Given

by aljaebriel

Richard Yan plus Avatar.

1. All Chapters except final

Given

Drabble / One-shot / Short Installment collection

For and Inspired by: Richard Yan

Song: "Moondance" by Jeon Woong /Moonlight Sonata/Claire de Lune

Things to note:

The best way to understand a lot of this story is to keep in mind the events of Siege of the North part 1 and 2. These episodes are the finale of Book 1: Water.

No smut/sex scenes, but a few sexual references. (You're a dirty bird so you'll be ok)

A lot of lightheartedness. A lot of heavy emotion/angst. If any scenes in here are triggering, they are definitely not intentional. You do not have to read them fully or comment on them to me (unless its to tell it me it was triggering). 3 Your feelings come first.

There are parallel elements of your personality, life and video content in here but big differences for the story's sake. Please don't take it to heart if you seem OOC (out of character) lol

Drabbles equal one overarching story. They are in sequential order aside from flashback scenes.

This story isn't set in the ATLA universe. Rather, the ATLA universe exists as well as our universe, not created by Mike and Bryan. No one in our universe knows about the ATLA verse but the ATLA verse is still a little intertwined with our world. This will make more sense as you read.

There are plenty of ATLA references and quotes in the titles and drabbles themselves. Many are your favorites. I hope you can recognize them all lol.

Bombard me with as many questions and requests for clarifications as you want/need as/after you read. I tried to write this in a way where you do not have to read it all in one sitting, out of courtesy for your tight schedules. (But if you do read this in one sitting, holy shit)

Genres: Supernaturalism, Romance, Drama, Comedy

Summary

A small percentage of the world is left-handed. Few human super computers have ever graced this planet. Everyone is born special – but some more than others. Leading up to his 17th year, Richard Yan does not suspect just how special he really is, but at the turn of his senior year, he begins to realize there must be something more in store for him. There is more to him than meets the eye…

And You Shall Receive

When his little sister was a few months old, and amidst his trepidation, joy and budding, overprotective Spidey senses, Richard asked his mother something any new big brother would be curious about as an afterthought.

"Mom, what was I like as a baby?"

It was like she had been waiting a lifetime for that moment. Still a-glow from newfound motherhood yet eager to rid herself of postpartum depression, Richard's mother decided to leave no stone unturned. She broke out the photo albums and pointed and recalled with gusto. She recovered old home videos of Richard as a babbling, waddling infant. She cried and sighed a lot, the baby girl in her lap cooing as if to mimic her dramatizations.

Of course it was more than he bargained for, and clearly an understatement that he was marginally embarrassed enough to regret asking in the first place. Still, he adored her. He took in how she hummed with pride over his healthy, chubby physique, his first words. It made his small chest puff a bit over her exaggerated marveling, admittedly; maybe, in hindsight, this is where his love for theater truly began, with his mother's gestured story telling. There was no better way to satiate his curiosity after all.

"You were born the night of a full moon," she beams, tugging him closer to her on the sofa and nudging her nose on the top of his head, where his hair is stained white. Her lips peck the rhombus patch gingerly as if it takes precedence over the rest of the raven hair surrounding it. "An auspicious time for anyone to be born."

"What does 'auspicious' mean?"

"Mmm. It means lucky."

Richard mirrors her beam, "So I was born lucky?"

His mother had laughed at the time, careful to conceal the haunted undertow of the sound. He'd never picked up on the half-heartedness of it, nor did he ever wonder why she never replied. Instead he joined her in playing with his baby sister, thinking they were both so lucky to have her as a mother. Later she would side next to him at his bedroom window. Never to scold him for being up past his bedtime, but to quietly stare up at the moon with him, admiring it with her son's peaceful smile and an understanding look of her own. Then she would duck to kiss his cheek and lead him to bed, or else he would stand there all night bathed in the silver light, unbeknownst to what he was doing – and why he did it almost every night.

Years later, when puberty has set in deep, Richard now resurfaces this memory of his curiosity, warping its origins from a happy yesterday to a sunken place, a memory contorted; a half-truth told.

He is arguing with her heatedly, blindly. It is the kind of squabble where the reason for it is minor, but for both parties, tensions have come to a head. Words are exchanged that were never meant to air.

No one is able to heed the violent rattling of the plumbing, the faucets shivering from the building pressure or the shattering of the mini aquarium in the family room on the other side of the house.

Scowling and biting back angry tears, Richard finally explodes, saying the one thing she never ever thought she'd hear from her son's mouth.

She slaps him on impulse. Hard.

"You were lucky to be born!" she all but sputters, her voice cracking. "Don't you ever say that to me again! Don't you know how much I prayed? How much I hurt? You weren't breathing, Richard! You weren't…but then you did….I thought my prayers wouldn't be answered and then…" Her voice hitches in her throat, fizzles down to a husk of itself as her trembling hand falls weakly to her side. "A miracle," she finally breathes.

He'd stood stunned, nursing his cheek and grasping stubbornly to the vestiges of anger. Glaring down at her until their locked gazes -hers sallow, his softening – told him all he needed to know. He'd only known what she wanted him to know as a kid.

He'd known this all along.

"The white of your hair…" She sighs to compose herself and takes his hands in her tiny pair. "You weren't born with it. It suddenly appeared -and then you took your first breath. You inhaled so deeply and you cried so loudly…" The tears run down her face in abandon – his nose tickling from the salty scent he shouldn't be able to smell. There is no doubt she is reliving that moment in time as vividly as it happened. "You have no idea…"

Naturally he wondered how all of it was possible. She was an orator, but he'd never known her to tell fish tales. Especially not over something like this.

When she'd finally dropped their hands in the frigid, sniffling silence, Richard muttered an apology and stalked off towards his room. He dressed for bed, drained and dazed.

And he waited for her to meet him at the window.

The sky is drizzling when she does, a harvest moon reflecting in his glistening, red-rimmed eyes. An arm cradles his waist to alert him of more than just her presence. Likewise, the troubled expression on her son's face towards the moon, the one she harbors, masks the even bigger torrent of mystification within.

Richard forgets what the argument was about; once, absentmindedly running a hand over the crown of his head, and they never speak of her truth again.

Wet Season

"Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power."

It Pours

One of his favorite tropes in cinema is the complementary rain that accompanies the main character's dispirited mood. The scene that usually comes before the character's sudden epiphany or Deus ex Machina or whatever it is that "brings the sun back out" for a happily ever after – he'd side-eye Disney for overusing this. But as cliché as it was, he appreciated it every time. He wouldn't necessarily say he loved when it rained period. Rain had its merits. Like anybody else he enjoyed bumming around inside on a rainy day. For the times his new kicks got caked with mud after a shower or it drizzled on and off when he was itching to hoop with the boys – not so much.

Perhaps, the people he saw on a daily basis, who unconsciously carried around umbrellas no matter the forecast, wished to humor his sappy appreciation.

Not that Richard was privy to this – the strange umbrella habit.

If he was, he'd make sure never to breakdown boohoo crying in front of anyone ever again.

Let Off Some Steam

Some of his classrooms are more insulated than others. Spending almost four years at his high school has taught him which ones to prepare for in the case of extreme climate. Particularly winter.

Bio was one of the freezers in this building. Richard made sure to tug another sweatshirt over his head before he entered the room, intending to remove it when the bell rang for him to leave. When he begins his bellwork, he notices the desk that is usually empty to his left is occupied this morning.

Immediately he straightens a bit.

She's new.

Very new.

So new in fact, the curious stares garnered her way – which almost never happens with the appearance of transfer students – are mostly male and probably a little more than curious. Richard tries to clear his throat quietly as he ogles her from the corner of his eye, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Her cinnamon skin stands out in this sparsely diverse period, large, puffy ponytail and interesting piercings not so subtle either. Her face is pretty enough.

It's the grey sweat suit practically painted onto her body that has Richard out of sorts.

Even sitting down her curves are noticeable. He doesn't know if this girl works out or she just got it from her mama, yet there he is. Sizing her from her fur-lined boots to her slicked baby edges. Probably because he's a sadist to himself, his eye keeps resting on the deep dip of her top, then down to a set of generous-looking…

And it doesn't help that he's somewhat of a sapiosexual, the fact that she's in AP bio meaning brains do come with the beauty….

Just as she is oblivious to his fidgeting, Richard is oblivious to the other gapes around them. As far as he's concerned its just him and her in that room.

Up against the anatomy posters on the wall.

On top of his desk.

Bent over the teacher's desk.

A shudder runs down his spine, bell work now a distant memory. Grey, he decides, is such a dangerous color. If their teacher's droning voice doesn't sober him up, he doesn't know how hes going to leave the classroom without someone…spotting him out.

By now the extra sweatshirt he's wearing is too much. He pulls at the collar to allow more air to circulate down his body, aware the same dudes who are stealing peeks are doing something similar. Richard eventually takes the layer off – since he has no self-control and can't stop looking, - while vaguely registering the rustling of jackets coming off and small sighs of relief.

The girl sense must tingle then because she peers over at him with one thickly lashed, mahogany eye. The breath he's holding lets out with the sag of his shoulders as she smiles instead of frowns.

Much too emboldened to be his usual self, he smiles back., teeth biting back a tiny part of his bottom lip.

Before either of them can say anything though, a student's overexaggerate voice rings through the classroom.

"Miss, its hot!"

His attention averts to the front where the complaint came from, murmurs of agreement echoing around him. Then a brief scam of the room allows him to recognize one thing:

Everyone has shed their outer layers.

Its no wonder either. Within a couple of minutes its tropical in here.

Hmm. Maybe he had this room confused with the lab. The lab was always cold too. They also kept switching rooms because of the recent renovations. Or maybe this room would be next to renovate in this shitty building since now the heat was acting up.

Guess I wasn't prepared today

Well whatever. She had her full , glossy lips balled at him which has got to be a good sign. The tinge of red on his cheeks darkens, more from his daydreams of his future periods with her than the heat – or so he thinks. Nothing like a new flirt buddy to distract him from C he's bound to receive on their exam next week.

The Cold Shoulder

Later Richard would find out it was a misunderstanding. He would find out who really spread this nasty rumor about him.

For now, the cut of his glare wouldn't subside.

"I'm not that person anymore," his best friend insists for the millionth time, wringing his fingers in front of himself. The raspiness of his voice has always been an indicator of his attempted sincerity. Some things never changed. Better yet, some people never changed – and Richard had been stupid enough to give him a second chance.

He wants you to trust and feel sorry for him so you let your guard down, then he strikes.

Richard pointedly avoids the old injury on the boy's neck; a childhood cigarette burn from the boy's own father.

"You're the only one I told," he also repeats, voice steely and low. As the seconds tick by in tension, the glass of water on Richard's dresser freezes until stiff. The condensation on his window frosts over in a creeping silence.

His best friend absentmindedly goes to cover his bare arms. If looks could kill…

Resisting the urge to shiver from what he can only suspect is disconcertion, the other boy finally sighs. "What can I do to make it up to you?""

A resonating pause.

"So you admit you did it."

His head shoots up. "No! That's not-

"You only need to make up for something if you're the one who's fucked up!"

"I don't know who did it! I just want to make it right."

"Yeah? Just like last time? " Richard seethes, "When you let her come between us?"

He winces, then huffs: "She didn't do anything."

Oh I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult your friend.

"But you did."

Another long, defeated sigh. ""I mean it. What can I do?"

"Likely nothing" Richard bristles, "But figure it out somewhere else."

He shrinks. "Rich-

" Get out ."

Tossing him one last look of guilt, pity and slight anger, the other boy picks up his bookbag and leaves without another word. Richard doesn't bother to see him off; he just slams his laptop closed to rid himself of the offending post, puts on something warmer and buries himself under the covers before he gets sick.

Quite Refreshing

"Based on one's consciousness, a person can directly altar the geometric shape and structure of water. That's because both our thoughts and water derive from the same energy. In essence, positive thinking brings about a positive reality. "

Okay, so he catches a cold anyway. That he kinda spreads to his sister.

It's a good thing the man upstairs takes this as his cue to even the score.

150k Subscribers

He can't believe it. Ever since he started his channel when he was 12, laden with baby fat and iconically goofy, he hadn't dared exceed anything more than humble aspirations for his gaming reacts, " Would You Rathers" and other miscellaneous videos. Now here he was. A formidable force in the Youtuber realm with this many subscribers and counting. Soon enough he'll be selling merch and annoyingly interrupting his videos with words from his sponsors.

His good mood has him disregarding the congestion in his nose. After days of sour resentment towards the rumor situation, he springs like Tigger, promptly making a video to thank his fans with a promise for a milestone clip. He's on the verge of brimming with tears – from happiness, from being relieved from his battered reputation, he doesn't know – as he records.

Since there is plenty of day left after blissfully slaving in front of the computer, he finds his sister. Under the tantalizing prospect of hopscotch, making (the temporarily forbidden) sundaes and playing Barbie soap opera with her big brother, she replaces her initial incredulities with enthusiastic agreement.

By nightfall, they fall asleep in the living room, spent and giddy. In the morning at the breakfast table, their mother watches them eat with gusto instead of drowsily forking food to their mouths. All traces of a cold seem to be….gone. Almost a week of (ineffective) teas, cough medicine, chicken soup…now, in less than a day, nothing.

She also hasn't missed that certain treats and sweet ingredients have mysteriously depleted.

Over the lip of her raised tea cup , she smiles at them in the buttery light filtering in from the sink window. The sight before her is reason enough for her not to question it.

Over Spilled Milk

In answer to his school peer tip toeing up and yelling, "Sneak attack," in his ear, Richard shouts in surprise and drops the sandwich he just purchased from Frank & Joe's.

Somehow, though not dropped as well, the orange Jarrito in his other hand explodes despite his shock-weakened grip.

Agitation overwhelming fleeting confusion, Richard whips his head around to the laughing idiot. Before he can react, the troll takes off.

X Marks the Spot

Richard never gave much thought to the diamond-shaped anomaly atop his head. It was never visible to him in the mirror, easy to forget – out of sight, out of mind - and not many people saw it unless they happened to have an aerial view from a few feet above. His little sister pretended it was a portal her grubby fingers could reach through to marshmallow land (or something of that nature) when she caught him napping in the living room. His mother hopped on her toes to tousle the area, a fond smile on her lips to counteract the tightened, annoyed line of his. His dad seemed to dismiss its existence altogether, like some pearl-clutching X-Men parent who needed a reassuring visit from Professor Xavier. His favorite teacher jokes that he's graying prematurely, his friends make bird shit jokes, and once, a girl cousin calls him Panda in their native tongue – and he is almost dizzy from the sudden vision of trees whirling past his head, as if he is in a forest maze carried off by an enormous creature. The vision blinks away just as quickly as it comes, leaving Richard feeling like he's missed something.

However, from the few pictures he's seen of it, taken by others or himself, it only reminds him of one thing – that pale orb perched in the inky skies, gleaming back at him month after month. He's never quite been able to write it off as a birthmark.

Somehow, now, the truth of the patch is an unknown confirmation of what he perceived of it.

Unleashed

Unofficially considered the eighth wonder of the world, there was no question why those who visited Niagara Falls were floored in awe no matter how many times they drank it in – in a manner of speaking. Witnessing the majestic cascade for the hundredth time would always be like rewinding time to when you were a babe in your mother's arms on that ferry, the rails the only separating you from the grand sight that would imprint into your head for all time.

At last for tall youth pardoned to the side from the rest the tourists, this was the lay of things.

With the iridescent sprays rustling over him, causing every loose article to flap wildly, Richard is filled with unexplored enraturement. Like everyone else, he was overwhelmed with the beauty of the falls. Most had a choice word or phrase that crossed their mind in its presence, to glorify it.

Richard's did more than that.

And anyone hearing it aloud, even the version of Richard himself once remove miles away from the trance-inducing landmark, would consider giving him a wide berth.

I remember a power like this once

He closes his eyes and exhales deeply. Slowly, unbeknownst to himself, he extends his arm directly in front of him, palm out and fingers slightly clawed as if nonresistant to wring the world around him dry. In his mind's eye is a brilliant blue phantom just as towering as the falls, poised to crash down upon the neatly lined-up bevy of dark vessels – much more sinister and streamline than the craft he's on - the way the vast, heavy floods before him send up thick mists upon their pressurized plummets to the rocks below-

A sharp gasp releases from him; his arm drops to his side, and when his eyes snap open, the blazing white suns in the center of his vision gradually shrink to ashes.

I held power like this once

If I need to, I will again

Uneasy, he rejoins the comfort of his family near the port bow.

A Full Feeling

"Don't grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form."

Swear Not by the Moon (Suki and Yue)

He tries not to be distracted from his prop-set up duties whenever the girls walk by or rehearse in their geisha costumes, but he can't help it. Their faces, full of white paint, and red accented make-up, their golden sprayed painted cardboard headpieces – he always manages to catch sight of them out the corner of his eye, his stomach knotting with some foreign feeling. If he's unlucky enough, one of the girls catches his ogling once in a while and squints at him, causing him to flush and avert his eyes back to the task at hand. Or, at least, he thinks she squints; he goes into abort abort mode too quickly to stare back long enough to be sure. Maybe the look back is more neutral or less disapproving than he suspects. Maybe, it's a different girl who stares back each time.

Because why else would it be the same girl who does?

That he doubts it isn't clenches his gut even more at those moments.

It's a good thing their classical Japanese theater experience will be coming to a close soon after next week's opening night, and they can move on to Romeo and Juliet. They'll be doing a parody of it, from what his drama teacher has reluctantly agreed to, and Richard already has an idea about pickled fish for one of the kiss scenes.

Nevermind this same idea – who the hell even eats pickled fish? - makes his stomach just as weak as his stolen glances towards the geisha girls.

Have You Got Any Meat?

"That's the fifth time this week!"

"Now, now," Richard's father admonishes teasingly from his study, a hint of pride in his tone. "A growing boy's gotta eat.

His mother rolls her eyes and leaves the kitchen. She has to slide past her towering son in order to do so, and chooses to ignore his vigilant, predatory hover over the pan of three, thick, sizzling steaks. She fears upon closer inspection, she might see hearts in his eyes.

"Its your fault, you know," her husband sing-songs behind her, causing her to cringe in memory of her none-too- controlled, carnivores pregnancy, and her slippers scuffle away even more indignantly.

Something Borrowed, Something….

People say it really isn't his color.

You look so much better in red!

But his life isn't a Matrix movie; he doesn't give a shit about "what fits him."

In all shades and hues, Richard has always gravitated toward it. His favoritism of it even beyond to what he wears, even down to childish exclamations that he won't have it " unless its in" or " I call dibs on". Its evident in the various possessions in his room, his favorite element whenever they vacation somewhere coastal or woodland, his chosen team's colors, his view into a noon, spring sky.

In fact, it is everywhere, even when it isn't.

Pay the Toll

In all his 17 years, Richard doesn't know if he's ever crossed all 21 bridges leading into Manhattan yet. He just knows that for every time he commutes to the island on one of the big structures in general, especially at night, an amorous emptiness settles in until he's safely on the other side. There's an odd urge to just hike the length of one of them for exercise; or, perhaps hike one in the hopes of meeting someone special there halfway, just to gaze out into the harbor with her.

Then again, people might mistake him to be contemplating the unthinkable, so probably not.

Quality Alone Time (Ty Lee)

There's just something about brunettes with nice, big, perky

….personalities.

That I Forgot to Laugh

Count on him to be the comic relief in any situation, but count on him more to sustain his title as Edit King.

Richard grins as he scrolls through the comments of his latest YouTube reaction. His bed head is casually propped up with an arm, slants of mid-morning ( or is it afternoon?) sunlight creating brilliant bars on his blanketed form. Now and then he makes a noise of amusement in the back of his throat – twice he actually laughs out loud; because part of creating shits and giggles is appreciating the shits and giggles that are begot in return.

Suddenly struck with a notion, he switches to his Instagram and goes to edit his bio. He adds:

Just a guy who likes comedy :D

A couple of friends send in their roasts not too long afterwards, and he merely thanks them for their constructive criticism. Then he climbs out of bed to start the day, thankful his precious sleep wasn't interrupted with the ruckus of the neighborhood.

How dare anyone start the day before 11 o'clock!

Will Be Boys (Aang)

Nearing the end of his brisk, evening walk, Richard switches back over to his tunes before stuffing his phone back in his pocket, feeling more spirited than he has in a while.

He'd just finished face-timing an old friend from China, where he lived briefly. They had swapped old memories with voices that grew more and more emphatic the crazier the "adventure" was that was brought up. Talking to Ru Zhang after all this time was just as refreshing as his walk and his side was hurting from all the laughter.

What tripped him out the most, though, was one instance in particular when Ru was caught up in a pubescent love triangle and sought out Richard (of all people) for expertise. At the time Richard hated on his best buddy; Ru Zhang was the best singer of their grade, and girls drew to him like lionesses to an antelope. This was before Richard discovered his own knack for singing, which, in hindsight, is relieving because he would have had double the reason to green-eye Ru.

In any case, his younger, more devilish self only saw the situation as advantageous. Fodder for sabotage – and as mischievous as Ru was, Richard knew his friend would good-naturedly forgive him in no time.

Turned out, he didn't even need to plan. The pieces just inadvertently fell together as it all played out. Ru's two "biggest fans" had each given him something handwritten; one a poem, another a flowery confession. They were Valentine gifts, but despite Ru had acquired like, a dump truck load of presents from many girls, those two witnessed the other coyly handing over their envelopes to Ru and were beefing hard. The flattered idiot that he was, Ru still felt bad that he'd caused a ruckus so rectification was the only way.

A good cat fight was nothing to sneeze at to cure the hum-drum of their school days, but Richard refrained from saying as much. Rather, he oiled up his tone and told the boy to send response notes to the girls, thanking them and gushing about how much he valued their love, blah blah blah – anything to assuage them. The part he told Ru to include, that would be Richard's troll signature, was the assurance that "she shouldn't worry because the other girl didn't mean anything to him". He even helped him write a draft or two.

"I gotta say, Richard, you continue to impress me with your ideas."

Yes. The kid was just that naïve.

What he hadn't counted on was not only Ru mixing up their names and, therefore, misaddressing the girls, but also sending the wrong note to the wrong girl because he forgot who wrote the confession and who wrote the poem.. When the realization hit on Sunday (he had stuck the notes in the cracks of their lockers on Friday), Richard didn't bother hiding his hysterical laughter over the phone as Ru morosely rehearsed what excuses he could give his parents so he wouldn't have to go to school the next day. The hysterics after the dawning truth were bad enough; Richard just had to be the one to point out Ru's fuck ups as the alleviated boy had described his execution.

Ru wailed , "I can't believe we forgot who wrote what."

"Yup, we're idiots," Richard had quipped unsympathetically.

"I guess Plan B would be to give them chocolates?"

Richard had mentally scoffed, still trying to hold back splutters. He doubted Ru remembered what kind of candy they liked. Hell, even Richard knew which girl didn't like the nougaty kinds – he'd found that out the hard way. "I think we're gonna run into a similar problem."

From the mutinous looks, double-team confrontations and occasional, vicious shoulder bumps in the hallways Lover Boy received for the next two weeks, he was fated to run into many problems. The only redeeming aftermath of the whole thing was that the girls became besties – which was more or less the point of their ploy.

Yet to this day, he had to give his boy props. Only a talented kid like Ru could juggle all those groupies at once.

Ah. Good times.

No Place Like…(Southern Water Tribe)

The elderly can always feel a storm brewing in their bones. Those with old injuries are more sensitive to the cold. Many can smell when the rain is about to pour, can feel the barometric pressure.

But Richard can sense an approaching snowfall.

It has nothing to do with the temperature drop, the murky skies or the howling winds. He just knows its about to come. He's even predicted the first snow of every winter as far as he can remember, his accuracy a sort of parlor trick for those who know him and keep losing bets that challenge this annual feat.

Whether he's inside or out, when the familiar flakes begin to flurry down and around, his head never fails to tilt up ever so slightly. His lids relax and he relishes the small tug within his core.

He can be standing inside his own house during those initial powdery falls, yet feel completely homesick and secure all at once.

It's the Quenchiest

Slap

"Hey man….yo!"

Slap slap.

"You good my guy? "

"Mmphr?"

SLAP

Alright, that one felt too much like he owed someone in a suit and perm some money. Richards's brows furrow as he stirs. Why does his body feel like concrete but his head feels like its about to levitate off his neck-

Engulfed in fire?

The blurry face above him snickers. "Get up bro. Its morning."

"Who's morning?" he slurs.

A crescendo of cackling echoes around him. More disoriented than ever, he presses a finger to Demi's lips and shushes him. Demi bats away the finger forcefully.

"What happened?"

"You lost so you took a shot."

"Am I in trouble?" He gets doe-eyed, shoulders sagging in dread. More giggling ensues; the boy in front of him though, just stares at him a second before shaking his head. "Good thing your first time was here," he mumbles under his breath. Richard still hears him though.

"My first time?" his voice nearly cracks as he looks down at himself. No, he isn't naked. No, his buddy in front of him isn't naked either. "Wait-

"Get him some water," another voice snickers, a feminine one. When Richard turns too quickly to identify her, his vision swims. Demi rolls his eyes and gets up to retrieve the drink. "Try not to overreact this time, Richard," she winks.

He blinks owlishly.

"He doesn't remember."

"That shit still got me weak."

"You wild."

"You yelled at Kaitlyn for killing us all when she knocked over the Coke," the same girl says - he now stupidly registers its Izzy. "You said we were going to die of thirst because of her."

Kaitlyn, who is sitting crossed leg on her palate hugging her Pokemon plushie, snorts loudly.

"Then Daisuke lost at Jenga and you yelled at him for destroying 'our house'."

"And snuggled the blocks."

"And cried."

Blink

A plastic cup of water is thrust into his hand unceremoniously, and holding it brings back the embarrassing memory of him clumsily pouring clear liquid from a bottle logo-ed with an unmistakably green, prickly plant. Richard downs it immediately. "Now that Chris Crocker here is awares, lets clean up before my folks get back."

Warrior Tale

Stifling his snort is the professional thing to do. Is it possible?

Hardly.

The photographer covers his mouth as Richard finally shrieks in mortification, his voice cracking and his finger jabbed at his head, " Its not a ponytail!" , before stomping out of the studio – presumably back to the dressing room to change his style. A stunned Yan family is left in his wake – except for an elderly, red-faced aunt still trying to process the word "manbun" .

True Blue (Katara)

His heart never fails to ache a little when he looks at her sometimes.

Earlier that day she had shooed off some squirrels from stealing his chips at the park. She scolded his teacher on facetime for being a "meanie head to her big brother just 'cus he was sleepy", and now, she's drawing a big plate of broccoli to tape to his closet door – to remind him to balance his diet, so he doesn't get sick like Mommy keeps warning he will.

Richard stuffs his clothes into the washer to the contented humming of the preoccupied little girl on the floor. The few looks he does spare her give him that buttery feeling over and over; she is the splitting image of their mother. So much so…..the morbid thought that a distant future without their mother means his miniature mama bear will take over has crossed his mind, admittedly.

He turns to her fully - and smirks when she takes a whiff of one of his sweaty socks he's dropped, wrinkles her nose delicately and tosses it at him.

Outside the Box and On Your Mark

He supposed he'd gotten off easy. Many Asian kids raised in the typical, academic-strict households – complete with prestigious summer camps that assigned those of-so fun homework assignments – couldn't reach the standards set for them or fried themselves trying. Richard wasn't one of these. On the contrary, it seemed (key word seemed) as if the university-world was his oyster. He was always that student appointed to lead –or just naturally took charge of, on a good day- group projects and discussions. Sure it was a pain, and he procrastinated like hell, and he could be a huge goof who spared no one his exuberantly perverted humor, but as long as his peers –and long-suffering teachers – could count on his ingenious and meticulous planning, they could live.

For those who relied on his sick sense of direction during outdoor trips, same sentiments applied.

Whatever got the job done.

Yep.

That's exactly what she said.

Now if he could just work on his public speaking. You would think years of being a Youtuber he wouldn't have to edit so much stuttering and blubbering out of his videos…

"What's that, some kind of illuminati coat of arms?"

Richard reverie breaks at his group mate's teasing. After glancing over at him mildly inquisitive, he drops his gaze back down to his essay outline. As a testament to his boredom, there they are: weird, multi-sized symbols of a thick arc drawn over a dot doodled in the margins.

Oddly, he smiles at them in accomplishment.

Keen On

So he wasn't the best judge of character when pairing or teaming up when it came to gaming. On too many occasions did he find himself wasted, ambushed and betrayed because of some ass teammates. He'd learned to turn down multi-player rounds with the excuse that he worked better alone or he had homework to do – knowing damn well his gaming buddied weren't buying it if their jibbing was any indication.

But who could they count on if they got stranded on an island?

Who consistently knew who the imposters were in Among Us?

Who was always spot on about the gender of the ambiguously-voiced new players they were all hesitant to crush on?

That's right.

Not Richard's instincts.

What Goes Around

Why their teachers put so much trust in them to raise funds for the end of the year senior trip was beyond him. Granted, he credit to the student body president and crew for coming up with a pretty dope idea – a school carnival. The idea was taken from the movie Freedom Writers and held so much potential with the right preparations and executions.

Too bad the school staff didn't know any better.

Richard grumbles under his breath as he pushes past the glittery, gauzy curtains, a tint of red in his cheeks. The shorter, more calmly paced figure that follows after him is smirking at his dramatic stomping. "Oh come on kiddo, it wasn't that bad."

He stops and whirls around. "Easy for you to say! You just got told you will be the greatest trailblazer of the century!"

" Are the greatest trailblazer of the century," she amends smugly.

At his silent, cold stare, she shrugs and adds: "Whatever. You're the one who dragged me to this stupid circus."

"Carnival."

"Yeah yeah."

"Terry, you're on the board. Why wouldn't you be here?" he gestures at the lit up festivities in frustration.

He head jerks up from inspecting her fingernails – or rather, picking the grime out of them. She folds her pale arms. Richard has to admit, she looks very pixie-like with her short raven hair and bright green contacts. If pixies were grungy, shrewd and gave no fucks about 95% of anything. As a matter of fact, why was someone like her even on the board at all, now that he was really looking at her? "Hey! You forget whose parents are making her do this crap to impress those Cornell chumps."

Oh yeah, that's right, The esteemed, loaded alumni power couple who funded this project. The asses their school kissed.

Noting the bitter note in her tone at the mention of her parents (and not really wanting to dwell on the topic of parents and college applications), Richard sighs. "I just want to know what idiot hired this…this conartist."

Her mocking grin returns. "I don't know why you're complaining. She didn't even charge you."

He really could scream. Instead he throws his hands in the air. "How is that a good thing?" he rallies, "We're trying to raise money, not give out freebies! That defeats the purpose."

"Maybe she wanted to bone you."

Richard resists the urge to gag. Like hell. The old hag with her beady little eyes, cheap eye shadow and ragged, multicolored shawls definitely had it out for him. She had been nice enough to Terry, but when he held out money for his reading, she leveled an empty stare at him and, in a tone just as dry as her look, gave him some mumbo-jumbo about not needing to read his cards and self-inflicted bad karma.

Hah! If he ever had bad karma, it would be because he walked into that booth.

Making their way to a cotton candy vendor, Richard bickers in tandem with his cousin's ribbing. At one point when he growls and hurls the rubber crystal ball memento at a trash can, the ball bounces off the rim, ricochets off a giant balloon, and smacks him right in the mouth. A hand flies up to cover it and his stinging teeth, his vexation at full peak.

In the distance, he swears he can hear brittle cackling.

Terry leans into his line of vision straight-faced. "That's rough buddy."

Be a Man (Hakoda)

Whenever Richard's father went away on business trips, he'd jokingly lay a hand on his son's shoulder and ask him to hold down the fort. It was a ritual between the two that had commenced since Richard was ye high and the crying boy had pleaded to go with his dad on his "mission."

Little did Mr. Yan know, Richard took his "request" to heart ever since, every single time.

Now, catching the teen in the living room nodding off in the middle of the night, crowbar in hand and clad in his sire's military gear, Mrs. Yan rolls her eyes as her hand slides down her face.

You are your father's son

Hopefully their alarm system will be fixed before he husband gets back home.

All-Star

As per request of a fan, here he was at midnight recording a full cover of one of his favorite Passenger songs. Truthfully there was no excuse as to why he couldn't have done it during the day, but Richard supposed the way things worked out was for the greater good. He didn't mind. Pro night-owlism had been in his blood since he could remember.

On the other hand, he knew he couldn't take full credit for the forces invigorating his spirit.

Only one certain monthly mistress of the evening skies had the power to inspire him so much. To allow him to create so spectacularly sometimes he scared himself. The thing was, Richard could never figure out if it was mere coincidence that a full moon stroked his ingenuity, or if the nights he lively let his imagination go wild , there just so happened to be a full moon. He'd never consciously tried to figure this out, yet in those moments in time, where he'd glimpsed his trusty, extraterrestrial beacon during or after the making of a self-acclaimed masterpiece, it was too tricky to tell if the two correlated. Maybe in the back of his mind, he knew he would be a lunatic to do so.

Sure he'd been pining for the moon, as if were, since forever. That didn't mean it granted him super abilities. Wouldn't he have sprouted fur and a snout by now, going to terrorize his community? Full moons, as far as he knew of lore, didn't exactly fork over benevolent capabilities to its recipients.

Nah, he was many things – but he wasn't crazy.

Richard gives a few giddy practice strums to his guitar. He's thankful for the thousandth time his "studio" is in a more exterior part of the house away from the other bedrooms. Otherwise, he'd never be able to get away with his passions. He'd tried recording a piano original once in the family room and to put it mildly, he'd learned some new Mandarin curse words he'd never heard before. The fleeting memory of this brings a soft, irrepressible smirk to his face. Positive he's ready, he inhales and hits the record button. The melodious plunks come naturally., flawlessly, like he knew they would. During the intro Richard is still unable to suppress his contentment; the solitary difference is that his mischievousness switches out for satisfaction.

On nights like these, he could count on the triviality of practice runs.

"Well you only need the light when its burning low."

"Only miss the sun when it starts to snow."

He relished when his energy was at its peak like this. Something in him surged, making him lightheaded to the brink of senselessness, and yet he felt like he was in a linear zone. If he could see himself from the outside, he was sure his eyes would be dilated, as creepy as hat sounded.

"Only know you love her when you let her go."

Singing. Playing the piano and the guitar. Everything enhanced, a product of his stimulation. Even writing poetry – with an uncanny mastery of the haiku. Thanks to his fans encouragement (nagging), he incorporated trying his hand at drawing. Normally when he practiced digital art his novice status was painfully obvious – until he discovered on a night like this, he doesn't suck as much. Actually it was pretty weird; Richard had no interest in art when he was younger, though now when he did mess around with it on his tablet, something told him he'd improved from, he bewilderedly assumes, a nonexistent past.

He wasn't crazy, once again. So he wouldn't question it.

"Only know you've been high when you're feeling low."

"Only hate the road when you're missing home."

Hus funniest, most entertaining videos seemed to yield under such peculiar nights – proof of this lie his channels statistics. No, he really wasn't crazy. A timeline of activity would be enough to show anyone, if he cared to. Which he didn't.

He'd just continue to take advantage for the sake of his content persona, and avoid the fatigue-induced, lagging after-hours where the moon was absent and all he wanted to do was curl up in multitasker's-block.

"Only know you love her when you let her go."

Suddenly Richard's chest tightens. Its nothing like the surges of enrichment that have been pulsating through him. Determined not to waver, he does a commendable job of appearing more enthusiastic, his eyes crinkling and twinkling charmingly. The ladies would appreciate that. They'd also appreciate the eye contact he makes with the camera in the pause before the next lyric.

"And you let her go."

But deep down, he knows the look is unconvincing.

Before he knows it, he's finished the song, and his face is streaked with fresh, unrestrained tears. The smile is still plastered to his face as he hoarsely thanks his would-be audience -

Realizing too late that he'd been live as he goes to stop recording.

He wipes his face with his arm at first, just staring into the lens. A couple of emotions flit across his face before settling on one. The sensation that shocks him: resignation.

"And I'm sorry if my voice cracked. Good night guys."

He'd let the few that probably watching it interpret it as they will. Common sense suggested that he just go ahead and publicize t he video instead od get rid of it, to not cause alarm. It wouldn't be the first time a musician cried while he performed because he was "moved", right?

Richard distractedly massages the space over his heart, guitar abandoned at his feet and back sagged against his chair.

And you let her go.

Science and reason. He needn't forget that as artistic one could be, he couldn't allow his head to get stuck too high in the clouds.

He refused to let crazy ruin what he niched

Even as the tears continue to expel, Richard chokes out a humorless laugh to himself. It's a lonely, bitter sound that isn't him, that accessorizes the unrelenting ache in his chest. Blurrily facing the moon, he hopes it can somehow remove the phantom impression of a gentle, deep kiss on his lips. Wearily he knows its in vain. He's not looking at the antidote – he's looking at the aggressor. The mess of winking, sparkling dots surrounding it sneer back at him as accomplices.

Only know you love her when you let her go

He blinks away the hot moisture in his eyes, trying to level his breathing. When the flashes of blizzard-ravaged tundra, black-and-white painted isles and mitten hands tenderly cupping a ghostly, feminine cheek subside, he lets out a shaky breath, opening lids he didn't know he'd shut so stiffly.

Despite himself, Richard grants his feeble smile to unfurl once more. The clutch at his heart digs the more he unsuccessfully tries to rationalize with himself that he's acting like this because of lack-of sleep. Because he's had a long day. Because procrastinating on his homework has him dreading tomorrow's catch up. Because, because, because….

With an internalized sigh, he sets his jaw and detaches his hand. For the rest of the night he ignores the insistency there. Rather than play along with forces unseen, forces probably specially created to ensnare him, he climbs into bed with renewed optimism.

Who knew the secret to inspiration lie within someone like him. Maybe his mom hadn't had enough foresight. Maybe more to him was auspicious than the night he was born.

Is a Wish Your Heart Makes

"…abnormally rising tides…."

"…most recent oil spill in the gulf…"

"…glacier caps melting but recent temperatures…"

As his father clicks through the news channels, Richard vaguely tunes out the voices, trying to focus on assembling the doll house his little sister got for Christmas. But it seems as if the manufacturer has packed in the wrong parts or left some out for all the progress he's made in the past 30 minutes – which is barely any.

His dream from last night still confounds him relentlessly.

Truly, its been the dreams.

He knows his mother has picked up on it. He knows his father has, and it would be safe to say others have too. His moods lately have been less than pleasant; too often, he has been isolating himself, complaining of headaches and snapping over the most minute inconveniences. It would be only a matter of time before his mother started suggesting a doctor's visit, but Richard doesn't need a medical diagnosis. At least, he doesn't think so.

The dreams are doing this to him.

One minute he was turning 17 and enjoying the holidays with those he loved. The next, waking in night sweats and sighing a lot during the day. It just didn't make sense. Wasn't this supposed to be one of the best times of his life? Didn't he promise himself this new year would be better than the last – the best so far, even?

An auspicious time to be born.

So far it seemed to be true. His life wasn't perfect but it wasn't exactly dungeons and doom. The lunar gods or whomever were on his side.

The moon was on his side.

So why lately, does he get the feeling he's being abandoned.

He's never felt any sillier for believing something like this, yet how else could he begin to explain what has been happening?

And for the first time, as he ritually stood at the window in the presence of the full moon, Richard gazed at it in betrayal. His usual muse had been his personal torture that night, sedating him into a restless sleep that kept him tossing. He'd contemptuously closed the blinds, sealed the curtains – anything he could to block out the moonlight, to regain the peace that great, enigmatic sphere methodically bestowed upon him. Yet it was no use. Those few nights ago, he finally gave up and, in a sweeping flurry of covers and a stumble, resumed his anguished peering, nails digging into the windowsill and an illogical scream lodged in his throat. He'd had the most massive headache of his life to date, which didn't subside until late the next day.

In fact, with the way the tell-tale pounding is wracking him now, and intermittently since that night, he suspects its still not done plaguing him.

"….irregular phasing the past two weeks…continue to monitor…NASA predicts…"

Ears perking, Richard dislodges himself from his thoughts, thrust back into reality. He slowly faces the TV where the meteorologist is wrapping up his segment. As the man bids America goodnight and hands the reigns back to the anchorwoman, a shot of the most recent full moon takes over the screen.

Immediately his temple begins to pulse violently.

Richard looks away quickly, climbing to his feet shakily. Wordlessly he treads to his room. Locking the door behind him, he beelines to his nightstand where the small white bottle and water bottle await him. He pops two of the tiny pills, clutching his head, and eases onto the bed with his eyes closed.

In the dream from last night, there was the sea. A beach. A waning moon, scattered stars against an indigo background.

But the waters lapped at the shore in a crimson froth.

He'd been stationed at the edge of the sand, his pale bare feet enduring the lukewarm churning staining his skin red. He'd been too calm, first watching the water at his ankles expressionlessly, then lifting his heavy-lidded eyes towards the dark horizon. He remembered assuming the water was actually blood, though thinking about it now, it was more like wine in its texture and allure. An allure just as unnerving as if the water were blood, and so strong his body braved the hurricane-like winds enough to begin wading in…

For some reason, the moon baring down upon the coast seemed to empathize with him, if that made any sense. With each possessed step into the depths his mind cleared and his heart swelled so pitifully, he was sure he was empathizing with it right back. A sense of imbalance penetrated his being, like the red water refused to share a burden with the skies, like the sea wanted to spare the heavens of something that may have happened to it eons ago – but the false serenity of the sky writhed in turmoil at not being able to take on that same deep rose tint.

All of it was too much for him to comprehend. Even more frightfully, he'd trudged on in the water, eyes fixated on the moon, until he drowned, ocean rippling quaintly over his head as if he'd never been there in the first place.

Richard had jolted awake on the verge of choking. It was too vivid, too daunting.

He cannot deny, however, that his lifelong "infatuation" with the moon has been amplified. Whether due to the dreams or that the dreams have been borne from this, he can't say. The validity of his conscious change for the worse ties too closely with the lucidity of his subconscious. He just knows the tether is straining desperately, leaving him teetering on the brink of instability. He's always had a handle on his emotions. He's always been easy going. He's always been in control.

So what the hell is going on?

Don't fall asleep.

Its tempting to doze off. Doing so will immerse him back into that incomprehensible realm, so he picks up his iPad instead, to check on the donations coming in from his fans to fund a well-digging project in Uganda.

Who is that girl?

Just recalling her numbs and electrifies him at the same time. Richard shakes his head in an effort to shrug her off, scrolling through his with purpose

How he wishes the effort was enough.

Is a Wish Your Heart Makes Again

He tries burning incense, meditating, and extended periods of exercise. Upon abundant research, he is introduced to other kinds of herbal teas to try that he hasn't already experimented with in the kitchen – courtesy of the cabinet with his mother's rare, special Chinese blends. If this is what addicts feel like pursuing a fix or seeking to quell a withdrawal, Richard gains a whole new respect for them at this point.

The only difference is that they know what will placate them.

He is still on mission impossible.

With school back into session, almost into the middle of the quarter, Richard doesn't know how he's going to be able to carry on the rest of the year. His grades are ok for now, but his distracted mood and lack of rest is creeping up upon him at an alarming rate. Its becoming increasingly harder to complete homework and focus on college applications. His upcoming auditions seem like dim, wistful fantasies, distant plumes of smoke evaporating into air.

A deep exhale escapes his mouth as he smooths his sudsy hair from his face. Whenever the dreams wake him from his sleep, he's found it soothing to shower the aftershocks away. He'd overheard his mother on the phone with the family physician the other night, her worried repeat of the words, "night terrors", and had bitterly wished those were the culprit. What he was experiencing was much worse. In any case, it kept his parents from investigating the sound of rushing water in the bathroom in the middle of the night. They understood.

Standing there limply, he lets the burning water cascade down his body in rivulets. Dark hair slicks into his tightly closed lids.

Who are you?

Why are you doing this to me?

What do you want?

It takes everything within him not to give into the stinging in his eyes – stinging irrelevant to the shampoo running down his face. When thunder uncharacteristically rolls outside and the pressure from the shower head increases slightly, he barely acknowledges it.

What are you telling me?

The clenching in his chest, his jaw, his abdomen; he used to think it was all for himself. That self-pity had permeated his entirety down to his bones.

After these reoccurring dreams, nights on end, hammering clarity into him, he knows he is wrong.

He isn't the only victim.

But she isn't the only one suffering.

Why must I suffer with you?

Richard bites his trembling bottom lip, not wanting to allow himself to reiterate the next question that sears through his head following his abrupt awakenings. As usual, he fails.

Why is this suffering so sweet?

Her touch still lingers on his skin, and the ghostly imprints seem to manifest into the balmy, finger-like streams of water dripping down his shoulders. His head involuntarily tilts back, a low moan elicited from his lips, another exhale chasing it.

The dream this night was new, graciously much more innocent. He twirled her around on the surface of the sea, the radiating moon casting its reflection on the midnight waves. Like in all his dreams, she was the same: white, celestial glow, elegant, archaic robes, tan skin, snowy hair, riveting blue eyes. His hand dug more earnestly into her small waist with every spin, every predictable step, never sinking in. As was customary, rosy lips were curved into a sad smile up at him, and he could see his own half-hearted smile mirrored in those sapphire pools.

The dance grew erratic to the four, harmonizing winds until their bodies exploded into sprinkling dust, which ultimately led to him jolting awake.

In comparison, he knew he was let off easy this time.

This one was nothing like the ones that left him in a breathless stupor, wherein this strange, otherworldly girl seduced him within an inch of his life – or vice versa. Always atop the water, always, he made love to her insatiably, misty smoke billowing around them as if to hide their intimacy. Yet this angered him, because he didn't want to hide. He wanted her cries of passion to ring out to the rest of the nocturnal world and he needed all across the known universe to see her arch beneath him over and over again. Nothing should obscure them from those he wished to spite.

The tightened grip on the back of his neck, the fevered kisses, and the way her white tresses splayed out over the somehow solid surface of the water; it left him hazy, almost fatigue with the raw intensity that consistently gave him the impression that they were making up for lost time. A soul-shattering climax or pitched moan of his name – or both – was what tore him out of the dreams. Richard would be flushed and sticky, unable to tell if it was just him or that the air in his room had miraculously thickened with moisture despite the low setting of the thermostat.

Unlike now, the showers proceeding those dreams were nowhere near hot.

Sure it wouldn't be a good idea he dwell on this lest he spends much more time in the shower than necessary, Richard resumes sponging off. Ridding himself of her kind, probing gazes and suggestive caresses prove bearable when he wills himself strongly enough.

Although the other dreams…

He swallows thickly, his Adam's apple straining against his throat. His eyes narrow.

Richard

How drastically her tone changes, from the heady whimpers drizzling down his ears to this.

Richard please

Her mouth never opens with her pleas, yet they reverberate around him, full of ache. Features twisted into sentiment that twitched, like a VHS tape with bad tracking. In one scene, she knelt beside an incapacitated masculine figure, grasping his shadowed hand in distress – his void form a stark contrast to her soft, ethereal glow. Richard starts to run towards them when she lifts her head to him tearfully; then the scene switches, and she is calling his name warmly, arms outstretched in a loving invitation.

I don't want to die

We are never lost. You will be where you belong

Its not that simple

The time to wait is over

I'm not ready

I told you. I'll always be with you

I'm so scared

Don't be afraid. I love you

I love you too

Leaning his forehead against the tile, the young man finally lets the wet heat slide down his cheeks. The dream regularly concluded with the embrace she offered, a pull away from each other and that sad smile coupled with her hand cupping his cheek. What unsettled him the most, though, was his reflection in her eyes – the one where the teenager he sees for a split second has auburn hair, darker skin, and eyes just as strikingly blue as hers. A confused blink later, he sits up, none-too successfully able to hold back the sharp intake of breath from the pit of his stomach.

To say he was totally mind-boggled with it all would be an understatement. All of these dreams were mind-boggling. And even if he had an inkling as to who this guy was, the dream winked out too quickly for him to have a good look. Begrudgingly still, Richard was starting to get the chilling indication the girl was becoming more and more disappointed in him for…for something.

Why….do I say I love her?

No

I know I do…

I know her name

Why can't I say her name?

I'm so sorry…

His fist balls upon the shower wall in front of him for a long time. Its only when the water begins to cool, his skin pruned up, and the hard pelting from the sky slackens that he gets out.

For once in what seems like a while, he doesn't dream the rest of the night.

Is a Wish Your Heart Makes at Last

On the next full moon, and only after his special concoction of sedatives has kicked in, Richard has to accept he is fully consumed by her. He is suffocated with an impatience, ruefulness and yearning he knows doesn't belong to him, so persistent that even in his fitful sleep, he also abjectly knows he will never be the same.

The beginning of this dream yields no different setting. The night, an enclosed bay, the same complete moon in the real world that beams down upon him, through him as if reading the transparency of his soul. It should feel invasive but he's gotten used to it. Dull, faraway eyes were locked on the larger than normal globe in the sky as his nude body waded into the beckoning waves, his arms out and angled so that his fingertips skimmed the face of the black water. He was normalized to this puppet-like trance now, comforting until death, this unhealthy draw to the moon like the accumulating lure when he is awake.

He'd been invisibly strung along – then there she was. Where she'd never been before.

Suddenly she had materialized front and center of the moon, poised there as if the light gravity of the behemoth behind had propelled her to the outskirts of its atmosphere. The expectant girl shimmered the same as it – like its ambassador, its sister, its doppelganger dared he even say it; her chin tipped regally and her eyes bidding, beseeching, awaiting him.

And likewise, this seemed like the break he'd been waiting for.

His flat stare flashed hungrily. Inhuman thirst branded the inside of his throat. While his body advanced more fervently than before and darkened, the rhombus atop his head began to shine a pearly white, slipping forward past his hairline and settling in the middle of his forehead.

Spirits only knew how he was able to see her thousands of miles away.

It didn't matter.

The once susceptible emptiness in his mind had been taken over with one thought. Only a single one-tract thought.

Mine

In the instant it took for him to proclaim this, frightful power had seeped into his being. Fierce determination etched in his features, Richard lowered his clenched fists into the water. Upon contact it lit up an unnatural pale, aquamarine blue; his eyes burned the same color in kind. Silently he summoned all of the water in the bay. The water beyond into the unforgiving oceans and all those connected to it. The waters in the nearby rivers, lakes, streams. The water in the air. The caps of snow on the mountains, ice of the poles, the dew glistening on every leaf, the falls of every continent.

In one command, Richard called upon every drop of the earth – and all of it responded.

It obeyed.

Whisking his arms gracefully. he assimilated the water into the form of a great wave that encased his lower half and ascended him into the heavens. The more water that integrated into the wave from sources around the world, the wider it became, the higher it rose. He was climbing towards her rapidly on the swift, liquid wings of his own will. Exhilaration thrummed through him; arms churned in movements as old as time. He passed flocks of migrating birds who barely avoided the apocalyptic wave, passed pregnant storm clouds that were absorbed immediately.

Closer and closer, an effortless labor of love.

Mine

She was coming into clearer view.

Mine

Soaring past thicker clusters of clouds, he paid no attention to the fact that his breathing had not become laborious. He did not tire or wilt or strain. Just as easy as it was to train his concentration on that lone, captivating figure, he jetted through Earth's layers of atmosphere.

Its when he crossed into the abyss of space that one hand outstretched prematurely, the other still manipulating the bright waters. To his pleasure she extended an anticipating hand as well. He could feel every well drying up, every riverbed dehydrated to come to his aid.

Almost there. Mine

Relief swelled alongside the delight in his chest. She was so close now, he could make out the details of her physique; the ever-present, incorporeal state, white hair, sun-kissed skin, ornate robes, delicate features, and teary blue eyes. A matching, radiating rhombus, albeit as demonic black as his new body, in the center of her forehead was all that was new but Richard had nary a second thought about it. Massive ripples of power tugged from his navel to wield the water, to the point that he sensed the blood in every living thing on the planet – a testament to his strength.

Yet he ignored their essence. He didn't want nor need to destroy. He didn't want fate to rest in the palm of his hand. Maybe in another circumstance, he would need to exercise mercy.

He just needed her.

Richard remembered offering her a tear-brimming smile as well. Finally the collection of the world's element of life had led his fingertips a half centimeter's worth to hers. He'd hold her. Euphoric bliss would be theirs. He'd been conversing with her with his eyes the entire time, but at that moment he opened his mouth –

Only to weaken

Only for his stomach to drop

Only for the water engulfing him, offering her to him, to disassemble.

He remembers the horrified expression they shared, hers more stricken than his since she could not save him. Both let out inaudible cries. With his hand grappling for her still outstretched one, he saw her mouth a name in anguish. Something he knew better to assume was his for some reason, and didn't have time to decipher because he was plummeting. The flowing, swirling grip around his waist loosened. The wave, taking him with it, crashed back down into the hollows of the earth it left in its wake. Wind whistled past his ears akin to sirens. With a mighty splash he landed in the bay he started from, never once leaving her beautiful face until he was swallowed.

The fatal landing is what woke him straight up.

"No," he says hoarsely, barely a wheeze. It's a fraction of what he'd screamed on his way down into the depths. So real, his heart pounds as strongly as his lungs work to rid themselves of the phantom salt water. Richard coughs roughly.

He's in a cold sweat although his body radiates with adrenaline and adulterated heat. Once he's a semblance of calm, he doesn't think. He just moves. Tearing from the bed, he throws on a hoodie and whirlwinds out of his room none too quietly. Before his family can even stir from their beds, he is swiping his car keys, shoving his feet into slides and bolting out the door.

Richard trembles on the highway all the way to Hudson Highlands State Park – a place he's frequented with those close to him. The place is decent for camping and a sanctuary away from the bustle of metropolitan life. The drive over with the windows down filled his nostrils with clean, crisp night air; here, it was even more pure, unconsciously though slightly subduing him as he scrambles through the dense brush towards the ridged cliffside.

You are mine

At the grassy, plateau edge, Richard falls to his knees before the horizon. Where the full moon reflects mournfully over the tossing tides. He's sobbing now, and when the storm that had seemed to chase him to the park erupts over him, he lifts his head pointedly toward the contemptuous pearl overhead. The hands that clench at his sides cause the veins in his forearms to bulge against his skin.

To the crackle of thunder and lightning, Richard screams.

And screams.

And screams -

Up to the point the storm drowns him out.

Until he's soaked and there is nothing left inside.

Of Monsters and Men

A few weeks later into warmer weather, he decides to take a therapeutic outing into Manhattan. The girl he invites along is the same one from AP Bio, whom he's managed to bud a connection with as friends despite the all-consuming, one-sided – he assumed – physical attraction. Deep down he knows, in another dimension, and under normal circumstances, he would have asked her out like this further down the line, into a future where he's stuttering and reddening like a love sick puppy hoping his parents adore her. Today, he stews in regret that she is with him so prematurely, knowing the only reason he worked up the nerve to ask for her accompaniment so he could get a respite from another girl he couldn't seem to shake no matter what he did. Richard had a foggy idea that girl currently holding hands with him down Broadway had agreed more so out of pity than genuine interest – which wasn't fair to her, and he wouldn't blame her for this incentive nor if she hated him forever for using her as a crutch; he could only imagine how gaunt and pathetic he must have come across dragging his feet up to her at her locker and acquiescing her in that weak whisper.

The witch – for what else could she be as she wounds him so? – wasn't going to let him recover from his breakdown on the cliff side. After all this time, with shrink visits, none-too-subtle and prohibitions from sharp objects in the presence of his parents, it didn't take a genius to see that Richard was grasping at the straws of what was his normalcy.

She couldn't – wouldn't – be abated.

The brooding youth's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes when his date comments on the beauty of the twilight sky, and its clear this alludes to his distractions but she squeezes his hand reassuringly anyway.

"I've never been to a Broadway show…and I'm sure these tickets must have cost a fortune." She shyly watches her own steps over the pavement. "Thanks for letting me tag along."

"I'm glad you did. My girlfriend broke up with me after I bought these so what choice did I have?"

Instead of kicking in the back of his knees, she snorts and elbows his side less violently than she usually does, too relieved that he's feeling better enough to make wise cracks. Before she can sass him back, he adds, in a softer tone: "It's no big deal. I wouldn't want to go with anyone else."

They lock eyes at the edge of the crosswalk, lips curving warmly.

"You're still coming to the production next week, right?"

"Yeah. And I'm expecting great things from you."

"Don't expect too much."

"Normally I wouldn't, from a janky high school play. But you'll be in it sooo."

"So you definitely shouldn't expect too much."

"Boy shut up," she giggles

"You first," he rasps, angling down to capture her wine-matte lips with his own. Her surprise gradually grows lax, just as he anticipates, until her soft, pressuring fingers are grasping the back of his neck, coaxing him to deepen the kiss.

Then all it takes is for a flash of him claiming another pair of lips, a stomach knot, and its all over.

Richard jolts away with that frown of his returning, his head giving that small shake. Yet in his desperate will to salvage the moment, he squeezes her hand apologetically and fixes her hurt, stunned gaze with a sheepish grin. "Are you hungry?"

The way she perks back up – though not fully, and not for lack of trying -, he can tell she is prioritizing his well-being (or rather, lack thereof) over her own emotions for their first kiss and the quick retraction of it. He'd give praise that he was so lucky if he didn't borderline on schizophrenic these days. 'I could eat."

"Then ice cream?"

"Yup."

"And churros."

"You tryna fatten me up for later?"

"I could eat," he mocks her, his eyebrow jumping suggestively. At that she laughs openly, their arms now linking as they cross the street.

At first its unnoticeable, what with the iconic bustle of the city that never sleeps, the life thriving around them. They continue to stroll and tease each other on their way to Richard's favorite diner joint. Yet inevitably the crowds start to get denser, wider, and noisier. Soon the couple is forced to standstill at the rear of a massive group of spectators. Their conversation dies in lieu of the incessant chanting, red and blue lights bouncing ominously off the buildings, authoritative voices making commands. Through the throngs of people they can see the denotative BLM shirts and signs, a marching ring in the middle of the intersection, NYPD on stand-by and calm yet resolute faces.

Instinctively she clasps his hand tightly.

"We can go around," she says quietly.

Knowing she's saying this more for him than herself, he nods, already reconfiguring another route in his mind for the diner. He's about to pull her to the left to weave through the crowd right when a distinctive shout catches his attention. With one swivel of his head, a balk of his body, it is as if he is enchanted immediately, spurning time to creates an oxymoron of slow motion and overdrive.

He can feel the bile welling up inside of him from the sight. The tall, lanky youth thrashes at one of the peaceful officers – a middle-aged white man who is unsuspecting of the attack even if it is why he was assigned to the protest. On the ground, the younger man rips his shield up his helmet, fists flying with all his might. From his trembling peripheral he notices the other uniformed men advancing upon the two. Somewhere far away he is cognizant of the needy tugs at the helm of his hoodie sleeve and her pleas. His body slants forward till he is on his toes on one foot, wide eyes stinging, mouth slack and heart reverberating in his skull so loudly he can't hear the outcries of terror around him.

Stop! Stop! This is not why you're here!

On a lightning impulse, as if compelled to respond, the aggressing young man exchanges a brief, murderous look with Richard. In turn Richard's head slams back involuntarily with the force of visions that invade his mind, his eyes rolling in.ard

A small child with an unruly mop of thick brown hair. He wails in front of a blazing building. He grips the arm of his teddy on the sidewalk until his caramel knuckles turn white. When the firemen and police finally show up at the decrepit building, a high rise in a neighborhood of not-so-high value, he bolts toward the stretchers carrying the charred remains of a man and a woman, one of the EMTs snatching the hysterical boy up before he can fully reach them.

An adolescent passed from foster home to foster home in misery. Abused, neglected, alone.

A teenager jumped against a chain linked fence, initiated into a new family. Afterwards he slumps limply against the metal, his back clapped in welcome and a trickle of blood running from his grinning, satisfied mouth.

A toothpick between those same charismatically leering lips as his current self and friends triumphantly flee the scene of a vandalized cop cruiser.

Now, the toothpick drops from the gang member's mouth as he roars and delivers blow after blow. Above the panic of the city it echoes in Richards ears like cries of war. Yelling inaudibly, a short, tomboyish female and a thin man with a perpetually insipid expression upon his face rush over, hauling their friend off the officer, ending the assault as quickly as it begins. The other cops have just appeared on the scene.

The lump in Richard's throat only thickens, however.

The battered-faced officer, his visage once so neutrally dutiful, is also red from rage. In seconds he staggers to his feet and draws his gun. Incensed at once, Richard's disturbia morphs past the point of return, past any physicality he's ever known. As he lunges forward, he doesn't recognize the anguished scream as his own.

" No!"

Beyond the crevasses of his casted, veined-popped, hand, he sees it. There is no mistake. The cop tenses and begins to convulse violently. Unyielding fury building inside of Richard's body seems to pulsate, projecting onto the man – and with horror, Richard realizes he can't bridle it. Quickly his limbs start to swell with an untapped power. The venom etched across his features twists and deepens the more he twitches his fingertips, causing the man to arch and bend and contort like a marionette apart of a dark puppet show.

Above them all, the nearly full moon appears to illuminate brighter and brighter; not as a malevolent catalyst but unable to recoil itself the same way the bedraggled teen's eyes sporadically flash a pale blue. He no more has rule over what he's doing than the crowd has of their frenzied reactions to what is happening. The Big Apple was no stranger to the bizarre, but this was going for broke

The cop's countenance bears what can only be shock and agony as the gun finally lands on the pavement wildly – some reel back just in case it goes off. His head jerks back so that he is wailing into the open sky…..choking….gurgling.

The madness inside him decides this isn't enough. With a reflexive, clockwise snap of his hand, Richard has ignited every drop in the man's body.

He can literally feel the man's blood boiling.

Black dots speckle his vision. He's not doing this by his own will, but why does he have no desire to stop? No, why couldn't this man stop? Why did he have to pull that firearm? Why couldn't the gangster have stopped, so Richard wouldn't be reduced to this – a hidden factor in this failed Mexican stand-off? Why did the detained thug have to incite such a crime? Why did he have to disrupt the peace?

Then again, why did the emergency team have to take so long to save the gangster's parents from the fire? If he would have still had his parents, he wouldn't have had to be passed through the system like a worthless cause . He wouldn't have had to be this damaged person. Perhaps, if there was more justice and equality in this city –in this world – Richard would not be at his breaking point, on the one night where –self-recuperation looked to be so promising.

Alas, there is never any peace – only unrest.

His face hardening to uncharacteristic steel, cheeks slickened, he closes his fist with a mighty squeeze.

In that moment, one heart solidifies to match another that has figuratively turned to stone.

Richard's hand drops. Her enrichment, like cursed nourishment, seeps out of his bones leaving behind his swaying, quivering husk. Several seconds had only passed, and the crowd had been too riled up to pay mind to the tall Asian kid who manipulated the strings, yet the fact that he knew it was he who was the cause of the sight before him made his stomach lurch.

The cop's body had toppled over and landed with a sickening clink on the street. On the outside, a thin layer of frost coated his bluish skin, crystals beaded in the hair under his helmet; on the inside, from which Richard could still sense, was the macabre medley of coagulated blood, fluids and liquefied organs. For those to see, who were less sensitive to the man's inner constitution, his shield was clouded so from condensation, it was impossible to see his face now, there was a tell-tale, firm, shiny line of blood trickling from his mouth.

Just as surreal as the unforgivable events that have unfolded, the searing headache that had crept upon him reaches its peak.

He thinks he hears the girl – the one who dared to rescue him from his purgatory, the one brave enough to still be by his side – scream his name when he blacks out and becomes the second lump of dead weight on the concrete before anyone can break his fall.

Beep….beep…beep…

Heavy lids peel open, first groggily shifting from the worn ceiling to the bedside monitor, then the woman to his right like a frayed pendulum.

"Mom?" he croaks, not believing his own voice. His mouth tastes like metal and sand.

Her eyes flutter open, as if pulled from a light doze. Gingerly lifting her head from his blanketed thigh, she sniffles and clasps his hand with both of hers. "Richard? Oh thank goodness, you're awake."

How firmly she squeeze his hand has him inwardly cringing. Automatically a lone tear slips down his face. "Mom…."

"Its okay now, I'm here." Mustering a small smile, she brushes his bangs back from his forehead and cups his cheek. "How do you feel? Do I need to call a nurse?'"

It only takes him half a second to assess the miniscule throbbing in his temple. Otherwise, the rest of him just feels like he's had a well-rested sleep. But the metaphysical pain in his chest…"No, I'm fine," he offers as her thumb swipes away the wetness under his eye. After a minute or so of more whispered reassurances and praises, he inhales, taking in a heaping, sterilized scent of the hospital room, and asks, "How long was I out?"

She stares back just as earnestly. "Almost a day. You…remember what happened?"

He nods glumly.

"Your friend called 911 and then me, from your phone. She explained you were worked up over and incident that occurred downtown and passed out from the commotion…you've never been good with crowds, I know."

So she didn't know what he'd done. Hopefully, no one still did. Or ever would. "Where is she?"

"Out in the waiting room with your sister. Your father is on his way."

"Did she….tell you what happened?"

"Yes…although I'm sure I would've known anyway from how many times the news has broadcasted it." For the first time, he notices the pallor of her cheeks, the lines around her mouth and at the outer creases of her eyes. "I understand why you were upset, sweetheart. But I'm grateful that you weren't entangled," she says a bit quieter, handing him a cup of water.

He takes it with balled, cracked lips, opting to take little sips rather than the big gulps he wants. If he could sink through the bed and be swallowed in the ground, he probably would. Even more so with the question he's going to ask next.

"The cop and his attacker…?"

She inclines her head. "I don't think now's the time, dear…"

"I need to know." He glares down at his murky reflection in the cup of water between his hands. "I can take it." At her bitten lip, he appeals to her again with a pleading look. I'm responsible. I deserve to know what consequences I've wrought….

His mother sighs and takes one of his hands again for good measure. "The gang member was arrested but there's been no update about him. The officer…didn't make it. " She continues to eye him critically. "The investigations are still ongoing…"

Sorely tempted to ask what their names were, he anchors the idea immediately. He had no right and it didn't matter anyway. That officer was probably in this same hospital with him; only he had a sheet over his body and a tag on his toe, with his family on the way in to identify him if they haven't already…

Cold slithers throughout his body; his hands nearly crush the paper cup. "Richard?" he hears his mother inquire in alarm, standing at the accelerated beeping of his monitor. She reads it frantically before turning back to him. "Rich-

"I'm alright Mom," he lies, a hint of crossness in his tone to mask the bitterness and horror. The far off look across the room, targeted on a sunny seaside portrait, is clouded with disgust and shame, however.

"I knew this wasn't a good idea-

"Really Mom. I'm okay." He gestures toward the monitor. "Its already stabilizing."

His heart rate has only dropped one number, as she's noted skeptically, yet she finally relaxes and sits. "I guess that spike is to be expected of anyone. Hearing something like that."

A natural reaction, unlike mine at the square…

Richard downs the rest of his water, starting to feel more haggard than ever. Fixated on the mocking portrait ahead, he's pensive. Images and voices from his prior unconsciousness flood back into his mind with rigor.

At last , his eyes close in resolute understanding.

Distracted from her worried observation of her son, his mother scans the text she's sent and places the phone back on table. "Richard, Dad is here. Do you want-

" Mom."

His urgency transcends to her; she sits up straighter. "Yes?"

"Can you take me to China?"

"China?" She frowns. "What? Honey, what's brought this on?" You're about to graduate and…China? I don't understand."

"She says I need to go. To makes things right." He swallows grimly. "To get better."

" Who says, Richard?"

"Her." He picks up one finger, more gnarled than pointed, to indicate towards the window. The blinds had been drawn earlier to let in a little natural light so the great expanse of deep hued blues and black is exposed for everyone to see. Convinced he is hallucinating, she opens her mouth patiently and sadly to tell him he needs more rest – then she halts at the abnormal, orangish behemoth in the sky. And that his finger trails toward it…

She glances back at him, his glassy, sickly gaze trained on her, exerting a kind of desperation she has never seen in him. Ambivalence has trickled into every fiber of her being, yet one unmistakable night a little over 17 years ago reminds her his request – this shift in her son's life – is bigger than her. Bigger than anything and anyone. Now, she knows that his recent decline is, terrifyingly, out of her hands – just as his revival was oh so long ago. His fever pitch in the city…she wasn't there to see him. But deep down, she knows she didn't need nor want to.

His mother glances at the moon solemnly.

What will you do this time?

"Yes, we'll go," she breathes, rubbing the length of his arm comfortingly. "Whatever you need."

"Just me and you."

"Yes. Just me and you. I'll discuss preparations with your father so we can leave as soon as possible."

Richard tries to beam at her. "Good. Thank you, Mom."

"Of course honey."

Haven't been coddled like this since he was little, Richard sinks back into the pillows with a drizzled expression. The last thought he has before he drifts off is that it is ironic, how this last straw of a predicament made a much needed outing evolve into much more and much further than a simple trip into the city.

He succumbs to the bliss of his mother petting him on the head, every stroke absentmindedly smoothing over the white patch centered there.