology major, so she also chose to study here because of her major.”
“Yet you’re here by yourself,” Ashton observed. “She sick or what?”
“No, she’s with her soulmate,” you flatly answered. You liked the girl, you really did, you just didn’t like being a third wheel whenever you actually did spend time with your best friend. “She’s a linguistics major, so being here is good for her studies too, but mainly, she likes being in love in Florence even more.”
Ashton heartily laughed. “I don’t blame her. Florence is a romantic city. Take it from me. I’ve lived here my whole life.”
“And you work here?” you checked. “At the museum?”
“Yeah, gotta make money somehow,” Ashton joked, confirming what you already presumed earlier. “I’m earning enough making art, but the extra money doesn’t hurt and I get paid to hang around some of the best art in the world, so it’s not so bad, especially when I get paid to talk about the art.”
“Like right now?”
“Like during a guided tour,” Ashton corrected, chuckling. “My shift’s actually done for the day, so I’m not even getting paid to hang around here and talk to you about art.” He stuck his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “I was on my way out, but I saw you looking at this Eryvine painting and couldn’t resist walking over.” He looked at the portrait, a fond expression on his face. “It’s probably my favorite.”
“In this museum or ever?”
“Ever.”
“Why?”
“According to record of Eryvine’s life, the subject of this portrait is his soulmate,” Ashton started. “He painted this portrait of her as a way to immortalize her. If they were ever separated or never managed to find their way back to each other in any future lives, at least this painting would continue to exist as proof of his love for her.”
His voice trailed off as he continued to look at the portrait, now regarding it with a melancholy expression on his face.
“I like the story, I suppose,” Ashton continued after a moment of awkward silence between the two of you, his voice sounding oddly detached. “Guess I’m just a hopeless romantic.” His lips stretched into a smile, but it looked forced. “I like to think it’s beautifully painted too. Not quite comparable to smart phone quality, but realistic enough to look like a photo and not oil on canvas.”
“It must be if it’s hanging here,” you agreed. “How long has it been here?”
“Since 1919,” Ashton answered, his voice taking on a normal tone again. “After Eryvine’s death, the Medici family acquired the painting, where it was inventoried in Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de Medici’s collection. After the house of Medici was extinguished, the last descendent, Anna Maria Luisa, turned over the family’s art collection to the Tuscan state. And now this painting hangs here.”
“You and the artist have the same first name.”
Ashton looked back at you, smiling more genuinely this time. “We do,” he confirmed with a nod of his head. “Maybe that’s the real reason why I like the painting so much. I was just destined to because we share a first name.”
The two of you stood in silence once more, only the silence was now more comfortable than awkward.
“If you haven’t seen the entire museum yet, I could give you a free guided tour if you’d like,” Ashton eventually offered, breaking the silence.
“You’re not even working right now,” you reminded him.
“I’d gladly talk about art with or without payment, obviously,” Ashton laughed. “So? How ‘bout it?”
“Okay,” you replied, your lips stretching into a smile of your own. “Enlighten me, Ashton.”
Ashton ended up enlightening you not just about art, but also about everything else in Florence. Befriending a Florentian meant that you had your very own guide to show you around the city through a local’s eyes and help you visit more than just the touristy spots far better than any of your peers or school staff could.
He took you to a cafe on the south side of Florence where you two ordered tea and then made yourselves comfortable on the pillows and cushions covering the floor upstairs – him drawing in a worn sketchbook and you reading a book from the cafe’s selection.
He took you to get gelato south of the Arno river and you two ate your desserts as you enjoyed the view from the Ponte Vecchio bridge, overlooking the river and the shops that lined both sides.
He took you on a hike to the top of Piazzale Michelangelo where you two watched the sunrise from a panoramic view of Florence – later watching the sunset from the park within Giardino dell’Orticultura, a garden just outside the city.
And although it wasn’t in Florence, he took you for a day trip to Fiesole – a town in the hills about 35 minutes from Florence – where you two admired the architecture of the cathedrals and villas.
(Of course, he still indulged you by taking you to the more touristy spots too, which you appreciated.)
Between your classes and his shifts at the museum, you spent almost all of your free time with him – whether you two were out and about in Florence or at his studio apartment, which became more of a living space to you than your actual dorm. The only reasons why you two wouldn’t hang out with each other in your free time were because you had homework or studying to do or he had a commission he needed to complete, but even then, you two still found yourselves spending time together, quietly enjoying the other’s company while you each fulfilled your respective responsibilities.
Since you were done with classes for the day, you were getting ready to head over to his apartment to hang out with him. If it weren’t for the textbooks you had with you, you would’ve left straight after your last class instead of stopping by your dorm first.
“Ciao,” your best friend sang in greeting as she walked into your shared room.
Before going abroad, you wondered why she didn’t room with her soulmate (who roomed with one of her own friends who, in turn, had her own friends on the trip), but with you spending so much time with Ashton nowadays, the situation ended up working out. Your more often than not absence from the shared space meant that her soulmate could come over without making you an uncomfortable third wheel.
“Hey,” you returned with a soft smile, pausing from unpacking your textbooks to look up at her. “How was class?”
“Bene,” she answered while setting her own bag down by the foot of her desk. “E tu?”
Much like Ashton, she’d started incorporating Italian words into her vocabulary when speaking to you. Unlike Ashton, however, who had the excuse of being born and raised in Florence, you knew she was just half showing off and half enjoying knowing that your fluency in Italian was next to none compared to her. If it weren’t for Ashton (and Google Translate), you’d spend even more time than you already did guessing at what she was saying to you.
“Not bad,” you replied, moving to sit down on your bed. You placed your hands behind you, leaning back on your arms. “Just glad to be done for the day.”
Without looking up, you saw her lips curve upwards in a smirk. “I bet,” she began. “Are you going to see tuo amore?
You frowned. “He’s not my lover.”
She moved to mirror your position on her own bed, raising her hands in defense. “All I’m saying is you two are practically attached to the hip. You two even manage to spend more time together than my soulmate and I do and she’s my soulmate and we’re in Florence together.” She suddenly trailed off. “Do you think…?”
“No,” you immediately answered, though the thought had briefly crossed your mind a few times. “No. I’d know if he was, wouldn’t I? Aren’t you supposed to just know?”
She shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong person,” she replied, smiling sadly.
Your lips stretched into a similar smile of their own. Neither of you had really ever paid much attention whenever your teachers lectured about soulmates in grade school. Luckily for her, her own soulmate had.
You two sat in silence for a moment. Not quite comfortable, but not awkward either, not with how close you two were and how long you’d known each other – the kind of silence where you’re both too absorbed in your own thoughts to say anything aloud.
“I should get going,” you eventually said, breaking the silence. You stood up to walk over to your closet. “I texted Ash as soon as I got out of class so he’s probably expecting me any minute now. Don’t want to keep him waiting.”
“Sì, we wouldn’t want that,” she agreed. With your back turned to her, you couldn’t see her expression, but you wouldn’t be surprised if you turned around and saw another smirk on her face. “Are you coming home tonight?”
“Probably not until late,” you answered, turning back around with your purse hanging from your shoulder now.
“Okay. Divertiti scopando con il tuo ragazzo.”
You knit your eyebrows, unfamiliar with any of the words she’d said and only knowing enough to know that whatever she’d said, she’d referred to Ashton, probably in connection to your love life somehow. She simply smiled and waved goodbye in response, leaving you no choice but to be on your way. It wasn’t until you were out of the room and walking out of your building that you bothered to Google Translate what she’d said.
Have fun fucking your boyfriend.
Lovely.
Your mild irritation with your best friend dissipated though as soon as you arrived at Ashton’s apartment. Being anything but solely and entirely content seemed to be impossible when you were in his presence. He was someone who was usually full of positive energy and good vibes and you liked to think that all rubbed off on you by association.
The delicious aroma of food that wafted through the air of his apartment didn’t hurt either.
“Hey! I was wondering where you were,” Ashton greeted you. He momentarily diverted his gaze from the saucepan he was standing over to look up at you, smiling. “I’m almost done with this ricotta gnocchi if you want any. If not, feel free to help yourself to some wine; there’s an open bottle in the fridge.”
Ashton nodded his head in the direction of his refrigerator – even though you’d been over enough to know the layout of his apartment and where everything was located – before returning his attention to whatever he was cooking in the saucepan. You noticed he already poured himself his own glass of wine, set off to the side while he cooked.
“You always have an open bottle of wine in the fridge,” you laughed, walking over to join him in the kitchen.
After getting a wine glass from an overhead cabinet and pouring yourself your own glass of wine, you walked back around to sit on a stool across the island from him, quickly noting his attire. You’d come to expect for him to be dressed in all-black whether he was at home or at the museum and today was no exception. The only difference was that at home, he usually opted for a band t-shirt with the sleeves cut off – today the band was Slipknot – and basketball shorts.
“And you always help me finish my bottles of wine,” Ashton countered without missing a beat. “Funny how that works.”
“Touché,” you said, raising your glass in mock gravitas to him.
Ashton shook his head in response, but you could see the corners of his lips curve upwards before you two moved on to a different topic of conversation. While he cooked, he asked you about your day and your classes, and in turn, you asked him about his own day. He told you about his shift at work and how he’d been in the mood to paint all day, how he’d probably paint after dinner.
“Can I do some painting too?” you blurted without thinking the question through.
Ashton paused from spooning sauce onto a plate of gnocchi, shifting his gaze to meet yours. “You paint?” he asked, the sauce spoon still lifted midair and dripping down.
You could feel your face heat up, but his tone didn’t seem judgmental, only curious. “No, I just think it’d be fun,” you admitted.
For as much as you enjoyed art, you were better off teaching its history, not even able to draw a decent stick figure. Your artisticness really only extended as far as being able to appreciate art. It was why you majored in art history rather than art itself.
Ashton blinked. Once. Then twice. “Sure,” he finally answered, your question seeming to have taken him aback. “I didn’t realize you ever wanted to or I would’ve offered to provide you with a canvas, a brush, and some paint a while ago.”
He chuckled before going back to finishing assembling the ricotta gnocchi, talking about how he’d picked up some more supplies lately and seeming particularly excited about a new brush that he’d gotten.
“Are you hungry?” Ashton asked, after having one plate fully prepared.
You vehemently nodded. “Starving,” you answered. “The last meal I had was breakfast. I’ve been snacking during my classes since.”
You’d barely gotten one syllable out before Ashton was already handing you the plate and then preparing another one for himself. As hungry as you were and as enticing as the food looked though, you waited until he had his own plate and sitting next to you at the island to eat.
While finally eating a proper meal for the first time in hours was satisfying, you found yourself really looking forward to trying your hand at painting on a proper canvas and not just the paper you were given for projects in grade school.
After you two finished dinner, you offered to clear the table and do the dishes while Ashton set up. By the time you had set the dishes in the dishwasher and started the cycle, you found him in the living room with the furniture pushed against the wall and a white tarp covering the whole floor. Two canvases were set up on easels positioned across from each other – one being for you and the other for him you presumed. There were stools beside each easel, on which a container with tubes of paint – in what seemed to be different shades of yellow, red, and blue as well as black and white – rags and paper towels, a blunt-looking knife, a paper palette, and brushes sat. You noticed though that one container also had a color wheel and a tool that resembled a camera viewfinder.
You felt a bit in over your head looking at the supplies and Ashton must’ve noticed your apprehensive expression because he said, “I know it’s a lot, but they’re all meant to help you if you wanna use them. The blunt-looking knife is a palette knife; it’s what you use to mix paint. The color wheel will help you with mixing colors. And the tool that looks like a camera viewfinder is a viewfinder; it’s supposed to help you draw shapes proportionately.”
His explanation didn’t make you feel any less uneasy. “I think you’re overestimating my ability.”
“Or your underestimating yourself,” Ashton offered, his lips stretched in a wide smile. “Everything’s just there for you to use if you want to. If you only wanna use the paint and brushes; that’s fine too. Whatever you wanna do.”
At the very least, his words made the plethora of supplies in front of you less daunting. “What are you going to paint?” you asked, moving to sit on the floor on the space beside Ashton’s easel.
“Don’t know,” Ashton answered, sitting on the floor as well. “What about you?”
“I don’t know either,” you replied, laughing, “but I know that I like hanging out with you.”
“Well that sucks because I obviously hate hanging out with you,” Ashton joked, gently bumping your shoulder with his. “I just haven’t figured out how to tell you yet.”
He tried to keep a straight face the entire time, but his mouth failed him; the corners twitching in suppressed laughter. Still, you humored him, going along with the joke.
“Yeah, I can tell,” you replied, refraining from rolling your eyes. “Sharing your food and wine and art supplies probably isn’t the best way, just so you know.”
You two shared a laugh and when you both calmed down, you spoke again. “I’m serious though. Hanging out with you beats third wheeling my best friend and her soulmate. Always. By miles and miles. It’s not even a competition, really.”
“How is she?” Ashton politely asked, chuckling afterwards. “Her and her soulmate still enjoying being in love in Firenze?”
Suddenly, the paint splatters on the otherwise pristine white tarp you two sat on looked incredibly interesting. “She’s good. They’re good,” you answered distractedly, paying great attention to tracing the different colored shapes with your index finger.
You two were quiet after that – the only noise in his apartment being the faint sounds of the city floating in from outside – and eventually, your aimless task lost its grip on you, prompting you to finally voice the question that had been playing on your mind. “Hey, Ash?”
“Hmm?” He turned his head to look at you instead of at his canvas, pushing his glasses up his nose.
“Have you lived a past life before?”
“I have.”
“How many past lives?”
“Enough of them.”
“Have you met your soulmate?”
“I have,” Ashton repeated, moving to stand up. You watched as he squeezed out paint from the tubes onto his palette and then picked up a brush, getting to work on his painting.
“Have you met them every lifetime?”
“So far, yes.”
“In this lifetime, too?”
Ashton hesitated for a moment, his brush not moving on the canvas. You leaned over to try and get a peek of what he was painting, but he turned the easel away from you, tsking and shaking his head at you.
“They’ll come around soon; I know it.”
“What’s with all the short answers?”
“You’re just not asking specific enough questions,” Ashton answered, giving you a bashful smile before getting back to work on his painting. “I don’t know how you want me to answer.”
“What’s your soulmate like?” you asked, craning your neck to try and look at his painting again. He only turned his easel further away from you, shooing you towards your own easel this time.
Ashton didn’t respond right away. You weren’t sure if he was going to as you started setting up your own work space, unsure if his furrowed brow was from concentrating on his painting or the answer to your question.
“She’s like– she’s like the sun,” Ashton eventually said, his sudden response making you pause mid-brush stroke. “I can live without her, sure, but everything’s lesser without her. Everything’s more dull. The grass isn’t as green; the clouds aren’t as white; the ocean’s not as blue. The world just isn’t as vivid, not quite as bright, not even on the summer solstice. I’m alive, but I’m not really living.”
You didn’t know what you expected him to say in answer to your question, but you weren’t exactly expecting the answer he’d just provided you and hoped that one day, someone would talk about you in such a way.
You were quiet for a moment, gathering your thoughts, before asking, “Does that make you the moon?”
He laughed. “No, more like a plant, I think. A plant in an incubator, maybe,” Ashton began. “Contained. Surviving on artificial light. Hoping that one day I’ll be exposed to the sunlight instead.”
“That is…surprisingly deeper than I was expecting,” you admitted.
“See what happens when you ask me more specific questions?” Ashton teased, looking up at you and waggling his eyebrows at you. The action made you laugh and he smiled before looking back down at his canvas.
“Yes, I see now that you’re a man of depth,” you agreed with as earnest a tone as you could manage, which wasn’t very earnest at all, erring more on the dry side.
“And full of secrets. Like Gretchen Weiners’ hair.”
“Your hair is quite big like hers,” you agreed, your comment making him reach up and run a hand through the unruly light brown curls.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Anything about any past lives or a soulmate you wanna share?”
“Not really,” you replied, not looking up from the picture you were painting on your canvas. If you squinted, the mess of shapes almost looked okay, like a Monet. “This life is the only one I’ve lived as far as I know. If I’ve lived any past lives, I don’t have any memory of them. Just the memories from this life.”
Ashton didn’t say anything after that and you didn’t either, the two of you concentrating on your respective paintings. You didn’t mind the silence though, content to just be in his presence, even if you two weren’t speaking at the moment. If anything, the moment was tranquil, and you could see why he lived to create art.
“Have you finished your painting?” Ashton eventually asked, bringing an end to the silence.
“Almost.” You added another few brush strokes before asking, “Have you?”
“Yeah, I just finished.”
A beat passed. And another. And then, “Okay, I’m finished.”
Before you could even set your palette or brush down, Ashton was already bounding over to your side, examining your painting. Knowing that an actual artist was looking at an art piece by you – not an actual artist – made you feel self-conscious, but his expression was neutral and he simply seemed to be taking in the details. Finally Ashton asked, “What’s it called?”
“Oh, um,” you stammered, not having given any thought to a title. “My Happy Place.”
“Your happy place?”
“Yeah,” you confirmed, sheepishly smiling. “I like dogs and I like art and I like a sunny day with clear skies so I painted a dog wearing a smock with a paintbrush in its mouth and a clear blue sky and the sun in the background.”
“I like it,” Ashton laughed. “If you don’t want to take this back to your dorm, I’m definitely keeping it.”
“You actually want my painting?” you asked disbelievingly, raising your eyebrows.
“Of course,” Ashton replied matter-of-factly, going on to clasp his hands behind his back. “You know, Picasso said that painting is just another way of keeping a diary.”
You smiled. “Well, I hope this diary entry is worth the look,” you said, nodding your head in the direction of his easel afterwards. “What’d you paint?”
You two crossed the short distance between his easel and yours to look at his painting together. “What it’s called?” you asked as you examined his work.
He’d painted a portrait of the back of a girl from the waist up with hair longer (and more volumized) than yours, though the color was the same. His soulmate, if you had to guess. Her arm reached behind as if holding the viewer’s hand and leading them into the city – the buildings of which were painted pop art style. The piece seemed familiar, as if you’d seen it or a similarly painted portrait before, but having been a few feet away from him when he painted this, you knew you were seeing the portrait for the first time.
“My Happy Place,” Ashton joked.
“Sorry, that’s already copyrighted. I’m afraid I’m going to have to send my lawyers after you,” you replied in exaggerated solemnity, making him laugh.
“Alla Prossima,” Ashton finally answered once he calmed down.
You waited until you were back at your dorm after he’d walked you back from his apartment later that night – until you couldn’t see his figure in the distance anymore – before Google Translating the title of his painting.
Until the next time.
“Are you going to miss Firenze?” Ashton wondered, as he helped you fold all the articles of clothing strewn across your bed, waiting to be packed.
“Are you kidding me? How can you even ask that?” you exclaimed, pausing in the middle of folding the shirt in your hands. “Of course I am! Just even being here for the past few months has been a dream. Way better than anything my subconscious could come up with in my sleep.”
Like all dreams though, even this one had to come to an end, and the end was coming in less than 48 hours. You forced the feelings of gloom that were creeping up to the back of your mind. You’d already spent the greater half of this day being down about it being your penultimate day and that Ashton had to work until the evening. You didn’t need to be pouty now that you were actually hanging out with him.
For the last time.
Ashton laughed. “Maybe you can come back here one day.”
“Maybe,” you agreed, sighing dreamily afterwards. “I’ll live in a studio apartment and teach art history and eat gelato and drink wine everyday.”
“Might want to properly learn Italian unless you’re planning on teaching at the university level,” Ashton teasingly suggested.
“I’ll live in a studio apartment, learn Italian from you, and then, teach art history and eat gelato and drink wine everyday,” you amended.
“Learn Italian from me?” Ashton gasped, sounding appalled.
“Yeah, from you,” you laughed, knocking your shoulder against his. “You’ve only been throwing in Italian into our conversations since we first met. I like to think I’ve gotten a bit of an understanding now. More than I did before meeting you, anyway.”
You two shared a laugh and the laughter soon faded into silence as you both quietly worked to pack your belongings, the only sounds left being those of the city floating in along with the cool breeze through your open window. For all the songs that you’ve heard and loved, Florence and its people living their day-to-day lives had become one of your favorite songs.
“I’m going to miss you too, you know,” you eventually said, breaking the silence. When your eyes met his, you smiled. “La mia Fiorentino preferita.”
“Me?” Ashton checked, averting his eyes back to the dress of yours he’d been folding. He bashfully smiled as his cheeks reddened. “No way.”
“Yes way,” you insisted, also returning to the current task at hand. “Why wouldn’t I miss you?”
“Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t have spent most of your free time with me if you weren’t gonna miss me,” Ashton joked.
“Nope,” you automatically replied, “and I don’t regret a single second.”
A beat passed before Ashton spoke again. “I brought you a gift, you know. A going away gift, I suppose.” He cleared his throat and then pushed up his glasses. “Something to remember me by.”
The corners of your lips curved upwards, an amused expression crossing your face. “As if I could ever forget you,” you responded. “You didn’t need to get me anything.”
Ashton shrugged. “I wanted to,” he simply replied, finishing folding one of your rompers. “Besides, I didn’t go out and buy it or anything. Not recently, anyway. It’s just something I’ve had for a while that I want to hand over to you and think you’d enjoy.”
You set down the skirt in your hands, turning your body to fully face him. “What is it?” you asked, cocking your head to the side.
Ashton reached into an inside pocket of the green jacket he wore over his gray tank top, pulling out what looked like a worn, black leather-bound journal.
You belatedly realized that this was the first time you hadn’t seen him wear all-black, the only article of clothing that color today was his jeans. Even his boots were brown.
Ashton held out the journal to you and you dumbly accepted it, not sure what to make of or how to react to the gift. The expectant expression on his face prompted you to crack the journal open.
“What is this exactly?” you asked as you thumbed through the pages, stopping randomly on one. Your index finger traced the written letters with ease until the words started to take on a different appearance, making you wonder why the handwriting had changed.
“Do you remember that painting we met in front of?” Ashton asked instead. “And the story behind it?”
“Yes…” you cautiously answered, wondering where he was going with this. “The portrait was of the artist’s soulmate.”
“Right,” Ashton confirmed, nodding his head. “Well, considering that’s one of my favorite works ever, imagine my delight at coming into possession of the artist’s soulmate’s journals.”
Your eyes widened. “This belongs to Eryvine’s soulmate?” you gasped. “Holy shit. How’d you get your hands on it?”
Ashton ran a hand through his hair, his hand coming to a pause at his neck, stopping to scratch the back of it. “From one of her relatives at a sofitte in piazza.” Your knit eyebrows prompted him to further explain. “Cash in the attic. It’s what garage or yard sales are called here.”
“And they just sold this like it’s not totally priceless?” you wondered, staring at the journal in your hands with newfound awe. “Holy shit. Why would they…?”
Ashton shrugged again. “Guess they just didn’t need it anymore.”
“Holy shit,” you repeated, turning the journal over in your hands, as if this new information changed its outward appearance somehow. At the conclusion of your outward examination, you shook your head, trying to gather your thoughts. “Wait, I can’t take this, Ashton. This means a lot more to you than it does to me. It’s better off staying in your possession.”
Ashton shook his head. “I’ve had it for years now and re-read it more times than I can count. Continuing to keep it isn’t going to suddenly make any new pages appear.” You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but he spoke again before you could. “Think of it as a piece of me.” Though he smiled, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Think of it as a piece of that time you spent your summer in Florence where you met a guy with messy, curly, brown hair and bad vision.”
Feeling like you had nothing to say, yet also feeling like you had everything to say, you settled on throwing your arms around Ashton and simply hugged him instead – holding him close to you, balling the back of his jacket in your fists, and relishing his woodsy citrusy scent and his warm embrace while you still could.
Read the journal.
Go to sleep.
Read the journal.
Go to sleep.
Read the journal?
Go to sleep?
Although your day hadn’t been too physically strenuous…emotionally, you felt drained – the tidal wave that was reality seeming to have finally come crashing down on you.
Tomorrow, you would be heading home. No more walks through Piazza del Duomo surrounded by numerous tourists that flocked to photograph the gothic and Romanesque buildings that encompassed the area. No more eating gelato as you strolled through quaint cobblestone alleyways that housed less mainstream shops and along Medieval stone bridges that overlooked calm rivers. No more leisurely dinners of several courses of some of the best food in the world served to you with delectable glasses of wine. No more of the studio apartment whose walls you’d become more familiar with than the walls of your own school provided housing. Or of the boy you’d spent most waking moments with for the past few months – the one whose hip you’d become attached to, the one who was going to be a plane ride away from you soon instead of a short walk. You’d yet to come to terms with the fact that you’d said your last goodbye to him just a couple hours ago. It seemed cruel that you couldn’t say your last goodbye to him on your actual last day in Florence, as he was scheduled to work at the museum around the same time you were heading to the airport.
Your curiosity towards the journal’s contents ultimately won out in the end – as you settled into your bed with the worn pages – but your body’s melatonin production wasn’t out for the count and your eyes fluttered open and closed as they made their way across the words of the worn pages, leaving you unable to pinpoint the exact moment you stopped reading about the past realities and started living them out in your subconscious instead.
You lived a life in Bruges in the 1400s, your aristocratic upbringing causing you to cross paths with a painter who was employed as a court painter to a Duke of a French territory that made his home in your city. You and the painter entered a courtship and then became betrothed and then were married. You bore a daughter. Your husband painted a portrait of you as a decennial anniversary gift, spending two more years of life with you after the fact before dying of tuberculosis.
You lived a life in London in the 1500s, your role as a spectator at the Globe Theater causing you to cross paths with one of the Shakespearean actors. You were taken by his extraordinary talent – versatile enough of an actor to play any role, more often than not going to the theater just to see his performances. With your frequent attendance and a reciprocated interest, you two were soon married. You bore six daughters and two sons, but only one son survived and the two of you supported your husband on-stage until his last performance and off-stage when he chose to express himself through painting instead. He died before you, leaving you his estate, and you wouldn’t join him in death for another 23 years.
You lived a life in Pennsylvania in the 1600s, your indentured servitude causing you to cross paths with another like you, the two of you having the same employer and having the same goals; you both immigrated to seek the opportunities that William Penn spoke of in his pamphlets. You both worked to buy your respective freedoms, going on to get married and then buy land of your own next. The house your husband built was nowhere near comparable to the plantation you two used to live and work on, but it was yours and it was home. You two grew old together and died of old age together.
You lived a life in Paris in the 1700s, your nobleman father causing you to be arranged to be married to an officer in the Muskateers unit of a military branch, who was not much older than you. Because your mother felt you two were still too young to be married though, marriage plans were postponed and in the meantime, you two both were able to know each other as people and not just as the other’s inevitable spouse, which allowed you two to actually fall in love. You bore a son and despite the political turmoil that plagued a portion of your marriage and, as a result, caused separate hardships for the two of you to face respectively, you two were happy in your marriage – both before and after war – and remained that way until your death that came 27 years before your husband’s.
You lived a life in San Francisco in the 1800s, your search for a better pay to live on causing you and your husband to move westward, where he labored as a railroad worker and you labored as a factory worker. The pay was no better than the jobs you two left behind back east, nor were the working conditions. You two worked long hours – the only free time either of you really had being when you were going to sleep and the one day of the week where no one worked – but you two were able to afford the necessities and maintain a roof over your heads and most importantly, had each other, so that was really all either of you could ask for. Still, the dangerous environments you two worked in meant that your husband met his untimely demise when he was run over by a train; though your own untimely demise followed shortly, the fumes and toxins of the factory you worked in finally deteriorating the last of your vitality.
You lived a life in New York in the 1900s, your participation in the music scene there causing you to move to London, where you and the drummer of a glam rock band immediately became taken with each other. The two of you found your way back to New York, moving in together and indulging in the alcohol and drugs that were so rampant amongst the music scene at the time. Although this hedonistic lifestyle temporarily enhanced the feelings that came with being in love, the effects of the alcohol and drugs were just that – temporary, and it was only a matter of time before their usage destroyed you two. In spite of the best efforts of your friends and the rest of the partygoers, you two couldn’t be revived from the heroin overdose and died together in a Manhattan apartment, only having lived through two decades.
With a gasp, you suddenly jolted upright in your bed, breathing heavily while you took in your surroundings.
Right. You were in your dorm room. In Florence. Where you’d been studying abroad this summer. Right.
Your breathing now even again, you let your head flop back against your pillow and then stared up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the dream you’d just had. Logically, you felt it could be explained by the fact that the images matched up with what was described in the journal Ashton had given you. Being that he’d become an important person to you these past few months, it’d only make sense that he was the co-star in every part of your dream. You still felt unsettled though, your gut still feeling uneasy despite the (what you thought was a) perfectly sound explanation to why you had the dream that you had. Perhaps it was because of the fact that the dream felt too real to be dismissed as a dream…but you’d had dreams in the past that were too outlandish to be real, so surely, that could be the case here too?
As soon as you thought of the argument, you immediately knew that it was weak – the difference between this dream and other dreams you’d had in the past was that the latter was completely outlandish and the former was actually plausible.
Your vision went black as you felt a soft weight land on your face. Removing the object obscuring your eyes, you realized that it was a pillow, and turned to face its owner. “You okay?” your best friend asked, once she realized she had your attention.
You faced forward to look up at the ceiling again, hugging her pillow against your body. “It’s him,” you whispered, the revelation that had been floating in your mind since you woke up feeling more real now that you spoke about it.
“Wait, what did you say?”
You cleared your throat. “It’s him,” you repeated, forcing yourself to speak louder. You turned your head to face your best friend again. “Ashton. He’s my soulmate.”
“Really? How do you know?”
“When we first met at the museum he works at, I was looking at a portrait from the Renaissance that looked just like me,” you slowly began. “Last night, when he was here, before he left, he gave me a journal that belonged to the subject of the portrait. After reading through it…” You trailed off, shifting your gaze back to the ceiling. “…it’s like I wasn’t reading about what happened to someone else; it’s like I was reading about what happened to me.” You paused, shrugging. “I don’t know. That’s the best way I can explain, but I just know and I think I’ve always had a feeling in the back of my mind, ever since we first met.”
A beat passed and then you felt yourself being pulled to your feet. “Well, if that’s the case, what are you doing still lying around for?!” your best friend exclaimed, pushing the clothes you’d laid out last night on your desk chair into your hands. “Hurry up and get dressed; go, go, go!”
Before you could even move to put one foot in front of the other, you were already being pushed into the bathroom, the door being pulled closed from the outside as soon as you’d stepped foot inside.
“Are you dressed yet?” your best friend asked after a couple minutes, her tone impatient.
“Yeah, but–”
Without having the chance to finish your sentence, the bathroom door was opened and then your best friend immediately pulled you over to the front door. You tried digging your heels into the floor to stop yourself from being pulled along, but to no avail.
As soon as the two of you reached your destination, your best friend opened the door and then looked at you expectantly, raising her eyebrows. “You don’t need me to pull you the entire way to his apartment, do you?”
“No,” you answered, rolling your eyes, “but maybe I could take a moment to brush my teeth first?”
A beat passed. “Right. Dental hygiene. That’s important,” your best friend agreed a moment later.
And then you were being dragged back over to the bathroom.
You’d never felt apprehensive about going over to Ashton’s apartment before. In fact, you were often in the habit of just walking in because you’d text him when you were nearby so he could unlock the door for you ahead of time.
Of course, that was before you realized that he was your soulmate. Now that you knew that…well, that fact made seeing him for the first time since your revelation more nerve-wracking of a situation.
With a deep breath, you summoned a burst of courage to knock on the door, standing back and waiting after three loud raps against the wood.
After what you felt was at least a minute of waiting around, you worried that maybe you missed him, bracing yourself for a trip to the museum he worked at. As you turned to leave though, you heard the door open. “Y/N?” Ashton asked, his tone confused.
You turned back around, your lips automatically stretching into an easy smile – because his presence just did that to you, seemingly even more so now that you realized that he was your soulmate – and a casual “hey” was on the tip of your tongue until you realized that he was only wearing a towel on his waist, drops of water still dotting his skin.
You smile faltered and the word died in your mouth, causing you to say instead, “Why are you only wearing a towel?”
Ashton looked down, as if he’d forgotten that the cotton material was the only reason he wasn’t completely naked. “I just got out of the shower,” he explained matter-of-factly, though his statement came out sounding more like a question towards the end.
“Do you always answer the door wearing only a towel?”
“No, only when I see you on the other side of the peephole,” Ashton answered dismissively. With a furrowed brow, he went on to ask, “What are you doing here? Don’t you have to be at the airport soon?”
“Had some extra time, so I thought I’d drop by,” you hedged, rocking back and forth on your feet. After a moment, you stopped your movement, clearing your throat and then revealing the journal from behind your back. “I read this last night.”
Ashton glanced at the journal in your hands before meeting your eyes again. You tried to gauge what he was feeling or thinking, but the neutral expression on his face gave nothing away. “What did you think of it?” he eventually asked, crossing his arms.
“I thought…” you slowly began, trailing off before you threw your arms around Ashton’s neck and then pulled him down to press your lips against his.
His arms immediately circled around your waist and when you felt his lips push back against yours, you couldn’t help but smile into the kiss. If you hadn’t been sure that Ashton was your soulmate, you were definitely sure now. The feel of his lips on yours made your body thrum with an excitement that was never there when you kissed other people in the past, an excitement that made your knees want to buckle from the pressure and you were sure you wouldn’t have been able to hold yourself up if it weren’t for Ashton’s arms around you.
You two unhurriedly kissed, just enjoying the way it felt to have your lips pushing against each other’s, until you both had to pull away for breath. You were charmed to see that Ashton still had his eyes closed and kept them closed even as he spoke in-between breaths. “I’ve waited so long for us to finally be on the same page, let alone in the same city,” he revealed, leaning forward to press his forehead against yours.
“The journal,” you started, “it’s mine, right? I wrote all those entries?”
Ashton chuckled, his eyes remaining closed. “Yes, it’s yours. Yes, you wrote all those entries,” he answered, before adding, “with a little help from me, of course.”
His words made you remember why the handwriting in the journal occasionally differed – he was filling in the blanks whenever you passed before him.
“You decided it’d be a good idea after I painted your portrait back in 1439, in case one of us ever forgot. Turned out to be a good idea because not only did ‘one of us’ really only mean you,” Ashton continued, cracking an eye open to catch your sheepish expression before closing it again, “but you also ended up forgetting me in the next life, and apparently, this one.”
“I’m sorry I took so long to remember,” you murmured, moving to place your head against his chest so his chin rested on top of your head. “Was the wait worth it at least?”
When you looked up at him, Ashton had finally opened his eyes and you saw the mischief in them. “Ehhhhh.”
In response, you reached upwards to thread your fingers through his hair – forcing yourself not to focus on its softness – and pulled on the curls, which, to your annoyance, only made him laugh.
“Of course the wait was worth it,” Ashton answered earnestly, shortly pressing his lips against yours for a chaste kiss. “Ti aspetterei per sempre.”
You fixed him with an exaggeratedly exasperated look. “In English, please?” you requested.
“Ti aspetterei per sempre,” Ashton repeated. “I will always wait for you.”
You smiled. “Still, I’ll try to remember you next lifetime so you won’t have to wait for me,” you promised, making him return your smile.
“Don’t worry, I’ll always remind you if you forget.”
Just realized I was tagged by @foreverafangirl11 to do the lock screen/background challenge! So here they are currently! often the lock screen will have a phrase or lyrics and the home screen one is scenery that kinda matches in terms of feel or color :) I'm an aesthetic hoe I guess :) Thanks for tagging me! I like these games xx Tagging uhhh: @thedreamvevo @ashaesthetic @navylukes @scorpiocal and anyone else who wants to join!! 🙂
A Happy Birthday to The Monstrosity, a.k.a. my fic “This Is Our Fate, I’m Yours (and Yours and Yours). I’m not as active in the fandom as I was this time last year, but I’m still immensely proud of this fic-- it’s the longest thing I’ve ever finished, and offered a lot of opportunities for friendship within the fam. Thanks so much to everyone who enjoyed it and shared The Journey of this fic with me.
Bam! Luke’s Taking Charge: an average night on The Graveyard Shift.
A/N: Sorry for the wait but here is Mess part 2! If you haven’t read the first part, please go read it! You can tell by the word count that this part is much longer than the first. I wanted to spend more time establishing what it’s like being a teacher and making that a strong role. As always, please reblog, message me, and otherwise provide feedback.
Part 1
Thanks to Cass, @vaporofficial, for some help with the plot.
AU: Single Dad! Michael + Teacher! Y/N | Words: 2.6 k
The first rule you learned when studying to be a teacher was to not play favorites. Every teacher, administrator, and educational specialist you’ve worked under has told you the same thing. Favorites are forbidden. It’s the golden rule in the teacher manual. Of course a good teacher won’t play favorites. A true professional remains completely unbiased and gives fair treatment to every single pupil in their care. The loophole with this golden rule is that it can only dictate behaviors—it can’t control feelings. The rule prevents teachers from showing favoritism, but there’s not a single rule in existence that can stop that one special kid from worming their way into a teacher’s heart. There will that child who steals affections and has everyone wrapped around their finger.
For you, that child is Parker.
Three days have passed since the first day of preschool, and every day has taught you something new about your students. You’ve been getting to know each of the children, about each of their personalities, temperaments, likes and dislikes. Through the process, Parker has won your over. You didn’t choose to become so fond of him, and you certainly didn’t give him the position as your favorite. He made that position all on his own and climbed up there himself.
Parker is a contradiction. He is both the easiest and most difficult temperament, packed into one tiny person. Parker remembers to say please and thank you, surprisingly proper manners for his age. And he is so very compassionate. He treats the classroom toys with the utmost care. During outside play time, he picks dandelions for you from the yard. He even says good morning and goodbye to the class’ pet goldfish whenever he comes and goes. Despite this, Parker can also be demanding. He is the undoubtedly the pickiest eater. You discovered that about him during a cooking activity. Parker is selective about where he sits during circle time, more so than Goldilocks and her choice of rocking chair. But nap time is witching hour, when he transforms into his crankiest form. He never fails to put up a fight against resting.
Today, Parker is being resistant as usual. All the other children are asleep or at least resting quietly and calmly on their mats. Parker, on the other hand, can’t seem to lie still. He’s squirming around as if he’s got ants in his pants, and he keeps playing with Jagger by waving the dinosaur wildly in the air.
You crouch down beside him and gently shush him. “Parker, it’s time to rest.”
“I’m not tired,” he whispers loudly, with enough sass to spice up his protest.
You see right through his fib though. He’s clearly tired. His eyes are droopy and his lips purse together into a slight pout. An exciting morning of games and a long nature walk has taken its toll on him, but he refuses to admit that.
“Our bodies need rest now to have more energy later,” you coax him. You rub his arms soothingly, getting him to put his arms down and relax them. Then you pull his blanket up around his torso. “Show me a quiet, still body. I know you can do it, bub.”
Parker tucks Jagger under his chin, blinking up at you with his father’s eyes.
“Why aren’t you napping, Miss Y/N?” the sleepless boy asks. It’s clear he’s trying to turn the tables on you and avoid slumber.
You want to tell Parker you have a lot of other important things to do. It’s only the fourth day of school and you already feel so behind on work. Your to-do list consists of reorganizing the puzzle station, writing a newsletter for the parents, preparing your notes for the end-of-the-week staff meeting, and ordering new supplies for one of the upcoming class activities. However, Parker isn’t going to buy your argument. He is smart and persistent, and you’re beginning to realize that maybe the best way to get him to settle down is to lead by example.
You lie down on the carpet next to Parker. He wiggles closer to you, and then he rubs his eyes.
“Daddy reads and lays with me at bedtime. He helps me sleep,” Parker informs you.
Even the briefest mention or the smallest thought of Michael sends a jolt to get your heart pumping fast, a warmth spreading to your hands and cheeks.
“Yeah? Well, I know how to make it feel like your daddy’s here.” You brush the hair from the boy’s face, and advise him to close his eyes. Parker does as instructed, clinching his eyes shut. A quiver of exhaustion shakes through him. “All you have to do is think about him.”
“Daddy likes to sing,” Parker mumbles. “I hear him in the potty.”
Every fiber of your being compels you to laugh at Parker’s adorably innocent mix of words. He must mean shower. You decide against correcting him and do your best to swallow your giggles. Parker is so close to sleep that you’d hate to disrupt the peace now.
“And Daddy gives bear hugs,” Parker continues. “He squeezes hard but I like it.”
You picture it perfectly in your head, not at all surprised to learn these amusing facts about Michael. Based on your prior, albeit brief, meetings with the older Clifford, Parker’s descriptions seem accurate. But nothing prepares you to anticipate what Parker has to say next, right before he drifts to sleep.
The boy yawns a big yawn.
“And Daddy talks about you, Miss Y/N.”
The children begin waking from their naps, one by one. Some of the sleepy heads take their sweet time in dream land while the more spirited get up to unleash yet another burst of energy. The class stirs with activity again, buzzing with a newfound excitement as the end of the day rolls around. Guardians start to filter into the class for pick up time. At the sight of parents, children hastily and clumsily put their nap mats away in their cubbies so they can join their moms, dads, and grandparents. The little ones throw themselves in the arms of their loved ones upon reunion. Most of the parents make small talk with you, inquiring about how their children are doing in preschool. It’s one endless question after another. Parents are concerned about whether their child knows how to count without skipping numbers, and if they can correctly write their names. You answer their worries mindlessly, distracted by the secret Parker spilled about his father. In the sea of parents, you only want to see Michael. Each time the classroom door opens, a puppy-like hope washes over you, and then leaves you with disappointment when it isn’t the man you desperately want to see.
More and more kids get picked up, but Parker still remains. The poor thing watches all the other children leave until he is the last one left. Ten minutes turn into twenty, and twenty is quickly turning into thirty. Parker sits on the carpet with Jagger in one hand, a book in the other. He’s quite bored by the story, flipping through the pictures with no interest. Every few pages, he glances up at the door in search of his father.
You give him a sympathetic look, knowing how eager he must be. You’re just as eager, if not more.
“Parker?” you ask. “Would you like to play while you wait for your daddy? I’ll call him to see where he is, okay?”
Parker gleams, enchanted by the idea of an entire classroom’s worth of toys that he can play with all by himself—no other children to share with now. He scans over the whole stock of toys greedily and jumps right in to the blocks.
You shuffle through the disarray of your filing cabinet. Reorganizing the cabinet is yet another thing to add to your to-do list. After a bit of searching, you find the folder of emergency contact forms and find the Cliffords’ information. Just as you’re about to dial, someone comes fumbling through the door. Michael is trying to collect himself, muttering apologies while also catching his breath. He’s panting as if he’s just finished a marathon and running a hand through his wispy wind-tossed hair to fix the mess.
“Sorry I’m late. So sorry.” Michael rushes to Parker, kissing the top of his head. “Sorry I’m late lil man. Were you good for Miss Y/N?”
The preoccupied boy gives a half-nod, now too lost in his imaginary world to pay any attention to his own father. Despite being apart from Michael all day, Parker doesn’t seem to even notice his father’s presence. Parker merely carries on, happily stacking his blocks without a single care.
Michael turns to you, wearing guilt on his face. Somehow he makes guilty look so good, and that is truly dangerous talent. Every bone in your body is telling you to not fall for it, but it’s hard to heed the warning when his remorse is buried under such charming features.
“I’m sorry I was late,” Michael says. “I don’t really have a good excuse, just caught up at work. It won’t happen again. I hope he wasn’t a bother.”
“I understand. That happens to me too. And not at all, it was my pleasure.”
The other major rule of being a teacher: no extra babysitting. Babysitting outside of normal hours is absolutely unprofessional—it leads down a path of being taken advantage of or getting too attached. Offering your service beyond the regular school day is crossing the boundary beyond your teacher position. At this point, you can’t be bothered to care. You’re too entranced with Michael, watching as he attempts to collect Parker to go.
“Ready to go, bud?” Michael is completely ignored this time. Parker is much too invested in stacking blocks to even hear. Michael buckles down and puts on his stern voice. “Come on Parker. No more. You already had lots of time to play. Now it’s time to go. Miss Y/N needs to go home and so do we.”
“No. I’m not done,” Parker whines. If there was ever an award for the longest pout, it would go to this boy. “I don’t want to go. I’m playing.”
“Michael, you’re both welcome to stay a bit longer,” you tell him. Michael chews his lip, hesitant about taking your offer, but you insist further. “Really, I don’t mind. Children learn through pretend play and Parker is clearly on a roll. We wouldn’t want to disrupt his learning now, would we?”
“No, I guess not.” Michael caves in, reluctantly and with feigned soreness. “Should I be offended that my own son would rather stay here with you than come home with me? Because I’m honestly taking it personally.”
“What can I say? I’m just naturally lovable,” you beam.
Immediately, you regret your words. Inviting Michael to stay longer and calling yourself lovable is flirting. This is flirting at its lamest and lowest, but flirting nonetheless. You should know better, and yet, you can’t seem to control it. Knowing he thought of you at home, and that he talked about you, fulfilled some childish crush and made you act irrationally. Luckily, Michael doesn’t seem to catch on. He’s busy telling his son they can stay for five more minutes. When he’s done, Michael joins you by your desk.
“Thank you for letting Parker stay. He really loves your class,” Michael grins. “And sorry for making you stick around. I’m sure you had somewhere better to be so –”
Michael’s words trail off when he sees the pathetic sandwich you left on your desk—a questionable piece of ham and cheese stuck between two stale slices of bread. Next to your sandwich is the half-empty to-go cup of coffee you bought this morning. Surely it has grown cold and tasteless from neglect. For dessert, you have a chocolate granola bar that has been squished in your purse. Michael points to your food.
“Is that your untouched lunch?” he asks.
It would be less embarrassing if it was in fact your lunch, but it’s not. You confess to your pitiful dinner for one.
“No, that’s uh- that’s my dinner. I have a lot of work to catch up on so I’ll be staying late.”
“Oh, so you’re a workaholic too.” Michael raises his brow, smirking like he’s got you entirely figured out based on this one quick assessment. For him, this is the fun part: acting like he knows everything there is to know about you, when in reality he’s known you just a few days. And yet, he feels like he’s known you so much longer. Maybe the real fun is the satisfaction of seeing how the version of you he’s imagined in his head matches up with the flesh-and-bones version of you he’s discovering each day. “You might even be more of a workaholic than I am.”
“Do I sense judgement?” you playfully banter back. “Because I have strict rules against that in my classroom. This is a judgement free zone.”
“No, of course not. I would never,” he chuckles, throwing his hands up in mock-surrender. “I actually meant it as a compliment.”
The smile you’ve been biting back breaks loose, freed by his flattery. For a second, the possibility crosses your mind that Michael is flirting back with you. As quickly as that fantasy comes, it fades away, and you shake the thought off as too good to be true. Someone like him doesn’t go after a sad case like you—an underpaid teacher who spends her days chasing after sticky children, and spends her nights working alone in an empty classroom.
“Sorry Michael. I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“You obviously overwork yourself, but not because you’re expected to.” He leans in closer, so close that his subtle scent of aftershave and laundry is wafting towards you. “I see you with Parker, with the other kids. This is more than a job to you. I can tell you must love it.”
“I do,” you sigh, instantly realizing you don’t sound too positive. You smile again to reassure Michael, but more importantly, yourself. “Some days might have me feeling a bit burnt out and tired, but I really love it more than anything.”
You watch with delight as Parker morphs his block tower into castle-like figure and expands its territory. The wooden creation is big enough to fit Jagger inside, but just barely. The dinosaur is relatively massive in scale. If Jagger wanted to live in this castle, he would be cramped with no room to stretch his tail. The sight reminds you why you fell in love with teaching.
“These kids deserve my best. I promise them that every day when I walk into this class. Even if it means working late, it’s worth it.”
You look back at Michael who’s been watching you with adoration. He loves the way you fawn over Parker, and how your dedication bears much similarity to his own.
“I worked overtime today,” Michael says, “so I think I deserve tomorrow off. I volunteer to come by tomorrow. I’ll do whatever you need to help lighten your load around here.”
“If you’re doing this to make it up for being late, that’s really not necessary.”
“No, not at all. It’s my pleasure,” he laughs, mimicking your earlier words.
Then he realizes his offer is more than just an act of altruism or gesture of good-will. There’s potentially something else in it for him. He blushes red, shoving his sweaty hands in his pockets. The nerves are shaking through him, but he’s willing to take the risk to make his messy life even messier if it means going for what he wants—you. Michael has no clue as to how deep or shallow the water is below. He still takes the leap.
“Maybe if I help get your work done, then you’ll be free for me to take you out for dinner?”
A/N: I was thinking about how Michael got super attached to Daniel the Lion plushie, and how he never took off his Fennekin poke hat but wore it all around Japan. So I’m absolutely sure his child is going to inherit this and have a plushy that he/she carries everywhere like a security blanket. This is based on that concept. The ending is somewhat open for another part so if you want more, reblog/message me/give feedback!
Special thanks to @chagrind-amour and @fower43 for suggesting the names Parker and Jagger!
AU: Single Dad! Michael + Teacher! Y/N | Words: 1.8 k
Children have empathy for everything; for those who surround them; for toys, animals, plants, rock. For them, everything is alive and has a soul.
Sticking character Band-Aids on scraped knees, wiping runny noses, and waking in the middle of the night to fight monsters in the closet. Michael never thought that these things would come to define his life. It seemed like just yesterday he was having food and beer delivered to him on demand, enjoying food from every country he toured. Now he’s living on cheese toasties, dinosaur chicken nuggets, and juice boxes because his 4-year-old doesn’t seem to eat anything else. And while his friends are out frequenting bars and clubs, Michael is at home tucking Parker in by 8 o’clock. As drastic as all these changes were when they first began, they slowly became Michael’s new sense of normal.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes and stretching with a grunt, Michael forces himself to get out of bed. He usually gets up whenever Parker wakes, but because today is the first day of preschool, it is better to get a head start. Michael predicts resistance, with a high chance of tears and a tantrum. On a good day, it can take up to an hour of fussing and fighting just to get Parker to put his pants on. Who knows what Parker is capable of doing if he refuses to go to preschool? Michael doesn’t want to find out.
Parker has a strong attachment, although some would call it “clingy.” But the boy’s mom left without so much as a warning or a single goodbye, except to say that she didn’t want to be found. She told them to move on without her. That’s why Michael never pushed Parker. Michael is his son’s entire world and the one person Parker can cling onto.
Michael washes up and changes, then stumbles down to the kitchen. He manages to pack several snacks in Parker’s new R2-D2 lunch box and also make himself some toast in peace. But before he can get comfortable to eat his breakfast, there’s a loud wail.
“Daddy!”
Michael sighs, remembering what his own mom told him when he was younger. “When you finally have a kid, you’ll realize what a pain you were to raise” she joked. Humor aside, Michael is definitely feeling that pain now. It’s not that he doesn’t love his boy to the moon and back. He does. It’s just hard doing everything on his own. Balancing the band and his parenting duties is complicated to say the least. Throw in the jarring absence of any love interest and his life is a complete mess.
Leaving his toast to get cold on the dining table, Michael scurries to Parker’s room where there’s total commotion. The bed is unmade, blankets and pillows scattered on the floor. Most of the toy chest has been emptied and the closet’s contents are spilling out. Parker stands in the middle of the clutter. He’s got a guilt-ridden face, knowing he’ll get in trouble for making a mess, but also pouting in distraught.
“Buddy, what’s the matter?”
“Jagger’s gone! I can’t find him,” Parker cries. “He’s gone.”
Suddenly it all makes sense. Jagger (the Stegosaurus plushie) is Parker’s practically security blanket, and he doesn’t take being separated from his favorite toy very well. Michael sits on the small bed, pulling the dramatic boy up onto his lap.
“Jagger’s fine, lil man. Remember, today is the first day of preschool. I put Jagger in your backpack so you could take him with you.”
“Preschool?”
“Yeah, you’re going to be a big boy today. You can show Jagger to all your new friends, and use your new lunch box.” Parker looks up at Michael with anxious eyes, clearly hesitant about all these new, unfamiliar things. But Michael goes on to offer a reassuring smile. “And I heard your teacher is really nice. I bet she can’t wait to meet you.”
Parker gives in and smiles back. His daddy has never let him down before, and doesn’t think his daddy would lie now. Relying on that trust, Parker musters the all the courage he can to get ready for his big day at school.
Parker takes his sweet time getting to school. First, he goes back and forth deciding between his Pokémon or Spiderman shoes. Then he insists he doesn’t need Michael’s help buckling into his car seat despite his prolonging struggle to tighten the seat belt. When they finally park in the school lot, Parker claims that he needs Jagger and spends another minute fishing the dinosaur out of his backpack.
Michael doesn’t care that they arrive late. He’s just happy to have arrived at all. With Parker holding his hand, Michael leads his boy down the hallway.
The pair steps into the classroom and Michael immediately finds himself staring. He can’t help it. You are by no means what he had pictured for his son’s teacher. He anticipated an older soul, maybe a more experienced middle-aged woman with a mortgage. But here you are, a youthful glow of energy emanating from a lovely figure, engaging the kids in an art project. For too long Michael has been denied the pleasure of meeting people his own age, let alone someone as pretty as you. Even with a smear of paint on your nose, and spilled water on your shirt, you are still by far the prettiest thing he’s laid eyes on. He watches you blow the stray hair away from your face, assuming you’ve been too busy with the children to properly fix it. In his opinion, the messy hair is working well for you— really well.
You notice the additional presence and go to greet them, paying extra attention to your new student.
“Welcome to Room 3. Are you Parker?”
He nods, his cheek smushed against his father’s leg from clinging on like a koala. You crouch down to the boy’s level, making contact with his big round eyes.
“I’m Miss Y/N. I was hoping you’d make it. It’s nice to meet you.” You gesture toward the plushie clutched in Parker’s arms. “Who’s your friend?”
“His name is Jagger.”
“Does Jagger like painting?”
Parker nods again, this time on behalf of his dino companion.
“There are two spots at the art table. We’re finger painting self-portraits. That means a painting of your face. Would you and Jagger like to try?”
Much to Michael’s astonishment, Parker lets go and walks over-albeit very cautiously- to the table covered in paper. Nonetheless, it’s a brave step for Parker to take such initiative. Michael shouldn’t be so shocked. After all, you went to school to become a teacher and were competent enough to land this job. He just didn’t expect you to be a miracle worker.
Parker sets Jagger in the chair next to him then dives in, sticking his chubby fingers into the paint.
“Miss Y/N, I-” Michael says.
“Please, call me Y/N.”
“Y/N,” he repeats just to hear it come off his tongue. “I’m Michael.”
Admittedly, you’ve met some good looking fathers in the two short years of working as a preschool teacher. They’d all been handsome in the standard sense— sharp jaws, scruffy beards, sculpted noses. They also all happened to be happily married. But solely gauging by Michael’s overly concerned tone, you can tell he is doing the single father thing. And his face is a wonderfully new brand of handsome with soft edges and soft curves. His cheeks are round and his nose is smooth like a button.
Michael sticks his hand out for a shake. Blinded dumb by how his smile is his softest feature of all, you forget that you still have some paint on your hands from demonstrating a portrait for the kids. It’s slimy and slick between your hand and his when they meet to shake. You’re afraid to let go, as if letting go will make the awkward moment more real somehow. Unfortunately for you, it’s too late and Michael is already well-aware of your embarrassing mistake. He peels his hand back, looking at the colors you’ve added to his skin. You give yourself a few mental slaps.
“I-I’m so sorry,” you sputter out. Like any efficient preschool classroom, boxes of wet wipes are dispersed all around your room to clean after the grubby children. You grab a wipe from the shelf behind you and pass it to Michael.
He gratefully takes it from your hand, laughing.
“I’m guessing messes happen often around here?”
“Yeah, but after a while you learn to live with it. You even come to embrace it.”
You pry your eyes away from Michael to check on the class again, making sure no kids have started a fight or mangled class property. You glance over at Parker who is now talking to Jagger about the color’s he’s mixed. Michael follows your gaze to his son, reminding him of what he was trying to tell you.
“I should warn you. Parker never lets go of Jagger. So don’t take it personally if he takes that dinosaur with him to every activity, or if he doesn’t put it away when you ask. I hope that it won’t get in the way of his participation. I wanted to ditch the dino at home, but I knew Parker wouldn’t come here if he couldn’t bring that toy.”
“Actually, I’m really glad Parker brought Jagger,” you assure Michael. A grin stretches a mile wide on your face when Parker starts painting Jagger’s portrait. “Imaginary friends are good. They help children practice their social skills and develop language.”
Michael blinks at you, surprised by your total lack of judgement. You are accepting and supportive. Of course Michael understood his son’s obsession with that dinosaur, but he didn’t think anyone else would.
“Parker isn’t ready to let go yet and that’s okay.” You chuckle to ease any of Michael’s residual worries. “Kids develop at their own pace. If I’m being honest, I had a pig plushie that I carried around until I was 6.”
“Pikachu until I was 9,” Michael admits. “I’ve got you beat.”
As the laughter settles between you and Michael, all he can think about is how easy this is. He thought he would have to pull the stupidest lines out of his ass to keep a conversation going with you. He didn’t imagine it could go so well, so free and natural. You lit up like a starry night and he didn’t have to try.
When the laughter starts to slip away, Michael senses it’s time to go. He walks over to Parker and reminds his boy to have fun, then promises to come back later to pick him up. You look on as Michael gives Parker a kiss goodbye. All you can think about is seeing Michael again. Drop-off and pick-up time won’t be enough. You want more than just five minutes. You want an excuse to buy more time with him. So as he starts to leave, you blurt out.
“If you’re ever free, I can always use a parent volunteer to help around here. I just hope you won’t mind my mess.”
