#I’m going on a trip to visit pa with friends from high school

[pose4photoml]

💖 - Hello lovely this is your Swiftie Pride anon, sorry for dropping off the face of the earth omg.

I ADORE P!nk! I’ve actually been lucky enough to see her live twice (she was my first ever concert) and she is absolutely incredible I cannot recommend it enough if you get the chance.

Pride and Prejudice is also one of my favourite movies of all time! I was recently to be able to go to Chatsworth house which is Pemberly House in the film and it was absolutely STUNNING. Yes I’ve seen the Darcy statue in person. Yes it also made me fall in love with him.

What concerts have you been to? And what would your dream film world to visit be? Hope you’re having an amazing day!

Hi Swiftie Pride Anon~ Hope all is well your way.

BTW- Really jealous of you and your visit to Chatsworth House the statue, and Pink Concert. Haven’t had the pleasure of seeing them ☹️maybe someday!

As for concerts I have been to~ my first ever concert was Aerosmith! While I love all kinds of music, one of my favorite concerts to catch is Brad Paisley! I love going to festivals in the summer since you never know who you might meet. I once was at six flags in CA and meet a country star Joe Nichols who rode the ride in the seat before me and I rode with his manager. It was awesome!! I also got to meet Toby Keith in MD! (I’ve moved a bit so seen shows all over) I’ve lost count how many concerts I’ve been 2!

I would LOVE to visit Jane Austin Weekend in Hyde Park ~a literary retreat!! I love a lot of her books and admire her for all she went through to become a writer.

Also I’d love to visit Harry Potter - Wizard Retreat Weekend! I’ve been to the theme parks and rode the rides and seen sets but a whole weekend 🙃 would be fun I think.

As for how I’m doing - thanks to the holiday today’s my last work day till Wednesday!! So excited 😆 to have off work and I’m going to meet up with friends in PA for some shopping at a Amish flea market and of course Chocolate world .. I mean it’s chocolate 🍫 !!

[imsogonesposts]

Now I'm Missing Your Smile

|| ao3 || an: im gonna be so honest, i wrote this cause of the set pics of steve's new truck. also, this is based on tis the damn season by taylor swift! ||

summary: When you come home from college for your winter break, you find yourself missing your ex boyfriend Steve Harrington. (wc: 2808)

You weren’t planning on visiting him on your trip back home. You were back from college on your two-week break to celebrate Christmas and the New Year with your family and friends, as well as finally finishing your finals. Steve was never supposed to be part of your plans. Not after he broke up with you in fear of doing long distance. Even though Indiana University was only an hour and a half drive away from Hawkins. Even though you had both originally promised to visit each other every long weekend. 

So, when you ran into him at the grocery store, picking up some last-minute ingredients for your mom’s Christmas feast, you were less than thrilled. You felt your blood go cold when he called your name and turned around to be met with his warm brown eyes. You missed those eyes. 

“Hi, Steve,” you reply, gaze quickly moving to the floor. You really didn’t want to see him. Not when Christmas was a few days away. Not when you were still getting over him. Not when you looked like this. 

“I didn’t realize you were back in town,” he said, taking a step towards you, then quickly retreating, as if he didn’t know whether or not he could hug you. He could not. 

“Well it’s winter break,” you say with a shrug and half smile. You had promised him when you first brought up going to a school away from Hawkins that you’d be home for every break. Every Thanksgiving, Christmas, spring, and summer break. “It’s not like I’ll have to pay for a plane ticket, I just gotta drive for like an hour,” you had told him at the time.

“How’s college?” He asked, eyeing your hoodie that had your school’s name embroidered across it. 

“It’s good,” you reply as you both nod. You couldn’t do this. Not today, not ever. “Gotta go!” You reply, quickly turning around as you push the shopping cart to the next aisle. Away from him. 

“Wait, I’m having a little Christmas get-together if you wanna pass by! I’m sure the kids would love to see you!” He yelled as you yelled back an “I’ll think about it!” You had already known about the party. Robin had told you about it the day before when she went to visit you on your first night back in Hawkins. You just didn’t know if you could step back into the Harrington house. Back in the house where you and Steve shared so many memories. Back where he broke your heart last October when you had last visited him. 

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” he had told you.

“Do what?”

“Long distance…”

“You said you wanted to try. It’s barely been two months, Steve-“

“I’m sorry,”

***

You don’t know what convinced you to attend Steve’s Christmas get-together. Maybe it was so you could see all your old friends from high school again. Maybe it was because Robin kept (lovingly) pestering you about how she wanted to spend as much time with you as possible while you were home. Maybe it was because part of you missed Steve. Missed his smell, his smile, his stupid hair, missed him. 

As you pulled into his driveway, you briefly questioned if Steve had moved, as his maroon BMW was now replaced with a blue pickup truck. However, that thought was quickly diminished when you caught sight of a certain red-headed girl through the window. Since when did Steve become a truck guy?

As you knocked on the door of the house that once felt so familiar, but now so cold and distant, you were welcomed by a beaming Steve. “You made it!” He exclaimed, moving aside to let you in the house. Wow, did you miss his smile. And how he sounded when he was truly happy about something.

“Hey guys,” you say, greeting your old hometown friends as you place a Christmas cake on the coffee table, smiling as they all eagerly welcome you back. 

***

Hours later, after the party had ended and everyone went home, you stayed to help Steve. Not because you missed him,but because you had always stayed to help him clean up back when the two of you were still together. It wouldn’t make sense to break tradition now, right?

“So, you got a new car?” You ask, breaking the tense silence between the two of you.

“Yeah,” he nods, brown hair flopping back and forth as he sweeps the floor. “The BMW finally gave out, so...” He concludes with a shrug.

“Never took you for a truck guy,” you reply as he glances up, meeting your gaze with a smile.

“Wanna go for a drive?”

***

Twenty minutes later, after all the trash was thrown out, and the party’s mess was cleaned up, Steve took you for an aimless drive around Hawkins. Just like you both used to do to kill time. To spend time together, just because.

And just like last time, he was ever the gentleman. Opening the passenger side door for you, offering you a hand as you climbed inside the truck, asking if the AC was too cold or if you’d prefer the heater. Ever the gentleman. 

“Sorry, it’s a little dirty,” he had mumbled as he fumbled with the radio station. Though it was messy, there was mud on the tires, a few old receipts in the cup holders, and far too many sweaters in the back seat than one person would ever need, it was all so Steve. The truck smelled so much like his cologne, one that you’ve grown to miss, it had a picture of him and Robin and one of him and the kids taped to the dashboard, and even a hairbrush in the cup holders, because of course there was. 

“It’s okay,” you replied with a shrug. “It’s a nice truck,” you say, noting his smile. 

“It’s my baby,” he joked, tapping the wheel before pulling out of the driveway. 

“Y’know, it feels like everything and nothing has changed since I left,” you whisper halfway through the drive, laughing at Steve’s confused look. “I mean, like you got a new truck, Joyce and Hopper are married now, thats different, but in the end, you guys are all still the same,” you explain with a shrug. 

“I feel like time’s been standing still since you left,” he replied quietly, avoiding your gaze, whether to keep his eyes on the road or because he regrets what he said, you can’t decide. 

“What do you mean?” You ask as he lets out a sigh. You could see the air escape his mouth as the temperature slowly drops.

“It’s stupid, I shouldn’t have said anything,” he mutters, giving you a sheepish smile as you continue to stare at him. Could he have regretted breaking up with you? Did he miss you like you missed him?

“It’s not stupid,” you reassured him with a smile, glancing out the window to see the Christmas lights people put up outside their homes. 

“I missed you,” he said quietly, voice just above a whisper. “And I’m sorry about,” he pauses, putting a hand up in the air, waving it around the empty space, “everything.”

“I missed you too,” you confess just as quietly. 

“I should’ve never broken up with you,” he replied, voice somehow quieter, barely loud enough to hear over the truck’s engine and the music playing from the radio.

***

“Steve,” you whisper so as not to disturb him. He looked nice when he was asleep. Peaceful, pretty. 

He just grumbled in response, tightening his arm around your waist, bringing you closer to him. You hadn’t meant to spend the night at his place, but as the weather got colder, and as the two of you exchanged more words with one another, how could you not spend the night? How could you not sleep in the arms of the boy you missed? Back in what felt like the warmest bed you’ve ever known. 

“Steve, it’s 10 am,” you whisper as he lets out another grumble. “We can’t sleep in the whole day,” you tell him, despite how much you would love to stay in his arms all day. In his warm bed, against his warm body, instead of facing the cold, freezing day. 

He opens his eyes, smiling when his meets yours, squeezing you once more. “How’d you sleep?” He asks through a yawn. 

“Good. Your bed’s very cozy,” you reply, smiling at his laugh. “How’d you sleep?”

“Perfect, best sleep I’ve had in months,” he says, tightening his arm around you again. If it were up to him, the two of you would stay cuddling in his bed all day. For forever, and then some. 

“I never asked,” he starts through another yawn, “but how’s college going?”

“It’s good,” you reply with a non-comital shrug. 

“Real convincing,” he teased, poking your side with a smile, one that you easily returned. You missed how easy it was for him to get you to smile. 

“Well, it’s no Hawkins,” you tell him, “there’s no one I know there. There’s no Robin, or Enzo’s, or you.”

“No me?” He asks, raising his eyebrows with a smile. “I am pretty irresistible, aren’t I?” He asks in a faux cocky tone, one that never failed to make you laugh.

“Why did you break up with me?” You suddenly ask, effectively ruining the previous light-hearted mood between the two of you. As soon as the question left your lips, as soon as you saw Steve’s smile drop, you regretted the words. Regretted why you couldn’t keep your mouth shut for once, and just be happy, in the moment, with Steve.

“I was scared you’d find someone better than me,” he quietly confessed, staring at the blanket that still lay atop you both. “I mean, I’m working at a stupid video store, I’m not even in community college, I was scared you were gonna meet some Einstein out there and realize he could give you everything I couldn’t.”

“And what changed now?” You ask, sitting up.

“I realized how much I miss you. How I’m more scared of losing my chance with you cause I gave you up.” His gaze finally turning upwards, finally meeting yours with a sorrowful look. 

“How do I know you’re not gonna break up with me again?” You ask, watching as Steve’s gaze turns to the blanket again. 

“Now I’m not as stupid.”

“But how do I know that? How do I know that the minute I get back to school, you’re not gonna call it off again cause you’re scared?” Again, you regretted your words. It’s not like you weren’t scared that while you were gone, Steve would find a different girl that he liked more than you. But at least you didn’t break up with him over that fear. At least you had stayed. At least you had tried.

“Why is it so hard to believe that I’m not the same idiot you left behind and that I want to make this work?” He asks, finally meeting your gaze, only to be met with an upset look on your face. Left behind? Is that really how he saw it? Did he really think you going to college to pursue your dreams meant you wanted to *leave him* behind? 

It’s as if the same thought hit him when it hit you because not even a second later, he’s sitting up, trying to explain himself. “Wait, that’s not what I meant,” he tries to explain at the same time that you’re getting out of his bed and putting on your shoes. 

“This was a mistake, I shouldn’t have come to your stupid party,” you say, getting up as he lightly grabs your wrist. 

“Wait, please,” 

“I should’ve stayed at school, then I wouldn’t have to deal with this shit,” 

“You would’ve been alone on Christmas-“ he quietly says, eyes looking sad. He knows firsthand that being alone on Christmas wasn’t easy. He knew it sucked. He knew he would never want that for you and that he’d avoid you for the rest of your life if it meant you’d still come home to Hawkins every Christmas just to have people to celebrate it with.

“I wouldn’t have had my boyfriend- my ex boyfriend think I left him here because I wanted a fucking degree,”

“That’s not what I think!”

“Then, what, Steve? What is it that you think, hm?”

He just stares at you, taking in your features as if it’s the last time he’ll get to see them in person. Because, honestly? He’s worried that this is the last time he’ll get to see you. He’s worried that this time, he’s screwed up things far beyond repair. That he might lose you for good, with no second chance.

Finally, after what felt like hours of silence, he quietly says, “I never thought you left me. I thought you were doing everything you could to get out of this hell-hole. Which, if I had the brains that you do, I would’ve done too. This whole time, even while we were broken up, I’ve been saving up some money to move near your school, so I could be closer to you. So we could both get out of here. I’ve never wanted anything but for us to work. Even if I sometimes have a shitty way of showing it.”

“What was your plan then? Move to Bloomington and try to win me back?” You ask as he begins lightly rubbing the inside of your wrist with his thumb.

“I never said it was a smart plan,” he responds with a weak smile. “I could show you the money if you want,” he replies, gesturing to his nightstand, where you presumed he had stored said money.

“You’re a really big idiot sometimes, you know that?” You ask as he lets out a small chuckle.

“I kind of figured that out when I broke up with you.”

You take a small step towards him. “You’re not gonna break up with me again when I go back to school?”

He shakes his head no, looking at you with those warm brown eyes that you’ve missed so much. “I don’t make the same mistake twice,” he jokes, smiling at your small smile. He missed your smile. He missed waking up in the same bed as you, your presence, your voice, your laugh, you.

You take another step towards him with a sigh. “Okay,” you whisper, smiling at his confused look.

“Okay, you want to get back together?” He asks, furrowing his brows in confusion, yet still hopeful. Hopeful he didn’t screw everything up again. Hopeful you’ll take him back. 

You nod. “Yeah. But if you mess up again, we’re done.”

“Please,” he starts with a laugh. “You really think Robin and Dustin are gonna let me make the same stupid decision twice?” He asks with a smile. A smile that grows bigger when you move to kiss him. You missed his kisses. He missed yours as well. 

“How long are you staying in Hawkins?” He asks, reluctantly breaking from the kiss. 

“Until next Saturday,” you reply as he smiles. 

“Y’know, we can go to Lover’s Lake, sometime while you’re here. In the new truck,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows with a smile. Instead of replying, you just kissed him again. Not that he minded. You truly missed your idiot of a boyfriend.

“I’m just saying,” he mumbles in between kisses, “you haven’t experienced Hawkins in the truck yet. It’s its own experience, babe. And, now I can visit you in the truck!” 

“I’m starting to think you like that truck more than me,” you tease, breaking away from the kiss. You can’t help but smile as he tries to chase your lips.

“Excuse you, she has a name,” he says with a smile. You just raise your eyebrows as he tells you her name is Sally. 

Of course, the dingus named his truck. 

“You’re an idiot,” you reply in feign annoyance.

“I’m your idiot,” he says with a smile, moving to kiss you again, hand carefully cradling your face. Holding you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. Which, to him, you were. 

Maybe this time, everything would work out. Maybe in a few years, Steve would move to Bloomington, you moving in with him, and he could get a job there while you finish up your degree. And after, you could both start a life there after you graduate. Or maybe you could both start a life together somewhere else.

But for now, visiting him every break would have to suffice. Because in the end, everything would always lead back to the boy you loved. Back to Steve Harrington, and back to your hometown. And his stupid truck.

[legallauren]

pennsylvania things

buck’s from hershey. I’m from outside of philly. we are not the same because rural pennsylvania is its own world but i have some thoughts™

-buck as a liberal from a republican area in a swing state is EXTREMELY concerned about voting and everyone around him voting and even years of living in a solid blue state does not shake off the swing state stress

-buck lost his fucking mind when the eagles won the superbowl and 100% tried to climb a streetlamp in solidarity with the people of philadelphia. in retrospect he’s grateful he didn’t know athena yet, or eddie....and that maddie wasn’t around to see that one.

-buck has strong opinions about the dallas cowboys, the patriots and the giants namely he hates them all. he also hates the celtics and bets on villanova winning every march madness.

-buck went down to philly with his buddies a couple of times in high school and has strong feelings about which cheesesteak is best and the answer is neither genos nor pats because they’re tourist traps and not actually good at making cheesesteaks

-buck used to drive to lancaster a lot to hang out with friends in a city setting. he loves central market and he misses some of the amish bread he used to get there. even after everything bobby’s taught him in the kitchen, buck can’t replicate whatever effect no electricity has on the bread they make.

-there’s a dairy maybe 20 minutes outside of lancaster city that’s about halfway from hershey to lancaster where they would put the bottle calves out into a pen where the public can pet them. buck still thinks of it as one of his happy places. what’s better than a baby cow determinedly trying to suck your fingers in case milk might come from them. ok that sounds weird but you gotta be around baby cows to understand.

-buck’s never going to say it out loud but hershey’s chocolate isn’t even good. 

-sometimes buck can still smell manure in the air. it’s weird because going back it smells so awful at first, but catching a whiff randomly just smells like PA.

-buck’s parents didn’t ever take them to hershey park. that just wasn’t their scene, but that’s fine because buck went with school for his 8th grade graduation and has a picture with a reese’s cup mascot to prove it.

-buck doesn’t think hershey park is the best theme park in pa. His friend david in middle school invited him to come for his family’s annual trip to this place called knoebels grove. david’s family used to mine coal in shamokin, a little dying town that they visited before going to the amusement park where the roads are too narrow for one car to park and another to comfortably pass by. knoebels is magical. there’s a stream with swans that live in it running through the park, and a log flume, and this one wooden roller coaster called the Phoenix that is like 100 years old and if you don’t do a good job shoving your feet up under the edge of the wall with the lap bar on it then you feel like you’re going to fly out of your seat down every hill. buck’s ankles were bruised to hell but he rode it 4 times back to back with david and his cousins. but the most magical thing at the park is the carousel. it was built in 1913 and buck remembers because he was 13 when he rode it for the first time. buck still remembers how crazy it was to learn all about the brass ring because the carousel had rings you grabbed by leaning off of the horses on the edge of the ride. buck had never been on a carousel that had been as fun as that one before. there’s a giant carnival organ playing old time marching songs and tunes buck heard sometimes on his dad’s oldies station he would play in the car when they drove places together. between the noise of the carousel and the smell of cotton candy and popcorn and french fries in the air, the noise of the carnival organ and kids screaming with joy and some with tantrums after a long day of fun, not to mention all the brightly colored horses and the lights and the sheer joy of everyone...buck was amazed to find his 13 year old body was long enough to reach the rings and when he looked down after the latest turn of the carousel he was amazed to find a shiny brass ring in his hand. a worker comes over and asked his name and hands him tickets for a free ride and they announce over the loudspeaker that “evan buckley has grabbed the brass ring” buck smiled so wide his face hurt. -buck can tell you about taking a bus trip to philadelphia to see the art museum and how in fifth grade he thought they were going to mount olympus when the first view of the museum was from i76 where it looks like a greek or roman temple sitting on a mountain overlooking the schuylkill river. he can tell you about standing at the base of the rocky steps and about standing inside the museum and looking up the grand staircase at the bright gold sculpture of diana pulling back her arm to shoot an arrow and listening to the tour groups talk about the massive tapestries lining the walls of the balcony and feeling small and little and weird that someone had loved these objects so well they lit them up and put them in a museum to keep nice forever. -buck will tell you about betsy ross and the symbolism of the american flag and how she played a part in making america a team with all thirteen colonies represented. that’s just some of the stuff they teach you in pennsylvania state curriculum when talking about how the whole country came together in philadelphia. -buck has never been to scranton and if one more person asks about while he’s trying to zone out and watch the office on netflix for the 15th time he might throw a fit. the only reason to visit scranton is the office and buck just wasn’t a fan yet back when he was avoiding the living room where his parents kept the only television in the house. he wasn’t about to ask phillip and margaret to stop watching the news to watch an nbc comedy, that wasn’t a thing they did. -buck doesn’t say youse (like philadelphians or people from new jersey that moved to PA might) nor does he say yinz because he’s not from pittsburgh either. buck doesn’t say wooder or jawn or any other philly slang. buck did still laugh at that SNL bit the first time someone showed him it because his friend jason’s family moved to hershey from down state outside of Philly and Jason was the second one who sent him the video of kate mckinnon talking about “murdur.” Jason laughed his ass off at how bad the accent was but said they weren’t too far off.  -once buck was driving back from lancaster and saw an advertisement for “Litiz” and being 17 and a boy and seeing a name that seeming to say “le tits” just made him laugh too hard not to drive through. buck got out to get some ice cream with his friend he was driving with and saw one of the best things he’s ever seen in his life. in this tiny little drainage ditch that seemed to be rerouting a tiny stream there were just hundreds upon hundreds of little wild ducklings. it was right around dusk when the last half of the sun was going down, and buck watched maybe 20 momma ducks herd a couple hundred ducklings back down the stream to where their nests were. it’s still one of the most adorable things buck has ever seen. ducks hold a special place in buck’s heart as a result.

-sometimes when buck is feeling nostalgic for a home that was never his, sometimes when he needs a weird type of comfort that reminds him of driving around with maddie in the middle of nowhere pennsylvania, buck looks up christian rock stations. buck’s never been christian enough to listen for that reason, it’s just that sometimes in rural pennsylvania it comes down to either someone shouting about god’s wrath with all the vitriol of an 1890s revival preacher or some rock music that mentions faith and hallelujahs here and there. and honestly buck really can’t admit this....some of the music is good. switchfoot started as a christian rock band too! and katy perry did religious music before she was ever a california girl ok? -buck nearly cries laughing every time people show him or talk about gritty. how the hell the broad street bullies aka the flyers decided gritty was the right move for a mascot he still doesn’t know. On a side note even though he doesn’t care really about baseball, Buck is thrilled when they announce the return of the original design of the Phillie Phanatic. the temporary design had just been wrong in so many ways. one night watching john oliver reruns with eddie in the loft of the firehouse, buck actually falls to the floor laughing at gritty running around in a supreme court justice outfit.

[lovelylogans]

the words you read (my heart’s been displayed)

how did you know 'cause I never told but you found out I've got a crush on you the words you read, my heart's been displayed you found out I've got a crush on you —“crush on you,” the jets

warnings: awkward clueless teenagers, crushes, slightly overbearing matchmaking uncles, mentions of government surveillance, mostly fluff, please let me know if i’ve missed any!

pairing: virgil/logan, secondary patton/roman and janus/remus

word count: 5,761

notes: this is for day 5 of @analogicalweek! the prompt of the day is “vocab card/skateboard” and i have decided to write about vocab card! please enjoy!

⁂

In Virgil’s opinion, Logan Sanders is the cutest boy in all of the sophomore grade.

He was the cutest boy in freshman year, too, and eighth grade, and seventh, and all the way back to kindergarten, but Logan’s changed over the summer. 

He’s sprouted up a few inches, so now he’s a half-head taller than Virgil. He still looks a little gangly, like he’s going to grow more. He’d always been shorter than Virgil before. He’d gotten new glasses, too, black frames that suit him way better than the silver ovals he’d used when they were little. His voice has gotten a bit deeper, his jawline’s gotten stronger, and Virgil’s helpless crush on him has only grown with Logan.

Logan isn’t just cute, either, he’s smart. He carries around stacks of notecards, blank and filled in, and there’s all sorts of things written on it—interesting fun facts and the latest slang terms, in rubber-banded stacks next to rubber-banded stacks of notecards of terms that will be on their next exam. Logan has a way of explaining anything and everything in a way that is really understandable and never makes you feel dumb. Logan’s always top of the class.

And to make matters worse, they’re next-door-locker-neighbors this year, because Chloe-who-was-between-them-alphabetically moved away. Which means that Virgil cannot quite get away with admiring Logan from afar, the way he has since they were little. Which means that when school starts, on the first day when Logan asks him what homeroom he’s in this year, Virgil’s brain can only go ahhhhHHHHHH and the fact that oh my God Logan is tall now oh my GOD Logan has the locker next to mine now! makes him delay his answer because he’s just staring at Logan, and Logan looks at him a little oddly and then repeats his question as if he thinks Virgil didn’t hear him, and Virgil kind of wants to crawl into his locker to hide there forever thanks.

“Oh,” he manages. He closes his locker. “Um. I’m in Mr. Morales’ homeroom this year.”

Logan smiles at him. Logan SMILES AT HIM. And then he says, “I am, as well. Perhaps we’ll be seated next to each other in homeroom, in addition to being locker neighbors. I would enjoy that.”

He would ENJOY THAT!!!!!

Logan clears his throat and fiddles with his glasses, finally just pushing them a little further up his nose, even though they’re pretty high up on his nose already. “Would you like to walk together to Mr. Morales’ classroom? I was in his home economics class last year, I know where it is.”

“Um, sure,” Virgil says, voice cracking embarrassingly, and he considers opening his locker back up again so that he can hide there. He’s pretty skinny, he might be able to fit.

So they walk to Mr. Morales’ classroom. Logan’s the one talking, mostly; Virgil’s grateful for that, because he’d probably just be rambling nervously the whole time, and it’d be tempting fate to have his voice crack in front of Logan again. But now he can just listen to Logan’s various opinions about their summer reading for their English class, which is much safer. He sure has a lot of opinions about it, which makes Virgil sweat a little nervously—Logan sounds like he’s ready to sit down and write an essay about it, as if they’re going to have to, and Virgil’s pretty sure that if he sat down to take a multiple-choice quiz about that book right now he’d flunk it.

They end up not being assigned to sit next to each other. Mr. Morales says to just sit wherever, since they’re all going to go to an assembly once he takes attendance anyways, and that he probably won’t assign seats for the whole year.

And then Logan ends up sitting next to him anyways.

Like he really meant that he’d like to be next to Virgil in homeroom.

Mr. Morales smiles at them, and then, inexplicably, gives Logan a double thumbs up? And then Logan’s cheeks go kind of red? Logan turns his face away from Mr. Morales, turning to more fully face Virgil.

“You were in his class last year, right?” Virgil says.

“Erm, yeah. Yes. I was.” Logan clears his throat, turning away from him. “He supervises my study hall, too.” Then he mumbles, “also he’s my uncle.”

“He’s your uncle?” Virgil repeats. This is news to him.

“Through marriage,” Logan explains. “Mr. Regnant is my father’s brother.”

Mr. Regnant is the arts-and-music teacher, and, though they don’t talk about it very much (students do, but then, students always gossip), Mr. Morales’ husband.

Mr. Regnant is also, not that Virgil would ever tell him so, Virgil’s favorite teacher.

“Which dad?” Virgil says, because Logan’s two dads were basically his only version of real-life gay representation when they were really little. He knows Mr. Sanders better than Logan’s other dad. 

Mr. Sanders always volunteered to be part of the PTA moms who supervised them during holiday parties and field trips, though, looking back, he doesn’t think the PTA moms liked him very much. The kids, on the other hand, loved Mr. Sanders, who would treat them like very short adults and once a year would bring in his mamba Eve for kids to pet and hold.

Logan’s other Dad had been the one who encouraged the kids to throw paints and roll around in the mud and tear things up. Logan’s other Dad had come to supervise one holiday party and was politely asked to never do so again.

“Not Pa—I mean, Janus,” Logan says, looking briefly embarrassed. “He’s Dad’s—Remus’—twin brother.”

Virgil makes an “ohhh” sound, because that makes sense. Now he’s thinking about it, Mr. Regnant and Logan’s dad really do look alike, if one looked past their contrasting senses of style. 

“That’s cool, though,” Virgil says thoughtfully. “That you’re related, I mean. Mr. Morales is really nice.”

“Yes, he is,” Logan says. “It’s been a bit strange to adjust to calling him Mr. Morales instead of Uncle Patton, though.”

“Yeah, I guess it probably would be,” Virgil says. 

The bell rings, and Mr. Morales ushers them off to the assembly.

Logan sits down next to him on the bleachers at the assembly, too. Their knees bump together as they listen to the principal welcome them back from summer vacation and give some announcements.

And Logan keeps sitting down next to him.

At lunch, in their two shared classes, in homeroom. He wishes Virgil a good morning and good afternoon every day at their locker. As the months of the school year slowly creep by, Virgil definitely does kind of feel like crawling into his locker, sometimes, but less and less so, because.

Because he and Logan are kind of friends now.

Logan asks him about his favorite hot beverage and then starts bringing him chai when he and his uncles stop by a café before school. Virgil sketches out drawings of astronauts and space when Logan goes on a loving tirade about it that lasts, on-and-off, for a week. 

He still definitely has a crush on Logan. His increased presence near him is both a blessing and a curse.

They share earbuds and laugh at videos in homeroom, they sit quietly side-by-side and do their homework together in study hall. Virgil even tags along, sometimes, when Logan takes time out of his day to visit his uncles. His uncles always seem delighted whenever Virgil drops by, which Virgil guesses makes sense—Mr. Morales is just kind of Like That, and he’s been taking classes with Mr. Regnant since freshman year, and they’ve been sassing at each other for just about as long.

Logan makes those visits rare, though. He always seems a little self-conscious about how excited his uncles are during their visits, the way they elbow Logan and give him thumbs-ups and wiggle their eyebrows. Virgil doesn’t really get it—he thinks it’s nice that his uncles are so excited to see Logan with his friend.

But then his mom unexpectedly comes by and drops off his lunch and ruffles Virgil’s hair right in front of Logan, and Virgil spends the rest of the day going beet red even Logan assures him that it’s okay and he thinks it’s nice, something in his brain... clicks. A little bit. Even though it doesn’t make sense.

Does Logan...?

No, his brain tells him. There’s no way.

But Virgil keeps an eye out for the next week anyways.

On Monday, Logan’s uncles give him a ride to school and also drive him by the café, so Logan hands over a chai for Virgil. Virgil smiles and thanks him.

Have Logan’s ears always gone red whenever Virgil thanks him for bringing him tea?

On Tuesday, their fingers brush when Logan’s passing over a stack of notecards for Virgil to study for an upcoming exam during their study hall. Simultaneously, they look away from each other, redirecting their attention to their textbooks.

Have they always done that?

On Wednesday, Logan and Virgil swing by Mr. Morales’ classroom. After Virgil laughs at a somewhat sarcastic comment that Logan says, and redirects his attention to the sketch he’s been doing to turn in for approval for his end-of-semester art project, he peeks through his bangs to see Mr. Morales waving his hands eagerly, and Logan go red and gesture sharply for him to stop.

Has Mr. Morales always been so excited whenever he and Logan spend time in his classroom?

On Thursday, Logan seems chilled by the overenthusiastic air conditioning, so Virgil gives him a spare hoodie he had in his locker. Logan looks at him, looks away, and then proceeds to huddle in Virgil’s hoodie for the rest of the day, even after the school adjusts the temperature and it isn’t quite so cold.

By then, his brain saying no way! No way, you cannot afford to be wrong on this so you aren’t even going to try, there’s no way—

It’s after school on Thursday, and Virgil makes sure Logan has already gone home when he descends the stairs to Mr. Regnant’s art-and-music studio.

“Oh, Virgil, hey,” Mr. Regnant says, distracted, looking up from the sheet music he’s laying out across four desks. “Gimme a second, I’ve got the feedback for your sketch on my desk somewhere—”

Virgil looks to Mr. Regnant’s desk. He can’t even see the mug of pens on his desk that Virgil knows is there, it’s so buried in papers and models and paint palette piles. It’s like an avalanche waiting to happen.

“Uh, that’s not—you can give it to me tomorrow,” Virgil says awkwardly. “Um. That’s not why I’m here.”

Mr. Regnant blinks at him. “All right.”

“I,” he wipes his hands on his jeans and grimaces, not quite believing that he’s about to do this. “I need advice.”

Mr. Regnant pauses, before he manages to find an empty desk and sets down the sheet music. “Okay.”

“Before I say anything,” he says. “I need you to give me this advice as Mr. Regnant, faculty supervisor of the GSA club.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Regnant says. “Yeah, ‘course, Virgil. I’m always—”

“Mr. Regnant, faculty supervisor of the GSA club, is a separate person from Mr. Regnant, Logan’s Uncle Roman,” Virgil interrupts, twisting his fingers together anxiously. “Right?”

Mr. Regnant opens his mouth. Closes it. He gestures for Virgil to sit on one of the choir risers, settling there himself, but Virgil sits on the floor. This is a time in which floor-sitting is necessary.

“He could be,” Mr. Regnant says eventually.

“Well I need him to be,” Virgil snaps. “Okay?”

Mr. Regnant presses his lips together and nods.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice a little higher pitched. His lips twitch and he clears his throat. “Yeah! Yeah.”

“Oh my God, you’re about to laugh at me,” Virgil says, horrified. “I knew this was a terrible idea, forget it—”

“No!” Mr. Regnant says hastily. “No I’m not, no I’m not. I swear I’m not. Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA is not about to laugh.”

“Is Mr. Regnant Logan’s uncle about to laugh?!”

“I thought they were different people,” Mr. Regnant sasses back, seemingly on instinct, and Virgil buries his face in his hands and screams a little bit. Just a little bit.

“Shi—shoot, I mean shoot!” He says, and tugs lightly at Virgil’s arm. Virgil peeks at Mr. Regnant from between his fingers.

Mr. Regnant’s face is very serious. There is no more sign of lip-twitching, throat-clearing, or mirth in his eyes.

“Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA is here and listening,” he says. “Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA does not have any relatives to speak of. Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA does not have any twin brothers or nephews. What on earth even are those? Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA would have no idea. Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA doesn’t even have parents, or a husband, that’s how absolutely relative-less he is. Okay?”

“Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA is an asshole,” Virgil mutters.

“Faculty supervisor of the GSA is starting to not sound like words anymore,” Mr. Regnant says, “also, you are so lucky school is technically over, otherwise I would have totally given you a detention for language.”

“You’re such a hypocrite, you literally just almost swore.”

“Almost,” Mr. Regnant says, “is not the same as did. Now. What can I do for you, Virgil?”

Virgil takes a deep breath in.

“What do you do if you think the boy you have a crush on likes you back?”

Mr. Regnant’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead, but otherwise, he doesn’t react.

“You could talk to him?”

“Okay, maybe I should be more specific,” Virgil says, “What do you do if you have an anxiety disorder, and you think the boy you have a crush on likes you back?”

“I know you’re not gonna like this,” Mr. Regnant says, “but my answer is still you could talk to him.” 

He holds up a hand before Virgil can protest. “I know it can be scary, I know it can be anxiety-inducing. I know that can be a deterrent for a perfectly neurotypical person, let alone someone who’s got a diagnosed anxiety disorder. But, I mean. Your only options, as I see them, are, A, tell him, or B, sit quietly and wait for him to maybe make the first move.”

“But how can I be sure?” He says.

“Well, why do you think he likes you back?” Mr. Regnant says reasonably.

So Virgil tells him. Virgil tells him all about it—thinking he was cute since they were kids, then suddenly becoming friends this year: the chai, the sketches, the music listening, the blushing and the awkward chats, and how they’re friends now but Virgil still really likes him in a romantic way.

“Does that sound like he likes me back?” he asks anxiously. 

Mr. Regnant bites his lip. “As the faculty supervisor of the GSA? I think it could definitely be likely.”

“Likely?” Virgil wails.

“Well, as the faculty supervisor of the GSA,” Mr. Regnant enunciates carefully, “I can’t be certain.”

“I can’t go and tell him based on if it’s just likely! I need to be sure he likes me back or else there’s a chance he says he doesn’t like me and then I’m going to have a heart attack and die!”

“Virgil! As the faculty supervisor of the GSA! I really think you should go for it!”

Mr. Regnant looks like he’s about to reach out and start shaking Virgil by the shoulders. His eyes are huge, the way he always looks at actors onstage who have forgotten their lines, like by just staring at them he’ll be able to psychically impart the script to them.

“Forget it,” Virgil groans and reaches for his backpack, swinging it over his shoulders and standing up. “I’m doomed to suffer in silence. Thanks, I guess, I’ll see you in class tomorrow. Please don’t tell anyone I told you all this.”

As Virgil is closing the classroom door behind him, he’s pretty sure he hears Mr. Regnant screeching.

Honestly, Virgil should be the one screeching. He can’t believe he just told him all that—who knows if Mr. Regnant will be able to keep the information of a crush concerning his nephew to himself?!

⁂

“Okay, here’s your mocha-with-extra-espresso, please don’t tell your Dads,” Uncle Patton says cheerfully, passing back a to-go cup to Logan. “And the chai! I think it’s very sweet that you keep getting this for him, kiddo.”

“Gestures are a good way to express affection,” Logan says anxiously, carefully setting the chai in a cupholder. “I’ve been trying to vary my approaches based off the five love languages. I’m not sure if it’s working.”

Uncle Roman in the passenger seat, his arm thrown over his eyes, makes a sound of great discontent, the way he’s been doing for the past week whenever Uncle Patton has tried to give him any advice concerning Virgil.

“Are you okay, Uncle Roman?” Logan asks again.

“Thinking about being the faculty supervisor to the GSA,” Uncle Roman moans, as if in pain.

“Is the club schedule about to be particularly busy?” Logan asks, frowning. “You typically enjoy your work with the GSA.”

“You could say that,” Uncle Roman says tightly, then groans again.

“Well, if there’s anything I can do personally, in order to relieve any undue stress,” Logan begins, but is cut off by Uncle Roman shrieking.

“Um,” Logan says, looking to Uncle Patton, who snorts, shaking his head.

“He just, um,” Uncle Patton says. “Well, I think something’s happened, except he told me he can’t tell me what it is without betraying someone’s trust, so.”

“I see,” Logan says, frowning, except for the part where he doesn’t see, really. But that happens fairly frequently with Papa and Dad. Honestly, it’s rather curious that Uncle Roman has not acted in a way that seems strange to outsiders. Dad does it all the time, and they’re twins.

Oh, well. He’s sure he’ll understand eventually.

“I’m fine,” Uncle Roman says, and he sniffs loudly. “I’m fine, it’s all—fine.”

Uncle Patton pats his hand sympathetically, before directing their car to school.

Logan sips his drink, before he says idly, “I think I’m going to tell him I’ve had a crush him today.”

Uncle Roman immediately spews coffee onto the windshield in an impressive spit-take. It is hilarious. Even though Uncle Roman is choking a little. 

Uncle Patton meets his eyes in the rearview mirror, his eyes bright with excitement. “Really?!”

“Really,” Logan confirms. “I mean, it’s been—it’s been a couple months. We are friendly enough. I do not think that Virgil will discard our friendship if I confess that I have had a crush on him since last year.”

“Well!” Uncle Patton says, so flustered that he accidentally turns on the windshield wipers when he means to signal a turn, and then when he tries to fix that he turns on his hazard lights, before he manages to get the car under control again. “Well, that’s great, kiddo! I’m so excited for you!”

“You are the smartest kid I know,” Uncle Roman says, turning in his seat to face Logan, his expression near-worshipful. “I love you.”

“Um. Thank you?”

“I know you don’t believe in psychics, but are you—?”

“Why are you bringing up psychics?” Logan says, perplexed. “I figured—well, I’ll tell him. And it is time that the Halloween festival will begin this weekend. That seems like a date that Virgil would enjoy.”

“Right,” Uncle Roman says. “Okay. Well—go for it! Please go for it!”

“I have already told you I will,” he says. 

“I think it’s gonna go great if you go for it!”

Strange. Uncle Roman is acting as if he has had too much caffeine. As far as Logan is aware, the beverage they have just stopped to get is his first coffee of the day, and he does not metabolize the effects of coffee that quickly.

“Right,” Logan says, adjusting his glasses and taking a sip of his coffee. Then, “Right.”

Then, “What if he says he doesn’t like me back?”

Uncle Roman throws his arm across his eyes and makes that same groaning sound again.

Uncle Patton absentmindedly reaches over and bracingly rubs Uncle Roman’s thigh, again meeting Logan’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Well, kiddo, if he says he doesn’t like you back,” he says, then frowns. “It’s understandable to be disappointed, or a little bit upset, but it’s important to accept his answer graciously and kindly. No means no. No is a full sentence. But Virgil seems like a very nice boy, I can’t imagine he’ll be very mean about it at all, and you two have gotten close over the past few months. It might be kind of awkward for a bit, but with a little work, your friendship will be able to survive it.”

“I suppose,” Logan says quietly, looking down at his lap.

“But,” Uncle Patton adds hastily, “I think the chances are really good for him saying yes to the date! We both do, don’t we, Roman?”

Uncle Roman lets out a very strangled “mm-hmm.”

Logan chews his lip, before he says timidly, “Can I borrow one of your phones to call my Dads?”

“Cupholder, just a bit in front of ya,” Patton says cheerfully. “You already know the password.”

Logan does. He swipes it in—his uncles’ wedding date—and presses on Papa’s contact number. Dad’s phone is lost more often than not, and almost always turns up in strange places, like inside the gateau he’d tried to make, or inside the neighbor’s rain gutters.

His father picks it up almost immediately.

“Patton, if this is about the adopt-a-thon, if I have told you once I have told you a thousand times—”

“Um, hi, Papa,” Logan says awkwardly; he does not want to get into the family squabble about sharing a pet between their households again. Eve is a sufficient pet, even if she’s not as cuddly as Uncle Patton might like.

His father’s voice transforms from chiding to concerned in a second. “Logan, is everything all right?”

“Yes, everyone is operating under adequate parameters,” Logan says. “Is Dad there?”

There’s the sound of something crashing in the background, as if on cue. Knowing Dad, it might have been.

“I’ll get him,” Papa says wearily.

He hears his Papa say Remus, our son is on the phone, please put down the—Uh, Jan, sexy-pie! I thought you were! On the way to work!—what the—REMUS, we’ve TALKED about this, how did you lay hands on a HERON—and then the conversation gets a good deal more muffled. He is pretty sure that Papa is shouting at Dad about capturing local wildlife again.

He waits patiently, before he hears the clatter of the phone being passed into someone’s hands, and Dad asks, “Did someone die?! Do you need help covering up a murder?!”

“Remus, please,” Papa groans, “the boy is too smart to implicate himself by opening the opportunity to be recorded over the phone lines.”

“That’s right, Logie-bear, the government is always watching,” Dad says solemnly. “Big brother, all hail. Also lean over and give my little brother a wet-willie for me, it’d be so funny—”

Logan, accustomed to conversations of this tone since birth, continues stolidly onward. “I’m going to tell Virgil I like him today.”

“Finally!” Dad hoots.

“That’s excellent, Logan,” Papa says placidly. “Please know that I am fully aware of the misogynistic roots of the what are your intentions discussion, and I’ve been doing research in order to make our version as feminist as possible. Also, your father has been warned to discuss minimal amounts of gore when he comes to our home.”

“What is the point of a shovel talk then!”

“We already agreed no shovel talk,” Papa says irritably. “When we threaten the boy, we’ll do it subtly.”

“Please don’t threaten him,” Logan says anxiously. “I don’t even know if he likes me back yet.”

“Of course he likes you back!” Dad says, outraged on his behalf. “Why the hell wouldn’t he like you back?!”

“How did you two know that you loved each other?” Logan asks. The question feels slightly childish, and he feels even more so when he curls up in his car seat, but he cannot deny the posture brings a certain level of comfort.

There’s a pregnant pause.

“We’ll tell you when you’re older,” Papa says.

“I’m sixteen in a matter of weeks!”

Dad makes an absurd gagging noise, because he is ridiculously averse to the concept of Logan (and therefore, himself and Papa) aging. Logan thinks that it might have to do with a latent existential crisis, but he has not asked, because knowing Dad, he will spin it out into thirteen separate absurd reasons, and ten of them will make Logan cringe away, repulsed.

“Trust my judgment on this,” Papa says. “You do not want to know the origins of how our romance developed. However, when we actually had the discussion concerning feelings, your father—”

“I wrote him a beautiful letter in my best calligraphy,” Dad says proudly, then, “You probably don’t want to hear about the ink, do you?”

“Is it disgusting?” Logan asks warily.

“Quite, but,” then, in a voice that literally every other person wouldn’t realize is Papa’s version of profound sappiness, “that’s your father.” 

There is the sound of kissing. Logan resists the urge to make a gagging noise of his own, because somehow, he is the mature one in the entire family.

“As it is, just,” Papa says, then sighs. “I cannot believe I am about to give such... Pattonish advice. But. As it is, just be yourself. If this boy likes you back—”

“—as he should, and if he doesn’t he’s in desperate need of a lobotomy,” Dad mutters.

“—then he will like you for you, just the way you are,” Papa says, as if Dad had not said anything remotely worrying. “Tap into your strengths, Logan. You are intelligent, and observant, and thoughtful—”

“—and the best son there is—”

“Well, that goes without saying, clearly,” Papa says. “As long as your confession comes from you, then there is no way that it can go wrong. You are simply too excellent a person for it not to.”

“Even if it turns out he doesn’t like me?” Logan says timidly.

“If it does, then have your uncle forge an excuse note for you to get out of school early today and we’ll plot accordingly,” Papa says evasively. “But I do not think that outcome likely.”

Logan chews his lip. Papa is the best liar he knows, but—

But hearing his encouragement is too comforting to really analyze if he is lying.

“Thanks, Dads.”

“Knock him dead, kid!” Dad shouts. “And if he doesn’t then I will!”

“What did we just say about discussing potential evidence over the phone lines,” Papa scolds, and Logan hangs up, smiling.

Just be yourself.

Uncle Pattonish advice it may be, it has given him an idea.

⁂

Waiting over this past week to see if Mr. Regnant will crack and spill to Mr. Morales, or even worse, Logan himself, has been absolutely agonizing and Virgil’s kicking himself over going to Mr. Regnant for advice surrounding Logan at all.

That morning, though, Mr. Morales is at his desk, and a chai is waiting for Virgil at their usual spot, but Logan is nowhere to be seen. Virgil tries his hardest not to act too much like he’s keeping an eye out for Logan, but he is pretty sure he’s not succeeding, because Mr. Morales is smiling at him way too wide.

He actually seems really excited about something. Like, Mr. Morales usually gets excited when it’s fresh chocolate chip cookie day at lunch, but this is beyond the pale for fresh chocolate chip cookie day. Maybe the assembly they have today is something special? Except Virgil’s pretty sure it’s to pass out honors for the last quarter and talk about fall sports. That’s nothing particularly special.

Logan slides into his seat just before the bell rings, though, wrapping a rubber band around one of his notecard stacks. It’s a thin stack, it must be for something that’s just started; usually Logan compiles every unit of every class into thick stacks, able to be differentiated by the different colors of the notecards. These are just basic white ones.

He fiddles with it, darting looks to Virgil as Patton takes attendance, and, as they’re all filing out of the door, Logan holds out the stack of notecards.

“Here,” he blurts out.

Virgil blinks. “I don’t think we have a test soon?”

“They’re not for a test,” Logan says. “Just—take them. Read them during assembly. Please,” he adds belatedly.

“Uh,” Virgil says and takes them. “Okay?”

“Okay!” Logan says and nods. “Okay. Okay. Great! Um—please take your time to consider them carefully, and I await your response,” and then he practically runs off to fall into line near Mr. Regnant.

So that’s... weird.

But Virgil sticks the notecards into his hoodie pocket, anyways, ready to read them during assembly like Logan directed.

He waits until the principal is droning on about the importance of school spirit to take the notecards out of his pocket.

He spares a glance for Logan—who is several rows ahead, near the faculty, sitting next to Mr. Morales and Mr. Regnant, Mr. Morales occasionally reaching over to rub Logan’s shoulder bracingly—and then angles the notecards so that a teacher looking into the crowd wouldn’t really be able to see them.

He stares at the title on the top notecard. Blinks hard. Blinks again. Looks down at Logan’s back, then back to the notecard.

Reasons why I have a crush on Virgil.

He reaches over to pinch himself. Nope. Not dreaming, then.

And Logan really doesn’t seem like the type of person to make a joke like this.

He flips the cards and reads them slowly, savoring each and every word written in Logan’s blocky, neat script.

He is exceptionally witty.

He is knowledgeable about a great many things, such as music, art, spiders, novels, and mental health issues.

He is sarcastic.

He is thoughtful and deliberate in the formation of his opinions, even ones as small as the proper preparation of chai.

He is very handsome.

He is never rude without reason, and when he is rude, it is usually because the other person is “an asshole” and should be receiving backlash.

He is a remarkably talented artist.

Virgil keeps reading on, he is, he is, he is...

When he gets to the end—I would like to take you on a date. I would also like to be boyfriends, though I understand if you would like to table that conversation until we have established a rapport. Please let me know if you would be amenable to that suggestion.—he feels kind of dizzy. His throat is tight, his heart is pounding, and his hands are so sweaty he’s had to wipe them off on his jeans twice already.

Is it really possible that someone as wonderful as Logan would think of him so highly? 

It’s like he’s describing someone entirely different—awkward, anxious Virgil couldn’t possibly be the snarky, witty, caring, deep-thinking guy that Logan’s writing about. There’s just no way. But, Virgil thinks, heart twisting, but Logan doesn’t lie about things like this. Is this the way Logan sees him?

Is it really possible that someone as wonderful as Logan would have a crush on him at all?

He likes Virgil. He wants to take Virgil on a date. He wants Virgil to be his boyfriend.

There’s the rumbling of everyone standing up from the bleachers, and Virgil jumps—has it really been the entire assembly?—and hastily gets to his feet, so he won’t get swept up in the crowd of students returning to their classrooms.

As he’s heading for the door, Logan practically materializes in front of him, hugging his books tightly to his chest.

“Did you read them?” He asks fretfully. Now that Virgil’s close to him, face-to-face, he isn’t sure if he’s ever seen Logan so nervous. He isn’t sure if he’s seen Logan nervous at all. Logan’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, drumming his fingers on his books, holding the books like they’re a teddy bear.

“Do you,” Virgil says, his voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “You really like me?”

“Since last year,” Logan admits.

“I’ve liked you since kindergarten,” Virgil blurts out.

Logan blinks at him, jaw dropping. Then he says, “Really?!”

“Really,” Virgil promises. “My mom has this journal entry saved where I kept writing about how I was going to be Mr. Virgil Sanders, oh my God, she’s going to be so embarrassing about this—”

Logan snorts, ducking his head. “You’ve withstood my uncles handily.”

“Your uncles are cool, though,” Virgil says, confused.

“My uncles are embarrassing,” Logan says, “and my Dads are going to be so weird, I’m very sorry in advance, but—but if you can handle all of that, then I’d—I’d really like to take you out to the Halloween festival. I’d really really like that.”

Virgil’s smiling so wide that it hurts his face. “I’d really really like that too.”

And then the bell rings, and the pair of them jump at the sudden loud noise.

“I—we have to go to class,” Logan says, sounding very put out.

“Yeah,” Virgil says, then, “I’ll see you at lunch?”

Logan beams at him. “Lunch sounds wonderful.”

Virgil hesitates, before he reaches out and places a hand on Logan’s shoulder. He leans in and presses his lips to Logan’s cheek.

Logan’s bright red when he pulls away.

“Lunch?” Virgil confirms.

“Lunch,” Logan squeaks out, his voice cracking.

They emerge from under the bleachers, and have to split ways. Even when Mr. Regnant pulls him out into the hall under the guise of talking about his project and starts whisper-shouting about “do you know how HARD IT WAS to keep QUIET when i KNEW all along that you both LIKED each other bacK,” even when Mr. Morales ducks his head into his math class to pass over papers and gives Virgil some super-obvious thumbs up, even after he texts his Mom and his mom sends him screenfuls of exclamation points and immediately asks him to invite Logan over so that she can show Logan all of Virgil’s baby pictures—

Virgil cannot stop smiling.

[ao3bronte]

when chaos reigns [the sirens come to play]

A Merman AU. (Rated T with some suggestive language.) Now on AO3!

[Prologue]

Covid-19 and covert relationships don’t exactly go hand-in-hand these days, but you really shouldn’t be touching anyone’s hands right now anyway.

…that is, unless you don’t belong to the same species.

Can Merpeople catch Covid-19? That’s debatable, but news doesn’t exactly flow freely from the depths of the South China Sea. Though we know very little about Merpeople and their ways of life, we do know that they rarely interact with humans, preferring to tear down their ships and rip apart their dams and levies in revenge for poisoning the oceans and seas with their human fossil fuels. 

But this isn’t a story about environmental politics, or Covid-19 for that matter. This is a story about love and about putting aside differences. In this tale, Marinette discovers that the term ‘scalie’ (ou écailleux, car nous sommes en France) doesn’t always refer to the commonly known adjective to describe fish skin. And Adrien, bless his heart, really does need to put on clothes when he’s not rocking a fish tail despite the fact that he’d much rather be naked (much to Marinette’s mortification). Anyway you slice it, Merpeople and humans simply aren’t supposed to be together — they’ve always been sworn enemies through and through — but no matter what alternate universe we find ourselves in, these two idiots in love will always find each other.

This is, undoubtedly, their story.

[Part 1]

It’s the beginning of March and Tom and Sabine aren’t taking any chances with this whole virus situation. Marinette seems to catch everything — illnesses, hands, the whole nine yards — and they’d already been talking about sending her down to the Cote d’Azur to spend the summer with her grandmother Gina Dupain in order to get away from Paris for a little while. The constant schoolyard bullying from Chloé Bourgeois has dragged Marinette down so many pegs that Sabine is almost relieved to see Macron call off school for the foreseeable future and books both her daughter and her husband a trip to Marseille before the entire country shuts down for good.

Marinette isn’t happy, of course, but what teen would be? Her friends are in Paris! The fashion is in Paris! She doesn’t want to stay in some sleepy little Mediterranean village where nothing ever happens! Do they even have Wi-Fi there?

It’s a valid question. Tom doesn’t actually know, but he chatters enough for the two of them as the high speed train takes them down the rails to the south of France. Marinette’s sulk lightens a little as he pulls pastry after pastry out of his luggage in the hopes of making his daughter smile just a little before dropping her off with his mother — he knows that their relationship is a little strange after Gina’s last visit to Paris but there’s nothing a little quality time together can’t fix. 

Petite Befana is one of those places you find on a postcard. Situated just on the edge of France and Italy, the fishing village’s brightly coloured houses gleam in the sunlight, peppered with lemon trees and winding alleys that seem to almost spill out into the sea. The beaches are craggy and feature small grottos and coves of underground caves that glimmer with seaglass when the sun hits them just right, hiding a pocket sized oasis here and there for the adventurous who like to explore at low tide. Gina likes it here because of the Place du Marché, but Tom often wonders as to the real reason why she’s settled in the quaint harbour after years of Eat, Pray, Loving around the entire planet after divorcing his father.

She’s certainly made friends with every woman in town by the looks of it. Along with her veritable swarm of bar-hopping friends, Tom keeps seeing a woman with pointed features and deep black hair with a violent red streak in it pop up on her Facebook page. They always seem to be in the same jazz club, not that Tom is really paying attention; if his mother wants to spend her golden years drinking negronis and dancing with her girlfriends, that’s up to her.

They disembark the train in Marseilles and take a bus to Toulon, then another bus to Petite Befana. Marinette is passed out and drooling on his shoulder by the end of it so Tom does as he always does and hauls her up like a sack of flour through the thick and winding labyrinths of cobblestone streets towards his mother’s apartment. Gina greets them once he eventually finds the place and, after tucking Marinette into the daybed in the guest bedroom, happily guzzles down the proffered beer on the terrasse overlooking the sea.

“I’ll try to come down as often as I can,” Tom assures Gina, not knowing just how bad of a clusterfuck 2020 was about to become. “I’m sure Marinette will come to appreciate all that Petite Befana has to offer.”

“I’ll take her down to the market tomorrow morning,” Gina assures him, patting her son’s beefy forearms. “There’s an older woman who sells the most beautiful fabrics and I already dusted off my old sewing machine. That should keep her busy.”

“Marinette’s never happier when there’s a project to complete,” Tom responds with relief, downing the rest of his Kronenbourg. “I bet she’ll have an entire closet full of clothes by the time the month is out.”

“And it should only take a month or two for this to blow over.” Gina jabs her thumb towards the television as the news of Covid-19 murmurs in the background amid the waves of the Med on the shore. “And then we’ll be back to normal before you know it!”

(...and we all know how that turned out.)

[Part 2]

Covid-19 affects a lot of people in a lot of different ways. Some feel stir crazy. Others enjoy the alone time. But Marinette? Well, she’s been trapped in the harbours of Petit Befana for three weeks now and our aforementioned heroine is already bored out of her skull. She’s made three dresses, four satchels and twenty two scrunchies with the leftover fabric because what else is there to do down here? Luckily, Covid-19 hasn’t quite affected Petite Befana like it has the other regions of France and Marinette is able to go outside at least...not that she wants to. 

There are more artisanal bakeries and charcuterie shops in Petite Befana than there are nightclubs and high end boutiques, which is odd for a village so beautifully situated on the coast of southeast France. Gina proudly boasts that her new home is often bypassed by the glitz and glam of Monaco; lavish superyachts and the seemingly endless stream of paparazzi prefer the glamour and uberwealth just west of their little village, leaving its sleepy inhabitants mostly alone to sell their goods to the tourists that stop by for a night on their bicycles and scooters. Marked with the Italian influences of its neighbour, Petit Befana truly is the little-known last stop on the famous Cote d’Azur which makes it an inspiring landscape for Marinette to discover…

...for all of four days. 

She’s already so over Covid-19 and, like any teenager, she’s getting more and more annoyed by the day that she can’t hang out with her friends! Why did Maman and Papa send her down here?! All she wants to do is get back to Paris and design! It’s not like there’s anything fun to do here anyway, besides play video games all day in her bedroom; the only places that offer free WiFi are closed and she can only play Animal Crossing for so long before her grandmother insists on making her get some fresh air. 

Ugh! 

Grumbling under her breath, Marinette pulls on her raincoat and stomps down the laneway from the terrasse towards the sidestreet where her grandmother’s 1920’s bastide-style home resides. From the cobbled alley, Marinette watches the colourful array of fishing boats land their day’s catch right up on the harbourfront and heads down despite the storm clouds brewing on the horizon.

“Bonjour!” A group of older men wave as she makes her way down the ancient steps, the pathway shaded by thick palms and cacti. She pauses just long enough to ask who’s winning their game of socially distanced pétanque before continuing her way through the pines towards the gravel and sand beaches that line the shore. 

The seafront is mostly boarded up, much to both Gina’s and Marinette’s disdain. Her grandmother used to spend most of her evenings at the jazz bar La Sirena with her friends, not that Marinette got to meet any of them. The lockdown shuttered pretty much everything the day after she kissed Papa goodbye and settled into her new life for the next month, but with three weeks already stretching into four, Marinette dejectedly wonders if she’ll ever see Paris again.

Passing the last brasserie on the boardwalk, Marinette leaves civilization for the long stretches of barren coastline. There’s all sorts of little inlets and grottos here and there, especially as she gets closer and closer to the Italian border. Unfortunately, it’s only April, which means it’s rainy, generally unpleasant and completely and utterly empty on the beach.

“No one to talk to, nothing to do…” Marinette sighs and tries to kick a piece of driftwood, only to miss it with her foot in true Marinette style. The faux pas — quite literally — sends her screaming and flailing her arms like an octopus on a ceiling fan as she dramatically plummets face first onto the wet, slimy gravel.

She groans and pushes herself up on her hands and knees, wincing as sea-weathered stones dig into her palms and kneecaps. Marinette is, above all, a walking disaster in every sense of the word — sometimes she wonders if the powers that be seek out to deliberately punish her with embarrassing things like this on purpose for their own amusement. 

(ಸ_ಸ … *cough* Zag *cough*)

Marinette whimpers as she wipes chunks of seaweed and brownish foam off her cheeks and chin. At least no one was around to see her fall over — thank god — but she’ll still have to do the laundry when she gets home. She’s covered in muck and little bits of oily slime that are sure to stain if she doesn’t wash it out soon. Marinette grimaces as she tries to shake it off of her hands; humans really have done a number on the seas and oceans...like, why is her front so sticky? She glances at some of the garbage on the shore as she sits on her haunches and wonders if the news has it all wrong. Maybe the merpeople taking potshots at rich people on yachts with old cans and plastic sea trash really do have the moral upper hand…

Marinette, being Marinette, would have continued to stare dazed and confused into space well into the afternoon had it not been for the impossibly shiny something or other sparkling in the grotto straight ahead.

[NEXT PART...]

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Fashion is an instrument through which you show you belong to a group.

- John Weitz

John Weitz was a man for all seasons. Handsome, intelligent, and debonair. He was a novelist, historian, businessman, spy, and above all a renowned mens and ladies fashion designer. James Bond was fiction but he was the real deal.

Born in Berlin in 1923, Hans Werner Weitz was the son of a prosperous clothing manufacturer and German first world war hero, who had won the Iron Cross in the infantry. The family was living well when Christopher Isherwood visited. But they were Jewish, quick to understand what was about to happen, and, in the early 1930s, moved to London, where the young Weitz went to well known private school, St Paul's in London. At St Paul’s he said it was normal to be caned if he didn’t wear morning clothes to class, so he always did with lapels rolled properly. “On weekends we wore blazers…correctly…with the collar up and with a scarf and with brown suede shoes, which were very new then….but never, of course, after six,” he once reminisced.

He was an apt pupil and Oxbridge seemed to be a seamless next stage. However he lasted only a year studying at Oxford University.

Instead he headed off to Paris to begin an apprenticeship with the women's tailor, Captain Edward Molyneaux. In 1938, at the age of 18, Weitz was falsely arrested as an enemy agent while working in the London office of the Paris fashion house Molyneux.

His father was already in America and in 1939, and when France was overuun at the outbreak of the war, Weitz could see he had to get out of Europe. After a tortuous trip through Shanghai, China and later Yokohama, Japan to reach the USA.

In 1943 and now a naturalised American citizen and aged 21, John (as he was now dubbed) was recruited by the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), the forerunner of the CIA, operating in Germany until 1946. He was fluent in both French and German which came in handy in his work during the war in Europe.

He would only ever describe his work in Germany until 1946 as "sensitive," though, much later, his publisher John Fairchild told the New York Times that Weitz "loved all that romantic part of his past. He was a perfect gentleman."  What is known about his OSS work was that he was part of a 1944 mission in support of the plan to assassinate Adolf Hitler  formulated by German Wehrmacht officers, under the instigation of Claus von Stauffenberg. After the war, Weitz helped to liberate the Dachau concentration camp

Weitz was also a man with connections, as when he confirmed that a former OSS boss had shown him gangster blackmail photos of the longtime FBI director J Edgar Hoover with his boyfriend, Clyde Tolson. In the 1970s, Weitz's friend Albert "Cubby" Broccoli, producer of the James Bond movies, teased him about his resemblance to the character - adding that Weitz was better looking.

Weitz returned to New York in the 1940s, a young garment trader well placed to pick up on American women's new taste for informal sportswear, leather coats and men's shirts.

Weitz founded his women’s sportswear business, John Weitz Designs, in 1954, and launched men’s wear a decade later. For his women’s wear, he often tailored the best of men’s designs for the female figure, with looks such as shaped houndstooth checked coats, formal shirts with jet buttons and cuff links, and corduroy pants.

“Whatever happens in women’s pants comes from the men’s pants,” he said in 1965.

In the Sixties, Weitz began phasing out his women’s and children’s apparel business to concentrate on men’s wear. By 1977, Weitz had 18 licensees and $150 million worldwide retail sales of products bearing his label, including sunglasses, belts, umbrellas and even cigars. That year, he also reentered the licensed women’s apparel category, because, he said, he saw the need for an alternative to coordinated sportswear merchandising.

“I’m rather sick of seeing American working women treated as children with prepackaged clothes,” Weitz said at the time.

In 1964, he launched his menswear range, applying the technical standards of manufacture he had learned from his father. Unusually, in that era of obsolescence, he went for ease and wear - clothes, he said, should be worn "as if they are old and valued friends".

Of course he committed fashion faux pas here and there. This was the 1970s after all. But the previaling zeitgeist had to be understood before we laugh or wince at the designs today. None left a lasting impression quite as strong as the posthumously awarded ‘king of the ‘70s’—the leisure suit.

Once hailed by top designers John Weitz and Calvin Klein as a garment with staying power, the leisure suit was ostracized from the kingdom of en vogue before the 1970s ever came to an end. Just as it had swiftly risen to the top of fashion, it fell into the leagues of comic relief twice as fast.  Today we laugh at the cheesy styles, feminine colors, and garish plaids. But what we seem to have forgotten is that the leisure suit did more than just provide us with years of laughs. The leisure suit helped men open themselves up to new ideas in clothing. It allowed them to experiment outside of the style box they’d been locked in for too many years. If the 1970s had passed without the leisure suit, “business casual” for men might never have developed as soon as it did. The leisure suit may have been a fashion catastrophe, but it laid the groundwork for men to strut their fashion stuff for decades to come.

He was his own dream model - "healthy and scrubbed," with a flat stomach - and toured stores showing off his new line of narrow, European-cut shirts, half the width of the standard American style. His navy suit, alphabet-patterned ties and aubergine socks are commonplace now, but were then part of a new, executive self-presentation, more about putting it together than design. By 1974, he had become a household name, with annual earnings of $18m and a Coty Award, fashion's prize for innovation.

Weitz skilfully let his name generate money by itself, using witty advertisements to maintain a high public profile. A poster on the back of New York buses announced, for example, "She ditched him, John Weitz ties and all".

He also used his writing abilities to promote the business image: his book Man In Charge, The Executive's Guide To Grooming, Manners And Travel (1974), became a bestseller, but was really just part of his trade in suavity and martinis. Even his headquarters was above Madison Avenue. There were also two well received novels, Friends In High Places and The Value Of Nothing.

Two other books, however, marked out Weitz as a historian of the Nazi period. He wrote Hitler's Diplomat, a biography of the third reich foreign minister, Joachim von Ribbentrop, and Hitler's Banker, about the president of the Reichsbank, Hjalmar Horace Greeley Schacht.

He was repeatedly asked about reconciling the sale of navy blazers and researching von Ribbentrop, but he saw no clash: "Who else but a fashion designer would understand such a worldly man?" Weitz certainly comprehended the Nazis genius for the projection of personal image, and, though never a major historian, established a sufficiently solid reputation as a researcher that the president of Germany consulted him on the subject.

Meanwhile, he lived the life of his executive book, raced cars at Sebring in the 1950s, and belonged to the New York Yacht Club and the Vintage Sports Car Club. In his Park Avenue apartment, a Chinese chef cooked dinner parties for his friends - among them the novelist Tom Wolfe- and film people.

In 1964, he married the actor Susan Kohner, and their two sons, Christopher and Paul, remembered Ingmar Bergman taking them to the circus, and film directors John Huston and Billy Wilder dropping in for coffee -"just nice old men around the house every once in a while". The boys' chief complaint about their father was that he made them wear blue blazers. Both Chris and Paul would go on to forge their own Hollywood careers as the producers and directors of such movies as American Pie (1999) and About a Boy (2002).

John Weitz had a deep fondness for cats which raised eyebrows amongst his more masculine following. But Weitz was unrepentent. Weitz adored their elegance, and was quoted on them more often than on the Nazis. "Even overweight cats instinctively know the rule: when fat, arrange yourself in slim poses," he wrote.

John Weitz died on 3 October 2002 at the grand old age of 79. He remained a dashing figure and aged well - like the American version of Gianni Agnelli. He had throughout his life the air of adventure, even danger. He was stylish fashion designer who lived up to the executive image of his clothes. It’s no wonder no one balked when he made a name for himself with the nowadays unthinkable ad slogan, “John Weitz designs for the woman who wishes her husband could afford her.” His was a life well lived.

[mhdiaries]

Monster Exchange Marisol Coxi Passport

06.01

There is only one place in all of Monster Picchu where I can buy shoes off the rack that fit me, and when I walked by it today, all the shoes were gone. I went inside and found out that the business is being sold. I clearly voiced my displeasure about this situation to the store’s owner, Señor G., who was cleaning out his back room. “I am sorry, señorita, but I am retiring to the coast in order to be closer to my grandchildren, and to go fishing every day.” I asked if the new owners would be selling shoes as well, but he said they are going to be selling CANDLES! Now I will be able to get all the bayscary-scented candles I can sniff, but now even one pair of anything in a size 42EEE! I was caught totally flat-footed by this news, and in my heart I was feeling very tiny. I could tell he felt bad for me, and as I was about to leave, he asked me to wait for a moment. He disappeared back into the stockroom and soon returned with a beautiful gold box. “Please to be seated,” he said. I sat down on the last bench left in the store as he knelt down and opened the box to reveal a pair of pumps and OHMYGHOUL! They were red and black and clawsome all over! I quickly drew my feet up and turned away. “Señorita, do you not wish to try them on?” I told him that, of course, I did, but I did not want to go for a test drive in something I could not afford to take home with me. He laughed. “Ah, but Señorita Coxi, these were meant to be displayed only, not to be sold. There is not even a price or size on them, but I think maybe they fit you. Besides, if I leave them, the new owners will probably just fill them with wax and turn them into candles.” Cautiously I slipped my toes into them, and THEY FIT! Almost like they had been made for me. I grabbed Señor G. and gave him a ginormous hug. He put the shoes back in the box for me and thanked me for being such a large part of his business over the years. We waved goodbye, and I practically skipped all the way home. When I got there I put the box on the kitchen table and ran upstairs to find Ma to tell her my story. We got down to the kitchen at the same time Pa got home from work, and I put the shoes on to show them both. Pa was looking at the box and pulled out a slip of paper. He looked at the slip and cleared his throat the way he does when he’s about to be angry. “Marisol Coxi! Did you pay this much money for these shoes?” He handed me the slip, which turned out to be some kind of invoice. I saw the price at the bottom, and for once in my unlife I was actually quiet. I told Pa the story exactly as it happened. He asked me what I wanted to do. I thought about it for a moment and then I boxed up the shoes and went back to return them. I knew that I could not keep such an expensive gift. It was too much. When I got to the store, the lights were off and the doors were locked. In the window was a sign that read “Gone Fishing.” As I was standing there wondering what I should do now, a shopkeeper from across the street came running over with something in his hand. It was a note from Señor G. 

Señorita Coxi, 

After you left, and I could not find the invoice for the shoes, I knew that I must have absentmindedly returned it to the box. They really were display models meant to be placed in the window to attract customers, but it just so happens they are a display model in your size. I had intended on leaving the shoes for you without the invoice, regardless, as they are too big for me to wear and to small for me to fish from; plus I really would have hated to see them turned into candles. Please to wear them loud and proud!

Sincerely yours,

Señor G.

06.05

I found out today that I have been accepted into the monster exchange program and that I’ll be attending MONSTER HIGH THIS FALL! I am afraid I may have startled the Head Mistress when she told me the news. I think I whooped rather loudly, and she disappeared for a moment. It is her first year at our school, and she is such a prim and proper spirit, that I am thinking she has never experienced a student who loves unlife as much as me. Once she returned, she congratulated me, and I told her that I would be sure to call her to give her updates on all my new experiences. I could tell that my gesture had touched her because I saw a small tear of ectoplasm roll down her cheek. She said, “How kind of you, but perhaps something less auditory, like an email, or even a handwritten letter would suffice in this situation.” I was going to give her a hug, but she suddenly remembered an appointment she had to keep and disappeared again. There is so much to do to get ready. I must start right away or maybe tomorrow. I think my writing is so loud, it is keeping Ma and Pa awake.

06.13

I wanted to get some more information on the school - wouldn’t want to get off on the wrong foot - so I talked to mi prima segunda Abbey on video chat tonight. We have not seen each other since our last family reunion, and it was good to catch up with her. Abbey is much quieter than myself, but we always have a good time hanging out together. I asked her about her family, she asked about mine, and then we started talking about Monster High. I’m not sure how much I ended up learning, though, since her answers to most of my questions were, “Is good”, “Is okay”, or “Abbey has no comment.” Because her answers were so vague, I finally had to ask her if she really liked the school or not. She got a very strange look on her face and said, “Is beast school in world, haven’t you been listening?” I guess if Abbey is this enthusiastic, it must be the beast school indeed.

06.18

Okay. Usually I like to do my own hair and nails because I think I intimidate most stylists. I am not being boastful, I am being truthful. They either go too subtle or too over the top, so I come out either looking like I did when I walked in or like a lost clown in search of a circus. So when Ma and I left the mountain for a day of shopping on the river down below, we made sure to leave some time so that we could visit our favorite salon. It is a little off the beaten tributary, but it is deadfinitely worth the trip. The main stylist is an encantada who dresses so plain that you wouldn’t think she would know hip from hop, but she is fierce with the styling of her clients. I told her that I was going to MH as an exchange monster and jokingly asked if I could take her with me. She said that she was such a home-monster that she could never imagine going that far away, but was excited for me. She also told me that she would make room in her schedule to get me in for a pre-flight check so that I could be at my big-haired best before I fly out on my big adventure. It was a great way to end a ghouls’ day out with Ma.

06.30

I got a personal email from Headless Headmistress Bloodgood with the contact information for another exchange student who is going to be at Monster High the same time as me. Her name is Lorna McNessie, and she lives in Rotland. I took a chance that she might be up and pinged her for a video chat. Ma and Pa were out for the evening, so I had the music cranked and I was doing my nails in a color so bright you could read by it. I wasn’t sitting in front of the screen when we connected, and I might have missed her if it hadn’t been in-between songs when I heard “Helloooh?” I popped back in front of my camera, and she must have accidently knocked hers over, because all I could see was the ceiling in her room and I heard her say something that sounded like “Strewth!” She straightened out her camera, and I saw red hair, freckles and a pair of eyes with some definite mischief behind them. I introduced myself and told her I would be coming to Monster High at the same time she was. After we got past the “accent barrier” and some problems with the volume on her end, which she kept having to adjust for some reason, we had a killer time. She really loved my nails and I thought the hat she was wearing was to die for. We talked for a long time, and by the time we were done I felt as if I had made a new friend. Now I will know two ghouls when I get to Monster High - which looks like the beginning of a beautiful party. 

[maren-as-an-adult]

The 2020 Experience

It’s been a while. A lot has happened, both in a general and personal sense. 

Let’s ramble a bit, shall we?

I have no idea how long this is going to turn out. I think I’ll break this into separate posts, because of all the stuff that’s happened in the last nine months, a VERY BIG DEAL of stuff happened within the past one and a half. 

Okay, here we go. 

After Broadway and the schools shut down, I spent two weeks isolating myself in my apartment bedroom, going out only to buy groceries and (if I was very lucky) supplies like toilet paper, paper towels, cleaning stuff, etc. Fortunately, we were pretty well stocked at my apartment, and two of my three roommates had decided to pack up and hunker down with their S.O.’s in New Jersey and North Carolina. This left me with my last roommate, Polina. 

Polina was... not my favorite roommate. She was passive aggressive, homophobic, transphobic, judgemental, anal about how things were done, and (I learned after she moved out [spoiler]) a Trump supporter. If it wasn’t one thing with her, it was another. We would divvy up the cleaning duties fairly and equally, but one day when it was my turn to clean the bathroom and her turn to wash the floors, she got upset with me because I was swiffering the bathroom floor that she had already washed. I wasn’t aware that she had also cleaned the bathroom floor; I had assumed the whole bathroom was its own unit to be cleaned, floor included. She was additionally upset when she saw I had draped both of the (nasty) bathroom floor mats over the shower curtain rail so I could clean the floor. She complained that they were dirty and would get other surfaces dirty, and when I pointed out to her that they were just out of the way so the floor could get cleaned and she wouldn’t be touching the shower rail anyway, she walked over to the couch and slumped into it, pouting. 

I should also mention that it was about 4pm, she was only wearing a towel wrapped around her body because she had wanted to shower, and she was about 42 years old. 

Again, I say, a 42 year old woman was having a tantrum because I didn’t clean the bathroom the same way she would. 

She would still go out to work at the beginning of the pandemic, wearing a mask, gloves, and protective eyewear, and took to sanitizing everything she bought and brought back with her with a sanitizing vinegar wipe. Our kitchen began to constantly smell like Easter and salad dressing. 

Meanwhile, I had no health insurance and no job to go out to, so I would stay home and sit at my computer, looking for other jobs, taking webinars for work hours, and watching Avatar: The Last Airbender on some pirate website (of course, after I had finished the series, it was put on Netflix). She would come home and if we ran into each other, we would politely ask about each others’ days. I would respond my days were boring, and she would ask, “How were they boring? How could they be boring? Did yo not do anything today?”

No, Polina, I didn’t. There’s a global pandemic and we’re living in the epicenter of it, and seeing as I don’t have health insurance I don’t want to run the risk of getting it by breaking quarantine for any reason besides getting food and supplies. 

“You keep spending all your time in your room, you really should get out more.”

Then I would be part of the problem.

“Do you sanitize your groceries when you bring them back?”

“No,” I responded when she asked me this one day.

“Why?”

Because I will stab someone in the face if I have to smell vinegar each time I pour myself a bowl of Cocoa Krispies. 

“You know the virus can live on surfaces for up to two weeks.”

“Polina,” I replied, trying very hard to maintain an even tone, “I’m aware. But it’s an extra effort I’m not willing to put in right now when I already go through a careful selection of back-shelf items that look undisturbed and are probably safer and cleaner on their surface. From my time working in Target, I understand how shelves are stocked, and I feel confident that I will not infect this apartment with my own food that only I eat.”

She wasn’t happy to hear this, but at least she left me alone after that. 

We didn’t spend all of COVID season together, I did go back to Chicago for a few months. My mom coordinated with her sister and brother-in-law, so I packed up my bags, hopped into a car with my uncle, and met my mom and brother in Milford, PA to drive back to Chicago. 

Those months were a mixed bag for me. I was relieved to be in a less-COVID infested part of the country, but I sometimes felt like a pariah. On more than one occasion when someone learned I had come back from New York City, they would react in what I’m sure they thought was a joking manner of caricaturized fear. Once, the mother of one of my close childhood friends jumped back and held up her fingers in the sign of the cross towards me when I mentioned I’d been in New York. I’d been home for over a month at that point and was already standing about ten feet away from her. I didn’t appreciate that.

 I couldn’t find motivation to do anything, so I fell out of practice with staying active and limber. Eventually, I received notice that my after school program didn’t have enough funding to appropriately host the summer session, so all staff were to be laid off for the summer. There was no guarantee that things would start back up again in the fall either. So for the first time in my life, I filed for unemployment. 

I started jogging on and off with my mom, which would usually turn into long walks around the neighborhood. I also started to grow an interest in gardening and plants again (pun absolutely intended), and put together a fairy pot that actually came out looking good. Unfortunately, my dad tripped over it one day, spilling the few impatients and seedlings out of the carefully crafted pot. I was able to salvage it, but it wouldn’t be the same. When the weather turned warm, I was allowed to have two of my best friends in the world come over and visit, so long as we stayed socially distant in the backyard and wore masks at all times.  

Things in the world did not get better. An increase in flippant attitudes towards COVID only brought the number of cases up, and tensions were brought to a high peak with the murders of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor. I was actually planning to go back to New York around the beginning of June, but with the protests and riots I put off my return for another month. 

I closed out my time back home by celebrating my 27th birthday in the beginning of July. My friend Brie came over, and we sat in the backyard, sipping wine and moonshine as a flank steak cooked on the grill. 

[bringmetolife-pwff]

Part One: Chapter Six - A sweet surprise

Its a few weeks later and Evelyn was finally feeling better about everything that had happened.  She knew that everything happened for a reason whatever it may be she wasn't sure yet.  But her head was finally in a good place.  After some reflection and a trip to a small village named Shere, Surrey near London.  She had needed to get away from London and clear her head.  It was a girls trip Evelyn didn't know she needed.

Now she felt refreshed, renewed and rejuvenated ready to get back to work.

She had just come home from work, letting out a sigh as she went through a long day of work.  As busy as it was three weeks ago was as slow as it was today.  Evelyn hated the slow days as it made time drag on.

"Oh my God," Evelyn let out a shriek of excitement as she smiled rushing over to him and hugging him.  "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

He let out a chuckle as well hugging her back, happy to see her smiling and laughing.

"I told you I would visit you and when I did it would be a surprise."

"Of course," she rolled her eyes playfully and regretfully stop hugging him.  "Well, this is definitely a nice surprise.  Are you doing anything right now?  D'you have time to visit?  I wasn't expecting you and well.... I made plans with friends tonight as well as some of my siblings.  If you wanted to meet them," she told him shyly as she tucked a piece of her blonde hair behind her ear.

He looks down at his Cartier watch to check the time.  He was in his military uniform having come straight from his military base not wanting to waste another minute from being away from her.  They had talked on the mobile every chance he had.  Eric and William had left at the same time but took separate cars.

William had made it to Evelyn's sister apartment thirty minutes ago, startling the blonde student out of her wits as she was on her way to university.  When he told her that he wanted to surprise Evelyn, Vivienne was happy to help and let him in.  Paul was with him at first but later left once the prince told him that he was safe he nodded his head and took the night off.  

"I can do that," he nodded his head happy that she wasn't having him go home.

They had a couple of hours to themselves before the get-together tonight.  William and Evelyn caught up with each other and their lives.  She asked about his military training, his home life and how he's been.  He did the same with her.

"What's your family like?" He asked with curiosity.  He had heard some from Eric but he wanted to know more.

"Well, we're quite close," she said as she was tracing circles on her leg with her finger looking at him.  "I have five other siblings only one sister."

"Five?" The prince's eyes widened in astonishment.

"Five," she clarified nodding her head.  "Jake is the eldest and he has two twin boys with his girlfriend, Mia.  Their sons names are Samuel and David," she smiled at the mention of them.  "Then there's Noah, Eric whom you obviously know, Theo and lastly Vivienne who my younger sister who is in university right now studying to become a midwife at King's College London."

"Wow," William exclaimed.  "I only have the one brother, Harry.  I can hardly keep up with him.  Not sure how you do with five," he said making her laugh.

"Well, they were all except my sister, born before me so it was easier that way."

"What about your parents?  What do they do?"

"My dad is the CEO of his own company called Bennett & Co.  He designs loads of things mostly focusing on now men's cologne, watches, etc.   My mum used to work for his company but now she stays at home.  She would be the one always taking care of us when we were younger.  Him too, but she did the majority of it."

"Bennett & Co. you say?  I actually own a watch by him then.  I didn't realise that was your Pa."

"Bloody hell, you're joking!"

"I'm not," he laughed shaking his head.  "I swear it.  Next time I see you, I'll wear it."

"Alright.  You better.  Tell me about your family."

She was born and raised in London her whole life and yet she never knew anything of the Royal family.  Now she was sitting in front of Prince William as they were discussing their home life and what their families were like.

"Loads of people think they know my family based off of what the tabloids say.  But you know, loads of people can't seem to forget how my Pa was with my mum.  But he's changed and he's happy with Camilla.  So I'm happy for him," he shrugged his shoulders.  "Although, between you and me, I wasn't at first."

"No?" said Evelyn as an eyebrow raised.

"No, Eve," he shook his head.  "There was so much turmoil within that relationship when my mum was alive.  She was the cause of my parents divorcing.  My mum only wanted for their relationship to get better.  There was so much that could have gone better even my Pa admits it now.  It's taken time and things still aren't quite there between Camilla and I, but my Pa's happy so I try to see it from his side."

There was a silence between the pair as she let his words sink in.  The thoughtfulness.  The hurt.  The emotion.  That was all still there and she could see the hurt of the fifteen-year old boy who was walking behind his mum's coffin.  She remembered that day.  She remembered school being called off and the millions of people that were out on the street mourning the death of the late Princess Diana.

She paused before she decided whether or not what she was about to say made any difference at all.  

"You probably wouldn't remember," Eve shook her head.  "I was there."

He furrowed his eyebrows not sure what she was going on about.

"At your mum's funeral," she murmured quietly as a blush rose to her cheeks heatedly.  "I saw how hurt you looked and I remember when my granddad passed away how I felt then.  And so, I walked up to you before you started walking."

"'Course," William looked gobsmacked as realisation dawned on him.  "You were the girl who walked up to me with the forget-me-nots."

"You remember?" said Evelyn just as shocked as William.

"How could I forget?  That was the only part of the day I actually wanted to remember.  The way you just walked up to me gave me a shy smile like you are now.  You were the only one who made me feel better even if it was for a second."

"I just felt so awful for you and your brother Harry.  I could never imagine how it must feel losing your mum at a young age," she shook her head.  "Although I didn't know your mum I know she could make anyone feel better with just a smile on her face."

"She did," William nodded agreeing with her.  "Can I hug you?"

Evelyn scooted closer to William and wrapped her arms around him.  He burrowed his head in her neck and he let a sigh of relief as he closed his eyes.  Evelyn could feel her eyes beginning to water.  The both of them recalling that day they first met.

It was a day that not only the whole country of United Kingdom was in mourning for the late Princess Diana but also the whole world.  She was dressed all in black her blonde hair down in waves as Evelyn held onto her mum's hand.  Natasha and Peter didn't want to lose sight of all five kids in the sea of people.

In the other hand Evelyn was holding a small bouquet of forget-me-nots.

From the distance, she spotted the Royal family as they looked all the more devastating than the rest of the people, especially William and Harry.  She saw what looked to be a letter in Harry's hands as The Queen told them about the formation.

Evelyn let go of her mum's hand hearing her call frantically for her to come back.  

Slightly out of breath as ran up to the young prince, the fourteen-year old did a wobbly curtsy and greeted him.  "Your Royal Highness.  These are for you," she gave him a shy smile as her cerulean blue eyes shown bright on this gloomy day.  She thrust the flowers in front of her.

"T-thank you," he told her with a shy smile taking the bouquet.

"Evelyn," they both heard a frantic shout at the young girl.

He guessed it was her mum as he watched the mum who also had bright blonde hair and blue eyes squat down at Evelyn's level.

"You mustn't walk away like that ever again from me, alright?"

"I'm sorry mummy," she said hurriedly.  "But he looked sad."

The funeral procession had started and the family was off.  He took one last look at the girl as she tried explaining her reasoning as to why she took off like that.  It was never the plan to go up to Prince William and give him the flowers but she had seen how upset he looked that she wanted to make him feel better, even if just for a bit.

"I can't believe that was you," he declared as they now sat up and looked into each other's eyes.  "I thought I would never see you again," William tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

***

It was now time for the get-together as her assistant Sam and husband Hamish were there now along with her model, Alyssa.  They were waiting on a few others as Evelyn was pouring all glasses of alcohol.

The doorbell rang and Evelyn went to open the door revealing her good friend, Ivy.  She was short, dark, and had the most gorgeous set of green eyes.  A real stunner.  Ivy let out a squeal as she hugged her good friend.

"Hello, love," Ivy greeted her as William could hear the strong Scottish accent.

The apartment was full of loads of their friends and some family.  Eric had decided to join after all allowing him and William to have a good chat.  Eric knew that William had been talking and spending more time with his sister and although he was curious about if anything was going on, he was also happy to see her happy; finally.  

Hamish seemed to be in a deep conversation with William about something as Evelyn chatted with Ivy.

"Yer finally lettin' go of that prune and moved onto a prince, aye?" Ivy asked in secret as William was chatting with Hamish.

"No, no," she laughed at her friend.  "We're just friends."

"Well, yer don' seem like 'ust friends to me," she shrugged her shoulders as she took another sip of her drink dancing to music that was playing in the apartment.

"All righ', all righ'," Ivy gave in but gave her a friend a knowing look showing she knew better even if Eve didn't.  "Well, he's certainly good lookin'."

"That he is," Eve had to agree with her.

Evelyn wasn't that blind.  She knew that he was good looking but she just wasn't ready to move on yet.  And who even knew if he was interested in her.  They were enjoying getting to know each other right now as friends and he seemed to fit right in with her friends which was nice.  The night went on and the party started to dwindle down.  

"I had good fun tonight," William said to Evelyn as they along with Vivienne were the only ones left.

"Me too," she agreed.  "I think my friends really like you."

"They're good people. ��Much better than Liam and Blair, even though I never met them.  When you find good people like that in your life -- you need to hold onto them."

"I agree.  It's rare to find people who you can trust.  Then, sometimes you think you can trust someone and they turn out to be the exact opposite..."

"That's why you have to unfortunately be very careful who your friends are.  I'm the same way.  I have a very small close group of friends but with the friends I have I know I can count on them for anything and I'm the same way for them," he shrugged his shoulders.  "I have to get going.  Pa's hosting a dinner for me tomorrow with the family.  But I'm hoping we can meet up again soon?"

"Soon," she agreed with a smile.

[thewanderingwench]

My Love Story with LARP

It was spring of 2015. I was making my rounds, visiting a handful of colleges to decide which university I would call my home away from home for the next four years. On that particular day, my search brought me to Indiana University of Pennsylvania, where a peppy 20-something showed me buildings I had seen several times before when I visited my cousin. I, along with the gaggle of other high school juniors that had no doubt been rousted from sleep far earlier than they would have liked to, spared a half-hearted glance with heavy eyelids at the auditorium. What caused my gaze to linger was not the fabulous architecture of the building itself, but the cluster of students in the grass in front of it, wearing tabards and beating one another with pool noodles. 

One of the kids on the tour asked what we were all thinking: What were they doing? The look on our tour guide’s face gave me all the connotation I needed. Whatever they were doing with those pool noodles was pure evil, the Devil’s work. No normal person would be seen with them, obviously. 

They were the LARP club. 

After that day, I never gave LARP much thought. Sure, my encounter with the strange college kids brandishing poorly-crafted foam weapons was fun to talk about at parties, but the subject wasn’t on my mind often.

 I graduated high school and started college, and oddly enough, I never saw the LARP club again. In fact, I hadn’t been in any proximity to LARP or its culture until the winter of 2019, when my girlfriend texted me links to videos on YouTube made by Momo O’Brien, a social media personality of some repute known for her frequent participation in LARP events. 

Almost immediately, I found myself falling in love with these in-depth games of pretend. As a cosplayer and avid fan of tabletop roleplaying games, LARP truly seemed to offer the best of both worlds. I spent all night binging those videos, and I even began daydreaming about characters I would play if I ever came across the funds to attend the featured LARPs. 

Soon, two things became fairly obvious to me. The first was that I was absolutely infatuated with the idea of LARP and the endless possibilities for stories I could be a part of. The second was that I was entirely too broke to afford anything like the videos I watched. I feared that perhaps I had become enamored with a hobby only for the elite nerds that could afford three-day trips to far away castles and haunted luxury hotels. Luckily, a bit of digging on the Internet unearthed a variety of events within my budget. 

My girlfriend and I plotted and schemed until we finally took the plunge and committed to an event: Sacred Grounds, an ongoing LARP hosted monthly in Stroudsburg, Pa. for a fraction of the cost of the blockbusters I was initially exposed to. We created our characters, two magic users who ran away from home and eloped to escape my character’s arranged marriage. Once we registered, all we had to do was wait for October to arrive. We created our costumes, tested makeup looks, styled wigs, and crafted tiny bags made of scrap fabric filled with rice to throw at other players. 

When the day came for the LARP, to say I was nervous was an understatement. I doubted I would be able to stay in character and feared that perhaps others would ostracize my girlfriend and I for being newcomers. My anxiety was quickly put to rest, as everyone was very welcoming as we loaded our bags into the crowded cabin that would serve as our tavern for the next three days. 

Once we were dolled up, we attended a workshop for new players explaining the mechanics of the game. It was, to be entirely honest, a lot of information to process. The game masters were more than happy to answer questions, though, and were accessible throughout the three days that the game took place. When we finished our orientation, we waited outside until we were called forth into the dark by a couple of NPCs holding torches, and just like that, the game was on. 

I surprised myself with how quickly I was able to turn off the nervous college student and turn on the arrogance and an English accent. Our little group of newbies was almost flawlessly assimilated into the ongoing plot, and I was never out of conversations to have. In the first day, I had managed to make friends with the town necromancer and win fantasy drugs at a carnival, only to sell them to a curious fae. Needless to say, I had a great time. 

At the end of the event, I was sad to go, but excited to return. I even roped in a couple of college friends to attend the next game after Sacred Grounds’ holiday hiatus. 

I’m still new to the world of LARP, but I hope to stick around for a while. And to think, I would have missed out on such a unique experience and welcoming community had I let fear get in the way.

 There are plenty of adventures to be had for those who are brave enough to pick up the pool noodle.

[youngmrkusuma]

The Naekawa Project - Part 9: The Least Terrible Time Of Year

Link to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20079526

Summary: A Christmas Fic! (Released about 8 months too late. Fuck me sideways with a chainsaw) 

AO3 Notes: Hey guys. Been a while, hasn’t it? :P

OH GOD, I AM SO FUCKING SORRY. This was supposed to have been out soooo much sooner, but a whole bunch of bullshit happened in real life that I had to deal with. Two of my Uni group projects had me working with useless, lazy assholes who left me to do almost everything by myself. It was probably the most stressful semester I’ve had the misfortune of having to slog through. There was crapload of assignments to handle, presentations to prepare for, and to top it all off, more writer’s block. Fun.

All that is over and done with, in any case. I’ll be graduating a day from now, but I fully intend to go for a Master’s degree come November, so it’ll be back to school once again. But I’m sure you don’t care about that horsecrap or any of my excuses. On to the story.

Winter was a quiet, temperate affair that year in Japan. The winds that heralded its arrival were much milder than they had been in the seasons before, going about their way gently this time – as if apologetic for having intruded upon everyone’s lives. Snowfall for most of that period (so far) had come down in light dustings, bringing to mind the image of powdered sugar, dealt from a confectioner’s steady hand. Rather, that was what it looked like to Fukawa, whenever she peered outside her window. As the final week of December drew closer, it hadn’t taken long for the streets to be lined with fairy lights, tinsel and men in red padded suits. In a way she couldn’t quite understand, it seemed a sign of things to come. 

Christmas was – in Fukawa’s experience – usually the least terrible time of year (Usually being the operant word here). Not enough to be considered good, sadly, but you take your blessings where you can get them. One of the main reasons that made it bearable was that her parents were fond of taking vacations overseas during this period. Without bringing her along. Their personal enjoyment of these trips aside, this was meant to be another one of their passive-aggressive jabs at her; Poor Little Touko, Mom Number Two would have chimed, left alone in this big empty house during the holidays, tsk tsk.

But the truth of the matter was that Poor Little Touko couldn’t be happier being alone in that big empty house, because it was infinitely better than spending Christmas with any single solitary one of those fuckers. She didn’t have to lock herself up in her room while they sat downstairs in front of the TV, braying like hyenas at whatever brainless, vapid sitcom they felt like watching. She didn’t have to scurry around like some kind of dormouse in her own home, hoping to avoid contact with them while grabbing a snack or a drink. And she didn’t have to wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of them rutting like barnyard animals or arguing with each other about their stupid problems.

Instead, she could sit in the living room – on the sofa with her laptop, wrapped in a blanket and with a cup of warm tea – drinking in the peace and quiet. She could have her meals in silence and pace the halls undisturbed, losing herself to the soothing lull of her own thoughts. She could sleep soundly and blissfully, letting her dreams carry her away.

All of these were comforts she greatly relished when she moved out into her own apartment and away from her wretched parents. But the downside of being able to live like that after so many years of domestic misery was that it put things into perspective.

Christmas had lost its magic and become a day like any other. And spending it alone – while everyone else was out there having fun with loved ones, exchanging gifts and carving turkeys and whatever else it was that people actually did (she genuinely had no idea) – had become… well, lonely. Fukawa learnt that the hard way last year.

So when the holiday season rolled around this time, she gave her boyfriend a request.

Naegi, being Naegi, of course said yes. He spoke to his parents about it, and they readily agreed. Both of them really liked her, it seemed, for reasons entirely beyond Fukawa. His sister Komaru, as well. Everyone was eager to have her over for the holidays.

For now, anyway, she thought, drawing her gaze away from the living room window. It was not outside the realm of possibility that she’d wind up becoming an unwanted guest, even with the apparently good impression she had made with his family the last few times she was here. As far as Fukawa was concerned, she still needed to be careful with what she did or said. She wasn’t as worried about Komaru, since they were already friends and had spent all that time together on shopping trips or chatting it up online, but with Naegi’s parents… It was different, somehow. There was still some unspoken divide between them and her, perhaps in the same way that it was between adults and kids. Even at the onset of her twenties (and presumably, adulthood), Fukawa didn’t feel like she could open up and be herself around them just yet.

Then again, that was what it was like with her and just about everybody, so maybe she was just being silly.

Other fears came to mind. The presents she bought for his family, for example. Fukawa had virtually no experience with this sort of thing, having never received so much as a single goddamn greeting card all her life on Christmas. So if there were any taboos she was breaking or cultural faux pas she was committing, she wouldn’t know. She had gotten Naegi something she was reasonably confident he’d like – a stylish new hoodie, branded and expensive – but for everyone else, she was reasonably confident that she screwed up somewhere.

For his father Toshiro, she bought a men’s dive watch. It looked sleek and professional and all, but what if it turned out it was out of style and he didn’t like it?

For his mother Emiko – who was a fan of her work, she ordered hardcover copies of her three latest novels from her publishers and had them autographed. But she neglected to check if Emiko hadn’t already bought them for herself.

And for Komaru, she bought a dress. In spite of knowing sweet fuck-all about fashion or even Komaru’s size. Thinking about it now made her want to smack her own forehead. It was probably the stupidest thing she could have done. Knowing Komaru, she’d probably just smile sweetly and thank Fukawa anyway, but the poor girl’s Christmas would be ruined all the same. Damn it, what the hell was going through her mind when she decided on any of this cra-

No, Fukawa told herself firmly, taking a deep calming breath, like Naegi would have told her to do whenever she got like this. I’m not fucking doing this with you anymore. Shut the fuck up. Even after all the progress she had made with her anxiety issues, she still had major relapses like these. She was a lot less nervous around the Naegi residence house than she used to be – since none of her other visits here had ended badly – but not enough to eliminate her reservations completely, the way it was whenever she was around Makoto.

Speaking of her boyfriend…

He came into the living room holding a pair of steaming mugs and wearing an adorable sweater that matched his eyes. He was beaming brightly as usual.

“Sorry for the wait,” he said. “We’re out of tea, so Mom had to whip us up a batch of this instead.” He handed her a drink. The warmth of the mug chased away the cold from her fingers. A pleasant aroma wafted from it.

“Out of tea?” She raised an eyebrow, smirking. “H-How does something like that even h-happen?” Her own subdued reaction to it surprised her. Had he told her of this utter sacrilege two years ago, she would have been shrieking to high heaven. Must have been Naegi’s influence.

“Eheh,” he scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “It was on our shopping list when we went out to the mall yesterday. But there was so much to buy and carry that we ended up forgetting.” He was interrupted by a peal of laughter from the kitchen; it sounded like Emiko. “Komaru’s at the store right now, so she should be back with some pretty soon.” His smile was apologetic. “I hope this will do in the meantime.”

Fukawa’s attention returned to the mug and she took a sip. The sweetness of it caught her off guard. She tasted chocolate, and something soft and creamy melted in. Marshmallows, she realized, taking another sip.

Hm. Not quite as good as tea, but good all the same. Perfect for the weather, and better than memory served.

“I can’t remember the l-last time I had this,” she said.

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm.” She could vaguely recall having hot chocolate as a child, but not how or when. It certainly wasn’t at home; neither Dad nor her two Moms bothered making it for her, and tea was all she drank as soon as she was old enough to boil water by herself. The batch she had back then wasn’t all that great, either. It was cold by the time it got to her, and fairly diluted. (Must have been that store-bought, powder crap, Emiko would later tell her. Disgraceful. Real hot chocolate should be homemade)

“What about when you were younger?”

She shrugged, bringing the cup to her lips once more. She didn’t need to elaborate. Beside her, Naegi’s expression became sad. He hadn’t touched his drink this whole time, keeping it there in his hands as he watched her. It seemed to Fukawa that he had something on his mind. And she was right.

“Um… Touko-chan?”

“Y-yeah?”

“I… uh,” He faltered. It was rare to see him like this. He gave a nervous laugh. “Actually, forget it. Maybe this isn’t the best time to talk about it…”

“N-no, go on.” She moved to sit on the couch, and he joined her. Again, she was surprised by how subdued her own reaction was. There was a time when seeing him like this would have sent her into a panic; perhaps he was going to tell her that they should break up. Or maybe he was going to grill her about some stupid, embarrassing thing she had done. After all this time, however, Fukawa was pretty sure that neither wasn’t going to happen. Not after everything they’d been through. Both of them set their cups on the living room table in front of them.

“Your parents,” Naegi said, “they don’t treat you very well, do they?”

The next minute was nothing but pure, deafening silence. Then: “…What m-makes you say that?”

“Well, for one thing, you’d rather be spending Christmas here than at home with your family,” he said. “You’ve also never brought me to meet them. And Mom’s been hearing… stories about your folks.”

Ah. This was a recent development. Lately, there’d been rumours circulating both online and offline about how the much celebrated, multi award-winning author Touko Fukawa-sensei had had a very rough homelife. She didn’t know where they came from or how they first started, but they’ve recently been gaining traction.

“What sort of stories?” She asked.

“That your dad used to hit you, or that your mom says horrible things about you.”

Huh. Those stories made it seem way tamer than it really was.

“Moms, actually,” she said, “D-Did I ever tell you that? I have two of them.” A wry smile formed on her lips. “I honestly d-don’t know who they h-hate more; me or each other.”

Naegi’s eyes widened.

“So it’s true, then,” he said. “They really do abuse you.”

“Did abuse me,” she corrected, matter-of-factly. “It’s in the past now.”

The one thing rarer than seeing her boyfriend nervous was seeing her boyfriend angry. What she saw in his eyes now was far beyond anything she thought Sweet, Gentle Naegi was capable of.

“All the same,” he said, quietly. “They still hurt you, didn’t they?”

His right hand had balled into a fist, bunching the fabric of his jeans. It wasn’t like with her parents whenever they got started on their infantile temper tantrums; screeching like howler monkeys and throwing things everywhere. He was silent, and she could see what lay beneath that silence, bubbling away until it was ready to blow. It was – in complete honesty – frightening to see him this way.

“We have to do something about this.” He stood up quickly. “Talk to the police, or anyone that can help…”

“Why?”

He blinked twice, mouth agape. He could have sworn he misheard her. “…Why? Why?? What do you mean ‘Why?’” He was getting louder. “Doesn’t it bother you that those people haven’t been punished fo-”

Fukawa had slowly gotten up to her feet as he said all this. She wrapped her arms around his, her fingers caressing him gently.

“Naegi, it’s o-over now,” she said, soothingly. “I cut all ties with them the day I m-moved out. They don’t matter anymore. Just forget about them.”

Just forget about them. Two years ago, Fukawa would never have believed that she’d ever be able to sincerely say that about her parents. Not when pure spite was the only thing she had left to cling to. Now though… It was a change she was proud of.

But Naegi couldn’t just forget about them. Not with what he now knew. All this while, when he and Fukawa were in school, or hanging out with each other or going on dates, she was living with those… those savages. What had they done to her? How accurate were those stories Mom had heard? Did they beat her? Starve her? One of those rumours mentioned her being locked in a room for three days. Or maybe it was a closet. If even half of what people were saying was true…

You failed her, a voice inside him said. And he felt something white hot burn from within him.

She had been in trouble. Just like when she had been in trouble with Syo, except this time he couldn’t help because he was too freaking dumb even know what was happening, right under his nose. Child abuse tended to leave signs on the victim, both emotional and physical. He should have seen or at the very least suspected something whenever he was with her. Bruises, maybe. Or cane marks. Or cigarette burns on her arm. Something. Hell, the fact that she was – to put it mildly – such a neurotic mess when he first met her should have raised a red flag.

Yet he didn’t know. All this while she was suffering in that house with those people, and he didn’t. Fucking. Know.

Stupid, he cursed himself. You’re so goddamn stupid.

“How am I supposed to do that?” He turned to look at her, sadly now. “Just pretend like nothing happened and I didn’t notice anything?” He held her by the shoulders. “They hurt you,” he repeated, anger returning. “They’ve been hurting you this whole time and I didn’t even…” He gritted his teeth. “We can’t just let them get away with that.”

A contented sigh escaped her as she smiled. If there was ever a sign that he did truly care about her, this was it.

“They’re not getting a-away with it,” she said. “When I said I cut a-all ties with them, I d-don’t just mean cutting off contact. They’re not getting another cent from me.”

Naegi blinked again. “Huh?”

“My royalties,” she explained. “They used to m-make me split a portion of it with them for ‘rent and board’ or ‘weekly expenses’. Not anymore.” Her smile became sardonic. “H-Here’s something I’ll bet you’d never have guessed about my Dad; he’s a p-player. Can you believe that?”

He looked about ready to say something when she said “Actually, you k-know what? D-don’t answer.”

“Anyway, the dumb bastard always liked t-to go clubbing, you see. So he could p-pick up chicks and guzzle booze. And he spent a fortune on both. He always had to h-have the most expensive liquor, and he bought fancy clothes and w-watches, all so he could i-impress air-headed girls. Didn’t stop e-even after he got hitched.

“His spending got worse o-once I started publishing. N-New house, new cars, new f-furniture… My Moms weren’t m-making things any easier either, the fucking gold diggers.” Fukawa shook her head. “F-funny how they can’t stand each other when they’re both e-exactly the same. They w-wanted dresses and jewellery and weekly t-trips to five-star restaurants. All paid for b-by yours truly.

“But not anymore. You should have s-seen the look on their faces when I told them I was moving out; I kept it a surprise. The c-cash cow’s gone, and knowing them, t-they probably didn’t bother saving.”

Fukawa knew for a fact that their monetary habits did not change or even slow down a little once she left them behind. They had never been able to help themselves up on social media, constantly bragging to their friends about their lavish lifestyle. A look through their feed told her that they had been every bit as extravagant in their spending for the first few months.

And then everything fell apart. No more pictures of lobster and beluga caviar. No more pictures of chiffon dresses and Gucci handbags. In their place were vague ramblings about how life gotten harder, about bills and mortgages.

Soon, there were offers to sell used designer goods at discount prices. Offers to sell their car. And finally, radio silence.

“P-Probably in dire straits now,” she said. Mockingly: “Poor them.”

Much of Naegi’s anger was replaced with uncertainty. “…That might not necessarily be true, though. I mean, maybe they just started spending less. They could still be living comfortably off of your money.”

“Fair point,” she shrugged. Truth of the matter was, she couldn’t care less either way. At least, not anymore. It felt like it happened in another lifetime, to a different Touko Fukawa. Her past felt so inconsequential.

“Look, l-let’s not talk about them a-anymore, okay?” She said, softly. “It’s Christmas. People are supposed to be h-happy on Christmas.”

Her boyfriend remained tense for a few moments, then relaxed. “Alright. If that’s what you want.”

“It is.”

They sat back down together. As they did, Fukawa planted a kiss on his cheek. A small noise of surprise escaped him as she pulled him into a hug.

“T-Thank you.”

He was blushing. “What for?”

“For caring.” She squeezed him tighter. It was true that she didn’t want him worrying about her or getting up in arms about her shitty parents, but the fact that he did made her so, so grateful. “No one ever h-has before.”

Naegi returned the embrace. “Of course I care,” he said. “How could I not? I love you.”

She smiled at that. Love. It was a word she would have been so hesitant to use a year ago, even when she was at her happiest with him. Youngsters always think they know what love is, until the magic of it all wears off and they start drifting apart or eyeing someone else. She had seen it happen a thousand times before. And she had been terrified of getting so caught up in that magic that she’d end up becoming clingy and driving him away. After being with him for so long, however, she was sure of her own feelings, sure of what it was exactly that she shared with him.

“I love you too,” she said, without fear or reservation.

And the moment slowed as they leaned into each other, two halves longing to be made whole. Her heart was going a mile a minute, and she could feel the warmth of Naegi’s breath as they-

Click.

Both of them blinked at the same time.

Click.

Turned to the source of the noise: the living room entrance.

Click.

Emiko Naegi-san was standing there, holdng back giggles. She had her smartphone out, the camera in facing their direction. Komaru was there too, grinning from ear to ear. She stuck her thumbs up at them cheerily. Click.

Naegi’s cheeks turned beet-red again in record time. “M-Mom!? What are you-” Click.

“Oh no, don’t stop on our account,” Emiko said. Her smartphone clicked another three times in a row. “Please, by all means, continue.”

“Mom!” Click.

Beside him, Fukawa had turned into a stammering wreck. There wasn’t much else she had the presence of mind to do, except for bury her face in her hands. All that went through her mind for the next minute or so was Oh god oh god they saw us and there’s pictures oh god oh god oh god

A new voice rang out from behind Emiko and Komaru. Makoto’s father Toshiro, no doubt. “What is going on out there??”

“Young love!” Emiko cried out. “Our little boy is all grown up!” And Komaru squealed with laughter while her father emerged from the kitchen. Makoto looked on mortified as his mother showed Toshiro the pictures. “There, see? It’s like I was saying earlier; future daughter-in-law.”

“Wha-!?” Both Naegi and Fukawa blurted at the same time.

“They’ll be walking down the aisle before you know it!”

His father shook his head, though a smile crept across his face. “You keep acting like this and you’re going to scare her away for good, Emi.” He gave the pair a sympathetic look (as if to say to Fukawa: Please pardon my wife’s insanity), then turned back to Emiko. “Maybe we ought to give them some privacy?”

“And miss out on all this? Fat chance.”

“I’m not budging one inch,” Komaru said.

This went on for quite a bit before everyone decided that their time was better spent in the dining room instead, where a nice hot meal was waiting (half of which was comprised of traditional dishes and the other half comprising of KFC*). Neither Makoto’s mother nor sister had any intention of letting them live down what happened, unfortunately. The jokes and snarky comments continued well into the night – including one about a sprig of mistletoe that Fukawa didn’t understand but had her boyfriend in shambles.

And that was how, in spite of all her efforts, the worst happened after all. She embarrassed herself in front of Naegi’s family.

Yet somehow, she was completely okay with that. Somehow, this was still the best Christmas she ever had.

And she didn’t just mean the-best-in-comparison-to all the other semi-decent Christmases she had, oh no. Fukawa knew – even with the heat in her cheeks and the laughter at her expense – that this was going to be a night that she would look back upon very fondly for a long time to come. She was going to think back to Komaru giggling herself into a belly ache and Emiko playfully threatening to plaster those photos all over Facebook, and she was going to smile. She was going to think back to what happened in the living room and hearing the click of the camera and the softness of Naegi’s lips pressing against hers, and she was going to be glad it happened.

Glad to have been embarrassed. She must have finally gone mad.

More so than usual, that is. Either way, her mind was in a good place right now. Fukawa was enjoying a good meal in the company of good people. She couldn’t ask for anything better.

Definitely doing this again next year.

AO3 End Notes: As some of you have no doubt noticed, my portrayal of the Fukawa family is a bit different to what was hinted at in the DR AE - Genocider Mode manga released in January 2019 (Touko’s parents were… hoarders, it seemed like? It would explain her supposed bad hygiene). That’s because I was already done with the first half of this story and I wasn’t about to start changing it, especially since we’ve already diverged so much from canon anyway.

*Believe it or not, it is in fact a very popular Christmas tradition in Japan to celebrate with KFC, apparently thanks to some marketing campaign back in the 1970s. They’ve got the right idea, as far as I’m concerned; KFC is fucking delicious.

[askdawnandvern]

Gus: Vernon, you told?!

Vernon: I didn't tell squat!

Gus: Then how...ugh...Ulric...?

Vernon: I wouldn't be surprised.

Gus: How many times do I have to tell that wolf I don't work for the 'Illubahnaati', and I'm not an alien!

Vernon: You can keep tryin', but he's never gonna accept it. You know how he is about caprid-folk.

Gus: The first time he tied me up was the first time I was invited to Vernon's house. Vernon and I were playing video games in the basement when I got up to use the restroom. I nearly made it there when that crazy wolf sprung on me, triggering my fainting reflex which only made it that much easier for him to drag me out to the barn and tie me to a chair. He kept asking me 'who sent me?' Like he was Batmammal or something.

Vernon: Thankfully it weren't long before I went to check on Gus and tracked him out to the barn. I was so afraid ya'll wouldn't come back over after that.

Gus: I almost didn't. My first trip to a friends house, and a predator at that, and suddenly I find myself trussed up in a barn full of pointy, sharp implements. I was afraid I was gonna end up a meal for that crazy idiot.

Vernon: I can't blame ya...we barely knew each other then.

Gus: The second time was a few days after prom. I slept over Vernon's along with Broomie and Joel because we were pulling an all-night B&B session.

Vernon: Trenny and Wade both had dates, and ol' Ully had somehow led my parents to believe he had a date as well. O' course, when ol' Ully didn't come home the next morning, everyone got purty suspicious. It weren't long before Pa got a call that said Ulric was on the high school gym roof. Apparently, he had locked himself up there, tryin' to communicate with 'aliens'.

Gus: And the only reason this is all relevant is because three days later, Ulric snatched up me and Broomie while we were leavin' school and dragged us to the same damn roof. Apparently, he was trying to negotiate our 'release' with our alien leaders.

Vernon: Sweet sawgrass...that idjiot.

Gus: Thankfully we didn't end up spending all night up there. Ulric's disappearance so soon after the last time clued the Hunter's in on where he may be, and he was subdued before the sun set. Apparently he had stopped taking his 'meds' before prom, and had taken to fake swallowing them infront of Audrey only to spit them out afterward for the next several days to keep his senses from being 'dulled'.

Vernon: Fer the next few months after, pa used to force the boy to guzzle water and squeeze his throat to make sure his doses went down without a fight.

Gus: Yeesh...really? That sounds a little rough, even for Ully.

Vernon: By that point the school was threatinin' to sue. So pa had to make sure that Ully was taking his meds at least until graduation. With him not bein’ a student after that, pa figured he’d be less likely to go back to the school to indulge in his antics.

Gus: That explains why the next attack didn't happen till summer break.

Vernon: Attack? C'mon Gus...

Gus: He carried me off while we were all sleeping in the basement and tied me to a post in your cornfield. One he put up in the center of that crop circle. I certainly didn’t go willingly! So yeah, attack...

Vernon: Oh yeah, we had a big one that year. The local pranksters really outdid themselves.

Gus: That was probably the worst one. I had to spend all night out there, strapped to a pole and listening to Ully's insane ramblings until the sun came up. I knew I was saved once I heard Audrey's morning wake-up howl.

Vernon: Ulric looked so down. Like more sad than worried about bein' in trouble when we found him.

Gus: That's because he was so sure the 'aliens' were going to come to pick us up. Apparently, aliens don't visit in the day time, which is why when the sun finally rose he crumpled to his knees and spent most of the time whining until you guys show up.

Vernon: It was a real pathetic look fer him.

Gus: At least he had stopped talking. His rambling had me wishing aliens would show up just so something would get me away from him.

[precurelegends]

Galaxy Rise Pretty Cure: Beginnings

If Hana had gotten any sleep at all, it was a miracle. She had been counting down the days until the trip to the Link Cube. And now, for the first time in her life, she’d get a chance to visit the world on the other side. A planet where apes had evolved into the dominant species. It was going to be so much fun.

As she stood in line with her fellow Zyuman students, the teacher, a Shark Zyuman told them to buddy up. “Make sure to stay with your buddy at all times, and return to the Link Cube before sunset.”

Hana had paired up with Macchu, a llama Zyuman and he was already planning their first stop, based on his own trip to Earth. “We’ve got to go get curry at this place called Snack Safari before they run out. Then we’re going to head down past JAXA...”

“Wait, what’s JAXA?” Hana asked as their double file line made its way to the Cube.

“The Japanese Aerospace Exploration Agency. They’ve got some amazing technology there. You have to see it for yourself, Hana. They don’t teach us these things in Zyuland.” Macchu smiled a big dopey grin.

“Then that’s what we’ll do.” They were still six rows of students away from the Link Cube, so Hana put her paws together in prayer. “Father, wherever you are, please watch over me and Macchu.” She had lost her father a few years before. He had gone to Earth and never returned. But maybe he was still there.

Macchu, seeing his buddy in prayer, joined her. “Yeah, Mister Ookami. If you’re there, give Hana a sign so she’ll smile. She does have a pretty smile, after all.”

“Macchu!” Hana blushed and her buddy grinned.

“Hey, I’m just telling the truth. People would be blind if they didn’t see that.”

“Macchu, are you flirting with me? Because, you know...”

“I know, Hana. You’re not into boys.” The llama shakes his head. “But you and I have been friends for seven years now. I like to think you’re one of my best friends. And best friends can pay each other compliments without it being romantic, right?”

“Yeah. So let’s see what’s on the other side of the Cube.” Hana smiled. “Besides, you’re always going to be in spitting distance of me, right?”

“Hey, that was one time!” Macchu gave his best friend a little shove as they approached the Link Cube and Hana smiled in response. At least she’d have some fun adventures with him by her side.

--

Sleep did not come easily to Perelta Malin. By the time the sounds from the spaceport had died down, it was just after midnight, and Perelta had been keeping track of the different engine sounds. She knew full well what the engines of SPD ships sounded like, and thankfully, that sound had not crossed her ears all night. And yet, as she came down from the loft, she has a sensation of uneasiness. Her parents had been gone for the better part of two days. Their little “expeditions” always put Perelta on edge. So she sinks into her own blankets, praying to the god of journeys that she’d at least get some good dreams.

Some prayers are answered immediately, but the desires answer is not always the one that is given. A mere hour passes before the doors slam open. Perelta falls from her bed, knowing what that sounds means. Yet another uprooting.

“Get up, take only what you can carry and get ready to go.” Her mother says from the doorframe.

“No.” She’s been steeling her nerves for this moment for a long time. But it’s finally time to put her foot down. “I am not involved in yours and father’s crimes. I’m not a thief, I’m not wanted by SPD. I am my own woman and I will not be relocated because you two took a job too far. Not now, not ever again.”

Her outburst catches her father’s attention and he enters Perelta’s room, fire in his eyes. “What did you say, young lady?”

“You heard me. I have no need to repeat myself. You two can run, you two can go to another safehouse. I am not part of that life, and unlike you, I have nothing to hide.” Her adrenaline is rushing. She quickly grabs up her favorite clothes, some towels and body washes and throws them all into a travel bag.

“I am leaving. I would say ‘farewell’ but I never want to see you two again.”

Perelta pushes her way past her parents, aiming for the front door.

“Young lady, if you go through that door, you’re in for a world of pain.” Her father calls to her back

Perelta has her hand on the console to open the door. She gives her parents one last look before waving her hand to open the door. “I will take my chances.”

If she had learned anything from them, it was how to shake a tail. Her size makes it possible to blend in with the back alleys of the spaceport. Finally, she found her way to the refueling station. Choosing the ship that looked like it was outfitted for long distance travel, she slips past the guards and hides herself in the cargo compartment. There, she finally has some time to catch up on her sleep.

---

“Wake up, little bird.” The voice of her mother came from the PA system.

As Kilena’s eyes fluttered open, she waved her hand over the panel by her bedside, letting the light flow through conduits around the room. Bright enough to see by, but not so bright to blind her after her long slumber. A quick run through the sonic shower and a few more minutes to preen her feathers, and Kilena was ready to head for the cockpit of the ship.

“Good morning, Starlotta.” Kilena smiled at her bodyguard waiting outside her door.

“Good morning, Kilena. Your parents are waiting for you up ahead. Is it true they never told you what planet they’re going to be serving on?” Starlotta falls into step beside her charge, and Kilena giggles, a laugh that sounds more a songbird twittering.

“Nope. I’ve known that we’d be going across the Milky Way, but they wanted me to be surprised. I guess we’re about to find out.” Kilena runs her fingers over the nestmate necklace and enters the cockpit.

“Kilena, are you ready to see your new home?” Her mother, a beautiful corvid with bright blue feathers asks as she takes her daughter’s wing in her own.

“Of course, Mother. I can’t wait.” She walks with her mother until they reach the center of the bridge, and she stands next to her father, his midnight black feathers displaying his pride in his family and their future.

“Turn on the viewing screen.” Ambassador Mitres Akralis orders his men, and soon the external cameras show off an obscure body in the SK system.

Kilena puts a free hand to her mouth in surprise. “Earth? Your new posting is Earth?” She looks between her parents with a combination of joy and amazement. “I’ve heard so much about Earth from my penpal at SPD. It’s full of natural wonders, strange creatures and giant robots! This is the best posting ever!”

“That’s why we requested it.” Her father puts a hand on her shoulder. We’re going to be touching down at the SPD spaceport soon to get our paperwork finalized. Get in the chair over there and get ready for landing.”

As the energy barrier around the planet falls, Kilena gets into position, bracing for the landing. The inertial dampeners on the ship make such an action just a formality, but she still does it.

---

When the ship lands at SPD, the space police run a scan of the ship to make sure it’s decontaminated and free of any kind of contraband. To their surprise, and the suprise of the Raloi ambassadors, they find a stowaway. A green-haired staggers from the hold, her hands above her head. “Please, don’t shoot. I surrender.”

“We have no intention of shooting you.” An SPD officer in green steps forward. “Put your thumb on this scanner, please.” Perelta complies, and the identification software brings back a match.

“Perelta Malin, daughter of Corus Malin and Mori Malin. You have no criminal record of your own, thankfully.”

“And I would like to keep it that way. I am willing to give information regarding my parents, whether or not doing so would afford me police protection.” She says, running a hand through her hair.

“Hold off on any confessions until you’ve had a chance to meet our child legal advocate.” The officer waves down an alien woman in a black pant suit. “Mrs Shinsei, this young lady would like to offer evidence against wanted criminals.”

“Thank you, Officer Enari. I will take her to get cleaned up and fed, with your leave.” The advocate nods, offering her hand to Peralta. “It will be my pleasure to represent you, Perelta.”

“If it pleases you, I would prefer a new name for the legal records..”

As this conversation is happening, Ambassador Akralis calls over Officer Enari. “Sorry to distract you, Officer, but I have an important question.”

“We have a security detail preparing the route your vehicles can take to the embassy.” The SPD officer says quickly.

“That’s good, but it’s not the question I was going to ask.” He points to Kilena, who is currently watching the conversation between the green-haired stowaway and the advocate. “My daughter has recently entered her adolescent years, and as such, we will need to send her for the best education she can obtain. Do you have any recommendations for schools that would be friendly to extraterrestrials?”

Officer Enari strokes his chin. “My suggestion would be Amanogawa High School. Make sure to request Kisaragi Gentaro as her teacher. There isn’t a human teacher alive who cares for their students like he does.”

---

Several hours later, after Perelta has finished her testimony, she emerges from the SPD headquarters to see Kilena waiting there for her.

“May I help you?” She looks over to the humanoid bird girl with curiosity.

“Actually, I wanted to help you. You came a long way to get away from a terrible family life, and since you were on my ship, I figured I’d offer you something you probably need. A friend.” With Starlotta looking on, Kilena approaches, her hand extended to the other. “I’m Kilena Akralis. What name should I call you?”

The runaway looks to her own legal advocate with a soft smile. “You can call me Michiko. Michiko Shinsei.”

“That’s a pretty name. So, Michiko, if it’s all right, how about we go take a tour of Earth?” The bodyguard and legal advocate talk for a moment and agree that it would be a good thing for both of their charges.

As they travel down the street, they come to the front of JAXA where Hana and Macchu are checking out the rockets out front.

“This vehicle is rather antiquated.” Michiko says to Kilena. She wasn’t expecting the wolf girl to hear her.

“Maybe to you, but where I come from, they don’t even have these.” Hana answers.

“Where do you come from that they don’t have a space program?” Kilena asks. 

“It’s a dimensionally shifted version of Earth called Zyuland.” Hana points to Kilena’s feathers. “You’d fit in just fine there.”

“Really? What’s your world like?” Kilena is now curious, though judging by the wolf and llama before her... “Humanoid animals, right?”

“That’s right!” As Hana smiles at the other two girls, the lights go out. Not just the lights in the aerospace building, but the sunlight itself seems to fade away.

Hana feels Macchu’s hand in her own and it’s shaking, with good reason. Then in a moment, that hand is ripped away. A sudden gravitational pull drags Macchu away.

A similar fate falls upon Mrs. Shinsei and Starlotta. As they try to get their girls, they’re pulled away.

“And now, let’s let this experiment begin!” A voice carries over the area, as if over a loudspeaker. Hana, Michiko and Kilena turn to see a tall man in a bedraggled lab coat, holding up a strange disc, which he throws at the rocket.

The rocket reshapes itself into a giant humanoid shape, howling at the three girls. In the center of the rocket monster are what appears to be the bodies of Macchu, Mrs Shinsei and Starlotta.

Hana narrows her eyes and with her Zyuman speed, she dashes over to the mad scientist and rakes her claws across his face. “HOW DARE YOU? How dare you hurt them? What gives you the right?” As she says that last word, she claws him down the other side of the face, giving him two sets of matching scars.

“It’s all in the name of science, little girl!” The mad scientist is suddenly driven back by another impact to the side of his face. He looks over to see Michiko holding up a chunk of concrete that had broken from the mooring when the monster was made. It matches the one on the ground by his feet.

“I do not care for your motivations. You took the first person that had ever shown me kindness and turned her into a monster.” Michiko hurls the second rock, and the mad scientist catches it. But this leaves him open to an attack on the right side from Kilena. She takes off the glove covering her own talons and slashes at the madman’s left arm.

“You clearly have no interest in scientific progress. Very well. I will take my leave. Alypse! Destroy them!”

“Alypse!” The monster roars again as the madman leaves.

The three girls gather with Hana and Kilena standing in front of Michiko. “Any ideas, girls?” Hana asks.

“We fight!” Michiko answers. “Even if we’re not strong enough to beat that thing, we have to fight! For my new mother!”

“For my bodyguard!” Kilena answers, her feathers bristling.

“For my best friend!” Hana answers and she lets out a loud howl that causes the Alypse to pause for a moment. And in that pause, the darkness is broken up by a shining star.

“Your wish has been heard.” A melodious voice speaks to the girls. “Reach out the heavens and call upon the stars.”

With no other options, the girls raise their hands, shouting in unison “Come to me, power of the stars!”

A shooting star blazes across the sky, and the stars hear their cry. The shooting star flies across their hands, dropping two items into their palms. The first item is a cellphone like device with a rocket charm on the front. The second item each of them receives is a living creature, seemingly combining rabbits and technology.

“Introductions later. You three have to transform.” The apparent leader of these creatures says to Michiko. “Take the rocket charm and slide it up the outside of the phone! Then say “Pretty Cure! Blast Off!”

Not really knowing why, but knowing that they have to step into action, the girls follow the orders of the strange creatures. As soon as they say the transformation phrase, the cellphone devices sprout fins like rockets and fly around their bodies, covering them in stardust.

Soon their outfits have formed around them, leading into their first rollcall.

“The Shimmering Northern Lights, Cure Aurora!”

“The Sparkling Cosmic Cloud, Cure Nebula!”

“The Shining Starburst, Cure Nova!”

“As long as light shines in the heavens, evil shall not go unpunished. Galaxy Rise Pretty Cure!”

Though the new heroines had never done anything like this before, their companions named Mir, Hayabusa and Hubble, guided them through the fight. And just like that, a new team is born.

Once they are sure that their loved ones ae safe, they head back home for something they all needed. Sleep.

--

As Kilena and Starlotta returns to the Embassy, the bodyguard shakes her head. “After all that, am I really needed? You can clearly handle yourself.”

“Of course. You’re not just my bodyguard. You’re my friend.” Kilena answers before sliding into bed with her favorite stuffed animal in one hand, and Hayabusa in the other.

--

Michiko stands outside the door of Mrs Shinsei’s home, not certain if she really belongs. But that doubt is quickly cast aside as Mrs Shinsei opens the door. “I’ve got a room set up for you, Michiko. Tomorrow, we can go shopping to decorate it.”

With a tear in her eye, Michiko doffs her shoes and crosses the threshold. “I’m home!”

“Welcome Home, Michiko.” Mrs Shinsei is all too happy to have a daughter, even an adopted one.

--

Hana looks over at her mother, and the shrine dedicated to her father. “Mom, you know how it’s getting time for me to choose a high school? I want to study on Earth.”

Her mother smiles. “We’ll talk about it in the morning, my cub. Now, get some sleep.”

“Good night, mom.” And then quietly, she says “Good night Michiko, Good night, Kilena. I’ll see you soon.”

[adaportfolio-blog1]

The Ins and Outs of Collegiate Extracurricular Activities

MIDDLETOWN, PA-- The day began at 5:30 a.m. for 21-year-old senior Carlee Gochenaur. After conditioning from 6:30 to 7:15 in the morning, Gochenaur, who is captain of Penn State Harrisburg’s softball team, quickly showered and dressed before rushing over to Habitat for Humanity, where she serves as the Communications and Events intern. She worked there for about five hours, managing the organization’s social media and planning fundraiser events, before coming to campus, where she had class from three to eight at night. As a college senior managing the workload of 21 credits while interning and being a college athlete, the grind is nonstop.

Many college students that are involved in extracurricular activities can relate to Gochenaur’s grueling schedule. “It’s very mentally exhausting and physically exhausting,” said Oscar Cartagena, a junior on the men’s soccer team. He says his biggest challenge as a student athlete is time management. “Being able to balance school, family, being a friend and just, you know, normal surviving like eating, it’s very difficult.” Often times, managing the responsibilities that come with being a student athlete can feel like a catch-22. “There are times when I’m in school and have all this work to do, but next thing you know, I have to leave and have to skip class because of a competition.”

Jordan Larkins, a 20-year-old communications major, firmly believes in the power of the writing things down. “Get a planner, swear by the planner. The planner is your bible,” said Larkins, who participated in multiple organizations on campus, including Lion Ambassadors, THON, and Business Management club. She said extracurricular activities can be incredibly time-consuming; it’s part of the reason she chose to drop Lion Ambassadors and THON to create more time for school work. “I think the hardest part is figuring out where you need to be responsible because school’s first,” Larkins said. Priorities can easily be compromised when balancing school and extracurricular activities. “It’s hard to draw the line for yourself of ‘I really want to go out to this event and I really want to do this, but I have a paper due in two days,’” she remarked.

Self-accountability is essential to balancing school and extracurricular activities for these students. Because Gochenaur’s classes often conflict with her team practices, she often has to make the time on her own. When it comes to working with professors, she says they’re usually very accommodating. “I don’t think I’ve ever really had a problem with it,” the senior said, recalling a time when she was absent the day of final presentations for an advertising course because her team made it to the playoffs for the first time. “You just have to tell them in advance,” she advises. “But usually, it’s very simple.”

Cartagena also spoke about the importance of student athletes building strong relationships with their professors. “I always try to make them know who I am,” he said. Keep in mind, this is a two-way street. “If you’re a student athlete and you show you don’t give a crap, they’re not going to give a crap about you,” Cartagena said. Cartagena also alluded to the trust factor between student and teacher. While professors are generally flexible and understanding, it’s not something Cartagena takes advantage of. “They’re very lenient with me when I have to leave, but I try not to abuse the power and I give my work on time because I think it’s messed up for the other people,” he said.

When considering the differences between playing a sport in high school versus a collegiate level, Christopher Bing, a 22-year-old senior who plays basketball for Penn State Harrisburg, describes college athletics as a business. “They’re giving you money so they want you to produce.” Contemporary college sports can literally garner millions of dollars for the university. They are also increasingly expensive, making the already steep cost of college education unaffordable in some cases. According to Bing, fortunately for Penn State athletes, the athletics department seems to bear the burden of these expenses. “We fundraise in order to get spirit wear and things like that,” Gochenaur said. “But all the travel expenses are on the school, like bus trips, hotels, things like that, and they give you meal money on away trips.” Cartagena remarked that his only expenses are his personal equipment, such as cleats and shin-guards. Everything else, including uniforms and travel expenses, is covered by the university.

College athletics are considerably more demanding than high school athletics, not only mentally but also physically. “It’s a whole new level when you get to college,” Gochenaur said. “Nothing is just given to you, so you have to work hard to be able to earn that starting spot.” She recommends high school athletes come prepared with a strong work ethic. Cartagena expressed similar sentiments, advising, “Don’t come in thinking you’re hot [expletive].” The athleticism increases tenfold at a collegiate level, and Cartagena says that arrogance a is sure fire way to isolate yourself from teammates. “You’re going to come in and see players ten times better than you,” Cartagena said. Playing at a collegiate level is an opportunity to hone your skills and learn something new. This was Gochenaur’s experience as a freshman. She was thrown into the outfield after playing third base her entire high school career. Gochenaur said that, ultimately, it’s up to the coach’s discretion what position an athlete plays, and that’s determined on how their skillset will best serve the team. Although this was a challenging transition for Gochenaur, she believes it developed her into a better-rounded athlete. “I worked very hard to be able to get a starting spot and got “Newcomer of the Year” my freshman year,” she said.

While reflecting on his most rewarding moments as a student athlete, Cartagena also recalled previous accolades. Cartagena was also awarded Newcomer of the Year as a freshman, which would serve as motivation for the years to come. Despite this, he described his sophomore year as a difficult one. “I didn’t get as much playing time as I did my freshmen year, so it was really a letdown, however at the end of the year I got Scholar Athlete award of the year. So even though I didn’t get as much playing time as I wanted, I was recognized for what really matters, which is my education.”

Extracurricular activities can be a great opportunity to meet life-long friends. For Gochenaur, the best part of being a student athlete is the team. “I met my best friend through this. She graduated two years ago and we just clicked right away. I still visit her like, every weekend, and I’m going to be the maid of honor at her wedding.” Through time spent together at trainings and competitions, athletes often develop a strong camaraderie with one another. “The best part is the memories you make,” Cartagena said. While few are lucky enough to continue their sport post-graduation, Cartagena noted, “For many people, it’s the last step of doing a sport you love.”

When trying to create a social identity at college, Greek Life offers students many compelling benefits.  Marcellus Taylor, Assistant Director of Student Activities and Fraternity/Sorority Life at Penn State Harrisburg, looks back on his time with Kappa Alpha PSI as an undergraduate student fondly. He says that his experience with the fraternity not only refined his ability to understand people in a more complex way, but it has also made him a better husband and father. Although there is plenty of evidence to suggest that Greek Life can improve one’s shot for success, it’s a community many criticize for fostering segregation, inequality and bullying. Pennsylvania Gov. Tom Wolf recently signed an anti-hazing bill named after Timothy Piazza, a Penn State student who passed away last year during a hazing incident. Security cameras in the fraternity house captured the tragic ordeal, in which Piazza was instructed to drink copious amounts of alcohol during a drinking challenge called “the gauntlet”, as part of his bid acceptance. The college sophomore suffered head trauma after falling down a flight of stairs, and 911was not dialed until 10:48 a.m. the following day, over twelve hours after he first appeared unconscious.

“Timothy Piazza’s family should have never had to bury their son,” Taylor said. He argues that all cases of hazing are completely avoidable.  “Most physical things are manifested by nonphysical things,” he said. In Taylor’s perspective, the focus on hazing has always been on its outward manifestations, such as the excessive drinking, partying, and sexual misconduct. However, he feels hazing is guided by invisible factors, like the basic human need for social inclusion. Part of Taylor’s role at the university is “to reach out to the invisible and bring it visible,” by addressing the unspoken promise that often lures students into Greek Life. “Hazing rests on the idea that ‘you should do something because I’m going to make you something,’ and I believe that’s a flawed argument. And so what I try to do in this particular community is let students know that you already are something.”

For many incoming college freshmen, meeting new people and finding their place can be incredibly daunting, which makes a ready-made social life seem highly appealing. Based on studies surrounding brain development, Taylor noted that, “From the ages of 18 and 25, we perceive isolation or social rejection the same way we receive starvation. That means that, literally, people are likely to seek social inclusion just as much as they’re likely to have food.” As a researcher, scholar and practitioner, Taylor says he’s often torn on how to mitigate that need. “We tell people you’re going to build these lasting bonds, but I think instead of saying that fraternities will make men and sororities will make women, we need to say that they make better men and better women, because the premise is you already are a man and you already are a woman.”

For students, Taylor says that “the greatest balancing act is learning discipline.” He believes this is particularly important for Greek Life members. Learning to say ‘no’ in a community and culture that breeds leadership can be especially challenging. However, regardless of where a student’s interests lie in regards to extracurricular activities, they can benefit from Taylor’s advice, which is “To thine own self be true.” The phrase, coined by Shakespeare, speaks to the value of authenticity. Taylor advises students to first examine who they are and the values they hold, and to use that information as a compass when exploring organizations on campus.

[pingou7]

Nous allons enfin nous régaler! (Tell me what you eat and I will tell you who you are)

the food travel au 

3 ½ month film schedule. 31 countries. 24 episodes.

2 people who might just fall in love along the way. 

                        Chapter 3: France : Paris-Lille

Author: 

@pingou7

(Read on AO3)

They arrive in France on schedule and thankfully the whole crew has pretty much recovered from their stomach bug by then. Shara Bey looks a bit queasy in the morning perhaps, but everyone is still curious about what their short trip to the country of Haute Cuisine will entail.

Everyone but Jyn that is, and despite his growing anxiety — because this was France, people! — Cassian can’t help but notice that she has grown more subdued since they’ve picked out their luggage at the airport.

Okay, she’s in a mood and her French is infinitely better than what he personally recalled from High School. It’s true what they say about French being bad at languages, by the way: It’s not that people don’t bother, exactly, it’s more than they’d best not to, their accent makes it hard to understand.

Honestly, he just gives directions in Spanish and there the taxi driver gets it, easier for everyone. Until Jyn stops looking by the window and engages the conversation!

“Nous ne sommes pas en vacances. On est une équipe de tournage."

The driver seems ridiculously overjoyed to hear her speak his language and grins at her in the rear-view mirror.

"Vraiment? Pour le cinéma?"

"Non, la télévision, c'est un programme culinaire."

"You speak French?" Draven interrupts, interest picked. "I didn't know that, it wasn't on your resume."

"Now you do," she shrugs, turning back her attention on the driver.

"La cuisine française est la meilleure du monde, vous aurez de quoi filmer!"

"C'est l'idée. Mais la France n'est pas notre seule destination, on visite plusieurs pays."

Okay, all of this is so quick and fluid that Cassian can't follow. But he can see Draven's brain gear turning as he insists:

"What did you say?"

"Nothing important, I'm not disclosing anything, don't worry. We're doing a food show for TV, we do several countries. Our friend here thinks French food is the best, obviously, and that we're gonna have a lot to cover."

"It's a given," Cassian smiles, impressed by her proficiency, "it's nice of you to speak up, though. Might facilitate the dialogue, too."

"It's nothing to get excited over," Jyn grumbles, sighing, "I've been to France before and have a knack for language, this is just idle chat anyway."

He can’t explain why but there’s something unsettling for her, that has nothing to do with food poisoning. He's curious, but drops the matter when they make a mandatory stop in a boulangerie, where Cassian marvels about the variety of breads and pastries offered, not to mention the cakes...

Mothma actually volunteers, Luke is already taking out his smartphone and since Jyn has already proven her ability to speak French, she too is put to contribution. The two other cars choose to proceed however, waiting at the hotel.

Cassian, Mothma Jyn and Luke are originally sent to get some crusty golden baguettes, of course, their white crumb, thick and soft. Yet a man before them prefers a boule de campagne, round shaped and thicker still, browner and earthier too.

Fascinating.

Honestly Cassian feels perplexed yet eager to order and the seller is amiable and smiling has she suggests viennoiseries.

"We have to take at least a croissant and a pain au chocolat each for everyone," Jyn declares immediately, strangely bossy all of sudden.

"Can we get a brioche too?" Luke asks, eyeing the one in the counter with barely concealed longing.

"Sure, if you want," she agrees easily, translating the order.

"Oh, there's chouquettes too," Mothma exclaims delightfully, legit clapping like a little girl. Thus a small bag of choux buns with sugar pearls joins the order.

Like she was on a mission, Jyn finally asks for different types of croissants too:

"The regular type is made of fresh butter," Jyn explains, "but we will take the almond version too."

"Would you like some of our savoury version," the seller asks helpfully, "it's with cheese and ham."

While in English he'd known the pains au chocolat to be called chocolate croissant — even if the chocolate is hidden within — he gets primly chastised by Jyn:

"Contrary to popular belief, it's not the same thing."

"Sorry, I had no idea. How do you all even know this?"

"My sister Leia likes posh bakeries," Luke says as only explanation.

"Me too, though it's been years since I've had chouquettes," Mothma adds.

But to his frustration, Jyn doesn't say anything has she asks for the total. He commits as much information as he can to memory and Mothma actually has to chime in with a few Euros of her own since she, Jyn and Luke kept adding some douceurs to taste. Clearly they are more familiar with French pastries than they’d let on, but he doesn’t mind being educated on the subject!

In fact Cassian grins wilder as the demeanor of other clients goes from neutral to slightly amused. He even catches something akin to respect on the face of an old lady behind them, as she glances at the pile of sweetness.

Unfortunately, it’s an improvised stop and they can’t film on a whim right now — photos will have to do. That’s a shame, for Monica Mothma isn’t a woman prone to expansiveness and it would have been nice to catch this unscripted madness, even if just for themselves.

Eventually they buy enough to feed an army or for everyone to develop diabetes, at the very least. It’s all for the greater good of the show, of course... They actually film a tiny clip back at their hotel and post a few candids on Instagram.

Kes teases them for their sweet tooth, saying he should have come with just to protect the bakery’s supplies and Draven rolls his eyes, but both are getting their faces stuffed with croissants and pains au chocolat so... Though far from constituting a balanced diet, their purchases become the entirety of their evening meal.

To be fair, who knew there was so much type of stuffed viennoiseries to begin with? It’s almost maddening!

Rationally he knows he shouldn’t indulge so much on the first day but the bread is crispy, the brioche is sweet but light... choosing is a lost cause and truthfully nobody seems to care.

Jyn is seated across from him though and a tiny speck of chocolate stays struck at the corner of her plush lips. He starts to ogles her mouth and reflexively licks his own — just in case a crumb of his own is there, too — but thankfully she doesn’t pay much attention to the people next to her.

Instead, she keeps staring at an invisible point in her plate. No pastry deserves to be looked at with such sadness unless it got prematurely rotten, and he says as much, eliciting a chuckle from the guys. She momentarily meets his gaze as she bites in her pain au chocolat again but her spirits have not lifted. Failed attempt then... He hopes his heated cheeks are the result of the two glasses of red wine he had before dessert, he’s not usually this awkward.

But she intrigues him, he wants to know her better! She’s unpredictable too and rather enticing. She proves to be an asset to the show and not just as a Camera Operator. But of course there is no way he’s going to say it. Besides it’s wine and sugar load talking and they have to focus on the French schedule within the next hour.

"Last time I was here, I was 15," she finally reveals, "but there's water under bridge."

If he weren't focused on her, he might have missed it, but like a private oath, she whispers next: "Saw has no place on this job, nor in my life. Paris doesn’t change that."

He's the only one to catch that, but before Cassian can figure out the meaning of this comment, everybody’s head snaps up at hearing Draven clearing his throat:

“By public demand, we will be setting this episode slightly freelance, as we go up North. About the capital, Cassian has an appointment at “Au Doux Raisin” tomorrow. It proposes a panel of traditional French dishes that would be interesting to foreign viewers.”

Draven enumerates this in a flat voice, looking bored as usual, yet Cassian starts to freak out internally: France was renowned for its Cuisine. He even follows French cooking shows in his spare time! How is he supposed to do his own thing despite the legions of stuff available?

“Sorry to interrupt Sir, but how are we supposed to squeeze several sets in so little time? As far as I know, most traditional French recipes involve spending quite a bit of time if not the whole day over the stove.”

“Don’t fret Andor,” the Director retorts impatiently, “it’s not like you’re be the one doing the cooking, right? So spare me the nerves. Thanks to our split filming teams, most material will be easily covered too. You just have to taste and judge, not really a hardship for you, I suspect.”

No, perhaps not. But Cassian doesn’t like the way his Director is handling things tonight. Tension increases a bit in the room but he keeps his trap shut, not wanting to spark things off on their first night here. The traveling show was already bumpy enough as far as he’s concerned so better not add to the man’s frustration.

“I wanted to see the sights a bit. It’s the city of lights, it’s every lover’s dream,” Kes mumbles.

Unfortunately, it seems that he's not discreet enough.

“Dameron, if you want to play the tourist, plan a romantic vacation for your fiancée AFTER the rush. We’ve got no time for that and moreover, I don’t care for your personal life,” Draven chastises in a clipped tone.

Cassian suppresses a sigh but the case is closed, crew eventually dismissed for the night. He’s pretty sure Draven was a military at some point before going into production or he is one in an alternate universe, with the way he’s usually behaving...

The next day, the crew did some sightseeing before their appointment — they could not be here and not pause in front of the Eiffel Tower, couldn’t they?

"Come on, we gotta have a picture with all of us! It's Paris guys, you can't be more French than that!"

"We won't all fit on a single one," Wedge Antilles says.

"You already had me posing in London, Skywalker, I'm not doing this again. Besides, Cassian is the one that should feature, he's the face of the show."

"Please Jyn, it'd be a group pic, not just you this time. A memento. Don't you want to show this to your friend Bodhi?"

Damn Luke and his boyishness... Everyone caves, elbows and shoulders squeezed together awkwardly. As Kes and Shara are the only couple, they also strike a cheesy pose for prosperity, likely adding some "romance" to the collection.

They ignore people seeking them for money or whatever petition they wanted to get a signature for though... Some details must be glossed over.

"We're not airing on a discovery channel," Draven says, already checking his watch, "most of the tedious editing falls on Kay’s team anyway. Let's get going."

Of course, for professional purposes Cassian forgoes lunch, preferring to nimble on a sandwich so he’d be famished when the time to shoot arrives.

And arrive it does.

A van comes to pick them up and their materials for the intended point of rendezvous between the Jardin du Luxembourg and the Jardin Des Plantes, in the 5th Arrondissement. Quite a pretty place and Luke already mumbles about some hashtags and photos he’d like to take afterwards.

When they finally enter the brasserie called “Au Doux Raisin”  (At the sweet grapefruit) — a little before the opening, obviously, for the team has to settle — they instantly find themselves in a typical homey Parisian environment. From the very first second Cassian knows why the production chose this establishment in particular:

The meals offered represent just as many potential discoveries, yet not always the cheapest — within reasonable price range nonetheless. The brasserie sets a real atmosphere with portraits in black and white of old famous actors, an old-fashioned counter and something in the air so uniquely French that he’s surprised the staff doesn’t wear berets with white striped shirts.

Truthfully, everyone is excited, including Jyn who looks oddly happy to be there.

“We’re somewhere straight out of the movie Les Tontons flingueurs,” she says, watching their surroundings with sparkling eyes. At the lack of response she gets, she prompts: “You know, Crooks in Clover, also known as Monsieur Gangster? Ring a bell?”

To be honest the actors look familiar, Jean Gabin and Lino Ventura most of all, but nobody shares her excitement and she automatically returns to her defensive stance:

“What? I’m a cinephile and actually did study film making, you know? These actors are legendary among French cinema, you must have at least heard of some of them!”

“Somewhat. I'm more interested in the fact that this is the first time that I've caught you smiling since we’ve left England.”

Cassian only wished to put her out of her misery as they prepared the set. He gets a bit jittery before the beginning of each filming session so he likes to see people enjoying themselves, it calms him down. Yet somehow it was the wrong thing to say and her lit-up face turns stony as she replies:

“Yeah, well, let’s get this done.”

Smooth, Andor, well done, he thinks sarcastically as Draven yells action and a waiter gives him the menu. Most of the crew will stick to plates of charcuterie and cheese but he has a few possibilities to consider. Of course the list has been communicated beforehand, but ultimately Cassian always has the final choice, to stay as genuine as possible and because he prefers to eat whatever strikes his fancy. It’s more digestible in case of several takes.

Finally he chooses a “Bourguignon meal”: traditional snails then beef and wine stew, a plate of cheese and some crème brûlée to finish. Plentiful but really appetizing. Of course, if it weren’t for the show, he’d just stick with some of the various grâtins and be done with it, but the place calls for gluttony and as a presenter he has to make sure viewers will be satisfied.

If the French can stomach as much in one sitting, so will he.

(Still, he’s thankful Kay’s not currently with him or he’d be sure to get an earful...)

The preliminary speech done in a single take, the first course comes quickly. Famous escargots, classic of the French to eat snails, so the occasion was too good to pass on.

Cassian already had some experience tasting snails in the French way, had enjoyed it so he thought he didn’t have to mask his facial expressions.

He was wrong.

The promised “Gros Escargots de Bourgogne” come in front of him and truth be told they look appealing enough. But what the heck is he supposed to make of the... unusual cutlery... that the waiter brought along? It looks more like a surgical instrument than anything Cassian has ever used.

This entrée should come with warnings, explanatory note and step by step tutorial included.

For a split second Cassian blinks owlishly at the camera then he recovers, a consummate professional. Should be easily enough, really, right? A circular plate with six stuffed snails in their shells... a tiny fork with two tines... and pliers of some kind? It has a spring with a round extremity, obviously meant to keep the shell in place while with the fork he’s supposed to stab what’s inside.

Alright, I’ve got it, he reflects after a few nano seconds  of appraisal.

He doesn’t bother with explaining his course of action yet, focused on the task at hand while he states that the snails are cooked with a butter mixed with chopped garlic and parsley.

He looms over the snail closest to him, lift it slowly from his dedicated hole in the plate... but he hasn’t got the chance to use the fork. The damned thing escapes from the contraption and literally flies several feet away from his stunned face.

Nobody moves, not even Draven says cut, yet Cassian stares dumbly at the ruined snail on the floor, hidden two tables away from his. From the way Jyn angles the camera, he guesses she’s zooming on it too...

Fucking French!

It takes three tries for him to master the so called “pince à escargots” — to the utter delight of the crew around him, as they personally try some pâté de lapin à l’ancienne, saucisson sec or saucisson à l’ail and smelly cheese like Camembert or Roquefort.

By the time the Bœuf Bourguignon is served, he feels oddly proud to have won against the perfidy of posh Gastronomie, despite his bruised ego. Thankfully the beef stew is not as challenging, with a regular, universal and most of all reliable knife. Not that he really needs to cut anything, mind you: from what he knows of the process, the beef has macerated in red wine for hours to get this tender. The serving is pretty generous too, and it comes with boiled potatoes, mushrooms, onions and carrots. Thyme and laurel too, to perfume the whole.

He’s full when the four types of cheese come next but he explains the different milks each of them were made of. He actually has flash cards ready on his knees like a cheating schoolboy but their filming time turning short calls for desperate measures. At the dessert he struggles to get through. It’s delicious, it’s just that he reached the peak of his sugary intake. After a few spoonfuls immortalized on film, he hands the rest to Shara’s extended hands.

Overall, good stuff, really. Two glasses of red wine to complete the meal and footage aside, Cassian is more than satisfied with his Parisian trip.

They wrap it up, shake a few hands but take their time calling it a night. Paris is bewitching in the evening and the company is boisterous as they go along the shores of the Seine. Cassian uses it to his advantage, walking his meal off and doing his best to ignore the taunts made over the snail incident.

"I couldn't believe the famous Cassian Andor got bested by a snail. One that was already dead and cooked too," Jyn teases.

"Hey, I succeeded eventually, and it's not the snail as much as the tool that's to blame."

"Still, I thought you'd have more dexterity."

"Sorry to disappoint you, I'll do better next time."

It’s all in good sports really, but while Jyn snorts, Antilles sniggers and Luke stumbles, slamming against his back, blushing inexplicably. What has gotten into them? But she's still smiling as they drive back to the hotel and suddenly he doesn’t mind the French and their peculiarities so much. The production duo have still a decent amount of work before going to bed, but everyone else goes to sleep.

(Maybe Kes and Shara got MIA along the way but the contract doesn’t bind them to a curfew and Mothma turns a blind eye).

Cassian only wishes he had that much freedom as the so called star of the show. But it has been a long day and he would have nobody to share a nightly tryst. Cassian Andor is reasonable, professional and single to boot, so it doesn’t cost him much.

His dreams are fitful and slightly disturbing though. Jolting awake only five hours later, the only image that stays with him is of Jyn, replacing Nicole Kidman’s part in the Moulin Rouge! movie. She looked tantalizing in his subconscious and very not herself: less pragmatic and more eerily sexy.

He shakes the feeling away as he dresses himself. He has a long day ahead and can’t afford to fantasize about the only unattached woman in his crew. She’s a pretty thing and kinda mysterious too, but he is awake now and the dreamy bullshit has no incidence on his job.

He decides to tiptoe in the free area, seeking a cup of herbal tea. Whether mint or ginger should help with the food overload from the night before, surely such things could be found on the table set for self service?

He forgets all about beverages the instant he sees Jyn awake over an hotplate, her back to him. As her name stumbles from his lips, disbelieving, she stiffens visibly and spins slowly around.

Her voice is still sleepy and his annoyingly raspy as they greet each other. In November, the sun isn’t up so early and won’t be for quite some time, unfortunately and the bleached out white neon lights accentuate the exhaustion on her face. Very far from a dreamy cabaret dancer, his mind evaluates worriedly. Has she even slept? She’s dressed in her usual clothes already and ignores the elephant in the room as she asks why he too is already awake.

“I ate too much,” he answers.

“Well of course you did, not everyone can eat as much as the French do just before going to bed. Stomachache?”

“No, just energy of the calories pumping through my veins.”

“How do you plan to work it out then?”

He represses a smirk. With her velvet morning voice, it sounded a lot like an opening for innuendo. She realizes this a second too late and just purses her lips. They are not yet close enough to tease each other, so he throws her a lifeline and gestures to the food he interrupted.

“Isn’t it what you’re doing in the kitchen Jyn?”

“I wish. It’s just... I needed an outlet and I thought I’d best do something useful. Couldn’t wake my best friend.”

He wanted to ask her about what she needed an outlet for, yet people keep appearing and she visibly closes off. Obviously Cassian isn’t the only one awake as the self-service kitchen fills in slowly with the rest of the team. Fat chance, again. He sits, rubbing the back of his neck and mutters a hello.

“What’s the delicious smell I can sniff?” Luke asks, entering the room, nose upturned and honest to God sniffing the air like the human puppy he usually personifies.

“The bread and brioche won’t keep for much longer. So I’m making pain perdu,” Jyn answers, sending a fleeting smile in his direction.

“Lost bread,” Kes translates confusedly, eyeing the slices browning slowly browning in the pan, “what is lost about it?”

“Dunno, it’s just the name,” she sighs, repeating the process to make enough for everybody.

Or maybe the food isn’t the lost thing here, Cassian muses, she is, her tired eyes and forlorn attitude hinting as much. Then, realizing how stupid his thoughts are, he mentally slaps himself and hands the coffee pot to Wedge Antilles, who is blindly reaching for it, like a drowning man and a lifebelt, a junkie and his fix.

Seriously, besides Luke and himself, Cassian wonders how these people can do this work and NOT be morning people. Like, never ever. Kay has complained he had to put with them grumping and groaning until the clock reached 8 AM in the past, but at the time, he thought his friend was being his usual pessimistic self. But as he considers the bunch of sleepyheads around, he has to admit there was some truth to it.

When a plate arrives in front of him, with icing sugar or cinnamon for him to add on if he so wishes, he’s pleasantly surprised.

“You told me you didn’t how to cook,” he says, mildly accusatory.

He leaves the first slice bare, adds sugar on the second and cinnamon on the third, to have the full tasting range. As soon as he tries the first, the goodness dissolves on his tongue, creamy and buttery, the two variations making a perfect combination between sweetness and a tad spicy. He knows various ways to save stale bread, but somehow this tastes different. Besides them Luke was already helping himself with a second serving, grinning.

“Please, this isn't cooking Cassian,” Jyn shrugs. “I’m sure it’s not the first time you’ve had this.”

“Not like that, though, this is unique. How did you do it?”

Most of all he wants to know what prompted her to fix this at six in the morning. But even if he had the nerve to ask, she likely wouldn’t answer. So, asking for her recipe was as close as he was willing to go.

“I made the slices my own way. More often than not people use eggs where I used milk. Once the slices suck up all the milk, getting slightly spongy again, I put them in a salt-buttered pan. Easy, not haute cuisine.”

Easy perhaps, but her wistful tone speaks of something more. He knows preparing food can reveal a lot about a person — hell, that was the reason he got enrolled in all this cooking stuff in the first place… — and… well, he remembers their stunt at the Lahmu Restaurant in London. Clearly her relationship to food is… personal.

God, why Kay isn’t here to smack the corniness out of his head?! He almost feels like using a pan on his own skull if that could just stop his brain from overanalyzing a mere breakfast plate.

He doesn’t even have time for this, with the shooting schedule they have to maintain. After all, he might envy other people’s low functioning brains, they are saved much trouble.  

Draven announces their Parisian Interlude is over and satisfactory — praise the Lord for that — but he still has a surprise in store...

“A… bus?”

“Yes,” Draven confirms, ”we should be grateful, it’s fully furbished too, functional, and a bit cheaper.”

“Whatever spares us a flight,” Dameron says in relief.

“You don’t like flying?” Jyn asks, surprised.

“If I have to take hop on a plane, I will. It’s way quicker, after all. But yeah, if I have to choose, road’s better. Plus, we can build team spirit or whatever. It’d be like a school trip.”

“Oh yeah,” Luke cheers, absurdly enticed with the idea, “I’m sure our followers would dig that kind of thing, you know?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Jyn shrugs, “I never went on school trips, or I was so young I don’t remember. It’s weird.”

“It’ll be a new experience for you then,” Cassian encourages.

“I guess, but why do you care so much?”

(Good question.)

“We’re all in the same train wreck, we gotta stick together.”

(What was that nonsense... for sure if Kay ever heard him talk like that, he would deck him so hard his face wouldn’t be filmed for weeks!)

They take the A1 highway up North, chatting, napping, playing on phones... and yes, to Draven’s utter dismay, there are stupid songs involved at some point. Dameron started, Cassian picked up, and soon everyone was at least humming along. Perhaps because the driver couldn’t take it anymore, they stop in a rest area about midway until they reach Lille, the northern city that ends the French episode. As if the crew’s sugary consumption weren’t already high, they picked sweets again, albeit regional:

Two metal boxes, one with some minty ones called the Bêtises de Cambrai and the other containing toffee-like Babeluttes du Nord, to have a foretaste of their next local cuisine.

If they’re still alive to document it because Cassian swears he’s gonna die of hyperglycemia before they reach Amsterdam!

They have just one day left to shoot in France when they arrive in Lille two hours later, but they make it work. The city, nicknamed “the capital of Flanders” is picturesque in a different way than Paris, of course, but just as pretty. Places with fountains, houses made of red bricks and old cobbled streets, it’s nice.

As they have little time to spare — yet again — the rushes get more hectic than in Paris. It’s much less representative after all.

The people there talk pretty funny, with words even Jyn has a hard time deciphering, but all are very accommodating and helpful. A few wave at the camera and suggest a dish to try. It’s much more easygoing and Cassian relaxes pretty soon.

Not wanting to spoil any Belgian discovery by choosing a dish similar to what can be offered further North, he decides to try « a Welsh ». Like its name implies, this is not originally a French recipe but it became one of the easiest specialty to eat in Lille:

It is a sandwich composed of bread soaked with beer, cheddar cheese and mustard, covered with a slice of ham, dipped into a cream of cheddar cheese, heated in the oven in a ramekin. Not the most elaborate of the establishment they picked’ but it works perfectly with their thematic for the French episode and their lack of time.

Indeed, La Chicorée (The Chicory) is a brasserie like the one in Paris. Except it’s actually an hundred-year-old brewery, not just for the fancy name, and it’s open pretty late, until 4:30 AM. They are told it’s renowned, too, and Cassian can believe that easily.

For dessert, because apparently the mad guys around him have an insane tolerance for sugary treats, or really want him to die on the job, they have some stuffed waffles with cassonade. This version is thin, thankfully, crunchy, though the garnish of vanilla and brown sugar is most likely rich.

“I hadn’t had those in ages,” Jyn says drowsily, waiting for the Lille-Amsterdam flight a while later. “I bought some for my best friend, but I’m not sure I’ll resist the temptation for long. I’ll have to send them to him.”

“Really? How come? It’s good, but it’s not like it’s so addicting,” Cassian asks, because he still feels curious — perhaps sleepy Jyn is more inclined to share anecdotes?

“Wrong, they are addicting. I loved them as a young girl. I’ve spent some time in France over the years, but none so much as northern France. We were British, after all, so crossing the Chanel was easy and Saw... I mean, I’d known an old lady, Louise, who did such waffles for me.”

Yep, oversharing, he thinks with a smile, and there she is talking about a Saw again. More like eluding but it’s more talk than he ever heard from her. The schedule must take its toll on her, same as anyone else.

"You’ve spent holidays in France then, growing up?"

"My guardian actually had a job in France for a time. He was stationed not so very far from here for about a year, before we moved again."

"So the wanderlust goes way back? It explains why you took on the travelling show."

"Maybe. Saw and I never stuck around for long anywhere, but I've been happy there, it brings good memories for once."

At her conflicted expression, he guesses such good memories are far in between. He recalls her enigmatic whisper from a few days ago and surmises she must have had a falling out with her guardian. Cassian doesn't pry further though when she doesn't elaborate, but he stores the information for later.  

He’s almost snoozing when Draven — no human has the right to be this operative at 3AM... — hands him his phone, mouthing Kay’s name:

“Hello, Kay?”

“Cassian, did I wake you?”

“No, but that was close. Not everyone can be focused on the show 24/7, like Draven, or you. I feel like I’m slowly losing my soul to the cause.”

“Forgive me if I don’t shed a tear. And you’re as dedicated as the rest of us, you’re just being unusually whiny.”

“Well, you’re not here yet to keep me in check so I can be as petty as I want. I’ll feel better after we leave the country and get some sleep.”

“I’ve seen the first French rushes, actually, to see if they could be easily edited with ours. I have to say it’s fairly entertaining to witness your culinary struggles, Cassian. Especially the snail fetching.”

“Thanks a lot, Kay,”

“I’m serious, honestly it should make the final cut.”

“Did your illness kill your brain cells? What part of the first try should be included? The moment the snail flew across the room or the framing on my butt as I had to get on my knees under the table to retrieve it?”

“Well, I’ll leave it for Draven to decide,” his soon-to-be former friend replies wryly. “But just so you know, it could bring in more female viewers.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m realistic Cassian, you have a very nice bottom apparently and judging from the people’s enthusiastic reaction on social media, you’d better use it.”

“I... don’t even know what to say to that. Do you even hear yourself?”

“I’m referring to the show’s ratings, not your sex life Cassian Jerón Andor! You know what, we will speak later, once you’ve put your mind out of the gutter!”

“I love you too man,” Cassian smirks.

Only the dial answers him.

[onlyherefortheshowmances]

Just added chapter 180 to the marching band AU. This is the thirteenth chapter of part 21. Anniversary trip to the Lake House, Part 1 (Saturday). The beginning of this chapter features a visit with Benji’s Nana, but that’s followed by A LOT of smut. Come back tomorrow for their actual anniversary (Sunday) which will be filled with them both being extra cheesy and romantic as well as a lot more smut and a few surprises.

Chapter 1 (from the beginning) - https://archiveofourown.org/works/29409834/chapters/72250422

Chapter 180 (just added; part 21M) -https://archiveofourown.org/works/29409834/chapters/90886102

Title: And I’m in the bleachers

Chapters: 180/?

Words: 800,536 (so far)

Summary:  Victor Salazar is finishing his freshman year of high school in Graham, TX when his dad gets a new job that forces the family to move to the small town of Ephrata, PA. Thrilled with the idea of a fresh start and maybe the chance to finally figure himself out, Victor is excited; his younger sister, Pilar, a little less so. Both Salazar siblings join the high school marching band upon arrival and this is the story of the hijinks and drama that unfold thereafter.

In the words of a dear friend: It might just be Victor being an idiot and Benji being more of an idiot but what’s new?

Notes: This story will come to you in 25 parts; however each part will account for multiple chapters, so it’s going to be a lot more than 25 total chapters, but there are 25 main sections of the story. The relocation from Atlanta to PA is because this is now set in my hometown, because I have no clue how HS marching band works in GA. I decided to eliminate a few characters (most notably Adrian and Simon). The move occurs at the beginning of June 2019 instead of January 2020. The first part of the story will loosely follow the plot of Love, Victor Season 1, but definitely not exactly. This may or may not be the slowest burn to ever exist.