#I should also note they’re all from The Picture of Dorian Gray

[theladyofshalott1989]

trick or treat!! happy halloween 🎃 ✨🎃

Happy Halloween!!!

I love to put epigraphs at the beginning of my fics. Here’s some of the quotes I considered for the different parts of “You Cannot Put a Fire Out,”but that I ultimately didn’t end up using because they didn’t quite fit the right ~vibes~.

[wildelydawn]

Dear Kim Theerapanyakun. (a letter)

I admit, I have the very bad and cringe-y habit of writing letters to fictional characters, and you’re next on my list. (You are joining a pretty strange list of characters, such as Basil from The Picture of Dorian Gray, Castiel from Supernatural, and Sula from Sula, and I’m sorry about that.) I wanted to take some time and think about your character outside of the usual meta writing/fanfiction I do, and instead, in a really weirdly personal way, talk about myself and how I feel connected to someone who isn’t actually real, but depicted a very real problem within both our families: how loyal do you have to be to your family? 

A few years ago, I had to make the tough decision of leaving my family home. There were a lot of factors as to why, some of which I can’t talk about without revealing my identity, but the important aspect to note is that I’m from a culture (really, a family because not all of the culture is like this) in which women don’t leave their familial homes until marriage. They don’t venture off, live on their own, “find themselves,” or anything of that nature. They’re kind of expected to stay in their parents’ home, have a husband, then live with that husband, have kids, and start the cycle over again. So when I made the decision to leave all that I knew behind, I was incredibly alienated from not just my parents, but also my siblings, cousins, etc. 

No one understood what I was doing. Truthfully, I didn’t know what I was doing either. I just wanted to get away, and I think physically, I did. I wasn’t living there anymore, so I thought I got what I wanted.

When I started watching KinnPorsche, I instantly connected with how you, Kim, left the main house and distanced yourself from the mafia family (though, I admit, you have it a lot more rough than I do. My parents are trying to get me married, and your father is trying to gun down his brother opponents and control the Bangkok underworld.) To this day, even during the season finale, I don’t know what your motivations were for leaving, but I can tell you a few of mine: I was passionate about writing and education, I desperately wanted freedom, and I sought to define myself outside of familial labels. I like to tell myself that maybe some of my reasons are your reasons for leaving too.

I admit that I expected you to have a happy ending during this finale. I thought you would have solidified your freedom, maybe ran off with Porchay, or said fuck all to the main family for good. I expected that because to be honest, a lot of characters who are pulled in all directions due to their goals, passions, and family eventually end up finding a balance between all these facets of their lives. That’s the ultimate happy ending, isn’t it? To have everything?

Those stories are good stories, and those characters are great characters, but I never could relate to them. It’s been half a decade since I left, and I haven’t found a balance yet. My family leaves me to my isolation until shit hits the fan. Then I’m suddenly pulled into disaster that is my home, and when I am with them, I have to abandon all the other parts of me: my writing, my education, my identity, my career, in order to be part of this family that I can’t simply leave because of loyalty and responsibility that I don’t want nor should have. 

When I started writing about your necklaces, it hit me that you too struggle with loyalty, and that you too are pulled in all these directions. You have on so many hats: mafia prince, singer, certified badass, student, and, perhaps the most damning, son. I watched your necklaces change. Sometimes, I thought they were emblems of freedom. Other times, I watched them weigh you down, especially when you had to go back into your old skin. Regardless of what they mean, over these last few episodes, I’ve watched you abandon all those other parts of you because of the mafia, because of family.

And for the first time in a very long time, I didn’t feel quite so alone in my conundrum. I felt as if we were going through the same thing (even though we’re really not.) I felt oddly akin with you in your last scene. Just standing there with your guitar after you finished performing because you had to make a choice to leave the other parts of you behind in order to remain loyal to your family: something I am so familiar with.

Selfishly, after the finale ended, I felt relieved you didn’t get freedom or balance in your life because now I feel less lonely in my own imbalanced life. I feel like I’m not the only one going through it, is what I’m trying to say.

That doesn’t mean I hope you don’t get that balance or what you want. I hope you do, and I hope I do as well. I don’t want us to abandon our respective families because they are important to us. But I do hope you realize you can be loyal to others, like Porchay, too. In fact, I think I saw some of that budding loyalty when you sent him that video. And yeah, you kicked ass for him and protected him, but sending the video was something purely you. Your decision. Your feelings. You put them above the family for the first time. And even though rumor has it that you’ll be back in full swing with the mafia, I hope you can put yourself and your feelings and wants and who you are above your responsibilities to the mafia.

When I think of those moments in which you put yourself first, past and future, I find myself hoping that one day, I can be as brave as you are.

with all my love, always,

dawn.

[raeynbowboi]

Dating Disney: Beauty and the Beast

Beauty and the Beast features my favorite love story and my favorite Disney Princess, so it holds a very special spot in my heart. So, it’s worth looking into the film to decide when the Movie is supposed to be set.

During the opening musical number “Belle”, Belle is telling the Baker about the book she’s been reading. She’s clearly describing Jack and the Beanstalk, the earliest version being the tale of “Jack Spriggins and the Enchanted Bean” in 1734. But she also deliberately mentions an ogre, not a giant. Near as I could find, the only version with an ogre was written by Joseph Jacobs in 1890, making Belle nearly contemporary to modernity. Belle’s excitement over the book is likely a sign that this is a new story.

During the same musical number, we see a sign depicting a tobacco pipe, but unlike with the Calabash pipe from the Little Mermaid movie. I could place it to possibly be a Billiard type, but the exact era of creation escapes me. However, tobacco pipes have been around as long as Tobacco has been introduced to European trade, starting in the 16th century.

The history of colored printing goes as far back as the 16th century, and there are illustrations from the early 1700s with an impressive variety of color that help establish a stronger time period. The book also shows the words Le Prince Charmant or Prince Charming. Prince Charming started being used in 1697 in Charles Perrault’s version of Sleeping Beauty, although there, Prince Charming was not a name. Rather, Perrault stated that the Prince was charmed by her words. The first story to use Prince Charming as a name is the Tale of Pretty Goldilocks. It was written at some point in the 17th Century by Madame d’Aulnoy, but in her version the hero was named Avenant. It wasn’t until 1889 when Andrew Lang retold the story that Avenant was dubbed as Charming. One year later in 1890, Oscar Wilde used the term “Prince Charming” sarcastically in his novel “The Picture of Dorian Gray”, meaning that the term had gotten its more modern meaning by this point in time.

Gaston’s musket is a Blunderbuss, which was invented in the early 1600′s and remained popular through the 18th century before falling out of fashion in the middle of the 19th century. However, considering Belle states that this is a backwards town and Gaston is an old-fashioned, Primeval man, it’s possible he’s using a largely outdated weapon.

While there are no street lamps in the city, we can see in the background lanterns on the sides of buildings, which might allude to the movie taking place before the invention of gas lamps. However, gas lamps were invented in 1809, and if the version of Jack and the Beanstalk is from 1890, then by all accounts the town should have gas lamps. What this amounting evidence is leading me to believe is that the film is directly following the plot of the original fairy tale.

In the story, Beauty’s father is a merchant who loses his fortune due to a storm destroying his cargo. They’re forced to live on a farm until the merchant stumbles upon the Beast’s castle and kick starts the plot. In the opening song, Belle says “every morning’s just the same, since the morning that we came, to this poor, provincial town.” This could mean that she grew up in a much more modern, urban, and progressive town. Possibly even Paris. But that after Maurice suffered severe financial trouble, he was forced to move them to the small, backwards town that was practically living an entire century behind the rest of France, which is why she’s so bored and unimpressed by the little town. It helps explain why she’s so eager to want to get out of this town and see the world. She wants to be part of the modern world again.

Interestingly, I can support this theory with background information. According to some of my research, Belle’s village was based on the little town of Riquewihr, France, which still looks like it did in the 16th century to this day. So the idea that Belle’s little village lacks so many modern elements could be a nod to the architecture of this sleepy French village that has remained largely untouched by the march of time. Hence why it looks more like something out of the 1700s despite the many elements from the 1800s being present.

During the song “Be Our Guest”, Lumiere dances with a match stick. Match sticks were invented in 1805. Assuming the film still takes place in the 1890s, this would be concurrent with the other evidence we’ve seen thus far. Later in the same song, the silverware makes an Eiffel tower, which was constructed in 1889. Since Jack and the Beanstalk was written after that, it still fits within the suspected time frame.

During the climax of the battle, Cogsworth is wearing military garments reflective of Napoleonic styles. Napoleon was coronated in 1804 until 1814, had a brief return to power in 1815, and eventually died in 1821. So this is also congruent to the established time period.

In the Youtube Video “Fashion Expert Fact Checks Belle from Beauty and the Beast’s Costumes” by Glamour, April Calahan, a Fashion Historian from the Fashion Institute of Technology directly noted that Belle’s yellow gown lacks the shape of a proper 18th century dress, and more closely resembles the shape of 19th century dresses, fitting into the evidence that’s been mounting in support of a late 19th century setting.

As a part of his primary costume, Lefou wears a waistcoat and tailcoats, which came into vogue in the 1800s, namely from the 1840s through the 1850s.

But if the film is set in the 1800s, how can the Beast still be a prince after the French Revolution? Well something worth noting is that when he finds out that Belle isn’t coming to dinner, the Beast storms through the halls to her room as Cogsworth calls after him as “Your Eminence” and “Your Grace”. The address of “Your Eminence” is reserved for Cardinals of the Roman Catholic Church, and is an ecclesiastical style of address. “Your Grace” is noticeably an English style of address, but it’s being used by Cogsworth who is British, so I can chalk that up to just part of his culture. Although it was used for British monarchs, it fell out of use during the reign of King Henry VIII (1509-1547) and after that, the use of “Your Grace” became used to address archbishops and non-royal Dukes and Duchesses. Now clearly the Beast is not a cardinal or a bishop, especially if he is looking for the love of a woman to make him human, since it’s forbidden for Catholic priests to marry. So clearly that is not what is meant here. But the other answer actually does hold a bit of weight. Beast’s father was in fact, a Duke. So how is the Beast a prince? He’s not. Not entirely. See, there’s more than one kind of Prince in French nobility. There’s a Prince du Sang, or a Prince by Blood. Effectively, the Crown Prince, the sons of ruling monarchs. But the title is also given to lords in charge of a Principality, one of the smallest territorial sizes. The Beast’s principality probably only extends to having power over the little unnamed village. And with it being after the revolution, Beast might not even have the proper use of his title anymore. He’s effectively a rich kid in a fancy house with no real authority or power. He’s just old money from a by-gone era of human history. But if Beast’s address of “Your Grace” is accurate, that would mean that he’s a non-royal Duke, meaning he would not likely have been executed during the Revolution, as his family would have essentially been governors or senators than actual monarchs. They just had jurisdiction over a small piece of the Kingdom of France and reported back to and obeyed the orders of their King. Thus, he would not have been important enough to be killed or chased out of power by the townsfolk.

CONCLUSION

The movie is set between the late autumn and early-to-mid winter of 1890. Although the snow is gone when Belle returns to the village, the trees are still bare, signaling that it may just be unseasonably warm, though it could be the very early spring of 1891 between the receding of the snow and the blossoming of new spring foliage. Between the books, clothing, and references made, my conclusion is that Belle is a very modern girl living in a backwards little town stuck in the past, thus why a village in 1890 looks so completely lacking in modern technology despite the era. The Prince is nothing more than a fancy title as the son of a Duke, and he likely has very little if any actual government authority. Essentially, Belle married into wealth, not power, and will never be a proper queen, and I’m not sure if the wife of a lord ruling a principality is a princess or not, but I suspect the answer is no. Making Belle, like Mulan, a Disney Princess who did not marry royalty, was not born royalty, and thus, cannot be called a Disney Princess. She’s definitely a noblewoman, but she’s not royal by any means.

SETTING: Riquewihr, France

KINGDOM: The French Republic (France)

YEAR: Autumn, 1890 - Spring, 1891

PERIOD: The Third Republic (1870-1940)

LANGUAGE: French

[a-jumped-up-pantry-boy]

Remus Lupin Reading Headcanons

We’ve got the obligatory classics: Wuthering Heights, The Picture of Dorian Gray, at least one Shakespeare (Twelfth Night is there, I get a vibe, no I will not elaborate) and a fair bit of Austen (though he prefers the Brontë sisters).

These are the books that he’s been gifted, and there are some really nice copies from friends that would have cost a lot.

He has books on Egyptian history: Library of Alexandria, the many Pharaohs, massive books on specific Gods, gruesome books about the embalming technique (you can bet for at least a year Remus would threaten to embalm people like the Egyptians and they were half scared he would)

There are so many old poetry books he picked up for 50p in charity shops and second hand bookstores (but not the fancy ones, because who can afford that?), with all his annotations in. 

These annotations range from detailed analysis of the use of iambic pentameter to little notes just saying ‘savage’. 

And of course he uses random notations nobody else can understand, because it’s faster to write. 

He’s also got loads of travel books

Half the ones aren’t even for places he wants to go, but he saw the book and had to get it, because that’s what he does

He’ll flick through it, make note of the most interesting places, and then keep it on his bookshelf forever (f o r e v e r)

He never throws books away

He’ll lend them out to his friends, lose them and then forget they exist, put them in his bag and then just leave them at the bottom next to old papers, make nonsensical piles of books all over the dormitory which he’ll never touch, and so many other things

But he will never, ever, ever get rid of any of his books. 

He also never buys books new

They’re too expensive (especially in hardback) and he likes the character of a book with pages falling out and marks from previous owners (although usually it’s just food stains rather than witty notes)

He’s also got a weird system about books that nobody except him understands (people genuinely think that he’s making up half his rules when they borrow his books)

Like, he folds the pages and writes in the books in pencil, but if anyone dares bring a pen or highlighter near his books there’s a chance they’ll be murdered brutally

And you can read books in the bath/shower (since water dries) but you can’t eat messy food with books (because tomato sauce stains don’t wash out)

If the cover starts peeling off naturally (it happens, especially when you throw books at people, which he does) then it’s fine, but if someone defaces the cover (or just rips it) then, again, prepare for death

And then between the poetry and travel books we have trashy novels

And these are the kind of things that he’ll read when he’s too tired to think properly

He doesn’t read them for the intellectual stimulation, just for enjoyment, but as soon as anyone starts slagging people off for exclusively reading these kinds of books, he’ll fight them

He’s against book shaming (as we all should be) and will slap a bitch to defend someone’s reading honour (is that a thing? we’re going with it)

Anyway, after the one-time-read novels, we have the notebooks

He keeps notebooks on his bookshelf, because that way he can at least find them

(Except his journal and poetry notebooks, which he hides)

He’s got notebooks for language learning, since I firmly believe he’s a linguistic superstar, and they have his notes and practice sentences

And then there are just filled up notebooks, where he’s written to-do lists and played games of hangman

Of course, he doesn’t throw these away either, and he has quite a collection building up

In fact, he has so many books in general that they’re everywhere

We’re talking a completely filled bookshelf, a pile of books next to his bed, a pile for his To Be Read Soon books, a pile for his I Swear I’ll Read Them Eventually books, a pile for his I Need To Read Them Again books, a pile for the books he wants to lend to people but keeps forgetting, a pile for the books that he wants to find a specific quote or paragraph in, a pile for his books that he has yet to sort, and a pile for the books that he just throws down as soon as he walks in the room

He has a reputable library building

And this kind of irritates other people, because they can’t walk around without tripping over a pile of books, but they don’t mind too much because he’s just so passionate about them that they feel bad complaining

And anyway, when they eventually mention that they’re in a bit of a reading slump, he’ll immediately run off and come back with five or six books that they’d like

When they thank him he’ll just mumble and walk off, but he actually loves choosing books for people

And when they come back to him and say that they thought the book was amazing, he basically dies

He considers being a librarian for a bit, but then he realises he’d also have to deal with the defaced books, so decides against it

He’s still known as the informal librarian, anyway, and people always respect his book rules, so he doesn’t have to kill anyone for ruining the front covers or highlighting sections

Sometimes people will give him more books as thank you gifts for recommending them all books, and it’s genuinely the biggest compliment he could be given.

[thenightling]

What might have Been (Sandman fan fiction)

What might have Been...

Someone out there really does not want me to write Sandman fan fiction so naturally I must write more.  

This story was inspired by the fact that over on his Tumblr Neil Gaiman was asked on at least two occasions that if Alexander Burgess had freed Morpheus, would he still have been condemned to eternal waking or if he would have shown mercy? Both times Neil Gaiman answered that Morpheus would have shown mercy.  And yes, Neil Gaiman has a Tumblr.   So this is a story of what may have happened of Alexander Burgess had freed Morpheus back when he probably should have.

Note: This story does contain a depiction of early twentieth century homophobia and some period accurate slurs.  Based on my own personal experiences as a non-straight person I understand if the scene might make some readers uncomfortable.  However you might find the end result of what happens to the abuser somewhat cathartic.  

             What might have Been…

            The boy stared intently at the glass cage in front of him.  It was domed and rather egg-like in shape and tall enough to hold a man or something very man-like.  The leadened quartz-crystal was as clear as any well-made window.  Alexander Burgess watched the creature with the fascination of a child watching a pet lizard in a terrarium.  

           The naked being in the cage stared back at him with cold intensity and a proud contempt as well.  The creature was pale as chalk, and his eyes were like back pools of water with twin stars serving as pupils floating in the darkness.  Later Alex would be able to compare this vision to the claimed “Grey” alien encounters he would read about in grocery store tabloid magazines.   One stark difference from those creatures though was that this creature had a shock of wild, black, hair that reminded Alex of a disorderly pile of raven feathers, thick and heavy hair that framed the pale face staring out at him from behind the glass.  The creature was improbably thin.  It was clearly intelligent and generally humanoid.              If Alex hadn’t seen the summoning for himself, if he had not detached himself so thoroughly from the alienness of this entity, he might have even found him beautiful or attractive. But all potential for that had been lost to fear and the unavoidable and frightening knowledge that this was not a human being.

           Alex did not know why he found The Creature so fascinating.  He had discovered who and what the creature was in the Paginarum Fulvarum.  The King of Dreams.  That revelation had somehow not resolved his sense of curiosity. This was the being accountable for everyone’s dreams, all of humanity’s secret fantasies and all those shameful imaginings that come late at night when people are at their most vulnerable.  For Alex there was a secret shame in his own dreams…

           “I hate you.” Alex whispered.  It was a childish proclamation but there was some hidden pain there.              The bony, wraith-like, creature moved his head slightly, acknowledging Alex’s words without responding verbally.  He never spoke to them.    

Alex wasn’t even twenty-years-old yet but he knew he was not like other men.  He was not “manly” by the usual definition of the term.  And he believed that if his father knew about his secret yearnings, his Desires… He would be disowned…

It was this thing’s fault, wasn’t it? The cruel bastard there in the box.  He was the one who gave him those dreams.  The dreams that Alex dared not describe to anyone.  Dreams of other young men.  The feel of their lips against his face.   The tingle through his scalp as the lips vibrate against his earlobe as something gentle and inviting was whispered into his ear.  Their affection, their touch, their love…              How Alex dreamt of that love, that sweet, terrible, sinful love.  And why?  Why was this such a taboo?  His father had used magick for so many cruelties.  He had even killed with it.  So why were his desires, ones that could never hurt anyone, considered to be so much worse?  …And who decided that a form of love could be deemed evil anyway?  Wasn’t love supposed to be ultimate redeemer?  The ultimate absolution?  As far as young Alex was concerned humans and the powerful beings that governed the universe- they were all hypocrites.  All of them!  Hypocrites who took pleasure in the befuddlement of others by tempting them with …with deviant dreams…

 Alex had enough of staring at the alien-like boogeyman there in the cellar.  He got up off the cold, damp, floor where he had been seated, eye level with the crouching, naked thing.   Almost staring each other down, as if in a contest of wills neither was entirely sure about.   Alex stood up.  Unlike the pale creature imprisoned there, Alex could leave.  He could leave at any time.   …Then why did he feel just as trapped as if he was the one in the glass bubble?

The months passed and not much had changed.  Alex had grown a bit, but that was normal.  He had read somewhere that some men grow until they’re twenty-five. He was taller, leaner.  He discovered he needed spectacles, which wasn’t too surprising.  He had squinted often when reading father’s dusty old books.        

One thing was different though.   Father had hired a new gardener.  A pretty, red-haired boy, barely Alex’s own age.  And Alex had the distinct feeling that perhaps this young man was also… different.  Different in his capacity to feel for men what most men usually only feel for women (or so Alex believed).

It was a warm summer afternoon when Father finally took notice of Alex and the peculiar way he watched the gardener.  Alex, whom he often ignored.  Roderick Burgess found it distasteful and rather Crowley-esque that his own son should look at another man in that way.   He watched as Alex observed the gardener.  Roderick hoped what he was seeing here wasn’t what it appeared.   But it seemed so.   Alex was as infatuated with the near androgynous gardener boy in a way that he should only feel toward women.  Well, something must be done about that!  

 “Father, please!”  Alex tried to shield himself with his arm as his father’s heavy, old, walking stick came crashing down on him again.            “You are an EMBARRASSMENT!   The heir to the Order of Ancient Mysteries, my ONLY son… a worthless, useless… Mary!”  There was another crack from the gentleman’s cane being used in a very ungentlemanly fashion.            “No, Father, I…  Magus. Magus, Please, I-“            “It’s that boy, isn’t it?  That Elliot? Well, he doesn’t work here anymore!  I sent him away.  You’re lucky I don’t just stop his heart to rid myself of this shame!”            He was one to talk of Shame.  His father, the infamous occultist, rival to Aleister Crowley, head of The Order of Ancient Mysteries, and source of scandal after scandal. The papers always had something to say about Father.  They never spoke about Alex.  Alex knew how to keep a low profile, to keep to himself, to go virtually unnoticed in his father’s shadow.              The threat to stop Elliot’s heart was very real.  Alex knew his father had enough magick to do such a thing to someone without the occult means to defend himself.            “No!  He’s innocent!”            “Innocent?!”  What did that matter to someone like Roderick?  Alex had always been too damn soft and now he had gone over to fairyland as far as Roderick was concerned.   Well, at least he knew his son hadn’t soiled his bed with his deviance yet- he had not acted out his profanity in the house, at least there was that.  “Look at you!  You’re a disgrace!”            Alex was cowering and crouched in the corner of his room, which was in disarray from his father’s attack.  He knew he couldn’t hide what he was from him.  His father was just too powerful…  

It also didn’t help that Alex had kept those old novels under his bed.   The picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, a few selected Greek myths carefully bookmarked in a thick, leather-bound, volume, and the closet drama Goethe’s Faust parts 1 and 2 translated perfectly from German into English.  Anyone with the ability to read between the lines, as they say, could tell what Mephisto’s relationship with Faust was really all about…            Alex couldn’t tell what was worse, the words his father said or the cane coming down again and again.  He was too afraid to fight back.  There was no telling what his father or his father’s minion might do if he tried.  Sometimes he had nightmares of his father’s darker wrath, much more extreme than this.            “You dress like a fairy!  Look at you! Growing your hair out like a girl, walking around in long velvet jackets like they’re frocks!  You think you look like Henry Irving or something?  No, you look like a little girl!  No woman will ever find you attractive.   I should have realized, the way you bury yourself in those books, like a little wanna-be priest.”            Alex saw nothing wrong with dandy fashion and as for his hair, plenty of respectable men had hair longer than his. His hair wasn’t even really shaggy. Oscar Wilde’s hair had been longer than this at the time of his death.  Though he knew that was, as far as his father was concerned, an awful example.             He whimpered and tried to wait out the pain and dared not argue the accusations.              “They stare at you, you know.”  Roderick continued in his tirade to shame him.             Alex knew the only person who actually scrutinized what he wore was his own father. He kept to himself too much to be the focus of anyone else’s attention.  “You think I don’t see it?  How they turn and look at you and whisper on the street what a pansy you are.  Maybe if you dressed normal you wouldn’t forget you’re supposed to be a man!”            No one was actually saying he was a pansy. That was clearly Father’s own insecurity about his masculinity talking.

           “Clean yourself up.”  Roderick said, finally too exhausted to beat him anymore.  And in an after-thought “If anyone asks, you fell off a horse like the clumsy idiot you are.”

            Roderick walked from the room, gentleman’s cane (if you could call it that) still clutched in his hand.

           Alex slowly pulled himself to his feet.   He was trembling yet, and sniffling, trying to choke back the threatening sobs.              Alex had long ago abandoned the childish (as he saw it) hope that a parent’s love was truly unconditional. The child in him still insisted it was supposed to be unconditional, that parents are supposed to love you and accept no matter what, and Alex still craved his father’s approval and acceptance.  It had been some naïve governess from Alex’s childhood who had taught him that foolish notion he could not shake, that a parent should love you without condition. And he never could quite let go of that belief even if all of his life experiences insisted that no parent (at least his parent) could not love in that way…              Could Roderick Burgess love at all?

Alex finally left his badly disheveled room once he was certain his father was no longer nearby. There were papers and books scattered, along with a knocked over chair and some random knickknacks.  Some ceramic and glass items were broken, fragments of childhood playthings lay on the carpet.              Something had broken tonight and it was not merely some old toys…            Alex walked …or more precisely he stumbled, down the hall.  Alex’s back ached where he had gotten the brunt of the caning.  He knew the marks were going to scar.  Everything ached.  His shoulders, his legs, especially his back.  One eye was blackened and his cheeks were red from the heat of crying.  He wiped furiously at his own tears.  It was foolish to cry.  And it was dangerous to dream…

He would never really be free. He was as much his father’s prisoner as the creature down in the cellar…  If he tried to run away he knew his father and his magick would find him.  And… he had nowhere to go anyway…              Even if his situation was “Normal” and there was no fear of magical ramifications for his defiance, to whom could he turn?   Where could he run?  There was no sanctuary for someone like him…

           Alex made his way to the secret passage, to the stone staircase that spiraled its way down to the windowless chamber.  He knocked on the heavy wooden door and announced himself for the two guards his father had watching the prisoner.  One of the guards opened the door for him.  They knew better than to question the boy’s condition but there was a slight trace of pity in at least one of them, a softening to the man’s usually unreadable expression.                          Alex managed to steadily walk to the glass cage, hiding that he was in pain.  He slowly laid his hand against the cool glass.  “Please leave us.”            “But the Magus says-“  One of the men started to protest.            “My... Father,” Alex practically spat the word, “is the one who pays you.  And I speak on his behalf.  Now go!”            The men exchanged looks and then shrugged, deciding not to argue with the young man.  They both were eager to have a tea and coffee break anyway.                        Alex lowered his hand and stood outside the cage. He looked at the pale, emaciated figure behind the glass.  He had never changed.  Not since the day they had captured him.  He had not aged, nor had he grown a beard.  And yet Alex felt as if he, himself, had changed so very much in that time. Changed in such a way that he saw now that he was in no better of a situation than this creature here.                 Trapped in darkness, trapped behind the glass, unable to touch or be touched. Alone…  Naked, exposed.  Everyone could see everything about him.  And yet he- The King of Dreams- was unashamed.  Proud.  Not trembling or cowering from a brute of a father. Alex’s contempt for the creature mingled with long, distant fear, was now being replaced by a different emotion.   Something not unlike empathy and maybe even envy.  Envy at the defiance of will, envy at the hidden power that such a fragile, delicate looking thing could have…            Almost beautiful.  The King of Dreams was almost beautiful…    

            Alexander Burgess saw this weakened, helpless wretch, and he saw himself.  A prisoner locked away from light.  A prisoner stripped of dignity. Utterly at his father’s mercy until he said or did what his father wanted…  Would this proud creature eventually cower and break as Alex felt like he had broken.                Alex bit his lip.  If he freed this creature it… he might kill him… or worse…            But maybe… Whatever his fate might be, it was better than this.  Right now, as it stood, they were both prisoners. But if he freed him, this so-called King of Dreams… At least one of them would be free.  And Alex would have some small revenge on his father, the Magus of The Order of Ancient Mysteries…                          Maybe it was some half-hearted attempt at self-destruction, a suicide without noose or razor- that Alex felt he would either die by this creature’s hand or by his father’s but he wanted this thing to end and let it end tonight.  This felt like the only true way to end it.              Alex had gotten a hold of the heavy brass key and placed it into the lock at the base of the crystalline cage.  He was really doing it.  The key fit easily into the hole of the metal base just within the binding circle’s confines.   Alex dragged his foot over the old, chalk, binding circle, deliberately breaching it, as he turned the key.  The crystalline cage opened at a discrete seam.            The pale figure stood up slowly, cautiously, moving like an uncertain animal. He blinked those wide, black eyes, like doe reacting to being offered food by a human.  

           The King of Dreams stepped out of the cage and toward Alex.  He tentatively moved beyond the binding circle as if worried that Alex might change his mind and try to stop him, or perhaps that someone else might.              Alex stepped back but only slightly.              Alex waited for whatever was to come next.              The pale figure moved to him, the glassy black eyes stared at him, stared deep into his own and for a brief moment Alex felt… understood... maybe even accepted.  And most importantly he felt… forgiven.  Not for the sin of what he was- this creature saw that as no crime, but for how he had treated him.  For taking part in the summoning spell, for being complacent in his father’s abuses and humiliation of this proud entity.              “I’m sorry��” Alexander said, swallowing back fresh tears.  “I’m sorry… It was my father, he…”            The pale figure put a finger to his own lips.* “Shhh.”            Alex was trembling, afraid of what he might do next. And for a second, there was such a softness to the usually cold creature and a slender hand touched Alex��s cheek but only for a brief moment.              Alex had never heard him speak and he was startled by the soft sound of an audible voice coming from him.  He didn’t say anything really other than the “Shhh.”           Alex blinked several times.  The King of Dreams moved past Alex, toward the stairs.              Alex went to bed shortly after that as if nothing had happened.  He had just felt so very tired.  He tried to behave as if he had not just released his father’s prisoner.  The next morning though things were different.   Alex had slept peacefully and felt quite well rested.   Even his black eye had seemed to have mostly healed and his back didn’t hurt anymore. There would be no scars after all.  But something was wrong in the house of Fawny Rig. The servants were in a tither.              Roderick Burgess would not wake form his sleep. He was alive.  And he seemed to be dreaming.  He would moan and mutter, and occasionally whimper or beg for it to stop, crying out in his sleep, but he would not waken.            Alex stood to the side of the bed. “Father!  Father, please!  It’s me, Alex!  Please wake up!  …Please.”   But the situation was hopeless.

            And despite everything he had suffered at his father’s hands Alex still grieved.  He wept as if his father was dead and he knew his father’s fate was worse than death.  Alex still mourned. Alex still pined for what might have been, still longed for a father that would love him unconditionally and accept him for who and what he was without question.   If the world’s most infamous sorcerer couldn’t even do that… who could?   Who could… love him?  

            Alex was scared.  He had been in his father’s shadow so long he did not know how to function without him and he had been so isolated, he had so few friends.  All he could do was rely on the servants, the lawyers, and his father’s money to support himself.              His father was moved to the hospital and eventually diagnosed with some sort of Encephalitis Lethargica.  A sort of brain swelling related sleeping sickness but Alexander Burgess knew better…  Somehow he knew…      

           His father would never wake up…            The years passed and everything that was Roderick’s passed into Alex’s hands.  His father died years later in that hospital bed but Alex was not sure of his father’s nightmares were truly over.   He imagined his father’s soul was still trapped somewhere, still suffering an endless nightmare leading into another nightmare, and each time he thought he was waking he would just find himself in yet another new nightmare.  Somehow Alex knew this.   Where his father was now condemned to eternal waking did he know his body had died or did he have a futile hope that he would one day wake up?  

             The estate, Roderick’s fortune, everything was now Alex’s.   No one was there to be critical or to tell Alex what to wear, how to speak, or… who he could love.   And Alex eventually met a beautiful young man named Paul.  Oh, how he loved Paul.   They would travel to such places together.   London, France, Berlin…   They traveled together on a private yacht and drank Champaign on the deck as they watched the sunset over the Mediterranean Sea. There was no secret prisoner to worry about, nothing to shackle them to Fawny Rig like Dorian Gray shackled to his painting.  They could go anywhere. They could do anything. They were free.                And Alexander Burgess lived Happily Ever After…                  It was a pleasant dream.   Too pleasant…

Elderly Alexander Burgess woke in a cold sweat. There were fresh tears in his eyes.   He sat up in bed and Paul was there beside him.  At least there was that…  At least Paul was there.  Paul was real.  

But that’s not how the story played out, not really.   Alex had never been brave enough to defy his father.  He had not slipped down to the cellar the night that he should have.  He had never freed the prisoner.  Even when his father had died he had never freed the prisoner that he both resented and related to.  And he had been the one punished with six years locked in a nightmare that would seem to end only to reveal a new nightmare was starting, and on and on it had gone.   He had woken from that “eternal” curse to his beloved Paul waiting for him.  He had been forgiven.  He was relieved that Paul was here.            Paul looked at him now. “What is it, love? Did you have a bad dream?”            Alex nodded.  “I don’t know what’s worse… that nightmare that I was trapped in or…” He bit his lip before choosing the words. “…knowing I could have saved us all… saved myself…if I had just done the right thing at the right time…”

           “Hush now, darling.  You’re still half-asleep. I’ll get you some tea.”              Alex was soothed and sighed.  There was no use dwelling on what might have been.  But sometimes those dreams of what he could have done- what he should have done, if he had just been brave enough… Sometimes that felt so much worse than the actual punishment the Lord of Dreams had subjected him to before finally forgiving him…

           But at least he was safe now.  At least he had Paul. And at least he had been forgiven. And he was loved and accepted for who and what he truly was.  And his cruel, old father, was very much dead. A loveless old man was gone.  But Alex was alive.  Paul was alive.  And they were in love.  And no one could take that away from them.  And Alex and The King of Dreams were both free from the shadow of Roderick Burgess forever.

           There was no point on dwelling on what might have been.  That did not matter now.  What mattered was the love that Alex had finally found and the freedom that he and The King of Dreams both had gained.

The End

[audreyprovostya]

People have strong opinions on YA romance. Mostly negative. I fervently disagree. 

The past few years have experienced a boom in young adult fiction, from the Harry Potter series to the infamous Twilight books. Parents have watched slack-jawed as their teens devoured them. It’s no surprise that literary critics and concerned adults alike have taken to scouring these works for an answer as to why their teens seem so enthralled, and they were not impressed with what they found. Ever since then, the young adult genre has been castigated as the willful dumbing-down of an entire generation, and a stigma revolves around the works, their authors, and their readers. But this prejudice is well-rooted in ageism and sexism, and largely ignores to attempt any critical analyses on the quality of the writing in favor of panning something simply because it is not a “literary classic”.  

It is most useful to talk about young adult romance, which seems to be under fire the most, but first, it is important to define what the term “young adult” refers to precisely. Mary Ann Badavi in her article, “No, The Fault in Our Stars Is Not Young-Adult Fiction’s Savior,” argues that YA describes books written about teenagers. At the same time, Ruth Graham in her controversial article titled, “Against YA” defines it as books written for teenagers. Graham argues books for teens should not be read by adults and thus should not be considered good literature, while Badavi argues that books written about teenagers can be read by adults and have merit. The term “YA” is incredibly broad and flexible, even flimsy, and is more of a marketing term than a literary categorization. Curtis Sittenfield wrote about his book, which he intended to be for adults but was marketed as a young adult novel, “You write the book you want to write, and then publishing has its way with it.” The lines between adult and young adult are incredibly blurred, and publishers are not thinking what is appropriate for the book more than they are thinking of how best to get it into the most hands. Sometimes that means teens will buy and appreciate some books more, even if they were supposed to be for adults, or the other way around. James Patterson’s Maximum ride series, as Margo Rabb, author of Cures for Heartbreak, describes in her New York Times article, “I’m Y.A., and I’m O.K,” was first categorized as a young adult novel series until sales went down, and then was placed in an all adult section in which the sales picked back up again. The story revolves around a group of winged teenagers, and features typical young adult themes such as romance and puberty. But why are adults interested in books “for kids?” In her article, “The Adult Lessons of YA Fiction,” senior associate editor for The Atlantic Julie Beck writes, 

I read [YA Fiction] because the stories are good and meaningful to me now...What I do mean to say is that things made for teenagers are not inherently less worthy of our time, attention, and critical consideration, simply because they’re for and about teens… The process of personhood might slow with age, but it doesn’t stop.

Thusly, the argument against reading young adult literature as an adult because it is intended for “children” doesn’t hold much water. 

Some adults have accepted this, and have added young adult literature to their collection of books. However, they are often ashamed for having an interest in them as if they are juvenile, especially romance for young adults. YA romance novels are often painted as a means of wish fulfilment and escapism for boy-crazy teenage girls that is empty of any intelligent or challenging content. It would be comparable to a marshmallow; sweet, but ultimately only made of sugar and air. On the other side, some women critique from a feminist point of view; that girls should not be taught that they can only find worth in a relationship with a boy. Tara Isabella Burton wrote in her New Statesman article, “‘Ghost Stories’: The ubiquitous anti-feminism of young adult romances,” that YA romance couples lack real depth, and are thus unrealistic. “Her relationships are not predicated on the idea that two people, with all their flaws, might discover themselves operating in emotional synchronicity. Rather, Mary is loved because she is the best…” But it is not that simple. 

YA Romance Novels are especially important for their female readers as sources of inspiration and strength. In an article for the Washington Post, Alyssa Rosenberg wrote, “Romance novels are a tonic, a form of reassurance that someone is interested in ordinary women’s inner lives and is rooting for us to resolve our conflicts about work, love, and what we deserve from our relationships.” And yet some critics argue that this form of escapism is merely just that; and not truly literature. Rosenberg follows up with, “It is a poor strategy, though, to hector women to read classics without acknowledging that the canon — which provides plenty of fantasy fulfillment for men and attention to their inner lives — can be an unnerving reminder of a past that for women is not always past.” Rosenberg is not the only one with this sentiment. Blogger Chelsea Codren wrote in her blog post on “the hub,” run by the Young Adult Library Services Association 

...YA romance novels are the only places where teenage girls can get frank discussions of sex, gender, and sexuality… they are giving them a place where it is safe to have girly emotions...Teenage girls don’t need a lecture; they need every ounce of support we can give them in a world that tells them their emotions are stupid and their thoughts don’t matter.

Perhaps instead of internalizing ridiculous romantic ideals as many critics believe, girls are discovering lessons about the complexities of life. A reason why anyone reads in the first place. 

Though at the same time, Graham disagrees that escapism is good. She states in her article that, “At its heart, YA aims to be pleasurable.” But escapism is the whole point of reading and writing; the author intentionally works to immerse the reader in their world, to pull the reader into the narrative enough to believe the characters are real so that their readers are emotionally invested. Otherwise, they would get bored with the story and stop reading. The experience wouldn’t be pleasurable. Critics may mention that some literature, especially romance, works as escapism and is thus not literature. There is a difference between creating complete escapism; an alternate reality where the main character has no personality and is really a pair of shoes for the readers to walk in, and a character that has a personality but is also relatable on a human level. Rosenburg writes of Graham’s article, 

Graham might have had a more defensible case and made a more effective plea against what the film critic A.O. Scott called the “cultural devaluation of maturity,” if her piece made a comprehensive case against readers who seek out a certain kind of easy enjoyment and moral satisfaction no matter where they find it.

Reading can be pleasurable, but not in an empty way. It is pleasurable because stories offer questions, insights, and hopes that we fervently search for each time we pick up a book. This is what we look for in stories. While many teens and adults alike are willing to entertain books like Fifty Shades of Grey or Twilight as pure fun, at the end of the day, the books that stay with them the most are the ones that have the emotional depth, human experience, and connection they, like all readers, are searching for. 

So why not just turn to “the greats” like the Great Gatsby, the Picture of Dorian Gray, or The Catcher in the Rye rather than sift through the ever-expanding mountain of YA books? Critics of YA would rather teens seek out these examples of literature instead. Graham writes again, “But if they are substituting maudlin teen dramas for the complexity of great adult literature, then they are missing something.” That is completely true. There is merit in reading the classics. It’s important to broaden your horizons and take in good literature from all around you. Most of my AP Literature books went unread when I was younger, but now, every time I see the copies in the box in my cellar, I always make a note to myself to finally pick them up and read them. I want to be able to experience them at my own pace, on my own time, because I too am searching for the human experience found in reading quality works of literature, like everybody else, including teenagers.  

[lexfritterwrites]

Let Lips Do What Hands Do - Part 11

Y’all, I haven’t posted in here since they updated it so everything might be terrible. Anyway, I’ll do my best. You can always catch me on AO3. 

previous

It's April, and Addie feels like crying most days. In fact, she actually has cried for the past eleven days — once in the shower, twice over her cup of tea and the other times where when she was in bed alone. Taron's been filming in Ireland for three weeks, and it's a glimpse at how life would be if they were to stay together in all the madness.

 "Sad again, huh?" Jack says, catching the gray look in her eyes. "I feel I should be offended you're not that upset about leaving me."

 Addie throws a sugar packet at him, hitting her mark on his cheek. "I know things between us won't change when I leave. You'll just be a phone call away."

 "Taron will too."

 "That's different. I don't think I like this ache, this pain." Addie absently stirs her tea. "In the words of Elphaba, 'If that's love, it comes at much too high a cost.'"

 "You know she ends up with the scarecrow at the end of that musical, right? I mean, we saw it together. I wrote a review which you edited."

 Addie rolls her eyes, too done to deal with Jack today.

 "I love him, you know. And to think we won't be together because of our location, I think I would rather not be with him at all."

 "Your call," Jack says. "I know you're scared but I think the two of you could make it work, and that's coming from a guy who stays away from relationships. You don't have to split because you're half a world away."

 "What if he meets the one but can't act on it because of me? Or what if he does act on it and I'm left devastated? It's a real poop chute."

 "It'll work out, Addie," Jack says, covering her hand with his own. "It'll work out."

 Addie slumps and rests her head on the table. "Why?"

 Jack gently musses her hair. "You didn't not date for years while you were here and the first guy you do consider turns out to be fuckin' perfect. You really know how to pick them."

 Addie laughs, feeling a little lighter at the thought.

   It's her whole year on display, the premiere of the students' films adapted from classic novels. Four fully written, produced and edited films will be turned in with her thesis, but the gala tonight will only feature twenty minutes from each with the students having a few moments to present before their film. It's an affair she's invited the whole school to as well as their family and friends, and even though Jack is by her side, the one person she wants to be there most isn't. Taron's caught filming in Ireland; Addie understands but still doesn't enjoy it.

 "Look at what you've done," Jack says, watching the rows of students talk excitedly amongst themselves, no doubtedly ready to display their hard work. "Not even a full teacher yet and you've got them inspired. That's a noble thing."

 Addie squeezes his hand. She takes the microphone and heads to the center of the stage. Pausing a moment before delivering the introduction she's prepared, she smiles. The kids eagerly sitting before her are a tribute to her and her hard work and creativity, and this life is about her just as much as it is Taron.

 She takes her seat next to Jack as the first group's film rolls across the screen, an updated retelling of Sense and Sensibility. It's funny, well thought and inclusive of the community, what with Edward Ferris having evolved into Edwina and Colonel Brandon an Indian man in the British navy. Everyone claps as the students presenting The Picture of Dorian Gray take the stage. Addie's phone buzzes in her pocket and she risks a quick chance to look at it.

 Can we watch the full-length versions this weekend? - T

 Sure, if you want. - A

 I do! At least that one. I'm dying to see how they did the marriage proposals. - T

 Addie whips her head around, looking to see him somewhere. There are faces illuminated by the screen but then she sees him, sitting on the edge of the row with his hood pulled up over his head; no doubt he didn't want to be recognized. He waves slightly when he sees her, and Addie smiles.

 He came after all.

 I'm so happy you're here! - A

 I'm really glad I could make it. Will sneak to bar at end so as not to detract. - T

 Sounds perfect. - A

 Thank you for coming. - A

 Addie is extremely proud of everything the students accomplished, and the cooking class made a giant cake for the ocassion. She sneaks a piece for Taron in her bag, poses for pictures with the kids, compliments the parents for raising some great hopes for the future, and then she's dashing out the door.

 "Adelaide, you're incredible!" Taron says, standing up from the table. He wraps his arms around her and kisses her cheek.

 "I can't believe you're here," she says, her face buried in his neck. "How'd you manage?"

 "Flew in this afternoon," he says. "Wanted to surprise you."

 "I'm very surprised," she says. "Very happy, too."

 Taron kisses the side of her head before pulling away to point her to a secluded booth. "I want to hear all about the rest of the videos. When can we watch them?" He holds her hand across the table, leaning towards her.

 Addie bites the inside of her lip, studying him. "What's wrong?"

 "What?" Taron asks, shifting backwards. Addie knows she was right to expect something.

 "Taron, I know you," she says quietly. "I know when something's up. What is it?"

 "No, Adelaide. I came here to celebrate you and the work you've done and I don't want it spoiled."

 "I feel like it's already spoiled if you don't tell me what's going on. Is everyone okay? Your mom and the girls? Your dad?"

 "Everyone's fine." He exhales loudly, looking at the table. "It's two more weeks."

 "Oh." Addie sags against the cushion. "Oh."

 Taron rubs her knuckles with his thumb. "I know it's really shitty, but it is what it is."

 "It's okay," Addie manages over the lump of emotion lodged in her throat. She feels like she's gagging but it's just the thought of his absence for another two weeks just a couple of months before she's supposed to move back to the United States. "You chase your dream and I'll chase mine."

 "Thus, though we cannot make our sun stand still, yet we will make him run."

 Addie snorts, swiping a tear off her cheek. "Marvell. Good choice."

 "Anyway," Taron says. "We've got tonight."

 "Bob Seger, a modern poet."

 It's Taron's turn to laugh now and he shakes his head. "Seriously though, can I take you out to dinner and then stay up with you all night watching the work of your students?"

 "Yes, I would like that."

 "Good," Taron says, moving quickly from the table. He drops a note on its surface and helps Addie back into her coat.

 "Can I make an amendment to the plan though?"

 "What's that?"

 "Can we just pick something up and take it home? I really don't need an audience to just want to be with you and I'm wearing Spanx so I'd really like to get out of them and into my pajamas."

 "Deal," he says. "You look bloody gorgeous but comfortable is something I also enjoy. Your place or mine?"

 "Mine is closer but you have a better TV so let's do that."

 "Sounds perfect," he says. He could offer to run back by hers so she can gather things, but he knows everything she needs is available at his. Tucking her beneath his arm, he kisses the side of her head — she'd taken the news of his delay better than he would have expected.

 They're curled up in his bed and halfway through the updated retelling of Frankenstein when Addie stretches her fingers across his chest.

 "What is it, cariad?" Taron asks, shifting his eyes. He can see the crown of her head and the tip of her nose, and he can see her fingers flex against his shirt.

 "I'm thinking about us."

 "Oh?"

 She pauses the video and sits up, and it's then he sees the tears in her eyes. "I think when I leave, that should be our end."

 "Adelaide." He bolts upright and reaches for her, but his fingers don't actually land anywhere. He can't touch her now.

 "Being apart from you these past few weeks has been hell. I never thought I would be someone to feel this way about anybody, but here we are. I'm exhausted. It feels like a piece of me is missing when you're gone, like smiles are less genuine and laughter does little for my soul. I can't imagine living my life for extended amounts of time without you, feeling this way. So if we just enjoy the time we have left and part as companions who once loved each other, I think that would be better."

 "Do I not get a say in this decision?" He asks softly, his chest tight and his jaw returning to a painful clench.

 "Of course you do," she sighs. "But what is the logical outcome of this?"

 "Fuck this. You can sleep in the guest room tonight." Taron moves in a flash, storms into the bathroom and slams the door shut.

 "Taron! Taron, no!" Addie frantically scrambles off the bed and futilely twists the doorknob. "Taron! Taron, please."

 She can hear the shower running and she sinks to the floor. She knew she shouldn't have said anything.

   Taron finds her half an hour later curled up on the floor with her cheeks red and eyes blotchy. He wants to be angry, he can feel the cold inside him wanting to push her away, but he can't.

 "Addie, come on," he says, gently collecting her in his arms and setting her upright. "I'm hurting too, you know."

 She nods blearily as he leads her back to bed. "I didn't mean to ruin what we have now. I feel like shit, and now I really feel like sh—"

 "Addie, I know," Taron says. "What you're saying makes sense, but it really fucking sucks when it's said out loud. You would rather be without me than be far away and with me, and I suppose that makes sense. Your chances of moving on are better if you're not thinking about some loyalty to me."

 "Me moving on?" She laughs. Taron thinks her crying must have left her too weary to think properly. "It's you. You'll move on long before I will and I don't want you to be stuck with me."

 "That doesn't matter," he says, taking her hand. "I think you're right though. We have a few good weeks left together and we should spend them as happily as we can. Let's not fight or what-if ourselves anymore. You're here, I'm here, and we should let that be enough for now. I can't think on it anymore."

 "Is it really okay?"

 "For now." He wipes a tear from her cheek, knowing his own should be joining it had he not just cried in the shower. "Let's go to sleep and sleep very late into the morning beside each other."

   Taron bites his nail, a habit he'd gotten into since ditching cigarettes; his teeth weren't thanking him but his lungs certainly were.

 "There he is," Jack says, pulling out the chair across from Taron and sinking into it. "Mr. Egerton."

 "Jack," Taron says, shaking his hand. "I wanted to talk to you about Addie."

 "I figured," Jack says. "She told me about her plans of departure."

 "Yeah, and it's not good. How do I get her to stay?"

 “You don’t."

 "Jack, please," Taron says, rubbing his forehead. "I can't have her leave."

 "And you can't have her stay either." Jack says softly. "I know you love her, Taron, as do I, but I also know she won't stay. She'll come to regret the decision as well as you if she stays. Going back to Washington has been her goal for six years. It's all she's worked for and all she's wanted. You need to let her go."

 "Can you?"

 Jack snorts his laugh. "I don't have a choice."

 "We could talk to her together."

 "That's not going to work."

 Taron drops his head to the table, his chest feeling unbelievably tight. "I don't know what to do."

 "Taron, there's an obvious solution here."

 "What's that?"

 "Go with her."

 Taron grunts. "You and I both know that's not logical."

 "So what? You can't do for her what you want her to do for you just because you're a famous actor who happens to make more money?" Jack leans back in his chair. He's really liked Taron, like him for Addie, and he needs Taron to see the sense in this before his like gives into loathing. "You're not giving up her dream so don't let her give up hers."

 "She's your best friend. How can you be so calm?" Taron crosses his arms in front of him, elbows still on the table, and he lets his chin fall to rest against them.

 "Addie is more than a best friend to me," Jack says. "I truly believe she is my person, even if there's no romance. Addie wasn't even supposed to be born, yet here she is. Incredibly determined, driven and happy."

 "I know that." Taron leans onto his cheek.

 "I know you do," Jack says patiently. "That's part of the reason you love her." He reaches across the table and squeezes Taron's shoulder. "You have to let her go."

 "Why is that the only option?" Taron moans, rhetorically putting the words into the universe.

 Jack chuckles as he leans back in his chair. "That's the only way she'll come back."

 "You think she'll come back?"

 "I hope so," Jack says. "For both our sakes."

 Taron laughs. He'll have to make time for Jack when Addie is gone.

 He finds her asleep on the couch when he returns home, and he gently brushes a hand across her face.

 She opens one eye to look and smiles when she sees him. “I must have dozed off.”

 “Yeah,” he says softly. It spreads through him, a calm peace. She is leaving to pursue her dreams, and there is nothing he can do to stop her, nor would he want to. He kisses her tenderly, finally accepting it. “You want to go take a nap upstairs?”

 “That sounds nice,” she says, sitting up next to him. “Hey, are you okay?”

 Taron smiles and kisses her again. “I’m totally fine. I just really love you.”

 Addie’s laugh warms him and she leans her head against his shoulder. “I love you, too.”

 Taron takes her hand and quietly leads her upstairs.

[wildeoaths]

LGBTQ Book & Film Recommendations

Hello! As someone who tries to read widely, it can sometimes be frustrating to find good (well-written, well-made) LGBTQ+ works of literature and film, and mainstream recommendations only go so far. This is my shortlist. 

Some caveats: 1) I have only watched/seen some of these, though they have all been well-received.

2) The literature list is primarily focused on adult literary and genre fiction, since that is what I mostly read, and I feel like it’s easier to find queer YA fiction. Cece over at ProblemsOfABookNerd (YT) covers a lot of newer releases and has a YA focus, so you can check her out for more recommendations.

3) There are a ton of good films and good books that either reference or discuss queer theory, LGBTQ history and literary theory. These tend to be more esoteric and academic, and I’m not too familiar with queer theory, so they’ve largely been left off the list. I do agree that they’re important, and reading into LGBTQ-coding is a major practice, but they’re less accessible and I don’t want to make the list too intimidating.

4) I linked to Goodreads and Letterboxd because that’s what I use and I happen to really enjoy the reviews.

Any works that are bolded are popular, or they’re acclaimed and I think they deserve some attention. I’ve done my best to flag potential objections and triggers, but you should definitely do a search of the reviews. DoesTheDogDie is also a good resource. Not all of these will be suitable for younger teenagers; please use your common sense and judgement.

Please feel free to chime in in the replies (not the reblogs) with your recommendations, and I’ll eventually do a reblog with the additions!

BOOKS

> YOUNG ADULT

Don’t @ me asking why your favourite YA novel isn’t on this list. These just happen to be the picks I felt might also appeal to older teens/twentysomethings.

Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe

Clap When You Land by Elizabeth Acevedo - poetry.

Felix Ever After by Kacen Callender - trans male teen protagonist. 

Red, White & Royal Blue

Simon vs the Homo Sapiens Agenda

The Gentleman’s Guide To Vice And Virtue

The Raven Boys (and Raven Cycle)

> LITERATURE: GENERAL

This list does skew M/M; more NB, trans and WLW recommendations are welcomed!

A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara. One of the most acclaimed contemporary LGBTQ novels and you’ve probably heard of it. Will probably make you cry.

A Single Man by Christopher Isherwood. Portrait of a middle-aged gay man.

Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh. M/M affair, British student high society; definitely nostalgic for the aristocracy so be aware of the context.

Call Me By Your Name by André Aciman. It’s somewhat controversial, it’s gay, everyone knows the film at least.

Cronus’ Children / Le Jardin d'Acclimation by Yves Navarre. Winner of the Goncourt prize.

Dancer From The Dance by Andrew Holleran. A young man in the 1970s NYC gay scene. Warning for drugs and sexual references.

Dorian, An Imitation by Will Self. Adaptation of Orscar Wilde’s novel. Warning for sexual content.

Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe by Fannie Flagg. Two wlw in the 1980s. Also made into a film; see below.

Gemini by Michel Tournier. The link will tell you more; seems like a very complex read. TW for troubling twin dynamics.

Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin. Another iconic M/M work.

Lost Boi by Sassafras Lowrey. A queer punk reimagining of Peter Pan. Probably one of the more accessible works on this list!

Lie With Me by Philippe Besson. Two teenage boys in 1980s France.

Maurice by E. M. Forster. Landmark work written in 1914. Also made into a film; see below.

Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides. An expansive (and long) novel about the story of Cal, a hermaphrodite, by the author of The Virgin Suicides.

Orlando by Virginia Woolf. Plays with gender, time and space. Virginia Woolf’s ode to her lover Vita Sackville-West. What more do you want? (also a great film; see below).

Oscar Wilde’s works - The Picture of Dorian Gray would be the place to start. Another member of the classical literary canon.

Saga, vol.1 by Brian K. Vaughn and Fiona Staples. Graphic novel; warning for sexual content.

Stone Butch Blues by Leslie Feinburg. An acclaimed work looking at working-class lesbian life and gender identity in pre-Stonewall America.

The Holy Innocents by Gilbert Adair. The basis for Bertolucci’s The Dreamers (2003). I am hesitant to recommend this because I have not read this, though I have watched the film; the M/M dynamic and LGBTQ themes do not seem to be the primary focus. Warning for sexual content and incestuous dynamics between the twins.

The Animals At Lockwood Manor by Jane Healey. Plays with gothic elements, set during WW2, F/F elements.

The Hours by Michael Cunningham. References Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway. Probably a good idea to read Virginia Woolf first.

The Immoralist by André Gide. Translated from French.

The Song of Achilles by Madeline MIller. Drawing from the Iliad, focusing on Achilles and Patroclus. Contemporary fantasy that would be a good pick for younger readers.

The Swimming Pool Library by Alan Hollinghurst. Gay life pre-AIDS crisis. Apparently contains a fair amount of sexual content.

What Belongs To You by Garth Greenwell. A gay man’s coming of age in the American South.

> LITERATURE: WORLD LITERATURE

American and Western experiences are more prominent in LGBTQ works, just due to the way history and the community have developed, and the difficulties of translation. These are English and translated works that specifically foreground the experiences of non-White people living in (often) non-Western societies. I’m not white or American myself and recommendations in this area are especially welcomed.

All Boys Aren’t Blue by George M. Johnson. The memoirs and essays of a queer black activist, exploring themes of black LGBTQ experiences and masculinity.

A People’s History of Heaven by Mathangi Subramanian. Female communities and queer female characters in a Bangalore slum. A very new release but already very well received.

Confessions of a Mask by Yukio Mishima. Coming-of-age in post-WW1 Japan. This one’s interesting, because it’s definitely at least somewhat autobiographical. Mishima can be a tough writer, and you should definitely look into his personality and his life when reading his work.

Disoriental by Négar Djavadi. A family saga told against the backdrop of Iranian history by a queer Iranian woman. Would recommend going into this knowing at least some of the political and historical context.

How We Fight For Our Lives by Saeed Jones. A coming-of-age story and memoir from a gay, black man in the American South.

In The Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado. Another acclaimed contemporary work about the dynamics of abuse in LGBTQ relationships. Memoir.

Girl, Woman, Other by Bernardine Evaristo. Contemporary black British experience, told from the perspectives of 12 diverse narrators.

> POETRY

Crush by Richard Siken. Tumblr loves Richard Siken, worth a read.

Diving Into The Wreck by Adrienne Rich.

He’s So Masc by Chris Tse.

If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho, trans. Anne Carson. The best presentation of Sappho we’re likely to get.

Lord Byron’s works - Selected Poems may be a good starting point. One of the Romantics and part of the classical literary canon.

Les Fleurs du Mal by Charles Baudelaire. The explicitly lesbian poems are apparently in the les fleurs du mal section.

> MEMOIR & NONFICTION

And The Band Played On: Politics, People and the AIDS Epidemic by Randy Shilts. An expansive, comprehensive history and exposure of the failures of media and the Reagan administration, written by an investigative journalist. Will probably make you rightfully angry.

How to Survive A Plague: The Inside Story of How Citizens and Science Tamed AIDS by David France. A reminder of the power of community and everyday activism, written by a gay reporter living in NYC during the epidemic.

Indecent Advances: The Hidden History of Murder and Masculinity Before Stonewall by James Polchin. True crime fans, this one’s for you. Sociocultural history constructed from readings of the news and media.

Queer: A Graphic History by Meg-John Barker. It’s illustrated, it’s written by an academic, it’s an easier introduction to queer theory. I still need to pick up a copy, but it seems like a great jumping-off point with an overview of the academic context.

Real Queer America by Samantha Allen. The stories of LGBTQ people and LGBTQ narratives in the conservative parts of America. A very well received contemporary read.

The Argonauts by Maggie Nelson. Gender, pregnancy and queer partnership. I’m not familiar with this but it is quite popular.

When Brooklyn Was Queer by Hugh Ryan. LGBTQ history of Brooklyn from the nineteenth century to pre-Stonewall.

FILMS

With films it’s difficult because characters are often queercoded and we’re only now seeing films with better rep. This is a shortlist of better-rated films with fairly explicit LGBTQ coding, LGBTQ characters, or made by LGBTQ persons. Bolded films are ones that I think are likely to be more accessible or with wider appeal.

A Single Man (2009) - Colin Firth plays a middle-aged widower.

Blue Is The Warmest Colour (2013) - A controversial one. Sexual content.

Booksmart (2019) - A pretty well made film about female friendship and being an LGBTQ teen.

Boy Erased (2018) - Warning for conversion therapy.

BPM (Beats Per Minute) (2017) - Young AIDS activists in France.

Brokeback Mountain (2005) - Cowboy gays. This film is pretty famous, do you need more summary? Might make a good triple bill with Idaho and God’s Own Country.

Cabaret (1972) - Liza Minelli. Obvious plug to also look into Vincent Minelli.

Calamity Jane (1953) - There’s a lot that could be said about queer coding in Hollywood golden era studio films, but this is apparently a fun wlw-cowboy westerns-vibes watch. Read the reviews on this one!

Call Me By Your Name (2017) - Please don't debate this film in the notes.

Caravaggio (1986) - Sean Bean and Tilda Swinton are in it. Rather explicit.

Carol (2015) - Cate Blanchett and Rooney Mara are lesbians in 1950s America.

Clouds of Sils Maria (2014) - Hard to summarise, but one review calls it “lesbian birdman” and it has both Juliette Binoche and Kristen Stewart in it, so consider watching it.

Colette (2018) - About the bi/queer female writer Colette during the belle epoque era. This had Keira Knightley so by all rights Tumblr should love it.

Fried Green Tomatoes (1991) - Lesbian love in 1920s/80s? America.

God’s Own Country (2017) - Gay and British.

Happy Together (1997) - By Wong Kar Wai. No further explanation needed.

Heartbeats (2010) - Bi comedy.

Heartstone (2016) - It’s a story about rural Icelandic teenagers.

Henry Gamble’s Birthday Party (2015) -  Queer teens and religious themes.

Je, Tu, Il, Elle (1974) - Early Chantal Akerman. Warning for sexual scenes.

Kill Your Darlings (2013) - Ginsberg, Kerouac and the Beat poets.

Love, Simon (2018)

Lovesong (2016) - Lesbian and very soft. Korean-American characters.

Love Songs (2007) - French trio relationship. Louis Garrel continues to give off non-straight vibes.

Mädchen In Uniform (1931) - One of the earliest narrative films to explicitly portray homosexuality. A piece of LGBTQ cinematic history.

Maurice (1987) - Adaptation of the novel.

Midnight Cowboy (1969) - Heavy gay coding.

Milk (2008) - Biopic of Harvey Milk, openly gay politician. By the same director who made My Own Private Idaho.

Moonlight (2016) - It won the awards for a reason.

My Own Private Idaho (1991) - Another iconic LGBTQ film. River Phoenix.

Mysterious Skin (2004) - Go into this film aware, please. Young actors, themes of prostitution, child ab*se, r***, and a lot of trauma.

Orlando (1992) - An excellent adaptation of Virginia Woolf’s novel, and in my opinion far more accessible. Watch it for the queer sensibilities and fantastic period pieces.

Pariah (2011) - Excellent coming-of-age film about a black lesbian girl in Brooklyn.

Paris is Burning (1990) - LANDMARK DOCUMENTARY piece of LGBTQ history, documenting the African-American and Latine drag and ballroom roots of the NYC queer community.

Persona (1966) - It’s an Ingmar Bergman film so I would recommend knowing what you’re about to get into, but also I can’t describe it because it’s an Ingmar Bergman film.

Picnic At Hanging Rock (1975) - Cult classic queercoded boarding school girls.

Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019) - By Celine Sciamma, who’s rapidly establishing herself in the mainstream as a LGBTQ film director. This is a wlw relationship and the queer themes are reflected in the cinematic techniques used. A crowd pleaser.

Pride (2014) - Pride parades with a British sensibility.

Rebel Without A Cause (1955) - Crowd-pleaser with bi coding and James Dean. The OG version of “you’re tearing me apart!”.

Rocketman (2019) - It’s Elton John.

Rent (2005) - Adaptation of the stage musical. Not the best film from a technical standpoint. I recommend the professionally recorded 2008 closing night performance instead.

Rope (1948) - Hitchcock film.

Sorry Angel (2018) - Loving portraits of gay French men.

Talk To Her (2002) - By Spanish auteur Pedro Almodóvar.

Tangerine (2015) - About trans sex workers. The actors apparently had a lot of input in the film, which was somehow shot on an iPhone by the same guy who went on to do The Florida Project. 

The Duke of Burgundy (2014) - Lesbians in an S&M relationship that’s going stale, sexual content obviously.

The Gay Deceivers (1969) - The reviews are better than me explaining.

The Handmaiden (2016) - Park Chan-wook makes a film about Korean lesbians and is criminally snubbed at the Oscars. Warning for sexual themes and kink.

The Favourite (2018) - Period movie, and lesbian.

Thelma And Louise (1991) - An iconic part of LGBTQ cinematic history. That is all.

The Celluloid Closet (1995) - A look into LGBTQ cinematic history, and the historical contexts we operated in when we’ve snuck our narratives into film.

The Miseducation of Cameron Post (2018) - Adaptation of the YA novel.

The Neon Demon (2016) - Apparently based on Elizabeth Bathory, the blood-drinking countess. Very polarising film and rated R.

The Perks of Being A Wallflower (2012) - Book adaptation. It has Ezra Miller in it I guess.

The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975) - No explanation needed, queer and transgressive vibes all the way.

They (2017) - Gender identity, teenagers.

Those People (2015) - They’re gay and they’re artists in New York.

Tomboy (2011) - One of the few films I’ve seen dealing with gender identity in children (10 y/o). Celine Sciamma developing her directorial voice.

Tropical Malady (2004) - By Thai auteur Apichatpong Weerasethakul. His is a very particular style so don’t sweat it if you don’t enjoy it.

Vita and Virginia (2018) - Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West biopic

Water Lilies (2007) - Celine Sciamma again! Teenage lesbian coming-of-age. 

When Marnie Was There (2014) - A Studio Ghibli film exploring youth, gender and sexuality.

Weekend (2011) - An indie film about young gay love.

Wilde (1997) - It’s a film about Oscar Wilde.

XXY (2007) - About an intersex teenager. Reviews on this are mixed.

Y Tu Mama Tambien (2001) - Wonder what Diego Luna was doing before Rogue One? This is one of the things. Warning for sexual content.

[monasticcellphone]

I’m trying to go through the Marie Kondo method of tidying before I move.

And I’ve come to books. I think I’ve gotten rid of the ones that don't spark joy.

And have kept the ones that do. 

But I wonder. 

The titles that still irk me: 

some of the collections of Kafka. I would like to get one big definitive collection. The 4 different paperback ones that are falling apart bother me. 

The Canterbury Tales. It’s huge. I rarely turn to it. But I /do/ turn to it sometimes. And like to read one tale every so often.

Tales of  Beedle the Bard: I have gotten rid of all my HP book except for one of the UK editions my sister gave to me as a gift for Christmas maybe 10 years ago now. I don’t know if I need this one.

Little Failure. A gift from one of my professors. I feel bad that I’ve never read it. But inside is a lovely note. I just feel weird about it. 

A Christmas Carol. I used to read it every year around Christmas. And I loved it. But I haven’t read it in years. 

a few collections of Foucault. Never read them. The fact that it’s a reader. I have three. Never read them. Idk. I want Words and Things if I were to have one. I feel like they’re just substitutes for the one I actually want. 

“The Russian Word’s Worth” a gift from the Russian Dpt upon graduating. Have never read. It actually looks super interesting. Idk. the hope that One Day I’ll read it.... and I just feel bad that I never have even tho I graduated 4 years ago now...

“Clear and Queer Thinking: Wittgenstain’s Development and His Relevance to Modern Thought” Sounds super interesting. Never read. Don’t honestly know too much about Wittgenstein so its also in the One Day I Will category...

Anna Karenina. Another gift from the above professor I’ve Never read. Also has a lovely note inside. 

Did get rid of a several Russian books I will never read again and if I want to I can easily get them from the library: Dostoevsky, Tolstoy. Kept a few in Russian that I bought in Russia more as momentos than anything. I will probably never be able to get to the level of reading them again. 

Jane Eyre- HS req reading. Loved. Would love to read again and see what I get out of it this time and see all the stupid notes I took back in HS.

Catcher in the Rye- same.

Picture of Dorian Gray- only read once, and loved, obv. I feel like I keep it more as a symbol than anything. But it feels like it’s just weighing me down. 

Illiad and the Odyssey. never read completely, even tho one was assigned reading back in HS, haha. But I just /know/ it’s supposed to connect to Infinite Jest so I want to read them and then reread infinite jest. Same with Hamlet. Same with Brothers Karamazov.

And the whole exercise is really introspective. Like, I don’t have a lot of clothes. I do have a tone of papers that I need to sift through more and sore more thoughtfully to honor them. I went through them not too long ago. Maybe 1.5 years ago. And it was a really great exercise. Too look at all these papers I’ve saved from college. The expectations I have on myself. To go through them all and rewrite them more legibly. But I do look at them a lot. I go through and look at old syllabi a lot. Old aligned articles. When I’m reading other things. So that was really positive. Realizing that these things /do/ spark joy. And the ones sparking anxiety, I can discard. 

And I really don’t own much more than that. I have no furniture. No house wares. So books are my one possession. And they signify a lot. 

I’m like that meme about that guy who moves pounds of books every year. I am.

And I think a common thread can be that ones that give me anxiety are the ones that are too juvenile : why do I still have HP books, ore books from HS or even 7th grade? Shouldn’t I be passed that? Like they’re obviously conspicuous consumptions. LOOK at all my BOOK! But a good handful are just high school required reading.... nothing too great...... my fear of being an intellectual fraud.

And the ones that were gifts- my failure to read them - not living up to other people’s expectations for myself. Not making anything from my college degree.

Another commonality I’ve noticed. A lot of the books that don’t like “speak” to me are 1) ones I found in little free libraries on the sidewalks (no thought in taking them, just picking up what felt I “should” have, looking for “good finds” or something) 2) Barnes and Noble classics collection. Soulless. Commercial. My HS friend and I used to go to BN and look around and I would feel so energiczed to go home and read and then I never would actually do much reading. I thought they seemed like uniform, prestigious, canonical (ideas I’m obviously still obsessed with) but now they just seem like the laziest kind of publishing or something ...

The ones that “spark joy” are the Lacan, Freud, Nietzsche, Spinoza, Copjec, Zizek, the ones that I have acquired myself mindfully in good condition and have read and annotated thoroughly. Not the ones that I found in a little free library and thought “Oh, Lolita, I should read that, it’s good to have, one day I’ll want to read something, and I’ll have this to turn to”

And then I have a few DVDs and VHSs and 3 CDs. I don't have a VHSs or DVD or CD player. My laptop doesn’t even have a slot for discs. I don’t see myself being able to use any of them any time soon. But I love them. Hitchcock and Audrey Hepburn films... I love them. 

[seehowsupplethespineis]

Some Crazy 19th Century Literary Characters Live Together And It Goes About As Well As One Would Think

(Hullo! Yes, it has been awhile since anything has been posted here, and I’m breaking that hiatus with this bit of utter nonsense! Drawing Entity and I had a roleplay recently with classic literary characters who are a bit sketchy, so I decided to take that concept and turn it into a story. Is it to be taken seriously? Nope. This is just me poking fun at some characters that I love in a “what if” scenario. It’s all meant to be humorous and ridiculous.)

(Characters include Van Helsing from Dracula, Moreau from The Island of Doctor Moreau, Griffin from The Invisible Man, Frankenstein from Frankenstein, Gray from The Picture of Dorian Gray, Jekyll and Hyde from Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Moriarty from one of the Sherlock Holmes stories, and Raskolnikov from Crime and Punishment.)

(Note: I know all the characters come from different decades, so this is broadly set somewhere in the mid-1800s. They’re all about as old as they are in their stories. Also, when you see “<...>,” that means they’re speaking in Russian, since Raskolnikov is Russian.)

(Warnings: Blood, violence, weapons, mentioned mauling, gore, hangover, mentions of drinking, generally apathetic characters, brief mention of depressive behavior)

Morning light managed to escape the neverending grey of the mist outside. It shone through the dew speckled window and shined a light on Abraham Van Helsing, who’d been awake for the past three hours or so reading science article after science article. Some of them were new, some of them he’d read but needed a refresher on. Van Helsing wasn’t one to sleep in when there was reading to be done or work to complete (work usually meant preparing for his next escapade into the cemetery, or simply going to teach at the local university).

Glancing at the clock on the wall, the old man saw the time to be half past 7.00, which meant breakfast would be served shortly. Folding up his magazine, he slowly slid out of bed, stretching cramped muscles. Becoming increasingly old meant that he was wiser with each day, so he supposed it was only fair his body maintain balance by withering away. It didn’t make the ache in his back any less irritating, though.

Van Helsing got himself washed up and dressed, then proceeded to the door. He noticed the doorknob shone more than usual. With a sigh, he withdrew his handkerchief from his pocket and turned the handle with it wrapped around his hand. We really must confront Moriarty about this.

As he stepped out onto the landing, Van Helsing heard soft footsteps immediately stop. Turning, he caught sight of a squat, hairy man with roguish features paused in front of the door to Jekyll’s quarters. The man looked at him, then at the door, then back again.

Van Helsing gestured impatiently, “Oh, go on then. Don’t make Jekyll late for breakfast.”

The short man grinned, tipped his top hat, then proceeded quietly into Jekyll’s room. Van Helsing cast his gaze up to the ceiling as he moved to the staircase. Hyde had been late to return, which meant he’d probably gotten up to his ears in trouble, which meant an angry mob banging on their door sometime this morning, which meant Van Helsing had to hurry and eat so he could calm the troubled citizens.

Quickening his pace, he reached the ground floor and strode purposefully to the dining hall, hoping their cook had finished preparing the meal. They’d gone through several cooks this month, either because the last one quit or disappeared without a trace in the middle of the night. It was always the same story, and sometimes Van Helsing was glad he didn’t know the exact end.

Griffin was the only one at the table when Van Helsing arrived. He could tell by the floating robes at the far end, as well as the floating newspaper.

“Good morning, Dr Griffin.”

A “harumph” was the only response.

“Did you sleep well?”

“No.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” Van Helsing settled himself at the head of the table, folding his hands in his lap, “Any exciting news today?” 

“Just the usual political drivel.” The paper began folding itself in mid-air then went sliding across the table. Van Helsing caught it and examined the newsprint for himself. As always, he scanned the pages for any mentions of unusual happenings, like a missing corpse or reports of a blood-sucking creature. He found none but knew that hardly meant there were no vampires in the area.

The door opened just then to admit a young man with dark hair and a wary expression.

“Good morning, Rodion Romanovich.”

Raskolnikov gave Van Helsing a tight nod then seated himself beside the older man, hunching over in his seat.

“How did you sleep?” Van Helsing asked.

The young man considered how to respond for a few seconds before alighting on the proper words, speaking with a thick Russian accent, “I slept well.”

“Perfect!” Van Helsing beamed. Raskolnikov seemed pleased with himself.

“Good morning, housemates!” The door was thrown open and Dorian Gray sauntered in, flashing everyone a dazzling smile with perfect teeth. Raskolnikov shrank in his seat and Van Helsing was sure he heard Griffin sigh.

Gray collapsed neatly into a chair, throwing his legs up on the seat beside him, “I trust you all had a good night. I can say that I did.”

“I’ll bet,” Griffin huffed, “I saw you drinking in the common room when I went up to bed at midnight.”

“Oh, I was just having a bit of fun. You all can be such downers and sometimes spirits are the only way to lift my spirits.”

“How are you not hungover?”

“I didn’t have that much.”

“Didn’t- You and Hyde nearly finished our entire supply!”

“Mr Hyde was with you?” Van Helsing spoke up.

“He was for about an hour, then he said he had ‘business elsewhere’ and jumped out the window. Strange fellow.”

Van Helsing nodded gloomily. A drunk Hyde running amok in England was not good.

“I think we should be prepared for another mob, then.” he said as someone else came into the room.

“Another mob?” Dr Moreau paused in the entryway, “But I covered my tracks!”

Van Helsing looked up, “Beg pardon?”

Moreau frowned, “Are we talking about me?”

“We were not.”

“Oh, well then, I guess I’m safe.” The vivisectionist quietly took his place beside Griffin. Van Helsing considered questioning him but decided against it; there was an unspoken policy of don’t-ask-about-my-illegal-activities-and-I-won’t-ask-about-yours in this house.

James Moriarty was the next to arrive. His serpentine like gaze raked over his housemates as he stood by the door and fixed on Van Helsing.

Van Helsing waved, “Yes, professor, I am still alive. Try harder next time.”

Moriarty came to sit next to Gray, “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re speaking of.”

“Poison on the doorknob? Really?” Van Helsing continued, “How childish.”

“I can assure you, my fellow professor, that if I wished you dead, I’d go about it in a more clever way.” Moriarty sniffed, “Poison is far beneath me.”

Van Helsing rolled his eyes, “Well, if it wasn’t you, then who?”

“Perhaps it was one of those vampires you’re always going on about.”

“Nonsense! I’ve vampire-proofed this house. No creature of the night is coming in here.”

“My mistake.” Moriarty sighed. He turned in his seat, “Where is that cook? Breakfast should have been on the table five minutes ago.”

“He’s new here.” Van Helsing said in the cook’s defense, “Give him time. It can’t be easy catering to... people like us.”

“You mean mad people.” Gray translated, “It’s alright, you can say it. We all know you people are crazy.”

“ ‘You people’ not including yourself, I presume.” Griffin grumbled.

Gray grinned at him, “You presume correctly.”

Raskolnikov frowned at all of them and leaned over to Van Helsing, “<What are they talking about?>”

Van Helsing folded up his newspaper, “<We are just wondering where the cook is.>”

“<Has another one disappeared?>”

“<I hope not.>”

The doors were once again pushed open and a timid young man trudged in. His appearance was quite professional, though Van Helsing noted his hair was not properly combed back and his hands fidgeting and nervous. His skin was an unnatural pallor and his expression quite haggard.

“Sorry I’m late.” Dr Jekyll slowly sat beside Raskolnikov, nearly toppling out of his seat. He shaded his eyes against the lamp light “I slept in.”

Everyone exchanged an almost imperceptible glance at that, but no one said anything out loud. Jekyll still hadn’t quite grasped that everyone here was well aware of his “secret.” Van Helsing figured he should let him know sometime, though he couldn’t pretend seeing the doctor flustered as he struggled for alibis wasn’t amusing.

“How are you today, Doctor? You seem… off.” Van Helsing said politely.

Jekyll’s restless gaze snapped up to the older man, “Oh, no, just… slept… wrong.”

“I see...” Hyde must have left him with a serious hangover; his excuses were usually a lot better put together than that.

The table lapsed into silence, broken only by Gray’s humming and the crinkling of paper as Moriarty read the news.

It was Moreau who spoke next, “Where’s Frankenstein?”

Everyone glanced around, having not noticed their housemate wasn’t there.

Moriarty sighed, “He’s probably sulking in his room again.”

“Who wants to go get him this time?” Griffin asked.

When no one was quick to volunteer, Van Helsing took up the initiative, “I’ll fetch him.”

He left the others to their tense silence and marched up the stairs to Victor Frankenstein’s bedroom. The poor man always seemed to get up late and go to bed early, unless he was seized by some fit of scientific passion, though he inevitably dissolved into sobs afterwards. The young scientist always seemed to feel guilty about something.

The old man reached his door and knocked firmly, “Mr Frankenstein? Are you alright?”

There was no response.

He knocked again, “We’re all gathered for breakfast! We would appreciate it if you joined us!”

Still nothing.

Van Helsing huffed in annoyance, “Mr Frankenstein, you have stayed locked up in your room since yesterday morning, and, as far as I know, have not eaten anything since. Now come out of there and have a meal with us.”

There was a long pause, then Van Helsing heard bolts slowly slide back behind the door until it was open enough for a ragged face to peek out.

“Good morning.” Van Helsing said.

Frankenstein gave a long sigh, “I don’t deserve a good morning.”

“Well, I think you do.” the professor slowly pushed the door open wider, “Are you ready to come down?”

“If I have to be.” Frankenstein stepped out into the hallway, blinking against the light from one of the windows. Van Helsing noticed he hadn’t changed since yesterday morning, and probably hadn’t changed since the morning before that.

The two of them walked back downstairs together and into the dining room.

Everyone was gone.

“Hello?” Van Helsing called, a cold feeling of dread creeping upon him, “Dr Moreau? Mr Gray? Rodion Romanovich?”

“In here!” someone called from the side door leading into the kitchen. Van Helsing exchanged a glance with Frankenstein and they rushed to join the others.

All the residents were gathered in a circle around Griffin, who was crouched over a still form on the ground. Van Helsing immediately recognized it as the cook they’d hired not a week ago, despite the blood coating the victim from head to toe and his torn features.

Griffin lifted the cook’s arm by an un-marred section of skin then let it flop to the ground. He cleared his throat, “This man is dead.” he declared.

“Obviously, Sherlock.” Gray said.

“What did I say about using that name?” Moriarty groused.

“How did this happen?” Van Helsing demanded.

Raskolnikov was suddenly very alert, “<It wasn’t me!>”

Moriarty shook his head, “This wasn’t done by a man. This is the work of a wild animal…”

Everyone grew quiet, then slowly turned to Moreau, who was trying to sneak unnoticed out of the room. He paused as he realized they’d caught him.

He sighed, “Alright, in my defense, I was sure that lion was human enough.”

“It’s a lion, idiot!” Griffin exclaimed, “Human doesn’t factor in!”

“I was making progress! He even started speaking!”

“Did he say he was hungry?” Gray asked.

Moreau glared at him, “He wasn’t that intelligent!”

“Yet you let him run amok!” Griffin yelled, sleeves waving in agitation.

“I kept him locked in the closet!”

“Oh, so that’s where you’re supposed to keep a man-eating lion?!”

“He broke out of his cage! Where was I supposed to put him?”

“Um, guys,” Jekyll’s voice was quiet and only Van Helsing seemed to hear him, “Where’d the lion go?”

Bang!

Everyone jumped as the front doors shook from the force of a mass of people throwing themselves against it.

Oh, the mob. Van Helsing had nearly forgotten to expect them.

“Everybody be quiet!” he shouted. The authority in his voice served to silence the bickering scientists, “We’ve got another angry mob outside and a lion on the loose! Now is not the time to argue among ourselves!”

He paused, formulating a plan, “Moreau, you, Frankenstein, and Moriarty find that lion and kill it if necessary. Gray and Jekyll, you come with me to handle the mob. Griffin, Rodion Romanovich, since no one can either see or understand you, keep yourselves locked in one of your bedrooms and stay together.”

“Fine by me!” Griffin had already grabbed Raskolnikov’s sleeve and was racing out of the room with the confused Russian in tow.

“Why must I stay here and handle Moreau’s mess?” Moriarty asked with a sniff.

“Because you’re the smartest of all of us.” Van Helsing said slyly, “You’ll slay that lion easily with that clever head of yours.”

Moriarty nodded, conceding that he was in fact the smartest. Moreau looked distraught.

“Don’t kill it! I’ve been working on him for months!”

“It’s either him or us, pal,” Gray shouted over his shoulder as he sauntered out the door, “And I’m too pretty to die.”

Van Helsing followed the retreating socialite, Jekyll lurching after them.

There were about 30 citizens gathered outside from what Van Helsing could see as he peeked out the window, each armed with all manner of crude weaponry, including brooms and shovels. Bracing himself, Van Helsing pushed open the door, making the crowd fall back.

“What’s all this about?” he asked, trying to appear friendly.

“You know very well what it’s about!” a woman cried, “There’s been a murder in the village, and Mr Hyde is to blame!”

Jekyll gave a quiet “eep” behind Van Helsing. The professor turned to see the doctor’s pale face, deducing that Hyde probably did commit this crime. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But perhaps… “How was the victim killed?” he asked.

“He was beaten by his own cane until his head caved in!”

No, that was Hyde alright. Part of him hoped it might have been the lion or some other crazy person.

“I saw him from my bedroom window!” a man shouted from the back, “He was coming from the murder scene!”

“Lots of people probably came from the general direction in which the crime was committed,” Gray said with an easy smile, “That doesn’t necessarily have to mean they did it.”

The townspeople seemed taken aback, not from Gray’s words, but from his dashing smile. It always seemed to stun anyone subjected to it, at least anyone who didn’t know Gray well enough to see he was an awful person.

Van Helsing seized their advantage, “Exactly! You cannot convict a man with such flimsy evidence. As far as I can tell, no one actually witnessed the murder, so no one can testify. Hyde was simply minding his own business on the city streets, as he is wont to do.”

“B-But…” Gray’s smile intensified and the protester shut up.

Van Helsing slowly stepped back into the house, leaving Gray to further calm the mob. He was good at that. Jekyll had remained partially indoors during the whole interaction and leaped back into the safety of the parlor.

“Now that that’s settled,” Van Helsing began, “I suppose we should help-”

“AAAAAAAUUUUUGGGGGHHHHHH!!!”

Van Helsing and Jekyll jumped in fright at the scream emanating from upstairs.

“Who was that?” Jekyll shouted in alarm, clasping his hands to his ears. From the dining room, Moreau, Frankenstein, and Moriarty came pouring out.

“Egad, the lion must be up there!” Moriarty cried.

“THE LION’S UP HERE!” Griffin’s panicked scream confirmed Moriarty’s suspicion, “HELP US!!!”

“I’ll get a sedative!” Moreau rushed to his room.

“Forget the sedative! We have to put it down!” Frankenstein seemed seized by a fit of determination. He’d grabbed one of the kitchen knives and brandished it as he followed Moreau up the stairs, “You will never kill again, monster!!!”

Gray poked his head inside as he heard all the shouting, “What the heck is going on in here? You’re ruining my progress with this crowd!”

“The lion’s going to eat us!” Jekyll screamed and started running for the backdoor, face-planting into it first before managing to throw it open. Moriarty glanced from him to Van Helsing, then followed the retreating doctor.

“What?!” Gray looked to Van Helsing for guidance.

“Just keep them calm!” Van Helsing instructed and sprinted toward the staircase, “We’ll handle this!”

Taking the stairs two at a time, Van Helsing made his way up to the second level. He’d barely made it halfway before he was gasping for air, his old legs wobbling like jelly. Sprinting had been a bad plan.

“No!” Moreau had a loaded syringe in hand and was chasing after Frankenstein, who was already to Griffin’s bedroom door, “Don’t kill him!”

Frankenstein kicked the door open as Van Helsing made it all the way up, putting on a burst of speed.

The lion was, indeed, very human-like. While it still hunched over, it remained upright, its digitigrade legs trembling with the effort. Its face was feline yet something in the shape of the jaw and the arch of the forehead and nose gave it a human air, an altogether grotesque combination. It had hands with long fingers ending in sharp claws but still no thumb. The torso was thin, crooked slightly to make it stay standing. The tail stuck out so it could keep its balance.

Griffin and Raskolnikov were backed into a corner, the invisible man with a chair leveled at the beast. He turned as the others rushed in.

“Took you long enough!”

Raskolnikov was saying something in Russian too fast for Van Helsing to translate. All he could catch was “ax,” before the young man was darting out of the room, narrowly avoiding a swipe from the lion.

“Get back, monster!” Frankenstein was leaping forward, knife poised to drive into the creature’s chest. The lion growled and sank awkwardly down onto four legs in order to leap at its new prey.

“No!” Frankenstein was tackled by a flying Moreau and they landed in a heap on the floor. The vivisectionist struggled to his feet as he held Frankenstein down.

“It’s alright!” he said to his creation, “We can talk about this! Just stand up and come with me. Four legs bad, remember?”

The lion growled, crouching lower, “Do not… want… two legs. Want… kill… you!”

It pounced on Moreau and Frankenstein who screamed in terror as Griffin and Van Helsing both yelled in alarm.

Then the creature fell dead on the floor.

Raskolnikov had managed to bolt past Van Helsing and driven an ax into its head, killing it in an instant. Blood spattered the young Russian’s clothes and dripped onto Moreau’s pants.

The doctor stared in silent horror for a few seconds then shoved his creation off him and staggered to his feet, syringe falling from slack hands. Frankenstein followed suit, still gripping the knife like he was afraid the lion was only faking death.

Griffin set his chair down and stepped forward, “Good job, kid! Another moment and we’d all have been dead!”

Van Helsing released a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, “Yes, fortunate you found that ax in time.”

Raskolnikov didn’t seem to hear them, his gaze fixated on the blood soaking into his pants and socks. He let the ax fall from his grip, where it slowly slid from the gaping wound in the lion’s head and fell to the ground with a thud. Van Helsing frowned as he noticed the Russian had used the back side of the ax instead of the frontal blade. Then he watched as Raskolnikov reeled out of the room and into the hallway, disappearing around the corner.

Griffin shrugged, “Must not like the sight of blood.”

“I didn’t want it dead.” Moreau said quietly, drawing everyone’s attention to him, “If I could only have reached it…”

“Well, you didn’t, though I can’t say I’m not disappointed it didn’t manage to eat you.” Griffin glared, “Now get this carcass out of my room.”

Van Helsing was too tired to get caught up in another argument and trudged back to the stairs. Frankenstein was soon beside him, fingering the kitchen knife.

“You might want to put that back.” Van Helsing pointed out.

The younger man started at his voice, “Oh, yeah, I guess so…”

“It was very brave of you to confront the lion as you did.” Van Helsing added.

Frankenstein’s jaw clenched and his gaze had a far away quality to it, “If only I had before…”

He turned swiftly and disappeared back into his room before Van Helsing could ask what that meant. Sighing, the old man walked slowly back to the ground level.

“It’s safe to come in!” he called.

Gray opened the front door and came inside, the mob apparently having left, “Is it dead?”

“Yes, Rodion Romanovich killed him.”

Gray sighed in relief, “Good! Tell that vivisectionist to cut out those experiments or we’ll all be mauled to death.”

“I’ll encourage him to work on herbivorous specimens instead.”

“Great.” Gray grabbed his coat from the hanger beside the door, “Well, I’ve got a date at the theater. See you!”

The door made a resounding thud as it closed, just as the back door opened and Jekyll and Moriarty peeked inside.

“You said it’s dead?” Jekyll asked.

“Yes.”

The doctor stepped inside, Moriarty right behind him.

“I’m, uh, off to my room then.” Jekyll said. He had a pained look on his face, as if trying to hold something back. Van Helsing gestured for him to head back upstairs, realizing his other half was about to rear his head as a result of all the excitement. The doctor hurried up the stairs as fast as his flimsy legs would allow.

Moriarty nodded to Van Helsing, “I’ll be in the library should you need me.”

“We could have used you when handling the lion.” Van Helsing said a tad testily.

The criminal mastermind quirked an eyebrow, “I am not in the business of slaying brutes, professor. If you need someone to do your dirty work, I suggest you enlist another’s help. Good day.”

He marched off with all the rigid pomp he could muster, which was quite a lot. Van Helsing sighed, knowing, as master of the house, he should probably help Griffin and Moreau with the dead lion. He slowly marched back upstairs.

And I thought battling Dracula would be the most excitement I’d get in my life...

[juleswolverton-hyde]

May 5th: A Conversation with You

Genre: Dialogue

Author’s Note: This dialogue was written in light of yours truly’s mood and mindset lately. The ratio of kudos/likes and reblogs on this blasted platform also does not particularly help. Fortunately, You are always there to talk to.

Masterlist

''Why do you like me? I’m a terrible person who is overly critical, misanthropic, foul-mouthed, perverted, and just a general nobody? Why the fuck do you care?''

''Don’t say that. Yes, you have some views and opinions I don’t agree with, but that doesn’t make me like you less.''

''Why? It should.''

''Because I know what we agree on, what we both enjoy. I might not like coffee, but I like making you one every now and again. Especially when you tell me when it’s good.’

''What a great example.''

''You’re trying to grow as a person, I know that. You try to listen to the multitude of songs I recommend and like, forming an opinion on them as best you can. Try watching the things I like. You’re open-minded about most things though your mind works differently from anyone else’s.''

''In a bad way.''

''No, not bad. Just different. You know things most people don’t, understand literature better than most others. I like how enthusiastic and passionate you get over old poetry and books I’ve never heard of, but I prefer you telling me about them over reading them.’

''It’s silent propaganda to still read them.''

''And I do intend on doing so, though I’ll likely read the works I think I’ll understand best.''

''Wilde and Joyce aren’t for everyone.''

''Yes, but I have you to help me out, don’t I?''

''The Picture of Dorian Gray isn’t that difficult to understand. There are a lot of descriptions, however. Do pay attention to the ones about gardens or Nature in general. They’re important, shows their beauty. That which humankind seems to have forgotten.''

''Can I borrow your copy? If you have it with you, that is.''

''I’ll look for it later. But I expect it back in mint condition. If there is damage, any scratch or bend at all, you’ll never come near my books again.''

''I promise to be careful.''

''Thank you.''

''This will pass, Jay. You’re not really selfish. You’re simply trying your best. I see that. Your friends see that.''

''And still it feels as if I accidentally make everything about me, Chris. Even my relationship with you.''

''You don’t. You really don’t. Those who really know you, know you’re only joking in the tags. Also, you share your stories, don’t you?''

''Which contain blatant self-inserts.''

''Maybe they do, but remember what you tell everyone who wants to write. Write for yourself. And, as you once said yourself, you’re an amalgamation of all the characters you created, have created, and will create.''

''An echo of T.S. Eliot.''

''Is it?''

''Yeah. He said writers are basically a combination of all their characters, which raised the question in my mind whether we’re human at all. I’m nothing but words, transformed over and over. Gone with the fairies like Yeats most of the time.''

''I didn’t know Eliot said that. See? I’m learning from you. And I can assure you you’re more than words. You’re a storyteller, a good one. A damn good one, in fact, who teaches her listeners about what might have been forgotten.''

''Liar.''

''You know you are, but you don’t allow yourself to believe it. As I said, this mood will pass. I’ve seen you happy and it did look good on you. While it does, I know these moods also give you inspiration alongside my presence so I won’t try to forcefully lift you up. Instead, I want to see what you create. Please show me what you made when your melancholy has passed.''

''You don’t have to wait.''

''Hm? How do you mean?''

''This conversation, this talk with my Muse is a story. It might not have a visual environment like most tales, but it does tell a story. Part of our story, in fact. And it’s noted down, engraved somewhere somehow to never forget.''

''Where?''

''Somewhere in the author’s mind, the only platform they will ever truly need and can rely on. And, perhaps, somewhere someone is listening, but as long as we remember, that is all that matters.''

''That’s a beautiful thought. Philosophical in the way only few can be.''

''Chris?''

''Yeah?''

''Thanks. For hearing me out. For sticking by my side. No former Muse has ever unconsciously done what you do to and for me. I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s different this time. Nobody has ever had the power to make me feel this way. It’s strange, but I like it.''

''That’s good to hear because I don’t intend on stopping any time soon. How about a cup of coffee?''

''I’d like that.''

[chaoshomeschooler]

8. Wednesday, Sept. 2nd: How do you take your coffee?

I don’t really drink coffee. Sometimes I get these little iced coffee things - they’re like melted frapachinos.

9. Thursday, Sept. 3rd: How do you take your tea?

Usually black but sometimes with milk. Around the holidays I put eggnog in spice teas.

10. Friday, Sept. 4th: Favorite study snack!

Dried cranberries and 92% dark chocolate. The whole bar has like 2 grams of sugar and it’s pretty bitter but I like the taste

11. Monday, Sept. 7th: Currently reading!

For book club I’m reading Dune. I’m always currently reading The Picture of Dorian Gray (it’s complicated.) For school I should be starting 7 Habits of Highly Effective People but I’ve been too stressed about a test I have in a couple days to start it. I also listen to audiobooks at work because my job is pretty mindless so the next one on the cue for that is Interview with the Vampire.

12. Tuesday, Sept. 8th:  How do you take notes?

For things that have tests I take notes on paper. For book reports I take notes on my computer because that makes them easier to reference. The book report ones actually have to be legible but the test ones I just write so that I pay attention during the lecture/reading and it helps me commit the material to memory. If I want to do review I don’t usually go to my notes - I go to key terms lists or study guides and stuff.

13. Wednesday, Sept. 9th: What is your goal aesthetic?

Oooohhhh I’ve actually been getting closer to having stuff that portrays my goal aesthetic. I don’t really know how to describe it. It’s like dark but soft and selectively nature-y.

14. Thursday, Sept. 10th: Are you a morning person or a night person?

Night person for sure.

15. Friday, Sept. 11th: Day in your life!

Ahhhh this is going to be a lot. Ok so half the week I go to work at 8:00 in the morning. On those days, I wake up, throw on some clothes, grab anything that looks like it might be food, fill up my Large Ass Water Bottle and run out the door. While I’m at work I lie to myself and say that I’ll do school work but I usually don’t. Then I come home and that’s when I do school and stuff.

On the other days I basically do the same thing except the lying to myself that I’ll do work happens in the morning and I get started on stuff later in the day.

16. Monday, Sept. 14th: Song of the day! What are you jamming to?

SO. MANY. JAMS.

Lately I’ve been into Two Door Cinema Club and anything on Frenchie’s playlist from the Boys. And a lot of other stuff.

17. Tuesday, Sept. 15th: What is your study playlist?

It depends. I found this nice indie playlist that I listen to sometimes. Usually I just listen to Reddit videos on youtube tho. I’m so used to the format and voices of the youtubers I listen to that it’s a more effective background noise. Sometimes when I listen to music and study I get too into the songs.

18. Wednesday, Sept. 16th: Study Schedule!

HA. I tried making one this year, then deadlines sprang up on me out of no where and I had to go off the rails. So now I’m stuck catching up on the things I had to ignore at that one point. Right now it’s just 1) study for biology 100% of the time. Then once that test is out of the way it will be 2) study for the SAT 100% of the time and also do a bit of reading for my book report. Once I get caught up I will make a scheduled and stick to it. I definitely learned my lesson when those initial deadlines sprang up on me but I just haven’t been able to catch up yet.

19. Thursday, Sept. 17th: How do you organize your to-do’s?

I frantically make a list on my phone once my anxiety gets so bad that it drives me crazy. I look at the list but then once about half the things are done I forget about it. Repeat.

I really did make a nice planner and planned out my whole month but I haven’t been able to stick to it because of all that catching up I had to do, which left me with more catch up.

20. Friday, Sept. 18th: Do you read motivational books?

No. The only books I voluntarily read usually end up being sci-fi.

21. Monday, Sept. 21st: What do you do for your self care?

Thursday nights I watch the Boys and eat snacks. Sometimes I do my nails.

22. Tuesday, Sept. 22nd: Fall starts today! What is your favorite thing about fall?

EVERYTHING. I freaking love Halloween so either that or the return of the crows to my neighborhood.

23. Wednesday, Sept. 23rd: Unpopular book opinion?

Hmmm. I’ve never read Harry Potter and I never want to.

24. Thursday, Sept. 24th: What do you love about #Studyblr?

I like how it keeps me acountable-ISH. It’s nice to have a place to put thoughts out where they have the potential to be seen.

25. Friday, Sept. 25th: Unpopular #Studyblr opinions?

I don’t really interact with the community or anything and I hardly even keep up with any studyblrs that I follow so I don’t think I have one. I guess I just don’t understand how people make those really fancy notes and stuff without losing a ton of time/efficiency to it.

26. Monday, Sept. 28th: What is your to do list?

Do you mean what’s on it? Or what format is it? I’m too tired to say what’s on it but it’s on my phone for the most part.

27. Tuesday, Sept. 29th: What is your biggest inspiration?

I'm not very inspired. When it comes to the things I write and create I have muses, but an inspiration in general? I’m really just motivated by anxiety and fear and the clock ticking down and fear and anxiety.

28. Wednesday, Sept. 30th: Positive affirmations!  What are yours? Write some!

I don’t tell myself positive affirmations. But when it comes to other people I think it’s important to remember that you are lovely, and you are loved. Even when it doesn’t feel or seem like it. Even if you can’t think of a single person who loves you. Because there actually is someone out there who loves you. You just don’t know them yet. I think it’s important to remember that you don’t have to live up to all the smile-y things that people say. “Everything’s going to be alright” isn’t always true in the short term. But “You’re going to live through this. You’re strong enough to survive.” always is.

[lilyvandersteen]

Out of the Blue: Chapter 5

Cover art: @redheadgleek​

Beta extraordinaire: @hkvoyage​

Author’s Note:

For Halloween, Kurt dresses up as Loki, and Blaine as Gaston. Are you drooling yet? You're welcome!

Chapter 5: Halloween Party

“In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of either. Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going wherever you chose, or procuring anything you had a fancy for?"

(An excerpt from Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen)

Not even five minutes after his tirade, Blaine felt like a crushed cockroach.

Without so much as raising his voice, Kurt had torn apart Blaine’s whole reasoning and proved to him that he’d been completely wrong in attacking the brides.

Blaine had ruined the atmosphere and perhaps the entire wedding by throwing a tantrum like a sleep-deprived toddler.

Well, the sleep deprivation fits… Still, I’m old enough to deal with that issue in a more mature way!

Cooper, bless him, did his best to smooth things over, but Kurt wasn’t having it, addressing Blaine again and defending his choice to plan a wedding for his friends.

A silly romantic, is he? Me too. But now he’ll certainly never give me the time of day. Still. I should apologise.

So apologise Blaine did, but Kurt’s eyes flashed in a way that showed he wasn’t forgiven yet. He would need to grovel.

When Cooper put on the charm again and flirted with Kurt, the both of them whispering conspiratorially and winking, Blaine’s heart sank straight into his shoes.

Yeah, Kurt was out of his league. Totally. He didn’t even make a blip on Kurt’s radar.

But he had something to make up for, so he allowed himself only the briefest wallow in self-pity before he went to help Kurt out with clearing the tables and doing the dishes.

Kurt seemed surprised he would stoop to that, and Blaine cursed himself for his outburst. Now Kurt and his friends would think he was a total snob!

There was nothing to do but try to repair the damage, so Blaine washed dishes diligently, humming Frank Sinatra under his breath as he worked and stealing glances at Kurt whenever he dared.

By the time they were done, Kurt had thawed out a little, and offered Blaine another piece of cake as thanks for his help. Well, he was not going to say no to that!

They moved to the sofa with their plate, Blaine praising the cake to the high heavens, and Kurt smiling at him and offering to share the recipe.

Blaine’s cake was soon gone, and he looked towards Kurt to take his plate, too, and bring it to the kitchen.

But Kurt’s cake wasn’t finished. There was still a piece on his fork, and a bigger piece on his plate, which was teetering off his lap, in danger of falling. And Kurt? Kurt was fast asleep, his head lolling to the side and his expression serene.

Blaine smiled at him, and then carefully took away Kurt’s plate and fork.

Kurt snuffled and turned, his arm flinging over Blaine’s belly and his head landing half on Blaine’s arm and half on his chest.

Blaine froze for a moment, and then stretched out his free arm to put the plates and forks on the coffee table. When that was done, he curled his arm protectively around Kurt, to keep him from falling off the sofa if he turned around again, and then just basked in the moment.

With his mouth half open and a thin line of drool making its way down his chin, Kurt was still no less than stunning. And he didn’t only look good, he also smelled divine. His cologne was woodsy, with a slight hint of something sweet. What was it?

Blaine sniffed surreptitiously. Vanilla. Yes. Probably because Kurt had done the baking for the wedding.

Kurt smacked his lips and slid his head a bit further onto Blaine’s pecs, making a soft purring noise that made Blaine melt.

There was no-one in the loft but them at the moment, so Blaine didn’t feel any qualms about letting Kurt sleep all cuddled up to him. What wouldn’t he give to have a man like this for real… To get to sleep with him tucked into his side, or spooning him…

Blaine must have fallen asleep picturing a life with Kurt by his side, because the next thing he knew, his brother was shaking him awake and telling him that it was time to go.

Still half asleep, Blaine griped at Coop, and then remembered he had to be quiet for Kurt, who was asleep next to him.

Too late… He’d already woken him up with his whining. Well, maybe that was a good thing, seeing as Kurt could now move to his bed.

But apparently, Kurt slept on the sofa whenever Santana had Brittany over. Huh? They didn’t have beds for everyone living here? Oh, they were saving up for it?

Blaine frowned, and before he could stop to think, he’d blurted out that it was silly of the newlyweds to ask for an expensive pet pavilion when they didn’t even have basic necessities like a bed.

Kurt seemed suitably chagrined about that, and explained that the idiotic cat stuff had all been Brittany’s idea. He told Coop to cancel the order. “We’ve been feeling awful about that.”

Blaine’s mouth ran away with him again, and he wondered out loud how the newlyweds had been able to afford the wedding.

Kurt looked murder again, and no wonder. Blaine REALLY shouldn’t have said that.

Still, Kurt explained how they had managed. Basically, he’d worked his ass off to give his friends the wedding of their dreams. No wonder he’d fallen asleep just now. He probably hadn’t slept properly in weeks. Blaine envied the brides that they had such a fierce and loyal friend.

Kurt’s eyes flashed when Blaine gave him nothing but a mute nod in reply to his explanation.

Uh-oh, I’ve messed everything up again. Why couldn’t I have held my tongue?

Cooper came to the rescue again, assuring Kurt that the wedding had been wonderful in every way, that they weren’t to worry about the gifts he’d bought, and that he hoped to see Kurt again soon for another party.

That coaxed a smile out of Kurt, and thawed him enough to shake hands with Blaine as well.

Blaine took the opportunity to apologise again for behaving like an idiot. Kurt’s impassive expression made him slink off with his tail between his legs.

On the way home, Coop berated him for his rudeness. “Seriously, squirt, what was up with you? I could tell you were totally into Kurt, and then you go and say all the wrong things. He’s going to think you’re a total tool!”

Blaine hunched up and mumbled, “I am. And now I’ve ruined my chances with him forever.”

Coop clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey now, don’t be like that. There’s always next time. Kurt promised to invite me again, didn’t he? And I’ll take you as my plus one, and you will pour on that Anderson charm, and he won’t be able to resist you.”

Blaine heaved a sigh that seemed to come straight from his toes.

Did he want to go to another party where Kurt fawned over Coop and paid no attention to him? Yes, he did. Clearly, he loved torturing himself.

K&B

Two months later, Cooper came bounding into the living room yelling, “Guess what?!”

Blaine, who was working for school, was so startled he dropped a book on his toe. “Ow!”

“Guess what, guess what, guess what?”

Cooper danced around the table like a kid who’d eaten too much candy.

“What? You have a hot date and want me out of the house tonight?”

Coop rolled his eyes. “Nope. Try again.”

“You met another celebrity?”

“Nope. Try again.”

Blaine sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Coop, I’ve got no time for this. Just tell me outright, please.”

Coop handed Blaine a card. It showed a black cat lying on a large pumpkin, while three witches were stirring in a kettle nearby. The message read:

“Something wicked this way comes!

Halloween Party at the loft on Friday the 31st of October, starting at 8 p.m.

Dress up like a villain and bring your own booze.”

Blaine frowned at the invitation. What on earth…?

“It’s from Kurt!” Coop beamed. “He invited us to his Halloween party. Awesome, right? You get to see Kurt again! So figure out a good costume, and make sure you’re on your best behavior this time, okay?”

Blaine felt nerves slam into his gut. Yes, he’d be happy to see Kurt again, but would he manage not to make a fool of himself or offend Kurt at this party? Chances of that were slim.

“I was thinking of Dorian Gray.”

Blaine quirked an eyebrow at Cooper.

“For my costume, squirt, keep up! I get to wear fancy old duds and look handsome, and all I have to do is put a tiny portrait of myself in my inside pocket, where I’m looking all ugly and aged up, and show it to people asking who I’m supposed to be.”

Blaine tilted his head to the side. “That’s brilliant, actually.”

Cooper bowed and doffed an imaginary hat. “Thank you, thank you. I have my moments.”

“So what are you going to take to the party?” Blaine asked.

“What do you mean?”

“As a gift to the host.”

Coop grabbed the invitation and perused it. “It says to bring your own booze. I’ll bring a nice bottle of whiskey or something.”

Blaine shook his head. “That’s just a waste of money. Students drink to get drunk. Fast. They’re going to down big glasses of your top shelf whiskey in one go without so much as tasting it. You’d better give them something useful. Remember how Santana doesn’t have a bed or even a decent sofa bed?”

“Huh. Right. But wouldn’t they have saved up for it by now?”

Blaine shrugged. “I doubt it. There are always emergencies eating up your savings.”

Cooper gave him a quizzical look. “Yes… That’s true. I know that from my early days in LA. But how would you know that, Mr. Silver Spoon? You’ve never lacked for anything a day in your life.”

Blaine felt his cheeks heat up. “Um… I might have… done some research?”

Now Cooper’s gaze became even more piercing. “You’ve got it bad!”

Blaine looked down. Yes. That was always his curse. He fell for someone instantly. Head over heels. No looking back. That hadn’t ever worked out well. People took advantage of him, and then threw him out like yesterday’s garbage. Telling him he was too intense. Too clingy. Too much.

Not that Kurt would ever give him the time of day, regardless. Last time, he’d been civil to Blaine only for Cooper’s sake.

Still, Blaine wanted to help somehow. He felt so ashamed of what his reactions had been at the wedding. It’s easy to criticize, yes, but it’s far more commendable to stay positive and make the best of the situation you were dealt. Kurt was quite right about that, and Blaine admired him for his pluck. Among other things.

“So what do you suggest? That we have a sofa bed delivered the day of the party, when they’re busy getting everything ready? Or that we bring two delivery men carrying a sofa when we go to the party?”

Blaine laughed at that last suggestion, shook his head and looked up at Cooper beseechingly. “We could bring the sofa bed a few days in advance maybe?”

Coop grinned. “So that you would get to see Kurt twice? I’m on to you, mister!”

Blaine didn’t deny that was his intent.

“Okay, I’ll call and ask if we can go drop it off somewhere this week. All right?”

“All right. Look, this one has a memory foam mattress, and it looks classy.”

Coop got his credit card, sat down next to Blaine and ordered the sofa bed.

Then he called the RSVP number on the Halloween party invitation.

Kurt must have been waiting to hear from Coop, ‘cause he picked up the phone after only three rings, and seemed happy that Coop and Blaine were coming.

When Cooper told Kurt he’d like to give him a decent sofa bed as a host gift, and could he have it dropped off sometime this week, there was silence on Kurt’s end for a while. Then he said, his voice weirdly strangled, “You don’t need to do this. Really. We didn’t ask you to the party because you’re obscenely rich. We asked you because we enjoy your company.”

Coop grinned. “That’s nice to hear. I’m still giving you the sofa bed, seeing as I already bought it. What would be the best day and time for it to be delivered to the loft?”

Kurt took a while to answer. Then he said, slowly, “Seriously, this is not necessary. All our other friends are just bringing some cheap beer or wine. Or even nothing at all, if I know Puck.”

Coop laughed. “I thought of bringing a nice bottle of whiskey, but Blaine said that I had better give you something useful. Always the practical one, my brother.”

Kurt sighed. “The thing is that I don’t want you spending a lot of money on our behalf!”

“Oh, the sofa bed costs far less than the whiskey I wanted to buy,” Cooper reassured Kurt.

From the new prolonged silence, Blaine inferred that Kurt didn’t find this reassuring in the least.

“So, what day would suit you best?” Cooper pressed.

Kurt laughed. It was short, and didn’t sound amused so much as exasperated. “All right, then. If you insist…”

“I do.”

“Then Wednesday would be the best day. In the afternoon. I don’t have class and my shift at the diner doesn’t start until seven.”

“Wednesday at two p.m. it is. See you then!”

“Um… You’ll… You’ll be there, too?”

Coop grinned. “Of course. I need to make sure they bring you the right stuff, and not something substandard because it’s a delivery to somebody else than me. Got cheated once when I bought my mom a brunch basket for Mother’s Day. Half of the things that were supposed to be in the basket were missing. Thank heavens she took a picture and sent it to me. I fixed that soon enough. Nobody pulls the wool over my eyes!”

“Um… All right then. See you on Wednesday. And… Thank you. This is… Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome. Looking forward to the party. Will there be pumpkin pie? That’s my favourite.”

Kurt laughed again, but this time it sounded happier. “There will be now! I’ll make sure of it. Thanks for the heads-up.”

Cooper rang off with a huge smile on his face. “And he makes pumpkin pie! You better marry that guy, or I will!”

That resulted in a brotherly scuffle, with Blaine telling Coop to “get his own”.

“Just telling you, squirt! Don’t let this one get away!”

“Not planning on it.”

Coop, his hair a mess and his clothes wrinkled now, grinned at Blaine. “You have the ring and the house and the dog and the schools for the children picked out already, don’t you?”

Blaine bit his lip. “Maybe.”

Coop threw his head back and laughed.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Blaine said sourly.

Coop clapped him on the back. “Hey, don’t be like that. I’ll be the best wingman there ever was, I promise.”

Blaine sighed. “I’m sure he wishes YOU would date him. And marry him. The way he fawned over you last time was just…”

“Discouraging?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll talk you up as much as I can. And I’ll mention that I’m a commitment phobe, shall I?”

Blaine poked Coop in the side. “You are NOT. You’ve just had a couple of bad experiences that have made you wary of commitment, that’s all.”

“Aww, you put that so nicely. Instead of saying that I’m an idiot who can’t tell a gold digger from someone who actually likes me for me. Thanks again for helping me dodge that bullet!”

“Anytime.”

K&B

That Wednesday, Blaine knocked at the door of the loft at precisely two p.m. The truck had arrived five minutes earlier, and two burly men had carried the sofa bed upstairs.

Kurt rolled the door open, dressed to the nines in a black sword print shirt with a white vest on top and very tight black jeans.

Blaine smiled at Kurt. “Delivery for Mr. Hummel.”

“Come on in, sir.”

Blaine’s heart sank into his shoes at the formal reply. Clearly, Kurt hadn’t recognized him.

Kurt turned around and gestured to follow him. The ratty sofa they’d napped on at the wedding was gone, and Kurt had cleared the space all around too.

“He doesn’t even remember you from the wedding,” Coop whispered in Blaine’s ear. “That’s bad!”

Blaine rolled his eyes. “I’m aware.”

The delivery men installed the sofa, and then Blaine showed Kurt how to turn it into a bed.

When Kurt thanked him, still overly formal, Coop came up behind Blaine and threw his arm over Blaine’s shoulder. “My little bro knows his stuff, doesn’t he?”

Kurt smiled. “He does. Do you work in the sofa business?”

Blaine looked at Kurt wide-eyed. “Um… No. I’m a student. NYU. Music composition.”

“Oh, me too. A student, that is. I go to NYADA. I want to be on Broadway.”

Blaine grinned. “Let me guess… As the MC for Cabaret? Evan Hansen? Tony from West Side Story?”

Kurt grimaced. “They’d never give me Tony. In high school, I auditioned for that role and I was laughed away. They said I wasn’t manly enough.”

Blaine tilted his head to the side and gave Kurt a slow once-over. “Are they nuts? You look all man to me.”

Kurt’s cheeks coloured, but a small smile showed that he appreciated Blaine’s comment.

“You do,” Coop chimed in. “Look at your cheekbones. And shoulders. Anytime you want to star in an ad of mine, you just say the word and I’ll make it happen.”

Kurt’s smile widened. “Really? Santana’s done lots of commercials, but she’s gorgeous, of course.”

“So are you,” Blaine assured him. “Absolutely stunning.”

Kurt side-eyed him.

Uh-oh. Was that too much? Did I put my foot in it again?

Coop nodded. “You are! Just say the word, and you’re in. I have a jeans campaign coming up you’d be perfect for.”

Kurt went back to beaming, and promised to get in touch with Coop for the campaign.

Coop and Blaine left soon after that, telling Kurt they looked forward to attending the party.

Coop whistled happily as Bill drove them back home, but Blaine didn’t know whether to be sad or elated about his second meeting with Kurt.

Kurt hadn’t recognized him, and had fawned over Cooper again. But on the plus side, he had talked to Blaine. Without any snark or bite. And Blaine would be working on the jeans campaign too, so he’d get to see Kurt again, and hopefully make more of an impression.

Blaine sighed, and resolved to try again on Friday. His costume was all sorted out, and he’d made it as sexy as possible. Operation Charm Kurt Hummel was a-go.

K & B

That Friday night, Coop and Blaine followed the noise again to the loft. The door opened to a colourful chaos. The place was packed with people in all sorts of costumes, and a bass was pounding so loud it gave Blaine an instant headache.

A green witch came to greet them. “Welcome, welcome! As you can see, I’m not Rachel Berry today but Elphaba. *Dramatic sigh* My dream role!”

“I’m sure you’d rock it,” Blaine told her, and she beamed as if he’d just made her day.

“Come! Kurt and Santana are here somewhere, I saw them just now… There! Come with me!”

Rachel tucked Blaine’s and Cooper’s arms under her elbows and tugged them towards her roommates.

“San! Kurt! Look who’s here!”

“I told you, Rach, it’s Malificent today,” Santana drawled, and yes, she wore the horned hat and the cloak with the pointy collar, and very red lipstick. Brittany, on her lap, was dressed as Catwoman, and another pretty girl sitting next to them portrayed Poison Ivy.

“Niiiiice!” said Cooper, giving her a once-over.

Santana rolled her eyes. “Let me guess, now you’re going to ask me what I’m wearing underneath? That’s always the follow-up to ‘Niiice!’ when someone sees my costume.”

Coop threw his head back and laughed. Then he mimed zipping his lips.

Blaine laughed along with his brother, but his chuckle petered out when he took in Kurt. Or should he say Loki? Yep, Kurt was sporting long black locks, a horned helmet and a long Asgardian coat. Its green accents did wonderful things for Kurt’s eyes.

“Who are you supposed to be, anyway?” Santana asked, and Coop got out his Dorian Gray portrait to explain.

She hummed, not very convinced, and then turned to Blaine. “And you are?”

Blaine’s face fell. He’d looked at himself in the mirror before they left and thought his costume was really good and self-explanatory. Wasn’t it?

He looked at Coop uncertainly, and his big brother winked at him and started singing.

“Gosh, it disturbs me to see you, Gaston

Looking so down in the dumps

Every guy here'd love to be you, Gaston

Even when taking your lumps”

Rachel laughed delightedly and clapped her hands, and Kurt cracked a smile too.

Blaine beamed at Coop. Now this, he could work with!

Together, the two brothers hammed it up, and by the time they’d finished, they’d drawn quite the crowd. Someone had turned down the music, and everyone was singing along with the refrain, and applauded enthusiastically at the end.

“I didn’t know we were doing karaoke at this party of yours, Kurt!” Rachel said. “But I’m all in favour! Let me go fetch my pair of microphones, and we can sing. I’m Elphaba tonight, so we MUST sing For Good. We sound so good together in that song!”

And off she was.

Santana rolled her eyes and mumbled something like, “There we go again!”

Then, she turned to Kurt, holding her hand out with the palm up. “Pay up, Hummel. I said less than an hour, and it hasn’t even been half an hour!”

Kurt sighed, fished out his wallet and gave her ten dollars.

Blaine quirked an eyebrow.

“We took bets on how long it would take for Rachel to suggest karaoke,” Kurt explained. “I thought – well, hoped – she’d at least wait an hour. But then you guys started to sing, and, well…”

He gestured towards Rachel, who hurried towards them holding the two bedazzled pink microphones Blaine recognized from the wedding.

“I asked Sam and Elliott to set up the stage!” she beamed, and sure enough, a tall guy dressed like Jafar and another dressed like Jaws from James Bond were putting together a small wooden stage.

Rachel tugged Kurt up from the sofa. “Come on, Kurt!”

K&B

Hearing Kurt sing was a revelation. Blaine was sure his jaw was hanging open unattractively, but really, you couldn’t spring something like that on him and expect him to keep his cool.

Kurt was a countertenor! He had a fabulous range, and he and Rachel sounded wonderful together. Blaine clapped until his hands were raw when the duet was finished.

Rachel beamed and curtsied, and was about to sing another song when a friend of hers took the mic from her with the admonishment, “Now, now, Rach, we said no hogging the mic, remember? Give everyone their turn!”

It was the most fun Blaine had ever had at a party. Fun people, stellar food, and karaoke! With people who actually sounded good!

He kept thinking that until a girl called Sugar went on stage to perform. As soon as she opened her mouth, the whole audience cringed. Good heavens, what a hideous singing voice! And she seemed to actually expect praise after her performance!

“Well, that was a very good impression of a velociraptor,” Cooper said loudly. “You’ve got that screech down pat. Maybe stick to the human register next time, though? Give our ears a break?”

Sugar gave him a disdainful sniff and stalked off.

Blaine rolled his eyes at his brother, but couldn’t help grinning.

“What? You know I’m right!”

“You are, too!” Santana concurred. “Ugh, she sounds awful. And she didn’t even dress up as a villain!”

Blaine quirked an eyebrow. “She didn’t? I took her to be Regina from Mean Girls. She’s dressed all in pink, isn’t she?”

Santana shrugged. “Sure, let’s give her the benefit of the doubt. And let’s keep her off the stage from now on!”

Everyone concurred with that, and made sure to ply Sugar with drinks and conversation. When it was Blaine’s turn to talk with her, he found that she always said exactly what she thought. Which was that Cooper was so way more handsome than Blaine that she wondered whether Blaine was adopted.

“We’re half-brothers, really. Cooper has another mom,” Blaine explained. The twitting of his looks stung. Yes, Cooper was more striking, everyone said so, but Blaine had been called good-looking by many people too, so there.

“Aah, that makes sense. So when are you gonna make your move? You’ve been panting after Hummel for hours now!”

“Um… I’m sorry, what?”

“Kurt! Why are you here with me and not chatting him up?”

Blaine eyed her uncertainly.

Sugar flapped her hands at him. “Go, go, go! Shoo!!”

So Blaine obediently drew closer to Kurt, and offered him a drink.

They’d just struck up a conversation about the remake of A Star Is Born starring Lady Gaga, of whom Kurt seemed a big fan, when the music was shut off and a nervous throat-clearing made everyone look towards the stage.

“Mercedes, could you come here please?” the guy dressed up as Jaws asked, and when she did, he sank down to one knee and proposed to her.

Blaine snuck a look at Kurt, who was smiling and tearing up. His face was open and soft, and though he was clearly happy for his friends, there were other emotions at play too: envy, wistfulness, and a bare-faced longing that took Blaine’s breath away.

“You know, I don’t think I’d have the confidence to propose to someone dressed like a terrifying villain,” Blaine remarked off-hand. “I’d be too afraid to be turned down flat.”

Kurt laughed. “Yep, he looks a fright with those metal teeth. And Mercedes still said yes. And is kissing him. It must be true love.”

Blaine stuck close to Kurt from then on, determined to cheer him up again. He even managed to dance with him, though not as closely as he would have wanted. Kurt laughed at Blaine’s dorky moves, but Blaine was buzzed enough by now not to care.

When Cooper came and told him they were going home because he had a photoshoot the following day, Blaine pouted.

“Oh, don’t you use those puppy eyes on me! We’ve already stayed a few hours longer than I intended to, because I saw you were enjoying yourself. But I really want to get some sleep or I’ll mess up the shoot. So say goodbye to your crush and come along, squirt.”

“Never!” Blaine declared grandly.

“All right, then.”

Blaine grinned at his brother stupidly, thinking he’d won himself some time, but then cringed when Coop hollered, “Bye, everyone! Thanks so much for the invite! We had a great time!”

Amid a chorus of byes and see yous, Coop took Blaine by the arm and led him out of the loft and down the stairs, where the town car was already waiting for them at the curb.

They got in fast, Blaine sighing and looking behind him one last time before he closed the car door.

“Well, squirt? When’s the wedding going to be?”

Blaine rolled his eyes. “Don’t call me squirt, please. And hold your horses. I’m working on it, okay?”

“Okay. Just don’t wait too long, or you won’t be pretty anymore. Think of the wedding pictures.”

Blaine’s eyes glazed over as he pictured it in his mind. Hmm, Kurt in a grey or black tuxedo, with a sleek silver waistcoat and a white flower corsage, coming towards Blaine or waiting at the altar for him with a glowing smile on his face.

“Hey! Earth to Blaine!”

Coop waved a hand in front of his face.

“What?” Blaine snapped.

“A little less daydreaming and some more action, please. I got you another chance to see Kurt by booking him for that jeans campaign next week, but it’s up to you to grab that opportunity and turn it into a success. Make sure you don’t blow it. Be on your best behavior, and charm the guy’s pants off!”

Blaine saluted Coop cockily. “Aye, aye, sir! Might be hard with those tight jeans he’ll be wearing, but I’ll try!”

Coop rolled his eyes at his tipsy brother. Then his expression softened. “Your man throws good parties, doesn’t he?”

Blaine nodded, grinning. “The best.”

[et-in-cinerem-reverteris]

Class of 1953 - Chapter 3 - Hand In Glove (5.3K)

"Phil looks back up at Dan. Despite the storm getting worse, they both remain motionless, looking at each other. Dan’s eyes are fascinatingly deep and dark; moody against the backdrop of a thunderstorm and the billowing leaves of the tree behind him and Phil just wants to shut his eyes and lean in and-"

When Dan bashfully asks Phil to come shopping with him one weekend, Phil takes the opportunity to do a bit of probing on Dan's mysterious exterior. With the help of Oscar Wilde and a nosy lesbian, he finds out a lot more than he had originally set out to.

Read on AO3 ! 

Or down below ;)

Phil looks down at the scrap of paper in his hand.

     11a.m. 19 Nov (saturday!)  

     parks road plane tree  

     opposite big doors!!!  

 He checks his wristwatch for the umpteenth time. 10:55. The blue ink on the crumpled note is smudged and clumsily applied, which is fair, Phil thinks, considering the surface on which the writer placed his pen on that night just over a week ago.

     “Are you seriously so forgetful that you need me to write it down?”    Dan had teased, growing increasingly hysterical under a mask of playful exasperation.      “Okay, fine. Fetch us a pen and I’ll write it down for you.”  

 Dan had asked Phil to turn around so that he could use his back to write on. The pen tickled and made Phil squirm like a child, which made both of them laugh so hard that they were sure they’d disturbed at least a hundred students. Before parting ways, Dan had timidly asked Phil whether he wanted to go out shopping with him the following weekend - but only because he was already going out, of course, and Phil had agreed in an instant  but only because he was also already going out, of course, so he may as well… for convenience’s sake…

 Of course.

 Now, just over a week later, the pair of them are meeting up to hit the town to pick up various bits and bobs before the Christmas crowds get out of control.

 Phil looks around at Keble’s eye-catching red brick facade - a refreshing change from Oxford’s trademark limestone walls. He squints as the sun shines out from behind the plane trees, raising his hand as he does so to shield his sensitive eyes from the glaring light. The different coloured stones are arranged into diamonds, dots and dashes, just like morse code. How curious.

 He checks his wristwatch again. 10:57.

 Punctuality is not normally one of Phil’s virtues, but another unexpectedly early awakening had led him to spontaneously leave the college gates at 10 o’clock to go for an early morning walk. Down Turl Street, left at All Saints Church, past Magdalen College and through to The Grove - a large, grassy park that had become Phil’s location of choice for when he needed to calm his nerves. He had tried to relax by admiring the deer and feeding them acorns, but all of his thoughts anxiously meandered back to the problem of his first out-of-college meeting with Daniel.

 Ever since they had last said goodbye to each other, the young English student had been obsessively mulling over the meaning behind some of Dan’s more ambiguous lines from that night.

     “...in the past people took the mickey out of me for being a “pouf”...”  

 Phil knows exactly what the word “pouf” means. Synonyms include “queer”, “gay” and “homosexual”, which are all terms he might use to describe himself, were he to be so brave. The real question lay in whether or not those derogatory statements had any deeper meaning than just fleeting insults, and this, he had decided, was something he would have to do some investigating on.

 “Hullo!”

 Phil’s daydreaming is cut short by his enigmatic companion striding toward him, and is struck by how smart he looks. Clad in a long, black, double-breasted coat, with a silk scarf tied around his neck in a jaunty knot, and a dark grey fedora, complete with a pheasant’s feather, sitting on top of his chestnut curls, he radiates elegance, class, and sophistication.

 “Daniel! You’re looking very dapper today!”

 “Hmm, well,” Dan starts, looking around with squinted eyes. “I thought I may as well get dressed up for the occasion.” After a second passes, he looks at Phil with a smirk. “So, where are we off to then?”

 “Err, I thought      you    were the one who wanted to go shopping first?”

 Dan raises an eyebrow, before quickly adopting a more neutral face. “Oh, I was going to, but nevermind about that. I um, I’m not anymore.”

 “Right.”

 The pair begin walking in silence down Park Lane, towards Oxford’s central shopping area.

 “Anyway, where      are    we off to?”

 “First of all I’d like to stop by Blackwell’s to collect a book that they’re holding for me.”

 “Okay.”

 “Then I need to see about buying a bicycle.”

 “Oh, we can pop over to Cowley Road for that, Raleigh have a shop there at number three hundred and eighty-seven.”

 “Perfect, that’s that one sorted. After that, I thought we could try a cafe for a spot of lunch. What do you think?”

 “I think that sounds splendid,” he grins.

 Parks Road is fairly long, giving them plenty of time to break the barrier of small talk and ease into a more meaningful conversation, which, on this occasion, has turned to the subject of going home for the holidays. Phil is able to glean that Dan is dreading going back to his family in Wokingham, which a small town just outside of Reading that he hates as it reminds him of the years he spent there at a Catholic boarding school called The Oratory. In Dan’s words, The Oratory was “hell”; full of “dickheads" who picked on him “constantly”, leaving him with a “deep seated anger” which “permanently resides” in him at a constant simmer. At first Phil feels upset to hear that Dan had such an unhappy childhood there, but quickly succumbs to the laughter invoked by the unrelenting stream of side-splitting anecdotes served alongside the tales of his youth.

 As Dan narrates another amusing episode, Phil’s attention slips away from the stories and instead drifts towards the orator himself. Slowly, subtly, Phil starts to realise how charming Dan is, how witty and articulate his words are, how his natural sense of humour and great story-telling abilities could turn a book about drying paint into a Penguin Classic. While Dan laments about how the boys at his school made fun of him, Phil’s gut wrenches with anguish. How can a man so gentle and kind have been tormented by such heartless idiots? How can this poor soul have      forgiven    the beasts who were so mercilessly picking on him? How on earth could bullies take pleasure in beating down a boy who is so mild and agreeable that he likens himself to Winnie the Pooh? He looks on as the beaming boy laughs at his own stories. If Phil hadn’t been crying tears of laughter, he would have been weeping tears of sorrow.

 After turning right at the Bodleian Library, the pair finally reach Broad Street. Blackwell’s Bookshop is easily recognisable by the cobalt blue exterior, guarding an attractive array of books, plays, letters and diaries for students to both ponder and argue over. As the pair step inside, a brass doorbell rings gaily.

 “So, what is it you’re here to pick up then, Mr. English Literature?”

 “It’s a 1890 copy of      The Picture of Dorian Gray    , posted all the way from America. I put in an order through a collector’s magazine and they’ve been holding it here for a few days.”

 “Blimey. How much is that costing you?” Dan asks with a hint of ridicule in his voice.

 Phil sighs as they navigate through the shop, passing by bookshelves that run from floor to ceiling. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

 “Oooh no, I very much do,” he teases. “Go on then, out with it! How much?”

 Phil turns back to face Dan, who can’t resist making a guess.

 “Ten bob?”

 He shakes his head.

 “More? Christ! Twenty bob?”

 “Up.”

 “...Twenty-five?”

 “Down.

 “Twenty-two?”

 The guilty party nods silently.

 “      Twenty-two shillings?    For a musty old book?” The corners of Dan’s mouth turn upwards with a mischievous smirk. “Well, I suppose it      is     Oscar Wilde.”

 “Exactly,” replies Phil curtly as they approach the counter. “Now shush for a moment.”

 Dan rolls his eyes at the shushing, skulking off while Phil hands over an inordinate amount of money for a rare book about 19th century homosexuals. When he has obtained his precious cargo, he finds his companion browsing the shelves of the fiction section. Now, he decides, is a good time for a bit of probing.

 “Do      you    read much?”

 The brunette continues to scan the bookshelves.

 “Not that often unfortunately, but I have a few favourite authors I return to.”

 “Such as…?”

 A moment of silence.

 “Lord Byron, for one.”

 “Good choice! Great poetry, and a fascinating life too.”

 “Mmmm. He definitely got up to some shenanigans on his Grand Tour.”

 With lots of young men, Phil thinks. He decides to probe further.

 “Anybody else?”

 Dan slips him a quizzical look before picking up a random hardback and flicking through it.

 “T. S. Eliot.”

 “Another good choice!”

 “How about you then?” Dan queries, seeming irritated. “Who’s your favourite author?”

 Phil merely holds his recent purchase up to his face, peeping out from behind the cover.

 “Ah,” Dan smiles, and Phil feels the tension melt away. “I suppose I should have guessed.”

 After making their way through the maze of shelves they eventually locate the exit. As Phil walks through the door that Dan kindly holds open for him, he notices the other man take in a deep breath.

 “So, on the subject of our friend Oscar. What do you make of his trial?”

 Phil looks back at Dan with the panicked face of a deer in the headlights. Wilde’s trial, or      trails    , are still a risky topic sixty years later. Although he has a hunch about why Dan is asking about his opinions on Wilde, these are still untested waters. If Phil has read too much into Dan’s favourite authors, placed too much emphasis on the abuse hurled at him by the boys at The Oratory, focused too much on Dan’s meticulous sense of style and theatrical mannerisms and soft hand that felt surprisingly affectionate as it touched his, then this could all be over for him. This could be the start of rumours that destroy his life, exclusion that breaks his heart, and loneliness that turns it cold.

 Phil’s hands are cold.

 He’s starting to wish that a certain pair of palms would offer to warm them up.

 Sod it. He may as well give it a try.

 “I think it’s a crime,” he begins. “I don’t understand how somebody could be so... vindictive. To take a man to court for an act which hurts nobody, affects nobody, and is only the business of those who are involved, is utterly inhuman. Oscar Wilde was one of the greatest literary, classical and philosophical minds that this nation has ever seen, and yet he was put in prison and left to waste for what?! Gross indecency? It’s an outrage. So what if he had written books and poems about…,” he shrugs, “homosexual love? Those writings were works of art. It is stupid, ignorant and close-minded to take issue with it,” he finishes with a huff, having worked himself up a little bit too much. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to rant.”

 As they turn left onto High Street Phil takes a nervous look at Dan, silently praying that he’s not about to be met with an icy stare. Instead his face is glowing, smiling feebly, eyes locked onto his in a state of awe.

 There’s a short silence as they pass various shops.

 “I dare say that I agree.”

 “Hmmm.”

 Silence falls again like a heavy blanket. The atmosphere isn’t uncomfortable, nor is is born out of having nothing left to say. Instead, it is the kind of serene and peaceful quietude that occurs when two individuals unexpectedly reveal a tender and intimate part of themselves, and are left to wordlessly contemplate their newfound solidarity.

 “I’ve grown awfully hungry,” Dan pipes up, breaking the quiet. “I want to show you this adorable little cafe just down the road. Let me take you there, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. It’s ever so quaint.”

 A minute or so later they arrive at a decadent-looking tea room. As they come into the warmth. Phil is immediately taken aback by the marble pillars, chandeliers and wood-panelled ceiling that decorate the large, luxurious venue. A bustling atmosphere is full of students neglecting their work in favour of an early lunch and retired couples sharing overpriced sandwiches. Following a short wait at the front of house, they are taken to a four-man table tucked into a corner with a view of the courtyard outside.

 “Here’s a fact for you - this was the first coffee house in England,” Dan declares as he shucks his jacket and sets his fedora down onto the table. “Just popping to the little boy’s room, I won’t be a moment. Take a look at the menu, choose anything you fancy. It’s on me,” he announces, followed by a wink.

 Phil watches Dan fondly as he snakes through the tables, observing the man’s heavy gait and sloped posture. Quite a juxtaposition between the eloquence of his articulation and gentle face, he decides. But before he can ease into his chair and relish the few minutes he has to process the day’s events thus far, a familiar voice suddenly cries out his name.

 “Philip! Fancy seeing you here old chap.”

 Bursting into view come John and Mary, who promptly set down bags copious bags of shopping on the now over-crowded table.

 “Morning all” Phil beams, pulling out a chair as his friends sit down either side of him and shuffle up ridiculously close. “What brings you to The Grand Cafe this fine morning?”

 John takes off his leather jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair. “We’ve just been out shopping, haven’t we?”

 “Mmm, I can see that,” Phil retorts flatly. “But what for? Anything in particular?”

 Mary opens her handbag to reveal a miniature tawny-coloured box, which she sets down on the wooden table before sliding it over towards Phil.

 “It’s for the wife” Mary proclaims, holding her hands to her face as she smiles. “It’s our one-month anniversary next week, so I thought I may as well treat the old girl with something special.”

 John sighs. “Mary, I’ve already told you that you can’t       have    a       one month anniversary    ! The word comes from the Latin ‘annus’, meaning year, and ‘versus’, meaning ‘return’. Get it wrong      one    more time and I’ll tell the Oxford dons to barr you from ever studying English again!”

 Mary scoffs. “For God’s sake John, you’re starting to sound like your husband!” she jests, rolling her eyes towards Phil as she turns to him for a reaction. Preferring to avoid the conflict, Phil instead takes a look inside the box to see what could be for Mary’s “wife”.

 The hinge of the top lid pops open, and concealed in the white satin lining is a gold ring. Adorned with a sizeable green stone surrounded by a cluster of several smaller, clear gems around the edge, it twinkles attractively under the dazzling lights of the cafe as he turns the bo from side to side. Phil doesn’t know much about gems and jewelry, but he has a feeling that this must have been fairly pricey. And such a pretty ring! But who for?

 “Come on Lester, back me up here. You know how to speak Latin. I know I’m correct, aren’t I?”

 “Uhh, yeah, you’re right,” he stutters, blinking in confusion. He examines the box again. “Who’s this ring for though?”

 Mary and John exchange a look.

 “I-It’s for Beth, obviously,” the black haired woman explains as if Phil were an idiot for not understanding. “What other special woman do I have in my life?”

     Beth? Special woman?  

“Come on Phil! Don’t tell me you had no idea!” she laughs, blushing as she folds her arms and scoots in further still. Phil can feel the embarrassment creep over him. Mary? In a relationship with...Beth?

     “We’re the same, me and you.”  

 Mary’s words from secondary school come flooding back to him. So      that’s    what she meant! But that means she knows that Phil is-

 The ring is quickly snatched away and pocketed by its owner, who has begun to look slightly sheepish.

 “Anyway, enough about this old thing. So, what are you out and about for?”

 “Oh, I’m just er, running some errands with Dan.”

 “Ahhhh, Daniel! How charming. I’m glad you two are finally getting to know one another.” Mary locks her fingers together to use as a chin rest, which, over the years, has come to signify that somebody has suddenly become the object of great interest.

 “W...what do you mean by that?”

 Mary’s head sinks lower as she gives Phil ‘a look’.

 “Darling, Daniel thinks you’re the      bee’s knees    . He hasn’t shut up about you ever since he first caught a glimpse of your pretty little face when we had our first ever lecture together.”

 First ever lecture? But that was back in October.      Dan    , talking about      him    , and for over a month - before they even met?? Phil traces his mind back to the day where he emerged from a lecture hall talking to Mary about how nasal their new professor’s voice was - or was this the professor that kept sneezing? Regardless, Dan probably caught sight of him then. But to have noticed Phil so early on, and only have approached him a few weeks ago? Has he seriously been doting for that long?

 Electric blood courses through Phil’s veins as his brain runs a hundred miles a minute. Dan. Talking about him. To Mary. Secretly. For weeks. Tempting theories flirt with Phil’s brain.

     “...what do you make of Wilde’s trial?”  

     “Not that I’m... stalking you or anything”  

     “... come and sit down here with me…”  

 Phil has never been more bewildered in his entire life, despite everything now making perfect sense.

 Mary and Beth are...together.

 Bill and John are probably also together.

 Mary is a...      homosexual    .

 Mary has known that Phil was also a homosexual ever since they first met.

 Dan and Mary have (somehow) become friends.

 Dan has become...      interested     in him.

 And Mary has known about it all this time.

 He shifts absent-mindedly in his seat, still staring at the floor with a blank expression. Despite these revelations, Phil wishes - he wishes he was even allowed to wish - that everything about Dan was now leading itself to one alluring conclusion, down one inevitable path, but the path is twisted and covered in leaves and bracken, and the      bracken    , Phil remembers to the tune of Du Maurier’s      Rebecca    , “the bracken had entered into an alien marriage with a host of nameless shrubs, poor, bastard things that clung about their roots as though conscious of their spurious origin. A lilac had mated-”

 He begins to imagine Dan and himself as vines interlaced around each other and-

 “Phil? Hello?”

 He stifles a choke.

 “Are you alright? You went very pale, and then very red. I hope you’re not having hot flushes. You’re too early to be going through your menopause.”

 “Menopause?”

 Mary cackles. “Ah, my humour is lost on both you. Anyway, look sharp, Dan’s here.”

 He raises his head to see Dan weaving his way through the tables once again. The sleeves on his white shirt have been rolled up, and his tie is loosened slightly. All Phil can do is sit and stare with his cheeks a shameful shade of scarlet.

 “‘Ello ‘ello ello! What a pleasure to see you here!” he beams at Mary before turning to John. “Hullo there, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Daniel, pleased to make your acquaintance.” As the pair shake hands, Phil melts at the charm of Dan’s genteel formalities. This man, who is so handsome, so well educated, and so polite and witty and well dressed, thinks that he, Philip Michael Lester, is the “bees knees”? He’ll have to ask Mary for details later.

 Lunch is a spectacle and a half. It emerges that Dan’s family is wealthy, very wealthy - more so than Phil’s, he is borderline aristocratic - and he offers to pay for every sandwich, cake, biscuit, every cup of exotic tea and coffee, and later every glass of expensive champagne that the waiters bring out on lavish trays. Dan woos their company with tale after tale, joke after joke, and by the time John checks his watch and reminds Mary that they really should get back to their dormitories before three o’clock, Phil finds himself fixated on Dan, eyes following him as if he were the second coming of Christ. Bills paid, jackets donned, bags arranged and door drunkenly stumbled out of, the quartet part ways as the sunshine dips behind the horizon and the temperature lulls itself back to freezing.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 After arriving at Raleigh on Cowley Road, the two students spend an hour or so wandering around the shop and making up characters for each of the bicycles by imitating their imagined personalities with various voices and poses. By the time they’re threatened with being locked inside as the shop closes for the day, the pair of them have finally decided on a bike for Phil to buy. Or, as it turns out, for Dan to buy for Phil. All £30 worth. The curly-haired boy had insisted, claiming that the Clubman Model 25 was the best bike in the entire shop, and that it would be an early birthday present, and that his parents had given him far too much money to spend over Michaelmas, and besides, he wanted to buy it for him, so that was that. Phil had first coyly protested, then seriously protested, until he let himself be spoiled by this increasingly confusing man who was now offering to pay for his expenses. Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it wasn’t. It was probably the champagne when Dan insisted they both sit on the bike and ride it home together.

 “Dan, this is      not    going to work, I’m telling you.”

 “Oh, don’t be such a bore! Hurry up, get on! It’ll be getting dark soon and it’s too far to walk. You have no choice” he announces, triumphant as he puts Phil’s book inside a leather bag attached to the back of the bike and swings a leg over the navy blue frame.

 “I don’t see how I’m going to fit on here. This isn’t a tandem bicycle.”

 “It’s easy!” he assures with a gratified smile. “My brother and I used to do it all the time when we were young. If you sit down on      this     part of the seat, put your feet on the lower frame      here    , and hold onto      this    bottom part of the handlebars, you’ll be absolutely fine.”

 Remaining dubious, Phil shuffles over to his recent purchase before staring long and hard at it, trying to figure out how to avoid cracking his head open within thirty seconds of liftoff.

 “Stop dilly-dallying you wet rag. Look, do you want some help getting on?” Dan reaches out a hand and touches Phil’s forearm reassuringly, causing his arm to seize up.

 “No! No, I’ll be fine,” comes his embarrassingly sharp reply. Damnit. They’re going to have to sit very close for this to work without them both dying.

 “Okay, how am I supposed to do this again?”

 Dan shuffles back on the seat before patting the front part with his right hand. Trying to suppress his nerves, Phil swings his left leg over the bike and grips the bottom part of the handlebars as told, except perhaps slightly more firmly than need be.

 “Like this?”

 “Yes, except that you’re forgetting the most important part.”

 “What?!” he cries a little too loudly as he starts to get impatient.

 The intimacy of having Dan sit only a few centimetres behind him is starting to have an adverse effect.

 “Bottom on seat! Then we can set off.”

 Phil really has no reason to huff, but agitation makes him. God. If only he weren’t so awkward and obvious.

 “Chocks away!” Dan cries, and suddenly he senses movement behind him as the boy begins to pedal up the pavement and across onto the road.

 “Aagghhh!”

 “Stay calm Philip! You’ll be safe in my hands,” Dan shouts against the howling wind. Hearing those words spoken so closely to his ear is enough for Phil to settle down and keep mum, gazing around at the empty streets that they cycle by. The sky’s blue hues have faded to a cool evening grey, with dark, speckled clouds stretching across it. Breaking the silvery sheet is crisp tangerine strip where the setting sun illuminates the horizon, peppered by bursts of soft, glowing clouds that streak across the skyline. Nostalgia bares its warm hug to him. It feels like the family holidays that Phil used to go on when he was a child, where each day came to a close in the back of the family motorcar, staring out of the window at the spectacular sunsets best observed on winding country lanes over endless fields. He feels at home. He feels safe.

 Out of tiredness, or, dare he admit it, out of relaxation, Phil has subconsciously leaned backwards enough for his spine to be pressed up against Dan’s chest. He’s not sure quite how it happened... but it has. Earlier on in the day he might have leapt forward and apologised. But now? Now he’s too sleepy to react, and anyway, at this point he just can’t bring himself to worry about this sort of thing anymore. Dan’s not complaining, and there’s nobody around to see it happen.

 They cycle past the empty shops and illuminated houses until they pass Magdalene College and reach the High Street again. This time it’s dark, and the Christmas lights decorating the shops have slowly begun to turn on.

 “This is pretty isn’t it?” Dan hums behind him, voice surprisingly low and mellow in contrast to his comparative bellowing at the cafe earlier on.

 “Mmmmm.”

 “I love Christmas - it’s one of my favourite times of year. I love getting festive when December starts, with all the lights and mince pies and scented candles. I do find it stressful shopping for people though. I always feel like I’m going to put my foot in it. And of course there’s the part where everything begins to get horribly fake and commercial, but I don’t particularly want to think about that at the moment if I’m honest. Everything is all too perfect right now.”

 “Mmm.” All too perfect.

 “I’m considering joining the choir this year,” Dan continues. “I haven’t sung in a choir since I was about thirteen. I do miss it occasionally. Ah well. We’ll have to see.”

 The shop displays sparkle as they sail past - newspaper vendors and tea rooms and tuck shops and travel agencies all closing in preparation for Sunday.

 “So you can act      and    sing?”

 Dan’s laugh is short and shaky. “I suppose I can. Luckily there’s no singing in this play that’s coming up though. God,” he exhales, “I don’t even want to think about the damned thing.”

 “Why, has something gone wrong?”

 “No. Well, not really.”

 There’s a brief silence.

 “The problem is is that I’m beginning to get rather stressed about it the whole ordeal. There’s only a couple of weeks left until we’re meant to be performing, but I’ve got a lot of work to complete for Music and rehearsals are starting to take up a lot of my time, and to make matters worse this sodding roommate that I’ve got keeps taking up my side of our study room and I’m not too sure that he really likes me anymore and I just…,” he sighs, “I don’t know. It’s an intense period, to say the least.”

 “Hmmm.”

 Phil turns his attention back towards the shops as they make their way towards his college. As they cruise down the High Street, the faint sound of music begins to waft through the cars and chatter. It gets louder as they cycle onwards, until they come up to a bakery where a small brass band stands outside in the cold, playing a tune that Phil knows well but can’t name. There’s a small crowd gathered outside, and as the song finishes, people cheer.

 “Dan.”

 “Mmm?”

 “If you’re worrying about Christmas shopping, why don’t you come with me? I was planning on going on the first weekend of December. I’m a master at choosing presents for people, so I’m sure I’ll be able to help. And I’d be happy to. I owe you for today.”

 “Oh...than-”

 “And about getting work done for Music - you could always use my room. It’s not very large but it does have a lot of desk space, and I don’t have any pesky roommates that would get on your nerves. Just ask. I won’t say no, I mean, how could I? You’d be very welcome. Tell the porter you’re here to see Phil at room seventeen, staircase nine, and he’ll let you in.”

 The other man doesn’t say a word. As they cycle down the narrow path into Catte Street, across the cobbled square host to the 18th-century Radcliffe Camera and down Brasenose Lane with its high walls, a soft drizzle begins to fall from the gloomy, blackening clouds. Dan clears his throat.

 “Thank you, Phil,” he begins in a low voice. “Seriously. I shall have to take you up on that offer. When can I come over? Would next Friday be okay?”

 “As I said, any time.”

 “Are you sure I wouldn’t be disturbing you?”

 “No, not at all. Dan, I’m offering. I wouldn’t have done so if I didn’t want to.”

 “Okay,” he mutters, finally surrendering.

 Turning onto Turl Street, Dan slows the pace to a halt as Phil disembarks. They walk in silence as they approach the gargantuan entrance to monumentous 14th-century college building.

 “Well, here we are,” Dan announces.

 Phil leans against the cold, carved, limestone walls that slant towards the dark wooden doors. He looks back at Dan, who holds the bike with one large, strong hand. The bike’s angle seems to have cornered him in this small nook, but Phil tries not to think about that. Instead, he looks up at Dan. The boy’s curls are slightly disheveled under his grey fedora, and his coat is covered with a haze of tiny raindrops. A satisfied smirk sits on his lips, and in the low light Phil can see that his dimpled cheeks glow a faint shade of pink.

 “Thank you for today” Dan begins solemnly.

 “It was my pleasure. Plus you paid for most of it anyway!”

 “Hah! I guess did. Well, I suppose I should give this back to you and trot along back to Keble.” There’s a hint of resignation in his voice. “Come on, go inside. You’ll get soaked if you stand out here any longer.”

 The frame is icy as Phil takes hold of it, raindrops spattering onto his wet hands as the downpour becomes stronger. Phil looks back up at Dan. Despite the storm getting worse, they both remain motionless, looking at each other. Dan’s eyes are fascinatingly deep and dark; moody against the backdrop of a thunderstorm and the billowing leaves of the tree behind him. Those eyes study him with equal interest, flitting over his neck and jaw, making Phil want to just shut his eyes and lean in and-

 Dan, as if sensing the tension, closes his lids with a smile and takes two steps back.

 “See you next week, Phil!”

 Turning his shoulders away, he strides around the bike-wall alcove, exiting that little bubble that had just been created.

 “Cheerio!” he cries, saluting as he marches off back to his own college.

 Phil shivvers.

 Ah well. Maybe next week.

[foxchandelier-blog]

Lysandre is actually a really scary villain if you think deeply into the premise of his character.

I’ve done a little bit of research on him already and have analyzed some theories + “evidence” that crosses between the games, the manga, the specials and the anime and, honestly, Lysandre is actually fucking terrifying if we assume his true personality is an amalgamation of all his counterparts.

I mean, for one, he’s really good at manipulating people. You can see this in a lot of ways but the most noticeable one is convincing rich people to buy into his weird-ass genocidal organization. Just thinking about that alone boggles the mind a little because he’s managed to get people to spend millions alone on just getting just a fancy suit and a “promised place in utopia”. 

For two, Lysandre has a lot of control over the Kalos region, more control than anyone should be allowed. Literally let me exist the examples of how much control he has:

1.) Lysandre has control Lysandre Labs - a company that literally doles out all of Kalos’s most advanced technology (a la Pokemon Generations episode 16) - and has made it so that many people likely depend on his services. And, as mentioned in the manga (though I don’t know if this is a games-related factor but I would assume so) Lysandre is a brilliant engineer who’s come up with a lot of this amazing technology, putting him in a place of power through his skills alone.

2.) Lysandre is friends with the Kalos region CHAMPION and REGIONAL PROFESSOR. He literally has them both admiring him and respecting him - a feat usually only reserved for the player character. And yet, all the while, Lysandre is using and abusing Sycamore’s and Diantha’s trust in him to do terrible things. So much so that Sycamore even admits in the games of how he was aware of Lysandre’s wrong-doings but was unable to stop him. 

3.) Lysandre has control over the news media. This is pointed out in the games, in the manga, in the anime, and in the Pokemon Generations anime. And, the consistency is really appreciated because this is fucking scary. Lysandre has the ability to control how people see him through the news outlets. By using Malva - who broadcasts news to most of Kalos’s people - as a biased outlet meant to make him look good, Lysandre can easily spread lies and deceit to get people to respect him. 

4.) I don’t really think this has to be said but Lysandre is very charismatic and a convincing actor. Even if you pinpoint him as the villain early on thanks to his garish design, it’s hard not to notice how everyone is in awe of him or how no one questions his motives. Lysandre is good at being liked, strangely so, and even if you feel an urge to hate him as the player character it’s hard not to notice the way many people in-verse treat him as someone to respect and be inspired from.

For third, let’s discuss the anime. 

The third reason that Lysandre’s so scary is due to his relationship with Alan in the animated version of XY/XYZ/TSME.

Throughout the duration of the show, Lysandre is very much a puppet master moving all his pieces into place. One such puppet is young Alan, a trainer who he’s manipulated and set into place like a toy on a string.

The first time Lysandre meets Alan, it’s actually kind of terrifying to think about. He meets Alan in the midst of ruins, battles him, defeats him, and then coaxes Alan into becoming his minion. Not only that but he uses Alan’s lone role model against him - using Alan’s love for Professor Sycamore to drive him away from the man and into Lysandre’s care only.

Lysandre abuses Alan’s trust in him as an authority figure and makes use of that trust in his favor. He uses Alan as his assistant in his plot, letting Alan think that he is doing good without telling a single lie to the boy. The man uses Alan without remorse, depending on his skills and prowess while also treating him as disposable if he becomes “weak” (as mentioned in TSME episode 4 when Lysandre notes “I don’t need weaklings”).

Furthermore, when Lysandre recognizes Alan’s fondness and guilt over Manon and her Chespin’s condition, he uses that as a tool to get Alan to continue collecting energy. While Alan is hurting over how his actions have caused his closest companions pain, Lysandre weaponizes Alan’s feelings by feeding him tales of “how he can save Chespie” if he just “collects Mega Evolution energy”. 

It’s terrible and it’s downright horrifying. Even as Alan’s obviously breaking down, Lysandre’s first thoughts are not to help the boy but to use Alan’s feelings for his own personal plans. He cares little for how Alan or Manon actually feel and, instead, chooses to use their unfortunate situation in a way that only truly benefits him.

It’s cruel and malicious, selfish and yet cold-hearted. Lysandre’s relationship with Alan is honestly really toxic. He controls Alan, cuts off his closest connections, and weaponizes said connections to put the boy under his control. 

For the fourth reason for why this man is scary it’s because Lysandre thinks he’s in the right and doesn’t think himself wrong. Lysandre’s goals, though seemingly flimsy in design and terrible in the game’s execution, get established in the anime as something almost...sympathetic. In the anime, though it’s only brief, Lysandre explains a little bit of his reasoning for his actions: a reasoning that I will paraphrase here to make sense for the context of his overall character.

His explanation is that he wanted to help people who were suffering, lending them his time, money, and charity in order to help them. At first, he was thanked and appreciated and everyone loved him for it. This was something that Lysandre arguably considered “beautiful”. 

Over time, however, he noticed something changed in the people he helped. They became greedy, wanting more and more of whatever he could provide. He was treated horribly because he could not provide what the people wanted. This, in turn, opened his eyes to the “ugliness” of humanity. He grew bitter, grew spiteful of the people he helped because they saw him as something akin to a tool rather than as a hero. 

This doesn’t explain how he developed genocidal tendencies, of course, but it does give a realistic background story that I can believe and yet somehow sympathize with. Lysandre wanted to help people. But, in doing so, he made them greedy. They wanted more from him, wanted him to do more things for them because of their “rights”, and this greed ultimately makes Lysandre start to snap.

Moving on, I think a lot of the inspiration for Lysandre’s deeply off-the-rockers  and genocidal maniac transformation lies in the real fictional story of “The Picture of Dorian Gray”.

In said story, the main character - Dorian Gray - comes to be inspired by the views of a man known as Lord Henry Wotton. Lord Henry believes fully in beauty as the only thing being worthy of being pursued in life. Taking up this view, Dorian Gray wishes that a painting of himself would age in his place so that he can pursue nothing but beauty and sensual fulfillment.

Taking this (very short hand) explanation of the plot in association to Lysandre, I think there’s a connection here. Dorian Gray, upon becoming smitten with the idea of endless beauty, seeks to keep himself beautiful forever. And Lysandre, who’s views of the world have warped into ugliness, seeks to pursue that beauty, wanting to rid the world of “ugliness” (human greed, “unworthy people”) so that he can keep the "beautiful” all around him (the “chosen ones”).

This ties back into the story’s themes of life and destruction. 

Lysandre seeks life to keep himself and the “chosen ones” beautiful, to keep Kalos looking as pretty as he feels it should. 

But, Lysandre also seeks destruction (or, if you’re like me, death) and wants to rid Kalos of its impurities (people who are “consumed by their greed” and “unchosen” just like members of Team Flare or people who fail to realize what beauty means). 

And, while pursuing the beauty of Kalos, he’s created such a mindset that only HE is in the right. He is the only person who realizes that Kalos is losing its beauty and, therefore, it’s up to him to make the world beautiful.

This is further pronounced in the XY manga. There, the ugliness of humanity is further brought up in the way the Kalos region reacts to tragedies. When a whole town is destroyed and left in shambles, those who did not experience the tragedy “shake it off” and “remain smiling in their day to day lives”. 

There’s a certain kind of ugliness present in this scenario. The people of Kalos who weren’t involved in Vanivelle’s destruction live on happily. They smile and carry on their day-to-day lives while ignoring the suffering of others. This shows humanity’s weakness: humans do not care for things that don’t concern them personally. It’s a gut punch kind of message because it’s honestly kind of true. Until something impacts a person personally, they won’t care for the misery of others and, instead, choose to go about their merry way while another person suffers the consequences of things like poverty, famine, war, etc.

And, in a way, it kind of makes you think Lysandre is right to want to retain beauty and to destroy anything that messes with that ideal. If someone isn’t beautiful - if they’re greedy or selfish or unsympathetic to the pain of others - than you kind of understand why Lysandre would want to get rid of those kinds of people. 

This is what makes Lysandre scary: you can sympathize with and even understand his thought process on a deeper level. He’s a genocidal maniac who’s too obsessed with beauty, yes, but there’s an underlying understanding of why he likely ended up the way that he did.

In conclusion, Lysandre is actually legitimately a terrifying villain and if he was a real person we’d all be really scared of him. He’s charismatic and manipulative and holds a lot of power in his hands. He can influence people and has control over how a lot of people as a result. His obsession with beauty, with correcting the path of humanity for its greed and impurities, not only reeks of real-life historical implications but also of realism too. 

Lysandre’s the kind of villain you would expect to see in real life, someone who, if stripped of his Pokemon-verse significance, would easily exist as a person in the real world. He’s cunning and knows how to take control. Not to mention that he’s rich and the kind of person who could easily hide under the kind facade of charity. Lysandre is a dangerous man, far dangerous than any first glimpse of him might suggest, but he wields power like a sword and has the ability to determine between life and death at a moment’s notice.

[timeandspacelord]

6, 41, and 74 for the ask game! 😈

Thanks for doing the thing!

6. What are you excited for?

Ummm, quite a few things, actually. Endgame, obviously, Shadow and Bone TV show, Good Omens TV show, prom (I’m excited cos I’m making a ballgown), Far From Home, probably other stuff too? It varies from day to day based on where my focus is lol

41. When was the last time you ate a cupcake?

Hmmmm, it’s been a while. I think probably a month or so ago? I honestly don’t know, but I’m always down for cupcakes (caveat being, they have to be good and not the cheap store-bought kind everyone brought in for their birthday in elementary school with the gross over-sweet frosting).

74. What is your favourite book?

Welllllllllllllllllllll :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :)

Currently, I’m reading the Bloody Jack series, which is really good, but also making me yearn for the life that the main character leads as basically a pirate in early 19th century England, France, and America (really, all over), but it’s also one of my favourite series. Obviously, Six of Crows is still one of my big obsessions at the moment, so that one’s on my mind a lot. I also love, love, love, love, love Good Omens because it is exactly my brand of humour and it’s just amazing. Speaking of Neil Gaiman books, all of his books are freaking incredible and I absolutely love them all, especially The Graveyard Book. I really enjoyed Frankenstein, if only because it was really cathartic to hate Victor so much. The Importance of Being Earnest, while not actually a book, was absolutely hilarious and super salty and I highly recommend it. The Picture of Dorian Gray was also pretty funny and really, really salty, for that matter, it was highly enjoyable. One of my all-time favorite books will always be The Girl Who Could Fly because it made me actually cry, like full on meltdown, and it’s also just amazing. The sequel is pretty good too and also made me cry. On the note of books that made me cry, Heartless is pretty freaking good, you know. Also The Lunar Chronicles. I’ve mentioned before that Cress is basically my comfort book for unexplainable reasons, so obviously that holds a special place in my heart. And Renegades was pretty good too, barring the kind of predictable plot twist and also I haven’t read the second book yet, but I’m getting there. And since Renegades previously shared shelf space with Turtles All the Way Down, I have to mention that as a really, really good book that deals with mental illness and was one of the things that pushed me to get help during a really, really bad time in my life, so there’s that. Of course Harry Potter deserves a mention, because they’re good books, even if JK Rowling is absolute garbage. And The Lord of the Rings is one of my all time favourite series because, uh, have you read it? Do you know anything about JRR Tolkien? The man is my personal hero and the bar that I will never live up to. I love him. And I can’t mention good old John Ronald Reuel without his best friend Clive Staples Lewis, and the amazing Chronicles of Narnia. I love those books, man. I used to pretend to be Lucy. And I idolized Susan until I grew up and read the last book. Come on, Susan. The Magnus Chase books were really good too, as were The Kane Chronicles, and honestly, that may say something more about Rick’s writing, since they’re the two trilogies and I love them both a lot. I actually really liked Watership Down, and I should probably reread it, cos it was a super cool story. The Princess Bride was a pretty good book, too, though I’ll always be partial to the movie. I also enjoyed the Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel series, until the last book which was just… what? And blasting back to childhood, and another sort of comfort book, I freaking love The Secret Garden. It makes me feel things, you know? I really enjoyed the Gallagher Girls books too, and Heist Society, and I need to read the other stuff Ally Carter has written, including the crossovers. Some more middle school faves would also include the City of Ember series, though I think I’ll always like the first one best, and the Inkheart books. Man, those were good. Actually, I’m pretty sure Cornelia Funke wrote a lot of good books that I enjoyed immensely.

Was that very, very long and probably barely legible paragraph not what you expected from asking this question? You should really know better by now. And I haven’t even covered all the books I’ve ever been mildly obsessed over, and certainly not at length. >:D