( , , ' )

(𝕟𝕖𝕨 𝕒𝕔𝕔, 𝕤𝕒𝕞𝕖 𝕞𝕖, 𝕚𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕝𝕠𝕤𝕥 𝕞𝕖 𝕀'𝕞 𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖)

ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕘𝕖

𝕂𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕣 &* 𝔾ℕ!𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕣 *𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕥𝕠𝕟𝕚𝕔

ℂ𝕎: 𝕞𝕠𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕟 𝕒𝕦 (𝕤𝕒𝕞𝕖 𝕒𝕤 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕗𝕚𝕔), 𝕤𝕨𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘, 𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕤 𝕒𝕥 𝕣𝕖𝕔𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕒𝕝 𝕕𝕣𝕦𝕘 𝕦𝕤𝕖, 𝕕𝕖𝕤𝕔𝕣𝕚𝕡𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕓𝕝𝕠𝕠𝕕 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕚𝕟𝕛𝕦𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕤 (𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕕)

𝔹𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕗 𝔻𝕖𝕤𝕔𝕣𝕚𝕡𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟: 𝕓𝕚𝕥 𝕓𝕪 𝕓𝕚𝕥, 𝕂𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕣 𝕝𝕖𝕥𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕤𝕖𝕖 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖

𝔼𝕟𝕛𝕠𝕪!

🍝📱🍝📱🍝📱🍝📱🍝📱🍝📱🍝📱🍝📱🍝

Change is two-sided, always.

It may be anticipated, may be unforeseen; it may be long-awaited, may be unwanted; after all, it may be good, and it may be bad. Change is two-sided, always, and it is also, always, inevitable. Here is what changes today:

Killer never texts you during his working hours until it’s break — now he’s texted you thirty minutes after the start of the shift. When he sends you something during break time, it’s usually one of the videos Haikei unfortunately finds on the most concerning parts of tiktok, so the most unproblematic and funny one is filtered and forwarded to you — now it’s just words. Also, Killer somehow never makes typos — and now there’s a very particular lack of the letter ‘o’ in every word that’s supposed to contain it. 

The text in question looks like this:

noodleboy

hey. I knw we just split but d yu think yu culd bring me sme juice and a pack f wet wipes, please? if it’s nt t much. srry. 

Another thing about change is, no matter which one of the sides it turns towards you, the first reaction is always caution. The question why a bouncer would suddenly need ‘sme juice’ and ‘a pack f wet wipes’ forty minutes after dropping you home and heading off to work makes you plenty cautious indeed. 

It’s not bad, probably. If it were bad, Killer would’ve called, not texted. Most likely Kid, and you’d learn of whatever’s happened in the morning when everything would be settled: both the problem and the vibrant violets of a couple bruises blossoming on the guy’s faces.

So it’s not bad. Probably.

But you must check, so, having just got out of the shower, you shove some clothes on and run out into the street. 

🍜.

Killer’s fine. If you can call a split lip splattering blood ‘fine’. 

“Maybe I could go grab some napkins?” the wipes aren’t helping much, honestly.

He waves you off: the last attempt at talking only ended in more massacre. 

Turns out, half an hour into Killer’s shift some considerably wasted douchebag punched your friend in the face for the reason said friend refused to let the douchebag inside the club to get wasted even more considerably. He might have hit Killer in the nose if not for the fact that alcohol abuse wrecks your aim just as considerably. 

The perks of not drinking at work: you’re precise enough to slam your fist into one’s temple for them to see either an emergency doctor or God depending on how pissed you are. 

And Killer’s pissed all right. The guy’s lying on the sidewalk right across from where you two are sitting on the curb, immobile. 

So the wet wipes were needed for the split lip (napkins would’ve really been more of use); the juice was needed because freshly squeezed oranges make Killer feel better. Also, the lack of ‘o’s was due to his phone screen’s shattered state (he managed to send you the message right before the device became a piece of unusable garbage).

The ever-present mask had to be discarded. Now one hand is covering Killer’s nose, the other pressing a wipe onto his mouth. You don’t have much to do besides stare at people in the queue step over the immovable body by the entrance. It’s almost impossible to tell with the music blaring but you think the guy’s snoring. 

Killer says something; you catch up a few seconds later and whip your head at him, not at all expecting to see a quarter of his face. Even if the blood does a great job at masking it back. 

…is that lipstick? 

Your eyes check the wipe in Killer’s hand. In all the crimson there are drowning random splotches of violet. 

The lipstick’s violet?

“Sorry, are there any more?” Killer mumbles through half-squeezed teeth not to disturb the wound that has just stitched itself up. “Why’s your hair wet?”

You stand up and switch places to plop back down at Killer’s left. 

“It’s not.”

“…”

And it really isn’t; on the right side. What? You didn’t have much time for proper hairdrying.

Behind his fringe, your friend very probably sports a disappointed glare, but nonetheless wipes around his lips to clean the remaining blood off, drops the crumpled piece onto his lap and reaches for the orange juice.

Had you known Killer was freshly beaten, you would’ve bought tomato, or something: the hiss he lets out is so loud and sudden it makes you jump up a decent dozen centimetres. 

🍜.

A week later, an official merch store of Killer’s beloved band is to open in your city. The news would’ve been much more thrilling if not for the fact the band is adored by two-thirds of the residents, and the guys are not even from this place initially, so it’s a social phenomenon that should probably be studied by several someones with PhDs. 

The store is also to open in the morning that follows exactly the night Killer and Kid and everybody else unleash their revenge on the poor drunkard and his pals, because, apparently, a personally delivered concussion is not considered to be enough of a vengeance. 

All the disturbing details aside, Killer’s bloody signature mask had to be discarded, again, in favour of a flimsy medical one Law let you snitch provided he would be returned a whole new pack. Asshole. 

And while you and your friends tried to think of what to do with the bodies, some of the participants of the social phenomenon were sleeping in the tents they’d put up in front of the store. 

Five hours before the scheduled opening, Killer and you joined the queue which already extended onto the street running off the first one. You were the last to fit in, the late admirers followed after onto the street running off yours. 

Killer’s a patient man, but even such universal patience has its limits.

And his limit? The mask. 

The current one. The foreign one. You guess it’s not that comfortable with the way your chaperonee keeps constantly adjusting it and visibly turning more and more annoyed.

Ahead of you, there are two more hours. 

“Fuck it,” Killer swears so vehemently you’re afraid he’s given up on the dream merch; the only thing he’s given up on in reality, though the merch comes very close, is the damned fabric which is shoved down his nose.

A perfectly straight nose; no hump, no button. A nose so polishedly straight it might be the universe’s single point where the frictional force is absolutely negated. 

“Better?” 

Killer nods tiredly. The poor guy’s hand slides under his bangs to rub at his eyes and brows. 

Frankly, you’re not even a fan of the band but muse on the fact that in the moment you must actually be more willing to get your hands on the merch than the formerly avid enthusiast of your fed up friend.

🍜.

Killer shows you his eyes under traffic lights. 

Okay, not exactly. First of all, Killer doesn’t show them to you, he shows them to Kid in an unimpressed stare while you just happen to be an accidental onlooker. Second, the traffic lights aren’t so important, as the white sun of the early morning that could still be considered an edge of the night is what pours brightness into Killer’s irises, not the three drowsy bulbs. 

He has a beanie on, and it’s so tight the fringe trapped under must be as flat as a sheet of paper. When Killer raises it with the back of his hand, it folds into a perfect 90 degree angle which Kid finds hilarious and folds into two with lung-jabbing guffaws. You stand in deadlight silence. 

Killer’s eyes are neon; hortensia blue framed by butterfly lashes. The unimpressed stare only makes them bloom. 

“Have you ever tried writing haiku?” Law, who you’re telling this regardless of the surgeon pretending to be as uninvolved as possible, lets out a cone of smoke. “You’re shit at it, by the way.”

“Fuck off.”

Law snickers. The stuff must be actually doing something to him, unlike you. The only effect you seem to be under is hyper-focus on unexpected things, like eye colours and cracks in the the operating room’s ceiling.

🍜.

Change really is inevitable, and also, in this case, irreversible.

You haven’t seen Killer’s face open fully, only fraction by fraction, and yet the abrupt switch from impenetrable secrecy to such brazen exposure is historic, something of a milestone, and the prospect of ever being let put the puzzle pieces together is exhilaratingly frightening. 

🍜.

“What are you doing?”

Even though change is inevitable, you might try to dodge it because you’re simply polite. 

Explanation: it’s almost midnight. A little earlier Killer suggested you should go have something to eat, as home was too far away for your roaring stomachs. Now you’re sitting at a table in a place with rather unexpected interior design decisions, such as a lamp that hangs so low it’s almost lying on the table mentioned. Well, not this low- it’s right at your eye level. Also, the food has just been served, and in order to eat it you need your mouth. Killer does also, so he puts the mask aside. And moves his bangs so they wouldn’t get in the dish. Whenever he tries to talk to you, the lamp helps in concealing his face from any angle. Which bugs your friend, for some reason.

“I mean, it’s- your face? I could see it.”

“Yeah.”

Yeah. None of you get closer to the point.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Killer’s hand pushes the lamp aside. The assembled puzzle of his features is somehow a picture so astonishing it might be the only puzzle in your life that is genuinely exciting. 

“I wouldn’t show you if I didn’t trust you.”

And he isn’t talking only about now. It’s about the lip-splitting night and two head-splitting mornings. And maybe about a life-splitting future. 

“And what does a little eggplant like you know about the All Blue?”

- Red-Leg Zeff

Reblog if you’re over 20 and still read/write fan fiction.

I’m curious!

Baby 5

He’s in his Italian era.

why is his smile so radiant