#'how presumptuous of me to believe that i could participate in the music that came from my own class of people passed down over the years'

[dandelionjack]

the monarchy should be replaced by shirley collins. a real english institution

[locke-writes]

I wrotecha a lil something as a bit of a pick-me-up since I thought you could use one 😶 Hope you feel better soon!!

“You’re sulking.”

A statement, and an unnecessary one if Noah had ever heard one. And, indeed, he’d heard far too many for his liking in just the past 24 hours alone. His grip on the book he held tightened, carving tiny crescents into its tender leather. It was more progress made than him actually reading (he’d read over the same paragraph at least three times now).

Against what would’ve probably been the most sensible, the young man forced a reply: “Yes. Indeed, I am … sulking.” Deep inside him was a tiny thread of hope that perhaps the terseness of his tone would be enough to end it. But the thread was vastly overshadowed by a grand tapestry of truth: Erik was never one to go silent. The world couldn’t keep him silent, how could his own pupil?

“Is that really what you intend to do this entire visit?” the Opera Ghost questioned, causing Noah to turn and face him. To his lack of surprise, Erik was not, in fact, looking back. Instead, he was busy at the organ, scribbling down whatever music was probably unfurling inside his mind. He did not at all appear bothered by Noah’s glaring, let alone deem it necessary to look up and see that he was. If he were in any better of a mood, Noah would have mused once more about the almost psychic means with which his tutor worked.

“I’m sorry,” Noah spoke coolly, “but I wasn’t aware that you of all people were able to dictate whether or not sulking was allowed.”

“Mm.” The slightest tinkling down of a quill against the ink well. “Well, far be it from me to stop you, then. Though I do request that you refrain from taking it out on my books: It’s not easy to get them down here,” came Erik’s low, husky voice. Once more, Noah found himself wishing he weren’t in such a sour mood. Normally, the simple sound of Erik talking would’ve been enough to bring him some sense of comfort – that was imply the effect of Erik’s voice. But some days, it just wasn’t enough. Some days – like today, for example – were so corrupted with the bile of shitty people and shitty circumstances that even the ethereal voice of his so-called Angel of Music were no more received than that of an actual angel’s messages to mankind.

Though, part of him was somewhat thankful that Erik didn’t intend on prying: It wasn’t out of insensitivity or a decision to just let the lad’s emotions fester, it was just Erik’s understanding that, sometimes, people didn’t wish to talk about what upset them so. Or at least, that was what Erik had assumed from his observations from afar, atop, and below; the Opera Ghost himself had never truly had the opportunity to participate and determine if it work for himself. Really, Erik’s remedies almost always equaled to one salve: Music. Surely the same might work with his own protégé, yes?

… Perhaps that was when Erik became presumptuous.

There was nothing wrong with his playing, of course: The Angel of Music was blessedly cursed to play with utmost perfection, his fingers needing to only grace the ivory keys beneath them to produce an exquisite sound. It was less like playing and more as though his fingertips were dancing.

However, this served poorly in his favor. Just this once. After all, Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata wasn’t exactly the most soothing of movements.

Noah pressed his lips together. He could feel the minor key notes dragging his soul down even further.

“Erik,” he rasped, slamming the useless book into his lap. “That’s not especially helpful.” Immediately, the playing stopped.

So much for that, Erik wanted to grouse aloud. Still, he felt that he did owe the young man some sympathy. Miserable as he could be himself, it didn’t sit right with him to see his own student appearing just as morose. A sigh of acceptance rippled through him before he questioned, “Then, if you had it your way, what might you suggest I play?”

Noah remained silent. He humored the idea of actually thinking up a response, but frankly the impact of the Sonata had done a number on him. He tried to remember something joyous. Anything from past performances or even rehearsals that he might have heard. But nothing came to mind. At least, not musically.

“I … I don’t know,” he admitted, allowing his head to lull back. Given the angled wood, it was far from the most comfortable position, but he didn’t feel motivated enough to better it.

“Never mind,” he surrendered. “Just … just play what you want, I suppose …” And thus, he went silent.

To any outsider looking in (or, at the very least, anyone with any real social experience), they might have thought it cruel that Erik took the boy’s word at face value. But that was the nature of Erik: To be ever-deceptive, even without meaning to.

To Erik, Noah had signaled for him to play something kinder. Softer. Sweeter. And while more sonorous and dulcet pieces were not quite associated with the Phantom’s brand of play, it was more than well within his wheelhouse.

When Handel’s Xerxes premiered in the previous century, it had been deemed a failure. It was only relatively recently that, from its ashes, a gem was determined: “Largo” admittedly sounded somewhat somber when played on the organ (but then, nearly all songs seem to have a lingering hint of tears hidden in every note when produced by an organ). But there was also something assuring. Much like clouds drifting along a bucolic scenery, with a wisp of promise daring to tease along the horizon … Well, at least to Erik that was what it sounded of. In his own way, this was Erik offering help. And, in his innocuous arrogance, he thought he was surely doing a better job than before at it. Perhaps in the past, Noah had praised him for his intuition more than he properly deserved …

Upon glancing back at his audience, Erik found that he was wrong.

He could barely see Noah anymore, mainly because Noah himself had changed his position: From an uncomfortable position with his head lulling, to slouched over, face in his heads. Nearly fetal if not for his feet remaining planted on the ground. From what Erik could make of it, his shoulders weren’t shaking, so he wasn’t crying. But even from this view, at this distance, Erik could feel his exhaustion. It was intense enough that the young man didn’t even so much as glance up to see what had caused his mentor to cease his playing. Nor did he care to so much as peek between the fingers pressed against his eyes as he heard footsteps slowly nearing him before stopping just short of him.

If his wits were at their usual, he would have probably been able to imagine that usually stoic and collected expression of Erik’s becoming muddled with confusion and discomfort. It would’ve been amusing, really, to see such a man uncertain of what to do. But unfortunately, Noah just wasn’t in the best state to assist him.

Truthfully, Noah wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted. He wanted to sleep, he wanted to cry, he wanted it to just be over with and yet he also wanted to just enjoy being somewhere that wasn’t up there! Even if it was dark and smelled strongly of lake and was cold –

The sudden feeling of a new fabric was startling. In fact, it was just enough to cause Noah to pick his head up just a bit. Just enough to see what was happening.

It wasn’t as though Noah had never felt Erik’s cloak before: When Noah had first been brought down to the lair, he tripped trying to get out of the boat, only to be caught in Erik’s arms. It forced him to press up against him, his face brushing against the fabric and allowing him to register Erik’s scent (a combination of roses, suspiciously expensive cologne, wood, and smoke). Since that day, he occasionally would still “trip”, but only just sparingly enough so that Erik wouldn’t suspect a thing.  However, he’d felt it just enough times to know that it was made of some woolen material, and that in Erik’s limited wardrobe, it was one of the finer things he owned and took utmost care of. Probably because, during especially cold drafts, it doubled as a blanket.

But for all it was used for, Noah had to agree amongst his sorrows: Even when draped across his back, there was something about being in the cloak that made him feel … more impressive. Maybe because the owner of it was an intimidating force himself? Whatever the case, its placement truly did perplex Noah.

He looked up at Erik quizzically, only for the latter to just stare back at him. No words were spoken, but it did cause Noah to dare to imagine what Erik would say, had he known how to properly say it: “I’m trying to make you happy. I’m doing my best. Please say this is working, otherwise my next attempts will involve causing a ruckus in the opera house.”

… That last bit might have been a bit excessive, but Noah truly did believe he was close with the rest. Only he didn’t say that the cloak worked. Call him devious, but he wanted to try and see if one more thing might do. Nervously, Noah bit his lip and patted the seat beside him. It was unceremonious, but it was all he could hope to do with the way his mind was currently running.

Erik, on the other hand, appeared startled. He furrowed his brow as if to say, “Really?” Noah made no effort to say otherwise or take it back.

Erik turned his head only slightly, eyes still planted on his apprentice. “Me?” Once again, Noah said nothing to deny it.

Realistically, the image of a man feeling hesitant to sit down on furniture in his own home simply because it was occupied by a distressed lad could conjure up a few feelings. In this context, it was entertaining, given how Erik had no reason to be afraid; if anything, all the fears and hesitancies he had were conjured up in his mind. His movements were slow and calculated, as if he was prepared for Noah to reject his company at any moment. But even once his rump became planted on the cushion, no such thing happened. Instead, there was only silence. The occasional trickle of water hitting the shoreline, or a whisper of a draft running through. But other than that, nothing.

Erik didn’t have the most experience with social situations but by God, he was certain this was every person’s worst nightmare: Just sitting awkwardly in total silence while someone you care about sits next to you, not in a very good mood. He had to do something, right? After all, he’d been invited to come sit by him for a reason, yes? Surely there was … something he could do …? He racked his brain, searching through mental reference guides, trying to remember if Noah had ever mentioned things that he especially enjoyed during previous visits.

Lo and behold, one did come to mind.

… Surely there’s another, Erik insisted to himself. Realistically, there were. But of the options available, this one was all he could recall. He considered weighing the pros and cons of just sneaking upstairs and perhaps stealing a cake from somewhere or just stabbing the source of the problem when he found himself not even paying attention to his own actions. When this moment became hindsight to Erik, he still was not able to determine what had possessed him. An angel? A devil? … If it was God, why did He choose then to intervene!? Whatever the case, the deed wound up being done: His hand rested over Noah’s.

It was cold, a bit bony, and Noah wasn’t entirely certain but he suspected there were and decided not to be shocked if there were small, healed scars from the man’s various misadventures. Besides, those were small potatoes compared to the shock that even was the gesture.

“… There, there,” Erik murmured quietly. “It’s going …” Hm. Did somebody like him have the right to say that? He tried something else.

“The good thing about the future is that there’s a chance.” He deemed it appropriate to leave it at that.

A small beat of silence passed before Noah scoffed lightly. “Getting a tad profound, are we?” he joked. Normally, Erik would have scowled. The Phantom of the Opera was not one to flimflam with profundity. However, he would allow it. For now. Even the slightest hint of Noah’s usual humor was a good sign, given his track record.

“I will have you know that, given my seniority, I am one who can dictate this at least,” he tried to recover, which was a slight bit hard to do when also awkwardly attempting to offer consolation with a simple handhold. The humor of it was not lost on Noah, but exhaustion over the ordeal of all that had happened robbed him of the ability to dwell on it for too long. But acknowledgement was a start. He truly did appreciate it.

This time, the following silence was decidedly intended on both sides, allowing Erik to feel far less embarrassed about his social ineptitude. For now, this was what Noah needed: Just to be quiet together with somebody who cared. It wasn’t quite something that Erik understood himself, given his usual preference to playing music to cover up his sorrows. However, for his beloved pupil, he would gladly make an exception.

…

What he hadn’t been prepared to make an exception for, however, was when Noah finally let sleep take him. As the younger man slumped against him, face pressed against his chest, Erik remained frozen. He wondered if, perhaps, the fools running the opera above would notice if a certain employee of theirs spent a night or two elsewhere on the grounds of needing a mental health holiday.

[lovesickjily]

feel like glitter

JILY CHALLENGE ( @jilychallenge​ ) | @lovesickjily​ vs @chierafied​

"you have horrible taste in festival snacks, the clear winner is a pot of pringles and all you've got is some crappy cereal bars in here"

ffn or ao3

***

If James Potter had a dollar for every time someone offered him drugs, he swore he’d have twice the money in his bank account.

That should have been a given because hello? Music festival? Home to Instagram influencers and modern-day hippies alike? James shouldn’t have been surprised at the turn out.

Still, he didn’t think it would have been that bad.

Sure, the music was decent enough, but no one had warned him of strangers after strangers offering him their equally strange drugs. No one had warned him that once the sun went down, he’d see dark silhouettes hunched over bushes and smell what could have only been natural body waste.

And least of all, no one warned him that once he returned to his tent, he’d be greeted by a stranger sprawled out amidst the snacks that Sirius had been so insistent on bringing. A pretty stranger, no less.

She might have looked like the other girls who James had passed up— glitter decorating her cheeks like they were a cake and sprinkled atop her hair like snow stuck to a person’s clothes— but something about her set her apart from everyone else. It could have been her silky red hair, or those sparkling green eyes, but whatever it was, all James knew was that she was gorgeous. Supermodel— more than a supermodel— gorgeous. 

“Is this your tent?” she asked, her mouth full of what James could only assume to be Sirius’s snacks. No hi, or hello, no greeting. Hell, not even an apology for trespassing on his property— nevermind the fact that the turf that the festival was on technically didn’t belong to him—  and yet that, in combination with the crumbs decorating the perimeter of her lips, still made her look pretty.

He leaned against the pole holding up the tent, ignoring the smell of the unholy combination of drugs and alcohol wafting from the tents besides his, and cocked an eyebrow at her. “Is this yours?”

“Obviously not. I’ve actually got some taste buds.”

“And I don’t?”

She sat up, sticking her hands out to steady herself, and it was apparent that the readily-supplied stock of alcohol at the festival had gotten to her. "You have horrible taste in festival snacks, the clear winner is a pot of pringles, and all you've got are some crappy cereal bars in here.”

Right. Of course. Out of all the people that could have raided his and Sirius’s tent, it had to be someone critical of the poor, innocent snacks sitting in a messy heap on the floor. Even if he agreed that the snacks weren’t the best.

“Would you believe me if I said that I wasn’t in charge of the snacks?”

She hummed, pondering his wonders for a moment. “That would be a relief. Otherwise I would have questioned what evil entity in their right mind would give someone so fit a horrible taste in junk food.”

At his age, he shouldn’t have been so affected by someone complimenting his appearances, unable to help the light smirk forming on his face. “Think that horrible entity does exist.” He nodded towards the pile of her empty wrappers. “You practically ate all the snacks we packed.”

“The food here is horribly overpriced, and if not that, it’s swarming with flies.” She grimaced, plucking another Pringle from the box and shoving it into her mouth. “I’m terribly hungry, so do you really blame me?”

“Fair enough,” James said, and he decided that there was no harm in letting himself into the tent. It was his tent after all. “Move over.”

She complied, her hand still gripping the box of Pringles. With eyes greener than the fields and constellations of mascara dotting her cheeks, she suspiciously peered up at him. “What’s your name? Oh!” She clapped her hands together. “Don’t tell me. You look like… a Harry.”

“A Harry?” James asked, amused by the drunken rambles of an equally drunk girl. He leaned back, letting his body rock the chair with his weight. “My grandpa was named Henry, but no. It’s James. Potter.”

“James,” she echoed, and he liked the way the words fell from her lips. “I guessed a Prince name, so I suppose I wasn’t too far off.”

“You think I’m a prince?”

“Well, are you? Otherwise, I think I’ll have to leave a message for the Queen and tell her that I’ve found her long-lost son.”

“Tell her I’ve run away for good. Avoiding responsibilities and all that.”

“Obviously you aren’t here to court noble women.”

“Maybe I am,” James said, flashing her a slight cocky grin, and he bowed, outrageously curtsying her. “My lady.”

She laughed. “You’re bold, courting me when you don’t know my name.”

“‘Course I do. The name gods have told me that it’s…” He looked at her for help.

“Lily,” she finished.

“Lily,” he repeated, liking the sound of it rolling off his lips. “You a flower, then?”

She sighed, leaning back. “Maybe. I’ve got a sister named Petunia if that helps my case.”

James shrugged. “Depends on if you want to be a flower or not.”

“What I want right now,” she started, flopping her head back onto one of the pillows littering the tent floor and holding up the now-empty can of Pringles. “Are better snacks.”

“I reckon if you raid one of the other gazillion tents, you’ll be able to get that.”

“That, unfortunately, means I’d have to get up.” She buried her head further into the pillow as if to prove her point. “Is this yours?”

“I mean, it is my tent.”

“That’s the wrong answer. It’s mine now.”

James smiled, no doubt amused even more than he would have been had he chosen to stay out to listen to Sirius’s horrible interpretations of the EDM beats that were currently blaring throughout the air. “Take good care of it, yeah? It’s my most prized possession.”

“Is it really?”

“Nah,” he replied, shaking his head. “There was a pack of pillows on sale at the store the other day.”

She laughed. “You’re supposed to be wooing me here.”

“Thought I was. You’re not into thrifty blokes? Thought you’d be the type, seeing as we’re at a music festival and all.”

“And yet we’re not participating. Why is that so?”

“Because I found you raiding my tent and eating all the snacks?” James replied, and she let out a huff, weakly and terribly chucking a pillow that sent his athletic side into tears. “Couldn’t help but get sideswept.”

She sat up. “What do you say we get out there, then?”

He grinned. “Lead the way.”

***

In theory, it shouldn’t have been so hard to lead someone around, to take them by their hand and show them the way.

In reality, it was the exact opposite— so bloody hard. Because even if said someone was the prettiest girl that James had ever seen in his life,  it was really hard to maneuver the two of them around throngs of people who were all out of it. Thank the bloody drugs.

As they got closer and closer to the main stage, James careful to step over what he hoped could have only been throw up and not something else, the music grew louder and louder. And, apparently, Lily’s excitement grew as well. 

“I love this song!” she exclaimed over the music, moving her body to the beat.

“Yeah? You a fan?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never heard of them in my life, but you can’t deny how good they are!”

Lily swayed to the beat, grabbing his hands to make him move along to the rhythm. If he was being honest, he didn’t think he’d find himself in the company of another person who wasn’t Sirius— not tonight, at least. Perhaps it was the alcohol from earlier that day, or maybe it was the adrenaline that came with the thrill of being one among an entire crowd of people jumping and dancing and throwing their hearts— and stomach’s contents, to the slight disgust of James— out, but James didn’t think he felt so alive.

WIth everyone singing along to the song, James couldn’t help but to join in, screaming along with them and watching Lily jump around. And it wasn’t planned. It just sort of… happened.

Even surrounded by people, it still somehow felt like just the two of them, and he kissed her. Spontaneously. Hands looping around her waist and pulling her to his chest, James pressed his lips around hers, slowly and tentatively, before it escalated into something a little more.

Her lips tasted salty— perhaps from the Pringles that she’d eaten— but he didn’t mind a bit, determined to deepen the kiss. The action seemed to elevate every one of his senses, pounding at his ears even harder as the music seemed to grow louder.

And when they— he didn’t even know who had done it first— pulled away, he didn’t think he was letting her go anytime soon.

***

The bright, sudden sun jolted James awake.

“Rise and fucking shine,” Sirius announced, walking in through the flap of the tent and making a beeline towards the cooler. 

James groaned. “Fuck off.”

“I was about to, actually. It reeks of a potential relationship in here,” Sirius said with a grimace, and satisfied with the water bottle in his hand, he turned back around. “We’re leaving in ten.”

And then it was James and Lily alone once again.

Lily shifted besides James, having spent the night in the tent with him, and to keep Sirius away, she promised that she’d pay him back for all his snacks that she’d eaten. She rolled over, snuggling herself into the crook of his neck. “Good morning. Did you get a good night’s sleep?”

“As good that sleep could be with the bloody mosquitoes flying around. Swear I had to swat off at least a dozen for my lady.”

“And who is your lady?”

WIth her tucked against his person, it was obvious who that title belonged to. “Am I being too presumptuous?”

“No,” she hummed. “But I’ve got a massive headache right now, and I don’t think the flutters in my stomach are helping any matters.”

“Ah. That’s my bad. Is there anything that I can do to help?”

“Well…” she started, looking over at him with a light glint in her eyes. “There is something.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And would that involve maybe seeing you again?”

“Only if you get better snacks next time,” she said, and James let out a chuckle, letting his hand fly down to hers and giving it a slight squeeze.

“Deal.”