#I imagine her being a lot more eager to build her colony at first until she starts finding gravitas stuff and starts throwing hissy fits

[arolesbianism]

Thinks oh so hard abt raccoon au printing pod doomed yuri.... What if you were a robot in love with your fellow robot but your past human selves had to fuck it all up and murder eachother 🙄

[ncssian]

A Favor: Part Twenty-Eight

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: the beginning of the end :,) if u made it this far i think ur cool

***

“Where do you see yourself in five years?” Lana asks.

Nesta closes her eyes, letting the picture swirl and take shape in her mind.

This time last year, she would have imagined nothing. Nothing but a desk in a busy law office, and maybe a nice apartment if she was lucky. That would be it. But now she sees…

“Somewhere with good food and good music,” she muses. “Maybe a sea breeze.” The sun-faded buildings of Portofino fade into the foreground of her imagination. “There are lots of people with me,” she hears the sound of children shrieking and Cassian’s rumbling laughter, “but it’s okay, because I love every one of them.” Her eyes open. “Is that a good answer?”

A near invisible smile tugs at the corners of Lana’s lips. “You tell me, Nesta. Do you like what you see?”

“It’s a little too cinematic if you ask me,” Nesta says nonchalantly, picking up her bag from the ground, “but I suppose all dreams are that way.”

“It’s a good dream,” Lana says. “A worthy dream, and one you deserve to chase.”

Nesta shrugs lightly, not too worried about the burden of the future for once. “Maybe I will.”

“In that case, congratulations on completing your final therapy session,” Lana says, setting her notebook aside. “You’ve made some amazing progress this year.”

Nesta gives her therapist her signature what’s-wrong-with-you look. “I’m going on vacation, not firing you for good. I’ll see you again in two months.”

“Two months can be enough to lose all your progress, if you forget everything you went through to get here.”

Nesta isn’t stupid. She knows that she isn’t suddenly desperate to make babies or be maid of honor at her sisters’ weddings or some bullshit. She knows that the image she just dreamed up, with Cassian and kids and her unburdened heart, is likely more than five years away. If it happens at all, it could be ten, even twenty years of hard work away.

She’s not nearly finished growing yet. “I’ll see you in two months, Lana,” she repeats.

Lana smiles at her fully this time. “Enjoy your summer, Nesta.”

***

The air is different in the Smokies.

Nesta rolls the truck windows down so she can inhale it, relish it. Wind whips her hair every which way as they drive down the winding freeway cutting through the lush mountains, and something about the look on her face makes Cassian chuckle and press down on the accelerator.

Nesta watches the red needle on the speedometer cross ninety, then one hundred. She can barely feel the June heat with how fast they’re going.

In the end, it was Feyre and Elain that reached out and invited her to the Tennessee summer home. Cassian had made it obvious that he wouldn’t push her to go if she didn’t want to, and at first she really didn’t want to. But Feyre had looked so hopeful when she asked Nesta to come with them, and even Elain had revealed a glimmer of eagerness that Nesta would say yes.

So against all odds, she agreed to go.

Exchanging one mountain home for another isn’t much of a getaway, but Nesta can’t help but be excited. Even with the unhappy memories of her childhood, she loves these hills more than any other.

The pure exhilaration of being back in Tennessee overcomes her at some point during the drive, knocking her out in the passenger seat where she sits. In her drowsy state, she distantly hears the windows being rolled up, before feeling Cassian’s hand guide her head to rest against the glass. The rest of the drive is warm and sunny, enough to lull her into a deep sleep.

The next thing Nesta’s aware of is the crunch of gravel and the feeling of the truck tires slowing to a stop. Fingers brush against her heated cheek, and then Cassian is murmuring at her to wake up.

Blinking her eyes open, Nesta twists around to see their destination.

For a moment, she thinks she’s still dreaming.

“Welcome to Holly House,” Cassian says with a grin. The house in question is quaint and sprawling at the same time, the way most upper class Southerners like their houses. The whole thing gleams with a fresh coat of white paint under the afternoon sun, complemented by a sky blue wraparound porch. Colonial style windows and proud columns decorating the facade of the building makes it look like the setting of a fairy tale.

Beyond it, Nesta can see cherry blossoms. Pink, fluttering cherry blossoms that fly off their branches and swirl through the air, some of them disappearing into the thick woods behind the house. Woods that Nesta has walked countless times before.

“The rest of the guys won’t get here until tomorrow afternoon,” Cassian is saying to her, “so we have the whole place to our—”

Nesta isn’t listening anymore. She unbuckles her seatbelt and shoves open the truck door, hobbling outside on unsteady feet to make sure she isn’t hallucinating things. But no, this is…

“Cherrywood,” she breathes, eyes wide in disbelief.

Cassian gets out of the truck, coming up beside Nesta to slip his hand into her shorts pocket. “What’s wrong? You okay?”

“This is Rhysand’s summer home?” Nesta points at the house. “This place?”

Cassian looks around at the building grounds in confusion. “Has been for the last two decades, yeah.”

It’s been eleven years since she last stepped foot on these grounds.

With wonderment in her voice, she utters to Cassian, “I’ve been here before.”

At his puzzled look, she explains, “I lived just on the other side of those woods.” She points to the trees. “There’s an old cracked road that hasn’t been maintained since it was first paved, and you can follow it straight to the poor side of town. Whenever I wanted to get away, I would come down that road and trek through the woods, and I’d end up here. I stopped coming because…” she trails off.

Because she got caught that one time.

Cassian seems to realize it at the same moment as her. His hand slips out of her pocket. “You…”

Nesta remembers a tall boy with shocked eyes and shaggy hair, and she shakes her head slowly in forceful denial. It can’t be true. It’s too much of a coincidence.

But he points at her, then her feet. “You—with the size six Converse,” he sputters. “It was you.”

Before Nesta can confirm or deny it, he grabs her by the wrist and starts tugging her along, up the porch stairs and inside the house.

Even with Rhysand and Feyre’s renovations, it looks undeniably the same as all those years ago. The living room is to her right and the farmhouse style kitchen and dining area is to the left, though she speeds by it all as Cassian pulls her farther inside the house, to the closet beneath the curving stairs.

He lets go of her hand to search the small closet, muttering, “I know they were here somewhere.” But the closet looks like it was stripped empty for renovations, with only bolts in the walls indicating that shoe racks used to hang there.

Cassian turns and heads for the stairs, and Nesta blindly follows him. She also wants to go upstairs, wants to see if the bay window looking out onto the garden has stayed the same.

Like he read her mind, he leads her straight to the room she used to spend hours reading in. It’s smaller than all the other bedrooms in the house, but it’s always been her favorite because of the view.

As Cassian keeps looking for whatever it is he’s looking for, upturning boxes and checking beneath furniture, Nesta drifts toward the bay window. She looks from the cherry blossom trees outside, to the full-sized bed, to Cassian, and a weight drops even heavier in her gut. She has to reach out and grip the edge of the dresser for support.

Finally, Cassian pops out of the closet victorious. In his hand are a pair of ragged shoes that Nesta hasn’t worn in a long, long time.

He comes over and drops them with a thud at her feet.

“Whose room is this?” she asks with a rough voice, still staring down at the shoes.

“Mine,” he answers simply.

“Oh.” She met him before. She met him before.

When Nesta dares to look up and meet Cassian’s eyes, what she finds there nearly robs her of breath: wonder, astonishment, and unwavering fealty. He breaks into sudden wholehearted laughter, which dazes her even more.

“What’s so funny?” she demands.

Cassian gets out between laughs, “What was it Rhysand said about Feyre? When they found out they were close to crossing paths when they were younger?”

Nesta’s earth-tilting shock slowly slips away, replaced by a stern look. “Don’t say it.”

He pretends to remember. “I think it was fate.” A wicked smirk pulls at his lips at Nesta’s resigned sigh. “But I have another word for it, too.”

“Don’t say that, either.” She pleadingly holds up her hands, only for Cassian to snatch one out of the air and intertwine his fingers with hers.

“Soulmate,” he says quietly, now less amused.

Nesta swallows thickly, not having any words for him. All she knows is that he is never going to let her live this down.

“Imagine if we’d gone to the same high school,” Cassian says to her later that afternoon as they lounge in his old room. “Fuck, I could’ve saved myself so much time with all those random girls.” They’ve been swapping childhood stories for the past hour, as if they might find more instances in their history of a red string tying them together.

Nesta doesn’t need coincidences or fateful run-ins to know that a string has always been wrapped around her ring finger, pulling her to Colorado and to that cabin. But for Cassian’s sake, she’ll gladly amuse him. “I would have been a freshman while you were a senior,” she says matter-of-factly. “It never could have happened.”

He hums in thought, head propped up in his hand, elbow propped up against the bay window seat. “Maybe if you were older. You would have been the smart, quiet girl, and I’d have been the player jock, and as soon as we locked eyes in math class, I’d be head over heels in love with you.”

Nesta cackles from where she sits in the window seat above him. “Now you’re just writing fanfiction.”

Cassian grins up at her but doesn’t send a rebuttal her way. The conversation falls into a lull, until Nesta has to reach out and ask, “What are you thinking?”

His smile turns a little sad. “That I wish we weren’t doing this right before I leave for another country.”

Right. That’s what’s been hanging over them the entire trip to Tennessee: that as soon as they get back to Colorado, Cassian is going to be on a plane to Milan.

Getting Keith O’Connell to quit—how exactly Cassian went about accomplishing it, he still won’t tell Nesta—left Rhysand at square one with his search for a team leader for his overseas venture.

When Cassian brought up the idea of taking the job to Nesta, he sounded like he hoped she would shoot him down, talk him out of it. He both wanted to go and was reluctant to leave, like his very soul was glued to his home and he didn’t want to unstick himself.

So Nesta, being his home, had to do the unsticking for him. She nearly accepted the year-long Milan position herself for Cassian’s sake, and it took weeks of coaxing and convincing to put him at ease about the whole thing.

“But we promised to go together for the first time,” he kept saying.

“We’ll still go together one day, and it’ll still be our first time there with each other,” she reassured him.

Eventually, he relented to her and Rhysand’s pressures with a single condition. “I’ll do six months. Not a year.”

Only Nesta knows deep down how much Cassian needs this opportunity. Though Cassian must know it a little bit too, because he wouldn’t have taken the job if he didn’t.

Nesta might have needed him in order to come out of her shell, but now he needs to get away from her in order to find his own shell. Something he can call his own, unburdened by his loyalties to the people he loves. So he can find who he wants to be for himself, without always being attached to her hip.

Rising to her feet, Nesta raises her arms in the air in a full body stretch. Her back and legs ache with being curled up in that window seat for so long without movement.

Dropping her arms, she holds out a hand to Cassian still sitting on the floor. “Come on,” she urges him. “Let’s go outside. I haven’t seen a Smoky sunset in years.”

“But it’s not evening yet,” he argues while taking her hand.

Outside, they explore the garden that leads into the woods while waiting for the sun to slink down the sky. Cherry blossoms ride the summer breeze wherever it takes them, resulting in Cassian sniffling and scratching at his neck as they walk hand in hand.

“Rhysand wanted to take these trees down and replace them with a flower garden for Elain,” he tells Nesta as they walk. His sinuses sound clogged, but he’s refused to go back inside until he’s explained every inch of the land to Nesta. “I convinced him not to because it would ruin the view from my bedroom window. Didn’t I make the right choice?” He throws a grin in her direction.

Nesta’s swallow is tight at that grin. “The view from your room was always my favorite part about the entire place. So yes, you did good.”

His eyes widen at that tidbit of information, and she can almost see him tucking it away as more Soulmate Evidence.

They stroll through the woods for a while, and Nesta points out the path she would take to get to Cherrywood—she still insists on calling it Cherrywood, even when Cassian argues that the house’s original name has been around since the sixties.

“Show me the rest of the way?” Cassian asks her, face lit up in boyish hope. “Show me where you ran away to that day I found you.”

Nesta almost expects the memory of the rundown apartment complex she grew up in to feel like being shoved into sludge: dirty, cold, and slimy. Instead, she finds she has no problem with looking back at her old home, no matter how many ugly memories she holds from there.

However, the dappled sunlight streaming in through the trees overhead has turned from yellow to dark gold, and she shakes her head in apology to Cassian. “Another day,” she promises him. “It’s almost sunset.”

They walk back to the house, rounding it until they reach the front. At the bottom of the hill that the house is perched on stands a pier that leads all the way out to the lake. Green mountains frame the lake from both sides, creating the perfect cradle for the sun to sink into.

They go all the way out to the edge of the pier, as if they’re trying to get as close to the sunset as physically possible. Dragonflies lazily swoop by as the lake is gradually painted in a hundred different colors.

Once there’s more darkness than light in the sky, Cassian nudges Nesta with one of the arms he has around her. “Look.” He points.

Along the shoreline of the lake, little dots of light have lit up to welcome the evening, their blinking glow so small that Nesta almost doesn’t catch it. Fireflies.

Nesta watches the insects flit in and out of the long grasses of the lake shore, getting tangled in the weeds and wildflowers. In that moment, she remembers something Cassian once confessed to her not long after his birthday.

I want to see more beautiful places with you.

Nesta ticks this beautiful place off the long list in her head—the first place out of many that she plans to see with Cassian.

More beautiful than the scene before her is the man in her arms. The man who was kind enough to understand a woman who barely understood herself, and to be her friend when she had none. The man who is extending his kindness right now by not having made any breaking-and-entering jokes about Nesta so far, though she’s sure he’ll pull them out eventually.

Discovering that she once found Cassian, just to let him slip by running away from him, only to find him again over a decade later—it comforts the tiny part of her that’s loath to say goodbye to him in two weeks.

Like Cassian is thinking the same thing, he murmurs into the dark, “I can’t wait to come back to you.”

Nesta huffs in amusement. “You haven’t even left yet.”

“I know.” After a moment, he adds in a low voice that not even the fireflies can hear, “Thank you for convincing me to go.”

She reaches up to squeeze his bicep. “Always.” And then she adds what she really wants him to hear: “Don’t come back until you find what you’re looking for.”

“I better find it quick then,” he jokes. Still, he nods in promise against the side of her head.

The only sound after that is the chirp of cicadas and the occasional lap of water meeting the pier beams. Nesta and Cassian stay outside in the June heat long after the sky turns ink blue.

***

a/n: next chapter is just some ic bullshit so take all ur bittersweet sentimentality here and go

tagging: @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @valkyriewarriors @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @swankii-art-teacher @wannawriteyouabook @arinbelle @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @humanexile @that-golden-lyre @agentsofsheilds @mercy-is-alive @cassiansbigwingspan @laylaameer01 @verypaleninja @maastrash @bow-dawn @perseusannabeth @dead-on-the-inside666 @jlinez @hungryreadingaddict @anidealiveson @planet-faerie @shallowhighwaters @ghostlyrose2 @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens @rarephloxes @readiajin @nessiantrashh @live-the-fangirl-life @ifinallygavein @xoblivisci @sjmships @jungtaekwoonie-is-life @lysandra-tiara @lanyjoy-13 @post-it-notes33 @loosingdreams @fromthelibraryofemilyj @18moneytoad @dontgetsalmonella @champanheandluxxury @togreblog @ladygabrielli1997 @meridainthedisneyland @moodymelanist @pixieelea @teagoddess99 @mystic-bibliophile

[zdbztumble]

GUNDAM WING review

For how much of it appears on this blog, Pokemon is more “comfort food” entertainment than a great passion of mine, and the same was true when I was a child. Back in my late grade school days, the two shows that dominated my thought, my viewing schedule, my play and my early writing were Dragon Ball Z and Gundam Wing. Like a lot of kids, I can thank Toonami for that. But while I’ve checked in on Dragon Ball, off and on, since those days, I haven’t seriously revisited Gundam Wing since it left Toonami years ago. Sharing OPs with a friend on Discord led to the Wing openings coming up, however, and with the series being free to view on Crunchyroll, I thought I’d give it a rewatch.

There’s no subtle way to put this - Gundam Wing does not hold up to my childhood memories. It’s a mess of a show that frequently falls short of its own ambition. But it remains an enjoyable - even admirable - mess.

The single biggest reason that Gundam Wing is such a mess - the single biggest reason for nearly all of its flaws - is that it’s too short. At 49 episodes (two of which are given over to a clip show recap halfway through), the show isn’t long enough to contain all the story it wants to tell. By way of demonstration, and for those who don’t know/remember the series, I tried to summarize the basic plot of the series in just a few paragraphs here.

Look at that. Look at all that text in a basic outline. That was me paring away all but the most essential details needed to understand what happens in the series. Now imagine trying to fit all of that into 47 episodes while also including character interaction and development, action sequences, aesthetic elements, and a good chunk of essential information being revealed via backstory and vague insinuations only fleshed out in the OVA and manga series.

Things start out promisingly enough, with the action beginning on Operation Meteor and the initial conflict emerging gradually. But it doesn’t take long for the brevity of the series to work against the intrigues happening within it. To say that the show falls into “tell, don’t show” would suggest that it gets across more information than it actually does. Narration opens most episodes with some degree of recap, and occasionally within episodes, but this device is established from the first episode and is usually effectively used in the context of ongoing action. The problem spots are where the show neglects to tell or show almost anything.

Because the series is so short, and because all screentime is spent with either the series leads or the major supporting characters, there’s never an opportunity to showcase the state of world and colonial affairs, and little opportunity taken to describe them outside of the opening narration. Consequently, any feeling of oppression, subjugation, or desperation for the colonies - and thus, a sense of what the Gundams are fighting for - isn’t present at the beginning of the series, and doesn’t ever really emerge. There is some sense of danger towards the end of the series, but it results from the various conflicts that happen within the show, not the state of affairs from the initial premise. Earth’s condition is similarly underdeveloped; if anything is showcased on Earth, it’s beauty. Characters will occasionally talk about the desperate straits of the Gundam pilots, and the pilots themselves will take developments like the targeting of the colonies or their betrayal to heart. The VAs and the animation are strong enough to sell such developments, but the lack of world-building to support them does hurt the series.

But it’s the developments around the Sanc Kingdom and Relena’s relevance to the story suffer the most from the show’s failure to show or tell. After Zechs liberates the kingdom, Relena’s installation as its ruler is set up but never depicted. Relena’s outreach to other nations, and her building up support for total pacifism, is also never shown, and barely discussed. She and Zechs are never even seen to have a conversation until near the very end of the series. There’s plenty of discussion of how inspiring and charismatic Relena is, and why she should be heeded and protected, but with none of the work behind that charisma shown and little of it discussed in detail, there’s little emotional resonance to be had here. Relena’s efforts as queen of the world are slightly more fleshed out, but when Zech’s declaration of war against Earth happens in the same episode - happens, if memory serves, less than a second after Relena makes significant inroads - the notion of Relena as an effective spokeswoman for pacifism is severely undercut by the series’ own haste.

Beyond the plot, all of this naturally damages Relena’s character. Relena begins the series as a somewhat bratty, somewhat depressed girl often neglected by her family due to her stepfather’s job, who finds Heero’s sudden presence in her life a vicarious if dangerous thrill. The murder of her stepfather and the revelation of her true identity further shake her out of teenage ennui and move her to take part in the great events of her time. Like the show itself, it’s a promising beginning, but because Relena’s greatest achievements are glossed over - and because, being a pacifist and a diplomat, she can’t be involved at the point of action - Relena ends up spending a lot of time on the sidelines, looking grim or worried. Worse, when the final conflict between Treize and White Fang emerges, Relena is completely ineffectual at trying for peace with Zechs, and any opportunity for her to use the soft power of her (brief) reign as ceremonial monarch to further the cause of peace isn’t taken, leaving her largely irrelevant to the finale. Relena is less a full-fledged character in Gundam Wing than a solid concept for a character that couldn’t grow to fruition in the time allotted.

The same could be said of the series protagonist, Heero Yuy. In his case, there is at least a bit more told; his scientist mentor describes him as a kind-hearted young man whose devotion to his mission has rendered him a dangerous assassin, Relena instinctively latches onto what kindness and idealism she can sense in him, various characters are inspired by his skills and his devotion to his mission. But there’s little to no evidence of the kind-hearted young man underneath the child soldier, at least not in the initial episodes. We only see the cold-blooded Gundam pilot, and that pilot has the worst starting luck out of any of them, from his Gundam being brought down to his attempts to destroy it failing. His willingness - even eagerness - to die for his cause comes up so often in the beginning of the series that it ends up losing its punch. But being the series lead, and getting more screentime by dint of being a Gundam pilot, Heero does ultimately get fleshed out more than Relena. His remorse over inadvertently killing the Alliance pacifists and his blunt but pragmatic advice to the other Gundam pilots do let his softer side emerge later on. His struggle to find a reason to keep going in the fight in the middle of the series - something multiple characters go through - is rather muddled (not helped by some obtuse and stilted dialogue, another major fault in the series), but he comes out of that mess resolved to protect Relena and defeat White Fang - so much so that he not only unites with the other pilots, but designates Quatre Raberba Winner as their leader instead of himself because he recognizes what’s best for the team. The series ultimately benefits from his being the main character because of developments like this, but the journey is more awkward and choppy than it needed to be, and his romance with Relena and rivalry with Zechs are never fully convincing even if their basic mutual interest in one another is.

Stilted dialogue more than absent material is what most works against series antagonists Zechs and Treize, though Zechs’s lack of scenes with his sister and an abrupt jump from Sanc Kingdom spokesman to genocidal avenger are an issue. The philosophical notions that pepper Zechs’s and Treize’s monologues and conversations - the nature of war, the value of soldiers’ sacrifice, mankind’s natural proclivities, the possibility of peace and what it would take to achieve it - are all fascinating, and I’m still amazed that a show that spent so much time on these subjects was put in an afterschool block bound to attract younger kids back in the day. But for every speech that’s thought-provoking and emotionally resonant, there are three that are a chore to sit through and a puzzle to comprehend. Granted, the Crunchyroll subtitles for this series aren’t the best, so that may partly explain and excuse this problem. But especially in the middle of the series, where allegiances shift and motivations collapse, having the principle antagonists be so difficult to understand isn’t ideal.

Then there are the plot holes - mostly characters who somehow survived apparent deaths with little to no explanation - and characters who just don’t work. One of them is unfortunately a Gundam pilot - Chang Wu Fei, an arrogant misogynist wrapped up in his own ideals of combat who resists any teamwork or even temporary alliances with his fellow Gundams until the very end of the series, and is an unreliable partner even then. None of this would make him a bad character - one hardly needs to be likable or relatable to be an effective and compelling presence in a story - but Wu Fei has virtually no chemistry with the other Gundams, or any character, when actually does interact with them, except for ex-Alliance soldier Sally Po. His standoffishness and stoicism are traits shared by Heero and Trowa Barton, making his seem redundant, and his professed ideals of combat are muddled by bad dialogue. His great rivalry with Treize is also on shaky ground; they only interact twice in the entire series. But Wu Fei is at least comprehensible; Dorothy Catalonia, a Romefeller spy who takes an almost sexual delight in war, is not only obnoxious and intrusive when she appears in the second half of the series, but her motivations seem to swing wildly, her allegiances impossible to follow, and I sorely wish she had died by the end of the series.

With all of those faults laid bare - I did say the show was enjoyable and admirable in spite of everything, and indeed it is. Wu Fei may be redundant and Heero only a partial success as a character, but the other three Gundam pilots are well-realized, so much so that I’m baffled to see various critiques of this show imply that they’re static and one-note. Duo Maxwell is essentially the same person at the end of the series as he was at the beginning, but he’s a wonderful source of levity in the series, and he does have his trials and his low points that contrast well with his typical personality; his moments of anger and despair are some of the best in the series for selling the stakes of the conflict in the absence of proper world-building. Trowa, while much less emotive, goes through a significant journey, with his sibling-esque relationship with circus performer Catherine far more emotionally satisfying than either the Peacecrafts’ bond or Heero and Relena’s romance.

And then there’s Quatre, my new favorite character from this series. I didn’t take a great deal of notice of him as a kid, but rediscovering his story has been my favorite thing about this rewatch. A bright, gentle, and friendly personality, disdainful of violence but prepared to fight for a worthy cause, driven to despair and madness by the loss of his father and the ZERO system, only to emerge as the repentant leader of the Gundams, instrumental in bringing them together as a unit and binding them to Relena’s ideals; of all the pilots, he sees the most growth and change, and all the essentials to his story actually make it on screen. He also has the allegiance of the Maganac Corps, a group that doesn’t have a great deal of importance to the series...but they do have a cool name and cooler mobile suits.

And if Relena is somewhat lacking as a female lead, Gundam Wing does have Sally Po, military doctor turned guerrilla fighter and stalwart Gundam ally, and Lucrezia Noin. For a character that could easily have just been Zech’s love interest, Noin sees a degree of growth throughout the series to rival Quatre’s, moving from OZ instructor to Sanc Kingdom defense captain to the instigator of the Gundams as a unit, working to defeat the man she loves. The show also avoids sexualizing any of its female cast, so - a point for that, I guess.

The designs of the Gundams are all unique (as are their abilities), and some are downright beautiful. The other mobile suits are varied as well and easy to identify, making combat easy to follow. The quality of the combat - and the animation in general - is hit and miss, but it’s never atrocious, and when it’s solid, the end result is some great shots and action. The series also boasts a fantastic soundtrack, with lovely instrumental themes and two great opening songs (though why “Rhythm Emotion” was brought in with only ten episodes left to go on the series still baffles me.) 

All this contributes to Gundam Wing being enjoyable, but what makes it admirable is actually the stilted dialogue and overstuffed story that bring it down. To attempt a series that ruminates on the nature of war and the various philosophical positions around its necessity or lack thereof, of the chances for real peace, for the evolution of humanity if were to move into the stars, and the interpersonal conflicts between various characters, would be a tall order for any series, and not the easiest thing to make into visually compelling animation. That Gundam Wing made the attempt at all shows ambition and aspiration on the part of its writers and staff. As I’ve said at length here, it was frustrated by its short running time and the weaknesses of story elements and characters, but an ambitious mixed bag - even a failure - that aims high is a much more admirable (and interesting to watch) affair than a success that aims low.

And, in its failures to get certain elements across, Gundam Wing shows enough of what it was trying to do that I, at least, can forgive some (not all) rough patches. Characters like Heero and conflicts like the Gundams’ basic fight for the colonies still work despite their flaws. And the final run of episodes, where White Fang and Treize clash and the Gundams work around the battle to save the day, are incredibly strong. It’s a finale that surpasses much of the content preceding it, and if it would’ve been improved by that content being better, it still works because the intent of that earlier content can still be perceived.

I’ve thoroughly enjoyed rediscovering Gundam Wing, and I’d like to check out the dub again when I’m in a position to renew my Hulu subscription. For now, though - there’s a certain waltz to attend to...

[queertazsecretsanta]

A gift for @nekosd43, created by @all-made-of-stardust!

You gave me a great challenge, as I've never written Taagnus before!  I actually really enjoyed writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading it!  Happy Candlenights!

The dish that Magnus crafted is based on this recipe I found online: https://damndelicious.net/2015/01/30/bacon-ranch-cheese-ball/

~~

Oddly enough, it was Davenport who suggested the Secret Star King.

This cycle was by far not the first one where they’d celebrated Candlenights alone on the Starblaster, decorating a bush Merle had cultivated the months before, singing a few songs, and enjoying each others company.  But up until now any gifts they exchanged were small, and somewhat superficial, as at that point being with each other mattered more than any material goods.

That ideal still stood when they arrived on Loven, a softer tranquil farming world filled with kind people and quiet nights.  The Light had landed in the mountains to the east, and upon a short journey over and up, the crew found a small colony of monks living cozily in the cold.  They were surprised to see strangers, but quite friendly.  And after Davenport did some quick negotiations, they happily produced the Light, with no argument.  The crew was ecstatic.

“Please,” one of the monks said.  “You seem like decent people.  Will you stay in our world for Candlenights?”

The whole crew fell silent.

“Candlenights?” Davenport asked, not wanting to misunderstand.

“It’s this world’s holiday festival.  We’d be delighted if you would join us.”

Someone else celebrated Candlenights.

“We’d be happy to,” Davenport answered.

So here they were, a few days later, gathered in the city hall of one of the larger cities in the world (though it really wasn’t that populated).  Around them, many people worked to decorate with festive fun, while the crew drank Fantasy Eggnog and relaxed.

“I’ve been thinking,” Davenport announced.  “If we’re going to be here during proper Candlenights, we should celebrate it properly too.”

“What do you mean?” Lucretia said, taking a sip of her eggnog.  It left a layer of nutmeg on her lip.

“We have a whole world to explore.  Why not try and come up with an interesting gift to a random person?”

He grinned.

“Why not a Secret Star King?”

Taako, who up until this point had been lazing back, relishing the breeziness that the mission had underwent, jolted forward with a start.

“Random person, did you say?” he asked.  He wasn’t sure he much cared for the idea.  On one hand, he could get Lup, and that’d be easy.  He could get Barry, or Lucretia, and it would be challenging, but interesting.

Or he could get Magnus.  And that was a problem.

Magnus, who had been sitting forward eagerly, tried his best not to shrink back at the idea.  He’d know what to get Merle, or Davenport.  Hell, he’d most definitely know what to get Lup.

Or he could pull Taako's name.  And that was a problem.

*****

Davenport seemed to be set in his decision, and not thirty minutes later he returned to the table with his captain’s hat upturned in his hand.

“Go on!” he goaded, smiling.

Taako hesitated.

“What if we get our own name?” he joked, stalling for time as the others reached in.  “We pamper ourselves?”

Davenport shook his head.

“You simply redraw.”

“I was afraid of that,” Taako muttered as he pulled a card. He peeked at it through barely closed eyes.

Magnus.

Damnit.

He glanced over at Magnus, who was staring at his own card. The man had a damn good poker face. He had a good face in general, actually.

Magnus looked up, caught him staring, and flashed him a toothy grin.

"I know what I'm doing!" he declared.

Taako had half a mind to get Merle to cast Zone of Truth.

Instead, he retreated to another room, closed the door, and slid to the floor. He clutched the card tightly between his fingers, rereading the name over and over again, like it would disappear if he tried hard enough.

Magnus.

The name itself was evocative of the man it belonged to. Bold, strong, courageous, fearless. Taako remembered when he first saw him - the goofus was taking bets on how much beer he could chug before finally being beaten in a fight. A lot of beer, apparently, because even when he was swaying on his feet he held his own and knocked the lights out of the other guy - a bully, Taako knew, which made him endeared to Magnus in a way he couldn't quite describe. And it wasn't the brute strength, the high constitution modifier, or even his muscles (though the muscles were a nice bonus) that made Taako do a double take. It was his bravado - the fact that he stood up to a bad guy, and won. It was something Taako would never be able to do. Lup, maybe. Definitely. But not Taako. No, Taako wasn't worth much in a fight, and he wasn't worth much in Magnus' eyes either. He was an idiot wizard who conjured party tricks. Magnus deserved someone leagues better. Courage and strong will. Hospitality - now that was something Taako never seemed to be able to give.

But he'd be damned if he didn't make the perfect gift for Magnus. The big guy deserved that much at least.

Besides - maybe this would be a chance to show Magnus how he felt. He sure as hell wasn't going to say it in words. Maybe not a confession - a simple gesture would suffice. He knew he would never gain anything from it anyway.

*****

Magnus found a quiet corner by a fireplace, and he sat down heavily on a chair. He looked at the paper once more and sighed, running a hand down his face.

Taako.

The name had always meant warm feelings for Magnus.  Watching the wizard practice his spells like they were nothing. Watching him laugh and joke with Lup, watching him love. Magnus knew Taako was capable of far more than the elf ever gave himself credit for, and Magnus had always supported him.

Said support had landed him squarely in the friendzone, and he didn't mind it - it meant he could still be close. Still be with him. Gods knew Taako wasn't going to go for someone like him. He deserved finesse. Beauty. Someone who could love him.  Like Magnus did.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. It had been this way for cycles now, he had lost track. But now, he held a potential key to everything. Maybe Taako would never reciprocate anything. Magnus was fine with that. But maybe he could make something that made Taako happy. That showed him what he meant to him. He wasn't going to get anything out of it but a nice smile, but gods that smile would be nice.

****

This plane was built around sturdy buildings that weathered many a storm.  So Taako knew he could find somewhere with the right tools to make the perfect gift.

He had decided on creating a model version of the Starblaster.  And he refused to use transmutation to do it - no, this was going to be done by hand, and it was going to be done right.

Problem was, he didn't know how to do it.

In the main town where they had settled, Taako asked around and found a carpenter named Rosemary, who had built several of the town’s homes and had contributed to the architecture of the city hall.  Magnus would like her, and she seemed very eager to please.

She gave him a place to work, all the tools and supplies he could imagine.

“If you need anything, just holler!” she said, before shutting the door and leaving him to it.  He looked down at the workbench.

Fuck.

He had no idea where to start.

*****

The food served here was warm, hearty, and delicious, made from the freshest ingredients and by the best of hands.  So immediately Magnus knew what he was going to give Taako.

He asked around and found a chef named Bill, a kind man, who was willing to lend out his kitchen to Magnus and provide food to cook with.

“Anything for a lover’s gift!” he said with a wink.

“No, it’s not - ” But he was already gone.  Magnus sighed and looked around at the kitchen.  An oven, a fantasy fridge, a knife block, cutting boards - everything he needed.

Shit.

He had no idea where to start.

*****

The Secret Star King swap was about a week away, but to Taako it might as well have been tomorrow.  He cut wood, sanded it down, measured twice, cut once, and at the end of the day found himself with a broken piece of oak and a dowel that was way too big.

He was sighing into his hands, ready to try again, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Not going well, Ko?”

He turned to find Lup, observing his disheveled attempts.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.  “Shouldn’t you be working on your own gift?”

She waved a hand.

“Oh, mine’s simple.”

“Who’d you get?”

“Now, do you think I would tell you that?  What if I got your name, hmm?”

Taako rolled his eyes.

“Let’s hope you got something good for me then.”

He turned back to his monstrosity and let out a long breath.

“Gods know I’m not doing so hot.”

“Magnus?”

Taako tensed, then just as quickly let it go.  Figures she would guess it in one - she wasn’t an idiot.

“Yeah,” he admitted.  “Stupid thing won’t piece together, though.”

“You know you could easily use magic, right?”

“Yeah, thanks, I didn’t know that,” he said, sarcasm dripping.

“So why the extra effort?” Lup asked innocently.

“I, uh - ”  He stammered.  “Just wanna make something nice for him, y’know?”

Lup was standing with a hand on her hip, judging him.

“Uh-huh.”

“He, uh - ” Fuck.  “He..he deserves it.”

Lup shook her head, clucking her tongue.

“Oh, you’ve got it bad,” she chuckled.

Taako blanched.

“No!” he protested.  “No, it’s just a gift, I don’t want - I never - ”

“Taako?  My sweet brother whom I love very much?”

Taako gulped.

“Yeah?”

Lup reached out and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t lie to me, kay?”

It was a downright threat, and Taako stared at the floor, laughing nervously.

“Yeah, okay, find, maybe I do love the huggable idiot,” he admitted under his breath.  “But you can’t tell anyone, you got that?  Especially not Lucy, gods I can’t have her writing this shit in her books.”

Lup smirked.

“Your secret’s safe with me.”  She tightened her grip.  “If you tell him at the gift swap.”

Taako tried to reel back, but her grip was like a vice.

“Lup, you know I can’t - ”

“Hmm, then I guess I can tell Davenport to call the whole thing off.  No more Candlenights, because my dork of a brother refused to confess to his - ”

“Lulu, please.”

“ - and gods know the others would be heartbroken and - ”

“Okay, okay, fine!”

She was still smirking, but she loosened her grip and stepped back.

“That’s better.”

Taako massaged his shoulder where her fingers had dug into his skin.

“You’re a right piece of work, you know that sis?”

She grinned.

“I know.”

And she walked out of the room.

*****

Magnus didn’t cook.

Sure, he knew basic meals, picked up on a few things from Taako.  But he didn’t have the same touch Taako always carried.  Give him a wild rabbit to skin and stick in stew any day.  But the dishes Taako made were more than boring old stew.  And Taako deserved more than just stew.

He didn’t think it could be that hard.  Lup did it all the time, and she wasn’t a transmutation specialist.  She had just learned from the best - why couldn’t Magnus do the same?

He experimented around with ingredients.  Got some prime cuts of beef and lamb from the farmers outside the main city.  Spices he borrow from a few kind merchants - they were new and alien, but he figured they couldn’t be that far from those that Taako usually cooked with.  Mashed potatoes - now that he could do.

He thought.

Not wanting to officially cook the dish until the day of the gift swap, Magnus attempted smaller micro-dishes - taste samplers.  His first attempt had gone...sour was the literal phrase. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong.  Second attempt wielded a sad lumpy mess of limp carrots and overly-salted potatoes.

He was in the middle of trying something else - grilling lamb cuts - when Lup popped her head into the kitchen, startling Magnus.  He accidentally knocked the lamb into the fire, and he scrambled to turn off the heat in time.

Lup laughed as he recovered the now charred remains of the lamb.  It was a moot point anyway - the meat had been dull, grey, and dry from the start.

“Not going well?” Lup asked, looking over his large shoulder.

Magnus sighed.

“You two always make it look so easy!” he complained.

Lup patted him sympathetically.

“Didn’t know this is what you wanted to do with the cycle.  I thought you’d be out exploring the plane with Davenport.”

“It’s not for the cycle.  It’s for Candlenights.”

Lup raised her eyebrows.

“Oh?” She stepped around him, sniffing at the meat.  “So you got Taako’s name?”

Magnus looked shocked.

“N - no!  I mean - this could be for anybody!  Lucretia likes lamb, doesn’t she, maybe it’s for her!”

“Mmm-hmm.”  She picked up a carrot, examining it.  “You know, this is an awful lot of effort for just a silly old gift.  Why not just make him rabbit stew?  You know we all love that.”

Magnus shifted slightly, staring at the counter and fiddling with the burner controls.

“I think - well, assuming it is Taako, which I’m not saying it is - I think he, uh...deserves something better than rabbit stew, y’know?”

Lup’s eyes widened slowly, and a smile crept onto her face.

“Oh.  Oh, Magnus.”

“What?”

“Nothing!” she said, so quickly Magnus almost didn’t recognize the coyness in her tone.  She stepped around the counter, tracing her fingers along the ingredients he’d picked out.  She picked up a spare clove of garlic and twirled it expertly in her hand.

“He likes bacon,” she hinted.  “Just in case it is his name that you got.”

She waltzed out of the room, tossing the garlic over her shoulder.  Magnus caught it awkwardly, and stared back down at the stovetop.

******

It was two days until the gift swap, and things were not going well.

Taako had struggled to bite down the magic in his fingers, and he'd earned several splinters and a sore thumb from missing the nail with the hammer. He was gonna do this right goddamnit.

But all he had managed to do was carve some maple in the rough form of a ship. He had hacked away at it to make the interior hollow, and he wasn't even close to the proper shape. In fact, it looked somehow worse than the Starblaster had on the bad cycles, where it had taken some hits.

As he attempted to shear the top of the hull, the knife slipped, and he cut a deep gash in his finger.

"Ow, ow, fuck, stupid piece of -"

"You okay?"

He looked up, still clutching his bleeding finger. Magnus was standing in the doorway, looking concerned.

"Hey, big guy!!" Taako flung out his body, trying to cover the table behind him. The blood speckled the canvas cloth underneath. "Yeah, I'm fine, nothing to -"

Magnus was already running over to him, grabbing his hurt hand and gently bringing it up to him.

"What happened? Slip the blade?" he asked, already pulling out a spare bandage because of course he had spare bandages in his pockets, Merle wasn't always around to heal everything, and Magnus never wanted to see anyone hurt. The thought made Taako's heart swell a bit.

"Yeah, yeah," he admitted. "I'm fine though, really, I'm -"

He hissed sharply as Magnus tugged the bandage taught. Okay, maybe it was a bit worse than he thought. But Magnus was taking care of it. Like he always took care of everyone. Of Taako.

"Thanks," Taako said quietly.

"Of course!" Of course.  "Lup sent me over here to check on ya. So, what are you working on?"

He looked over Taako's shoulder and spotted the shitty wooden ship.

"Oh, cool!" Magnus declared, picking it up. "You're making Davenport the Starblaster?"

Taako let out a breath. He was gonna kill his sister.

"Yeah, totally making it for him!" Taako lied through his teeth.

"Having a shit time with it too," he murmured.

"You want me to show you some tips?"

Taako almost laughed. Yeah, have Magnus teach Taako how to make his own gift.

He shrugged. "Why not?"

He stepped forward while Magnus smiled at him, eager as ever. Taako's heart skipped a little at his dopey grin.

"Okay, so first off, you need to sand down the wood before you even start carving it, otherwise the blade will get caught in the bark."

Taako picked up the wood and the tools, ready to try again. He followed what Magnus was saying, smiling slightly.

"Alright, now you've gotta use the big chisel to carve away the big bits."

Taako looked down. There were several tools, all looking like chisels, all similar sizes.

He picked one up.

"No, the other one."

Another.

"The other one."

He moved to pick one up, and suddenly Magnus' hand was on his, guiding him to the right one.

"That one," he said softly.

Taako realized Magnus was standing right behind him, almost embracing him, his tall figure a good foot higher than Taako's. He led Taako's hand firmly but gently over to the wood and showed him how to knock away the excess pieces. His hands cupped Taako's, occasionally squeezing down, helping him with the finer details. Magnus' words continued above him, spouting instructions, but Taako was content to just listen to his deep voice. He found himself leaning backwards, ever so slightly, into Magnus' tall frame, and he closed his eyes, just for a second, breathing him in. Imagining if this could be real.

"Taako, are you -"

Magnus stiffened, aware of where Taako was, and Taako backpedaled, pushing himself up and away, but he was caught between the table and Magnus' arms. He spun, extricating his hands and holding them close to his chest as he stared up at Magnus. He was staring right back, so close. Taako could feel his breath, almost taste his lips.

Magnus was the first one to snap out of it, shoving himself backwards, blinking hard.

"Yeah, so, does that help?" he asked, his voice even. Of course it was. Nothing phased Magnus, not even his best friend making bedroom eyes at him after he practically spooned him.

"Yeah, my man, thanks for the tips!" Taako said, his voice squeaking slightly. Damnit, pull yourself together.

"Welcome." Magnus offered a smile. "Can't wait to see the final product, I bet Dav's gonna love it!"

He turned and left before Taako could get in another word, leaving Taako in a lurch. Why did he do that, what the hell was he thinking. He's not interested. He doesn't want you.

He sucked in a breath. He was going to absolutely murder his sister.

******

Taako stormed into his bedroom, but Lup was already there, leaning back on her bunk and reading a book.

"How'd it go?" she purred.

"You absolute bastard," he grumbled. "That was all your idea!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, putting the book down and examining her nails. "I just figured you needed some help, you poor thing."

Taako fumed, sitting with a dramatic thump onto his own bunk.

"You're just trying to torture me," he groaned. "Your own brother!"

"I don't see what's wrong with having Magnus help you with your present. He doesn't need to know it's for him."

Taako pointed an accusatory finger at her.

"You know very well that's not what I'm upset about."

Lup smirked.

"I told you you needed to confess by the Secret Star King. I was just... speeding up the process."

"Making things worse is what you did."

He sighed and fell back onto his pillow, a hand to his forehead. He saw Lup roll her eyes.

"Tell you what," she offered, sliding off her bunk to kneel next to his. "I know for a fact that Magnus needs help with his gift."

"What's he doing, baking a pie for Lucretia or something?"

"Something like that."

Taako sat up.

"Sis, I was joking."

"And I'm not. He's struggling so much with the cooking and I know you wouldn't want to poison poor Lucretia…"

Taako shook his head, laughing.

"Man, we are all out of our league, aren't we?"

"Well I'm not," Lup said, beaming. "I'm having a fantastic time with my gift. But you two idiots could use some help."

She stood and returned to her book.

"Just don't go fainting into the oven, alright?"

Taako grabbed his best hat and stuck his tongue out at her. She replied in turn, then buried her head in her book again.

****

Magnus was burning the food. The smoke was very quickly filling the whole room, and he was coughing, trying to figure out what was going wrong. He struggled for the off switch on the stove, and he didn't notice Taako until he dove for it, before swiftly covering the charred mess in the pan with its lid. He panted, then looked over at Magnus, who was slumped against a bar stool, still coughing somewhat.

Damnit. You were so close and now he's here, witness to your failure.

"Hey, Taako," he said weakly, as the elf tried to wave most of the smoke out the window. "Lup send you?"

"My sister was under the impression that you needed some help."

He eyed the disaster on the stove and scooped it up, taking it to the open air to cool off. Magnus was still upset, but he pulled himself up quickly. He couldn't let Taako see him like this.

“Yeah, well, I mean - ” he stammered, staring down at the food.  Not at Taako.

“Listen, my man, it takes some practice.  But it’s pretty simple once you get the hang of it.”

“Easy for you to say,” Magnus sighed as he sank down into his seat.  “Here I am, trying to make the perfect dish, and you - ”

“Perfect dish?  For Lucretia?”

Magnus gaze shot up to Taako.  Oh thank fuck, Lup must have bought the lie after all.

“Maggie, you know that woman will eat anything you make her, she loves your stuff.”

“I know!” Magnus said carefully.  “I just...wanted her to have something nicer.”

“Hmm,” Taako mused as he examined the remains of the mess in his hands.  “Was this bacon?”

Shit.

“Um, it was?  I was trying something out with cheese, and...”

He gestured to the wreck.  Taako smirked before dumping the whole thing into the garbage.

“Okay, if you’re going to be working with cheese, like making it fancy, you can’t just melt it over any old pan.”

He cleared a space on the counter and opened the fantasy fridge behind him, peering inside.

“What sort of flavors were you thinking?” he asked as he rummaged around.

Magnus tried to come up with something that wouldn’t clue Taako into the ruse.

“Uh...barebeque?”

Taako slammed the door and turned, glaring at him.

“Magnus, I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

He dropped a block of cream cheese into Magnus’ stunned hands.

“It’s simple – whip this up with a bit of cheddar and...”

He perused the shelves before grabbing a bottle and tossing it to Magnus.  He caught it awkwardly, still staring at Taako.

“Worcestershire.”

“I, um...” Magnus examined the bottle.  “How do you pronounce this again?”

Taako laughed.

“Look, Magnus, I can’t hold your hand through this.  So I’m giving you a head start.  Fly free little bird.  Can’t wait to see if Lucy likes it.”

Magnus took him in.  He was leaning casually on the counter, smiling, but his foot was tapping in the nervous tick Magnus knew meant he was nervous.  He shouldn’t know that, it meant Taako had become everything in his mind, but that was the truth.  He knew Taako better than the elf probably thought he did, and all he wanted to do was prove to him that he could give him something amazing.  Something incredible and delicious.

His fingers tightened on the bottle.  If Taako said it would taste good, he would make it.

“Alright, Taako.  Thanks.”

“No problem, kemosabe, any time.”

His foot was still tapping, and Magnus looked at him curiously.  Taako didn’t have any reason to be nervous.  He always knew his way around the kitchen.

“I’ll try it out today.”  Magnus turned back to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of ranch dressing.  “What about this?”

Taako’s eyes widened and he made a small noise that Magnus couldn’t really get a read on.

“Maggie, that’s up to you to decide.”

He pushed himself up, and now his fingers were tapping the same rhythm.  Magnus just didn’t get it.  He put the bottle down gently as Taako backed out of the room.

“Good luck!”

He was gone before Magnus could respond.  He stared down at the ingredients in his hands.

He didn’t think Taako had actually given him any cooking tips.

******

Taako sucked in a deep breath the moment he left the kitchen.  What the hell was he thinking, giving Magnus the stuff to make one of his favorite dishes?  And why in the ever loving fuck did Magnus know exactly what ingredient (the stupid ranch dressing) would make the whole thing perfect?

“He doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, why would he care so much?” he muttered as he half-ran down the hall.

He ran headlong into Lup, and suddenly there was paper flying everywhere, Lup cursing as she knelt to try and pick it all up.

“Goddamnit, Ko, I spent all morning on this, and now you’ve gone and - ”

Taako took a second look at the paper.  It wasn’t blank, there was writing all over it.  Lup was holding what looked like an empty cover.

“Lup, what is - ”

He snatched a piece out of the air and read it over.

- was some of the best fun I’ve had in ages.  Your smile was so lovely, and your laugh made me feel – 

Lup grabbed the paper back from him, almost ripping it in half.  She was blushing.

“None of your business, is what it is.”

He eyed the cover that she was shoving all the papers back into.

“Is this for Lucretia?”

Lup didn’t answer.  She collected the final pieces before shutting the cover forcefully and standing up.

“Oh ho ho, you are not in love with - ”

“Taako, I’m gonna make you a deal - ”

She shoved a finger in his face.

“I won’t say shit about your thing for Magnus if you don’t say shit about this.”

Taako was still shocked.

“Wait.  If you got Lucretia’s name, then why the hell did you say Magnus was cooking for her?”

Lup closed her eyes and cursed.

“Lulu,” he chided.  “He pulled my name didn’t he?”

She stared at the ground.

“Maybe,” she grumbled.

“Oh no,” Taako realized.  “I just told him how to make the perfect dish for me.  Oh, god, Lup, this is going to backfire horribly, you can’t let this happen.”

“Last time I checked,” Lup said, pulling the journal closer to her.  “It wasn’t any of my business.”

She shoved past him, shouldering him hard, leaving him to think.

Magnus knew what Taako wanted.  He was going to make him exactly what he wanted.  And Taako was supposed to sit there and take it like it wasn’t the most pathetic thing to happen to him.

The gift swap was tomorrow.

He groaned and headed back to the workshop.

He had a ship to finish.

******

The morning came beautifully.  There was a layer of fresh snow on the ground, the Candlenights bush was alight, and everyone around them was celebrating.

Davenport had polished up the Starblaster’s living room with a small bush of its own, and everyone had their gifts ready.

As Taako expected, Lup gave Lucretia a journal full of stories they had shared.  Lucretia had turned beet red, and so had Lup.  Merle gave Barry a new pair of somewhat patchworked blue jeans he had made himself, and Barry gave the dwarf a Candlenights pumpkin he had tried to grow in a greenhouse.  It was deflated, and sad-looking, but Merle loved it anyway.  Davenport smiled cheerfully as he gave Lup a simple sweater with the IPRE logo, that he said he had knitted himself.

It was Magnus’ turn to present his gift, and he produced a large plate surrounded by buttery crackers.  In its center there was a giant cheeseball, covered in herbs and bacon.  Taako could smell the ranch from across the room, and his mouth watered just looking at it.  Magnus had outdone himself, and Taako had no idea why.  Why was he worth so much?  He shouldn’t have ever helped Magnus.  He should have just – 

“Taako?”

Davenport was trying to get his attention.

“Taako, it’s your gift next, right?”

“Yeah.  Coming right up.”

He left the room and returned with the Starblaster model in his hands.

He was particularly proud of himself, actually.  The beautifully sculpted hull was painted the shining silver of the real thing.  The cockpit was sleek and smooth.  The thing even had the name etched into its side, carefully done by fucking hand (and his fingers still hurt from doing it).  But it was done, and it was pretty, and from one look at Magnus Taako could tell he loved it.  Taako’s heart swelled up to just look at the big guy’s expression.

“Taako!” he gasped.  “Taako, that’s incredible!”

Taako smiled sheepishly as he set the thing down on the table.

“Thanks.  I wanted to make sure it looked good for - ”

“Davenport, that’s gotta be the best present ever!”

“Wait, what?”

Magnus turned to Davenport, who looked shocked too, but Lucretia was shaking her head.

“No, I had Davenport’s name.  Magnus, that ship’s for you.”

Magnus stared at Taako.

“For me?”

Taako was gaping at him.

“Wait, wait.  You think I made this for Davenport?”

“You were so focused on it, you were so passionate!  You must have loved Davenport so much and I didn’t want to - ”

“Davenport?  Davenport?  Excuse me, why the ever loving fuck would I be in love with Davenport - no offense Dav - ”

The gnome shrugged.

“Davenport?!”

“I didn’t think it was for me!”

“You idiot, of course it was for you!”

“Why did you put so much effort into something that I would - ”

“Okay, back up, Taako’s not answering that question, you should be answering mine, which is why the hell did you put so much effort into my gift?”

Magnus blinked at him.

“Lup said it was your favorite.”

“Lup said?!”

Taako whirled on his sister, flipping her off with both hands.  She saluted him, and he turned back to Magnus.

“Magnus, you nearly killed yourself in that kitchen.  Why didn’t you make your rabbit stew?  You know I would have been happy with that.”

Magnus looked saddened.

“I wanted it to be special.  For you.”

Taako took the words hard.

“What, so now you’re taking pity on me?” he spat.  He didn’t need this.  This extra effort.  “It’s bad enough seeing me by myself all the time, you had to go and embellish it?”

Magnus was shaking his head, but Taako wasn’t having any of it.

“You’re such an idiot, Mags, a real prize.  It’s already hard enough having to see you dance around with people on the different planes.  Dancing with people who weren’t me.  Now you gotta go and remind me that I’m just a pity project to you, someone you feel bad for.”

Magnus was staring at him.

“People who weren’t...you?” he asked, confused.

“Here we go,” Lup stage whispered to the rest of the crew.  Taako could have sworn he heard money being exchanged, but he didn’t care.

“Yeah, Maggie!” he yelled.  “Not me!  Because you’ll never dance with me, no matter how much I want it.  You wanna know why I put so much into this hunk of junk?  Because you deserve the best, Magnus Burnsides.  You wanna know why I know that?  Because I love your stupid face too much, and I’ll never give you second best, even if all you’ll do is bake me a pity cake and serve it with a smile.”

Magnus was dumbstruck.  Lup was smirking.  And Taako was panting hard, his braid unraveling at the end, his fists balled up tight.

“Look,” he spit out, storming over to the plate with Magnus’ cheese ball and scooping it up, almost spitefully.  “I’m going to enjoy this in the comfort of my own room.  You win, Lup.”

He flipped her off again, pointedly ignoring Merle and Davenport eating popcorn by the window.  His asshole of a sister must have handed it out.  Fine, whatever.

“Show’s over people,” he muttered.

“...I have a stupid face?” were the only words he heard from Magnus before Taako slammed the door behind him.

******

The worst part about all of it was that the food was exceptionally good.  Magnus had outdone himself, always and forever, like he always would, and it made Taako even more pissed.  Because of course Magnus would go all out.  Of course he would devote all this time and energy and effort into making Taako the perfect dish because the dumb idiot never wanted anyone to feel left out.  He felt bad for Taako, seeing him on his own.

“Whose fault is it that I’m alone in the first place, huh?” Taako muttered spitefully as he took another bite.  He didn’t mean it.  He didn’t blame Magnus - he blamed himself.  But that wasn’t Taako’s area of expertise, so he threw the ball back in Magnus’ court because having an imaginary scapegoat for your own problems is better than confronting them yourself.

There was a tentative knock on the door.  Taako groaned, setting aside the food delicately (he still wanted to eat more) as he forced himself to his feet and stormed over to the door.

“Lup, I swear to god, Fantasy Jesus, Jeffandrew, and literally everyone in the Celestial Plane that I am gonna - ”

He wrenched the door open, ready with a string of curses.  But it wasn’t Lup.  It was Magnus.

“Hi,” he said timidly.

Taako moved to close the door, but Magnus stuck his foot out and caught it.

“Please,” he offered, desperation in his voice.  “I just wanna talk.”

Taako rolled his eyes and sighed loudly, throwing his hands up in the air as he walked back to his bunk and the plate of delicious food.  He threw himself onto the bed and waved a hand dramatically, inviting Magnus to enter.

“Not much to talk about, my man,” he said, pointedly ignoring Magnus’ puppy dog eyes.  The whole thing reeked of the adoration that Magnus usually poured into things.  Selfless loser.

“I didn’t mean any of what you said back there.  I promise.”

Taako took another spiteful bite.  God it was good.

“Listen, you’re the team lover.  We’ve all heard the stories, we know each other.  It’s been, what, fifteen cycles?  Twenty?  The idea that you wanna care for all of us isn’t anything new, Mags.  I get it.”

“Taako, I do care about you, just like everyone else, but I - ”

“That’s all I gotta hear, Maggie.” Taako finished his food, savoring the last taste of bacon on his tongue.  Magnus was struggling for words.

“The Starblaster,” he said slowly.  Taako knew he meant the model ship Taako had slaved over, as much as he wanted him to be talking about the one they were in.  If only so they didn’t. Have. To talk. About this.  “Why were you so focused on it?”

Taako curled his legs up to his chest and looked out the window, away from Magnus.

“I told you why,” he said dully, almost under his breath.

“I guess I don’t...you’re always so bold, Taako, I...I never knew you’d want me.”

Taako recoiled further and closed his eyes.

“Yeah, well.”

Why wasn’t Magnus leaving?  Things would be so much better if he just wasn’t there.

“Taako.”

Magnus’ hand was on Taako’s, and he wanted to leap back, hissing, because no one touched him except Lup, at least not like this, not when he was vulnerable and messy and dear god why did Magnus have to look like that?

His eyes were big and watery, there was a hesitant smile on his lips, and he looked cute, the absolute fucker.   He was making Taako’s heart skip three beats at a time, and it wasn’t fair.

“What do you care anyway?!” Taako snapped, shoving himself up from the bed and marching to the door.  Magnus’ hand hovered midair where it had been touching Taako’s skin moments before.  “We’ve both played our hands, made our beds.  Now I’ve gotta lie in mine, and you in yours, and we’ll move on!”

He yanked open the door and pointed firmly at the hall outside.

Magnus looked heartbroken, and it made Taako furious.

“Why do you have to look like that!” he cried.  “It’s bad enough you look down on me - ”

Magnus stood suddenly.

“Taako, no - ”

“ - and now Taako’s gone and opened his big mouth and said shit you were never meant to hear and I - ”

Magnus was in front of him, towering over him with his big frame and muscles that could hug Taako so warmly and goddamnit.

“Taako, I love you, okay?” Magnus shouted.

“Yeah!  That’s exactly the problem!”

Magnus shook his head and grasped Taako’s shoulders, and as much as he wanted to shove them off and run the other way, he found himself rooted to the spot.

“Taako, I don’t pity you!  I don’t want you to feel good, or have nice things, or be cared for because I’m obligated to!  I want perfection for you, Taako, because I love you!”

Taako opened his mouth for a retort and stopped short, one finger raised in retaliation.

“You - you’re saying that you specially cooked a meal - ”

“Yes.”

“And did all this work - ”

“Yes.”

“And asked my fucking sister to help you - ”

Magnus stuttered.  “I d - didn’t exactly ask her - ”

“Oh, shut up you lovable idiot.”

Taako threw himself forward and kissed Magnus with as much as he could muster in the span of three seconds, before he pulled back, his hands still gently grasping Magnus’ shirt.  Magnus looked surprised, and immediately Taako tried to push himself away.

“Never should’ve...stupid, I’m so fucking stupid...I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m - ”

He didn’t realize what was happening until Magnus’ lips were on his, and they were kissing again, longer and deeper.  Taako felt the door close quietly behind him before Magnus had lifted him into the air, pressing him against the door and wow, it felt like flying kissing this man, this big stupid lug who cared too damn much for his own good.

In a breath that he almost didn’t want to take, he looked at Magnus, at his soft eyes and dorky smile.

“I fucked up,” he whispered.  “I didn’t know - ”

“You’re forgiven,” Magnus said softly, kissing him gently on the cheek.

“That bacon was really fucking good.”

“I know.”  He was kissing his neck now, oh my god he was kissing his neck.

“How much do you think the team lost on the bets?” he asked, trying and failing to distract himself from Magnus’ strong arms and his careful fingers.

“Bet they didn’t expect this,” Magnus breathed into his ear, and Taako stopped talking then, because even if this was a fluke, a one off, Magnus’ pity going to the extreme -

But it wasn’t.  He felt that, somewhere inside of him.  Magnus had a tiny ship and Taako had a licked-clean plate to prove it. This wasn’t going to go away.

Somewhere down the hall, Lup listened in on the bedroom and beamed as she collected her winnings from everyone around her.

Next to her, Lucretia started a new page in her books.

[nate-the-ok]

Sugar Napkins Glass

One of my larger projects, written in a particular mood, then I got out of the mood. Lost interest. Its a time investment, fair warning

Sugar, Napkins, Glass: Chapter 1

           Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. The things sea air does to cream cheese.

           Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. (Three more furious scraping sessions)

It was late evening on the isles of Costa Marco, and Greg Sattle was deeply contemplating how drowning actually felt as he psychologically held his nose and cleaned the day`s cream cheese stains from the floors of his seaside café, The Port Side. He certaintly never imagined himself as the owner of some cream-colored scene out of a Martha Stewart Magazine, but crazier things have been done for love. Well perhaps not, Greg thought to himself. Ships were launched. Hundreds, perhaps thousands have died. But no one surely would subject themselves to ten years of imprisonment in a coffee shop. Her name, as apt as names go, has changed over the years. First, it was Elizabeth. Then, it was Liz. Then it was Ellie. After that it was Mom. Now its…well there are a plethora of profanities on Costa Marco relating to nagging old sea hags.

As the sun set over the ocean waves, bubbling and rippling the light from a distance, inducing a trance-like state for all of the barely clothed onlookers, Greg scanned the beaches, reigning down his mighty judgement upon all of god`s creation.

“Perverts. Sicophants. Mankind is a disgusting thing. All of these people, living artificial lives in artificial clothes, with artificial personalities, having sex with each other and drinking and lazing about. The fat jiggling bipeds live meaningless lives, consuming and consuming and consuming. A colony of walruses lives with more honor”

While deep in his sociopathic rants, Greg`s only son and heir to his legacy, Samuel, sauntered over to his father.

“Hey uhh, dad”

Greg hated his son. He was positive that he was the dumbest person on the entire island. No, the entire planet. It wasn`t even that that bothered him. It was his stupid, rage inducing manner of speech. It was a cross between the calm, swaying way of the islanders, and a lifetime of listening to the worst music god ever created. It was like listening to a four year old whine about having wet himself for 23 years. There were many occasions where Greg would chuckle to himself as Sam stubbed his toe on a door, or got beat up by a gang of street thugs. Ah the glories of cosmic justice he thought to himself. Now he approaches, likely to ask for something, as all weak willed individuals do on a regular basis.

“Yes Sam?” Greg said with obvious disdain, mocking Sam`s imperceptiveness, and crying on the inside that his son would always be, that stupid.

“I was just wondering if you wanted to loan me like uh…fifty bucks?”

Another thing that bothered Greg about Sam. He had zero charisma. He came off as needy and useless as he actually was. The only job he could ever get, was washing dishes at the cafe, which somehow, he still showed up late for. You couldn`t send him to military school to straighten him out, because they`d probably kill him for being such an annoying little shit, and say it was an accident. It was that part, that he regretted that his son would die, that really bothered Greg. Why god? Why other than by blood relations should I care about this…

“What exactly for?” Greg retorted

“Um…Im taking a girl on a date and I uh…need some spending money”

It was here that Greg paused. Surely, with this small investment of mere material gains, perhaps this will finally change sam`s silly ways. Hopefully he falls in love with this girl, and eventually she breaks his heart, that always toughens up a man in the end. Good god was sam a virgin? It`s a distinct possibility, but how could he know? Sam never confided in Greg. Ever. What the hell. Maybe it`s worth a shot.

“Sure, here…consider it a bonus…actually it`s not a bonus you`re a terrible worker and if you weren`t my son i`d fire you”

“Thanks dad!” Sam replied with renewed elation, as he scurried out the door, hopping into the old convertible Greg had gave him for his nineteenth birthday. Another failed attempt at manning him up.

“Maybe im just a shitty parent” Greg said out loud to himself.

Maybe he`s a lot of shitty things. However, that`s not nearly the most important part of this story.

“Oh a whisky oh a danny, when will the whisky run dry?” Bellowed each member of the small crew. Caribbean lobsters were rare, but in recent years, their populations blossomed, for almost unfathomable reasons. Regardless, dozens of fishing companies cropped up around Costa Marco, looking to cash in on a commoditiy, which pound for pound, was more valuable than gold. Of this small crew of the “Sandy Boot”, there was Rook, the boats` captain. He was a truck driver, for more years than he cared to remember, or forget for that matter. When the sea called to him, he remembered childhood stories his grandmother told him, of sailors and pirates, of heroes, and most importantly, drunks. Those decades of sitting in the cab of a truck, passing by non-descript highway rest stops and meaningless landmarks gave him a hunger for a real culture, and companionship. Sure there was the occasional bar-room hookup, as many as a guy as old and as fat as him could get but…he wanted a friend. More than anything.

           Rook did the song justice, and drained the last swig of whisky from the clear glass bottle. Happily giggling as he spun the thin aluminum wheel around in the cabin making a course for home, while the other members of the crew scoffed in sarcastic disappointment. The small lobster boat only cost the crew a collective fifteen grand to purchase and insure, but had already made them incredible returns. None felt the weight of that more than Trip, the crew`s most experienced fisherman, but also the poorest. You see, Trip was a local to Costa Marco. His ancestors were slaves, and each preceding generation were slaves. First to white men, then to oppressive governments, then to drugs, and finally, to the sea. Many of the ethnic locals to Costa Marco are fishermen. But not all of them were ever good fishermen. All of them, save for Trip. To anybody else, he was just another kid who knocked some poor girl up, and ruined the rest of his life, trying to take care of a kid. To Trip and Louisa, they were in paradise. Sure they lived in a small apartment by the docks. Sure they didn`t own a car, or even have a checking account. What they did have however, was the kind of love that we all refuse to believe is real, and a beautiful baby boy to match. Their life went as followed. Trip would get up early in the morning, and join the rest of the crew on the boat to fish. Louise would wake with the sunrise and feed their child, sipping tea and reading books, gossiping with her neighbors on the beach behind their home. As the sun went down, she would build a fire, and cook a meal of chopped fish and island fruits. When Trip returned, he would walk onto the beach, lay on the sand next to his wife, take his son in his arms, and they would laugh until the fire left their minds, and fell to embers. When the clock struck ten, the three of them would settle down to bed, and the process would begin again. I`d wager that at the time, since Trip had finally been able to bring in good money, they were the happiest people alive.

           As that rusty old boat pulled into the docks, and Trip called to Louise, Margo was tying off ropes, and looking over cages that had been damaged, eager to repair them. She was a kind of inquisitive, thoughtful human being that had been completely ensnared by the mere concept of rope in general.  She could not explain just how-hold on a second, a woman? On a boat? Believe it or not, yes. A woman on a boat. Perhaps it was because Rook`s guilty pleasure was staring at her ass when she pulled a cage up from the sea. Perhaps it was the fact that on Costa Marco, everyone was too laid back to care at all. In reality, it was the mutual understanding between workers, that if you wanted the money, you worked hard for it, and you weren`t a total bitch, then you could fish like anyone else. It was that kind of atmosphere that Margo really craved. The kind of togetherness and happiness that was alive in the isles of Costa Marco. She could walk the streets on a Friday night, and join any party she wanted. Smile with whoever she wanted, laugh with whoever she wanted, and drink with whoever she wanted. It was her other craving though, that drove her to the fishing industry, and to the seclusion of the house she was able to purchase, just outside of town.

           Cinnitar. A strange name for an incredibly popular opioid. It`s popularity wasn`t in it`s nature or it`s flawless marketing. It`s popularity was based on it`s safety. Margo would walk home from the boat after Rook distributed the previous day`s pay, spend a third of it on Cinnitar, and crash at her place, unwinding slowly into a peaceful, yet dreamless sleep. The gimmick associated to Cinnitar was that no matter how much of it you took, you couldn`t die, and there were virtually no side effects. While initially created to humanely kill family pets, when the formula was released to the general public, crafty chemists soon realized the drug`s massive potential. Margo had a massive amount of reasons to take the drug, but only one that she really couldn`t get out of her head. Her Abortion. Breaking up with Grant. She wasn`t supposed to feel guilty. It was the right thing to do. She was taking control of her body, and her life. Where did that ever get her? Where could it have gone? These kinds of questions only frightened her more when she knew Trip`s story, and watched his family eat dinner on the beach a hundred times. She wanted that, more than anything she wanted that, but she made that choice a thousand years and a thousand miles ago, and there was no way to go back. So it was here, that she would lay back on the hammock, ladle some Cinnitar into her arm, and imagine she made the choice she wanted, maybe even the right choice.

           Suddenly, the newest member of the crew, Spencer, was knocking at her door. Margo couldn`t even stand to respond, and hoped he would just go away. She only ever invited him over along with the whole crew one time, as a housewarming party, but besides that, she had been a hermit. Spencer though, was persistent, knocking away like an idiot, because he saw her going in there…which yes, means that he followed her.

“Oh well, I guess she was just tired from fishing today. It was pretty hot out” he sighed to himself.

           Margo relaxed back into her hammock. She liked Spencer. As far as guys went on all the islands, he was pretty cute. But it had only been…two years? Since she up and left her home in Georgia to find her way in the carribean, just to throw herself at the map and see where she could stick. It had been a long time, she thought. Maybe too long. Maybe she should give Spencer a shot, she thought, but before she could explore that line of reasoning, another wave came over her, and she was further back in that hammock than ever before, further back in her past and her guilt.

           Walking home at night on Costa Marco is a very surreal experience. There are Boas hanging in the trees, pigs and dogs scurrying about, and when you hit the city, it`s a complete paradigm shift. There are vibrantly dressed locals and self-proclaimed locals dancing and drinking and laughing, jabbering and swooning to the hastily strummed guitars and battered drums. When Spencer left that small but happy place in the world, he turned down the many streets until he reached his own little cobblestone corner. Really a treasure of an abode, an old colonial townhouse, shoulder to shoulder with the infinite, but not quite well laid out rows of the other townhouses. He turned the old iron key, creaking open the heavy wooden door, into his own little grain scented shelter. Throwing wood into the fireplace, and firing up his laptop, he began to peruse his greatest passion… bread. Artisan, hand crafted, wood baked, the boy was obsessed. You see, Costa Marco was surprisingly devoid of this kind of bread industry. No dish, local or otherwise served or prepared on the islands required it, in fact, one would be looked upon with a small amount of disdain if seen eating a sandwich. This kind of atmosphere suffocated Spencer. He wanted to share his passion for bread with everyone he knew, by opening his own bakery. You could imagine by this description, that Spencer was a simple kind of guy, but in a magnificently pleasant kind of way. Spencer had spent most of his life travelling, as his father and mother were both in the navy, which meant that for the most part, spencer grew up on naval bases and with other navy kids. They all wanted to follow right in line with their parents, as disciplined and honorable scholars, pilots, or sailors. Spencer wanted none of that. All he wanted, was his bakery. It is hard to determine when, where or how he became obsessed with bread, or why frankly anyone cares, but all this interest is a testament to, is the kind of purity of heart Spencer possessed.

“Just a few more weeks” Spencer muttered to himself with a smile,

“And they`ll all see”…He trailed off, sensing he was tired, and rising to his bedroom. With each thunk of the heavy wooden steps he thought of Margo. How pretty she was. How her hair glistened in the midday sun. How the waters rolled off her skin. Yes, this is love, he thought.

           The crew of the sandy boot were a lively bunch. The money was good, but what would it mean if they couldn`t buy paradise in…paradise. Poor old Greg was no exception. As he forked the thin steel key out of the decrepid lock of the café, and wandered over to his old Toyota truck, he began for the first time in his life, to seriously examine the choices he had made. For an inimaginable amount of time, Greg was locked in his relationship with Liz. Funny. He hadn`t even called her that in his thoughts in years. He could sense it. Just like how he sensed some asshole slowly crawling up his tail light on the old highway.

“Why I oughta” Greg snarled to himself, well aware that he only said that due to the fact thousands of other faces on the televisions did before him,

           What he “oughta” do became less and less clear. His stream of consciousness was inundated with images of graphic, brutal violences he would inflict on the morally devoid creature that parasitically perched itself on his mechanical posterior. While making a curve on the old road, he caught a good glimpse of the driver in his rear-view mirror. It was just some...average young woman. Really nothing of great stereotypical or demonstrative worth. Suddenly, a wave of sympathy overcame Greg. Maybe she was just having a bad day. Maybe she was just angry about something. Maybe he had tailgaited her some time ago, and this was her form of revenge. Maybe, and entirely possibly, she was thinking the very same thoughts he was in his car, driving home late at night. Wondering about all the things he had done, the bills he had to pay, or the big decisions he would have to make. And a big decision, he certaintly did have to make. And it would pertain to whether or not he would stay with Liz.

           It wasn`t like it was rocket science. Greg wasn`t always this spiteful, this mean, or even this domecticated. Liz hated camping. Before he met her, he could barely stay out of the woods.

“Yeah, Camping. Another thing to look foreward to when she`s out of the picture” Greg said aloud to himself, in rhythm with the soft country music on the radio.

“And that stupid kid of ours. He can be HER problem”. His voice began to rise with elation, as if the lightball was slowly coming on in his head.

“And I can finally smoke a cigar, inside or out…Hell ill be sure to ash`em right in the carpets”. The rhythm was infecting his reasoning, a little song being invented as he talked more and more.

“Oh yeah you bet it baaabay, that I`ll be smokin` up the town…do do do, pah do do pah pah… Oh yeah won`t be a clean carpet arooooooouuund” He laughed and tapped on his wheel as he sang his little song, all the way up his driveway.

           Greg didn`t even bother to go in the house anymore. The ol` salty sea skank (his favourite colloquialism), would always be there to ask him how much money he made at the café that day.

“It was your idea bitch, and you`d know how much we were making if you ever left the house”

Greg pondered that hypothetical strategy in an argument as he walked into the shed, and flicked then lights on. Upon the table, lay his only true love. His beautiful bearded lizard, which he named Tequila. Greg…Greg was the kind of guy who loved to watch things. To be in control. There was nothing Greg loved more than to feed Tequila, in the morning before he went to work, and at night when he came home. Despite the fact that all the simple lizard ever gave him was the occaisional eyeball lick, or even a rare nibble on his fingers, Greg interpreted that as true affection.

“Oh little Tequila, you look so hungry!” Greg said, opening the cabinet above the lizard`s massive tank, and pulling out a small colony of grasshoppers.

Greg thought for a moment as he fauned over his pet, and smirked when he said, “So hungry that these little sons of bitches…might not be enough”

Greg put the grasshoppers back in the cabinet, and pulled another tank up from the ground across the floor. Within, rested half a dozen garter snakes, just now becoming startled at being lifted on the table.

Then, with the methodical preparation of a serial killer, Greg donned a leather apron and a pair of leather gloves, grabbing the fattest snake from the tank, and sealing the rest away. Greg took time to examine the creature, ensuring that it wouldn`t be strong enough to possibly hurt cute little Tequila. Of course none of those snakes stood a chance, but even a scratch on one of his stubby little legs would deeply disturb Greg. He gingerly placed the snake in the opposite end of Tequila`s tank, pulled up a chair, cracked a beer, and just watched.

           Tequila was quick to take notice. It wasn`t very often that he had roomates. The new company was very exciting, but quite strange. Like an innocent, scaley puppy, tequila plodded off of his log, and towards this new arrival.

“Hold on a moment” Tequila thought to himself, slowing his pace as he analyzed the scent of the creature. He approached with caution…and a feeling…came over him…

           Within a flash, bits and pieces of his new friend were strewn throughout the sand, a chunk of it`s torso sliding down his gullet.

“No…Not Again!”

           Greg was sufficiently appeased by this display, and took the time to clean the cage while Tequila was occupied with his food, and changed his water.

“Isn`t it maaaaagic” Greg sang to himself, as he closed down the shed, and turned off all the lights, only dimming Tequila`s light in his tank.

“He gets scared of the dark…musn`t do that to him” He muttered, having thought about it and said that phrase a thousand times by now, it had become more of a routinely incensed nervous tick, for now  Greg would have to actually go inside his house, and face his wife, which especially as of late, had become thornier than Tequila. Yes, thornier. Nothing else… weirdo.

           Greg walked up to the bug screened back door, and as he climbed the second of the three steps, the light above the door came on, which meant that Liz was fast approaching, likely having seen Greg leave the shed. He opened the door, with her standing in front of him, crossing her arms and staring at him with pursed lips. She always had a flair for the dramatic. Never seemed to like existing in a state of calm or contentment. As far as Greg knew, she loved to be miserable and combative.

           Greg wasn`t really in the mood for one of her fits. He knew how the argument would go. He knew exactly what she would nag him about. The Café isn`t making enough money, the house needs renovating, you need to spend more time with sam, you need to work out. It was the last part that bothered Greg the most. His physique had never been exemplary, he knew this, and he thought she knew this. Where did this desire for a six pack and biceps appear? When she started to have to shimmy through the closet door sideways?

           After a single, tense moment, Greg simply put his keys on the hook beside the door, and walked on by. Sure it required one awkward shove, and really did nothing to appease Liz, but what was the point? All she wanted to do was argue till the sun came up.

           He casually walked over to the kitchen and pulled some raw fish he had bought from the market two days earlier, prepared a skillet, and began to sear it on the electric oven, not expressing a single emotion aside from blank disdain as she walked in, still pouting about…well he didn`t even bother to find out.

           He kept standing over that fish, casually turning from side to side as he grabbed various spices off the racks beside the stove. Ultimately, he found her performance entertaining and predictable. She had done this a thousand times. She would continue to do this a thousand times. It had been years since he stopped wondering what he could do, what he could say so she would finally hug him after a long day of work…again Greg felt regret.

“How terribly attached to a terrible woman have I become? I would be so much happier if I just…left. But I can`t…How fickle the heart is”

           He remembered when they first moved into the house. They had arguments yes, but they were small, never lasted long, and were always resolved. He thought that was the sign of how resilient they were as a couple. Over time though, with the innumerable failures of Sam, the highs and lows of the café, the hurricane…Their arguments grew more fierce. They could argue for hours. First it was a low rumble. Then it was a scream. At least he`d get the occasional “I love you” from her. Nowadays, he couldn`t even remember the last time he, or even she said it.

           He could remember the last time they cooked together. It was beef stew. He remembered the sound of her laughter as they casually splashed the red wine into the broth and their glasses. He remembered how warm she felt in his arms as they fell asleep on the porch, stinking of wine and spilled stew.

“Yes…that was the last time we were happy together” he thought to himself.

           He slid the fish off the skillet and onto a pan, turning around and placing it on the table, unsuprised to see he wife still standing there in the doorway, maintining that blank, judgemental expression. He sat down, pushed the plate to the side slowly, and motioned for her to sit down. Slowly, she rose from her stance, and took the chair across from him. After a long moment of silence, and losing the staring contest with the tribal figurine in the middle of the table, Greg spoke.

“Aren`t you tired?” He asked, deliberately, implying so much with so little.

In complete understanding of the implications, she replied

“I…Yes… I am”

“How long has it been…since you were actually happy to see me?” He asked, having completely forgotten about the fish growing cold beside him.

“Too long” She curtly replied.

There was another long pause as Greg began to feel a wash of emotions come over him. He really loved her. There was no denying that. He began to process the thought of her not loving him, images of her leaving, of her looking away when he passed her on the street. It began to destroy him in ways he couldn`t imagine. He couldn`t stop it, he had already set in motion.

“ Do you still love me?” He asked, having asked a thousand times before in the past as a rhetorical question, always replied with “of course idiot”, or “you know I do”. This was the first time he really meant it, and really wondered. And it really hurt.

There was another long silence. Everything felt colder, and darker to Greg. His life, and his worldview were hanging in the balance. The fact that she even took a second to consider sent him spinning. It felt like a knife was being pulled out of his chest, the sheer anticipation of what he knew would come next.

Liz rose from her chair, and took a picture off the wall. It was from years ago, when the whole family had taken their first vacation together. Greg was standing over Liz, his hands on her shoulders, as She was sitting on a canoe, sam in her arms, still a baby. She came back to her chair, and put the picture on the table, staring at it for yet another agonizing eternity.

“I loved you for who you were…but not for who you are”

He could not think. He could not speak. He responded as blankly and as simply as he could muster.

“In that case…I want you out of the house by next week”

“What? Greg that`s completely unreasonable” she said, which to Greg indicated that she wanted to go, and she wanted to for a long time. It also enraged him for some reason, that she would have the gall to break his heart, and still ask for reparations.

“I don`t particularly care. Actually, here`s the deal. I`ll give you that goddamned café, and ill keep the house, which I paid for by actually working at MY café. I swear to god if you say it`s somehow yours to give, the only claim you have was that it was your goddamned idea. It`s in my legal name, I did all the work to get the land, to build the damn thing, and still ran it for ten years. Take whatever damn money you`ve got saved and get an apartment in town. Maybe you`ll find a skinny Cuban guy to sleep with while you`re there!” Greg yelled.

“Just…fuck you Greg. Fuck you.” Liz replied, tears streaming down her face as she ran upstairs, the clunk of her suitcase slamming to the floor. Greg didn`t care. This was the hundredth argument they had gotten in, and he was making sure this was the last. He was angry, but only as a way to drown out just how upset he really was.  

The sound of the suitcase hitting the floor, of dressers flying open, was the melody to which Greg went on his laptop in the living room, and electronically transferred ownership of the café over to Liz. He promptly went into their bank account, destroyed the split account, taking what was his, and establishing his own account. “Hmm…She only has $38,000 left…How did she even earn that much?”. He didn`t bother to find out. He had now financially cut her out of his life. The wonders of the internet.

There was a pang of regret in Greg. Perhaps this was too extreme. Maybe it was, but there was no coming back from what he just did. Those two minutes of conversation could have gone a thousand different ways. It began to feel like he chose the worst way possible. All he wanted was for Liz to love him again, but instead, he pushed her away. Was it justified? After years and years of these arguments maybe it was. He just felt like he needed to…pull the plug, so to speak. Just to cut it off and end it. So, he reasoned, like any other case of amputation, it would hurt, but in the end, he would be better off. Still, he wouldn`t have an arm. That was ultimately the question. Would Greg rather have a cancerous, venomous part of his life that made him miserable, or not have that at all? What was worse? What Greg did know is that it was too late to wonder. He had tried medicating for decades, with know sign of remission. Now, Liz was coming down the stairs, and Greg began to be so upset that he couldn`t think of any more medical juxtapositions.

What was worse was that she didn`t even look at him when she went out the door. All he could yell at her was that the Café was her responsibility now, and she`d have to find a way run it in the morning. He remembered the keys in his pocket, and threw the café key in her car as she opened the passenger door to throw her suitcase in. She still did not look at him. She refused to look at him. Even when she was pulling out of the driveway, She didn`t even look towards the house, and sped off to town. So Greg stood there, on the porch, and for the first time in fifteen years, he cried.

It wasn`t like how he imagined. The house didn`t feel free. A weight wasn`t lifted off his shoulders. It felt empty. Like there were still parts of it that were actually hers. He wanted to call her. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, that she should come back and they could talk things over. It was too late though. He knew her. She would take this whole incident to heart. She would go through with it, regardless of how she still felt about him. The ultimate issue was that they both loved each other, but they couldn`t stand each other. It was a sick, unhealthy way of existing, and Greg sought to excise those feelings as he cleaned up the bedroom and the bathroom, putting whatever she left behind in a box, which he was debating either burning, burying, or throwing at her whenever she found out where she lived. Fortunately she was pretty good about it… in fact it was too good. Maybe she had rehersed this. Maybe she was just waiting for this argument, the go ahead, the justification to finally leave. She had to have been thinking about it. Way more than he actually was.

           The reality was that when you`re married to a woman for thirty years, she accumulates more crap than she could possibly fit in one exceptionally large suitcase. She took the essentials, her clothes, her jewelry, so on and so forth. What did she leave behind? The kind of things that hurt to still see. Photos. Letters. Little arts and crafts, any kind of sentimental object.

“Regardless” Greg said to himself.

“This was going to happen one day or another…just when and how were the only questions…doesn`t change the fact that I still feel like shit about it.”

There really isn`t anything he could do except just sit on the bed, and imagine what life would now be like. Where his fit of rage and honesty really put him. He didn`t have a job anymore. That was something to consider. What could he even go for? He had a degree in business management, and sociology. He had years of experience running small restaurants. Those kind of credentials don`t get you far in this kind of a place. What really mattered was that he was old, fat, and…didn`t have Liz. He felt guilty about not being more sympathetic. About not feeling at all bad for essentially kicking her out in the middle of the night. It was just…her words. I loved you for who you were…not for who you are”. She had, without any kind of anger or impotice, said the most hurtful thing Greg ever heard in his life. He regretted ever complaining about her, even though that complaining was mostly to himself. He was angry, shocked, and plunged into this deep pit of depression all in an instant. The fact that he suddenly lost control of his emotions wasn`t forgivable but to Greg…it was understandable.

                                                 -----------

 Greg awoke the next morning, with a pain in his chest. The knife wound from earlier had moved to the center of his chest, slowly ripping and tearing. It no longer felt metaphorical. It was a literal, real pain, and as he saw it… it was all his fault.

“What am I thinking?” he said to himself, squinting his eyes as he sat up in the morning sunlight.

It was eight o`clock in the morning. He normally got up at six to get to the shop and open by seven, but what the hell. It`s not his problem anymore.

“I am a grown ass man and I`m pining after that hag?”

Oh god of course. The only reason he was sad was because he only chose to remember the good parts of their marriage which to be honest, were just as she described. They started good, and tapered off around… jesus a quarter of the way through? Did he not remember the endless, pointless, and frustrating fights they would get in? How she would blame him for how Sam turned out? No. He shouldn`t feel sad. The only reason he does was…human nature.

“Yeah… that`s gotta be it.” Greg thought.

He got up, and went through his typical morning routine, plus a mug of rum and fatefully, a cigar on the porch. As he took deep, long tokes on the sweet treasure he had denied himself for years, he began to remember what kind of a man he really was.

“Just getting in touch with my ego. It`s what Freud would want”

Suddenly, he remembered his only friend, and ran to the shed. He scooped up little Tequila from his tank, and placed him in a basket (formerly used for bath towels…why would you want a smaller towel? Why not just the one size towel? Another annoying mystery of Liz) beside him, pouring him a little dish of rum.

“This is the life eh Tequila? A bit of rum, the lazy island breeze, and the cool morning sun…I just feel like staying right here. Doing absolutely nothing. In that way I guess we aren’t that different eh little man?”

Tequila had already taken a few sips of the rum, and began to feel groggy, making a movement with his head that appeared to Greg as a nod.

“The food god has poisoned me…the sweet smelling liquid was a deception…”

The spiny lizard felt the warmth of the sun on his scales, and reminisced on the few times he ever saw the great ball of orange light.

“Perhaps I am dying…why else would the food god bring me here?”

Hours indeed did pass. The sun rose, and all the island birds were chirping and cawing. Greg used to think it was an annoying racket, but now, a little buzzed on the rum and having meditiated in this state for some time, it was a chorus, more beautiful and sanctified than any church choir he ever listened to as a kid.

Greg felt sore, and decided to rise from his seat, and noticed that Tequila had finished his bowl of rum, and now was listing around his basket, attempting to escape.

“I think it`s high time I did something…that I expanded your perspective”

He picked up Tequila, and brought him in the house. He had never left the confindes of his tank, save for the one time Greg brought him out in the yard to run around a little bit. He gently laid him on the couch, set out a plate of pre-killed grasshoppers and a dish of water, and closed the door behind him.

“I`m just curious as to what the hell happens” he giggled to himself.

“Also as to what…has happened”

He grew morose, and finally decided to assess the damage on what happened the night before. As he was pulling out of the driveway, he questioned for but a moment, the soundness of the decision to let Tequila have his way with the house.  Before he could consider that for any  longer, he saw Sam pull into the driveway, or attempt to. For the first time in his life, Sam looked truly angry with his father. Greg sighed, and pulled back in the driveway, getting out and leaning against the bed of the truck as Sam pulled in himself.

“Hey Dad can you tell ME what uh, happened last night?” Sam said, with a kind of difficulty that made it very apparent he was inexperienced with this emotion.

“When did you find out?” Greg said, with the kind of calm respect he never gave to Sam. He was innocent here. He deserved to be treated with respect when it came to this, of all things.

“Last night Dad. Mom`s staying at my place right now” Sam answered, still pseudo angry with Greg

You mean the apartment I pay for? Greg thought. No. This wasn`t the time for bitterness or sarcasm about anything. Not with Sam.

“Sam, I know you`re a man and you have a lot of things of your own to worry about and pay attention to but…you must have known this was coming”

“OF COURSE I did dad! I just never thought you would be the one to…do it. And that way? Do you know how mom feels right now?”

Greg sighed heavily, and moved to the porch. Sam followed, eagerly awaiting his father`s answer. Greg sat back down in his chair, and sparked up the short cigar he had been working on since the morning.

“Come on Sam…Sit down” Greg motioned to the other seat, formerly Liz`s seat, back when he and Liz used to do things like that together. Sam complied, and pulled the chair over to sit beside his father. Greg looked out at the island and the jungle, the ocean and the birds flying over the canopy. Sam sat staring at his father, incredibly nervous as to what he would say next. Greg looked over, and began.

“As you know very well, your mother and I loved each other very much, and that`s how and why you came about…but that was a very long time ago. Now we just make each other miserable, and we just need to go our own directions”

“That still doesn`t explain why you were so fucking rude about it” Sam said, calmly responding. It was the first time he had ever cursed in his father`s prescence, and frankly, it impressed him.

Greg took another cigar from the wooden box, and waved it as an offering to Sam. Sam nodded, and awkwardly fumbled the lighter as he lit it up. He coughed, and took the cigar between his thumb and index finger, resting his arm on the arm of the chair, the way all the mob bosses did in the movies.

“You know what kid…you`re right. Maybe it was a bit much for me to have done what I did and said what I said the way I said it last night. I can`t take that back…but you know what? If I did it any other way, your mom and I would have second guessed it, gotten back together, and six months later I`d be thinking about doing the exact same thing again. I know it was a shitty thing to do but…that`s how your mom and I are. That`s how it would have worked out either way”

Sam didn`t seem satisfied with the explanation, and kept looking off in the distance, waiting for a further explanation.

“Listen, just help your mom out for a few weeks so she can find a place and get back on her own two feet. I assure you, after all of this is over, her and I are going to be far better off, and you`ll start to see that in both of us”

Sam continued to stare foreward, but then began to speak.

“I just can`t understand it. How two people can be together so long and now…it just happened so fast”.

“Yeah kid… it still kinda feels like just a…nightmare right now. Like it hasn`t really happened”

“Do you still care about her?”

“I`m…I`m not sure”

They now both stared foreward. For the next moment, Sam put the cigar in his mouth, stood up, and went to his car without saying goodbye. Greg couldn`t imagine it. He had lost Liz, and now he wasn`t sure if he had lost his son. It felt wrong, but he indulged his desire to ash his cigar, which had gone out in the long pauses of his conversation. He leaned over the chair to the rug, made two little eyes, and pondered what kind of face he should make. Had everything happened the way he thought, maybe it would have been happy. Had he really and truly regretted his decision, it would have been sad. All he could accomplish was a long, straight, simple stroke along the pattern.

                       There is a kind of surreal nature to the inside of Spencer’s bedroom. The junglewood timbers and the two hundred year old stonework of the roof are the first things he lays eyes on in the morning. When he gets up and looks around, there is a computer, and a primitive modern plumbing system jammed into the old washroom. The space felt hijacked by modern amenities and the ever demanding creature comforts of a technological generation. As Spencer rises, he is careful to have a steady hand as he shaves with the straight razor he bought at the old market when he got off the boat, appalled by the apparent lack of multiple blade technology. While it had been six months since then, and his aim had improved, not a week would go by before he would give himself a solid nick on the jaw, and he would be reminded of this embaressment when the salt of the sea was splashed in his barely visible wound.

           He was always a hard working kid, who quickly got over the whole “up ‘for dawn” moans and groans that were associated with being a professional fisherman. It took a particular kind of talent to get in his fishing overalls and his graphite grey hoodie, make a decent pot of coffee in the five dollar French press he had to work with, and head down to the docks in time, all with only three lights in the house.

           While it was dark in his house, when Spencer began to walk the streets is when his childhood fears really began to resurface. At least at night the darkness was always dulled by the sound of music and the songs of drunken tourists. This early in the morning, most everyone who was out the night before was holed up somewhere, or was enigmatically dumped in a gutter, resulting in more than one occasion when he would accidentally kick one. The resulting groan would scare the hell out of Spencer, sending him nervously jogging down the street for a moment, before he looked back and saw a tattered figure slowly shift on the ground. The sight gave him no relief, but he endured.

           The morning air in the town of Tileo had a bitter, metallic tang to it, which began to mix with the smell of dead or dying fish and sea air as he approached the docks.

“soon… it’ll be cinnamon… flour… rye” Spencer said to himself, panting as he shuffled towards the docks.

           Rook was always the first to greet the crew as they arrived. He didn’t wake up any earlier than the rest of them, he just slept in a little house by the dock where they docked the boat, always fiddling with a lobster trap or studying the weather reports when Spencer walked down the dock and jumped on the boat.

           “early as always” Rook slurred, not taking his eyes off the monitor.

           “I thought we established that you liked that kind of thing” Spencer slurred back, stacking the fixed traps on the back of the boat.

           “I do, but one day that enthusiasm will kill you”

           “trust me man, if the money weren’t good, I wouldn’t be so enthusiastic” Spencer replied, standing up to put his gloves on and give a cordial wave to Trip as he jumped on the boat, only a few minutes later than Spencer.

           “Hey Trip how`s it going?” Spencer asked, in the way he had been for the past four months. It seemed too sarcastic, too obnoxious to say “good morning”. There was an unspoken pact agreed upon by all the crew members to avoid the phrase in general.

           Trip gave Spencer a hearty pat on the back, and leaned over to help him drag in rope.

           “Feel good enough to make some money…shit it`s colder than a witchs’ teat today”

           Spencer was proud that he taught Trip that phrase.

           About fifteen minutes later, Margo appeared, quickly plodding towards the boat, hood up, her hands shoved in the pockets of her hoodie.

           Ironically, she was the sunniest of the crew, typically buying something for the whole gang so they wouldn`t have to fish on empty stomachs. Today, it was a plastic netted bag of oranges.

“Thanks darlin’” Rook muttered, catching the orange as she tossed one to each of the crew.

           A few more moments were spent organizing the tackle and throwing overall straps over shoulders, and then Rook gave the word to cast off.

           The rhythm of work had become as automatic and unconscious as breathing to even Spencer. It went as followed. See bouy. Throw hook. Drag up trap. Empty trap into tank. Either stack the trap, or throw it back. Really the only person who had to actually think about their job was Rook, scanning the computer screen, and his paper maps, trying to find his traps and direct the crew which traps could wait, and which traps to pull in.

           Due to the constant, straining mononteny, conversations between the crew would be running, and incoherent as they haul in their catch. Despite how this description sounds, they did not suffer at all under this strenuous labor. When each lobster dumped in the tank essentialy was another five bucks in each of the crew`s pockets, they had very little reason to complain. This kind of money, fishing easy waters, attracted drifters and shills, old hands and young hopefuls alike. The beauty of most of these fishing boats based off Costa Marco was that hiring and firing, well that was all at the captain`s discretion, weeding out all the lowlifes who didn`t meet the island`s “exacting” standards. The territorial government of the islands was almost non-existent, which led to virtually no enforcement of labor laws. Rightly so, because the fishermen of Costa Marco lived under a non-verbal, contractual agreement. To work hard, not to piss anyone off, and to enjoy life once in a while. If you were the wrong kind of personality, the wrong kind of person, hell even if the captain thought your fashion sense was abhorrent, all of these things were grounds for firing. The result? A tightly knit community of hand-picked fishing boats and their captains. Now it would be obvious to discover that most boats had some unfair preferences for their crews, locals picking locals, Hispanics picking Hispanics, black captains picking black crews, all of this was rampant and obvious, but nobody complained. It was more like a friendly competition, to see who, or what kind of person could really bring in the most cash. Which really befuddled Spencer, who finally decided Trip might not be offended if he asked Rook why he brought on Trip.

“Hey…Hey Rook?” Spencer asked, panting as he bent over to throw a trap in the water.

Rook looked up from his monitors quickly, obviously bored with his task as the weather seemed to be pretty much dead for the day

“What`s up Spence?”

“I`ve been working on this boat for a while now and…”

“Yeah?”

“I know how things are around here…Ah let me cut to the chase”

“Spit it out man” Rook asked, laughing a little at Spencer`s awkwardness.

“I`m just wondering why you brought on Trip…I mean, I know he`s a good fisherman and all, and a really nice guy, but…From what I see that isn`t what most people do around here”

Trip looked up from the back of the boat while spencer was asking his question, shrugging his shoulders and smiling, as if he couldn`t help just being an awesome guy, but his mood became serious when Spencer finished, his gaze turning to Rook.

Rook paused and stroked his salt and pepper beard, taking a quick glance at Margo, and then returning to his thoughts

“You said it yourself. Great fisherman, great guy. What else could I ask for?”

“Yeah Good point good point…” Spencer became nervous, as he now looked like a flaming racist.

“Oh don`t go shaking in your boots now Spence. I know you meant well” Trip piped up, grinning at Spencer, empathetic to his existential plight.

Spencer smiled nervously and shook his head, sighing as he bent back down to throw another trap.

           Margo, largely oblivious to this whole exchange, staring off into the ocean, readied the last hook for the morning. Throwing it with impressive accuracy, a skill that was acquired over years of experience, and thankfully carried over to horseshoes. The effects of her habit were unpredictable at best. Sometimes she would be warm and sunny, optimistic and happy with the disposition of freshly poured chamomile tea. Other times, it was exactly as a hangover should be, a writhing, seething pain in her gut and a pounding in her head that always drove her to the point of swearing off the stuff for good, and made her despise every ray of sunlight or moment of attention thrown her way. Today however, was a great day. She had long figured out the exact formula for warding off these hangovers, that being exactly seven and a half hours of sleep, with two cups of coffee and half a lemon before leaving for work. That recipe always perked her right up as she made her own stroll down to the docks. It was that state of contentment, a lack of bereavement, that was almost better than getting high itself. In this kind of condition, she was really and truly just a fisherman on an exotic island.

            As the crew halted work for the lunch break, huddling over the canvas covered interior of the boat as the midday sun bore down on them, Margo decided to make a tactical move. For almost a year and a half, she would always turn over a plastic bucket and sit between the two fiberglass benches that ran the length of the covered section of the boat. Rook would wheel around his chair in the cabin, opening the door to talk to the rest of the crew, Trip would sprawl himself out along the right bench, and Spencer would sit, with a hunched posture, nervously leaning against one of the polls holding up the canvas on the end of the left bench toward`s the captain`s cabin. In this fantastic mood she was in, she decided to sit directly next to Spencer. Within a far closer proximity than could be deemed permissible between coworkers or aquaintences. A single hand length, to be exact.

           Spencer, munching away at a chicken wrap he had constructed himself, tried to play off the gravity of such a maneuver. Surely her bucket was no longer suitable for sitting, after all a rather rotten lobster did explode near the bottom. No amount of bleach could…

           Never mind that tragedy! This wasn’t some kind of middle school panic attack he should be thrown into. Enough fanticising. Just…talk.

           Thankfully, Rook broke the slow silent munching between the four of them.

“You know Spence, you were a little right about earlier”

“About what” He calmly,, yet nervously responded.

“About how it was unusual I took on Trip”

“Oh yeah?” Spencer calmly replied.

“You see… there is a story attached to his being here”

Trip rolled his eyes and scoffed, laying back on the bench in amusement.

“About oh I`d say coming on six years ago, I was just a lowlife truck driver, travelling the mainland for no other reason than sheer boredom.”

Spencer was relieved this appeared to be a happy story, as was indicated by Trip`s relaxed posture, and apparent annoyance for hearing this story-

“Close to a dozen times you`ve told this story old man” Trip piped up packing away his belongings, quickly trying to get back to work

“Oh ho ho not so fast there man, and that`s an order…I`m telling the story and you`re going to like it” Rook commanded, pointing one of his thick, calloused fingers at Trip.

Trip dramatically slumped his shoulders, and plopped back on the bench with a grin on his face, and his hands covering his cheeks.

“You see, one day down by Orlando, after hauling a whole bed full of toilet paper, I decided that I had had enough of that shit…”

There was a long pause, when nobody would appreciate his-

“Woooooooow” Margo said

“I know right?” Rook grinned, chuckled to himself a bit, and moved on.

“I just parked the truck by the beach, and took some time to weigh my options. After a long while of just watching the um…sunset…yeah the sunset”

“Huh” Margo sarcastically snorted, fully aware of his “admirations”

“As I was saying” Rook continued,

“All of the sudden, this crazy sonofabitch just runs a ground, right on the beach, out of nowhere, clinging to the steering wheel like Ahab”

Trip now began to nervously recoil, smiling and giving one or two laughs as the story continued

“Me being the only one there who wasn`t passed out, who actually knew what was going on there, I ran over to check out what was going on”

“Ran?” Trip asked with the foxy smile that dressed his sarcasm.

“Shut up asshole I`m telling the story. How about when you tell it you can say I flopped like a seal and dragged myself across the beach ok? Christ”

The crew now laughed in unison at Rook`s flustered anger, so much so that even he couldn`t keep a straight face.

Stopping himself to guffaw every now and then, he proceeded,

“So…heh, this guy is just like…completely out of it, absolutely dead tired, and I ask him, “Hey man are you okay?”, and heh heh, this guy just said, “I`m going to be a…Father!””

Spencer laughed the loudest, Margo only laughing because his was so infectious. She had heard this story a couple times before, but she didn`t want to seem too distant.

“I know! With the dramatic pause and everything!... Jesus Christ that was so damn funny, but let me tell you, I didn’t let him know that!”

Rook settled himself, and resumed in more technical terms, talking with his hands as he described the next part of the story.

“So Trip here was hungover something fierce, and judging by the bottle in his hand, he was trying to drink his way out of it. That didn`t really help his situation, because he was almost three feet on shore at that point, and nobody else seemed to give enough of a damn to help. At that point, only a few people had whipped out their phones to take pictures of it”

“You know I`m really disappointed that I don`t get to tell this story, because I`m sure someone must`ve called the cops” Trip added, partly shameful that he was drunk, alone, at sea, which is something every fisherman knows is incredibly dangerous.

“Well they only called the cops after I pulled the next stunt…so I got the idea to just unhitch my truck, and just… push him out to sea”

“No way!” spencer interjected, amazed that such a thing could even be accomplished. He remembered a time when the whole family was on leave, and the car his parents rented to go to the beach almost got stuck in the sand. Should`ve known better.

“Yes way, so I deflated my tires a bit, and after twenty minutes of that, I just drove out and over, and ever so slowly, pushed him out to sea. Now I had either neglected to tell him, or maybe he just forgot that I was going to do this, so he was just freaking out this whole time just screaming, “what are you doing you crazy white man!”

Rook had attempted to impersonate Trip`s accent in that last part, which got a good laugh out of the whole crew.

“So once I had got him free, I got a little thought in my head, and I just said “Hey, fuck it” and I jumped on the boat with him”

“That`s fuckin insane man” Spencer replied, noticing Margo almost hanging on his shoulder, the heat of her overworked body warming his right arm, just barely out of reach.

“Two days later, a few angry calls with the truck company and the bank, and here I am…you see that house on the end of the dock used to be Trip`s old dive, but I bought it for a pretty sum from him, and paid for most of the boat. And that my scrawny friend, is how a low down truck driver became the captain of a lobster boat. Fun story eh?”

           Work continued as normally as it does on a Saturday in the sea.  The only thing that changed really about the routine is that on this particular Saturday, Rook demanded that they all go bowling at the only lanes in town, which for reasons…disappointingly within comprehension, was called, “The Long Dock”.

           Nobody in the crew actually had a car, because really, there wasn`t a need. Besides, the only thing you could buy on the island were old steel shipping containers with wheels, or whatever passed for drivable in the pool of old Chevrolets or Cadillac’s imported back in the 80s. Only a small, select few of wealthy CEO`s camped out on the far side of the island actually had new, even nice cars, but they rarely mixed with the gentiles of Tileo. Why would they? The cobblestone streets were so awfully maintained that you could lose a toddler in the gaps. For the Crew though, they wouldn`t have it any other way. People like Rook and Margo grew up hating rich guys and their million dollar carbon-coated palaces. The real fun of Tileo was just walking the streets, brushing up against the occasional sweaty islander, weaving and winding through the historical pathways and not so new infrastructure. It was an organic experience, which began to clash at the bowling alley.

           You see, the only really well developed, actually paved road that ran through the outskirts of town, went by the alley. All of that roadwork and development had happened during the nickel mining boom back in the 80s, which “The Long Dock” truly reflected. Gaudy neon lighting, stale, pale concrete walls, and brushed steel and glass doors that looked like the rust was finally getting to them. In the parking lot, the dichotomy was clearly noticeable. On the right side of the doors, there were Maseratis, Porches, Mclarens, so on and so forth. On the left, were the old Ford trucks, the beamers, and even the occasional indian motorcycle.

           The inside of the alley was equally divided, hell there were even separate counters on each side. Over the last five years or so, the rich guys and their heirs began to notice something about their collective of mansions and resorts they called Keith`s Bay. What a god awful name it had, and how tasteless all their neighbors were. Each one would try to one up the other, adding an infinity pool or a twelve story New England lighthouse. Between the upper-middle class tourists and sheltered trust fund kids, a few of the residents formed a small clique, the only clique that ever ducked out of town for more than twenty minutes to go into the jungle and “focus their chi” with the maid. These ten or twelve guys were a bunch of savvy internet millionaires, old coal mine owners, and fast food moguls that felt that because they went to the bowling alley twice a week, they were the “real islanders”, and the rest of the whiney losers that just hung out in town were inferior to them.

           Of course the locals and others like the crew had some disdain for these guys. Not that they were rich, but that:

“They really just fuck with the way everyone is around here. I`ve been to that stupid fucking “Douche Bay” man. All it is, is a bunch of huge, white buildings…and I`m not a racist or anything Spence, but the whole place is just filled with Asians who don`t speak a lick of English”

“I think they`re Koreans man” Spence added, trying to break up Trip`s angry monologue with some analysis as they picked out their balls.

           Spence always chose a purple ball. He didn`t know why. He didn’t care. It`s just a habit like any other. But for some reason, he felt pissed that the guys from Douche Bay had monopolized the rack that the balls were on. No matter. He`d just use an orange ball. Fuckers.

           “What difference does it make? Asians are Asians man” Trip continued, waiting for his turn, as Rook, as a rule, always went first.

           “Hey man, you`re telling me you`re not racist, but that`s kinda racist to say. What would you think if I said hey, “Blacks are Blacks”. It just completely disregards the individual differences between the different groups, and believe me, they make the distinction” Spencer argued.

           “Well at least I look different than a guy from the Bronx or a guy straight out of Darfur. They all look like they`re all coming out of the same iphone factory” Trip grunted, tossing his first ball.

“Shit…a seven ten split” he muttered

           Rook and Margo laughed a little, and Spencer lightened up.

           “I don`t think the bowling gods appreciated that comment” Spencer said, waiting for Trip to attempt a spare.

           “Well whatever the fuck I think about Asians, the fact of the matter is that they`re being treated like slaves. They all live in these shitty condos and its like, fuck, why don`t they just build a bunkhouse and chain`em to the floor at night. They can`t leave, they all eat at the one Chinese-“

“Korean” Margo jokingly interrupted

“Fuck you Mo” Trip scoffed in an embaressed, high pitched laugh

Rook chimed in, grabbing the sides of his eyes to squint them, “Don`t you mean Fook yuu?”

Margo and Spencer mimmiked the captain, prancing around Trip, squinting their eyes and professing their love for ramen noodles. Trip`s unwarranted distrust of Asians was often the subject of teasing.

           After three games of heated competition between the four, Rook emerged as the winner, by only three points over Trip.

“A truly worthy opponent...well now my wrist`s sore. Who wants a drink?” Rook bellowed.

“Not me man, it`s already midnight, I`ve gotta get home” Trip trailed off, laying his ball back on the rack

             Chapter Two: Sour Shots

           The greatest part about the jungles of Costa Marco was that nobody seemed to be there. At least, that was the best part to Greg. Propped up against a tree stump, balancing a tin of coffee on a rock next to the humble cooking fire, he took stock of his provisions, seeing just how long he could stay in the mountains.

“Another week maybe. So long as I don`t mind eating rice and tuna for the last few days” he muttered to himself, hoisting himself up and sliding on his poncho

           It had been several months since he kicked Liz out. Or at least, that`s how everyone seemed to take stock of it. What Sam or the coven of witches Liz called friends thought about him didn’t matter He cared more about how many pairs of dry socks he had in his bag.

“It`s a midlife crisis” they`d say.

“He was always kind of an asshole”

“You deserved better anyway”

           After it all went down, he was barraged with calls from her friends, who either berated him, or acted as mediators for negotiations. That was how he got the money to take some time off. Climbing around the tight path of a mountain trail, he began to rant, as he always would when he was positive he was alone. The trees and the snakes were the only ones who seemed to listen anyway.

“She sold the fucking café…bet it was for a vacation with a little peurto rican guy” he grunted, hoping over a log

“At least she gave me half. Fucking half…goddamn I hate her. Every opportunity she got to tell me to fuck myself, she took it. Then she pisses and moans about being lonely…ha…never was a problem before I met you…”

           This kind of therapy could go either way for Greg at this point. He would either put a machete through a tree, or he`d end up laying on a rock, calmly listening to the rustling of wild boars in the bushes.

           He had the money to do these kind of things now. Early retirement was treating him well. But overall, he wasn`t satisfied.

           At least, not until he put together the perfect storm of simplistic material satisfaction.

“Ok Greg…just like the little seniorita in Kipp`s Cove taught you”

           He had stopped at the peak of the lush mountain cliff, sluffing off his pack and setting Tequila`s little wooden cage to the side, under the shade of a leafy bush. Pulling a couple of limes and a tin cup out of his pockets, he began to ruminate on his recent bar-hopping adventures. Greg was a real people person, a man of culture. It was also his personal belief, that the best way to understand a people and their ways was to drink what they drank, the way they drank it.

“And the Venezuelans are bitter socialists” he said, as he spat out the strange concoction he conducted from memory

           Watching the acrid liquid drip down the rock as the afternoon sun braized his skin suddenly gave him a bout of existential dread. This wasn’t the life he wanted to live. This wasn`t anywhere near where he wanted to be at his age. Farting around on a tropical island with a lizard, divorced, unemployed, pickling himself with every latin beverage under the sun.

“Christ…Pete`s a goddamned English professor. Josh has what- seven kids?” he muttered to himself, taking stock of the accomplisments of his old college friends.

“And I mean, Fred smoked so much weed we thought he`d lose a chromosome. Now he`s making six figures with a tire company”.

Greg`s morose self pity turned to anger, and then to a calm, quite acceptance.  There was a reason he went on these hikes. To disconnect himself from that kind of anxiety and appreciate his surroundings, slowly mellowing his mood with a neat burbon and Cuban cigar, allowing the breeze to massage his lurid eyes.

“Regardless…there needs to be a change” he said, swaying the bottle over to Tequila`s bowl, giving him a few more drops.

“Nothing major. The last thing I need is to go back to the states. They`d probably institutionalize me the second I got off the plane”

Greg chuckled to himself, feeling the handle of his machete gouging into his side as he took another swig.

“I need a simple job. A simple job, that makes me feel fulfilled *swig* as a man”

           By this time, the horizon was dark with storm clouds and an evening sunset coming on, creating a molasses enamel on all the rocks on the shore. In the distance, Greg could see the ships coming in, bobbing gently on the calm ocean glass. Soon, fantasies of being out on the open ocean fishing the ocean`s bounty danced across his addled brain.

“what a wonderful profession. Where being a drunk shrew is actually a virtue”

Or so he thought

             That night, a storm did indeed roll over the island. It was fierce, for sure, but not fierce enough to stop the festivities from continuing inside one of the many lively dive bars. There were even a few fishermen playing a rather extreme drinking game. If you flinched at a lightening strike, you drank. As you could probably guess, Spencer wasn`t doing too well.

“Look at him, still shaking like a leaf even three shots in!” Trip scolded

           It was true. Spencer was in fact, visibly nervous. Not neccesarily because the thunder and lightening were beginning to sear the masts of every boat in the harbor, but because the alcohol was beginning to convince him that now was the time confront Margo about his feelings. Rook, sporting an even longer salt and pepper beard, could see from the head of the table at the back of the sour smelling shack that the kid was going to make a big mistake. And, maybe, a small part of him was feeling territorial.

Placing his big paw of a left hand on spencer`s chest, he saved him

“ Boy, stay down. Look at these hands” he gargled, slamming a beer down in his right hand

At that moment, a flash and rumble, but not a single quiver from those beastly mitts.

Spencer was forced to try and get ahold of the reigns of his depth perception. Standing felt like something he was disinterested, the sullen and aged booth he sat at becoming fuzzy to the touch. Suddenly the seven or maybe only five shots he had downed had caught up to him all at once, and he wasn`t going to have any more, or else risk an incident like last month where Trip had ruined strawberries for him forever.

           Margo was far more sober, but certaintly not by choice. Nobody else had noticed but she had only finished half of her glass of light beer from the tap that may as well have been creek water given its quality and the horrifically poorly washed glass it came in. Her interests were growing more and more desperate with every joke or story she had to smirk and gesticulate her way through. The only thing keeping her from picking up her chair and using it to fight her way through the packed cigar box of a dive bar she was crammed in to get home and get her shit was the face that the storm outside could put a two by four through her chest at any minute. Death might be preferable to having to pan across the bar one more time to see the well exposed crack of Captain Stug`s ass trying to escape his cargo shorts at the bar. Stug was too old of a salt for anyone that wasn`t the bartender to tell him what to do, so on his ass marched outward as stug got more and more drunk. Christ. It was like watching a seal clubbing on national geographic. Could’ve been hilarious if it wasn’t so hard to watch.

           “10 bucks I get this quarter in there” Rook said, holding the silver coin between his calloused index finger and thumb. Margo noticed that the whole table had been staring like she did. Spencer saw that others in the room were either giving Stug a wide berth, or sizing up their own marksmanship competitions.

           Looking to find some immature joy, Margo joined in.

           “I`ll fucking take that. You haven`t thrown a hook since I came on, doubt you could hit an ass crack at twenty paces” Margo joked. The others would have laughed if they weren`t all pushed to their respective limits. Margo and Rook slammed down what their bleary eyes perceived to be ten dollars a piece on the stained wood table, then Rook sized up his target. In one majestic, fluid motion the quarter left his hand, flying straight and true over the bar counter, tapping between bottles of whatever the hell Cesar could stack behind him.

 “gat..damnint” Rook grumbled, shuffling back into his seat as Margo swabbed her hand across the table, scooping up the crumpled dollars. She didn`t care. She needed to go home.

           The taste in her mouth was like she`d threw up a flower shop. She hated it she hated it she hated it. The heat and the sweat and the air and the smell the smell the smell. Too many people too many things, eyes, sandels, fucking stray cats every fucking five fucking feet in this tiny fucking block on this tiny fucking island. Home. She needed to get home.

           Margo suddenly, abandoning any kind of formal convention, stood up and walked out of the bar, the wind and rain whipping momentarily like a jack in the box as she opened and closed the door behind her. Spencer was too out of it to do anything, but others were slightly alarmed. A few, tired of waiting, tried to follow her out but were blown back by healthy gusts of wind. Spencer was worried. And he wondered why she would leave like that.

“Should we call the cops? No way she makes it out there!” he yelled to Trip and Rook

“Cops are busy enough, wouldn`t risk it. Woman`s always been skittish. Her house ain`t far so I wouldn`t worry too much. Either of you wanna hear about the time I got held up by a biker gang?” Rook largely brushed off Spencer`s distress, motioning to a waitress for more whatever would occupy his time. This grew into what could only be a fruitless and flirtatious conversation.

           Spencer turned to Trip for some sympathy.

“ Are you just going to sit back and let this happen?”

“ If anything man she`s got the right idea. I`ve gotta go check on my family at some point tonight. The whipping I`ll get if I`m not back by midnight oof” Trip joked.

           No one was taking him seriously, which would have made Spencer feel uneasy if he were more sober, but like any young guy with a background like his, he was curious.

           “well I`m going” Spencer said, gathering his wallet and finishing his drink. He put up his hood on his rubber coat, bracing himself for his excursion. Before he left, Trip followed behind him with his own boat issued rubber coat, and the two of them turned to give a gruff but well understood farewell to Rook, who was far more comfortable wading out the whole storm and then some in the back of that bar.

           “I think you`re crazy boy” Trip said to Spencer.

           “But good luck anyway. I`ll see you whenever Rook says its safe to work again” Trip said, putting his hand on Spencer`s shoulder, then opening the door, fighting the wind walking towards his home on the shore.

           Spencer couldn`t believe it, but the wind felt rather calm as he walked towards margo`s home. It was almost as if all the old geezers and shop owners were just trying to find an excuse to drink, or at least jumped on a better excuse than most. As he crossed the street past the more tourist focused bar with its stained colonial white walls, a gust of wind picked him up off his feet and tossed him on the cobblestone street, with every attempt to fight the gust and stand up just resulting in him being rolled another five feet down the street. This dance lasted for what felt like an eternity, until he crawled behind an old chocolate shop to get out of the wind.

“Sweet jesus…how the hell did Margo do in this?”

           Clinging hand over hand to the railings on the storefronts, Margo finally reached the trail that led to her home. All that it took was a run over a fairly wide patch of open ground to the start of the trail. Her mind wandered to the swaying of the trees in the violent wind, how small she felt as she watched a hundred trees move like dogs on a beach playing with a ball. Digging in her heels and thinking only of the sweet relief behind a mere hundred or so yards of woods. Thinking only of relief, of calm, of the comfort that awaited her so close in the present, her body moved like she was all tendon. Her desperation drove her arms and legs to precisely and intensely grip the trees and earth, when she stumbled, to nearly fling herself towards her front door. Her body slammed against the wood door like it was a queen sized bed with silk sheets. Before she could process anything else she was inside, and feet guiding her unconsciously to the drawer she kept her stash. Clean clean finally clean. Cold and clear and free free from fat hairy yellow toothed bastards.

           Sweet Christ. How did she ever go any longer than a day without this?

             Spencer wasn`t sure if she had made it home. The wind was getting worse and worse and there was no way