#But schneider always looks good no matter what he wears

[my-sherlock221b]

Supernatural Rewatch Ramblings: Wendigo

Wendigo

The long line of the MoTW series in Supernatural starts off with the Woman in White which is fairly well- known legend/ myth in most countries.  Then we get this one next which claims origin from the Native American mythology.

Here is a review of the Wendigo episode with thoughts from me and @soulmates-for-real​

I have always wondered why they were not so inclusive or better at being inclusive as a show. Yes, they did have many women and people of colour in important and strong roles, both positive and negative (though they could have done so much better!). But they steered clear from some of the huge mythology lores like that from Native Americans, Hindu, Latin American cultures. This may have been a wise political strategy to avoid conflict and so they stuck to the Judeo- Christian core but still managed a rather radical take on it!

Spoiler alert:

*God was the final villain?! Who would have guessed? And that the angels were dicks, relentlessly, and demons were in fact ex-humans.*

So back to Wendigo.

What a monster the Wendigo is!! In later seasons when we got only angels and demons and some vampires etc the other monsters were monsters in and of themselves. Like they were born that way—needing to eat human pituitary glands or whatever.

But Woman in White and Wendigo, and even Dead in the Water, or the Shapeshifter --the monster was created by circumstances. Betrayal and infidelity leading to murder suicides, extreme starvation leading to cannibalism and eternal hunger.

Far more terrifying than someone who is born a ghoul perhaps.

So here we are in Wendigo, at the forest/camp site with these fake, charming, rather useless camp rangers who carry M&Ms (nice touch and throwback to E.T. !), don’t wear shorts ( which anyway seems like a weird thing to wear when there is grass and stuff—why would you want to expose your legs?!), can’t see bear traps ( Seriously Dean?! ).

Sam is still restless and bristling at Jess’s death, as well as angry at Dad. All those years of separation do not seem to have given him any peace in his relationship with his father. Now to add massive insult to his already injured sense of self—he has lost his girlfriend in exactly the same way as his father lost his wife—making them even more identical.

So he is cranky and unwilling to give in to any of Dean’s suggestions. He denies his own nightmares, refuses good advice and food and is generally misanthropic. While Dean on the other hand seems to be enjoying this like a happy jolly road trip. The monster is almost like a secondary priority now.

What is most important, (and this becomes even more obvious in a re-watch post finale)—what is THE most important thing is that Sammy is riding shotgun, is in front of his eyes and safe.

Miserable and bitchy but safe.

That allows Dean to dial back a bit and bring into focus what has always been, for him, the really important part of their lives—saving people. This is always more important to him that hunting things. So, when he finds out about someone’s brother being lost and the coordinates match what his dad has left, well there is no choice really.

They have to find a way to save him.

If they find Dad there, well, good, but that is suddenly not a priority for him at all. He turned up at Sam’s doorstep, and as we know from the finale, waited there for HOURS since he was unsure of his welcome, then broke in at 3 am or something like an idiot….but anyway…..all that was because Dad had been away on a hunting trip and hadn’t been home in a few days…blah blah blah.

The first contact Dean makes with Sam who left home to go to college is to recruit him to help find Dad—the same guy who told Sam that if he went away to stay away.

And then suddenly now that Sam is with him, finding Dad is like meh. If we find him somewhere by the wayside while you and I hunt monsters Sammy, then yeah sure, great.

If not…well….we have stuff to do you and I…saving people, hunting things. The family business. 

And John Winchester….well, what can I possibly say about him without taking up pages in ranting?! Why did he ditch the first monster? Why was he in SUCH a hurry to leave that he left his journal behind??

My theory of course is that he had to run away from the Woman in White since he had been unfaithful to Mary ( yes yes I know it had been YEARS at that point, but hello, this man made his life a crusade for revenge and sacrificed his kids’ lives also to that darkness, so…yes, being with Adam’s mother was an infidelity and you can’t change my mind on that !).

So naturally John was afraid he would be killed.

But still….he left coordinates for the next hunt in the journal and just ran off?!

The other question is what the hell is happening in motels across USA? Guys like these can just check- in on fake credit cards, leave a room full of satanic and serial killer-y documents, sometimes dead bodies, lots of salt at the door and windows, and just disappear without checking out….

Though the police do seem quite alert and swift in action in the Pilot compared to some of the laidback and clueless ones we see later.

What is most interesting is to see the character of season 1 Dean emerge.

He sass, he boss, he flirt, he lie, he charm, he fight, he save.

In fact, the very first time I saw Supernatural, it seemed that Dean occupied so much of the narrative space that I barely noticed Sam except as a foil to and a brother to Dean.

Now in the re-watch what is fascinating in retrospect is to watch Sam slide into ‘the life’ without a hiccup. He reads the journal, he figures out it’s a wendigo, he gets the civilians to cooperate, he also fights and saves.

And that look he gives Dean in the car?

Well, those who missed the signs in Pilot and didn’t ship Wincest from day one, surely started doing it then!

https://www.geekgirlauthority.com/supernatural-rewatch-s01e02-wendigo/

This is also the first episode that gives a clear parallel to the Sam and Dean relationship through the B plot. When Haley says she MUST go to find her brother –Dean nods in instant understanding while Sam is pissed off at having to ‘babysit.’

We see this in many more episodes in the future, and what is fascinating is to see Sam gain insights into his brother with every such parallel. To recognize what being the big brother has meant to Dean and how much he has done and given and even suffered for that. We will discuss this in more detail in the next episode review! ( Dead in the Water)

The chemistry and ease, almost a fluid sense of flow between the two actors is unmistakable in this episode. Even as Sam is really being a bitch and Dean is being a jerk, there is a definite undercurrent of something holding them together. It may be all about revenge for Jess’s death and finding Dad for Sam, but he will still stick with Dean and want to protect him as fiercely as Dean wants to protect Sam.

.

Sheila O’Malley has given a detailed explanation for the acting styles of Jared and Jensen and what she said about Jared is spot on and brilliant. He does what she calls active listening.

It is amazing how once you realize that you notice it all the time.

The reason why Dean can manage such perfect comedic timing or non- verbal communication is because Sam is always ALWAYS tuned into him. Listening, watching, reacting, observing.

Once again, for those of you interested in the meta and more erudite and informed reviews that this one 😊 do read what Sheila O’Malley has written.

Here are some excerpts which will entice you!

“David Nutter, who directed the pilot, also directed episode 2, and there’s a new DP here, the phenomenally talented Serge Ladouceur, who is still shooting the show. If the DP for the pilot, Aaron Schneider, helped establish the dark mood and horror-movie feel of the series, then Ladouceur just helped deepen and strengthen that continuum. The look of the show has changed, by Season 9. I would say that it has a more glamorous look now, more colorful, while certainly still very dramatic (even melodramatic). Supernatural is (and has been) one of the best looking shows on television.”

“The ranger comes in to talk to them, and they pose as environmental studies majors at the university in Boulder. Sam says they are “working on a paper”, clearly improvising, and you can watch the glorious schtick of Jensen Ackles as he adjusts to the new information of who he is supposed to be pretending to be. God is in the details, people, and it’s the detailed scene work of both Ackles and Padalecki that keeps this show going. David Nutter referred to Jensen Ackles once as a “meticulous actor” in terms of his preparation for every scene, no matter how small, and it pays off. He knows what the fuck he is doing. So does Padalecki. I couldn’t give two shits about the demons. It’s that DYNAMIC that is so entertaining and watch-able.”

 .

And here are some thoughts on the episode from @soulmates-for-real, my partner in crime for the rewatch 😊

Except the fact that Sam is quite secretive about his nightmares but his body language is quite open and his expressions easy to read. On the contrary, I saw Dean posturing a lot with other people, pouting, flirting, making eyes...trying to be all nonchalant. But when it comes to Sam we see a different Dean - the more antsy and angsty Sam gets, the more intensely Dean reacts to him and you can see Dean's concern shining through. Leading to Sam coming to some kind of resolution and giving Dean 'that look' at the end! 

[theelliottsmiths]

So anyway, Mein Herz Brennt Making of liveblog, one of my favourites

First of all, I do take any use of piano MHB as a slight towards my tiny hands. -1 point

I really would love to visit this place, it's beautiful

I love that Oli introduces it and then Till is straight in there talking about murder and stabbings. Trust that to be what intrigues him. I feel like 'smells like murder' isn't a direct translation but that's purely because I spent like ten minutes trying to work out what words he says. It rhymes, which is suspicious.

Oh this was before he let his chest piercing reject all the way out in the grossest way

When schneider says Krankenhaus it sounds very Geordie and I'm convinced that kind of thing is why Auf Wiedersehen, Pet was created

Richards eyes light up when he's talking about the room he's in and it's one of those looks where it's just. I would love to listen to anything anyone has to say when their eyes have that sparkle.

"the scavengers had already been here" cue Paul talking about his criminal past thieving from there. See, another example everyone forgets of him being the biggest bastard of them all. The smile is a front.

One of my favourite ever Rammstein things is the combined joy and mockery from Paul when Richard is revealed to be wearing the bird mask and it wiggles as he nods. He looks like a little black cockatoo. Richard looks embarrassed to be wearing it but Paul is having the time of his LIFE.

The way is echoes in his mask makes him sound like he's clucking

Flakes glasses perching in his cone make him look like that sesame Street doctor or scientist

They all suit this make up so much and I wish they'd consider it as a stage look

Peck. Not intimidated.

Considering the nightmares Till has/had, ouch

Richard looks so much like a little vampire prince but like, a character from what we do in the shadows. He makes his own smokescreen entry/exist and everything.

Melanie!!!

Richard has many tendons in his neck huh.

The sounddd. I used to always be curious as to whether or not people in music videos were making the sounds it looks like they're making and now I know and I'm uncomfortable. This and also later when till does the heart

His laugh is never what I expect it to be

That uh. That doesn't look like he's in pain the way the injection sounds implied. At all. Not that I'm complaining but it gives mixed messages.

I'm so sure Richard is the only one I've ever heard use the word quasi. It makes sense for him if true but maybe I only notice because of the tone he uses? His is quite a punchy nasal tone it might just be more noticeable.

Till with kids is always the most adorable wonderful thing. He's really helping to keep them relaxed despite the creepiness of the stuff they're shooting.

"if you look at the cover then you'll recognise a morbidity to the whole thing" till, my darling, do you think people don't already ~see the morbidity~?

I googled and the lady doesn't pronounce renaissance with a g like Till does and that interests me. In fairness I have to assume it's like in Norwegian how words like restaurant are pronounced with a g sound because it's closer to the French sounds? It's not like we in English donut the French way either but the Google translate lady does. This is why I always suspect that when I'm learning a language I'm learning the language wrong and at some point I'll find out there's a Real, For Adults version if the language that's totally different. This is irrelevant. Accents are fun and I like being able to notice them.

It feels so strange seeing this knowing what Eugenio did

Paul taking pictures because he knows better than them

Something about a child saying "ah yes, I know Till and Flake very well" is hysterical.

You can feel the dismay and disapproval radiating off till as he tries to be diplomatic about the Spanish understanding of linear time. He struggles to find a positive and only comes up with the fire walls. "It should have gone out before we filmed anything because they were fucking around with the playback so long but it didn't" is his only compliment.

The German word for French is wild.

Do they know they could have hired an interpreter? Interpreters existed in 2012 I know this

This whole thing with Melanie is beautiful you can't deny that the arm Eugenio made with then was lovely.

Till in the dress with Melanie in his lap. I don't off the top of my head remember seeing it in either video so I simply must assume that it was just what he was wearing that day when he showed up. She's so tiny on his knee I'm glad they're still friends.

"you're left in a state of trauma when everyone stares at you all the time" did this need to get so heavy? It's interesting that he focused more on her voice than her appearance there, though in fairness it's pretty high

They all love her so much and it's totally understandable.

Mit rock n roll und cola trinken

I have to skip the screaming the secondhand embarrassment is too much.

Part 2

Again, this liveblog is so long

Sometimes Oli speaks like his body isn't used to talking.

I want, so badly, to know if Richard was having memories of his dreadlocked youth The tiny cup in his elegant hand is so pleading and then you look left and. It sure is something.

Are they freckles or acne scars across Tills shoulders?...cute. The first set of arm/chest wounds, not so much. I do spy his lil tummy scar

Richard does look like he almost swooped in for a kiss and then changed his mind because of the camera. Paul turns his head that way and then Richard tries to save with a step back and face rub (his own). Just saying.

The fact that a few of them have taken pictures on their personal phones warms my soul it's such a nice reminder that they're good friends outside of work and My Heart

Schneider and Paul ready at a moment's notice to be Dumbasses. J'adore.

What if Zoran was more of a background character tho actually

God, schneider is beautiful. An ethereal, pure beauty that exists no matter how he's being styled.

See okay how is flake almost taller than Oli right now he's not even doing his standard open legs and swan spine thing

It must be so hard to find Oli sized clothes. Flake is also tall and slim but he's a lot more leg, whereas Olis height seems largely to be torso. I have to assume a lot of his stuff is tailored or custom made now.

I always forget about the marks on tills back when he's in the nightmare dress

The child staring with great confusion at a bright red flake reading. I would love to know what his favourite books are.

The childs plural poking and prodding at a very patient Oli, who gracefully bends his spine in ways I've never seen a human do before. I wonder if he's ever dressed up as Lurch from the Addams family.

The actress playing the woman in this half is so beautiful and has a power her younger counterpart lacked when she was threatening him with her weapon.

I am a dummy and was like weird why is Paul speaking Norwegian. I know full well he wasn't saying unnskyld because I've heard Germans say their equivalent before and I assume Entschuldigen either sounds like that fast or shortens so what the fuck, rhi

Till guiding people through him murdering them is truly one of life's greatest pleasures. They trust him so completely. I would like to watch them dance the elegance would be astounding.

Paul lurking watching with what I choose to see as pride as till slaughters an old woman.

Paul being critical (again, as always, rightly so) of the hallway mouthing the lyrics decision.

"for this in prepared to make compromises" he says, hating every bitter word of it

I would like to know what he wanted to say about till and then see him get into trouble over it.

I would like to see till in a bouncy castle. He's adorable jumping into the comfy pit I want to see him in a bouncy castle. Child, utter child.

Paul takes every opportunity to say how hot he thinks they all are and I love that about him. Sometimes your friends are all hot and everybody needs to understand that fact.

Their approaches to pretending to play cello are all so uniquely them. Flake and Richard are taking the time to try and understand what they're being told, whereas Paul just fucking. Lays into it, attracting the weirdest looks from Oli. Richard looks beautiful with that cello and I think he should learn to play. For fun not for work. It's not just that he looks so handsome, but I think that's the easiest way to convince him. I think he'd be good at it, and not being the lead at something might be good for him.

I appreciate that Oli is skeptical because yeah they do all look like they've never held a cello before.

They do, however, all look lovely in their dresses. I'm trying but actually I can't not say that Schneiders little sternum dip makes it seem like he has breasts in that dress and it's a good look for him.

Till singing it in such a high voice, more like his speaking voice, is both interesting and lovely. Oli is trying... So little compared to the others. Laughably incorrect

Why yes, I am laughing at the sheer length of the spikes. They're just... They're so fucking long. So long.

Paul is actually probably the best one there, ironically. They're all comically out of time. They're professional musicians. I know they aren't used to bowed instruments I do understand and I don't want to be uncharitable but also they are struggling. I want to see cellists react to this.

Pretty dresses! And the nightmare but with the most awful and worst fingers! Like the Grinch but goth.

Both Schneider and Richard had the same neverending shoot idea and I am Intrigued.

Till waiting for Schneider with the umbrella :)

Wir brennen! Paul is always so happy to play with fire.

[cupcakecurl]

[0:10] Paul about playing guitar together with Richard

Transcription:

Interviewer: Wie ist das eigentlich mit den Gitarren? Ihr seid ja zwei Gitarristen- also Paul du und Richard - ist das fast wie automatisch, wie ihr die quasi zusammen doppelt oder wer welchen Part spielt oder ist das auch immer eine große Diskussion und muss man so verteilen die Rolle? Paul: Wir haben das Schicksal, dass wir die einzigen in der Band sind, die das selbe Instrument spielen und wir sind dummerweise auch grad noch die Egoistischsten und die ... mh .. die auch gerne vorne so stehen. Interviewer: So wirkst du aber gar nicht. Paul: (lacht) Und angeben wollen und so und grade wir müssen uns das jetzt teilen. Also, wenn Flake jetzt irgendwas spiel mit dem Keyboard, der kann spielen, oder Schneider, oder Ollie, die eigentlich gar kein Problem damit haben - na Schneider hätte vielleicht auch ein Problem damit, wenn da noch ein Schlagzeuger wär, der da sagt “Och. Ich möchte gerne mal die Stelle mal spielen” oder “Spiel doch mal so”. Und jedenfalls müssen wir uns immer so absprechen oder wenn jetzt ein Effekt ist live oder so; der eine will jetzt gerne sowas machen, dann ist’s wegen der Symmetrie dann immer schön, wenn der andere das auch macht. Interviewer: Aber vom Können her, könntet ihr jeder alles machen? Paul: Ach ... weiß ich jetzt nicht. Die Rammsteinmusik ist nicht so kompliziert zu spielen. Je einfacher das ist, desto mehr Faxen kann man auch auf der Bühne machen. Je komplizierte die Musik wird - blblblblblblblbl - umso mehr musst du dich konzentrieren, umso höher musst du die Gitarre hängen und dann musst du auch noch Turnschuhe anziehen und dann sieht das gar nicht mehr gut aus. [...]

Interviewer: Mhhm. Ich hab jetztnicht genau verstanden, wie ihr es aufteilt. Ihr redet dann schon darüber wahrscheinlich? Paul: Achso. Hab ich jetzt auch gar nicht gesagt. Musst du Flake vielleicht mal Flake fragen, der ist Außenstehender. Interviewer: Streiten die sich manchmal? Flake: ... Nee, das wird einfach ganz friedlich geklärt, je nachdem wer was jetzt besser kann. Interviewer:  Ich dachte, die könnten beide gleich gut? Flake: Na jeder hat so seine speziellen Stärken. Interviewer: Übst du denn auch viel, Paul? Paul: Gar nicht. Ich bin - ... Interviewer: Richard übt, glaub ich. 

Paul: Das weiß ich nicht.

Interviewer: (lacht) Naja macht ja auch nichts. Ich meine, wenn man was kann, muss man ja auch nicht mehr.  Paul: Also mir persönlich macht das Spaß mit Richard ein Riff zu spielen. Also man spielt so das Riff und wenn der eine jetzt grade sein Kabel verloren hat oder sein Plektrum und spielt kurz nicht mit, dann merkt man auf einmal wie man alleine spielt und wenn er dann wieder angeht, dann ‘Whuam’ kommt noch so was dazu. Das ist eigentlich ganz angenehm, das ist dann das Schöne. Das wir zusammen schon ganz schön - ähm - ‘ne Macht sind. Das ist sehr angenehm. 

Translation:

Interviewer: How is it with the guitars? You are two guitarists - you Paul and Richard - does it happen automatically that you know when you double or who plays which part or is this always a big discussion and you have to distribute the roles? Paul: We do have the fate that we are the only ones within the band who play the same instrument and unfortunately we are also the most egoistic and those, who ... always want to be up front. Interviewer: You don't make this impression at all.   Paul: (laughs) And want to show off. And out of all people, we are the ones who have to share. If Flake plays something on the keyboard, he can play what he wants, or Schneider, or Ollie. Those who wouldn't have a problem with it - well, maybe Schneider would have a problem as well, if there had been another drummer, who would have said: "I would like to play this part" or "play it like this". However, we always have to arrange ourselves or when there is a live effect or something like this, the one wants to do something, then it is nice if the other one is doing the same thing, because of the symmetry. Interviewer: But as far as the skill is concerned you both would be able to do everything? Paul: Well ... I don't know about that. The Rammstein music is not that complicated to play. The simpler it is, the more you can fool around on stage. The more complicated the music gets - blblblblbl - the higher you have to hang the guitar and then on top of all you have to wear sneakers and that does not look good at all anymore. [...] Interviewer: Mhhm. I did not quite understand, how you split it up. You are probably talking about this? Paul: Ah. Well, I didn't say anything about this at all. Maybe, you have to ask Flake about this, he is an outside observer. Interviewer: Do they fight sometimes? Flake: ... No, no. This is resolved peacefully, depending on who is better at certain things. Interviewer: I thought, they are both equally good? Flake: Well, each has his own specific strengths. Interviewer: Do you practice a lot Paul? Paul: Not at all. I am- ... Interviewer: I guess Richard practices. Paul: I don't know this. Interviewer: Well, it doesn't matter. Once you accomplished a certain thing, you don't have to practice anymore. Paul: Well, I personally have a lot of fun while playing a riff together with Richard. So, you are playing a riff and if one loses his cable or his plectrum and does not play along for a short moment, then you notice you are playing on your own and then, if he is approaching it again, then "Whuam" there is added something big. That's very pleasant, that's the nice thing, that both of us together are a gret - uhm - power. That's very pleasant. __________

(I was laughing so hard, when she asked Flake, if Richard and Paul are fighting a lot and there was this long pause before Flake answered, because he was probably screaming inside)

[actuallylorelaigilmore]

abandon all your logic (and put your money on it), chapter 3

Alvareider, One Day At A Time. All chapters here. Also on AO3.

****

The more the day insisted on progressing, with no sign that she was dreaming. the more Penelope’s second theory felt valid.

Okay, plan of action, she ordered herself after breakfast–Schneider washed the dishes, shooing her away as though they’d had that fight many times before.

You need to figure out where you are, how you got here, and how to get back to sanity. Reality. Whatever.

The first step, obviously, was to gather more information. It shouldn't be hard, since she was at home here. Some version of her was, anyway.

So, playing along would continue to be her policy.

If Penelope didn’t do a better job of it, though, she was going to get Schneider’s attention. He was already eyeing her with slight concern whenever she was her usual blunt self.

Maybe this world’s Penelope was more careful, in what she said and how she said it? No clue why she would need to be, but worth testing out.

Step 1: Be nicer to Schneider.

Step 2: Get his help fitting into this life.

“I’m going to get ready,” she called after she heard the sink shut off. “Should I worry about the dress code?”

“Dress code? Pen, I know you want to make a good first impression, and an engagement is a big deal, but you’re going to look amazing no matter what you wear. Plus it’s a party, not the rehearsal dinner. Dressy cas’ should be more than good enough for Syd’s extended family.”

For a second, the word engagement threatened to stop her heart, but it picked back up when she realized it wasn’t their whatever-this-was that Schneider was referring to.

Were they already married?

A quick, panicked look down at her hands reassured her that there were no rings there. Penelope hadn’t noticed any on Schneider, either, besides the silver one he wore a lot.

Did this world's Penelope know why he wore that? She had always wondered--but not enough to ask.

Shaking off the terror of considering a marriage to Schneider, a wedding she hadn’t even been there for, Penelope felt a different weight settle in the center of her chest.

Syd’s family.

Downstairs was a party for Elena, who was getting married.

Elena was barely eighteen! She was only just starting college! It was so soon. Too soon.

“Don’t you think they’re rushing into this?” She ventured when Schneider followed her into the bedroom. She was glad to recognize most of her clothes, where they hung or were folded on shelves in his closet. At least choosing an outfit would be easier than making breakfast.

“I know, hon, I get that you feel that way.” This too, was familiar ground, she could tell from Schneider’s tone. Cautious, fond, but also a little bit weary. “But we agreed, you don’t voice those concerns once we get downstairs. Right? Because what matters is the happy couple, who you love a lot.”

“Right.” She was skeptical, but if they’d already agreed…what was she going to do, get in a one-sided argument with alternate reality Penelope?

“Whenever it freaks you out, just squeeze my hand. I’ll take the lead in the conversation. Or create a distraction or something.” Schneider crossed the room to her and kissed her forehead. “And try to remind yourself that twenty may be young, but your daughter has always known what she wanted out of life, and they postponed their engagement a year just to stress you out less.”

They’d wanted to get engaged a year ago? Elena was twenty?

“I think I’m going to faint,” she muttered, pressing a hand to her temple where her pulse was throbbing.

Okay, helpful information. Elena was twenty. So this was two years from now, in some other life. She was two years older.

Forty-five was coming up on her fast–how was that fair? That meant…Alex was sixteen. Wow.

Schneider wrapped both arms around her, until she was leaning back against him. That…well, that felt nice, actually. He’d always been an excellent hugger; the fact that he was comforting shouldn’t have been a surprise.

But this was so much more intimate. She was in his bedroom.

Penelope let herself absorb the safety of his embrace, the steadiness of him, before squeezing his forearm to signal her need to move.

“I know it’s a lot to handle,” Schneider offered, “but it’s really important to them to have your support. And you know how happy Syd makes Elena. They may be young, but sometimes when you know, you know.”

“Yeah.” Penelope let out a slow breath and went to stare at his closet. Their closet?

When did she know about Schneider? she wondered. When did all this happen?

He was so familiar with her, like they’d been together for years, but if this was two years away, that couldn’t be possible. That would mean in this life, she’d started dating him… before Mateo? Before Max? She couldn’t fathom it.

The alternative, that maybe this was a new relationship and they were already in the advanced stages, wasn’t any more comforting. 

How was it even possible that she could’ve accepted one of Schneider’s flirtatious overtures?

Dating him, living with him...god, sleeping with him. It meant risking his ties to her family, and their friendship.

What the hell had this Penelope been thinking?

[hanhan156]

Revelations

The fic number 4 for my Stadium Tour series!

I got tired of writing short stories so instead, I wanted to write something longer and continue with the Stadium Tour series.

I tried something new in my writing and had these poems stuck in my head so I couldn't resist using them.

-

Chapter 1: Prelude

~***~

My weakness, my fragility,

My dream, my passion,

My lust for life, the reason for walking on this Earth.

You are my everything.

~***~

The chirring of crickets and the screams of psychedelic colored paradise birds were deafening as he tried his best to proceed in the lush jungle. He was swearing at himself - why he had chosen to wear these unpractical, tight clothes again and why on earth he hadn’t taken a machete with him? Even his dreams were referring to his fashion sense and a lack of preparation for harsh conditions. Richard was still determined: in his heart, he knew that he had to continue, at any costs, even though he wasn’t sure why he was here.

His attention was caught by a movement - an animal? No, it couldn’t be: he heard laughter so it had to be actually someone. Adrenaline rushed in his veins - he couldn’t even believe how fast he was able to run in the difficult conditions with the aid of the hormone.

“Wait!” he shouted when he got a glimpse of a silhouette vaguely, but the figure was still too far. He took a sprint - he couldn’t afford to lose him now when he was so close.

After wading his way through the bushes, Richard had scratches and bruises everywhere. He wondered did he got bitten by a snake as well while his left foot was swollen, but now it didn’t matter - he had something more important to think about.

The jungle ended to a cave and on the entrance of it was the figure he’d been chasing.

Of course, it was him.

“Paul, thank God you are here. What is this all about? What the hell is this lousy place anyway, let’s get out of here.”

The other man smirked but didn’t reply anything - he seemed like he had lost his ability to speak. Instead, he made his way to the cave.

Richard grabbed his fellow guitarist from his arm, refusing to lose him now when he was so close. “Paul, for Christ’s sake, give me answers!”

But Paul shook himself out of the grip and then he was gone - vanished like in thin air. Not a single word, or any kind of hint he had even noticed that Richard had been talking to him.

“Answers, I need answers…” Richard kept repeating. He didn’t even know what answers he wanted - it was like a fixation in his head. “I need answers…and I need you…”

The first dream ended, and it was followed by a brief pause - like a commercial break of his subconscious mind.

Now he was in another setting. Once again, he didn’t have any clue what place it was exactly, but it sure was pleasant with all the palm trees on a long white beach and sun shining brightly. He knew he was looking for something, but he couldn’t put his finger on, what or who - the memories from the last dream had vanished with the commercial break.

But he didn’t have to ponder that for very long when something caught his interest.

When Richard came closer, he saw it more clearly what was it about:  Paul was there with a company of a lot of men and to Richard’s horror, they were way younger - and in his opinion, way better looking - than him. He couldn’t help it but think that what kind of orgy was this.

“What’s going on in here?” he asked and didn’t want to admit the twitch of jealousy in his belly.

“Well, I’m just enjoying my life the fullest.” At least in this dream, Paul seemed to able to speak.

“That sure looks nice,” Richard said and looked around, “can I join you?”

Paul glanced at the other man with narrow eyes. “No, this is my life now, you get your own,” he burst out and laughed, with unusual cruelty. “You really fucking think I’d want to spend my precious life with you? Oh, Kruspe, how naïve you really are...”

Richard blinked his eyes. “B-but we have known for ages… I-I thought we were friends…”

“In that case, I suggest you think again, you lousy example of a human being.” Paul came closer and hissed: “You repulse me… get out of my life. I don’t need you. In fact, my life is much better without you. Our friendship was the biggest mistake I ever made.”

Richard couldn’t believe what he heard. “W-what about all those moments we spent together? The time we…we…kissed?”

“Don’t you even dare to remind me of that disgusting event.” Paul turned his back, leaving Richard sobbing alone at the paradise beach. ”You can still keep dreaming on, I don’t really care!” he shouted the one last time before he was gone.

“Don’t leave me like this…” Richard sobbed, but nobody could hear him. “I…love you.”

The torment ended when Richard woke up to his own screaming - he thanked God that he was alone. Panting heavily on the edge of a panic attack he sat up and threw the sweaty bedsheets away. It was annoying to admit that the nightmares were back but this time, they weren’t about the tour stress - it was something more complicated.

Always when he tried to bury something unpleasant to his subconscious mind, it kept coming back whatever he tried to do.

~***~

Oh how desperately I beg you,

To answer my call,

In the void of the darkest hour.

~***~

“Prost!” the six men yelled cheerfully, taking their tradition tequilas to soothe the nervousness of the upcoming concert. Sharing shots together was supposed to bring good luck - but as the legend told the luck was involved only if you remembered to look at each of your drinking buddies straight in the eyes.

But the one particular pair of eyes Richard desperately wanted to have contact with, ignored him.

“Okay, gotta keep going, we have a show to play,” Paul said and left the room in a hurry. Richard was sure that his friend suddenly turned busy on purpose because he was there.

It had become too familiar: all he had seen from Paul during recent weeks was his back, always heading somewhere.

Somewhere, where Richard wasn’t.

After all, it seemed that the stadium tour - with all its hardships and countless hours of groundwork, arguments and sleepless nights - had started out as a success. Even though performing was Richard’s natural element and he had been waiting for this eagerly, now all the fame and attention felt nonchalant - something was bothering him constantly, like an itch you couldn’t get rid of no matter how hard you tried.

That something was that they hadn’t had proper communication with Paul after that one faithful night - it was already several weeks ago. Richard didn’t even dare to recall how many weeks really.

They both seemed to become masters of excuses: either they were too tired, too busy or something interrupted them when things could have had a chance to get too deep. And what was the worst, was that how evidently Paul avoided him.

I can’t keep going on like this.

Blinking back upcoming tears Richard suddenly realized that he was the only one in the room. Why hadn’t they say anything? Maybe they had, but he had been so deeply in his own thoughts that he hadn’t noticed anything.

For fuck’s sake, try to concentrate now. You have a job to do.

Forcing himself to act, Richard walked to the backstage, grabbing his instrument on the way. His bandmates were already doing their pre-concert rituals when he arrived. Till was opening his voice, isolated in the darkest corner possible. It made him lose his focus if somebody stared at his awkward humming and stretching. For everyone’s relief, Flake had finished his walk already and was for once ready on time. Usually, he tended to take a stroll just in the last minute, losing the sense of time and leading him to arrive late back to the venue - it wasn’t once or twice when the keyboardist had gotten scolding from the others. Even though how modest man Flake was, he was irreplaceable - Du hast or Sehnsucht without keyboard effects would be a disaster. Schneider was doing push-ups - he claimed that exercising helped to handle the physical symptoms of stress. Oliver seemed to be deeply in his own thoughts in a yoga pose, being the calmest of them while Paul was simply being himself, sitting on the floor and smiling - he didn’t have any specific rituals. Richard did the usual: fiddling the fretboard, repeating over and over the riffs he could play even in his dreams. Still, he had all kinds of horror scenarios in his head from a broken string to a guitar being in wrong tuning.

The nerve-wracking waiting seemed to last forever and forever but when Duo Jatekok had hit its last melodies, the roaring audience was desperately waiting to see the reason they had come to the stadium in the first place.

Till appeared from his isolation back with the others. “Okay guys, this is it then.” They formed a circle together and held hands. “Let’s hope the muse is with us tonight and let’s kick some ass - let’s show them something they’ve never seen before. And most importantly, we’ll stick together and support each other, whatever happens there.

Amen.”

“Amen,” they all replied. The atmosphere was ardent - music was indeed like a religion for them.

They placed themselves on the line which had been rehearsed probably a thousand times already. The opening was supposed to be a dramatic introduction of the band, Schneider going there first to pierce the souls of the audience with his mesmerizing bass drum.

While Richard stood right behind their drummer, breathing shallowly, out of nowhere he felt a hand squeezing his shoulder gently. “Vielen Glück.”

When he turned, he startled when he saw who it was. “Good luck to you too…Paul,” Richard replied with a slightly trembling voice and hoped it wasn’t too noticeable.

“Let’s have a hell of a show and see you on the stage.” Paul smiled so adorably that Richard’s heart melted just a tiny bit.

“Yeah, same to you….” he mumbled when the other guitarist was already back in his own place.

The focus was once again gone. Richard exhaled and closed his eyes. Okay, now concentrate for Christ’s sake. Emotional shit can wait. Don’t let your feelings ruin your performance. Let’s deal with this later.

In his heart he knew that tonight, after the concert, he had to do something for this situation - it couldn’t continue like this, them both avoiding each other and just occasionally communicating awkwardly. It was far from normal when even Paul’s slightest presence alarmed him. Overanalyzing had already made him crazy.

Richard decided that tonight, he had to stop being a coward and drag Paul somewhere and tell him.

But what could he say exactly?  

It was difficult to tell but at least he wished from the bottom of his heart that they could be their normal selves again if it was even possible anymore.

I have to do it. Tonight. No lousy excuses anymore.

Richard wasn’t sure which one was more stressing: playing a concert for thousands of people or confessing his love and longing for his long-time friend.

In this case, perhaps, the latter.

After an announcement in Spanish, the atmosphere turned serious and nobody spoke or joked anymore. Even though how many times they had done this it was always like the first time - every concert acted as it’s own and you’d never know what was going to happen. That was the scariest, yet the most fascinating part of being a musician and this was the thing Richard knew he was born to do. He was totally hooked to the feeling music was able to give him - it was like a drug, but a million times better.

He also knew that he couldn’t get rid of this group of friends he had grown so attached to during the many years spent together. His destiny was bound to them - especially to the one for whom he was ready to do anything. Even throw himself into a lion’s den, if necessary.

When Royal Fireworks’ last notes faded, Schneider took a step forward and raised his thumb up, turning to his bandmates the one last time. “Let’s give them a night of their lives,” he whispered, before entering the stage with a smirk.

Richard squeezed his guitar with sweaty hands - only a couple of seconds was left for his turn. “Please, don’t fail tonight,” he muttered at himself. Give me strength for this and for the rest of the evening, whatever will happen, he prayed in his mind but didn’t know to whom exactly.

[wittywallflower]

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: One Day at a Time (TV 2017) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Penelope Alvarez/Schneider

An intense moment between Penelope and Schneider during his relapse changes the dynamic between them.

AN: there’s angst, then there’s UST

Penelope knelt on the floor and retrieved the controller. If it was Alex throwing things around, she would take it away from him, say it was broken and hide it until he started to feel the loss of it. Her kids may not always get along but they did enjoy several games together. But it was Schneider’s stuff, so she set both controllers on top of the console and switched it off.

When she rose, there was a bottle in his hand.

“Schneider, what the hell?!” She was so surprised by its sudden appearance that she couldn’t hold her tongue.

For a second Schneider was surprised as well. Eight years was a long time to be sober and he was so out of practice at drinking that the bottle actually felt alien in his hand. Where had that even come from? Did he stash it behind a throw pillow? The one thing he used to be good at was drinking, but now it didn't make him interesting and fun, it just made him stupid and confused. Didn't this used to make him feel good?

He knew it was messed up but it hurt all the more knowing his addiction couldn’t even give him false comfort anymore.

His eyes turned bleak and he sagged in on himself. Gazing at the bottle in his hand, he shrugged despondently.

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I’m just a loser.” She tried to interrupt but he continued. “Seven time failure of rehab. Nothing but an embarrassment to my father. Ruined the only good relationship I’ve had with a woman. Can’t even win a video game against a mom.”

“Schneider, c’mon, you’re not a loser-“

He shook his head in immediate denial, twisting open the bottle so he could drown her words with a drink.

“Hey, no! Schneider!”

Penelope had no idea how her short legs managed to clear the coffee table like that but she threw herself at him before he managed to take a swig. She didn’t really have time to think about whether or not was a good idea to try to wrestle the bottle away from him. She just reacted. Schneider was a lot stronger than her and had more reach, but his reactions were delayed and he wasn't used to Penny getting physical with him so she was able to knock it out of his hands. By the time she did they were both out of breath, her hair was wildly askew, the alcohol had spilled, and she was sitting on him to pin him down. Eyes met for a moment as their chests heaved.

Which drew his attention to her neckline. Her shirt was barely containing her after their scuffle. She should fix it, she knew she should. But she was distracted by his hand that had ended up on her hip.

Then Schneider became aware of the brown liquid staining his expensive shirt. He surged up from the couch and Penny scrambled off his lap to get out of the way. Once on his feet, Schneider scrubbed ineffectually at the wet shirt with his hands, succeeding only in making them sticky and booze-scented. The bourbon had sloshed everywhere. He sighed in disgust.

“If you’ll excuse me, imma take a shower.” he said with a slight slur, not meeting her eye as he unbuttoned his pants to step out of them and hauled his rumpled shirt over his head. Schneider didn’t seem to notice his glasses had come off as well and were now wadded up with his inside-out shirt.

But on his way the the bathroom he kicked the bottle laying on the floor and stopped to pick it up. It made Penny a little sick to see his slack face and somewhat vacant eyes light up for a moment when he realized he was holding a liquor bottle. When he realized it was empty, he slumped in disappointment and tossed the empty over his shoulder. Thankfully it landed gently on a cushion instead of shattering everywhere. In this state, he would forget he broke it and wouldn’t be able to see the glass on the floor until he stepped on it.

“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.” Penelope bit out. “I’ll make you some coffee while you’re at it and then we’ll wait for your sponsor. He’s out of town but swears he’s on his way back.”

“You called Nick?” Schneider scoffed and waved her off dismissively, which threw him off balance, sending him lurching into his desk.

I can’t leave him alone like this, he’ll fall in the tub and split his head open like a melón, Penelope thought.

“Come on, I’ll help you.” With an arm around his waist to steady him, she draped his arm over her shoulders and began to guide him.

“You gonna join me and scrub my back?” He gave her a lopsided grin and waggled his eyebrows at her.

Penelope just rolled her eyes, shifting her grip on his waist and pulling him closer as he leaned against her. He was so tall she could barely support him but if he fell, she didn’t have the strength to drag his dead weight around. With a few bumps against the wall they made it into the bathroom. She propped him up against the sink while she pulled the shower curtain aside.

“Okay, you’re gonna get cleaned up, then you’re going to come to the kitchen and I’m going to make you some food that you are going to eat, you got that?” Penelope ordered briskly as she bent to start the water in the shower.

Schneider had some fancy waterfall shower-head installed. Of course. No one ever said she wasn't just a little petty. Penny adjusted the water temperature to cold. That might help sober him up a little, she justified internally.

She straightened to find Schneider staring myopically at her read end.

“Hey!” she snapped, tone sharp. “Eyes up!”

He grinned a little sheepishly but couldn’t keep his gaze from drifting. Like they used to when she first met him and that clueless white boy with frosted tips tried to make a pass at her. Sometimes Penelope forget all about that bobo she met back then. The Schneider she saw every day was nothing like that dumb kid. But she was starting to see the resemblance in Drunk Schneider.

She grabbed a towel and tossed it down on the lid of the toilet nearby because she didn’t trust him to operate even a towel bar in this state.

“Okay, Schneider, time to-“ her voice died away.

His eyes no longer vacant, Schneider was standing upright now. In fact he seemed rock steady, and he was looking at her in a way that was kind of... intense. Penelope had never seen Schneider look at her that way before.

Slowly, deliberately, like the whole world was in slow motion, he took a step towards her. His eyes roved up and down her body.

Another step and he caught his lower lip gently between his teeth.

The room began to feel steamy, despite the shower running cold. If Penny’s could have brought herself to move, she might have fanned her suddenly-flushed face with her hand. But she was frozen, waiting. She was no stranger to that kind of look coming from men. Coming from Schneider it should be weird and a little gross.

A racing heart and suddenly damp palms were normal signs of being weirded out, right?

“Schneider?” she queried uncertainly.

She didn’t realize she was stepping back, giving ground as he advanced, until her back hit the wall. She had been too busy noticing, but trying not to notice, the tall elegant physique of him. He may be a mess right now, but that weirdly-sexy-Schneider vibe was back in a big way. He wasn’t wearing his glasses again; wasn’t wearing anything except a pair of boxers, but she tried not to focus on that. She failed.

She had seen him without a shirt before. She shouldn’t be so affected by his near-nudity, or its nearness to her.

Penelope could no longer ignore the fact that Schneider was in great shape physically when he closed in to press that great physical shape against her. She gasped as he molded his body to hers. Her skin began to tingle where it touched his.

“Schneider.”

She pulled out her most authoritative, Don’t-Mess-With-Mom tone of voice before this got out of hand. But it didn’t seem to work on the man staring at her with desire in his eyes.

She put a hand on his chest to push him away but when he leaned down, his lips barely brushing her skin as he buried his face against her neck and inhaled the scent of her, her fingers instead curled into his chest hair. Penny’s body lit up like a Christmas tree. Every hair stood on end and a warm rush swept through her. Schneider pressed his hands to the wall on either side of her head and while it hadn’t been all that long since the last time she was with a man… Dios, did she ever want to lean into him. Smell the manliness of him, feel his rough beard rasp gently over her soft skin, slide her hands over his flat stomach and trim hips, fill her palms with that flat Caucasian excuse for an ass-

 Oookay, this was definitely getting out of hand.

And it was getting harder for her to think clearly. His hips shifted closer and she bit back a moan. She had to say something.

“Pat?”

That was not what she had intended to say, especially not in that breathy, almost needy whisper.

Schneider wasn’t expecting her to say that either. Hearing the name no one called him outside of AA made him freeze with his nose still in her hair. There was a long moment while his tipsy brain processed the situation he was in.

He was drunk.

He was pressed up against someone.

And that someone was...

“Pen?” he asked. Confused, unsure, a little horrified.

She cleared her throat to respond but could only manage a nod.

Schneider jumped back like he had been scalded and turned away. In the mirror his face was beet red; could have been the alcohol, the arousal, or the abject shame and embarrassment he was feeling. But Penelope didn’t notice. She was equally eager to eschew any eye contact as Schneider was to avoid looking in her general direction.

She fled the room, mumbling something incoherent about privacy and coffee and food and she knew not what else before he could stammer out an apology. The bathroom door rattled in its frame when she shut it behind her with a little too much force. It was echoed seconds later when the front door slammed as well.

Schneider heaved a sigh of deep self loathing, leaning his forehead against the wall. His fist followed it and he punched the wall viciously, repeatedly, while calling himself a moron, a jerk, what would an Alvarez say - a total bobo… at least eight different kinds of awful. She would never forgive him. And she shouldn't. Eventually he did move to the shower so the cold water could rinse the tears from his face, but it couldn’t wash away his shame.

[kevkesblog]

Florian Rudy Interview (spring 2018)

Sorry for misspelled words. This was recorded before the world cup in Russia 2018 took place.

F:      My name is Florian Rudy. I’m 29 years old. And I live in Stuttgart.

N:     Who is your brother?

F:      Well, I have more than one brother. (laughs). The oldest is Sebastian. And I guess he is the one that this interview is all about. And then I have Felix and Maximilian too. And a sister as well.

N:     And your sister is older, younger?

F:      My sister is in the middle. She’s 19 years old.

N:     Did she enjoy being between all the older and younger boys?

F:      I think it wasn’t so easy for her in the beginning. Having three big brothers. She really had to deal with a lot. And I think she just handed it down to the youngest sibling and she was able to let everything out on him. But now I think it has alot of advantages. I think three big brother that protect her is always good.

N:     Really nice. Do you feel good today?

F:      Absolutely! I was really looking forward for this interview today! And I’m very motivated.

N:     Good. Well then tell us something about yourself. Back when you were little. How did you discover sports? Has football been already very present in your family?

F:      Yes football has always played a big role in our family. It has always been a topic of discussion. We are a complete football-family in that regard. My father played himself. I think he also played with Jürgen Klinsmann in one team. My mother was a football fan as well. She is from Kaiserslautern. She has always been on the Betzenberg (Stadium in Kaiserslautern) … so for us as children we had the perfect circumstances in that regard. And thats what they handed over to us as kids. We grew up with football from the very beginning. And we… I think I was five years old and Sebastian four – when we both started playing football. So those were the first steps we took.

N:     I mean if you are young have you guys – or you in particular – thought about doing different sports? I mean there are so many other sports you can try – other than football.

F:      Yeah sure. I would say football has always been our main sport, simply because of our parents. But my parents also insisted to try out other sports as well. We also played tennis and ice hockey.  But then slowly those sports took a step back in our lives and it all narrowed down to football again. Because we also made to the upper youth teams as kids around at VfB Stuttgart, where he went at a very young age. And then we didnt have enough time for other sports.

N:     But those changes in terms of sports – how does puberty play a role? I mean it is still very young…

F:      Sure. Sebastian was fourteen and I was fifteen years old.

N:     Leaving home at that young age – how was it like for you guys?

F:      Lets put it this way: at the beginning we didn’t leave our home immediately. Only our parents had to drive us to Stuttgart every day. Almost 100 kilometers…

N:     How about all the other siblings? Did they have to go with you guys… or were they brought to their grandmother? But it really consumed the daily life of the family…

F:      Absolutely! Sebastian and I – we were driven to Stuttgart for practice. The others were smaller back then, they stayed home. One year after that – my path took me to Kaiserslautern and so I had to move out my parents home at the age of fifteen. But that wasn’t a problem at all for me. I always wanted to go out and see the world and explore stuff. I think it was difficult for our mom though. The fact that the first son leaves home… yeah.

N:     Well you then have a lot of practice sessions; games over the weekends… did you develop other hobbys? I mean especially at that young age and if you want to explore the world… Or are you this much into football and everything? Because you have to pay special attention to your body and all… I dont think you were able to go into clubs until the early morning every now and then…

F:      Hm, well I think you dont pay that much attention to your body at that age. You dont listen as much to your body because you try to do more and more… and try everything. But football really dictated our day. It was only school, football, eating and sleeping… thats it.

N:     Did you expericence like mood swings? Having days where you woke up and thought „I dont want to do anything today“?

F:      I cant recall anything like that, no.

N:     Oh ok. It was pure fevor!?

F:      Absolutely. I mean it started very early. We used to get back home from school. Throwing away your school bags, grab your friends and went outside to the local football pitch and we played the whole day. I dont think many boys and girls do not do this anymore. Because of cellphones, I-pads and so on… but it was exactly like this back in the day. We played on the field, on the streets…

N:     Did you use like furniture or things at home to play football?

F:      Oh yeah! (laughs). Many! (laughs). Especially if we started playing in the living room with dad. And then my mother came from the back and yelled „Stop it!“ (laughs). Back in the day, we even took the playpen of your youngest brother Maximilian and try to kick the ball into it from everywhere in our house. (laughs).

N:     How many pair of shoes did you need over the year with all this football playing going on?

F:      Absolutely. Every few months we needed new shoes. Also because our feet grew. We needed new ones all the time. And those pairs usually wear themselves off very quick.

N:     Do you remember back in your rooms… did you have – especially from the national team or german football – posters of any big idols or role models? Or players that where very special for you? They don’t have to be german (laughs).

F:      No, well I have to think. I for my part had a jersey and a poster of Cristiano Ronaldo. Sebastian has always been a Leverkusen fan. He had Leverkusen bed linen and he one poster of Bernd Schneider in his room.

N:     I guess its always a dream coming true if you suddently end up playing with or against these player or team for that matter. Sounds exciting…

F:      Absolutely yeah. Its like a dream if you witness something like that.  

N:     Do you have a certain kind of nickname for each other?

F:      (smirks) Yeah, my brother has a family nickname which I dont want to reveal (laughs). But just „Basti“ or “Sippi” thats what his teammates call him regularly. And mine is „Flo“ like many can guess.

N:     Did you have a favorite dish at home? Is there something that just bonds you and him?

F:      Nothing in particular. But back when we were kids, we used to have Maultaschen. That was really our favorite food. We used to have competitions on who can eat more Maultauschen. And this lead to a situation once, where my father intervened because Sebastian already had – I think – nineteen of those and he was scared something bad is about to happen to him. (laughs).

N:     Oh my… stomach pain! (laughs)

F:      Yeah exactly (laughs). But he said he could have eaten more.

N:     Ahm, you yourself also used to play football for some time. And also successful. So how has your path changed? Did you reach physical boundaries? Or how did you experience it?

F:      No not at all. I’m very fit today. I quit playing football at 26 years of age. Thats my personal dead line I had set myself. Because you want to play in the Bundesliga or Second Division around that age – I was playing Third Division and thats were I decided to quit. But I’m still very fit physically like I was back then. But in the end it was a decision about my future. What happens down the road? What do you still want to accomplish? What do you want to do next? And thats were I put an end to professional football.

N:     But wasn’t that more of a decision of reason or was it more like lovesickness and… I guess you still play football, right?

F:      No I quit football completely.

N:     Completely?

F:      Yes, completely. But of course I didnt stop doing sports. I did a lot of fitness training. Running. Going to the gym. I tried out many other things. I once rode my bike 200 kilometers home from Hoffenheim. Or I ran a marathon – so I tried these things as well.

N:     How was the marathon experience?

F:      It was a cool one. I got to know my personal boundaries.

N:     In what time?

F:      I think it was around four hours… I have never trained for a marathon.

N:     But four hours is an impressive time…

F:      It was a quick reaction.

N:     Where did you run?

F:      I for myself ran in Heidelberg. I just told some of my buddies on Friday „Hey I will run a marathon on Monday“ and I never ran a longer distance than 10 kilometers before. So I did it.

N:     And you weren‘t able to walk for three days after that?

F:      I was injured for eight weeks after that. (laughs)

N:     (laughs). I know stories of people running a marathon with no preparation.

F:      Yeah, I really wanted to proof to everyone that I can do it. And I did. But of course I haven’t thought about the consequences about things that can happen or go broke afterwards.

N:     So you also closely followed the development your brother. Did you follow him all the way? Where you with him? Or to put it differently: will you go to Russia to see him play?

F:      Sure. We will fly to Russia with our whole family yeah. Or I will be there – sure.

        (9:56min)

N:     Are you excited?

F:      Sure! It’s his first world cup. That itself is special, but playing your first one is even more special I think.

N:     Do you think of something special as a family in Russia?

F:      Actually we haven’t thought about it yet.

N:     Your relationship with Russia? Have you been there before?

F:      Yes during the Confed Cup. I flew over for the final with my mom and dad and my brother Felix. We watched the final. We saw Saint Petersburg – a great city! Very nice city. But thats all I can say about Russia.

N:     So you there’s a lot more to come…

F:      Absolutely. Since I like to travel anyway and I like to explore the world… I always enjoy seeing new cities.

N:     So what about yourself. Where are you now? You started to study. What did you study?

F:      Right. I started to study sports business management after I quit playing football. And I tried to position myself on as many different fields possible. I went to Hoffenheim and trained with Julian Nagelsmann. I was part of his coaching staff with the U19 team. And I went through all branches there basically. Yes and the studies. So thats how I tried to position myself as good as I can. I also started an apprenticeship as a personal trainer. And last year I started an consulting agency with Christian Nerlinger.

N:     And you are consulting football players… ?

F:      Yes, for professional football players. And Sebastian is one of them – of course.

N:     Has this always been part of your life? Didn’t you at one point… or let me put it differently: when you were five years old, what did you want to become initially? Like firefighter? Doctor? Pilot?

F:      Well, the big goal has always been being a professional football player.

N:     So then, when you started with your studies, it had to be something with football?

F:      Not necessarily. My major at university doesn’t really has to do alot with football. Sport generally has always been important to me. And I needed a break for a while, once I quit football as a player. I was really burned-out I have to say. And thats why I wasn’t able to watch an awful lot of football shortly afterwards. But after a while I was fine again and I was able to watch football in a comftable and relaxed manner.

N:     Your brother became father just recently.

F:      Correct.

N:     Sounds like it’s going to be difficult to play now and being away for a long period of time. Or do they travel with him?

F:      His son is with his wife. And yes she takes care of him, since Sebastian is away very often and she isn’t able to travel alot yet. She just gave birth a week ago. And I think he was very happy to go back home right after the game of the national team recently.

N:     That’s a new treasure…

F:      Absolutely! Its a complete new chapter in his life. Not only for his life, but for us as a family as well. My parents became grand-parents for the first time. I became an uncle for the first time. A special moment – yes.

N:     How do think the tournament will go? Is there something you wish?

F:      I wish my brother gets enough time on the pitch to play. And hopefully Germany plays an successful world cup.

N:     Do you think you will soon carry a fifth star on your jersey?

F:      Thats a difficult… ahm… alot oft hings have to work out perfectly at the same time. Sometimes you need luck. Your performance on a specific day. How do the other teams do? It’s really tough to remain world champions – it would be nice if it would work. That would be a giant event – giant miracle. But I think it’s going to be tough.

N:     Do you have secret favourite team to win? Is there a favourite team or are we all in for a surprise?

F:      I dont think there’s a secret favourite. The Spanish team is strong as usual. I think they will play an important role.

N:     Well, then lets keep our fingers crossed and hope for a good world cup. And that you will be successful in your personal goals.

F:      Thank you very much.

N:     And what do you wish for yourself in the next couple of years?

F:      For me personally?

N:     Yup.

F:      There are alot of things on my personal agenda this year. I just recently moved in together with my girlfriend.

N:     A new chapter for you?

F:      Yeah, I mean we are in a relationship for a couple of years now, things have changed since we only live together for about half a year. In a positive way. And I’m very excited to contine to go down that path. My girlfriend also starts working now. She works for Daimler. A totally new chapter for her as well. Then we will see how my personal development will progress – with my agency. Many exciting things to come – for sure. And then let’s see how planing in terms of family will go. (smirks)

[fandammit]

With sorrows to impart (11/?)

[A/N: 5,000 words of Schneider’s dad being a grade A asshole. Don’t worry, the next section is mostly finished because I initially planned to include it here, so the wait shouldn’t be too long! As always, thanks for reading!]

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Part 8 || Part 9 || Part 10

His father’s home, of course, is enormous -- a three-story mansion with white marble columns and multiple balconies that looks like it belongs to a member of some European royal family rather than a Canadian businessman.

“Is this the house you grew up in?” She asks, trying to keep the awe out of her voice and mostly succeeding.

Schneider nods.

“Home sweet home,” he says, shooting her what she thinks is supposed to be a smile but just looks like a painful grimace.

There are three sets of stairs and a fountain on their way to the front door because of course there are, with really intricately shaped shrubbery on either side of them. She can faintly hear the sound of the ocean and smell the saltiness in the air, and she thinks it might all be pretty pleasant if she didn’t know how awful Schneider’s father was and couldn’t practically see the dread and anxiety radiating off of him.

When they get to top of the stairs, the door is already open, a short, blonde man in a crisp blue suit waiting patiently for them. He glances at Penelope, a brief look of curiosity flitting across his features, before he nods at Schneider and ushers them inside.  

“Mr. Schneider, your father is waiting in his study.” Schneider’s face twitches at the suffix in front of his name, but he doesn’t say anything, just reaches over to shake the other man’s hand.

“Sorry but I don’t think we’ve met before. Father’s last butler was Jeffrey.”

The man nods and clasps his hand around Schneider’s.  

“I replaced Mr. Daniels five years ago. My name is Davis Hawkinson.”

“Nice to meet you.” He gestures to Penelope. “And this is Penelope Alvarez.”

The lack of qualifier or description before her name seems more strange here given that the man obviously has no idea who she is. He doesn’t ask though -- just has that same brief look of curiosity in his eyes before he steps forward and extends his hand to her.

“Pleasure, Ms. Alvarez.”

She shakes his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hawkinson. Or do you prefer Davis?”

He gives her a small smile.

“Whatever is most comfortable to you, Ms. Alvarez.”

“Davis, then,” she says, smiling at him. “And I’m most comfortable with you calling me Penelope.”

He nods at her and smiles again, before looking over at Schneider, who’s just staring down the hall with a look of dread. He must feel Davis looking at him, because he turns his body away from the hall to meet his gaze, starts making small talk with Davis. It’s obvious he’s doing so to prolong the moment where he’ll have to talk to his father, but she doesn’t mind. She’d rather he talk to his father when he’s ready for it -- or at least as ready as he can be -- and it also gives her the chance to openly gawk at the interior of the house.

They’re standing in the front entrance -- she vaguely thinks the word foyer might be the appropriate way to describe it, it certainly sounds fancy enough for it. The floor is white marble interlaid with some sunburst design that looks tacky in the way that only expensive things can, and there are twin curved staircases in front of them with a huge crystal chandelier hanging above it.

Palatial is the word that comes to mind as she studies the layout of the room, and she briefly thinks about the fact that helping Elena study for the SATs is apparently just as helpful for her as it is for Elena.

“You remember where your father’s study is, yes?” Davis asks, in that way that’s polite but also communicates the end of the conversation. He gestures down the hall to their left. “I know he was anxious to speak with you.”

Schneider sighs.

“Yeah, I remember.” He gives Davis a tight smile. “Thanks though.”

Davis nods and steps away, his footsteps somehow quiet even on the cold marble floor.

Penelope stares at him even as she and Schneider start moving in the direction of his father’s study.

“How does he do that?” She asks, glancing up at him.

“Hm?”

“Walk that quietly on marble flooring wearing dress shoes. It’s kind of impressive. And a little bit freaky.”

The corner of his mouth turns up.

“That’s kind of a good way to describe butlers in general. And maybe they learn how to walk like that at school.”

“What kind of school teaches people to walk quietly?”

“Butler training school, obviously,” he says and she actually has to stop and look at him just to make sure he’s not kidding, and -- nope -- he’s serious and apparently is not at all surprised to learn that such a thing exists. But then she looks around at the art lining the hallway they’re walking down, the gleaming marble floor she’s walking on, and thinks -- well, why wouldn’t there be a butler training school.

They stop in front of a large, ornate wooden door and Schneider just stares at it for a long, tense moment.

Then, he sighs.

“It feels like whatever we hear on the other side of this door, it’s going to change everything.” He glances over at her. “Is that dumb?”

She shakes her head. Then -- because she wants to and because she can and because he needs it (and also because she thinks doing so right before they go in to meet with his father is the safest place to do it) -- she goes up on her tiptoes and kisses him softly on the cheek, her lips lingering for just a moment longer than necessary before she rests her feet flat on the floor.

“Whatever we hear on the other side of that door and whatever it does or doesn’t change, I’m here for you, no matter what.” She squeezes his hand. “Ok?”

He gives her a intense, steady look, his eyes flicking down to her lips for the barest moment before he nods and brings her hand up to his lips and kisses the back of it.

“Ok,” he says quietly, his breath warm against her fingers. He takes a deep, steadying breath then knocks on the the door.

“Come in,” a deep voice calls from within. She actually expects him to drop her hand before they enter the room -- she's sure his father will have questions about the two of them holding hands that neither of them are prepared to answer -- but he just gives her hand a squeeze before he turns the handle and pushes the door in.

His father is sitting on the other side of a large, wooden desk, a large window looking out into the ocean behind him. He’s slightly taller than Schneider, heavier built too, though it’s clear that his age has stolen some of the broadness from his frame. Still, it’s obvious that he and Schneider are father and son. The older Schneider has all the same features as his son, but colder and more angular -- as if he were cut from the same marble she’s currently standing on, while his son was fashioned from something more down to earth and warm.

And while the eyes that coolly look her over are blue like Schneider’s, they have none of his brightness. Instead, there’s an iciness to them, pale to the point of almost looking gray.

“Son,” he says, nodding at Schneider. He doesn’t smile, his thin lips instead pressed tightly against each other.

“Father,” Schneider replies in turn.

She works to keep her expression neutral, because even if she expected this sort of reunion, it’s still strange to see in front of her.

It’s not chilly, exactly, despite the obvious lack of warmth. It’s just lacking in any kind of familiarity or emotion, anything to hint that these two men in front of her are father and son rather than two co-workers who happened to be taking the same elevator, or two acquaintances who happen to be standing in line for coffee.  

His father shakes Schneider's hand, then inclines his head towards her.

”And this is?”

“Penelope Alvarez.” Schneider turns towards her. “Penelope, this is my father, Lawrence Schneider.”

His father raises an eyebrow at his son before letting go of his hand and extending it towards her instead.

“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Alvarez.”

She steps forward and grips his hand firmly, almost aggressively so. Let him know that she’s not here to be messed with or, more importantly, to let him mess with Schneider.

“Nice to meet you, Lawrence.” She smiles her brightest smile. “You have a beautiful home.”

He nods at her.

“Thank you.” He studies her for a moment and glances briefly at Schneider before addressing her. “You're welcome to walk the grounds or relax on the back patio while my son and I talk. The kitchens will make you any food or drink you might like.”

She shakes her head and offers him another wide smile.

“I appreciate the offer, but Schneider wanted me to be here with him when you two talked, so I'll just stay.”

Lawrence raises an eyebrow at Schneider.

“What we need to discuss is rather delicate.”

Schneider nods.  

“That's why I asked her to be here.”

Lawrence makes a humming noise in the back of his throat.

“The information we'll talk about is personal, son. Family business and all that.”

“And Penelope is as close to me as family.” He looks over at her, then fixes his father with an emotionless stare. “Closer, actually.”

Lawrence makes that same humming sound again, louder this time, and somehow sounding more irritated despite the fact that it is literally just a vibrating sound at the back of his throat. She decides that she hates that sound.

“I’m not sure how wise it is to share it with just anyone.”

“And I’m sure that Penelope isn’t just anyone,” Schneider says, an edge to his words that she’s never heard before and decides she likes. A lot. “So unless you need her to sign an NDA first, we can just have whatever discussion you want to have.”

“And I don’t mind signing an NDA,” she says quickly, even though the only real knowledge she has about NDAs has to do with the fact that Beyonce apparently makes everyone she knows sign one. “I can definitely sign one.”

Lawrence looks at Schneider, his eyes slitted and impassive, the color of cement after a hard rain. He flicks his gaze down to their intertwined hands, then looks back up and catches her eye. Nothing about his body language or expression changes at all, but she suddenly has the feeling she’s being tested.

She actually has to hold back from scoffing right in his face. She’s been a woman in the army, gone toe-to-toe with her drunken, angry husband on more than one occasion, and grown up with a Cuban mother. Being stared down by some 70 year old man with too much money and too few manners is a cakewalk.

He must decide that she passes muster, because in the next moment he nods.

“No, there’s no need for any of that,” he says, then gestures at the two chairs on the other side of his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

They sit down as Lawrence walks back around his desk and sits down on the other side of it. He picks up a thin stack of stapled papers and hands it to Schneider.

“I thought that this would be best to give you while you were here.”

Schneider grabs it from him and takes a quick look at it, his brows drawing together at the center of his forehead before he looks back up at his father.

“What is this?”

Lawrence steeples his fingers in front of him, and in the dim lighting of the study he almost looks like a villain in a bad movie you’d watch on TBS late at night. He turns his hands and points to the paper that Schneider’s holding.

“It’s exactly what it says it is -- a trust document detailing that you are now the beneficiary of a five million dollar trust.” He rests his hands on the table. “That is, of course, US dollars.”

Her eyes go wide and she just barely manages to stifle a gasp when she hears the amount of money. She glances over at Schneider and is struck by the fact that the amount doesn’t seem to affect him at all. He’s looking down at the paper in his hands with a slight furrow between his eyes -- and not from surprise or disbelief but in confusion, as though five million dollars is not at all an absurd amount of money to him. Which, judging from everything she's seen this weekend, probably isn’t.

He looks at up his father.

“Why am I getting this now?”

“Because your mother is dead.” Schneider winces. His father notices but doesn't change his tone or expression. “And this money was to be given to you after her passing.”

“Mom didn't have this kind of money.”

“No, but I do.” He motions to the paper that Schneider is holding. “Your mother and I had an agreement.”

“What kind of agreement?” Schneider narrows his eyes at Lawrence. “Does this have anything do with what Aunt Emily apparently couldn’t tell me?

Lawrence taps his fingers on his desk -- slow, methodical and somehow really infuriating.

“What exactly did your Aunt Emily tell you then?”

Schneider takes a deep breath.

“That mom was in recovery.” He shrugs and looks away. “And it wasn’t just me she told -- it was everyone at the funeral. Although most of them apparently already knew. Guess I was just the last one to know.” He turns back towards his father. “Again.”

Lawrence ignores the accusatory tone in Schneider’s voice and just nods.

“And that’s all she told you?”

Schneider turns back towards him, his eyes narrowed.

“What else is there?”

Lawrence doesn’t answer the question immediately, just takes a few moments to study Schneider’s expression. He points to the papers in Schneider’s hands.

“The document you’re holding goes into it in full detail.”

“I’d like to hear it from you,” Schneider says evenly.

Lawrence arches his eyebrow at the tone, but doesn’t say anything. After a moment, he nods.

“The agreement stated that if your mother complied with the stipulation to only contact you once a year for the rest of her life, then once she died, you would inherit five million dollars free and clear -- no strings attached.” He tilts his head, the movement easy, almost casual -- as if he hasn’t just revealed something of staggering cruelty. “As she has now died and fulfilled the terms of that agreement, the promised money is now yours.”

She’s proud of herself for two things: the simple fact that her jaw isn’t residing somewhere on the floor and that she hasn’t leapt over the desk and decked Lawrence in the jaw. In a way, she’s almost too stunned by the depth of his callousness to do anything but stare wide-eyed and only slightly open-mouthed at him.

But where she’s all stillness and silence, Schneider is all movement and noise.

He lets go of her hand and stands up abruptly, walking away towards the window while shaking his head and running his hand over his beard. He’s making short, loud huffing sounds that sometimes sound like sighs, sometimes sound like growls -- as though he’s too upset to be able to fully form words.

Not that she blames him.

He spins on his heel and walks back towards them, his eyes slitted and angry, his voice shaking with emotion as he grips Lawrence’s desk.

“Why would you do this? How could you do this to me? All those years being angry with Mom, being upset...not understanding how she could do this to me...and it's been you all along.” He pushes himself back and runs his hands through his hair as he shakes his head. “You know, I wish I could say I can't believe you did this to me, but then I’d be lying. Nothing about this feels unbelievable. Not when it's you.” He grits his teeth and takes a deep breath, exhales it out in one long push. “This is exactly the kind of shit an asshole like you would do.”

It’s shocking on multiple accounts, first because it’s maybe the second or third time in all the years she’s known him that she’s heard Schneider swear and secondly because of the way he says it -- seething with anger and hatred, the words coming out as a cross between a hiss and a snarl.

But what’s truly jolting is the way his anger transforms his face and turns him into someone she can barely recognize. His eyes flash coldly against the sudden pallor of his skin -- the color of the sea on a cloudy day rather than the brightness of a cloudless sky she’s so used to; his mouth is twisted in a jagged slash across his face, a sneer and a scowl wrenched together. In that moment, she sees the resemblance to his father clearly -- almost alarmingly so.  

“Careful, son,” his father says, his eyes narrowing, his tone less cautionary and more threatening. “That building you love so much may be in your name, but understand that in every way that matters, it still belongs to me.”

She turns towards him, stunned, wanting to believe Lawrence is less callous than his tone makes him seem.

He's not. The look on his face is resolute, his features etched in granite. She gets the impression that not only would he take away the building, he's actually thinking it through right at this moment.  

Schneider must realize that too, because he immediately takes a deep breath and lets it out again, repeats that three more times until his eyes lighten and his face softens back to the man she recognizes.

He doesn’t say anything to his father, just walks back slowly to his chair and sits back down. She reaches over and immediately takes his hand, threads his fingers through his and squeezes. He glances over at her and takes another deep breath, squeezing her hand in return before looking back over at Lawrence.

“For how long? How long was this agreement in place?”

“Since the accident.”

Schneider stares him, incredulous.  

“The accident -- the one from when I was twelve? How --.” He shakes his head. “That was barely anything. I’ve gotten hurt worse on my scooter. There’s no way that convinced you to do this.”

A flicker of irritation lights in Lawrence’s eyes.

“All the same, that was the genesis of the agreement.”

“Why, father?” And the way he says it is less of a question and more of a demand.

The flicker of irritation grows into a flame.

“You got in that accident because she had been drinking.”

Schneider sits back and blinks rapidly.

“I didn’t know that.”

Lawrence nods -- a tight, terse motion.  

“You didn’t need to know it, so I never told you. But since you insist on treating this agreement like I’ve committed some sort of grave injustice against you, I suppose you expect some kind of an explanation.”

The way he says it -- all disgust and irritation, as though he hasn’t committed these huge act of cruel selfishness against his son and is simply being made to placate some spoilt child -- makes her want to stand up and just completely rip him a new one.

But then she looks over at Schneider, sees the way he’s gripping the arm rest with so much force his knuckles are turning white, and mentally counts back down from ten. This isn’t her call to make, as much as she cares about Schneider. She can’t fight his battles for him -- and it’s obvious that this one has been a long time coming -- so she instead takes a deep breath and runs her thumb up and down the side of his hand.

His shoulders relax a bit as she does, his grip on the other side of the chair loosening. He chews on the corner of his lip as Lawrence sits back in his chair and folds his hands, one on top of the other.  

“You inherited two things from your mother: your love of art and your predilection for addiction.” He breathes in deeply and lets it out again, the irritation in his expression fading out to stony blandness once more. “The first I could ignore, the second -- well --. We’ve both seen how that one turned out.” He arches his eyebrow and tilts his head, sarcasm lilting across his tone. “I guess I should just be thankful you didn’t inherit her mental illness as well.”

That last bit of information is surprising, though as she thinks back to Emily’s eulogy, it suddenly seems less so. A lot of the behavior patterns Emily had described of Schneider’s mom could be ascribed to someone with addiction or mental illness, and she’s been around enough to know that they’re patterns of behaviors that often feed into one another. She’s certainly seen that up close.

Schneider squints at his father, who then arches his brow and slowly nods.

“I see your aunt neglected to mention that.” He shakes his head. “Apparently she shied away from being too honest, then.”

“We didn't exactly have time to sit down and have a heart to heart before you called me over here.”

“Or maybe your Aunt Emily simply didn't want to knock over whatever pedestal you'd put your mother on.”

Penelope almost snorts a laugh at that. It speaks to how little about Schneider that Lawrence actually knows for him to possibly think that.

“I knew who mom was,” Schneider says evenly, his jaw clenched tightly around the words.

“Did you? Because you seem awfully upset about what I did to protect you from her.”

Schneider scoffs and shakes his head.

“This had nothing to do with protection,” he grits out, his fingers tightening reflexively around hers. “This was just you being…” He catches the expression on Lawrence’s face -- steely and stone-faced -- and swallows back whatever it is he was going to say. There’s anger in his eyes still, but fear, too. Lawrence has the trump card of the building in his favor and they both know it.  

Instead, Schneider makes a vague hand gesture in the direction of his father and shakes his head.

“You didn’t need to do all this over a bump on my head from a fender bender.”

Lawrence narrows his eyes and there’s a dangerous glint to them that makes her want to stand in front of Schneider. Lawrence leans forward, his palms pressed flat on the desk, his voice low and sharp.

“It wasn’t about the bump on your head.” He leans back, his fingers gripping the desk tightly. “That’s what your mother tried to convince me of, too -- that it was just a bump, that it had just been a fender bender.” She sees his jaw working as he swallows back whatever words spring to mind at that, then shakes his head. “She tried to tell me that it had been just one drink at lunch.” He levels a cutting look at Schneider. “Well you know better than anyone, I suppose. It’s always just something -- just a drink, just a hit, just a pill. But it never actually is just anything.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Only by some off chance had it been a bump on your head. It could have just as easily been a broken arm or a broken neck. One more drink, one wrong turn, and I could've been at the morgue identifying your body.”

His voice shakes a little at the end of the sentence, and for the first time she sees emotion flicker behind the freezing gray of his eyes. In that moment, he actually seems like a father instead of simply the image of one.

In the next second, it’s gone, his face once more impassive and hard, his eyes narrowed nearly to slits.

Still, it leaves her feeling shaken. Because in that very moment she sees it -- his father loves him, desperately and honestly and haphazardly. But it's a twisted, sad sort of love -- corrupted by excess and control and ignorance; warped by the inability to recognize the differing values of wealth and affection and time.

She glances over at Schneider to see if he’s had a similar revelation, but all she can on his face is sadness and anger, so much of it that she wishes she could just take him far away from this place and this moment and this awful reality.

“You kept her from me,” he says, practically spitting the words in his father’s direction.

“Don’t be a child,” Lawrence retorts. “I kept you safe. I kept you sober.” He huffs out a sharp breath. “I tried to, at least.”

“Mom could’ve helped. She would’ve. I know she would’ve”

“How, when she could hardly be counted on to stay on her meds, much less stay sober?”

“Because people can change! People can get help and they can get better and they can be different than who they’ve been.” Schneider cries out, releasing her hand and throwing his arms up in the air in frustration and anguish.

“Stop living in a fairytale,” Lawrence grits out. “I was the one who found you when you overdosed -- both times. I was the one who put you through six rounds of rehab. I was the one who bought you that building you love so much.” He gives Schneider a look of disgust and shakes his head. “So there’s no need for these dramatics, you know I hate them.”

Schneider looks down, his hands twisting in his lap. She reaches over again and twines her fingers with his, partially to comfort him, partially because she’s having somewhat murderous thoughts towards his father. He takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly before he looks back up at his father.

“She did change, you know. And you could’ve given her a chance for things to be different with us.” He looks up helplessly at his father, his expression sad and lonely. “She’d been sober for ten years before she died.”

She looks closely at Lawrence to see if that surprises him, but he simply shrugs and waves that fact away like it doesn’t matter.

“And before that accident she’d been sober for five.” He folds his hands together and rests them on the desk in front of him. “I knew about this most recent bout of sobriety -- she’d even come to me asking for a change in this agreement.” He shakes his head. “But I couldn’t rest your future on the habits of a mentally ill addict.”

She has to bite down hard on her bottom lip to keep herself from saying something that she’s very sure to regret. Schneider, too, tightens his grip around her fingers, like he’s trying to keep himself seated in his chair.

“Don’t, father,” he says through gritted teeth. “She was more than that.”

“Fine,” Lawrence retorts, the word bitten off and jagged. “She was your mother. But the other two things are not insubstantial parts of her, either.”

Schneider shakes his head, refusing to meet Lawrence’s gaze. She can feel him shaking from the effort of holding back all of his fury.

“You were wrong, father,” he says, the words extra soft in an attempt to keep from yelling them across the table, she’s sure. “Doing this...it was wrong.”

Lawrence presses his lips into a firm line.

“Wrong or right, it’s what was done. It’s what I did for you and I have no regrets.” His words have an air of finality that make her want to fight back against him. Because there’s so much more that needs to be said, so much she feels like he needs to explain.

There’s so much more that Schneider deserves from this man.

But then she looks over at Schneider and sees him nod slowly, his gaze measured and steady -- as if he’s finally seen something he’s been trying to find for decades.

“It’s what you did to me,” Schneider says quietly. “And you’re never going to admit that it was the wrong thing to do.”

He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, keeps his father locked in his gaze the entire time.

After a long moment, Lawrence blinks, then nods at the stack of papers Schneider’s dropped on the desk.

“Whatever else your mother was, she at least was someone who wanted to make sure you got that money.” He stands up. “So if you’re done throwing a tantrum about inheriting five million dollars, Wesley is in the office with all the required paperwork for you to sign. Charles is waiting for your call if you should so wish it, so you can be certain everything is being signed over in goodwill.”

Schneider takes another deep, calming breath, then nods. Before he stands up, he glances over at Penelope, suddenly uncertain.

Lawrence sighs.

“Come now, son, surely Ms. Alvarez can stay here while you sign a few papers and discuss with the lawyers.” He gestures towards the door. “Everything is all ready for you -- it shouldn’t take more than ten or fifteen minutes.”

Schneider bites his lip, still hesitating.

She squeezes his hand.

“Hey, this way you have an excuse to get out of there as quickly as possible.” She grins at him before she lets go of his hand. “I knew a few JAGS in the Army -- I know how chatty they can get if you let them.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up as he nods and stands up. He gives his father a long, heavy look with his hand on the doorknob, one which his father simply nods at in return. Schneider gives her one last, worrying glance before he leaves the room, the door shutting softly behind him and leaving her sitting across from Lawrence.

[raygoodwinmajournal]

301 - Epochal Territories - First 5x4 Experience* 

*with film instead of paper

The time came to finally shoot large format properly, without using cut up pieces of darkroom paper and being limited to ISO 6. I have waited for this moment for a long time, and I was finally ready to dip my toes into the world of large format photography. This is something that I have wanted to do for a long time, but always put it off because boiling it down, I just wasn’t ready to commit to this format. I was comfortable using 35mm and 120, but craved the detail, precision and effort to make an image with the most manual of cameras. 

I was ready, and had extensively researched what to do, but really it is common sense once you have used a camera for years. Looking back at it, large format is probably the easiest format of film to use, despite the huge size difference in comparison to 35mm, with 5x4 covering thirteen times more image real estate. With this, comes a large difference in depth of field as well, with F5.6 in 5x4 equating to the same DoF as F1.2 on a 35mm camera. This means stopping down the lens to around F16-F22 to get more on focus, and depending on the film speed would result in slower shutter speeds. 

Image by Aaron Lovelock - Hasselblad 500C, Sonnar 150mm

For my first venture, I used two sheets of Fomapan 200 kindly donated by good friend, flat mate and MA colleage, Aaron Lovelock. Aaron has said for years that there is Fomapan 200 in the freezer ready for my to shoot - and that time came. Loading the holder of a 5x4 camera seems daunting, but is rather simple. In complete darkness, one has to feel for notches on the film, which will correspond to the top right, or bottom left of the holder. The film would be slotted in between grooves on each side of the holder, and the darkslide would cover the film when ready to expose. Focusing the camera is also rather simple, as you focus when the lens is wide open with a dark cloth over your head (or an old black PCA branded t-shirt like I did), and then stop down once you are ready to take the shot. The camera is entirely manual, and you have to call the shots in terms of metering and focusing. There really is nothing like it, and it is welcomed. There are no distractions like focus points, beeps, batteries to charge or random useless settings. It is just a box with a hole. 

We went to the top of the Mayflower Street Car Park, just to check that the camera works. I used the Gandolfi Precision, a camera made by the Gandolfi brothers in their workshop in Peckham, South London. Gandolfi Makers ran for around 100 years making bespoke, handmade large format cameras and tripods. which is becoming a lost art. These cameras are incredibly sought after and welcomed by collectors. This particular copy has been a part of Plymouth College of Art, but has been archived for years, much like the Nikon F3 I purchased last year. Dave Symons, the Studio Coordinator, PCA Legend and work colleague, said to me that he doesn’t want students using because they are so rare, but is happy for me to look after it for a while as I am trusted. I chose to use the Schneider Xenar 135mm F4.7, equivalent to around 35mm/40mm to the full frame format. This is a decently performing lens, often used on large format press cameras such as the MPP Technical. This partially rings true, as the lens is on an MPP board which fits the Precision. But, how did it go?

Outstandingly well (mostly). I didn’t realise that I had my meter set to 160 ISO, so it had already metered at 1/3 stop slower than anticipated. Something else that I forgot was that the lens (as most old syncro shutters) sticks at slower speeds. This is sometimes hit and miss, but this is due to the slower speeds being governed by a separate piece of clockwork, and over time the regulator for the speeds wear out, or get stuck with old lubrication. The first shot didn’t matter too much, but the second exposure was far too gone. At F16 and 160 ISO, I was looking at 1/8th of a second. I set the lens to 1/5th of a second, and this turned into around three. And to add insult to injury, I completely forgot to shorten the development as the film was unintentionally pulled, and developed at a standard exposure. Above was the first exposure, but the second didn’t survive as well, and is incredibly dense with very little detail. They were scanned with the Imacon Flextight X1 at 1200DPI, which for large format creates a huge file with immense detail - it is exactly what I have been looking for. Sadly, despite the X1 being a formidable piece of scanning equipment, the best result was something that looking as if it came from the Gameboy Camera after some tweaks, so it was better unscanned. 

 What I learned about large format is that it is incredibly easy and refreshing. Since my father died, I haven’t really felt like picking up a camera as nothing felt fresh to me. Shooting large format has been a breath of fresh air, and subsequently bought a 50 sheet pack of Fomapan 400, which I intend to shoot for this project. With large format, I have complete control over everything about the image, and it really does slow down the entire process. 35mm means you have at least 36 exposures to get it right, but with large format you can only get two shots per holder, so the pressure is on, but you can take your time with the image and curate it exactly how you envisage it. I have fallen in love with the format, and it is all I can think about. Now, I just want to visit places I haven’t ventured too, set up my large format camera and take some incredibly large negatives. It is all I can think about, and once again I am excited to create work. This hasn’t happened in a long time, and I am sure my Father is eagerly awaiting to see what I create.  

[augustnorth]

I threw down my pen and got up, with a pain in my chest and my back and a heaviness in my head.

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[babypaulchen]

hey guys I wrote this stupid thing where Feeling B era Paul and Schneider drunkenly cuddle ok here it is bye 

Title: Touch Starved

Words: 3428

Rating: G

Summary: Paul has had an unfulfilled desire for physical affection. Who can he turn to for satisfying that certain need? Definitely not Flake or Aljoscha. Schneider? Maybe. But unlikely.

Tags:  • Fluff • Platonic Cuddling • Drunkenness • Drunken Flirting

AO3

---------

Paul isn't positive, but he's pretty sure he read, or heard, somewhere that physical touch is a necessity. Not necessarily sex. Just the touch of another person. Isn't that how the phrase “touch starved” came to be? A person can be starved for touch, right? Starved for an affection found only in physical connection.

It's really not that hard to hook up with the women in their community, as Aljoscha had proven and boasted about many times, though that isn't what Paul is looking for. While touching a woman is nice, he doesn't feel like dealing with the hassle of women. Additionally, there's a deeper layer of intimacy in a touch that isn't tainted by the desire for more. A touch that's only given for the sake of sharing affection. Paul doesn't have an intimate relationship like that with any woman—well, maybe Nikki, but he really doubts she would want to. Touch isn't something that really happens between them anymore. He's not in the mood to just lay with some stranger, either; that isn't fulfilling.

So now, he's stumped. Running through the list of people he would be completely at ease sharing this intimacy with reduces it to a very short number: there's Flake, maybe Aljoscha, Nikki, and Schneider. There is Zimmermann, who Paul, of course, is good friends with as well, but he's not the type to do such a thing, either.

Flake is too bony and awkward—Paul is looking for a comfortable answer to his problem. Not one that will give him puncture wounds from particularly sharp elbows and shoulders. And the more Paul thinks about suggesting this to Aljoscha, the more he dislikes the mere concept of doing so. There's Nikki, who he is not going to ask, so that leaves Schneider. Who, more or less, tries to avoid spending too much time with him, if possible. Paul doubts he would be enthusiastic.

So now, a week since this desire arose, he sits with frustration in a semi-ring consisting of himself, Flake, Aljoscha, Schneider, and beer. Frustration because, even if drunk, he is still pestered by this gnawing need for physical affection. Considering how he is, he's attempted sneaking some in by throwing an arm around Flake's shoulders, or grabbing Schneider's hand amongst their drunken rambles to jokingly play with it—which he always shies away from by pulling his hand back as politely as he can manage. Aljoscha is touchy by nature, so Paul realistically could mess around with him as much as he would like, but again, it's not quite the same feeling considering it's Aljoscha, who is twice his age and doesn't shower nearly enough.

To his left, Flake sits cross legged atop the mound of blankets with his sleeves rolled up, hands gesturing in demonstration as he goes on about some story. Paul's thought process had drifted off, and thus, his attention, but he's caught enough to determine it's about him and his other group of friends fucking around on the beach, or something. Paul is frankly getting bored of all the conversation, even if it's an activity he usually enjoys—he excels at shooting the shit. But now, he's just getting sleepy and cranky because he hasn't figured out a solution to his starvation yet.

Rather than insert himself into the chatting like he tends to, Paul just nurses at his thousandth beer until it's completely consumed. He firmly plants the empty bottle into the circle of many and then with very little grace, he rises unsteadily onto his feet, earning glances from the other three—Flake stops mid-sentence.

“I'm gonna go pass out now,” Paul announces in a slur, with a lackluster salute of two fingers towards the others, “Don't have too much fun without me.”

Panning his gaze across the faces of his bandmates, he sees a smirk on Aljoscha's face, a frown on Flake's, and nothing on Schneider's. He's just staring at him past his wavy bangs which fall just slightly into his blue eyes.

“Drink's hitting you hard now?” Aljoscha teases with a toothy, shark-like grin. Paul waves his hand sluggishly, dismissively, and says with squinting eyes and a strained smile, “I'm holding it like a champ.”

“Uh, sleep well, then, I guess,” Flake speaks up, “Remember we have to leave tomorrow at ten.”

“Got it,” Paul remarks with two thumbs up and a following point of both index fingers, before he turns to begin towards the open doorway of the bedroom. He stumbles over a pillow and nearly topples over with his hands reflexively shooting out; from his peripheral vision, he sees Schneider shift towards him, maybe with concern, but Paul manages to regain his balance without bodily harm, his cheeks warming. Aljoscha cackles and calls out teasingly, “Take it slow, don't hurt yourself!”

Embarrassed, Paul says nothing and just stumbles away, ignoring the other man. The journey to the bedroom is short, albeit difficult. The unsteadiness in his feet and the swimming of his surroundings becomes much more apparent now that he's standing. Shit. He really has to lay down.

Once he steps inside the bedroom, he immediately drops onto the mattresses cluttering the floor. He moans into the haphazard blankets strewn across the mattresses. Then, after ten seconds of laying there limply, he shuffles higher up onto the mattresses so his feet aren't against the cold, hard floor.

There, he wraps blankets around himself until he's sufficiently cocooned, with his head sticking out of the roll of blankets. His blonde ponytail is becoming unraveled into a messy explosion around his hairline—a few locks cling to his lips with his saliva. The blankets smell like dust joined by the faint scent of sweat, but it's familiar and comforting. He nuzzles into the pillows and sighs heavily. His head is still spinning, but at least he's not at risk by being on his feet.

Distantly, he hears Aljoscha's piercing laughter and Schneider's low, smooth voice. Something clenches and aches in Paul's chest. Maybe he's feeling left out and unwanted, but then again, he's just drunk and lonely. He huffs into the pillows and then buries his head underneath the blankets, as an attempt to muffle their voices. It works just a little.

Either way, he ends up passing out after five minutes, which consisted of him laying there motionlessly, sprawled out with his high ponytail sticking out from within the cocoon.

      Sometime later, he's jerked from his slumber rather abruptly from being shaken. He jolts reflexively, startled, and twists over in his mess of blankets to look at the culprit with disgruntled annoyance. It's Schneider. He's looking at Paul with his lips pressed in a line, his brow slightly furrowed. As usual, his wavy, sun-bleached locks surround his slender face in a burst of hair. His cheeks are pink—supposedly from their previous drinking. He's kneeling on the mattress beside Paul; wearing an oversized sweater colored an ugly dark green, joined by old jeans. Eying him, Paul can't help but think he has god awful fashion taste.

“What?” Paul finally grumbles as he lifts a hand to sleepily rub at an eye. He runs his other hand up over his forehead, sweeping back his wild blonde locks that have escaped from the confines of his ponytail. Schneider sweeps his gaze over the mattresses as he says lowly, “You're laying horizontally across the beds. Move over.”

“Oh,” Paul mumbles, glancing around to realize that is indeed the truth. As he wiggles over to give the other man some space, he blinks heavily and realizes just how awful he feels—he has a headache, his mouth is dry, and his eyes are burning. Of course Schneider had to wake him up. He tries to mask his irritation as he gets comfortable on a separate mattress, vertically this time. He bundles up in his cocoon again, and then splats into the pillows. After a moment of stillness, he shifts onto his side, back to the other man.

Behind him, he hears Schneider unzip and remove his jeans, which are then thrown onto the other side of the room. Paul wonders if Flake and Aljoscha are still out there, drinking away. He's also curious what time it is—but the answers are unable to be obtained without having to move, so they will have to remain unanswered. On one of the other mattresses, Paul hears Schneider getting situated under some blankets himself.

Then, the room falls silent. Paul exhales deeply and clears his mind to welcome sleep.

At least, for half a minute. After laying in silence for thirty seconds, Schneider speaks up, his low, slurring voice breaking that quietness.

“You seemed distant earlier,” he says, as an invitation to explanation. Paul lays quietly for a moment, surprised, and then he feels vaguely impatient. He just wants to sleep. He doesn't want to talk about his feelings. Especially not with Schneider. Sometimes, he gets the impression Schneider doesn't care too much for him.

“I just want to know if you're doing alright,” Schneider continues in a low murmur, after he's given no response. Paul is actually surprised. Schneider is always awkward when it came to sentimental conversations—which is why they never have them. Paul debates what to say. Should he blow it off, or be honest? Does it really matter? God, he's too lethargic for this right now. He's in-between slightly drunk and hungover at the moment.

“Just feeling lonely,” Paul mumbles, “Not a big deal.”

“Why?” Schneider asks quietly, persistently, “I thought we were having fun.”

“It's not—I don't mean—Ugh,” Paul begins with exasperation, and then brings a hand up to rub at his eyes. He moves to sit up a little with a strained expression. Propping up on his elbows, he peeks over at Schneider who is watching him with his head on a pillow.

“Tonight was fine,” Paul continues, biting nervously at the inside of his cheek as he contemplates what to say. Reaching up, he scratches at the back of his head under blonde locks as he continues reluctantly, pensively, “I mean... You know when you get in those moods where you just want to like... I don't know. Hug someone? Because you're feeling affectionate. Or maybe you just want a hug.”

He drops his hand atop the blankets and looks at Schneider with a slight embarrassed grimace. Schneider's brow is furrowed, his glassy blue eyes searching Paul's face.

“I guess?” he replies with uncertainty, voice sluggish from intoxication, “I don't feel that often.”

Paul nods.

“Well, that's what I mean. I wasn't in the best mood today because I felt distant from everyone, y'know? And, well... It's not like the three of you are very inclined to express physical affection. So, whatever. Like I said, it's not a big deal. I'll get over it.”

“Do you not have some girl to do that with?” Schneider asks bluntly, bewildered. Paul huffs and then lays back down, eyes training up on the ceiling. He crosses his arms across his chest and says flatly, “It's different. With a girl, there's always the pressure of something more, right? I don't want that.”

“So you mean... Just platonic affection with a friend. You're lacking that, so it's making you feel lonely.”

“It sounds fucking stupid when you say it, but yeah.”

“You know you could just ask for a hug. Or something.”

Paul turns his head and stares at the other man with a lack of amusement on his face. Schneider arches a brow and stares back at him. With his voice devoid of emotion, Paul remarks blankly, asking, “If I had gone up to you without explanation and said 'hey, Schneider, can I have a hug?', do you really think you would've said yes?”

After a pause, Schneider manages the slightest amused smile.

“Probably not. I would've directed you towards Aljoscha.”

“Exactly. And Aljoscha would've just teased me.”

Silence reclaims the bedroom once again. Schneider watches him with calm, contemplative eyes, his wavy locks obscuring parts of his face. Paul refocuses his gaze on the ceiling. There are cracks dispersed throughout its surface, the paint chipping in places. The window behind them is casting a soft glow of moonlight into the room, illuminating it just well enough for Paul to take notice of such things. Considering the lengthy silence, Paul figures that's the end of their discussion, so he just pulls his blankets up higher and gets comfortable for slumber once more.

Though, of course, that isn't the end of it, because it seems like Schneider's current agenda is to keep Paul from getting his much needed rest.

“Well, do you want a hug now?” Schneider asks in a lowered voice. Paul pauses and then glances over at him. Schneider is now propped up on an elbow, a subtly uncertain expression on his flushed face—his eyes are almost timid, his lips in a strained line. Paul nearly laughs. He's so bad at this kind of thing. But regardless, it also serves to fluster Paul. He and Schneider have only hugged once, on the occasion of Schneider's birthday, which had been very brief.

“Um. You don't have to. It's not a big deal,” Paul says with warm cheeks, followed by a light laugh. Schneider then moves to sit up, pushing aside his blankets. Paul watches with his heart beginning to pound, his face heating up considerably. Schneider shifts closer on his knees, across the joined mattresses.

“Well, now I do have to,” he says with the slightest smile on his thin lips, his eyes mischievous, “It's become a big deal.”

“Because of you!” Paul complains weakly, with flushed cheeks. Schneider's smile extends into a grin—his dimples appear. It lights up his face and it has Paul staring in silent appreciation. Schneider joins him on the mattress, kneeling beside him. Then without hesitance, he brings his arms around him, even if Paul is not completely prepared yet—he's still propped up on his elbows. Paul stiffens at first, unsure what to do or say (Oh God, this is so weird, and Schneider is being nice and affectionate for once, and he's warm, and he smells like beer and his cologne, and holy shit why am I smelling him?).

Paul scrambles to recover his composure. He laughs shakily and says, “I can't hug you back, I'm not sitting up! If I try, I'll just fall onto my back.”

“So?” Schneider remarks, and then pulls away to purposefully plant his hands against Paul's chest, to push him onto his back. His head meets the pillows, his hair a wild mess around his face. Paul blinks and looks up at him with surprise. Schneider is still grinning, all shark-like, his vibrant blue eyes alive with amusement. Paul has seen this version of drunk Schneider a few times before. His typical shyness disappears, and then he's all talk and laughter. Heart racing, Paul stares up at him speechlessly. His hair is messy and cute, surrounding his flushed, smiling face. His cheeks are noticeably freckled and tinted a ruddy red. Why does he suddenly look like an angel?

Abruptly, without warning, Schneider shifts closer and then flops down on top of him with his hands squeezing Paul's sides—laughing lowly while he does, as an attempt to play it off as a joke. Paul grunts from the sudden additional weight, jerking his hands up to grab onto Schneider's biceps. Paul growls and complains with his stomach flipping, “This isn't how people hug, you dick! Don't crush me!”

Schneider giggling has Paul swallowing hard and staring at him with astonishment. Schneider adjusts himself so he's not laying haphazardly on top of him; instead, he shifts to lay on his side beside Paul, drawing his arms around him in a laughable attempt to form some kind of embrace. It just ends up awkward, but at least he's trying. Paul isn't sure what to do. Turning to face him might be too much, but he can't exactly return it if Schneider is laying beside him.

“Why are you just laying there? I thought you wanted this,” Schneider says, his grin fading. With his gaze shyly trained down on Schneider's arm draped across his midsection, Paul huffs and mumbles, “How am I supposed to hug you back if you're laying beside me?”

Silently, Schneider contemplates for a second. Then he begins pulling at Paul, with his hand tucking under his side. Paul glances up to meet his gaze—he's laying with his face much too close to his own. Paul nearly recoils, but he manages to repress the urge. He shifts away slightly, though Schneider is pulling him closer, so it's not like it makes a difference.

“Turn to face me, you idiot,” Schneider says, without force. Paul presses his lips together and stares down between their bodies as he shifts to do so; he moves onto his side, so they're facing each other. As Schneider scoots closer, tightening his arms around him, Paul accidentally lets out a flustered noise, which has Schneider laughing again. Paul's face is on fire. He moves so he's a little lower than Schneider, so he can rest his head comfortably against the bed and not right in front of Schneider's face.

They end up in an excessively intimate embrace—this isn't what Paul had in mind. He was expecting, maybe, just a hug that lasts longer than three seconds, but this is just overboard. He considers backing off, but Schneider is now silent and still, laying close enough that their knees touch, with his arms resting limply around Paul.

And then Paul recalls he's not exactly wearing any pants, which makes this worse. Despite that, Paul reluctantly reaches over to drape his arm around Schneider in return. Schneider doesn't move, or say anything. Paul is quickly becoming overwhelmed. His face is burning up, and his heart is pounding. Again, he can smell Schneider. He also has a great view of his throat, and his clavicle that peeks out from the collar of his sweater, considering their respective heights.

But, even if he is mildly uncomfortable, Paul is still enjoying it, to a degree. Schneider is warm and soft, if a little bit bony in some places. His embrace isn't stiff or anything—Paul blames it on the alcohol. He's laying compliantly in his arms, motionless save for his slow breathing that expands and deflates his ribcage under Paul's arm. Thankfully, they can't see each other's faces. Paul would be far too embarrassed to let this last if that were the case.

Staring at Schneider's collarbone, Paul isn't sure what to say or do. The embrace has lasted maybe two minutes now, with no words spoken. It's nice, definitely, but also—this is so unlike Schneider. Though Paul isn't complaining, just bewildered.

Finally, after laying in each other's arms for a few minutes, Schneider leans back just enough to meet Paul's wide-eyed gaze. He's smiling faintly, his eyes sleepy and lidded. His curly hair is surrounding his face prettily—and getting in his eyes, like usual. Paul stares with a warm face. He doesn't know what to say. He's completely thrown off from all of this.

Schneider begins to lean in again. Though this time, startling Paul, he plants a bashful, drunken kiss to his forehead in a firm peck. Paul's mind becomes astonished static. Schneider draws back again, to search his shocked expression.

“Goodnight, Paul,” he says with a slight, teasing smile, searching in Paul's embarrassed eyes as he murmurs, almost jokingly, “I hope you don't feel lonely anymore.”

Then he shifts away, out from underneath Paul's arm. Face burning up, Paul opens his mouth, speechless, and then closes it again. He watches the other man slide back into his own bed, his face turned away from Paul's gaze. Schneider gets situated underneath the blankets again. Now all Paul can see of him is his explosion of curly locks peeking out from the blankets.

For a moment, Paul just stares at the back of his head with his heart racing and stomach flipping. He suddenly feels overheated from his flustered state, but also cold, now that Schneider's warmth is missing. Swallowing hard, Paul drops his gaze to the blankets tangled around his own legs. Reaching out, he grabs them and pulls them back over himself. He flops down into his pillows and stares at Schneider for a moment longer, before closing his eyes. He lets out a breath and then buries his face into the blankets, embarrassed. But, he also feels content and... Happy.

Shit.

[katemarley]

fanfiction: krampuslauf

Fandom: Hetalia - Axis Powers Pairing: Austria/Prussia Characters: Austria, Prussia, Kugelmugel Rating: G

Summary: Austria, Prussia, and Kugelmugel are on vacation in rural Salzburg when Austria gets talked into participating in the local Krampuslauf, a traditional parade, as a fill-in. He doesn’t like the idea—Krampus runs are loud and rough and sometimes violent. Since he agrees nonetheless, someone needs to look out for Kugelmugel during the parade.

A contribution to the @pruausadventcalendar. Also available on my AO3 and fanfiction.net.

Some notes before the story begins:

The city of Salzburg is the capital of the Austrian federal state of the same name, colloquially called Salzburgerland. This story refers to the latter (the rural part of the federal state). Sankt Johann im Pongau, where the story is set, has about 11,000 inhabitants.

In Austria and some other regions of the eastern Alps, the Krampus is a horned figure with (at least traditionally) a long tongue and one cloven hoof reminiscent of the Devil. Several of them traditionally accompany Saint Nicholas (feast: 6 December) who brings presents to nice children. There is also the tradition of the Krampuslauf (“Krampus run”) on 5 December (“Krampus Day”) in which several groups of Krampus with Saint Nicholas (Passen; singular Pass) parade through the streets, wearing clanking cowbells. Sometimes, children and adolescents try to pester the Krampus without getting hit by their birch rods (a tradition called Kramperltratzen or Kramperlstauben). There are increasing complaints about the Krampus becoming too violent. Indeed, people can get injured during Krampus runs, resulting in broken legs and the like. (I wonder if they’ve actually become more violent or if people are just more sensitive towards violence occurring during folkloristic traditions nowadays than a few decades ago.)

Friedl (short for Friedrich) is the human name I use for Kugelmugel (after Austrian artist Friedensreich Hundertwasser, 1928-2000).

Sankt Johann im Pongau, 4 December 20xx

“It would be much appreciated if you agreed,” Mrs Schneider said. “My husband has a touch of the flu, and the performance of his Pass is arranged so all Krampus parade parallel to each other in groups of two, performing a certain combination of steps. When Saint Nicholas gives the signal with his staff, they dash to the sides, rattling at the barriers where the spectators are. Then, they get back into formation.”

“I don’t know,” Austria said doubtfully. “Shouldn’t they ask someone from Sankt Johann first?”

“On this short notice, they need someone who has a certain sense of rhythm and who actually knows how to dance,” she explained. “That’s why the boys asked me to ask you.”

“Why don’t they ask me directly if it actually matters to them?” Austria was still putting up defences. Prussia could tell he had no intention to agree.

“Because you’re my holiday guest for this week, and because I know you better than them.” Mrs Schneider, on her part, had no intention to give up.

“Please, Mr Edelstein,” Lena, Mrs Schneider’s eight-year-old daughter, begged. “I was so looking forward to seeing Papa in his Krampus costume. Please let me at least see his costume tomorrow evening.” She looked at Austria with beseeching blue eyes.

Prussia could see how his lover’s resistance melted like snow inside their holiday home. He understood. There was hardly any means to resist against a pair of wide children’s eyes.

“Fine,” Austria sighed. “What do I need to do now?”

“There is a final rehearsal this afternoon,” Mrs Schneider explained. “Wait, let me show you where they meet…”

Lena turned to Prussia, raised an eyebrow—See? That’s how you get what you want—and rushed out of the parlour in order to play in her room.

“Looks like Roderich has quite the task to fulfil now,” Kugelmugel commented dryly. The micronation sometimes sounded far too worldly-wise for his physical age. Prussia snorted. He knew what Krampus were from his previous experience of his lover’s lands in the Christmas season.

“I have a hard time envisioning him participating in a Krampus run, to be honest.”

“Who knows.” Kugelmugel shrugged. “Maybe the old man is going to surprise us by actually being cool once in a while. —Well, sort of,” he added after a short pause. “As cool as you can be when you’re wearing fur all over.”

“So, how was it?” Prussia asked when Austria returned from the rehearsal.

“Exhausting,” Austria replied, flopping down on the wooden corner bench where Prussia already sat. “I didn’t expect the fur, the mask, and the cowbells to be so heavy … Well, I actually did,” he corrected himself. “But it was still strenuous to wear them during the whole of the rehearsal, and the fur smells strange too. The good thing is I probably won’t be cold during the Krampus run tomorrow evening.”

“Yes. About that.” Prussia sniffed. “I can smell it was exhausting. You should take a shower.”

“And you are, as always, Prince Charming,” Austria grumbled, boxing Prussia lightly against the arm. Nonetheless, he rose from his seat, heading in the direction of their room and the bathroom. “Did I already mention I’m not exactly fond of sweating outdoors in winter when it’s not for skiing?”

He hadn’t, but that wasn’t exactly news to Prussia either.

5 December 20xx

“…and pay attention to what Friedl is doing!” Austria said for what seemed to be the hundredth time. “I don’t trust the boy not to do something stupid during the parade!” By something stupid, Austria referred to the tradition of leaping over the barriers in order to pester the Krampus in the parade without getting hit by them. Prussia had seen that before. He had to admit it did look dangerous, especially if he imagined a lank person like Kugelmugel in that situation.

“Yes; yes, I will,” he mumbled once again. “Even if I doubt Friedl would do anything like this.”

“I know you doubt it, but he would,” Austria said in an exasperated tone. “That’s why I keep repeating how important it is that you pay attention!” He paused. “Friedl isn’t Ludwig, you know. Ludwig has always been a responsible boy. He’d never have done a dangerous thing such as this. Friedl, however…” Austria sighed. “Friedl would do—and has, in fact, done—many a stupid thing in the name of art. Please don’t have me worry for his safety while I can’t look out for him.”

“Okay,” Prussia finally said. “I will. Promised.” Austria nodded.

“Good,” was all he said before he left in order to morph into a scary beast for the Krampus parade.

The spectators of the Krampus run crowded around the barriers, waiting for every Pass to come close. Kugelmugel and Lena had managed to gather right behind the barriers. Mrs Schneider didn’t appear to be worried, but Prussia felt a little queasy when he saw how close some of the Krampus came to the crowd. A few of the scary-looking figures in their shaggy fur even jumped against the barriers, causing the startled crowd to draw back a little … but never for long. So far, however, none of them had joggled the barrier right where they stood.

Then, the next Pass emerged from the darkness; a group of figures coated in fur prancing closer, making noise with the cowbells around their belts. When the Saint Nicholas who lead them raised his staff, they dashed to the barriers, growling at the spectators. This time, one of them appeared right in front of Lena and Kugelmugel.

“Hello,” the girl cried cheerfully, extending a hand towards the Krampus, patting his fur. Kugelmugel took that as his cue to grab the fur around one of his arms, pulling.

“Friedl!” Prussia exclaimed, snatching the micronation away from any potential whips with the birch the Krampus had put under his belt.

Instead of the birch, a cool and slightly reddish hand appeared from under the fur, stubbing gently against Prussia’s nose.

“Very good,” Austria’s voice said from under the fur. “That’s what I asked of you when I told you to take care of him.”

Prussia felt himself blush regardless of the cold. Even if Kugelmugel didn’t seem particularly impressed at Austria’s costume, Prussia couldn’t help thinking that his lover fulfilled his Krampus role better than he would have given him credit for. He had only left said role in order to reveal himself to Prussia who seemed to be the only one not to recognise his lover in the first place. Then Krampus-Austria pulled back, re-joining the formation as it trod past.

Austria as Prussia knew him returned to their holiday home shortly after Mrs Schneider had left in order to put Lena to bed. Kugelmugel had gone into his room in order to paint Austria in his Krampus costume before he forgot how his brother had looked like.

“Didn’t you stay with the other guys in your Pass?” Prussia greeted him, realising he sounded almost reproachful even if he didn’t intend to. “Mrs Schneider told me all of you are supposed to be drinking beer now.” Austria shrugged.

“I told them I’d prefer spending the evening with my partner because I don’t see him as often as I’d like.” He smiled a tiny smile.

“And what did they say?”

“They mocked me for being domestic but let me go.” His smile grew broader. “I take it you realise they knew who I actually am?” Prussia nodded. 

“I didn’t know, but I suspected. They wouldn’t have let you participate in their Pass if they hadn’t known you’re Austria, right?”

“Exactly.” For the second time within one day, Austria sat down next to Prussia on the rustic corner bench. “I don’t think they know who you are or who Friedl is, but they did realise we’re … well. Sort of a family.” He rested his head against Prussia’s shoulder, taking his hand.

“On holiday with my little brother and my loved one,” Austria whispered. “I’m happy now. And if that means I’m domestic and a bit of a bore, so be it.”

“You aren’t boring,” Prussia said, squeezing Austria’s hand in turn. “You’re actually pretty cool as a Krampus.”

“I love you, too,” Austria said, leaning forward in order to kiss Prussia on the tip of his nose this time.

[olympiansrpg1-blog]

BASICS

Name: Felicia Odette Brava Age: 26 Affiliation: New Olympus Occupation: Bruiser Faceclaim: Eiza González Status: TAKEN by Misha

THE STORY

They call you Cerberus, fighting with the ferocity of a beast. For the majority of your adolescent life, you felt suffocated, crushed under the weight of certain expectations you never wanted to meet. They wanted you to be gentle and kind, everything the storm that raged inside of you was not. So you learned to fight under the midnight sky, sneaking away from the watchful eye of someone who claimed to love you as you were, rendezvous in dark alleyways and underground rings filled with people much bigger than you. This was a life worth living: packing hits and watching people fall under them as you felt every irritation and frustration leave you, inciting a passion in you that you had never felt in any of the things your parents wanted for you. It was there that you found your future calling, someone who represented death themselves with the moniker of Hades extending the hand of freedom to you. You ceased it at the first opportunity, knowing you would never have to do any of those redundant things again. You have never left their side since, even if you’ve begun to feel stifled again from their faith in you and the expectations that come with them.

CONNECTIONS

PAEAN - If there is one person that you are eternally grateful for aside from Hades, it is Paean. You cannot remember how many times you’ve come to them, with wounds that would otherwise terrify anyone else and they calmly talked you through every single one while their hands made you whole again. It is in this calm that you found a friend, someone decent enough in this world of crime to earn that title. Though your loyalties are on opposite sides, you know you can count on them far more than anyone else.

CHIMERA - It seems as though they are everywhere you go, your very own shadow with a touch of insanity in your eyes. You’re not certain what it is they have against you, going out of their way to find you and start a fight. All you know is that you’ve had it with them, especially with the way you two seem to be evenly matched, leaving the both of you in a sweaty and bloody heap when all is said and done. You’d do almost anything to wipe that smirk off of their face and knock their snarky words right out of them.

MEDUSA - It is of no surprise to you that people tend to stay away from you, with knuckles cut and bruised to the point of scarring and a grin made for violence, you don’t blame them. Medusa, however, has never shied away from you and you often times work together, almost too cohesively, to pull of a job. You know of their reputation, but you learned long ago that perception isn’t always reality and you genuinely want to get to know them better.

SUGGESTED FACECLAIMS

Eiza González, Alisha Wainwright, Lindsey Morgan, Medalion Rahimi, Max Schneider, Jade Hassouné, Luke Mitchell

BIOGRAPHY

TW: Drug use mention, violence, murder, abuse, eating disorders

Ever since she was a child, Felicia was not tender. She was bossy and feisty, a real “problem child,” as some would refer to her. Living in London, there were certain expectations of her. She had to be a good girl, she had to sit up straight with her legs crossed and wear white without getting it dirty, of course. Her grandparents immigrated from Mexico to England, making her the third generation and by god did she had mighty shoes to fill. Her mother certainly would never let her forget it, perhaps that was why she was forced to assimilate by wearing skirts that were too long, or why she went to high tea and had a nice gaudy hat for every damn occasion.

In truth, her father was planning on becoming apart of Parliament and eventually, Prime Minister. So Felicia needed to be the prim and proper, perfect little girl that everyone wanted her to be. It could not work, in year two she got sent home for twisting a boy’s arm too hard that it deeply bruised him. In year five, she beat another boy up with her little purse full of rocks. Each time her family got such phone calls, she was demonized back at home. Her mother was livid, it was a nightmare trying to get her to calm down and the bored expression on Felicia’s face only sent her over the edge. “Do you have no shame? Your father needs this family to be perfect!” Felicia sat there, her blood curdling in her veins from her rising temper because she needed to fight back. Yet instead, she clenched her fists and spoke through gritted teeth.

“Take another sedative then, mother.”

Things had been intensely uncomfortable between them ever since. In public she was forced to bite her tongue, and becoming a teenager did not make her mother take her more seriously. If anything, it meant that her arm would be twisted back tightly under the guise of a saccharine sweet smile in public, and in private you were engaged in a screaming match that was only calmed by the condescending words your father would whisper in an attempt to soothe you. “Mija, you are supposed to be my good girl. Can you be that for me?”

She wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but of course she didn’t. She simply nodded every time and tried to stifle the war raging inside her. Her bones felt heavy with the fight she needed to go to, but she tired. As the years went on, Felicia pretended that she actually could be gentle and soft. She almost believed herself for a moment as well, she spoke with a proper English accent and walked with perfect posture. Her hobbies included croquet or cooking, and for awhile, she forgot who she really was. She was completely numb and hazed out for the majority of her teenage years; her mother always had a problem with something she did but Felicia could only remember taking a biting blow at the moment and screaming into her memory foam down pillows later at night. If zombies were real, Felicia was your polite and beautiful zombie. She never came home with knee scraps anymore, she looked like a doll and everyone ate her up. Both her father’s coworkers and her aunties all said that they much preferred this version of Felicia compared to when she was “an obnoxious little girl.”

She truly did try to stay “good.” At least until she was seventeen. Oh her family could’ve said that they truly did love her for who she was, and they just needed her to not be herself in public, but she knew how badly they wanted her to stay the same mindless Barbie doll. With her father’s seat secured in Parliament, Felicia knew things would only start to get worse. He was going to get more media attention, he was going to be the damn Prime Minister if it killed him and it was going to kill her for certain. The high society ladies and gentlemen weren’t so pure themselves, she’d overhear them talk of gambling rings and boxing matches. So rather than stay home at ten pm on a Friday night, she donned her leather jacket, grabbed a pack of cigarettes hidden underneath her bed, and snuck out of the suffocatingly large house for the first time in her entire life.

It was terribly cold but she was determined to find a bloody fight to make up for the years of suppression. She found the bar that she heard had an underground ring and it only made her more excited to watch the burly men beat one another to a bloody pulp. She could feel the adrenaline pumping through her veins as she watched, the scent of the blood and sweat was almost intoxicating and she felt dizzy from excitement. She couldn’t remember the last time she was excited and it was enough to make her step in between the spectator's’ and right into the ring, a wicked smile on her face and her eyes alight with a wild hurricane flashing behind them. “Let me fight.”

They tried to make her fight another woman, as if she couldn’t tackle the bigger men.

“No, I’m going to pulverize h i m.” She pointed to someone double her height with a permanent glare on his face. She should’ve been terrified but instead she released all that pent up aggression, all that numbness, all that rage. She didn’t remember what happened during the fight until she was standing up with one foot on his chest, her lip swollen and cut while he was clearly a mess beneath her. She knew she didn’t look like a proper, perfect, good girl right then. So when she smiled, baring her bloodied teeth, she sent a message: she was a vicious wolf who was not afraid.

She continued this life, always sneaking out at night for fights in alleyways and other underground rings, and she always came back with different bruises or cuts. It was getting harder for her to look so innocent, especially when she switched her pink lipsticks with dark red to hide the blood and when her lace gloves did nothing to hide the bruises on her knuckles. Her mother would ask what had happened, but Felicia would just smirk and say something cryptic. She was becoming a mystery to her family, and they just couldn’t handle not knowing what she was up to. She was right when she had thought that the publicity presence would only get worse, it certainly did. In a way, she was glad they could all see her a little roughed up. Her appearance didn’t hinder her father from becoming Prime Minister, however, and she knew it wouldn’t. It didn’t matter what she did, but god did her life become even more stifling. Suddenly she had to be even more careful when she’d sneak out, she had to wear disguises and learn how to clean up her own wounds.

It was maddening enough to make her want to leave the country altogether. Screw the rules of High Society England and the disgusting finger sandwiches, and most importantly, the stiff and dry losers who had nothing better to do but to kiss up to their parents. Felicia was going to New York City, where she had a warped sense of reality about the types of underground fighting and altercations that she would get into, mostly because of all the American movies she’d watch. When she told her father, he seemed perplexed, but also secretly glad that she will no longer be causing trouble at home. He was more than happy to pay for everything, as long as she “stayed out of trouble” or as Felicia translated, as long as she didn’t get caught. With her lips closed to hide the chipped tooth she’d have to fix later, Felicia nodded and spoke in the mock sweet voice for what she thought would be the last time. “Of course, daddy.”

She got herself a nice loft in Chelsea, even though her parents pushed for her to live in the nicer “upper east side.” She didn’t want to go where part of the city actually did go to sleep at eight pm, no, she was fine with being an obedient uni student during the day, but she was going to do whatever she wanted at night. Eventually, she grew a name in the underground fighting world and there were rumors of a gang being whispered between the crowd. Olympus, how opulent. She was no goddess, she was hardly one of those beautiful mortal women who’d get screwed over by their selfish demigod lovers. So she ignored these talks, because who cared who her new drug suppliers were? Just as long as she got something.

In school however, she found a new type of fighting. She found the adrenaline rush that was being a defense attorney, and she excelled at it. It was perhaps the only way to tame her, in a sense. She was still just as passionate and just as fiery, but she was composed and succinct, and it was in her pre-law major where she saw herself become a well rounded woman. When she told her father she was going to law school, he was joyous and immediately invited her to come back home, offering to pay for law school in England. Yet she knew she couldn’t leave the city she had fallen for now, especially with her newfound glory that would soon only grow. For the first time in several years, she was allowed to be associated with the family, but Felicia realized she was truly a mistake. He agreed to let her stay in the city and pay for law school there, and she knew their relationship was once open again, but she still was resentful since she knew it was only because he thought she was ready to be a kept woman again. So while she studied endlessly during the day, it was at night where she released the tension and anxieties that came with her career path.

She knew she wasn’t all bite and blood, she just had to figure out who she really was. Being away from her parents was good for that; she swore more, she went tried to be more punk but quickly realized she was not whiny enough for that scene. Felicia explored herself and the city as much as she could, and found herself right where she lived in Chelsea amongst the eccentric FIT students or the artwork that wasn’t polite. Nothing was clean and proper where she was, it was raw and honest. Something she hadn’t been with herself for the majority of her childhood. She even thought she could settle down with someone.

He was her professor during her undergraduate years that she affectionately referred to as Mr. Darcy and as cheeky as she was, Felicia wasn’t really interested in seriously pursuing him while she was still a student. Still, it’s not like she wasn’t going to indulge herself now that she was away from the confines of her family’s watchful eye. So the day of graduation, they had a drink, and it went on from there. It wasn’t meant to become serious, she was still a fighter at heart anyways, but it felt nice to come home to someone who wanted to wrap her up in his arms and talk about everything and nothing. They were domestic, she almost believed she could be normal, that he was her prince charming and that this was what it meant to be a regular girl. After all, women her age were settling down like this, right?

She later learned that the term for the euphoric feeling was called the “honeymoon phase” and it was quickly short lived. They settled into one another, and while things seemed fine for awhile, Felicia quickly learned again what it meant to be a kept woman and she did not like it. She had forgotten that once again, this man was making her forget who she really was inside. Yes she now knew she could be tender and loving, but she wanted to travel; she knew deep down that domesticated life wasn’t for her. Of course, Mr. Darcy certainly wasn’t pleased with this either. He thought he had finally controlled Felicia but no one really could. He forced her to classy dinner parties that put her to sleep on the way back home for boredom, he made her interact with other normal people who were usually just people like her father’s co-workers and friends or like her mother and her friends. When she responded negatively they began to fight. They never fought before, so why was it happening now, just because she didn’t like the things he liked?

That tactic, apparently, was called grooming, because her wonderful Mr. Darcy did not love her the way she was. Nobody did, it seemed. He became more controlling of her, and at first Felicia believed she could handle it. Nothing wrong with some healthy arguing, right? But the healthy arguing turned into screaming fits. She’d want to go out at night to make her earnings from the people who’d bet on her during her fights but he was watching her every move. He began to make comments about her weight, her appearance, it was like living with her mother all over again only with someone much more domineering. She was suffocating, she was pissed, and she wanted him g o n e.

She wasn’t sure how she was going to get rid of him when the thought of dumping him made her nervous as to what he’d do to her career or otherwise, and leaving the city was no option for her when she knew that this was the place that she belonged. She had friends at the ring and when she’d complain at the bar about Mr. Darcy, they’d all offer to roughen him up and scare him away on their own but Felicia knew she could do that herself and she didn’t need to pay a fee for it. One night, she finally got away from him freely, only because he was away at a conference for a week so of course she headed to the ring, determined to find a solution. Was Olympus real? Was it not just some stupid myth that everyone whispered between the ring? She supposed tonight would be the night she’d find out. She had gotten one of their dealer’s number through a friend in the ring and they promised to send Medusa to help her with her problem. There she was by the bar just as described, only much more exquisite than she could’ve imagined. It seemed impossible that she could be a hitwoman, and yet here was Felicia, looking delicate yet donned her trademark split lip all the time.

“So… you’re Medusa?”

“Yeah, and you’re the one who wants to kill your boyfriend?”

“Well, maybe just a little.”

The smile they shared made her instantly feel connected to the other person. It was so strange to her, yet she didn’t question it. They discussed the logistics, where it’d be done, what time and how. Felicia knew she wasn’t supposed to be there, but part of her wanted to be there, to see how it would happen, to help. It was so stupid of her, she should’ve felt guilt or doubt, she should’ve called Medusa off because this was terrible of her. She had never killed a man before, and even if she technically wasn’t killing him, she still ordered the hit and she still was pretending like everything was fine. She knew it was an extreme, but with how bad things had been going, she more or less felt scared for her safety until he was taken out. So for her, this was peace of mind. If anyone else asked, however, she knew she’d seem completely insane.

The night she officially became a lawyer was the night Mr. Darcy was going to be taken out. She made it seem like they were certainly going to go out celebrating, but she was really leading him to Medusa. Medusa did not like that idea but Felicia insisted, she was far too curious as to what would happen. Just as they exited the subway into the Bronx did she find Medusa with a man who was donned in an expensive suite and looked irritatingly impeccable as he stared at Felicia with a meticulous gaze. The pair walked further up ahead of Felicia and Mr. Darcy, until they were at the very far outer edge of the borough right by the Hudson River. Mr. Darcy asked where they were, but Felicia swiftly silenced him by kicking him in the back of his knees with her arm encircling his throat tightly.

“What are you doing?! You can’t handle seeing this, and you aren’t supposed to be here.”

“I’ve seen worse and maybe he should get what’s coming to him. Who’s the man?”

“That’s Hades, sometimes he monitors.”

Felicia ignored her better half struggling beneath her as her hand squeezed his throat and her fist came to brutally punch him in the jaw. “We’ve watched you fight before.”

It was Hades who spoke and shocked Felicia. She blinked as Medusa took Mr. Darcy from her yet she stopped the other woman to grab his jaw, a snarl in her voice as she spoke, “good riddance David.” She allowed Medusa to take him away, and even if she wanted to watch, she knew deep down she wasn’t strong enough to watch someone get murdered, even if she was at the height of her anger. Instead, she redirected her attention back to the calm and collected Hades, who seemed to both not approve of Medusa’s methods and yet be the one to help if something were to go wrong. “You watched me fight?”

“Of course. Cronus even got interested in you. We could use a bruiser, you know.”

Olympus truly did exist and she was no goddess or hero, no. She was just like her counterpart, Medusa, she was a monster. All bruised knuckles and bloodied lips. She was Cerberus. They appointed her bruiser and oh how she thrived. It worked well for her schedule as well. With the medic to patch her up to make her look almost good as new and her realizing just how many Olympians were rigging the systems in the court, her job became easier too. She was untouchable it seemed. But tensions were rising when Cronus died. Zeus may have been her new boss, but she didn’t answer to him. She owed this newer freedom to Hades, so when Olympus split, she didn’t hesitate to choose his side. He and Medusa broke her out of her haze forever, she knew no longer she wouldn’t let anyone control how she felt ever again.

For awhile, she didn’t really question her new life, she felt in control again and that was all that mattered to her. But maybe it was the fact she still saw  Paean in secret to fix her wounds, or the fact she didn’t respond well to people having high expectations of her, but Hades did make it clear New Olympus is his family and he has faith in her. She’s not sure what he sees her as, the loyal dog who’d do anything for him or the girl who just so badly wanted to break free when in fact she had earned her own freedom, but whatever it is, it has rubbed her the wrong way. She’s not just some helpless women and god did he really need to bestow his idealism down upon her? She was only human and a perfectly flawed one at that, she wasn’t an immaculate painting like she believed he thought she was.  She never voiced her opinions, however. Usually, she would’ve, but she is grateful for the new family who actually accepts her, and she is glad Hades does not want her to be anything less than who she is. Still, she wonders if all of this will be worth it down the line now that fighting has no longer become her extracurricular activity but instead a full time job.

[actuallylorelaigilmore]

And In This Light I Think I'm Falling

A/N: This is my first fic in a while so the style is a bit different than my usual--but I found it in my drafts and wanted to finish it while I’m still working on larger stories. Written in response to this prompt from before we conquered the ship name! 

Why does everyone assume they're together? Penelope can't stop thinking about it and feelings ensue. 

Penelope x Schneider, One Day At A Time. Also on AO3.

He catches her when she trips walking past the couch, one hand at her side and the other gripping her hip until she steadies herself. The feel of it lingers longer than she wishes it would.

The next night, after a terrible first date, it’s that moment she finds herself thinking of: Schneider's fingertips digging casually into her skin. How warm his hands are, his broad palms.

Loneliness is a terrible reason to ruin a friendship, she tells herself firmly.

Victor is just the first time.

It’s hilarious, her husband looking at that man–even if Schneider does walk in shirtless without knocking, even if he does that sort of thing a lot now–and thinking he’s her type.

After spending so many years with her, the fact that Victor can see them side by side and decide that they make sense…well, it’s just more proof that her marriage is a lost cause.

But the more it keeps happening, the less funny it is.

****

It’s the mom of Alex’s new teammate, who is behind them in the stands during the first home game and asks what Schneider does for a living while her own husband is getting snacks.

Penelope and Schneider’s corrections are so hasty they overlap into gibberish, impossible to understand, before she’s elbowing him and starting over with less panic.

It’s not like it doesn’t make sense, of course. It’s a simple mistake.

One that seems to occur every baseball season.

****

It’s the waiter at the restaurant they go to for her Mami’s birthday, when Schneider sweet talks Lydia into it in spite of Penelope’s insistence that they can just have the usual fun family party.

Really it’s no different from being at home. They’re still loud and happy, Elena and Alex sneaking glances at their phones even after she scolds them, and Lydia flirting until the chef sends dessert out on the house. Penelope can’t help basking in how warm and settled it all feels–this isn’t the future she saw herself having, but it’s a pretty good one and she’s happy in it.

Schneider goes to the bathroom and the waiter comes by to hand her the check, says he hopes the evening went well and that she and her husband will stop in on their next date night. He’s gone again before she can find the words to correct him, some way to make the truth clear without frantically overreacting and turning that into the issue instead.

Does it really matter, she wonders, when the kids and her Mami are sitting right there and don’t even notice the man’s mistake? They all know it’s not true. That’s what counts.

****

It’s at Elena’s high school graduation, because of course Schneider is there taking endless pictures and would've brought a professional film crew if she hadn’t threatened him with violence. Of course he cheers almost as loud as her Cuban family and cries the most and hands Elena a gift he wrapped himself.

Now it’s not one person, it’s most of the people, who weren't close with Elena and don’t know Victor is overseas and make the assumption that the man with the proud grin and matching glasses is the father of the girl Penelope is preparing to send into the adult world.

It’s reasonable, she thinks, and so she talks around the subject, she slides past the titles and assumptions and tries not to think too much about how it feels.

Because it makes her more melancholy than she wants to admit, the way the world expects them to be a couple, expects her to have someone at her side who loves her kids and supports her without question.

Schneider being so easily mistaken for that guy hurts. It reminds her of what she’s still trying to find.

****

It’s the way the kitchen light hits him early in the morning, catching hints of green and grey in his blue eyes when he takes off his glasses to rub at them. Waiting for his coffee and blinking, he notices her gaze.

Schneider asks if she’s okay, gratefully taking the mug after he puts his glasses back on.

As soon as he speaks it’s like a spell is broken and time moves normally again. Alex is complaining about his school clothes and Elena is arguing with her Abuelita about summer break and Schneider is the guy who hangs around too much.

But for a minute he wasn’t. For a minute he was somebody else.

Somebody she couldn’t stop looking at and wondering, what did other people keep finding there? What about the two of them seemed like such a good fit?

So without her ever really meaning to, one morning Schneider is a man Penelope sees differently.

And she likes what she sees, that’s the worst part of all.

She likes it a lot.

****

It’s the way he’s not pushy, he lets her come to him, but he’s also totally open. Inviting her in for a hug without needing to say it, always being a safe place for her to run to. His body language has its own gravitational pull.

Really, so does he.

But it’s also the way he always reaches out to her, and when Schneider does reach out, he doesn’t hesitate.

His hand is at the small of her back when they leave a room together, a friendly gesture he doesn’t even seem to notice. He grabs her shoulders to maneuver her into sitting, a move that never fails to work because it stuns her into complying.

She was in the Army, she knows fifty ways to leave him gasping for air, but Schneider will lead her around gently and firmly and wordlessly as though it doesn’t occur to him to be afraid of her reflexes.

He catches her when she trips walking past the couch, one hand at her side and the other gripping her hip until she steadies herself. The feel of it lingers longer than she wishes it would.

The next night, after a terrible first date, it’s that moment she finds herself thinking of: Schneider's fingertips digging casually into her skin. How warm his hands are, his broad palms.

Loneliness is a terrible reason to ruin a friendship, she tells herself firmly.

Even if now he insists on showing up in her dreams.

****

It happens on a stifling August day, when the kids have fled to a temperature-controlled movie theater with their allowance and she opts to do the same for free.

Pretty close, anyway, because if she’s hanging out with Schneider at his place and she hints, he’ll leave the AC on all day without complaint.

She’s there for the free cool-down and the company, and whatever plans he might have had, Schneider seems happy to see her.

He always seems happy to see her. These days, Penelope can’t tell if that’s because he’s just such a happy person or if it’s about her.

She hopes it’s her.

They put a movie on and he offers to fix lunch. For a minute she can’t breathe, she’s laughing so hard.

The man cooks such terrible food, it hadn't occurred to her to take his offer seriously--but she didn’t mean to hurt his feelings. Sometimes she forgets he has any that are easily bruised. Because the pained look on Schneider’s face is sincere, she hurries to apologize.

Shifting closer on the couch, Penelope hugs him and promises that if he makes her food, she’ll eat it. She presses her lips to both his cheeks in big, exaggerated kisses to get him to smile again.

When that works and there’s only an inch between them, Schneider beaming at her so sweetly that it makes Penelope ache, she realizes she can’t take it anymore.

She kisses him again, this time leaning in to brush his mouth with hers, as slowly and carefully as if he might break. His smile is gone.

Penelope can see questions in his eyes, but Schneider doesn’t ask them. He frames her face with his hands and kisses her back.

She has questions too, because giving in to temptation didn’t mean expecting him to respond. She’s had time to develop feelings, deny them, and finally choose to acknowledge the insanity of them and hope they would go away.

Not once in all that time did she stop and think maybe Schneider had feelings for her too.

She’s pretty sure she has confirmation now, though, with him sinking deeper into the kiss and his hands tracing up the curve of her neck. Penelope's been wearing her hair up off her shoulders to beat the heat all day, but he's freeing it to run his fingers through.

With his hands buried in her curls, Schneider tugs her closer. Before she gets the chance to tell him her hair was up for a reason, his tongue finds hers and she lets him swallow her protest.

He’s being careful--she can tell he’s holding back just like her, still trying to figure out what this is and how far they can push the line before they cross it and something really important gets damaged.

But they’re making out in his chilled apartment, the air between them getting hotter by the second, and he’s practically got her pressed back into the couch and damn it feels good. All her rational arguments can’t stand up to the feel of him, a solid and comfortable weight on top of her.

Schneider smells like a forest, but not in a gross way–like an actual forest, rich and earthy and male. She’s never going to be able to stand near him again without noticing that and remembering them here, Penelope realizes.

With his mouth moving to her neck, he asks permission before he slides one hand under her tank top, and she holds back an eyeroll. Only Schneider would still be checking in while she was straddling him and her teeth were grazing his ear.

Of course, that's what she likes about him. However much he's enjoying himself--and she's got a front row seat, he's enjoying himself a lot--he would never want anything to happen between them that she might regret later.

God, that would almost simplify things, being able to consider today some form of temporary insanity. As she tugs Schneider's t-shirt over his head, Penelope wishes she could say she was going to regret this.

But she doesn’t think she will.

[dontknowwhaturltopick]

One Day At A Time - Netflix Series

I watched this amazing series and I couldn’t stop thinking about the ending. So beautiful, perfect, but I would change just a thing or two, so I started writing my own version. SPOILER ALERT!!!

“Elena was happy. She danced with her friends, her brother, even Carmen was there thanks to Schneider. She looked so different without all of her makeup, but who cares? Her best friend had made it to her quinces and life was getting better at the second.

Plus, thanks to abuella’s handmade suit Elena wasn’t feeling awkward in a fancy dress. She danced and had fun until the father-daughter dance came.

Victor wasn’t happy seeing his girl in a suit instead of a dress, so he left the room to see if he could breathe a little. No matter how beautiful and happy Elena was feeling. Abuella had spent hours on that outfit just so it would be anything but perfect for her and not only the occasion.

The DJ made the announcement and Elena went to the center of the dance floor but there was no sign of Victor. She waited expectantly a couple of seconds, but her smile was starting to fade. Had her father left her there? Was he so ashamed of her?

On a second of uncertainty, she looked at her mother, who understood right away. But when Penelope looked at the door a wave of relief took her as she saw Elena’s dad. He mouthed a small “sorry” and walked to his now also relieved daughter. Penelope noticed he was not smiling, but at least he was there.

Victor took his daughter in his arms and started swaying with her like they had practiced. Elena was irradiating joy, but her father wasn’t.

“Couldn’t you be wearing a dress like a normal girl?” He asked roughly making her smile disappear in a second.

“What?” She asked softly.

“Every other girl in this room is wearing a dress, mija. Why aren’t you?” Victor knew she’d heard him the first time.

“Dad, I’m just not comfortable wearing one. Would you feel comfortable in a dress?” Elena tried to reason with him.

“But I’m a man, Elena!” He said louder than he intended and all the eyes were paying full attention. Elena stopped dancing and took a step away from him. He looked around a little embarrassed.

“So you’re trying to say that I’m not a woman because of my suit? Because of a piece of clothing?”

Victor sighed audibly and tried to reach her and start dancing again. This was not the attention he wanted from the crowded room. In a moment he saw Penelope’s face and she was not happy how things were turning out.

Elena pushed his hands away with a firm “no!” And the music stopped. She continued. “Come on, dad. You really think that just because I’m not wearing a dress? I raised you better than this.” Elena tried a joke and laughed nervously.

“I’m the one who raised you better than… this!” He said gesturing at her with both hands. “You don’t get to use that tone with me, mija!” He said now pointing a finger on her face. Elena suddenly forgot about everyone else in the room, she didn’t care anymore.

“You’re the one who don’t get to tell me that I’m not a woman just because I feel more comfortable in a suit than in a dress, dad! You don’t get to say who I am! That’s up to me to decide! You can’t even dictate who I’m supposed to love, because I’m not your property! I am a person! And I can think for myself!”

She now could feel everyone’s eyes on her again, but it felt so good to tell her father those things. He was clearly displeased and she was about to cry, so she inhaled deeply, looked him in the eyes and said “I think you should go.”

Victor looked like he was going to say something, but then just turned his back and started walking towards the door receiving a stare from Penelope that could scare the Devil.

Elena was feeling terribly lonely standing there on the dance floor. When she turned, she saw her mother standing right in front of her. Penelope embraced her daughter saying “I got you.” And with a sign to the DJ the music was playing again. They started dancing slowly and both of them were crying. At least Elena was also smiling.

After a few steps with her mom, Elena felt a hand on her back. Alex, her little brother, who hugged them and started dancing too. Then she saw abuella get up from her chair and walk towards them. She couldn’t stop smiling. Eventually Schneider and Dr. Berkowitz also joined them and Elena realised she had a really good family that was always going to be there for her.

“I’m okay, you guys.” She said, and then to her mother and abuella. “Thank you both for making me have a quinces. I… Have to admit, this is pretty great.”

Abuella responded in her best way. “Oh, you are welcome, mija. I never tire of saying… ‘I told you so!’”

And they all laughed together. An imperfect family, but perfect in its own way.”

[paulbespoketailorhoian-blog]

Should You Wear Pleated Pants?

Should You Wear Pleated Pants?

For some, the very mention of pleated pants is enough to evoke flashbacks to the worst menswear fashions of the ‘80s and ‘90s. With current trends favoring flat-front cuts, the question of whether you should wear pleats today is often answered with a resounding “no.” It’s time we shed our existing negative perceptions and rethink pleated pants; you can definitely wear them, and we’ll tell you how.

What are Pleated Pants?

In the world of menswear, pleats can be defined as gathered folds of fabric located below the waist, in the area known as the rise, or simply the front, on a pair of trousers. On flat-front trousers, as the name states, the fabric in this area is smooth. Pleats can either be forward facing, in which the folded fabric points inward, toward the fly of your pants, or reverse—pointing in the direction of the pockets. The British style generally favors inward-facing pleats whereas pants in a more Italian, specifically, Neapolitan style usually face outward. In terms of which is better, forward pleats usually receive less criticism as they tend to remain flat, while outward ones may open and stay open, resulting in ballooning fabric. The number of pleats that you have can vary: usually, one or two, though some men have experimented with three and even four pleats.

Double inward-facing pleats on Styleforum.

Why Do Pleated Pants Have a Bad Reputation?

The short answer is that they are simply out of style. In line with the material excesses of the ‘80s, pants from that decade often displayed an excess of material in the form of pleats. Because pleats gather extra fabric in the rise area of a pair of pants, below the waist, if too much fabric is added there it can result in unsightly ballooning in the groin area. Some poor trouser designs also expanded this concept, rather literally, to create more room throughout the pants, especially in the legs. This resulted in a baggy, voluminous garment stereotypically identified with middle-management drones wearing big khakis on casual Friday.

Don Johnson wearing pleated pants (and a large shouldered jacket) typical of the 1980s.

However, if you look at menswear fashion illustrations, advertisements or actors from earlier eras, you’ll often see fuller garments and an abundance of pleats that make them look sharp. Cary Grant wore suits with pleated pants as did Sean Connery in the role of James Bond. Thus, the disdain for pleated pants nowadays stems from the overall preference for slimmer and more fitted looks rather than anything inherently wrong with pleats.

British born actor Cary Grant (1904 – 1986) walking outdoors wearing a pinstripe jacket and a hat, 1940s. (Photo by Getty Images)

Some of the scorn is a matter of generational bias. Pleated pants are weighed down with the connotations of being traditional and stodgy, what your parents or grandparents wore, the garment of old men, as opposed to the youthful minimalism of slim, flat-fronted pants. Gentleman’s Gazette readers, who enjoy classic style, are less likely to reject pleated pants on the basis of traditionalism, but those who do prefer contemporary style will also find versions that appeal to them.

Vintage illustration of suits featuring double pleats from Kuppenheimer, a menswear retailer based in Chicago, photographed by John Blah.

Pleated Pants Today

Some of the issues of past decades have been solved simply by putting pleats on an otherwise more close-fitting pair of trousers, and beginning around 2016 we began seeing these on the designer menswear runways. However, regardless of the vagaries and vacillations of fashion from decade to decade or year to year, it is always possible to find moderately cut pleated pants that are in the “Goldilocks zone”–just right–neither too slim nor too loose fitting and thus timeless. When seeking enduring style, it’s hard to go wrong, no matter your age,  by taking the middle ground, just like choosing a moderate lapel and tie width instead of going too skinny or too wide.

Simon Crompton of Permanent Style wearing Ambrosi pleated pants with a moderate cut

So, Who Should Wear Pleated Pants?

Because of the extra fabric directly below the waist, those who want more comfort and ease of movement of the lower body would be wise to wear pleats. One situation that demands this is if you have some weight around your middle; pleats can help disguise this where more fitted flat-front pants would emphasize the shape of your belly. This is especially true if you wear your pants at your natural waist rather than low on your hips. The extra fabric provided by the pleats and the visual details they offer is enough to hide the size of your waistline.

In the case of Sven Raphael Schneider, he favors pleated pants for a reason that many men experience: they have thicker thighs that are simply not accommodated by modern, slimmer cuts.

Traditionally, pleats are recommended for thicker body types.

On the other hand, it’s usually said that if you have a thin build, pleated pants are a risky proposition because wearing them will give you a baggy, unkempt appearance. However, this is only true if you go for cheap, mass-manufactured pleated pants that are loose all over. If you are lean and like pleats, you can pull off the look by emulating the Italians, especially the style of Naples. They wear pleated trousers with well-fitted legs and often in lighter weight fabrics that avoid a heavy, blousy look. The key is, again, to ensure the cut of the pants is not too full. Otherwise, the result will, at best, give you a definitively retro appearance or, at worst, make you look clownish.

Blogger Blue Loafers shows how pleated pants can look good on a thin frame if properly fitted.

If you frequent menswear forums and comment pages online, you’re likely to encounter the complaints of men who have developed large thighs or seats from working out and are trying to find well-fitting trousers. A simple solution for these guys might be to try wearing pleated pants. The fact that this isn’t usually proposed as an option speaks to the average person’s negative bias against the style. Hopefully, we can counteract this perception.

Interestingly, pleats can be useful both if you sit for a long time and if you are highly active. Long-term sitting, besides increasing your risk of dying, can be more uncomfortable with the greater constriction of flat front pants. They eventually feel snug. On the other hand, if you have a job where you get up and down a lot and are moving about, the opening of the pleats can give you some extra mobility. Lastly, although it has been a rather taboo subject, it should also be mentioned that if you simply want more room for your privates, pleated pants will do the trick.

Paul Lux wearing trousers with open pleats.

How to Wear Pleated Pants

In addition to choosing an appropriate overall fit, there are several things you can do when wearing pleated pants to enhance their appearance.

Start with Lighter Fabrics

To my eye, pleats look best on lighter-weight fabrics. The heavier weight of a material like flannel contributes to the sense of volume created by pleats and can lead to a more old-fashioned look. It can certainly still be done with winter-weight cloth, but proper fit is even more crucial. A cuff can also help add weight to the hem of heavier-weight pleated pants for a trimmer look.

Opt for Fewer Pleats

Single pleats on dress pants blend into and continue the crease that runs up the center of each leg. This creates a longer and sharper line than in flat front pants, where the crease is broken by the smooth rise. So, single pleats are safe, but double pleats can look more relaxed or may be required if your body type demands them.

Single pleated pants present an elegant continuous crease from hem to waistband.

Pair Pleats with a High Rise

The contemporary style of wearing pants at the hips with a low rise is more suitable to flat-front trousers than pleated ones. The added fabric and the pleats themselves generally create a higher rise on the finished garment, which requires wearing them around your waistline. Worn in this way, they also do their job of flattering and disguising a stomach that isn’t perfectly flat.

Pleated pants should be worn high on the waist.

…with or without Cuffs

A search of images online will show a roughly 50-50 divide of pleated pants with or without cuffs. The idea behind getting cuffs is that they add visual weight and emphasis at the bottom of the trousers to counterbalance the appearance of pleats at the top. Cuffs do make the pants a bit more informal and some might see them as more traditional; for a more contemporary look, omit them.

Tailor Them with No Break

Given the potential associations of pleated pants with retro style, you’ll want to avoid a break to look modern. A break at the bottom of your trouser legs can enforce the perception of pleated trousers as sloppy looking. Moreover, a break, as the name suggests, interrupts the continuous crease down the front of your pants legs that a pleat can give you, so if you want to emphasize that sharp look, avoid a break. Lastly, if you decide on cuffs for your pleated pants, as with any pair of cuffed trousers, the convention is to have them just touching the top of your shoe.

Salvatore Ambrosi and Atte Rytkönen wearing suits with cuffed pleated trousers and no break.

Combine Pleated Pants with a Jacket

If you’re cautious about pleats, the easiest way to wear them would be with a jacket, usually as the bottoms of a suit. The jacket minimizes the visibility of the pleats but lets them do their job. They’re still a feature but not too obvious, and it looks like you could very well be wearing flat-front trousers if your jacket is buttoned. With a suit, you may want to go with inward pleats, because of their association with greater formality, and no cuffs. If you are bolder and want a stronger emphasis on your pleats, I recommend observing what the Neapolitan tailors do, especially Salvatore Ambrosi. Wear them high waisted with side adjusters along with an unbuttoned sport coat to carry a sense of summer sprezzatura or invoke a Mediterranean vibe. Alternatively, really flaunt your pleated pants by wearing them with a shirt alone, either a polo or a dress shirt with the collar unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up.

Pleated trousers and a shirt with no jacket at Pitti Uomo

Conclusion

Though it may be difficult to get the man on the street to choose pleated pants, those with a true appreciation of style and an interest in variety know their value. Ultimately, although pleated pants are especially suitable for specific body types, nearly any man can wear them–it’s just a matter of getting ones that fit well and trying them on yourself. Perhaps, if you don’t have them yet, you can broaden your wardrobe and expand your style. Are we “preaching to the choir”? Do you already enjoy pleated pants, or are they something you would take a pass on? Share your views!

PAUL BESPOKE TAILOR

Danang Branch: Best in-house tailor in Da Nang

Add: 17A Hung Vuong, Hai Chau, Danang City.

Email: danang@paultailor.net

Tel: 0236.3537757

Hoi An Branch: Best in-house tailor in Hoi An

Add: 672 Hai Ba Trung, Hoi An City.

Email: hoian@paultailor.net

Tel: 0235.3926879