#And of course not to forget how he was groomed from childhood to conceal his emotions

[midnight-weird-thoughts]

I know it has been nearly a year since the whole thing about Toichi being alive, and I am sorry if anyone said this before let me know and I can delete this, I was just taking a break to engage with the real world, but after rewatching some episodes I decided the only way I will accept this concept, is if they make him the Big Bad. The guy in charge of the Black Organization, as far as I know, is called Renya Karasuma. The earliest I can remember the name being dropped was in the Sunset Manor case with the mansion made out of solid gold. I remembered it because KID disguised as Kogoro. But the point it, he was there. I don't remember if we were told why he was there or on what information was he basing his infiltration on, but it's kinda ""coincidental"" that KID often appears when The Boss is discussed or alluded to in the episodes. This wasn't the only occasion. It is actually kind of a recurrence. Also, we know that Karasuma is in his hundreds at least, and Vermouth's age is unknown either, but she is older than Jody who is in her late-ish twenties (based on how long would it have taken her to become an FBI agent). The apotoxin is an interesting project to be having in a criminal organization even if you spin it as a fluke in a poison-making process, it is still a weird side-effect to have.

A pill that de-ages and seems to have no other adverse effect on the person. Not even mental capacity loss to the level a child's brain would have. And then we have an immortality giving gem also being sought after. And the world does have real magic, as we see with Akako. It is not just supersticion.

Toichi was also suspiciously on time to somehow save Chikage from those men who tried to blackmail her into stealing something. We are told he became a thief for her, which is an interesting impulse from a — presumably until then — law-abiding magician. Plus the skills he had to escape armed members of the organization...

And it is theorized that Chikage was the one to teach him disguise. He somehow came to teach Yukiko and Vermouth and passed on those skills further. How did this arregnement take place? Did he advertize he wanted students? Is that things world-famous magicians do? Doesn't it usually happen by specific tutelage? Wouldn't Yukiko had to have thought him out herself? Where did Sharon come from in that equasion then? Also, in which country did it happen? Did Yukiko move to America? Was Sharon on "vacation" in Japan? Did they track to an unrelated country where Toichi was in that time period just to learn from him?

If Toichi was really helping his wife by redirecting focus to himself, how did he not notice that Vermouth was shady? He was after an organization of people, reportedly. His new student was shady. Both were big name career criminals. Neither of them were careless people. Yukiko was a civilian, it makes sense she didn't know. But these two? On an unrelated note, Vermouth was said to be the Big Boss' favorite.

Also, a little etymology. As we all know anime characters names are all just horrible puns. But this time it is actually pretty funny the kind of coincidences you see. Kaito we all know is a pun on "thief" in Japanese. But it is not just him in that family. Toichi spells his given name like this 盗一 . 盗 means "steal, rob, pilfer" according to a dictionary, and 一 means either "one" as in a numerical or "best in".

A funny name for an internationally wanted thief. A pun from the author, but in-world a funny name to chose for your child. My friend and I actually used to joke that there were an entire dynasty of thieves in the Kuroba family and they just liked to make it subtly obvious.

But that is not the only thing. Kuroba is spelt like this 黒羽, where 黒 means "black" and 羽 means "feathers". Funny when the Big Bad's name is Renya Karasuma. Where Karasuma is spelt like 烏丸 where 烏 means "crow, raven" and 丸 means "circle". And Renya is spelt like 蓮耶 where 蓮 means "lotus" and 耶 means "questioning, question mark, interrogative". The question mark is KID's symbol in the ironic "?" "!" exchange that Toichi and Yusaku came up with. Chikage, for the record, is spelt like this 千影 where 千 means "thousand" and 影 means "shadow, silhouette, phantom", but that is neither here nor there. It could be her real given name or she could have changed her name, because what are the odds that the two best thieves in the world come from the same country and happen to be in the same part of a huge city at the same time? (Half-French Kaito, my beloved, but this isn't about that.) If she did change it, it is also a play on the organization. If she didn't her parents maybe wanted an actor and got a thief. Cursed by a name and all. I know this is all over the place, and I am grasping at straws and probably sound like a conspiracy theorist, but that reveal really destroyed me. The Kaitou Corbeau episode was a betrayal, and I can't even think of what Kaito's mental state was like then under the Poker Face. I saw fics where it was actually Chikage who dressed up like that which, coming from a mother, I would consider a form of psychological torture even playing with your child's trauma like that. So if Toichi does wind up being alive, I hope for nothing less than him being the Main Antagonist of the entire series. I know this is unlikely to happen, given how Karasuma's silhouette was drawn as an old man's and Gosho has proven to not be able to write healthy relationships of any kind (from Kogoro and his hitting of Conan and his alcoholic womanizing tendencies to the abandonment of parents being played as a quirk to the jealousy and dysfunctionality between Shinichi and Ran and other couples being shown as "cute" and many other instances), he will probably have Kaito forgive both Toichi and Chikage, but damn... But well, the Kurobas have proven to be masters of disguise and Vermouth doesn't seem to age, so there's that

[smileyjily]

A Series of (In)Decent Proposals

Chapter 12: The One with the Strawberry Cake

Summary: Throughout the course of their lives, James would ask Lily to marry him many times. A 14-part series, consisting of 13 no’s and 1 very jubilant yes.

Set in The Bet universe, but works as a canon piece as well.

Word count: 1,515

ao3/ffnet

May 1, 1979

There was nothing extraordinary about the safehouse in Ipswich. Having sought safety in seven since the start of her career as an anti-revolutionary, Lily could attest that there was nothing remarkable in regards to its size – a three bedroom structure with an unfinished basement that let in the brisk night air – or its history – a pre-war structure that had survived the air raids unscathed. Nothing at all to distinguish it from the three dozen refuges the Order employed.

Except the inoffensive, even unassuming house remained Lily’s least favorite safehouse by far.

Conveniently located between London and Thetford Forest, where the North Suffolk werewolves collected, the Ipswich safehouse saw more traffic, and frantic, often screaming traffic at that, than any other. In the six days since Lily and James had taken up residence in the East-facing bedroom, Lily had not known a moment’s peace.

For the dozenth time that night, Lily rolled over in a bid to get comfortable. She deliberately mashed her ear into a pillow in the hopes to lessen the impact of the next, inevitable disruption. Beside her, James snored. Years of rooming with Sirius and his screaming nightmares had inoculated James against noise in the night. He would spring up in the morning, put on his glasses, and face the day as energetic as a kindergartner returning to school after Christmas Hols. Meanwhile, Lily wondered if there was a point at which dark circles became permanent.

Peck. Peck. Peck.

That would be an owl with no doubt urgent correspondence. Lily guessed it was outside the kitchen window. No need for her to react.

Eliza Clarke was on call that night, the only other semi-permanent resident of the safehouse. In the Order, it was common to stay at a safehouse for only a matter of nights before moving on, always some new emergency to circumvent. Jones had been settled in the house for a practically unheard of three months. Clarke was one of the best healers in the Order, and the third bedroom was essentially a sickroom for whoever had been cursed most recently. Lily and James would need to leave soon to make room for the next felled soldier. The full moon was around the corner, and Lily suspected it would be Remus.

Lily heard the creak of a bedroom door. As she expected, Clarke crept to the kitchen to answer the persistent owl. Slippers cloaked most of her footfalls, but there was no stopping the squeal of the bottom step.

Almost silence lingered in the room. Nothing to hear but James’ little breathy snores. Lily and James had shared a bed nearly a thousand times, so James’ sleep sounds made up the melody of Lily’s favorite lullaby. She drifted into a dose, no thought staying long enough at the front of her brain to fully formulate. It all just slipped away, and Lily was happy to follow.

Woosh!

“Anyone there? Present yourself?”

The floo. Mad-Eye.

Lily’s brain supplied the answers before her mind had finished asking the question. They were expecting Mad-Eye in the morning. He was to deliver their next assignment. If history served, it would be either to take advantage of Lily’s potioneering or James’ reckless disregard for his own life and limb. He made an unsettlingly good soldier.

With her sleep already out of reach, Lily sat up. Better to get it out of the way. With any luck, Mad-Eye’s orders would take her and James far from Ipswich.

Lily deftly ignored the bright panic that always accompanied new orders. They hadn’t separated James from her yet.

As suddenly as the voices downstairs had started up, they stopped. The floo roared and fell silent. If Lily strained, she could make out the familiar crackle of a hearth fire, nothing magical about it.

Lily flopped back onto her stack of pillows. Maybe Mad-Eye had stopped by to relay something unrelated to them, for Clarke’s ears only. Maybe he’d been pulled away by something innocent but pressing…a drunken colleague or a scandalous love confession. Alright, most likely someone was dead or maimed or cursed or about to be dead or maimed or cursed. Wasn’t that always the case?

Lily hadn’t heard word from Marlene in two months.

Any downstairs disturbance would have been preferable to where Lily’s mind went then. Staring up at the ceiling, Lily couldn’t see anything to distract her in the dark. The war had her yearning for a nightlight, those childhood promises of protection from monsters that turned out to be very very real.

“Soon. Soon.”

The words were spoken into her shoulder, half-slurred with sleep.

“What’s soon, James?”

Lily rolled onto her side to look at him. His eyes stayed shut, breathing even.

“I’ll take you home soon.”

“Where is home?”

Whispering the words broke her heart. She’d called Cokeworth home for eleven years, Hogwarts for another seven. The Potter Estate had been a home the first time she visited, but since the funeral, it had become a museum to the dead, a container for all of James’ grief that he couldn’t carry with him into the war if he didn’t want to end up joining his parents in death. Truthfully, when the parade of safehouses came to an end, Lily didn’t know where they would go.

“Home is…with you,” James murmured.

He then snored so loudly that he choked on it.

Honestly, the whole Order could have apparated into the room and James would have kept on dreaming. It wasn’t the first time he’d spoken in his sleep. At times, James was capable of complex conversation, like coaching a pretend Quidditch match or firing off one of his prized puns. Normally, he just mumbled about the symbols that made up his dreamscape, something to the tune of, “Fish on bicycles grooming the manticores,” followed by more snoring.

Lily thought it was somehow sweeter that James was dreaming of a home with her, rather than actively trying to deliver reassurances. Her anxiety didn’t soften, but her heart did.

“My home is with you, too,” Lily said, even if he wouldn’t process the words in his sleep.

James smiled like maybe he did.

Lily took a moment to trace the lines of his face with her eyes. The shadows couldn’t conceal from her what she could recall so well from memory: the scar at his temple from a nasty fall down a moving staircase, the encroaching laugh lines earned early from a lifetime of hilarity, the supple lower lip that swelled when she sucked on it.

That very lip quivered as James started speaking again, “Going to marry you. Marry you in a wedding. There will be cake.”

Lily’s face broke into a smile. “Cake, huh? Let’s reach for the stars and have ice cream, too.”

“Yummy.”

He wouldn’t remember a minute of it come morning, one nondescript night of good sleep fading into the next. But she would. Most days, Lily felt like she had nothing left to give. But, like she was a wet rag, James could always wring just one last drop out of her. With a smile, a joke, a word of encouragement, somehow James would make her feel like the girl she once was, and that was all she needed to keep fighting. He was her safehouse.

“James, next time you ask me to marry you, I’m going to say yes. I’ll say yes and kiss you until we both can’t breathe. Until we both forget everything about this year from hell. Until it’s just me and you. Because it will always be me and you,” Lily murmured. “I honestly can’t wait.”

“Hmm, sounds nice,” James agreed.

Lily placed a kiss on the smooth skin of his brow, marveling at how little tension lay there when he slept. Where did he keep his worries? He was the most beautiful man she’d ever known.

“Lily?”

“Yes, love?”

“Can it be a strawberry cake?”

A bang from downstairs – the front door – was followed by a cacophony of shouting voices. From the din, Lily caught something about a raid on a Death Eater hold out in Colchester. Lily immediately flung off the duvet and prepared to race downstairs. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet, but she wouldn’t have time to hunt down a pair of slippers. She always slept in something decent now, too afraid of nighttime interruptions, so no need to throw on a robe.

Wondrously, a smatter of laughter rose from their new guests. That meant there’d be wounded – there were always wounded – but no dead. A good day.

Hand on the doorknob, Lily turned back to James, still sleeping on his side like nothing had changed. Lily wanted to give him every comfort that had been denied them the last year, including a few more hours of uninterrupted sleep.

“Yes, James. You’ll feast on strawberry cake,” Lily promised before slipping out the door.

And the next day, even though Lily had stayed up all night helping Clarke tend to the wounded, she still found time to bake one perfect strawberry cake.

She was James’ refuge, too.

[gascon-en-exil]

I... Really wanna know what the Khalidstans racism thing is now but I am also absolutely terrified to know as a dmcl/Claurenz/Claulix shipper...

I’m probably not the best person to ask as I’m generally neutral on Claude and have had little direct exposure to any of those ships. I did become a target of attempted trolling by the Khalidstans back in June, although it had nothing directly to do with Claude. One of them wrote a very long and tedious moral treatise proclaiming that FE16 encourages “pedophilia” and grooming through the Byleth/student relationships among other things. Several of us had our fun mocking it, they tried to remove it from the internet but we got around them, and the trolling commenced from there. Not the prettiest thing ever.

In short though, Khalidstans - so named because they refer to Claude exclusively as Khalid and believe that this name appearing nowhere in the game itself, or Claude concealing his Almyran heritage at all for that matter, is racism on IS’s part - deride Three Houses and FE and its fandom as a whole as racist in addition to being filled with everything else purity culture types love to deride as nasty and problematic. They focus primarily on the game’s darker-skinned characters, going to great lengths to strip them of any context they have within their own world and placing them within real world racial/cultural contexts instead, no matter how much reaching this requires. They revile Dimitri as a white savior and regard his relationship with Dedue as inherently racist, they misread Cyril to demonize Rhea and believe that he, like Dedue with Dimitri, would happily denounce her were the game less racist, they either glide over Petra’s situation as a political hostage because they tend to also regard Edelgard positively (if they do criticize the Empire’s treatment of her it seems to mostly get passed through Hubert who mocks her in supports similar to Felix’s mockery of Dedue - and of course they also hate Felix), they ignore the ramifications of the Nabatean genocide and the impact this plays on Rhea and the others because they’re light-skinned, and they...basically never talk about Shamir or Balthus at all, even though they’re of full or partial non-Fódlan ancestry. 

As for Claude/Khalid himself, while they do seem to have produced a variety of headcanons fleshing out Almyra in ways the game never bothers to do that positivity is drowned out by their vitriol - toward Hilda for her explicit racism toward Almyra, toward Dimitri for the aforementioned white savior interpretation, toward Byleth for “grooming” Claude like all the other students (this resulted in an infamous troll fic in which Claude’s mother travels to Garreg Mach to physically assault Byleth for flirting with her son), toward the Faerghus childhood friends for all being supposedly racists and/or misogynists (the worst of which seems reserved for Ingrid, as might be expected - doubly so since she has a marriage ending with Claude), toward Rhea and sometimes the other Nabateans for heading an allegedly oppressive pseudo-Christian religion, and toward others I’m probably forgetting. They overwhelmingly seem to favor pairing Claude with Lorenz, being apparently the least problematic of his options. Claude/Petra has some traction with them as does Claude/Dedue, but I would guess that the former is less popular for being M/F and the latter for having almost nothing to pull from in canon. 

The overall thrust seems to be, with Claude as well as with the other dark-skinned characters mentioned, that the Khalidstans hate them as they are in canon and prefer in their place OCs who share their names and elements of their backstories and personalities. It’s all a curiously targeted form of engaging with the game and its fandom, which is perhaps why it’s little surprise that the Khalidstans are so frequently mocked.

[bulletballetarchive1]

💍 Rings 💍

SO, this started off as something I wrote in third person. Then, because I was showing it to English Professors I rewrote it in 1st person. Which was my first time writing anything in this narrative. The only other thing I want to point out is that rather than New York, I placed The Littlejohn Family in the Midwest because I hoped the locality would better resonate with the audience. And with that said here we go!!

                                                              . . . . . . . . . . . .   I have found that with my increasing age, those around me expect me to be a walking contradiction. Of course, they would never say this out loud, but I have watched as young women wait with bated breath anticipating for words of wisdom to emerge from my lips. I have also watched as some of these very same women then expressed surprise - astonishment even, that I am capable of recalling years long behind me. 

The ability to recall my days spent within the walls of Julienne have brought on many gazes of wonder. But nothing brings forth an abundance of questions more than the fact that I can recall my grandfather with the same clarity.

Even as I keep to myself, the sight of menthol cigarettes neatly packaged and placed atop shelves reminds me of billowing smoke drifting through his dining room. A place I spent much of my childhood studying in. 

Then, there are times when my heart swells with warmth when I see men like my husband conceal his silver locks with a flat, rounded cap. Unless Granddaddy was working in the barbershop or, if he was within the sanctity of his own home, a hat would always stay perched on his head. Yes, it was his trademark.

But, even among the woolen flat caps, the menthols, and the strong Southern twang revealing his Alabama roots, one of the things that I will always closely associate with my grandfather would be his rings. Grandaddy possessed so many rings, but I was not given permission to do anything except look on. Once, great admiration had been tied to my yearnful gazes. However when Ms. Bedel moved in, my days of secretly caressing thick, metallic gold ended. Like granddaddy, she too, is a person I will never forget. 

In our early days together, my grandfather’s lover told me that she was not my mother and in that very same breath, her eyes narrowed as she further asserted she would never be my mother. Despite this, she fulfilled the needs my seven year old counterpart required when it came to maternal care. 

Ms. Bedel, in my eyes, was a woman who was never truly appreciated by those around her. I know that she certainly wouldn't have been by today’s standards, either. Because even in my time as a child in 1961, there were whispers of how she was too strict. Too reflective of the period that cultivated her.

Her full name was “Lucille Tallulah Masters-Bedel.” At the time, I did not know how a person could have two last names, but later I would find that ‘Bedel’ came from her deceased husband. This was not necessary for me to know at the age of seven.

During my adolescence, a child was to stay in a child’s place: seen, not heard. Boundaries that children manage to cross today were intolerable in my time. 

Being the ever obedient child I was, I never thought of doing anything other than what I was told. Appreciation factored into my blind ignorance and how could it not? Ms. Bedel was the one who bathed me at the end of each day. De-tangled my hair. Ensured I clasped my hands together and told God of my utmost gratitude each night. But even with this said, I have no doubt in my mind that each day I spent with Ms. Bedel, the more she came to love me.

My belief would be silently proven in how she provided me with the loveliest dresses. She made sure Granddaddy would use his hard-earned money so that I remained a well-groomed girl, decent for both neighbors and distant cousins to lay their eyes upon if they happened to see me run errands. I can even remember believing Ms. Bedel once purchased me the dress of my dreams.

It was all white with a delicately laced-collar. Lilac flowers in bloom decorated the fabric gorgeously. With my anklet socks and patent leather shoes, the pious women of the community would coo over me, sweetening my self-image by calling me names such as baby doll.

There came a point in which I had the honor of being among Ms. Bedel’s jewelry. That evening I was almost trembling in her lap. Watching intently as Ms. Bedel clutched onto a small key and inserted it into the jewelry box slot I could feel my heart pounding. With a turn the box was open and treasures were revealed right before my eyes.

As I had mentioned, I was an obedient child. If someone said, “don’t do that,” I would not engage in whatever was before me. If somebody said, “don’t speak,” I would never open my mouth. So being given permission to trace rings and necklaces and earrings with my little fingertips filled me with the utmost delight. 

While basking in this privilege, I realized there existed differences between a man’s ring and a woman’s.

Granddaddy’s rings were thick accessories of solid colors, more often than not the dimmest shades of silver and gold. It was almost as if they were old decorations that lost what could once make them shine. There were a few bumps and prongs, but frankly, there is nothing else I can say that compares them to the mesmerizing jewels in Ms. Bedel’s prized jewelry box.

“Where do these come from?” I couldn’t help but ask. “Child, everything you see before you has a story.”  I thought I would learn about the source of the beautiful little rocks in Ms. Bedel’s necklace, or where on earth the little diamonds in her rings came from. I was too ignorant to recognize the wistfulness that hung in my elder’s voice.  “During the Harlem Renaissance, I held a man named Aliki Eliopoulos in the palm of my hand. He was bronze, Greek, and we thought we could make it through the odds.” The brief huff that blew from Ms. Bedel’s nostrils was strong: “one night, he found me after the curtains closed and he presented this. This necklace is dear to me…I suppose because I never quite knew where Aliki went.” Pointing out another piece of jewelry was not needed as Ms. Bedel rose whatever called to her the most.

“This engagement ring - not a wedding ring - engagement, was given to me by my first husband. To accept it would mean I would make a vow for him. He knew of my past, and knew that even if I couldn’t right my wrongs, I could try to start over with his name.” 

Again, she expanded her chest with her second mighty huff. During that moment I wondered, how can this woman seem so disillusioned yet keep each belonging? Belongings that provide her with such unpleasant memories? Where does the hatred end and the sentiment begin? 

“True love is a concept,” Ms. Bedel said, the resentment never leaving her tongue. “The idea of that sort of thing existing is new, too. People don’t realize that...but Delores.”

“Ma’am?” I replied. For no particular reason, I was stricken with fear in how she said my name. All I had known was that she said it with such sharpness that surely my own faults were on the verge of being mentioned - whatever those faults may have been.

“Do not follow in my footsteps.” 

I believe Ms. Bedel was sixty-six at this time. The same age I am now. Ironically

enough, I feel I can understand her without even having the full pieces of her story. My grandfather was a lover of women who were respectable and clean. Women who would not taint his image by being well-known throughout the city for scandalous tales. 

I will never say that Ms. Bedel was not a woman who presented herself with high caliber. She sang opera long before becoming involved with my grandfather. She possessed clothes in her closet that continued bearing their tags. Perhaps it was loneliness that brought my grandfather to her, but that I do not know for certain. All I know is that at the end of the day, Granddaddy felt Ms. Bedel would be the most appropriate woman to guide me through my adolescence.

Still, to think back on the many statements - the way her eyes fixed on me, lets me know she was not a pinnacle of virtuous deeds throughout her life. 

However, at that particular moment as a child, all I knew was that I disliked the heavy silence her statement brought. It became my intention to steer away from talk of vows and purity so as I refocused on the piled riches, I noticed an emerald glistening among gold and rubies. The longer I stared into it, the more I noticed that it had lighter streaks. Appearing and disappearing depending on my movement. It was like thunder and lightning had been coursing within it.  “Ms. Bedel...where did that ring come from?” I asked.  “This -” she lifted it, studied it. “This belonged to my mother.”  “Did her husband give it to her, too?”

“My mother was never married.” With that unpleasant remark came another pause that I felt lasted forever. When Ms. Bedel spoke again: it was clear and amazingly without strain, “she hailed from a place in the South that was so unimportant that it can’t even be defined by a name.” She paused, asking me: “Do you know what slave labor is?”

Even in my discomfort, I nodded.  “What is it then?” Ms. Bedel did not believe I had a wealth of knowledge. I knew it just from the strength of her gaze.  Timid, my fingers slid against the hardwood of her dresser. Not knowing any better, I began recalling how at the age of five Granddaddy decided it was time I learn how Africans - not even colored people, but Africans - were chained like dogs and brought to America. After that, they were bound to pick cotton all day under the sun. That was slave labor, my young mind decided. 

“What Africans had to do...” I answered, just barely connecting my gaze with her own.  “No.” My idea was correct, but wrong.  “My mother may not have been picking cotton, but she did live under those horrid conditions. After I was born, my mother bundled me up and took me with her as she journeyed North. Of course, being a colored woman, she didn’t have the luxury of driving or possessing a fortune to get her there in an instant. She worked as a maid here and there until she reached New York...and there was one woman before that.” She paused, “We were in Kentucky…” Ms. Bedel refrained from speaking yet again, hissing: “I hate Kentucky...and I will never forget that woman as long as I live...she,” Ms. Bedel’s lips were curling, “she was downright nasty. “That woman sat so high on her horse, that she had my mother feeding her baby through her teat.”  My face was surely pulling in disgust. I did not understand what was said just the right amount to be puzzled, but I understood enough to be both bewildered and uncomfortable.  “From time to time, my mother would take little things from her house. Sugar, flour. Things that wouldn’t be missed. But before we left Kentucky and never looked back, my mother thought she deserved something more in return, and this ring was it. And after my mother passed on, this has been with me ever since…” Suddenly Ms. Bedel took on a soft and tender tone, it was as if she placed her past behind her. “Try it on.”  Not only was I soothed by a far more preferable tone, but I was also elated. Yes, it felt as though I was ascending to new heights. My high emotions would soon leave as the ring was placed on my finger, limp.  “Oh…” Ms. Bedel’s lips pushed out, sympathetic. “It’s too big for you…”  “My fingers are too little…” I felt like I was an infant, helpless and insignificant.  “Maybe.” Ms. Bedel took my hand into her own, covering it in love. “One day you’ll grow into it.” It was not shortly after this, but in gradual due time that when preparing me for an outing, Ms. Bedel would retrieve one of the necklaces from her sacred box and fasten it around my neck. In some cases, it was to enhance my church dress, or to simply show I was a colored girl of high esteem as she and I walked to a show downtown.  Each time this was to occur Granddaddy would part his lips, sneering that Ms. Bedel was making me into a ‘fast’ girl. Originally, his disdain was ignorable. As the sole man in the house, if Ms. Bedel disagreed - and I, as a result, found a voice to also disagree: I could exit the house, beautiful. 

Unfortunately, the days of the feminine rule Ms. Bedel and I shared left when cousin

Winston moved in. Although Winston and Granddaddy were separated by generations, their “masculinity” gave them a higher sort of power. If Granddaddy thought I was fast and if Winston thought I was fast, then it was so. From that point on, shiny gems would never again be around my neck.

I did not like this change. Prior to my aunt placing Winston in Granddaddy’s custody, I would receive comments from adults of how “lonesome” I must have been as an only child. I never thought I could be lonely, not when I had Granddaddy and Ms. Bedel’s company. In addition, I was also quite aware of the luck I possessed, because never did there come a time when I argued about what belonged to who.  While the alterations that occurred in my childhood home were minimal at best with Winston’s arrival, they were quite jarring all the same.  Breakfast was smaller, lunch and dinner too. I also had to be tolerant - patient - when Winston sat by my side, giving his own outlandish variations to the personalities of my beloved dolls. His rough housing even led to the tearing of Marilyn! And even though tears fell on my pillow that night by sunrise, I forgave him. One of the most noticeable changes was in how Ms. Bedel began to seldom speak to me. I thought it would be wise if I did not speak to her, as I acknowledged not just her body language but the dryness of her voice. The change that occurred was not my fault. Ms. Bedel simply detested my cousin.

In her eyes however, I was different. Different in the sense that when she met my grandfather, she met me too, and therefore knew what would come if she decided to move in. Winston was unlike me, not just due to gender or behavior, but because she never agreed to provide for him. Still, I did not know this. Instead, there were many days where I wondered if I had done something to evoke her coldness, but in truth I just didn't know of the hostile conversations taking place between the adults of the household. Some of my days were better than others, but the moment I made my greatest mistake came from one of my worst.  I returned home with low spirits after school. It did not matter that it was Friday as the memory of Lucinda Carter’s wrongdoing remained fresh in my heart and mind.  I will admit that in my childhood I more often than not felt an intense desire to be accepted by my peers. I was well-aware I had been viewed as the perfect, ideal child by my elders, but to those in my classroom I was thought of as little more than an old woman, masquerading as a child. During the occasional moments they were willing to overlook my small, shifting eyes and unusual silence, I was filled with jubilance.  With the little friends I had, I joyously followed to play Duck, Duck, Goose. With Lucinda circling us, I could feel the tension build. Each moment was thrilling. No one knew who the Goose would be, and I even speculated that it may be Thomas or Claude who would chase us around the courtyard. I did not expect Lucinda’s palm to fling into my face as she declared I was the wild goose. And what a fool I was, trying to rationalize the assault. I understood it was a part of the game. But I knew that with the way Lucinda usually treated me, it could not have been a giddy mistake. Still, I did not say anything to the teachers. Tears no longer slid down my cheeks by the time I climbed the concrete steps of my home. At that point, I began to think of the things that made me happy, and in that moment it occurred to me the last time I felt at peace was when I was among Ms. Bedel’s treasures. This is what brought me to her side, rather than confiding to my grandfather of the humiliation that occurred to me on this day. “Ms. Bedel,” I began meek and soft, “can I see your diamonds?" My first crime of that day was not realizing how Winston was among her. I was not aware Winston’s eye size doubled at the sound of diamonds.  “Yes you may.” All I knew was that Ms. Bedel looked greatly unhappy that I approached her, “but put everything back as found. Do you hear me? Everything, Delores."  “Yes ma’am.” And with that, I was on my way, embarking on my second sin.  After retrieving the jewelry box I navigated to the private sanctuary of my bedroom, shutting the door. Any other time I would not have done this, but it felt relieving to know that I was keeping to myself. Alone. Laid out on my wooden panels, I observed every pearl, opal, and amber gem. In this solace, I could not wait until I had my own collection of jewels to possess when womanhood approached, for surely everyday would be spent in happiness.  “Delores!” The sound of Ms. Bedel’s voice ripped me from my adult fantasies. Before I could rise to my feet and ask ‘ma’am?’ she opened my door, scolding me once more: “you better keep this door open, young lady. I don’t know who you think you are, secluding yourself away from the world! You are seven years old!” She did not have to curse at me as I hear some mothers do their children. She did not have to strike me as a reminder that she and my grandfather’s words were the law. I already felt the harsh sting of shame and humiliation coursing through me, and so although she did not keep watch on me with a critical gaze after ensuring I kept my door open: when she told me to put everything back, I did so - with the belief I had gathered everything.  It was my fear of further disappointing her that ruined my judgment. 

Saturday was fine, Sunday was as well as we attended church like a prim and proper family. It is horrible to reflect on the change that came a mere few hours after our worship.

“Ever since you took that boy in he’s been nothin’ but trouble!  He wasn’t even sick on Tuesday, he was connin’ you!”  This was not an argument that could be ignored. It was clear as the siren of an ambulance: both Winston and I could hear the clashing of our guardians echo through the walls. Ms. Bedel’s fury summoned Winston to crouch outside our elder’s bedroom. I was tempted to steer him away and convince him to mind his business until all was calm, but I was also taken by the enragement.  “I didn’t know you was a doctor!”  “I was with him that entire day!” Ms. Bedel shouted, “I could see him running and jumping and just actin’ a fool! Maybe if you weren’t trying to keep up with these young men out here-” “Woman!” I jumped at Granddaddy’s raised voice, “You don’t know a THING you talkin’ ‘bout!”

Hearing the heavy thud of Ms. Bedel’s feet, I wondered what if the door swung open and the nosiness of Winston and I would be displayed before her eyes. Surely we could never live it down. 

“Look -- damn you Amos, look!” However, she did not open the door. Ms. Bedel was elsewhere in the bedroom, and I could only assume she took a stance by the dresser. “My ring is gone! I know that he took it and he sold it to some...some-”

“Some what?” Grandaddy snapped. 

“Some hustler!” 

My knowledge of the streets were limited, but I knew the title she used for Winston was not right. “You should have seen him - the way he was looking when Didi had mentioned I had diamonds. I could just about read his mind!” 

“He’s nine years old, who does he know? If he took it, he prolly gave it to some lil’ girl!” 

“Amos! Why are you defending that heathenistic-”

“Shut up!”

“No good-”

“Dammit woman, I said shut your mouth!”

“Ungodly grandson of yours!” 

There came a sharp sound. The sound of skin hitting skin. It was stronger than how Lucinda hit me, that I knew.

However, this was not a new sound for Winston. In contrast to his excited face, I was cringing as if I personally witnessed Granddaddy’s powerful strike.

“You hard headed woman.” He hissed, “y’ain’t gonna keep standing here and keep callin’ my grandson outta his name. Y’got one more time t’do that and I’ma drag you outta here. Keep on talkin’ about some itty bitty ring. Keep on.”

“It was my mother’s.”  “Your mama was the thief you’re makin’ my grandson out to be. Your mama wasn’t nobody.”  

At that point, Winston was stretching his legs and placing his palm against the door knob. I decided that if Winston would get himself in trouble for getting into the adult’s business, so be it, but I personally would have no part in it.  But the truth of the matter is, by not prying I spared myself from the sight of my grandfather - a man who was more commonly stern whilst simultaneously doting, in a state far different than what I was accustomed to. I knew he was in the wrong - he was terrifying me, just to overhear him in this private moment. But what would I do if I looked at him? Caught him in whatever dominant position he stood in? Then, I heard Ms. Bedel weep.  

“I hate you.”  As she continued to weep, my heart broke. “You old bastard - what makes you think that I have to be with you? I don’t have to be with you. I accepted your granddaughter, willingly, I never had to do that for you. Then you put that grandson on me, and...and I’m too damn old to be going through burdens like you! Get away from me! Go on!”  Don’t go… I can recall thinking, I can recall wanting to act out: to cry and scream, but instead I was biting at my bottom lip, thinking: Don’t go. I felt shame at that point, too. Incredibly small, irrelevant. A burden. Now, I was willing to peep through the door like Winston, treated to the sight of Ms. Bedel moving faster than I had ever seen her. Apathetic and rough, she tossed the jewelry box on the bed, grasped at her coats, blouses, and furs. 

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” Granddaddy had the audacity to ask, as if he had not personally told her to remove herself.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?!” I did not know where the ring of Ms. Bedel’s mother had been. Truly, I thought it was in the box as it needed to be. The truth of the matter was that it was under my bed, somehow knocked there by my little feet as I spent my Friday evening admiring it all. But never would I have stolen from a woman I respected. At this moment, I did not think of my own potential mistakes, but I did think about letting my tears fall and what it would have been like if I rushed into Granddaddy’s bedroom, asking him if she could stay. “Move, move!” My surely disastrous idea never came to be as Winston grabbed my shoulders the same time Ms. Bedel’s feet came our way. Before I knew it, we were scurrying like small, brown mice to my bedroom. It was very likely Ms. Bedel saw it, but hadn’t possessed enough care to say anything.

“When y’find that damn thing,” Granddaddy followed her, not caring about our wide eyes. “You can’t never come back here. Never!”

“I don’t plan on it, Amos!” 

Ms. Bedel would only return to Granddaddy in the pursuit of her fine china. Shortly afterwards, I believe she left Dayton to return to New York.

This would be the first memory that brought me pain and discomfort: something I could not dwell on because it was too harsh. At some point, my grandfather realized that the woman he loved was forever gone, because he would issue cold gazes to Winston. Asserting that if he took her ring, he should speak up. Each time, Winston claimed innocence.

As the months came and went, so did the severity of the emotional wounds of that day. Never would we forget the disaster, but we had to shoulder it and proceed on with our  life. Though, one day, I would find something shiny below my bed. Like a calling, the light green streaks requested for my attention in an abyss of darkness. As I cupped it and brought it to light: that fateful day would hit me all over again.

Needless to say, as a teenager I spent many of my days wishing to turn back time. I wished that I could have considered that maybe it was I who made a mistake. Then, I would run to my bedroom, I would search up and down until I found that emerald ring and both of my guardians would enter a state of calmness. This was my fantasy. But silent, I would keep this ring. Though I would never wear it. Not even as eleven became thirteen. Or thirteen became sixteen. Or sixteen became eighteen.

Always, this ring was to be hidden. Forever my secret.

Even now, it is in my own jewelry box. And though Ms. Bedel’s mother stole it - and I in a way inherited this ring through the tradition of ‘stealing’ it, have never worn it. It has always felt taboo. Instead, what I do is keep it safe. 

I am blessed to remember things as well as I do, yet precise memory can be a curse. 

[deloresisout]

I wrote this story for a creative writing contest at my college - then shit hit the fan after the deadline [social distancing] so I don’t even know if I’ll hear back from faculty anytime soon. This was my first time writing in 1st Person (or rather converting a story into 1st person) and I was proud enough to show some people close to me in real life. So, I’m going to post this excerpt here. 

I have found that with my increasing age, those around me expect me to be a walking contradiction. Of course, they would never say this out loud, but I have watched as young women wait with bated breath: anticipating for words of wisdom to emerge from my lips. I have also watched as some of these very same women then expressed surprise - astonishment even, that I am capable of recalling years long behind me. 

The ability to recall my days spent within the walls of Julienne have brought on many gazes of wonder. But nothing brings forth an abundance of questions more than the fact that I can recall my grandfather with the same clarity.

Even as I keep to myself, the sight of menthol cigarettes neatly packaged and placed atop shelves reminds me of billowing smoke drifting through his dining room. A place I spent much of my childhood studying in. 

Then, there are times when my heart swells with warmth when I see men like my husband conceal his silver locks with a flat, rounded cap. Unless Granddaddy was working in the barbershop or, if he was within the sanctity of his own home, a hat would always stay perched on his head. Yes, it was his trademark.

But, even among the woolen flat caps, the menthols, and the strong Southern twang revealing his Alabama roots, one of the things that I will always closely associate with my grandfather would be his rings. Grandaddy possessed so many rings, but I was not given permission to do anything except look on. Once, great admiration had been tied to my yearnful gazes. However, when Ms. Bedel moved in, my days of secretly caressing thick, metallic gold ended. Like granddaddy, she too, is a person I will never forget. 

In our early days together, Granddaddy’s rotund lover told me that she was not my mother. In that very same breath, her eyes narrowed as she further asserted she would never be my mother. Despite this, she fulfilled the needs my seven-year-old counterpart required when it came to maternal care. 

Ms. Bedel, in my eyes, was a woman who was never truly appreciated by those around her. I know that she certainly wouldn't have been by today’s standards, either. Because even in my time as a wide-eyed, meek child in 1961, there were whispers of how she was too strict. Too reflective of the period that cultivated her.

Her full name was “Lucille Tallulah Masters-Bedel.” At the time, I did not know how a person could have two last names, but later I would find that ‘Bedel’ came from her deceased husband. This was not necessary for me to know at the age of seven.

During my adolescence, a child was to stay in a child’s place. Seen, not heard. Boundaries that children manage to cross today were intolerable in my time. 

Being ever obedient, I never thought of doing anything other than what I was told. Appreciation factored into my blind ignorance and how could it not? Ms. Bedel was the one who bathed me at the end of each day. De-tangled my hair. Ensured I clasped my hands together and told God of my utmost gratitude each night. I have no doubt in my mind that each day I spent with Ms. Bedel, the more she came to love me.

This belief was proven in how she provided me with the loveliest dresses. She made sure Granddaddy would use his hard-earned money so that I remained a well-groomed girl, decent for both neighbors and distant cousins to lay their eyes upon if they happened to see me. I can even remember believing that Ms. Bedel once purchased me the dress of my dreams.

It was all white, its collar delicately laced. Lilac flowers in bloom decorated the fabric gorgeously. With my anklet socks and patent leather shoes, the pious women of the community would coo over me, sweetening my self-image by calling me names such as baby doll.

There even came a point in which I had the honor of being among Ms. Bedel’s jewelry, that evening I was almost trembling in her lap. Watching intently as Ms. Bedel clutched onto a small key and inserted it into the jewelry box slot, I could feel my heart pounding. With a turn the box was open, and treasures were revealed right before my eyes.

As I had mentioned, I was an obedient child. If someone said, “don’t do that,” I would not engage in whatever was before me. If somebody said, “don’t speak,” I would never open my mouth. So being given permission to trace rings and necklaces and earrings with my little fingertips filled me with the utmost delight. 

While basking in this privilege, I realized there existed differences between a man’s ring and a woman’s own.

Granddaddy’s rings were thick accessories of solid colors, more often than not the dimmest shades of silver and gold. It was almost as if they were old decorations that lost what could once make them shine. There were a few bumps and prongs, but frankly, there is nothing else I can say that compares them to the mesmerizing jewels in Ms. Bedel’s prized jewelry box.

“Where do these come from?” I couldn’t help but ask. “Child, everything you see before you has a story.” With this answer, I thought I would learn about the source of the beautiful pearls of Ms. Bedel’s necklace, or where on earth the little diamonds in her rings came from. I was too ignorant to recognize the wistfulness that hung in my elder’s voice. “During the Harlem Renaissance, I held a man named Aliki Eliopoulos in the palm of my hand. He was bronze, Greek, and we thought we could make it through the odds.” The brief huff that blew from Ms. Bedel’s nostrils was strong: “one night, he found me after the curtains closed and he presented this. This necklace is dear to me…I suppose because I never quite knew where Aliki went.” Pointing out another piece of jewelry was not needed as Ms. Bedel rose whatever called to her the most.

“This engagement ring - not a wedding ring - engagement, was given to me by my first husband. To accept it would mean I would make a vow for him. He knew of my past and knew that even if I couldn’t right my wrongs, I could try to start over with his name.” 

Again, she expanded her chest with her second mighty huff. During that moment I wondered, how can this woman seem so disillusioned yet keep each belonging? Belongings that provide her with such unpleasant memories. Where did the hatred end and the sentiment begin? 

“True love is a concept,” Ms. Bedel said, the resentment never leaving her tongue. “The idea of that sort of thing existing is new, too. People don’t realize that...but Delores.”

“Ma’am?” I replied. For no reason, I was stricken with fear in how she said my name. All I had known was that she said it with such sharpness that surely my own faults were on the verge of being mentioned - whatever those faults may have been.

“Do not follow in my footsteps.” 

I believe Ms. Bedel was sixty-six at this time. The same age as I am now. Ironically

enough, I feel I can understand her without even having the full pieces of her story. My grandfather was a lover of women who were respectable and clean. Women who would not taint his image by being well-known throughout the city for scandalous tales. 

I will never say that Ms. Bedel was not a woman who presented herself with high caliber. She sang opera long before becoming involved with my grandfather. She possessed clothes in her closet that continued bearing their tags. Perhaps it was loneliness that brought my grandfather to her, but that I do not know for certain. All I know is that at the end of the day, Granddaddy felt Ms. Bedel would be the most appropriate woman to guide me through my adolescence.

Still, to think back on the many statements - the way her eyes fixed on me, lets me know she was not a pinnacle of virtuous deeds throughout her life. 

However, at that particular moment, all I knew was that I disliked the heavy silence her statement brought. It became my intention to steer away from talk of vows and purity so as I refocused on the piled riches, I noticed an emerald glistening among gold and rubies. The longer I stared into it, the more I noticed that it had lighter streaks. Appearing and disappearing depending on my movement. It was like thunder and lightning had been coursing within it. “Ms. Bedel...where did that ring come from?” I asked. “This -” Ms. Bedel lifted it, studied it. “This belonged to my mother.” “Did her husband give it to her, too?”

“My mother was never married.” With that unpleasant remark came another pause that I felt lasted forever. When Ms. Bedel spoke again: it was clear and amazingly without strain, “she hailed from a place in the South that was so unimportant that it can’t even be defined by a name.” She paused, asking me: “Do you know what slave labor is?”

Even in my discomfort, I nodded. “What is it then?” Ms. Bedel did not believe I had a wealth of knowledge. I knew it just from the strength of her gaze. Timid, my fingers slid against the hardwood of her dresser. Not knowing any better, I began recalling how at the age of five Granddaddy decided it was time I learn how Africans - not even colored people, but Africans - were chained like dogs and brought to America. After that, they were bound to pick cotton all day under the sun. That was slave labor, my young mind decided. 

“What Africans had to do...” I answered, just barely connecting my gaze with her own.

“No.” My idea was correct, but wrong.

“My mother may not have been picking cotton, but she did live under those horrid conditions. After I was born, my mother bundled me up and took me with her as she journeyed North. Of course, being a colored woman, she didn’t have the luxury of driving or possessing a fortune to get her there in an instant. She worked as a maid here and there until she reached New York...and there was one woman before that.” She paused. 

“We were in Kentucky…” Ms. Bedel refrained from speaking yet again, hissing: “I hate Kentucky...and I will never forget that woman as long as I live...she,” Ms. Bedel’s lips were curling, “she was downright nasty. That woman sat so high on her horse, that she had my mother feeding her baby through her teat.”

My face was surely pulling in disgust. I did not understand what was said just the right amount to be puzzled, but I understood enough to be both bewildered and uncomfortable.

“From time to time, my mother would take little things from her house. Sugar, flour. Things that wouldn’t be missed. But before we left Kentucky and never looked back, my mother thought she deserved something more in return, and this ring was it. After my mother passed on, I received it. This beauty has been with me ever since…” Suddenly Ms. Bedel took on a soft and tender tone, it was as if she placed her past behind her. “Try it on.”

Not only was I soothed by a far preferable tone, but I was also elated. Yes, it felt as though I was ascending to new heights. My high emotions would soon leave as the ring was placed on my finger, limp.  “Oh…” Ms. Bedel’s lips pushed out, sympathetic. “It’s too big for you…”

 “My fingers are too little…” I felt like I was an infant, helpless and insignificant.

“Maybe.” Ms. Bedel took my hand into her own, covering it in love. “One day you’ll grow into it.”

[sadprose-auroras]

‘Too Late’ - John DeaconXFem!Reader (Part 1)

A/N: This can absolutely apply to Joe Mazzello’s portrayal of Deacy – whatever floats your boat. It’s also heavily inspired by the structure of the movie Love, Rosie. Also – with regard to the chronology of the story, and characterisation of real people, it’s pretty inaccurate! Pls just take everything with a grain of salt. It’s meant to be an AU.

 I decided to split it into two parts cause it was much longer than expected. Read part 2 here!

Read my other works here

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You attempted to suppress the shaking in your hand as you clutched your glass of champagne, composing yourself with a deep breath, forcing a smile.

“I’ve known John,” you began to speak slowly, for fear of falling apart, “for as long as I can remember. We were inseparable after I poured a whole tube of paint on a boy who stole John’s crayons in Kindergarten,” you smiled weakly, grateful for the muffled laughter scattered across the room in response to your lame anecdote. You quickly averted your eyes away from John’s new wife smiling at him, grasping his hand.

“We… we have been through so much together. And I never thought I would be giving a speech as Best Man at John’s wedding.” This threatened to choke you up; you would never admit that you always secretly wanted to be the one marrying him. Luckily, the wedding guests took this to mean you were surprised at the unconventional situation, considering you were a woman.

“I have never seen you as happy as you are with Veronica.” You locked eyes with John, a sweet smile on his face, his eyes glassy. You couldn’t help but wonder what the cause of his tears were; the inevitable sentimental emotions of the most important day of his life, or something else entirely. You snapped yourself out of a dangerous thought path as quickly as possible.

“I would hate to see anything jeopardize that,” you said softly, biting your lip. You were, of course, trying to convince yourself of this.

“I wish you both a lifetime of happiness together. Nothing warms my heart than to see my oldest and dearest friend with such a wonderful woman. Everyone, please join me in raising a glass to the bride and groom. Congratulations you two.” You raised your champagne, hand still shaking. To mask this, you took a large sip and sat down quickly, awkwardly staring at the tablecloth in front of you to avoid meeting eyes with anyone. You knew you couldn’t conceal the pain behind your eyes.

The worst part was, you truly were happy he found someone to make him as happy as he was. You cared for him more than anybody else in the world, and, objectively, it wasn’t fair of you to want them to break up. If you met someone else in your position, you would tell them to get over it and move on. She truly was a great woman, and you hated the small part of you that viewed her as competition, as if women could only see each other as threats. Damn patriarchy. Despite your feelings eating you up inside for years, you had to suppress them. For John’s sake, and for Veronica’s sake. They truly were a great couple, and you despised yourself for harbouring feelings towards him.

It pained you to admit, even to yourself, but a small part of you always thought John and yourself would end up together. You thought he was the great love of your life. From the first moment you realised you were soul-crushingly in love with him, as opposed to just caring for him as your best friend, you never had eyes for anyone else. You truly thought you had been lucky enough to stumble into a clichéd rom-com; inseparable childhood friends fall in love with each other, and live happily ever after. But that wasn’t this story.

6 years earlier

 “Y/N, I think you need to slow down,” John laughed, trying to grab your drink from your hands. “You have to take it easy, this is your first time drinking.”

“Nuh-uh,” you giggled, taking another large gulp and wincing at the burning sensation in your throat. “Tonight, my friend, we are getting hammered. Don’t be a bore, it’s my eighteenth birthday!” You ignored the flip-flop in your stomach when John rolled his eyes jokingly, smiling brightly at you. You had never seen anybody so beautiful. That’s why, when you finally turned eighteen, you were glad to be able to legally drown your sorrows in excessive amounts of alcohol. It was about time, and you were reaching your breaking point; you had been in love with John for two years.

Shaking your head at your thoughts, you smiled back at him, once again ignoring the lurch in your heart. “Let’s dance,” you reached out your hand, dragging him onto the dancefloor of the club.

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A couple hours went by, filled with countless drinks, excessive giggling, yelling to be heard over, quite frankly, annoying music, and flashing lights that gave you a pounding headache. You tried to ignore this, along with the sweat dripping down your face. You were sure you looked disgusting. However, you didn’t care, because you were having so much fun with your best friend. The two of you couldn’t stop laughing, at anything and everything, and, of course, were showcasing your best dorky dance moves.

Eventually, your head began to spin, and you yelled, “Let’s sit down for a while,” dragging John by the wrist to a table in the corner. Unfortunately, as you tried to sit down, you missed the chair, falling flat on your bum. The both of you burst out laughing, John feeling slightly guilty. To compensate for this, although still smirking to hide his grin, he offered both of his hands to you. You gratefully accepted his hands, allowing him to pull you up. You stumbled forward, collapsing into him, chest to chest, due to your current state of consciousness.

Now, neither of you were laughing. You were suddenly hyper-aware of John, and everything about him; his hot breath on yours, the feeling of his hands on the small of your back, steadying you, and his intense gaze. Spurred on by your drunkenness and lack of inhibitions, you wrapped your arms around his neck, glancing down at his lips while licking yours. You slowly began to lean in, your heart beating rapidly. You had never wanted anything more than to be as close to him as possible.

“Y/N,” John breathed, taking a step back. “We can’t. You’re, um, we’re –“ He was cut off by you collapsing to your knees, vomiting.

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You woke up with a throbbing headache, the morning light too harsh for your sensitive eyes. You groaned, head spinning as you sat up, rubbing your eyes. You glanced over to see John sitting on the other end of the bed, smiling knowingly at you.

“Morning,” he chimed, “how you feeling?”

“Like death,” you scoffed. “Jesus Christ, did I really drink that much?” You racked your brain for memories of the previous night. You remembered drinking a lot, dancing a lot, and laughing. A lot. Then, oh god. You tried to kiss John, and he rejected you. You quickly decided to suppress this forever, for the sake of your friendship, hoping he would either forget himself, or assume you had forgotten; a decision you would come to regret for a long time.

“You threw up on my shoes,” John laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling adorably. Shit. He was so beautiful, it wasn’t fair. Little did you know, he was thinking the exact same thing about you, and the only reason he didn’t kiss you the previous night was because he wanted to do it right; not in a club when both of you were shitfaced.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry Deacy!” you groaned, crawling over to him and hugging him, ignoring the pathetic jolt of electricity you felt when he gripped you back, only quickly.

“Your breath stinks, get away from me,” he giggled, pushing you away. You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the pit in your stomach from this all too familiar rejection, despite its playful nature.

2 years later

You twirled the phone cord around your finger, readjusting your position on the couch. Your pregnant belly was causing you so much discomfort; you weren’t sure how much longer you could endure this. Especially as you were five days overdue.

“Yeah, yeah, work’s the same as always,” you lied; you were on maternity leave.

“So there’s really nothing else new? We haven’t seen each other in like 10 months, there must be something to report on!” John teased you. You bit your lip at this; of course there was something new. But, for reasons you couldn’t explain, your pregnancy felt like a betrayal to him.

“Honestly, I’m just feeling a bit lonely,” you sighed, “I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Y/N. But hey, I’ll see you on the next stop of our tour, right?” John’s band, Queen, were touring the UK. You were so proud of him for pursuing his passion and gaining such a strong audience for his music.

“Of course –“ You were cut off by a blinding pain in your abdomen. Holy shit, you were in labour.

“Y/N, are you okay?” John asked, concerned. You couldn’t help but let out a wince at the ridiculously painful contraction.

“I – I have to go,” you quickly hung up. It was time.

----------

As you held your baby girl for the first time, you had never felt so close to another human being. You never imagined you would have such strong maternal instincts, and you never planned, or wanted, to have children. Yet, all you wanted was to protect the baby in your arms. You couldn’t control the tears that streamed down your face, loud sobs escaping your lips; you had never felt so fulfilled or happy. You’d always thought the love of your life was a man, but now, you realised your baby girl was the love of your life. Despite the absence of her father, you knew that as long as you had each other, everything was going to be okay. The only thing missing in your life was John’s friendship, and your irreplaceable closeness.

As if on cue, you heard an all-too familiar voice; “Hi, Y/N.” You glanced up, your vision blurry due to the tears clouding your eyes. But you could pick him anywhere.  

You made eye contact with the nurse in the room, she smiled knowingly, and left the room.

“John,” you breathed. You covered your mouth with your hand, choking up again. “What are you – how? How’d you know?” He bit his lip, hiding a grin, as he walked towards you and perched on the edge of the bed. He was staring at your baby girl in amazement.

“I knew something was going on when we spoke on the phone, so we came here a few days early. I went to your house, and it was unlocked, so I went in and saw the cot. I put two and two together.” He looked ashamed, he was avoiding eye contact with you, fiddling with the blanket. “I hope I’m not overstepping.”

You shook your head rapidly, reaching out and clasping his hand. “There’s no one else I’d rather have with me.” He let out a sigh of relief, smiling back at you.

“Come here,” you beckoned, letting him sit next to you, his arm wrapping around your shoulders.

“John, this is Annabel. Annabel Beth (Y/L/N).” The most loving, curious look overtook John’s face as his voice softened. “Hi, Annabel, gorgeous.” It felt like an invasion of privacy to see him in such a raw, vulnerable state. Annabel opened her wide eyes, glancing up at John. He wiggled his fingers at her, and she gazed at him in wonderment.

“I think she likes you,” you giggled. You glanced up at him, your faces dangerously close. Your heart was beating rapidly, accompanied by an overwhelming sense of contentment and fulfilment. Perhaps it was both of these things, especially as you felt as though everything in your life suddenly made sense and you were no longer so lonely, that caused you to do something stupid. You began to lean into John, breathing heavily. You got so close that you were nose to nose. Suddenly, John turned his face away. Only slightly, but it was enough to make your heart sink. You cleared your throat, readjusting yourself and Annabel so you weren’t leaning in to John so closely.

“So, um, what happened with the tour?” you asked, trying to keep your mind off the fact that John changed it to be here with you.

“Don’t worry, we didn’t have to cancel any shows,” he said, after all this time still knowing what you were thinking, better than yourself. “The boys were fine with coming here a little early. I sent them out to explore the city today.”

“Thank you,” you breathed, tearing up again. Damn hormones. “I can’t believe you did that for me. You didn’t even know what was going on.” Your head was spinning; would a friend act like this? To any outsider, you were the picture of a perfect family. Except you weren’t.

“I’d do anything for you, Y/N,” he said in a small voice, kissing the top of your head delicately, then Annabel’s, making you laugh softly.

----------

“Freddie, Brian, Roger, this is Y/N. Y/N, these are the guys.”

“Nice to finally meet you,” you grinned, shaking each of their hands.

“So glad to meet you too, darling,” Freddie kissed your cheek. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

“Really?” you laughed, glancing over to John and raising an eyebrow. He shrugged adorably, making your cheeks flush, much to your shame.

You then introduced the boys to Annabel; thankfully, they were all great with her, and engaged in conversation and laughter over tea and biscuits. You asked them about their rockstar lives, and they asked you about your life, without prying. You tried to avoid certain topics, such as the absence of Annabel’s father and your own parents.

When you tended to Annabel and the guys cleared the dishes and cleaned up, despite your protests, you could, unintentionally, overhear their conversation from the next room.

“Deacy, she’s amazing. Remind me, why aren’t you two together?” a voice, who you assumed was Brian, asked. You froze, hating yourself for listening. But you couldn’t go in there now; you were never good at hiding your feelings from John.

“Because...” John began. There was a pause, and your breath hitched in your throat as you listened intently, your head spinning. “She doesn’t feel that way about me. We’re just friends, it’s never been anything more.”

“Sounds like you want it to be more.” Roger interjected bluntly.

“I don’t know,” John sighed. “We’ve been friends for so long. I’m so confused. I mean, I know I love her, but in what way?”