#To remember WHY I hate Catholicism

[sailoreuterpe]

Is going on Tumblr in church going to cause me to burst into flames? XD

[maganne-bonete]

Actually I'm coming into terms that I might have a divinity kink in this fine early start of the lenten season

[teaboot]

I feel like if you're using a lot of disposable plastic bags in your day to day life, you've gotta do something sustainable to make up for it. Like using bamboo toilet paper or eco friendly cat litter or something, yknow

Honestly I exaggerate for comedic effect, while I DO routinely use ziplock bags to hold spaghetti I cook maybe once a month and the bag itself is usually for freezer storage. I actually throw out maybe one bag a week? I DO hate washing plates and tupperware and junk but that usually just means I eat sandwiches without a plate.

I agree though that needless waste should be avoided, and I do avoid it- biodegradable bags and recyclables, empty butter tubs used to store leftovers, etc.

This said, though, not applicable necessarily for myself but for a lot of others- I feel that it's importat to remember that there are many people who legitimately NEED things like plastic straws, or catheters, or pre-packaged foods

And the idea that that's a moral failing that individuals need to personally make up for when a single billionaire blows out more CO2 in a long weekend than I will in my whole life on a superjet meet-cute in the Bolivian rainforest between humvee drag races funded by the river-polluting textiles plants they planted in a third world country to avoid EPA laws and give an entire village stillbirths and stomach cancer is an idea that those very same bigwigs have spent a LOT of time and money investing in planting in the public psyche.

Like- Glass bottles are infinitely recyclable, so why are so many drinks in plastic now? Loads of drinks manufacturers used to buy them back and clean them for re-use, so why did they stop? If they chose to make something out of a limited and environmentally irresponsible material, why is it my failing to track down a correct process of disposal for them? What if there are none in my area? Do I lobby for more recycling plants in my area? Do I set aside some of my limited time outside the pain factory of my job- which I have more than one of, thanks to rising costs of things just like that drink I just emptied- to properly dispose of this company's waste FOR them?

Say coca-cola just rolled up to your town and started dumping millions of empty plastic bottles in the street, going, "wow, you should really think about building and staffing a recycling depot, it would be really shameful of you to just put these in the trash." When companies purposefully use materials with limited lifespans- because yes, even plastic can only be reused so many times- and tell you it's your own fault if it harms the environment- that's essentially what they're doing, just with more steps.

Yes, its important to be as environmentally concious as we can in our day to day life, but responsible sustainability is not catholicism. We don't get good boy points from our lord and savior Captain Planet every time the average low-income household gathers together to hold hands and repent for a single-use plastic that allows them to access something they need.

Entire families could eat trees and shit dead lithium batteries for years and still not do as much damage to the planet as an average dye plant or braindead celebrity does in a week just for fun, and I'm mad about it

...this went on longer than intended.

TL/DR: DO recycle and minimize waste, but don't beat yourself up over the little waste you can't avoid, and follow the money.

EDIT: Part 2

[catullus0525]

Repentant Sighs And Voluntary Pains: Oscar Wilde and Robbie Ross 1895-1900

Foreword: 

This is the first draft of a chapter in a longer biography of Robert ‘Robbie’ Baldwin Ross (1869-1918) that I am currently working on. I hope to share this with other people who are interested in Victorian queer history and the Wilde circle. 

I started this project at the start of February, originally envisioning a short and sharp biography for LGBTQ+ History Month, because imo Robbie deserves to be remembered as a queer hero in his own right. But as I started writing I realised how much there were to his story, and how much emotions often lurked beneath Robbie’s deceptively dispassionate writing style, so the project very quickly ballooned beyond its intended scope. This essay biography will probably end up with 100-120 pages, and I am currently entertaining the idea of turning it into a book. 

Part of why the project ballooned so drastically was the fact that Robbie was full of paradoxes.

He was at once incredibly talented and incredibly dismissive of his own talents. Oscar Wilde said he was ‘as cleaver as can be’ and everything he wrote was ‘admirable’; booksellers who had worked with him praised him for his impressive knowledge and inordinate memory; and even Alfred Douglas, who hated Robbie in his later years, conceded that he was ‘a man of brains and ability’. Yet he always thought little of his talents and erased himself from the narrative. He refused to write a biography for Wilde on the ground of his own lack of talent. And even at the 1908 dinner honouring his Herculean effort in reviving the Wilde estate, Robbie declared himself ‘inadequate’ and attributed the revival to others.

Similarly, he was at once unbelievably strong-willed and perplexingly vulnerable. He came out to his family at the age of 19 after being bullied out of Cambridge, and, unlike many of his contemporaries, he never denied his sexuality throughout his life. Moreover, he spoke up against sexism, antisemitism, and militarism, and protected a generation of young queer artists from a hostile world. Yet Oscar Wilde was his Achilles heel: between 1897 and 1900 he was hurt time and again, but he went back to Wilde every time; and in protecting Wilde’s posthumous legacy, he exposed his most vulnerable side to the viciousness of the world, which eventually chased him to his early grave. 

I believe the key to unravelling much of the paradoxes is his love for Oscar Wilde. I believe he at once loved Oscar Wilde in the romantic sense and worshipped his art; but his love for the artist compelled him to forsake and denounce his romantic love. This was because, despite so many biographers had claimed that Robbie reconciled his Catholicism and his sexuality without difficulties, I believe he had in fact struggled silently with internalised homophobia against himself throughout his life. He most likely thought of himself as a ‘corrupting influence’ and bore the cross of the guilt for ‘corrupting’ the artist ever since 1895. This chapter tries to unpack the nature of such love, as well as the relationship between Wilde, Ross, and Douglas between 1895 and 1900. 

Now, a couple of disclaimers: 

This is very much unfinished. I tried to be as accurate factually as possible, but omissions/errors are inevitable at this stage, so pls lmk if you spot any. I am also still working my way through archives and biographies to plug gaps. 

I tried my best not to led period-typical homophobia influence my own writing & terminologies, but it has not been easy, so if you find anything problematic in this please help me correct it. 

The original manuscript has a million footnotes, and the finished product will be referenced. I decided not to put them in these posts for the sake of brevity, but I am more than happy to share my sources if you are interested. 

Some part(s) of it can be a bit rambly, particularly since I found it very hard to control my urge to rebut many claims by Alfred Douglas and his biographers (which were often unsubstantiated, untrue, or maliciously misconstrued)… I really tried to give Douglas sympathetic treatment and benefit of the doubt, but the sheer amount of bile in his biographies and autobiographies made it very hard (I read over 500 pages by himself and three biographies about him with the intention of fathoming the depth of his character and finding every redeeming quality in him, but all of them had substantial revolting passages that made me incredibly uneasy. On top of that, although I am fully aware that he was most likely seriously traumatised, mentally-ill and needed help, I still found his vicious antisemitism and homophobia rather inexcusable)…In my revision I may try to soften some of my criticisms and structure them better. In the meantime apologies in advance if my criticisms of Douglas hurt anyone’s feelings. 

Lastly, I sincerely love and admire Oscar Wilde’s writings so much, which makes me a bit apprehensive in writing about him or in analysing his work. De Profundis is my favourite prose work in English and it means a lot to me personally, so I feel personally inadequate in doing literary analysis on it…In other words the bits here about Wilde’s character & writings are very, very imperfect. I will try my best to polish & flesh them out in revisions, but I would sincerely appreciate any advice from fellow Wildeans. 

Nothing can ever blot from my memory what you have suffered in defence of your writings […] I shall never forget what enemies your learning, and what envy your glory, raised against you. I shall never forget your reputation, so justly acquired, torn to pieces, and blasted by the inexorable cruelty of half-learned pretenders to science […] since it is decreed that your virtue shall be persecuted till it takes refuge in the grave, and even beyond that, your ashes perhaps, will not be suffered to rest in peace,—let me always meditate on your calamities, let me publish them thro' all the world, if possible, to shame an age that has not known how to value you. I have hated myself that I might love you; I came hither to ruin myself in a perpetual imprisonment, that I might make you live quiet and easy.

—— Heloise to Abelard, Letter II

Later on I think everyone will recognise his achievements; his plays and essays will endure. Of course you may think, with others, that his personality and conversation were far more wonderful than anything he wrote, so that his written works give only a pale reflection of his power. Perhaps that is so, and of course t will be impossible to reproduce what is gone for ever. 

—— Robert Ross, around 1900

I. 

On 3 June 1918, Alfred Douglas indignantly declared in the Central Criminal Court that Oscar Wilde was ‘the agent of the devil in every possible way’ and ‘the greatest force of evil that has appeared in Europe during the last 350 years’. He was testifying on behalf of Noel Pemberton Billing, a proto-fascist politician sued for libel after spreading a conspiracy which alleged that there had been a circle of 47,000 ‘unpatriotic’ deviant women and clandestine homosexuals in England tied to Robert Ross and the ‘Wilde cult’ undermining the English war effort for the German Kaiser. Douglas’ testimony played right into the homophobia, wartime paranoia, and moralistic fervour of the English public. The jury, in turn, acquitted Billing and condemned Wilde. 

Douglas would forswear his statement years later (as he had forsworn many other things in his life), but the harm done was hardly reparable. For Ross, who had fought endless battles to rehabilitate Wilde’s name and literary legacy for the past eighteen years, to see Wilde’s name dragged through the mud in the press again must have been excruciatingly distressing. Days after the acquittal of Billing, Ross wrote to Sir Charles Mathews (then the Director of Public Prosecutions), sardonically congratulating him on ‘the complete rehabilitation of your protégé, Lord Alfred Douglas’ and called him ‘the bastard of a mummer’. Meanwhile, to his friends Cecil Sprigge and Charles Ricketts, Ross lamented that the war-weary English public revelled in ‘kicking Oscar’s corpse’, and that he himself had been ‘used as a piece of mud’ in smearing Wilde’s name. Four months later, Ross died of heart failure, aged only 49. 

Ross was a private man who left behind few traces of himself. Unlike Douglas, who wrote endless autobiographies regurgitating his narratives, Ross never told his side of the story. Therefore, we would never know whether behind the official cause of death of ‘gastritis caused by chronic bronchitis’ lied a broken heart. Was he tormented by the thought that his effort for the past eighteen years was rendered naught by the fresh wave of anti-Wilde furore? Might he have worried that Wilde’s name would forever be buried in the mud as a result of Douglas’ vendetta against himself? These we could only speculate. However, we do know that Ross had been seriously depressed, struggled to sleep, and prematurely aged for a long time before his death, due in no small part to Alfred Douglas incessant persecution over the past five years. It would also be reasonable to postulate that the uncharacteristic sarcasm of his letter to Sir Charles Mathews was the tip which belied an iceberg of agony.

Ross left almost everything in his possession to others upon his death. The Oscar Wilde estate was transferred to Cyril (then deceased) and Vyvyan Holland in its entirety. Most drawings in his possession were presented to the British Museum. To himself, he had reserved only a quiet little space in Wilde’s majestic tombstone. Unbeknownst to everyone, he had requested for such a secret little space to be built when commissioning Wilde’s famous Père Lachaise tombstone. In his will, written four years ago during his persecution by Alfred Douglas, Ross had directed that:

[…] my remains shall be cremated at Golders Green Crematorium with the ordinary burial offices of the Catholic and Roman Church. And I direct that my ashes shall be placed in a suitable urn and taken to Paris and buried in the tomb of the said Oscar Fingal O' Flahertie Wills Wilde. If however it should prove impossible to obtain the licence of the necessary authorities for this I direct that my ashes shall be scattered in Père Lachaise. 

It was as if Ross was being the Heloise to Wilde’s Abelard. In that famous Medieval love story, much like how the illustrious writer Oscar Wilde was captivated by the 17-year-old Robbie Ross, Abelard, the brightest philosopher of his day, fell for his astute pupil Heloise, 19 years his junior. They were not only intellectual partners but also passionate lovers, yet their love transgressed the strictures of society and religion, thus scandals befell the brilliant Abelard. But Heloise’s love was unwavering even after Abelard’s ruin, not unlike how Ross steadfastly stood by Wilde after his imprisonment till the very end. In the end, much like how Heloise demanded to be buried with Abelard 22 years after his death, 23 years after Wilde’s death, Ross yearned for eternity alongside Wilde, beneath the same hallowed earth that cradled Heloise and Abelard.

Yet, unlike Heloise, whose effigy lay proudly beside Abelard's in Père Lachaise, Ross deliberately left no mark of his own on the final resting place he shares with Wilde. So whilst Heloise receives countless visitors’ songs and tears alongside Abelard, out of the hundreds of kisses imprinted on Wilde’s grave, none was intended for Ross; and most who wander through Père Lachaise remain unaware that Ross's ashes are silently guarding Wilde’s body.

Such self effacement was despite the fact that Ross had given up his eternal life with God for eternal rest with Oscar Wilde. As a devout lifelong Catholic, in directing his body’s cremation, Ross had denied himself resurrection. This is because it was not until 1963 that the Vatican finally conceded that cremation was ‘not opposed to the Christian religion' and ceased to deny Catholics wishing to be cremated their sacraments and funeral rites. Although at the time of Ross’s death, the Catholic Church sometimes acquiesced to cremation in practice as a result of  WW1 (as reflected by the ‘the ordinary burial offices of the Catholic and Roman Church’ at Golders Green Crematorium), it was still quite possible that Ross never received the funeral rites which prepare a Catholic’s soul for afterlife. What had prompted such grave sacrifice? Perhaps he wanted to take up as little space as possible, lest his presence eclipse the master’s lustre. Perhaps it was his ultimate penance for his incurable sin of loving Oscar Wilde. Or perhaps he saw incineration as the only way to purify his body and to make himself worthy of eternal rest by the artist he had corrupted, just as Alexander Pope had written of Heloise: 

Death, only death, can break the lasting chain; And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain, Here all its frailties, all its flames resign, And wait till 'tis no sin to mix with thine.

Yet, were it not for Ross, us contemporaries might not have known Oscar Wilde at all. Despite Nicholas Frankel’s brilliant effort to re-write Wilde’s final years as a saga of joy, love, and self-acceptance, there is no denying that Wilde died as a ruined bankrupt in 1900. Upon his death, he was a persona non grata in England whose name was synonym to scandal. And due to his bankruptcy, everything he had owned was automatically passed into the hands of the Official Receiver in Bankruptcy. This meant that none of the proceedings from Wilde’s works (if there were any at all) would go to his orphaned children. Furthermore, though Salomé was successful on the German stage and The Soul of Man under Socialism welcomed by the bookshelves of Nizhny Novgorod, Wilde’s works were deemed worthless in England: the complete rights to Lady Windermere’s Fan and The Importance of Being Earnest were sold off for the meagre sum of £100 each. Indeed, the Official Receiver had told Ross in 1901 that Wilde’s works ‘would never command any interest whatever’. But Ross’s labour of love worked miracles. In eight years, Ross had accomplished what none had thought possible: he had repaid all of Wilde’s debts, restored Wilde’s children’s rights over their father’s literary estate, and re-established Oscar Wilde in English literary history. Moreover, we owe much of our knowledge of Wilde and his works today to the 14-volume edition of Wilde’s Collected Works, compiled and published by Ross in 1908. That remarkable undertaking remains one of the most exhaustive collections of Wilde’s writings and had informed much of subsequent Wilde scholarships. Few in history had done so much yet said so little. 

II. 

In a cruel twist of fate, Oscar Wilde was sentenced to two years of imprisonment with hard labour on Robbie’s 26th birthday. On that very day, a great many homophobes paraded through the streets of London, celebrating the death of the ‘b-gger’. The fateful day of 25 May 1895 was to go down in history as a turning point in so many’s lives. For artists, it spelled the end of the short 1890s, the glorious age of aestheticism and decadence. For activists, it marked the beginning of a vicious conservative backlash towards everything deemed ‘deviant’, from men’s right to not be masculine to women’s right to vote. 

For Robbie Ross personally, his 26th birthday spelled the death of ‘Robbie’, that witty, impulsive, kitten-like youth. Most accounts before 1895 described Robbie as an attractive boy looking younger than his age, but every account since described Ross as ‘an old man before his time’ worn down by care. And from the few portraits and photographs we have of Ross, we see that the spark of youthful wit so visible in his 1893 photograph was never again to be seen in any of his pictures since 1895. The change in appearance mirrored the shift in Ross’s literary career: after 1895, he rarely wrote without others demanding him to write. In May 1895, Edmund Gosse encouraged Ross to find solace in ‘the infinite resources of literature’ which Gosse believed was open to Ross ‘more than to most men’. But in his letter to Max Beerbohm five months later, Ross declared with a great deal of resignation that ‘I do not write now’. Indeed, nothing beyond criticism and satire came out of his pen in the next five years. As Bogle said, since that fateful year, it seemed as if Ross had made ‘a deliberate decision against writing what would make him successful’. 

Ross was already a worn down man when he received information about Wilde’s sentence. Wilde withdrew his libel action against Queensberry to prevent Alfred Douglas from being called to the witness stand. This, however had led to a witch-hunt for all men with homosexual tendencies in England; as a consequence, Ross was exiled in Europe. The memory of Oscar’s arrest weeks ago was probably still very fresh in his mind. After all, he was with Oscar when he was arrested, and on that apocalyptic day, it was Ross who went to Wilde’s Tite Street home to pack his clothes for him. Ross most likely remembered painfully how he rushed from Tite Street to Bow Street police station carrying Oscar’s Gladstone bag, and fought his way through a homophobic mob ‘shouting indecencies’ at both Wilde and himself. He was hoping to see Oscar for one more time before his inevitable imprisonment, only to be cruelly denied permission to even leave the bag with him. Afterwards, Ross went to his mother’s place and broke down in tears, and according to his former boss W.E. Henley, Ross was heartbroken and fell ill. Despite his illness, however, Ross stayed on for a couple more days after Wilde’s arrest and returned to Wilde’s Tite Street home multiple times to collect incriminating manuscripts. 

We do not know exactly why Ross ceased to pursue his own literary career after 1895. Perhaps, as Bogle postulated, he ‘could not help feeling emotionally responsible’ for Wilde’s downfall, and his ‘lack of ambition for himself’ was a ‘subconscious punishment for the disaster he felt that he had brought to Wilde’. Or perhaps, as Borland suggested, Ross had realised that his real talent was in supporting artists. Regardless, because Ross’s life from 1895 onwards irrevocably revolved around Oscar Wilde, we would never know what Ross could have become on his own terms as a literary figure. He would spent the remaining 23 years of his life as Wilde’s personal secretary, part-time lover, and full-time literary executor; and he would burnt his own life to keep the flame of Oscar Wilde’s literary legend. 

III. 

Love weaves itself into the human experience in myriad forms as a result of our complex nature. Anthropologists have uncovered that at the heart of love lie three primary brain systems shaping our journey toward mating and reproduction. These systems orchestrate the dance of physical attraction, the depths of romantic affection, and the enduring bonds of profound attachment. Yet, these strands of love do not always intertwine seamlessly. It is therefore entirely feasible to find oneself deeply bonded to one, while the flames of romantic desire burn for another, and seek fulfilment of desires elsewhere. Such multiplicity of biological pathways has set the stage for many romantic tragedies through the ages.

The tragedy of Wilde and Ross found its crescendo within the grey walls of Reading Gaol. It was in confinement that Wilde’s affection for Ross reignited with unprecedented depths of passion. Perhaps prison had made Robbie beautiful. Perhaps against the backdrop of 'weeping prison walls' and the dual spectres of ‘lean hunger and green thirst’, memories of Robbie came to be cast in ever more luminous light, as every beautiful moment was relished time and again, and each time made more beautiful by the power of imagination. As evidenced by that famous passage in De Profundis, to the imprisoned, even a trivial gesture could be exquisitely beautiful and inspire extraordinary love:

Where there is Sorrow there is holy ground. Some day you will realise what that means. You will know nothing of life till you do. Robbie, and natures like his, can realise it. When I was brought down from my prison to the Court of Bankruptcy between two policemen, Robbie waited in the long dreary corridor, that before the whole crowd, whom an action so sweet and simple hushed into silence, he might gravely raise his hat to me, as handcuffed and with bowed head I passed him by. Men have gone to heaven for smaller things than that. It was in this spirit, and with this mode of love that the saints knelt down to wash the feet of the poor, or stooped to kiss the leper on the cheek. I have never said one single word to him about what he did. I do not know to the present moment whether he is aware that I was even conscious of his action. It is not a thing for which one can render formal thanks in formal words. I store it in the treasury-house of my heart. I keep it there as a secret debt that I am glad to think I can never possibly repay. It is embalmed and kept sweet by the myrrh and cassia of many tears.

This Robbie, painted by Wilde’s imagination, symbolised everything he had longed for in prison, and everything he had missed from the outside world: Robbie was a safe harbour which promised comfort, security, acceptance, and unconditional love. 

Croft-Cooke contended that Wilde ‘dragged in’ Ross’s name in De Profundis because he was ‘naïf enough to suppose that Bosie might feel some envy for Ross’, so he leveraged Ross’s ‘jealous longing to appropriate him’ to make Bosie jealous. And even biographers sympathetic towards Ross, such as Edra Bogle, believed that Wilde had mentioned Robbie only to ‘make Bosie seem even worse by contrast’. This interpretation, I believe, commits the ‘supreme vice’ of shallowness by entirely misjudging the nature of De Profundis. Though much ink had been spilled in debates over the nature of De Profundis, most serious scholars nowadays agree that it was ‘never just a letter’. For one, in 1897 Wilde instructed Ross to have the manuscript copied without telling Alfred Douglas, alluded to potential publication posthumously, and hesitated to send the letter to Alfred Douglas. Moreover, it was one of Wilde’s best proses which contained exquisite passages on aesthetics, theology, and philosophy. To reduce it to a love letter intended to incite jealousy, therefore, not only overlooks much of the historical contexts, but also does much injustice to the beautiful text itself. The piece, as Lee contended, is best read as Wilde’s mourning of the death of ‘Oscar Wilde’ the literary personality, an exercise to exorcise his own demons in order to reclaim and perhaps recreate his sense of self. Thus both ‘Bosie’ and ‘Robbie’ in De Profundis are essentially symbolic characters onto whom Wilde projected himself: ‘Bosie’ mirrored the ‘Oscar Wilde’ in his ‘Neronian hours’, when he was ‘rich, profligate, cynical, materialistic’; ‘Robbie’, in contrast, embodied the simple, tranquil, pensive, and creative future beyond prison which he had envisioned for himself. 

Wilde was visibly torn between the two versions of himself after his release. On the one hand, he desired to reinvent himself as an artist by living a healthy and wholesome life. As declared at the end of De Profundis: 

I hope to go at once to some little seaside village abroad with Robbie and More Adey […] I hope to be at least a month with my friends, and to gain, in their healthful and affectionate company, peace, and balance, and a less troubles heart, and a sweeter mood. I have a strange longing for the great primeval things, such as the Sea, to me no less of a mother than the Earth […] I feel sure that in elemental forces there is purification, and I want to go back to them and live in their presence. 

The longing for rebirth and restoration was reiterated time and again in many of his post-prison letters. In his letter to Selwyn Image on 3 June, for instance, he wrote that he was ‘thoroughly ashamed of having led a life quite unworthy of an artist’, and that ‘if I have good health, and good friends, and can wake the creative instinct in me again, I may do something more in art yet’. Similarly, he told Mrs Stannard that France, the ‘mother of all artists’, had given hm ‘asile’ and enabled him to recover, and that he wished to live thus in ‘solitude and peace’.

However, on the other hand, almost immediately after release, his old luxuriating taste came back to haunt him. On 27 May 1897, for instance, he told Reginald Turner that:

Robbie detected me at Dieppe in the market place of the sellers of perfumes, spending all my money on orris-root and the tears of the narcissus and the dust of red roses. He was very stern and led me away. I have already spent my entire income for two years.

The story was probably as much truth as it was trope. Orris, or the roots of iris flowers, was harvested by the ancient Greeks and Romans for essential oil. The flower carried strong homoerotic connotations: for one, some had argued that in Greek mythology, Apollo had created iris (instead of what we know as Hyacinth today) in remembrance of Hyacinthus, the beautiful youth who died for him; moreover, the flower itself was turned into a symbol for queerness over the 20th century, not least because it had derived its name from the Greek goddess of the rainbow. The ‘tears of the narcissus’, likewise, was a thinly-veiled homoerotic reference: one may recall that Wilde had compared Alfred Douglas with narcissus after their first night together. Thus the flowers were most likely at once flowers of perfumery and flowers of youthful beauty, and the lavishing of the ‘income for two years’ probably referred to not only money but also his spiritual developments over his two years of imprisonment. 

It was befitting, then, in the story, it was ‘Robbie’ who sternly led him away from the marketplace of perfume-sellers. He had canonised ‘Robbie’ in Reading Gaol, and he pleaded as ‘St Robert of Phillimore’ for salvation from himself. In such pleadings the ‘Robbie’ in his imagination and the actual person Ross became indistinguishable. In his letter dated 28 May 1897, Wilde wrote that: 

For yourself, dear Robbie, I am haunted by the idea that many of those who love you will and do think it selfish of me to allow you and wish you to be with me from time to time. But still they might see the difference between your going about with me in my days of gilded infamy - my Neronian hours, rich, profligate, cynical, materialistic - and your coming to comfort me, a lonely dishonoured man, in disgrace and obscurity and poverty. How lacking in imagination they are! If I were rich again and sought to repeat my former life I don't think you would care very much to be with me--I think you would regret what I was doing: but now, dear Robbie, you come with the heart of Christ; and you help me intellectually as no one else can or ever could do--you are helping me to save my soul alive--not in the theological sense, but in the plain meaning of the words: for my soul was really dead in the slough of coarse pleasures: my life was unworthy of an artist: you can heal me and help me--no other friend have I now in this beautiful world. I want no other. Yet I am distressed to think that I shall be looked on as careless of your own welfare and indifferent to your own good. You are made to help me. I weep with sorrow when I think how much I need help, but I weep with joy when I think I have you to give it to me.  I know you love me, but I want to have your respect, your sincere admiration, or rather, for that is a word of ill omen, your sincere appreciation of my effort to recreate my artistic life. But if I have to think that I am harming you, all pleasure in your society will be tainted for me. With you, at any rate, I want to be free of any sense of guilt--the sense of spoiling another's life. Dear Robbie, I couldn't spoil your life by accepting the sweet companionship you offer me from time to time. It is not for nothing that I named you in prison St. Robert of Phillimore. Love can canonise people. The saints are those who have been most loved.  I made only one mistake in prison in things that I wrote of you or to you ....My poem should have run: “When I came out of prison you met me with garments, with spices, with wise counsel. You met me with Love." Not others did it, but you. I really laugh when I think how true in detail the lines are.

‘Robbie’ was to be his saviour from despair, and he hope to be reborn as an artist through loving ‘Robbie’. But such love had little regard for Ross the actual person: Wilde wanted ‘Robbie’ to save him from himself, fully aware that he could well harm Ross by demanding salvation from ‘Robbie’. Yet, in the end, instead of trying to bridge the yawning gap between his imaginary ‘Robbie’ and the actual Ross, he merely prayed that ‘St Robert of Phillimore’ may absolve him from ‘any sense of guilt’ for ‘spoiling another’s life’. 

Wilde professed much of the similar affections for Ross three days later. However, by then, he had already begun to show signs of yielding to temptations, or rather to his former self. He wrote that: 

I feel that Berneval is to be my home. I really do. […] It is also extraordinary that I knew Berneval existed and was arranged for me. […] Dear Robbie, I wish you would be a little more considerate, and not keep me up so late talking to you. It is very flattering to me, and all that, but you should remember that I need rest. Good night. You will find some cigarettes and some flowers by your bed-side. Coffee is served below at eight o'clock. Do you mind? If it is too early for you, I don't at all mind lying in bed an extra hour. I hope you will sleep well. You should, as Lloyd is not on the verandah. I adore this place. The whole country is lovely, and full of forest and deep meadow. It is simple and healthy. If I live in Paris I may be doomed to things I don't desire. I am afraid of big towns…I am frightened of Paris — I want to live here. […] Please send a Chronicle to my wife, just marking it, and if my second letter appears, mark that. Also one to Mrs. Arthur Stannard……I have no one but you, dear Robbie, to do anything……

Here, on the one hand, he was desperately trying to bring himself to love Berneval; on the other hand, however, his pre-1895 self was already rearing its head and luring himself to Paris where temptations filled the streets. This made his declarations of love of Berneval sound all the more like desperate attempts at autohypnosis. Thus, it should be entirely unsurprising that merely two months later, Wilde described Berneval as unbearably ‘black and dreadful’ which made him ‘quite suicidal’. Alongside his rapidly waning love for Berneval’s natural tranquility was probably his increasingly wavering love for ‘Robbie’, which made it all the more necessary for him to keep himself up late to pen contentless love letters to Ross. 

Such love was expressed in more explicit terms on 6 July 1897: 

I long to see you. When are you coming over? I have a lovely bedroom for More, and a small garret for you, with my heart waiting in it for you.

But at the same time as he told Ross that his heart was waiting in the bedroom for him, Wilde was already making plans of eloping with Alfred Douglas to Naples. By that point, the post-prison persona he had envisioned for himself in Reading Gaol had already been eclipsed by the revival of the Neroian Oscar Wilde. 

I largely concur with Laura Lee on the interpretation that Wilde loved Douglas because Douglas seemed to him sin personified; thus he was drawn to ‘Bosie’ ‘not in spite of his flaws but because of them’. He was ‘rapturously horrified’, and he wanted to experience through ‘Bosie’ the ‘heights and depths of life’, and to burn both pleasure and pain with ‘a gemlike flame’. However, for an author so adept in manufacturing symmetries, Lee missed the crucial symmetry between Wilde’s ‘delight in decadence’ with Douglas and his desire for transcendence in his letters to Ross. The oversight is all the more curious because Lee’s referencing of Wilde’s own reflection on his life as ‘a harmony of two extremes’, which considered ‘artistically […] perfect’. I believe this confession offers a profound insight into Wilde's inner conflict: his heart was torn between 'Bosie' and 'Robbie,' the dual muses in his imagination, which inevitably led him to hurt both Douglas and Ross.

IV. 

We could not ascertain the level of intimacy Wilde and Ross shared during these months; however, it is nevertheless safe to presume that physical intimacy did accompany the fleeting revival of intense romantic affections For one, Robert Sherard alleged that during Ross’s visit to Berneval in August 1897, he accidentally saw Wilde and Ross in a passionate sexual embrace through undrawn curtains one morning, which had let him to contend years later that ‘there is no doubt — and I am speaking from absolute knowledge — that it was [Ross] who… dragged Oscar back into the delights of homosexuality’. Alfred Douglas likewise wrote in 1932 that ‘it is an absolute fact that it was Ross who at Berneval dragged Oscar back to homosexual practices. Oscar told me this himself… Harris told me at Nice that Ross had told him the same story.’ On top of which, when writing to Leonard Smithers in this period, Wilde said that ‘He [Robbie] can ride everything, except Pegasus’. The thinly-veiled innuendo strongly corroborated the existence of sexual intimacy. 

McKenna characterised their relationship as ‘Oscar was in need of comfort, and Robbie obligingly comforted him’. He also claimed that the intimacy between Wilde and Ross was merely ‘sex as consolation’ but was not love and could never ‘scale the same emotional heights as Oscar’s love for Bosie’. But the claim that Ross offered up his own body only to comfort Wilde was not only unsubstantiated but also profoundly degrading: he was not a passive object providing cheap pleasure or consolation but a human subject possessing the agency to love. Moreover, given that Ross very likely harboured a profound sense of guilt for corrupting Wilde and leading him to his downfall by introducing him to homosexual practices, it is highly unlikely that he would casually offer his body as a pastime.

The more plausible conjecture, I believe, was that Ross fell deeply in love with Wilde despite his every effort to prevent a second corrupting of Oscar Wilde by his own love. Ross’s responses at the time to Wilde’s love letters are now largely lost in history, perhaps because Wilde had no habit of keeping letters, or perhaps because Ross (or his family members) had burnt them at some point. However, Ross’s unfinished and unpublished 1918 manuscript, which was supposed to be a preface to a collection of Wilde’s letter to him, gave hints of the depth of his affections. Recalling the day 23 years ago when he welcomed the newly-released Wilde off the shore of Dieppe, Ross wrote: 

We met them [Wilde and Adey] at half past four in the morning, a magnificent spring morning such as Wilde anticipated in the closing words of De Profundis. As the steamer glided into the harbour Wilde’s tall figure, dominating the other passengers, was easily recognised from the great crucifix on the jetty where we stood. That striking beacon was full of significance for us. Then we began running to the landing stage and Wilde recognised us and waved his hand and his lips curled into a smile. His face had lost all its coarseness and he looked as he must have looked at Oxford in the early days before I knew him and as he only looked again after death. A good many people, even friends, thought his appearance almost repulsive, but the upper part of his face was extraordinarily fine and intellectual.  There was the usual irritating delay and then Wilde with that odd elephantine gait which I have never seen in anyone else stalked off the boat. He was holding his hand a large sealed envelop. ‘This, my dear Bobbie, is the great manuscript about which you know. More has behaved very badly about my luggage and was anxious to deprive me of the blessed bag which Reggie gave me.’ Then he broke into great Rabelaisian sort of laughter. The manuscript was of course De Profundis.  […] Wilde talked until nine o’clock when I insisted on going to lie down. We all met at twelve for déjeuner, all of us exhausted except Wilde. In the afternoon we drove to Arques[-la-Bataille] and sat down on the ramparts of the castle. He enjoyed the trees and the grass and country scents and sounds in a way I had never known him do before, just as street-bred child might enjoy them on his first day in the country: but of course there was an adjective for everything — ‘monstrous’, ‘purple’, ‘grotesque’, ‘gorgeous’, ‘curious’, ‘wonderful’. It was natural to Wilde to be artificial as I have often said and that is why he was suspected of insincerity. I mean when he wrote of serious things, of art, ethics or religion, of pain or of pleasure. Wilde in love of the beautiful was perfectly, perhaps too, sincere and not the least of his errors was a suspicion of simple things. Simplicity is one of the objections he urges against prisons. During that day and for many days afterwards he talked of nothing but Reading Prison and it had already become for him a sort of enchanted castle of which Major Nelson was the presiding fairy. The hideous machicolate turrets were already turned into minarets, the very warders into benevolent Mamelukes and we ourselves into Paladins welcoming Coeur de Lion after his captivity.  

In stark contrast to his earlier prefaces, which were concise and impersonal, this unfinished piece unfolded with elaborate detail and a deeply heartfelt touch. The first half of the extract reads more like a smitten seventeen year old savouring his love at first sight than a middle-aged man recalling his reunion with a friend from a respectable remove. The vivid depictions of Wilde's tall figure ‘dominating the other passengers’, his ‘odd elephantine gait’, and his ‘great Rabelaisian laughter’ all had a level of raw, animalistic vitality. Subtly, they reveal a deep-seated, almost primal attraction that defied the passage of time, an allure as impossible for Ross to resist in 1918 as it was back in 1897. In weaving his memories, Ross imbued them with such tender details that one can almost imagine a blushing author as he was committing these words to paper. His recounting of Wilde's ‘extraordinarily fine and intellectual’ visage on that ‘magnificent spring morning’ carries the freshness as if but a moment had slid by. Moreover, even after the elapsing of 23 long years, he still remembered with painfully loving precision how Wilde's lips 'curled into a smile’ under the soft, early light of half-past four in the morning, a detail so heartfelt and personal that it defied the yawning chasm of time. It is as though, despite his utmost efforts to restrain and conceal his profound affection and desire, they inevitably seep through his prose and permeated the pages. 

The heartfelt affection, however, was heavily tinged with guilt and remorse. Noticeably, Ross described Wilde at his most ‘fine and intellectual’ as how ‘he must have looked at Oxford in the early days before I knew him and as he only looked again after death’. It was as if Ross believed his very presence had cast a shadow over Wilde's luminance, as if Ross saw Wilde as Adam and himself Eve, the snake, and the apple all at once. Thus, as the narrative unfolded, Ross erased himself from the second half of the extract. He affectionately described from the perspective of a silent onlooker how Wilde had ‘enjoyed the trees and the grass and the country scents and sounds in a way I had never known him do before’, the string of ‘and’s hinting at his ‘childish’ curiosity and spontaneity. In that moment, in Ross’s eyes, Wilde was free, untethered by his own corrupting influence; and he himself watched over his return to the Garden before the fall from a distance with almost-maternal affection. Ross reemerged in the narrative not as a participant but as a protector, who removed himself from memory and defended Wilde’s sincere love for beauty to the reader. Perhaps this was Ross’s subconscious hope: to cleanse his influences from Wilde’s life and legacy, to piously marvel at Wilde’s artistic brilliance from a distance, and to walk silently in the shadows as a loyal, protective spirit. 

This unfinished manuscript was perhaps Ross’s rawest confession, penned without the chance to polish or pare down his own voice or longing from the narrative. It revealed the tragic conflicts which underpinned Ross’s life: he wanted to erase himself from Wilde’s life at the same time as he wanted Wilde with every fibre of his being; and he believed himself to be the fatal temptation for Wilde but could not help himself from yielding to the temptation of Wilde. In a way, this was the dilemma between his faith and his sexuality he encountered at the dawn of his life reenacted at the dusk: he had internalised the idea that homosexuality was to be a corrupting sin but could not deny his nature, thus he walked with the cross of repentance on his back his entire life. 

The most tragic aspect with the second ‘fall’ after Reading was that the final straw before Ross gave in to his own romantic desires was possibly a promise of a life together. After breaking his promises to Ross and abandoning him for Alfred Douglas, Wilde wrote to Ross on 21 September 1897 saying ‘I could have lived all my life with you’. Moreover, in his 2 January 1899 letter rejecting the idea of a second marriage, Wilde suggested that Ross would want him to marry ‘some sensible, practical, plain, middle-aged boy’ —— a description which eerily mirrored Ross himself. Though it might appear as mere coincidence, but reading these words together with his 1897 letter, they seem to hint at profound commitments in the nascent days of their reunion after prison.

But when did the love begin? As argued, I am not quite convinced by the claim that Ross was hopelessly in love with Wilde ever since 1886; rather, from the few textual evidence we have of him, I believe that Ross’s love was most likely rekindled by sorrow and remorse after witnessing the pain of imprisonment taking its toll the man he had admired and once loved. After the prison sentence, in 1895, Ross made multiple trips back to England at great risks to himself. According to Bogle, on 24 September 1895 Ross visited the building ‘where Wilde waited while the Registrar decided to adjourn bankruptcy proceedings for seven weeks’. He then came back again on 12 November 1895, only to wait patiently in the corridors of the Court of Bankruptcy for a glimpse of Wilde, and to silently but solemnly raise his hat to Wilde amidst a jeering crowd. Before the bankruptcy proceedings, Ross had ‘harried and pleaded’ in his attempt to raise £2000 to pay back Wilde’s debt. He went so far as to write to his former Cambridge tutor Oscar Browning for money, but, partly due to Alfred Douglas’ inability of unwillingness to contribute, Ross’s effort fell £400 short, Wilde went bankrupt. Adding insult to injury, the Marquess of Queensberry (Alfred Douglas’ father, the man who sent Wilde to prison) became one of Wilde’s primary creditors upon his bankruptcy.

On that very day, he had a brief interview with Oscar. From which, Ross recorded that: 

Physically he [Wilde] was much worse than anyone had led me to believe. Indeed I really should not have known him at all . . . His clothes hung about him in loose folds and his hands are like those of a skeleton.

He further remembered that the only subject on which Oscar had spoken calmly without breaking down was death. His shock and despondence at the ruin of the once great artist was palpable. 

He then visited Wilde in prison again in May 1896. His letter to More Adey after the visit repeated many of the same themes. In the letter, Ross wrote that: 

Then Oscar appeared. He is much thinner, is now clean shaven so that his emaciated condition is more apparent. His face is dull brick colour. (I fancy from working in the sun in the garden). His eyes were horribly vacant, and I noticed that he had lost a great deal of hair (this when he turned to go and stood in the light). He always had great quantities of thick hair, but there is now a bald patch on the crown. It is also streaked with white and grey. You must allow perhaps for my exaggeration but I try not to do so and I am writing from pencil notes taken down immediately after leaving the prison. I did not break down at all, although this the worst interview I have had with Oscar[…] I did not know he[Sherard] gave way to exhibitions of feeling, though I know he feels things of course, as much perhaps as I do […] He[Oscar] cried the whole time and when we asked him to talk more he said that he had nothing to say and wanted to hear us talk. That as you know is very unlike Oscar.

His attempt to be calm and judicious barely belied his pain. The letter reads like a string of consciousness spilled onto paper, where attempts at detached brevity inevitably give way to detailed and heart-rendering accounts of Wilde’s physical decay. For one, whilst claiming that he ‘did not break down at all’, Ross confessed that the this harrowing encounter had shaken him to the core, and that Sherard’s breakdown was barely on par with his own pain. Moreover, his description of Wilde as a shadow of the man he had once known danced between maintaining a facade of control and the inevitable surrender to grief. It was as if he was desperately trying to reign in his thoughts and tame his emotions. 

He further wrote that: 

I firmly and honestly believe apart from all prejudice that he is simply wasting and pining away, to use the old cliché he is sinking under a broken heart. […] Each person has his view as to what constitutes a decayed mind, but if I were asked about Oscar before a commission, I should say that 'Confinement apart from all labour or treatment had made him temporarily silly, that is the mildest word that will describe my meaning. If asked whether he was going to die. It seems quite possible within the next few months, even if his constitution remained unimpaired, but for the causes that wives and husbands die shortly after each other, for no particular cause or men who have lost all their money or their '10 o'clock business' and young girls whose engagements have gone wrong. I should be less surprised to hear of dear Oscar's death than of Aubrey Beardsley's and you know what he looks like.

Here, in the shadow of Wilde’s decline, Ross's heartache is again palpable. Wilde’s deterioration was described as a gradual erosion of character evoking his introduction to homosexuality, which Ross most likely believed to be the beginning of his corruption. The phrase "sinking under a broken heart" further deepens the tragedy, evoking the downfall of something majestic now in ruins. 

Yet, amidst this despair, Ross clinged to a sliver of hope: he insisted that Oscar’s mental decay was but temporary silliness induced by gaol fever, suggesting the possibility of recovery and restoration. Here, however, this hope was shadowed by the looming spectre of Wilde’s death, making Ross’s optimism appear fragile. It was telling that the analogies Ross drew were all disasters befalling respectable heterosexual families. This resonated with the profound remorse in the apologies he gave Constance before undergoing the life-threatening surgery in 1896: perhaps deep-down, he was repenting over what he saw as his own destructive effects on Oscar’s marriage to Constance.

Ross kept this vow of devotion for the rest of his life. From then on, though fifteen years younger than Wilde, Ross was to be a safe harbour for him amidst every storm. He was to become Wilde’s anchor and confidante, offering unwavering support with almost-maternal tenderness. The only deviation, as argued, was the love and longing which he could not tame or renounce despite his best efforts.

V. 

Though Alfred Douglas and his biographers have insisted time and again that Ross had schemed and plotted to replace Douglas ever since Wilde’s imprisonment, historical evidence points to the contrary. 

The tussle over Douglas’s dedicating of his first volume of poems to Wilde was a case in point. In May 1896, Douglas decided to dedicate the first volume of his poems to Wilde, either as an inconsiderate display of devotion or a selfish scheme of self-promotion, risking another heavy blow on Wilde’s already-ruined reputation. Upon hearing of this from multiple friends, Wilde went into a fit of rather ugly rage and denounced the dedication as ‘revolting and grotesque’. Moreover, he ordered Ross at once to go to Douglas and retrieve every letter, book, and jewellery piece he had bequeathed Douglas during their affair, for he wished to have ‘nothing to do’ with Douglas. Douglas, however, declined to listen to anything Wilde said in prison and rather melodramatically told Ross that Wilde shall only have the letters back when he was dead. 

The odious task of mediating between Wilde and Douglas must have worn Ross down, because a month later, he fell seriously ill and had to undergo a life-threatening surgery to have one of his kidneys removed. Ross never fully recovered from it. According to his brother Alex, Ross lost most of his hair after the kidney operation, and was consistently unwell in the years to follow.

Yet, even during his painful illness, Ross pleaded sympathy for Douglas in front of Wilde by quietly slipping him a piece of paper (to evade the prison censors), with the consequence of drawing rebuke from Wilde upon himself. Moreover, even as Ross was recovering from the surgery, emaciated and barely able to work, he tried to lift Douglas ‘out of his malaise’ and encouraged Douglas creativity. If Ross had truly seen ‘the opportunity to re-stake his claim to Wilde’ as Douglas Murray argued, he would not have gone to such lengths to protect Douglas from Wilde’s wrath: if his aim was to supplant Douglas in Wilde’s affection, he merely had to step aside and let Douglas’ petulance do the job. 

If anything, Ross did not need an ulterior motive to dislike Douglas during this period: any friend of Oscar Wilde would have been frustrated by Douglas’s utter inability to see beyond himself. In November 1895, for instance, Douglas complained to More Adey that there was nobody to ‘play his[my] card’ in England, and all of his friends ‘seemed to be his[my] enemies’ despite their effort to console his grief. And in a fit of rather tone-deaf self-pity, Douglas wrote that: 

I am not in prison but I think I suffer as much as Oscar, in fact more, just as I am sure he would have suffered more if he had been free and I in prison.

Moreover, when Ross informed Douglas that Wilde did not wish to see him again in 1896, Douglas declared to More Adey that: 

[Oscar] warned me that all sorts of influences would be brought to bear upon me to make me change; but I have not changed. From the first to last I have been absolutely consistent and absolutely the same. I shall not change now. I decline to listen to anything he says while he is in prison. But I do not believe that he means what he says, and I regard what he says as non-existent.

And in June 1896, during Ross’s life threatening illness which led to the kidney removal, Douglas told Ross that he would not obey Wilde’s wishes and give up the letters. He declared that: 

The possession of those letters and the recollection they may give me even if they can give me no hope, will perhaps prevent me from putting an end to a life which now has no raison-d'etre. If Oscar asks me to kill myself I will do so, and he shall have back my letters when I am dead.

Then, in July, only days after Ross recovered from the ‘very critical state’ post-surgery, when he was still emaciated and barely able to walk,, Douglas wrote Ross a bitter letter blaming him for Wilde’s animosity and bemoaning his own tragedy despite Ross’s effort to plead Douglas’ case in front of Wilde:  

It certainly was a surprise to me that you do not think Oscar Wilde and I should ever be together again. If Oscar Wilde only loves me half as much as I love him - if he comes out of prison nothing in the world will keep us apart. All friends and relations, all their plots and all their plans will go to the winds once I am alone with him again and am holding his hand.

Douglas's animosity lasted well into 1897. The fact that he himself had at least some part to play in Wilde’s downfall was entirely lost to Douglas. Indeed, throughout most of his life, the very notions of guilt and responsibility seemed alien to him. Thus he clung onto the fantasy that once Wilde was released all would have been restored to the olden days; and thus he refused to accept Wilde’s evolution in prison. And because he indulged in his own victimhood and refused to bear responsibility for Wilde’s downfall, he could not comprehend the simple fact that the disaster itself sufficed in making Wilde fall out of love with him. So it was psychologically necessary for him to pin the blame on someone, and Ross became his target. 

Such oblivion was painfully obvious when it came to relationships with Constance Wilde. In his autobiography, Alfred Douglas claimed that: 

I was always on the best of terms with Mrs Wilde. I liked her and she liked me. She told me, about a year after I first met her, that she liked me better than any of Oscar's other friends. […] After the débâcle I never saw her again, and I do not doubt that Ross and others succeeded in poisoning her mind against me, but up to the very last day of our acquaintance we were the best of friends.

The patronising tone is especially jarring: it had not even occurred to him that Constance could have independently come to dislike him after his affair with her husband brought unimaginable calamity onto her life; it simply had to be the malicious influence of ‘Ross and others’, as if she could not have any agency of her own. And if Alfred Douglas could at least claim diminished responsibility due to hereditary mental illness, the fact that his biographers had believed him was truly astonishing. Caspar Wintermans, for instance, contended (without evidence) that it was Ross who ‘blacken[ed] Bosie’ in the eyes of Constance and the Leversons. 

Moreover, it was more likely that Wilde himself sowed the first seed of discord between Ross and Douglas by convincing Ross that if he was to recover as an artist, he must first recover from Douglas. In May 1896, Wilde wrote to Ross saying that: 

The idea that he is wearing or in possession of anything I gave him is peculiarly repugnant to me. I cannot of course get rid of the revolting memories of the two years I was unlucky enough to have him with me, or of the mode by which he thrust me into the abyss of ruin and disgrace to gratify his hatred of his father and other ignoble passions. But I will not have him in possession of my letters or gifts. Even if I get out of this loathsome place I know that there is nothing before me but a life of a pariah – of disgrace and penury and contempt - but at least I will have nothing to do with him nor allow him to come near me.

After Ross’s attempt to defend Douglas, in his November letter, Wilde further said that: 

Do not think that I would blame him for my vices. He had as little to do with them as I had with his.[…] I blame him for not appreciating the man he ruined. An illiterate millionaire would really have suited him better. […] My genius, my life as an artist, my work, and the quiet I needed for it, were nothing to him when matched with his unrestrained and coarse appetites for common profligate life: his greed for money: his incessant and violent scenes: his unimaginative selfishness. 

Even if Wilde’s words might have been excessively harsh, Ross was probably convinced of Douglas’s inability to appreciate the genius he had ruined by Douglas’s self-absorption over the past months. 

On top of which, Wilde swore time and again that he must get over Alfred Douglas to restore his life. He wrote in his November letter that: 

In all tragedies there is a grotesque element. He is the grotesque element in mine. Do not think I do not blame myself. I curse myself night and day for my folly in allowing him to dominate my life. If there was an echo in these walls it would cry ‘Fool’ for ever. I am utterly ashamed of my friendship with him. For by their friendships men can be judged. It is a test of every man. And I feel more poignant abasement of shame for my friendship with Alfred Douglas … fifty thousand times more … than I do, say, for my connection with Charley Parker of which you may read a full account in my trial.

Then, he famously wrote in De Profundis that: 

Deliberately and by me uninvited you thrust yourself into my sphere, usurped there a place for which you had neither right nor qualifications, and having by curious persistence, and by the rendering of your very presence a part of each separate day, succeeded in absorbing my entire life, could do no better with that life than break it in pieces. […] Having got hold of my life, you did not know what to do with it. You couldn’t have known. It was too wonderful a thing to be in your grasp. You should have let it slip from your hands and gone back to your own companions at their play. But unfortunately you were wilful, and so you broke it.  You did not understand why I wrote beautiful letters to you, any more than you understood why I gave you beautiful presents. You failed to see that the former were not meant to be published, any more than the latter were meant to be pawned. Besides, they belong to a side of life that is long over, to a friendship that somehow you were unable to appreciate at its proper value. You must look back with wonder now to the days when you had my entire life in your hands. I too look back to them with wonder, and with other, with far different, emotions.

After finishing the manuscript, on 1 April 1897, he wrote to Ross instructing him to copy it twice, and said that:  

[…] there are in the letter certain passages which deal with my mental development in prison, and the inevitable evolution of character and intellectual attitude towards life that has taken place: and I want you, and others who still stand by me and have affection for me, to know exactly in what mood and manner I hope to face the world. […] Of course I need not remind you how fluid a thing thought is with me – with us all – and of what an evanescent substance are our emotions made. Still, I do see a sort of possible goal towards which, through art, I may progress. It is not unlikely that you may help me. […] My friendship with A.D. brought me first to the dock of the Criminal Court, then to the dock of the Bankruptcy Court, and now to the dock of the Divorce Court. As far as I can make out (not having the shilling primer on the subject) there are no more docks into which he can bring me.

Though Wilde might have wished to revoke some of the harsh words in the early parts of De Profundis, they most likely left an indelible mark upon Ross as he was reading the long manuscript to the typewriters. As someone who adored Wilde’s art more than anything, and who blamed himself deeply for his corrosive influence upon the artist, Wilde’s harsh denunciations gave Ross every reason to want to keep them apart for Wilde’s own good —— and indeed, as argued, for a while, Wilde himself pleaded for ‘St Robert of Phillimore’ to save him from his temptation-prone self. 

VI. 

Despite all of these, however, it was only after Wilde betrayed him with Douglas that Ross became hostile towards Douglas. Wilde was incredibly contradictory in his letters to Ross and to Douglas between April and August 1897. Ten days after his release, upon Ross’s departure from Berneval, Wilde was resolute in resisting the temptation of returning to Douglas and his former life. In his 28 May 1897 letter, he wrote that: 

Bosie's revolting letter was in the room, and foolishly I had read it again and left it by my bedside. My dream was that my mother was speaking to me with some sternness, and that she was in trouble. I quite see that whenever I am in danger she will in some way warn me. I have a real terror now of that unfortunate ungrateful young man with his unimaginative selfishness and his entire lack of all sensitiveness to what in others is good or kind or trying to be so. I feel him as an evil influence, poor fellow. To be with him would be to return to the hell from which I do think I have been released. I hope never to see him again. 

On either 29 or 30 May 1897, he reiterated the message to Ross: 

I am terrified about Bosie. More writes to me that he has been practically interviewed about me! It is awful. More, desiring to spare me pain, I suppose, did not send me the paper, so I have had a wretched night. Bosie can almost ruin me. I earnestly beg that some entreaty be made to him not to do so a second time. His letters to me are infamous.

And Douglas was not the only source of temptation: a day later, he swore to Ross that: 

[…] I was not tempted by either sirens, or mermaidens, or any of the green-haired following of Glaucus- I- really think that this is a remarkable thing. In my pagan days the sea was always full of tritons blowing conchs, and other unpleasant things. Now it is quite different.

In conjunction to his sworn resolution to resist temptation, in these letters Wilde was incredibly affectionate to Ross. The 28 May letter quoted above was extravagant in its proclamation of love for Ross: Ross was to be his ‘St. Robert of Phillimore’, healing him from the wounds the world had inflicted upon him and offering him unconditional love in ‘disgrace and obscurity and poverty’. Moreover, in the letter, Wilde declared that:  

I made only one mistake in prison in things that I wrote of you or to you ....My poem should have run: “When I came out of prison you met me with garments, with spices, with wise counsel. You met me with Love." Not others did it, but you. I really laugh when I think how true in detail the lines are.

And on 31 May 1897, he sounded entirely like a pining lover: 

Dear Robbie, I wish you would be a little more considerate, and not keep me up so late talking to you. It is very flattering to me, and all that, but you should remember that I need rest. Good night. You will find some cigarettes and some flowers by your bed-side. Coffee is served below at eight o'clock. Do you mind? If it is too early for you, I don't at all mind lying in bed an extra hour. I hope you will sleep well. You should, as Lloyd is not on the verandah.

Yet unbeknownst to Ross, at the same time as Wilde professed love and loyalty to him, he was planning a reunion with Alfred Douglas. On 2 June 1897, Wilde tersely told Ross that ‘Bosie has written, for him nicely on literature and my place’, yet enticed Douglas with talks of art and a meeting at the metaphorical ‘double peak of Parnassus.’ In his next letter two days later, in stark contrast to his assurances to Ross, he showered Douglas with admiration and affection: 

Don't think I don't love you. Of course I love you more than anyone else. But our lives are irreparably severed, as far as meeting goes. What is left to us is the knowledge that we love each other, and every day I think of you, and I know you are a poet, and that makes you doubly dear and wonderful.

Then, ten days after he had promised Ross ‘dear boy, there is no one who would stay with me but you’, and after Ross had sent him £250 by check upon his request, on 16 June, Wilde beckoned Douglas to come to Dieppe: 

I have asked you to come here on Saturday. I have a bathing costume for you, but you had better get one in Paris. Also bring me a lot of books, and cigarettes. I cannot get good cigarettes here or at Dieppe.

The romantic reconciliation, however, was bound to end in disaster. Lady Queensbury disapproved of any meeting, and Wilde’s weekly allowance from Constance was preconditioned upon him severing all ties with Alfred Douglas according to their divorce settlement. Moreover, any reunion was bound to cause a scandal in the English press, damning what little possibility of a restoration of Wilde’s literary standing. On either 16 or 17 July 1897, Wilde received a resignation letter from his solicitor Arthur Hansell, who informed him that were him and Douglas to meet, Queensbury would descend upon Dieppe and wreck havoc. It is curious that many biographers accused Ross for deliberately tipping off Constance and/or Hansell out of jealousy, for there was really no evidence of either the actus reus or the mens rea. Both could have heard about the plan from many other sources. For one, Wilde himself had written to Lady Queensbury on 7 or 8 June asking for her consent to a meeting with Alfred Douglas, and she duly replied in the negative to More Adey. Moreover, Queensbury had private detectives in France, and Dieppe (next to Berneval) was full of English tourists who could have conversed with Wilde. 

But Ross did suspect of something, perhaps a reunion. Like many other friends who wished to see Wilde rehabilitated and financially secure, he was ardently against the meeting. And given that he was most likely in love with Wilde at the time, one could reasonably postulate that Ross also had personal grounds to oppose the meeting. As if reassuring an insecure partner, Wilde tried to dispel Ross’s suspicion by scorning Douglas. On 3 June, he wrote: 

The entirely business-like tone of your letter just received makes me nervous that you are a prey of terrible emotions, and that it is merely a form of the calm that hides a storm. Your remark also that my letter is "undated," while as a reproach it wounds me, also seems to denote a change in your friendship towards me. I have now put the date and other facts at the head of my letter. I get no cuttings from Paris, which makes me irritable when I hear of things appearing. Bosie has also written to me to say he is on the eve of a duel! I suppose about this. They said his costume was ridicule.

A day after the meeting in Berneval was called off by Wilde’s solicitor, he told Ross on a postcard that ‘A. D. is not here, nor is he to come.’ Then, two days later, he gave Ross a fuller account of the matter:  

I suppose you know that Hansell has resigned his position, and will not act for me any more. He writes a mysterious letter about 'private information'. I suppose he has heard that Bosie wishes to see me. I have now put off Bosie indefinitely. I have been so harassed, and indeed frightened, at the thought of a possible scandal or trouble. The French papers describe me going about at Longchamps with Bosie at horse-races! So that must suffice for evil tongues.

In his version of the story, he was again the hapless prisoner to the whims and wishes of ‘Bosie’, as if he had never written the letters pleading his ‘dear boy’ to visit Berneval. 

Douglas blamed More Adey and Ross for the thwarted reunion. Immediately after Wilde called off the meeting, Douglas wrote Adey an ugly letter reeking with antisemitic resentment: 

I should like to have some explanation from you as to what your views are and what steps you propose to take to free Oscar (and myself) from the ridiculously transparent Jewish trap which has been laid for him by the admirable George Lewis, and into which you have guided him.

Adey was ill with pneumonia at the time, so Ross replied on his behalf and explained to Douglas why the divorce arrangements between Wilde and Constance forbid the reunion. In his reply, Douglas cursed More and took out his anger on Ross in another revolting letter: 

Your letter is rather absurd. The fact of More having a cold does not alter his responsibility for the extreme stupidity of the arrangement that he has made by which Oscar is at the mercy of a Jew solicitor, nor does the fact that you, personally, happen to agree with the Jew solicitor make your own part in the business any more admirable……Nothing short of a very serious operation can atone for More’s part in the sale of Oscar’s freedom to the Jews. A mere feverish cold is no good at all. But operations cover a multitude of sins as you know or ought to. […] As long as Oscar was a captive in prison and I was morally bound hand and foot, you and More could make your own arrangements, but now your interference is simply an impertinence and the fact that your interference between two perfectly free people is conducted by intrigue and backstairs wire-puling only makes it more intolerable. . . . I may point out that I never suggested that you were responsible in any degree for the silly and old-womanish attempt to separate me and Oscar but you have in your letter today deliberately claimed the responsibility and as you seem to be rather proud of it I have no hesitation in giving you the full credit of it.

The remark about ‘operations cover a multitude of sins’ was clearly referring to the kidney removal surgery which nearly claimed Ross’s life the previous year. This begs the question: for what supposed transgressions was Ross being asked to seek atonement, and by Douglas out of all people? The presumptive claim is perplexing. Moreover, perhaps it had never occurred to Douglas that were Ross to be pulling wires behind the scenes, he would not have stepped into the limelight, exposing himself to Douglas’s verbal rotten vegetables. Indeed, if Ross was truly manipulating events to drive a wedge between Wilde and Douglas, as Croft-Cooke, Wintermans, and Murray alleged, he would not have informed Douglas of his own role in negotiating Wilde’s divorce settlement, for it would only work against himself.

At this point, Ross’s patience with Douglas finally frayed. Douglas’ insults of Adey and offensive remarks aimed at himself did not sit well with Ross. Further fuelling Ross's anger was Douglas's apparent disregard for Wilde's precarious financial situation: not only did Douglas seem indifferent to the risk he posed to Wilde's modest annual income of £150 from Constance, he also showed little willingness to alleviate Wilde’s plight by paying £150 out of his own pockets. Thus, Ross’s reply was laced with biting sarcasm:

With your £150 he will have the added pleasure of your perpetual society and your inspiring temper.

In response, Douglas haughtily and patronisingly proclaimed: 

You still seem to cling to the idea that Oscar does not want to see me, The wish is the father to the thought. You probably overlook the fact that I am passionately devoted to him, and that my longing to see him simply eats my heart away day and night.

But alas, one could not feed on love alone. As Bogle acutely remarked, Alfred Douglas, the spoiled aristocratic boy whose mother indulged his every whim, struggled to comprehend that there were other things that mattered in this world beside his affections. Perhaps in his head, if he and Oscar had loved each other, nothing else ought to matter, not Constance, not Oscar’s children, not his own mother, not even his father’s threats. To him, anyone who dared to thwart his wishes must either be woefully ignorant or wilfully insidious. 

Upon being informed of the row between his two ‘dear boys’, Wilde immediately wrote to console Ross. On 28 June, he wrote that: 

Bosie has sent me a long indictment of you and panegyric of himself, to which I will reply to-morrow. You can understand in what tone I shall answer him. But for you, dear friend, I don't know in what black abyss of want I would have been.

Eight days later, he further promised Ross that he had chastised Douglas and that an apology from Douglas was forthcoming: 

I have had no time to write lately, but I have written a long letter - of twelve foolscap pages - to Bosie, to point out to him that I owe everything to you and your friends, and that whatever life I have as an artist in the future will be due to you. […] I also wrote to him about his calling himself a grand seigneur in comparison to a dear sweet wonderful friend like you, his superior in all fine things. I told him how grotesque, ridiculous, and vulgar such an attempt was.

In the same letter, he implored Ross to visit Berneval. In a rather saccharine if not somewhat erotic manner, Wilde promised Ross ‘a small garret […] with my heart waiting in it for you’. 

A period of silence followed, during which Wilde received no word from Ross, who might well have been nursing his anger or licking his wounds. During this very period, Douglas wrote Ross yet another letter, in which he haughtily flaunted Oscar’s love by stressing how eagerly Wilde implored him to go to France: 

[…] You must admit that if he doesn't want to see me, he has a curious way of expressing his disinclination. When a man writes to one and invites one to come and see him, and says that he trembles with ecstasy at the joy of seeing one again it requires a subtle mind like yours to detect symptoms of his unwillingness to see one.’

We do not know whether Ross believed him. After all, Wilde had never confessed to Ross how eagerly he longed to reunite with Douglas; if anything, his letters gave the opposite impression. Thus it may well be that Ross took Douglas’s flaunt as nonsense. But regardless, Ross did not reply to any of Wilde’s letters or postcards till late July. Ross’s delayed response, attributing his silence to ‘domesticity’, might have struck Wilde as a veiled expression of a wounded heart; thus, perhaps to reassure Ross, he once again upbraided Douglas and lavished Ross with kind words in his reply on 20 July: 

As regards Bosie, I feel you have been, as usual, forbearing and sweet, and too good-tempered. What he must be made to feel is that his vulgar and ridiculous assumption of social superiority must be retracted and apologised for. I have written to him to tell him that quand on est gentilhomme on est gentilhomme, and that for him to try and pose as your social superior because he is the third son of a Scotch marquis and you the third son of a commoner is offensively stupid. There is no difference between gentlemen. Questions of titles are matters of heraldry - no more. I wish you would be strong on this point; the thing should be thrashed out of him. As for his coarse ingratitude in abusing you, to whom, as I have told him, I owe any possibility I have of a new and artistic career, and indeed of life at all, I have no words in which to express my contempt for his lack of imaginative insight, and his dullness of sensitive nature. It makes me quite furious. So pray write, when next you do so, quite calmly, and say that you will not allow any nonsense of social superiority and that if he cannot understand that gentlemen are gentlemen and no more, you have no desire to hear again from him.

Over the subsequent week, Wilde pestered Ross with a flurry of letters and postcards, each brimmed with a mixture of requests and yearnings. Sometimes, like a lovestruck suitor, he beckoned Ross to visit Berneval and stay for long. Yet, in other letters, he dispatched orders for watches and pictures, treating Ross more as an aide than an equal.

By early August, despite the weight of professional and personal obligations, Ross carved out three weeks for Wilde. During this sojourn, Wilde’s creativity flourished and he began to pen The Ballad of Reading Gaol. It was also there and then that Robert Sherard accidentally spotted Wilde and Ross in a ‘sexual embrace’ through curtains accidentally left open by the pair. This was perhaps a ‘golden holiday’ for Ross, as Borland suggested, with Wilde parted from what he believed to be the ‘corrupting influence’ of Douglas, and with himself healing Wilde’s wounds with the balm of love. Yet, as argued above, it might have also been a period of intense struggle, where he was elated by Wilde’s affections but at the same time anxious about another corruption of his beloved artist by his own love just as his creative genius was about to be revived. We would never know whether Ross was content or conflicted under Wilde’s romantic advancement; but regardless, from what we do know, it was almost certain that Ross was very much smitten if not in deeply in love during that enchanted summer in Berneval. 

Yet, again unbeknownst to Ross, despite his promises, Wilde never seriously broke with Douglas. Though few letters from 7 July to 31 August between the two survived, from the ‘loving nature’ of their correspondence which ‘frame this gap’, it is possible that Wilde showered Douglas with ever more ‘exaggerated expressions of affection and devotion’ (as Douglas claimed in his 1929 autobiography) at the same time as he promised Ross that his heart was waiting in the bedroom for him. And given that Douglas was still accusing Ross of pilfering money and exploiting his own absence on 22 July, it was very likely that Wilde never chided Douglas for his offensive conducts towards Ross. 

Days after Ross left Berneval for London, on 28 August, Wilde reunited with Douglas in Rouen. He had informed a great many people except for Ross of his plan to escape from Berneval. After their reunion, ‘St Robert of Phillimore’ was replaced by Douglas as his savour from despair and creative impasse. On 31 August, he told Douglas that: 

I feel that my only hope of again doing beautiful work in art is being with you. It was not so in old days, but now it is different, and you can really recreate in me that energy and sense of joyous power on which art depends. Everyone is furious with me for going back to you, but they don't understand us. I feel that it is only with you that I can do anything at all. Do remake my ruined life for me, and then our friendship and love will have a different meaning to the world. I wish that when we met at Rouen we had not parted at all. There are such wide abysses now of space and land between us. But we love each other. 

Four days later, he finally confessed his real feelings for Douglas to Ross: 

Yes: I saw Bosie, and of course I love him as I always did, with a sense of tragedy and ruin. He was on his best behaviour, and very sweet.

Rather incredulously, after confessing that he had lied about breaking with Douglas, in the same letter, he told Ross that he really wanted him and beckoned Ross to join him in Rouen. We could only imagine how Ross responded to the invitation. 

Two weeks after Rouen, after he managed to borrow some money from a couple of his friends, on 15 September, Wilde and Douglas eloped to Naples, the city where homosexual men could enjoy ‘freedom from morals’. From Naples, he told Ross that his returning to Douglas was ‘psychologically inevitable’, because he could not ‘live without the atmosphere of Love’, and the fact that Douglas had ‘wrecked [his] life’ only made him love Douglas even more. To Ross, it was nothing less than a ‘metaphorical slap in the face’. But to him, the cruellest part of that letter was perhaps: 

I could have lived all my life with you, but you have other claims on you — claims you are too sweet a fellow to disregard — and all you could give me was a week of companionship. […] for the last month at Berneval I was so lonely that I was on the brink of killing myself. The world shuts its gateway against me, and the door of Love lies open. When people speak against me for going back to Bosie, tell them that he offered me love, and that in my loneliness and disgrace I, after three months' struggle against a hideous Philistine world, turned naturally to him. 

Relegating Ross to a part of the ‘hideous Philistine world’ which ‘shut its gateway’ after all of his sweet affection and labour of love was so callous that it seemed almost heartless. Moreover, dangling the dream of a life together before Ross’s eyes only to dash it by blaming his own infidelity on Ross’s absence was perhaps as hurtful as he could have been. Ross was understandably devastated and furious. In the following week he sent Wilde multiple angry letters. In response, Wilde wrote: 

I have not answered your letters, because they distressed me and angered me — and I did not wish to write to you of all people in the world in an angry mood. You have been such a good friend to me: your love, your generosity, your care of me in prison and out of prison are the most lovely things in my life. Without you what would I have done? As you made my life for me, you have a perfect right to say what you choose to me; but I have no right to say anything to you except to tell you how grateful I am to you, and what a pleasure it is to feel gratitude and love at the same time for the same person. I dare say that what I have done is fatal, but it had to be done. It was necessary that Bosie and I should come together again; I saw no other life for myself. For himself he saw no other: all we want now is to be let alone, but the Neapolitan papers are tedious and wish to interview me, etc. They write nicely of me, but I don't want to be written about. I want peace- that is all. Perhaps I shall find it.

Adding insult to injury, after declaring that he saw ‘no other life for [him]self’ but being with Douglas, he told Ross that they have rented a ‘lovely villa over the sea and a nice piano’ in Naples. But when a heartbroken Ross questioned him whether he wanted his[Ross’s] literary assistance at all, Wilde was quick to take him up on the offer. Because Ross’s letters were lost, we could not tell whether his offer was genuine or angry sarcasm; but regardless, despite the betrayal which ended their romantic affair, Ross stayed on as Wilde’s faithful editor, assistant, and literary executor. 

The elopement shocked everyone who had Wilde’s welfare at heart, chief of whom Constance. Mere months before, she was contemplating letting her ex-husband see their children despite the trauma he had inflicted upon the family, as long as he stay away from Alfred Douglas, whom she referred to as ‘that appalling individual’. After the betrayal, there was no way she could stomach paying her ex-husband £3 a week to sustain him and the ‘male equivalent of a mistress […] who had torn her family apart’. Perhaps moved by her agony, More Adey advised Wilde to give up his weekly £3 from Constance ‘in the name of Beauty and Art’, which he refused to do. But regardless, pursuant to the terms of their divorce settlement, Constance promptly terminated his weekly income on 16 November. Under his earnest entreaties over the subsequent weeks, Ross still sent Wilde small sums to keep him financially afloat as much as possible, though he was understandably unwilling to defend Alfred Douglas to Constance. 

Over the next two months, Ross wrote to Wilde about nothing but literature and business. He diligently assisted with the writing and editing of The Ballad of Reading Gaol, and Wilde had accepted a great many of his suggestions. However, trouble arose when the poem was about to go to the press in November. As Constance had cut off Wilde’s weekly income, and Lady Queensberry Douglas’s, both men were anxious for immediate profit from the poem. Consequently, Wilde proposed to serialise the Ballad on Reynolds, an English newspaper with a seedy reputation, before having Leonard Smithers publishing it as a book. From a business perspective this was self-destructive, for serialisation would spoil the book sale. Unable to drill such basic commercial awareness into Wilde’s head, Smithers complained that Wilde knew as much about the publishing business ‘as a chrysanthemum’. And despite Wilde’s insistence to Ross that Smithers ‘did not mind a bit’ the poem appearing elsewhere, Smithers had in fact written to Ross on 23 October, threatening that if Wilde was to ‘Reynolds-ise’ him, he shall ‘send back the manuscript of his poem’. Thus Ross was ardently against publishing the Ballad in any newspaper. This, to Alfred Douglas, who probably knew less about business than a chrysanthemum since he had always prided himself on his aristocratic aloofness above the commercial world, seemed like sabotage. In his letter to More Adey, he accused Ross of starving himself and Wilde of money by ‘throwing obstacles in the way of Oscar’s gaining money by his literary work’. The fact that Douglas seemed to have Wilde’s implicit support was the last straw for Ross. On 25 November 1897, Ross wrote to Smithers in resignation of his duty as Wilde’s executor: 

I regret to inform you that I have ceased to be on intimate terms with Oscar Wilde or to enjoy his confidence in business or any other matter…Alfred Douglas has written to a common friend that I have tried to prevent any considerable sum being obtained for the poem.

In response, Wilde protested to Smithers that: 

Robbie may not wish to be worried any more by my business affairs. He has had endless worry for two years over them but it would be fairer of him to say that it is too much worry to go on, than that he finds he has not my confidence. Such a statement is childish and, if taken seriously by you, would lead you to think that I was at once dense of judgment and coarsely ungrateful in nature.

Wilde seemed painfully oblivious to Ross’s pain. In his correspondence with all of his friends, Ross included, he spilled more ink arguing that Alfred Douglas was not in fact a ‘disreputable person’ than soothing Ross’s hurt after a second betrayal. In a follow-up letter to Smithers, he even complained that Ross was behaving ‘unkindly’ to him, and that Ross had sought to ‘claim the crown of thorns’ of the tragedy ‘on the ground that [his] feelings ha[d] been harrowed’. And although he acquiesced to Ross’s breaking up of their ‘intimate friendship’, he grumbled to Ross that the termination of their business relationship was ‘unjust, unwarranted, and unkind. He went so far as saying to Ross: 

I do think you make wonderfully little allowance for a man like myself — now ruined, broken-hearted and thoroughly unhappy. You stab me with a thousand phrases: if one phrase of mine shrills through the air near you, you cry out that you are wounded to death.

The accusation of making insufficient allowance was shockingly inconsiderate. After all, Ross had raised money for him, made time for him, given him his heart and body and provided him with substantial assistance even after the betrayal had left him heartbroken. Perhaps Wilde did not fully grasp the fact that Ross was under no obligation to provide him with comfort or assistance, and that the generosity hitherto had been premised upon love, respect, and mutual trust. 

It is difficult to determine why Wilde was so contradictory in his letters to Ross and Douglas, and biographers all had different guesses. Perhaps, as Frankel postulated, his ambition to restore himself in society through the more ‘upstanding and respectable’ Ross by reforming his lifestyle and reconciling with Constance faltered under repeated encounters with vicious homophobia, which reverted him to his old ways and rekindled his infatuation with Douglas. Or perhaps he simply wanted to enjoy the ‘safe, predictable, and consoling homespun of Robbie’s love’ and the ‘dazzling and dangerous love of Bosie Douglas’ at the same time as McKenna contended.Indeed, monogamy was never quite his style. As he confided to John Fothergill: 

Two loves have I:  The one of comfort;  The other of despair.  The one has black;  The other golden hair.

Or, if one is to be less charitable, he could have been ‘playing off Ross against Douglas’, manipulating Ross’s love to keep him as his free personal assistant, whilst intending to ‘join Douglas as soon as he could without endangering his income’. Douglas himself subscribed to this cynical version of events. In his Autobiography, Douglas rather cruelly boasted that Wilde cared more for ‘my little finger’ than for Ross’s ‘body and soul’ put together. And Rupert Croft-Cooke remembered that Douglas had once told him that Wilde and him kept Ross around as someone ‘useful’ in attending to ‘occasional matters of business’ which they were ‘too indolent’ to attend to themselves. Personally, I see elements of truth in all three interpretations (although to different extents), but I believe Wilde was less socially-minded than in the first version, (somewhat) more genuine in his love than in the second, and more noble a personality than in the third. His will might have faltered, his loyalties were possibly split, and he may have wished to keep Ross as a useful aid, but I believe underlying all of these was the irreconcilable tension between his Apollonian and Dionysian impulses. In Ross, and perhaps in Berneval as well, he saw the possibility of a more orderly, wholesome, and tranquil life, where he could derive artistic inspirations in the embrace of the sun and the sea;  whilst Douglas, and perhaps Rouen, Naples, and Paris too, constantly tempted him with the exquisitely decadent pleasures in the shadows of the metropoles. He saw artistic salvation in both men, and therefore he implored both men to ‘remake’ his ruined life for him.

It is even more difficult to scale Ross’s devastation. Most of his letters to Wilde over this period were either lost or destroyed. The few lines which survived read like a heartbroken spouse in a shattered marriage. For one, after discovering Wilde had been lying about his feelings for Douglas, Ross tersely admonished him: 

Remember always that you committed the unpardonable and vulgar error of being found out.

The choice of passive voice intriguingly obscures the subject who was doing the ‘f[inding] out’ and leaves much room for imagination. This was probably as much an allusion to Wilde being caught by Queensberry for associating with male renters as to him being ‘found out’ by Ross for associating with Alfred Douglas. The interplay, moreover, was clearly warning Wilde against another disastrous scandal arising out of affair with Douglas. Subsequently, Wilde proposal to dedicate the second edition of The Ballad of Reading Gaol to Ross with the words ‘When I came out of prison some met me with garments / and spices and others with wise counsel / You met me with love’ was sharply dismissed by Ross in his letter to Leonard Smithers, in which he wrote: 

I think the dedication with or without initials is ROT and at all events quite unsuitable to a poem of that sort…… I am convinced that dear Oscar meant to tell me and Douglas and two or three other people that each was intended. That only amuses me. 

The passage was brimming with the hurt, disillusionment, and passive-aggressiveness of a lover betrayed. It is worth noting that this dedication was first proposed to Ross on 28 May 1897, in that very letter Wilde had canonised Ross as ‘St. Robert of Phillimore’ and promised him that he wanted ‘no other’ in this world. Therefore, Lee was most likely right in postulating that Ross was heartbroken by the fact that ‘the man who had written him words of love a few months before had not trusted him enough tell him the truth’, and had instead ‘lied over and over’ about his feelings for Douglas. He might have also been deeply disillusioned in the character of the man he had loved and admired. As Bogle suggested, because he would ‘do anything he could for Oscar’, he had probably believed in an implicit understanding of mutual support and trust. The relevatin that Wilde might not fully grasp the depth of his devotion, or worse, that a genuine mutual trust had perhaps never existed between them, then, must have been jarring. 

But the heartache Ross experienced was not merely a matter of betrayed love, for Wilde’s return to Douglas had torn apart the very fabric of Ross’s aspirations and dreams for Wilde. As a friend, he had wished Wilde a healthy long life after prison, yet his hope was dashed by Wilde’s returning to decadence. Above all, he had worked tirelessly to repair Wilde’s relationship with Constance, hoping to restore his family life if not some semblance of respectability in the eyes of society. Yet, Wilde’s reunion with Douglas had irrevocably cast these hopes adrift, severing the fragile ties that might have reconnected Wilde with his sons. Moreover, as an admirer of Wilde’s artistic genius, Ross must have been pained by the fact that his own effort to rehabilitate ‘the literary Oscar Wilde’ to the European reading public by presenting him as ‘reformed, respectable, and not dangerous to read’ was endlessly sabotaged by Wilde himself —— his cohabitation with Alfred Douglas in Naples had raised endless English eyebrows, for one. 

Compared to the ‘branding problem’, however, Ross was probably more devastated by Wilde’s return to the ‘slough of coarse pleasures’ which he had implored Ross to save his soul from merely five months ago. The memory of Wilde begging for salvation from the snare of ‘Bosie’ was still fresh in Ross’s mind, and reading De Profundis word for word multiple times must have further convinced Ross of the exigency of saving Wilde’s art from Douglas’s destructive ‘lack of imagination’. And as mentioned, in his unfinished manuscript 23 years later, Ross fondly recalled Wilde’s post-prison days as a return to the state of nature before corruption: he was enjoying ‘the trees and the grass and the country scents and sounds’ like ‘a saree-bred child might enjoy them on his first day in the country’, and such enjoyment filled him with endless creativity, enabling his imagination to turn Reading Gaol into an ‘enchanted castle’. Thus it was possible that Ross saw Wilde’s disastrous return to Douglas as a result of his own failure to protect Wilde from corrupting influences, and he might have even considered himself partly responsible for failing to suppress his own love and ‘dragging’ Wilde back into ‘homosexual practices’. Therefore, in December 1897, beyond being shattered as a lover and disappointed as a friend, Ross was possibly devastated above all by his sense of guilt for yet again seeing Oscar Wilde expelled from his Garden of Eden. 

VII. 

After breaking off both his ‘intimate friendship’ and professional relationship with Wilde on 25 November 1897, Ross spent the next couple of months licking his wounds and trying to shut Wilde out of his life. The breakup also made Ross begin to contemplate resuming his own literary career: his best short story, A Case at the Museum, was penned in early 1898 and published in October in Cornhill Magazine. Between November 1897 and January 1898, he did not write to Wilde at all, though he sent him newspaper cuttings to update him on English literary news every once in a while despite his own illness during that harsh winter. When spring finally arrived, Ross was struck by the terrible news of the death of Aubrey Beardsley, another dear artist friend who was only 25 years old. Thus Ross was hardly in a state to cater to Wilde’s needs physically or mentally. 

Perhaps realising that he could not do without Ross’s literary and personal assistance, from 25 November to 15 December 1897, Wilde begged for Ross’s forgiveness and return via every channel possible. On 6 December, he wrote Ross a long letter explaining his conduct and expressing his gratitude: 

I knew that I was running a fearful risk of losing my income by being with Bosie — I was warned on all sides: my eyes were not blinded. Still l I was a good deal staggered by the blow: one may go to a dentist of one's own free will, but the moment of tooth-extraction is painful, as More's acquiescence in Mr. Hargrove's refusal to pay Mr. Holman wounded me — and I shot poisoned arrows back. […] You have done wonderful things for me; but the Nemesis of circumstances, the Nemesis of character has been too strong for me; and, as I said to More, I think I was a problem for which there was no solution..

On the same day, he reiterated the message of gratitude in his letter to Leonard Smithers: 

I am quite broken-hearted about Bobbie's attitude towards me, and the way he has written of me to Alfred Douglas. But nothing can ever spoil the memory of his wonderful devotion to me, or rob me of the pleasure of being deeply grateful to him for the love he showed me.

With the expectation that Smithers would serve as his intermediary in communicating with Ross, he also emphasised that he had parted ways with Alfred Douglas, who was ��on the way to Paris’. But if Ross was heartbroken by his failure to save Wilde from himself, the apology of ‘the Nemesis of character ha[d] been too strong’ probably only served to rub salt into his wounds. In any case, Ross did not reply to his letters, and Wilde only heard back from Leonard Smithers, who advised him to ‘make it up with Robbie’. In response, on 10 December, he told Smithers: 

[…] I would gladly go on my knees from here to Naples if Robbie would be nice to me. I was upset and distressed at everything that had happened, and wrote bitterly - not about anything that was said about me but about what was acquiesced in about someone else. […] I still hope that Robbie may be kind to me again. 

But at the same time as he begged for forgiveness and confessed that he was ‘deeply sorry’ for the pain he had inflicted on Ross, Wilde also complained to Smithers about Ross’s reluctance to argue against Constance on the matter of whether Alfred Douglas was indeed a ‘disreputable person’. Moreover, he also grumbled that Ross ‘like most people […] only realises the pain he gets and not the pain he gives.’ In particular, he said:

Robbie's refusal to interest himself in my poem I feel is inartistic of him - my work as a poet is separate from my life as a man - and as for my life, it is one ruined, unhappy, lonely and disgraced. All pity, or the sense of its beauty, seems to me dead in the world.

A day later, perhaps realising that Ross would not take too kindly to his defensiveness when it came to Alfred Douglas, Wilde sent a more suppliant apology to Smithers professing his love for Ross yet again:  

As for dear Robbie, if he will kindly send me out a pair of his oldest boots I will blacken them with pleasure, and send them back to him with a sonnet. I have loved Robbie all my life, and have not the smallest intention of giving up loving him. Of all my old friends he is the one who has the most beautiful nature; had my other friends been like him, I would not be the pariah-dog of the nineteenth century. But natures like his are not found twice in a life-time. When dear Robbie heavily bombarded me (an unfair thing, as unfortified places are usually respected in civilised war) I bore it with patriarchal patience. I admit, however, that when he seemed to me slightly casual about someone else, I sent up a rocket of several colours. I am sorry I did so.

And as if worrying that the letters to Smithers were not enough, Wilde also asked More Adey to pass on his love to Robbie in his 15 December letter. 

However, Ross could not renounce his love for Oscar Wilde. Despite his every effort to set boundaries and cut the man who had hurt him so terribly out of his life, he could not help but to return to him. When Wilde finally broke with Douglas and beckoned Ross to meet him in Paris in February, Ross gave in; and when they met, it did not take much for Ross to forgive Wilde. And when Constance passed away in April 1898, upon receiving Wilde’s telegraph begging for his presence, Ross at once dropped everything and left for Paris, though he was subsequently very disappointed by how little Wilde was impacted by his ex-wife’s death. Moreover, whilst Alfred Douglas described Wilde as ‘a fat old prostitute’ over his incessant demands for money, Ross continued to dole out money to Wilde to keep him afloat between 1898 and 1899, even when he suspected that Wilde was lavishing money on random boys off the streets of Paris. Notably, once, despite knowing that Wilde was lying to him, despite being strapped for cash himself, and despite the fact that he had not gotten over the hurt, when Wilde asked him for money, Ross sold one of his beloved paintings and asked Leonard Smithers to send £5 to Wilde without stating the source of the money. In return, in February 1899, Ross received a short dedication on a new edition of The Importance of Being Earnest, the brilliant play which Wilde himself never took very seriously.

Over much of 1899, Ross travelled around Europe with his friends and family to recuperate from illness, yet ever so often he gave in to Wilde’s demand for comfort and company. In April 1899, Wilde sent Ross a series of postcards begging him to come to Switzerland because he was desperately unhappy after leaving Harold Mellor. Upon Wilde’s earnest beckoning, Ross headed to Switzerland despite being ill at the time. There, Ross paid off every hotel bill Wilde had racked up out of his own pockets, bought him train tickets, brought him back to Paris, and spent several days with Wilde trying to get him sobered up. In August, Ross fell ill again and spent a couple of weeks in the countryside with More Adey. Then, in October, before joining his mother and niece in Italy, he deliberately stopped at Paris to see Wilde again upon his request.  

Wilde decayed rapidly over the two years, and Ross constantly tried to save Wilde from himself. Apart from the old habits of lavishing money on beautiful clothes and beautiful boys, alcoholism was a particular cause for concern. According to his acquaintances, though Wilde had never been ‘exactly sober’, but since 1898 he began drinking excessive quantities of champagne and absinthe, and was often barely able to ‘stagger from the Madeleine to the Opera’. One claimed that he also used cocaine regularly. Moreover, insomnia was increasingly a problem. In March 1898, he asked Ross for money to rent two rooms ‘for insomnia’, and as he sunk deeper into alcoholism, he also began spending every night talking non-stop to everyone who cared to listen, from Ferdinand Esterhazy to poor street girls. This was most likely the consequence of severe depression. or other mental illnesses. Unfortunately, without modern knowledge into mental illness, he was never diagnosed and seldom found understanding. Even Ross, who wanted nothing but the best for Wilde, found it difficult to sympathise with his struggles or to help him at times. For one, Ross advised most friends that if they were to send Wilde anything, it was better to send clothes than money, for money would be squandered in self-destructive ways in no time. Similarly, when he was with Wilde in Switzerland in April 1999, he sternly warned Wilde of the consequences of alcoholism and ordered him to sober up, but was unable to prevent a relapse six months later. Ross blamed himself for not having ‘ordered around’ Wilde enough to keep him sober; however, perhaps Wilde was right in complaining that ‘Robbie is a dear but he does not understand’.

More intriguingly, Ross also tried to steer Wilde’s away from homosexuality despite his own relationships with men, and even as he occasionally engaged in polyamorous affairs with Wilde and his lovers. For one, he objected to Wilde taking unfurnished apartments for fear that he would take endless Parisian street boys to bed if he was accorded such freedom. He also lectured Wilde on associating with ‘gutter perverts’ and even went so far as suggesting another marriage. Yet, this apparent contradiction in Ross's stance was most likely not due to hypocrisy or wariness for societal opinion as some have suggested.: after all, he rarely lectured any other friend on their sexuality, and he opposed several marriages of convenience of his homosexual friends. I believe the key to unravelling this contradiction is in Wilde’s retort to Ross’s admonitions in mid-1898: 

It is a curious thing, dear little absurd Robbie, that you now always think that I am in the wrong. […] The only thing that consoles me is that your moral attitude towards yourself is even more severe than your moral attitude towards others. Yours is the pathological tragedy of the hybrid-the Pagan-Catholic. You exemplify the beauty and uselessness of conscience.  When I read your often bitter censures of me in your stern lectures, I think of your stern censures of yourself — of your awful curtain lectures — delivered alone — listened to in silence — unanswerable merely because they are unanswered. Judge and prisoner the same person — yourself your own gaoler. 

Echoing the subtle subtext in Ross’s unfinished manuscript reflecting on Wilde’s immediate post-prison days, here, again, we see Ross at once defying homophobia and internalising it: he never consciously denied his love for men, yet he could not help but to see it as his sin and corruption. His internalised homophobia, I believe, was not social but religious and psychological in nature: he did not shy away from associating with homosexual men as if it was a social blight, and he never intended to marry some poor girl to win societal acceptance, but his conscience before God was never at ease. Thus, he was his own ‘gaoler’ constantly engaged in self-flagellation. Consequently, he could accept homosexuality in anyone but the man he loved the most: everyone, including himself, could succumb to their base nature, but the artistic genius must be shielded from corruption. 

In April 1900, Ross spent his final days of joy with Wilde after recovering from a horrible flu, a period he later described with warmth in a letter to Adela Schuster. In the letter, Ross recalled that during their brief sojourn in Rome, Wilde wanted to be received into the Catholic Church through him, but he[Ross] believed that there was no priest in Rome sufficiently intelligent to debate theology with Wilde. Moreover, he fondly remembered in great detail how Wilde ‘made a good story’ out of the stay with him by playfully telling people that ‘whenever he[Wilde] wanted to be a Catholic I[Ross] stood at the door with a flaming sword which only turned in one direction and prevented him from entering’. But the happiness was tinged with a strong carpe diem flavour. In Rome, Wilde indulged in numerous liaisons with beautiful boys, and before leaving, he mused that: 

In the mortal sphere I have fallen in and out of love, and fluttered hawks and doves alike. How evil it is to buy Love, and how evil to sell it! And yet what purple hours one can snatch form that grey slowly-moving thing we call Time! My mouth is twisted with kissing, and I feed on fevers.

The awareness of his own mortality was poignant, for that ‘grey slowly-moving thing’ was to  grind to a halt for him in just eight months. 

Despite Ross’s every effort, in the end, he could not prevent Wilde’s life from slipping through his fingers. After returning to Paris, he wandered slowly from cafe to cafe looking pale, lonely, and desolate. One of his old friends recalled him saying that he had ‘lived all there was to live’, and that ‘it won’t be long’ before he finally meets the end. In October, the ear infection he had caught in Reading Prison remised. Consequently, he had to undergo a major operation which exteriorised his middle ear and the mastoid cavity in order to prevent the infection from spreading to his brain, this resulted in permanent and complete hearing loss in his left ear. Wilde downplayed the condition’s seriousness to Ross before the operation, but sent him two consecutive telegraphs begging him to come to Paris as soon as possible because he was ‘terribly weak’. Ross immediately set aside everything and headed for Paris, where he stayed with Wilde for a month, taking care of him every day and accompanying him on drives. After being reassured by the doctor that Wilde was recovering, on 13 November, Ross left for the South of France to care for his ailing mother. 

However, unbeknownst to all of them, the surgery did not prevent the invisible bacteria’s advancement towards Wilde’s brain. Merely two weeks later, on 26 November, Ross received an urgent letter from Reginald Turner (who had remained in Paris) informing him that Wilde was very unwell. On 27 November, Turner sent Ross two other ominous letters asking Ross what shall happen upon Wilde’s death, followed by another message the next day informing Ross that ‘it’s all over with Oscar’. Ross caught the express train to Paris at once. Upon arriving in Paris on 29 November, he found Wilde emaciated, struggling to breathe, and unable to talk. This at once persuaded Ross that Oscar was, in fact, dying. Remembering his promise in Rome to bring a Catholic priest to Wilde’s deathbed, Ross, though still weary from the 17-hour train journey, immediately went about Paris to search for a priest that would accept Wilde into the Catholic Church as he[Wilde] had wished. It was not until evening that he managed to find Father Cuthbert Dunne to administer last rites for Wilde. After fulfilling his promise to Wilde, Ross wired Harris, Adrian Hope, and Alfred Douglas about Wilde’s urgent condition late at night, before collapsing exhausted himself. That night was restless, with numerous nurse's calls and a final summons to Wilde's side as dawn neared at 5:30 a.m., marking the beginning of the end. The horrible process lasted for nearly ten hours, and Ross was by his deathbed witnessing every bit of the gruesome struggle. He would later recall this horrible day in painfully graphic details to More Adey: 

[…] I had never heard anything like it before; it sounded like the horrible turning of a crank, and it never ceased until the end. His eyes did not respond to the light test any longer. Foam and blood came from his mouth, and had to be wiped away by someone standing by him all the time. […] From 1 o’clock we did not leave the room; the painful noise from the throat became louder and louder. […] at 1.45 the time of his breathing altered. I went to the bedside and held his hand, his pulse began to flutter. He heaved a deep sign, the only natural one I had heard since I arrived, the limbs seemed to stretch involuntarily, the breathing came fainter; he passed at 10 minutes to 2 p.m. exactly. 

The pain was palpable through the text. We can scarcely fathom his agony when wiping foam and blood from the lips of a beloved for hours, or when sensing the pulse of the man he had cherished so dearly grow ever fainter under his fingertips as he held his hand for the final time. After washing and cleaning Wilde’s body, Ross requested Maurice Gilbert to take a deathbed picture of him, the picture is still preserved in the Robert Ross Memorial Collection at Oxford today. 

Douglas would later accuse Ross of misleading him to prevent him from seeing Wilde one last time. With all due respect for the deceased, this is plainly nonsense. Firstly, if Ross actually believed that Wilde was dying in early November, when he telegram Douglas to inform him that Wilde was ill but was recovering, he would not have left on 13 November himself only to return in haste barely 24 hours before Wilde’s death. Secondly, Ross did telegram Douglas on 29 November not long after he arrived in Paris himself. It could hardly have been more urgent. The unfortunately fact was simply that Ross himself had arrived too late. Thirdly, even Laura Lee, who is often prone to giving Alfred Douglas excessive benefit of the doubt, could not help but to point out that Douglas only had his own lusts to blame for the lack of farewells to his former lover. He had countless opportunities to visit Wilde in Paris between August and November —— after all, unlike Ross, he did not have to work and had just inherited a substantial amount of money from his deceased father. But instead, he chose to buy a stable in Chantilly and idle there; moreover, even when he visited Paris in October, he spent all of his time cavorting with cabaret boys instead of visiting Wilde.

Entangled in French bureaucratic red tapes and constrained by financial shortages, Wilde could only be laid to rest in a modest, provisional grave in Bagneux. At his funeral, Alfred Douglas was the chief mourner leading all of Wilde’s friends and former lovers. In Douglas’s shadow, Ross quietly laid on Wilde’s grave a wreath with the simple yet heartfelt inscription ‘From the admirer of his genius, a tribute to his literary achievements’. I believe this proved Maureen Borland right in believing that Ross mourned for the waste of Wilde’s genius, and that in his tormented heart he ‘longed for the Wilde of former years, the man who had dominated London theatre-land, the man who had, before hie his imprisonment, been destined to become one of the greatest dramatists of the century.’ As he laid the wreath, Ross silently vowed that once he acquire sufficient means, he shall secure a more magnificent final abode befitting Oscar Wilde, ideally in Père Lachaise, that famous resting place of Abelard and Heloise. 

[letsgoletsgetit08]

fix off pt. 1

summary: Mingi turns to every coping mechanism besides a healthy one in the aftermath of Jongho's death, two years later.

warnings: MDNI!!, 18+, su*c*de attempt, implied/referenced su*c*de, major character death, overdose, recreational drug use, religious imagery & symbolism, catholicism, barebacking, strangers to lovers, bittersweet ending, angst, hurt/comfort

pairing: priest!soft dom!Jeong Yunho x hot fucking mess!Song Mingi

author's note: HEY! Read the tags! This fic has some very heavy content! Please DO NOT READ this if mentions/discussion of suicide/attemps or character deat (RIP Jongho, so glad you're alive IRL, king) are in any way triggering to you! Also, know that myself and Ateez would be very sad if any Atiny or anyone else took their own life. Don't do it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ! !! !!! That said, this work is based on/influenced by/referencing - sometimes lightly, sometimes very directly because Phoebe Waller-Bridge is more of a genius than me - the show Fleabag. This show is personally very important to me, it both healed me in some ways and also hurt me very deeply. If you have seen the show, you know how this ends. Again, read the tags. Phoebe, if you happen to read this for whatever reason, I just hope you're flattered because of imitation and all that.

OKAY! Disclaimers disclaimed, please let me know if I missed anything. And with that, please enjoy. This one is kind of my baby. I hesitated to even post it here because I'm a little scared of how it will be received but you never know until you try, right? Comments, likes, & re-blogs are always welcome, but please be civil.

word count: 23,480

ao3 link: fix off

fix off

It's hard not to spiral. 

Chest constricting, breath becoming shallow. 

Mingi tossed the bar rag onto the counter and dismissed himself to the bathroom. 

Cold water splashed on his face. 

Not cold enough. Need some ice. 

He thought he had seen Jongho. Which was impossible. 

His friend had died nearly two years ago now. 

He died two years ago.

Mingi composed himself enough to go back and sling espresso martinis to faceless patrons. Turning on his disarming charm enough to make decent tips. 

Coping.

Back home, laying in bed, Mingi got off while watching the news. Contemplated texting his ex. 

He was a little offended that she hadn't come back yet. 

She always came back.  

It was one of the only constants in his life, repeating the cycle of breaking up with Yuji when she became too overbearing, trying to be too serious. 

“It feels like you only want to be with me for the sex.” She had accused him of it a thousand times if she had done it once. 

“My friends really like you, too.” Mingi half-heartedly defended himself. She'll hate to hear that. 

“Do you like me, Mingi? Because I'm trying. I want to take care of you.” 

“I'm not a child.” Mingi pouted. 

“You're the only person who believes that.” Yuji turned to go, taking his lack of response to her question for what it was, “I'm not coming back, Mingi. Not again.” 

She'll be back. 

She wasn't. 

The next time he'd seen her, six months later, she had actually looked happy, something he honestly couldn't say during the times they had been together. Ring on her finger, hand around the bicep of a man Mingi vaguely recognized. 

Mingi saw her. Caught her eye. 

She's going to walk over. 

She walked over and introduced her fiancé, “This is jfodwjjfow.” 

He wouldn't remember the man’s name anyway, why bother to hear it when it was said the first time. 

“So good to meet you, Jeff.” Definitely not his name. “Wish I could stay but I really have to be going.”

He barely noticed the confused expression on her face as he dashed away.

Two Years Ago

"You know that guy who comes in on Tuesday nights and sits at the end of the bar?” Jongho asked, looking up at Mingi with a devious grin. 

"Tall guy who drinks red wine and looks like he wants to eat you?” Mingi teased him.

"Shut up, no way! He's probably looking at you. Everyone looks at you.” Jongho meant it as a compliment. 

"Well they should look at you because I will just chew them up and spit them out.” 

"Why else would God give you such big teeth?” Jongho skirted out of the way before Mingi could smack his ass with the bar towel. 

"Do I have big teeth?!” Mingi was hurt. 

"No!” Jongho stayed a few feet away, out of the line of fire, “No! I'm sorry, your teeth are fine!” 

"I'm hideous!” Mingi whined. 

“Hush, Mingi. You're perfect.” Jongho sighed, “Nevermind about that guy, anyway. I have my hands full with you already.”

“You love it.” Mingi shot him an innocent smile. 

“Of course I do.” Jongho poked his cheek, “Who else will?”

A Tuesday. Probably. 

“Mingi, promise me you won't be late tonight.” Seonghwa’s voice was stern, pleading over the phone. 

Mingi had taken the call while riding Soobin's dick. Or maybe it was Seungmin. He couldn't remember. He'd just been calling him “baby” since he came over. 

He was Hongjoong’s accountant. 

“I won't.” He would. “Promise.” He shouldn't. 

It was Seonghwa’s debut as Marius Pontmercy in an off-broadway production of Les Misérables. A big deal. He would finally be catching his big break.

“Okay, good because I really want everyone there.” Mingi faltered at the implication of the word. Like they were complete without Jongho. “It's very important to me. And I don't want to be embarrassed by you walking in late, I'm not even sure they will let you-”

“Yes, I know, Hwa.” He panted, Baby's hips bucking underneath him, “I'll be there.”

He’s noisy. Loves nipples.

“What are you doing? You sound out of breath?” Seonghwa’s voice was verging towards hysterical. 

“Just out for a run!” Baby let out a moan that Mingi knew carried through the phone. 

“Ew, Mingi! That is disgusting-”

“Fuck, yes, Soobin!” Mingi couldn't help but cry out, ending the call as the man nailed his prostate. 

Soobin filled the condom inside him, Mingi followed quickly behind, collapsing to his chest. 

“It's Seungmin, asshole.” The man pushed Mingi off of him and cleaned himself up, gathered his things to leave, shirt on inside out.

He’s probably going to realize he’s actually straight now.

Mingi got off to the memory of the scene again, later, in the shower. 

He was only twenty minutes late to Seonghwa's debut that night. Tears streaming down his face at the performance. His friend was beautiful. The musical was one of his favorites. 

I’m a total sap.

He wished Jongho were there to see it. 

Seonghwa let himself be hugged backstage after the show, a rare treat, even letting Mingi linger for a beat before pushing him off, accepting the flowers he held out to him. 

My bouquet looks pathetic next to the others. He’ll hate it.   

“Didn't want it to go to your head too much.” Mingi quipped, joking about his bouquet. 

“Thankfully, no one else had your same mindset.” Seonghwa was probably joking but his words stung. He studied Mingi’s face, not seeming to know how to help in the moment, instead, turning his attention to the rest of their friends, Hongjoong sidling up to his side as Mingi stepped away. “Let’s get everyone in for a picture.” 

Everyone. 

The word was repeated all night, at dinner afterwards, at the bar after that. Ringing in Mingi’s ears. 

Mingi coped in one of the only ways he knew how. 

Drink after drink, not knowing what was what, just that it had alcohol.

Everyone will be mad at me by the end of the night.

He had gotten too loud and apparently said something to upset Seonghwa. Not hard to do. Hongjoong scolded him, staying composed as he asked him to leave. 

Yeosang sweet Yeosang ended up under his arm, guiding him to the curb outside of the bar, waiting on the Uber. 

“What's wrong with me, Sangie?” Mingi slurred, ignoring how Yeosang’s body tensed when his head fell to the other's shoulder.

He's going to say nothing is wrong with me. They always do. 

“Nothing is wrong with you, Mingi.” His voice was sweet, deep, soothing. 

“Everyone hates me.” Mingi whined. 

“No one hates you, Ming.” Yeosang wrapped an arm around his shoulders, “You just feel your feelings out loud. And you have a lot of them. Wooyoung is similar, but he has a San to regulate him.” 

“I don't have anyone.” Mingi sobbed. 

“You do, Mingi. You just push us away. And I get it. No one can take Jongho's place. He was that for you, wasn't he?” Yeosang asked gently. 

Mingi didn't answer but sat up, looking at Yeosang. 

He is so pretty.  

Mingi leaned in for a kiss. 

Yeosang stopped him with a hand, “No, baby. You're drunk. You don't actually want to do this.”

What the hell did Yeosang know?  

He was right. Of course. 

“Sorry.” Mingi mumbled. 

The Uber pulled up and Yeosang helped him inside, instructing him to drink some water when he got home. 

He should have asked for Yeosang to help him. He would have done it. 

I should ask.

He should ask.

But he always pushed them away. 

Mingi hated riding in cars. He gripped the seat for dear life the entire drive. 

There was no one to make sure he didn't drown in a pool of his own vomit. The thought hit him somewhere on the ride home. 

He wouldn't drown in a pool of his own vomit.

He hadn't yet. 

I need a grilled cheese and a cigarette. 

Two Years Ago

The Tuesday man was leaning across the bar as far as it would allow, flirting with Jongho. Mingi felt pride swell in his chest. They were cute. He was sweet, making Jongho blush, calling him pretty.

Bastard.

He hated sharing Jonho. Yes, the seven of them were friends, but he and Jongho were close outside of that. If he were asked to trade the six others for Jongho, he would. Easy. No one got him like Jongho did. Mingi felt a little like he had raised the man, with him being a little over a year younger than himself. He knew it had to be hard being the youngest in a friend group. He wanted to make sure Jongho had someone. They were roommates in college. It stuck. Had worked at the same bar together ever since. 

In a lot of ways, though, Jongho had taken care of Mingi, too. Through heartbreaks and the general ups and downs of life. 

He loved him more than anything.

Naturally, he was a little possessive of his friend. But he also wanted him to be happy. 

He pushed down the acidic, curdling sensation in his chest. Let him be happy.  

Mingi would be there for him when he inevitably let him down.  

A Thursday? Maybe??

Wooyoung had talked him into hot yoga. 

“It will be good for you, I promise!” Wooyoung sing-songed as they walked into the studio. 

San probably loves the fact that he’s into yoga.

The studio was sweltering, they weren’t misadvertising, that’s for sure.

“I feel like I’m going to die.” Mingi complained. 

“Shut up and take your shoes off.” Wooyoung instructed. 

Not the first time he’s said that line.

“Buy me dinner first.” 

“You need therapy.” Wooyoung rolled his eyes. 

Tried that, didn’t work. 

His therapist said that he was projecting his grief for Jongho onto what really was daddy issues. Or something like that. He really hadn’t paid too close attention. He had fucked his therapist after a few sessions though. 

After sweating buckets and nearly pulling a muscle to keep from slipping and busting his face open, he thanked Wooyoung for inviting him and made him promise to never do it again. 

On the way out of the studio, a bus was unloading. 

Tuesday guy.  

Mingi locked eyes with him as he hopped off the bus. Time stood still.

The man nodded and Mingi darted in the other direction, Wooyoung chasing after him. 

He finally caught up, “Hey, what the fuck!”

“Sorry!” Mingi clawed his fingernails into his palms, “Forgot I liked the smoothie place on 7th better than the one on 9th.” 

A lie.

“Well damn, you could have just said something!” Wooyoung scolded him, mostly playfully but still seeming perturbed at Mingi’s odd behavior. 

Two Years Ago

Jongho was off that night. Tuesday guy sat in his same spot. 

Mingi tested him. 

Tuesday failed.

Took Mingi to his apartment after work.

Fucked Mingi senseless into his mattress. 

Fucking Tuesday. 

He never learned his real name. 

But he would never have called him by it anyway. 

Mingi’s dad had cheated on his mom. 

Any given day of the week, honestly, does it really matter?

The bar was dead that night and Mingi didn’t bother to fight to close with his new coworker. Let himself be cut early so that he could go home. 

He texted the group chat on his walk home. 

Me

Got cut early. Anyone wanna meet up?

He waited for replies. None came in. No one had even read the message.

Fine then. 

He walked aimlessly around the city, finally landing on a park bench, staring out over the lake. He didn’t know what to do with himself. 

The sun was setting and he watched it paint the sky pastel. 

He dialed Jongho’s number. 

Hey, it’s Jongho! Leave a message. Or just text me like a normal person. 

Again.

Hey, it’s Jongho! Leave a message. Or just text me like a normal person.

Hey, it’s Jongho! Leave a message. Or just text me like a normal person.

Hey, it’s Jongho! Leave a message. Or just text me like a normal person.

Interrupted.

“Anyone sitting here?” A feminine voice, light German accent. He looked up. 

She had stick-straight dyed red hair to her shoulders, microbangs, piercings, and was more tattoo than skin. 

“No, sorry. Just um.” He looked down at the phone in his hands, “On the phone.” 

“Why are you apologizing?” She raised a sharp eyebrow at him. He spotted a tongue ring when her mouth was open. 

“I don’t know. Sorry.” He blinked at her. Clocking that he had just done it again. 

She studied him, “Hm. You’re sweet, aren’t you?”

He shrugged.

“Pretty lips. I like you. If I take you to my place, you can’t murder me, okay?”

She looks more like she would be the one to murder me.

“Okay.” He agreed. 

Looks like I have plans tonight after all.

“Oh, you’re going to be fun.” She smiled, standing up and offering her hand to help him up. He followed her like a lost puppy to her apartment. 

The Germans are known for their open-mindedness in the bedroom. I should have remembered that.

He was tied to her bed from all four corners, wrists and ankles secured. Cock leaking pathetically onto his stomach. She walked around the bed, strutting in her elaborate black lace lingerie, pulled the blindfold down over his eyes. 

They had discussed it briefly on their way over. Limits, safe word (tiramisu), and the light system. 

Green light. Green light. Green light.

He felt the bed shift as she crawled between his legs, fingers dancing over his skin as she teased him everywhere except where he wanted it. 

“So desperate already for me, aren’t you, Mingki?” Her accent added an extra percussive affect to his name. 

“Yes, goddess.” He breathed. 

With no warning, she began licking his cock from base to tip, guiding it into her mouth without even touching it with her hands. The tip of it hitting the back of her throat immediately. 

I'm way too well hung for someone to be able to do that so easily.

She worked him expertly, slow at first, then picking up her pace until she estimated he was close to his peak, a faint pop as she pulled off of his dick. He squirmed, searching for any sort of touch, wanting to cum so badly. He heard her chuckle, “Oh, no, mein liebchen, it won't be that easy.” 

He whined and pouted, cut short as she positioned herself above him, rolling a condom on and applying lube before lining herself up and taking him in one go. 

I'm way too well hung for someone to be able to do THAT so easily.

She sat still, cockwarming him until he couldn't take it, sweat breaking out on his forehead, hips bucking, which earned him nothing besides sitting up so that only his tip was inside of her. He couldn't reach, no matter how hard he tried, to enter her any further. Eventually, she lowered herself ever so slightly, once he stilled his movements, proving he could be patient. She bounced up and down, tiny movements, only taking the first few inches of his length. Normally, he would be slamming his hips at breakneck speed by this point but he felt more turned on than ever before as he was brought to the edge again, only for her to pull off at the last second. 

She was straddling his face seconds later, “Me first, then we'll revisit you. If you can manage to get me off.” 

“Yes, godd-hmmmpph” she cut him off by placing her wet cunt on his face. The lube was strawberry flavored and he ate devotedly, like it was the last supper.

I'm not even religious!

He focused hard, listening for little moans and the involuntary twitch of her hips to guide him in knowing what she liked. It was so much harder to gauge with a blindfold on, but just as his jaw was aching so bad he thought he might have to give up, cock throbbing and leaking precum into the condom, she finally came, crying out at her release. 

“What a good pet.” She panted, moving back down to his cock again, taking him in one go and grinding her hips evilly, swiveling them but not letting him fuck into her still. “You can't cum until I come on your pretty cock, understood?”

“Yes, goddess, please let me make you come.” He begged, surprising himself.

She fell forward bracing her hands on his chest as she fucked herself on his dick. He almost lost it as he finally felt her clench around him, moaning at her second release, then surprising him by removing the blindfold. 

“Eyes on mine and beg me for it.” She demanded. 

“Please let me cum, goddess, please I'll do anything, please, please, goddess, I-” she stroked him with her pussy, as he begged until she was satisfied, tears streaming down his face.

“Okay, since you asked so nicely.” She stilled her hips, “Go ahead and use me, you filthy boy. So desperate.” 

He cried out as he tried to get a better range of motion to fuck her. She didn't help at all, but he was already on a razor wire, and soon he was cumming hard. She dismounted as soon as she felt his orgasm start, ruining it. He whimpered pathetically, not feeling satisfied, not enough cum leaving his body. 

She chuckled, “What's wrong, my little pet? You wanted to cum. I let you cum.”

He couldn’t answer, genuinely crying now. 

“Color, Mingi?” She asked, seeming concerned.

“Green!” He sobbed. 

“Good.” And she removed the condom, his dick still hard. She stroked up the underside with one steady finger until his hips were bucking pathetically again, then she gripped him genuinely, working him to a real release this time. The sound that escaped his chest was something he was sure had never left his body before, thick ribbons of cum hitting his stomach and chest, covering her hand. 

“Thank you! Fuck, thank you.” He cried as she worked him through it. 

She made sure he got proper aftercare when they were done. He stood in her doorway, staring at his shoes, voice barely above a whisper, “Can I… um. See you again?”

She smiled sympathetically, “No, so sorry, darling. I only ever do this once with someone.” She tapped his cheek, “Best of luck out there. I really did have a good time.” 

“Okay.” He sighed, “Thank you again.” And he turned to leave, feeling emptier than ever as he walked home. 

Two Years Ago

Jongho was a mess when he got to work that day, dark circles under his eyes. Mingi clocked it immediately, dragging him to the walk-in cooler to talk. 

“What's wrong?” He asked, trying not to panic, certain he was found out. 

Jongho never cried. It ripped Mingi’s heart in half. “He fucking-” Jongho choked on a sob, “I don’t know what I did wrong! I-” He buried his face into Mingi’s chest, “He told me he cheated on me and then-” A huge sniffle, struggling to catch his breath, “He said he couldn’t live with the guilt and he broke up with me! I don’t know what’s wrong with me-” Another wave of sobs racked his body.

“Shh, come on. You can’t work like this. Let’s get you home.” Mingi pulled him to his side, guilt spilling down his spine like ice water. 

Back at their apartment, Mingi spent all night taking care of Jongho, wrapping him in a blanket on the couch and letting him talk things through. Three bottles of wine between the two of them. He had no clue why Tuesday hadn’t told Jongho the full truth. He was too scared to do it himself. Instead, he let the gravity of his sin guide his actions, coddling his friend to try to make up for it. 

They ended the night curled up in Mingi’s bed together, Jongho still crying softly as he drifted off to sleep. 

The next morning, the bed beside Mingi was cold. 

He had thirty missed calls on his phone. None of them were from Jongho. 

He panicked, calling the last person who had called him back. 

“Mingi, thank god.” San’s voice was thick, clearly he had been crying.

“What happened?” Mingi’s voice was strained, anxiety eating him alive.

“Mingi… It’s Jongho.” San took a shuddering breath, “He’s- he’s gone.”

“What do you mean, ‘gone’? There’s no way. He was upset but I’m sure he just turned his phone off and he’ll be back here any time with a pack of cig-” Mingi refused to believe what he had just been told.

“No, Mingi.” San cut him off, “They found him. His car, it was-”

“No! You’re wrong!” Mingi was in denial, verging on hysterics, “They’re wrong, they need to check again! He’ll be back any minute!”

“Mingi…” San sobbed. He heard him mutter something about not being able to do this as the phone was passed to someone else. 

“Mingi. I need you to take some deep breaths and calm down.” Hongjoong’s voice was surprisingly gentle over the phone, but commanding enough to make Mingi stop sputtering nonsense that he knew, deep down, was all untrue. 

“I’m sorry.” Mingi felt tears begin to streak down his face, “I’m sorry. I’m listening.”

“Hwa is ordering you an Uber. We should all be together right now. You need to get dressed and be downstairs in ten minutes, okay?” Hongjoong’s voice only wavered slightly.

“Okay.” Mingi hung up the phone. 

Once he was at Hongjoong and Seonghwa’s apartment with the others, they filled him in on everything they knew, which truthfully, was very little.

Jongho indeed had alcohol in his system, according to the coroner, but having known him, he had a pretty high tolerance. It wasn’t certain he had been too drunk to drive. He had left no note, but the way the crash had happened, it almost looked intentional. 

There was no way of knowing now, of course. 

Mingi filled them in on why Jongho had been upset. Not the full story. He didn’t think he could ever admit that to anyone. Even with the added context, the friends all silently agreed that it had been an accident. The alternative was far too painful. 

The pit in Mingi’s stomach begged to differ. The doubt that lingered would never leave him. Not even for a moment. 

Seonghwa’s Bachelor Party

Mingi felt especially proud of himself, walking up to Seonghwa’s apartment - his fiance would be staying at a hotel that night - knowing what surprise he had planned for the night. 

He’s going to do backflips. 

The stripper he had hired was around Hongjoong’s height, pretty dark brown hair, wide, soulful eyes. Mingi had picked him out himself, wanting the surprise to be absolutely perfect. 

When he stepped inside the apartment, his stomach dropped.

I really shouldn’t have muted the group chat. 

He was under dressed in slacks and a sweater. Everyone else was in suits. More than just their close friend group was there, too. A memory niggled at the back of his mind, vaguely remembering reading a text saying Seonghwa’s more conservative cousins would be in town from Korea. They were staying for a few months before the wedding, through the holidays, since the wedding was on New Years Eve, treating the trip like a long vacation. 

Mingi tried to turn around to back out, wanting to call the booking agency immediately to cancel the stripper, but Wooyoung spotted him, looking relieved to have an excuse to leave the conversation he was having with a particularly dull looking family member, making his way to Mingi in just a few strides, pulling him into the living room. 

“Thank fuck!” Wooyoung whispered into his ear, “That guy was talking about the stock markets and I thought I was going to die.” 

“Where’s your boyfriend?” Mingi couldn’t help but laugh at the situation.

“He got got, too!” Wooyoung jutted his chin out, gesturing towards the kitchen, where San was sequestered by three cousins, eyes pleading as he met Wooyoung’s gaze. 

Mingi cackled as he saw San mouth “Help!” 

A punch on his arm from Wooyoung startled him, “Why are you underdressed?”

“I muted the group chat! You guys talk so much.”

“Well some of it is important, dumbass!” Wooyoung scolded him, “You better not be planning anything stupid tonight.”

“What!” Mingi tried to look surprised, “I would never! I’m just here for Seonghwa.”

“Yes?” Seonghwa had heard his name and was headed towards them, “Mingi, why are you underdressed?”

“I’m sorry! I can’t read, you know that.” Mingi whined, trying to sound innocent. 

“Just, please, please don’t do anything stupid tonight. It’s already tense with my family here, I had to bribe them to even come to the wedding by promising we would get married by a Catholic priest. Neither of us wanted that, but no offense, I didn’t want my wedding to just have you guys and all of Hongjoong’s family.”

“We’ll be good, Hwa. Promise.” Wooyoung offered.

“It’s not you I’m worried about. I need the princess to survive the night without making it all about himself.” Seonghwa snipped, then his face fell, looking a little remorseful, “Sorry, that was harsh, I-”

“No, no.” Mingi pretended it hadn’t hurt him to hear, “You’re right. I promise I’ll be good, tonight is all about you and making your weird, boring cousins happy.” 

As it turned out, keeping his weird, boring cousins happy was a tall order. They didn’t want to play drinking games - they barely wanted to drink, they didn’t understand Mingi’s sense of humor, and when they weren’t talking his ear off, they seemed to be treating him practically as wait staff, asking for more of the snacks from the kitchen, or another beer, or what his beliefs on the afterlife were. The latter of which he dodged, making a lame excuse of needing to pee. 

Mingi had snuck off to the bathroom attached to the primary bedroom, searching through Hongjoong’s side of the cabinets, hoping that the man still had a bit of a fun side. Exclaiming in excitement when he found a little bag of weed gummies buried carelessly under other over-the-counter meds and random, clearly forgotten about toiletries. 

He figured they were probably old, so he popped two in his mouth before even reading what the label said. 25mg/piece. 

Fuck. Well. Too late now. 

He spotted an old bottle of Xanax, giving it a shake to see it was almost completely full. He pocketed it as well.

You never know. 

When he emerged, he was rudely reminded of what he had been so worried about when he had arrived. 

Yeosang was answering the door, letting a man dressed in a black, sparkly, see-through shirt, red, glittery, heart-shaped pasties covering his nipples clearly visible underneath, and loose black pants, the outline of his bulge making itself known as well. Yeosang, innocent and clueless as ever, let the man inside before Mingi could get over there to stop him.

The weed began to hit Mingi and he couldn’t make his feet move as the man turned on the bluetooth speaker in his hand and a loud, harsh techno beat took over the room, every single voice going quiet to stare. 

“Who’s the beautiful blushing groom?” The man surveyed the room noisily. 

Seonghwa’s cousins were stunned silent, but Yeosang still hadn’t caught on, pointing to Seonghwa, “That’s him!” 

The Hongjoong look-alike stripper ripped his shirt off as he approached Seonghwa, and only then did Mingi’s brain catch up to his feet, jogging over to stop the man. 

“I’m so sorry!” Mingi tried to cut him off, “There’s been a mistake, I messed up-” He let out a giggle, his weed-fuzzed brain finding the situation hilarious despite himself. 

“Is this your idea of a joke, Mingi?” Seonghwa looked mad, hurt, and very disappointed. 

The stripper was not tuned in to the conversation and had started trying to dance for Seonghwa. 

“No! I’m sorry! It’s not a joke, I didn’t read the group text and I was going to cancel-” Mingi touched the stripper’s shoulder, trying to pull him off, “Hey, can you please stop that, you need to go, I’ll pay-”

“HEY!” The stripper yelled, “No touching! That’s literally the first rule you agreed to when you booked me!”

“Mingi, get the fuck out of here.” Seonghwa scolded him. 

“Hwa, I’m so sorry! I’m going, I promise-” Mingi pleaded, hands coming up to try to show his innocence, but hit the stripper’s ass on their way up. 

“What the FUCK did I just say?!” The stripper wheeled on him, punching him straight in the right eye socket. 

San was there in an instant, putting the stripper in a hold and froggy walking him out the door, Mingi following dejectedly behind, trying to keep the tears from spilling out as the cold air hit his face again. 

“San, please, I’m sorry, he has to know it was an honest mistake.”

“Honestly, Mingi. Not right now. Just.” He huffed a long breath out of his nose, “Just save it. Okay? It’s not me you need to apologize to.” 

He turned his back on Mingi, heading back inside the house. 

The stripper glared up at him from his spot on the curb, holding his hand out for payment. 

“Are you insane? No one carries cash.” Mingi spat at him.

“Then Venmo me, dickhead.” Not-Hongjoong instructed him. 

“No! Fuck off. You ruined my night.” Mingi turned around, trying to start walking home, but was stopped when the stripper jumped on him from behind, struggling to put him in a headlock due to their height difference. It was enough to get Mingi to turn around, though, which earned him a knee to his crotch and a sickening crack of his jaw, followed by his left eye. Mingi doubled over and took off running the best he could given his current state, lip bleeding onto his sweater, ignoring the shouts from the angry stripper behind him, hating how high he was as he staggered home in the cold, the world around him not feeling real. 

Back at his apartment, he drew himself a bath, placing the bottle of Xanax and his phone on the edge of the bathtub before climbing in. 

His head still felt wrong from the weed. Off-kilter. Anxious. Like melting cotton candy. 

He lined up the pills on the lip of the bathtub, counted them. 

He read the label that time. 

He took three. 

Dialed Jongho’s number from memory on his phone. 

Hey, it’s Jongho! Leave a message. Or just text me like a normal person.

Again.

Hey, it’s Jongho! Leave a message. Or just text me like a normal person.

Hey, it’s Jongho! Leave a message. Or just text me like a normal person.

Hey, it’s Jongho! Leave a message. Or just text me like a normal person.

His brain went pleasantly fuzzy.

Head falling to the back of the tub a little clumsily. 

He took three more. 

Hey, it’s Jongho! Leave a message. Or just text me like a normal person.

Hey, it’s Jongho! Leave a message. Or just text me like a normal person.

Hey, it’s Jongho! Leave a message. Or just text me like a normal person.

He took three more. 

Hey, it’s Jongho! Leave a message. Or just text me like a normal person.

Hey, it’s Jongho! Leave a message. Or just text me like a normal person.

Hey, it’s Jongho! Leave a message. Or just text me like a normal person.

The words started to lose all meaning as his vision blurred and he sank further into the water.

His fingers dialed the only other number he had memorized.

“Mingi?” Hongjoong’s voice was sleepy, clearly worried.

“Everyone hates me.” Mingi sighed, slipping down further into the tub, water feeling like molasses on his skin. Everything felt warm. Sticky. Cottony. 

“Why aren’t you out with Seonghwa for his party, what’s wrong?” Hongjoong asked him, voice urgent. 

“I think I fucked up, Joongie.”  Mingi’s voice was slow, distant, tinny, metallic and childish sounding in his own ears, tongue too thick for his mouth. 

“Mingi, baby, tell me what you did.” He heard Hongjoong get up from bed, “Where are you?”

“‘M home. I love you guys.” Mingi sighed, his vision going spotty.

“No, Mingi, stay with me!” Hongjoong pleaded. 

But Mingi’s phone fell into the bathtub with a subdued splash as his vision went dark. 

H e y ,  i t ’ s  J o n g h o !  L e a v e  a  m e s s a g e .  O r  j u s t  t e x t  m e  l i k e  a  n o r m a l    p   e   r    s    o    n   .

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

Mingi blinked his eyes open slowly, head splitting as his pupils adjusted to the bright lights. 

The unmistakable smell of disinfected hospital hit his nose. He was equal parts relieved that he was alive and annoyed that he was so incompetent he couldn’t even kill himself properly. 

His muscles screamed as he turned to the left, finding an open-mouthed, haggard looking Hongjoong asleep on the rigid hospital chair next to him. 

Tears streamed down his face silently as he felt himself drift back asleep.

“I swear, he didn't seem that bad when he left!” Wooyoung's voice was hushed, urgent as he defended himself. 

Mingi didn't open his eyes yet, not wanting to give himself away, now very intrigued in the conversation.

“I guess the stripper must have beat him up when I kicked him out. I should have driven him home.” San's voice quivered at the end of the sentence. 

“Yes, someone should have stayed with him.” Hongjoong sounded incredibly exhausted and a little mad. 

“It's easy to see now, but I mean was he acting that abnormal leading up? I don't understand what set him off.” Yeosang sounded genuinely worried.

“You guys realize the anniversary of Jongho’s funeral was the day before yesterday, right?” Hongjoong asked reproachfully. 

The silence was deafening. 

“I knew it was soon…” San trailed off, clearly ashamed. 

“I know we were all friends with him. And I'm not saying whatever friendships all of us had with Jongho weren't important or as meaningful or anything like that. I would never minimize that.” Hongjoong took a deep breath, “But it was different for Mingi. I think we all know that, deep down. And I don't think any of us have acknowledged it. We've been pretty hard on him.”

“Who exactly is ‘we’?” Wooyoung asked, his tone biting, “From my point of view, we've been pretty normal with him. The only person he's fought with is your fiancé.”

There was a pregnant pause before Hongjoong spoke again, “I- I know. Seonghwa knows, too. He doesn't mean to be hard on him… I promise he's trying. You guys have no clue how hard he's beating himself up over this. He hasn't eaten since he heard. I'm really worried.”

“He has to know Mingi won't blame him for anything-” Yeosang started. 

“He needs to grow the fuck up and get here and be supportive.” Wooyoung huffed, his tone erring on petulant.

“Baby…” San tried to calm him down. 

“Sorry.” Wooyoung mumbled.

“He'll come by when he's ready.” Hongjoong said simply. 

“Well try to give me warning because I really don't want to see him right now.” Wooyoung spat. 

Mingi tried to stir to bring attention to the fact that he was awake, not wanting the conversation they were having to turn into a fight. 

“Wooyoung-” Hongjoong said at the same time San tried to soothe him, “Jagi-”

“Guys.” Yeosang made eye contact with Mingi as he sat up in bed. 

“Mingi!” Wooyoung nearly tripped over his feet to get to his bedside, San and Yeosang following behind, Hongjoong giving him a little more space. 

“Youngie.” Mingi croaked, his throat incredibly parched, mouth tasting too much like mouth for his comfort.

“We're so sorry, honey.” San’s face contorted, holding back tears.

“We didn't know how bad it was.” Yeosang offered. 

Hongjoong poured him a cup of water, which he took gladly, taking a sip before speaking again, “I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking stupid.” He felt tears build in his eyes again, looking over to Hongjoong, “I'm sorry you had to find me like that.”

“Mingi, no. I'm just glad I found you.” Hongjoong laid a hand on his shoulder, never being one to be very comfortable with physical affection. 

“I'm so sorry.” It seemed to be the only phrase Mingi could remember how to say. 

Luckily for him, the nurse came in then to check on him, taking his vitals and informing him that he had been accepted to an inpatient behavioral health hospital and that transport was being set up as they spoke. 

“You're sending me to the psych ward?” His stomach dropped. 

“Yes sir, we're required by law to have you admitted after a suicide attempted. You're considered very high risk right now.” She spoke as if she had delivered the same line a thousand times already that day. 

“I just failed to commit suicide and I feel like dog shit!” The effort from raising his voice made him dizzy, “There’s no amount of money you could pay me to convince me to try that shit again right now.”

His friends didn't seem to know what to say

“You will just have to take that up with your psychiatrist at the hospital. I'm sorry. If you don't go willingly, the doctor will have to put you on a 72 hour hold.” 

Mingi closed his eyes, seething, “Fucking… fine.” 

“Okay, good. I'll let the doctor know.” She walked out of the room and no one moved until she was out of ear shot. 

Wooyoung cocked an eyebrow at him, “You're really gonna-”

“Hell no. You guys have to help me get out of here. I'll stay with one of you, I promise, I just can't… please. Don't make me.” Mingi all but begged, feeling small and vulnerable like a child. 

Everyone turned to Hongjoong, the de-facto leader, often thought of by his friends as the dad of the group.

He looked between the men before finding Mingi’s eyes, sighing when he saw how desperate his friend looked, “San, trade clothes with him and go distract the nurse.” He never stopped looking at Mingi while he spoke, “We're getting him the hell out of here.”

Five minutes later, Hongjoong, Yeosang, and Wooyoung surrounded Mingi from four sides, trying to obscure him from the view of anyone who might try to stop them, though it was essentially futile, considering how Mingi towered over them, giggling to themselves as they heard the nurses gasp and squeal. San had evidently just taken off his paper scrubs shirt as a distraction. They made it into the elevator and all the way downstairs undetected, within only a few hundred feet of the front door when they heard San’s out of breath voice from the stairwell yelling, “Run!” 

They obeyed, taking off towards the parking lot, hopping into San's 4-Runner as he unlocked it to signal its location, though he himself was still a hundred or so yards behind, bare feet slapping on the pavement (Mingi had squeezed his feet into San's shoes) as the guards slowed their pace behind him, clearly accepting their defeat, out-paced easily by the athletic man. 

Mingi felt like death as he wheezed, exhausted from the effort in the middle back seat of San's car, wedged securely between Hongjoong and Yeosang, San hopping into the driver's seat. He felt like death, yes, but he also felt more alive than he had in a long time, being the first one to crack and start laughing in the car after a moment of unsure silence. Wooyoung followed second, his high pitched wild laughter making everyone else submit to a giggle fit as well. San rolled down the windows and stuck his head out as he drove out of the parking lot, hair blowing in the chill winter air, yelling, “Nice try, bitches!” as they made their escape. 

Two and a Half Years Ago

Mingi and Jongho had managed to sneak away from Seonghwa and Hongjoong’s engagement party, finding themselves in Hongjoong’s den, laying on the floor, rather cross-faded, skin still damp after coming inside from the balmy spring air that had enveloped them on the back porch. 

"I can’t believe they’re finally going to get married.” Mingi sighed staring up at the ceiling.

"San and Wooyoung must be thrilled. I bet San is scheming already.” Jongho chuckled. 

Mingi scoffed, “I think San has had a ring in his closet for a year at this point.”

"You’re probably right.” 

Mingi turned his head to look at his friend, studying his profile, the shape of which he had memorized years ago, “First those two, then Wooyoung and San. You think everyone will expect us to get married next?”

Jongho met his gaze, “Mingi, no offense, but I will only marry you at fifty if we’re both still single.”

"Promise?” Mingi was mostly joking. 

Jongho rolled his eyes, “Someday, someone will take care of us like we do each other.” He turned his head back away, “But just in case… yes. Promise.”

"Hell yeah.” Mingi pumped his arm in victory. 

"You left Yeosang out of all of that, by the way. What’s he going to do?” 

"I assumed he would move in with Youngie and San at some point.” Mingi deadpanned.

Jongho chuckled, “I’m honestly surprised they haven’t all moved in together yet.”

Footsteps had them craning their head to the back of the room.

Seonghwa’s arms were folded, “Did you guys plan on being antisocial all night?”

Mingi and Jongho shrugged, sitting up, Jongho helping Mingi to his feet. 

Seonghwa sighed dramatically, “Please come back and join us. Act normal for once.”

“Yes, mom!” Jongho mocked.  

They had to swallow their giggles as Seonghwa marched them back to the kitchen and living room, where everyone else was gathered.

The Present, October 15th

Mingi woke up, slightly disoriented, in Wooyoung and San’s guest bedroom, far too early in the morning. His face was throbbing, bruises and swelling finally going down, but still aching and tender nonetheless. He looked on the bedside table for painkillers before remembering that he hadn’t been left with any from the hospital, considering how he had chosen to depart. That, and he assumed, a cold pit in his stomach, Wooyoung wouldn’t allow him access to any meds without supervision. Really, Mingi felt zero desire to ever try to hurt himself again, but he understood that his friends were just doing their due diligence to protect him. 

Embarrassment and shame coursed over him.  

I'm a fucking mess.

He looked for his phone, finally finding it plugged in on the desk on the opposite side of the room. 

He scrolled through and replied to messages from Hongjoong and Yeosang, telling him he was feeling fine and thanking them again for their help. 

He knew it was too early for Wooyoung to get up, so he scrolled absentmindedly through his phone for a while before the pain from the wounds on his face, his split lip and bruised jaw and eye sockets, were too much to continue ignoring. He looked around in the room for any of his belongings, not finding anything except what he had worn of San’s home from the hospital. 

The dresser in the corner of the room stared at him and he walked over to take a peak. Some of Wooyoung and San’s off-season clothes were in there, shorts and swim trunks mostly. But in one drawer alone, was one of Jongho’s old hoodies. Faded dark green and perfectly worn. Mingi remembered it because he had borrowed it on more than one occasion after work, on their walk home, always having been one to forget a jacket. Jongho acted like he was put out to lend it to him, but Mingi knew as well as he had, he didn’t mind a bit. Now that he thought about it, it was totally possible that Jongho had always worn it just for his sake. The man ran very hot, constantly complaining about it, even in winter. 

Mingi brought the sweater up to his face, hoping it would still smell faintly of him, but knowing deep down it wouldn’t. He slipped it on, zipping it up, putting the hood on, and heading into the kitchen to try to find some coffee. After a few minutes of searching (much to his guilt, realizing that they had locked up their knives), Mingi found the necessary supplies to make coffee, rustling through the pantry for something to eat as it brewed. 

“You’re up early.” Wooyoung’s raspy morning voice startled him.

“Ah!” Mingi whipped around, “Sorry, yeah. My face fucking hurts.”

“I’ll get you something.” Wooyoung gave a small smile, “Sorry, you understand why I couldn’t just leave you some-”

“Nah, I know.” Mingi waved him off, “I would do the same thing. Don’t worry.”

Wooyoung nodded, “Okay, good. I’m glad. I’ll go grab it.”

Mingi poured two cups of coffee as Wooyoung returned, handing him a steaming mug in exchange for two ibuprofen tablets. 

“Thanks, man.” Mingi tossed them back, swallowing them dry, knowing the coffee was still too hot to sip on, “And thanks for letting me stay. I don’t want to put you guys out-”

Wooyoung placed his mug down on the kitchen island, his typically sharp, vulpine features turning soft, crossing over to hug Mingi out of the blue, “No way, Mingi. I’m just so glad you’re okay.” He pulled back, “I’m so mad at you, too. But it’s far outweighed by how glad I am that you’re here.”

“I’m glad I’m here, too.” Mingi confessed.

“Good.” Wooyoung blinked back tears, swallowing, “I couldn’t do another funeral, Mingi.”

“I know.” Mingi’s face flushed red, embarrassed at the idea of causing his friends so much grief, “I know. I’m sorry.”

“No more apologizing.” Wooyoung commanded, “You should keep it, by the way.” He nodded at the hoodie Mingi had donned.

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to take-”

“Mingi, I’m sure. He would have wanted you to have it. It just makes me fucking sad every time I see it. I want to remember him in different ways other than just being sad he’s gone. Please take it.” Wooyoung’s eyes were soft as they peered into Mingi’s soul. 

Mingi held his gaze for a moment, before finally nodding, “Okay. Yeah. Thank you, Wooyoung.”

“Of course, Ming.” Wooyoung sipped his coffee before turning around to retrieve a skillet from the cabinet under the island, “Let me make you some pancakes.” He stood up and cut Mingi off before he could protest, “No. I’m rephrasing that. I’m making us pancakes. And you’re going to eat them with me.”

“That sounds great, Youngie. Thank you.” 

Mingi watched as the younger began to gather ingredients, pouring them into a mixing bowl and starting to combine them. Something kept clawing at the back of his mind though. He didn’t know how to breach the subject so he just asked, “Have you um… heard from Hwa?”

Wooyoung stirred a little aggressively and Mingi nearly laughed at how his jaw clenched at the mention of their friend’s name, “No. Although to be fair, I think Hongjoong made it clear he shouldn’t talk to me right now. I’ll ask San when he wakes up, but I highly doubt it.”

“Ah.” Mingi couldn’t think of anything else to say. He understood why it might be hard for Seonghwa to see him at that very moment, but he wished he knew exactly why his friend didn’t want to see or speak to him. Was it because he was mad at Mingi? For the party, or for trying to kill himself? Or was he mad at himself? Or was it all just too much for him to face? Maybe a combination?

Wooyoung poured the pancake batter into the skillet, “I can hear you overthinking. This is partially why I’m so mad at him. He’s leaving you wondering why he won’t reach out.” He waited for the edges of the pancakes to bubble before flipping them, “You know, for someone who gave you so much grief for making things about yourself, he sure does have a nasty habit of doing it himself, doesn’t he?”

Mingi snorted, laughing at how true the statement was, “I’ve always said he and I were too similar in all the wrong ways.” 

Wooyoung couldn’t help but break a grin as he plated the first batch of pancakes, handing it to Mingi, “You might actually be right about that.”

Wooyoung joined him at the table a few minutes later, and it didn’t take long for them to defrost a bit as the man realized he didn’t have to handle Mingi with kid gloves. San joined them a bit later, and there for around an hour, everything felt almost normal. Like they were in college again, scarfing down breakfast at someone’s apartment after a night at the bars. It was so nice that Mingi found himself just staring, watching Wooyoung and San interact together. The two of them had become symbiotic practically immediately, nearly a decade ago at that point. He realized possibly for the first time ever, seeing how so painfully domestic and intimate the two of them were, that he wanted that with someone. 

He hadn’t noticed the tear slip down his cheek until San looked at him, concern falling over his delicate feline features, “What’s wrong, Song?”

Mingi laughed at the intentionally bad rhyme, “Nothing. You guys are just cute. I’ve missed you a lot. I’ve missed this.” 

Wooyoung kissed San on the cheek, “Hear that? He thinks we’re cute.”

Mingi crinkled his nose in fake disgust, “Okay less so now.”

San chuckled, “We missed you, too, Mingi.”

“We’ll make more of an effort. All of us. Promise. We all need each other and it’s time we stopped isolating.” Wooyoung looked at him a little pointedly.

“I agree.” He nodded, knowing that Wooyoung was also holding him culpable for that last part.

“Good.” Wooyoung smiled, before standing up to start clearing the table. Mingi and San helped, San explaining that he had taken the day off of work to hang out with Mingi. 

“Oh, um, I mean. You don’t have t-” Mingi started, feeling once again like a child.

“Yes. We do.” San said, a little stern, but there was no resentment in his voice. 

Mingi nodded, “Okay. Thank you. I’ll be glad to have your company.” 

San didn’t press or try to make him talk all day, which Mingi was grateful for. They watched movies and played video games for most of the day before Mingi felt like he needed a nap. They ate together like a family once again that night.

The next couple of weeks went on like that until they started to trust him again, leaving him alone during the day while they both returned to work. Mingi wondered absentmindedly if he still had a job. His boss hadn’t even called, but maybe his friends took care of it. He wondered if he even cared. Really, he didn’t know why he had even stayed after Jongho’s accident. He could bartend anywhere. If he really wanted to continue doing so was the real question. After graduating with an anthropology degree and no desire at the time to continue his education, he had just continued to do what had gotten him through college. No reason not to, he was handsome and very good at his job. Made great money. But weirdly enough, nearly dying had him taking the first look at his future that he had bothered to take in years. 

Maybe I should go back to school.

He had always liked the idea of teaching at a university level. 

Seven Years Ago

"Fuck, yes, baby. Just like that!” Mingi looked up in awe as the girl he’d had eyes on all semester from his Literature class was riding his dick, letting out pretty moans. He didn’t even care if they were fake, she felt incredible. 

Click-BANG!

The dorm door flew open, a completely distraught, clearly sleep deprived and hungover (possibly still drunk) Jongho barged in, only blinking as the girl covered herself and yelped, diving beneath Mingi’s navy comforter, laying herself flat to his chest. 

“Mingi, I fucked up. I thought my history test was next week, you’ve gotta help me.” Jongho begged him. 

“Right now?!” Mingi whined, hips still rocking under the girl whose pussy he was deliciously buried deep inside of. 

“Please?” Jongho begged him, “I’ll pay for your laundry for a month, hell, I’ll do your laundry for a month, man, but please help! You’re the only one who knows anything about history.”

Mingi’s pace picked up at the compliment, hearing the girl moan as he plunged deeper, “Okay, fine, I’ll meet you at the library in twenty, and you better get coffee for both of us.”

“Thank you so much, I owe you!” Jongho packed his backpack, moving at a tortoise’s pace in Mingi’s eyes, who was barely restraining himself from moving like a hare. 

“Jongho, get the fuck out of here!” He half-yelled, half-panted, grabbing the girl’s hips and beginning to slam her onto his cock, moaning as she moved her hips to match his movement. 

Jongho sped up, haphazardly tossing his history textbook into his backpack and darting out of the room, saluting Mingi as he turned his back and closed the door. 

"God, yes, Mingi!” The girl cried out while he rubbed her clit with his thumb, head falling back as she clenched around him. He followed moments later, spilling into the condom with a broken sigh. 

In his post-nut clarity, Mingi made a surprisingly good history tutor.

Jongho had gotten a nearly perfect score on his test.   

October 29th

Mingi was being given a chance to prove himself. He loved Wooyoung and San but he missed his apartment. He missed being alone, oddly enough feeling more alone around the couple than he did when he was by himself. 

It didn’t help that he had decided to swear off sex for the time being. He wanted to be sharp. Clear headed. 

He had decided to apply for graduate school. 

There was no reason he wouldn’t get in, truthfully, but it had been a while since undergrad and he would need to get letters of recommendation from his old professors, plus take the GRE, and write an essay for his application. All of it was due in March the following year, in order for him to start at the fall semester, but he wanted to get a head start, scared to leave anything to the last minute. 

He was being given a chance to prove himself by going out with his friends for Halloween. Promising to not take off, not do any drugs, and limit himself to a few drinks. Agree to go home with Wooyoung and San at the end of the night. 

He could do it. He felt it in his bones as he tied up his shaggy, grown out hair for his Geto costume. He could be good. 

I can be good. 

Wooyoung and San were getting ready and changing into their Gryffindor and Hufflepuff costumes in their bedroom, so the knock on their door in the living room confused Mingi. 

“I’ll get it!” He called towards his friends’ bedroom.

He opened the door to Seonghwa, dressed as Rey Skywalker. 

Mingi offered a small smile upon seeing the look of poorly disguised worry on Seonghwa’s face, “Hey, Hwa.” He moved out of the doorway, “Wanna come in?”

Seonghwa cleared his throat, stepping through the doorway, “Thanks.”

“Wooyoung and San are still getting ready but I can go get-”

“No!” Seonghwa cut him off, voice tense, “Sorry. No, thank you. I wanted to speak with you, actually. If you’re okay with that.”

Mingi led them over to the kitchen table, knowing it to be more out of earshot to his friends’ bedroom than the couch in the living room. 

Seonghwa sat down across from him, folding his hands in his lap, almost like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. 

Mingi waited for him to start. Maybe he was a little petty, but he really wanted Seonghwa to be the one to start. He felt that he was justified in being a little annoyed that it had taken the man two weeks to speak with him. 

“Mingi…” Seonghwa’s voice trembled immediately, “I owe you an apology.” 

“Hwa, you don’t have to, I understand-”

“No.” Seonghwa’s eyes snapped up to meet Mingi’s, “You don’t understand.”

Mingi leaned back into the chair, placing his clasped hands onto the table, “Okay. I’m listening.” 

“The night that Jongho…” Seonghwa swallowed, “No one knows this besides Hongjoong. But.” He breathed deep through his nose, “I had a missed call, Mingi.”

Mingi blinked as the realization hit. “You-”

“My phone was on silent. I had been on the phone with family all day, frustrated about wedding stuff. You know my parents don’t approve. It’s not an excuse… It’s been eating me alive. It’s a big reason we have postponed the wedding for so long. I’m seeing a therapist for it now but I think I was taking some of my anger at myself out on you, Mingi. Because you were with him that night. You’re a heavy sleeper and you’d been drinking. We all know that. Jongho certainly knew that. It’s not your fault you didn’t wake up when he left. I see that now. But I was deflecting my frustration with myself onto you and blaming it all on that.”

“Hwa…” Mingi wanted to tell him it’s okay. The guilt of his own secret making itself known by trying to steal the air from his lungs, stomach twisting. 

“No, please.” Seonghwa blinked back tears, “Let me finish.”

Mingi nodded, so Seonghwa continued, “When I got the call from Hongjoong. Well, Mingi, it hit me that I shouldn’t have let it get this far. I almost lost you, too. After yelling at you and kicking you out of my house.” A tear escaped his eye, making slow work through the makeup on his cheek, “I almost lost you, Mingi.” He sniffed, reaching for a paper towel to dab his eyes, “I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself. I’m so fucking glad that Hongjoong answered his phone. I should have been understanding. It never should have gotten that bad for you, Mingi, I’m so sorry.” His words started to rush out then, “I knew I should have been there at the hospital. I shouldn’t have stayed away, but honestly, Mingi, every time I thought about trying to talk to you, trying to face this, I nearly had a panic attack. Hongjoong was patient, of course, but he told me we weren’t going out tonight unless I talked to you. He was right. I’m so sorry it took this long.” He buried his head in his hands, “I understand if you can’t forgive me right away, Mingi. But I want you to know that I’m going to do better. I’m going to be there for you. I never want you to feel like you can’t come to me, or any of us. But please, please, Mingi, don’t let it get that bad again, I don’t know what I-”

“Hwa.” Mingi stood up, walking around the table, “Come here.” He opened his arms.

Seonghwa blinked at him from his chair until Mingi nodded, then his friend stood and let himself be hugged. “I’m so sorry.” Seonghwa mumbled into Mingi’s chest.

“I’m sorry, too. I never should have scared you guys like that.” Mingi admitted. 

“I’m just glad you’re here.” 

“Me, too.” Mingi squeezed him tighter, “And I forgive you, Hwa. If there’s one thing I’ve learned recently, it’s that we all process grief differently.” He released Seonghwa, moving back to his chair. 

Seonghwa sat back down, “You sound like my therapist now.” A smile worked its way up the corner of his mouth.

“Well,” Mingi laughed, “I don’t have the right degree for that. But I have decided to apply for grad school.”

“Mingi!” Seonghwa’s face lit up with pride, “That’s amazing, honey. I’m so proud of you!”

“Thanks, Hwa. I love you, you know?”

Seonghwa smiled, “I love you, too, Mingi. I promise I’ll do a better job of showing it.” 

“I’ll take it. Any extra love you have sitting around.” Mingi joked.

“Deal.”

“And then I’ll double it and give it back.” 

Seonghwa laughed, “I know you will. You try to hide it, Mingi, but I know you’re a loverboy. Soft. Hopeless romantic.”

Mingi’s head tipped back with his chuckle, acknowledging how right his friend was, “Just don’t tell anyone, okay? I have an image to protect.”

Seonghwa stuck out his pinky, “Your secret is safe with me. Pinky swear.”

“Pinky swear.” Mingi let his finger wrap around Seonghwa’s, sealing the deal. 

Hongjoong, dressed as Kylo Ren, called a few minutes later, having been waiting in the lobby of the apartment building for them. The four of them went downstairs to meet him, walking towards the subway station without being asked. Mingi was sure that they normally would have called an Uber, but they finally seemed to be acknowledging his aversion to riding in a car. 

They met Yeosang, dressed as a vampire, at the bar. 

Mingi did well for a while, but after a few hours out around so many people, noticing things he normally would have acted impulsively on - people discreetly exchanging small baggies of white powder, someone making eyes at him from across the bar, a woman trying to grind on him on the dance floor - added a sharp edge to the situation that he wasn’t accustomed to. He felt his heart rate begin to pick up, pounding in his ears, which had also started to ring. 

His instinct was to dart off out the front door alone, but he remembered his promises to ask for help if he needed it. He searched the room, finally spotting Yeosang leaving the bathrooms. 

He rushed over, grabbing his friend by the arm, “Sangie.” His grip was too tight, he knew.

His vision started darkening around the outer edges. Unable to take a full deep breath. 

“Mingi?” Yeosang studied him, seeing his chest heave, eyes looking like they were having trouble focusing, “Come on, let’s get you outside.”

Mingi’s brain couldn’t make sense of his words, “Am I in trouble again?” His voice sounded small.

“No, honey, you just need some air, I think.” Yeosang looked at him more seriously, trying to ensure his words got through, “Mingi-ssi. You’re not in trouble. You need fresh air. I’ve got you, come on.”

Mingi let himself be led outside, gulping the cold air down like water as fast as he could get it inside his lungs. 

“Just breathe through your nose, Mingi, you’re okay.” Yeosang instructed as he helped Mingi sit against the wall of the building.

Sobs racked his body unexpectedly, “I’m not trying to make everything about me, I swear!” Mingi looked at Yeosang, eyes pleading, desperate for his friend to understand.

“Mingi, no. No one thinks that. No one should have ever made you feel like that.” He grabbed one of Mingi���s hands, crouching in front of him, “You just got overwhelmed. It’s okay, really. I promise.” 

Wooyoung and San had noticed their absence, evidently, as Mingi could hear their voices, tight with worry, coming towards them.

“Oh, thank God.” San said, sitting down beside Mingi, “Hey, you’re okay, Mingi.”

“He got overwhelmed, I think he may have been having a panic attack. But he came and found me.” Yeosang explained. 

Wooyoung took Mingi’s other side, pulling his other large hand into his lap, “Good job finding Yeosang, honey.” Wooyoung squeezed his hand, “You did exactly the right thing.” 

Mingi still wasn’t back to reality, but his brain had started to clear somewhat, “No one is mad at me?”

San put an arm around his shoulder, pulling him over so his head fell to his broad shoulder, “No, Mingi, I promise. No one is mad. You did the right thing. Let’s get you home, yeah?”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to make you guys leave early-”

He heard more footsteps approaching, “Of course we’re sure.” Hongjoong’s voice, “Come on. We’re all going to Wooyoung and San’s.”

“We’ll get takeout.” Seonghwa added.

“We can watch Avatar: The Last Airbender. I know you’ve been wanting us to watch it.” Wooyoung offered. 

Mingi finally sat up, tears tracking down his cheeks, “Okay, yeah. That sounds good.” 

Who knew letting your friends help you would be so nice. 

Back at Wooyoung and San’s place, they piled together on the couch and the floor in front, pizza slices in hand as they watched Aang and the gang fight the Fire Nation. Mingi was wedged between Seonghwa and Hongjoong and he let his head fall to Seonghwa’s shoulder as he started to get sleepy. 

He awoke a few hours later to find that everyone had stayed. He was in Seonghwa’s lap, everyone else snuggled together with blankets and pillows on the carpet or curled into armchairs. It felt like a sleepover they might have had in college. His heart ached with love for his friends. Jongho would have scoffed and acted opposed to it, but Mingi smiled as he pictured the man begrudgingly staying, probably ending up cuddling close with one of them on the floor. 

For once, the thought of his friend didn’t send him spiraling. 

He had agreed to stay another week at Wooyoung and San’s on their way back last night. He knew it was the right call. He laid his head back into Seonghwa’s lap and fell back asleep once more. 

Three Years Ago

The roof of the bar was crowded, but Mingi and Jongho had managed to carve a spot on the railing for it. 

“I’m confused why we’re drinking for this particular occasion!” Jongho had to practically shout over the music and voices.

“We’re celebrating for my mom!” Mingi said it like it was an explanation. It wasn’t.

“For her getting cheated on?” Jongho was still lost. 

“For my dad finally signing the divorce papers!” 

“Ohhh!” Jongho nodded, “Okay then why aren’t you drinking with your mom about it?”

“Because she’s not ready to celebrate it, but I am!” Mingi held his cup up, expecting Jongho to clink theirs together. 

Jongho shook his head, finally doing what was expected of him, “To cheaters! May they learn their lesson and never do it again!” 

“Cheers, I guess.” Mingi laughed, confused by what exactly his friend meant. “What’s worse, the cheater or the person they're cheating on with?”

Jongho considered, “The cheater. But it really depends on how close the other person is to the situation.”

“So you don’t think cheaters should be punished for cheating? Just learn their lesson and never do it again?”

“Their conscience will be punishment enough, I’m sure. Plus, I mean, I don’t think anyone is born a cheater. Or a mistress. Criminal. Everyone has things in their past that can explain their behavior, I think. It doesn’t mean they should never live a good life just because they do something bad.” 

Mingi thought about what had just been said, unable to come up with anything to rebut with. “I think you’re one of the most empathetic people out there, Choi Jongho. Good work keeping it so well hidden. I fear if anyone knew, they would just take advantage of it.”

Jongho chuckled, “Shut up.” He took a sip of his drink, “But thank you. Don’t tell anyone.” 

~part two~

[pessimisticpigeonsworld]

Watching this video essay about Yellowjackets and somehow HOTD came up and I saw the tweet and I roll my eyes so hard

Uh. Yeah. Bc she uses the faith (basically Catholicism or Christianity) to act as this pious queen when she is paying maids to keep their mouths shut about her own son raping them.

And she didn't just hang up some four pointed stars, if I remember, she REPLACED, the targs sygils with the faith of the seven stuff.

Alicent stans just love to forget her fanaticism until they can use it to make her look more pathetic. I have to say, accusing Rhaenyra of religious fanaticism is a new to me lmao. I've only ever seen people call her a godless whore, but I'm not on X, so maybe I've been spared.

Targaryen antis don't seem to grasp just how much of the Valyrian culture the Targaryens have given up for the sake of Westeros. Calling the Valyrian wedding ceremony an "arcane marriage ritual" is not only insulting to the Valyrian culture but also completely hypocritical.

Valyrian culture was steeped in magic, they themselves have magic in their blood. Is it any surprise their marriage customs would be the same? That's like expecting the Starks' ceremonies to happen separate from the Old Gods. The Targaryens have given up their gods, most of their magic, their language, and their marriage traditions. They never forced other people to follow their traditions, they never forbade following the Faith and the Old Gods, they fucking conformed as much as possible aside from the incest, which was the only way they know to preserve the last bit of Valyria's magic.

Alicent wouldn't be seen as a religious extremist if she didn't actively repress and hate other religions. She badmouths the Valyrian traditions, not just the incest, but also their love of dragons and their art. She removes all the Valyrian and Targaryen heraldry and artifacts and replaces them with the the symbols of a religion known for being intolerant and repressive.

As I said earlier, the Valyrian culture is dying out and the Targaryens have given up so much of their mother land. Removing the last pieces of someone's culture just because you follow a different religion is fucked up. Alicent isn't even the actual ruler or a Targaryen, it's not her place to choose to abandon their Valyrian heritage while her husband is too sick to interfere.

But the real issue of Alicent's actions are her motivation. She doesn't actually care about morality and her own religion, she cares about supporting Aegon and undermining Rhaenyra. That's why she criticizes Valyrian incest then turns around and forces Helaena to marry Aegon. That's why she calls Jace and Luke savages when her own son bullies his siblings constantly and later rapes women. That's why she harps on about honor and decency while actively protecting and covering up the actions of a rapist, a murderer, and a kinslayer. That's why she removes the Valyrian heraldry while Rhaenyra is gone and replaces them with the symbols of the Faith.

She's literally the definition of the hypocritical woman for Trump. She harps on and on about morals then turns around and does reprehensible things for her own gain. She complains constantly about a culture different from hers and actively tries to remove its influence. She hates people who don't conform to her ideas.

Alicent isn't a good person, period. She's a hypocrite, constantly upholds the patriarchy, sacrifices others for the sake of her interests, and is xenophobic. The efforts to take her flaws and project them on other characters, usually Rhaenyra, by her stans is ridiculous and really shows how little they actually like her character. They like her aesthetic and the idea of a perfect suffering victim.

[deafeninggalaxycandy]

✨️KELLY HEADCANONS✨️

If you dont know who Kelly is, go watch Season 3, Episode 1, "Rainforest Shmainforest." It's her only appearance, but I ship her with Kenny, so I made her have some more character depth. Like any character at all. Cuz she has one damn episode. And believe me when I say it was HARD.

• Kelly Grace Crowe

• She/Her

• Born on April 12th 2003

• 5'2"

• Straight

• Kelly lives in Laguna Beach, California. She and Kenny did intend to have a long distance relationship but her parents took away her phone privileges and she forgot his number eventually.

• She didn't want to get attached to Kenny, not because of the distance but because her parents don't actually allow her to date. Phone calls would make it harder to hide it as opposed to Kelly just sneaking out to see him if they were neighbors.

• She was very broken up about this and cried for months. She never stopped thinking about him which is why she was ecstatic when she was 17 and her parents said they were moving to Colorado and Kelly suggested/heavily pushed going to South Park specifically.

• Like most of South Park, Kelly is a Roman Catholic. Her family are very religious conservatives and with Kelly as their only daughter, her life growing up was generally pretty strict and sheltered. She wasn't allowed to date until she moved out, she had to keep her door open at all times, wear modest clothing, and couldn't consume any "inappropriate media". This of course included most TV shows, music, and movies for kids but were deemed "satanic" by the Crowe's.

• Kelly is very forgiving and kind so she never really hated her parents but once she finally got to move out and experience what she was missing, she began to resent them. Keep in mind, this is after she's overlooked years of their sexism, homophobia, and forcing her into Catholicism

• Listens to talk radio because they sound like "friends."

• Kelly has a bunch of tiny scars on her legs and arms because she's incredibly clumsy. She falls down the stairs at least twice a day.

• Ate age 10, she stopped picking her nose after she dug too hard and got a nose bleed.

• Loves to bake (mostly cookies) but she has a big sweet tooth and puts way too much sugar in her stuff.

• Very clingy, which is mostly from her lack of friends as a child. She gets attached fast and does NOT let go. I mean, she held onto Kenny for years even without contact.

• Listens to Taylor Swift, Gracie Abrahms, and Carly Rae Jepson.

• The first Disney movie she was allowed to watch as a child was Tangled and since then was hooked on musicals.

• Amazingly good singer, she wants to be a popstar. She's not great at writing lyrics but she plays the guitar and has a 3 (almost 4) octave vocal range (Whitney Houston voice basically).

• Kelly was originally homeschooled until 2nd grade when she practically begged to be placed in public school after she was getting incredibly lonely and bullied by her neighbors.

• Cartman told her that Christmas was actually a pagan holiday and not originally about the birth of Jesus, and she had a mental breakdown.

• Still considers herself under the Catholic faith, but she isn't strict about it. She knows that as long as her heart is pure, she'll be fine, and the extra rules aren't necessary.

• Secretly likes Christian rock bands but still subconsciously thinks of rock as "demonic".

• Big sister to Karen she loves her so much. They hang out a lot, watching cartoons, baking together, making bracelets.

• Plays volleyball in her spare time. Sometimes, she plays baseball, she's a good swinger.

• Watches iCarly, Drake and Josh, and Victorious. She's a big Nickelodeon fan.

• Kelly and Cartman are friends solely because they're the only ones who really remember Kenny's deaths (aside from the Goths). Cartman remembers because Kenny's soul was in his body at one point ("A Ladder to Heaven", season 6, episode 12). Kelly remembers because she's the only one who actually saved him from dying.

• She didn't remember at first but after she reconnected with Kenny, she saved him again a few separate times. This soon caught the attention of the cult of Cthulhu and Satan himself. He decided to let Kelly remember Kenny's death. It wasn't any deep or important reason, he just thought it'd be funny.

• After she began remembering seeing her boyfriend get brutally murdered, Kelly was severely traumatized and started doing whatever she could to prevent him dying again.

• Addicted to the puppy dog Snapchat filters. Also just a dog person in general, she has 2 golden retrievers (the second one is Kenny lol)

• Eats peach flavored everything. Even the peach flavored kit-kats (they're disgusting but she likes them)

Could yall tell I fought tooth and nail to give her any sort of personality outside of Kenny 💀

i grew up with strict religious parents, so this was me projecting a lot. I made her a basic white Christian blonde (it just feels right, idk)

Alsooo I am writing a lil essay sorta about how I believe Kenny's immortality curse works and explanations about the inconsistencies, rules, etc etc. Prepare tho. It'll be long.

Stay safe, drink water, bye guys :)

[gaymurdersalad]

[ Hello everypony! Don’t mind the ritual robes. Dress for the job you want, ya know? And all I want to do is serve our lord and savior Godred!

I thought as a fun little thing to do in between sacrifices, I would give out some headcanons— well. These are my guys, are they headcanons? Not really. Uhm, facts, I guess— on how they do their holidays! Take ‘em or leave em, you’ll soon find I love rambling about the guys. You might regret this.

———

Peter and Caroline used to do the whole Catholicism thing, so they definitely did celebrate a good Christmas! However after the whole “disappearing for several years and coming back with a phone for a head” thing that Peter did, all faith in God was lost, but they still like to give eachother presents. The star on top of the tree is a grim reminder of a lordless plane. Except for the almighty Godred, mind you!

Steven sits alone in his restaurant with vague feelings of something or other. The establishment doesn’t even close— because why would it, it’s a Fazbender’s— so he has plenty of time to sit in an empty restaurant and think about nothing. Peter has invited him to Christmas but quoteth Steven, “That sounds great and all, but I’ve actually got my own plans.” Of which are trying to remember what the fuck a “Christmas” is and why it has any value to people other than market value. If it piques your interest at all, him and his boyfriend semi-celebrated but not really, as Steven was raised Christian {LONG since abandoned} and his boyfriend was Muslim. That’s all gone now, though, unbeknownst to the phone-man in question.

Dee spends time with the souls in the Flipside. She enjoys it very much, despite the grimness of it all. Even though she would much rather being alive and spending time with her family, she knows she has responsibilities.

Henry works. On stuff. He’s just sitting in his office right now, I could totally waltz in there and sacrifice him to Godred. Just pick that bastard up and get goin’. Oh, he’d be kicking and screaming, but he’s a midget with small hands and can’t do nothin’ against an ethereal phone creature with a complete and utter devotion to almighty Godred... Maybe after this.

Oscar doesn’t celebrate Christmas, and actually hates it. Finds every bit of Christmas decor annoying to his astigmatism and just grating anyways. Oh, fucking shit, the jingle bells never stop. Everything is annoying. He cannot enter his beloved coffee shop— Fazbucks; it’s like Starbucks but they don’t donate to stupid bullshit! The CEOs just spend the money on bribing health inspectors throughout Fazbender chains! What? No, no, they still pay their workers in faztokens— without being utterly assaulted by MIRIAH. Even if Christmas wasn’t annoying, he wouldn’t celebrate it anyways, because he’s Jewish. So is his family! Where the hell is his family? Where does— Where the hell does Oscar live, does he have a house? I- I’m realizing I didn’t get to know him that much, I think he just… Showed up here. You- Uhh, you get the point.

Dave has a ritual and has been performing this ritual for three years straight. First, he wakes up in the dumpster of the week, gets dressed, and climbs out of that disgusting sucker. Normal morning routine ensues, Y’know, he takes a couple random pills for the hangover and pops a thing of LSD if he’s feelin’ chipper, shaves with a switchblade he usually finds in the Fazbender Ballpits, and sets out onto the world. Since it is a special day— not in accordance to any religion, but to his own fucked up morals and values— he breaks into a liquor store and takes what he pleases! All assortments of liquors and cigarettes, and he stuffs them all into a duffel he usually manages to scavenge for beforehand. Once he’s a proper Santa Claus with a bag of stolen substances slung over his shoulder, he jacks a piece of shit car— he figures he’s doin’ them a favor, ‘cause who would want to own this shit box anyway?— and drives 90 to the Old Sport residence. Once he arrives, parking his car in the yard and fucking up the grass with those giant fucking tire tracks, Jesus Christ, Sportsy’s gonna have to fix that, he stomps up to the door with the duffel and knocks fifteen times with the palm of his giant fucking hand. If Sportsy don’t answer, more knocking ensues, probably followed by several obscenities and slurs. Eventually, Old Sport opens the door, and before the stout fucker can beat him with the baseball bat he stole from a bar in Las Vegas, Dave slips in and throws the bag down on the floor. Sportsy, after experiencing this for the past couple years, holds his head in his hands and groans. Loudly. Dave wraps Old Sport in this big hug, pickin’ him up off the ground all while Sportsy frowns in discontent. They spend the rest of the evening sitting on the couch boozing and watching shitty Christmas specials, and Dave crashes on Sportsy’s couch at 8 PM.

Until the arrival of Dave, Jack sits in bed. Don’t even bother to put on makeup. In the back of his head he kind of knows that the wretched purple beast will show up at his house, but he maintains a little hope that he won’t. He always does. He supposes it’s nice to have a day where Dave isn’t spending a day with him solely to recruit him into the whole kid-killing business again, but… Man, when the liquor hits, he realizes just how sad it is that his only consistent friend is a child murderer. Fuck. Once Dave crashes, Jack is usually stuck underneath him as some sort of pillow, and at this point, he’s so burnt out and sad and happy and bitter that he just lays there. Watching those shitty Christmas movies. He’s going to wake up with the worst headache tomorrow.

Legacy does not do anything special and David stopped trying to a while ago. Business carries on as usual. Maybe David would like to go out and do something or have Legacy sit still for one measly second so he could give him some kind of gift, but knowing the Orange Bastard, he’d likely reject it or throw it out. Maybe spending time with Legacy is a gift in of itself, David thinks, incorrectly.

———

Was that everyone? There are so many of the guys! Good lord, half of them are maniacs too. I couldn’t be prouder!

Well, I’ve got some sacrificin’ to do! Goodbye! Remember: Godred Loves You! ]

~ Mod Chribs

[divinekangaroo]

Season 1 Episode 1: Freddie Thorne's bedside table.

Half smoked, hand-rolled cigarettes? Unlikely to be pot in the 1920s (but allow me my interpretative indulgence in modern AUs), hand-rolled cigarettes were working class, being cheaper than packet ciagrettes, plus you could stretch the tobacco pouch/tin out further by making the ciagrettes really thin. Hand-rolling was also linked to countercultures and bohemian/artist lifestyles in the way pot is/was.

Freddie starts to smoke them then puts them out long before the heat hits his fingertips. And the cigarette he lights up after he and Ada finish having sex - first for Ada and then for him - are factory produced ones, so either someone else has been smoking the rollies in his bed, or let's assume Freddie instead takes Ada's higher quality cigarettes (which are smuggled by the Shelby enterprise) every chance he gets.

War and Revolution by Leon Trotsky, written (best I can find) in 1922 - so at least one year asychronous with PB's S1 blurred start date. If we assume Freddie and Tommy were both following Trotsky's writings closely pre war, in the lead up to the war, and during the war, it starts to get sharply pronounced how Freddie and Tommy were likely to diverge. I've assumed Freddie was without a support structure or much family (only the mother mention) because of how much worse off than the Shelbys he was shown. Tommy acts to protect, but Freddie *had* nothing to protect. During the war, Tommy loses all faith in any ideals, Communism or Catholicism; Freddie leans much harder into those ideals which speak to who he is. Trotsky's writings around the start of the war also give some suggestion as to one of the many influences around that might have increased their desire to sign up so early: reading the Trotsky works, I can well imagine a more idealistic Tommy (which, if I have the timing right, Greta dies, Tommy 'heads out' in some kind of grief to get away, he has his liaison with Zelda who conceives Duke, and almost immediately after, Tommy then conscripts) and a fervent Freddie being the drivers for the first tranche of Birmingham boys who signed up. (Tommy also calls Danny 'comrade'.) Here's a summary of Trotsky's WWI writings.

You know what Tommy's like. Yeah, Freddie says, I know what Tommy's like. Likes to take his fight out onto the (?mat?), doesn't like to stand and wait.

One day me and Tommy will be on the same side again. Which Freddie says in direct response to Ada saying sometimes it's like you're with me just to show you can. (Fascinating non-sequiter Freddie.) I do like to imagine that both conscripted for the same reasons, and then neither of them realised the other was drifting hard in the other direction during the war, Freddie to that radicalisation and Tommy to disillusionment; that the realisation and fragmentation of their friendship only occurred at some point after the return to England.

The scene then cuts immediately to Tommy and his opium pipe, and his dream of him, Danny and Freddie in the tunnel. Tommy wakes in terror, and immediately looks out his bedroom window at the police walking by. There's a certain density of Tommy's anxiety: he hates waiting, Freddie says. They had to wait in the Tunnel. The Tunnel dreams are all about the terror of the waiting. And in S1, Tommy is waiting, sitting on the guns. The overwhelming weight of Tommy's anxiety, he who hates waiting and if the fight has to happen wants to bring the fight, is quite sharply contrasted with Freddie's near uncaring and almost looking for a fight.

And then the scene cuts to Danny breaking down even more obviously, fighting as a trauma reaction, without knowing who he's fighting or why, only in fear.

-

The other thing that always interested me was Tommy sending Danny home to his wife after Danny's first on-screen breakdown. This burden that the wives carry after the war; I remember that comment stood out even when I was doing my half-arsed first watch, oh, of course, expect the wife to carry it all. This sense of what the wives carry through all of the seasons, right to S6 and what is asked of Linda (who takes money for it) and Lizzie (who finally leaves).

.

Obligatory height/size difference shot. The water where Tommy contrives Danny's execution and resurrection, and by all implication, somehow set aside Danny's PTSD with that act as Danny resumed a new life in London without the episodes he was having in Birmingham. The all-healing gunshot to the head.

[loneberry]

some notes on sufism

The other day I went to the Harvard Divinity School Muslims iftar (the meal that breaks the fast during Ramadan), which was followed by a concert of Turkish music that is traditionally performed in Sufi lodges in Istambul. Before the music began, the professor I’ve been auditing Islamic literature classes with read some verses from Rumi’s Masnavi and offered a meditation on fasting through an interpretation of the lines: “If you have closed this mouth, another mouth is opened, which becomes an eater of the morsels of mysteries.” That is the nature of mystical knowledge—gnosis (or maʿrifa) is not understood intellectually, but tasted (dhawq). The closing of the bodily mouth is an opening of the spiritual mouth. He asked us to listen to the music with the inner heart.

I went with my friend S, who has been nudging me toward conversion. I’ve been allergic to religion most of my life because I’m not really much of a joiner. I distinctly remember being in (Catholic) Sunday School as a child and thinking to myself: This sounds fake to me. As in, made-up, irrational. The people who treated the fanciful stories like fact seemed like crackpots to me, even to my child-mind. I don’t think I ever believed in Santa either—I guess my disposition was innately skeptical; perhaps that contributed to my identification with anarchism from when I was 13 or 14. Yet at the same time, my feeling for the invisible, for the world of the dead, was always quite strong, even when it was unstitched from a belief system. As a kid I would wander the house alone at night, thinking I could hear my dead parakeet chirping from a shoebox in the garage.  

I hated Sunday School. While I was always good at school-school (at least when I was a child, before I became an incorrigible truant), I was terrible at Sunday School. Because it seemed like hocus-pocus to me, none of it stuck. My classmates had internalized all the stories I thought were outlandish. During mass I would think exclusively about donuts, the ones we would buy from the ladies who would sell them as a fundraiser. I’ve thought about returning to Catholicism, but sadly, after the post-1970s political realignment in the US, all the leftist Catholics (the Marxists who loathed the Vietnam War and exposed the FBI’s COINTELPRO) are gone. As much as I love reading Catholic mystics (St Teresa of Avila, St John of the Cross, Angela of Foligno, Hildegard of Bingen, Meister Eckhart, Marguerite Porete, and others), Christian mysticism is more individualist than Islamic mysticism—asceticism and separation from the group is the way to commune with God, while Islamic mysticism is rooted in communal practices like sama (singing, dancing, reciting poetry, playing/listening to music) and dhikr (communal prayer for the remembrance of God). While Christian mysticism bears the imprint of the Neoplatonist trajectory of ascent, for Sufism, the trajectory is shaped like a paisley. After fana (annihilation of the ego/union with God/dying before you die), there is baqaa or subsistence, a return of sorts. 

I also much prefer the Islamic orientation to the created world than the Christian one, for in Islam, everything in creation can be understood as the breath or speech of God. The Hadith on which Sufi cosmology is based reads, “I was a hidden Treasure and Loved to be known, so I created the world that I might be known.” All of creation is a mirror to reflect God (this is why you must polish the rust from your heart, for the human heart can manifest all the names and qualities of God). In the Islamic mystical tradition there is an affirmation of the created world even though God and creation are not the same (as is the case in Pantheism). Everything has ontology. Nothing has ontology. The Sufi metaphysicians ask us to see with two eyes. The drop is not the ocean at the same time it cannot be separated from the ocean.

7 years ago I read Reza Aslan’s God: A Human History. After sampling the platter of world religions I joked to myself, Hmmm, if I had to pick the one I vibe with most, I guess it would be Sufism (Islamic mysticism). I didn’t know anything about Sufism other than the Rumi and Hafez poetry I read as a teenager, but the way Aslan described Ibn ‘Arabi’s concept of 'wahadat al-wujud' (or Unity of Being) reminded me of Spinozism. I guess what I’m trying to say is...I just think Sufi metaphysics is...right. Or, it speaks to how I tend to think about reality. It’s not something I can prove (that I don’t exist, while at the same time I am part of the ALL that is God), but it makes the most sense to me.

In the Sufi literature class, S jokes to me: “You’re the only non-Muslim in this class.” The same was probably true at the iftar + concert. S points to someone from the class: “The Maoist is a recent convert. This is their first time fasting for Ramadan.” “Is [our professor] fasting?” “Of course. I saw him at the iftar last night and talked to him about translation. I told him it’s ghastly to try to fit Persian verse into an English rhyme scheme. He agreed with me.” (We are clearly partisans of blank verse translations… yet so much of what’s out there has been poorly translated or not translated at all.) 

Much of the lyrics sung with the gorgeous music were verses written by the great Turkish-language Sufi poet and mystic Yunus Emre ("the Dante of Turkey," I whispered to S). S was ecstatic listening to the haunting ney (a kind of flute). We just so happened to be sitting in the same row as the professor. I tapped S and whispered that it looked like he was really enjoying the music. He was smiling with his eyes closed and swaying his head from side to side. He looked like he was having...a profound experience. This prof usually has what I guess you’d call ‘resting bitch face’ (which I always found funny because it runs counter to his sweet and gentle personality). But not at the concert. Pure bliss was painted on his face. It was then that it dawned on me that Sufism, for him, was probably something more than a scholarly interest. I thought about what it must have been like to discover something so beautiful and profound, and to know, in that moment, that your life will be changed forever—you might go off to Iran and devote your entire life to studying medieval texts. 

Of course this Ramadan I am thinking continuously about the genocide in Gaza, how an entire population is being starved to death by the sadistic leaders of Israel, how terrible it must be to be bombed and shot at during the holy month, or to break your fast with boiled grass and animal feed. I feel truly ashamed to come from a country that is complicit in this violence. I hope everyone continues to apply pressure to end this war—it feels hopeless now, but it is making a difference.

[spot-the-antisemitism]

I'd like to start with a disclaimer that examples I will give no longer reflect my views, and i have outgrown the stupid reasoning and mindset they are from.

But I remember them. I have too. I have to gnaw on them to bits and refute them so i never make the mistake of believing those views again.

Something I'd like to say is I don't think some people, in this case pagans, modern polytheists, and again, not as a whole but I suspect there is self searching they dont do. This might extend to ex christians etc cultural christians etc

I'm more or less refering to myself or my former

I found there was a slippery slope I used to go down.

"Oh! So much bad stuff is happening and happened, its the fault of Christians."

Which rapidly slid into

"Oh, but obviously not all are bad people, So what caused Christianity

Oh Christ was Jewish! If only those stupid Jews had kept him under control or Only if those stupid Jews weren't around or made to pay for their stupid Monotheistic culture rawr rawr rawr

I don't hate them the same way nazis did because that was wrong but my reason is obviously morally right"

Obviously these were terrible shit takes from the brain of a college student catholic turned neo pagan

(Ironically my breaking or lapsing from Catholicism was based on the whole 'crucify him crucify him' holy week liturgy, not to mention growing up in Germany and Spain and being keenly aware of the historical violence against Jews)

Thankfully I have learned and grown. I suspect others out there have had similar moments or line of thoughts and have never reflected on it or thought, hey thats fucked up why am I thinking that.

So that's sort of why I'm sharing this. Its never too late for people to admit they have wrong edgy anti semetic takes and learn from mistakes, never repeat and move on to being a better person. As well as a better ally.

Dear Lavender,

thank you for admitting this,

during my edgy atheist phase I also thought that the Old Testament was the reason for all the bad stuff in the biblr and the New Testament was actually better

but man I can see why you disaavow “I wish the Jews killed Jesus then we wouldn’t have Christianity”

It is a bit like all those people who think that by changing one historical event they’d prevent World War Two, however.

thank you for not only moving on but coming forward with such a story

Yours,

Cecil

[fellthemarvelous]

A heaping spoonful of religious trauma...

What falling feels like.

You want to know what gets to me the most about "Before the Beginning"?

I remember being in first grade (6-years-old) and sitting through a religion class that I hated (to be honest, I despised every religion class I was forced to sit through in school) because the indoctrination process is not even fun. I just got to sit there for like twelve years listening to them tell me lies about Christianity (my world religions teacher in high school was like being forced to sit through a teacher say "Bueller, Bueller" for about an hour 4-5 days per week for an entire semester).

But I digress as this story started off relevant.

I remember sitting through my first grade religion class and (this was 1987-ish, mind you) and thinking "but how do we know that our religion is right and everyone else's is wrong?" By that time, they had made it clear that not believing blindly in Catholicism was worthy of getting into trouble over, so I already knew better than to ask that question because I knew I would be sent to the principal's office. I didn't ask because I was terrified of the punishment when I was only 6-years-old. I already knew there was a price to pay for asking questions. And I can't even remember why I was already so terrified by that point.

Crowley paid a price for asking questions.

It's not like falling is easy. I fully denounced the Catholic church and now consider myself an atheist (mostly), but I will never allow an organized religion to try and define who I am ever again.

There is not a lot of support for this.

Falling is more than just fire and brimstone (so far that's the most appealing part). The worst part of "falling" is the fact that at the age of almost 43, I have NO idea who I am. None at all. I'm falling at a speed and trajectory I can no longer control, and it's been absolutely terrifying. It's been lonely.

I've spent my adult life putting the needs of everyone else above my own. Now I'm trying to find a job within a career I actually want (writing), but that's going to take time. I was traumatized by the Catholic church in so many ways, and I have a lot to say about it.

"How do we know that our religion is right and everyone else's is wrong?"

I wasn't prepared to deal with the consequences of asking that question to the wrong person at 6-years-old. Now I'm wishing I had an adult who was better at being an adult than me to guide me through all of this because I'm currently a giant ball of jobless anxiety wondering if I'm ever going to amount to anything more than what the church told me I would if I dared to lead a life without a husband and children.

I am not responsible enough to deal with "my disaster" (also known as "my life") all on my own. It's an issue of motivation because I have no idea who I am or what I want from life. My identity was decided for me by the church, and I still don't even know what that means.

I just know I'm trying to survive in a literal dystopian world and trying to figure out who and what I am in the middle of everything else. It's confusing and exhausting and so frustrating.

"How much trouble can I get into just for asking a few questions?"

Once the spell is broken, there is no going back, and most of us end up making this journey on our own.

[chamberofthespirit]

Run down of Christian/Catholic/etc. witchcraft (for those who don't get it)

Within verse Deuteronomy 18:10-11, the witchcraft mentioned is stating witchcraft being used for your own personal gain of power and magic from sources outside of the Lord. This is what makes people confused and accuse witches of the churches, as evil and expressing idolatry because they do not realize that.

We do not worship plants or rocks or any other witchy tool, we worship God which is why we chose a label from a church. We use our tools as a way of honoring God and thank him for the gifts he has given us on earth. We do not communicate with demons or summon the devil. Tarot cards are nothing more than cardstock with a printed image used for getting messages, we do not use them in a way to get messages from any other source, we ask God or his angels to give their message in a way that is easier to understand. A demon can only be summoned if you've accidentally done something wrong in the craft or purposefully invoked one, though this usually would not occur due to us only asking God to come forward.

Within spells, we do not praise the ingredients, rather we use them to honor God and his creations while also asking God to bless the spell and help his intention of the ingredients to manifest into our lives. Our spells can be viewed as being a physical prayer. Same thing goes with the usage of crystals, we do not worship the crystals. We ask God to bless the crystals and help amplify his guidance and love, God created crystals and used them within his kingdom therefore they are filled with his love and power not the crystal's own personal power.

Also, we do NOT curse or hex. A Christian/Catholic/etc. witch who performs a curse or a hex, is committing a sin as it goes against all of God's teachings. We promote love and respect not the spreading of hate.

That is all, I hope this was easy to understand and helpful towards your view of witchcraft within Christianity/Catholicism/etc. Blessed be and remember that God, Jesus, and the angels love you very much. Amen ♡

[casperghoost]

A rant about my experience growing up Catholic ft. Ghost

Tw: mention of depression and suicide

Man, I want to rant about ghost and explain the entirety of the ghost lore to my mom so badly, but considering that basically everything they sing about is worshipping Satan it’s probably not a good idea lol. Like my parents are too religious and I think I’m already on thin ice… next thing I know they’re gonna drag me back to church with them for the first time in 3 years

I certainly don’t have anything against Christians and I send love to all the ghesties who happen to be religious, but when i used to go to church I did not feel welcome there especially in my teenage years. I live in the type of town that’s full of xenophobic conservatives so after I wanted to start expressing myself as a queer non-binary person, I got so many weird looks every time I went out especially going to church and/or seeing people my parents were friends with.

Throughout all my childhood I went to Sunday school and I never actually wanted to be there. I don’t even remember most of the stuff they taught us, but I remember hearing a bunch of stuff that scared me into following Catholicism (ex. We learned about heaven and hell in like 2nd grade and I was scared shitless that if I didn’t “repent” and do x y and z for the rest of my life I would be stuck in hell for eternity).

So by the time I was 12-13, I started to question everything about the Catholic Church. This was also a time that my mental health was rapidly declining so I hated having to get up at 8am every Sunday (considering school this meant I only got an adequate amount of sleep 6 days a week) to spend an hour worshiping a god I barely believed in anymore. I tried praying for my life to get better so I didn’t have to suffer through depression suicidal thoughts anymore but nothing changed. It only got worse until I hit rock bottom at the age of 14 and I was hospitalized and that started a long and rough journey through recovery.

(Note: religion was not the core reason for my struggles with mental health, but it played a part in it)

Since then, I never returned and I think my parents understand why. In the past year or so, I’ve gotten interested in Satanism and the way it embraces freedom, self-empowerment, and justice. I sorta love listening to ghost and other satanic/ occult-related songs and artists because it makes me feel good about myself. I, like many others, find it liberating to embrace a sort of darker and less traditional style to life.

This started as a silly little post sharing my thoughts about how being obsessed with ghost and satanic stuff could get me in a lot of trouble with the environment I live in, but I love rambling sometimes. This is one of the first times I’ve shared something so personal on tumblr XD …I may of may not delete this later tbh.

I’d be surprised if anyone actually read all this, but if you did, thanks for listening :)

[wanderingpages]

‧͙⁺˚･༓☾Gentle Sins AU☽༓･˚⁺‧͙

“Are you going to help me take my clothes off too?” I meant it to sound teasing – I wanted to show him I could play his game too – but I was breathless, I was buzzing with anticipation.

“You know it wouldn’t end there, Jude,” he gave me a wry look. “It's a shame,” he rose and ruffled my hair, “It's a shame you’re my sister,” he murmured, needlessly reminding me. “Because that was some damn fine pussy, baby.”e pussy, baby.”

TFOTA // All Human // AU : Jude and Cardan do things step-siblings shouldn't do.

Trigger Warnings: Crude language, Allusions to Drugs/Alcohol, Debauching Catholicism/Religious Metaphors, Taboo Sex.

Shout out @headcannonxgalore, even though she has nothing to do with this fandom, she kept me in check lol

Jude's POV

When it’s my first year of college, it’s his third. He lives on campus – in a frat house, I think, but as far as I know, Cardan’s not actually in a frat, just an honorary member who’s never been hazed or rushed. He doesn’t play any sports but he’s at all the games, never organizes a party or fundraiser but still the reason people even show up. He doesn’t own a Grecian alphabet dotted ring, but a bomber jacket instead, with ‘Greenbriar’ above the Greek letters. He’s cool, I guess, but I hate that I’m not the only one to notice.

Despite the first day of the semester, when he told me, “Mom and Dad said to watch out for you,” as he plucked the phone in my hand, furrowing his brows as he read through my schedule, I haven’t spoken to him since, and finals were only two weeks away now. I’m not complaining; I’ve lived my whole life without his help, I can surely live out the rest of it the same way, too. It doesn’t help that he plagues a lot of my waking dreams, though. I take a religion class that I constantly debate on dropping because all I can think about is the utter blasphemy that went on in the church our parents got married in. Still, I pull through for the sake of understanding Asha and why all the Jesus paraphernalia she’s added to our home makes my skin crawl. I don’t remember her being so god-fearing prior to the wedding, but if it’s her hobby, I wanted a way to relate.

I lie when I speak to our parents, when they ask how he’s been and how he’s treating me. I tell them he’s great and we’re good, and maybe he lies too because they never point out any inaccuracies. I see Cardan in passing sometimes, when I guess he leaves his first class of the week and I’m heading to my second. Today, the girl on his arm is brunette, last week was a blonde pixie cut. His taste is diverse; I wish I hadn’t been paying enough attention to know that. As they near, Cardan gives me a nod like he always does, but I have to do a double take today. The girl next to him could be my twin if I weren’t an only child.

“Thanks for the notes, Taryn,” Cardan says before separating from her and making a u-turn to me, in a surprising twist of events. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Uh…” I glance over to the girl – Taryn, picking out all our differences, trying to make it out-way the similarities. Long auburn hair – more dark and red in hue than my light chestnut color – in tousled waves, framing her heart shaped face, full lips like the ones on my face that I touch tentatively, sun kissed skin like mine, but still easy to see the pink in her cheeks. Her eyes are darker than mine, and freckles dot across her cheeks whereas I just have a single, small, dark one under my eye. Even her curves match mine, however her’s is softer than what I’ve tried to tone all summer long. I feel a little queasy, watching her walk into a room.

“Who’s ass do I have to kick?” He has a pointer finger under my chin, I feel cold metal graze my skin where a lone ring rests today. I asked him at the wedding if they meant anything, but he laughed and told me he just liked how they looked. I like pretty things, little sister. And I like adorning myself with them, too.

He guides my gaze to his, tilting my chin up slightly. My eyes widen just a fraction at his swollen lips. I lean back just a little, taking in the bigger picture. His dark hair is ruffled, more askew than it had been the day of the wedding. Of course, it had rained later that day, matting waves over his face. My fingers twitch now, wanting to fix the mess just as I had tried to fix his damp hair before. Down his neck are a few pink splotches that seem to be disappearing now, and at the collar of his shirt, on the skin peeking through the neckline, I see faint scratches, four equal lines running beneath the cotton. “As your big brother,” he murmurs, leaning closer to me, like we’re sharing secrets. “I think the saying goes that nobody bullies my sister but me, right?” I bat his hand away, shaking my head. I hate when he calls me his sister. I hate when he reminds me that he’s my brother. I hate when he refers to my dad as his dad. I hate that I’m tainted by just being a bystander to his sacrilege. I hate that barely-there glint in his eyes when he knows something I wish he didn’t. He catches my wrist before it falls to the side, his thumb running over the bright red knuckles, uncovered today, looking at them disapproving for a fleeting moment.

I snatch my hand back, giving him an almost petulant look. I’m nervous, I try to tell him with my eyes, hoping he won't ask. It’s not the first time he’s seen my battered fingers and it probably won't be the last either. It’s the end of my first semester and every day feels like I’m closer to impending doom; of course my nervous tick has been amplified. “We barely talk,” I narrow my eyes at him, “let alone do you get the chance to bully me.”

He holds his hands up, palms facing me as if to say he’s surrendered. “You’re right,” he admits. “I’m not taking my role very seriously.” I want to bash my head in because I don’t want him to take his role seriously. I don’t even want him in the role. He’s absolutely not joking, though however teasing he may sound. I’ve played out every interaction we’ve had together, all I can count on one hand, and there’s always something underlying to them. I wonder, belatedly, if Cardan actually hates me. Or maybe it was my dad and he was taking it out on me? Maybe I should have asked during that car ride, or during that dance we shared, or maybe when we were outside right before the storm. Maybe that’s why he’d acted as he had that night, why he had said what he said about our parents.

“Cardan…” I trail off, not knowing what to say, but I suppose I don’t really have to say anything.

“There’s a get together at the house,” he explains, and I know he means his house, the frat house. “Swing by on Saturday. Tell them you’re with me.” He takes hold of my bag and I’m too startled to stop him.

“I’m with you,” I repeat in disbelief.

He shrugs, “Or just tell them your mine.” My heart must have stopped for a moment. “My little sister. It’s all up to you, Jude.” His words have weight I don’t want to hold and it makes me uncomfortable. “Your class is down the hall, right?” He changes the topic so swiftly and it takes me a second to catch up with him. I guess he had remembered my schedule.

“Why are you guys having a party so close to finals?” I finally ask, while I attempt to take my bag back. He holds it out of my reach and brushes my hand away.

“Why not?” he counters, making my brain rattle. Every time we talk, it feels like pulling teeth. I give up and let him hold my bag.

“Sure,” I say, hoping it surprises him that I’d want to attend his party. He only smiles wider.

“So, how’s having Asha as a parent?” he asks, conversely, confusing me with his subject changes. A whole year, and now he decides on small talk?

I frown, and decide to be truthful “She’s great. I’ve had to do my own hair since I was five years old,” I laugh a little, wringing my fingers. “It was nice to have her brush it every once in a while.” My brows crinkle and my lips purse, “Though, I had to go to church a few Sundays. I didn’t know she was that religious,” I admit. “I’m not even Catholic. I don’t think Dad even had me baptized.”

Cardan chuckles in surprise, “Church? Yeah, that does sound just like her.” The way he says it makes me think that this is not like her at all. Maybe it was just a hobby she spontaneously picked up after getting married. Bored housewife syndrome or something.

“Yeah well,” I reach the door of my class and give him a pointed look, “No one warned me.” He holds the door open for me and passes me my bag. He doesn’t respond because maybe he doesn’t have to. I was there that night too, and nothing could have ever prompted me to stop our course of action to talk about my stepmother.

He follows a lock of my hair with his finger, twists the curl and tugs it lightly, childishly. “See you, little sister.” I wait for him to leave before I roll my eyes heavenwards.

I wait a few minutes in class before I excuse myself to the bathroom. The halls are empty now so it’s easier to navigate. I back track to where Cardan usually comes from, confused when I only see a storage room at the end of that specific hall. I feel uneasy as I figure it out. I guess it wasn’t that hard to begin with. “Notes, my ass,” I mutter.

With trepidation, I open the door, more heavy than other doors in this building, but unlocked, nonetheless. There’s a string that dangles from the ceiling, so I pull it, letting the light shine before I shift my weight from the door, and let it slowly shut behind me. It does hold a few cleaning supplies, but it’s mostly empty. I can smell that subtle amber fragrance Cardan always smells like. I grimace, feeling dirty being in here. I lean back against the door, finding myself wondering if the lights are on or off when he’s in here. If she’s leaning against a shelf, grasping at the panels to hold her up, or if she’s facing them instead, her back to him, resting her cheek on the lowest shelf, hands behind her back while he holds on to them, fucking her rough and quiet. In my head, the girl is Taryn, I tell myself.

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Masterlist

Gentle Sins Masterlist

[irrealisms]

You dont have sex because you're waiting for marriage or because being gay is a sin?

man i dont remember posting anything abt not having sex/celibacy/being side b before this ask, idk what this was inspired by. it's probably bait (and, quite frankly, it's none of your business why i'm having or not having sex) which is why i waited almost a full week to answer but i'm going to answer it anyway (once) because i want to be open about this. if you or anyone else is interested in having a discussion on why i believe the things i do, send me a message or an ask off anon. i'm much more willing to be vulnerable in a setting that isn't "anon question that is probably bait".

as a clarification that will probably mean very little to my secular followers but will be appreciated by my side b followers (and hopefully at least mean something to my side a Christian followers): i reject this dichotomy. i'm celibate because i'm gay--but i don't think being gay is a sin. i am gay. i do not believe my existence is a sin. i believe that i've found many beautiful and true things from being gay, and that God made me gay for a reason. i am glad i'm gay, and i don't wish i were straight or pray to become straight. so, so much of side b advocacy within the Church is focused around making it clear that, while being gay comes with different temptations than being straight, it is not a sin to be gay. (note also: different temptations. not "being gay comes with temptations and being straight doesn't".) it would be a slap in the face to not start with that. i share a lot of thoughts on this with eve tushnet, who's also a side b Catholic lesbian; this post was incredibly meaningful to me on my journey, but check out her blog if you want more.

but also, yeah. i don't have sex because i converted to Catholicism with the intent of obeying the Church's doctrine. i note in my bio that i obey the doctrine of the Church. and, well, i can't get gay married as a Catholic, and i'm not supposed to have extramarital sex. so i don't i know that there are side a Catholics, many of whom i respect, but i'm not one of them. i don't believe in "ex-gay" therapy or "pray the gay away" and i don't think that being gay is inherently sinful, but (and here's the part that i assume you're reading for) i do believe that having gay sex is a sin. i follow the teachings laid out in the Catechism, to the best of my ability and understanding. that's in my about page. right now, for me, as a lesbian: that means celibacy. the Catechism is pretty clear on that, imo. i don't talk about this often because most of my friends (and, for that matter, tumblr followers) are queer non-Christians, many of whom have trauma around Christianity and Christian homophobia (which is, to be clear, very real, even if you agree that gay sex is a sin). but like... i'm just living my life. i go to Mass on Sundays and i fast during Lent (or get permission not to from the local priest, when my eating disorder makes it a health concern) because doing otherwise would be a sin; not having sex (or masturbating! which was/is tbh much harder for me to give up than partnered sex! but people ask a lot less about that, because it's less discourse bait and more clearly none of anyone else's business) is the same sort of thing, to me. was it hard (is it hard)? yes, sometimes. but God doesn't just ask me for sacrifices that are easy. maybe some day i'll change my mind again and become side a or deconvert altogether. maybe i'm wrong about things! but this is where i'm at right now.

for what it's worth, i'm happy. i don't hate myself. as mentioned earlier, i'm glad i'm gay and i don't want to be straight. my life is full of love--from friends, family, God. celibacy has had its downsides and painful moments for me, but it's also had its upsides and moments of joy. i've been able to deepen and prioritize and value my friendships. it's been valuable and beautiful and worth it. fundamentally: i believe what i believe, and i'm living true to that. if you want to unfollow me for this, go for it. if you want to filter it, my tag for religion + queerness + being side b is #too gay to live too trad to die.