#I wish I could just sneeze and sneeze endlessly so the tickle will go away

[sneezarify]

grass is really grassing and boyyyyy my nose has taken note.

I don’t know how else to describe this eternal itch, but it feels like my nose swollen and full of powdery pollen. I can feel it, coursing through my sinuses from the tip right to the top of my nose where my eyes meet the bridge.

I’m on an endless cycle… a constant barrage of fluttery tickles that build and build to an intense itchiness you just can’t ignore. It causes my nostrils to twitch dance and jig on my face as I hitch and itch until finally maybe I’ll sneeze… or just as likely, I’ll false start.

One things is for sure, there is nothing like that all consuming allergy itch, where you face is buzzing with tickling irritation to bring on some wickedly harsh sneezes.

I love the English countryside, but it does not like me.

[testingtwns]

Another stuck sneeze story, roughly 3k words, which takes place in the mid-1700s and in Russia. More information under the cut!

This is a fanfic based on an anime called Le ChevaIier D’Eon. The show is known by few and watched by fewer, so there may be a small handful of you who will know who I am based solely on the fact that I like this series. And, yes, the character that sneezes in this story is Maximilien Robespierre, though his anime counterpart is pretty different from who he was as an actual person. Here’s what Robespierre looks like in the anime. And here’s Lorenzia, the other character who appears in the story (and was maybe also a real person?). Even though I’ve made it obvious, I’ll just say again that this story is very much about their fictional representatives and not the actual historical figures.

Enjoy!

Lorenzia felt she understood the ways of men better than those of women. That knowledge was inevitable when you were a whore. Her body was her tool, it always had been, even before she’d christened herself in poetry and let spellwords snake across her skin. And in retrospect, the lessons men taught her hadn’t been difficult to learn. The men she’d known were pigs, running on instinct and instant gratification. A virgin soldier and his stoic captain were different in their expectations of pleasure, but the end result was always the same.

Lorenzia thought herself streetwise, but she knew now that her education in darkness was just beginning. The brothels and alleyways where sin festered were humorous, predictable—petty. The world of the rich had black secrets all its own. That was where the strings were pulled and real power dwelled. These powerful men were the ones she took lessons from now.

Maximilien Robespierre was such a man. He was a revolutionary. Lorenzia didn’t fully understand what circumstances had brought him in opposition of the monarchy, for he would not tell her. Robespierre’s motives didn’t pique her so much as his disposition, though. He was one of those rare types Lorenzia found endlessly intriguing: the type who would not bare his underbelly, figurative or literal, for a moment of ecstasy. Lorenzia had kissed so many loose lips, she wondered if the clamped ones had a different taste, a motley of secrets tucked under their tongues. Robespierre was not interested in letting her try.

Even now, as she observed him at the desk from her place on the bed, her lean body sprawled like a lazy cat’s, utterly coquettish, he continued to quill a letter without any glance in her direction. Robespierre hadn’t spared her a word since Cagliostro left the inn to buy more vodka. Lorenzia smirked with a quiet snort. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do; when in Russia, drink as the Russians do,” was Cagliostro’s parting word. Another curiosity, that man— not weak to her breasts either, though perhaps it was because he’d seen them often. But at least Cagliostro had weaknesses, could declare himself mortal. Maximilien Robespierre’s countenance was almost otherworldly.

So, as Lorenzia had been so often studied by men, she studied him from her sideways stretch across the mattress. The book was next to him, as it always was. She narrowed her eyes at it. That tired brown tome had rejected her, and she was still offended. Only Maximilien could open it. When she tried, it had remained as tightly shut as if the pages were glued together. Cagliostro couldn’t even lift it. The book was full of Poet’s knowledge, no doubt. Such strong magic she had never witnessed before. It was just another secret swarming around a secret man.

Outside, the champagne-colored sky of a Russian dusk sent most travelers indoors, to inns and bars alike. The quill scratching across the parchment was the only noise that filled the chamber. Lorenzia felt hypnotized by it, lost in the lull of its gentle scraping… at least until it suddenly stopped. Maximilien paused, shifted in his chair. He sniffed, put his quill down, and dove the hand inside his jacket. Lorenzia felt her curiosity perking like a hound’s ears at gunfire. What was he looking for? He found it fast. His back was to her, but from her angle there was enough of his face visible to see it tilted back before the handkerchief he offered. A sneeze? It seemed the case, though seconds passed and there was no such announcement.

“Something the matter?” she drawled, voice honeyed with drowsiness.

Her words set him into motion once more. Robespierre brought the handkerchief to his nose and blew politely enough for the company of a lady before tucking it away again. “Nothing.”

“What are you writing?” Now that the silence was broken, she felt she could prod him further.

“It isn’t a concern.”

“Then there should be no harm in telling me,” Lorenzia mused.

“No harm, and no purpose.” Maximilien had resumed the letter now. His script, neat and even, matched his tone all too well.

Lorenzia propped herself up a bit. Her virgin white sleeve slipped farther down her forearm. “Shall I look over your shoulder, then, and spare you the effort of conversation?”

His eyes were to the paper, not on her pale arms, but her words did the trick. “It is for Bestuzhev. Addressing his concerns about Pyotr.”

“Of which he must have a thousand,” Lorenzia chuckled lightly.

“He must let go of those concerns if he is to see his plot through.” Maximilien paused his hand again. Kept writing. “It is Bestuzhev’s love for his country that keeps him from overtaking it.”

Lorenzia felt an excited stirring in her stomach. What a different world this was, to be in the presence of those who spoke of destroying the crown so casually. Cagliostro was right: they’d shed their comedy of a life for a tragedy, and it was every ounce more interesting. “But, do we not all have some love for our mother country?”

“Not all. Hh-!” His answer ended with a sharp intake of breath that made his spine straighten with the jolt of his shoulders. Lorenzia leaned up on her elbows to watch as he ducked his hand back into the recesses of his jacket to claim that handkerchief again and thrust it out before his face. He gasped once more, just barely a sound from parted lips. He was sure to sneeze. Lorenzia waited.

He didn’t sneeze. Maximilien relaxed and gave the smallest sigh as he tucked the cloth away.

“What is that all about?” Lorenzia draped her legs over the edge of the bed, letting her skirts fall where they may. “Why don’t you sneeze? You have to, don’t you?”

“Hmm.” Maximilien busied himself with the letter again. “I suppose I mustn’t if it doesn’t happen.”

His usually calm voice held just the slightest hint of frustration. Lorenzia was fixated. His composure was like a curl of paper peeling off its wall to reveal the whitewash beneath. If she decided to tug at that curl, how much more would she expose?

“Your nose is causing you trouble,” she pried.

Maximilien sniffed. “As are you.”

Lorenzia laughed, coy. “I am as bad as a sneeze that won’t come? You compare an ally to an enemy.”

An enemy it proved, as the phantom sneeze struck again and made him beg for it with a wavering, “Hhh...” He wrenched out the handkerchief with such urgency that Lorenzia thought his battle won. He hovered before his hand, his mouth marginally agape and wanting, but before long his shoulders dropped as his breath huffed out. Not to be. Robespierre was the sort to keep his composure intact, but Lorenzia fancied she could see his eyebrows lowering with each failed attempt.

She smiled to herself. Before her no longer was a being without exploit. Lorenzia was quite familiar with men who couldn’t reach relief on their own.

She stood up from the bed and padded over to him, doe-like, serpentine, not trying for alluring so much as masterful. Robespierre eyed her watchfully and stiffened. What obstinacy! Rarely did Lorenzia face such an iron shield. The challenge of lowering his guard enticed her.

Robespierre resisted by organizing the parchment before him, tapping the papers together in his hands. He coughed low in his throat. “Perhaps a bit of fresh air will cure this.”

“Will it? The window is open. Here.” Lorenzia reached to the desk to take up the quill. It was a goose feather, a tawny gray, the follicles lying in a tame diagonal. “I imagine this would cause a sneeze much faster than ‘fresh air.’”

Robespierre showed his immediate opposition with a furrowed brow, and then stood, taller by a good seven inches. “If I’m lucky, fresh air will cause it. If I’m luckier still, fresh air will drive it away. Pardon.”

Lorenzia gripped his arm before he left – the most brash she’d ever been with him, but she knew her voice alone wouldn’t keep him there. “Come now. Your not-quite-sneeze is curing my boredom... And it’s not polite to leave a lady alone. Would you abandon me and not even hesitate?”

At that final sentence, his usually composed features stirred towards despondence, which then dissolved into slow anticipation as said “not-quite-sneeze” returned to bother him further. The arm Lorenzia wasn’t grappling struggled to pull the handkerchief free and, once successful, covered his face with it…

His long-lashed eyes, dolphin gray, dauphin gray, held a sheen from the tickle in his nose, a sheen that reflected all nearby light from the candles and the window. In those sparkling eyes, Lorenzia suddenly imagined that there had, once upon a time, been a man who lived in the sounds of women’s laughter and the dull colliding of wooden steins and a song from the throat of a soldier. Who mourned the loss of that man? Did anyone? Did Robespierre?

It was too much. At last the tickle proved strong enough to become a sneeze, and Robespierre collapsed into his handkerchief with a sharp, single, “Ch’schuh!”

Lorenzia felt his body tremble with it up through her arm. “À tes souhaits, monsieur!” she simpered, pressing the inside of her elbow to his. “Though I do believe your wish just came true, yes?”

“… Sch’iuu!” A second tagged just after the first, muffled into the handkerchief again. He squinted his lids, as if he were trying to look at something close to his face. Was it a third sneeze on the way? Yes, it was – the handkerchief pressed beneath his nose, and the air came fast, frantic, into his lungs, lifting his diaphragm up, up–

And then dropping it in a sudden huff of breath.

And lifting it again–!

And… nothing.

Robespierre’s posture was a struggling against the hesitant third, somehow the most stubborn, of the sneezes, and Lorenzia saw her chance. She reached behind him to his quill on the desk, holding it delicately between forefinger and thumb. He didn’t stop her when she moved in towards him, mere inches away; he was too preoccupied with his closed eyes and fluttering breaths. Under normal circumstances, he would not let her, or anyone, this close to him. Lorenzia opened her mouth in a small smile, charmed by his distraction, his neediness, as she brought the feather to his face.

At the slightest touch, he pulled away. She pursued. He pulled away again, stumbling backwards to his chair and trying to turn to the desk, but Lorenzia caught him by his chin and turned him towards her instead. She felt his resistance to her soft fingers, wondered suddenly, briefly, if a woman had broken his heart, that her touch wasn’t an unusual sensation to him but in fact something all too familiar. That, like her spells, Robespierre’s skin was blanketed in memories and to touch him was to reopen a hundred invisible wounds.

But Lorenzia had never been the type of woman to hold back.

The introduction of the feather to the inside of his nose was met with a blustering snort. The next attempt was not much better. She imagined the feeling was very foreign and unpleasant, and Robespierre swatted her off when she tried again. He glared at her with watery eyes.

“Enough of that,” he growled. “You are only making it worse.”

 “That’s what your problem is,” Lorenzia said, bringing the feather under his chin. “It’s a sneeze. It has to get worse before it can get better.”

Robespierre went very quiet at that, but kept his jaw raised, not yet giving in to her argument. Lorenzia waved the feather against his right ear temptingly. He didn’t respond to it. He stared, not happy but not angry, as if he were looking right through her. Eventually, he closed his eyes. It was not her actions that seemed to undo Robespierre; it was more as though he had reached some decision with himself. The angle of his head sort of relaxed, then, as if letting her know she had permission to try again.

Lorenzia put on another slow smile. Even though she had ‘won,’ it had not been an easy victory, and she delighted in that notion.

This time Robespierre let the feather go deeper into his nose, as if to prove his acceptance. It still wasn’t long before he had to snort against it, but it was tucked in too deep to be forced out this time. Pleased by this, Lorenzia began to stir the feather around with tantalizing slowness. Robespierre’s response was subtle but immediate. He took in a few gasping breaths, so thin and light like whispers. His arms were folded, and his fingers twitched and tightened on their opposite elbow. When Lorenzia began to reverse the spinning of the quill, he clenched his teeth, grimaced, and opened his eyes to slits.

“I would prefer it if you didn’t take your time,” he rasped.

Lorenzia’s smile became more prim. “I’m not trying to take my time. Is it working then?” She trembled the feather as she swirled it and watched to see his response.

Robespierre shifted his posture uncomfortably. His upper lip twitched and his eyes narrowed. The feather wasn’t moving things along as quickly as he would have liked, she could tell, and before his patience could wear off and he’d say  “Never mind,” Lorenzia tried fervidly to make him sneeze. The feather spun faster, twitched more. It was bothering him, she could tell, but it wasn’t bothering him enough.

As his eyebrows began to knit and Robespierre opened his mouth, as if to protest, Lorenzia touched the feather to the back of his nose and gave it the tiniest of tremors. It was the last thing she could think of. Would it work?

Robespierre’s eyes widened, then clenched. “Hhh…”

Lorenzia kept at it. Robespierre sniffed, fluttery. “H-hh… Hh-huh…”

His gasps were getting deeper, sounding fuller in his chest than the light breaths from before. Proud of her success, Lorenzia continued this subtle gesture, and soon Robespierre’s head was tipping back, responding to the tiny stimulus much more urgently than the twisting. He couldn’t stand it, not for another instant. And with the feather tucked as far in as it would yield, and trembling like a leaf in a summer breeze, Lorenzia watched the stoic, steadfast Maximilien Robespierre lose control.

“—SHH’IUUU!”

He sneezed. It was a sneeze as stubborn as he was, and he’d barely had the resolve to brush Lorenzia’s hand to the side before it came free. The quill had fallen to the floor when he’d done it. His recovery seemed immediate; other than his still-pink nose, one might have guessed he hadn’t sneezed at all, if they hadn’t seen it happen. But though his face was placid, it was not the end. Robespierre turned fully to the desk, whisking out his handkerchief, and sneezing into it three more times. “… Sh’iuuu! Huh-shhoo! —shhh!” Then he blew, roughly, politely, a last time, and sighed like someone who was tired.

“À tes souhaits,” Lorenzia purred again. She picked up the feather from its place on the floor and pointed at him with its soft tip. “Well? Did that do the trick then?”

She had been hoping Robespierre would be embarrassed by the ordeal, or maybe even a little relieved and thankful—anything other than his usual despondence. But his eyes were foggy and distant as he tucked his handkerchief away, and he was quiet for a moment.

“Well?” Lorenzia smirked, though she was feeling a little put-off. “Not even a thank you?”

Robespierre did look at her then. If he were smiling, it was so small as to be scarcely perceptible. She could have been imagining it. “I was under the impression that that was an exchange, not a favor.” His voice was as rehearsed as ever. “You’ve cured my ailment, and I’ve cured yours.”

Lorenzia blinked, eyebrows joining in puzzlement. “My ailment?”

Robespierre took the quill not forcefully from her fingers. “Your boredom.”

With that, he set back to his letter with the very culprit that had caused his sneeze.

Lorenzia watched him. The feather was only a bit disheveled by its ordeal. The man who held it was in equal poise. Somehow, she felt she knew Maximilien Robespierre even less than she had before.

After another ponderous moment, Lorenzia trailed back to the bed and curled up on it, a lounging jungle cat once more. Outside, the roof of the pale sky was dappled with tiny stars. She heard Cagliostro coming up the road, shouting something merry to a passerby in a voice that said he’d already gotten started on that vodka. Soon he’d be upstairs, a bottle in each hand, and the din of the room would surely be broken until he fell into a drunken sleep.

“Lorenzia.”

Robespierre’s voice was somehow quiet and powerful at once. It cut through the air just as well as Cagliostro’s booming laughter.

Lorenzia sat up, playing her fingers through her thick hair. “Mm?”

“There’s no need to tell Cagliostro about what transpired while he was away.”

Lorenzia’s mouth opened just a bit in surprise. Then she smiled. “And… if I did tell him?”

Robespierre’s hand had not stopped writing while he spoke. “I should not feel the need to stay company with someone who I cannot trust, nor should I feel inclined to protect their secrets… or, perhaps, alleviate their boredom.”

Without any wind blowing through the window, Lorenzia felt herself shiver. She was not sure if she could love men anymore, but this particular man knew how to keep her interest.

She bowed her head to him as if he were a king. “Well… we certainly can’t have that, now, can we?”

[whatmack]

Okay um... ma’am? Sir? You can’t just leave me hanging like that? Does Neil run into someone else? How do the other foxes respond? DO THEY FIGURE T OUT? Does he show Matt his scars? I have questions

Anonymous said: Where does Neil run after the iron incident? How is he dealing with it? What will Matt do once he registers what happened?? How does it end?? Omg please make it okay again 😭🧡

Imma be real with you prez I really really wanted to continue this and I’m not exactly sure what came out of me but uh…..have some Best Girl Renee talking about her past

She found Neil under the bleachers of the court. She’d had afeeling he’d be somewhere in the vicinity of Exy.“Neil? Can I come in?”No answer. Renee knew he was there, and ignoring her. She could see him. Nothis body, but the evidence of his passing; the lazy, lingering sway of a wirebrushed on his way past, scuffmarks in the fuzzy carpet of dust. (She had been a tracker, once. A good one. Bloodhound.)(Red on her muzzle and she’d thought herself God.)(She disgusted herself.)

“Neil?” And then, carefully: “Nathaniel?”

That got a quick, choking huff, a paroxysm of laughter. Renee held her breathand ducked down to crawl towards him, the dimpling of the concrete scraping herknees. A cobweb broke across her face and made her sneeze. When she opened hereyes she met the glitter of blue.“Left that one behind, haven’t you heard?” His voice cracked, wrong. Reneepretended she hadn’t heard it. “Matt called me,” she said, moving closer by inches, until she found the placeNeil flinched back from and stopped. The dust tickled her throat. She wishedshe had a bottle of water. “He’s worried.”Neil fidgeted with the cuffs of his arm bands. “I’m fine. Tell him—tell himthat.”“Even if I did, I won’t lie to Andrew,” Renee said as gently as she could. Neil’sfingers clenched. He hid them under black cotton.“Go away and let him come for me, then. You’re keeping him out.”“Yes,” said Renee. There was no point in subterfuge. “I got here before he did,by a few moments. I asked if I could come speak to you.”“Why?”It was a fair question. Renee pushed herself back on her heels to give herselftime to work out her phrasing. The others thought of her as endlesslysympathetic, brimming with altruism and forgiveness; she was not always good,and—sometimes—did not remind them otherwise. The truth was she did not everknow if the words she offered were the right ones. This team—they were sodesperate for anything, that in her more despairing moments Renee wondered howill they would think of her, when they left Palmetto and learned of honest kindness.How sharply they would turn on her.“I think I understand part of what happened in a way that he—both of them—don’t,”Renee said at last. It was an echo of the explanation she had given Andrew,minutes and eons before. “I think I can help. If you would like me to.”Neil curled in tighter around himself, resting his cheek on his folded knees.Renee gave him time to think, scooting up against a metal support and crossingher legs. She saw Neil watching the catch and drag of her skirt across the filthyfloor, saw the confusion flicker across his expression. She breathed in throughher nose to forestall a sigh. The others always seemed shocked, when she letherself get dirty, or disorderly. As if she didn’t spend her time on the Courtwith the rest of them.

(She’d picked these clothes, years ago, because theywere what good girls wore; the antithesis of what she had worn before. Whom shewas trying not to be. She did not regret them, but she wished that she were notconstantly read, delicate, handle with Edwardian propriety. )(She was a girl. She was not a lady.)(She wondered if she would look okay in overalls.)“Do you mind if I ask questions?”“I won’t answer,” Neil said into his Fox-orange sweatpants. Renee nodded,because that’s what she’d seen therapists do on television (she was such asham), and smoothed down a fraying thread on her hem.(Overalls and one of those big jackets, with all the pockets, like Wymack worewhen he was going to the store.)Once she had offered Andrew a handful of truths, and in return had gotten afriend. She could not offer the same ones to Neil, and would not; they wouldn’tfit. But there were others.(On the phone Matt had been terrified. She prayed that his faith in her had notbeen misplaced.)“It’s difficult for me when I see butterflies,” she said.Neil made a rude noise with his tongue and teeth. “How is that relevant here?”She knew he didn’t trust her. He was right not to. She hoped he at least wasbeginning to believe she was trying to be better, and meant him no harm. “Marcus,” she said, making her tone thoughtful, as if Neil hadn’t interrupted. “Inever knew his last name. I’m not sure he did, either. He had traps set up inhis room, in the hall, in the bathroom. Rotten fruit and netting. The smell ofit was horrible—musty and sticky, and it would stay in your nose for hours.”Neil shifted, dropping one of his knees to the side to tuck one dirty sneakerunderneath the other. Despite himself, he was listening. “He liked to take them apart. The butterflies. He’d ask me what he should startwith—the left wing, or the right wing, or the antennae, or the back legs….onceI told him to start with the head, but that would make it over too quickly, yousee.”She had to push down the upwelling of anger, then, hot and edged all aroundwith panic. “I agreed. Marcus was higher up than me. He’d been around longer. People listened to him. When he was there, I liked watching the butterflies struggle, too.They were so…” she flicked her fingers outward. “Pretty.”The silence was complete enough to hear Neil swallow.“You can go to Andrew, or Matt, if you want.” Renee said. She looked again intoNeil’s eyes; made him look back at her. “I won’t stop you.”He said, “I,”He said, “It wasn’t,”He wet his lips. Another strike against the absent water bottle.“All I wanted,” Neil said, “was for him to look at me.”He did not say who, but Renee had a good enough guess. Neil showed his baretorso around the team now, to distract from younger ruined skin; withoutpretense he was already better than Renee would ever be. (She was trying.)“And he did,” Renee said.“He did,” Neil confirmed. He cupped a hand over his shoulder. Tilted his headback. It hit corroded metal with a dull thunk that reverberated, creakingsomething far above. “Do you still want to pick the wings off of butterflies?”She clenched her hands to keep them from shaking. “It doesn’t matter, because Iwouldn’t, now.”(She didn’t know if she wanted to or not. She was afraid to check. Cowardice.)“Yeah,” Neil said. A shaft of fluorescent light through the metal hingesilluminated his face, tipped up as it was. He had not been crying. Reneeunderstood in the deep way that hurt, pricking into the soft flesh of herorgans.She did not know how long they sat there, facing each other at angles, Neil’s untiedshoelaces and Renee’s dangling thread. Eventually Neil pushed himself forwardand stood. “I’m going to see Andrew,” he said. “And—say something to Matt.” I don’tknow what, he didn’t say. He didn’t have to.“Thank you for letting me talk to you,” said Renee. He tucked his chin into the neck of his sweatshirt. “Are you, what, staying?Here?”Yes, Renee thought. I will become dust like my mothers, and my mother’smothers, and finally, finally I will be able to rest.(I do not deserve that I do not–)“I’ll follow in a moment,” she said.Neil was safe under Andrew’s hand on the back of his neck when she emerged,having a whispered conversation with Matt. Renee smiled at the three of themand made her excuses, sidestepping Matt’s obvious gratitude. Andrew’s eyes heldsomething similar, and Renee shook her head; there was no welcoming place inher for such a thing, right now. Andrew’s mouth pursed, angry, or unhappy, but helet her go.

Neil messaged her, once, in the indistinct, dough-soft momentsbefore she fell asleep. In the morning she opened it. It was a link to an article about butterflies. 

[inthegroundontime]

Title: The Garden Rules | [inspo] Rating: K Summary: A game of hide-and-seek amongst the headstones starts a life-long conversation between two boys. 

The game of hide-and-seek in the sun-dappled graveyard began mid-way through the Carlton funeral. Though the Trevor family had brought their other children, only Victor played with the Funn twins this afternoon. Only Victor dared to break with the propriety his family demanded of their children. Rudyard, as he elucidated the rules for the hundredth time, loved Victor for it. Most people wouldn’t think that playing a game of hide-and-seek was a brave thing to do, but Rudyard sometimes thought he’d never met a braver person than Victor. 

“ - And remember,” Rudyard continued, “Absolutely no peeking. If you’re caught cheating, you will automatically be disqualified and any points you have earned will be evenly distributed among the remaining players.”

“There aren’t points in hide-and-seek!” Antigone, his sister, protested with a sniffle. Her allergies made her terrible at hide-and-seek. If ever she tried to hide in the bushes or a tree, she would have the worst sneezing fit and be found easily. “Honestly, Rudyard-!” 

“There are points!” he protested. “For every person you find, you get a point. Two points if you find them within the first ten minutes-”

“Christ,” Antigone said. “Victor, please explain to my brother that there aren’t points to hide-and-seek-!”

Victor was silent for a long time. For all that Rudyard admired Victor’s bravery, Victor admired the determination in Rudyard’s dark, glittering eyes and the confidence with which he spoke. If he said there was a points system in hide-and-seek, Victor just might believe it, even if it was to earn a rare smile from the other boy. He made a soft, noncommital noise.

“Not… traditionally,” Victor said. “But it adds something to the game - a goal to strive for.” 

“Yes, exactly!” Rudyard clapped his hands together. “That’s two-to-one. You’ve been out-voted, Antigone!” 

Antigone mumbled irritated swears under her breath - or at least the boys thought they must have been swears. They didn’t care to ask. Instead, Rudyard announced that he would count first and he shut his eyes, faced the wall of the mausoleum and began to count to one hundred. His voice rang out across the cemetery as Victor and Antigone scattered across the verdant lawn, ducking behind headstones. Victor settled along the edge of the cemetery, where wildflowers and brush encroached upon the manicured lawn. He lay very still, feeling the thudding of his heart knock against his suit. He lay on his belly, chest to the ground and blue eyes searching the cemetery for his friends. Antigone had all-but disappeared and Victor thought it would take Rudyard much longer than ten minutes to find her. He hoped Rudyard would find him quickly and they could look for her together. He didn’t mind if it garnered Rudyard an extra point and forced him to be the next seeker. It was a lovely day and he wanted to spend it with his best friend. Not even the death of a cousin could spoil the afternoon. He listened and from where he crouched, Victor could hear a few birds singing in the ancient willow tree, punctuating Rudyard’s sharp counting with sweet song. Above him, the blue sky stretched endlessly. 

Meanwhile, Rudyard counted. Eyes shut, he saw none of the wonders of the cemetery, but he knew it well. This was his domain in the same way the more popular kids claimed the playground or the football pitch as theirs. The only son of the island’s only funeral director, Rudyard knew where each denizen of Piffling Vale was buried, the square footage of each family plot. He knew which hills were the highest and provided the best views of the cemetery - whether it was of the lake that no one else seemed to notice, the spire of the church, the direct view of the village square (and thus, his home at the center of it all) or just where his sister and best friend had hidden. He didn’t need to look to see it in his mind’s eye. He wondered where Victor had hidden. Antigone was so good at hiding that she often won the game, which was why Rudyard had implemented a points system for the seekers. As he called out the numbers, Rudyard listened for movement, but only heard the song of a lark in the distance. He tried to decipher it but found it unuseful to his purpose. 

“-98, 99, 100!”

He set off in search of Victor and Antigone, wandering between headstones, careful not to step on any bodies - the disrespect of walking across a grave had been impressed upon him at an early age. Weaving between them, Rudyard scanned the grounds. In the distance, he could hear Reverend Wavering conducting the service. 

“You can’t hide forever!” Rudyard called out. “I know you’re in here somewhere!”

He snickered to himself softly. He liked to sound imposing and serious, but this game delighted him until the realization that Victor and Antigone might have disappeared altogether struck him. He began to check frantically among the hanging branches of the willow and behind every headstone until he saw Victor laying prone in the grass. A smile split Rudyard’s face. Descending upon him with a laugh, Rudyard poked Victor’s ribs.

“A-ha! I knew you couldn’t hide forever!” he crowed triumphantly while Victor laughed and squirmed at being tickled. “That’s seven minutes and twelve seconds - two points! Ha!”

They wrestled in the grass for a breathless moment, both laughing and rolling towards the iron fence. They stopped short of hitting it but disappeared under the wild tufts of lavender peeking through the bars. Soon, the game of hide-and-seek fell to the wayside. There would be no finding Antigone, anyway, and from the shady spot beneath the lavender, Rudyard could see swatches of blue peeking through the branches and sunlight dappling Victor’s skin and hair. 

“-I just wish it could be like this all the time,” Victor said, folding his legs in towards his chest. “I wish I could stay here… with you. And Antigone, of course.”

“Mmm.” Rudyard tilted his head. “When we grow up, maybe you can move here. Buy a cottage overlooking the sea, close enough that I can walk to you.”

“I’d like that. Being close to you.”

Rudyard smiled and he put his hand atop Victor’s, which rested upon his knee. Victor startled and turned to face Rudyard. Rudyard’s bright eyes darkened with an unfamiliar look that made Victor feel hopelessly adrift in them. He wanted to stay lost in Rudyard’s gaze forever and he didn’t know why. At twelve years old, he’d never known such a feeling before. It terrified him. 

Rudyard traced Victor’s lips curiously with his eyes. They looked soft and gentle, much like the rest of his friend, but he wanted to know for sure. He’d never before kissed anyone and had always thought the impulse to press your mouth to another person’s mouth was - at best - unhygienic. Now, however, he felt deep stirrings of curiosity swell within him. Maybe he understood why adults did what they did. Maybe he didn’t. He was young still - just twelve - and he didn’t know much about love. What little he did know boiled to this: he loved Victor. 

Experimentally, Rudyard cupped one of Victor’s cheeks in his hand. He felt Victor’s breath catch. He was warm and soft and temptation sang like a symphony in his chest. Then, leaning over, Rudyard planted a kiss upon Victor’s opposite cheek. Beneath his lips, Victor’s skin warmed. When he looked, Victor’s skin flushed a deep red. It made Rudyard, in turn, blush. 

“We should find Antigone,” Victor mumbled, looking away shyly. 

“Forget Antigone,” Rudyard said. “Victor, I-”

“RUDYARD! ANTIGONE!”

Rudyard peeked out from between the branches and saw his father gesticulating angrily at his watch. At his shoulder, Rudyard’s mother, sour-faced and serious, scanned the cemetery for her children. The Trevors still congregated amongst themselves and did not call for Victor. 

“We’ll continue this conversation,” Rudyard said. He darted out of the brush, but not before pressing one more, quick kiss to Victor’s cheek.

Victor watched him go. He touched his fingers reverently to the place Rudyard had kissed twice and as he watched his best friend receive chastisement from his father, he thought of the things his own father would say if he knew what had just transpired. A shudder wracked Victor’s thin frame and he remained hidden until the Funns found Antigone and the four of them walked away. Then, slowly emerging from his hiding place, Victor inspected himself for mud and grass-stains before trudging back to his parents. This conversation - “conversation” - was far from over.  Not for the first time, Victor thought he couldn’t wait for the next family funeral.  

[grimoire-plague-blog]

Welcome Home

My original characters Yuri Volkov (a Russian-American Video Game Developer) and his girlfriend Elle (African-American Interior Designer). 

The setting sun cast a warm glow through the apartment window, the city lights sparkling. A hearty chuckle echoed through the hall as slender fingers pulled the laptop closed and picked up the cell phone.

“Relax, Elle. I have a cold, not the plague,” came the voice of Yuri Volkov, rich and normally smooth like honey, with hoarseness slowly taking hold. Clearing his throat, a soft sniffle hinted at the congestion creeping in. “You’ll be back by morning, right? I won’t die before you get back.”

“Alright, alright. I get it. You’re okay,” Elle murmured into her cell phone as she tucked a handful of her hair behind her ear, the tight black coils angry with her for sleeping in such a strange position on the plane. “I should get home around five, yeah. I’ll see you then. Get some sleep, deal?”

“Mhm, deal. No speeding on your way back. I know you get impatient. Don’t be quiet coming in though, if I’m not up when you get back you’d better wake me,” He requested, sniffling again as he turned away from the speaker to cough quietly into his elbow.

“If I don’t, you’ll sing that obnoxious song all day like last time. I’ll wake you up if only for the sake of my sanity,” She retorted, a smile tugging at her lips. “I’m at baggage claim now, have to get the suitcase and get going. I love you.”

“Aw, you don’t want me to serenade you? Oh well. I love you too, cupcake.”

He heard the chuckle escape her before he hung up, tucking his phone into his pocket before refilling his dog’s water bowl. Elle, meanwhile, had tugged her suitcase free from the disastrous pile-up forming at the baggage claim and embarked on her journey to the car. Her darling Yuri, the only person who could ever call her cupcake without making her gag, had such a tendency to downplay it when he wasn’t feeling his best which meant just a cold could very well be just that… or much worse. A pain in her butt it may be, trying to discern whether he was being honest or not, but he did equally tedious things for her sake as well. The rolling suitcase couldn’t roll fast enough, not with how excited she was to see him. Being away for two weeks on business meant that she’d not only missed him but had been bored out of her skull with her co-workers. Meetings this and meetings that… she was lucky she had the next few days off so that they could recuperate together. Him from his cold, her from jet lag.

That morning, at exactly five, she turned the key and opened the door to the apartment they shared in Portland, Oregon. Suitcase against the wall, she slipped her shoes off and shut the door quietly. Dark brown eyes, like the soil after spring rains, settled on the vaguely human shape decorating the couch. A soft smile on her face, her lips parting slightly as she took a slow breath in, Elle crept closer. Yuri was asleep, tangled in a blanket, with his dog curled up on his stomach. As Elle approached, the basset hound sleepily raised her head to greet her. With droopy eyes and one long ear flopped over the wrong way, tail thumping gently against the back of the couch, waddled haphazardly over to the edge to place her front paws against Elle. Giving the dog a loving scratch behind the ear, she picked her up and gently placed her in the dog bed.

“Good girl, Lada. Sorry. I have to wake up your dad,” She teased as the basset hound promptly went back to sleep. It was fortunate. Lada only listened to Elle about half of the time, mostly because Yuri had trained his dog to respond to Russian and not English, which had resulted in many interesting situations at first.

Creeping back over to her sleeping partner, Elle crawled on top of the couch and straddled him. She was careful not to wake him, not just yet, as she studied him. The shadows beneath his eyes, from the way they were set, deepened by his illness and the pink that painted his cheeks and nose, tinged with red at the nostrils that had clearly been suffering for the past twenty-four hours or so. The parted lips that quiet breaths slipped from, in time with the rising and falling of his chest… her fingertips delicately brushed aside the soft waves of wheat-colored hair that had cast a shadow across his face as she leaned closed and pressed her lips to his. But the kiss was stolen away from her, no longer under her control, the moment she felt his warm hand cup her cheek. She felt his teeth, ever so gently, nip at her lips playfully before their lips parted and he gazed into her eyes.

His throat burned, a sort of dull sensation, and he while he desperately wished he could smell that flowery perfume he knew she was wearing (she wore it every day, it was her favorite scent) it had become painfully clear to him that he was no longer capable of breathing through his nose. Slowly removing his hand from her cheek, he pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. Rheumy eyes, although the same beautiful blue-green that Elle adored and filled with glee at the sight of her, were met with her mixture of concern and joy. He hesitated, turning away as his breath hitched and his eyelids fluttered… but the sneeze that tickled his nose turned into a yawn. He heard Elle’s laughter, saw the movement of her hand as she tied up the hair she had worked so hard to grow out into a thick bun, and felt the back of her hand against his forehead.

“How are you feeling?” She asked, her hand turning as she ran her fingertips gently down his face and traced them along his jaw as she heard him sniffle, very much in vain, while contemplating the question.

He felt awful if he was to tell her the truth. His throat was sore, scratchy, and it burned. His nose, thick with mucus, allowed little to no oxygen to him. It left a throbbing in his skull, a pressure not intense enough to cause him much distress but instead the perfect amount to irritate him endlessly. As a result, it had taken him quite a while to fall asleep… but seeing his darling Elle lifted his spirits in spite of it all. Taking her hand away from his face, he wiggled out from underneath her and picked her up. After all, she was rather small. A mere five feet. Had he been about three inches taller, he would have had a foot in height difference. She let out what had to be the world’s quietest, and arguably cutest, shriek in response to having him lift her from the couch, wrapping her arms around his neck without protest as he carried her to their bedroom. He set her down on the bed, then sat next to her with a smile. Then, suddenly and desperately tugging a tissue free from the box on the nightstand, his head tipped back slightly and his mouth open… eyes squeezed shut in anticipation as his reddened nostrils flared, he sneezed. Loud, and rather forceful as his head snapped forward, he followed up the sneeze with a futile blow of his nose. It did nothing to combat the congestion he felt, nothing to alleviate the pressure in his skull - in fact, it made his throbbing head feel worse - but it did serve one purpose. It completely decimated the tissue. That answered Elle’s question for him, although he still tossed the tissue into the wastebasket and grinned at her as if he were a child in a candy store.

“Cupcake, I’m alright. I’ll be better if you get your pajamas on and come to bed with me. Just a few hours. A little nap,” He requested, speaking through his congestion. He would have laughed if it weren’t for how miserable he felt, how horrid he knew he sounded, but he simply didn’t find it funny at the moment. He wouldn’t, couldn’t really, bring himself to be fully content with the situation. He was ecstatic that Elle had returned home and yet… so disappointed that he had caught a cold. Determined to make the most of it, that he certainly was, but unable to be wholeheartedly happy.

Watching her stand up and go over to the closet, let her clothes drop to the floor before slipping into one of his t-shirts, one she knew he never wore outside of the house, and sit back down beside him helped. He felt her hands against his shoulders as she pulled him down, doing her best to curl around him despite the size difference. When he was sick, she always tried to be the big spoon. Her hands on his back, rubbing in small circles as a series of wet coughs sent little spasms through his body. He grabbed a tissue, spit out what he had coughed up, and threw it away with a muffled groan, burying his face in his pillow.

“Aw, baby, I’m sorry,” She murmured, planting a kiss on his neck. “I love you. If you need anything… wake me up.”

She got nothing but a nod and a congested sneeze in response as Yuri grabbed her hand and closed his eyes, the glass of water he had gotten the first time he had tried to sleep still standing beside the Tylenol but sans ice cubes now that time had passed. The Tylenol, however, had failed to do any noticeable good. She barely heard his hoarsely whispered declaration of love before his breathing slowed and the stuffy-nosed little snores began.

Yuri woke up that afternoon to a series of strange noises. It was somewhere between the sounds of a whimpering puppy and high-pitched squeals of “ow” and “oh” repeated over and over again in such quick succession that it almost sounded like “uwu” and LSD had a love affair. His mind felt foggy and heavy. It took him a moment to react to the noise, to stand up and follow the sound out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. There, curled into a ball on the tile floor, was Elle. On the counter sat a box of pasta, half empty. There was a large pot perched upon the back burner of the stove. Things that to anyone else would not have seemed suspicious seemed to Yuri… rather dangerous.

“E-” He started, his voice coming out as nothing more than a painful croak. He paused, clearing his throat irritably before restarting the thought. “Elle, why are you on the floor?”

“You’ll laugh at me,” She whined, staring up at him with an innocent pout. But she got up when he started coughing. Harsh, chesty coughs that made his eyes water and her heart sink. Pouring him a glass of water, she sighed softly. “Here, drink.”

“I won’t laugh at you… even if it’s funny, I don’t want to laugh. Hurts,” He teased half-heartedly, taking a sip of the water with a smile. The faint freckles that usually dotted his porcelain skin, across the bridge of his nose and splashed along his cheeks, had vanished beneath the feverish flush his skin now held. “Why were you on the floor?”

“I… hit my elbow on the counter. I know, it’s pathetic but it really hurt and… Hey! You said you wouldn’t laugh!” She snapped, hands on her hips as Yuri stifled a snicker only for his amusement to slowly bubble over.

Laughing rather heartily, his entire face lighting up in response to her plight, he nearly doubled over in his fit of bubbly laughs and occasional snorts. Only to truly double over as the laughter turned into phlegmy coughs and wheezing gasps. He felt her hand on his arm as he straightened up, catching his breath with a smile, and rested his chin on her head.

“Sorry, cupcake. And what were you doing with the pasta?” He inquired, although he certainly had an idea as to what she may have been doing with it.

“I was trying to make you chicken noodle soup,” She admitted, watching him proceed to walk over to the pot and peer inside with a look of disgust, “Hey! I tried…”

“I appreciate the sentiment but that looks like Lada ate it and threw it back up several times, Elle. Leave the cooking to me un… until… I, ahhh…. Haaah… I can…” He paused, placing a finger under his nose as the need to sneeze crept up on him, desperately trying to talk through it in hopes that it would just go away. “Until I can… haa… t-t-tea… teach you,” He managed, but just barely, to finish his thought before a fit of sneezes took hold. Wet, congested, and loud. They left Yuri practically trembling, using a paper towel to blow his nose in a pathetic attempt to find relief only for the roughness of it to further irritate his nose and coax out another sneeze.

“Okay, okay… bless you… I just feel so useless. I can’t cook… you’re usually the one who cleans… and I’m not a doctor. But I know you feel terrible. Don’t even try to lie and say you don’t. Yuri, I… I want to help,” Elle insisted, turning off the burner and standing on the tips of her toes in order to reach his face and steal a kiss. “So, tell me how. Please?”

“First of all, cupcake, you aren’t useless. Yeah, you can’t cook. Sure, I usually clean. But you’re the only reason the herb garden on the balcony is alive. You’re the one who knows how to fix it when the sink is clogged or the power goes out,” Yuri reassured her, pulling her into a tight hug. “We can’t be good at everything. You’re good at the things I’m not. We’ll learn from each other. But don’t rush it. You are helping. But today we order takeout or something for lunch and cuddle on the couch. I finished looking over the proposal for the new game my team is developing so… I’m all yours until it the rest of them get back to me.”

She could hear the weak, incessant sniffles that dotted his speech and the irregular volume of his words as he tried to keep his throat clear. Her face, buried in his chest, was hidden. It was almost a relief to her, that he couldn’t see how happy she was to hear that she wasn’t useless. She had already taken Lada out for a walk that morning and had unpacked her suitcase while Yuri slept. She, too, was all his for the day. So she sat him down on the couch with a blanket draped around his shoulders, placed several items - a box of tissues, a glass of water, a wastebasket, and cough drops - beside the couch, and ordered a pizza. Resting his head on her shoulder once she sat down, Yuri sniffled and popped a cough drop into his mouth with a playful little smile.

“We are still going to the waterpark that you love so much next weekend, yes? It is just before that Fourth of July that Americans love so much and I hear they are putting on a fireworks show,” He pointed out, lacing his fingers with hers.

“Only if you’re over this cold by then. But leave it to you to get such a bad cold in the summer. You’re an unlucky guy sometimes,” She teased, kissing his forehead.

“I am a very lucky man, despite our current situation,” came his retort. And if the trip to her favorite waterpark went as planned, with the crowds distracted by the fireworks and him down on one knee with a ring in his hand, he would soon be the luckiest man there ever was.