Thursday: Beloved and Treasured Things

[creepy_shetan]

Hi again, and welcome! I’m creepy_shetan, your host this week. How's your "2024" writing practice going?

As a reminder, for January, we will be trying a new posting schedule. Sundays are for Lonely Prompts and sharing the fills that you completed during the week, Tuesdays and Thursdays are for new themes and prompts, and Saturdays will remain a Free for All.

With that being said, here's ✎ today's theme: beloved and treasured things. Prompts can be about or feature anything that a character holds dear. Something they fought hard for? A memento of a good memory? A family heirloom? Something seemingly worthless to anyone besides them? Tangible or intangible, if it's something they have and would hate to part with, it's fair game.

Just a few rules:
No more than five prompts in a row.
No more than three prompts in the same fandom.
Use the character's full names and the fandom's full name
No spoilers in prompts for a month after airing, or use the spoiler cut option found here.
If your fill contains spoilers, warn and leave plenty of space, or use the above-mentioned spoiler cut.

Prompts should be formatted as follows: [Use the character's full names and fandom's full name]
Fandom, Character +/ Character, Prompt

Some examples to get the ball rolling...
+ Resident Evil (game/CGI 'verse), Sherry Birkin (+ any) (/Jake Muller), she still has/wears Claire's red jacket (and something of Leon's?) from Raccoon City
+ any video game fandom, any +/ any, "Why do you carry around that old [item]?"
+ author's choice, any, someone breaks or throws away something they've used in their kitchen for many years

We are now using AO3 to bookmark filled prompts. If you fill a prompt and post it to AO3 please add it to the Bite Sized Bits of Fic from 2024 collection. See further notes on this option here.

Not feeling any of today’s prompts? You can use LJ’s advanced search options to limit keyword results to only comments in this community.

While the use of LJ's advanced search options is available, bookmarking the links of prompts you like might work better for searching in the future.

If you are viewing this post on our Dreamwidth site, please know that fills posted here will not show up as comments on our LiveJournal site, but you are still more than welcome to participate. =)

If you have a Dreamwidth account and would feel more comfortable participating there, please feel free to do so… and spread the word! comment_fic


tag="beloved and treasured"

Comments

[jupiter2932]

Any, any, treasured copy of a now-worn book a loved one gave them.

Fill: Stargate Atlantis, John Sheppard + Rodney McKay

[brumeier]

The door to John’s quarters slid open and Rodney slipped inside.

It was weird, being in there without John. The room felt too big, too empty. Rodney felt like he was trespassing which, technically, was true, but it was for a good cause. Carson had started John on the road to recovery from the retrovirus, which he’d pointed out would be a long road and not just an overnight miracle cure.

To that end, Rodney had come to gather some of John’s things. He hoped seeing some familiar items might help get John out of his bug mind a bit quicker. But what to bring? The guitar was too big. Golf magazine? The special candle Teyla had made him, the one that smelled like oiled leather?

Rodney’s eyes fell on the book. It was a running joke between them, how slowly John was working his way through War and Peace – the never-ending book. He dropped down on John’s narrow bed and picked the book up, just holding it in his hands for a long moment.

He’d never understood it. Why bring such a long, dull thing to read to a whole other galaxy? Why not something more exciting, like HG Wells or Ray Bradbury or Jules Verne? Jeannie had read him bits of Anna Karenina when she’d been assigned it in school, and he’d been bored to tears.

Rodney flipped the book to the first page of text.

Toward the end of the year 1811 the powers of Western Europe began a more active armament and concentration of their forces, and in 1812 these forces, consisting of millions of people (including those who transported and fed the army), moved from the West to the East, toward the boundaries of Russia, and the war began, that is there took place an event which was contrary to human reason to all human nature.

He scowled at it. Why on earth would John purposefully inflict that type of writing on himself?

But then Rodney flipped through more of the book and saw there were notes and highlighted sections, some written in pen and some in pencil, but all in the same hand. Footnotes and opinions and running commentary. Was John really that into Russian history? Maybe he’d gotten it from a used bookstore.

He went back to the inside cover and the title page, and saw it had been stamped.

From the library of Grace King.

---

A week later, John was sitting up in the infirmary bed with the book in his hands. He was mostly back to normal; some stubborn blue scales still clung to the side of his neck and part of one hand, but the claws and the funky yellow eyes were gone.

“You’re looking refreshingly human again,” Rodney said, dropping into the chair next to the bed. He’d been spending a lot of time there during John’s recovery, sometimes working on his data pad and other times just babbling away about whatever was on his mind.

“Thanks for bringing this,” John replied, holding up War and Peace.

“You could get a new copy, you know. One that hasn’t been scribbled all over.”

“It was my mom’s.”

That gave Rodney pause. He was the first one to bitch about his family and all the ways they’d hampered his development as a genius scientist destined to change the face of astrophysics for generations to come, but John was notoriously tight-lipped about… well, everything.

“She loved history.”

Rodney wasn’t always the most socially aware, but he got a pretty good picture from those three words. It wasn’t Tolstoy that John was so attached to; it was the piece of his mother that lived on those pages – her thoughts, her ideas, her reactions to the text. Rodney had a hard time understanding that kind of child-parent bond, but he could see how much it meant to John.

“Thank goodness, because I was despairing of your taste in literature.”

That got a smirk out of John. “I’m a big fan of Louis L’Amour, actually.”

Which naturally segued into a lively discussion about why John’s taste in novels was as atrocious as his taste in music and gave Rodney the idea to get some ebooks with the next batch of requisitions so he could broaden John’s horizons.

John gave as good as he got in his own defense, keeping his mother’s book in his hand all the while, and Rodney felt as if things had maybe shifted between them a little, as it had the day John had tossed him over the balcony to test out the personal shield. There was a closeness in sharing confidences.

Rodney just wasn’t ready to share yet how close he wanted to get to John.

“For a few seconds they looked silently into each other's eyes, and the distant and impossible suddenly became near, possible, and inevitable.” (Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace)

[jupiter2932]

Torchwood, Jack Harkness, taking care of his coat

[brumeier]

Stargate Atlantis, any +/ any, the special items the first season expedition members brought with them on their potentially one-way trip to Atlantis

Fill: Radek Zelenka + Miko Kusanagi

[nagi_schwarz]

“Is that a…feather?” Miko asked.

Radek glanced over at her, then down at the single beautiful primer in his hands. “Yes. From a pigeon.”

They were sitting side-by-side in the lab, at their work benches, taking a coffee break.

“You brought that from home with you?” She was always sweet and polite, and most people found her rather unreadable beneath her mask of good manners, but after almost a year working beside her, first in Antarctica, now three months in Atlantis, Radek knew her skepticism when he heard it.

“I used to raise racing pigeons,” he said. “This was from one of my favorite birds.”

“I didn’t know that,” Miko said. “Racing pigeons sound — interesting.”

Radek twirled the feather absently, watching the play of the light across its vanes, careful not to grip the hollow calamus too tightly. “It was mostly a hobby. Homing pigeons can be useful, though. Carrier pigeons, too.”

“You must have loved them a lot,” Miko said finally, her expression softening.

“They were good birds. They listened to me. Trusted me. And I cared for them. Also, I thought that if we were able to find some kind of cloning technology, I could have some here — after the zoologists and ecologists sign off, of course.” Radek tucked the feather back into its protective sleeve, and then put the sleeve back into the little shoebox that had carried his allotment of personal items he was allowed to bring to Atlantis.

Miko nodded. “That would be nice. Pets would be nice. I worked too much to have a cat, back home, but I always wanted one. I went to cat cafes instead.”

“Tell me more about this…cat cafe,” Radek said, and sipped his coffee.

Miko described what sounded like an ordinary cafe, only the interior was full of cat beds and cat towers and baskets of cat toys, and in addition to an array of tasty pastries and beverages, customers could purchase snacks to give to the cats, and they could hold and pet the cats as much as the cats would allow them. All the comfort of a pet, none of the work.

“They have dog cafes too,” Miko said. “And they have kid cafes, where kids can play while their parents kind of…take a break.”

“My sister needed a kid cafe near her house, for her two children.” Radek sighed and shook his head.

He hadn’t been on Atlantis long enough to miss the brats — yet.

Then Miko reached into one of the lower drawers of her workbench and drew out her little shoebox. It wasn’t an actual shoebox, though it was the size of one, was instead some kind of metal, probably reinforced, because that was how engineers thought, and keeping something precious in the lab was a risk — not that living in an ancient alien city was any less of a risk in general, like with the transporters that vanished things, and the animate shadow that had nearly killed Ford and Rodney.

Miko undid the latch on the box and lifted the lid. She drew out a piece of red fabric brightly pattered with purple butterflies and pink peonies. She gathered it up in her hands and did something complicated with it — and then held it out.

Radek blinked at it. “Is that — is that a mouse?”

“Yes!” Miko made it wiggle and squeak. “My grandmother taught me how to do origami when I was a very young. I also have origami paper, because I thought — maybe we could trade pretty models, or pretty paper in general? Offworld. But a piece of cloth can be used over and over again, even after the paper is gone.”

She showed Radek how to make a hat, and a boat, and a candle, and a butterfly, hearts and flowers and birds and a jumping frog.

“You’re very good,” Radek said.

“I learned to entertain myself at first, and now I am better at it to entertain my nieces,” Miko admitted, tucking the cloth back into the box. “I can tell a whole story, you know? The fox puts on a hat and rides a boat and meets a frog, that sort of thing.”

“I bet Jinto and Wex and the other children would love a story like that,” Radek said. “Perhaps Teyla can help you find a piece of Athosian cloth.”

“And tell me if Athos has any animals like ours,” Miko said.

“True.”

They resumed drinking their coffee in companionable silence.

The next time Radek found some pretty fabric, he’d make sure Miko got a square of it.

Until then, he’d work hard and hope for a way to get word back to Earth, at least one last time.

[brumeier]

Any, Any, a special item given by a loved one who has since passed away

Fill: Astro/Haww, Minhyuk + Jeonggeun (sorry I made myself sad but I get it if no one else is sad)

[nagi_schwarz]

Jeonggeun pried open Minhyuk’s battered leather wallet and fished out his credit card with a triumphant crow.

Then he scooped up his phone and fired up the food delivery app. Minhyuk had said Jeonggeun could buy whatever he wanted, and Jeonggeun was hungry, and also feeling adventurous, and — hang on.

A piece of paper had fallen out of Minhyuk’s wallet. Jeonggeun leaned down and scooped it up. It was covered in nearly indecipherable scrawl. Jeonggeun unfolded it and squinted at it. Did that say big? Or shade? It took him a moment to realize one set of squiggles was in English, but the only word he could make out was time.

Jeonggeun held it out. “Hyung, what’s this?”

Minhyuk was distracted, hunched over in front of his computer, headphones on, tooling around with a new song, possibly for Jeonggeun’s team. Not that Jeonggeun’s team would have a comeback till Jeonggeun and Seobin were both back from hiatus, Jeonggeun to recover from the stress of double-length promotions, Seobin to finish high school in relative peace.

“Hyung?” Jeonggeun waggled the paper.

Minhyuk didn’t respond.

Jeonggeun angled himself so he would be visible out of the corner of Minhyuk’s eye and waggled the paper again.

Minhyuk spun around in a flash, hand closing around Jeonggeun’s wrist. He tugged down his headphones with his other hand.

Minhyuk’s hard-earned taekwondo reflexes had slowed over the years since he’d stopped competing, but not by much.

“What’s this?” Jeonggeun asked. “It fell out of your wallet.”

Minhyuk’s gaze fell on the paper, and he let go of Jeonggeun’s wrist, holding out a hand.

Jeonggeun surrendered the piece of paper without a fuss. If it had been in Minhyuk’s wallet, it was important. Minhyuk had never been the sentimental type to keep stuff in his wallet that wasn’t strictly cash or cards or ID, though. He didn’t even have a picture of his family there. Granted, he did wear the family ring with all their names on it, but jewelry was different, for Minhyuk. He wore jewelry all the time, had become accustomed to it from years upon years of elaborate stage costumes, complete with shiny, dangling accessories.

The way Minhyuk smoothed out the piece of paper, his expression going blank, made Jeonggeun a little wary.

“What does it even say? That handwriting is pretty terrible,” Jeonggeun said, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

Minhyuk traced the lines with a gentle finger. “Bin-hyung always had bad handwriting. Half the time he could barely read it himself.”

Jeonggeun bit his lip. “Oh. Hyung. Sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Even if big waves come crashing down on us, it’s okay, because we left everything in the place only the two of us know. Even if we’re blown away by the big wind, it’s okay, because we left everything in the place only the two of us go to,” Minhyuk said.

“I’m confused,” Jeonggeun admitted.

Minhyuk looked up at him. “The lyrics to the song he wrote, that we all sang together. He gave this to me after we finished recording, one songwriter to another. His first and last song.”

He reached out and scooped up his wallet, tucking the paper back into it. Then he put on his headphones and spun back around to face his computer.

Jeonggeun stared down at the credit card he was still holding. He wasn’t hungry anymore, but they both needed to eat. So he unlocked his phone and padded into the kitchen, dialing.

“My son,” Mom greeted him warmly. “How are you?”

“Good,” Jeonggeun said. “Got a pass from the dorms. Hanging out with hyung. Can you show me how to make your kimbap again? I know Minhyukie’s got all the stuff.”

“Of course,” Mom said, then, “you having a bad day?”

“No. But I wanted to do something nice for hyung,” Jeonggeun sad.

“You’re such a sweet little brother. All right, get some rice and some laver.”

[cornerofmadness]

The Owl House, Hunter + any, he treasures the set of carving tools Dell gave him

[cornerofmadness]

Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy Summers + any, she treasures the cross Angel gave her

[creepy_shetan]

Resident Evil (game/CGI 'verse), Sherry Birkin (+ any) (/Jake Muller), she still has/wears Claire's red jacket (and something of Leon's?) from Raccoon City

[creepy_shetan]

any video game fandom, any +/ any, "Why do you carry around that old [item]?"

Fill: FFVIII, Seifer + Fujin + Raijin, post-game, implied/referenced past relationship

[nagi_schwarz]

Seifer plopped down on the edge of the pier and shrugged off his coat, the long white duster decorated with the infamous red crosses. It was ragged at the hem but still his coat. It was part of him, like his SeeD cadet uniform and the silver choker at his throat.

“Your coat is distinctive.” Fujin sat beside him, fishing pole in hand. “People wouldn’t recognize you as the sorceress knight if you wore something else.”

“I was plain old Seifer Almasy before I was the sorceress knight, and this coat has been with me since then.” He folded the coat a little haphazardly — he didn’t even have to think about the motions after all these years — and set it aside. Then he reached into the pocket and drew out a ragged little stuffed lion and set it on the coat.

Raijin thumped down on the other side of Seifer. “Why do you carry around that old stuffed animal?” He peered at it. “What even is it?”

“Leo the Lion,” Seifer said.

“Original.” Fujin set about baiting her hook. She was utterly unsqueamish about worms.

Maybe one day Seifer would get a boat and sail out to sea. He’d fish enough to feed himself and have a bit of extra gil to keep himself in clothes and other necessities, and then he could lie in his boat and bask in the sun and study the clouds and just be.

Just live, and not fight.

He’d been fighting his entire life, from his first day in the orphanage, until —

“Is it a lion? It’s not the right color for a lion.” Raijin continued to eye the stuffed animal dubiously.

Seifer patted its head gently. “He’s been through a lot. Like me.”

Raijin’s gaze flickered to Seifer, expression uncertain. He’d never known Seifer to be sentimental.

Only one person had ever known Seifer to be sentimental, and that person’s memory of Seifer had been slowly clawed away over time, affection and devotion chewed up and swallowed down by the demigods who humans pretended they had leashed.

Guardian Forces, the Gardens called them.

Memory eaters was what they were.

Supernatural, superhuman memory eaters who thrived on love and affection — and stealing it from others — in exchange for terrible powers in battle.

“Oh. Well. Okay, then.” Raijin patted Leo clumsily. “Welcome, little lion. You’re in good company now.”

“Lions? Seifer? Type? Wrong,” Fujin said, and cast her line.

Her one-eyed glance was too knowing for comfort.

“One of them is my type.” Seifer threaded a worm onto his own hook, then cast his line out into the waves.

Maybe one day, when peace had truly come, all those who had been soldiers could send the guardian forces away, and some of their memories would come back.

And maybe the solemn-eyed boy with the lion heart would remember his precious little stuffed Leo — and the green-eyed boy who’d always promised to protect the both of them, first at the orphanage, then in the Garden halls, and right before agreeing to be a sorceress’s knight.

[creepy_shetan]

author's choice, any, someone breaks or throws away something they've used in their kitchen for many years

[nagi-schwarz.livejournal.com]

Any, any, old photograph of a loved one

[nagi-schwarz.livejournal.com]

Any, any, voice recording/video of a loved one

[nagi-schwarz.livejournal.com]

Stargate Multiverse, any pilot, the lucky charm they take on every flight

Fill: Stargate, Evan Lorne & Cameron Mitchell

[pebbleinalake]

Taking a steadying breath, Evan Lorne ran a hand over the call-sign painted onto the nose of his F-302. While he'd flown the craft more than a few times now, this would be its first time in combat. And, from the rumors floating around the Prometheus' hangar bay, it was quite a fight they were gearing up for.

Not that he had any doubts in the ship itself. He'd put in plenty of hours in the cockpit since getting assigned to this duty. There was something otherworldly (literally, from what the engineering team had told him) about how it handled. It was a feeling like no other.

Ever since the first test flight of the X-301, Evan had been eagerly awaiting his chance to try out one of the experimental new crafts. Finding out he'd been among the test pilots selected to try out its successor had been a dream come true. As had been the announcement that he would be joining the first group of official F-302 pilots. More groups were trained after that, and now they had a fairly decent amount of flight teams manning their own half-spaceship fighters. It was amazing to think they even had the technology to create genuine spaceships -- the Stargate had certainly redefined the word "normal" for all of them.

"You two need a moment alone?" a familiar voice teased from behind him.

Evan grinned over his shoulder at Mitchell. "Wow. They really must be desperate if they gave you F-302 certification."

"Worse than that; I'm leading one of the flight teams," Cam said, giving him a quick bro-hug in greeting.

"I don't suppose you've ever fought one of these motherships before?" Evan asked. While he'd never actually been onboard a Goa'uld mothership himself, his time with SG-8 had allowed him a few close encounters with the vessels. Close enough to know they would need a lot of skill and luck on their side during this battle. "They're saying Anubis's ship isn't exactly an easy target."

"That's putting it mildly," Cam agreed. "But, actually, we've had a change of plans. Colonel Pendergast wants us to meet with him in ten minutes and then brief our flight teams."

"New orders?"

"Yeah, SG-1 is headed to Antarctica and we're gonna back them up."

Evan shook his head, no longer surprised at how quickly things tend to go off plan at Stargate Command. "Any idea why they're down there?"

Cam shrugged as he turned towards his own F-302. "Nothing official has come down the pipeline yet, but I heard something about the lost city of Atlantis."

"Of course," Evan remarked dryly. Sometimes he genuinely wondered how any of them kept sane with the craziness of the Stargate program in their lives.

He glanced over and saw Cam holding up what looked to be a thin metal chain with a tiny medallion on it. The colonel kissed the object before hanging it on his ship's dashboard.

"Good luck charm?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Cam smiled and took it back down, holding it out for Evan to see. "Saint Joseph Cupertino," he said. "Patron saint of pilots."

"Didn't know you were religious."

"My grandma was," Cam explained, returning the medal to its place on his dashboard. "She gave this to me when I first enlisted. Said if I took it up with me every time, it'd make sure I got back down in one piece."

"Guess we'll be putting that to the test today," Evan commented. He called over as he began climbing up to his own cockpit, "Think it will help me, too, if you fly close enough to my ship?"

"Make fun all you want, but it hasn't failed me yet," Cam said with a laugh. "What, are you saying you don't have a lucky piece of your own?"

Evan smiled as he settled into the pilot seat. He ran his hand briefly over the photo of his sister and nephews taped up beside the controls. "I didn't say that," he admitted. He began to go through the safety check protocols, glancing over at Cam who was doing the same. "I'll see you in Pendergast's office then. And, hey, stay safe out there."

"Yeah, same to you."

[schweinsty.livejournal.com]

Any, any, treasured copy of a now-worn book a loved one gave them.

Fill: Stargate Atlantis, John Sheppard + Rodney McKay

[brumeier.livejournal.com]

Filled over at DW (https://comment-fic.dreamwidth.org/1425900.html?thread=121125100#cmt121125100)

[schweinsty.livejournal.com]

Torchwood, Jack Harkness, taking care of his coat

[cornerofmadness.livejournal.com]

Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy Summers + any, she treasures the cross Angel gave her (also posted to DW)

[cornerofmadness.livejournal.com]

The Owl House, Hunter + any, he treasures the set of carving tools Dell gave him (also posted to DW)

[templefugate]

Any, any, a favorite toy/blanket that a character has kept since childhood

Fill: Astro, ensemble, Sanha POV, gen

[nagi_schwarz]

Being on Jeju Island was so exciting. It was Sanha’s first trip away from the mainland ever, and his first trip away from his parents, an account of him still being in middle school and not being able to go on fun school trips like high schoolers did in the movies. (Chances of him being able to go on high school trips after debut were slim, but he could dream.)

Being on Jeju Island wasn’t exciting just because it was Jeju Island (which was a better holiday destination in, say May or June instead of freezing cold January). Sanha was on Jeju Island because they were filming their first official music video (the music video for their web drama didn’t really count, because it wasn’t a proper music video for an actual album for their for real debut).

The company had sprung for them to have two hotel rooms, each with two queen beds. Jinwoo and Myungjun were in the room with Manager-hyung, leaving the younger four in another room to split two beds between them. Of course Binnie and Dongmin were going to share, because they slept next to each other on the floor back in the one bedroom of their dorm.

Minhyuk, on account of being claustrophobic, slept on the kitchen floor most nights, but while they were in the hotel, he was more than glad to share the giant comfy queen bed with Sanha.

Because filming for the music video started early in the morning, they’d flown down the night before, arriving just in time to have supper and then come straight to the hotel. There would be time enough to see the island tomorrow while they were out and about sightseeing. Tonight was their first night away from home, as a team, and Sanha was so excited.

He bounced on the bed. “Isn’t this so cool? It’ll be like this when we go on a world tour, right?”

Minhyuk, who was trying to smooth out his face mask, shot him a look sidelong. “Hold still.”

Sanha obeyed. “Sorry, hyung.”

Minhyuk was already wearing pajamas and a fuzzy headband to keep his hair off his face while he did his face mask. Bin and Dongmin were on the other bed, Dongmin lying across Bin’s lap while Bin cleaned his ears (this he did almost nightly in exchange for a shoulder rub; they were like an old married couple).

“How can you possibly go to sleep so early? Aren’t you excited?” Sanha asked.

Minhyuk glanced down at his watch. “It’s almost ten. We have to wake up at about three-thirty. That’s barely five hours of sleep. And then we’ll be out in the cold all day.”

Sanha wilted. “Right. I’ll go get changed.” He slid off the bed and padded over to his little suitcase to find his pajamas. He found his cute little lion-patterned pajamas easily — Minhyuk wore blue-and-white-striped pajamas in winter like an old grandpa — and then paused. Something was missing.

He pawed past his day clothes and shoes and contact lens case.

“Where’s my podaegi?”

He couldn’t stop the lump that rose in his throat. That podaegi had been with him since he was a baby. His mother and grandmother had used it to strap him to their backs while they worked around the house, or to go for walks, or to go shopping. Once he’d outgrown being carried like that, he’d kept the blanket-and-straps as a security blanket.

He slept with it every night.

He had to have it.

“Didn’t you pack it? I saw it folded up on your bed when we were packing,” Dongmin said, sounding drowsy.

Sanha poked through his suitcase some more. “It’s not here.”

He and Minhyuk had been the last ones home from school yesterday, had had the least amount of time to pack.

Minhyuk, mask and headband firmly in place, slid off the bed and came to help Sanha. “Come on. Let’s search the entire suitcase.”

Where Minhyuk was one of the neat freaks in the dorm, when he helped Sanha unpack the entire suitcase, he put all of Sanha’s clothes in a neat pile on the bed, stacking Sanha’s other supplies beside them.

There was no sign of the podaegi. They checked all the zipper pockets. They felt around for any kind of secret compartment that Sanha might have discovered and then forgotten. They checked the outside zipper pockets that no one ever actually used.

But there was no podaegi.

Sanha felt a lump rise in his throat, anxiety twisting in his chest and making it hard to breathe.

Minhyuk rubbed his arm soothingly. “It’ll be okay. I’ll keep you warm and safe. I’m not as soft as your podaegi, but —”

There was a knock at the door, and then the whirr of the lock as someone unlocked it.

Only Manager-hyung and Jinwoo had a key to their room.

Sanha turned.

It was Myungjun who burst into their room, bright grin on his face, bag of takeout in one hand.

“Come on! We’re having a party in our room.”

Bin twisted around. “We can’t eat ramyeon the night before shooting. Our faces will be all swollen.”

“The cold will take care of that first thing,” Myungjun said, and then he frowned. “Sanha-ya, what’s wrong?”

“He left his podaegi back at the dorm,” Minhyuk said, tightening his arm around Sanha’s shoulders.

Myungjun frowned. “Really? But I swear I saw it in a suitcase.”

“We unpacked the entire thing.” Sanha swallowed hard. “It’s not here.”

Myungjun set aside the bag of food and headed for Bin’s suitcase. “Let’s check all the suitcases.”

Sanha helped his hyungs search, but his precious podaegi was nowhere to be found — not in Bin’s suitcase, not in Dongmin’s, and not in Minhyuk’s.

Myungjun pulled Sanha in for a hug — they all knew how important it was for him; he’d only been twelve when he’d first moved into the trainee dorms with them, which was older than Bin and Minhyuk had been, but they were them, were oldest sons and tough and —

Sanha felt tears well in his eyes, and he bit his lip, trying to fight them back. He was starting high school next year. He should be fine without his stupid baby blanket, right? He was on the cusp of becoming a working professional entertainer. He couldn’t afford to be a little kid. He —

He buried his face against Myungjun’s shoulder and sniffled.

The rest of the hyungs shepherded Sanha and Myungjun out of the room and down the hall to the other room. Manager was nowhere to be seen, and Jinwoo was already in bed, half asleep even though the lights were still on.

“Yah, Park Jinwoo, what about our snack party?” Myungjun demanded.

Jinwoo just mumbled sleepily and yawned.

“Ignore him,” Myungjun said. “He’ll just sleep through everything. Come on, we can check my suitcase.”

Minhyuk immediately reached for the suitcase, but Sanha just clung to Myungjun’s arm and sniffled.

“You packed your own suitcase. You know what is and isn’t in there.”

“We should still check,” Myungjun said firmly.

Jinwoo let out a deep growl, and then he sat up jerkily, like a puppet with its strings being pulled. His hair was already a wild mess.

“What’s with all this noise? We need to get to bed early.”

“Hyung,” Bin said, patting Sanha’s hair, “he can’t find his podaegi.”

Jinwoo yawned so wide his jaw might have unhinged. Then he waved a hand in the vague direction of his own suitcase. “Outer pocket. On the front.” And he flopped back down on the bed, a puppet with its strings cut.

Sanha broke away from Myungjun and pounced on Jinwoo’s his suitcase, tearing open the front pocket — and there it was, his precious podaegi. The pattern and colors were faded with age, but it was also worn soft with time and affection. He hugged it close, rubbing it gratefully.

“Go,” Jinwoo mumbled. “Sleep.”

Only Sanha flung himself onto the bed beside Jinwoo and snuggled him. “Thank you, hyung.”

Jinwoo’s answer was to sigh and sling an arm around Sanha — and fall asleep.

“Guess I’m bunking with you,” Myungjun said to Minhyuk, and the other four shuffled out of the room, Bin insisting that Dongmin still owed him a backrub even if the ear-cleaning had been interrupted.

Sanha snuggled closer to Jinwoo and closed his eyes. Now he could sleep.

And tomorrow — he would be a star.

[templefugate]

Any, any, a pair of shoes that have been worn until their soles fall off

Fill 1/2: Astro, gen, OMC POV

[nagi_schwarz]

Seonghoon looked up when the bells above the door jingled.

The teenage boy who slipped into the shop was probably taller than Seonghoon, but still slender in the shoulders, whipcord thin. Seonghoon wouldn’t have put him much past eighteen based on his build, but he had a strong, severe brow, and something about the intensity of his gaze made him seem much older.

The boy — he wore a tank top under a jacket, and a pair of black skinny jeans that showed off every shift of the muscle in his thighs — made a beeline straight to Seonghoon’s desk.

He reverently placed an old shoe box on the desk, opened the lid to reveal pair of thoroughly worn-out canvas sneakers, and bowed.

“Welcome, customer.” Seonghoon peered at the boy over the top of his glasses, then set down his mallet and awl, swiveling on his chair to face the boy. “What can I do for you?”

“Sir, can you fix these shoes? They don’t sell this kind anymore, but they’re my favorite shoes.”

The soles had completely worn through in some spots, but given how the stitching had come loose and the soles were flopping loose from the canvas, patching the holes wouldn’t save the shoes. They were dirty and stained and had been used within an inch of their lives and then the whole nine yards beyond.

Seonghoon looked back up at the boy, whose expression was solemn.

“Student,” Seonghoon said gently, “there’s no saving these shoes.”

The boy’s face fell.

Seonghoon eyed the canvas shoes. They were hardly anything special. He didn’t even recognize the brand insignia on the back of the heel, which meant they weren’t even particularly expensive or popular. That was probably why they’d been discontinued — because the brand had gone under.

Seonghoon said, “What’s so special about these shoes?”

“I’m a dancer,” the boy said. “They’re the best shoes to dance in. You can do anything in them — jazz, modern, hip-hop, popping, breaking, even street tap and basic ballet.”

Seonghoon had never imagined that he’d hear ballet and hip-hop in the same sentence. He glanced toward the back of the workshop, where a pair of pink satin pointe shoes hung from the wall, waiting for a dancer who would never return. His sweet Bitna had never had to break in her shoes the way other ballerinas did, because he’d always made them just how she liked them, with the flexible shank and thinner insole.
Seonghoon said, “If you really wanted, I could just make you a new pair.”

The boy raised his eyebrows. “As in…the exact same pair?”

“You could pick another color for the canvas if you like.” Seonghoon turned the left shoe over in his hand, inspecting the stitching, the shape and thickness of the sole and insole. “It’s a fairly simple design.”

“Black is fine. It goes with everything,” the boy said, reaching into his wallet. “How much?”

“I don’t know how much for certain, but I can give you an estimate.” Seonghoon set the shoe back down on the desk and rifled underneath for his order ledger and receipt book. “Half up front?”

The boy nodded, drawing out a wad of cash that was frankly unsafe to carry in this part of town.

Seonghoon eyed the boy’s trendy jeans and expensive watch and gleaming silver ring embedded with a tiny amethyst gem and wondered what such a boy was doing in this part of town.

“How did you find this place?” he asked, keeping his tone casual, as he calculated how much canvas he’d need, whether he had the right kind of grommets for the laces or would need to buy custom.

“Ah, my mother recommended it to me,” the boy said. “She said her uncle knew a good shoemaker who’d moved up here.”

Seonghoon raised his eyebrows at moved up here. “Your mother’s uncle is from Jinju?”

The boy nodded. “Yes. I was born and raised there, too, before I moved here for school.”

And like that, Seonghoon could hear the faintest traces of a southern accent, in the cadences and lilts of the boy’s voice.

“You must have moved here when you were quite young. You don’t have much of an accent anymore,” Seonghoon said.

The boy hadn’t commented on Seonghoon’s accent the way many people did, even children, come to think of it.

“My roommates make fun of my accent, and people think I sound rude if I speak with my native accent, so I’ve done my best to adjust,” the boy said, shrugging, but Seonghoon could read discomfort in the tightness of the boy’s shoulders and the corners of his mouth.

“People can be intolerant about the smallest things sometimes,” Seonghoon said. He spun the ledger around for the boy to read, with a list of supplies and an estimated cost.

“Could be a bit more, could be a bit less by the time the job is done,” Seonghoon said.

The boy read it over carefully, and Seonghoon could practically hear the abacus clicking away in his mind before he nodded and held out cash.

It was exactly half the amount of the estimate.

“About how long will it take?” the boy asked.

Seonghoon scanned the list of his work orders, most of which were simple patch jobs and stitch repairs and sole replacements. “Two weeks.”

The boy nodded.

Seonghoon tucked the money into the cash box. “Your name?”

“Park Minhyuk.”

“And a good phone number to reach you at?”

Minhyuk rattled it off, and added, “Thank you, sir.”

Seonghoon passed Minhyuk a business card. “Thank you for coming in. See you in two weeks.”

Minhyuk bowed left the shop. His thoroughly worn-out shoes remained on the desk in the battered old shoe box. Judging by the label on that box, it was the box the shoes had originally come in.

Seonghoon shifted the box to his work table, curious about the best shoes a dedicated dancer could buy.
For earnest Park Minhyuk from Jinju, he’d do his best.

*

Two weeks later, Seonghoon called Minhyuk to let him know that his shoes were ready to pick up.

An hour later, the bells above the door jangled, and there was Minhyuk, wearing the same black skinny jeans — they didn’t look all that comfortable to dance in — and a pair of canvas shoes similar to the ones Seonghoon had made for him.

Seonghoon blinked when Minhyuk doffed his baseball cap. Was it just Seonghoon’s imagination, or was Minhyuk’s hair lighter? A shade of brown that was surely not natural to native Koreans. Unless Minhyuk was only half? His mother and her family were from Jinju, yes, but what about his father? Only Park was a Korean name. Unless he just went by a Korean name for convenience? To fit in better at school. He’d mentioned moving to Seoul for school.

Seonghoon knew well how teenagers could be cruel to someone they perceived as different. He glanced back at the ballet shoes, then back at Minhyuk.

A taller, broader young man was trailing him. He was wearing a black beanie and thick glasses, wrapped in a much warmer jacket.

“I can’t believe you did this,” he was saying. “You have money. You can buy any shoes you want.”

“I like these shoes. They’re the best to dance in,” Minhyuk insisted. “And not just because you bought them for me.”

“Far be it from Park Minhyuk to place sentimental value in anything,” the other man muttered.

Minhyuk ignored him and greeted Seonghoon with a polite bow.

Seonghoon rolled toward the desk and placed the new shoe box on it. When Minhyuk approached, Seonghoon lifted the lid. “Would you like to try them on?”

“Yes, please.” Minhyuk peered into the box.

His friend peered right over his shoulder. “Are those the new shoes? Wow. They look just like the old ones.”

Minhyuk glanced at Seonghoon. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”

He immediately toed off his shoes, then knelt to put on the new ones and tie the laces. He straightened up and wiggled his toes, bounced up and down, testing the give of the canvas and the flexibility and softness of the soles.

“How are they?” Seonghoon asked.

Minhyuk’s friend stepped back, and Minhyuk shook his limbs out. Then he stepped back, and Seonghoon recognized the set of his arms, the angle of his legs, before he spun into a graceful ballet pirouette. He came out of it with a flourish and a bow.

When he straightened up, he smiled at Seonghoon. “Thank you very much. They’re perfect.” He kept the shoes on, shoving the other pair into a plastic bag and then into his backpack. He stepped up to the desk and reached into his pocket for his wallet. “What do I owe you?”

Seonghoon showed him the ledger so he’d understand the cost breakdown.

Minhyuk’s friend raised his eyebrows when Minhyuk once again drew a wad of cash out of his wallet.

“Yah — you shouldn’t carry that much cash around.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t usually,” Minhyuk said, and counted out a stack of bills that he then gave to Seonghoon with both hands.

Seonghoon accepted them and didn’t bother counting them again on account of having counted with Minhyuk, just put them into the lock box.

“What are you going to do when this pair wears out?” Minhyuk’s friend asked.

He had, Seonghoon noticed, pale pink hair sticking out from beneath the edges of his beanie.

“Ask Seonghoon-ssi to make me a replacement pair, obviously,” Minhyuk said.

Seonghoon pushed the old shoe box across the desk. “I didn’t know if you still wanted these or not, so I didn’t throw them out.” Anyone in their right mind would have thrown such useless shoes out, but he knew what it was like, to be sentimental about a useless pair of shoes.

Minhyuk picked up the box reverently. “Thank you for saving them. They mean a lot to me. And the next time I need a new pair, I’ll bring them back. I don’t want my shoes to be copies of copies, after all. I want them to be copies of the original pair.”

Minhyuk’s friend looked deeply amused. “So you do know how to be sentimental.”

Minhyuk shot him a look. “Don’t you have anything of mine you keep to remember me by?”

His friend let out a burst of startled laughter. “Why would I? We live together.”

Minhyuk pouted a little, then turned back to Seonghoon. “Thank you so much.” He bowed again.

“I enjoyed the challenge,” Seonghoon said. “Happy dancing.”

Minhyuk’s friend reached out and patted Minhyuk’s shoulder. “Dancing is the number one thing that makes this kid happy.”

Minhyuk shook his hand off. “You’re certainly not number one anymore.” He bowed to Seonghoon again, and then he strode out of the shop, his friend trotting after him, entreating, tone a little wheedling, Come on, I’m still your favorite hyung, right? You like me better than Jinwoo and Myungjun for sure.

Seonghoon watched them go and hoped dancing really did make Minhyuk happy.

Then he turned to his next repair job, a small patch on a sole of a fine leather dress shoe, and put Minhyuk out of his mind.

[templefugate]

Barbie, Stereotypical Barbie, buying herself her very own Barbie doll

[templefugate]

Any, any, a receipt/gift card/membership card to a place that has long since been closed down

[templefugate.livejournal.com]

Any, any, a favorite toy/blanket that a character has kept since childhood (cross-posted)

[templefugate.livejournal.com]

Any, any, a pair of shoes that have been worn until their soles fall off (cross-posted)

[templefugate.livejournal.com]

Barbie, Stereotypical Barbie, buying herself her very own Barbie doll (cross-posted)

[templefugate.livejournal.com]

Any, any, a receipt/gift card/membership card to a place that has long since been closed down (cross-posted)