#((what he heard bach say was actually what he witnessed))

[ask-kimerako-therapycarpool]

Why do you assume it was malice?

[He stares at the anon, baffled.] Assu– Are… are you DEAF?? You just asked me now if I thought it was malicious or not!! I already told you it scared us on purpose!!

[bllsbailey]

Kamala Harris and Tim Walz Hate You

Imagine running for President of the United States and not speaking with anyone. Not “to,” you have to do lots of “speaking to” people, but “with,” as in having a conversation, an exchange. Kamala Harris and Tim Walz have been trying that for the past month and a half but finally caved to the reality that they would have to speak with someone and choose the softest target they could find that the public would accept. And the whole thing went about as well as you’d expect when the candidates hold the public in complete contempt.

Yes, that’s right: Kamala Harris, Tim Walz, and the entire left-wing establishment hold you, the American people, in contempt. They treat you with a twist on the old saying about children – you are to be preached to, not heard. You don’t treat people you respect like they are unworthy of addressing you, having their questions answered, or talking at them like a condescending kindergarten teacher. 

Yet, that’s what these people do.

When they finally sat down for an interview, it was with CNN because going to MSNBC would have been dismissed as the partisan hackery it clearly would have been. Since NBC News has literally no one who could pass for a journalist, the campaign chose Dana Bash because she’s on the team but can still ask a semi-serious question. However, questions to politicians are only as good as the willingness of the person asking them to follow up and insist on an actual answer. The person asking them has to know or have a rough approximation of the answer to hold them to account. 

But for any of that to happen, you must be interested in getting an answer, not simply getting through it. Bash was not.

Her time was limited���just 20 minutes was allotted. Imagine a campaign holding the American public in such contempt that they would only allow 2 minutes shy of a sit-com, which is 22 minutes long, for anyone to question their candidates. Bash ended up getting 27 because no campaign in their right mind would stop the tongue bath Harris and Walz were receiving, but if it had been serious, staff would have stepped in.

They went as far as they felt comfortable – dumb people and frauds can only hold it together for so long, even during a massage session where the interviewer asks leading softball questions without threat of follow-up.

What did we get? Not much. Kamala still couldn’t articulate a single priority for “day one,” even though that question was so obvious Stevie Wonder could’ve seen it coming. There is no pressing on any of her egregious flip-flops on fracking, the border wall, socialized medicine, etc. Bach simply lumped them all together into a question that any strip mall lawyer would have objected to as “leading the witness.” 

Bash asked, “Generally speaking, how should voters look at some of the changes you've made that you explain in your policy? Is it because you have more experience and have learned more about the information? Is it because you were running for president in a Democratic primary? And should they feel comfortable and confident that what you're saying now will be your policy moving forward?”

Pathetic, but not surprising.

The whole thing went like that with Kamala. She still offers up meaningless word salads like, “I am so proud to have served as vice president to Joe Biden and to I'm so proud to be running with Tim Walz for president of the United States and to bring America what I believe the American people deserve, which is a new way forward, and turn the page on the last decade of what I believe has been, contrary to where the spirit of our country really lies.”

Considering Democrats controlled the White House for 6 of the last 10 years, that’s quite a slam on what Barack Obama clearly started, isn’t it? 

Tim Walz, the coked-out college mascot, wasn’t any better. He was, in fact, worse. Fraudie Murphy got one question tangentially related to his decades of stolen valor, but it was couched in the friendliest terms possible, of course. 

He asked about his “weapons of war I carried on war” lie, and he brushed it off as bad grammar. Is it bad grammar that only one of the people he served with in the National Guard for over 24 years came forward to speak favorably about his character? ONE! Dozens have gone the other way, and the silence of the rest speaks volumes. 

But Bash didn’t bring it up. She just let him adopt the cowardly Hamas tactic of hiding behind children. Fraudie said, “I said we were talking about, in this case, this was after school shooting, the idea of carrying these weapons of war. My wife, the English teacher who taught me grammar, is not always correct. But again, if it's not this, it's an attack on my children for showing love for me, or it's an attack on my dog. I'm not going to do that. And the one thing I'll never do is I'll never demean another member's service in any way. I never have, and I never will.”

He can’t demean another person’s service because, unless they abandoned their men right before a deployment, lied about their rank for 20 years, and pretended to be a combat veteran, there’s no way they are even as bad as, let alone worse than Tim Walz is. 

What do his kids have to do with anything? Like all sewer water, he seeks the path of least resistance and kids offer that. No one attacked his kids, they simply pointed out how his son appeared to have lost control of his entire body at the convention, screaming, “That’s my dad!” I’ve heard his son is autistic and non-verbal, which seems odd since he was screaming that, but whatever – he’s not the awful candidate; his father is, so I don’t care either way. But that’s hardly an “attack on his children.” 

They’re both frauds; they’re both awful. The idea that Kamala is simply rushed in her candidacy is undercut by the fact that she’s plotted for this moment most of her adult life, and definitely the last 5 years. And she’s been Vice-President – “ready on day one” to be president, just not ready on day 39 to answer questions about, apparently.

Walz is just a liar about everything. He tries to “awe-shucks” his way through his public appearances, bouncing around the stage like a coked-out college mascot for a team that sucks – prancing and dancing, pointing and clapping, desperate to get the wave started in a stadium out 20 percent full. You almost feel badly for him until you realize he’s a bad person. 

The final question – and imagine having what may well be the only chance to ask someone running for president questions, and you waste time on something like this (have you ever heard a softball question remotely close to this asked of Trump or Vance? No.) – was, “And last question, Madam Vice President, the photograph that has gone viral, you were speaking one of your grand nieces that you were just talking about was watching you accept the nomination. You didn't explicitly talk about gender or race in your speech, but it obviously means a lot to a lot of people. And that viral picture really says it. What does it mean to you?”

First, there’s no such thing as “grand nieces.” There are nieces and great-nieces. Kamala is not a grandmother, nor is she a mother. She is childless by choice (you can decide if you think she’s had abortions or how many, but you can’t deny she sure loves them) and only became a stepmother when her husband’s kids were in their late teens. How much time do you think California's Attorney General spent “mothering” teenagers who mostly lived with their real mothers? None? Less than none?

Second, what a stupid question. What should the audience get from any answer that could be offered in response to it? Is some pointless rambling about “historic” or whatever doing to serve as a 25 percent off coupon at the grocery store or gas station? Do you get a discount on your rent, mortgage, or electric bill if you sit through it? No. Are you even remotely more informed about what Kamala Harris would do as president? You are not. 

It was just a final example of how to waste an opportunity. The whole “interview” seemed to be conducted to get more future access by being nice to them. Journalists should conduct every interview with a politician like it’s the last time they will ever be allowed to speak with them, so they’d better ask tough questions.

I know the mentality; I’ve dealt with many people who do it on both sides. They suck up to the people they like hoping to get them back later. They all insist they’re tough, that they’re not friends with these people, but love telling their audience how close they are to them. And you come away with nothing as an audience except the inflated sense of self-importance from the questioner.

Dana Bash didn’t give her audience anything of use Thursday night, but she also didn’t allow Kamala Harris and Tim Walz to hurt themselves, which was more important to the left. The public knows nothing more about either of them or what they’d do in office other than they want to make things better. If the truth were on the side of Democrats, they’d be eager to tell it to anyone willing to listen. That they hide tells you all you need to know. 

Democrats view the public as a feckless mass of humanity in desperate need of leadership in every aspect of your life. They hold you in contempt. Return the favor.

Derek Hunter is the host of a free daily podcast (subscribe!) and author of the book Outrage, INC., which exposes how liberals use fear and hatred to manipulate the masses, and host of the weekly “Week in F*cking Review” podcast where the news is spoken about the way it deserves to be. Follow him on Twitter at @DerekAHunter.

[frogsmulder]

The Seeds of Us

@baronessblixen I actually wrote it! although I’m not sure I quite did it justice; set just after they move into the unremarkable house; about 1300 words; rated t; also tagging @today-in-fic

It was early March and the fresh warmth of the sun on the springtime flowers was equaled by the warmth of Scully wrapped up to her nose under the duvet. The tip of it twitched against the cover and her eyes fluttered, waking up. Everything was soft. It had been almost two years since she had woken up in a comfortable bed and she didn't want to get up just yet. So, she snuggled further under the covers, her hair was fanning out across the pillows in a scruffy mess that retained the memory of hands scrunching through it the previous night.

She quietly hummed, "home," still not quite believing it, and smiled.

It was then that she heard movement downstairs and some old music pump through loudspeakers. Heavy guitar chords and drum beats flood the house, sound waves crashing only slightly muffled into the bedroom. Scully sat up, bemused. The sounds were quickly followed by Mulder's voice resonating through the walls.

"Da Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Nah! Brrp Brrp Brrp! Da Na Na Na..."

She had to bite her lip to stifle a chuckle.

Pulling on Mulder's t-shirt from yesterday that was strewn on the floor, Scully made her way downstairs. She was greeted by Mulder and the vacuum cleaner humming along to Should I Stay or Should I Go as they swept their way around the kitchen. Quietly laughing to herself, she held back for a while, watching him dance about barefoot in jeans and a t-shirt. She tilted her head to the side, admiring the view. He did look good in jeans.

Mulder abruptly turned around and she caught herself irrationally blushing.

"Oh hey!" he beamed and switched of the hoover. "Sorry, I was unpacking some of the boxes, and there was some mess, and I found a box with all your music in and... Did I wake you?"

Scully smiled and stood up on her tiptoes to kiss him. "No, it's good."

He cupped his hands over hers on his rough cheeks and sighed. She understood completely what he was saying. It was strange finally living together, owning a house together, doing the things that normal people did after all this time. She frequently caught herself pausing in the moment to appreciate the sublime gravitas of normality. It was utterly, intoxicatingly thrilling.

She grinned. "I know."

Mulder laughed and nipped at her– his– t-shirt neckline, teeth scraping just inches from her skin. Scully erupted in a burst of small giggles that crescendoed when he lifted her up. She slapped his back to put her down and he did so, but on the countertop, and kissed her cheek.

She looked up at him through her eyelashes, breathing, "I'll get you back."

"I look forward to it," he chuckled.

His hands rested on her bare thighs, thumbs drawing circles higher and teasingly higher until he reached the hem of his shirt, which admittedly on her was not that high. She could tell from his eyes, intently focused on hers, that he was unaware that his hands were making a journey, that he just needed her close and the physical evidence at his fingertips to prove it. He looked at her quizzically like she was a fresh mystery, more brilliant than anything they had seen before, forming a question in his mind.

She shifted involuntarily beneath his touch and raised her eyebrows, prompting him.

"I have to ask," he eventually said, resting his hands on the dip of her waist. "The Clash? It doesn't seem like your thing."

She frowned at him. "What would be my thing?"

He shrugged. "Bach? Mendelssohn? ABBA?"

Bowing her head, she huffed a laugh. "I was going through a phase."

"A phase?"

Mulder lifted her chin with his finger, wanting to see every moment of her revelation.

"I guess you could call it that."

"And this phase included punk rock?"

She bit her lip. "No. Well, yes. Sort of. It was my first year of college..."

"Ahhh." Mulder grinned in recognition, eyes widening, gleaming with curiosity. She could feel herself heating up under his gaze. "Was this phase perhaps one of rebellion? Sex, drugs, and Rock n Roll?"

"Tell me you didn't have a similar phase."

He paused, thinking back to his years at Oxford.

"Exactly," she smirked.

"Okay, fair enough–" he stepped closer between her legs– "but I'm still intrigued by this young, punk Dana. Who was she?"

Scully picked some imaginary lint off of his chest– her need to touch him as equal to his, creating any old excuse to do so whilst her mind wandered back.

"Well, she still did her essays before she went out, but she also used to back-comb her hair and have a belly ring. I even saved my waitressing tips to buy a leather jacket."

Mulder mock gasped at the shape her unruly behaviour formed, the distinctive mark to rebel within the confines of a safe structure entirely and purely the Scully he knew. It was like seeing the seed of the woman she was today grow in the rich soil of all those past choices.

She gave him a shy smile. "You know, it wasn't much, but it felt like a lot at the time."

Mulder captured her soft lips tenderly, smiling against them when she gasped. She laughed at the surprise but pulled him closer, locking her ankles together behind his back. Her hand held his cheek when she pulled away, keeping him close as their foreheads continued to kissed where their lips had broken apart.

"What about young, rebellious Mulder? What was he up to?"

"Nothing nearly as exciting. I still did the club scene, but I was better at getting warnings for trespassing."

Scully rolled her eyes, drawing closer to him until she was pressing her lips chastely to his, just to feel them. She gently let go and rested her head against his chest, chuckling.

"I had a friend that this song reminds me of. I used to sit in her room and listen to this album, sharing cigarettes and dancing."

"Is that why you bought this record?"

"No, this is the actual record."  Scully shook her head and couldn't help but smile. "She gave it to me when we graduated."

"She must have really liked you."

"Hmm... Isn't it strange how far we've grown apart from our old selves? All the people we've left behind? Jane probably has a family now and I only know a 20-year-old version of her from college."

"Jane? Her name was Jane?"

She pulled back, eyeing him defensively. "What's wrong with that?"

He laughed and shook his head, softening her brow with his response.

"I do know what you mean. But I don't think that changing is necessarily a bad thing." Mulder pressed his forehead to hers and moved one hand from her waist to curl around her small hand. "We are constantly evolving and that's the beauty of it."

He slowly closed his eyes, not wanting to miss a moment of Scully, knowing that this version of her was also a seedling, slowly maturing into a future Scully, and she had chosen him as her witness of that life journey. But the completeness of the moment, her in his arms in their house, was contently overwhelming.

Scully's eyes fluttered closed too and she hummed off-key to the music.

"Mulder, are you slow dancing me to The Clash?"

He grinned, eyes snapping open to see her smiling too.

"Wanna stop?"

She opened her eyes and saw everything in his.

"No."

[victoria-daydreams]

Of Vices and Virtues

Chapter Ten: Old Wounds

AN: I really don’t know what to say here, other than enjoy!

Word Count: 4.3k

Trigger Warnings: unhealthy coping mechanisms?

Taglist: @azayamari

Chapter Eleven: Bottled Up

"Claudia," Erik called. "I'm bored,"

We were sitting in Central Park where I sat on a bench enjoying the fall season of New York. The sound of children playing freely with their parents was all around me, and I couldn't help but to wish that was the childhood I had. So carefree, so normal.

"And what does that have to do with me?" I asked, too immersed in my reading to look up.

"I'd figured that maybe you would entertain me," Erik suggested.

I rolled my eyes and chuckled before I continued my reading, switching from both hands holding the novel to my left hand holding it open as I bit the nail of my right thumb.

"If you wanted entertainment, you should have stayed with Moira and Charles to watch the musicians playing," I reminded dryly, finally looking up from my book and turning my head to follow the sound violins being played beautifully.

They played Bach and Handel, then they moved to Mozart, and then they played some pieces that I was unable to identify, possibly compositions of their own. Their fingers moved as if they were dancing over the necks of the violins, the notes filled the air. The sound of high pitched laughter broke the daze I had gone into and my eyes darted to the source of it. A smile graced my lips as I watched a group of children playing tag with each other.

Erik followed my gaze, "How you ever thought about it?" he asked, looking over at me.

"Thought about what?" I asked back, turning my head to him.

"Having children of your own?"

"Maybe," I answered, slightly shrugging my shoulders. "If the world wasn't so cruel," I continued, sighing heavily. "I wouldn't want to raise my child in an environment that hates them the moment they're born," I added, shaking my head. "What about you? Do you want children?" I questioned, closing my copy of The Great Gatsby.

"I do," Erik answered, and I raised my eyebrows in shock.

"Boy or girl?" I asked again, turning my body to face him.

"Girl,"

"Aww, who knew that someone like Erik Lehnsherr would want a little baby girl," I teased, a smile on my face and Erik just rolled his eyes at me. "She'll be in good hands and well taken care of, she'll have a better childhood than the both of us," I proposed, nodding my head with a grin.

We sat in silence for a moment, Erik, I could feel him watching me, but I was too preoccupied by staring off into space, chewing on my bottom lip. Thinking of what could have been with my own family.

"Bombing aside," Erik began pulling me back to reality. "Did you have a happy childhood?" he asked, draping his arm over the back of the park bench, his body now facing my own.

"Bombing aside," I repeated, cocking my head to the side. "I would say I had a decent childhood," I corrected. "Until I was seven," I remembered, my hand closing and forming a fist.

"What happened when you were seven?"

"I found out that I was different from most kids," I stated quietly, a tight-lipped smile appearing on my face.

A high pitched squeal escaped from my mouth as I kicked the ball back to my dad before I ran around our small backyard the grass tickling my feet. A wide smile on my face as my bare feet hit the cool green surface, my toes digging into the earth. A bright yellow spot caught my eye, surrounded by a sea of green grass. I forced myself to slow down and stopped at the yellow dot, bending down I realized it was a dandelion. My grin grew wider and I snatched it from the ground, raising up from the ground I turned to the back porch where my mom and grandma were residing.

"Mama, look!" I yelled, proudly displaying my dandelion.

Mama lifted her head up from the sleeping of bundle of my sister and smiled at me, "That's so pretty, Claudia!" Mama cheered, and I nodded my head vigorously in agreement.

"Claudia watch out!" Daddy shouted.

I turned my head immediately to the sound of his voice and the ball we had been kicking was on a straight path to my face. I let out a shriek and threw my hands out to protect myself. And just like that, it seemed like time froze. I peeked behind my raised arms and gasped, the ball hadn't hit me, instead the ball was suspended in midair surrounded in a pretty shade of violet. Confused, I lowered my arms and was shocked to see the ball slowly coming closer to the ground as I moved my arms down; I was controlling whatever force held it. I lowered the ball to the ground gently, before releasing the force around the ball.

"Mama, Daddy! Did you see what I did?" I asked excitedly.

No one answered me. It was dead quiet and I swallowed nervously, as I looked at my parents and Grandma. Mama had her hand covering her mouth and her eyes were wide open, filling up with tears. Seconds later Daddy was at my side. Grandma got to her knees, before clasping her hands together and began praying quietly.

"Claudia, what did you do?" Mama asked, in the most frightened tone I had ever heard her use.

"I knew my parents were horrified, even my father, although he never let it show. I mean why wouldn't he be. What I could do...it wasn't exactly normal behavior," I recalled, a mirthless laugh escaping my mouth.

"They didn't disown you, I hope?" Erik asked, a frown appearing on his face.

"Luckily, they didn't. Could you imagine throwing your seven year-old daughter out the house?" I speculated, knitting my eyebrows together. "That would be horrific!" I exclaimed.

"What did your parents do after witnessing your ability? How did they react?" Erik questioned.

"They told me they loved me regardless..." I trailed off.

Daddy knelt down in front of me and grasped my small shoulders, inspecting me closely, "Claudia…sweetheart…Mama and I want you to stay quiet about this. Alright?"

I frowned at what Daddy asked, "But why? It's amazing and so pretty!"

Mama knelt down beside Daddy and gave me a small, sad smile, "Yes, it is. But you have to understand something...sometimes...people get scared of things they don't understand," Mama explained gently.

I tilted my head to the side as I processed what Mama just said, "Why would people be scared?"

"That's hard to explain, honey. Personally...we don't know of anyone that has a...gift...like you do. If you showed others, they may react badly to it and they might hurt you," Mama tried to further explain to me.

I looked down at the ground. I had noticed Mama's hesitation about using the word gift. It made me wonder. "Are you scared of me now?"

At my question, both Mama and Daddy embraced me tightly. "No. No we're not," Daddy said with conviction.

"But you didn't believe them, did you?"

"You know what? I did actually. It was what my Grandma said that made questioned my parents true feelings about my mutation," I admitted.

"What did she say?"

"She told me that one day there will be a cure for me," I spat, recalling my Grandma's words. "I thought that would be the worst thing she would say to me, but oh how wrong I was," I went on, shaking my head.

"I take it you developed your empathic powers soon after," Erik guessed.

I nodded, "Two weeks had barely passed after my telekinetic incident, when I started to get these horrible headaches," I explained, my expression darkening. "That's when I began to pick up on emotions that weren't mine. I had told my parent's that I could feel their emotions as they passed through their minds. Of course, at first, they assumed I was playing around but after proving my talent to them both, they were shaken," I added.

I shook my head again, thinking back to how it had taken my family quite a while to get used to my empathy. To realize that a pain in your chest caused by the anguish that suddenly rose from no where was not your own, but someone else's. It was a violation in a way, and one that made my family hesitant to be near me.

"My grandma turned completely hostile toward me. In an attempt to get rid of me, my grandma suggested that they send me to psych ward because I was having a a mental breakdown," I stated, crinkling my noise in disgust while shaking my head. "God Erik, why did you ruin this beautiful day by making me recall my childhood," I groaned, running hand through my hair. "Now I actually need some entertainment," I mentioned, standing up from the wooden bench and walking away from him.

"Claudia, wait," Erik called, and I could hear his footsteps jogging behind me. "Come on, you know that was never my intention," he reasoned, falling in line with my stride.

Sighing, I looked over at him and nodded my head, "I know," I agreed. "You know I can be over dramatic," I breathed, my lips quirking up into a small smile.

A cool breeze blew through the trees of Central Park, bringing with it a flurry of freshly fallen leaves which stood a stark contrast to flocks of lively birds making their way steadily northward. My eyes scanned my surroundings, people were about the park as always, going about their business as only New Yorkers truly could.

"Erik," I began, sliding my book into my coat pocket. "Do you think I'm going crazy?" I asked randomly, facing him again

He cocked an eyebrow and laughed, "What? No," Erik answered, shaking his head with a smile. "I haven't seen one sign that you're losing your mind," he continued, his smile widening. "A strange question to ask Claudia, I have to say," Erik stated, with a chuckle.

I shrugged, "I have a feeling that Charles thinks I'm going crazy," I theorized, interlocking my fingers together behind my back.

"Don't be ridiculous Claudia," Erik grinned. "What would ever make you think that?" he inquired, letting out a hearty laugh.

"Why else do you think we took this impromptu trip here?" I pointed out, unlinking my fingers and sticking my hand in front of me. "He means wells, but all because I was distant two days ago, he's been like a mother hen," I complained, beginning to fiddle with the amber charm of my necklace. "Always watching me from over my shoulder and monitoring me. I haven't been able to really use my empathic powers because all Charles wants to do is focus on my telekinesis," I finished, a slight scowl appearing on my face.

"Here's a crazy thought, maybe he's just worried about you, Claudia," Erik replied sarcastically. "You have been a lot training these past two days, one would say too hard. You're not eating a lot, I noticed that you're up later than you usually are," he listed, ticking them off with his fingers. "Not to mention your temper has been shorter than usual," Erik remembered.

"I am not up late," I argued, knowing that the dark circles underneath my eyes I hid beneath my makeup showed all of the signs of restless night's sleep. "Nor have I been short of temper lately," I insisted, crossing my arms together.

"You cut your lights off at 11:00 pm on the dot every night. Recently, your lights have been on up until 1:00 am," Erik deadpanned, giving me a knowing look and my brow rose. "Yes, I've noticed that," he added, answering my silent question.

I really couldn't help myself from asking, "Oh, so you notice things about me?" I questioned grinning. "Because usually I have to tell you when you should look for something," I added, still grinning.

Erik rolled his eyes and laughed, "I notice things about everyone," he replied, and then looked at me slyly. "But I maybe paying some...extra attention to you,"

We proceeded down the walkway not sure where I wanted to go, but I wanted to be somewhere. I came across one of the many fountains in Central Park and lowered my hand into the water and ran the tips of my fingers over it. A thought crossed my mind and I lifted my hand, flicking water at Erik and drew back from the onslaught of the water droplets.

"You're such a child," Erik commented, his lips curving into a smile as he went to grab for my hand which I easily spun away from.

"I try to be," I smiled back.

I moved off the cement path and walked onto the seemingly endless lawn of the park. I made my way further onto the grass until we come near a thick grove of oak trees interspersed with some hearty pines. There were people spread out all over the field of all sorts, around the clearing's edges parents watched their children idly. Women read magazines or gossiped with one another while men ate their lunches or smoked amongst the trees, college students were laid on picnic blankets or throwing a football around.

Sticking my hand out I began to trace the rough bark of the tree next to me, beginning to walk in a circle. I closed my eyes and let my hand guide me around the tree, circling the tree twice in blissful content.

"May I ask what you're doing?" Erik asked, stopping me in my tracks and I opened my eyes, he was standing next to me, an amused expression painted on his face.

I glanced at him and smirked, "Whatever I want I suppose," I answered, continuing on my path around the tree.

Erik began to circle the tree as well only he went the opposite way, "And what is it that you want Miss Walker?" he inquired.

"I'm in need of some entertainment, just like you," I answered, turning around to meet Erik in front of the tree. He abruptly stopped once he saw me, our fingers brushed together momentarily before I leaned my back against the tree, looking at him with a mischievous grin.

"What are you about to do?"

"That man can't remember if it's his wife's birthday or their anniversary," I informed, still grinning.

I pointed to a bald middle-aged man who walked to the right of us with a confused, thoughtful look on his face.

Erik continued to look at me confused, "What?"

I slid my hands into my coat pockets jut as another gust of the autumn breeze swept past me, causing me to shiver and sigh contentedly as it ruffled my dark hair. I closed my eyes for a split second before opening them.

"That woman, over there? Found out that her boyfriend was cheating on her. Nice right hook, that one," I commented smirking, before shifting gaze away from the woman. "And that man..." I trailed off, as he happened to look back to where we were.

He was a tall, young man probably the same age I was, his blond hair was tousled most likely from the breeze which framed his blue eyes along with his square jaw. He shot me a wonky grin and I just smirked and wiggled my fingers giving him a small wave as I stared into his eyes, scrapping what I had originally planned to do and formulating a new way to have some fun.

"What are you doing?" Erik murmured from beside me.

"Just watch,"

Suddenly, the football he had been previously throwing came sailing back towards him and striking him on the back of the head. The man flinched and let out a groan of pain, rubbing the back of his head.

"Hey man, what the hell!" he exclaimed. His friend glanced over at me, seeing that I'm the reason why the blond-haired man didn't see the football coming. "Are you blind? Why didn't you hold the ball?" he asked angrily, storming over to his friend.

"Relax Aaron," the friend snickered. "Stop ogling at a girl and pay attention next time," he suggested, shrugging his shoulders.

"You've got a problem, Luke?" Aaron asked, getting up in his friend's face.

"No, I think you have a problem," Luke said, shoving Aaron away from him.

I turned my head to Erik, "Are you entertained?" I asked grinning proudly, and Erik let out a short laugh.

I suddenly became aware of another presence near me and my head turned and gazed up at Charles.

"There you two are, everyone was wondering where you had gone off to," Charles greeted, a relieved smile on his face. "What are you two doing?" he asked curiously, his eyes bouncing between Erik and I.

"Oh, we're just watching a bit of entertainment," I answered, a smirk on my face. "Right Erik?" I asked, glancing up at him.

"That would be correct," Erik confirmed.

Charles looked over at me and followed my gaze, watching the shoving match between the two men.

"Oh my God, Claudia please don't tell me this is your doing?" Charles questioned, his eyes back on me now.

I turned my head to Charles, his was mouth set in a firm grimace, "What can I say? We were bored," I explained nonchalantly, with a shrug.

"That's enough Claudia, you've had your fun now," Charles declared.

"Hold on Charles, I think she's onto something," Erik disagreed, raising his index finger up. "No one is even paying attention to them," Erik pointed out.

"I'll never not be amazed with my powers," I remarked, looking around at people going about their day not noticing the fight happening in front of their eyes. "A little inducement of calmness works wonders," I mused, folding my arms together.

Within a blink of the eye, Aaron swung his fist out and it connected with Luke's face, sending him to the ground.

"Hell of a right hook," I observed, as Aaron got on top of Luke to continue his pummeling.

"Claudia!"

"You know Erik, I once made a man punch himself," I informed, glancing over at him. "One night I had this drunk customer screaming in my face, and I grew angry enough that I imagined punching him, and he somehow punched himself," I recounted, thinking back to my diner job as a teenager.

"Impressive," Erik chuckled.

"You should see what happens when I sing, with my power," I boasted, walking ahead a little bit to get a closer look at the two men on the ground.

I went to take another step forward, but hand held me back, keeping a tight hold onto my wrist. I looked back to see who the culprit was just as the wind gently ruffled my hair as I met the stern stare of a dreamy blue-eyed familiar face.

"Claudia, stop it," Charles demanded, his voice dropping an octave.

Sighing, I finally gave in, "Fine," I agreed, turning my head back to the men and restored their peaceful state of mind.

Charles glanced at Erik and I for a moment, and we all share a look.

"Let's go," Charles ordered.

~~~x~~~

"Hey, do you know what's wrong with Charles?" Raven asked, as she pushed the barbell up and back onto the rack. "He's been upset ever since we came back from the park," she commented, maneuvering her way from under the bar and sitting up.

I paused mid crunch and relaxed, looking between my legs to look at Raven, "Yes," I answered, sitting up and hugging my knees. "I'm the reason he's upset," I confessed, and Raven's eyes widened. "I did something that made Charles quite upset," I explained, pushing away the fly-away hairs escaping my bun.

Raven crossed her arms and wandered over to me, "Claudia Walker making Charles Xavier mad, I never thought that I'd see the day," Raven quipped, before sticking her hand out to help me up.

"Neither did I," I stated, shaking my head.

"I wouldn't worry, Charles can't stay mad at you. He likes you too much," Raven reminded with a giggle, as I grabbed her hand and she pulled me up.

The sudden motion made me feel dizzy, I slowly walked over to the towel basket and plucked one out, "I don't know Raven, he seemed pretty upset," I doubted, dabbing the cloth against my face and closed my eyes trying to stabilize myself.

"What did you do?" she asked curiously.

Opening my eyes as my vision had stopped spinning, I removed the towel from my face, "I made these two men fight for entertainment," I explained, and Raven’s brows raised. "Erik and I wanted entertainment, we had gotten bored at the park," I continued, beginning to leave the room. "Do you know where I can Charles? I should probably go make things right," I added.

"In the library, most likely. Where else would he be?" Raven joked, and I nodded my head in agreement and laughed before exiting the gym.

I wrapped the towel around my neck and made way down the hall admiring the paintings on the wall as I headed to the library. The door to the library was cracked, slowly pushing it open revealed Charles standing in front of the window. I walked quietly into the room but he didn't turn around, he simply waited for whoever had entered to speak first. Out of the corner of Charles' eye he saw me move to stand beside him, still not saying a word.

At last, I broke the silence, "It's clear that you're upset with me," I began, searching his face for a reaction, but there wasn't one.

"How about disappointed?" he corrected, still looking out the window. I turned to look at him again and I was surprised to find his face free of anger, his face was calm. "You could have seriously injured those men Claudia. Worst, you could have killed them," Charles stated grimly, staring at me.

Backing away from where Charles stood, I sat down on top of the sofa, "Oh, come on, I wouldn't have let it get to that point," I answered, crossing my arms and returning Charles' stare.

He turned all the way around to face me, "It should have never happened in the first place!" Charles argued, slightly raising his voice. "Why on God's green earth would make those men fight?" he questioned, throwing his hands up.

"For fun, I suppose," I answered, with a slight shrug.

Charles scoffed, "That's your definition of fun? he asked incredulously.

"Fun is interpreted differently from person to person," I countered.

"No, I don't believe that's the whole story. I have never seen use your powers so irresponsibly. What is going on with you?" Charles asked again, walking towards me.

I pushed off the sofa, "You have been mother henning me for two days straight and I'm at my wits end here! I needed a release!" I snapped, spreading my arms out. "I'm not myself for one day, and for two days you have constantly been over my shoulder like I'm some fragile-" I continued pointing my finger, until another wave of dizziness me, this time stronger than before.

I felt myself falling as my vision slightly darkened, but a pair of arms caught me before I fell to the floor.

"Hey, I got you, I got you," Charles repeated softly, my head leaning against his chest. He lowered us to the ground slowly, "I'm going to pick you up, alright," he announced, before hooking his arms underneath my legs and slowly lifting me up. He walked over to the front of the sofa and placed me down onto the plush cushions. "Good thing I've been a mother hen, right?" Charles asked smiling, his hand brushing away a stray lock of hair from my face.

"I guess it paid off in the end," I conceded, smiling weakly as Charles sat on the edge of the sofa.

He placed the back of his hand against my forehead and frowned, "Claudia, you're burning up," he noted, removing his hand. "I knew you were pushing yourself too hard these past two days," he continued, placing each of his hands down on the cushions on either side of my waist. "Why didn't you tell me, love?" Charles asked quietly.

He was tense, his hands were clenched into fist by my side, I lifted my arm and soothingly rubbed his arm and felt the muscles in his arm slowly release some of their tension. His blue eyes met mine and he relaxed a little more.

"I thought I could push through it, I've done it before," I explained, giving him a small smile in an attempt to make him feel more at ease. "I really didn't want you to start smothering me anymore," I added, a short laugh erupting from me.

Charles shook his head gazing down at me with worried eyes, "Yes, and look where it's gotten you right now," he remarked, shaking his head once more. "You are so guarded at times Claudia, you've got to learn that not everyone wants to hurt you. I want to help you, I truly do. But I can't do anything unless you can accept that," Charles stated.

I was shocked by his bluntness and stared at him in shock, being quiet for several moments and looking away. When I didn't answer, Charles reached for my hand and held my hand in his.

"Do you trust me Claudia?" Charles asked softly.

It was such a simple question, yet I knew it meant a lot more to Charles...and myself. I stared up at him saw the genuine concern written across his features, and knew that what he told me was true.

"You're the first person I have trusted in years, Charles," I admitted softly.

The telepath gave me the most adorable, beautiful grin of relief, "I'm honored," Charles answered, and lifted my hand to his lips and kissed the palm of it. The simple gesture made my stomach flip. "Let's get you some rest, yeah?" he suggested, nodding his head toward the door.

Chapter Twelve: What Are These Feelings?

[theslashmix]

Valzer a Quattro Mani

There was a grand piano on the stage, quietly sitting in dignified and lonely majesty. It was easy to picture a string ensemble or a small orchestra next to it, maybe even a singer, filling the air with emotion and sound. Nix found himself walking towards it- it felt profoundly unjust that such a beautiful instrument should stay there, dusty and abandoned, as if it didn’t contain the potential for one of the few amazing things that humanity had managed to create.

The theatre was empty, dusty, and forlorn when they entered. The air inside was still and hushed, blanketing everything in a very oppressive manner: and yet, there was sort of an expecting quality to it, decided Nix as he looked around, considering. It was as if the theatre was holding its breath. Waiting for somethi ng to happen.

Somewhere in the bowels of the theatre, someone found the main switch, and the electric lights flickered to life, dimmed by globes of opaque glass. It was the same trick they used in the Opera of Paris, to mimic the mysterious and romantic light of candles that reflected so beautifully on the ladies’ jewels.

It was a beautiful place: only a well done Baroque could manage to load such an excessive amount of decorations in a single place and not be tacky. Curls of gilded stucco glinted in the dim light, and chubby putti angels carried horns of plenty and wreaths of flowers around every balcony. The chairs in the audience had been pushed to the sides and piled up unceremoniously: they must have been there for a while, because spiderwebs had already started to festoon them.

The silence was, surprisingly, not broken by the sound of dozens of combat boots stepping on the empty wooden floor of the audience. On the contrary, it seemed to suffocate the noise, as if the theatre itself was shushing them. Nix felt the sudden urge to tell everyone to shut up and take their place. He expected at any moment to hear the discordant, and yet harmonious, soaring sound of an orchestra tuning up. It was a familiar sound that he had heard many times. His mind went back to the many concerts he had seen in his life, especially as a child: a concert was always a moment of peace, a moment when Stanhope Nixon had to shut his goddamn trap and let Nix enjoy something beautiful. Oh sure, after it Nix always had to hear him bitch about how boring these concerts were. But to Nix, the sound of an orchestra tuning up would always be a soothing sound.

There was a grand piano on the stage, quietly sitting in dignified and lonely majesty. It was easy to picture a string ensemble or a small orchestra next to it, maybe even a singer, filling the air with emotion and sound. Nix found himself walking towards it- it felt profoundly unjust that such a beautiful instrument should stay there, dusty and abandoned, as if it didn’t contain the potential for one of the few amazing things that humanity had managed to create.

“Lew?”

Dick had quietly walked over to him as he fondly stroked the sleek curve of the piano. What a beautiful thing it was, made of briar root, all mottled in various shades of warm brown, with gilded legs and edges. It was a pity that the gilding was peeling off in spots, but it gave the instrument a homely feeling.

“Look at this beauty, Dick” he sighed, as he opened the lid to peer inside. The cords seemed intact, and miraculously rust free. He propped it open and moved to the keyboard, sitting down before reverently lifting the lid and revealing the neat row of ivory and ebony keys. They were not perfectly aligned anymore and some wiggled a little- this piano had been well loved and used, before the war had forced its master to abandon it. He pressed a couple of keys experimentally- the plink-plunk of notes was startling, actually shattering the silence that had weighted on them like a wet blanket.

“You can play the piano?” asked Dick, looking at Nix in mild awe. Nix snorted.

“As much as I hate it, I do come from high society. Of course I can play the piano, Dick. It was either that, or the violin. I wish I could have picked up the pipe organ: then I could have lived in a beautiful gothic mansion while ominously playing Bach’s fugue in D minor during dark and stormy nights and wearing a dark cloak. I would be the perfect Count Dracula. All dark, mysterious and very villainous.” He placed his right hand on the keyboard, playing the first few beats of the fugue. Not bad, although the tuning was slightly off. But that was to be expected. Who knew how long it had been abandoned there, exposed to the ravages of time and war, without the care of competent hands that knew its worth! Nix was honestly surprised that it hadn’t been chopped into firewood already. He was a bit rusty and hadn’t played in a long while, but his fingers were absolutely itching to run wild on the keyboard.

Suddenly, he was aware of a shift in the atmosphere. Everyone was looking towards him- the soldier’s instinct of checking every new source of new noise kicked in no matter what. But now, the tension in the air was different. Nix had played for audiences before, and no matter how small they were, the feeling when you captured someone’s attention was very distinct. That attention was very real and tangible, like a weight on your shoulders. For a moment he was certain, absolutely certain, cross on the heart and hope to die kind of certain, that the theatre itself was alive, and Nix had just had the misfortune of capturing its full, undivided attention. It was all too easy to imagine the thousands of putti turning their little carved eyes towards the stage. It was vast, looming, and a bit more than vaguely threatening as it waited to see what he would do with the beautiful instrument.

He cleared his throat, trying to dispel the sensation and looked up at Dick, who was now leaning on the side of the piano, idly running his fingers on the polished and lacquered wood.

“Well, I’m no Rubinstein, mind you, and I’m a bit rusty. But what would you say to some serenading?” he said with a cheeky grin, knowing full well that his lover would catch the meaning underneath the joking tone. Dick smiled that soft little smile of his that always seemed to radiate comfort and warmth from within him. It was so sweet it hurt, and Nix wanted nothing more than to make him smile like that forever. He promised himself that they would have a piano someday, and maybe he’d even teach Dick to play it. He could picture them in their home, sitting side by side on a stool, as he guided Dick’s long fingers across the keyboard: it was such a sweet, domestic image that he felt his heart ache with longing.

“I would love it.” Dick said, his smile widening: there was no hint of joking in his tone.

Nix turned his attention to the keyboard, and placed his hands on the ivory keys. What should I play? He wondered, as he tested them and his own fingers with a few scales. It was a bit difficult to concentrate, with that nagging sensation of being stared at by the theatre itself- he felt his neck prickle. He repressed a shiver and shook his head. He needed to focus on Dick, not on the eerie atmosphere of this place.

He needed something sweet- this was a serenade, after all. But maybe not something overly lovey-dovey. Für Elise… nah, that was boring and overdone, and too saccharine. His next option was Moonlight Sonata, but he discarded it: even if the general gist was right (moonbeams and sweet nighttime made for a perfect ambience for a secret serenade), the piece was just on the wrong side of too dark to be romantic. Debussy was an obvious choice if he wanted the moonlight theme- or he could just take a little step further and go for one of Chopin’s Nocturnes. The one he liked best was n.2, and let’s face it- it was just perfect. Chopin’s Nocturne, Op. 9 n.2 it would be, then.

He paused for a moment, focusing on the flow and ebb of the notes in his head, on Dick and all the things he wanted to say and couldn’t.

He started playing, and suddenly, it was as if the whole theatre had sighed deeply, and settled down, listening intently, no longer threatening, but still single-mindedly focused.

Dick was focusing on him, too, but at least his attention was comforting and flattering, not threatening or unsettlingly intense. He was almost languid, as he relaxed against the piano to enjoy his secret serenade to the fullest. He had his eyes closed and was swaying gently with the music, while his fingertips were pressed into the wood of the piano, intent on catching every single vibration.

Nix hoped that the vibrations could convey all the things he was feeling. The unexpected depth of his feelings for the redhead, and his gratitude to whatever higher being that Dick actually reciprocated. The fear of losing him and the nebulous fear of the future, of the “what now” when the war would be over and they would need to decide what to do with their relationship. He poured all of it and more into the music, uncaring that there were fifty other men in the room, listening. It wasn’t perfect- he missed a couple of notes here and there. But it didn’t matter.

When the last notes ended, there was a moment of stunned silence before everyone started clapping frantically, whistling and stomping. it was as if they had just witnessed the concert of the century, instead of just Nix mauling Chopin in an abandoned theatre in a bombed city in the ass crack of nowhere, Europe.

He looked up at Dick, blushing slightly. The redhead was smiling openly, his gaze soft. Maybe he hadn’t mauled it too much, then. Maybe he had managed to convey at least something.

“That was beautiful, Lew” Dick said quietly, before moving up to the stool. “What about a duet?” he proposed, sitting down. Nix had to scoot to make space for him. An expectant silence fell again in the theatre, with the boys shushing each other (Bull had to slap a hand on Luz’ mouth to forcibly subdue his cheering), but Nix ignored it in favour of exploring this new facet of Dick.

“You can play the piano?” he asked, surprised.

Dick snorted, in a mocking mimicry of Nix’ earlier reaction.

“Of course I can play, Nix,” he parroted. His long fingers splayed on the keyboard, in the wrongest position that Nix had ever seen- he probably didn’t have a formal education in music, Nix reasoned. His piano teacher, Miss Price, would have had a stroke. “Let’s see… this is one of my dad’s favourites” he said, playing a few notes.

“The Blue Danube?”

Dick nodded, smiling softly.

“May I have this waltz?” he asked, with a mischievous wink.

“Gladly, milord. You lead,” said Nix, feeling his own lips widening in an answering smile.

Dick began playing, and Nix let him go for a few beats before joining, taking his time to see what tempo Dick would set. Then he started to follow, starting an accompaniment melody with a little bit of variation thrown into it just for fun. Dick had picked up an andante pace, but it was a bit too fast for Nix’ taste: this waltz was to be savoured, not rushed.

“Slow- down- a bit” he murmured, staccating his words in time with the music. He gave Dick the correct tempo with his accompaniment.

“Just- like- that,” he said. “One-two-three, take your time with this waltz. Don’t rush it.”

Nix found himself grinning, as Dick followed his lead and their hands danced in synchrony on the keyboard: back and forth, back and forth, weaving a complex pattern, like a boat ploughing through the soft waves of the great Danube. This was a bit like dancing: they weren’t well practiced with it, and they kept bumping their elbows and hands, as if they were dancing for the first time together and kept stepping on each other’s toes.

They couldn’t dance in front of everyone- but they could do this. They could duet and make the music dance for them while they sat close on the stool, their bodies touching, and everyone else was none the wiser to the deeper meaning of it all. Dick nodded and swayed in time with the music, and he smiled whenever his gaze met Nix’.

Maybe he’d take Dick on a cruise on the Danube after the war, he decided. They would wait a bit, so maybe Europe would have time to rebuild. If the state of things on the western front was anything to go by, it would take years for the Old World to rise from its ashes.

Still, it was a beautiful dream to hang on to. He imagined himself lazily lounging with Dick on the deck of a narrowboat, while the ancient landscape of Europe passed by. It would be green and lush, hale again after the war. He could imagine Dick with a cup of ice cream and a tourist’s guide, pointing at the various landmarks.

Nix felt sorry, when the cascading notes of the final crescendo vanished in the air. He would have liked to dance on the keyboard a little longer. But they could do it again, he reasoned. Now they knew that they could dance like this, together.

He followed Dick off the stage as the redhead brushed off the thunderstorm of claps, stomps, “bravo!” and “encore!” with an embarrassed shrug, before sending the men back to their duties. He paused for a moment before exiting the theatre, peering back into the now dark hall: the silence had fallen once more. But now it didn’t feel as heavy as it had when they had first stepped in. The large, looming presence he had perceived was still there, but the threat was gone: their offering had been deemed worthy and accepted. With a shiver, he wondered what would have happened, if this hadn’t been the case.

He promised himself that he would come back and fill that silence some more. This place didn’t deserve to remain silent and empty.

Later that night, Nix was pleasantly surprised by the fact that Dick had snagged them a good billet: the room had a locking door and, ineffable luxury, a double bed. Tired as they were, they still spent an extremely pleasant half hour of slow, passionate lovemaking in the fresh sheets: Dick had felt the pressing need to show Nix just how much he had appreciated the serenade, and Nix sure hadn’t minded.

Now they laid down in a warm cocoon of blankets and limbs, with Dick pliant and boneless in Nix’ arms. It was rare that they could sleep together like this, and Nix considered it a privilege when Dick nestled himself in his arms, exhausted and sated, accepting for once to be held and protected. No one else would ever see Dick like this.

“Thanks for the dance” murmured the redhead, who was already drifting off.

“You’re very welcome” answered Nix, smiling and placing a tender kiss on his lover’s red curls. He chuckled, when he heard Dick snore lightly, and he shifted a bit, settling down. He drifted off to sleep, picturing the pair of them in a grand ballroom wearing their best dress greens and waltzing elegantly, spinning so fast that the world around them was a blur.

Someday, he thought, before sleep finally claimed him. Someday .

[guccifloralsuits]

hi we were talking about books yesterday and i was wondering if you have any good fiction recommendations? 😇😇😇

Yes, I have so many! I broke them down into relative categories, so there’s a little mix of everything. Please read the actual synopsis before diving in though, as some have major trigger warnings.

Books considered “classics”

Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston: a book which I come back to in hard times of my life. There’s something so…necessary about this story. Prose style was great. I would rec this book to every person I know.

Mrs. Dalloway by Virgina Woolf: I read this when my life seemed to be changing faster than I could keep up. Beautifully written. Came at a time when I needed it.

Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys: written as a prequel to Jane Eyre and a modernist masterpiece honestly. THE original meditation on the ideal of a Manic Pixie Dream Girl

The Color Purple by Alice Walker: you’ve probably heard this name from the adaptation. Let me tell you. This book deserves all of its acclaim. I think I’m gonna re-read soon.

Pride & Prejudice by Jane Austin: this is super mainstream for The Literary Circles but it’s for good reason, this book is just? Fun? An honestly enjoyable read? plus when I was taking my SATs way back when they had an essay section, I could use this book for literally any prompt they gave

Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë: this book is wild. Everyone is a messy bitch who lives for drama & I love it. I just finished it and omg

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath: my emo teen- girl rebelling ass ate this shit up back in high school. Is this book overrated? I don’t care. I love it for nostalgic value anyways

The Handmaids Tale by Margaret Atwood: startling beautiful lines. I have almost half this book underlined. A popular read in recent times, with good reason.

A picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde: I fundamentally disagree with everything written in this book. That is exactly the point. About being gay & sinning. I would not recommend this as a ‘light’ read though. Easy to get swept up in Wilde’s sharp wit & not catch the intentional malice behind what he says, underneath.

One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez: I just. Love this. That’s all I have to say. Yeah.gif

All The King’s Men by Robert Penn Warren: The nihilism of Oscar Wilde but set to a political backdrop in the 30’s with stylistic prose akin what you’d read from Hemingway. Probably not for everyone’s taste. But right up my alley in terms of political intrigue. If ur a stuffy English Major with who likes books about corruption, you’ll like this.

Popularized books that are worth the hype they had:

The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls: there’s something so…engaging about the way this is written. It’s pretty much about kids who have to act like adults for their shitty parents. I couldn’t put this down though.

Dark Places by Gillian Flynn: as with all her novels, this gets dark. This gets ugly. An absolute thriller, & I can’t recommend her books enough. (You might know her from Gone Girl & Sharp Objects. This story follows similar tone). Honestly I rec anything by Flynn.

The Princess Bride by William Goldman: you’ve probably heard of or seen this movie. Well guess what? the book is even better.

YOU by Caroline Kepnes: aka the adapted Netflix series where dan from gossip girl plays plays joe, who is basically Dan but Unhinged. But like, the books are great. “Hidden Bodies” which is the sequel to this is even better, in my opinion. Just plz don’t romance Joe cus you saw penn badgley in a Netflix poster & were thirsty 4 him

Lesser Known/underrated books which could use your love:

A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley: A reimagining of King Lear, set on an Iowa farm in the late 1970s. Powerful and disturbing

The Gold Bug Variations by Richard Powers: specifically for classical music lovers. Basically a long meditation on supernal mysteries of music, specifically Bach’s intricate Goldberg Variations (you’ll wanna have the Glenn Gould recording to hand), & those of the DNA molecule (especially as a code to be broken) It gradually dawns on you that the two couples listening to the music and studying the molecule are themselves engaged in something strangely molecular and musical. You won’t always understand this book, but it keeps taking your breath away.

Ella Minnow Pea by Mark Dunn: did I buy this book solely because of this tumblr post? Yeah. But it was easily one of the best decisions I’ve made. The way he manipulates letter-language is wild. Woah. Highly recommended.

The 100 Year Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window & Disappeared by Jonas Johnson: a 100 year old dude escapes his nursery home a steals a suitcase full of drug money then goes on a giant crime spree. HIGHLY entertaining. We stan a King

The Sellout by Paul Beatty: probably the greatest satirical comedy written within the last 50 years. I said what I said.

Children’s/teen/YA books you should absolutely read

The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster: wonderfully creative, beautifully told. Takes abstract constructs and turns them into concrete beings and landscapes in amazing, engaging ways. Please read this. One of my all-time favorite books. Takes the protagonist, Milo, on a fantastical adventure borne through boredom on what he though would be another average day. Seriously. I love this book. So much.

Coraline by Neil Gaiman: another beautifully creative foray into a parallel universe where something Not Quite Right lurks beneath a pretty surface. If you’ve seen the movie adaption - great. Still read the book. It’s absolutely worth it.

Love that Dog by Sharon Creech: technically free verse poetry from the perspective of a young boy dealing with the loss of his pet dog who has to write poetry for a class assignment from his teacher. This is…so good. Oh my god. Oh my god? Poetry for non-poetry people.

The Giver by Louis Lowery: Listen. I know you were forced 2 read this in primary English. I know you probably hated it on principle. But this shit was all that kept me going, when I was younger. It made me feel so understood, before I could define trauma or the meaning of depression. This book made me feel seen.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky: ya know what? Fuck 2013 tumblr for dumbing this book down into a basic ass Grunge Anthem. I have never seen a book so adequately grapple with how awful romanticizing trauma can be. This book goes into the horrible side of adolescence in a way that’s genuine, and in a way which doesn’t put trauma/mental illness on a pedestal. I needed that shit, when I read it. I still love this book today. The lines will stay with you forever, after you read some of them.

All the Bright Places, by Jennifer Niven: this was another one of those books that I read in an essential time, which lodged into me afterwards. About two teenagers who meet while standing on the bell tower of their school, both contemplating suicide. Highly recommend. Prepare to cry.

You didn’t ask for Poetry but I’m including some because I am poetry TRASH:

Rice by Nikky Finney

A Thousand Mornings by Mary Oliver

One Big Self by C.D. Wright

LOOK by Solmaz Sharif

Poetry for people who think poetry is inaccessible to them:

New American Best Friend by Olivia Gatwood

Our Numbered Days by Neil Hillborn

Depression & Other Magic Tricks by Sabrina Benaim

There are literally SO SO SO many books I could also add, but these are the ones that came to mind. Bolded ones are those I especially love. Happy reading!

[michael-weinstein]

Reacting to David Hurwitz

Some weeks ago I came across the recently opened Youtube channel of David Hurwitz, a music critic who wrote reviews for High Fidelity and Amazon, and the founder and executive editor of the website Classics Today. I agree with some of his opinions, though I do disagree with him a good deal. But the straw that broke the camel's back was one of his early videos, which is titled: Classical Music's 10 Dirtiest Secrets. I was so alarmed by it, that I decided at once to stop watching his videos and to omit him from my YouTube recommendations. Today I've decided to finally face Mr. Hurwitz and express my reactions to his "secrets". Now, more than my opinions being lauded, I actually want people to congratulate me for copying the entire script, unabridged, because it was painful for me to do so, since I disagree with practically every "secret". And in response to some of the comments, Mr. Hurwitz said something to the effect of "some people here don't have a sense of humor!" Well, I do have a sense of humor (you can blame my parents for that), but if you, dear Herr Prof. Hurwitz, say you're joking, you've got to make that more clear in your arguments. Well, here is, without further ado, Classical Music's 10 Dirtiest Secrets by Mr. David Hurwitz.

[This is] the antidote to all of that PR we hear these days, that tells us that just because something is "classical", it must all be equally fabulous and we just can't get enough. Well, here's a news flash: it's not. Witness the following:

1. Mozart really does all sound the same. Yes, he was a genius. Yes, he wrote 620-some-odd pieces in 35 years, but let's face it. How different can they be? Even Toscanini thought they all sounded the same.

2. Beethoven's Grosse Fuge is just plain ugly. I mean, if you ever listen to that thing recently, it sounds like four dying cattle. I know we're supposed to be amazed at its contrapuntal mastery, and it's transcendental what-not whatever. It's ugly, let's not kid ourselves.

3. Wagner's operas are much better with cuts. I mean nothing, nothing has the right to be 4 or 5 hours long at a stretch. I mean, you go to the Met at 6 in the evening, and you don't leave till after midnight? You got to be crazy. The shorter it is, the better it is.

4. No one cares about the first 3 movements of Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique. I mean, nobody. We all want to hear The March to the Scaffold and then The Dream of the Witches' Sabbath. That's the hot stuff, that's were the music gets really juicy and exciting. The first 3 movements are more than a half hour [long], they're just preludial. I mean you sit through them politely, but then you wait to get your pulse racing, right? When the guy's head gets chopped off and the witches start hopping around. I mean, you know, he really should have just written the last 2 [movements] and left off the first 3, I think.

5. Schoenberg's music never sounds more attractive, no matter how many times you listen to it. Of course we're told that, you know, it's only a question of getting accustomed to its particular unique sound world and all that, and the more attention you give to it, the more rewarding it will be. Wrong, it's never more rewarding, it never sounds better. He was just a difficult truculant kind of guy, and he wrote difficult truculant music. Even his tonal music is hard to listen to. It's just difficult, period. Accept it, live with it, and love it, or don't.

6. Schumann's orchestration is really bad, and needs improvement. Once in a while a conductor will show up who says: "Well, you know I'm playing the original orchestration, it's better than everybody thought". No, it's not. It's thick, it's muddy, it doesn't do the music justice, and everybody tinkers with it. Even people who don't physically rescore it mess with the balances or whatever, just to make it listenable. Otherwise it's simply impossible.

7. Bruckner couldn't write a symphonic allegro to save his life. I mean, he calls some movements allegro, but who is he kidding. Even his early school symphony (you know, the one we call [Symphony No.] 00) has a first movement that's Allegro molto vivace. I mean, who is he kidding? It's not allegro, it's not molto, it's not vivace, it's all just slow. It's the way the man was, and we have to accept it as it is.

8. Liszt is trash. Enough said.

9. The so-called "happy ending" of Shostakovich's Fifth is actually perfectly sincere. Now, recent scholarship has revealed that this happy ending with the trumpets going nuts, and cymbals and timpani pounding away, crashing and bashing, is supposed to be a hidden signal for the misery and suffering of the Russian people. So while the music itself is going nuts with joy, we're supposed to be secretly sympathizing with their unhappiness and with the composer's personal misery. Well, I don't know. Freud said sometimes a happy ending is just a happy ending. And you know, it's okay to be happy. Finally:

10. It's a good thing that only about 200 Bach cantatas survive. I mean really, folks, have you listened to all 200 of them? Do you just like come home from work and say, "Heck! I really need to hear a 25-minute Lutheran penitential cantata about suffering and misery"? I mean, how many of them can we stand? Supposedly about a third of them are missing, I mean more than a hundred of them. And if you're really really that concerned about it, if you really think it's a loss to humanity, I have a suggestion of where you might want to look for them. You see, when Bach died his estate got divided up between his wife and kids, and the oldest one Wilhelm Friedemann (who was supposedly a drunk organist or something like that) had a daughter. And his daughter got married to a business man, and sometime around the 1760s or so (or '70s, I don't know somewhere around then) they moved to Oklahoma. So, if you happen to have nothing to do, and you're really desperate for a new Bach cantata, start looking in barns at Oklahoma, because they started a farm there, and so somewhere, maybe, you know, near Oklahoma City or somewhere out there in the Texas Panhandle, you may find a hundred or so Bach cantatas!

And with that, let me just suggest that you should use your own judgement, listen fearlessly, judge mercilessly, enjoy what you want, love what you love and don't worry about the rest.

Well, now it's my time to respond (wow, it was difficult copying all of that).

1. I have to admit that I'm not so hot on Mozart. I get the feeling that I must worship him because he was a colossal genius, in a sense he's an encylopedia figure (and it's weird that I don't feel the same way about Bach, Beethoven or Haydn who are usually considered as encylopedic figures, and Mr. Hurwitz has himself admitted that although he respects Bach, he doesn't like a lot of his music specifically for this reason). However, I do think that there's a very noticeable difference between Mozart's 1st symphony and his 40th (I haven't heard the Jupiter, so the analogy is not perfect, but at least I'm honest about it). Besides, I personally do not really like Toscanini, but even without that, just because Toscanini said something doesn't mean it needs to apply to everything and everyone.

2. Well, Beethoven's Grosse Fuge is an acquired taste. I mean yes, it's difficult, it's hard to get through, it's angry, and it might even be "ugly", but that's because Beethoven wanted to be ugly. If you don't like it, just go and leave.

3. This one touches a sick nerve because I am a Wagnerian. Yes, some people are crazy in order to go and be in the theater for 6 hours for a Wagner opera. I do get that sometimes it's difficult to be attentive throughout such a long performance (especially if it's a bad one), but Wagner knew what he was doing when he was composing such long operas (and mind you, I don't always agree with his megalomaniac ideas). It is Wagner's right to have Meistersinger run for 5 hours, just as it is Puccini's right to have La Bohème run for 2 hours. Once again, if you don't want to be in an opera house for 6 hours, don't go. But don't tell me that everything is better when it's short.

4. Once again, this one also touches a sick nerve as I'm a deep fan Berlioz's Symphonie fantastique. I should remark that aside from its programmatic function, I don't get the fourth movement, but I would be the first to admit that the finale is the X-Factor of the symphony. That said however, there is a place for the first 3 movements. If they're preludial, they're supposed to be so! And they're much more than a prelude! The first movement has lots of moments of teenage anxiety, depression and hallucination and one of the criteria for a good performance would be for me how much it gets the madness and extremness in this movement. In short, how "teenagery" it is. The second movement also seems to be just nice, and not having any service apart from its programmatic function, but it's sometimes good not to be going full tilt in the epicness department. Likewise, the third movement is also there for the need of what William Berger called (in a different context) "the lowering of the collective blood-pressure". And yet despite what might seem from a movement titled Scene in the Countryside, this movement actually has some manic terrifying moments. Once again, if you don't like the first 3 movements, just listen to the last 2, but again, Berlioz knew what he was doing in adding these first 3 movements.

5. Like the Grosse Fuge, Schoenberg's music is also an acquired taste. I disagree with Mr. Hurwitz's opinion that "it never gets more attractive", but I also disagree with those who say that "the more attention you give to it, the more it will reward you". Circumstances vary with every single person from one millisecond to the next. I am a Schoenberg fan, but I don't persuade people to join the Schoenberg fan club (but that's because I'm not a kind of a persudaing guy). And I'm not alone in that. Alexander Goehr, who is likewise a deep Schoenberg fan, seems to agree with me on this point (that is, I agree with him):

I don't think it is likely that it is possible to convince people who find the music [of Schoenberg] extremely difficult, that hidden beneath the surface is a heart of gold, and it's really all like Puccini if you only knew how to listen to it. It isn't like that. This was a fractious and difficult personality, with a striking and fast mind, and a feeling of responsibility towards music, musicians, students, all through his life.

Once again, if you don't like it, don't listen to it, just go and leave.

6. I haven't listened to Schumann's music so I can't say whether his orchestration is bad or not. However, I can say that people don't tinker only with Schumann's dynamics, and for some reason they get criticized for that in a way which would not happen if they would do the same to Schumann. So in a sense, having a conductor tinkering with Schumann's dynamics should not be something all that special, so stop making so much of a deal out of it.

7. Likewise, I haven't listened to much Bruckner, but I would agree that if it is indeed slow, that is the way Bruckner was and we can't do anything about it. Maybe what for him was fast, is slow for Mr. Hurwitz. And not only is the perception of tempo different from one person to another, it's different within the same person from one millisecond to the next.

8. Ok, I'm barely handling myself together when I'm writing this, and things are especially confusing when Mr. Hurwitz doesn't dare detail. If you think that Liszt is only virtuoso opera transcriptions, the Transcendental Etudes and the Hungarian Rhapsodies, you are damn wrong! Just look at his symphonic poems, and the Faust and Dante Symphonies and you'll see he was much more than just a flashy romantic pyrotechnic of the piano. You still think this is kitschy and wearing on the sleeve? Ok, fine. How about the late piano pieces?! I just keep going mad when I see how many people don't know, let alone appreciate Liszt's late works (which I'm not even going to write a blog post on, because it speaks by itself. Here's a playlist.) These pieces tell you, more even than Tristan, the Ring and Parsifal, how Debussy and early Schoenberg came into being. If you're not convinced by that, I really have no other idea to dissuade you from believing that "Liszt is trash".

9. I have to say before I begin the discussion of Mr. Hurwitz's argument, that trying to figure out the meaning of Shostakovich's music is just pure mayhem, for reasons I hope I don't need to tell you. That being said, we are really actually told that the conflict between musicologists is whether he composed the Fifth Symphony in order to save his skin, or is the music braced with sarcasm. As I understand, there is no reason why the ending should be understood as "sincerely happy" when one goes deeper. Once again, what Freud says doesn't necessarily apply to every situation. So yes, I wouldn't necessarily go as far as to say that we're supposed to be thinking of misery, but we should think of hypocrisy.

10. Once again, I have barely listened to Bach cantatas, but just from looking at the titles, I'm pretty sure that not all of those cantatas are about "suffering and misery" (small unimportant sidenote: You really needed to use the same two words you just used for Shostakovich?). I don't know how much this is likely, but go figure that the hundred or so lost cantatas happen to be the best cantatas Bach ever wrote, and what we've known till now is, forgive the expression, the rotten bottom of the barrel? But trying to go around Oklahoma farms to find them is almost hopeless, for a number of reasons. Most likely, the manuscripts could have been deemed worthless, so they were used for other purposes. The farm could have been destroyed or dismantled or whatever. So maybe we're lucky that some Bach cantatas are missing, maybe not, I have no idea what to say about this.

I saved the most important issue for the end. I have no problem with all the opinions that Mr. Hurwitz has expressed - as long as he was meaning only to express his own opinion. I obviously disagree with him, but I have no serious problem with Mr. Hurwitz suggesting that Wagner's operas are better when cut, that Mozart sounds all the same, and (though with some difficulty, if only because Liszt is widely misunderstood) that Liszt is trash. The problem I have is with him saying that these are the "official dirtiest-secret facts of the classical music industry". And once again, if he's joking, he should make that clearer.

P.S. As I was writing this, I discovered that it's apparently also available online as an editorial, so if you want to make me suffer twice, you can do that.

(Originally posted: 9 August 2020)

[philosopherking1887]

Kol Nidrei (a Good Omens fic)

I’m back on my bullshit. @iscariotsss knows what I mean.

Word count: 2130 (including “footnotes”)

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Aziraphale liked going to houses of worship because it made him feel closer to God. He realized that this must seem foolish or paradoxical: he was, after all, a being suffused with God’s love and grace; and if he went through the right procedures, he could even (in theory) make direct contact with the Almighty. But calls to the Court of God’s Power through such channels—it had recently been made brutally, devastatingly clear to him—in fact went through a spokes-angel (no, not the wheeled kind), a mere mouthpiece who claimed to listen and speak on behalf of God. Speaking to God as an angel, using the capabilities and privileges his angelic nature afforded him, he had only ever reached a Glorified secretary.

Humans, though, when they prayed—it was possible that God truly listened. Angels listened, too, and sometimes took it upon themselves to answer; God was not in principle opposed to delegating, and angels were permitted a certain amount of latitude in how they executed the Divine Will, broadly understood. But sometimes miracles occurred, or moments of mystical inspiration, or improbable causal nudges, that could not be accounted for, even with all the Heavenly Bureaucracy’s scrupulous record-keeping. Then the angels had to wonder whether God Herself had heard and answered a prayer that Her agents had passed over. One of the Archangels would make a note by the observation of the anomalous event: “Divine intervention?” Always with a question mark, for God’s ways were known to none but God.

Aziraphale felt closer to God among humans praying than in the blessed Light of Heaven, or in his own grace-filled solitude, because he knew that their voices actually had a chance of being heard. Especially when they prayed in community, because although God did sometimes attend to solitary prayers (which might pierce through the noise because of the devoutness or holiness or strong personality of the pray-er), a group of people all speaking or meditating on the same message reinforce each other in a way that is not simply a matter of additive volume, but of resonance.

Because Aziraphale was at heart (and in body) an aesthete, he preferred places and modes of worship with a certain amount of pomp and ceremony. He could not abide the slick commercial atmosphere of ‘evangelical’ megachurches or the adaptation of modern popular musical styles to the purpose of worship; the mere presence of a guitar would send him out the door as quickly as consecrated ground did most demons. Nor was he much attracted to the simplest of gatherings, the mostly silent Quaker Circles, the unadorned meeting-houses that remained true to the Calvinist tradition (and, arguably, the original tradition of Christ and the first Apostles). No, he preferred the lushness of Catholic and Orthodox churches, their sparkling mosaics and glowing stained-glass masterpieces, the Masses and Liturgies composed by Europe’s greatest creative geniuses for sumptuous choirs and virtuosos playing thundering organs (Aziraphale found that of all artists, he had an especial rapport with organists). And if sometimes such fare was too rich even for him, he felt comfortably at home in the stolid, dignified (or as Crowley would say, stuffy and pompous) tradition of the Church of England. The Elgar and Britten anthems were not quite your Bach Mass or Verdi Requiem; but not even Aziraphale could eat lobster and venison every day.

So when the Jewish High Holidays came round and one felt compelled to put in an appearance (‘one’ referring not only to Heaven’s representatives on Earth, but to the Jewish worshipers as well), Aziraphale tended toward a certain style of Reform-to-Conservative congregation that favoured tastefully ornate architecture and a choir, accompanied by a piano or (in rare cases) an organ, singing nineteenth-century settings of the prayers and psalms much in the style of Mendelssohn,* or perhaps mid-twentieth-century arrangements taking inspiration from some combination of Rachmaninoff, Vaughan Williams, and dramatic film scores. Aziraphale was especially attached to the melancholy cello solo playing Bruch’s setting of the Kol Nidrei melody with which such congregations habitually began the Yom Kippur evening service.

On a mild, damp early autumn evening forty days after the world failed to end, Aziraphale went alone to the synagogue whose Kol Nidrei services he had been attending for the past twenty years or so (he was a creature of habit as much as, if not more than, a creature of love). He closed his eyes and let the cello’s plaintive voice set his chest to sweetly aching and was desperately grateful that he still had this—this salmon and crème fraîche omelette instead of the ‘eggs without salt’ of eternal celestial harmonies (stop thinking in food metaphors on a fast day!, he scolded himself, hurriedly directing his thoughts away from his stomach).

The cello’s final tremulous notes faded away and the cantor (who had classical operatic training; there was a reason Aziraphale preferred the services here) began singing the words of the Kol Nidrei. Aziraphale’s French or his Tibetan might sometimes grow rusty, but Hebrew and Aramaic always came back to him like riding a velocipede (or so they said; not that he would know).

“All vows,” the cantor sang (joined at musically appropriate points by the choir), “self-prohibitions, consecrations, bonds, promises, obligations, and oaths that we have vowed, sworn, consecrated, and taken as prohibitions upon ourselves from this Yom Kippur until the next—may it come to us for good—we regret and renounce them all; may they all be absolved, forgiven, cancelled, and rendered null and void; they shall have no force, and shall not endure. Let our vows not be vows, our prohibitions not be prohibitions, our oaths not be oaths.”

There was a widespread belief that the custom of making this declaration originated among the Iberian Jews who were forced to publicly convert to Christianity but who continued to practice their Judaism in secret—who insincerely forswore their faith in the sight of God and men, but wished to retract these false oaths in God’s sight alone. Among those who knew the text was older, the story was that it came out of an earlier time of persecution and conversions on pain of death. Aziraphale (who had witnessed the whole painful, arduous, improbable history of this people) knew that it came out of nothing of the sort: it was just that the Jews had an unfortunate habit, which caused their priests and rabbis no end of intestinal distress, of making solemn vows at the drop of a hat. There was even a significant commandment not to make vain oaths in the name of the Lord, but the habit persisted. So a formal ritual of renunciation was introduced in the hope that God could be persuaded not to take such utterances so terribly seriously. But it took on a darker, weightier significance in the face of the forced conversions that became a recurring theme in the history of the Jews. God’s Providence works in unexpected ways: a tradition that arose for one purpose might later prove even more essential for another.

When Aziraphale recited the formula with this congregation, it was always for the original reason for which it had been instituted. He, like the early Hebrews, had a shameful habit of making promises to God that he should have known he wouldn’t be able to keep. He promised he wouldn’t use frivolous miracles; he promised he wouldn’t eat and drink so lavishly; he promised he would be paying more attention next time, so that maybe he could stop or at least mitigate the next horror that the humans visited upon themselves—unless, of course, Michael or Gabriel told him it was part of the Divine Plan, in which case he would smile uncomfortably and wonder whether he should be praying that they were right or that they were wrong.

Above all, he promised to set aside his feelings for Crowley. He didn’t promise not to see him anymore—he had to keep an eye on Hell’s agent in his sector of the Earth, didn’t he?—but after every time they met, when he departed with a hollowness in his stomach that could not be filled by any amount of oysters or brioche, he promised that he would give no thought to the demon except in regard to thwarting him. He promised he would tell Crowley the Arrangement was over (of course, he never did… not until the second-to-last day of the world, when Crowley threatened to make him face up to what Heaven really was, and what they really were). He promised he would stay away, except to watch his counterpart’s movements, and perhaps to confront him directly if there was no other way of stopping his machinations. And he kept that promise for a whole century between 1862 and 1967—their encounter in 1941 had been entirely on Crowley’s initiative!—but during that century of separation, and especially after its unplanned interruption, he had been even more abysmal at keeping his promise not to think of Crowley in anything but his professional capacity.

Now Aziraphale was facing the first full year since the world had not been made anew, but somehow his world had; and he realized that he no longer needed to ask preemptive absolution for his usual vain promises to God. No one would be keeping track of Aziraphale’s “frivolous miracles,” much less sending him nasty letters about them. And though Aziraphale himself would never say it, he quite agreed with Crowley that Gabriel could shove his self-righteous comments about Aziraphale’s “gut” right up his tightly-clenched arse, along with that appalling tracksuit (he wasn’t entirely sure what Crowley had meant by calling him “basic,” but he gathered that it wasn’t good). Crowley liked him soft (he made a very good body-pillow, he was told), so Aziraphale liked himself that way, too.

As to preventing the horrors of human history… he wasn’t sure that he had any right to interfere, except by showing and encouraging kindness, where he could. As a Heavenly agent on Earth, he was retired, but he would remain a being of love until… well, until Heaven succeeded in destroying him, or God decided he deserved to Fall. But even then, he wasn’t sure: Crowley had Fallen (or “sauntered vaguely downwards,” as he liked to insist), but Aziraphale suspected that he was still a being of love, in spite of everything.

Most importantly, the primary impetus for Aziraphale’s empty vows, self-prohibitions, promises, and oaths no longer obtained. From this year on, there would be no vows not to think of Crowley, work with him, seek out his company. “For centuries I regretted and renounced those vows because I feared I couldn’t keep them,” Aziraphale said silently to God; he wasn’t sure whether or not he hoped She was actually listening. “Now I regret and renounce them because I should never have made them in the first place. I should never have wanted to be able to keep them.”

“Let our oaths not be oaths,” the choir was singing as the elaborate Romantic-style arrangement drew toward its dramatic close, the cantor’s voice rising in an impressive final cadenza. “Let our oaths not be oaths.”

“Ush’vuatana la sh’vuot,” Aziraphale whispered in time with the singers. All his foolish oaths had already been annulled,** most of them before he even made them; he could not now go back and retract them for the right reason. Well, he would probably come up with some new vain oaths, maybe about being less of a bastard to unwitting would-be customers in his bookshop.

There were some other vows he had it in mind to make where Crowley was concerned, but those would not be made only to God, and he had every intention of keeping them.

* “It sounds like bloody Gilbert and Sullivan,” Crowley had muttered to Aziraphale once when he had been invited to accompany him for a lark (the ground of synagogues did not burn his feet), and Aziraphale had had to bite the inside of his cheek to maintain his disapproving expression and stifle a laugh. “Listen, it’s the chorus of sisters, cousins, and aunts.”

** With the exception of those made during a year late in the eleventh century just before the change of tense instituted by Rabbi Meïr ben Shmuel, applying the renunciation to the year ahead rather than the year just past, had reached the synagogue in Paris where Aziraphale had been spending the Days of Awe for several years. Aziraphale panicked about it for a good six months, and indeed whenever he thought about it (with diminishing frequency) thereafter, not least because he and Crowley had first embarked on the Arrangement earlier that century and Aziraphale had spent decades regularly resolving to back out and never following through.

[craniumculverin]

Precipitate Withdrawal

The final installment of Ripper!AU’s intro and the conclusion to Alfred’s drunken outburst. Life made this take a while to finish, but hey I did it! Percy is left waiting in his clinic after a no-show and decides he’d like to find out why.

Alfred has been late to his appointments only twice. The first was due to exceptionally poor weather even by New Pthumerian standards, and the second to having to take an unexpected detour due to an overturned cart. He was deeply apologetic after both instances, despite being a scant five minutes behind schedule, at most. So for him to leave Dr. Percival Hewlett waiting a half hour is quite out of the norm.

Not that Percy really minds - this was meant to be another of their "discussion sessions", none of which have gone particularly well given Alfred's reluctance to discuss anything of a deeper nature concerning himself. Not his likes or interests or what has happened to him, but himself. The man could verbally dissect a long dead religion for hours on end, but ask him to describe the most basic of thoughts concerning the reasons behind his actions and suddenly he's nothing to say. He's the first person the doctor has studied that seems to lack absolutely any desire to understand himself, and frankly he's uncertain what to make of it.

As Percy utilizes the time to tidy the already immaculate office, he thinks of what course of action to take. This had been scheduled to be his last appointment of the day what with its usually taxing nature, so without a patient present there was no need for him to stay. However if Alfred does show only to be greeted with a locked door and darkened windows, the surprisingly sensitive man would likely take it as a personal affront, which in itself would be quite taxing in nature. "It's so unlike him to be late to a meeting, let alone miss it entirely… He's made every single appointment and session until today, even when he's complained about it beforehand… I wonder…" Setting aside the well-polished saw he'd been cleaning, the physician returns to his desk and opens the file he'd left there to scan through his notes.

Alfred had certainly acted very oddly the last time he was in. By the time he'd abruptly taken his leave, his manner had become so erratic that Percy actually had the ridiculous notion he should arm himself.

Could whatever had been the catalyst then be the cause of his absence now? If so, what was it? They'd discussed a good number of topics, what with the purpose of the appointment being to update his records… Perhaps outright addressing his alcohol addiction is what did it? That was the first time Percy had spoken so openly about it, and in such a negative light... Alfred first started to appear antsy when their previous conversation concerning the topic was mentioned, then there were his apprehensions over possibly harming others should he completely stop drinking… Or maybe he's simply hungover again, and doesn't want to face his physician after the reality of his situation had been so thoroughly laid out.

Percy closes the file and leans back with a sigh, unsatisfied. None of these conclusions feel right…

…Were it not for the fact nary a peep has been heard from Alfred about his libidinous outburst last month, Percy would consider that as a possibility. But he hasn't said a single thing about it - and Alfred would say something, likely in the form of a longwinded and excessively dramatic display of repentance. All evidence and prior experiences point to him doing so immediately when he feels he's wronged someone. Well, at least for those on the very short list of people he cares about, which Percy knows for a fact he's on.

No, it must be that his initial impression was correct - Alfred's apparent alcohol-induced amnesia has kept him from recalling anything of the incident. Refraining from informing the younger man of his own actions appears to have been not only the preferred route of action, but also the correct one. Percy is still convinced it would've ruined Alfred had he forced him to confront what he'd done - especially directly after, what with how distraught he'd been solely over getting so drunk. And it wasn't like Percy was in the role of the man's doctor when it all happened; he was simply being a friend by escorting him home! If Alfred really wants to have him as both doctor and friend, he can't expect everything that happens between them to be dealt with in a strictly professional manner.

Really though, Percy thinks he did well to act so kindly toward Alfred despite his own slight hangover at the time - that, a substantial lack of sleep, and the various bruises he'd had to cover up made the meager amount of enmity he'd still been harboring all the harder to ignore. Luckily the other man had been so miserable, a pang of sympathy had overridden whatever annoyance Percy felt over the previous night's manhandling. It also helped to remind himself how easily it could've been him drunkenly instigating something of a similarly intimate nature, not too long ago… But regardless, the whole thing has truly turned out for the best. Percy didn't have to endure an emotionally distraught and nonsensical Alfred the day after the assault, nor will he ever. Handling such hassles are simply not his forte; he'd rather have to start treating "hysterical" old housewives again than attempt to console an illogically upset, temperamental patient!

A contemplative frown creases Percy's brow as he laces his fingers behind his head. "Come to think of it, Alfred's overall 'condition' would likely improve were he to receive such 'treatments' - though preferably in a self-administered fashion. He may very well cooperate if it's under the guise of a medical procedure… Ah no, he'd easily see it for what it is and refuse…"

At least the drunken fiasco has given him a rare opportunity he otherwise never would have witnessed in a clinical setting. A glimpse into how Alfred manages his impulses when uninhibited has proven quite helpful, particularly in understanding how he's fairing with his bizarrely intense aversion to anything of a sexual nature. Which is, of course, very badly.

The doctor ponders his current special case a while longer before drifting to previous ones, leant back in his seat to stare at the high, shadowed supports of the ceiling. Everyone that chooses to cross his threshold as a patient has something to offer him, be it potential research or simply funds, but sometimes he really has to curse his curiosity. If someone ends up too interesting they tend to become far more of an undertaking than he can ever predict. Still, these particular patients always make for engrossing study subjects - in very, very different ways.

A hint of a grin twitches at the corner of his mouth as he retrieves the most recent bundle of letters he's received from London. For a while Percy forgoes his immediate dilemma to reread the tight, neat script therein, his smile turning fond on occasion. After rereading a few parts he switches to another pair of papers within a similarly addressed envelope, covered in quick, fluid writing. It's always such a pleasure when Rosalind sends a letter along with Wesley's. As glad as he is for the correspondence, the dear man's delightfully fretful manner never translates well to his written word - at least through Rosa's lively descriptions he can catch glimpses of it. Plus she's so refreshingly forthwith about life, comfortable speaking about all manner of ridiculously taboo topics. Other than their still not being pregnant ("Goodness Wesley, surely it isn't that difficult without my presence.") the only other news is of Rosa's preparations for a piano recital and Wesley's friend Harold dragging him into his latest antics.

Percy sighs and replaces the papers into their respective top drawer, already bored with this as well. The evening of reading and research he'd planned just wasn't alluring at the moment, but neither was remaining in the clinic, and he hadn't finished planning his next letter to begin writing. His fingers tap out a rhythm - Bach's sonata for violin and piano in… C minor, was it? - as he thinks. The weather has been holding out today. He could head to the market before it gets too busy, but he already has what's needed for tonight's supper from his morning run… Maybe look through that old bookstore near Old Yharnam again? The shopkeep's assistant had been quite obvious about her interest in him last he stopped by; perhaps he could charm the girl into letting him peruse the backroom stock? No, he wasn't in the mood for such games… He's wanted to visit Lumenwood Garden again before the flowers are covered for the season, but it won't be dark enough for viewing for some hours yet… Perhaps he should just stay home and outline a few of the experiments he's thought up since last he did so, for when he can finally begin his work in earnest… No, best not - his recent ideas are of a nature too risky to have lying around should Iosefka drop by unannounced…

The doctor sighs yet again as he closes his eyes. It wasn't like him to succumb to ennui, especially when there's so much to be done. Reports to pen, papers to file, chores to do, superiors to ignore, experiments to plan, unexplored topics to delve into - of course it's when he finds himself with much-desired free time that nothing seems fit to fill it! "I suppose this is much like any other abrupt cancellation or absent patient, in that regard… It's more of a nuisance when I don't get to know why they don't show up. I always have to wait until they come in again to satisfy my questions…"

His eyes snap open. "…There's really no reason not to actively seek out a missing patient, should I want answers badly enough. If they were to accuse me of violating their privacy I could easily wave off my snooping as concern, or some such - just being a caring, professional practitioner." He sits up quick enough for his chair to let out a squeak, adjusting his waistcoat as he returns his attention to his desk. "Now, where did I put that…"

The patient file is quickly splayed open to make rifling through the backmost papers easier. He soon finds what he's looking for and pulls out the small slip he'd neatly copied from one of his journals - the address of the boarding house where Alfred resides. Who knows at what point the information had been shared, but he'd immediately made note should the need arise to utilize it. Boredom seems as worthy a need as any, especially considering the young man is at its source for neglecting to make his appointment.

Quickly glancing out the towering windows to see if an umbrella is in order, Percy pockets the scrap of paper and sets about preparing the black leather bag he brings to all house visits. After ensuring he has everything in order, the clinic is closed and locked up before he makes his way through the underground hallway to his residence. The foyer is somewhat dim as he dons a heavy coat and scarf, the tall windows above a poor substitute for lit sconces.

The air is wonderfully crisp when he opens the front door, a slight breeze playing with his hair as he locks up and begins his impromptu walk. The sky is aglow with wispy early Winter clouds and his street's walking paths pleasantly devoid of activity save for the agreeable elderly couple that lives across the way. As Percy draws closer to the ladies in their garden he doesn't slow but is sure to smile and nod in lieu of a proper hello, earning him the same in return. With the address fresh in his mind, he mentally plots out his course as close to where his knowledge of the city would indicate he's going, and musters the patience and wherewithal he'll need to find the rest of his way.

----------

Though only on the edge of the Old Yharnam district, the area in which Alfred resides certainly shares many of its less desirable characteristics. Cramped, dingy streets with very few lamp posts, residences and businesses crammed around and on top of each other - even a few derelict buildings that have yet to be torn down, this long after the war. People are everywhere, some obviously homeless while others are mongering or shopping or just milling about; and still others, a much smaller number, advertising themselves on street corners.

In other words a lot like London. Enough to cause a sense of nostalgia in Percy as he drifts out of the foot traffic and comes to a halt in front of an old manor house nestled among the indistinguishable buildings. The heavy wooden door is unlocked when he tries it so he lets himself in, only to be immediately greeted by loud snoring on crossing the threshold. An old man sitting against the adjacent wall is the obvious culprit, so soundly asleep not even a shriek from the door's hinges nor slam of it closing can stir him. The foyer area is surprisingly cramped for such a large estate, yet the ceiling is so high it's lost in the shadows. Noticeably newer walls and stairs are to blame for the strange layout, likely put in when the place was restored and renovated into a boarding house. Across the cavernous entryway near the furthest wall is an old woman, the rocking of her chair having halted as soon as he opened the door. She's still in her nightcap despite the hour and has a good deal of knitting in her lap, her craft momentarily paused to glare at him.

"Good afternoon ma'am," Percy says, a pleasant warmth added to his words as he dips his head in greeting. The elderly woman leans forward to squint through the dim of the place, causing a litany of protest from her chair. "My name is Dr. Percival Hewlett. Are you aware if Alfred is in?"

"Alfred who- Oh, him. Yes," she says as she slowly and creakily leans back, "he and that dog of his, yes. He's in. Hewlett you said? You're his doctor then?"

"Yes I am. I've come to check on him. Could you direct me to his room?"

"He's not left all day - only took the beast out once, poor thing. Good you've come," the old landlady says as she slowly cracks and pops into standing, the knitting piling at her feet as she snatches a cane from somewhere to hobble closer. "The boy's been unwell the last few days, I think. Very odd for him to stay in so much, hasn't been finishing his meals like usual. Missed dinner yesterday, come to think of it… Oi, old man! Wake up, you!" She gives the elderly man's stool a sound whack, startling him awake with a loud snort. "I'm going up! Stay awake to keep watch for once, you old git!"

The man's angry complaints go ignored as the old woman leads Percy to one of the many sets of stairs. They ascend to what is probably the third floor - multiple flights, angles, and landings make it hard to keep track - on which the landing juts off into a long, windowless hallway of many doors. They stop in front of one of the closest doors, much like the others save for the number "39" painted in fading white, a little off of center. Expecting the old woman to take her leave, Percy stands close to a wall, his bag held off to the side to let her pass. She merely scowls and waves him toward the door. "Knock already, will you? I don't want to have to come all the way back up here should he not answer, just to let you in!"

"He's been that bad off?" he softly asks, pointedly ignoring her rudeness. The doctor  gives the door a few knocks and waits. When nothing happens he calls out and tries again, a little louder. It's only after the third round of knocking that a quiet, inhuman whine can be heard as something shifts to block the faint light spilling out from under the door.

The landlady huffs and pulls a large ring of keys from under her apron, expertly picking one out with nary a look. She shoves past him to the door and unlocks it before stashing it away as she turns to glare at him. "Lock up before you go, and don't rile the beast into making a racket." With that she pushes past once more to take her leave. Percy arches a brow at her retreating form before returning to the matter at hand. The door sticks a little when he tries to open it a crack, but once he manages a strange rumbling suddenly starts from inside. Only when it's nearly fully open and too late does he realize it's not so much a rumble as it is a growl.

Directly in front of him, stood in the middle of the tiny room, is the largest dog he's ever seen.

The physician stops in his tracks, hand still on the doorknob as he swallows back his surprise. He knew Alfred owned a dog, but had neglected to ever ask what kind - in hindsight, a giant of a mastiff seems a rather obvious choice. "Alfred?" He calls gently, so as not to startle the enormous hound. From the corner of his vision he sees movement from beyond a bed's footboard. "Alfred, are you awake?"

A groan comes from under the covers, which lower to reveal a mop of messy blond hair. The growling quiets momentarily as the animal's ears perk toward its master, but otherwise is intent on fending off the unknown intruder. Another groan turns to low mumbling before a scruffy-looking Alfred emerges to blindly face the large, well-worn cushion across from him, no doubt where the dog lays. "Sig, you're fine. Quiet down…" That at least stops the growling for the time being, leaving the now confused behemoth unsure of what to do. After a few seconds it softly whines its discontent, finally prompting Alfred to somewhat prop himself up, eyes shut tight against the meager amount of light. "Ugh, what's wrong now…?"

"Only an intruder in your domicile, by all means stay in bed."

Alfred bolts upright with wide, wild eyes as he whips the covers away, his hand instantly at the gap between mattress and wall to grasp what looks like the end of a previously hidden handle. He pauses to blink rapidly at his unexpected guest, both men and dog tense after his flurry of motion. The energy in the room suddenly dissipates as he slumps back and groans again. The handle is left to sink back into its hiding place as he presses both palms into his eye sockets, exhaustion gracing every aspect of his being. His hands drop into his lap when he stares at the physician, as though he's unsure of what he's seeing. "Percy…?"

"Yes, though right now I believe 'Dr. Hewlett' is more fitting," he stiffly motions with his bag toward the still-aggressive animal standing between them, "could you, ah…?"

Alfred sluggishly blinks before understanding dawns. Whatever he says next is apparently a command, as the dog immediately relaxes and starts to pant, tail lazily wagging as it cants its head and approaches to sniff at the visitor. Another oddly familiar assortment of syllables and it returns to its corner of the room, circling before laying down on the old cushion. The younger man cracks a tired smile at his pet before tensely looking back to Percy, wariness etched across his features as he replaces his blankets. "What are you doing here Dr. Hewlett?"

"Checking in, as it were," Percy says as he shuts the door behind him. Now that there isn't a snarling beast glaring at him he can take a more thorough look around as he strips off his outer layers. There's a coat stand directly in front of the entry against the stained and cracking wall, beside which is a heavily-laden, tiny desk with a mismatched stool, a dented waste bin wedged between the two. On the other side of the desk is the dog's bed and bowls, situated below the tiny room's equally tiny window, too high to be anything other than a minor source of ventilation and light. A narrow bed piled with patchwork blankets and knit quilts sits against the wall in the corner, next to which is a nightstand barely big enough to hold the lamp atop it. At the foot of the bed sits an enormous, ancient, and very heavy-looking trunk, its padlocks left undone. Above it, a few shelves and a fair number of hooks along the walls are home to what little else Alfred apparently owns, along with differing lengths of dog leads. The most notable thing in the room besides the trunk is a painting hung in an elaborate frame, above the head of the bed - a detailed portrait of an aged, pale man with a full beard, long hair, and piercing eyes.

All in all a miserably cozy little setup, far from comfortable and fulfilling only life's barest necessities. Percy hides his dismay at the state of Alfred's living quarters as he hangs his coat and scarf on the stand. No wonder he's out and about so much, walking the streets more than the Church militia; this place is hardly large enough for a grown man, let alone a grown man and a more than grown animal!

"I thought it best to drop by, seeing as you've never neglected to show for an appointment before," the physician says whilst turning around, one hand smoothing the front of his jacket, the other holding his black bag. "I believed something might be amiss. It appears my suspicions were correct."

"An appointment…?" Alfred's face scrunches up in confusion before it breaks into panicked realization. He bolts upright to scramble out from under his covers. "The session! How could I forget, I should have-!"

"Relax Alfred."

The blond freezes before he can further tangle himself in his sheets. Now that he's properly facing him, Percy can see just how bad a condition the man is in. His usually styled hair hangs limp and unwashed, and the typically well-kept sideburns are on their way to being consumed by unshaven stubble. Pale, clammy skin, dark circles under bloodshot eyes, a sheen of sweat on his forehead - this wasn't just a hangover. He'd either managed to become very ill in the two days since they'd last spoken, or… Percy sighs.

He pulls the stool out and sits, setting the bag at his feet as he does. Alfred still appears somewhat ready to fling himself out of bed, but his manic energy has been somewhat replaced by the same wariness from before. He won't meet the doctor's gaze, looking anywhere but his direction, and his hands can't seem to stay still. How curious… "Now that I see your state, I'll forego the lecture of how to properly cancel an appointment the day of. Missing was obviously not a conscious decision."

The younger man kneads at the topmost quilt, managing to look even guiltier. "I'm sorry. Had I- if I'd- …I haven't been well."

"I can see that. You've stopped drinking, haven't you?"

Alfred tenses, gaze immediately snapping to his hands. "I, uh… how…?"

"Because you were perfectly fine two days ago, and aren't one to let anything less than severe pain or injury keep you from being active," Percy doesn't bother keeping the displeasure from his voice as he gets straight to the point. "If you'd consulted me before blindly charging into this, you would know that stopping such an addiction shouldn't be done alone. Especially if one decides to do it all at once - the shock and resulting symptoms can lead to death if not under proper supervision!"

The blond huddles further against the headboard at the chastisement, hands anxiously fidgeting in his lap as he keeps his head down and chews at his bottom lip. From this angle his eyes look to be rapidly darting every which way, glossed over and even teary as the sweat falls from his brow. Taking a slow breath, Percy decides to change tactics. Having to deal with an unnecessarily emotional patient is such a task, and Alfred has proven he is very capable of being just that. The doctor pauses a moment to consider his next move, unconsciously leaning forward to better observe whatever reaction he'll receive. His voice is kept as quiet and calm as can be.

"…What changed your mind? You went from 'considering' to 'doing' rather quickly, no further convincing required. Am I really that good?" He chuckles, "perhaps I'm simply too familiar with handling you-"

Alfred's breathing suddenly hitches, followed by a series of hiccups as it grows faster, more erratic. Tears immediately begin to stream down his pallid cheeks, as though they'd been building up for some time. His eyes screw shut as he quickly hides his face behind hands that end up tangled into his hair. A tightly clenched jaw is visible behind shaking forearms as he sucks air in between his teeth, rapidly hissing as he tries to keep himself quiet. He stays upright for only a moment longer before he buries himself under the covers to curl into a fetal position. His heaving form, now wracked by outright sobs, haphazardly rocks beneath the knit- and patchwork.

Percy remains silent and motionless as he stares.

He hasn't a clue of what to do.

The unease Alfred causes him on occasion is back in full force, bearing down on him, making it extraordinarily difficult to sort through his thoughts. It's obvious he's done something to set him off, but what? Why was he so upset in the first place? Was he really feeling that guilty over foregoing the doctor's assistance? Is it the withdrawal causing him to act out due to heightened chemical imbalances of some sort? Has he, personally, done something? The dog stands only to eventually sit back down and whine in its master's direction. Percy pays it no mind as he watches the shaking mass of covers, frown deepening the more he ponders.

He's done everything a personal physician should when trying to help a patient face their addiction; not even his former peers in England could argue he's been too "morally lax" with this case! So why is seeing a man in the throes of withdrawal breaking down in front of him- Why does he feel guilty?! Lost in his bewilderment, it takes him far too long to realize the incoherent sounds emanating from the bed are peppered with words.

"-rry I'm sorry I'm so sorry I'm s-sorry I- I'm-"

Percy sits at attention. "Sorry for what? Alfred, you've done nothing wrong."

The sobs turn to fast wheezes as the mass of quilts curls further in on itself. Fearing the younger man might pass out from lack of air the doctor swiftly stands and comes closer, ignoring the worried whines of the animal at his feet. He goes to lay a hand on what was likely a shoulder only for it to flinch away, sobs catching for a moment before continuing. Percy stifles a frustrated sigh as he straightens, still unsure of how to proceed. He brings the stool to sit closer, resting his chin in a hand as he considers the problematic patient before him. "…Alfred, please. I can't do my job unless I'm aware of what the problem is. What's happened to upset you so-"

"I assaulted you!"

Alfred's head pops out from under the covers, hair sticking to his reddened face where tears and snot have caught it. His eyes are clenched shut, fists balled into the fabric under his chin as he practically shouts, "I-I assaulted you, forced myself on you like an animal! I've done everything wrong! I don't deserve forgiveness, I don't deser- deserve-! I'd never- let alone to you! God, I don't know why I-! You're the only bloody friend I've got and I just, just-! Treated you l-like some common-"

"…Oh," utters Percy, too quiet to be heard. A hand presses over his mouth as his gaze falls to the floor, Alfred's rambling fading into background noise.

All of his observations from the recent past topple to the forefront of his mind, aligning to form a glaringly obvious truth with disconcerting ease. The atypical lack of communication and unannounced visits this last month, how Alfred's odd manner during his last appointment only began after Percy brought up their talk, which occurred the day after his outburst - even during the day after itself! How he'd so uncharacteristically neglected to finish his meal, or even pocket the biscuits for his walk home! It all makes terrible sense when connected by the common thread of his remembering his actions from the very start. "I was a fool to think I could ever forego the ridiculous mess of addressing what happened. If he just didn't get so overly-!" The doctor purses his lips in a tight frown as he rubs the bridge of his nose. "…No, no this is squarely on my shoulders now. I didn't deserve the torture of Alfred's dramatics, but now that I've made the situation so much worse… Plenty of contrary evidence to my decision and I was still blind to it all! Too content in thinking I'd avoided an overemotional bullet! Verdammt noch mal, I hate making mistakes!"

"-nothing but patient and kind, and I repay that with, with trying to rape you! Oh God! I-I'm such a wretched, disgusting, vile-"

Hardly aware of Alfred's self-loathsome sobbing, Percy barely moves his hand to blandly reply, "You didn't try to rape me Alfred, don't be ridiculous."

"-ing but revulsion! You shouldn't even want to look at me, let alone treat me! I shouldn't be anywhere near you after I-I did such a thing, but I still-"

The physician finally looks up at him as his hand drops away, focus no longer divided. "Refusing you treatment is the furthest thi-"

"Another man! That I force anyone against their will for my own lewd selfishness is- But a man?! How could I do something s-so-! To someone who, who'd never even think that anyone would want to-"

"I am quite familiar with homosexual acts, Alfred."

"-odd and perversely unnah…tur…"

The muffled words trail off. Alfred slowly turns from where he'd buried his face into the now sodden pillow, finally looking at his visitor for longer than a glance. "…You are…?"

"Quite."

"…Oh…" He stares for a moment before his eyes drift to the wall, expression oddly blank.

For a short time silence hangs in the small room, and Percy is too relieved for a break from the wailing to question it. However, the longer it goes on the more he notices the other's expression shift into something more… thoughtful. An immense amount of discomfort overtakes the physician, driving what little of his tension that had dissipated to return tenfold. He loudly clears his throat to interrupt whatever disagreeable ideas the other might be having. "However, I've… someone to whom a significant amount of time and energy has been dedicated. And, that being the case, I've no interest in such a relationship at this time."

"Oh." Alfred's expression falls as flat as his tone.

His brow furrows as his gaze drifts to his dog, still sitting nearby with its nose on the edge of the mattress. A hand comes out from under the covers to give the animal a scratch behind an ear, eliciting a steady thumping as its tail wags against the floorboards. Percy lets out the shallow breath he didn't know he was holding, glad to finally not be the other's sole focus. It has to stay a short-lived reprieve, however - he still has to set this mess right somehow.

"…For clarity's sake, receiving another man's advances isn't something I find odd or distressing. What was of an offensive nature pertaining to your actions that night was being thoroughly manhandled-" the doctor pauses, his expression turning pensive before bordering on sheepish, "-…in such a… an indifferent fashion. That is, without consent."

Alfred's already pallid complexion pales beneath the flush of upset, self-disgust practically oozing off him as he hiccups on the threat of miraculously unspent tears. Percy quickens his pace in the hope of cutting them off before any more can fall. "But! I know you never would have carried out such actions if you were in any way able to comprehend them at the time. As such, I consider the entire affair as something to be analyzed and understood, similar to any other aspect of your overall case. And I'd like to make one thing very clear-" he pointedly pauses and stares, gently smiling when the younger man finally looks up,"-what I said the following day was and remains true, Alfred. Apology accepted."

The blond's breath hitches and for a terrible moment he appears alarmingly close to all-out sobbing again, which causes the older man's smile to prematurely wane. Instead the offending tears are ignored as he two-handedly rubs at his faces and sniffles in an attempt to hold them back. "But I hurt you..."

Percy raises a brow and sits straighter to spread his arms wide. "Do I look hurt to you?"

"There were- you have bruises…"

"Which have faded - or are very well on their way, if you've managed to pick them out. Wait," Percy arches a brow questioningly as he lays his hands on his thighs to lean forward, "is that what set you off during your last appointment? You saw what's left of the mark on my neck? Honestly, I've gotten worse from badly-stacked book shelves…"

His patient simply nods and bites his bottom lip, eyes anxiously dancing across the room. If anything he looks hesitant now, as if he's unsure he should accept that he's already been so readily forgiven. They sit quietly as Percy tries to hash out how best to convince him so they can move on to the matter at hand - his withdrawal. He sighs as he comes to a conclusion that should act as a much-needed segue into what he'll have to do so he can finally be free of this ridiculous affair. "Think of it like this - were I still upset with you concerning what happened, wouldn't I have said something by now? The day after, or any time after that? Or right now for that matter?"

Alfred goes stock still, averted eyes widening as he rapidly blushes a new shade of red and rubs at his mouth. "…Uuuhh I- uhh…Hmmooh…" His muttering grows more and more muffled as he sinks lower and lower until he's reclined once more, pressing himself into the mattress as if in the hopes it'll swallow him whole. The doctor pretends not to notice his obvious embarrassment, instead focused on trying to look remorseful or even anxious instead of annoyed over his current situation. Evidently not a single thought about Percy's reaction, or lack thereof, has crossed Alfred's mind in all of his panic and self-loathing. The physician would even posit a guess no real concern over how he may have faired has occurred to him either.

Good. Incredibly self-centered and ignorant, but good; hopefully it'll stay that way, at least for long enough to make easier what must come next. Percy turns away for a moment to gather himself. "…For that I owe you an apology."

The blond opens his mouth to question, but Percy silences him with a terse shake of his head before continuing. "The day after I retrieved you from that pub and the subsequent incident, you didn't appear to remember any of it. From that scant observation I decided, instead of forcing you to recall the ordeal while already upset over your getting drunk, I'd act as though your outburst never occurred. Knowing how you loathe wanton acts of any nature, I thought that line of action would be best for you to recover and move on from the blow getting drunk would have dealt to your mindset. I was very, very wrong. I never bothered to think that I may had been mistaken, that perhaps you did remember your actions from that night, or of how what I was doing may affect you. By acting as though nothing happened I waylaid your mental recovery and undoubtedly caused you an enormous amount of duress - questioning your memory, perhaps even your grip on reality. As a medical professional, your physician, and in an unofficial capacity your psychiatrist, my making assumptions and retaining information from you concerning your own actions was morally questionable at best. I apologize profusely."

The room is silent once Percy finishes with a penitent dip of his head. Alfred has shifted to laying on his side, mouth hanging open in obvious confusion just as it was while he listened. It snaps shut almost audibly when he realizes but the confusion remains, slowly morphing into a grimace as he struggles to understand, mind as sluggish and impaired as it is right now. His mouth opens and closes a few times before words finally begin to form. "I… uh. That- I wasn't expecting, for you to… I'm the one who- I don't- but you… You're, um… forgiven?"

Percy makes a show of letting go of a breath he hadn't been holding. "Thank you for forgiving me. And of course I owed you an apology - the turmoil my actions caused you must've been great. Deplorable on my part, as your doctor. Now!"

He swiftly ducks down to open the leather bag at his feet and pulls out a small notebook and pencil. As he returns the stool to sit at the desk he fishes out his spectacles from a breast pocket, depositing them on his nose before clearing a space for him to work. "On to business, yes? I have a few questions about how you've faired since going dry - I'm sorry, that's another assumption on my part. You have stopped your alcohol intake entirely? Likely starting directly after your last appointment?"

"I- yeah? …Yes," Alfred is immensely lost over the sudden change of topic as he pushes himself up. His eyes are still glossy and his voice hoarse from his earlier wailing, but now that the flush of embarrassment and upset has subsided he looks wanner than ever. Sweatier too, unless that's just residual tears and the dim lighting.

"Very well. You've been experiencing the usual withdrawal symptoms I suspect - headache, fever, stomach complaints, trouble sleeping?"

"Yeah… all of that…"

Percy hums as he jots this all down. "Have you experienced uncontrollable shaking?"

"A little, in my hands…"

"When you move do you feel unbalanced, disoriented?"

"If I'm standing or move too quickly, yeah…" Alfred sits upright again and clenches his eyes shut, frowning.

"And have you noticed anything… odd? Visual or auditory things that don't seem right?"

"You mean hallucinations? I don't- probably not…?"

"Good, good. Have you been able to keep down most-"

"Bin."

"-of what you've ea- beg pardon?" Percy looks over to see a very pale Alfred tensely clutching his covers. His mouth is a thin line as he harshly breathes out through his nose, his voice naught but a croak. "Bin!"

Without taking his eyes off him Percy deftly leans to grab the receptacle and is next to the bed so fast the dog startles to its feet. Before the blond can fully take it he's already retching. The doctor stands by with no discernable reaction as he passively watches, pencil and notebook poised to write. Once the successive coughing subsides and Alfred wearily retracts his head with a moan, Percy returns to his task as though nothing had happened. "I'll take that as a 'no'."

----------

"What are you reading?"

Percy turns to glance up from where he sits at the room's cramped though slightly more organized desk. "Alfred, you're up! So sorry if I managed to wake you, it was not my intention," he moves to fully face the bedbound man, bringing the book he'd been focused on to display the cover. "Nothing pertaining to any of my current cases, but of interest nonetheless. The Ward's libraries cover so many fascinating topics."

"Mmhm," Alfred hums, already closing his eyes once more. The doctor watches him as he uses the interruption as an opportunity to stretch some, before adjusting his spectacles to find where he left off.

Three days have passed since Percy first came to check on Alfred. Thanks to the schedule they'd quickly set up the physician has been back to the little room often - sometimes thrice a day if the weather and his other appointments cooperate. It's surprisingly… alright, having to come out to see to the miserable man. Though the trip takes him near less than desirable parts of town, Percy enjoys the excuse for walks and exploring routes he'd otherwise never take, as well as the occasional bonus of receiving baked goods from the elderly sapphic couple, now that he passes by so regularly. The boarding house's old landlady had opted to give Percy a spare key to Alfred's room on hearing he'd be back so often, making the act of getting in nowhere near as unpleasant as his first visit. And with Alfred so firmly in the midst of his withdrawal, he's nowhere near as talkative and irritating as his usual self. In fact, other than giving an update on his condition, the blond primarily spends his time silent and in bed, trying to get some semblance of sleep. It makes for a quiet, somber sort of environment - not unlike a library really, save for the dog smell and occasional sounds of retching.

Percy began bringing his reading along during the second day, when Alfred told him he seems to sleep better with someone nearby. "I don't think I've ever slept completely alone in a room of my own, before living in Yharnam," he'd shared as his reasoning on the matter. Of course Percy had only acquiesced after seeing first hand why his further prolonged presence was indeed needed; when the blond suffered a brief bout of falling sickness as he slept. If not for the physician's quick intervention he would have likely given himself a mild concussion with how he'd been convulsing against the wall. Instead he ended up with only a scrape on his forehead, while the wall gained a few fresh cracks in its plaster.

So, other than occasionally having to walk Alfred's mastiff Siegward - which to its owner's credit is surprisingly docile and well-behaved for those that know a few choice words in Old Pthumerian - Percy finds himself enjoying the time technically spent tending to a needy patient, and actually spent recreationally reading. It's not his own home of course, but the lack of comfort just keeps him from drifting off between paragraphs as he's become wont to do more in recent years.

"Is it about eastern folk medicine?"

Percy looks up in surprise to see Alfred intently squinting at him, or rather the book. It's still very strange to hear him forego his newer, more refined manner of speech in lieu of the accent he had when they first met. Yet another sign of how awful a state he's in, and of the trust he must have in the physician. "Why yes, it is. How did you- have you read it?"

"…You could say that," he settles back to lay down after having propped himself up. Once he sees the doctor's obvious curiosity he groggily continues. "Transcribed by Logärius from its original Chinese, right?"

Realization comes to Percy on hearing the name aloud. He flips to the front to be certain and, sure enough, there is the late man's name in solid script under the title and intricate characters of the original authors. "Yes it is. Did he work on this during your mentorship?"

Alfred doesn't respond. Enough time passes that Percy considers dropping the matter. Talk of his mentor was a touchy subject, and he doesn't want to overstep any boundaries or cause an upset when it could so easily affect the man's health. He'll just have to make a note of this to bring up at a later time.

"…On the back page, if it's the original printing - it's signed by Logärius at the bottom," Alfred suddenly says, almost too low and gravelly to be heard clearly, "the 'A' is in a circle instead of with an umlaut…"

The physician quickly turns to the back page. There at the bottom, much smaller than he'd expected, is a simple anglicized signature, perfectly centered with a curiously large "A", missing its umlaut in lieu of a perfect circle. His interest fully piqued, Percy looks to the younger man expecting further explanation, apparently in an amusing fashion as he dryly chuckles in response. "He transcribed everything by hand originally, since printing wasn't… present most of his life - it wasn't really used in Pthumeru. His hands caused him a lot of pain by his later years, so he never learned how to type. I learned instead, when he took me on."

"You transcribed this book into print?"

Alfred nods as he looks at nothing in particular. "I did a good number of his first transcripts. Some of the papers were damaged or beginning to fade; we needed to salvage them in the midst of our travels…"

Percy raises his brows, genuinely impressed - who'd of thought the ever-impatient Alfred capable of such a thing? But something bothers him as he considers this new information. "Of all the works gathered by Logärius that I've read, I've never seen a single credit for the transcriptions go to anyone but him. Surely you deserve-"

"I don't want it."

The doctor pauses, his confusion plain. Alfred sighs. "Pecking at a typewriter is nothing compared to the actual work my mentor dedicated himself to near the end of his life. He'd already traveled much of Asia and Europe by the time we met, was more than halfway done all on his own. Adding my name would only diminish the importance of his efforts, his dedication. I didn't - still don't - want to take away from the recognition that's rightfully his."

Remaining silent, Percy adds this revelation to what he already knows of Alfred's relationship with the mysterious Old Pthumerian that had been Logärius. It was evident from the start that he highly reveres the man - which makes perfect sense, considering how he'd vastly improved Alfred's life practically over night. From education to etiquette, Logärius reshaped and guided a spirited no-name brute into a relatively decent gentleman of… some amount of academic prowess. During one of their discussion sessions, he'd even let slip he considered the man as a sort of father figure, the first he could ever recall in a positive light. But this degree of humility is completely new. Alfred is a prideful man; proud of his academic work, proud of his physical abilities, proud of his status of being Logärius' sole surviving protégé, and proud of how he's successfully reshaped himself to blend with those of a higher social standing. So to learn he willfully, adamantly refuses rightful credit for his work in a well-known collection of literature, which would most certainly force his peers at Byrgenwerth to reconsider him… Perhaps it's less reverence for Logärius, and more a strange sort of glorification…

Percy shakes his head as he's nudged out of his thoughts. Siegward has come to lean against he and the stool, panting slightly as he slobbers near one of his pant legs. With a frown the doctor shifts away from the impending mess of a particularly viscous line of drool. Alfred interrupts his dozing to crack an eye open at the movement before he settles in further, prompting Percy to ask one final question. "…What does the circled 'A' entail?"

"Hm?" Alfred turns toward the doctor's voice but doesn't open his eyes.

"You mentioned this book's signature having a circled 'A', as if it were unique. Why is that?"

Now it's Alfred's turn to frown. "He was of the same mindset as you, that I should receive credit. He didn't push the matter, but made sure to sign everything I'd typed like that, without my knowing - the 'A' capitalized and circled, for 'Alfred.' Ridiculous old man… he just laughed when I confronted him…" The last handful of words are muttered, but his frown sleepily inverts to a fond smile.

Percy hums in response but says nothing. Glancing at the back page again before flipping to where he'd left off, he decides to make note of which books he might happen to read that bare the same unique signature. For curiosity's sake, as well as to see just how much credit and fame Alfred is willing to part with in the name of elevating his mentor's image.

As soft snoring quietly pervades the little room the physician shifts to sit properly at the desk once more, but only after casting a glance at the portrait, the ancient man's intense gaze meeting his own as if in challenge. Percy hums and returns to his reading. What a bizarre study subject he's managed to find…

[1dffexchange]

Great Unexpectations

To: Inm @in-madhouses​

From: E @unofficialxstyles​

Summary: Alana Bosworth thinks Dickens is overrated. That and the fact that there was no such thing as too much coffee.

Niall Horan begs to differ.

A tale of two different people, one coffeeshop and a how things never go the way we expect them to.

There probably was no such thing as too much coffee.

Sure, everyone talked about the effects of overdosing on caffeine-among which was infertility, by the way, but nobody actually cared. Coffee was a nectar of the Gods.

And sometimes, Alana Bosworth did think she was God.

Or at the very least maybe a distant, distant, distant relative of the heavenly being.

Afterall, she was able to (read: nearly) finish a ten thousand word assignment in one sitting a day before the submission deadline. If that was not a testament to her powers then perhaps, drinking a total of no less than six cups of coffee was.

Still, as Alana threw her body against the smooth wooden counter that overlooked a quiet, deserted street, she could not help but to second guess her coffee addiction. She hated to admit it but six cups did seem like a bit much.

So she did what any sane person would do in her shoes-she reached for her phone and punched in some numbers. The person on the other end of the line picked up after three rings, specifically, but what was supposed to be cordial greeting was instead replaced with muffled screaming and a loud thud.

Ouch.

“Henry…Henry I told you…no, no,” the voice at the other end of the line sounded distressed but Alana merely waited it out. “Honey, please. Okay, okay, fine, eat the cake,” There was another muffled scream, random shuffling and then, at long last, a proper, “Hello,”

“Hello to you, too, Kat,” Alana responded brightly, adjusting herself so that she was seated upright once more.

“Alan? Hi,” came the response. Unlike before, Katherine Bosworth-Ferguson sounded a little more excited this time. “How are you? You haven’t called in like two weeks. Mum was getting worried, you know. She keeps thinking you’re passed out drunk in a London pub or something and one of these days she’d be getting a call to let her know that you’re dead,”

Alana cringed.

First of all, pubs were never her thing.

Second of all, she did wish her mother had more faith in her.

“You guys actually give me far less credit than I deserve, Kat. You know I could bust ass if need be,” Alana replied, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture. There came a sound at the other end of the line once more, a little croak that indicated Kat already had a counter argument fully ready to launch but Alana quickly cut her off. There were more pressing matters at hand.

“Hey, listen I know it’s late I was just calling to see if you maybe knew how much coffee is like too much coffee? As in a lethal amount?” Alana questioned.

Three beats of silence passed.

Birds chirped.

Henry dropped his fork on his now empty chocolate cake plate.

“You….called me….to…ask about…coffee,”

“I’m figuring if there’s anyone who’d know about such things, it’d be a nurse and you’re a nurse so,”

“Exactly what time is it there,”

The question prompted Alana to glance at the watch she had on. “A little after 12.....oh,” The redhead sheepishly smiled, even though her older sister could not witness her slight embarrassment. “It’s early there,”

If eyerolls could be heard, she was pretty sure she heard Katherine’s tumble to the back of her head.

“You should be going to sleep,” was all Katherine said.

The screaming resumed.

“Listen, Alana, I would love to catch up but Henry is now covered in chocolate cake and heaven knows what else so I should really go. Henry…Henry no,” Once again, Katherine sounded livid. “But to quickly answer your question, caffeine has side effects so don’t drink too much of it. It does increase memory, though so if you’re into entering the spelling bee or something, coffee is your best bet. Text me…later, or call me at a better time…maybe text before you do…I have to go. Henryyyyyy,”

With that, the line went dead.

Sisters before misters, they always said.

Unless of course one had a sister with a robust three year old keen on destroying everything he touches.

Then maybe it was time to get a mister.

Or maybe not. Those were always a problem, too.

Knowing she’d get nowhere that night with her burning questions about coffee, Alana pursed her lips, threw her phone into her bag and then resumed her position slumped against the counter. She closed her eyes for all of seven seconds.

“Uhm, miss,”

Good things never did last, of course.

Alana opened one eye and was met with a tall, blonde man looking at her with an odd mixture of curiosity, politeness and a hint of irritation.

She opened the other eye and sat up. He pointed at the clock on the wall.

“We’re closed. We actually closed fifteen minutes ago and….you have to go,” his accent was think but his tone, albeit a little understandably impatient, was apologetic.

Alana nodded her head in understanding and stood up, mumbling her own apology. “Didn’t see the time. Life gets like that when you have to finish a damn assignment on three hours of sleep after finishing one the day before. Life sucks and especially so before Christmas break,”

Alana began packing her bag, throwing a stack of notes and her laptop into her carry on before stacking four empty coffee cups neatly and handing it over to the barista. She knew he was the barista because he was a familiar face-he had been making her coffee over the last year with no less enthusiasm than an energizer bunny each time.

He did not prepare her coffee consistently, of course, but he was there often enough to know her coffee order before she even got a word out and to sometimes use his staff discount.

When the weather was extra nice, they’d even engage in small talk.

His name was Niall.

“Tell me about it,” Niall replied cordially. “I’m this close to being dead but you know…extra cash always helps; especially around Christmas. And they say a bachelor’s will get you far in life….They never mentioned the need to get through this phase, first,”

Alana snorted, then nodded in understanding. “Yeah. Bachelor’s? More like Bache’s gonna kill me,”

Niall, much to his credit, had the courtesy to chuckle lightly at what Alana already knew was a failed attempt at a joke. He held the coffee cups in a silent gesture of goodbye.

“I… should go clean up. Goodnight,”

“Goodnight,”

She watched Niall disappear behind the double doors that led to the kitchen before heaving a sigh. The young woman grabbed her coat and began her trek back to her dorm room-just two blocks down from Barney’s Coffee & Cakes.

Replaying the few words that she and Niall had exchanged earlier, the reminder of Christmas approaching made her smile in nostalgia. With the most awaited holiday just two weeks away, despite her excitement of spending it abroad for the first time in her life, she did at times wish she had chosen to spend it with her family. She could already picture Katherine, Joshua and Henry taking a photos with the Christmas tree at her parent’s house, her father in his ugly Christmas sweater insisting everyone taste the turkey he’d already perfected the recipe for and just staying up with her mother on Christmas night, talking about all the things they were thankful for in the last year.

The mental image made her miss her family a little bit more but she comforted herself with the fact that she was about to experience something different, this time with friends she had made over the last year, which made the anxiety dissipate a little.

By the time she had reached her front door and turned the key into the lock, Alana was, once again, affirmed over the decision of staying in London for Christmas instead of heading back to Los Angeles a week early.

That is, until she opened the door to a sight straight out a porn production.

“Holy Jesus,”

The curse that left Alana’s mouth broke the obvious sex laden trance two of her friends were in and they immediately broke apart while having the decency to actually look guilty. She rolled her eyes and threw her hands up in the air, making her way towards the kitchen.

“I thought you weren’t coming home,” It was Soo Young-Soo to everyone else-who spoke first. She got up from her position on the sofa and trotted towards Alana. The latter thanked the heavens Soo still had her t-shirt on.

“And what gave you the idea?” Alana poured herself a glass of water.

“I don’t know. You might have decided that someone at the coffeeshop was worth getting laid with. You spend like…all your time there,” Soo commented, positioning herself next to Alana against the kitchen counter.

“Not all-”

“All,” Zayn, Soo’s boyfriend, volunteered. Upon careful inspection when her attention was turned to him, she noted that he too was still fully clad. “Would it kill you to live a little, Alan?”

“I only go there when I need to complete an assignment,”

“That doesn’t mean being there all the time?” Soo poked Alana’s arm, earning a protest from the latter. “Honestly, Alan….you’re beautiful and you’re funny sometimes. Talk to people. So what if you don’t meet deadlines? Not making it for one assignment wouldn’t kill your grades,”

Alana offered Soo a stare that could rival Medusa’s.

“You forget that I’m here on exchange and my grades do matter because my records are going to be sent back to UCLA and I want to graduate when I get back or my year in London will come to moot,”

“Your year in London is already moot,” Zayn argues. “You came to London a boring bug and you’re leaving London…a boring bug,”

She loved Zayn-adored him, really-but sometimes, he had the emotional quotient of a pig.

In an attempt to defend herself and to prove a point of sorts, Alana crossed the space between them and smacked Zayn squarely on the head. There were times where she hated his truthful and wise moments-even if they were….truthful and wise.

“I’m not boring. I party with you guys,” Alana defended herself.

Zayn chortled.

Soo grunted in apparent disagreement.

Alana looked between them both.

“Look, Alan, there’s nothing wrong with being a homebody and considering game night a party but really, let loose a little,” Zayn advised. “Like Soo said…you’re young and beautiful. And maybe call yourself Lana instead of Alan,”

“What’s wrong with Alan? I like Alan and everyone calls me that,” Alana scrunched her face up. “It’s much more unique than an Alana being called Lana,”

Logic, duh.

“Yeah,” Zayn stifled a yawn. “But being an Alan won’t get you laid as often,”

“You’re very misogynistic you know. You’re lucky I love you or I’d have put a lock on our door a long time ago,”

This time, Soo laughed from where she was in the kitchen and Alana cracked a smile.

Of all the things that had happened in the last year-which really was not much- she was most thankful for having Soo as a roommate and then, by default, meeting and becoming friends with Zayn. Unlike her, they were both students with King’s College and were her first friends. It was Soo who brought her on a ‘Locals Only London’ tour on her first week here and Zayn who invited her to his birthday party-where she met a few other friends she had grown to appreciate.

In turn, it was one of her outer circle of friends who had introduced her to Barney’s-which quickly became her sanctuary. It was less popular than the other coffeeshops in the area because it was a little rundown-with some scratched out tables and rickety chairs-but somehow, Alana thought those very features held true the coffeeshop aesthetics and were ones that made the place all the more cosy.

Plus, Zayn and Soo did occasionally get up to no good in the room so to Barney’s was a quick escape plan.

“Life’s not all about getting laid though is it,” Alana finally replied, sitting herself proper next to Zayn. Soo soon joined her other side. “Anyway, getting laid thoughts aside…are we still doing the Christmas gift exchange thing with Harry and Jen?”

It was the highlight of Alana’s Christmas abroad.

At the mention of this, surprisingly, the previously playful air around them tensed a little and Alana did not miss the look Soo and Zayn shared. Instantly, it sent warning bells ringing in her head. When they had talked about Christmas plans a month ago, it was Soo who suggested they had a small gathering in a nearby bar-just having drinks and hosting a gift exchange. Alana had jumped on the idea, thinking it was a perfect way to celebrate the holiday.

“About that….” Soo broke the silence, biting her lip as if not liking her next words, either. “Zayn’s parents invited us down to Braford for the holidays and we…kinda agreed. It was totally last minute, we didn’t know,”

“Harry and Jen will still be here,” Zayn offered.

Alana felt her heart clench but she quickly gathered herself and smiled. Holidays were family time, too, and she could not be selfish about things like these. Besides, Zayn and Soo had done so much for her-she could not expect them to stay back against their will, too.

“I’m not as close to them but…it’s okay. We’ll manage. You guys go, have fun,” Alana assured them. “Say hi to your siblings for me, Zayn. Would love to meet them someday,”

Zayn ruffled the top of her head.

“Will do, Lana,”

Alana groaned. “It’s Alan,”

Soo hugged them both.

---

Christmas eve in London was like one of those postcards on a window display one saw whilst walking along the streets heading to the Tower Bridge. It was snowing lightly, bright lights lit up the street and there were muffled noises of celebration going around campus. Alana jammed her hands inside her pockets, soaking in the sights as she headed to Barney’s. It was two hours till Christmas and she did not feel like spending Christmas eve alone so she had decided to head to her favourite hangout instead.

Soo and Zayn had left for Bradford three days before. An unusually teary Soo apologised profusely for pulling out the plug on their holiday plans and it took a firm hearted Zayn to pull her away and multiple assurances from Alana that they’d see each other before Alana went back to the States before Soo would let her go. Alana gave them both their little gifts-a bottle of Soju and pair of concert tickets for Soo and a thrifted leather jacket for Zayn which proclaimed his undying love for Guns and Roses, embroidered at the back-before bidding temporary goodbye.

That Christmas eve, Harry, Jen and her had met up at the pub as planned, sharing a few drinks before doing the exchange. At Harry’s invitation to attend a Christmas eve countdown party afterwards, Alana had decline, using the excuse that she was a little bit tired. In truth, however, Alana had no interest in spending time with people she barely knew.

She was certain she would have listed the benefits of coffee to an unsuspecting stranger and branded herself a weirdo for life and she would very much like her Christmas eve to be pleasant.

Even if Jen did stay true to her teasing promises and gave Alana an ugly sweater for Christmas.

Finally arriving at Barney’s, Alana was unsurprised to find that it was even emptier than it was before. Despite the wooden walls being decorated with proclamations of a “Merry Christmas” and a few miserable Christmas cards, Alana doubted anyone would want to ring in Christmas drinking coffee. The young woman walked up to the counter, ordered herself a latte then sat herself by the usual spot, by the window, as she awaited for her coffee to cool down.

As she stared out the window and watched people heading towards their Christmas plans, Alana could not help but to admit that she’d miss Barney’s as much as she’d miss Soo and Zayn. Barney’s had seen her through late nights, early mornings and days where she just needed to treasure her aloneness. Somehow, the wooden walls has seen her grow over the last year-the unusually quiet girl had taken a leap of faith, going to another country for an entire year, alone, merely to pursue the unknown. It was a walking cliché but hell, it was Christmas eve.

Heaving out a breath, Alana pulled her knees up to her chest and took out the book she had been attempting to read over the last week. One of her classmates, while in conversation about the best literary classics of all times, found herself in genuine disbelief when she realised that Alana had not yet read Great Expectations. Alana had defended herself, letting her classmate know she had attempted it before but just never properly understood it and had given up. She was presented the book a day later by the very same classmate with the promise that she would read it over the Christmas break.

Her second attempt, so far, was a failure. She was at page twenty seven when she closed the book, pushing it across the table in mild frustration.

“Not a fan of Dickens?”

It was Niall.

Alana looked up to find him looking at her in ill-disguised amusement.

“I just don’t think it’s as much a classic as its touted to be. Or maybe I just don’t understand it,”

“You think Great Expectations is sub-par?” Niall had the audacity to look surprised now. He perched his bucket of collected mugs against his hips, eyebrows raised.

Alana made a face, then chuckled.

“Wait here,”

Before Alana could protest or question the semi-stranger before her, Niall disappeared behind the double doors. When he re-emerged, he spoke in hushed tones to the other barista, gesturing towards her. With a firm nod from the other, Niall undid his apron and quickly joined Alana, sitting across from her.

He would have been skiving had it not been for the fact that the only customer was her.

“Care to tell me what this is about?” Alana’s asked. She leaned back in her chair, then folded her arms across her chest.

“I’m here to tell you what you missed out with Dickens,”

Niall’s grin was smug.

“Right…because what I really need on Christmas eve is a lecture about the great Charles Dickens,” Alana mocked, looking pointedly towards the book.

Niall seemed to contemplate his response and in those moments, Alana dared a glance at him. Only then did she fully register that his eyes were a deep blue and that he had a slightly dented chin. His hair, while mostly blonde, had highlights of auburn in them.

Strange how she had seen him throughout the year and only then noticed the most obvious details.

“About that…why are you here on Christmas eve?” Niall’s sudden change in topic caught Alana off guard, causing her to frown. Her response prompted Niall to shoot his arms up in defence and after laughing lightly, added. “I mean, I’m sure you have better Christmas plans than coming here to get drunk on coffee,”

“I don’t get drunk on coffee,”

“Well, with a six cup black coffee record, you might as well have,”

“I’ve had ten once back home,”

“And….where is home?”

The question, although catching Alana off guard, caused her to grin. “Smooth one-if that’s your way of finding out where I live,” Alana pursed her lips, reaching for her coffee. “Home is Los Angeles. Only here for exchange…which officially ends in a week,”

Sometimes, when Alana got nervous, she tended to give more than she cared to admit.

“That’s…pretty far from here. No plans tonight?”

Alana shook her head no, then added. “My grand total of two friends decided to love it up back in his hometown so I’m left with a barely friends Christmas secret Santa thing and Dickens in a coffeeshop,”

Yup, she was definitely nervous.

Instead of appearing sorry for her, however, Niall shrugged.

“Sounds a whole lot better than working on Christmas eve,” his voice was laced with an undertone of sadness and that alone, somehow, made Alana sit up a little bit straighter.

“Well, you have your barista buddy if it counts for anything…and an equally lonely customer,”

As if to proof a point, Alana raised her cup in a quiet toast before sipping her drink.

“Jack’s about to knock off; he has a party to get to…but you’re more than welcomed to stay,” Niall stood up then and jammed his hands into his pockets. “I uh…better go clean up. We close at twelve so don’t make me chase you out…again,”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Alana joked.

“Hopefully it wouldn’t be the last, either,”

The laughter that escaped Alana’s lips carried through the now empty space, She chose to sit back and do nothing for a while, watching as mere minutes later, Jack emerged from behind the counter, waving at Niall as he approached the front door. He noticed Alana during these moments and with an enthusiastic “Merry Christmas”, was on his way.

Perhaps, in all of England, her Christmas was the most boring.

In the two hours that followed, Alana alternated between attempting Dickens and checking her phone-though she spent more time doing the second. The group chats she was in were filled with Christmas greetings and updates, the most active being one of her family and her close friends back home. Both groups seemed to be preparing for Christmas in full swing. Her father was roasting the turkey, as usual, and her friends were already calling dibs on what they’d be bringing to the party at Carlos’. Alana felt a pang of sadness wash over her but as quickly as it came, she halted her thoughts by reaching for Dickens, focusing now on Pip and his journey on Christmas eve.

Perhaps, in some greater metaphor of sorts, Dickens on Christmas did seem appropriate.

“Looks like I am going to chase you out,” Niall’s sudden interruption brought her out of her semi-reverie in nineteenth century England.

“Is it twelve already?” Alana looked at the clock to find that they were exactly five minutes away.

“Not yet but I wanna wish you Merry Christmas instead of chasing you out right at midnight. That would be very Fairy Godmother of me,”

“Indeed,” was all Alana said before standing up, packing her bag and then swinging it over her shoulder.

“Did you get anywhere with Dickens?”

“First base, if I’m lucky. But I think it’s more of a cordial friendship at this point,” When the response was met with a puzzled look from Niall, Alana giggled. “We’re at page forty and I am still not impressed,”

Niall did the unthinkable then.

“Come over to my place then…tomorrow…not tonight…because I have to clean up and it’s…not appropriate, anyway,”

Alana blinked.

Twice.

In slow motion.

“I mean…if you want to. I did a review on Dickens last semester and maybe it’d be easier for you to understand and appreciate it and also….I kinda don’t want to spend Christmas alone,”

As if to confirm her suspicion, Alana asked. “You’re asking me out?”

“No…yes…I mean…we’ve known each other almost the year right so that makes us friends and we’re just…hanging out on Christmas and I have gingerbread cookies and we could talk Dickens or not and you can say no-”

The rest of Niall’s words blurred into the background and in its place was Zayn’s voice telling her she needed to live a little and live a life outside Barney’s that was less calculated. Leaps of faith were never her thing but perhaps, there was no harm in this one-especially since she knew deep down, she had nothing to lose. It was a tiny gathering between friends and if she had to put it in her own words and her own terms, it was kind of like a Christmas study date.

“-and of course I have boardgames and-”

“Okay,” Alana answered at last. “I’m pretty sure we’d get nowhere with Dickens but I do love gingerbread cookies,”

Niall held in his response for a moment after the agreement was forged, unable to belief that his spontaneous idea of asking a fellow lone soul to spend Christmas together would bear fruit.

“Yeah…yeah okay,” Niall finally found his words but unconsciously scratched the back of his neck in sudden shyness. “I’ll go get my phone and then text you my address,”

While Niall went to get his phone, Alana quickly reached for hers and with rapid speed and an equally quick heart rate, ignored the multiple texts she received to send a message to Soo.

“Got asked out on an almost date for Christmas. Merry Christmas to you and Z!!!!!!!!! xxxxxx”

Just as she hit send, Niall emerged once more and handed his phone to her so she could type in her number. A knowing smile formed on her lips, however, when the name space was filled with the name “Karen”.

“Uhmm…my name is actually Alan. Short for Alana. Alana Bosworth,”

Niall looked puzzled. “What do you mean….?”

“I mean….” Alana paused and licked her lips, unable to hold in a laugh that eventually escaped her lips. She held his phone up. “I mean my name is Alana not Karen. You might have misheard me saying Alan…everyone calls me Alan…. and assumed my name was Karen and wrote it down by mistake. You’ve been writing it wrong the whole year,”

It was Niall’s turn to blink twice. In slow motion.

“What do you mean I’ve been writing your name wrong for a year?” Niall turned pale, his eyes reflecting obvious embarrassment. “Why have you never corrected me?”

“Because,” Alana was laughing without inhibitions now and gave herself a few moments to gather herself. “….Because you only asked once and I thought I could correct you the next time I saw you but you never asked for my name again so I’m….Karen,”

Niall ran a hand through his hair, opening his mouth as if to say something before quickly deciding against it. “You mean I’ve mistaken you for a Karen the whole year,”

Alana nodded in mock seriousness, the nudged her new friend. “It’s okay…no big,”

Typing her phone number in then, she gave herself a missed call before handing the phone back to Niall who looked a little less shocked than he was before but still clearly beating himself up over getting someone else’s name wrong for a whole year.

“Relax, Niall. It’s okay, really. At least now you know, right?” Alana assured him. “Text me your address tomorrow and we’ll meet up,”

Niall nodded his head robotically.

“Okay,” Alana was still amused as she backed away and towards the door. “Goodnight, Niall…and Merry Christmas,”

“Good….goodnight, Kar….Alan. See you tomorrow. Merry Christmas,”

Niall blew out a breath of utter shock as he watched Alana leave. When he finally fully recovered, he dialled a number on the phone. The other person picked up almost instantly.

“Hey…yeah buddy…Merry Christmas to you too. Listen, you wouldn’t belief what happened, Zayn….”

[helenamayhathaway]

The Bachelor(s) - Sope Fic

“Run that by me one more time, chief.”

He groans out the anger that he wants to take out by smacking Yoongi across the face. “Twenty-five guys stepping out of the limo. Fifteen roses. Nine weeks. Then you pick one guy.”

“Pick him to do what?” Yoongi says, playing dumb. He gives Yoongi a stare so intimidating that his balls shrivel back into his body. “Fuck, oh my god, I’m just kidding! Fall in love blah blah blah. I got it.”

Read Chapter 1 below the cut!! (also on AO3 and Wattpad)

{{

The Bachelor: Boys Will Be Boys SK Promo #3 (Yoongi)

Interviewer: (Excitedly and absolutely incapable of reading the room) What made you decide to enter as a contestant on the first ever season of The Bachelor: Boys Will Be Boys?

Yoongi: (Under his breath) What a ridiculous [censored] title.

Interviewer: I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.

Yoongi: Honestly, I thought there was a cash prize.

Interviewer: You… you what?

Yoongi: I thought that like, if I came on the show and won, I’d get money. I’ve never seen the show, the original one or whatever. I thought it was a bunch of single people fighting to the death or something. And I’m like, I can definitely cut a [censored] if I need to.

Interviewer: (Dejectedly) Okay…

Yoongi: But I already signed the contract, it’s too late to turn back now.

Interviewer: (Trying to steer the conversation into a direction that won’t get him fired [he is definitely going to get fired]): So how does it feel now that instead of being a contestant, you’ve been chosen to be The Bachelor [Excited jazz hands]?

Yoongi: I still don’t win any money.

Interviewer: Just to be clear, you are aware this is a dating show, right?

Yoongi: It has been explained to me.

Interviewer: …and that twenty-five men will be vying for your love?

Yoongi: [unbelievably censored] That’s a lot of people I’m going to let down.

Interviewer: Well this is sure to be an exciting season isn’t it?

Yoongi: Do you think they’ll let me make all the other dudes do a Wipeout course? I want to weed out the weak among them.

Interviewer: [Damn it, man, this is your first gig in the biz, you have to get some goddamn emotions out of this man] Do you think you’re going to be falling in love this season?

Yoongi: [Laughs hysterically]

Interviewer: (Facing both God and his father who told him he’d never amount to anything) Tune in this Friday for the series premier of The Bachelor: Boys Will Be Boys!

Yoongi: (Quickly so as to make his voice heard before the cut) Buy my [censored] mixtape “Agust D” you [censored] cowards!

**Notes from the director: Do not let this interview see the light of day or so help me.

}}

“You are not a pleasant man!” the interviewer says to him once he’s sure the camera is no longer rolling.

“Aw, you don’t say,” he says, mockingly. Yoongi disagrees though. He is a very pleasant person. Most of his friends consider him to be dazzling and wonderful, or at least, that is what his mind insists that they think of him. He’s just super pissed he got himself into this situation, and he’s going to be a jackass about it. The cash prize thing isn’t the true story, but it’s the impression he wants to give off. Street cred and the like. He’s a rapper and he needs a certain amount of reputation so that he can call someone a motherfucker and people will take it seriously.

It’s his fault, of course it’s his fucking fault. He submitted a headshot and a copy of his self-produced-recorded-in-the-bathroom-of-his-friend’s-studio-apartment-because-it-had-great-acoustics mixtape to every goddamn company he could find. If you throw enough bait in the ocean, surely someone will snap. He’s not a considerably patient person, so after a very crafty google search of: “how to be famous”, and a very glamorous looking email from TB BWBB SK OTC LC – he still does not know what any of these letters stand for – reached out to him for an audition, well obviously he turned himself into the bait and tripped over his own feet running to be noticed. I’m special and worthy, make me your star!

Obviously, he doesn’t have an agent because 608 people have listened to said mixtape on SoundCloud and a whopping ten copies of it have sold on iTunes, and four of those copies were bought by his mom, but she will deny it until the ends of the earth. He probably could have used an agent, or common sense, or just someone to smack him in the head before that fateful audition two months ago.

“Bach-e-lor,” he read out looking at the extremely official looking poster board sign propped up on a music stand before him at the doors of that very glamorous brothel turned home brewery turned themed café turned TV Studio. “That is an English word, I do not know what that is.” He also didn’t really care about looking it up, because he is an overwhelmingly lazy person. It cannot be overstated, Yoongi should have someone follow him around to tell him when he’s being a fucking idiot.

“Boys will be boys,” he read the next line. The person who made the sign did not think about the spacing of letters, so the second part of the sentence was all crammed together. B o y s w illbeboys. Very sexy. “Well… I am a boy,” he nodded to himself, looking down for confirmation, even though no one was there to witness his joke.

So, he just walked right fucking into that studio and pretty much fucked up his entire future in one viciously fell swoop. What’s the worst that could happen, he thought? He goes on one of those K-Pop Idol shows and he doesn’t win but he gets his name and face out there so people go buy his mixtape and then some company is like “damn you’re fine” and he gets scouted and then becomes an international superstar. What could go wrong?

He did think it was kind of weird that they asked him what his preference in men was, but he’s never breathed the air of a talent agency, so he thought maybe that’s just how these things are. Yes, of course I like fellow musicians. No, I’m not a vegan, what do I look like to you, a monster?

To say it’s been a whirlwind would be an understatement. It only really starts to be real in the two weeks leading up to Night One, where he’s having his picture taken relentlessly, shoved into various seats and interviewed by various people who don’t get paid enough. Made up like a doll, advised to wear better clothes. He feels like an idol but excluding the being excited about it part. He’s trying to maintain his sleek, bad boy composure throughout all of it, and he’d say he’s doing a fairly good job, but there are cracks in the act, surely.

Two months and an unreasonable amount of Soju as a coping mechanism later, his bags are packed and all ready to move into this unforgivingly modern mansion for the next nine weeks. The mansion is the ugly kind of modern, not the “that looks relaxing and practical!” modern. All ninety-degree angles and manufactured pleasantness which don’t quite hit the mark. He supposes that the architecture is rather prophetic for the chaos that Yoongi is about to unleash inside its walls. If he’s going to be the next bachelor, and the first gay one, then goddammit if he isn’t going to raise hell.

“You’re telling me that twenty-five people are going to live in this thing?” Yoongi asks the producer who he has actually quite lovingly decided he will refer to as “Producer Dad.” See, he’s a pleasant person. Off camera, that is.

“Has anyone even explained how this show works to you?” Producer Dad says.

“Men. Roses. Hand to hand combat? Um… that’s the gist of it. I’m sure I’ll pick it up along the way, I’m a fast learner.” He did sign his soul away to this goddamn circus, though, so fast learner or not, he needs to be less of an idiot.

“So tonight, after you have your first impressions with everyone, you’re going to hand out fifteen roses. Only fifteen people will be in the mansion after that, not twenty-five.”

“I don’t think I can remember fifteen different people’s names,” Yoongi says.

“Try your hardest.”

“At the end, once I’ve eliminated all of the contestants, do I get to keep the house?” It’s ugly, but he can always sell it and get something else.

“How is it that you have not been fired yet and replaced?”

“Between you and me, I think it’s because I’m unparalleled sexy,” Yoongi says. He might be lazy and a little bit full of himself, but he’s pretty sure the actual reason is that the powers that be want this show to fail. They don’t want a gay bachelor any more than the next “Forced Diversity” crybaby, so they chose someone who’s going to make it crash and burn so that they have an excuse to say “See! It didn’t work, so now we can’t ever do it again.” They did choose the right man, because gay? bisexual? questioning? all you can eat buffet? whatever the hell Yoongi is, he is the man for the job.

“Do I get my own bedroom? My own bathroom? My own closet? Walk in closet? This is very important.”

“I’m confused, you only have one bag?” Producer Dad says.

“You’re saying the truck hasn’t come yet?”

The Truck? Oh, Producer Dad you are in for it.

“This is going to be a long nine weeks.”

Yoongi shrugs. It’s going to be stupid and dumb, but he’s going to be living the good life. Nice bedroom which he will sleep very late into the morning in? Does the mansion come with a chef? Maybe even a bathtub? Fuck! They’re going to have a lot of trouble trying to get him to move out. He’s sure if he’s stubborn enough they’ll decide to forego the glue remover required to detach him from his bed, because it would be far easier to just stew in misery over the abyss of lost profits that this train wreck of a show is going to create than to buy industrial grade Yoongi Be Gone.

“I’ll play nice with the other boys as long as I get to advertise my mixtape every five minutes of screen time.” Something tells him that this ultimatum means he’s not going to be playing nice with the other boys.

He had been lying about the truck. It’s more just a van. As he walks up to the house, with its weirdly glamorous driveway, he sees it parked out in front, seeming to gleam in the harsh summer sun. Yoongi is not particularly good at packing, though, so a lot of the reason for why he takes up so much space is because he left all of his clothes on hangers and just threw them into an impractical number of trash bags. Producer Dad is not especially willing to help Yoongi move all of his stuff into the mansion, so he does his best impression of the cutest cat you’ve ever seen to all of the crew, but Producer Dad has spitefully told all of his Producer Siblings not to help Yoongi move in his armfuls and armfuls of clothes. And all of his personal bedding. And some audio recording equipment because what if he’s sitting in his bed avoiding the responsibilities of being a reality TV star and he comes up with the next Rap God? If this wasn’t a nine-week venture, he wouldn’t have travelled so heavy, but it is a nine-week venture so fuck it. If he’s going to be a diva then he will be the diva.

He’d like to think he unpacks all of his belongings pretty quickly. The hard part is making it up the stairs into the master bedroom. When he sees it for the first time, he gets an evil glint in his eyes. The room itself is nice, he does have his own bath and an okay closet, but what really gets him is the bed itself. He’s a struggling musician, he’s never even been in a room with a bed this big. He is realizing that the bedding he brought isn’t the right size, but still, this bed is big enough that he could starfish with room to spare. He could fit two people on here to starfish. He’s going to get used to it quite quickly. So quickly in fact that after he shoves all of his clothes in the closet, he passes out on the bed for a solid three or four hours. It’s amazing.

He is awoken when a Producer who is not Producer Dad comes screaming for him, panicked because apparently the crew thought he had run away, but actually he just sleeps like a brick. She is telling him to get changed because Tonight is the Night, and he groans because he was unconscious for so long that he blissfully forgot why it is that he gets to sleep in this nice bed. He wants to stay in this big fancy mansion just for the comfort of it, he doesn’t want to actually exert effort. Effort is disgusting.

Then he’s being put into a suit. Dragged into a trailer outside of the mansion that he’s sure will never make it on camera, where about five different people all start attacking his face all at once. His hair is done, he doesn’t know what there is to do, they put so much product in, but it looks the same now as it did before. He gets makeup slathered all over him. He’d never worn makeup before they started shooting promos for the show, but he looks damn good in it he decides as he looks at himself in the mirror. How does he still look tired, though? Probably because he doesn’t want to be here. His eyes look heavier than they felt before he took that nap. Ah, that nap. He will remember it fondly until his dying days.

“Can I just eat?” he complains after possibly four hours or possibly twenty minutes. “Give me food. Please. How humiliating would it be if you could hear my stomach growl on camera?”

Producer Dad rolls his eyes, but he relents and then Yoongi is being given what seems to him like someone’s leftovers but he’s a hungry bitch, so he doesn’t really care.

“Why do you film it so late at night?” Yoongi asks, because the sun set nearly an hour ago and now he’s just standing by, waiting for shooting to begin.

“It’s for the drama of it.”

“Yeah,” he rolls his eyes, “that makes total sense.” These entertainment types are so weird to him. They don’t seem like bad people, they just have vastly different priorities and thoughts as he does. Who would think that people walking out of a limo is more dramatic at night? These guys! Everyone is in agreement about it. Yoongi feels like a child in comparison to everyone around him.

The production quality of this show overall seems astoundingly low. The house is pretty nice and all that, but no one seems to know what they’re doing. Or maybe he just thinks that because he himself does not know what he’s doing. He shouldn’t even be here. Why the fuck is he here?

He’s not a reality star, or an idol. He’s not really an anything. He’s just some guy who got in over his head and signed up for the wrong kind of show, and now he’s here.

There is some truth to the fact that he did technically sort of a little bit kind of definitely know what he was doing. Initially, yeah, he had no clue. But it didn’t take that long for him to realize what kind of show this was. He’ll deny it to anyone who asks, make up some new, even more outrageous explanation for how he got here, but he did say yes knowing full well what he was doing.

He’s not very proud of the fact that he’s here, but it was on purpose, more or less. It’s not the way he would like to have done it, but people will know his name after tonight, or technically on Friday when this airs. The mixtape has been out for months and no one has noticed it. Months! He needs something. This is definitely not the way he thought it would happen, but this is how it is going to happen.

“Are you ready to shoot your pre thoughts?” Producer Dad asks as he beckons for the host of the show to come by. Yoongi has talked to the host like a whole two times so far, and has decided that his name is Host Uncle, because he is never content with anything that Yoongi does.

“Fuck, I mean, I guess so?”

“Please try to refrain from swearing, okay? It costs the network actual money when we have to bleep your words.”

“I’ve got to get it all out now then,” he says before doing something that would not be condoned by the network or his own mother.

“I do not get paid enough for this,” Producer Dad says before Yoongi is being put on his mark and then being counted down.

“So Yoongi, you’re about to meet twenty-five men for the first time, one of them could even be your future husband! How are you feeling?” Host Uncle asks in a news reporter sort of voice that doesn’t sound natural.

“Well, I certainly am feeling emotions,” he says, though he refuses to show any actual emotions on his face.

“What kind of emotions might those be?”

“Disbelief,” he says, “did not think I would ever be here.”

Host Uncle has a fake laugh and then misinterprets the words either intentionally or unintentionally. “It’s almost like your whole life has culminated in this moment!”

“Okay,” he says apathetically. “I’m just here to promote my mixtape.”

“Cut!” Producer Dad shouts. “Yoongi, we talked about this.”

“Sure, but I ignored you.”

“Let’s try that again, but please avoid plugging your mixtape this time, okay?”

Yoongi groans loudly. One time was painful enough and now he’s got to do it again, and he really exerted as much emotion as he was capable of exerting in that first take, which is little to none. He doesn’t think he’s going to be able to top that.

They do at least five takes. Yoongi doesn’t watch reality shows, it never occurred to him just how much of what goes on the screen is rehearsed and fake. They only let him off the hook when he goes completely over the top.

“Yes of course I’m super excited!” he says with the most insincere tone known to man, but no one seems to notice it, or maybe they’re all just so thankful that the words he’s saying aren’t negative that they’re choosing to see it as a win.

“Do you think that one of these men is going to be your soulmate?”

“Well, I sure hope so,” he says before he smiles at the camera with his cheesiest, gummiest, toothpaste commercial smile.

“It’ll have to do,” Producer Dad finally says.

“The name of my autobiography,” Yoongi mutters. “Can I eat more food now?”

Producer Dad makes an exaggerated sound of frustration, throwing his hands in the air, which Yoongi takes as a yes. He goes back to the trailer where he knows that they’re storing the food, and he then proceeds to eat his emotions away. His emotions are very hungry.

A lot of people he doesn’t know are trying to tell him things. Lots of crew members who seem like perfectly nice people but they’re talking about things he doesn’t care about so he instead decides to tune them out and think about himself instead.

What’s nine weeks? He’s been on this earth for much longer than that, he’ll be able to make it through nine weeks. He’s in a big fancy house. It may be hideous but it does nevertheless have a very good bed. He thinks lovingly of that bed for the next several minutes.

From outside the trailer, he hears Producer Dad shout, “First limo is en route!” All hell breaks loose. Everyone starts scrambling like a bomb went off. Yoongi is being dabbed off and he’s not even sweating. People are fixing his everything. Then he’s being tugged back outside to stand in front of the mansion at a dramatic angle.

He remembers that he has to start acting now. Well, maybe not "acting," but he has to prepare himself to be on camera now and for the next two and a half months. The last few days of promos and pre-interviews are just the appetizer, now it’s time for him to become what he hates. Remember Yoongi, you’re only here for the plu. You just have to make it through this with as many cheeky self-plugs as you can get. People absolutely eat up reality stars. This could be great for you.

He’s actually getting nervous. He didn’t think he was going to get nervous, but he is. It’s not nerves because he’s worried about meeting all the guys, it’s nerves because the weight of everything around him is starting to fall on his shoulders and he is not strong enough not to be crushed by it.

“The limo is going to be here in five minutes, are you ready, Yoongi?”

“I am full of regret and lots of food.”

“You just have to be personable; I know you can do it. I know somewhere in there, deep, deep, deep down, you’re not an asshole.”

“I’ve yet to find that person,” Yoongi responds, smirking.

“You’re insufferable. You know what to do, right? You only have to connect with 15 guys tonight. That’s all you have to do.”

“Run that by me one more time, chief.”

He groans out the anger that he wants to take out by smacking Yoongi across the face. “Twenty-five guys stepping out of the limo. Fifteen roses. Nine weeks. Then you pick one guy.”

“Pick him to do what?” Yoongi says, playing dumb. Producer Dad gives Yoongi a stare so intimidating that his balls shrivel back into his body. “Fuck, oh my god, I’m just kidding! Fall in love blah blah blah. I got it.”

Producer Dad then turns white as a sheet as he hears something in his headpiece. “It’s here!” The camera catches the shot as everyone runs away so as not to be seen in shot. Yoongi is left standing there, the drama of the dark night finally starting to make sense to him as he watches the limo slowly make its way to the driveway right in front of him. How cliché it would be to say his fate is behind those doors, yet too true to deny.

He doesn’t know if he has ever felt so alone and transparent in his entire life. He’s standing here, made up and plasticized. Full of annoyance and nerves and stupidity. Thinking about what he would be doing if he wasn’t here. In one of those dead-end jobs that he uses to support his nonexistent music career. No one knowing his name. But soon the scene of him standing here waiting for that door to open will be seen by the whole country.

He feels fake right now, and he knows that’s because his on-camera self thus far has been fake. He isn’t this person. He’s genuinely a nice person. He definitely needs his mouth washed out with brillo pad, but he’s a good friend, a hard worker. Here he stands feeling like an action figure bent to do The Man’s will.

The minute that the door to the first limo opens, he has a very disheartening realization. Shit. He can’t be a jackass to all of these guys. It’s just not inside of him. He wants so much to be a jackass. It would be such a pleasure. But that would not be fair. It would be so awful for this to be the very first season of this show, queer representation hoorah and then to be piece of shit to everybody. These are the people he’s going to be sharing the screen with for so many weeks, and they are real people. Real people who actually came here to find love and what they got was Yoongi taking the piss. Sure, some of them might just be in it for the fame and drama of it all, not unlike himself, but they’re still human beings.

Alright, Yoongi, what are you going to do? He decides that maybe he will make nice. He’s going to be an asshole to the camera without question but to these dudes? Who came all the way out here to find love? Putting themselves into such an uncomfortable position? That wouldn’t be fair. By no means is Yoongi going to fall in love with anyone, he has some self-respect, but he won’t be a jerk. He will try his hardest not to be.

The door opens in such a way that Yoongi cannot see who’s inside. He doesn’t mean to but Yoongi looks at the camera and makes a very nervous, and probably very cute expression. This is actually about to be real.

The first person that steps out of the limo is… a guy. Korean. Wild, who would have thought? He’s wearing a suit, it could be the exact same one as the one on Yoongi. He has two arms, two legs. Silver hair, dyed. Quite a nice texture. Looks soft. Great skin care regimen. Alright, so he’s hot. Yoongi has two eyes and a dick, he knows when someone is hot.

The distance between them can’t be more than a few yards and yet the length of time that it takes for this guy to walk up to Yoongi is centuries long. He’s quite a bit taller than him, but Yoongi is not a very large person to begin with.

He stops in front of Yoongi, neither of them is doing anything that would be defined as “smiling” but it also couldn’t be defined as anything else.

“Hi,” the other man says. Yoongi takes in a deep breath as subtly as he can. So it begins.

“Hi,” Yoongi responds. Had he meant to say more? Wow, they’re both going to be good at this.

“I’m uh, this is a really weird format to meet someone for the first time isn’t it?” he says sheepishly. Time is not progressing in the way that time usually progresses. He’s not sure if he’s entered a dream or not. It’s not that it feels magical, it just doesn’t feel grounded. He’s not really here. This isn’t really happening.

“Yes,” Yoongi says. Maybe once his mouth stops being dry, he’ll graduate to more than one syllable at a time.

“It’s really nice to meet you.”

“Yeah.” Uncomfortable silence… maybe he should mention his mixtape?

“Are you nervous?” he asks.

“I’m just awkward,” he says, smiling just a little bit to show how uncomfortable he actually is. It’s not a sincere smile. It’s a mom just told me to smile for a picture but I’m eleven and I just want to get through this vacation in one-piece smile.

“Me too. I didn’t know I would be going first. It’s a lot of pressure to say something meaningful… I guess I should tell you my name,” he says. Yes, that might help, you very pretty man. “I’m Namjoon.”

“Yoongi.” Yoongi goes in for a handshake but Namjoon misreads it, so they have an awkward hug with Yoongi’s hand in his stomach. Holy shit, he went into this hoping so much to be a serious, stoic, confident rapper promoting his mixtape, and this is Bachelor One and he already wants to hide in a sewer.

“This can only get weirder from now on,” Namjoon says with actually a really cute smile, and Yoongi doesn’t know why but those words actually comfort him a little bit. “Good luck. I hope when we talk again it’ll feel a little less terrifying.” Oh that’s right, Yoongi reminds himself that after all these introductions he has to go and have one-on-one conversations with everyone and try not to get super drunk while he does it. That’s going to be the hardest part. He wishes he had warmed up with at least something to make his posture a little less straight.

He watches as Namjoon walks past him into the house, and due to the fact that Yoongi has hormones, he looks at him as he walks past and is very sad to learn that there is no ass to speak of. Twenty-four people to go whose asses will surely be more impressive.

Now it’s round two and he’s still uncomfortable but he’s done this once so now he thinks he can handle it a little bit better. Fuck, this one is cute. This one is bubblier. The instant he steps out of the limo, his face already has a smile on it. Christ, this is a good one. So was the last one. This is already hard. There’s no way he’d have been able to be an asshole to faces like these, even if he tried.

“Jimin,” he announces after a few words. Yoongi can tell that he’s going to go in for a hug because that radiates off of this guy. It’s a nice hug. They exchange a few pleasantries. It doesn’t feel natural, but it’s not awful. Jimin walks away and Yoongi is starting to think that this might not be as disgustingly fake as he thought it would be. Jimin made it a little less extremely uncomfortable. Oh, he has very much got an ass. Yoongi makes an unconscious nod before he remembers that there’s a camera on him.

As much as he would like for it not to be true, a lot of the guys run the same as the previous. This one has black hair, but this one has black hair. That one has piercings, oh those are very nice piercings, but that one has a velvet suit jacket and that really does something for Yoongi. He remembers that he has to make it through twenty-five different people, and there are too many names to remember, so he starts assigning them letters.

“Nice to meet you A, I’m Yoongi.”

“Oh, hello B, I’m Yoongi.”

“Thank you so much for saying that C, my name is Yoongi.”

He doesn’t tell any of them that they are being given letters. That would be rude.

“Jungkook.” Okay, yeah cool, your name is L now. “Jin.” Congratulations contestant number whatever, your name is Q. Yoongi skips the letter P because he feels like that would just be cruel, especially considering that Q is unbelievably handsome.

It’s been half an hour, is he nearly done? Producer Dad shows him his fingers. Four left. Thank god. He only has to meet four more people. But then he has to go talk to all of them. But then, quite a mercy, he gets to eliminate ten of them! No need to remember them anymore. He’s got to keep the first two because they’re the only ones whose names he thinks he remembers, but other than that it’ll be a crap shoot.

“Taehyung.” Oh, his voice is deep, and Yoongi decides that he likes that. Yes, very much so. He instantly forgets the name that this man just assigned himself, but V seems to suit him quit well. Goodbye V, and yes, Yoongi looks at his ass too. But he’s gotten fairly good at being subtle about it. The viewers at home will still probably be able to tell. Maybe it will make him genuine and endearing? Maybe he’ll just be called a pig.

The next one has brown hair. A very squishy face, which Yoongi has been told he also has. The second he steps out of the limo he can tell that this one, much like the second guy who Yoongi wants to say was called Jimin, that this guy radiates something. A very bright smile, if a little nervous. He looks very good in his suit. Everyone that has walked out of the limo has looked nice and been nice, but there’s something about this one in particular that just gets right to Yoongi’s core.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, which is a phrase that Yoongi has heard countless times before, and it’s a little disappointing that that is how this one has started the conversation.

“Hello,” he says. To be fair, Yoongi’s first line hasn’t had a lot of variety either.

"Your bio failed to mention that you were this cute," he says, and gives Yoongi a respectful once-over. Yoongi refrains from rolling his eyes. “Before I say anything else, I read on your bio that you're a rapper?”

His eyes immediately sparkle. Yes! Finally, someone is asking him about it! “I am! Yes!” Is this excitement? Is that what he feels? Excitement? Let me talk about myself please!

“That’s really cool. You may be here on this weird show now, but the next minute you’ll be an idol.”

“A man can dream, right?” Yoongi says. His squishy cheeks are about to make their debut to the camera, he can just tell.

“You look like you make a good rapper,” he says. His face becomes warm. Is this blush? He’s super pale, this guy is going to be able to tell that he’s blushing.

“I have a mixtape, you should listen to it,” Yoongi stumbles a little bit on his words. He realizes that this is the first time he’s managing to get a plug in for his mixtape, so he looks at the camera quickly and says, “Agust D, check it out.”

“How about you tell me more about it when we talk later, yeah?” he says smiling. This guy can most definitely tell that Yoongi is blushing. You can read it on his face like a book. Yoongi also suspects that he knows what he’s doing. He’s so charming. He’s cute. Everyone has been cute, literally everyone, but this one complimented not just his face but also said he looks like a good rapper. Fifteen roses to give out, this guy has already earned one.

“Two left after me, but make sure I’m the one you remember, okay?” he says. Fuck. Yoongi nods, and he turns to watch him go, but then he realizes-

“Wait, you didn’t tell me your name!”

“Silly me,” he says, smiling with his soft oh-my-god-yoongi-are-you-gay? cheeks, really bright like he’s a light source and Yoongi is a flower that needs it to grow. “Hoseok.”

Alright, Hoseok. You get to have a name instead of a letter. You’ve earned it.

Also? Very nice ass.

[dragonnan]

His bashful pride, though. To receive praise for something that isn’t deduction or wit but beauty...

And going all the way back to the first episode and his actual amazement at John’s praise - literally he cannot understand it because ALWAYS before he’s only, ever, heard anger/irritation/hatred.  God, this precious child...

He is not used to admiration - pure, whole, unfettered happiness due to something he’s said or done.  I don’t know more than the smallest fraction of his childhood; though Mycroft seems to hold a deep nostalgia for it prior to when everything when so horrifically wrong.  I’ve never imagined Sherlock’s parents as neglectful - just regular parents who loved their children and did their best for them.  Therefore, it follows, they would have been encouraging of their children’s passions.  Just the way Mom and Dad Holmes watch, proudly, as Sherlock and Eurus perform together drops some insight into those long lost days at the family home; watching their two youngest learning their way through Bach - no doubt creating their own compositions even that young.  They would have showered them in praise.  And young Sherlock would have thrived on that encouragement.  He’d have been so proud to show Mummy what new compositions he’d learned!

Was it at Uni where things began to change?  Attending, so young; suddenly away from the kindness and endless encouragement of his parents...  It’s clear that Mycroft has always had a close eye on his brother - there for him even as Sherlock gave into drugs as (in his words) an outlet for boredom.  I question that claim... Not that I disbelieve it as a reason - people turn to drugs for any number of reasons and it isn’t hard to think Sherlock may have started due, simply, to no other proper stimulus to his brain.  I don’t want to speculate too heavily on something that will likely never have an answer but I do, at least, wonder if his use of substances was triggered, in part, to feeling like an outcast?  Just... the amount of loneliness he must have felt would have been near crippling for anyone.  We are not meant to be so separate from the rest of humanity.  Not only separate but, in many cases, he was despised as well.  What did his old “friend” from Uni say of him?  “We hated him”.  So often, all he had, was Mycroft.  Likely he’d have died without his brother - given his dangerous levels of usage.  I can also see that as the birthplace of resentment.  Mycroft was the one to teach him that other people were “goldfish” - that friends weren’t needed nor welcome.  And, yet, that was what Sherlock needed most.

So he held himself apart.  And he was hated, and resented; an irritant - but tolerated for his brain; though not his company- peppered as it was with cutting and snide observation.  You poke a creature with a stick - does it not snarl in return?  No, but they wouldn’t have seen it that way.  He’s a Freak, after all.  No heart.  No soul.  How could their words possibly affect him? 

Praise him...

Encourage him...

Love him...

He glows.  Bashful, unsure, he feels, actually, undeserving.  And yet, still, he yearns for it.  Maybe it wakes up something that was stolen from memory along with his sister - those words of love and praise from his parents.  After Eurus they would have shut down.  Memory, for him, would have started in a home of stoic sadness.  He wouldn’t have had the building blocks of happier days.  He’d have only known his parents as they were after, as they knew it to be, the death of a child.  He wouldn’t have remembered praise.

The counter on your blog: still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five. Oh, no! Christmas is cancelled!

[equinoxparanormal]

The Top Five Country Superstars Who Soared Up the Supernatural Charts

Name one religion or type of spiritual system that doesn't incorporate music into its worship services in some way.

It's not easy, is it?

From singing hymns to beating drums, and from the rhythmic chanting of prayers to the soaring organ fugues of Bach, music is a spiritual tool that connects mind and body to the divine spirit.

While country music, one of America's longest lasting forms of popular music, is considered secular, its roots are steeped in the rhythms and melodies of gospel music and centuries-old folk hymns. Fans may tap their feet and sway their partners to the soothing rhythms and they may sing along to the lush harmonies, but, all the while that they dance and sing, the spirit of this music fills their souls.

It's not just the fans that understand this. The musicians who wrote, performed, and catapulted this simple and rural music into the bright lights of big city theaters and stadiums sensed the power of their art to bridge hearts, minds, and souls.

Some experts on the supernatural say there is another way we can measure the powerful spiritual effect of country music: the number of stories about ghosts and spirits that are told by country musicians and—maybe more importantly—the number of country music stars who are said to still live on even after they have left the mortal stage.

Explore this list of five country music celebrities who hit the charts of an entirely different sort—Country Music's Most Supernatural Superstars:

1. The Haints of Butcher Hollow: Loretta Lynn Some celebrities make it to Country Music's Haunted Hall of Fame because they are ghosts; others are inducted there because they seem to have an unmatched affinity with paranormal activity and supernatural forces. Loretta Lynn, also referred to as the Queen of Country Music and the Coal Miner's Daughter, certainly belongs in the latter category.  Since she was a child, Lynn has experienced a range of paranormal phenomena, or haints, as ghosts are called in the Appalachian hills that she called home. One tale that has circulated about Loretta's early encounters with the paranormal happened when she visited a neighbor's home for a little session of trick or treating as a kid (the emphasis should be on the tricking part, as you'll read.) She and a friend crept up on a neighbor's porch ready to soap the window. The would-be tricksters looked in the house and saw the target of their prank, an older lady, quietly sitting in the living room. A few seconds later, though, Loretta looked behind her she saw the same woman walking in the garden. Obviously freaked out, the two girls ran as fast as they could. That's one way to foil a Halloween prank. She might have been able to outrun the spirit world in this incident, but they caught up with her again—in a big way. Paranormal researchers regard the country legend's mansion, Hurricane Mills, as one of the most haunted properties in Tennessee, maybe even the country. Loretta claims she's had numerous paranormal encounters there, from poltergeist-like movement of objects to actual apparition sightings.

2. Of King and Country: Elvis Presley He's known as the King of Rock and Roll, but Elvis Presley embraced country music throughout his lifetime. One of his first hits, "Blue Moon of Kentucky," after all, was just his hip-gyrating version of a Bill Monroe classic. He even auditioned at one of country music's most haunted hot spots: The Ryman Auditorium. It didn't go so well there. Despite a sometime rocky relationship with country music, the connection between the King and country did not die after Elvis passed on, according to some. Presley's spirit is still reaching out to country fans and can be found in a few places near and dear to the country fan's heart. One of those places is, ironically, the Ryman. According to one account, Elvis's daughter was performing at the Ryman and went to her dressing room. When she tried repeatedly to open the door—and even her burly bodyguard gave it a shot—she finally yelled that she was calling for security. That's when she and her entourage heard a laugh that sounded like Elvis's and the door easily popped open. Elvis apparently did not—you know what’s coming—leave the building.

3. Haunting After Midnight: Patsy Cline Patsy Cline, owner of one of country's, if not pop music's, most original voices, and the aforementioned Loretta Lynn were soul sisters in more ways than one. They had complementary personalities, as well as complementary philosophies about careers, relationships, and life that helped them sculpt one of the tightest friendships in the highly competitive country music industry. They must have shared stories about the paranormal. When Cline died tragically in a plane crash, Lynn wrote "This Haunted House" about her friend's death. While there's no indication that Lynn saw Cline's ghost, others have claimed to have encountered the singer's spirit. In fact, there are many witnesses who say the First Lady of Country Music hasn't quite left the stage. One owner of Cline's former Nashville area dream house says he's experienced paranormal activity that is attributed to the singer. He has even heard the distinctive click of high heels—just like the ones Patsy would have worn—walking across the floor. The spirit of Patsy, it seems, may be still walking after midnight. In addition to this house, Cline's spirit is still active in the bar circuit around Nashville. She's been spotted in several, including country music's most famous watering hole, Tootsie's Orchid Lounge.

4. Grand Ole Ghostie: Roy Acuff Roy Acuff loved country music and he loved the Grand Ole Opry, the radio show that he owed so much to. When Acuff passed away in 1992, a lot of the folks who worked at Opryland at the time, the country music-themed entertainment complex where Acuff's house rested, believed Roy would be sticking around. They were right. People who worked in his house—which was repurposed as a museum —began to notice weird activity. Objects began to disappear in certain places and reappear in others. They believe it's just Roy saying, "I'm still here, I still love the place, and I'm not going anywhere."

5. Not So Long Gone: Hank Williams Arguably the most influential country artist and possibly American popular music, is the long, lanky, and lonesome Hank Williams. Williams, in a lot of ways, gave birth to what we now consider country music. His songwriting stitched together threads of folk, blues, and gospel to create a unique style that is as unmistakable today as it was in the mid-20th century when his songs began to fill the airwaves and his haunted presence began to fill concert halls and auditoriums. When Williams died in 1953, those haunting performances became haunted performances, as people all around the country began to have encounters with the post-mortal remains of the Hillbilly Shakespeare.  Williams is connected with several haunted country hot spots  already discussed. He's been seen in the Ryman, for instance, and drifting along the alley to his favorite old—and perhaps current—haunt, Tootsie's Orchid Lounge. Say hello to Patsy when you're there, Hank.

Looking for more haunted country music artists, venues, recording studios, and more? Check out Matthew Swayne’s book, Ghosts of Country Music.

[Matthew L. Swayne, Llewellyn]

[goddamnedamericanjedi]

Sebastian Bach remembers Dimebag Darrell

My relationship to this sick series of events goes way back, some 18 years. I joined a band from Detroit called MADAM X back in 1986 and the very first place I ever played on the road, outside of Detroit, was the Alrosa Villa nightclub in Columbus, Ohio. This is my first memory of touring in America. I vividly remember staying at the Red Roof Inn down the street and then rocking the Alrosa . I was 17 at the time and was living my dream of touring the United States, and the Al Rosa Villa was the very first stage I ever set foot on being on the road in the USA. The very first time I ever heard of Dimebag Darrell was way back in late 1986 or early 1987. As the MADAM X tour progressed across America, we played in Ft. Worth Texas at a place called Savvy's, a club legendary for separating the of-age & not-of-age by a chain-link fence, just like in the BLUES BROTHERS. Yes, bottles were whipped and smashed into the fence nightly at this place. We were just about to go on stage when Godzilla, the bass player for MADAM X, ran back into the dressing room, seven foot tall with hair that literally touched the ceiling, as he screamed into the room, 'Dude guess what!!! Fucking PANTERA is here tonight watching the show!! They are all sitting at a table right in front of the stage, I can't fucking believe this!!!' The reason for his excitement was simple. Already, even with their previous lead singer, PANTERA was legendary on the club circuit in the southern states. Even then, almost 20 years ago, Dimebag's innovative guitar playing and showmanship was already the standard to which other guitar players were to be measured. They already had a sizable fan base and reputation as one of the best metal bands you could ever see on a stage. We were extremely excited and honored to jam for this bunch of highly respected musicians. Little did I know at the time what was in store in the future for myself, and the band PANTERA, and how our lives would intertwine in the years to come. The next time I encountered Dime was in my old guitar player Scotti Hill's house.We were writing the song 'Mudkicker' for our forthcoming record. At the time, we were in one of the biggest bands in the world. We had already begun to headline arenas on our own on our first record and we were planning our first USA headline arena tour at the time. The material we were writing for 'Slave to the Grind' was a lot heavier than our first album and we wanted to take out the heaviest, coolest band on the road that we could find. I remember Scotti pulling out 'Cowboys From Hell' at his house on a songwriting break. He said, 'Dude, check out this band, I really dig them,' and that's when I checked out the album sleeve, as he put it on the stereo. Loud. I immediately remembered the band from the MADAM X days, but I had never listened to them before. I couldn't believe my ears. As the opening guitar riff to 'Cowboys From Hell' came out of the speakers, I knew we had found the band we were looking for to come on tour with us. This was like a new kind of JUDAS PRIEST meets ZZ TOP meets VAN HALEN divided by SLAYER equals its own kind of thing. I remember cranking the album and smiling to myself, 'I cannot wait to help introduce this fucking band to North America!' I knew they were gonna blow up huge as soon as the public at large got a chance to feel their power. So we made the decision. SKID ROW was going to bring PANTERA on their first North American arena tour. I remember the first show like it was yesterday. It was New Years Eve '91/'92 in New Orleans, at this arena that was completely circular and I remember watching PANTERA kick ass for the first time that night. As a metalhead first and foremost myself, it was an absolute dream to stand on the side of the stage every night witnessing PANTERA's rise to fame, night after night, city after city. To have those crazy fuckers as my friends was something I will never forget. Everyone knows about the 'lust for life' that was a legendary part of Dimebag's life. Well, let me say that anyone who was there can attest to the fact that we set the fucking standard for 'living it up' on the SKID ROW / PANTERA tour. Tony Wiggins, the bus driver turned backstage legend of MARILYN MANSON fame and PANTERA lore, got his start in this business how? By being Sebastian Bach's personal driver. Tony was my bus driver on the 'Slave' tour and spent every night driving me across the USA, many times with Phil Anselmo, or my road crew, or other crazy freaks 'unwinding' with me on the way to the next city. To read about Tony's exploits in the MARILYN MANSON book makes me feel like a proud papa. Big Val Bichekas; PANTERA, ALICE IN CHAINS, and now Ozzy's personal security guard? The first job Big Val ever had in rock 'n' roll was — you guessed it — Sebastian Bach's personal security guard. Val met PANTERA on the 'Slave' tour and when Ozzy was looking for personal security, Sharon asked Big Val, 'Who have you done security for?' He answered, 'Sebastian Bach was my first. PANTERA was second.' Ozzy hired him right away, and has employed him ever since. I don't know why his resume says so much to others about his experience! Well, if you ever partied with Dimebag you would know why. The SKID ROW / PANTERA tour. So much to say, a lot that can't be remembered. But due to video tape a lot of these insane moments still exist on tape. Dimebag was pretty much always, or 90 percent of the time that I was with him, with a video camera in hand. Three nights ago I watched 'Vulgar Video' for the first time in over 10 years, and I was astonished to find the full version of both bands doing 'Cold Gin' on there, PANTERA in complete KISS garb. Wow. Also the PANTERA / SKID ROW baseball game — a direct example of Dimebag's hilarious prankster personality at work. What actually happened that day was SKID ROW completely destroyed PANTERA on the baseball field, by at least 20 runs, which wasn't hard because they were all sporting the Black Tooth Grin by early afternoon! Hey it was a day off! But when I played 'Vulgar Video' for the first time I remember holding my head in my hands, laughing, due to some major Dimebag digital editing magic!! The baseball segment on the video shows PANTERA kicking the shit out of SKID ROW, 33 - 8, saved for posterity on the shelf of your local Sam Goody's, for all time, all over the world. Unbelievable. Devious. Funny as shit. Some of the best times of our lives. Denver Colorado. Dimebag is running around the arena with his video camera, as usual. On the road now for a couple of months, my throat feels kind of tight and we have a 'rock doctor' in house to check out my pipes. Dimebag runs up to me in the hallway and screams 'DUUUUUUUUUUUDE, what the fuck, are you seeing the Dr. or what? What the fuck?' with his vidcam omnipresent. I tell him 'Yes, I am on my way up the hall to see the doc.' Dimebag: 'CAN I FILM IT?' Me laughing, 'Sure, dude, knock yerself out!' What a nut! So we get to the Dr., who sits me down on the table and gets his stethoscope and selection of mirrors out to stick down my throat. But as he goes to shove this long mirror thing down my neck, there is one thing in the way — Dimebag Darrell. 'DUDE, HOLY SHIT, MAN, YOU GOTS-TA SEE THIS!! I have your complete vocal cords, close-up, on video.' I am sitting there with my head tilted all the way back, mouth open as wide as it can go with a Dr. shoving a mirror into me on one side, with Dimebag Darrell shoving his camera down my throat on the other side. The Dr. says, 'OK, Sebastian say aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh,' and as I do so, Dime screams out, 'Dude, that shit is TIGHT!! I got your chords on close-up it looks fuckin' wild!' He was focusing his camera right on the mirror that the Dr. was using to look at my vocal chords. Every gag, choke, and cough that I did that day was captured by Dime on film. That was Dimebag. Taking a mundane event and turning it into something fun, worth rockumenting, making a cool little memory of something you would otherwise never remember. I have 'seize the day' tattooed on my arm in Latin. Dimebag Darrell seized every day like there was no tomorrow. No matter how hung over he was! Also on 'Vulgar Video' is the shot of PANTERA having a fucking bar-b-q, right in front of the stage while we were doing our show! My memory of that night, in Hannibal, Missouri (I think) was watching Dimebag on his side of the stage open the show. Right when they got to the ending of 'Domination', one of my favorite songs, as they go into that crushing half-time riff at the end, I remember banging my head as hard as I could but not looking around the backstage, and by mistake slamming my head straight into the side fill, as Dimebag ripped out that riff. I saw stars and felt a knot rise up on my skull the size of a bowling ball. I though I might have a concussion or something, but fuck it, we never canceled a show that whole tour and weren't gonna. So I chilled till we went on stage, kinda dizzy. Then as I was on-stage I look into the first row. Before that there was a good 15 feet of sand, we were playing an outdoor show on some sort of beach. In front of the barricade in the 'pit' was Dimebag Darrell, the rest of PANTERA, and my wife Maria all sitting around ........ a bar-b-q!!! Dimebag and Phil were actually cooking hot-dogs and pouring Tequila shots and handing them out to the audience, crew, and band on stage as well! I thought i might be hallucinating because of smashing my head during PANTERA's set, but no. There I am singing '18 & Life' as Dimebag squirts ketchup and mustard all over his beef frank, and as I get into the song I look out at Dime looking straight into my eyes offering me a hot dog mouthing the words, 'Duuuuuuuude! You want a bite of this delicious wiener bro, c'mon!!!' as everyone is laughing their guts out and my wife is next to Dimebag doing shots of tequila and having potato salad. Then in 'Youth Gone Wild', in the drum breakdown, seeing the whole crowd singing the words, holding up, in unison, ...... hot dogs! Thanks Dime, I do remember they tasted good!!!! My wife got along great with Dime. I can't remember where, some bar in the USA, but Rita, Dime's girl, was there, wearing John Lennon style rose-tinted round mirrored glasses, only with a pot leaf design on each eye. She gave me the shades as a present at the end of the night, which was very cool. During this night, Maria, my wife, had a drinking contest with Dimebag. There is some dispute as to what happened next. I remember Maria and Dime doing 33 shots of Tequila — between them both. Maria, however, seriously remembers — and do not try this at home — her and Dimebag both — doing 33 shots of tequila, each! I think this is physically impossible, but this was over the course of a full evening, and our tolerance was way up back then, so while I hope I am right and Maria is wrong about this, I must admit that if anyone could do this it would have to be Dimebag Darrell!!!! 'Getcha Pull' indeed!!!!! All this mayhem was not without consequence. When we all checked into the hotel in Philadelphia (I think), I had my own bus with Tony Wiggins and Big Val. Someone called my big clunky cellphone (a rarity in those days) and informed our bus that we would not be checking into the hotel that we were on our way to. Both bands had been kicked out of the hotel before I got there. The story I got was that Snake and Dimebag each did a tab of fucking acid, and as the tour managers were checking into the hotel, Dimebag took a knife to one of the leather couches in the hotel lobby, ripping it to shreds and getting both bands permanently banned from the premises! A lot of crazy shit went down in those days and a story like this was just par for the course on this tour. A month or so into the tour, PANTERA released 'A Vulgar Display Of Power'. Prior to this, the band was touring with us without a new album to support. But when 'Vulgar' came out after touring the USA with us for a month or so, the album came straight into the Billboard charts in the top 40 and remains to this day one of the greatest albums of all time. The day after it came into the charts, we were playing Vancouver BC at the PNE and Phil walked straight into our dressing room, 'Hey Bierk. I want a leather couch, full lights, full stage, sound check, blah blah blah.' He was joking around with a list of demands due to the 'new level' that he was now on. It was hilarious and we were all laughing but the point was made. PANTERA was now a big fucking band and from here on out, it was nothing but onward and upward for PANTERA. Dimebag had a 4-track recorder on the road with him at the time. I can remember many nights in his hotel room, getting drunk & recording songs. One particular highlight was Dimebag's version of 'Slave To The Grind' that he recorded on his own, re-titled 'Krell & Dykes'. 'KRELL & DYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYKES' went the chorus. Most of you know what dykes are, maybe some of you know what krell is, but Dime made a version of 'Slave To The Grind' with lyrics describing these two areas of interest on this particular tour that was truly a moment in music I wish you all could hear! He gave me a tape of it over 10 years ago, I hope I still have it. If you don't know what krell is, I am not going to tell you! But for those of you with a nose for this kind of thing, I hope one day I can find my copy of Dimebag Darrell's 'Krell & Dykes' and when I do I will post it on the net if it is not too incriminating!! We also had one night where I sang a ballad of Dime's into the 4-track as the sun was coming up. We were so drunk I couldn't stop laughing and Dime too, I just remember him saying 'C'mon, Bierk!!! I KNOW you can do it!!!' But both of us were so drunk I remember more laughing than singing going on that night. Still I know we did at least three tracks of vocals, harmonies and doubling etc., even at 7-8 am with 12 hours of drinking in us, Dime was ready to do what he did best — create rock'n'roll music like you never heard before. After the SKID ROW / PANTERA tour, my next major involvement with Dimebag was a band that we formed together. Named 'SEBASTIAN BACH'S ROCK BUDS', we started the band after I was asked by High Times magazine to play at a benefit in Manhattan at the Limelight. All proceeds would go to the National Organization for the Reformation of Marijuana Laws (NORML). I thought this was a cool idea and they said I could play with whoever I wanted. So, first on my list was Dimebag Darrell. I called him up and he said 'Sure dude. Name the time & place and I will be there! Let's get Rex on bass!' So Rex Brown joined up, along with Bam Bam McConnell on drums and Snake on guitar. Andy McCoy from HANOI ROCKS also came up for a tune, although Dimebag refused to jam with him! The majority of the set was SKID / PANTERA; we did 'Slave', 'New Level', 'Walk', 'Monkey Business', and 'Cowboys From Hell', I think. I have this show on video in perfect condition and it is obviously something I treasure now. Dimebag came up 2 or 3 days before the show and stayed at my house. Rex stayed at Snake's. We rehearsed for the gig at SIR in Manhattan. I remember rehearsing for the gig in 'rehearsal mode', which was doing the songs but not putting alot of sweat into it. Dimebag said to everyone, 'What the fuck is this? Where is the sweat? The fire?' I said to him something lame like, 'Oh, it's just rehearsal dude.You wanna rehearse like we are actually on stage, that's cool.' Dime shot back at me 'IS THERE ANY OTHER FUCKING WAY???' I will never forget him saying that. I totally understood what he was saying and ever since then there is no 'rehearsal mode / stage mode' bullshit. Dime did it full out all the time: 'IS THERE ANY OTHER FUCKING WAY???' Not for Dimebag Darrell. Dimebag was also one of the most of the professional persons in the business. Yes he could out drink you under the table and into the gutter, but he also firmly believed that there was a time and a place for everything. We were all doing all sorts of shit back then, but I can remember Dimebag pulling me aside somewhere saying, dude, you 'wake & bake' don't ya? C'mon, I know ya do. I used to do that shit myself. Have a bong right next to the bed, and hit that shit as soon as I fucking woke up. But I learned you cannot do that shit dude! For real! You get a fax or a phone call or something and you are too high to deal with that shit!! That shit is not good dude!!' The fact that he would pull a friend of his aside to try and help them if he thought they needed it was a testament to the fact that Dimebag cared about others. You hear a lot about how much the man loved to party, but I also remember him being strict about putting things in their proper place. Having his shit together at all times was ultimately way more important to Dimebag than just being shitfaced 24/7. The man could not create the music he did or put on the shows he did without being at the top of his game at all times, which Dimebag always was. 1998. I am on my very first tour of the USA as a solo artist. We are playing Pittsburgh PA at a place called Graffiti's. I get the message, PANTERA is coming to the show tonight! This is totally cool, I am on the road trying to re-establish myself & here come some of my old buds to cheer me on. Shit doesn't get any better than this. But wait... it does! Vinnie Paul shows up at the gig and gets pretty drunk, big surprise! Then he comes on stage at the end of the set and grabs the mike and screams 'Hey Pittsburgh!!! This motherfucker took us on our first ever arena tour of the USA!!!' Big cheer. Then he says something totally unexpected. 'And we are gonna take this motherfucker on his first fucking arena tour!!!!!!!!!!!' The place goes nuts. I look at my bandmates and we all look at each other in disbelief. I start to laugh, because I don't know whether it is Vinnie talking, or the vats of Crown Royal he has consumed over the evening. For me to go on tour in arenas in my solo band in the USA was a big fucking deal. We had no record out or even a label at that time. The only reason for PANTERA to take us on the road was simple — rock & roll, and a friendship that went far beyond normal music business corporate sensibilities. When I got back home, I could not believe my eyes. Right there in the fax machine, as I walked in the front door, was a fax from PANTERA's booking agent with three weeks of arena shows in the USA that they wanted my solo band to open! Vinnie told me that he told Dimebag about seeing us in Pittsburgh, and Dime said 'Let's bring that fucker out!' as a kind of 'thanks' for us bringing them out in 1992. I will never, ever forget this act of generosity on the part of PANTERA. For a band to ignore to industry to the point that PANTERA did is something that I doubt we will ever see again. To put me on stage in front of 20,000 people a night in 1998, like I did for them in 1992, is one of the highlights of my life. On the road with me at the time was Jimmy Flemion of THE FROGS on guitar. He made THE DARKNESS look like Perry Como in the stage costume department. Jimmy would come on-stage in full 7-foot green sequin wings, making him look like a giant, which accentuated his frame — the man stands 6' 6" tall with ease. To go out on-stage every night looking like a heavy metal Liberace in front of PANTERA, the most hardcore fucking audience you could ever play for, took gonads of steel. The last night of the tour, in Dayton Ohio @ Hare Arena, I turn around and what do I see? Dimebag Darrell, in his own custom made full 7-foot green paper mache wings, flying around the stage looking like Mothra on acid. He had spent all day backstage making his own set of Flemion wings, then rocked along side us in a paper mache 7-foot wingspan. I read that the shooter, who shall remain nameless, attended this exact show in 1998, in Dayton, Ohio. That makes me sick. To know one of the most fun nights in my life was actually shared with this scumbag watching us blows my mind. It is hard to think about. Also, what is it about Columbus? Not only was it the first place I ever played on the road, it is the exact city where my run as Jesus in 'Jesus Christ Superstar' came to an unexpected end. I also talked to Rick, the owner of the Alrosa, on a cellphone the night before the play ended. Things seem to start and end in Columbus. Weird, but perhaps worth mentioning. After we left the PANTERA tour in '98 Dimebag still kept in touch. When we played Dallas in a club in the Deep Ellum district, I turn around backstage before the show & who is standing there in the (cramped) quarters but none other than Dimebag Darrell! He has brought along Dave Williams, the late lead singer for DROWNING POOL, two PANTERA crew dudes, and 3 or 4 members of the Dallas Stars hockey team. Everyone is doing shots (trying something new!) and me and Dime are catching up before the show. He asks me if it's ok if he films the show. 'Sure', I say. Then halfway through the show, Dave Williams comes onstage and rips right into his famous 'Sebastian Bach impression!' This dude had me down better than I do myself! Dimebag was the camera man, on his back onstage filming me doing me, and Dave Williams doing me, together onstage, running between our legs and jumping around trying to get the best shot. We had a kickass time that night and Dime told me the band fucking rocked. I remember him really checking us out and giving me opinions etc. after the show. The man cared, plain and simple. Around 1999 I was called by producer and friend Michael Wagener to record some songs for an upcoming Randy Rhoads tribute album. He told me to contact guitarist friends of mine to see if they wanted to participate. Again, Dimebag Darrell was at the top of my list. We called him up and I got him on the horn and he was totally into the project. We collaborated on the song 'Believer' and it is one of the most treasured moments of my career in the studio. Dimebag's lead totally shreds, of course! I am just glad I got to record at least one song with the best metal guitar player of all time. Wish I could have done more! Dimebag was also not afraid, ever, to tell it like it is. I remember being at his club in Dallas, one night after a show. He was rolling his eyes at me, drunk, like he wanted to tell me something. Finally at the end of the night, I said to him 'Dude what up? You wanna tell me something?' He kept rolling his eyes and then said to me — loud — 'Duuuuuuuuuuude, you know why people talk shit behind your back dude? Because they don't fucking understand you!' I could tell he thought this was important to tell me. 'But you know what, mutherfucker? I am so crazy that I UNDERSTAND YOU! Yes I fucking do! FFFuuccckk!!!!! I UNDERSTAND your crazy ass, man!!!!' He slobbered into my face. But I could tell he meant what he said. He was telling me that he was so nuts that he actually even understood me, which was a backhanded way of telling me he dug what I did and for me to keep on doing it. He was a smart guy and said alot of heavy things amidst an insane world of rock'n'roll fantasy. As someone whom I respected as a fan, and as a friend, it meant a lot to me for him to say shit like that to me. Which is why I always cranked his music to get psyched for a show. Two days before he died, we were playing Istanbul, Turkey for the first time. After the show, we had a six-hour drive to the next town, Ankara, Turkey, where we had a gig on December 8 (Ralph Santolla's birthday, and the night Darrell and John Lennon were killed). On the way to the show, at about four in the morning, we stopped by the side of the road to get gas and something to eat. Unbelievably, they had about 30 cassettes for sale. One of these cassettes, on the side of the road in Turkey, was PANTERA's 'Far Beyond Driven'. This was crazy we thought, 'Holy Shit' we all exclaimed, 'They sell fucking PANTERA cassettes on the side of the road in Turkey, how crazy is that!!' In retrospect, it is quite strange that PANTERA was there in amongst mostly Turkish music cassettes. Needless to say we bought the tape and played it on repeat till we got to Ankara at around 8 am. I remember drifting off to sleep looking outside the window looking at the Turkish countryside, listening to 'Becoming' thinking how fucking cool Dimebag's guitar sounded. 24 hours later, he would no longer be alive on this planet. It still makes no sense... My favorite Dimebag Darrell memory of all was when he was staying at my house for the 'Rock Buds' gig. It was late morning in my house and I was awoken by the delicious smell of bacon being cooked downstairs. I got out of bed to go find Dimebag and wake him up. I went downstairs, and then to his guest room, but I could not find Dimebag. On my way back downstairs to the kitchen, I peeked my head into my son Paris' room, who was about 7 at the time. There was Dimebag Darrell, sitting in a little kids' toy chair, playing my son's miniature Gibson guitar, which was plugged into his mini Marshall Stack! 'Hey, Dime' I said, 'Dude, c'mon downstairs, breakfast is ready bro!! Maria made french toast and bacon let's get it on!!!!!!!' Dimebag said to me, 'Hold up, bro!! I am doing something here, hold it up! Hang on one second I am teaching your boy somethin'!!' He had been in my sons room showing him guitar riffs all morning. He thought this was an important thing to do, and the memory of Dimebag sitting in my kids room showing him guitar chords is etched in my mind forever. We all went downstairs, me, Dime, and Paris, and along with Maria, we enjoyed a home cooked breakfast of french toast, maple syrup, bacon and coffee. He loved the meal and let us all know how much he appreciated our hospitality. I remember it like yesterday. Because even though he was the greatest metal guitar player ever, he was also something even more important and impressive than that: a great human being. Someone you would be proud to have at your dinner table. Someone you could trust with your own children. That was Dimebag Darrell. A classy, talented, one-of-a-kind guy with 'Hulk Blood' and the Ace Frehley solo album cover tattooed on his flesh. A friend. A God. Stronger Than All. I Remember You Dimebag Darrell! You are an inspiration to me the rest of my life. Love and Respect, Sebastian Bach

[courage-a-word-of-justice]

Blue Exorcist: Kyoto Saga 12 (FINAL)| Classicaloid 25 (FINAL)| Boku no Hero Academia 14 | Kado 0 - 1 | Oushitsu Kyoushi Haine 1 | Sagrada Reset 1

Update: I apologise for all my updates within the spring 2017 debuts. I had stuff due prior to the spring season and so I’ve gone all out in compiling my thoughts and then comparing my thoughts to ANN’s.

(Blue Exorcist: Kyoto Saga 12)

“Monkey”? I thought it had to do with Todo (whose first name is Saburota, remember, and so could be mangled to become saru or monkey) but I guess…not…?

I thought Shiemi was gonna do a love confession! Where’d Nemu go while all the action was happening though? Plus, Nemu reminds me of Yuji Yata (Kurosagi Corpse Delivery Service) and vice versa.

Super Coke and Panta, LOL.

I can’t believe they’re so willing! I remembered this happened but now that I see it animated, it seems a little too fast!

Anmitsu is a red bean dessert – you hear about it for the Kashuu/Yasusada ship in Touken Ranbu (it’s what the ship is called, due to kanji readings). Kuzukiri though…I haven’t heard of it, so here you go.

I never knew you could use the fact Rin is the son of Satan for humour. I never knew it could work, either.

If kemono = pickles…then what are Kemono Friends?! *gasps* (LOL, I kid, I kid…)

Okay, now the “son of Satan’s gonna torch you” gag is tired. That was fast.

What’s a Tawawa? Isn’t that “Tawawa on Monday”?...No? I guess it’s the name of the tower’s mascot then.

Yukio with his straight face, LOL.

Is it “quality brother time” or “brother quality time”? I think it’s the former.

I can finally read Rin’s shirt now. It says “teriyaki” in katakana.

Well, that’s the end of Blue Exorcist for now. See you some other time.

(Classicaloid 25)

Oh, that’s why there are aliens in this show…

It’s interesting to note they used the Bird’s Nest for Beijing rather than Tiananmen Square or the Fobidden City.

So Kyougo was in China. Geez, these stereotypes are a bit hackneyed…

Tchaiko’s so depressed when Bach appears. It makes sense though.

“It just doesn’t strike a chord.” – Perfect phrase for a Classicaloid.

Disco Bach. Now that’s something you don’t see every day.

I haven’t noticed there were white musical notes on the eyecatch until now.

I was wondering why Hasshie, Pad-kun, Kanae and Sousuke were rigged up like how they were in one of the s2 visuals. The reason…let’s just say, I LOVE IT! I’m not entirely a fan of 6th rangers in general, but I love transformations, remember? Rare transformations are all the better to watch again and again!

Doot-doo-doo-doot-doo-doo-doo-doo-doot-doot-doo-doo-doot-doo-doo. It’s Ode to Joy!

Like, look at it. The October airing was definitively confirmed! See you again in October, then.

(Boku no Hero Academia 14)

I skipped the simulcast commentary on the recap episode, as I always do. Disclaimer: I wander around the BnHA wiki a bit so expect to see “I knew that already”s all over the place.

Dang, Deku looks eeeeeeevil in that one intro scene where he’s all lit up.

Those taiyaki (fish-shaped buns) look tasty…

I’ve seen some spoilers so I know Toshinori Yagi is All Might’s real name and All Might’s predecessor (who I thought was the recipient of the letter) was a woman named Nana. Thus, beard man must be Gran Torino, All Might’s mentor.

Katsu, LOL. Ever since YoI, I can’t stop thinking about Yuri K after seeing a pork cutlet.

Best Jeanist (1st person in background), some guy I don’t know…and Endeavour. Spoilers can be annoying like that.

I knew why Ochako became a hero too, but...her name means “carefree”? Never heard that one before.

They say that if there’s a leaf sticking up in your tea, it’s good luck…I think that’s how it goes with green tea, anyways.

I don’t think I’ve seen BnHA go and do a fanservice thing with its girls until now, which 1) is odd for a show with a teacher called “18+ Only Hero Midnight” and 2) simultaneously makes sense as an all ages hero anime. The emphasis in this show is on the action and on Deku, not just the girls, but going to the girls for fanservice only now does kinda show how the audience has grown up enough for this ED trope to be ued.

(Kado 0)

I’ve been hyped for this ever since I found out it was coming. I do have my doubts about the CGI, but somehow I know this work will be good. Besides, it’s my first fully CGI work in the simulcast commentary – I can’t really let that sort of chance go while I can still do it (because most 3D CG anime are Netflix exclusive). Update: Why have I covered an episode 0? This one seems important to the plot, that’s why. (Well, admittedly...they had to have an episode 0 for a reason, right?)

Ooh, that OP’s real pretty and the language (the one “Ninovo” is written in) intrigues me.

I knew I’d be fine with the CG – if there’s CG everywhere one instance of CG doesn’t stand out – but I wasn’t expecting to be dipping my toes in something so…adult.I was expecting the government affairs, but land restitution? If it weren’t for Shizuna-whatshisname and what came before this, I’d be gone, y’know? (Come to think of it though, anime can make even adult things like taxes engaging, so if you gave me an engaging anime about taxes, I’d take it. After SGRS, I’m more open to this sort of mature content, too.)

There’s been a picture on ANN of Dantalian no Shoka and the dude in it looks like Masayoshi (Samurai Flamenco). When Hanamori is shocked and leaning to the side, he looks like Masayoshi too…

I’d like to know how to make those pleated tail birds.

Strangely, this anime is more flat than I thought a 3D CG anime would look. Update: I raised my eyebrow at the part where Shindo pulls the suit pants off Hanamori, but it kinda made sense to me since Hanamori was drunk...at least it’s better than lucky underwear (Marginal #4).

What could be bigger than a land reform project? Oh, I dunno, aliens? (clearly sarcastic)

It’s not even Google, it’s Setten, LOL.

Chicken nanban. Seems tasty. I also didn’t question this until now, but this is MLIT.

Mac laptop! Dangit!

Hanamori is such a shonen protag, I swear he is basically Masayoshi in disguise as a Cabinet worker.

Hanamori’s face in the commemorative photo, LOL.

Uh-oh. Things are starting to look more CG now…

The ED is kind of a disappointment after the wonderful showing I got from the OP and the episode…plus Hanamori is kinda annoying with his “Shindo-kun!” “Shindo-kun!”…one thing’s for sure, this is one show to keep an eye on…for the moment, at the very least.

(Kado ep 1)

UN?! Wow, Shindo’s crazy good at his job…

Sometimes opening sequences of shows (not the OP, but rather the opening few minutes of the show) can be recap-heavy, but at least Kado doesn’t do that.

Interesting to note CR chose metres as opposed to miles, as I have huge gripes about Detective Conan getting all its measurements turned into miles and inches…

Tokyo Netro and NNK, LOL.

“Have there been any casualties so far?” By the way, the government uses Windows. I wonder if any Japanese people use Linux? Update: I did find Kanata Shinawa at odds with how she lead the government, but at least she knew what she was doing.

Ferrofluid.

Overtechnology – it doesn’t seem to be a dictionary word, but it seems to exist in Macross. To quote this page: “Many of the technologies of Overtechnology are stables of Science Fiction, such as Hyperspace and Artificial/Anti-Gravity.”

AP rounds. The AP stands for “armour piercing”.

Yay! Finally whatshisname appears! (I’ll just call him Shunina for now, since I can’t keep typing out his name or “whatshisname” all the time…) Update: I knew Shindo was the protag, but if you went in without that knowledge, you’d mistake Hanamori to be it. Huh. It’s sort of a good twist, but if they could do without Hanamori, that would make the show even better.

(Haine 1)

Why am I interested in this? It’s obvious from the key visual…

Nice use of perspective/camera tricks to fool the viewer, eh? The show really is kinda charming in a Kuroshitsuji-type way, actually.

Leonhard gives the burn straight! Ow!

Leonhard is basically the twins from Boueibu…? Especially Haru.

Licchie? Or Licchan? (did not use volume) I wonder if CR’s getting in on making English equivalents of Japanese nicknames now, too. Update: Licht is ri-hi-to, so it might not actually be CR’s fault there…

Playboy??? *thinks about the magazine* Ew.

Strangely, Kai’s was the funniest introduction out of all 4. (Or was that not strange…?)

Basically Nanny McPhee but with a teacher and students…LOL. Actually, it’s more Denpa Kyoushi, but Denpa Kyoushi doesn’t seem to have this atmosphere.

Come to think of it, maybe this was adapted because of the popularity of Osomatsu-san?

Tschuss.

This is…actually pretty funny, but it seems a tad lackluster because of the dulled shoujo-esque colour scheme. On the other hand, Leo really is both twins from Boueibu in one!

Sachertorte. I’ve heard of it before but I forgot what it was. Also, I didn’t think Japanese people would’ve heard of sachertorte. Witness the mighty skill of the internet to connect the world!

I had a vague suspicion that the reason Leo didn’t like teachers was because of how they treated him (specifically put him on a pedestal) because he was a prince, but there was always this sad feeling lingering since the interview began, as if I understood him.

I have the feeling the word for “language” specifically was kokugo, but since they speak Japanese and don’t confirm their setting is German in any way, shape or form (even though there are hints to the contrary), let’s go with “Japanese” as the national language.

Wiener melange? Or just a melange? By the way, tagebuch.

It turns out I do understand Leo…”I’m not good at socialising” is me to a tee.

Notice Leo called the tutor “Heine”, meaning this may not run off Japanese honorific standards.

GDI, priest guy (Bruno, since his reading a book there makes him look like a priest).

Ooh, the Alphonse Mucha style ending really does the show a favour, although Heine singing makes this a lil’ cliched in a weird way you just don’t expect from this show. Apart from that, I’d never think people would idolise Germany the same way they do Japan…unless 1) they have a person related to them who is/speaks German, 2) they like German food or 3) they like German technology (which is top-notch, to my knowledge). I’m kinda neutral on German stuff myself, so if I follow this I wonder what’ll become of me. Update: Oh yes, no. 4) They are German themselves.

Carrot, bell peppers and sachertorte? Ew.

Well, I’m keeping this show on. It better not let me down even though I only narrowly decided not to pick it for the ANN streaming stuff. It’s not a groundbreaker, but it’ll definitely be nice to have around…

Update: I forgot to mention I was vaguely disturbed by Heine’s reading of Leonhardt’s diary (mostly by the fact Heine found the diary in the first place - who puts an unsecured diary in a place that’s a little too accessible?), but since it didn’t do much damage to anyone but Leo and it was entirely played for comedy, I wrote it off. If it were a serious show, I may have had to bail.

(Sagrada Reset 1)

I dunno why the English translation is Sagrada when the Japanese is Sakurada. It just doesn’t make any sense.

Didn’t the character descriptions say Sumire was gonna die???

David Production – those Jojo’s guys? I don’t think I’ve seen anything from them until now.

Ugly CG cars, ick.

Haruki’s power reminds me of Erased except this exposition dump here makes her sound pretentious.

I would expect Haruki to be the android.

Was the “please let go” meant to be funny? I almost laughed before realising how serious Sakurada Reset is.

(without volume) Haruki’s so lifeless I expect her to disappear any moment now whenever Kei looks to the side. (with volume) I still think she’s lifeless…

Well, at least they explain why she’s so lifeless…by the way, I seem to remember I wrote a story like this: Next to Me.

August 14th, the day of Kagerou Project, LOL. I watch too many time travel shows.

No one rides swings.You sit on the swing!

Even though I can tell this show will go through some themes very thoroughly and the animation is consistent, it’s a bit of a chore to watch. I was waiting for the end of the episode about 17 minutes in, so I’ll put this on hold (because of the Mari twist near the end – that at least shows promise). The Sumire part doesn’t seem as convincing animation-wise though, which is disappointing as that’s the main plot of the show, right? Update: The reason why I label it a chore is because it’s hard to read the subs on this sometimes, the animation is limited and because it’s easy to miss Haruki’s resets - I actually missed the first one.

Update: Just a note on my preferences - the reason why I think such a show is a chore to watch is because I prefer shows with a distinct personality and/or charisma. Sagrada seems to have a personality, but it hasn’t become fleshed out yet because of all the potential under the surface, and it lacks charisma because of how serious it is.

[cutie1365]

Hello Detective Chapter 47

Pairing: Sherlock x Reader

Word Count: 1947

masterlist  Part 48

“Joining me?” Sherlock asked as you were handcuffed together.

“Yeah, apparently there’s some kind of law about assaulting officers.” You said, and Sherlock’s head turned back to see blood running from Donovan’s nose. He let out a small smile.

“Bit awkward, this.” Sherlock said.

“There’s no one to bail us.” You said, though you could always call Mycroft, but you also knew Sherlock would refuse his help.

“I was thinking more about our imminent and daring escape. You don’t have an earpiece in right?” Sherlock asked.

“No... why?” You asked, and he grabbed the dispatcher from the car you two were against, and gave it a squeeze. An excruciatingly high pitched sound emitted through all the earpieces of every officer around. Everyone clutched their ears and quickly ripped it out. Sherlock quickly turned around, dragging you with him, and pulled a  gun out of an officer's belt.

“Ladies and gentlemen, will you all please get on your knees?” Sherlock yelled, pointing the gun around at them, but no one moved, he fired into the air twice, “Now would be good!”

“Do as he says!” Lestrade yelled, ushering everyone down to their knees.

“Just so you’re all aware the gun is his idea. I’m just, uh, you know...” You rambled nervously.

“My hostage!” Sherlock said, pointing the gun at you. As you two slowly backed up away from Baker Street.

“Hostage? Ok, what now?” You whispered.

“Doing what Moriarty wants. Becoming a fugitive. Run.” Sherlock said, dropping the gun from your head and running.

“Get after him Lestrade!” You heard the Chief yell from around the corner.

You two ran awkwardly, since your hands were cuffed together.

“Take my hand!” Sherlock instructed, and you obeyed.

You continued to run until you cut through an alleyway. You were about to turn a corner when you saw a police car passing and pulled Sherlock back. You two waited, leaning against the cold brick.

“Everybody wants to believe it. That’s what makes it so clever. A lie that's preferable to the truth. All my brilliant deductions were just a sham. No one feels inadequate. Sherlock Holmes is just an ordinary man.” Sherlock said, before pulling you to the opposite wall.

“What about Mycroft? He can help us.” You said.

“Big family reconciliation. Now’s not really the moment.” Sherlock said, peeking around the corner.

“Sherlock.” You whispered, pointing down the alley to a man peeking out from behind the wall. “One of your new neighbors.” You recognized him from the files Mycroft had shown you.

“Let’s see if he can give us some answers.” Sherlock said, before running.

“Where are we going?” You asked. He looked out to the street and the red double decker coming down the path.

“We’re going to jump in front of that bus.” He said before taking off again. You followed him into the street, your heart beating fast. Before the bus could hit you, you were pushed out of the way by Sherlock's new neighbor. You hit the ground and Sherlock grabbed the gun from the assassins waistband since the one he had was dropped blocks ago.

“Tell me what you want from me.” Sherlock demanded, pointing the gun at him. “Tell me!”

“He left it at your flat.” He said.

“Who?” Sherlock asked.

“Moriarty.” The assassin answered.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“The computer key code.” You all stood.

“Of course, he’s selling it. The program he used to break into the Tower. He planted it when he came around.” Sherlock smiled, finally understanding, he lowered the gun.

Gunshots were fired from the air and the assassin in front of you dropped to the ground dead. You took a step back in shock, and looked to the rooftop where the shots had to have come from.

You and Sherlock ran, panting before ducking into an alcove.

“It’s a game changer. It’s a key. It could break into any system and it’s sitting in our flat right now. That’s why he left that message telling everyone where to come ‘Get Sherlock’. We need to get back into the flat and search.” Sherlock said.

“CID will be camped out. Why plant it on you? Another subtle way of smearing your name?” You asked, looking behind the corner and hearing sirens again.

“I assume so, now I’m best pals with all those criminals.” Sherlock said. Your eyes darted to a newspaper stand that had the SUN just next to where you were hiding.

“Yeah, well, have you seen this?” You asked, grabbing a copy to show Sherlock. “A kiss and tell. Someone named Rich Brook. Who is he? Mycroft showed it to me.”

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide when he saw the name of the writer.

“I know where we need to go, come on.” He took off running.

You had now broken into a flat and were sitting on the couch. You assumed you knew where you were even though Sherlock didn’t tell you: Kitty Riley’s flat. Your suspicions were confirmed when the door creaked open and the lights flipped on.

“Too late to go on the record?” Sherlock asked, as Kitty’s eyes grew wide when they landed on the two of you in her couch.

You had handed Sherlock the bobby pin that you used to break into her flat, so he could undo his handcuff before you did yours.

“Congratulations. The truth about Sherlock Holmes. The scoop that everybody wanted and you’ve got it. Bravo.” Sherlock growled at her. She now sat across from where you were.

“I gave you your opportunity. I wanted to be on your side, remember?” She said. “You turned me down, you both did.”

“And then, lo and behold, someone turns up and spills the beans. How utterly convenient. Who is Brook?” Sherlock asked. She shook her head like she wasn’t going to answer.

“Oh, come on, Kitty. No one trusts the voice at the end of a telephone. There were all those furtive little meetings in cafes, those sessions in the hotel room where he gabbled into your Dictaphone.” You seethed with anger.

“How do you know that you can trust him. A man turns up with the Holy Grail in his pocket. What were his credentials?” Sherlock asked, and you could hear the sound of the door opening directly behind you.

“Darling, they didn’t have any ground coffee, so I just got normal.” A voice spoke from behind you, your eyes went wide and looked to Sherlock as you recognized it. You quickly turned around and was met face to face with James Moriarty.

He dropped the bag of groceries and backed up against the wall, his hand raised.

“You said that they wouldn’t find me here. You said that I’d be safe here.” He spoke, his voice trembling, no where near the same as the Moriarty you knew.

“You are safe, Richard. I’m a witness. They wouldn’t harm you in front of witnesses.” Kitty said.

“Richard? So, that’s your source? Moriarty is Richard Brook.” You argued.

“Of course he’s Richard Brook, there is no Moriarty, there never has been.” Kitty believed.

“What are you talking about?” You said, mystified.

“Look him up. Rich Brook, an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty.” Kitty said, and your mouth dropped open.

“Ms. Gregson, I know you’re a good woman. Don’t... Don’t hurt me.” He raised both of his hands in defense.

“No, you’re Moriarty! He’s Moriarty! We’ve met, remember? You were going to blow me up! You have been following me since I met Sherlock!” You yelled.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. He paid me. I needed the work.” He almost laughed.

“That’s impossible! Moriarty knew things about me that even Sherlock didn’t! You knew about my uncle, you knew what he did to me, what he called me! And you knew that I–” You were furious. You stopped yourself before you said he knew you were pregnant. You promised Mycroft you wouldn’t tell Sherlock. It might have been a stupid decision, but right now Sherlock needed to focus more than ever. “Sherlock, you better explain ‘cause I am not getting this.”

“I’ll be doing the explaining. In print. It’s all here. Conclusive proof. You invented James Moriarty, your nemesis.” Kitty said, handing you the write up.

“Invented him?” You asked, in disbelief.

“Mmm hmm. Invented all the crimes, actually. And to cap it all, you made up a master villain.” Kitty spoke.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” You scoffed.

“Ask him, he’s right here! Just ask him! Tell him, Richard.” Kitty pointed to Jim in his faded jeans and cardigan with disheveled hair. “

“Oh for God's sake! This man was on trial!” You pointed.

“Yes, and you paid him. Paid him to take the rap. Promised you’d rig the jury. Not exactly a West End role, but I’ll bet the money was good. But not so good he didn’t want to sell his story.” Kitty said.

“I am sorry. I am, I am sorry.” He mumbled.

“Rich Brook.” You scoffed, rolled your eyes. You began to turn to Sherlock when you stopped in your tracks. Eyes wide, you could hear the voice of Ms. Hudson in your head from earlier tonight ‘German, like the fairy tales’, and Donovan ‘The Reichenbach Hero’.

“Oh my God. Rich Brook. Reichen Bach.” You turned back to Moriarty and you swore you saw a smirk flash across his face.

“Yes, that case too, all rigged.” Kitty said, not understanding.

“No Kitty, you naive idiot.” You shook your head at her. “Sie verstehen, richtig?” You spoke to Sherlock in German. You understand, correct? He nodded, still looking at Jim.

“I’m on kids TV, I’m the storyteller. It’s on DVD, Kitty show her.” He kept playing the role. Kitty handed you a folder with Richard Brooks ‘credentials’.

“Tell them. It’s all coming out now. Just tell them. Tell her!” Jim rambled, making Sherlock more angry. “It’s all over... No! No! Don’t you touch me! Don’t you lay a finger on me.”

Jim began to yell after Sherlock took a step towards him. Moriarty was now backed up against the stairs leading to the kitchen.

“Stop it, stop it now!” Sherlock yelled. Moriarty quickly turned and ran into the next room closing the door.

“Leave him alone!” Kitty yelled as you all chased him. When Sherlock got the door back open the window was open and Jim Moriarty was gone.

“No, no, no, he’ll have backup.” Sherlock pulled you away when you looked out the window.

“Do you know what, Sherlock Holmes. I look at you now and I can read you. You repel me.” Kitty said, Sherlock turned and exited her flat. You ripped the copy of her expose out of her hands, still holding the ‘Richard Brook’ file and followed Sherlock outside.

“Can he do that? Completely change his identity? Make you the criminal?” You asked.

“He’s got my whole life story. That’s what you do. You sell a big lie. You wrap it up in a truth to make it palatable.” Sherlock paced outside.

“It’s your word against his.” You argued.

“He’s been sowing doubt into people’s minds for the last 24 hours. There’s only one thing he needs to do to complete his game and that’s to–” Sherlock stopped himself before finishing.

“Sherlock?” You asked, concerned.

“There’s something I need to do.” He spoke, and his whole demeanor had changed.

“Can I help?” You asked, craving to be kept in the loop.

“No, on my own.” Sherlock said, jumping into a cab and leaving you in the dead of night outside of Kitty’s house.

“Sherlock!!” You yelled as he left you.

You angrily got into a cab, knowing there was one place you had to go.

Part 48

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