#It reminds me of Starry Night by Van Gogh.

[weekendviking]

Cataclasite; part of the various deformation derived material in the Esk Head Melange, the tectonic boundary between two subduction stacked submarine fan complexes that form the Greywackes of eastern Aotearoa/New Zealand. Siltstone augen torn apart in a matrix of grey argillite mudstones, with one big pale clast of what looks like a feldspar, possibly from a pebble (but in the melange, could be anything from anywhere.)

[courageouslighterman1338]

Hamadryas laodamia

Also known as the 'starry night cracker'.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Napoleonville [Chapter 7: The House Of Cards]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, drinking, drugs, infidelity, kids, parenthood, bodily injury, ANGST!!!!!!

Word Count: 5.8k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @dr-aegon @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @gemini-mama @daenysx @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @targaryenbarbie @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @libroparaiso @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbell @urmomsgirlfriend1 @fudge13 @strangersunghoon

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Under blue light like the gleam of sapphires, Aemond is standing shirtless at his bathroom sink and cleaning blood and grime from his face with a wet washcloth that has turned from white to a muddy maroon. His missing left eye is angled towards you; his scar looks black beneath the cobalt glow. He’s gingerly manipulating his eyelids so he can wipe away the filth, leaning in close to the mirror. Then his hands begin to shake and he throws the washcloth to the dark tile floor. The walls are painted like Van Gogh’s Starry Night; you remember learning about it in your 8th grade art class. The bathtub is deep, spacious. You think of Aemond filling it and sinking into the water with you, misty with soap and steam. You wonder how long it will be until Christabel is lolling in this tub, clean before she ever touched the water: no scars, no history, blue blood and pure fantasies.

He hears when the floorboards creak under your bare feet. He turns his face so he can see you, an intruder lurking in the doorway of his bedroom, soaked clothes beneath the warm, dry, smoke-smelling Marlboro jacket he gave you. “Get out.”

“Aemond, let me help—”

“Get the fuck out.”

But he hasn’t said the right word, and you both know it. He hasn’t told you to stop. You go to him and ignore it when he tries to push you away, when he tries to yank his hands away from yours.

“Don’t touch me—!”

But you aren’t trying to grab him. You’re trying to give yourself to him. You force your wrists into his grasp and then he understands, then he feels the desperate hunger flare up in him like a lighter flicked to life.

His fingers tighten; he drags you closer. Then he says, low and husky: “I’m in charge now.”

“I know, I know. I want you to be.”

“You’re going to do exactly what I tell you to.”

“Yes,” you whisper, perfect obedience, helpless need. You gaze up into his glinting, savage right eye. You do not allow yourself to glance at the empty socket of the left. That would be disastrous, ruinous, an irredeemable betrayal.

Aemond takes you to his bed: thick wooden bedposts and a navy blue velvet canopy swimming with koi fish built of silver stars, celestial fins and constellation tails. He tears off the Marlboro jacket, your drenched Pepsi t-shirt, your simple cotton bra. “Don’t move,” he growls, and momentarily leaves you. Moonlight streams in through the stained glass windows of fractured, kaleidoscopic blue. Goosebumps rise on your bare skin. You can hear the friction of a drawer opening and then closing again. Aemond returns. Every move of his hands is rough, insistent. You don’t care if he hurts you, if he scrapes or bruises you. You wish he could bruise you down to the bone, stay trapped there in an indigo pool too deep for anyone to cut out, remind you of his closeness with every ache, never leave you.

Aemond clicks a handcuff around your right wrist; not a silk scarf, not the weight of his own hands, but cold metal that he tightens until it bites into your flesh. You should tell him to loosen it, but you don’t. You want to help Aemond. You want him to keep going; you want him to touch you until you forget about Jade Dragon Energy, Lake Verret, The Last Desire, Christabel.

He loops the short chain around one of the posts at the foot of the canopy bed and then fastens your left wrist as well. The handcuffs are secured in an indentation between ornate carvings of the sun and the moon; you cannot slide them up or down more than a few inches. Your arms are trapped above your head. You are facing the bed—the one he’ll soon be sharing with Christabel—and cannot turn around. Behind you, you can hear Aemond unzipping his jeans that are still dripping with brackish lake water. Now he’s yanking off your shorts and panties, so hurriedly you almost trip when he wrenches them past your ankles. Aemond kicks your feet apart—farther, farther—and then pushes you down until your back is bent as low as possible. You moan, just as much in pain as ravenous anticipation: your wrists burn, your shoulders stretch until you can imagine them splitting open and spilling blood like a river, knots of ivory bone peeking through the gore.

He’s touching you, but it doesn’t feel like much. He’s saying things, but you can’t hear him over the hurricane raging in your skull, thrashing waves of fear, dread, agony, heartache.

Has he brought other women here? Who will distract him when he’s done with me?

Aemond’s hips are braced against yours, his fingers are between your legs. He’s making you wet, but you know you aren’t ready. Inside, you are tense, uneasy, unable to surrender yourself to him. You close your eyes and try to remember what it was like the first time you were together, or the second, or the third time in the back of his Audi Quattro. Those memories feel so far away now, like they happened a hundred years ago or in a different galaxy or at the bottom of the ocean. Aemond’s teeth nip territorially at your throat. He’s tearing open a condom wrapper.

He’s not mine, he’s not mine, he’ll never be mine.

Now he’s forcing his way into you, and he has no way of knowing that it feels like gasoline on a fire, like scissors and knives, like the first time Willis convinced you to sleep with him again after Cadi was born. And Aemond is so big that the discomfort doesn’t fade into a vaguely unpleasant numbness but swells like gales as a storm rolls in. You’re facing away from him, so Aemond can’t see when you wince or squeeze your eyes shut. You don’t try to slow his rhythm, you don’t ask him to be more gentle, you don’t tell him to stop. You want to help him and he needs this, even if he doesn’t need you.

Aemond twists your hair in his fist and tugs your head back, and when you whimper he mistakes it for kindling passion, for something approaching euphoria. His thrusts are hammering, merciless. He’s panting as he battles against his own climax. And he’s beginning to get impatient, too; his fingers stroke you relentlessly, when you glance back at him his brow is creased with thinly-veiled frustration, confusion, disappointment.

I have to finish, you realize, horrified. If I don’t, he’s going to think it’s because of him, his face, his eye, his weakness, his unworthiness.

You’re nowhere close to finishing. You know you won’t be able to; there’s too much pain in your body, too much torment in your mind.

I’ve faked it plenty of times before, on other nights with other men. I can fake it again.

You breathe in gasps, you moan, you beg, you arch your back, and then—

Aemond strikes the bedpost with an open palm, hard and loud enough to make you yelp. He hisses through your hair, fever-red, hateful: “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

“Aemond, it’s not you, it’s not your fault, it’s me, I’m so sorry, I’m just—”

“I want you out.” He disentangles himself from you, snaps off the condom, snatches a set of tiny keys off the floor where he must have left them.

“Don’t do this,” you plead as he unlocks the handcuffs, cold rattling metal. “Don’t make this about something it isn’t. Aemond? Aemond, please, it’s my fault—”

“Get out,” he says, stepping away from you. “Right now. Go.”

You reach for him, your fingertips settling on his bare chest, damp with sweat and still tarnished with the ancient silt of Lake Verret, with streaks of his own blood. “Aemond, listen to me—”

“Stop!” he roars, and your hands fall away. He points to the door that leads to the hallway. “Get out. Get the fuck out. Find someone else. I’m done.”

“What? No!”

He picks up your denim shorts and hurls them at you, then your Pepsi t-shirt and bra and panties. You fumble to catch them, and as your hands are occupied Aemond leans in close, grabs your face roughly by the jaw, forces you to look at him. The gory void of his left eye socket is close enough that you can see the flecks of dark grit from the lake that he will have to wash out of it. And you flinch—not at the wound itself, but for the child who was once maimed—and now you’ve proved him right.

Something flashes across Aemond’s scarred face, so animalistic in its mindless fury that for a sliver of a second you actually think he might hit you. Then he turns away without a word, walks into the bathroom, slams the door shut. As you pull on your clothes, you can hear his knuckles striking the mirror with sick thumps until it shatters. You bolt from the bedroom, through the hallway, down the staircase, surrounded by portraits of blonde strangers with foreign names, and whatever world they lived in wasn’t yours. Their world was made of gold and marble, contracts and lineage, chandeliers and champagne and coins sticky with some anonymous worker’s blood, and it was beautiful but it was cold, hollow, lonely, everything that would have made them human peeled away like a snake’s skin. You don’t belong here. You will never belong here. Your world is sloping floors and cracked paint and sun and salt and struggle, but it is real.

In the grand foyer, Vhagar is guarding the front door. The blue merle Great Dane bares her teeth as you approach. There is a rumble from low in her chest, a ferocity in her reptilian green-gold eyes.

“I really can’t deal with you right now,” you say, voice breaking as tears spill down your cheeks.

Vhagar trots towards you and you look around for a rescuer, Alicent or Criston or Daeron; but the house is hushed and still. You recall how Alicent once shoved Vhagar’s face away to fend her off. You don’t feel brave enough to attempt that.

“No!” you try instead. “Bad dog! Go terrorize someone else!”

The Great Dane snarls, ropy strands of drool dribbling from her jowls, and you fall silent. Vhagar sniffs at your ankles and then your fingers as you stand frozen. She seems to discover something that intrigues her. I smell like Aemond, you think, and almost start crying again. For the second time, your eyes search for a champion and find none. The dog nudges your right hand with her muzzle, licks at your palm, and then—bizarrely, shockingly—pushes her head under it and blinks up at you expectantly.

“What?” you say, confounded. Vhagar waits, suddenly cordial. Her long tail swishes; her floppy ears hang limp and relaxed. She doesn’t leave until you pet the top of her colossal head—once, twice, three times—and then she stalks off into the shadows of the kitchen. You hurry to the front door before Vhagar can return to second-guess your newfound alliance.

You step out onto the front porch, white paint and towering columns, lightning bugs and screeching cicadas. It is only when you survey the flock of Audis, Porsches, Alfa Romeos, and Lexuses in the cobblestone driveway that you remember you didn’t drive yourself here.

“Goddammit.” Then you catch a whiff of marijuana.

You turn to your left. Aegon is slumped in a rocking chair and smoking a joint. He has just showered. His long hair is wet and messy; he wears a tie-dye tank top, purple gym shorts, and neon yellow flip flops. Sunfyre is curled up in his lap. “You need a ride, cake lady?”

“Not from you.”

“It’s just weed. Weed isn’t a drug.”

“The Reagan administration would disagree.”

He rolls his eyes. “Those miserable fascists. They’d outlaw orgasms and ice cream if they could.” He slips his car keys out of his shorts pocket and spins them around with his index finger. “Come on. Let’s go for a drive.”

Aegon’s Porsche 911 has a custom paint job, glittering gold with pale pink accents. It’s even smaller than Aemond’s Audi; the back seats are impossibly tiny, and in any case they are filled to the windows with empty McDonald’s cups, Taco Bell bags, and Popeyes boxes.

“Here, hold him,” Aegon says, and tosses the ferret to where you sit in the passenger seat. The weasel-like creature scrabbles over your thighs, circling, burrowing, making some deranged gleeful sound halfway between a clicking and a chuckle.

“Um…?!”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, he’ll settle down.” Aegon starts the car and pitches the remains of his joint out the open window. “Where do you live?”

The directions are simple, a straight shot east on Route 401. But it’s going to be a long ride. Aegon is only driving 15 miles per hour.

“So,” he says, noting your bloodshot eyes and dazed preoccupation. “It didn’t go well. With Aemond, I mean.”

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Sure you do.”

You stare out your window, night wind in your hair and your lungs, stinging in your watery eyes. The southern live oaks—vague, monstrous shapes with branches like prehistoric claws—block out much of the moon, the stars. Distractedly, you rest a hand on Sunfyre’s small, furry back. “What happened to his face?” And then, remembering what Aegon told Viserys in the foyer: “What’s the North Sea?”

“It’s on the east coast of the U.K. It starts down by France and the Netherlands and goes all the way up to Norway. Jade Dragon has a bunch of North Sea rigs. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen offshore oil rigs, maybe on the news or something?”

“I haven’t.” When you look down at your wrists, beneath the dim silvery moonlight you can still see the indentations that the handcuffs left in your flesh.

“Well they’re fucking terrifying. You’re on a metal platform in the middle of the goddamn ocean, and the waves are smacking into it, and the whole rig is lurching back and forth. You’re standing maybe 200 feet above sea level. From that height, the water’s like concrete. If a man falls off, they never find the body. The sharks eat him, or the waves rip him apart, or if his gear is heavy enough he just sinks to the bottom and implodes like a crushed can when the pressure gets too strong. I hate those things. I hate them. And of course Viserys was always trying to drag me along when he’d fly up there to inspect the company property. Gotta parade the heir around. Gotta turn me into a real man somehow. I’d be doing lines in the helicopter the whole way there, trying to work up the nerve to step out onto the deck when we landed.” Aegon gives you a wry smirk, shadowy beneath the obstructed moonlight. “This was before Viserys gave up on me.”

“Aemond lost his eye on an oil rig?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says. “He was young, eight or nine, something like that. And he begged our father to take him with us. Can you believe that? I’m hiding under the dining room table and Aemond is clawing at Viserys’ feet, promising he can handle it. So Viserys says okay, fine, Aemond can come too. Mum and Criston didn’t want Aemond to go, Helaena didn’t like it, hell, even Otto thought it was too dangerous. But Viserys is God in the Targaryen family religion, so Aemond got to go to the North Sea.”

You’re watching Aegon, eyes wide, heart pounding, appalled. He was a little kid. He wasn’t even Cadi’s age. “Viserys didn’t protect him?”

“Oh yeah, at first he did. He was showing Aemond off to everyone—Look at my son! So brave, so clever!—and meanwhile I’m lying on the floor of the helicopter having a panic attack, I can’t stop thinking I’m about to go plummeting into the ocean, and Criston is kneeling beside me trying to strap an oxygen mask onto my face.” Aegon sighs, gazing at the yellow lines of Route 401. “And then Viserys got to chatting with some of the engineers and forgot all about Aemond. Aemond who? The middle son, the forgotten son, the runt, the backup plan. And Aemond started exploring, poking around in the wrong places, and he ended up watching some of the workers spinning chain, which is how they connect drill pipes together. A chain snapped. It hit Aemond in the face, fractured his skull, and basically liquified his eye upon impact. He was in a coma for two weeks. We all thought he was going to die. But he lived, and Viserys…that bastard was nowhere to be found while Aemond was lying half-dead in Moorfields Hospital. But the day Aemond woke up, you better believe our father waltzed into the room with balloons and Cadbury bars, gushing about how happy he was that Aemond was alright, how proud he was, how relieved. Within a month he was indifferent again. But Aemond’s been chasing that feeling ever since. Being wanted. Being seen.”

“Why do any of you do it?” you ask, nauseous with despair. “Why do you destroy yourselves for Viserys? Why do you listen to him, why don’t you leave?”

“I can’t leave,” Aegon says, stunned. “Do I look employable to you? I’d end up living in the woods with the paranoid schizophrenics.”

“But you’d be free.”

“I don’t want to be free,” Aegon replies. “Freedom? That scares the hell out of me. I don’t know who I am without my family. I don’t have the first fucking clue. I don’t want to be a Targaryen, but I am a Targaryen, you know? And there’s no going back. That’s my gravity. That’s everything I am. Trying to imagine a life without Aemond, Helaena, Daeron, Criston, Alicent, even Otto, even Viserys? I wouldn’t exist. I would blink out of existence like the Big Bang in reverse. They’re my bones, I’m just what grows around them. I’m a jellyfish, I’m a tangle of guts and arteries.”

You stare at Aegon as faint ribbons of moonlight stream in through the open windows, voice choked, tears falling onto Sunfyre’s sand-colored fur. “I don’t know how to help Aemond.”

“Yes you do.” Aegon smiles. “Give him what he wants.”

“I think he’s done with me now.”

“No, no way,” Aegon says. “What did he do, freak out and yell at you? Break things, tell you to fuck off? That happens sometimes. He doesn’t mean it. He’ll be back on your doorstep in a week.”

“He always has to have a girl. But that girl doesn’t have to be me.”

Aegon laughs, his blonde hair flying in the wind. “New girl, new rules. You ruined him.”

“What?”

Aegon grins. “He’s in love with you.”

You pet Sunfyre with one hand while you swipe tears from your cheeks with the other, sniffling, shaking your head. “I can’t be his mistress. It will kill me.” I want more than that. I want all of him.

“You’ll get used to it,” Aegon says encouragingly. “Criston did. Camilla did.”

“Please shut up about Camilla Parker Bowles.” You point as the mouth of your short gravel driveway comes into view. “That’s it. We’re here.”

Inside, the house is dark and quiet and cold; you were in such a rush to meet Willis and help Aemond find his ever-errant brother that you accidentally left the air conditioner on all day. You shut off the whirring machine in the kitchen window—Aemond put that there, he did it for me—and then turn on the little pink Panasonic boombox so it feels like someone else is here. Roxette’s Listen To Your Heart plucks mournfully from the speakers.

You draw yourself a bath, descend into the hot water, scrub Aemond off of you. The walls are adorned with no Van Gogh’s Starry Night, no stately portraits, no grandeur or glitter or marble or gold. They are only a pale, listless blue lined with thin cracks through the paint like the sinking house’s veins.

~~~~~~~~~~

Seven sunsets, six dusks, and then it is Friday all over again. You help Amir close up the bakery and then crawl into bed: head pounding, room spinning, that endless late-afternoon light of the summer flooding in through the window blinds. You unplug the phone on the nightstand and nestle into the pillows, hiding your face from the world. Cadi is fine, she’s blissfully playing her Nintendo and she knows there’s some of Amir’s leftover ribs and rice in the refrigerator. She doesn’t need you, and this will only become more true with each passing year. There was a time when you yearned for Cadi to become more independent. Now you’re beginning to see the horror in it, that bittersweetness that parents always talk about.

One day she’ll be gone. And she’ll get to choose whether she ever comes back.

No one has ever chosen you. It seems unwise to assume there will be exceptions to the rule.

You doze off for a while. There are distant noises you try to ignore: the kitchen phone ringing, the humming of the air conditioner, the drone of the microwave, the Super Mario Bros. theme. When you wake, it is because you hear the bedroom door creaking open. Through blinking, bleary eyes, you see Aemond’s silhouette in the doorway. You know it’s him; you would know even if he wasn’t wearing his familiar Marlboro jacket and red Converses and teal duffle bag slung over one shoulder. You would know him anywhere.

You say, unsure if you’re more angry or depressed: “I thought you were done.”

He ignores this. He has two eyes again, one real and one a lie, and this seems to be becoming a recurring theme in his life. “I called. Cadi said you were sick.”

“It’s just a headache. I’ll be fine.”

“Do you get them a lot?”

“Yeah.” When I’m stressed. When I’m sad.

There’s a palm on your forehead, cool and gentle, feeling for fever. “Have you taken anything for it?”

“Nothing ever works.”

You recoil from the thud of the duffle bag against the sloping wooden floor; every sound is too loud. You have your eyes pinched shut, but you can hear Aemond unzipping the bag and then opening some sort of container. “Try this,” he says, pushing a pill between your lips. “They knock out my nerve pain when it flares up.” Then he passes you the glass of sweet tea you left on your nightstand. You sit up to swallow the pill and collapse back onto the bed. The wildflower-patterned duvet covers you up to your chest. You moan softly, touching your fingertips to your temple.

There are small thumps as Aemond quietly kicks off his Converses, and then his weight settles onto the mattress. He waits to see if you’ll tell him to stop. You don’t. He folds around you, blood and bones and muscle and warmth. His lips brush against the shell of your ear. One of his hands interlaces with yours and settles on your waist. You inhale his smoke, his cologne, his strange intermittent tenderness. He murmurs: “I’m sorry I’m doing this to you.”

“I wish I could stop,” you answer through a thick fog.

“Stop what?”

“Wishing it was possible. Wishing we were different people.”

Aemond doesn’t reply. Perhaps there’s nothing more to say. Within minutes, you are unconscious again.

When your eyes flutter open—painless, glass-clear—the room is dark and you are alone. The flashing red numbers on your alarm clock read 10:14 p.m.

“What?!” you gasp, scrambling out of bed. You rarely nap, and never for that long.

You hurry to Cadi’s room, expecting to find her bored or irritated or prepared to launch a formal complaint. Instead, she and Aemond are sitting on the floor and watching Ferris Bueller’s Day Off; Ferris is currently singing Twist And Shout on top of a parade float. There are several Pizza Hut boxes scattered around them; Cadi is eating a slice of pepperoni and mushroom. She and Aemond are mid-conversation. She is asking him as you walk in: “Wow, so Bobbi was on the news and everything?”

“He sure was. But they made him sit in this glass box because the CBS Evening News staff were so scared of AIDS they wouldn’t go anywhere near him, not even to wire him up with a microphone.”

“That’s totally bogus.”

“Yeah. Yeah it is.”

“How old was he when he died?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Really?” Cadi says, alarmed. “Grownups can die that young?”

“Sure. It’s rare, but it happens.”

Cadi looks to where you stand in the doorway. “Mom, aren’t you like thirty?”

“Almost. I’m a few years away from it.”

“Still,” Cadi says; and you witness something unfold on her face that you can’t remember seeing since she was a toddler. She is shocked, she is afraid. Her eyes shimmer; she’s forgotten all about her pizza. Aemond is watching her, realizing he’s made her aware of something that didn’t exist in her mind before.

“Oh no, love, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Aemond tells Cadi, resting a hand on her tiny shoulder. “Bobbi Campbell had a very serious disease, he wasn’t your average person. Most grownups live a long time. Your mum is going to live to be a hundred, okay? Maybe even a hundred and ten. Maybe even a hundred and twenty. It depends on how many cupcakes she eats.”

“Okay,” Cadi says, somewhat pacified but still shaken up.

“Do you want any pizza?” Aemond asks you. “We got cheese, pepperoni and mushroom, and supreme.”

“No, I’m not really hungry, thanks though.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“I am. What did you give me?”

Aemond smiles. “Percocet.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “No wonder it worked so well.”

“I left a bottle with about ten pills in your bathroom cabinet. But don’t start liking it too much. You’ll end up like Aegon.” He staggers to his feet.

“You’re leaving?” Cadi asks, openly disappointed.

“It had to happen sooner or later. It’s long past your bedtime. And I don’t live here. You couldn’t pay me to either, not with that dinosaur that lives in your front yard. I’m in fear for my life every time I visit.”

“The gator wouldn’t hurt you,” Cadi objects. “She’s too small. She’s just a baby. Next time, can you bring Gremlins?”

“Sure. I think I’ve got that VHS. Daeron might have borrowed it.” Aemond gives Cadi’s hair an affectionate ruffle and she tolerates this, something you would not have believed was possible. “I’m going to go talk to your mum for a few minutes and then head out, alright?”

“Okay. Goodnight.”

“Cheers, love.” Then Aemond follows you to the kitchen.

You pour yourself a fresh glass of sweet tea as Aemond helps himself to a snickerdoodle cupcake from one of the cake plates on the kitchen table. He licks off the frosting as he gazes at you, and you try not to feel anything. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“I know. I wanted to.” His right eye flicks down to the copy of the Bayou Journal that lies on the counter. The headline proclaims: Early tests reveal increased salinity of Lake Verret; breach of underground salt dome is suspected. “I’m sorry about that,” Aemond says awkwardly.

“Sorry about what? Ruining our lake?”

“Well, it’s not ruined, technically. It’s just…salty.”

“Aemond, almost all of the fish are going to die.”

“Will the alligators die too?” he asks hopefully.

“No. They won’t.”

“Oh.” He takes an evasive bite of his cupcake then changes the subject. “Come to my house tomorrow. After Willis picks up Cadi.”

“We’ve had this conversation before.”

“Yes, and now we’re having it again.”

“I don’t think this situation is good for either of us,” you say, but with pitifully little conviction.

Aemond places his snickerdoodle cupcake on the counter and steps towards you. And for a moment you think he’s going to order you, to command you, and you know if he does you’ll obey. But that’s not what Aemond is doing. He cradles your face in his hands and kisses you deeply, unexpectedly, without any roughness to it. Then he touches his forehead to yours as he whispers: “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have done that. I was wrong, I was wrong. I was fucked up. But I’m better now.”

“Why did you jump into the water for me?”

“Come over tomorrow,” he pleads again without answering you.

“Aemond…I don’t think I can.” I think this is destroying me. I think it’s flaying me alive, carving me away piece by piece.

“I don’t have to fuck you. I don’t even have to touch you. I just want you to be there.”

“Can I bring a friend?”

This catches Aemond off-guard. “Amir?”

“Have you not yet memorized my long, long, long list of friends?”

“Of course you can bring Amir,” Aemond says. “He’s always welcome. The only reason I haven’t invited Cadi is because Aegon leaves coke all over the house and I don’t think a kid should be exposed to that.”

“Yeah, I mean obviously I agree.”

Aemond kisses you again, a swift parting token, kind and weightless. “Bye, Cupcake. See you tomorrow.” He wolfs down the last of the snickerdoodle cupcake, grabs his teal duffle bag from the living room couch and is gone, the off-kilter front porch steps groaning under his Converses. You stand in the kitchen sipping your sweet tea for a while, listening to the air conditioner purring and the cicadas shrieking and the long-eared owl hooting as it swoops for prey. Then you begin pulling bowls and baking pans out of the cabinets.

Cadi appears, helps herself to a beignet, and turns on the little pink boombox on the kitchen counter. “Hey Mom, listen, it’s your favorite song!” She cranks up the volume: Heaven Is A Place On Earth.

You force a smile. “Yeah, it is.”

And you wait until Cadi dashes off to the bathroom to take her shower before you change the station.

~~~~~~~~~~

“What the…?” Amir squints at Sunfyre, who is floating by himself on a neon green inflatable raft in the middle of the swimming pool. “What the fuck is that? A Chernobyl hamster?”

You laugh. You’re wearing denim shorts and an unceremonious white t-shirt over your swimsuit, Kmart sneakers, hair assailed by wind and humidity, a tiny bouquet of wildflowers that Amir picked for you tucked into your back pocket. “It’s a ferret.”

“It’s a freak of nature. This is how you know the Bible isn’t real, why would Noah have let that mutant on the Ark?”

“Oh, my very favorite Napoleonville residents!” Alicent calls, beckoning you and Amir over to where she, Criston, and Daeron are gathered around a dark green beach towel littered with playing cards, gambling chips, strawberry daiquiris, and Marlboro cigarettes. Apparently, they run in the family. Alicent puffs anxiously on one, rings gleaming on her elegant fingers. “Come play with us. Do you have good poker faces?”

“I certainly hope so,” Amir replies as he pushes his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose. He’s wearing swim trunks patterned with bright, multicolored geometric shapes. “I suspect we can’t afford to lose.”

“Can’t afford to lose,” Daeron’s blue macaw squawks from where she is perched on a nearby lounge chair, and Amir gapes at it, startled.

“Quiet, Tessarion,” Daeron soothes the bird.

“If you incur any debts, Aemond can pay them.” Alicent smiles warmly, then takes notice of the two white bakery boxes you’re carrying. “Have you brought us more of your scrumptiously authentic Southern desserts? I’ve been raving about them to all my friends back home in London. I ring them and they’re mesmerized by the notion of hummingbird cake and sweet tea. They’re even having their own kitchen staff try to replicate them.”

How antebellum. “It’s nothing too special. Just a blueberry custard pie. And some Cap’n Crunch Treats for Aegon.”

“Wonderful!” Alicent chimes. “Criston? You must get us plates and silverware immediately. We must sample this new delicacy straight away.”

Criston dutifully rises and disappears into the house they call The Last Desire. Helaena—with her chameleon Dreamfyre clinging to her shoulder—is absorbed in a conversation with Otto as they wade in the shallow end of the pool. Aegon has fallen asleep on a lounge chair and is snoring loudly; the boombox beside him is playing She Blinded Me With Science. Aegon is turning lobster red beneath the sun, but no one has bothered to wake him up. Before you can do it, Aemond walks through the French doors of the living room and out onto the cobblestones, wearing his black swim trunks. He beams when he sees you, then kicks Aegon’s chair as hard as he can.

“What?!” Aegon shouts as he jolts awake. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“You fell asleep and you look like a Twizzler.”

“A chunky Twizzler,” Daeron adds.

“You want a palm reading?” Aegon asks. He grabs Aemond’s hand and flips it over. “It says you’re a bitch.”

“Aemond, phone for you,” Criston says as he breezes out of the house holding a stack of plates, forks, and knives. “I left it off the hook in the kitchen.”

“Thanks. Got it.” Then Aemond tells you: “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

When he vanishes, you and Amir join the poker game. Aegon splashes into the pool to grab Sunfyre, collects his bakery box of Cap’n Crunch Treats, and then pads into the house to presumably slather himself in Noxzema. Criston cuts everyone a slice of blueberry custard pie, which Alicent raves about. You can’t bear to have Criston inconvenienced once again to prepare daiquiris for you and Amir; before Alicent can think of it, you jog to the kitchen to grab two cans of Pepsi from the fridge. But just as you reach the doorway, Aemond’s voice stops you. It isn’t a phone call about the rigs or the stock market. It isn’t family, it isn’t friends.

“Yes, dearest,” Aemond is saying, and you peek into the kitchen to get a better look. He’s got the handset of a blue phone to his ear and is turned away from you. His back is straight and rigid; his voice is steady but dispassionate. “Right. I understand. Yes, completely. Don’t be ridiculous, of course I miss you. All the time. Yes, and we’ll discuss it then. I can’t wait either. I’ll see you soon. Yes, yes. And you as well. Cheers, darling.” There is a pause. “I love you too.”

Aemond hangs up the phone, sighs deeply, rubs his scarred forehead. You slip away before he knows you’re there.

[janesurlife]

His hair reminds me of the swirls of blue colour in van Gogh's starry night

[rickrifft]

Not to be so chronically online rn, but I nearly cried walking home tonight, coz the sky being so clear and full of stars reminded me of Viktor and the s2 ending. It just made me so indescribably happy to the Arcane animators for creating something so beautiful that it could make me look at the same sky I've walked under all my life again and think damn.

It's like when looking at the sky after first seeing Van Gogh's Starry Night and your brain can really See It, but this time with a cosmic disabled twink deity.

Anyway, this is your reminder to go look outside at the night sky and feel in your soul how lovely the world is. And also to love and appreciate Viktor from Arcane

[dreamgirljune]

What's your favorite Van gogh painting?

okok unsurprisingly i have Many Thoughts

in terms of pure aesthetics, i'd probably go with cafe terrace at night. it's just lovely, and something abt the glowing yellow of the building against the night sky makes me feel so at home

in terms of emotional value and probably overall, i'd have to say almond blossoms. as ive gone insane abt before on this blog, it was painted for vincent's nephew, named after him by his brother. it's a symbol of consistent care and love. i keep it on a spot on my bedroom wall i know i can easily see whenever i need, because it brings me a lot of comfort. reminds me of the overwhelming love that exists in every corner of the world, and also my sister, who has loved me better than anyone i know.

honorable mentions to starry night, self portrait with a straw hat, and every edition of the sunflowers.

thanks so much for the ask!!!! i could fr talk for hours and this genuinely made my day :) be warm & well fed <3

[loverboy-havocboy]

infodump at me about aliit au tattoos? please?

kissing you on the mouth about this, if i may. long post ahead, i imagine.

starting with comet:

starry night tattoo - comet is a painter and his favorite artist/main stylistic inspiration is van gogh. i think this is one of the first real tattoos boost did after beginning his apprenticeship in keldabe

honeycomb - this is the testosterone symbol! it's also a matching tattoo with his ori'vod thorn, who was (likely) the first other transmasc he ever met and whose non profit helped pay for comet's top surgery.

art is the weapon - a reference mcr's danger days album and a quote by either frank or gerard: art is the weapon, your imagination is the ammunition, stay dirty and stay dangerous, create and destroy as you see fit. i think that speaks to comet both as an artist and as a queer person, and i think the whole pack is insane about mcr. boost probably gave him this one in high school.

trans symbol - this commemorates his first hrt injection! boost did the injection and the tattoo a week after comet turned 18.

phoenix - this is a huge part of comet's character, and is done in out of the ashes. it's a cover up that helped him let go of an abusive relationship and reminds him of what he's capable of. it's also dedicated to/inspired by @brokenphoenix99, who's been around for comet since day one.

cowboy star - sinker gave him this tattoo under boost's very careful supervision!!

flowers - suggested by phoenix when i didn't like his old chest tattoo, these accentuate his scars rather than distract from them. they're something he's very proud of, so that makes much more sense for him. the flowers represent growth, new beginnings, and him finding the comfort in himself he needed to embrace his femininity. the butterfly is for change/transition.

pack tattoos (dog, sun moon stars, swords) - i'd say all of these are probably from high school if not very soon after. the wrist tattoo was the first tattoo any of them ever got and the first boost ever did. it was a stick and poke and they were around 14-16. sinker's given name means sun ray, boost has always been caught in his orbit (yes, we're excluding earth for this metaphor) and is the more quiet/reserved, so has always been his moon. idk yet when comet chose his name or whether he was already their star at the time, but this became Their Thing. the dog is because they were so rabid/feral in high school (and because comet drew blood biting another kid in a fight) that they were dubbed a pack of wild animals/dogs. they took that and ran with it, calling themselves a pack. the swords are an all for one and one for all kind of deal.

i am creation & lightning bug - i am creation is a lyric from creature by half alive which is transgender To Me. the lightning bug was just cute and comet likes bugs.

sinker:

moths: obligatory sun and moon tattoo to symbolize him and boost. these were really fun to do, i just feel like he's a moth tattoo kind of guy, you know?

darasuum: mando'a for eternal/eternity. this is in boost's handwriting, over his heart.

snake: much like with the moths, he just gives me snake man vibes? i think he likes snakes a lot, as he's a friend to all creatures. the snake has a pattern of suns, moons, and stars.

hip star: i think comet probably did this one! either way, it's dedicated to him.

baby/doll: boost calls him babydoll sometimes. they both have other partners (mostly hook ups for boost, sinker goes on a lot more dates/has other relationships), but babydoll is something just for them. the baby tattoo spends a lot of time under collars (or boost's hands).

others: he's got a lot of random ones because he's been boost's practice body for almost a decade!

boost:

his tattoos would need their own fucking post, and some of them can be explained by comet and sinker's, so i'm just gonna hit a few.

dinosaur: sinker did this one!

"i'm here" star: comet did this tattoo! i'm gonna say maybe in high school.

lighter: "ni partayli gar darasuum" is mando'a for "i remember you, so you are eternal", which is part of the mandalorian death remembrance. this is a memorial for his parents. they died right before the pack started high school, and he was adopted by sinker's parents, who were already his godparents.

molotov cocktail: lyric from baby, i'm an anarchist by against me.

tic tac toe board: this is for sinker to play with when he's board. sometimes boost plays with him, sometimes comet.

gregor:

tallies: coric gives him a new one every time he does something stupidly risky that lands him in medical (which gregor generally just considers victory tallies, much to the medic's chagrin).

212: for his battalion!

bicep tattoo: foxtrot squad symbol framed by the words "jatnese be jatnese", mando'a for "best of the best". i'm gonna say his whole squad probably has this one!

[throne-for-queens]

Somebody go tell the very bright souls bringing up the clip of him saying "Megan became like the sun to me" (in Life in Pink) that he always described his significant other using the metaphor of the sun. It's all so frustrating to see, changing the past to fit their narrative.

1) He did call Hedi/Hedieh "his sunshine" when he captioned their first Instagram official picture, the deleted one of her in green between his legs with the caption Ain't No Sunshine When It's Gone.

2) He also called another ex of his, his angel of light and thanked her for always bringing the best out of him and being there in his darkest times (possibly his BM).

3) He also had literal sunflowers in Swing Life Away music video: he buys a bouquet from a homeless man to give sunflowers both to the actress playing girlfriend and the little girl on a bike.

4) the sun might also possibly remind him of an ex who allegedly loved Van Gogh. He both quoted the Starry Night in the 2013 interview with Evi Siskos for the Latin MundoFox TV Channel and generally referenced Van Gogh in Downfall High (when Fenix cuts his ear). Now that I think about it, even the Museum of Cleveland is very famous mainly for having real Van Gogh pieces (and also having Cupid and Pysche).

5) He also previously mentioned years ago the song My Only Sunshine, the song The One That Got Away (by Katy Perry, the music video ends with Johnny Cash rendition of My Only Sunshine) and only recently worked with Mod Sun to co-write his recent song where he sampled My Only Sunshine.

But yeah, let's ignore all of this and base the whole thing on Megan as if we have not been doing this for the past 4 years... as if when he said those words he did not know it was ending in a scripted documentary in the height of his relationship being so public. A documentary released few months after their (currenltly called off) engagement where everybody looked like they were required to say at least one nice thing about Megan (I love Rook, he really tried but couldn't hide his expression while... lying?).

Lastly, the rest of the song does not apply for her. So far she never showed she sees any good in him (she made him look like an abuser) and never seemed to grow flowers in the darkest part of him, quite the opposite.

I remember the whole "sun thing" going wild in blogs (I don't know if those sites still even exist) when he first posted Hedi using that caption. Boy, It's feels like mid-2010s all over again. Almost a decade passed, new fans came in but almost nothing changed, they still change and delete his past to fit their narrative :). So tired of this bs.

Honestly I wouldn't pay most of those fan pages any mind. They are just pandering to the masses so that if by the slight chance Kells views their page then he can see their undying "support." But I feel like the same way he sees support, he can also sense inauthenticity. If you've always liked her great, but don't fake it for some clicks and views. Because doesn't Kell's also hate fake love?

As for the song, even though I'm under the impression that Kell's does most things with a reason behind them. I genuinely think he only covered the song because he liked it. Maybe once upon a time he could relate it to someone special, but there are many songs that people like just to like. However I do appreciate the various different examples that you provided, because I think people tend to forget or just be plain ignorant about the fact that colson lived a life before Megan stepped on the scene.

[immabethehero]

A Starry Night in the Encanto

I DID IT. CROSSOVER WEEK FINALLY COMPLETE. @wdtajn​ IT’S FINALLY DONE

So context: there’s a lovely musical called Starry, based on the life of Vincent Van Gogh. It’s written by Kelly Lynne D’Angelo and Matt Dahan, both very talented. Dahan also did a bit of Starkid. The soundtrack is on Spotify, go listen to it now!!!

🌠🌠🌠🌠🌠

“His hair is red like Mamá’s. Fiery red,” Dolores reports.

“He’s only got art equipment on him,” Isabela says.

“The hummingbirds say a door appeared from a hill and he emerged from it,” Antonio translates, the little birds fluttering around his head.

“He hasn’t said much to anyone, just kind of wandered towards the fields where the donkeys were,” Luisa recalls.

“He’s a lot like you, Tío, weird and artsy,” Camilo admits. This earns him a smack from Dolores.

“So… you think you could try talking to him?” Mirabel asks.

Bruno blinks rapidly, struggling to keep up with all the sudden information. He had just been dreaming of watching sheep and rats dance in a field when a tremor that made his bones rattle and his teeth chatter startled him awake. When he opened his eyes, he quickly surmised the tremor had been all six kids shaking him awake.

“And you want me to talk to him because…” he begins.

“Because like Camilo said in a non-helpful way, he reminds the town of you,” Mirabel answers.

An artist who avoids socializing? Fair enough. Bruno sighs and swings his feet out of the hammock. “Alright, just don’t expect any fascinating conversations to happen.”

“We won’t,” Camilo responds.

*

True to what Luisa said, Bruno finds the man sitting on a rock, painting the donkeys grazing in the field. The stranger wears blue overalls over a yellow shirt, both covered in dried paint splotches. He chews on a spare paint brush as he contemplates his next move. Red hair pokes out from under his straw hat.

Bruno slowly walks over to him, whistling absentmindedly to get his attention. The stranger’s head perks up, but he refuses to tear his eyes away from his masterpiece.

Bruno takes a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “Um, hi!”

No response. The man keeps painting.

Maybe he doesn’t speak English. “Hola!” Still no response.

“Uh… bonjour! Ciao! Habari! Konnichiwa! Guten morgen!” Please say something!

The stranger finally (finally!) turns around. His blue eyes have a sad, faraway look, yet twinkle with determination. They’re also very judgemental, at least to Bruno. “Didn’t know you spoke so many languages.”

Bruno feels his face turn red. “Not really, I just know how to say ‘hello’ and ‘where’s the bathroom’ in many languages.”

The stranger nods and turns back to his painting. Bruno peers over his shoulder to see the work.

“Woah…”

The colours pop out of the canvas, the sky dancing and twirling in a polychromatic tornado. The field boasts just as many hues, every shade of green far more eye-catching than Bruno’s ruana.

The man stops his painting and glares at Bruno. “Can I help you with something?”

“Teach me to paint.”

“What?”

“Can you teach me to paint like you, please?”

The man glances back and forth between Bruno and his painting, confused. “You actually like this?”

“Why wouldn’t I? I’ve never seen the sky and fields painted like that before!” Bruno admits. “It’s… maravilloso!”

The man blushes. “You’d be the first non-family member to say that. My other friends would say it’s too… what’s the word…”

“Messy?” Bruno guesses.

“No… tacky. Something like that.”

Bruno scoffs. “You need new friends.”

The painter laughs. “You flatter me, sir. What’s your name?”

“Bruno Madrigal.”

“Vincent Van Vogh.”

As Bruno shakes Vincent’s hand, his heart begins to beat faster in excitement. There’s something very fascinating about this man.

“Do you need a place to stay?”

“Given my way here has suddenly disappeared, yes. Do you have a motel where I could spend the night?”

“I was thinking perhaps my place? My family's house is big enough to house a guest wandering the Encanto,” Bruno says.

“Encanto?”

“It’s where you are. Encanto, Colombia.”

Vincent’s pale face turns ghostly. “Colombia?! That’s so far from France! How did I get here? How do I get back?!”

Bruno waves his hands nervously. “Don’t worry! This town does all sorts of magical stuff. I’m sure once you’ve settled down and explained how you got here, a way for you to go home will arrive. For now, let’s just settle on finding you a place to stay. I promise my family doesn’t bite. But the pets might.”

Vincent squeaks in response.

*

As they near the brilliant “Casita”, as Bruno calls it, the man suddenly stops Vincent in his tracks.

“Before we get any closer, I need to warn you of some things. This town is known for… its eccentricities, to say the least. For one thing, my house moves independently.”

Vincent nods warily. “Like… it’s haunted?”

Bruno laughs nervously. “No, it just has a mind of its own.”

The two continue on their way, and Bruno motions to Casita. “As you see…”

The window shutters on the top window suddenly swing and the tiles of the roof roll in a wave. Vincent yelps in surprise.

The window shutters shake back and forth slowly, as if waving. Vincent meekly waves back. The door opens (on its own!) to welcome the men inside. Vincent marvels at the building’s beautiful colours. He’ll have to paint it once he’s made sure he’s awake and not just hallucinating. Or dreaming. Or completely losing his mind. Maybe he should have taken up Segatori’s suggestion to see that doctor from wherever-the-heck.

“My family has magic as well. Some are a bit more noticeable than others,” Bruno explains. “For example-”

A roar of thunder echoes through the courtyard, startling Vincent. He looks up. There’s not a single cloud in the sky, how-?

He is soon answered by a tall woman wearing a bright orange dress. Her red hair is pulled back into a pretty braid. She eyes Vincent suspiciously.

“Who’s this, Bruno?” she asks.

“He’s Vincent, he’s… new here,” Bruno explains. He turns to Vincent. “This is Pepa, my sister. She can control the weather.”

Pepa scoffs. “It’s not so much control as it is just summoning clouds when I get emotional.”

“It’s still a very cool gift,” Bruno says. Pepa smiles and shoves him playfully.

“Whatever you say, hermano.”

Vincent hears loud footsteps above and looks up to see six, well, five young adults and one child curiously watching him from the mezzanine.

“Oh boy, there’s two of them now,” the teenaged boy mumbles. The girl with the red headband elbows him hard.

“These are my nieces and nephews!” Bruno says, grinning. “Come on down!”

Once they’re all standing in front of Vincent, Bruno introduces them. Isabela, Dolores, Luisa, Camilo, Mirabel and Antonio.

“Pleased to meet you at last, Señor. What’s your name?” Mirabel asks, pushing her bright green glasses up. Vincent marvels at her beautiful skirt.

“I’m Vincent. Vincent Van Gogh,” the artist says. “Your skirt is very pretty.” So many colours…

“Thank you! I just added some new designs.” Mirabel twirls, allowing Vincent to see the skirt in full.

“Where are you from?” Luisa asks. She towers over all of the kids. Her muscular build would be something Johanna would fawn over.

“Arles. It’s in the south of France.”

“That’s over 8000 kilometers away!” she gasps.

A heavenly scent fills the room. Vincent follows it to another woman approaching, holding a pot. Her curly black hair is swept up in a bun.

“This is Julieta, my other sister. Her cooking can heal any injuries,” Bruno says. “Julieta, this is Vincent Van Gogh.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Julieta says, holding out a gloved hand. Vincent shakes it, startled by all the people. He’s never met a group with such colourful clothing before!

“Where did you come from?” Julieta asks.

“Arles, France.”

“That’s quite far. How did you get here?”

“I was just getting back from a long day of painting when I saw a door glowing in an alleyway. When I went to investigate it, I could hear people and animals inside. So I opened it and walked through and came here. 

“That must have been the door in the hill where the animals saw you come out!” Antonio cries.

“What happened to the door?” Mirabel asks.

“When I turned around, the door was gone.”

The Madrigals glance at each other nervously.

Mirabel holds up her hand. “Family meeting!”

While the Madrigals huddle in Dolores’ sound proof room, Vincent stays in the courtyard, entertained by Casita. The painter has never seen a house juggle before.

“So… what do you guys think? Should we let him stay?”

“Well, now that you’ve invited him, it’s not like we can just throw him out into the streets.”

“Besides, he came from a magic portal. We can’t send him back either. We’ll have to wait for the Miracle to find him another way home.”

“All in favour of letting Vincent stay, say I.”

“I!” twelve voices echo.

*

Casita conjures up a guest room with a reasonably sized window for Vincent to look out. As soon as he sees the view, Vincent requests another canvas and immediately begins painting. Bruno can’t wait to see the result.

He also can’t wait to get to his vision cave. He can’t put his finger on it, but there’s something important, significant, influential about Vincent. His artwork feels familiar, and Bruno knows his Gift can help him solve the mystery. The seer flies through his room and into his vision cave, taking the steps (which have thankfully lessened dramatically) two at a time.

Surrounded by sand, salt tossed and match lit, Bruno begins to search for Vincent Van Gogh’s future.

*

Bruno is the first person Vincent sees in the morning. Grinning, he holds up the finished artwork of his view of the Encanto. The clouds and sunset have never looked so vibrant before, the colourful houses below compliment the beautiful sky.

“You like it? You can keep it if you do! I have so much art in my flat, it’s kind of a problem. I really need to find new homes for them…”

Vincent looks up from his work to see his host’s eyes red and puffy. Without saying a single word, Bruno throws his arms around the shocked painter.

“Bruno? Are you okay?”

Bruno simply hugs him tighter.

*

Unsettled, Vincent decides to paint in the courtyard of the lovely house. Just before he begins pouring his paint, he notices the kids approach him, all holding painting gear. His stomach drops. They’re not going to- 

“Is it ok if we join your painting session?” the girl with the colourful dress asks. “We saw you sitting alone and well, we just thought a good way to get to know our guest is through his favorite activity!”

Vincent freezes. He prefers painting alone, when no one can judge him or tell him how to paint or-

“We’ll be as quiet as possible! We just thought it would be fun,” the tallest girl says. The rest nod, smiles nervous but… honest.

Vincent nods and gestures to the floor, hoping it doesn’t come off as curt. He jumps when the tiles on the floor suddenly move, rolling chairs, easels, and a large table their way. He’s never going to get used to that.

“Alright guys, let’s do it!” the first girl says, setting her painting supplies down. Vincent fakes a smile as the rest of the kids file in.

“Mirabel and Antonio are coming soon,” a girl with a red headband says to Vincent. “Tío Bruno as well, but first he needs to see Julieta because of a headache.” Vincent nods, puzzled. How does she know that? Wait, what’s her name again?

Vincent studies the people around him, trying to remember Bruno’s rapid fire introductions from yesterday. Isabela has the colourful dress, Louise(?) is really tall and muscular, Dora(?) has the red headband. There's also a teenaged boy wearing an orange poncho, or ruana, as Vincent has been informed. He’s already forgotten that kid’s name.

The painter relaxes a little when he sees Mirabel and Antonio (frankly the more approachable kids of the youth) show up. He stops relaxing when he sees what Antonio is riding on. Christ, he’s never seen a cat that big!

“What- what’s that?” he stammers, pointing a shaking finger at the giant cat with razor teeth.

Antonio looks down at his ride. “This is Parce! He’s a jaguar, and he’s one of my best friends!”

“And your parents are okay with this?” Vincent squeaks. Antonio nods happily.

“I can talk to animals! They all love me!” That checks out. Vincent keeps forgetting about the magic part.

“So… I’m guessing you all have magic too?” Vincent asks. 

“Yeah! Luisa has super strength!” the teenaged boy says, pointing to the tall girl. To demonstrate, Luisa lifts up the table with one hand. One. Vincent’s jaw drops. That’s why she’s so muscular! Johanna would love this girl.

“Dolores can hear anything from miles away!” Isabela says, pointing to the girl with the red headband. The girl in question suddenly perks her head up and smiles.

“It seems Tía Julieta is baking a treat for us.” Right on queue, Vincent begins to smell something delectable wafting from the kitchen. Incroyable!

“Isabela can grow any plant at will,” Mirabel says. Isabela waves her hand and a bouquet of sunflowers appears in her hand. She hands them to a stunned Vincent.

“And Camilo can shapeshift into anyone!” Mirabel exclaims, pointing to the teenaged boy. So that’s his name!

Camilo gets up and twirls. In seconds, he transforms into Vincent. The painter gawks at his own clone smiling back at him, though he thinks the smile would suit Gauguin more. Paul always has a smug smile.

“Tía Pepa can control the weather with her mood,” Luisa continues. “And our mamá, Julieta, can heal people with her cooking!”

Vincent realizes one kid hasn’t shown off yet. “What about you? What’s your power?” he asks Mirabel.

Mirabel shrugs. “I don’t have a Gift.”

“She’s our Miracle holder,” Dolores says.

“She keeps us sane,” Camilo adds.

“She’s the heart of this family,” Isabela concludes. Mirabel blushes with pride.

“And what about Bruno? You haven’t mentioned him.”

“Tío Bruno can see the future!” Mirabel says.

The future? As in, what’s to come? Or what could be? Could this explain why Bruno was crying when he saw Vincent this morning?

“Is that why he looked sad to see me? He was so happy when I came to stay, but when I saw him last, he was crying,” Vincent explains. The children exchange worried glances.

“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about!” Mirabel hastily says. “Why don’t you show us your talent?”

The Madrigal begin pulling out their art supplies, waiting eagerly for the painter to begin. Eyeing them all suspiciously, Vincent resumes pouring paint onto his pallette. 

Vincent decides to do a portrait of Parce, the jaguar lying by Antonio’s side. He begins sketching the outline.

“How long have you been in painting, Señor Van Gogh?” Dolores asks. 

“Almost seven years,” Vincent answers.

“What do you usually paint?”

“Whatever I feel like. Which right now is the giant cat and his fascinating pattern.”

“He’s a jaguar. They’re great swimmers and they can kill with just one bite!” Antonio says.

Vincent dares a peek at Parce, who winks at him. The Dutchman gulps and ducks behind his painting.

Bruno suddenly runs in, carrying his painting equipment and a tray of something that smells devine. “Sorry! Sorry! Got held up with Julieta. Anyone care for some carimiñola?”

Half the snacks are gone in seconds. Vincent quickly grabs one before they disappear entirely. He takes a bite.

All of his senses ignite at once. His skin has cleared, his crops are thriving- He’s found Heaven in this little treat! It’s as if the chef has made it specifically for him. They aren’t kidding when they say Julieta’s cooking is magical!

Bruno chuckles as Vincent begins snatching more for himself. “Julieta has some more left over if needed. Quite the chef, isn’t she?”

“This is magique! Remind me to get the recipe before I go home,” Vincent exclaims between bites. “Also, send my compliments to her.”

“Will do.”

After eating at least three more of the carimiñolas, Vincent continues painting. The rest of the Madrigals contentedly paint beside him, most of them humming or whistling to themselves as they work. Another thing Vincent has learned about the Madrigals: they’re very musical.

Theo and Johanna would love Encanto. Theo would be amazed by all the artwork here. The weather would do wonders for his health. And  the Madrigals! Johanna would consider the Madrigal women her sisters. Theo could chat with the husbands for hours… probably about how much they love their wives. The thought makes Vincent chuckle to himself.

Hours pass. As Vincent finishes his work, the Madrigals begin showing off their paintings. Isabela has painted a cactus with a large orange flower on it. Dolores painted a guitar with little swirly designs on them. Luisa shyly presents the lovely unicorn she drew, mumbling how art isn’t her strong suit. Vincent has to admit, he’s envious of the way she paints equidae. Mirabel shows off a giant butterfly with rainbow wings, while Antonio shares an adorable picture of Bruno’s pet rats. There’s at least fifty rats on that paper, just how many does Bruno own?!

“Camilo, you haven’t shared your artwork yet,” Mirabel points out. The teenager ducks his head, canvas facing his chest.

“It’s… uh… still ongoing,” he mumbles.

“I’m sure it’s fine, just show us already!” Isabela urges.

Camilo reluctantly turns his canvas around. The group stares at the photo, stunned by the results.

Mirabel finds her voice first. “How lovely! It’s a… is it El Mohán?”

“It’s a chicken. Screaming,” Camilo admits. “It’s from the chicken incident, remember?”

The Madrigals begin nodding and smiling. Apprently that’s a story.

Vincent ducks behind his own canvas to keep Camilo from seeing his amused smile. He really hopes the kid doesn’t want to make a career out of art. Oh god, the other painters would be appalled if they saw that. Gaugin would never let the poor boy hear the end of it.

“It’s bad isn’t it?” Camilo wails. “I can’t draw at all!”

“No kidding…” Bruno mutters a little too loudly. Mirabel shoots him a glare while Vincent giggles behind his artwork.

Camilo scowls and stands to face the snickering painter. “My art is very amusing, isn’t it? Why don’t you show us what you made, Señor Van Gogh?!”

Vincent, still chuckling a little, shoots the teen a smug smile and turns his painting around. Camilo immediately sits back down, gawking and stuttering. Vincent’s smile widens.

“I’ve never seen Parce so colourful before!” Antonio squeals. Parce roars in agreement.

“Look at all those colours!” Isabela and Mirabel gush.

“It’s so pretty!” Dolores sighs.

“You’re such a gifted painter!” Luisa exclaims.

Vincent blushes from all the compliments. He’s surprised it made such a hit with this crowd. The other artists would be whining about the bright colours, the Madrigals adore it. Maybe it’s a cultural thing?

Vincent hands the painting to Antonio. “Consider this a little gift.” The child gasps with excitement, warming the painter’s heart.

“Thank you, señor!”

At last, Bruno presents his artwork. It’s of two anthropomorphic rats in masks, one black with a red spider on its shirt, the other wearing a similar outfit, only white with hints of pink and black.

“What is that?” Vincent asks.

“It’s a scene from a movie about people who share magical spider powers! We’re gonna watch it tonight!” Bruno explains.

None of those words are in any religious writings. As far as Vincent knows. “What’s a movie?”

“It’s a thing in the future, it’s where… art moves on futuristic… canvases?” Bruno trails off, words failing him. Vincent looks even more lost.

“Could you show me these ‘movies’ with your Gift? Maybe I’ll understand then,” Vincent finally says.

Bruno’s smile disappears. “You… want to see my Gift?”

“You’re the only one whose Gift I haven’t seen yet, of course I want to!”

Bruno glances at the kids, who nod and motion to Vincent. The prophet turns back to the artist, forcing a smile. “Sure. Let’s do it.”

*

But first, Antonio wants Vincent to help him hang up the “Portrait of Parce”. Bruno silently thanks his sobrino for the extra minutes as he paces back and forth in his room, fidgeting with his ruana. The rats watch their master warily, some crawling to him for comfort. Bruno smiles and picks one up, stroking her back.

The door suddenly opens and Bruno nearly drops the poor rat in surprise. He sets the rat down and turns to see Mirabel.

“Tío? Is everything ok?”

Bruno whines wordlessly and flops face first into the sand. Mirabel crouches beside him and puts her hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t need to worry! Vincent has seen so much weird stuff by now, I’m sure your Gift will look normal compared to everything else!”

Bruno lifts his head up. “It’s not that I’m worried about. I… I saw his future. And I don’t want him to see it.”

Mirabel frowns. “Right… he did ask about that before you showed up.”

Bruno squeaks. “He did?”

“Yeah. He said you were crying. What did you see?”

Bruno hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “He’s been through a lot. Everyone thinks he’s odd, and his paintings aren’t selling. He barely has any friends.”

Mirabel hums to herself in thought. She finally says, “He kind of reminds me of you.”

Bruno scoffs lightly and gently elbows her. “How dare you? I have tons of friends. Human friends, that is!” That’s actually not true, but he hopes Mirabel will humour him.

“You and the town didn’t always see eye to eye, but look at you now! You’re loved and respected in the Encanto! I’m sure it will be the same for him!”

Bruno chuckles sadly. “It’s… it’s not the same where he’s from. It can’t be solved that easily.”

Mirabel huffs. “Well, there has to be something good coming his way! You need to look for the butterfly! Like you did with my future! Surely one nice thing appeared when you looked into his future!”

Bruno ponders this silently, picking at his ruana. He suddenly lights up.

“Actually… there is. It’s the reason I looked into his future in the first place! Gracias, Mirabel!”

*

“So how will this work? Will there be smoke? I’ve got some matches! Do I need to close my eyes? Are there cards involved?” Vincent’s questions are endless as he takes a seat in Bruno’s vision cave. Bruno sits across from him, slightly unnerved by how talkative the painter has become. And to think he didn’t even want to talk to Bruno when they first met!

“You just need to stay inside the circle I made,” Bruno says. “Also be careful of the flying sand. It lets you see my visions, but it also can get into your hair and clothes.”

Vincent shrugs. “I’ll be fine.”

“It’s also going to get very windy.”

“Again, not an issue. I’ve painted in the rain plenty of times, the wind is nothing.”

“How strong is your immune system?”

“Very, now can we please begin?”

Bruno strikes a match and lights up the four leaf piles. He takes a deep breath. Look for the butterfly. Vincent watches with wide eyes.

The wind begins to pick up the sand. The room gently shakes as Bruno’s Gift awakens. Bruno feels his eyes glow and opens them.

“You might want to hang on,” he says, holding out his hands. An amazed Vincent takes them, his own hands trembling.

“Are you okay?” Bruno asks.

“Just shaking with excitement, I think,” Vincent says, gripping Bruno’s hands tightly. “Keep going.”

The sand swirls around them, creating a large bubble that envelops the gentlemen. Vincent gasps as bright green grains of sand begin forming images.

“This is what a movie looks like!” Bruno yells. Vincent watches with anticipation as the outline of a rectangle appears, the images inside moving as people below the screen watch.

“First they show them in these giant theatres before putting the movies on smaller vinyls for people to see whenever they want!” Bruno explains.

“That’s wonderful! Thank you for showing me!” Vincent says.

“While we’re here, there’s something else I wanted to show you!” Bruno exclaims.

“There is?”

“Your future!” Bruno closes his eyes in concentration, willing the good images to come to him. When he opens them, he feels a sense of relief rush through him.

Vincent watches as multiple versions of him appear, each one deeply engrossed in painting. Man, he really needs to fix his posture. When he looks closer, he recognizes a few paintings, but the rest are new to him.

The paintings then float together, each one receiving a fancy frame before lining up side by side. A ribbon holds back what seems to be crowds of people staring at the art. Vincent’s art.

“Thousands of people will come each day to see your art!” Bruno explains. “I’ve always wondered why your art looked so familiar, now I know. I’ve seen it before. These are revolutionary!”

Vincent stares at Bruno incredulously. “Are you sure it isn’t someone else’s art?”

“That was you painting all of them, right? I promise your paintings are going to change lives! People will come from far and wide to see them, inspired by your determination and passion. You’re quite the artist, Vincent Van Gogh.”

A slab of green glass materializes in front of the two men. Bruno takes it and uses it to shield them from the falling sand. He brushes off the last few grains and shows it to Vincent. The picture depicts a lovely view of Vincent’s art, hung up for people to see. The painting in the middle catches Vincent’s eye, one of a starry night over a town.

Bruno rubs his temples, blinking away any red spots in his view. When his vision finally clears, he’s surprised to see the artist wiping away a few tears, still gazing at the piece. Bruno gulps. Did he overwhelm the poor man?

“Did you get sand in your eye? Was it too much?!”

Without saying a single word, Vincent throws his arms around the shocked prophet.

“Vincent? Are you okay?”

Vincent simply hugs him tighter.

*

Mirabel is jolted awake when the door to Bruno’s room opens, tipping her over. She falls flat on her face. She feels a hand pull up her by the arm.

“Sorry, I didn't realize you were here.” It’s Vincent. When she pushes her glasses back up to see him, she’s surprised to see them glistening with tears. Her stomach plummets.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

Bruno appears behind Vincent, his smile bright, but his eyes rather red. “It’s fine, Mirabel. I think Vincent just needs some time alone.”

Mirabel nods and lets the artist pass. She watches him slowly walk to his room, clutching the emerald tablet in his arms.

Bruno gives Mirabel a hug. “Thanks for the advice, kid. I think he really needed to see that.” 

He pulls away from the hug, stumbling. Mirabel grabs his arms to help steady him.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m getting too old for double visions. I’m going to take a nap.” Bruno hobbles back into his room, the door shutting behind him.

“I will never understand artists.” Mirabel turns around to see Camilo leaning on the rail of the mezzanine.

“Camilo, you’re an actor. Isn’t that technically an art?”

“There’s a difference, prima.”

“No there isn’t.”

*

Bruno sees the door first, shimmering and glowing. The doorknob has an encrusted “V” written on. He calls for Vincent.

The prophet and the painter work together to get Vincent’s stuff packed up for him, while Mirabel wraps the vision tablet up in a spare blanket so it doesn’t get destroyed. Included is the recipe for her mother’s carimiñolas.

Vincent holds his painting of the Encanto. “Before I leave, I want you to have this. I don’t have any currency on me, so I hope you’ll take a painting as payment for letting me in.”

Mirabel excitedly takes the artwork. “Gracias! We’ll definitely have to find a nice place for this!” She throws her arms around Vincent. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Señor Van Gogh.”

“It was a pleasure staying here,” Vincent says. Mirabel runs off to hang up the art. She turns back and winks to Bruno.

Vincent turns back to Bruno, smiling. “I’ll miss seeing you every day. It’s not everyday I meet someone as kind as you.”

The compliment makes Bruno flush. “I’ll miss you as well. I’m… so honoured we got to meet. I don’t think I’ll ever meet a friend like you again.”

The painter pulls his friend in for a hug one last time. He feels Bruno’s arms wrap around him. He’s quite certain he’ll never feel the warm embrace of a friendship like this again. He’s never felt so seen before.

Bruno has never felt so seen, so connected before. He almost doesn’t want to let go, feeling a bit colder as Vincent pulls away. He never knew friends like Vincent could do that to him.

Vincent glances at the door. “So… do I just… touch the doorknob?”

“That usually does the trick,” Bruno advises.

Vincent apprehensively touches the doorknob. The glow of the door brightens, brightens, forcing Vincent to shut his eyes. When he opens them, an image of him has been carved onto the door, the outline sparkling with magic. The figure holds a paintbrush and a pallette, reaching up to touch the dancing stars. He gasps.

“Looks like you’re part of this family now,” Bruno says. “Goodbye, Vincent Van Gogh. I hope we cross paths again!”

“We’ll meet again! I promise! ” Vincent says. He opens the door and walks through.

*

Vincent lugs his gear through the door and right into his brother’s house. How convenient. The door closes behind him and the beautiful glow disappears. Vincent smiles sadly. He’ll miss Bruno. 

His thoughts are interrupted by someone running downstairs and into the front hallway. It’s Theo! Immediately Vincent is tackled by his younger brother in a hug. He’s been hugged a lot recently. Vincent happily returns it.

“Hello, brother!”

“You’re here! Oh thank God, I was so worried!” Theo exclaims.

“What?”

Theo pulls out of the hug and begins checking Vincent for injuries. “Where were you, Vincent? Paul wrote to us and said he hasn’t seen you for four days! You couldn’t be found! What happened to you? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. I feel great, actually!” Vincent responds. “A family looked after me.”

“I’ll be sure to send them my thanks,” Theo says. “Where was this family? In a different country?!”

That’s not far from the truth. “They live…” Vincent trails off. There’s no logical way to explain where he’s been, or even how he got there. Even if he did try, what if someone heard him? Arles would have even more to say against the artist. He shakes his head.

“It’s a long story… But I did get a new recipe I want you and Jo to try-”

Right on cue, Johanna appears from around the corner and runs to hug Vincent.

“There you are! I’m so glad you’re back, Vincent!” she cries. “Where were you?”

“Like I told your husband, it’s really complicated-”

“Why don’t you stay at our place for the night, then you can head back to Arles!” Jo immediately begins dragging her brother-in-law to the couch.

“Can I unpack first? I need to find a place for my stuff-.”

“No worries, there’s a free bedroom at the end of the hall!”

As they organize the free room, Vincent unwraps the vision tablet on his bed. Where could he keep this?

“Oh my goodness! That’s a gorgeous piece of art!” Theo exclaims. “Who made that?”

“My friend Bruno,” Vincent says. “It’s a… talent of his.”

“Then we’ll definitely have to find somewhere to hang it up,” Theo says. “He’s very talented.”

“He’s Gifted,” Vincent agrees. “And a great friend.”

*

“How come you never told us Vincent was a famous artist?!” Camilo whines. “It would have been nice to know that before I showed him a drawing of a screaming chicken!”

“You never asked, kid,” Bruno says with a chuckle. “Besides, he’s not famous yet, I don’t think. You still have time to right your wrongs.”

Camilo faints onto the couch, howling dramatically.

“This is amazing! I knew he had a Gift for painting, but this is exquisite!” Mirabel says, studying the painting. After much deliberation, the Madrigal family decided to hang it up in the mezzanine, where anyone passing by could be reminded of their friend. “And he really drew this from a view in his window?” Bruno nods.

“I can’t believe we got to meet an internationally celebrated painter!” Isabela gushes. “I the Miracle will let us meet him again.”

“I’m sure we’ll see each other again,” Bruno says. “He promised we would.”

Camilo sits up. “Oh yeah? What gives you the idea he’ll somehow magically appear again?”

Bruno winks. “20-20 vision.”

[art-that-fucks-you-up-tournament]

ROUND TWO

Text form and links under read more

Just a reminder, these are one day polls!

SET 1

MATCH ONE: Lament for Icarus vs Untitled (the angel came to me in a fever hallucination, perched upon my bed as I returned from the bathroom)

MATCH TWO: Figures vs Hubble Deep Field

MATCH THREE: Bath Curtain vs Une Martyre

MATCH FOUR: Can't Help Myself vs Rape

SET 2

MATCH ONE: A Walk at Dusk vs Diary Page

MATCH TWO: Dead of Night vs Christina's World

MATCH THREE: Untitled (I’m Turning Into A Specter Before Your Very Eyes And I’m Going To Haunt You) vs Lustmord

MATCH FOUR: Untitiled (Zdzisław Beksiński) vs The Fallen Angel

SET 3

MATCH ONE: Device to Root Out Evil vs Fifty Days at Iliam: The Fire That Consumes All Before It

MATCH TWO: Exotic Bodies vs Doubting Thomas

MATCH THREE: Somebody Fell From Aloft vs Anguish

MATCH FOUR: Cat in Obsolete Bath vs Salvator Mundi (Saviour of the World)

SET 4

MATCH ONE: Symphony of the Sixth Blast Furnace vs Tarpaulin

MATCH TWO: Khajuraho Group of Monuments vs ปราสาทสัจธรรม (The Sanctuary of Truth)

MATCH THREE: The Weather vs The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit

MATCH FOUR: Statue of Vincent and Theo van Gogh vs Judith Slaying Holofernes

SET 5

MATCH ONE: Cueva de las Manos (Cave of Hands) vs Chauvet Cave Bear

MATCH TWO: Winged Victory of Samothrace vs Crouching Aphrodite

MATCH THREE: Kūya-Shonin vs Arena #7 (Bears)

MATCH FOUR: Enbu (炎舞) (Dancing in the Flames) vs Belfast to Byzantium

SET 6

MATCH ONE: The Kama Sutra of Vatsyayan vs Nighthawks

MATCH TWO: Electric Fan (Feel it Motherfuckers): Only Unclaimed Item from the Stephen Earabino Estate vs Forgotten Dreams

MATCH THREE: Pixeles (a group of 9 works) vs War Pieta

MATCH FOUR: Ajax and Cassandra vs Nāve (Death)

SET 7

MATCH ONE: Meeting on the Turret Stair vs Stańczyk

MATCH TWO: Closeness Lines Over Time vs The Maple Trees at Mama, the Tekona Shrine and Tsugihashi Bridge

MATCH THREE: Survival Series: In a Dream You Saw a Way vs The Kitchen Table Series

MATCH FOUR: In the Grip of Winter vs NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt

SET 8

MATCH ONE: Blue Plate Special vs Mosque-Cathedral of Córdoba

MATCH TWO: Susanna and the Elders, Restored - X-Ray vs Moby Dick

MATCH THREE: how to look at art vs St. Sebastian

MATCH FOUR: Carroña vs The Dog

SET 9

MATCH ONE: David vs The Other Side

MATCH TWO: Starry Night vs Headress - Shadae

MATCH THREE: Woman with Dead Child (Frau mit totem Kind) vs Siroče na majčinom grobu (Orphan on Mother's Grave)

MATCH FOUR: Fighting Against SARS Memorial Architectural Scene (弘揚抗疫精神建築景觀) vs The Hull

SET 10

MATCH ONE: Worship vs Wheatfield with Crows

MATCH TWO: Study after Velázquez's Portrait of Pope Innocent X vs The Tragedy

MATCH THREE: Judith and the Head of Holofernes vs oh god i had a really big epiphany about love and personhood but i’m too drunk for words

MATCH FOUR: I am happy because everyone loves me vs Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan

SET 11

MATCH ONE: Water-Lilies, Reflection of a Weeping Willow vs The Grief of the Pasha

MATCH TWO: Passion vs Two Earthlings

MATCH THREE: Seer Bonnets vs Clytemnestra after the Murder

MATCH FOUR: “Untitled” (Perfect Lovers)/The Lovers (TIE) vs Kedai Ubat Jenun

SET 12

MATCH ONE: The Apotheosis of War vs Mouth

MATCH TWO: The Icebergs vs Maman

MATCH THREE: The Book of Kells Folio 188r: Luke carpet page vs Dome of the Rock mosaics

MATCH FOUR: Rowan Leaves and Hole vs Le Désespéré (The Desperate Man)

SET 13

MATCH ONE: Deimos vs Prudence

MATCH TWO: Siberian Ice Maiden shoulder tattoo vs Transi de René de Chalon (Cadaver Tomb of René of Chalon)

MATCH THREE: The Day vs Jatiya Sangsad Bhaban জাতীয় সংসদ ভবন (National Parliament House)

MATCH FOUR: Juventud de Baco (Bacchus Youth) vs Oath of the Horattii closeup

SET 14

MATCH ONE: St. Francis vs Thunder Raining Poison

MATCH TWO: Among the Waves vs Sagrada Família stained-glass windows

MATCH THREE: Noonday Heat vs Gielda Plakatu

MATCH FOUR: The Garden of Earthly Delights vs Kuoleman puutarha (The Garden of Death)

SET 15

MATCH ONE: da oracle vs Panel from Fun Home

MATCH TWO: La Mort de Marat (The Death of Marat) vs Düsseldorf 4 (Museum Kunst Palast)

MATCH THREE: Capriccio vs José y Maria

MATCH FOUR: Lágrimas De Sangre (Tears of Blood) vs Boy Staring at an Apparition

SET 16

MATCH ONE: The Gran Hotel Ciudad de México Art Nouveau interior vs Unfinished Painting

MATCH TWO: Memorial to a Marriage vs A Few Small Nips

MATCH THREE: Saturn Devouring His Son vs Lamentation over the Dead Christ

MATCH FOUR: Little Girl Looking Downstairs at Christmas Party vs Agnus

ROUND 3

SET 1

MATCH ONE: Lament for Icarus vs Hubble Deep Field

MATCH TWO: Bath Curtain vs Can't Help Myself

SET 2

MATCH ONE: Diary Page vs Dead of Night

MATCH TWO: Untitled (I’m Turning Into A Specter Before Your Very Eyes And I’m Going To Haunt You) vs Untitled (Zdzisław Beksiński)

SET 3

MATCH ONE: Fifty Days at Iliam: The Fire That Consumes All Before It vs Doubting Thomas

MATCH TWO: Anguish vs Salvator Mundi (Saviour of the World)

SET 4

MATCH ONE: Symphony of the Sixth Blast Furnace vs Khajuraho Group of Monuments

MATCH TWO: The Weather vs Judith Slaying Holofernes

SET 5

MATCH ONE: Cueva de las Manos (Cave of Hands) vs Winged Victory of Samothrace

MATCH TWO: Arena #7 (Bears) vs Belfast to Byzantium

SET 6

MATCH ONE: Nighthawks vs Electric Fan (Feel it Motherfuckers): Only Unclaimed Item from the Stephen Earabino Estate

MATCH TWO: Pixeles (a group of 9 works) vs Nāve (Death)

SET 7

MATCH ONE: Stańczyk vs Closeness Lines Over Time

MATCH TWO: The Kitchen Table Series vs NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt

SET 8

MATCH ONE: Mosque-Cathedral of Córdoba vs Susanna and the Elders, Restored - X-Ray

MATCH TWO: how to look at art vs Carroña

SET 9

MATCH ONE: The Other Side vs Starry Night

MATCH TWO: Woman with Dead Child (Frau mit totem Kind) vs The Hull

SET 10

MATCH ONE: Wheatfield with Crows vs Study after Velázquez's Portrait of Pope Innocent X

MATCH TWO: oh god i had a really big epiphany about love and personhood but i’m too drunk for words vs Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan

SET 11

MATCH ONE: The Grief of the Pasha vs Two Earthlings

MATCH TWO: Clytemnestra after the Murder vs "Untitled" (Perfect Lovers) and The Lovers

SET 12

MATCH ONE: Mouth vs Maman

MATCH TWO: Dome of the Rock mosaics vs Le Désespéré (The Desperate Man)

SET 13

MATCH ONE: Deimos vs Siberian Ice Maiden shoulder tattoo

MATCH TWO: The Day vs Juventud de Baco (Bacchus Youth)

SET 14

MATCH ONE: Thunder Raining Poison vs Sagrada Família stained-glass windows

MATCH TWO: Noonday Heat vs Kuoleman puutarha (The Garden of Death)

SET 15

MATCH ONE: Panel from Fun Home vs Düsseldorf 4 (Museum Kunst Palast)

MATCH TWO: José y Maria vs Lágrimas De Sangre (Tears of Blood)

SET 16

MATCH ONE: Unfinished Painting vs Memorial to a Marriage

MATCH TWO: Saturn Devouring His Son vs Agnus

[hangmanssunnies]

idk why people like to depict Jake as this selfish arrogant stone cold man when I watched the movie the first time I was so drawn to him I feel his backstory would literally break all our hearts and I’m uncomfortable with the fact that they made him the only guy with 2 confirmed kills they wanna make him the villain so bad but I keep thinking about the trauma of it all the guilt the nightmares even tho he’s awarded for these deeds even known by them but I still think his conscious is not giving him a break and I just wanna kiss his eyes and hands and you know when Hozier said “my baby never fret none about my hands and my body done and if the lord don’t forgive me I’d still have my baby and my babe would have me” I want a girl to love Jake like that.

wow I’m pmsing but had to share my thoughts I’m sad lmao also Glen’s chest hair swirls reminded me of Van Gogh’s Starry Night and I’m literally crying this man is a modern art piece

I think there are of course many ways to interpret and characterize Hangman. I mean if we are all being honest, the movie really gave us crumbs to work with here. And I think other people are valid to interpret him in their own ways. Now. That being said.....

The thought of loving Jake like a Hozier song makes me feel a little insane. Especially when we think about Glen being a modern art piece because he is. I mean, he can take my breath away in all of his photos. every time I see that he waxed his chest hair again I feel like starting a petition.

Thank you so much for sharing these thoughts, lovely. <3

[cloudcountry]

OH YEAH THAT REMINDS ME i went to a market today and they had a bunch of art stalls and i bought hand painted hair clips that remind me of van gogh's starry night ^^ there's also a pink one thats very isaac core

[diaryofrey]

I think my favorite thing to do is to remind people how much I love them. I love calling people pretty and beautiful, I love plucking flowers randomly and handing them to you, I will paint Starry Nights by Van Gogh because you mean a lot to me, I'll put bows in your hair and buy you candy everytime I see you because that's my rendition of 'I love you'. I love that I am a lover girl to my core, I have a little heart, and it loves to love.

[archivoautista]

Joy in Funerals: Ghana and Egypt

 

In Ghana, a funeral procession follows the familiar steps we know, the mourning around the casket, the walk to the final resting place, the burial in a cemetery, except that their dead are buried in colorful coffins shaped like crabs, cars, unicorns, dinosaurs, fishes, airplanes, cows, shoes. These are custom, fantastic, or proverbial coffins (abebuu adekai in its language), also sometimes called “FAVs” (fantastic afterlife vehicles). (Which is just, honestly epic, I could not come up with a greater name).

The desire for a colorful burial is not such a foreign one, you can imagine a kid enamored with dinosaurs, who would want nothing more than to be buried in a fucking Plateosaurus! Even people have got to admit, it would be nice to be buried in a coffin with, y’know, at least a floral pattern, maybe some ancient runes, for a history nerd. A coffin upholstered to look like the night sky! Even better, a coffin engraved to look like Van Goghs’ Starry Night. You know art kids would eat those up. They would sell like hot bread. It’s like Sylvia Plath once said: 

 But going back to the kid, there actually exists a very famous example of a person buried with a child’s Joy. Tutankhamun was the pharaoh's son, as a child, he was disabled, walked differently to others, and needed “orthopedic” footwear, which, relatable. And he had a huge love for ducks. People gifted him tunics with duck embroidered on it. He wore duck sandals, earrings decorated with ducks. He had toy ducks. When he died, aged 18 or 19, he was buried with all his duck memorabilia, in a chest, engraved with ducks, and a mummified duck, as well.

And what is that but a morsel of Joy to be enjoyed after death? by the dead and the mourners. 

This all reminds me of a poem written by Juan Gelman

A bird lived in me. 

A flower traveled in my blood. 

My heart was a violin. 

I loved and didn’t love. 

But sometimes I was loved.

I also was happy: about the spring, the hands together, what is happy.

I say man has to be!

Herein lies a bird, a flower, a violin.

I find it comforting to know that through all human existence people feel the palpable importance of burying somebody with a bird, a flower, and a violin.

This is all a very wayward way of saying that I would like to be buried with my calavera cup.

[dopescissorscashwagon]

'The Starry Evening'

📸 by Ole Haugland

@Hauglandphoto

"Vegårsheia is a small county located 200km south-west of the capital of Oslo.

I began roaming these areas when I was just a kid. My family has a cabin located in Vegår, and it's also where my photography journey started at just 10 years old.

When on location with my drone this February, I noticed these interesting patterns in the ice, that could have possibly have been formed by underwater currents, and holes left from ice fishing.

The swirly patterns reminded me of van Gogh's “The Starry Night” and it inspired me to create my own modern take of his masterpiece."

Title: The Starry Evening

Artist: Ole Haugland (hauglandphoto)

Date: 01 February 2023

Location: Vegårshei, Norway

The Starry Evening

[sanctificetur]

amy looks at the tenth doctor, as the door of the tardis opens in leadworth ; the garden of her home. she sees a different doctor to her raggedy man step out, wearing a pinstripe suit and pink and white flower necklace.

they were now sitting down at a wooden table in her garden of flowers, including sun. as they had stepped through the soft soil to the table, she heard a distinct sound ( perhaps quite like fireworks or a shooting star falling to gently pad down on the soil ).

she still stayed in her childhood home, even after fourteen years passed since she saw the doctor. hoping he would return one day. and he had, although he said he miscalculated with the timing ; when she said it had been years, not minutes, having not meant to cause her pain.

she nods when the doctor asks her if she grew the sunflower herself. it was truly another companion, as it sat next to them. it was quite a tall flower 🌻, stretching through the long green grass… blue with yellow tint.

ten says to her, ‘ giraffes are aliens, you know, ‘ as he looks at the sunflower.

she raises her eyebrows, smiling. ‘ reminds me of when the raggedy man ( eleven ) did a silly dance at me and rory’s wedding called the drunk giraffe, with waving his arms in the air. ‘

ten remembers, his future incarnation having told him. he then shows her the same apple, ( passing it to her ), freshly red with light green hints, like the day she got it from her tree in the backyard, when she was a child ( and she had first met him ).

he says he is the doctor, explaining he was a past regeneration from the one she remembered. and that eleven was still here, and would be back soon from the art museum ( where there were paintings of various art, including vincent van gogh and claude monet ).

it was quite like a fairytale, she thought, as she looks at it, shining in the morning light, clutched in her red nail manicured hand. she thinking amelia was a okay name after all, perhaps, yet so was amy.

he remembered it had been interesting to meet eleven in the last day of the time war, as he had tried to save gallifrey by placing in a pocket universe. they had been looking at paintings of landscapes at an art museum they could enter into as portals. amy thinking it interesting, as that had happened with her during her time with vincent and eleven.

‘ i remember the last time i saw him was at an art museum when they and vincent van gogh saw his paintings in the gallery…. ‘ he had been looking in surprise and tears forming in his eyes ( trickling down to his hay coloured beard ), having not known his presence brought light to the world. ‘ as he hears the curator say, he took the pain of his tormented life, transforming in ecstatic beauty, he felt warmth enter his heart… ‘

, amazed at how the curator also remembered when he had a cut on his hand, he dipped his finger onto it and smoothed the remnants of blood to accentuate a scar of a boy’s face in a painting.

take all your chances while you can… you never know when they’ll pass you by.

‘ midnight oil blue, ‘ she says the name through the soft tune which rose into a slightly higher tempo of cymbal, wrapping her recount from above. it was quite a shy variety of flower. she liked sunflowers, as it was beautiful, and so was her time with vincent.

he smiles, amazement colouring his eyes, as he touches the petals, ( as was also her recounting of meeting the inspirational van gogh ).

he also remembers from her recount, she and eleven and vincent had lain down in the grass, looking at the starry night. vincent had described the sky in the night, it not simply black, yet various shades of blue. and that the stars shine through the blue.

rubbing the petal texture with his fingers, of a rubber softness, ten sees it was ice blue with deeper tint ; and notes the fuzzy dark centre with yellow sprinkles — it was like ink…

‘ blimey, it’s beautiful. I have seen yellow sunflowers during my travels, but not blue till now. ‘

it reminded him of the ocean and sky, of him and jack harkness ; and breathes, his shoulders moving a little as he reminiscences.