#I couldn’t find any for primo holding roses

[breanna777]

These men with their flowers..

[galactibabe]

This Vision of my Spirit: Terzo/Papa III x reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: none, just fluff that made me cry

AN: oof my first contribution to Ghost fanfic ever and fanfic in general in a WHILE. This made me cry writing it. I dreamt about this last night so this is literally the transcript of my dream. I miss him sm, blease give him back, Tobias I am begging. Not beta’d, I’m a grammar snob so pls tell me if I missed something! Happy reading uwu

The thunder booms through the abbey, your feet moving quietly down the long halls towards the papal corridor.  You’re not supposed to be here, not anymore, not after they took him from you, but this has become your journey on rough nights.  Nights when it is too difficult to sleep and you feel suffocated by the purple satin sheets you refuse to store away.  

Lightning flashes as you quietly pass the ornate door to Copia’s chambers, startling you briefly before you swiftly move to the opening at the end of the hall.  A spiraling stone staircase leads you down to the crypts, where Papas of the past have been laid to rest.  The stone, cool against the soles of your feet.  Very few members are allowed here, but to be honest, Copia knows you frequent the catacombs under the abbey, he just chooses to ignore it.  You’re not causing any damage or making a mess of things so it isn’t that big of a deal to him.  He has more responsibility now than ever since ascending the papacy, and prefers to attend to more pressing matters within the clergy.

You pass a large mirror leaned against the wall, probably there for storage until the ghouls find a place for it, and take a glance at your reflection.  A nightgown, flowing in black, adorns your body, along with a dark golden shawl with a faded grucifix draped over your head.  The lantern you’re holding gives you a soft glow that would otherwise be otherworldly if you were not mere feet from the body of your love and his family.  In your other hand, you hold your usual offerings.

You press on.

Their caskets are situated on top of their travel crates. Treating them like luggage, you thought.  You’ve nearly begged Copia a few times to at least let them travel in dignity if they have to travel at all. “It is out of my hands, sorella, you know,” he would reply.  “I have power, but not that much.  You know she runs everything, I apologize.”

You pass Nihil and trail your fingers over the edge of the glass case as you slowly walk by, the tears beginning to well in your eyes as you place a gold coin on the end.  You do the same with Primo’s case, tapping the corner once before placing a red rose and moving along.  The tears begin to fall as you pass Secondo’s case and you gently leave the cork from your latest emptied bottle of wine, wrapped in delicate vines with a single sprig of mint above his feet on the glass.

Time seems to stop when you finally reach Terzo.  The small paper with a wax seal and eight simple words on it feels as if it’s burning your hands.  

Always. Forever. To the end of my days.

As soon as you place it at his feet, you fall to your knees, sobs wracking your body as you clutch at the shipment case below.  The spray-painted PAPA III at your eye level almost mocking you.  Imperator never liked that Terzo had chosen you.  

“The leader of this church will not be seen with a… a commoner!  No son of mine will muddle the sacred Emeritus bloodline with the likes of YOU,” she yelled, though Terzo had defended you since the beginning, his love outweighing his necessity to obey.  He was prepared for any punishment that may follow, whether that be demotion or excommunication.  He never expected the worst and that was his downfall.

The memory stung even more the day she had killed him; the day she decided to kill all of them.  You knew that the stunt she pulled with the beheading was to spite you.  She wanted to throw it in your face that she had won, the bloodline would remain as it was, and you would suffer.  

“Why wasn’t it me?  Why couldn’t it have been me,” you wept, shawl falling off your shoulders.  Your fingers gripped the fabric tight, your breath hitching as your lungs struggled for air amidst the sobs.  Your body leans slightly to the side as you finally place the lantern on the floor of the crypt and slump against the crate, cheek pressed against the side.  Your heart aches more and more every time you visit, but you know if you stopped, it would surely kill you.

Some time passes as you sit at the foot of Terzo’s case, your sobbing reduced to free-flowing tears that seem to keep coming.  A far off clock chimes and you realize it’s 3am and figure you should make your way back to the quarters you once shared with your Papa.  You stand and smooth out your clothes, re-draping the shawl over your head and picking up the lantern.  Gazing one last time at the lifeless body of someone that once filled every room with raucous laughter, filthy jokes, loud music, and light before you leave because you need to keep remembering him, even if it’s like this.  “Until next time, my love,” you whisper.

As you approach the mirror, a slight breeze is sent through the crypt, blowing out your lantern, leaving you with the dim light of the few sconces on the walls to see.  You turn back to make sure none of your offerings have blown off their cases when you hear a faint tap tap tap against the stone wall.  You figure it’s just something like the building settling, the electricity in the lighting, something normal, and you move on.  Passing the mirror, you take a final glance at yourself and you gasp.  Down the corridor behind you in the reflection, you think you see a figure and a flash of the white eye that has blessed the men in the Emeritus family.  

“I’m sorry Papa, I-“ you whip around to apologize to Copia for being down in the catacombs this late at night but nothing seems to be there.  Your breath quickens and you clutch the lantern closer as you look around in the darkness.  Your senses are on high alert and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end.  

“And I thought you were only ever going to call me Papa, amore,” you hear around you in a distinct voice you never thought you’d hear again.  Your heart feels like it’s going to stop as your hands shake and you cautiously turn towards the mirror, calling his name into the stone around you.

“Terzo…?” you say, your voice shaking.  This must be a trick of some kind, you think.  One of the crueler ghouls must be messing with you as some sort of joke.  

But as you face the mirror, he’s there. Behind you.  In his paint and his stage regalia, hair combed back like he always had been.  His color is muted, but it’s still him.  You see a nasty scar across his throat and you turn around fast enough that your shawl flies from you, but he’s gone.

“Ai, my love, back around again.”  He adds a slight laugh to the end as you turn back towards the mirror and there he is.  Standing behind you with a soft smile on his face.  

“H-how is this…” you begin.

Terzo cuts you off and steps closer to you, you think you can feel the heat of him there.  “Did you think that the Emeritus men simply die, cara?  With all the power we hold gifted by Him?  Do not tell me you believed in all of this,” he gestures around him, “but did not think that this was a sign of something far greater, more powerful than simplicities of life and death,’” he points to his blessed eye as it glows briefly.  

You must admit, there is a slight fear in your body, adrenaline racing through your system at being able to hear and see him again, but not actually having him there.  You’re sure you’ve gone insane and are seeing things when you watch him place his hands on your hips, and you actually feel the heat and pressure of his palms and fingers.  His arms snake around your waist as he rests his chin on your shoulder and you feel him there.  You really feel him for the first time in years.  You turn your face to look at him, but he’s not there, and so you turn back, still seeing him gazing at you through the reflective surface.  You press your hand to the mirror, tears slipping from your eyes again as you take the image of him in, willing yourself to commit the feeling of him to memory in case this never happens again.

“I miss you so much, Terzo…” you sob in his arms.  He squeezes you a bit tighter, shushing you right next to your ear and you swear you can feel the air leave his lips.

“We have always said it, my love.  Always.  Forever.  Death can not stop me from being by your side at every turn.  My body may have failed but my spirit,” he presses his lips to your head behind your ear in a brief kiss before continuing.  “My spirit lingers.  I believe He is truly not finished with me.  Maybe He senses the power of my love for you, I do not know.”

His smile shocks you, as it is the same one you loved when he was alive.  This all feels so real that you comfortably speak with him without moving your eyes from the mirror.  

“How does it all feel?” you question as your hands drop to your sides and you lean back into him, actually able to be supported by the air behind you.

“Eh, it’s somewhat the same as before. Although things feel, what is the word I am looking for, muffled? Suppressed? Like I am missing something important for the full picture to be revealed to me, yes? But I can see just as well, and hear the same so I suppose it is not too bad.” His eyes travel down to where his hands rest on your body.  “I can still feel you, which is nice.”

At his distracted tone, you raise an eyebrow at him saying “Is this the first time you’ve done this, Terz?”

He looks back up at you and chuckles lightly, “To be fair, yes, I have never been able to actually touch you when I am like this.  A great wonder rests in my head as to how this has occurred but I thank our Dark Lord for this blessing nonetheless.”  His gaze turns serious and worrisome then.  “I do not know how much time I have like this.  I do not know anything of this so let me say this now,” he says as he locks his eyes with your own.  

“I have loved you since the day we met in the garden.  You know this.  But I have loved you even beyond the day everything happened.  I am forever attached to you, mia dea.  Perhaps it was not the Cardinale who came up with the words to that ballad, what is it?  Life Eternal?  Do you not hear me calling to you from the other side when the nights are grim and the moon is full?  Those sensations in your heart when you can not sleep, on nights like these,” the thunder rumbles above as he pauses.  “That has always been me, amore.  Calling to you as I always have.”  He kisses your shoulder, the heat of his lips palpable.  “As I always will.  Until we are reunited by Him above or below.”

You smile tearfully as he finishes his speech, no sonnet in existence could match it.  “I could never stop loving you, Terzo,” you say, sniffling.  “Never in a million years.  They’d have to kill me.”

He laughs as he squeezes you again and sighs.  “Ah, tesoro… how I have missed you.  How I long to be with you once again…  I will certainly put in a request with His Unholiness for more time like this with you.  How it has filled my soul…” he trails off.  

You feel the pressure of him start to fade slightly as the clock on the grounds signals the time to be 3:30am.  You figure he only has minutes left before this power is taken from him and he reads your thoughts as he always has.

“Tell Copia of this, amore.  He will know what to do with the information.  He knows, as every Emeritus does, that there are powers and rituals only to be ventured into when you are completely certain.  I will find a way to be with you again, mia anima.  Trust in our connection to Him.  Trust in yours as well.”  His color starts to fade and you can see through him now, the once brilliant white and green of his eyes now faltering.

“I love you.  So much.” you say, wishing you could stay like this forever.

“Always,” he states, fading even further, his touch now nearly gone.

“Forever,” you reply quietly, watching him fade away and feeling the heat of him disappear completely.

A few more tears fall as you turn away from the mirror to retrieve your shawl.  In placing it back on your head, you brave one last glance before you leave, a smile coming to your face as you see the once faded grucifix in full color, just like new.  

[mcheang]

The most popular girl in school

I’ll admit this was inspired by High School Musical 2. For those of you who have watched it, do you remember on the last day of school before summer, Sharpay asked Ryan who is East High’s most primo boy. Answer: Troy, obviously. And East High’s most primo girl? Ryan glances after Gabriella but answers Sharpay, when she slaps him to answer the question. Sharpay then goes off on a dreamy recitation of her name and Troy’s. When Ryan snaps her out of it, she says it makes sense.

As Adrien happily helps Marinette with a bake sale, the girls all coo over this.

Chloe and Sabrina arrives and scoff at their Adrienette.

When the girls defend Marinette, Chloe raises an eyebrow and asks Sabrina who is the most popular boy at school.

The answer is Adrien, duh. Everyone knows that.

Chloe then asks, “And the most popular girl is...”

Before can Sabrina can answer, Alix responds. “Not you.”

Chloe is insulted but the girls follow up and declare Chloe as being the most infamous.

Chloe scoffs at that and then demands to know who else could be the most popular girl. After all she is the prettiest and richest girl in all of school.

Nobody wants a repeat of the golden rose incident. So Mylene suggests they let Markov judge since he is the most logical of all.

Markov tallies the components of what makes a girl popular: beauty, wealth, number of admirers, fame, social circle...

The results are in. The finalists are Lila, Marinette, and Aurore.

Chloe is infuriated that she didn’t even make the top 3. She got fourth because she does have some mean girl popularity but even Regina held her kingdom in awe of her.

Aurore and Lila she can understand with their fame and celebrity connections. But Dupain-Cheng?

Markov reminds Chloe that Marinette is sponsored by Jagged Stone, is a friendly and sociable class President, and actually holds the record for most male admirers.

Chloe accuses Marinette of tampering with the bot but Max defends her and Markov.

Chloe is upset but decides to sabotage the competition.

First is Aurore. That’s easy enough. Her daddy kicks Manon off that lousy game show and replaces her with his Daughter for the new judge. Luckily Nadja finds a regular role for her Daughter on one of her favourite kid shows. So Manon doesn’t get akumatized. The mayor also arranges for Chloe to star in one of the episodes of a celebrity reality tv series show.

Next is Marinette. Chloe doesn’t do nice, but she can throw awesome parties and become known as the party queen of the school. Slowly, she sends bouquets and love letters to herself and pretends they are from several secret admirers who don’t want to reveal their identities after Dark Cupid.

The last is the one that involves the most work. Chloe has to outshine Lila’s celebrity connections.

First is Jagged Stone because he stays at her daddy’s hotel. Chloe asks if he would be willing to write a new song about her and put it in his next album. She promises to pay him handsomely. Of course Jagged and Penny refuse because who would write a song about a minor? Chloe sulkily reminds him about Lila but Jagged is confused. Lila who?

Chloe realizes she has unwittingly stumbled across a gold mine and gets Sabrina to record this.

Chloe: So, are you saying you don’t know who Lila is? And of course, you’ve never written a song about her?

Jagged: Like I said before, Lila who?

Penny: Is this girl, this Lila, spreading rumors about Jagged writing a song for a minor?

Sabrina: it’s on the Ladyblog!

Chloe: so I’m guessing you’ve never had a kitten

Jagged: I’m allergic to fur, so no.

Chloe: Thank you so much, Jagged!

She and Sabrina leave. Jagged and Penny just stare at each other.

Jagged: Penny, what just happened?

Penny sighs and flips open her phone. “We need to call your lawyer.”

Chloe and Sabrina, of course, pounce on this new info about Lila and decide to start gathering evidence to disprove her.

Getting Ali to talk on FaceTime is hard with his busy schedule but he makes time when Chloe promises to donate to his charity. It’s a short interview but yes, Ali has no idea who Lila is and why should he?

Rose is going to freak.

Getting Ladybug is going to be tricky since she doesn’t answer the Bee signal. But Chloe and Sabrina act like Alya. Basically throw themselves into danger with their phones on record mode.

They get lucky on their first try, Ladybug shrieks with frustration that she is not best friends with that liar and that they should get to safety now!

3 celebrities should be enough. Now, maybe they should look into where Lila has really been for all these months if not at Achu.

Chloe waits until Lila has an entourage before walking smugly up to her and saying, “So Lila, tell us again about Ladybug is up to now. As her BFF, you must know that.”

Lila assumes Chloe wants to talk to Ladybug again and makes up some lie about how she is working on charity cases.

Cue Sabrina playing the recording of Ladybug disproving Lila’s claim.

Chloe narrows her eyes and her smile widens gleefully. “You pathetic little liar. You never knew Ladybug. Or any other celebrity for that matter.”

Lila pales but quickly follows up that Ladybug is just trying to protect her and that Lila had gotten a reprimand from Ladybug about publicizing their friendship.

Chloe raises an eyebrow. “Some friend you must be, to hang off the coattails of a celebrity when they asked you not to.”

Lila’s entourage begins to back away.

Before Lila can spin another excuse, Prince Ali’s voice is heard next and his face is on Sabrina’s phone.

Rose hears what her prince has to say and looks at Lila tearfully. “How could you?”

Lila is panicked. “I didn’t lie.”

Jagged Stone is seen next.

Lila runs away as the crowd glares at her.

Adrien and Marinette are present and run after her to prevent another akuma. It’s a waste of effort because it isn’t Lila who is akumatized, but Rose.

There is a fight yada yada yada. Ladybug admits the truth but also revealed her method of exposing Lila had been harsh so she decided to give her a chance on telling the truth herself.

Alya feels guilty for not checking her sources. She is actually on the verge of being sued but Marinette pleads for to Uncle Jagged to show some leniency. He does so condition Alya make a new video apologising for that Lila interview.

Marinette is relieved about the exposure because, “About time!”

Nino scolds Adrien and teaches him the importance of standing up for the truth and to know what is causing harm (like friends being manipulated).

Lila is confronted by her classmates before she can run away from school (Princess Fragrance made sure she couldn’t escape before). She is backed into a corner, playing the victim when the principal calls her to her office.

Lila takes her chance and heads there. She soon wishes she hadn’t. Donna Rossi is there and she is furious with her daughter.

Donna Rossi had been at work when she received word that Jagged Stone is suing her daughter. At first, Donna wondered if she was being pranked but then the principal called next with a grim voice, asking for an emergency meeting.

How dare her Daughter turn truant? How dare she forge her signature and change her parent contact info? How dare she lie to her face day after day.

Yeah, Lila is suspended and will be repeating a year.

To make certain this doesn’t happen again, Donna hires a full-time Nanny to follow Lila. Her Daughter will also be receiving counselling from a trained professional who won’t be swayed by her glamorous lies.

Meanwhile, Chloe’s plan works. Markov tells her she is now the most popular girl in school. Not only is she a TV personality, the well-known Party queen, but she saved the school from that liar.

Chloe is happy and brags about it, even hosting a party to celebrate it.

Of course, what she doesn’t realize is that in wake of Nino’s lecture, Adrien has gone to Marinette to ask for forgiveness and even offers to treat her to a meal. Marinette accepts this Friend date.

And of course, Markov doesn’t tell Chloe she is tied with Marinette in popularity when Jagged actually writes a song about his adopted family, the Dupain-Chengs, called “Home away from home.” They even film the music video at the bakery.

But then, popularity is so fleeting. It always is.

P.S. Does this count as salt fic? Also, I left a link for the golden rose for those of you who haven’t read it yet.

https://mcheang.tumblr.com/post/189539626035/the-golden-rose

[bcdrawsandwrites]

FFN Link AO3 Link dA Link

Fandom: Coco

Rating: K

Genre: Angst, friendship, hurt/comfort

Characters: Héctor, Chicharrón

Warnings: Broken bones

Description: They knew Héctor would hit a low eventually, but they didn’t realize he’d come crashing down as hard as he did. Chicharrón decided he might as well be the one to pick up the pieces, since no one else was going to.

Notes: these two are such weird friends and I had to write something about their friendship okay

When he didn't come out of his shack for a day, no one could blame him.

When it had been a week since he'd stepped foot outside, even then, they could understand.

One week turned into two, and they wondered if he was even still there.

Three weeks rolled by with no sign of him, and while they worried, they would give him space. They knew he needed time to grieve.

But by the time a month had gone by, Chicharrón had decided he'd had enough.

People saw the old skeleton stomping a warpath around the rotten boardwalk, and there was no question as to where he was going.

"Chicharrón…" Prima Chelo stepped toward him, hands outstretched. "Leave him be. He's still—"

Chicharrón struck his cane against the board he stood on, knocking a chunk of the wood into the water below. "Grieving? A month later?"

"But his wife—"

"His wife, your husband, my sister—we've all been through the same thing," he growled, glaring at the old lady.

"You know what he's going through, then! We all do!" Her yellowed hands curled into fists at her sides.

"Exactly." And Chicharrón kept moving, his cane keeping a steady rhythm against the boardwalk.

"Don't do this to him, Cheech! It won't help him!"

He swung himself around, stomping his cane and splintering the wood beneath him. "And letting him sit and rot will?"

Chelo met his hardened gaze for a moment before hers finally softened. Her arms drooped down at her sides and she hung her head, ashamed.

After regarding her for a moment, he heaved a sigh, resuming his mission.

"Good luck, primo," Chelo called after him. He ignored her.

Finally he turned at a fork that led him to his destination. The shack looked as dilapidated as any of the others, but Chicharrón clicked his non-existent tongue when he noticed the water levels. Shantytown had flooded recently, and while everyone else had fixed up their own homes as much as they could, he couldn't imagine the resident of this one had done anything about it.

Someone could have at least stepped in to help him. Cowards.

He didn't stop to consider that he was one of the ones who had been neglecting his primo.

Stepping up to the doorframe (which had only a tattered cloth covering it), he decided he'd be polite.

For a moment.

Raising his cane, he struck it against the doorframe twice.

No response.

Striking the doorframe again, he lifted his head and raised his voice. "Héctor?"

No response.

Well, that was enough politeness for one day.

Grasping the curtain with his free hand, he yanked it aside, a few of the rings holding it in place popping loose. He stepped into the house, and immediately recoiled as his bare feet sank into two inches of water. The scent of mildew, not uncommon in any given place in Shantytown, was even more pronounced in here, the drawn curtains keeping the stench trapped inside.

Disgusted, but undeterred, his gaze swept around the shack.

The first thing he saw was the guitar.

It had never been a nice guitar—few items that were brought to Shantytown were—but it had been playable. There were times when the whole town would gather to listen to the music Héctor managed to coax from it. He would sometimes play with joy, sometimes with sorrow, but always, always grateful to play for others.

"When my wife gets here," he had told Chicharrón once, grinning as he tuned the strings, "I'll play 'Poco Loco' for her. Did I ever tell you I wrote it about her, when we were alive?"

He had. Enough times that Chicharrón had swung his cane at him and asked him to shut up about it, only half-jokingly. Héctor had never minded, always going right back to strumming the bouncy tune on the guitar's aging strings.

Said guitar had been smashed into roughly seven pieces, each of them equally waterlogged.

He tore his gaze away from the ruined instrument, still searching the shack. There were innumerable papers floating in the water, the writing on them too faded to read anymore. Bottles were scattered around, some sitting atop a worn table and chair, others smashed in the water below. In one corner hung a hammock with a threadbare blanket dangling into the water, and no sign that it had been used in some time.

After taking in the state of the little shack and not finding what he'd come for, Chicharrón's ribcage suddenly tightened.

Dios mio, had it actually happened? When no one was brave enough to check on him? When he was alone?

Anxiety hammering in his ribcage, Chicharrón walked around the shack, searching in the dim light for something he was all at once terrified he would not find. Water sloshed at his feet, and he nearly tripped over a broken bottle half-hidden in the murk. Just as he began to think that maybe he was too late, he paused, spotting something in the corner.

He'd overlooked it more than a few times—it may have just been a pile of clothes and broken junk—but now that he looked closer, he could barely pick up on a hint of yellow bone in the dim light.

Oh, he was going to punch him in his stupid face when this was over.

Héctor was huddled in the corner, curled up in as tight of a ball as his gangly limbs would allow. His face was buried in his knees, his arms folded tightly along his chest, and he was sitting in the water. If he'd moved at some point, Chicharrón hadn't noticed. In fact, Chicharrón wouldn't have been surprised if Héctor hadn't moved at all for some time now.

He was still here, though. Chicharrón could work with that.

Stepping in front of the young man, he nudged him in the side with his cane. "Héctor."

Héctor did not move.

"Héctor," he said again, jabbing him in the ribs.

This time Héctor flinched, but did not respond otherwise.

Chicharrón frowned, lifting his cane and tapping it against Héctor's jaw (or as close as he could manage). "Héctor, if you wanna keep the rest of your teeth, answer me."

Slowly, slowly the young man lifted his head, finally meeting Chicharrón's gaze. His eyes were barely open, exhaustion and grief etched into his features, making him look much older than he actually was. For someone who had been doing nothing but sitting around for an entire month, it didn't look like he'd gotten much sleep, if any.

Héctor stared at him, blinked wearily, and let his head drop back onto his knees.

Oh, that did it.

In a few quick movements uncharacteristic of his age, Chicharrón thrust his arm out, seized Héctor by the collar, yanked him forward, and struck him across the face. "Knock it off!" he growled. "You've been mopin' around for a whole month now. Get up."

He looked more alert now, at least, blinking a few times as his vision came to more of a focus. Once Chicharrón was sure he wasn't going to just slump over again, he let him go.

It took Héctor a moment to start moving. His bones creaked audibly as he rose to his feet, and his legs were shaking. When he began to wobble, he braced himself against the wall with his left hand, his right arm hanging limp at his side. Water dripped from his soaked, musty clothing—what had once been passable-quality blush charro suit.

"Where did you even get that thing?"

"Oh, you know… I just… let's just say I owe someone a few dozen favors."

"What'd'you need a fancy thing like that for?"

He'd hesitated. "I've… been counting the years, and… Imelda's in her seventies, now…"

"Sí. And?"

"If… if I can make this last a few years… I-I want something nice to wear. For her. When she gets here."

He'd been true to his word—he'd kept the suit in as nice a condition as anyone without access to a washer could manage.

Well, until now, apparently.

Chicharrón stepped back to appraise him—the suit was a wreck, and Héctor himself wasn't looking much better. He then looked around the shack, at the standing water surrounding them and the ruined items littering what had once been the floor. Both the house and its resident would need fixing up, but one was more important than the other.

Sighing, he hobbled toward the doorway, gazing out at the overcast sky past the doorframe. When he didn't hear anyone following, he glanced over his shoulder. Héctor was still braced against the wall, watching him.

Chicharrón struck his cane against the doorway. "Get over here, idiota."

It took a moment as Héctor glanced between the wall and the doorframe a few times, but finally he moved his hand from the wall and stepped forward—

—and immediately faceplanted, splashing water onto part of Chicharrón's outfit. Chicharrón gave a cry of disgust while a few miserable bubbles rose up around Héctor's head.

Rolling his eyes, Chicharrón yanked Héctor up by the hair as the other skeleton coughed and spat. "You forget how to walk, amigo?" he asked, cocking an eye ridge. Underneath his exhaustion, Héctor seemed to have the hints of a sheepish smile on his face. "Don't gimme that. You don't got any muscles that can atrophy any more."

Once Héctor had braced his arm against the floor, Chicharrón let him go, and watched as the younger man shakily rose to his feet. He didn't look like he trusted himself to try walking again.

"You fall over again and I'm draggin' you through town by the heel."

Héctor drooped at that, looking helplessly at Chicharrón for a moment before tentatively reaching out to wrap his left arm around the shorter man's shoulders.

"What, you wanna ruin my shirt, too?" Chicharrón grumbled, but made no other protest. Instead he switched his cane to his left hand so he could wrap his right arm around Héctor, easily supporting his meager weight.

Héctor was trembling, he noticed, and he wasn't surprised. At the tail end of winter, the water wasn't exactly warm.

Once they were both sure Héctor's legs weren't going to give out beneath him, they finally stepped out of the house, Héctor blinking in the overcast light.

Their exit didn't go unnoticed.

"Cousin Héctor!"

"Héctor, you're back!"

"Good to see you again, cousin!"

"What happened to you guys?"

A weary smile managed to cross Héctor's face as he walked, but Chicharrón met the cries of greeting and concern with a glare, which eventually silenced them. Some primos seemed to take note of their condition, and Chicharrón watched with no small amount of satisfaction when they crept around him carrying buckets and a towel, among other things.

About time.

Finally they reached the bungalow, and Chicharrón reached behind him with his cane to pull the door shut. That accomplished, he shrugged Héctor off of his shoulders, letting the younger man stumble as he hobbled over to one of his cluttered shelves. "Now get that wrecked suit off of ya," he said. "I got spare clothes 'round here somewhere. We'll see if someone can salvage somethin' from that suit of yours later."

He didn't hear any sign that Héctor was disrobing, but he did hear a loud sneeze somewhere behind him. The corner of his mouth quirked in a smile. "Heh, well, a handkerchief wouldn't be a bad idea, but you might wanna wait 'til it's dry first." He rifled around the shelves, shoving aside a stack of newspapers. "That's what you get for sittin' in cold water for a week."

A sniffle and a moan answered him. That was some amount of progress, at least, but not enough.

"Hurry it up," he said, catching a glimpse of fabric sticking out from under a pile of empty bottles. He yanked it out, sending several of the bottles crashing to the floor, only to find that it was an old dishrag. Eh.

Still keeping a metaphorical ear out for what Héctor was doing, Chicharrón resumed rifling through his shelves until he heard the pop of a disconnecting bone behind him. Frowning, he turned around.

Héctor was sitting on the floor, wincing badly as he carefully pulled on his right hand, his forearm sliding out from under its soaked sleeve. Confused, Chicharrón watched as the younger man finally removed his arm and set it on a nearby table.

The ulna was cracked through.

It wasn't exactly unheard of for Héctor to return to Shantytown with broken bones. Several years back he'd cracked a rib, and only a year ago he'd lost one entirely. But those had both been on Dia de Muertos, each after one of his ridiculous yearly stunts.

It was March.

Chicharrón glanced from the arm back to Héctor, who was staring at the floor and looking ready to curl up on himself again.

Scowling, he limped over to Héctor and struck him in the side with his cane, eliciting a startled yelp from the young man. "Get up and get that sopping wet mess offa' you!" he growled. When Héctor scrambled to his feet, Chicharrón looked him in the eye, and jerked his head back to where the disconnected arm was sitting. "And get outta the way. I think I still got some tape in that cupboard behind you."

He had barely seven inches of duct tape left, but he found a leather strip he could use for the rest. Incidentally, said leather was sitting by a bundle of old (but clean) clothing, which he tossed back to Héctor with the dishtowel he'd found earlier as he set to work on the arm.

The break was close to the end of the bone, where it would connect to the humerus. If the broken end got lost, he wouldn't be losing much of the bone, but he also wouldn't be able to keep the arm bones connected properly. Working carefully, Chicharrón began wrapping both the leather and the duct tape around the bone simultaneously and from different ends. If he could wrap them over each other, it would decrease the chances of either falling off.

Every so often he'd hear a whimper or a stuttering gasp behind him, but otherwise Héctor managed to keep fairly quiet during the whole procedure. As well, he finally did hear the sound of heavy, wet material getting tossed to the floor.

He let the silence hang over them for a moment, and waited until heard cloth wiping over bone before he spoke.

"You knew there was no point in gettin' that suit."

Silence again.

Chicharrón rubbed his thumb over the duct tape, making sure the tape was smooth. "No fancy suit or bouncy song was gonna change her opinion of you."

"H-how…" His voice was a hoarse croak. "How d-did you know she—"

"People don't get left off their family's ofrendas by accident." He took the disconnected arm by the hand, holding it back to Héctor without looking. "I know it, and you know it."

Héctor wordlessly accepted his arm back, and Chicharrón gave him a moment to slip into the clothing he'd tossed him earlier. When he turned around, Héctor was sitting, wearing a too-big unbuttoned shirt with a pair of worn capris, and looking over the patch job on his arm. A few seconds later he covered up the duct tape with his hand and stared at the floor.

"Well?" Chicharrón rested both hands on his cane.

Héctor's face twisted. The difficulty he had in getting the words out had nothing to do with how long it'd been since he'd last talked.

"...She h-hates me," he said, and hung his head.

Truly, a shock to no one but Héctor.

Chicharrón sighed, tapping his phalanges against his cane rhythmically in thought. "Who else you got?"

Lifting his head, Héctor looked at the man in confusion.

"On the other side. Who else you got that remembers you?"

"...Óscar. Felipe. M-my brothers-in-law. A-and… my Coco."

"That it?" Chicharrón grunted. He'd never been great with math, but he was able to make a rough calculation. "So you got… what, twenty years? Thirty, if you're lucky."

Héctor moaned, covering his face.

Rolling his eyes, Chicharrón nudged the man with his cane again. "Stop it and listen. You are not gonna spend the rest of your afterlife grievin' over someone who'd rather give you a crack on the arm than a decent conversation."

Shakily Héctor raised his head, giving Chicharrón a look. "So… I should spend it… listening to someone who'd like to hit me with a cane…?" he croaked.

"As long as you're not sitting around and moping!"

Heaving a deep sigh, Héctor hunched forward, looking deep in thought. "…Coco," he muttered.

Ay, here we go. Chicharrón rubbed his forehead.

"I-I… can still try to see her," Héctor said, a smile crossing his face. A slightly-manic smile. "E-even if Imelda d-doesn't—" He choked, swallowing once, twice.

"Héctor—"

"You said you don't want me moping, Cheech!" he cried, his rough voice cracking. "S-so I'll just go back to plotting! Like always—" He broke off into a sneeze, and shuddered.

"Yeah, fine, get yourself sick n' busted up again." Chicharrón shrugged in exasperation. "Guess there're worse ways to waste your afterlife. But don't let me catch you huddled up in your shack again when it don't do any good."

"If, Cheech, not when." Reaching up, he grabbed the shelf behind him and used it to pull himself to his feet. His legs were still shaking, but not quite as badly as they had been before. "It'll work, eventually."

For as bad as he still looked, he was at least up and moving, and that was what Chicharrón had set out to fix in the first place. Mostly.

"Gracias for the help," Héctor said, rough voice turning a bit more gentle. "And… for the… clothes." He tugged at the edge of his shirt, which hung off of him like a paper bag.

"Mmmhmm." Chciharrón leaned on his cane again.

Héctor looked like he was going to say something else, only to give another loud sneeze. Grinning sheepishly, he began stumbling toward the door. "Well, I'd… better go fix my house." He opened the door and stepped outside. "And… figure out a plan for next Dia de Muertos."

This again. "You're loco, Héctor," Chicharrón called after him, hobbling toward the doorway.

Héctor stopped on the boardwalk. "Optimistic," he corrected without looking back.

"Denial." Chicharrón leaned against his doorframe. "Learn the difference. It's gonna wreck you."

Slowly Héctor turned to face him, giving him a sad smile. "We're all wrecks here, Cheech. Does it really make a difference?"

Chicharrón eyed him for a moment, and shrugged.

Seeming pleased he'd gotten the last word in, Héctor turned back toward his destination. "Buenas noches, Chicharrón."

"You owe me for those clothes, Héctor!" Chicharrón called back, and smirked when he saw the younger man flinch.

He watched as Héctor stumbled out of sight, and turned back into his bungalow.

The ruined charro suit was still sitting on the floor, and he gathered it into his arms, looking for a spot where he could hang it out to dry.

"I can't remember if it was exactly this color… but I think it's close enough to the one I wore when I… when I left."

"So what?"

"Maybe if I wear it, play her song… it'll feel like I haven't been gone at all."

"Pshaw. After what, fifty years?"

"...It's worth a shot?"

Chicharrón shook his head. A lot of good that did him. He tossed the worn fabric over the ropes that supported his hammock.

But… he stood back, looking over the suit again. Not an hour or so ago, Héctor had been wearing it, and sitting in standing water in his shack with no intention of moving. Now, he was out fixing his house and plotting his next bridge-crossing scheme. Both were futile efforts, surely—the town would flood again, as it always did, and Héctor would get hauled off to jail next Dia de Muertos, as he always did.

Denial couldn't keep a man going for fifty years, though. Maybe he did have something going for him.

...Or maybe he was just loco.

We're all wrecks here, Cheech. Does it make a difference?

Maybe, maybe not. They were all heading toward the Final Death anyway… might as well let 'em do what kept 'em going. But one thing he knew for sure…

Héctor wasn't going to find him huddled up alone in his house, in the end.

(A/N: the idea that Imelda was the one to break Héctor’s arm comes from @im-fairly-whitty, who gave me permission to use the idea in this fic!)

[decrou]

The incredible journey of Berwyn’s JP Weber; Why we lost Wayne Sporting Goods; Real estate rumblings in Radnor; Shipley grad’s ‘Wild Life’; Claytor Noone Plastic Surgery; Anti-aging medicine; Personalized test prep & more

JP and Lindsey Weber in 2013 and JP today.

JP Weber clearly remembers the day he died.

“I can’t go back there,” he thought on June 3, 2016. “I’m never going in there again.”

An elite loan originator for PNC Bank, Weber quit his job that late spring morning and walked, blindly, off a cliff. The old JP –  people-pleasing, Percocet-popping, life-of-the-party JP – long crumbling, collapsed completely. And ever-so-slowly, canvas by canvas, rose up and pieced himself back together.

Pinstripe-suited Joseph Paul Weber was buried that Friday morning. Ponytailed, self-actualized artist @JohnHamster was born.

What some call a complete mental breakdown, JP calls The Undoing.

“I have a feeling that I’m at the beginning of a wave of people who are going to be going through this,” he says, calling out a world where there’s “too much distance from the soul.”

There will come a reckoning, he warns.

JP Weber’s undoing had been building for years.

The social binge drinking. “I would drink a case of beer. It was how I survived,” Weber recalls. “Everyone … thought I was awesome and fun. But people I had to live with thought I was an asshole.”

The impinged vertebrae in his neck, triggered by work stress and an exacting boss.

The addiction to opiates, prescribed for neck pain in increasing dosages for five years. “I numbed my way through the pain.”

The growing distance from his wife, Lindsey Meyer, his Conestoga High School Class of ’94 sweetheart, and daughters, Emma, now 14, Lucy, 11, and Jane, 8. “I was repeating the same hurts to my children that I had,” Weber says. His own father, a partner at a Big Eight accounting firm, was “never home.” Lindsey recalls “trying to stay afloat with three kids and a husband who wasn’t home …It felt stressful around here but I wasn’t fully aware.”

The dawning realization that his job was a colossal mismatch. “JP’s in banking? Really?” friends would ask. But the couple didn’t blink. He was GREAT at loan origination, after all, in the President’s Club, tops in his group. “I never made a cold call,” JP recalls. “I just would help others and it would come back.” And his parents approved. “It was the first time I was getting nods from my dad that I was doing something right.”

The common thread? “I found myself through others. I didn’t find myself through me.”

In the years before he cratered, JP had begun to make changes.

He quit drinking.

He took up hot yoga, turning “225 pounds of muscle into 170 pounds of lean,” a 48 Regular into a 42 Long. (Although now he finds himself in “a mushy place in the middle.”) What started as a way to avoid neck surgery became a way of life. Until it closed, Lindsey and JP would take shifts at Bikram Yoga in Berwyn. “Yoga changed our home. It bonded us.”

But Percocet remained a problem. In May of 2015 he turned down a job offer with a $200,000 signing bonus because he knew he’d have to get off painkillers to function in a more demanding role. “I would have just fallen down the same spiral. At PNC, things were easy because of who I was and what I did.”

Six months later, after repeated attempts to quit the pills (“I couldn’t take that first damn step”), an addiction specialist at Bryn Mawr Rehab wrote “scrips for the most Valium I could shove in my face” to get him through withdrawal. In five days, he was off Percocet forever. “I went cold turkey and haven’t had one since.”

But his job at PNC remained unrelenting. A boss forced him to go on business trips when he was unwell and to sign a confession for something he says he didn’t do, i.e. failing to protect his customers’ data. To escape mounting unease, the Starbucks in Gateway became his other home.

On June 3, engulfed by angst, he cratered.

In the dark days that followed, JP would sit in front of a mirror for hours, obsessively picking at his face. Who am I? And what the f#&@ is going on?

He went on disability for mental illness. “Not that I was suicidal, but I could see how this invalidation leads to suicide. I could see how easy it is to stay on Oxy.”

On his fourth try, JP clicked with therapist Ushi Tandon, who helped him deconstruct, then reassemble his unexamined life.

Glimmers of daylight dawned.

Dormant creativity, squelched by his family in childhood, rose again, insistent.

He began flushing out his feelings on canvas. Toys, rulers, tools, whatever was handy, became his brushes. Shaky at first, his hands turned sure.

His creations were florescent, riotous, intricate explosions. What was stuck became unplugged. A life put on hold gushed forth.

Paintings piled up in his garage and basement.

“At first, I was embarrassed,” his wife admits. “I wasn’t sure what this was all about. Why wasn’t JP in a suit? What’s going on around here?”

But then, she started sharing his artwork with friends. The response was overwhelming. Even JP’s father, although he professed not to understand it, acknowledged “there was something there.”

JP’s disability ran out and he was officially fired from PNC Bank on his 44th birthday in August of 2019. His art would have to pay the bills.

Word of his talent started percolating through the Main Line and beyond.

His paintings hung at La Cabra Brewing, then at StudioFlora in Berwyn and are now on display at Christopher’s in Wayne and Malvern and at Aneu in Rosemont.

JP Weber’s paintings on the walls at Christopher’s in Wayne.

A collector of “outsider art,” StudioFlora owner Chrissy Piombino, in particular, was blown away by the paintings she saw in JP’s garage. At Piombino’s urging and with help from Ardmore fiber artist Holly Guertin (Ernie and Irene), his patterned pieces now appear on textiles, zip pouches, linens, some of which are carried at StudioFlora.

The Chicago nonprofit, , named JP its January artist of the month. People around the country have until Jan. 23 to buy his uplifting YAB stickers.

Razimus jewelry in upstate New York is using JP’s fabric designs in their , one of which will promote Christy Turlington’s Every Mother Counts initiative.

His burgeoning @JohnHamster Instagram shows a parade of commercial and residential spaces enlivened by his stunning canvases.

Next on his vision board? Taking his talents on the road to outsider art shows around the country. He also hopes to speak publicly about overcoming mental-health challenges.

“The old me died in an instant,” he says.

In a blaze of glorious color, JP has returned, triumphant.

***Take a quick trip inside the head of JP Weber in this short clip from our fab video partner, OnUp Media.***

Game over for Wayne Sporting Goods

Wayne Sporting Goods, a family-owned landmark for more than 60 years, sold off its team sports business to a national player and is closing its retail store.

“BSN Sports came to us and made us a fair offer,” owner Roger Galczenski tells SAVVY. “They’re really nice people.”

Although Wayne Sporting Goods has been upgrading operations since the late 90s, sales have been sliding. “No one wants to buy anything unless it’s on sale,” Galczenski laments. “We had three consecutive years of profits going down. We had no reason to think 2020 would be any better.”

Unlike most Wayne businesses, Galczenski owns the three-story, 12,000 sq. ft. building that has housed WSG for 60 years. He tells us he doesn’t want to be a landlord and hopes to sell the building.

His father, Alvin, started WSG in the former Floyd’s Bowling Alley in Rosemont in 1955, then moved to the Farnan’s Jewelry building on N. Wayne Ave. for a few years.

Now 73, Roger Galczenski says he’s ready to retire.

“I’ve been coming in every day for 50-some years. The other morning when I woke up it was raining and dark and I thought I’d like to lay in bed. I think I’ll get used to retirement. We’ll see.”

Galczenski’s son, Steve, and his support team will join BSN, servicing current WSG teams from Malvern Prep, Shipley and Eastern University and beyond.

Meanwhile, a 30-percent-off clearance sale began last week. Glaczenski says discounts will deepen until he shuts off the lights for good, likely by the end of February.

Dodo Hamilton’s Wayne estate slated for development

Rough outlines of the former land holdings (in red) of the late Dodo Hamilton that Haverford Properties proposes to develop in Strafford. A civic leader and Campbell’s Soup heiress, she developed the upscale lifestyle center next to her estate, Eagle Village Shops.

Plans are afoot to build multiple homes on the former estate of the late heiress/philanthropist Dodo Hamilton behind Eagle Village Shops in Strafford.

There was some early talk – wishful thinking, perhaps – that the land, which includes a manor home, greenhouses and multiple specimen plantings, would become an offshoot of the PA Horticultural Society. An avid gardener, Hamilton’s entries were perennial winners at the Philadelphia Flower Show, staged by the society.

But sources tell us valuable specimen plantings have been removed and the land, roughly eight acres of primo real estate, is now in the hands of Haverford Properties, where Dodo’s grandson, Sam Hamilton, is a principal.

Seeking neighbors input, the developer shared preliminary ideas with Radnor Commissioner Jack Larkin.

According to Larkin, one plan would put 40 single-family homes on two lots. An alternative plan calls for 41 townhomes on the main property and nine singles on a narrow stretch of land to the east. (Townhomes are not a permitted use under current zoning and would require special approval from the township.)

Hamilton’s home, yard and greenhouses, rimmed in red, would become either townhomes or single-family homes. Single homes would be built along the narrow parcel to the east outlined in orange and on the other side of Strafford Ave.

Concerned about potential traffic and flooding, neighbors crafted a wish list for the property this week, shared with SAVVY. Among its requests:

A detailed stormwater management plan and a commitment from the developer and/or township to put aside money to address any resulting stormwater issues.

A commitment to maintain the same number of mature trees on the property.

Seven single homes instead of nine on the east lot.

Sidewalks from the development to the train station and traffic-calming measures.

“I get the sense that the developer is invested and wants to work with people and not put a blight on the neighborhood,” Larkin tells SAVVY.

Larkin will host a town hall about the proposed development Thursday, Jan. 30 at 7 p.m. at the Radnor Township Municipal Building.

Philly Bloke bolts to Wayne

Eric DeBella in Philly Bloke’s new studio in Wayne.

After nine years in Paoli, Philly Bloke just moved to a new home in Wayne.

And may we say, his new digs are smashing. With a clubby lounge, TVs and a central bar with complimentary cold brew on draft and cold IPAs in the fridge, you might just hang out awhile after your haircut.

And that would be A-OK with owner Eric DeBella, who chose Wayne for its walkable, community feel and more central location.

“We’re all about building relationships,” DeBella says. “We hope clients will stop by whether they’re getting a haircut or not.”

Philly Bloke offers men’s and boy’s cuts (discounts for father-son tandems), beard grooming, and color blending and just launched its own haircare line.

What’s hot in men’s hair? Longer hair and, yes, beards. About 90 percent of his clients have them, DeBella says.

Double the size of Paoli, the new Bloke is a stylish redo of the former Renewal Studio on West Ave. next to Cornerstone Bistro and across from the Great American Pub. (Because he likes to “feed the people who feed me,” DeBella asked longtime customer Brad Giresi to design the buildout and the wife of another Paoli client, Gina Whalen, to help with interiors.)

So what’s a Philly Bloke anyway? A gent who strives to better himself and make a difference in the lives of others, DeBella says. Someone who “feels good about his identity.” In other words, a bloke who’s woke.

, 15 West Avenue, Wayne, 610-644-3984, is open Tues. – Sat. Appointments strongly recommended. Men’s cuts from $33. 

A ‘Wild Life’ – on the Main Line and far beyond

Author Keena Roberts, Shipley ’02, with her proud father, Robert Seyfarth of Devon, at last Sunday’s book signing at Main Point Books in Wayne. Her mother, Dorothy Cheney, a Penn biology professor and primatologist, passed in 2018. Keena and her wife took their fathers’ shared first name when they got married. (, Grand Central Publishing, $28).

When renowned Penn psychologist Robert Seyfarth enrolled his daughters at Shipley, he warned the school that his girls would be part-timers. They’d spend some of the year in Bryn Mawr, but most of it with their parents in a remote camp in Botswana studying the social life of baboons – nature’s classroom, as it were.

No problem, Shipley said. Just make sure they “keep up with math and make them write every day,” Seyfarth recalls.

Terrific advice, it turns out.

Because Seyfarth’s older daughter, Keena, Shipley Class of 2002, just published her first book, Wild Life: Dispatches from a Childhood of Baboons and Button-Downs, a memoir that the author says came from “piles of journals in a closet.”

No daily journal writing from age 8 to 18, no Wild Life.

And what a shame that would be.

We’d never hear about Keena’s extraordinary youth, wherein struggling to survive as “the weird kid” in a Main Line prep school could be tougher than fending off hungry hippos in the bush.

We’d never meet fearless, swashbuckling Keena, who felt at home among circling lions but like an alien on the Shipley field-hockey team.

A first-time author whose day job is health-policy research, it took Keena seven years and four rewrites to get the story right, she says.

She’s already working on book two: a fantasy novel. “It’s Watership Down but with baboons,” the Harvard/Hopkins grad tells SAVVY.

Count on another wild ride.

SPONSORED

Planning to have work done? Best pick the perfect plastic surgeon

Dr. Brannon Claytor with some of his team in his offices near Bryn Mawr Hospital, visible from the window: (from left) registered nurse Melissa Lees, licensed aesthetician Jessica Sager, and certified medical assistant Stephanie Mattis. Claytor performs 75 percent of his operations in his in-office OR, which meets hospital standards for a clean, safe surgical environment.

You only get one face, after all.

You want skilled hands, a cutting-edge mind and a caring heart.

Tall order, right?

Not for Dr. Brannon Claytor, Chief of Plastic Surgery for Main Line Health.

Precise and patient, he explains every step on the “Aesthetic Ladder” and helps you choose which is best for you: from the first rung of non-invasive treatments, to higher rungs involving more aggressive procedures with minimal-to-some downtime, through the top rung, surgery.

“The first thing I tell patients is that this needs to be customized,” Claytor tells SAVVY. “This isn’t Ford Motor Co. pumping out the same product for each person.”

To look simply refreshed and rejuvenated, Claytor says microneedling, injections, lasers and/or peels – all offered in his office – might be all you need.

If you want to take it up a notch without scars, you might be a candidate for a Silhouette InstaLift or an Ellevate neck lift.

A 29-year-old patient before and after Claytor performed the new, no-scar, minimally invasive neck lift, Ellevate, along with SmartLipo and liposuction. Done under local anesthesia with ”absolutely zero pain,” the patient calls the result “amazing …I completely trust him as a physician and artist.” She says Claytor never rushed her during the consult and follow-up appointment, explaining options. “You won’t get a one-size-fits-all experience with him.”

But if your aim is to look ten years younger, you’re probably headed for a full facelift, Claytor says.

Most surgical patients come in complaining about their lower eyelids, jowls or neck, he says. “No one comes in and says their cheek has fallen.”

But that’s just what’s happening. Osteoporosis shrinks facial bones, he explains, and “skin is falling off its scaffolding … If the neck is bad, the cheeks usually need to be addressed. Everything fell as a unit.” A facelift rebalances everything.

Claytor performs short-scar facelifts with minimal downtime for the middle and lower face, traditional SMAS facelifts, and more advanced deep-plane facelifts. Some surgeons shy away from deep-plane lifts for fear they’ll inadvertently injure tiny facial nerves. But Claytor completed a nerve fellowship during his plastic surgery training and has “a deep comfort level with nerves.”

(Above)A 67-year-old woman before and three months after Claytor performed a deep-plane, full facelift. (Below) A 62-year-old Claytor patient before and two months after a deep-plane facelift.

Indeed, Claytor has long pioneered the latest and greatest.

He recently appeared on “The Innovators,” a web-based docuseries about plastic surgery, discussing advances in breast reconstruction.

He was the first local surgeon to perform the Ellevate non-surgical neck lift.

He’s completed (or soon will complete) clinical trials of microneedling for facial rejuvenation; the topical collagen Excellagen to shorten downtime after deep chemical peels or laser treatments; and Alastin to improve skin after liposuction.

“When I can, I like to be part of the evidence side of medicine,” Claytor says.

For good or ill, the internet and social media, he says, are “massive equalizers” in which everyone gets a platform. “People in our own community who are not plastic surgeons are performing these procedures in their offices.” They took weekend courses and don’t have nine years of specialized training and board certification, he says. “Today, if you’re not telling people what you do, they’ll find someone who will.”

Also setting Claytor apart: his in-office surgical suite, fully inspected and nationally accredited and where about 75 percent of patients choose to have facelifts and other procedures under local anesthesia. Not only do they save on operating room and anesthesia fees but, God forbid, if something were to happen, Bryn Mawr Hospital’s ER is right across the street. “I think I’m the only plastic surgeon I know who has a full-blown operating room in his office.”

And then there’s Claytor’s refreshing personal touch. He gives patients his cell phone number and calls everyone the night before surgery. “Inevitably, they have a question, which they were too shy to call and ask me about.”

The night of surgery, he calls the patient to check on recovery. “If there is a concern, I will have them come right to the office. I’ve seen patients at 11 o’clock at night!”

Claytor’s easygoing personality puts people at ease, crucial in a field as personal as plastics. He’s confident and self-assured, yes. But arrogant? Never.

“I go out of my way to create a peer relationship with the patient,” he says. “I want people to be as comfortable as they can be. It makes the whole experience so much more productive and positive.”

Twenty years in practice and his endgame hasn’t changed: a natural look. You, but better.

“I want people to say to my patients: ‘You look fabulous. Did you get a new haircut?’”

Everyone will notice, but no one will know.

Claytor Noone Plastic Surgery, 135 S. Bryn Mawr Ave., Suite 300, Bryn Mawr, 610-527-4833,  Photos and news @ClaytorNoonPlasticSurgery on and and at .

Gingy’s moving out of Malvern

Boutique owner Jean Tremblay with her mother and daughter, Betsy, at Gingy’s 10th anniversary celebration in Malvern. Gingy’s also has locations in Stone Harbor and Newport, RI.

After 12 years in Malvern, the last five on a sunny King Street corner, Gingy’s Boutique is moving to Wayne. 2 East King was sold last summer and the building’s new owner raised her rent “significantly,” Gingy’s proprietor Jean Tremblay tells SAVVY.

After searching up and down the Pike, she settled on another sunlit corner, 168 E. Lancaster Ave., the former home of Argus Printing in downtown Wayne.

The spot reminds her of 2 East King, Tremblay says. Plus, it had room for a design studio for clothing line.

Doors should open by mid-March. In the meantime, there’s a huge moving sale in progress at Gingy’s Malvern store, which closes for good Jan. 25. (***Mention this article in SAVVY for an extra 10-percent off!***)

“At first, the circumstances that caused me to move devastated me.” Tremblay says. “But I am thinking things happen for a reason and I’m looking to the future.”

SPONSORED

Rosemont physician’s switch to anti-aging holistic medicine started with her own diagnosis

By Dawn Warden

Flipping from doctor to patient can be a pivotal experience as Dr. Seema Bonney discovered after she was diagnosed with pulmonary thrombosis in her early 30s.

Looking back, it’s quite possible that her switch from Emergency Medicine physician to founder of the and a long list of certifications and achievements might not have occurred if she’d received better care.

Being on the other side of diagnosis and treatment not only altered the way Bonney engaged with patients, it enabled her to test out knowledge gained through emergency room interactions. In many cases, Bonney was able to attribute panicked patients’ medical flare-ups to underlying chronic conditions, nutrition deficits, sleeping patterns, lifestyle and more.

“So many people come into the ER presenting with symptoms that reveal an undiagnosed chronic condition,” Bonney says. “These trips could have been avoided if the patient had insights into his or her personal health profile.”

In Bonney’s case, doctors showed little interest in identifying possible causes.

“I was repeatedly told, ‘You’re lucky to be alive’ and ‘There’s no clear cause,’” Bonney explains. “It was important to ‘fix’ me, but they also needed to help me understand the sudden onset and how to predict future occurrences or escalations. My philosophy has always been: Life is meant to be enjoyed to its fullest … hard to accomplish when burdened by physical or medical issues. Prevention is crucial, and its absence during my treatment completely altered my perspective and my career path.”

Today, Bonney is one of the region’s leading advocates for holistic and functional medical therapies with a thriving practice in Rosemont. Working in partnership with patients, she creates opportunities for self-advocacy and helps patients strategize ways to live as health-fully as possible for as long as possible.

“I went into Emergency Medicine because I wanted to save lives. Now, I am doing it in a different way. And, the good news is: It’s never too late, or too early, to develop healthy habits.”

, 484-222-0369, specializes in functional, integrative and aesthetic medicine and services, including medical weight loss, hormone and IV therapies, treatments for adrenal fatigue/thyroid/autoimmune issues and skin rejuvenation. Named #1 for Integrative Medicine in Main Line Today in 2019.  

Takeaways from a T/E para-educator’s wild time in Thailand

Zatuchni spent a month at observing and feeding rescued and retired elephants in central Thailand and returns with a message for tourists.

A teacher’s aide at Valley Forge Middle School just spent a month in Thailand – not lollygagging on a beach but sweating through 98-degree heat and 100-percent humidity.

“I loved every moment of it,” says Julie Zatuchni of her stay at Boon Lott’s Elephant Sanctuary. Even when she hoisted dung, walked through spider webs, and slept with chirping geckos in her room.

Zatuchni cared for and befriended the elephants but hardly touched them.

“If touching is allowed at an elephant sanctuary, you don’t want to go there,” Zatuchni says. Sanctuary tourism is huge in Thailand and Myanmar, where posters of women in bikinis on every tuktuk and taxi lure folks to swim and bathe with elephants.

But sitting on elephants pushes on their organs and hurts their spines, she says. Plus, elephants used in tourism are kept on short chains. “They can’t move. They can’t scratch themselves or cool themselves off with mud or water.” Trainers hit them with bull hooks. Females are often force-bred and their babies are sold off.

“A lot of places say they’re ethically treating animals, but they’re not,” Zatuchni says. “It’s a horrible, sad existence.”

BLES was founded by a British woman, Katherine Connor, who fell in love with a baby elephant, “Boon Lott,” while backpacking through Thailand at age 21 and discovered her life’s calling. Connor rescues and nurses back to health elephants abused in the logging and tourist trades.

Now in its 13th year, BLES is a safe, forever home for 11 elephants who wander freely on 750 acres where they happily chomp on, literally, tons of fruits, grasses, leaves and seeds.

Valley Forge Middle School para-educator Julie Zatuchni shoveling elephant dung and gathering food in Sukhothai, Thailand in October.

Ask Zatuchni, who’s volunteered with Main Line Animal Rescue, Global March for Elephants and Rhinos, Sheldrick Wildlife Trust, and co-created a Facebook page, why she loves elephants, then take a seat. She’ll be a while.

They have amazing memories, she’ll tell you. They’re devoted caretakers of their young, zealously protect the herd, and even mourn their dead. “They have personalities just like we do … You look into their eyes and see their souls,” Zatuchni says.

In central Thailand, Boon Lott’s Elephant Sanctuary welcomes donations, guests and volunteers.

SPONSORED

Better scores, better schools with Crimson Review Test Prep

By Ryan Richards

On the lobby wall of Crimson Review’s spacious and sunlit tutoring center in Wayne is a large crimson owl, symbol of wisdom.

Smart choice.

Because Crimson Review’s instructors are the sages of Main Line test prep – for SATs and ACTs, National Merit Scholarship qualifying exams (PSATs) and private-school admissions tests (SSATs, ISEEs and HSPTs).

Founded in 1986 by Harvard grad and Wayne resident William H. Wood, Crimson Review offers year-round one-on-one instruction, small-group classes, as well as an intensive SAT , which guarantees to raise qualified students’ scores 250 points or to the 98th+ percentile.

Rates for all options are affordable and tutors are top-notch.

Each has deep understanding of each test and prepares students through comprehensive instruction and practice testing, according to Crimson Review Director Craig Miller.

Crimson Review Director Craig Miller at the test-prep company’s Wayne location.

Crimson instructors graduated from top-tier colleges and are required to have scored in the top of the range on their own standardized tests. They work patiently with students of all academic abilities. “We really want to be a positive environment,” says Miller. Instructors also share proven strategies to ease test anxiety.

With two convenient locations – in Wayne and Malvern – Crimson Review’s small class sizes allow tutors to “get to know every student who comes through our doors,” says Miller. Being independently owned (vs. a corporate franchise), “We have the advantage of customizing and being much more personal.”

Crimson Review also continuously refines its curriculum based on current best practices. As a result, scores improve enough to open up an entirely different set of options, turning dream schools into realistic options.

“My son, Luke, was well prepared and had no fears about his ability to tackle the test, based on his experience with his [Crimson Review] tutor,” reports Exton mom Alicia Snyder.

It’s all about practice, adds veteran instructor Jason Cohen. “We have our students systemically go through each question type, learning both content knowledge and test-taking strategies … The more students can practice with actual practice tests from real exams, the better.”

, 347 E. Conestoga Rd. Wayne and 967 E. Swedesford Rd., Malvern, 610-688-6441, info@crimsonreview.com, offers tutoring and classes in test prep and essay writing. Group & referral discounts available. Register for by 2/8 for $300 off. Visit . Follow on , Instagram and Twitter.

Magnolia Cottage in Malvern: charming goods, painted furniture and craft classes

The western Main Line has a new experiential retailer, Magnolia Cottage, now open in the former Sprouts consignment shop on W. Lancaster Ave.

Owner is Malvern’s Kathy Snow, a nurse who couldn’t find part-time work after raising her kids. “I took my hobby – painting furniture – and thought, ‘Let’s give it a shot.’”

Owner Kathy Snow plays around with a scarf at her new home goods/social crafting shop. Photos by Carla Zambelli.

Magnolia Cottage sells cute but not kitschy gifts, many from local women artisans, and vintage furniture painted by Snow. (Or pick a wooden piece off the floor and have her paint it to your liking). A craft room will house classes in stenciling, furniture painting and more.

Magnolia Cottage, 288 Lancaster Ave., Malvern, 484-320-8022, is open Tuesday – Saturday, noon to 5, Sundays, noon to 3. Pottery demo with Caitlyn Davis, Saturday, Jan. 18. Young Rembrandt art class for preschoolers to age 12, Sunday, Jan. 19.

New homes heading to Radnor as two colleges sell land

Star shows rough area that Eastern College has tentatively agreed to sell to Concordia Group.

Eastern University and Valley Forge Military are shrinking their footprints in Radnor.

The Concordia Group is under agreement to buy 19. 5 acres at Eastern University, SAVVY has learned. The DC-based developer hopes to put “no more than 20-21  homes” on the parcel but won’t submit plans until it gets feedback from neighbors, according to Concordia’s Devin Tuohey.

Concordia would bulldoze a parking lot and 14 circa-1970 homes that Valley Forge Military Academy currently leases for faculty, Tuohey tells us. The tract is along Radnor St. Rd. between Eagle Rd. and Walnut Ave.

Eager to be a good neighbor, Tuohey says he’ll share architectural drawings with the North Wayne Protective Association before he asks Radnor Township for zoning relief and begins the long approval process.

And Tom Bentley is back building on the Main Line. He paid Valley Forge Military Academy and College $1.65 million for a five-acre parcel along Radnor Rd. and Upper Gulph Rd., according to the . He plans to build scaled-down (by Bentley standards), single-family homes on the lot. Infrastructure improvements are already underway.

Two boutiques bow out of Bryn Mawr

Louella Boutique has left Bryn Mawr. Owner Maria Delany tells SAVVY that she’s decided to focus on her stores in Wayne, Malvern and especially Avalon, which has been “such a hit” since it opened last May.

A retail recruiter helped bring Louella to Bryn Mawr in the spring of 2017, Delany says.  In retrospect, “Bryn Mawr was too close to our Wayne store, which is bigger and has a broader selection.” A smoke shop has taken over the lease.

Meanwhile, Knit Wit, down to one seasonal store in Margate, plans to pop up again on the Main Line. The Bryn Mawr Knit Wit closed in December. Owner Ann Gitter, 72, told the Inquirer that “rents are bad everywhere … that’s why independents are closing.” Retail is “a brutal business,” she said, and she’s ready for a breather but plans popups on the Main Line and in Philly.

Southern Charmer dazzles at ELLIE Main Line

Kristen Kearns with Southern Charm TV star Craig Conover at ELLIE Main Line in December.

Reality TV hottie Craig Conover wasn’t due to show until 1 p.m. or so, but some Main Line ladies weren’t taking any chances. They started lining up – some on lawn chairs –outside ELLIE in Eagle Village Shops at 10:30 that sunny Sunday morning, three days before Christmas. Gift wrapping and baking could wait.

The draw, of course, was a close encounter with Conover. A quick chat, a hug and a pic. The lure? His “Sewing Down South” pillows – along with lite bites, bubbly, discounts on ELLIE fashions and assorted swag.

So yeah, there was pillow talk.

This and That

Here’s a timely tale: After its sign was stolen, its Iranian tiles vandalized and multiple ugly phone threats – “Go back to where you came from” and similar, Tehrani Bros. decided enough was enough. The oriental rug merchant, in business for 43 years, has changed its name to Bryn Mawr Oriental Rugs, reports . In its heyday, the three brothers had four stores, including one in Wayne, and sold to celebs like Julius Irving, M. Night Shyamalan and Patti LaBelle.

Should Devereux Advanced Behavioral Health be in the business of sheltering unaccompanied minor children in Devon? That’s the Backed by some Latino groups, a group of highly-organized neighbors says no way. Others, including some local church leaders, say yes. The Easttown Zoning Hearing Board picks up this hot potato on Jan. 23 at Beaumont Elementary at 7 p.m. Will the board approve the shelter as a “non-conforming use” on Devereux land that’s zoned residential? Some neighbors had hoped Devereux would sell to a home builder instead.

That was quick. Less than a year and half after it opened, Café Lift has closed in Narberth. Sales were strong but the “bruncherie” concept wasn’t doing enough business to support the pricey liquor license, owner Michael Pasquarello .

­­­­After a much longer run (19 years), Tango pulled out of the Bryn Mawr train station for good on Dec. 26.

Seeing red – and wearing it in a show of solidarity, Monday night. At issue: a proposal to juggle school start times. Parents are signing petitions and on Monday carried signs reading “All kids need sleep.” Lower Merion is talking about moving elementary school start times from 9 a.m. to 7:45.

Picketers plan to march on Lancaster Ave. Monday, Martin Luther King Day, to protest plans to put billboards in Bryn Mawr, the day before . Basically, it’s Catalyst Outdoor Advertising vs. every town on the Main Line. Catalyst has proven relentless – scaling back the size of its proposed billboards after zoning boards and courts have ruled against them.

One of the eight most expensive streets in golf is on the Main Line. Shocking, we know. listed Cambridge Road in Ardmore Number 7. Average home price on Cambridge is $2.25 million. But being able to simply walk onto one of Merion Golf’s stellar courses? Priceless.

Helmets off to Wayne native and St. Joe’s Prep/Penn standout Kevin Stefanski, 37, who just became the NFL’s third youngest head coach. Stefanski signed a five-year deal to lead the Cleveland Browns. Proud papa Ed Stefanski played for the 76ers and served as GM from 2007 to 2011.

Rosemont College announced its new president Tuesday. And, guess what, it’s a guy – a first for the nearly 100-year-old Catholic college. Cleary University President Jayson Boyers, 48, a Catholic, will take the reins in July, when current President Sharon Latchaw Hirsh retires.

When the good Lord closes a taco door, he opens a taco window. Owner illness sadly ended Pipeline Taco’s run in Wayne. But right up the street, no-frills taqueria El Limon is set to open in the old Avenue Eatz space at 128 W. Lancaster.

Malvern businesswoman Marian Moskowitz was elected chair and Josh Maxwell will be co-chair of the Chester County Board of Commissioners. The two newbies were sworn in along with veteran commissioner Michelle Kichline of Berwyn on Jan. 2. And may we say, we appreciate the bi-partisanship that Chesco Commissioners have been showing the last few years. Refreshing.

So what if New Year’s Eve has come and gone. Break out the bubbly anyway. Then, break in that new bike. Because the Chester Valley Trail will soon connect to the Schuylkill River Trail. Yup, 34 miles of glorious asphalt stretching from Exton to Philly. Montco Commissioners voted to allocate $10 million of its 2020 budget to trail work in and around Philly. Federal, state and local grants are kicking in another $8 million. Yipppeeeeee.

Glad New Year’s tidings from the Devon Horse Show and Country Fair, which says it’s celebrating its “four top accomplishments of 2019”:

It paid off its $2 million mortgage and enters 2020 debt-free.

It added a few successful events: a Kentucky Oaks Party for Young Friends, Devon After Hours for select patrons on its busiest night, and the return of the Fall Classic, which sported a record number of entries.

It renewed its $2 million pledge to Bryn Mawr Hospital and presented the hospital with a $375,000 check to support expansion of its behavioral health unit.

It spent $385K on infrastructure improvements and increased prize money by $40K.

Unlike other Main Line townships where leadership is nearly 100% blue, Easttown is edging toward … purple. The Easttown Democratic Committee just put out a detailed statement, reporting that 53% of Easttown voters are either Democrats or Indies but membership on the township’s boards and commissions skews Republican (79%). The report also notes that the township’s civic servants are a tad in the tooth (average age 61) and mostly male (67%) and therefore don’t “reflect the township’s diversity.” Notable exceptions: The Planning Commission is split 50/50. And two Dems were just sworn in as supervisors so the split there is 60 red/40 blue.

Got stressed-out teens? (Who doesn’t?) Learn how to help them survive and thrive at a free, non-denominational talk by Penn psychiatrist Anthony Rostain and therapist B. Janet Hibbs, local authors of The Stressed Years of Their Lives on Sunday, Jan. 26 at Wayne Presbyterian Church at 6 p.m. RSVP here.

Another January thaw this weekend? In temperature, no. In spirit, yes. Three Berwyn Village spots are staging a Tiki Crawl Saturday, Jan. 18 to benefit Berwyn Fire Co. (And if you’ve been reading SAVVY, you know our first responders really need the help.) The fun starts at 5 p.m. at the Berwyn Tavern, moves to La Cabra Brewing at 7 and 30 Main at 9. Park once, indulge thrice. La Cabra tells us it’s smoking a suckling pig and giving away half-pints of liquid courage to karaoke participants. Aloha.

Want to publicize your special event? Your SAVVY Calendar is here! Choose a free basic listing or an enhanced listing with image and extra info for a small service fee. No charge for current SAVVY advertisers

  Contact kathy@savvyml.com for deets.

Hope you’ll show some love to our early-winter advertisers, all high-quality LOCAL businesses. We couldn’t keep you savvy without: , in Wayne, , of Ardmore and West Chester, in Bryn Mawr, in Wayne and Malvern, in Rosemont,  Wayne Early Learning Center, , , , in Paoli, in Berwyn, Your Organizing Consultants, Day Spa by Zsuzsanna in Wayne, and in Wayne and Haverford, Paper & Design of Berwyn, Realtor , , of Real Estate Professionals, in Berwyn, , in Bryn Mawr, Rustic Brush in Berwyn, , , in Wayne and Berwyn, .

And finally, we got such a kick out of playing Santa Claus in December. Congrats to the winners and heartfelt thanks to the 12 elves who donated prizes to SAVVY’s 12 Days of Giving: BSWANKY handbags, Kramer Drive, HomeCooked, Peachtree Catering, Rebecca Adler Art, Restore Cryosauna, Rose-colored Glasses Photography, SamSara Gear, Strafford Chiropractic & Healing Center, Philly Bloke, Argyle Floral & Gifts and Village Wellness.

One of our 12 lucky winners, single mom Amy Shumonski, shown here with her son, picks up $150 worth of tasty prizes from HomeCooked owner Claire Guarino in Paoli.

The post The incredible journey of Berwyn’s JP Weber; Why we lost Wayne Sporting Goods; Real estate rumblings in Radnor; Shipley grad’s ‘Wild Life’; Claytor Noone Plastic Surgery; Anti-aging medicine; Personalized test prep & more appeared first on SAVVY MAINLINE.

This content was originally published here.

[unworthy-stars]

Red Roses and Red Cheeks

Last week an anon requested something GerIta and as I promised here it is. It is in Flourist AU with Ludwig (Germany) being the shopkeeper:

Not a single soul could be seen near "Beilschmidt's", a flower shop in the narrow streets of Venice. Perhaps it was the weird name of the owner, Ludwig Beilschmidt. Apparently he had no Italian origin, something distracting the mere tourist from the Italian aura of the city. Something with German routes couldn't possibly sell in a vera Italiana citá.

Quite an irony cause Ludwig was selling first and fairmost Italian flowers. Mostly little bushes, but also blossoms such as lilies, daisies and poppies. All plants mattered to him and each one had importance and effect on him.

His shop was really colourful and approachable. All kinds of colours painted every corner of the small room and the road, but no one was eager to enter and pay attention to any of his plants. Red, pink, white, blue and purple were strokes of the huge painting of his unremarkable shop.

One spring day, Ludwig was humming his favourite song while he was taking care of some azaleas. He felt quite lonely as he had left his family back in Berlin. It was just him and his flowers in a quiet room. They were the ones feeling him with comfort.

'Buongiorno!' an Italian almost broke the glass door of the shop 'Vogli-'

'English speaker. Still in the process of learning Italian.' he said unconciously.

After realising his huge blunder he had made he ran to his very first customer and tried to hold him back 'Scuza mi signore...eh...primo...k-kunde' he couldn't remember the word for "customer".

'Oh, I am your first customer. No need to worry, I can understand English. I am also a student of Italian philology so I am kind of an Italian teacher ve!'

The German dried his sweat and smiled at his customer. The man was surely from the Mediterranean. Tanned skin, almond eyes, brunet and a slim body. He wore a loose white shirt and matched it with brown trousers. The cross necklace around his neck was apparent.

'Una rosa per favore!'

'Bianca o...' Ludwig couldn't remember the other colours.

'Rossa!' he pointed at the red ones.

'Ros-sa?' he ran to the corner of the red roses and cut one 'Una?'

'Si, una!' the Italian smiled at him.

Ludwig pointed at the bows. The customer nodded negatively and so Ludwig handed him the pretty rose.

The little Italian widened his eyes with excitement. The rose was indeed beautiful. So beautiful he squeezed it on his chest and smiled.

'Grazie mille!' he thanked the florist.

Ludwig smiled back at his first customer. He was so gracefully touching the rose, with such delicance and attention. Hid over-excitement though led to him wound himself by the sharp thorns of the flower's body. The Italian didn't look scared as he was staring at his red by the blood hand. He would be if he wasn't used to seeing it.

'Eh-eh let me take my first aid kit! I'll find a bandage for your fingers!' he seriously didn't know any Italian.

He rushed to get the red and white box with all the necessary medical treatment. When he discovered it under a bunch of gardening scissors he didn't hestitate to apply the antiseptic and wrap the bandages around the Italian's long fingers.

'I am Ludwig Beilschmidt apparently. I own the shop,' he introduced himself to the customer.

'Feliciano.' he replied with a giggle.

Ludwig wrapped the Italian's pinky finger tightly and gave him the rose again, but this time with all thorns cut. Feliciano smiled as he exitted the shop with the red rose in his right hand.

Ludwig stared at the glass door for a minute before realising that he was daydreaming. That Feliciano was his very first and only customer. That gave him hope that more friends of his would pay a visit to the small hidden shop.

All his dreams were crushed when Feliciano entered the shop again asking for an other red rose. Ludwig laughed when the student sneezed because of the bell purple flowers. They were known for being constant troublemakers.

'Here's your flower!' he handed him the rose.

'Grazie signore Beilschmidt!'

'Ludwig, just Ludwig. We must be around the same age anyways,'

Ludwig had dropped his studies on agriculture to run the shop. His whole family was attached to this industry, even if it was back in Germany. Even his brother, known to be a complete savage, had a fondness of it, especially the ground texture. How could he disappoint the decent?

'Oh...I see! See you tomorrow! Arrivederci!' Feliciano waved his hand and exitted with the rose in his palm.

Ludwig thought he blushed for a moment, but it turned out to be some jasmine blossoms touching his pale cheek. The thought of seeing the Italian boy again was a really exciting idea and gave him hope. He would give a shot in happiness once again.

When he was younger Ludwig had experienced a heavy heartbreak. He might indeed have been eight years old but he fell in love with a really pretty girl from Italy. Her charismatic drawing, her eagerness and usefulness were enough for him to fall for her. His brother had also pointed out she had pretty curves, but he didn't understand what that meant.

At a time, his father forced little Ludwig to stop hanging out with the cute girl and they moves away from that village. He never saw her again.

That's why he thought he would find her in Italy, the reason he moved so far away. It had all been for a stupid childhood unrequited crush.

The way Feliciano had embraced the hurful rose the precious day made him remember how his Italian girl used to hug her broomstick. Bravely, hiding the pain of holding something they actually hate and with more love than anyone else. These closed eyes seeing everything.

And as Feliciano had promised, he indeed came the next day to buy an other day. And the one after that. And the one following. Daily. Ludwig couldn't receive so many roses and certainly not take care of every single one.

That's when Feliciano changed his preference from red roses to pink roses and then to white. Ludwig couldn't stop giving his precious roses to the generous customer, no matter how absurd the whole situation looked. He had to earn money somehow.

One day Ludwig decided to go to Feliciano's house, just to say hello. He had been feeling down and lonely and Feliciano was the closest he had to a friend. He had also been that naive to give Ludwig his exact address.

Feliciano's letters were calligraphical. They were more circular than usual and gave them a romantic character. The dots were little lined hearts, matching his weird hair curl. That revealed his childish personality.

As he was walking near the canal he noticed something weird floating on the water. It looked like blood in the water. Ludwig checked again. He focused more and concluded that it wasn't what he had assumed at first...but it was his very own rose!

Going towards the origin of the rose blossom he came across other similar roses. Somewhen pink and white ones joined the rest. The waves doffed some pretty rose blossoms. Ludwig had the honour to grab one.

When he had reached Feliciano's residence, he dropped the rose he held in the sight of a tailor's shop. Inside it a similar to Feliciano boy was working on a fabric. However he wasn't Feliciano.

He wondered why his pretty flowers were dropped in one of Venice's canals. Did his only customer not like them? What could be wrong with such magnificent flowers?

Sad, tired and disappointed he returned to his little shop to water the chrysanthema. His flowers were his only support in times like this. They reminded him that he wasn't a complete failure and that he had done something useful and remarkable. Somehow their little petals were moving, talking to him, advising him.

After a sleepless night, Ludwig decided to head downstairs to the shop. He looked really pale and ready to be taken by Death's cold hands regardless of his young age. His dull blue eyes stared at the cieling in hope something interesting would happen up there. His hands played with the bows.

'Buonasera!' the ring went off when the familiar boy entered the shop again 'Una bianca signore Ludwig!'

He unconciously headed to the rose spot to cut the wanted rose. When he realised he had already got there he stopped, scissors in his right hand. He sighed and tried to smile to the unfaithful man.

'So, how does the lucky signorina look like?' he asked.

'There is no signorina I give the roses to,' he paused for a bit ', I have decided to give my love to someone else!'

Ludwig perfectly understood what Feliciano meant by that and he tried to remain calm. He hadn't met many homosexuals before and this was said a bit suddenly. Did Feliciano trust him that much to come out so easily?

He hoped that his assumption was right and there was nothing else involved such as love for his religion or his love and dedication to his studies and perhaps work. Or else he would be really embarassed he had thought of the first scenario.

'Is he the person you buy the roses for?' Ludwig asked to make sure.

'He is the person who gives me the roses.' Feliciano admitted with confidence.

Ludwig blushed not expecting the answer. He was truly flatterned but he didn't know if he could love a man. Or generally love, after the heartbreak he had experienced.

'In the past I loved a German kid whose art skills were worse than a monkey's, but he had a passion for flowery.' the Italian scratched his neck 'These particular flowers you take care of remind me of him so much that I can still feel his presence in this room. So intense are these flower's power that they almost resurrect him from the dead!' he stared at Ludwig's eyes 'And you, you and your German origins, bring back his soul and spirit. I can't help but fall in love with someone that resembles so much him to the point he is almost the same as him!'

Ludwig leaned on him. He put his mouth next to his ear in a centimeter's distance. He let his lips move and whisper those sweet words to his long lost love.

'It is normal to fall in love with someone he looks alike. But wouldn't it be better if you knew he stands right in front of you?' Feliciano's cheeks turned to red 'Afterall it is a totally true love you are experiencing. It would be a waste to lose it because the man in front of you isn't good at confessing. We Germans aren't open and friendly, but we know how to love...occasionaly.' Ludwig paused 'And yes it is possible to fall in love when you are eight years old. Because this is how love works. Unexpectedly. And that's how life works too and brings you your and my beloved one back!'

Feliciano couldn't help but kiss Ludwig. The German replied to it, despite it being something new. And he replied with passion, showing Feliciano how much he loved him and how much he had missed him. Same goes for the Italian.

'Love is a wonderful thing' Feliciano said in order to breathe and let his tears of joy touch Ludwig's also red cheeks while he went for an other kiss.

Two men with red cheeks, four hands on the piano of life, four feet dancing in circles of the waltz, two pairs of eyes to explore the world.

What a wonderful beautiful world it is when it is filled with love.