#Twenty Billboards to the Mile for Every Five Miles

[archiveofaffinities]

Twenty Billboards to the Mile for Every Five Miles, Capital City, Illinois, Photograph by William Lawton for a survey by Elizabeth B. Lawton, 1932

[theradicalscrivener]

Trevor: The Pickup

Simon stop by the lab to pick up Noah and take him to his new home. Noah's more than ready to leave the lab, but I'm sure he'll find something to stress out about anyway.

(P.S. Ya boi's got Linktree and Bluesky now)

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For the past week Noah’s entire world had been a single desk in the lab and even that felt massive. The table felt like a city block but without the buildings. Off in the distance he could see his old workstation. It was only maybe five feet away, but at Noah’s size that may as well be miles.

Noah wasn’t trained in all the biology and chemistry aspects of the work they did at the lab, but he was very good with circuitry and programming. He was constantly at work plucking away at a keyboard as he devised schematics and equipment that would help the researchers interact with the smallest of the shrunken people.

Noah could hardly believe that now he ranked among those smallest. Not even a quarter centimeter tall. He was a few scant millimeters. The edge of his old keyboard now loomed over him like a twenty-foot wall. He wouldn’t even be able see over the edge of it let alone press the keys. At his size, even had he leapt with all his might, the keys just would not budge. He was so tiny that he could easily slip into the gaps between the keys and explore the inner workings of the keyboard like a spelunker crawling around in a cave system.

Yet, for as small as Noah was, his brother was even smaller, and Mitch was even smaller than that! Rex was a mere third of a millimeter, and Mitch was so tiny that he measured in microns! A unit of measure usually reserved for bacteria or germs! Mitch was literally microscopic, and yet, Noah was so small that he could not only see the guy but interact with him as well. Whenever Noah and Mitch interacted, Noah couldn’t help but marvel at how tiny Mitch was. Mitch appeared to be nearly an inch tall in Noah’s hands. The tiny guy was as tall as the uppermost segment of Noah’s pinky.

 It wasn’t that Mitch made Noah feel huge. The truth was quite the opposite! Noah had done the mental math. If Mitch appeared less than an inch to him then Noah appeared smaller than that to other people. Mitch appeared almost two centimeters tall to Noah, but Noah himself was two millimeters! As tiny as Mitch was in Noah’s grasp, Noah was nearly a tenth that to everyone else! Whenever Noah would hold Mitch on his fingertip, his mind would flash back to just the other day when Simon had held Noah in much the same way. Noah could still vividly recall the billboard sized eyeball staring down at him. He remembered how tiny it made him feel and the blood would rush to his face and his crotch once more.

When the day to leave the lab and move in with Simon and Trevor finally arrived. Noah wasn’t sure how to feel. He was excited to have his freedom and to no longer be under constant observation, but at the same time, the sheer scale of the world in the lab got to be overwhelming. What would life be like when he got out into the real world? He was so easy to lose track of at this size. Every so often, the researchers would lose sight of him and even though he would leap and wave his hands and shout at the top of his lungs to get their attention, they didn’t even register he was there! If he had trouble getting noticed by people that knew to look for him, how hard would it be to be noticed out in the real world? … and did he even want to get noticed?

Whatever the case, Noah took some comfort in knowing that he wouldn’t be doing it alone. Simon had a lot of practice dealing with tiny guys, Noah’s brother being among them. If Simon could make Rex feel safe, surely Noah was in good hands, and even better, one of Noah’s new roommates was a hot, shrunken guy that Noah was not a blood relation to.

Trevor may only be four and a half centimeters tall, but he was massive by Noah’s standards. Trevor stood almost twenty times taller than Noah himself making Trevor appear to be a one-hundred-foot-tall titan! Their interaction during the other day had been brief, and Noah had been a bit high-strung at the time, but Noah couldn’t help but glance at Trevor’s fat cock when Trevor loomed over him as they both stood atop Simon’s finger. Trevor’s huge, thick dick was longer than Noah’s entire body, and it wasn’t even hard! Even soft, Trevor’s fat cock was so thick that Noah wouldn’t be able to wrap his arms around it! And when hard, the thing would be easily twice Noah’s height! Noah not so secretly couldn’t wait to get a chance to experience it firsthand, but he wasn’t sure how best to bring it up. Even if Simon and Trevor seemed to have no problems fooling around with other guys, they were still a couple, and it still felt weird to suggest something saucy.

As the hours ticked away and the clock hand crept ever closer to the minute of Simon’s arrival, Noah was going mad with excitement and anxiety. Noah still couldn’t believe he had gone through with the experiment. What was he thinking willingly letting himself get shrunk! He was now so small that he could ride a housefly like a horse! Whatever future he may have had in academia was now permanently paused. He had thrown everything away to live as some guy’s pet! Less than a pet! He was too tiny to even be that! He was an insect given permission to live on the periphery of a god! A super sexy, nice, amazingly hung god…

Noah shook his head. Why was he so horny! He needed to at least pretend like he could think about this rationally! Yet, every time he tried to think about what he had done and what it meant for his future he just got excited and aroused all over again! How did he let Rex talk him into this!? Why did no one talk him out of this!? How dare they let him indulge his deepest fantasies!

Fortunately, before Noah could spiral too hard, he heard the telltale buzz of the lab door being unlocked. Noah looked towards the doorway and stared in awe as Simon stepped in. Noah couldn’t help himself. The second he saw Simon, his eyes lit up and a huge smile spread across his face. He hopped and jumped as hard as he could and waved his arms to try and get the titan’s attention, but of course he was far too tiny to be spotted from across the room.

Simon knew where to look. One of the lab techs had gestured him over towards Noah’s table. Once there, Simon knelt down so he was eye level with the tabletop and peered down for any sign of the tiny figure of his friend. Eventually, Noah’s hopping and waving managed to get his attention.

“There you are!” Simon said pleasantly. He reached a finger down for Noah to climb aboard. Noah quickly scrambled onto Simon’s fingertip and was once more overwhelmed by the sheer scope and scale of the giant. Even just Simon’s fingertip was the size of a parade float. Noah could lie down atop it and have plenty of room to spread out, but the size of Simon’s fingertip paled in comparison to the size of his face. Even just Simon’s eyeball was the size of a hot air balloon. People say they could lose themselves in someone’s eyes, but for Noah it felt literal. As Simon lifted his finger up to his eye, soon Simon’s iris and pupil were all Noah could see.

“Woah. You’re really tiny. Are you sure you haven’t shrunk even more while you’ve been staying here?” Simon teased.

Noah’s heart skipped a beat. Was it possible? Was he even smaller than he had been the other day? Noah knew it wasn’t possible. He had been under constant observation. The researchers would have noticed if something like that had happened, but even so, Noah felt his heart pound and his cock throb at the mere mention.

Noah tried to steady himself. He tried to rein in his libido long enough that he could at least act like he was a professional, and part of that meant speaking to Simon in a calm, rational manner. Still, Noah was far too tiny for his words to ever reach Simon as they were now. Simon would need his earpiece in for that so Noah reached up and tapped his ear to signify that Simon should put his earpiece in.

“Oh! Ok,” Simon replied and lifted his fingertip up to his ear.

Noah stared in awe as an earlobe the size of a municipal swimming pool filled his view. Simon’s ear was so large that Noah could walk along the ridges with ease. It was so large, in fact, that Noah could crawl directly into the opening which was now so close that he could easily hop off of Simon’s fingertip and land directly in the entryway of. This was not what Noah had intended, but he was both fascinated by the prospects and lacked any other way to easily communicate with the giant.

Noah took a deep breath to steel his nerves and hopped onto the firm cartilage of Simon’s earlobe and then made his trek inside. Noah marveled at the entrance to the cave-like structure as he stepped forward. It was hard to believe that he was so tiny that he could crawl through someone’s ear canal like this. Crawl wasn’t even the right word. Noah was so tiny that he didn’t even have to hunch over to fit! He could walk down Simon’s ear canal as easily as he could a dark hallway in a country fair funhouse. He would have to jump to slap the roof of the passageway. For a split second he had to fight the urge to do just that, as if he was once more back in middle school and jumping to slap the top of the doorframe of every classroom he entered.

Noah’s surroundings shuddered. He had to place a hand on the side of the passageway to steady himself to keep from being sent toppling like a background crewman on Star Trek. Then just as suddenly as it had begun, the trembling stopped.

“Oh. That tickles,” Simon said with a chuckle.

The voice was so strange sounding. Noah could feel the sounds as much as he could hear it. It was as if the sound was coming through the very walls of the cavern. Noah was hearing Simon’s voice reverberate through the giant’s very bones which caused the giant’s already deep voice to pitch down making it even deeper and bassier.

Noah slowly crept deeper and deeper down the tunnel. As he did so, the light from the entrance quickly faded leaving him in near complete darkness. The only light he had came from the blinking diode on his collar – an addition Noah had added to make it possible for his coworkers to keep track of him in case of a power outage or if they needed him to scout the dark recesses behind the desks. The light from the rhythmic blue blinking diode made Noah’s surroundings seem even more alien than they already were. The pinkish flesh of Simon’s ear canal appeared purple with each flash, and Noah would occasionally catch sight of soft, waxy looking lumps that were as large as his torso.

With each step he took, the air grew warmer and more humid. The air grew stagnant. The smell of wax filled Noah’s nostrils. As Noah made his way deeper, he could steadily feel the rhythm of Simon’s heartbeat pounding hard and harder in the tunnel. Noah wasn’t sure if this was just because he was getting deeper inside the giant or if Simon’s heart was beating harder for some reason. Either answer made sense. No doubt having a tiny person crawl around inside his head was far from a relaxing experience.

Noah eventually reached a dead end. He stood before a large, circular wall of what appeared to be taut leather. This had to be the eardrum. It was so massive that it was like staring down a loading dock shutter. The surface seemed to quiver in time with the echoing heartbeats that filled the tunnel. Noah was so fascinated by the alien looking structure that for a moment he forgot his original goal and just stared at it in awe. His hand moved as if possessed. He reached forward and ran his fingers experimentally across the quivering membrane.

An intense shudder coursed through the entire cavern followed by a low bassy rumble as Simon replied, “Oh, I don’t like that…”

“Did that hurt?” Noah asked.

“I wouldn’t say hurt… more like itched,” Simon replied.

This snapped Noah from his trancelike state. “Oh! You can hear me!” Noah replied.

“Barely. It’s like hearing a whisper down a hallway… it’s a little creepy to be honest…” Simon replied.

“This was your idea!” Noah replied.

“What? Mine? I thought you wanted this,” Simon replied.

“I was trying to get you to put the earpiece in so we could talk,” Noah replied.

“Oh, right. They made me take that off when I went through the security checkpoint,” Simon replied.

“You just put me here without even questioning it…” Noah said, shaking his head.

“Hey. This is pretty tame compared to some of your brother’s requests,” Simon replied.

Noah was about to make some comment about how he and Rex were not the same, but before he could, Simon said, “Anyway. One sec while I get the earpiece.”

The giant moved so suddenly that Noah was sent toppling as Simon rummaged through his pockets to find the device. Fortunately, Noah wasn’t sent toppling directly into the eardrum. He doubted he had enough mass to damage the membrane, but he doubted it would be comfortable for the giant either way. Then, just as suddenly as the movement began, the shifting stopped. After a brief pause, Noah heard Simon’s voice once more.

“Testing. 1. 2…” Simon said. Noah could hear the sound through the collar, but it was nearly drowned out by the rumbling of Simon’s deep voice through the cavern. Now that Noah was splayed out on the floor of the tunnel, the reverberations of Simon’s voice through the walls made Noah’s entire body rattle.

“Yeah. Yeah. I could hear you even without the mic,” Noah grumbled, but as soon as he began speaking, he heard his own words echoing back at him far louder than before. The vibrations in the air from his own words made his body tremble which was the first red flag for Noah that something was weird.

“I can hear you well too,” Simon replied.

“Great. I guess I don’t need to be in here anymore then,” Noah said.

Noah climbed back to his feet and tried to wipe himself off. He felt greasy now. The walls of the tunnel were coated in a thin layer of wax that had rubbed off on him as he rolled around on the floor. He’d need a bath after this for sure… which presented its own obstacles.

Noah made the climb back through the tunnel towards the entrance he had come through, but as he made his way closer to the exit, he steadily began to realize that the passage was not getting brighter as he went. No light was coming through, and it didn’t take Noah long to figure out why. After all, he could hear his own words being broadcast down the hallway which had to mean…

“Did you put it in on the same side that I’m on?” Noah asked.

“I guess so. Sorry. It’s a habit,” Simon replied. Again, Noah could feel the words better than he could hear them through his collar.

Noah had to once more brace himself as the hallway shuddered. He had to shield his eyes as light suddenly flooded into Simon’s ear canal. For the brief second that it was visible, Noah marveled at the device. Even just the circular, rubber earbud was larger than he was. He was so small that if he climbed aboard, he could wedge himself in the circular gap in the center of the rubber tip.

Noah’s eyesight had almost adjusted to the sudden brightness of the lab lights when suddenly something else caused the light to dim. It didn’t block the light completely, but Noah soon realized that Simon’s fingertip was once more positioned for him to climb aboard.

Noah lingered for a moment at the entryway to Simon’s ear canal. He was still trying to process what he had just done. He was so tiny that he could literally fit in a guy’s ear! It wasn’t even a tight fit! Noah tried to shake the imagery of Simon’s eardrum looming over him like some kind of necromorph infected airlock, but the experience had been too surreal and too intense to be so easily ignored. It didn’t help that Noah was rock hard, but that was about par for the course nowadays. Everything reminded him of how small he was, which got him boned all over again.

Noah climbed aboard Simon’s fingertip and was once more lifted to the giant’s eye so Simon could speak to him face-to-face as it were. “So. Are you about ready to head to your new home?” Simon asked.

“Y-yeah!” Noah said. He was beyond excited, but it was still such a huge step forward for him that his nerves were getting the better of him.

“Great. Let’s go finish the paperwork,” Simon said.

“Y-yeah! … but, uh… is Trevor not with you?” Noah asked.

“Oh, he’s here alright,” Simon said.

From Noah’s perch on Simon’s fingertip, Noah could only really see Simon’s eye, but he could practically hear the smirk in Simon’s voice.

“He’s with your brother. They wanted to get your seat ready for you,” Simon teased.

“Wait. My seat? What do you-…” Noah began to ask, but before he could finish, his own mind filled in the blanks.

“O-oh… you don’t mean…” Noah stammered.

“Of course I do. Rex has made it very clear how much you wanted to ride along with him, and there’s plenty of room for both of you,” Simon said.

“D-do I have a choice?” Noah squeaked.

There was a pause. Simon’s demeanor shifted slightly. His eyebrow raised curiously, and his massive eye seemed to do an intense scan of Noah’s posture and body language.

“Of course you have a choice,” Simon said in a soft, soothing voice.

“Wait, really?” Noah sputtered.

“Yeah. Really. I was suggesting it because I thought you would enjoy it, but if you aren’t ready, I brought Rex’s compact. It should be plenty roomy for you,” Simon explained.

Noah’s mind reeled once more. Rex’s compact. Noah had more or less built the damn thing! He had used an old mini figure playset as the base, but he had handcrafted all the gadgets and gizmos that made it possible for his spec-sized older brother to converse with others. He knew firsthand how tiny the thing was. The whole thing used to fit in the palm of his hand, and now he could fit in it! He could more than fit it in. The miniatures that the original playset was designed for were nearly an inch tall. Those were massive by Noah’s standards. He wouldn’t even reach their knees! He would reach halfway up their shins at best!

“Oh, wow…” Noah murmured as his mind raced. He was now so tiny that he would be shorter than the lead of the pencil he had used when drafting schematics for that enclosure!

“You ok?” Simon asked.

“Y-yeah… I was just thinking…” Noah murmured. His voice was so soft that even had he been his old size it would have been hard for Simon to hear, but fortunately, his collar mic picked it up.

“Well, take all the time you need,” Simon said.

“I-it’s fine, really… I’d like to ride along with Rex…” Noah said softly.

A huge grin suddenly spread across Simon’s face. “Great! I’m sure Rex will be excited to see you,” Simon said.

“R-right… So, uh… how do we do this?” Noah murmured awkwardly.

“Just come with me,” Simon said with a wink. He then looked up and waved to a nearby researcher. “Hey. Where’s the restroom?” he asked.

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[gumpwitch]

Two- Faced: The Spirit of God and the Devil

An Essay On Deconstructing Theology

by The Gump Witch

Some of my earliest memories are of Sunday mornings.

My hair is curled and I wear a dress of pastel blue or pink or purple. My shiny black shoes are already scuffed. I pick holes in my tights when my mother isn’t looking because I despise them. My mother dresses and styles me before herself. I am five and she is perfect.

The smell of hairspray and the same perfume my grandmother has worn every Sunday for as long as anyone can remember hangs thick in the atmosphere of the car. Sometimes I sleep as the blazing morning light warms my face through the windows. Sometimes I just stare as the soft, rolling backs of the distant Wichita mountains roll by on the horizon.

Eventually, our church comes into view, clear on the other side of town from where we enter. We are rural lakeside dwellers; we pilgrimage each week over twenty miles each way to attend. The building is all red brick, with a whitewashed steeple and cross jutting uncontested into the cloudless Oklahoma sky. The parking lot is colorless and baking in the sun. Concrete, because it is too hot in the southern midwest to use asphalt.

I do not want to go in.

I do not want to walk the lengthy, hot sidewalks up towards the many sets of doors. I do not want to dodge handbags and careless feet and reaching, pinching hands that all want to squeeze parts of my face. I do not want to have to sit there, ears plugged against the blaring music in the vestibule, nor do I want to be separated from my mother and grandmother and join the other children upstairs in Sunday school.

I do not want to be here at all.

These are my earliest memories of spending time in the being known as God’s presence: the distinct, overwhelming feeling that I did not want to be there at all.

Growing up, God always felt like this oppressive, overbearing third parent. He can see everything you do and hear everything you think. He doesn’t want you talking back to your parents. He doesn’t want you to eat too much cake. He doesn’t want you touching yourself in strange places. He doesn’t want you to spend too much time doing anything besides thinking about or talking to Him.

This, of course, is par for the course for anyone who grew up Pentecostal, Baptist, Methodist, any of the denominations that are even remotely tied to the massive, leaden umbrella of Evangelical Christianity. Pastors tell their congregants in the same breath of how good and loving God is, and then proceed to give a laundry list of all the normal and enjoyable and harmless things He doesn’t want his faithful to do.

It is no surprise that, when able to form the first independent thought of my own during early adolescence, that I veered sharply away from religion. I did everything I could not to go to church. I pretended to sleep too hard to hear when someone tried to wake me on Sunday morning. I feigned sickness and nightmares and injury. Why would I want to drag myself from bed early in the morning on one of the two days I didn’t have school just to go be lectured on how much I disappoint God?

Later on, after I had moved around and no longer saw my paternal grandparents as often, it was decided I would spend summers in the deep South with my maternal family. Sweet home Alabama, here I come.

Now, it is early June. It’s unbelievably humid here; the dry heat of Oklahoma at least doesn’t lie to me about how warm I really am. I think I’m hot in this moist, warm air, but really, I’m even hotter and I don’t even know it. Cicadas scream and bullfrogs croak in every body of water in the long, sticky evenings. Mosquitoes the size of my fingernails buzz lazily around the car as we make the drive from Birmingham to Montgomery.

There, on the side of the road, I see it: a landmark that has become famous the world over thanks to the power of the Internet. A white billboard with a simple slogan in blood red letters: GO TO CHURCH OR THE DEVIL WILL GET YOU. Beside it is depicted a similarly red man with a scythe and a pointed, skinny tail, grinning wickedly at all who drive past his perch on Highway 65.

This is my earliest memory of the one known as the Devil: a humid car ride, a frightful billboard, a threat as much as a promise boldly announced to the entire Interstate.

The South, as it turns out, is much more in-your-face about religion than the midwest. While there are churches on every block in Oklahoma, there are triple that amount in Alabama. Currently, in the two mile drive between my home and my downtown office in Montgomery, I pass no fewer than six different churches depending on my route.

Being in the South brought me face to face with a much different flavor of Evangelical Christianity: the one that breathed fire and rained down brimstone. This Christianity roared from pulpits about sin, both yours and that of your neighbor. This Christianity told you more about the Devil than it did about God, for this Christianity wanted to go to war, and in order to go to war, they needed an adversary to do battle with.

To my grandma, everything negative became a work of the Devil: my stubborn streak, our family’s propensity to overindulge in rich foods, mine and my cousins’ tendencies to sleep for long hours each day. All of these things that my grandma detested in us were surely the Devil’s work. These were demons in us that needed to be exercised. She believed this as firmly as she believed that she drew breath in order to live.

However, my grandma taught me a very important thing about Christianity, in that she was the living embodiment of its contradictions to itself. Though she sang gospel songs and hymns constantly and prayed and called out acts she disliked as the Devil’s works, she did not go to church. She didn’t like the people that went; she considered them all insufferable, self-righteous busybodies. The only person who was doing religion correctly, as far as she was concerned, was her. Everyone else was just pretending for brownie points.

By the time I was an adult, I was left only with these two impressions of the religion of my upbringing: judgment and doom. Disappointment and damnation. Strive for perfection, but even if you manage to attain it, you may go to hell anyway for not doing even more.

So I continued to turn my back on this faith. I continued to roll my eyes and quell my temper every time some stranger handed me a pamphlet about their church or someone fervently insisted that God loved me through a drive through window. The more present it was around me, the more I resented and drew away from it.

This land that I now live in is so, so saturated in this faith. In my city especially, it seems more ground is consecrated by some denomination or other than not. Churches both open and shuttered adorn every single street. Billboards loudly proclaiming that JESUS IS THE ANSWER and GOD IS PRO-LIFE and JESUS SAVES are everywhere you turn, outnumbered only by Alexander Shunnarah advertisements.

Maybe being confronted with this constant, everyday onslaught of this faith is what kept me turning the question of it over in my head. As I grew older, I made myself let go of that resentment I had for it. I was no longer a child being dragged unwilling to assembly, where the music was always too loud and the pastor was always too boring. My grandma has passed on from this world, no longer able to verbally bash me over the head with promises of damnation and hellfire. I can finally look at this faith from my own perspective and decide what I feel and believe about it.

Even before I cemented myself in my faith of the Eldest Ten, I came to a sudden and surprising realization: God and the Devil are the same thing.

I was struggling with some of the many social challenges that come with growing older. Being an only child who clung to friendships like the legs of absent parents, it was getting harder and harder for me to feel happy for people who were moving on in life and meeting new people. I was resentful. I was jealous. And I hated that I felt those things.

That’s when it clicked. I thought about the Bible stories that had been hammered into my head growing up, the Old Testament especially. The Great Flood, the Exodus from Egypt, Sodom and Gomorrah, all these and more. God had a lot of blood on His hands back in those days. I think, over time, He didn’t like that. There were parts of Him he couldn’t reconcile, parts that were ugly and mean and, yes, evil. So the Devil was born.

The Devil is all the things God doesn’t like about himself: his vengeance, his cunning, his manipulation and deceit. The Devil takes all these in stride. He’s the shadow that the light of God casts. One can’t exist without the other.

Since I do not revere any entities imagined by man to be true gods, God and the Devil are, then, spirits. They are, at the same time, two different spirits and two faces of the same spirit. When I say “God”, I mean the spirit of benevolence, of good, of hard, honest work. When I say “Devil”, I mean the spirit of darkness, of getting even, of refusing to turn the other cheek and instead biting back with full force.

I consider myself a folkloric pagan. Pagan, in that the gods I honor are the forces of Nature itself. Folkloric, in that the traditions and spirits I interact with are those that have been passed down through my family and community for generations. God and the Devil have been here as long as my settler ancestors have been here. To divorce them completely from my practice would be doing both my work and myself a disservice.

I may have a completely different understanding of them than my ancestors did, but the key here is that I have an understanding of them. I don’t write them off as some newfangled dogma that can’t be changed or reasoned with or shaped to fit my needs. I don’t frown when people tell me to have a blessed day or say “Look at God!” when something serendipitous happens to them. I’m happy for them. I’m happy for all of us.

And that’s what a lot of people just don’t understand, especially those not living in the South. So many modern witches from similar backgrounds to mine turn their noses up at any talk of God while also shying away from the word “Devil” as if it’s a disease. They forsake the very roots of their ancestors and then try to claim that what they practice is rooted in tradition.

No one likes feeling judged. No one likes feeling wrong. These are feelings that are all too often conflated with Christianity, and I know them well. But while I may never sit in a church on Sunday morning again, that doesn’t mean I can’t keep a piece of that magic in my pocket and carry it with me on my own terms.

God and I might have agreed to see other people, but it doesn’t mean we don’t still talk from time to time.

[ms-march]

Old Hollywood AU- The Lucky One

Here is the first chapter/one shot of this AU that is a collab and crossover that @tolstoyamericanrevolution and I have been working on it since November! Please keep an open mind to character interpretation because this is AU territory and a lot of a character who isn't necessarily the focus of the AU can be warped for plot and time accuracy purposes over character accuracy! So let's get to it and happy last day of TURN WEEK 2021!!!!

Global media was in a buzz, Today was the Hollywood equivalent of a royal wedding. With all the bells and whistles belonging to the West Coast set. New & old money all united around the superficialities of silver screens and unions and dubious desert deals. All neatly swallowed down with a glass of wedding champagne- the same brand as Buckingham palace yet here it looked slightly gaudy, American.

The media was here to adore, this was a decade before your Grace Kelly’s and other exports could wear centuries-old crowns.

Here it was harsh, fiscal, temporary, silver over platinum yet it was royal, majestic, lovely- every bit worth the soundbite.

This was the American monarchy, all a blend of the finest breeds and worst mongrels.

Dressed up in such a lovely, splendid crowd that Philadelphia, New York, Houston, Los Angeles & Chicago would all be running titles.

“Adoring Crowds rewarded at last! The Marriage of America’s Sweetheart”

“Hollywood Royalty! Adrienne Fairfax & John Laurens tie the Knot”

“ Media Heiress & Tobacco Heir; Los Angeles’s Marriage of The Decade”

Those picking up the papers would all sigh the same thing; how lovely.

The crowd was lovely.

At least, she was sure it was. Adrienne Fairfax had not yet been seen by a single member of the crowd, anxiously sitting before a vanity in a wedding gown three times her size, wringing satin gloved hands until the gloves began to crease. Her hands shook with the same fear that was responsible for the turning of her stomach as she removed them.

Today was her wedding day and it was exactly as she had always dreamed. Every detail was perfect and precisely to her liking.

Every detail was impressive.

Every detail would impress them.

The crowd was lovely.

The crowd had cheered for her, applauding her on the engagement just as they did when she was on the movie screen. Adrienne had been just as shocked as them to hear of her engagement. She would certainly remember being proposed to at the ripe age of seventeen. She certainly would have remembered if the man who did so was twenty-three years old, making him five years her senior.

The crowd had buzzed with conversation, just as they did now, outside of the open windows that were meant to cool her down. The cool breeze in the mountains this time of year should have corrected the heat filling her face and chest as it billowed through the open windows of the room, carrying the sounds of society in with it.

Her wedding was exactly as she had always dreamed.

It was in the mountains, away from the pollution of the billboard lights and American mile cars. She could see the stars from here, the real ones, in the sky. Not the ones in the velvet curtains in the ballroom, or the ones on the tule that coated the tablecloth in the grand dining room of the house she had barely spent a night in since she was a very young girl. Not the ones taking their seats in a church to watch Adrienne make the most irreversibly horrible decision of her life.

The crowd was lovely.

She was sure it was, and she was grateful for them. Their own chatter drowned out the echoes of old ghosts that still haunted this house’s halls. Adrienne’s eyes fluttered down to the picture frame propped up on the vanity in her childhood bedroom. She had been watching it like the smiling couple in the photo would decide to leave their seats on the terrace and walk away.

It was impressive.

The woman had light-colored hair, and the man’s was some odd form of grey in the yellowing black and white photo. She wore the most beautiful gown of pearly ivory layers and lace, the very same gloves Adrienne had just pulled from her own clammy hands graced the woman’s hands, the tiara atop her head in the photo matching the one atop the pile of blonde curls that she had just arranged in the vanity mirror.

It was just as she had imagined it.

Adrienne had found her mother’s wedding planning book years ago, and she fell in love with it the moment she first laid her eyes upon the beautiful fair-haired woman, leaning happily into the man in a finely tailored tuxedo and a wide smile in his eyes with an odd grey color to his hair.

Adrienne had not stepped foot over the threshold of this impressive Georgian English Manor style house since the last time she was dressed head to toe in black.

Adrienne had not crossed the threshold since the day of their funeral when she crossed from the foyer to the stairs down the drive with her belongings in tow.

She had gone home with a family friend that her parents had entrusted with her care and upbringing. The Washingtons were more superficial people than her parents had been. Not to say that they consumed more, that much was about the same. Rather, they were more concerned about success than they ever were with her. Growing up with the Washingtons, Adrienne had so many nannies, nurses, and governesses she often forgot their names. Not that it was important really, none of them integrated with her more than they absolutely had to.

Martha Washington had been insistent that she was to be the only maternal figure to the young heiress. Which would have been perfectly alright if she did not despise Adrienne’s own mother so deeply, making her maternal affection very few and far between.

Today is her wedding day.

It was Martha that had opened the door without a word, simply raising her brow, impatient with the blonde girl before the vanity. Adrienne managed one last look in the mirror before rising from the small chair she had sat on, donning her gloves over the clamminess of her sweaty hands, and breathed.

She breathed carefully as Martha pulled the veil to cover her face.

In and out.

In and out and suddenly she could pretend she was not being made to act as a witness as George signed over all she was to gain upon her 18th birthday to a man named John Laurens. He had shown up to sign the papers himself, a courtesy to George, she was sure. He was to be her husband, or so she had been told.

He had not even looked at her.

He did not greet her when he came through the door, only George. He did not converse with her, only George. She could have gotten up, smacked him, and walked out of the room and he would still not have noticed her.

He was to be her husband and she had not met him but once before. She knew who he was, vaguely. He worked at the studio as an actor. He was the son of an influential South Carolina politician who had a family fortune in the tobacco trade. But she had only met John Laurens once before her wedding day was set for the day of her 18th birthday and not a single day later. A week after watching her life be signed away into his hands he had paid her a visit.

Another courtesy to George, she was sure.

He had arrived with no specific plan, and walked through the gardens with her, talking now to her for almost an hour straight. She had even tried placing both tea and whiskey before him to shut his ramblings, both attempts failing miserably as he continued on about himself. He visited for almost two hours and had not asked her a single thing about herself.

He was to be her husband and he did not know a thing about her.

They met four other times during the short engagement, most of which were public niceties, another courtesy to George. There was not a single newspaper, magazine, or television hour that did not wish to have some kind of word with her on the topic of her wedding. None of them dared to advise her, she had been out planning the very best in the country since her earliest teenage years. A popular anecdote she had heard more in the past few months than she had anything else in the rest of her life went as following:

The Pope had come to visit the re-elected Franklin Delano Roosevelt in the White House but found the most pleasant time in the company of the most eligible girl in America, all the way on the West Coast.

The crowd was lovely.

That is what George had told her with a peck of a kiss to her cheek before he took his seat. She would walk herself down the aisle.

The harp and violins played as the grand doors to the ballroom opened on her, exposing her to the crowd and their whispers. The ceremony looked stunning. It was just as she had imagined it when she was little.

She only now began to wish that she had imagined the man at the end of the aisle so that there might be at least something she could find fault with.

There were familiar faces among the crowd that she passed on her long and slow walk to the man at the other end of the grand room. The clicking echo of her heels on the floor being the only thing keeping her trembling legs on course, but even worse was searching as discreetly as possible for those familiar faces. Anything to not have to face the harsh reality of who— no, of what— waited for her at the end of the crowd.

Among the crowd, her eyes locked with another blonde-haired man and she begged herself not to look desperate. He saw her looking too, but he managed far more composure than Adrienne did. Of course he did.

He must be thrilled.

Adrienne had the thought before she could stop herself. John Andre was another executive at the studio alongside George. Before her engagement, there had been pressures from all around for the two of them to marry. It would be a fitting trade, they justified, the daughter of an executive to the wife of an executive. It was a natural transition.

Perhaps that is why he had not spoken out about her engagement and marriage being written into her contract. He stood there, pretending he was not looking at her in his black tailored tuxedo, hair done in the most fashionable way with a small wave curl to it. He pretended that she was not on a death march.

He pretended far better than her.

He had his vices, that much she knew, but he was respectful. He spoke with her, not just to her. She knew him. She knew him and even though she had never found him more than physically attractive she found herself wishing it was him at the end of the aisle, and not for the first time since her engagement.

Today was her wedding day.

In a few minutes, she won’t be engaged anymore.

In a few minutes, she would be married.

In a few minutes, she would be married to a man that did not know a single thing about her.

She would be married to a man in less than a few minutes, and suddenly Adrienne understood all those runaway brides, leaving their fiance’s at the altar. Her heart pounded, hammering in her chest as she composed herself with a warm indifference. She had been doing so well. Then she saw him.

John Andre was an executive at the studio with George. There was pressure from all around for them to get married.

It was a fair trade.

He remained silent for his own sake. One cannot be forced to marry a woman who already belongs to a husband of her own.

She would be married and he would remain a bachelor till the end of his days, just as he wanted, receiving pity for her engagement everywhere he looked, exempting him from the very idea of marriage. Exempting him from being held accountable for his vices.

He must be thrilled, signing her life away to a man who doesn’t know a single thing about her for his own peace of mind.

It was a fair trade.

He had played the game and played it well.

He had won. And it was fair.

This will all be over soon, and she could find solstice in the stars over the sleepy Manor estate, talking to a ghost from the lawn as if he never left her. He had never left her, calling her to look up and scour the sky for stars whenever she felt lonely.

He had called her “my star.”

She was his star, and soon it would all be over. She could disappear into the night and be with the stars, chatting with ghosts from a happier past.

It will all be over soon.

She was looking through the crowd for familiar faces.

She was doing so well. And then she saw him, in the doorway she had just come from, a man in a finely tailored tuxedo and a wide smile in his eyes with an odd grey color to his hair. “It will all be over soon.”

And she heard him from the other end of the aisle, loud and clear, as if he were right beside her, as he should be.

Executive’s daughter married,

Media magnet meets Southern industry

John Andre: Hollywood’s Most Wanted Bachelor Remains Unwed

It was easy to feel remorseful, heroically guilty when you had nothing at stake.

No real risk to gamble.

It was the prisoner that escaped the hanging and looked sympathetically to the damned, fingers crossed behind their back. That was John Andre on this fine nuptial day.

If it had been him standing at the end of the aisle, where another John stood, he would be less prone to sympathy and instead resentment. Resentment of having his wings clipped and arranged around him, in exchange for a slip of a girl whom he felt no connection with.

By no connection, he meant romantic or intimate or lustful- none of the trilogy of connections worth considering matrimony.

Instead, he felt an observer's connection, a connection of pity, of sympathy- lightly powdered amusement and a genuine kindness that came from recognizing another piece on the chessboard of the older generation.

You could have as much power or success as you wanted in this city, as an executive you would assume John had made it to the top, and yet you would always be a puppet on someone else’s string.

Ask any man and it would be a woman, a mafia deal, a boss, an older competitor, or simply the moths that floated around the sparkles of fame ready to consume you if you stepped out of line.

[rockandrollfool]

Manchester Cool - Uncool

One of the many things to love about Manchester is its musical heritage. Former Manchester United footballer Eric Cantona when considering his time with the club remarked that, “behind the windows of Manchester, there is an insane love of football, of celebration and of music” (2010). He also spoke of rebelliousness and the vitality and vigour of youth, which are surely a part of the heady concoction that makes the perfect rock and roll band?

If one was asked to name a band from hailing from the city or surrounding districts doubtless Oasis, The Stone Roses, Joy Division and The Smiths grab all the attention. Why wouldn’t they?  How can we begin to measure their influence on pop culture?  When considering sales alone these four titans of the Mancunian rock landscape must account for an enormous amount of cash spent on their creative output. As if further proof was needed Andrew Martin writing in one of the broadsheets argues “of course, the best music has always been created in the north. Morrissey's Manchester ("so much to answer for") is a constant production line of classic British pop” (The Guardian 2008)

There are however an undercurrent of bands that don’t quite fit the ‘Manc profile’ and if they do they are largely ignored. Given that the city has a serious pop lineage we seem to swerve and give a wide berth to Take That. Possibly one of the most successful ‘boy bands/man bands of all time. Rarely do they get mentioned in the roster of great acts and yet they surely deserve inclusion?

Equally The Freshies, who were one of  ‘the’ bands to emerge in the post punk era. Chris Sievey embraced a wholly pop ideology and philosophy and their reach and influence is rarely acknowledged. They are mentioned in a sort of ‘sideways glance’ type style. Sievey hogged the limelight a few years later in the guise of Frank Sidebottom, with his papier-mache head and big beautiful wide eyes, Sidebottom was the absolute antithesis of The Freshies. In an alternate universe The Freshies went global and…… Never mind.  

We have tendency as Mancunians to revel in the aftermath of the behemoths of rock and pop and ignore all the leading lights that led us to this point in our cultural existence. One of the emergent bands from the sixties that are always overlooked and ignored are Freddie and the Dreamers. Visually the band were style and panache personified. They wore suits and ties and looked utterly fabulous. Obviously those lads from Liverpool did as well, but Freddie and the Dreamers carried it off in a way that Lennon, McCartney, Harrison and the other one just couldn’t. The Beatles just looked sullen and sulky, whereas Fred and the chaps appeared to delight in the pop world they occupied.  

The band were initially Freddie Garrity (Lead singer)  born in Crumpsall, a largely working class area to the north east of the city centre. Roy Crewdson (Guitar) was from Chrolton Cum Hardy. Derek Quinn (Guitar/Harmonica) also from Chorlton Cum Hardy. Pete Birrel, (Bass) from Didsbury.  Bernie Dwyer (Drums) from Cheadle. I mean that is in Cheshire but essentially all born and living in and around Manchester.

There you have it then, the dream ticket, a proper Manchester band. Freddie looked like a combination of Buddy Holly and any junior cast member from Coronation Street. He was alive, effervescent energetic and the perfect fit in terms of fronting the band. He seemed to love what he did and was the very epicentre of the unit. That boundless puppy dog enthusiasm and trademark smile would draw one in and ultimately leave the listener/viewer wanting more.

Freddie and the Dreamers were able to surf a huge wave of popularity in the early to mid-sixties. They were the Manc Beatles to me only miles, miles better. They had nine hits in total that spanned eighty five weeks on the singles chart. (Beat Magazine on-line) Their debut album, I mean I get excited just thinking about that, was titled, wait for it, Freddie and the Dreamers and it spent twenty six weeks in the album charts in 1963.

The original sound of the band was based on ‘Merseybeat’ and whilst that might be a nod to the ‘Fab Four’ Fred and his dreamers were anything but Beatleqsue. They were so much more and so much better. It isn’t just that they were from Manchester. No they had it all. I love pop music and the band could write a tune. They made that appear effortless. Equally they were quirky and somewhat out of kilter with their Scouse cousins.

Two other bands of the time, Wayne Fontana and the Mindbenders and Herman Hermits, also from Manchester, launched an Anglo (Manc) invasion Stateside. In 1965 all three had number one hits on the “US Billboard Hot 100” (Mead on line) When Colin Welland accepted an Oscar for Chariots of Fire he may have been a little late in declaring “the British are coming” (Bradburn Luv 2018). I do not want to spoil the party Colin but Fred and the rest of the combo had already been, drank and eaten from the hand of “La Liberté éclairant le monde“ (nps.gov) and scarpered. They didn’t exactly conquer the States but they did make an impression.

They appeared in a small number of films Every Days a Holiday (1964) Cuckoo Patrol (1965) Just For You (1966). I mean you don’t get to appear in films if you don’t have some cultural clout. I am not saying these films acquired cult status. I am not even sure they will have been given a run out in an age. That doesn’t matter, just as Elvis and The Beatles released movies, then so did Freddie and the Dreamers.  

The songs are to be loved and adored. I implore you, if you are not familiar with their back catalogue go and find ‘I’m telling you now’ or ‘You were made for me’. I have no words that could even begin to articulate how perfect they are in terms of lyric, melody or tune. The backing vocals alone are as good as anything I have ever heard. Please though don’t limit yourself to just these. Find Freddie and the Dreamers on all the good streaming sites (and some crap ones) and listen at your leisure.

As a result of their success in America they released a track titled ‘do the Freddie’ and if you do nothing else today go and find the accompanying video on YouTube. Apparently the dance alone was a cult craze in the US and why wouldn’t it be? Fred at his sublime best

He and they are peerless and are lost in the whole Manchester discourse regarding legacy and how the city defines itself. As I have said I adore pop music. I still get quite excited at the mere mention of the band. If Manchester does have a cultural legacy then it is in pop. Leading that charge are number one contenders and Kings of this hill, Freddie and the Dreamers.

The Rock And Roll Fool (April 2021)  

[at-thezenith]

the oasis

The sign was the first thing he saw, uncomfortably man–made. Big, black letters spelling out

‘INFECTED WILL BE EXECUTED’

on a cheery yellow background. The billboard rose out of the unruly wheat fields like a beacon; of hope or doom, he couldn’t tell. He pressed on, hoping his compass wouldn’t fail him and leave him stranded in the veritable jungle of overgrown crops, with only the never–changing sky as a view, the only sound the gentle swish, swish of the wheat.

It had been the same sight for nine days, the buildings getting smaller and squatter until the only structures had been the odd abandoned bus stop, or a one–stop with its windows smashed in and lights that had been dead for years. Then, one day, the road ran out, asphalt surrendering to the wilderness. It was a forest first, one that clearly hadn’t had many visitors even before everything began; it was unforgiving terrain, roots of ancient trees conspiring to trip him at every turn, and the canopies blocking any attempt by the sun to light his way. He had hurried through, a crawling feeling at his neck that he was being watched, and indeed, the whorls in the trunks began to resemble malignant, staring eyes. Not even stopping for water was deemed necessary; the river was unnervingly clear, winking in invitation at him, sometimes cutting off his path in attempt to lure him in.  

Eventually, he pushed past the last branch, to a field of barley, which was at once a relief and a horror; he had memories of films he had seen as a child, where axe murderers lay in wait in the crops. Still, he had no other way to go, and he’d been walking under unforgiving sun with no end to speak of, his food and water slowly dwindling until this morning, when he awoke to his canteen leaking out its last drops. He had considered lying down there, waiting for some merciful animal to put an end to it all, but something in him had tugged him to his feet, turned himself south–west, and set him off on an aimless amble.

Or not so aimless, it appeared; another sign appeared above him, spelling out the same message, then another, after a few miles. He came to a stop under the third one. The billboard was standard, it seemed; not hastily constructed like so many attempted shelters he’d witnessed in the past five years. It creaked under his foot as he hesitantly put weight on it, but seemed to withstand it after a few tests. Pulling himself up, he felt his weak muscles complain under the strain, but he pressed on, climbing higher until he reached a spot about ten or so metres up. From there, he sat himself on a sort of ledge, where the metal support beams crossed paths, and squinted in the midday sun.

To his surprise, he saw a collection of buildings barely a mile away from where he was perched, still seeming in immaculate order. Maybe a farm, on closer inspection; he thought he could make out a large barn door, and a vehicle that looked somewhat like a tractor. He even fancied he could see smoke spiralling up from the charmingly blue–painted house in the centre. There wasn’t any sign of movement, but it looked as if there were people living there, not just simply surviving. Perhaps he could ask for food, maybe directions to a survivors’ shanty in the east. Desperation for supplies and potential company overrode any potential hesitations, and he carefully swung himself down, setting off with a renewed vigour.

It was barely an hour later that he pushed through a group of stalks only for his hand to hit air, the wheat stopping abruptly, as if ordered to. He was still a ways away from the buildings, but to his joy, he saw a person stood about halfway between, lounging against a fence post. He yelled out a greeting, and the person’s head snapped up. There was no way to tell their facial expression, but as he took a step forward, he heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being pumped. He stopped short, throwing his hands up high.

Despite the gentle sounds of the breeze, the wheat stalks blowing to and fro behind him, it was as if the world was holding its breath. He counted ten, twenty, thirty seconds, and took a cautious step towards the person. They didn’t move, shotgun still aimed at him, but yelled something. It came to him garbled, their voice distorted by the breeze. In response to his silence, they pumped the shotgun again and yelled,

“Are you bitten?”

“No,” he called back. They didn’t relax, but propped the gun on their shoulder and beckoned with one hand. He walked towards them, slowly, arms still raised—he wasn’t about to spook them into blasting his chest full of lead.

As he came closer, their face came into view. They were young, far younger than him, but their face was free of childish chubbiness, instead angular and sensible–looking. The arms that held their gun looked strong and capable, clearly a result of hard work and good food, and he thought himself no match for them in his current weakened state. They wore faded jeans and a cut–off t–shirt, with heavy boots planted firmly in a shooter’s position. When he was about ten feet from them, they aimed the shotgun at him once again.

“We prefer visitors to take the road,” they said.

“I—there was no road,” he said, taken aback by the casual tone. “I came from the wheat fields.”

“Why on earth would you do something like that? We don’t even go very far in there anymore.”

He shrugged, hands still held up. “I didn’t think I’d come out of them, to tell you the truth.”

They considered him for a moment, then lowered their gun, flicking the safety on. “What are you looking for here?”

“Food, water, perhaps a friendly face or two to speak to, for once.” He smiled, in what he hoped wasn’t a creepy way. “Been a while since I’ve seen anyone.”

“We can handle that. I’ll take you to see Uncle.” They propped the gun on their shoulders and stretched. “You can put your hands down, now.”

[artificialqueens]

Happiness Isn't Here, Chapter 1, (Jan-centric) - Joley

ao3 link

“Jan?” her coworker gently shaking her by the shoulder wasn’t enough to jolt her awake. So she repeated her name louder and shook her a bit harder. “Jan!”

Jan picked her head up, a piece of paper stuck to her cheek. The coffee cup next to her had yet to be touched and her briefcase was still open at her feet, only partially unpacked. “Huh?” As her eyes adjusted the world into focus, she remembered that she was at her desk, in her office, at work, rather than her desk, in her office, at home, where she had passed out last. “I’m awake! I’m good, I’m fine. What’s up?”

The woman arched her brow, but decided it wasn’t worth harping on the issue. “Right, anyway. Here are the updates on the Wilson case,” she said, dropping a manila folder on Jan’s desk. “And not for nothing, but you might want to look alive. Word is you’re looking at a promotion to junior partner by the end of the week, it wouldn’t hurt to do what you can to seal the deal.”

It wasn’t clear to Jan if the woman had said anything else after ‘junior partner’ – a ringing started in her ears that drowned everything out. Her head started pounding and the room started spinning, she could barely focus on the muffin she grabbed and took a bite out of, hoping that it was just an empty stomach that made her feel so sick. When she did finish the muffin, she was relieved that her surroundings were now staying still, but it didn’t alleviate the knot in her stomach or the tightness in her chest.

Air. She just needed some fresh air, that was all. She hung her blazer on the back of her chair and bolted through the office, only stilling to catch her breath when she was in the elevator. Having been up on the fortieth floor, it stopped a few times on the way down, making her start to fidget and bounce on her heels until she finally hit the ground floor.

“This is good news, Jan. Why aren’t you happy?” Jan leaned her head against the wall and groaned. “Why can’t you be happy?” She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that she’d feel better when she opened them.

While she had calmed down, yes, she couldn’t say she was feeling much better. She stared out in front of her, at people of every shape, size, and color walking around, then further up at the bright lights, albeit more subdued in the daytime. Her eyes ended up fixating on one of the billboards animated on another skyscraper. It was an advertisement for some sort of ice cream, showing a woman in a peaceful, open space and taking an indulgent spoonful. It read, ‘where is your happy place?’ and transitioned to another ad shortly after.

“Well, that’s a little on the nose,” Jan murmured with a roll of her eyes. But she did pose the question to herself – where was her happy place?

Theatre camp. Oh, how she loved and longed for that summer, the one she might argue was the peak of her adolescence. Every day she got to perform, whether it was improv or reenacting songs and scenes from her favorite musicals. And every night, she got to make new memories of another, more intimate kind.

Jan decided to siphon whatever lingering serotonin she could from those memories as she stood up. She had only just turned to head back into the building when–

“Jan? Jan Sport?”

“Yeah?” Jan, at first, wasn’t sure if she was still daydreaming. She had to be, because the last time she had heard that distinct voice… No way. Okay, there were simply too many coincidences in a row for it to not mean something. “Oh my god, Crystal? Is that really you?”

Crystal beamed brightly and nearly knocked Jan over when she hugged her. “This is so crazy!” When she finally let go, she took a step back to look Jan over – a lot had changed in the ten years since they had last seen each other. “And you got even hotter, crazy. What’re you up to these days?”

“I work there,” Jan pointed at the building behind her. “Law firm. Busy, boring stuff. What about you?”

“I was in charge of props and scenery for an Off-Off-Broadway show, but the run was cut short. It turns out, people didn’t want another musical about a historical figure. It’s a shame, I thought Van Buren had potential,” she explained. “Bad timing, huh? I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Jan deflated as the sparks of excitement started tapering out. “You are? To where?”

Crystal’s smile weakened, a tinge of embarrassment in her expression. “Back to Springfield. I know it’s not as… exciting as Manhattan, but it’s where I’m happiest. Sometimes that’s what’s gotta come first, y’know? I miss being that happy.”

The cogs were already turning in Jan’s mind. This was kismet, it had to be. There couldn’t have been a more obvious hint unless it was a neon sign literally blinking in her face. “Absolutely, I totally get it. And good for you for prioritizing like that, I’m sure it’ll save you a lot of money too.”

“Definitely. But hey, let me give you my number. If you’re ever in the area, let me know. I’d love to catch up,” Crystal smiled, putting her number in Jan’s phone when the other girl all but shoved it into her hand.

“You certainly will,” Jan quickly assured, sending Crystal a text when she got her phone back so she would have her number as well.

——

Jan looked at her phone, at the six missed calls she had from her mother, and debated whether or not she should call her back before her plane boarded. It came down to the choice of whether she wanted to be crippled with anxiety before or after she landed. At least if she did it before, she could take a xanax and sleep through the flight. So, on the seventh call, she answered. “Hi, Mom.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Alexis shrieked. “Missouri? You’re moving to Missouri? I couldn’t even find it on the fucking map! I tried to google it and the first result just said ‘why?’. You were just about to get the junior partner promotion, what is the matter with you?”

“Cities like Springfield need people like me, Mom,” Jan explained. “There’s never gonna be a shortage of talented lawyers in Manhattan, but I could do some real good out in the Midwest. I already have a job, an apartment, everything’s fine.”

Alexis muttered indistinguishably under her breath, trying to calm herself. “I just don’t understand why you would want to throw your life away for that shtetl. What does Springfield have to offer you?”

Jan sighed. “You wouldn’t understand, I don’t expect you to… But this is something I need to do.”

“Alright,” she relented. “Text me when you land.”

This wouldn’t be the last conversation they had about this, Jan knew that. But as she boarded the plane, she was relieved that the conversation didn’t go half as badly? as she thought it would. She would still need a xanax, but at least she would sleep soundly.

For most of the five hour flight, Jan got the sleep she so desperately needed, and it wasn’t long before she began the tedious process of moving into her new house. She had surprised herself by deciding to become a homeowner, but she couldn’t resist how much further a Manhattan dollar went in the Midwest.

Jan had just finished up with the movers when she began to feel like she was being watched. She turned and noticed a woman about her age – perhaps a few years younger – leaning against the railing of the front porch, looking at her with an intrigued expression. “Hi!” She chirped to, who she assumed, was her new neighbor.

She narrowed her gaze. “Are you a cop or are you in the witness protection program?”

“Neither? I just moved here from New York,” she explained.

“Why?”

She shrugged, looking around. It was a suburban neighborhood, similar to the one she had grown up in, but more middle class (and she was sure she was the only person with any Jewishness in their DNA in a twenty mile radius). The houses were both spacious and spaced out and everything was calm, if not a bit bland. “Change of scenery.”

Her neighbor wasn’t convinced, but dropped it for the time being. “Right… What’s your name, city girl? I’m Jaida.”

“Oh my God. I haven’t even introduced myself,” Jan jogged over to her and extended her hand. “I’m Jan Sport, so nice to meet you, neighbor.”

Jaida looked at her oddly, but shook her hand nonetheless. “So what do you do exactly?”

“I’m a lawyer. I got this great offer at this firm by a lovely Canadian woman, I simply had to take it,” she gave a clearly rehearsed answer. “What about you?”

“I’m a student,” Jaida answered flippantly. “I actually gotta finish some work. Good luck with your Canadian lawyer job.” She went back inside before Jan could offer a response.

Not that Jan was perturbed. She shrugged as she walked into her new home. “She seems cool.”

——

“Once again, we are so excited to have you at our firm. We thought we received your resumé by mistake, to be completely honest,” Brooke Lynn remarked as she took Jan on a tour of the office.

Jan had a bright grin on her lips as she looked around the office, admittedly only listening to every other word or so. “Uh huh, cool. Hey, is the cell service bad out here or something? It’s just that I texted my friend two days ago and I haven’t heard back from her yet, and I’m sure she’s been trying to reach me.”

Brooke furrowed her brows in confusion. “Hm… No, that’s not really an issue out here. Anyway, this is your office. It’s no Manhattan view, but I think you’ll settle in fine.” As they left the office, her attention suddenly shifted. “Oh, Brita! Brita!” She flagged down a woman by the copy machine. “This is Jan, the Harvard-Columbia grad I was telling you about.”

Brita stood upright, offering a tight-lipped smile. “Hi, so nice to meet you. I’m Brita,” she greeted and looked Jan over. “I love your Hermès bag, it looks real.”

“Oh,” Jan tilted her head, “it is real. I got it on sale, though.”

“Of course you did,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “What, exactly, are you doing all the way out here anyway?”

Jan had already become adept at handling this question. “I needed a change of scenery. Couldn’t be a city girl forever.”

Brita’s brows rose suspiciously and her arms crossed. “Ah, yes, the standard NYC-Springfield move. You have any family out here? Friends?”

Jan blinked rapidly and cleared her throat. “Nope, not a soul. Just needed to start somewhere fresh. NYC isn’t as perfect as it is in movies, you know.”

“I know,” she retorted sourly.

Brooke clapped her hands together. “Well, I’m glad you two are getting along. Jan, don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything.” And with that, she had dipped back into her office.

Brita watched Brooke’s office door shut before redirecting her attention to Jan. “Okay, she’s gone. So, why are you really here?”

Jan frowned. “I… just told you?”

She huffed and rolled her eyes. “Fine, I’ll figure it out myself. I love a good mystery.”

“Right… Anyway, I’m gonna go do work. You know. Because this is my job.” Jan slowly backed away, before turning on her heel and walking off at a normal pace.

Brita scoffed, turning to look at her coworker, who had been watching silently from the next cubicle. “Can you believe that bitch, Aiden? Oh, look at me, I moved for a ‘change of scenery’,” she mocked the cheerful lilt their new coworker spoke with.

Aiden rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“Exactly!” Brita nodded. “Ugh, I’m so glad you see it too. I’m gonna crack that nut.”

——

Overall, Jan had deemed her first day of work to be a success. But that was eclipsed by the fact that she still hadn’t heard from Crystal. To distract from her frustration, she stopped by a local bar on the way home, Pony Express.

Well, ‘bar’ didn’t seem to be an accurate title, despite everyone seeming to refer to it as such. Aside from alcohol, it also had a kid-friendly menu that catered to the children that frequented from the soccer leagues that played on the adjacent field and their families.

“Hi,” Jan greeted as she sat at the bar, though her eyes were fixed on her phone. “Could I get a vodka cranberry, please…” she looked up long enough to read the bartender’s name tag, “Gigi?”

“Sure,” Gigi answered, looking Jan over as she made the drink. “Are you new here? I’ve never seen you around before.”

She had yet to tear her eyes from the screen. “Yeah, just moved here from Manhattan. Got a great job offer. And I have a… friend that lives out here, but I’m still waiting to hear from her. She must be having phone problems or something.”

“No kidding,” the bartender hummed. “My best friend just moved back here from Manhattan, maybe you know her,” she joked.

Jan missed the joke in it. “Maybe I do, what’s her name?” She asked, finally managing to look at Gigi, acknowledging her beauty in the back of her mind, but much more interested in her answer.

Gigi chuckled at her reaction. “Crystal Methyd, she was there to do art for this historical play or something.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh my gosh, that’s so crazy! That’s my friend! I, um, do you know where she is right now?”

“No… but I can tell you where she’ll be tonight. Our friend is having this party. You should come, maybe with me.”

Jan arched her brow, a slight smile on her lips. “With you? Like, you’ll pick me up in your car and everything?”

“Yeah… like a date. That’s generally what it consists of.”

There were a few beats of hesitation before Jan nodded. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed like the perfect excuse. “Alright, it’s a date.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Gigi’s mouth. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

By the time she had returned home, Jan had warmed up to the idea. If there was anyone that could get her in Crystal’s direction, it would be a close friend. And she and Gigi were strangers, surely there would be no hard feelings. She just had to play it cool and casual.

Maybe spending the following two hours doing her hair, makeup, and picking out just the right outfit wasn’t ‘casual’ per sé, but it didn’t matter if she looked good enough to catch Crystal’s eye from across the room, like in every cheesy movie she’d seen (and loved).

“Hey,” Jan greeted as she made her way to Gigi. She took careful steps as she walked – her dress was tight and her heels were high, and it took a lot of effort to appear effortless.

But it did seem to work on Gigi, who was struggling with the subtlety in looking her over. “You look… fucking hot.”

Jan beamed brightly. “Thank you! Let’s go, we’re burning moonlight,” she said as she got in the car.

“Who says that?” She murmured to herself as she got in and drove them to the party.

The party was already well-populated by the time of their arrival, allowing them to seamlessly blend in. Despite the party being hosted by one of Gigi’s friends, Jan was the one smiling and waving at anyone she made eye contact with, while Gigi kept more to herself. They managed to get drinks and find a spot to stand and chat in, though Jan’s attention was divided.

“What are you looking for?” Gigi asked after the third or fourth time she noticed Jan not listening. “Crystal? Why are you so worried about finding her, you have a thing with her or something?”

Jan snapped back to attention, shaking her head hard enough for her ponytail to swish about. “No, no, no, it’s nothing like that. We were just such good friends and I haven’t seen her in ages, and it’ll be great to surprise her, that’s all.”

While not entirely convinced, Gigi decided to drop it at that, mostly because she’d received a text that distracted her. “Oh, speak of the devil, guess who just texted me,” she remarked as she looked at her screen. “Looks like she’s not gonna make it here, though. Her girlfriend looped her into a family thing.”

That one word made Jan’s heart sink into the pit of her stomach and she had to blink away the tears of frustration and sadness that threatened to make a sudden appearance. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘girlfriend’?”

The suspicions Gigi had started to grow from Jan’s crestfallen reaction, but she answered nonetheless. “Yeah, they’re high school sweethearts, kinda went on and off in college, I think. They took a break when Crystal moved to New York, but they’ve been back together for… I don’t know, a couple months? Not really on my list of primary concerns.”

“They’re high school sweethearts, that’s so sweet,” Jan said in a breathy gasp, as if she were forcing the words out of an unwilling mouth.

“Are you okay?” Gigi asked, putting her free hand on Jan’s upper arm to steady her. “You seem upset.”

Jan set her drink down on a nearby table and took a breath. “Me? Upset? No, I’m totally fine. I’m just… surprised. That’s all.”

“Really? Because if you have feelings for Crystal or something, it’s–”

Jan cut Gigi off by cupping her face and kissing her. Much to her relief, she felt the other girl relax into the contact. She dragged the kiss out for another moment or so before letting go and standing upright, trying to read her face to see if she had been convincing enough.

“Okay,” Gigi chuckled softly. “Not upset. Point taken.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket as she tried to figure out what was supposed to happen next. “Do you wanna… go find some snacks or something?”

“Actually,” Jan clapped her hands together, “why don’t we get out of here and go back to my place?”

At this point, Gigi had given up on questioning Jan’s answers. She found her odd and somewhat over the top, but it intrigued her, it kept her hooked. “Sure, tonight’s been weird enough, might as well see how this ends up.” She linked arms with her and they walked back out of the house.

The car ride consisted mainly of Jan relying on every flirtation method she knew – she played with Gigi’s hair, rested her hand on her thigh, anything to keep her from asking too many questions. And once they had arrived and promptly relocated to Jan’s bedroom, things escalated quickly. They were making out heavily, limbs interlocked and hands roaming each other’s body. But through the moans, Gigi noticed something that took her right out of the moment. “Are you crying?”

Jan sniffled and wiped her eyes as subtly as she could manage. “What? No, it… it’s just allergies, honestly,” she assured despite her lower lip trembling.

“Yeah, no, I’m out,” Gigi pushed herself off the bed. “You’ve got something going on, clearly. Maybe we’ll try this again another time. Or not. Who knows? Anyway, um, goodnight.” With that, she turned on her heel and left, despite Jan’s protests and insistence that she was fine.

“Fuck…” Jan groaned and flopped onto the bed once she was alone.

——

Jan had been hoping to distract herself from the last night when she got to work that morning. And at first, things seemed to be going well. But barely a couple hours into the day, she found herself cornered into the break room by Brita. “Oh god, now what?” she groaned.

“Don’t you take that tone with me, little girl. I’ve got you all figured out,” Brita smirked. “I know all about Crystal Methyd, how you’ve checked her instagram fifty-four times since you landed in Springfield. You’re obsessed with her and that’s why you moved here.”

Jan’s throat tightened and she wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. “No, no, because that would be crazy and I am not crazy. Crystal and I dated for a few months when we were sixteen, I barely know her,” she insisted. “I moved here for work and Crystal just happened to be here!” she paused to try to collect herself. “I mean, yes, she’s the one that mentioned Springfield when I ran into her. And yes, when I ran into her, it made me feel happy, like glitter was exploding inside of me, and…” Her eyes widened and her face paled. “Oh my god, I’m crazy. I-I’m crazy and stupid and horrible and–”

Brita gripped Jan’s arms firmly and looked into her eyes. “Hey, do not talk about my new friend like that,” she snapped, then waited for the younger woman’s expression to soften. “Sweetie, you’re not crazy. I get it now. You’re just in love.”

“I’m your friend?” Jan asked, brows knitted. “I thought you hated me.”

Brita shook her head. “I hated that you lied to me, silly.”

“Oh, okay, cool,” she smiled, only for her face to drop almost instantly. “Also, I’m not in love, I just told you I–”

“Shh,” Brita put a finger to Jan’s lips. “You don’t have to defend yourself against destiny, you’re so brave for pursuing it. This is the start of a beautiful love story! And I’m gonna make it happen for you.”

Jan smiled warmly. “You are?”

Brita nodded brightly. “Of course, honey,” she noticed Jan’s eyes drift to her phone while she spoke. “What’s up?”

Color rushed back to Jan’s face as she pulled her phone out of her pocket, eager to make sure she read her screen correctly. “It’s Crystal. She wants to know if I wanna get lunch with her sometime.” The two coworkers – now friends – squealed in delight before scrambling to figure out how to word her reply perfectly.

It wasn’t until after she sent it that Jan’s face fell. “Wait… Crystal has a girlfriend. Her friend, who I met once and definitely did not almost hook up with, mentioned it.”

Brita shrugged. “Haven’t you ever seen a romantic comedy? They always have a girlfriend in the beginning. Don’t worry about that,” she assured. “Besides, I’m sure she’s not that great.”

[riverboundao3ff]

Riverbound, Chapter 2

You open your eyes, and the first thing you see is a city.

It’s not just any city, that you conclude within a second of assessing the familiar shape of the uptown skyscrapers. This is Thrashthrust, the hellhole you called home for the better part of seven months. From your vantage point, you can see some poor bastard’s hive is on fire, and sirens are going off in the distance. A billboard with Trizza’s sneering mug lights up the entirety of some ghetto-ass looking street in Outglut.

You’ve never been so happy to be home.  

The first thing you want to do is march your butt down this hill and find the first person you know. Tact be damned, you need a friendly face and a hug.

But that wouldn’t do. If the wrong troll saw you, word would get back to the Heiress that the alien is back and you'd be dead faster than anybody could say “culling drone”. You aren’t just here to hang out and get high with Cirava, not anymore. No, you are back to help start a revolution. Everybody knows what happens to revolutionaries on Alternia.

Upon scanning the horizon, a familiar mountainside greets you, and even from several miles away you spot the conveniently dense forest that could probably hide a whole other city in it. Or a fleet of drones.

Or a cave.

Perfect. I’ll be there soon, guys.

You set off, navigating the Alternian thicket like you’d never even left in the first place. You don’t want to teleport out of fear you accidentally end up ten sweeps in the future and on one of the moons or whatever.

The lightness in your heart only lasts for so long, however, when you realize you have literally no idea what you’re going to tell your friends. What, you got kidnapped by a god? You accidentally got kicked out of reality as everybody who’s normal knows it and got forced into another time in place to befriend a bunch of human kids? Holy hell, did you think you could just waltz back into everybody’s lives like nothing ever happened?

“I fucking hate myself,” you mutter.

But seriously, what was the plan? Show up at the entrance and hope that whatever jade was on guard duty didn’t kill you on the spot? Granted, you’re pretty sure you can’t die permanently, but it would sure throw a wrench in your plans if Wanshi showed up to see what the fuss was all about and saw your dead body on the ground.

Well. If somebody other than one of your friends was there, you’d just have to do what you do best and sweet-talk them into letting you live. The cloister was pretty tight-knit and you’d spent a lot of time down there helping with the grubs, so as long as you didn’t do anything stupid…

Five minutes turned into twenty, then forty, and before you knew it a whole hour had passed, according to the watch John gave you not too long ago. Another rotation of the minute hand passed after that one, and at last you found yourself looking up the path that led to the main entrance to the caverns. You’d walked up this trail more times than you could count on both hands.

Your legs were killing you from the hike, so you took the opportunity to park your ass on a nearby boulder to take a breather. Despite how badly you needed to go to your friends, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it just yet.

Maybe some rehearsal would calm your nerves. 

You cleared your throat and took a deep breath. “Well, hey, guys… I… I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to leave, I promise. I was kidnapped. No, I’m okay. Sort of. I missed you, I missed all of you so damn much. I’m sorry.”

Even in the quiet forest, your words sounded empty. A lump grew in your throat.

God damn it. Just go up there. Go to them!

Your hackles tingled again, but unlike when you were with Vriska on her ship, this wasn’t the gaze of someone you knew and (mostly) trusted that was on you.

Everything happened in the span of a second.

A snarl ripped the air as something huge, white, and furry lunged out from the cover of the forest. Vriska’s dagger was out of its sheath and in your hand before you could even breath. As you ducked and the animal sailed past you, you lashed out with the blade and yelped when the force of it dragging through thick hide and flesh nearly ripped it from your hand.

You turn as the animal lands and whips around to face you, terrifyingly agile for its size. Your heart nearly falls out of your ass when you recognize that familiar broad head and beady black eyes. Oh, fuck me.

The cholerbear snarls in rage at both having missed its prey and having a decent cut across its shoulder. It charges again, and something you learned about bears a long time ago flashes through your brain.

Stand your ground. Make yourself look as big as possible. Scream and yell.

Praying to the Mirthful Messiahs that this wasn’t going to end with the cholerbear just chomping your ass in half like a steak, you jump up on your boulder and scream so hard your throat hurts.

Amazingly, the huge beast slows. Rearing up to its hind legs, it looks you dead in the eye and sniffs at you. You stare back at it, teeth bared and hopefully conveying that you were definitely not on the menu for tonight.

You didn’t want to kill it in case this was some kid’s lusus, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t.

There wasn’t enough time to zap out of the way. One second you’re eye-to-eye with this massive son of a bitch, and the next a giant paw is coming down at your head.

The world spins around you. You hit something hard, a tree, before dropping to the ground with your left side on fire. The sensation is familiar enough for you to instantly know you’ve broken a rib or five.

You’re going to lose, sure enough as the moons will rise again tomorrow, but before you can die you lift your head and screech at the cholerbear in rage. When you come back to life, you’re going to yeet that thing into the nearest black hole.

The cholerbear thunders towards you like a tank, and you brace for the tear of fangs through skin and bone.

One second passes, then another.

A loud whine pierces your eardrums. You roll your head over to see the cholerbear staring at you-- no, something behind you.

Somebody screams. The voice is familiar. The cholerbear hauls furry ass back down the mountainside, followed by a gangly figure in an ankle-length skirt. The figure, a girl(?) skids to a halt at the edge of the clearing before turning back and sprinting towards you. She falls to her knees; you hear the impact through the ground. Strong hands turn you over.

A spectacled, tear-stained face is the last thing you see before you lose consciousness.

<>

Your name is LYNERA SKALBI and

oh, oh shit, no, no, nonono, this isn’t happening, not now!!!

Please, please stay alive, you have to stay alive!!!

please

The girl who alerted you to the smell of cholerbear is still standing at the entrance, probably still surprised that you just took off on her like that, but when you stumble back into sight with a bloody alien in your arms her eyes go very, very wide.

Shock, wonder, and then recognition. She knows who this is.

“Go,” is all she says before you take off running.

The alien’s tiny frame feels like nothing against your chest, like at any moment they might slip away. You hold them tighter and force yourself to run even faster. No, you weren’t going to lose your friend again. Never again.

Three tunnels down, one to the right, two lefts, down four flights of stairs. You all but bust down the door to your study and grab a blanket with one hand, supporting the alien with the other arm, before tossing it over the loungeplank. You pull off their backpack and set them down as carefully as you can. They’re still unconscious. They’re not moving. The coppery reek of their blood is growing stronger and stronger every time you breathe.

With your bloodpusher in your throat, you lean over and press your ear to their chest. The steady thumping of a pulse helps you to breathe, even though there’s no color in your friend’s already pale face. Fuck. You’d helped them treat injuries in the past; their species wasn’t as durable as yours and they got banged up a lot, but you know nothing about how to help with something like this. For all you knew, they were already dying.

Something like ice freezes in your guts. No, that wasn’t going to happen.

You suck in another huge breath and analyze what had just happened. You had found them underneath a sprucesteel tree, and they weren’t unconscious yet but getting close. Cholerbears liked to toss their prey around before eating it.

Silently begging your friend’s forgiveness for the invasion of privacy, you yank up their hoodie to expose their bare torso. Unfortunately, you find what you’re looking for on their left side. Everything from the armpit to their hip was a mess of blood and black and purple bruises. Yep, they’d been thrown against that damn tree.

Good news: you knew that ribs mostly healed on their own, or at least troll ribs. Bad news: they were still bleeding their strange alien copper-blood, a lot of it, and if the wrong troll saw that then the both of you would be in trouble. You’d gladly stab a bitch to protect your best (platonic) friend, but still…

They need stitches, you conclude.

You do not know how to do stitches.

But there is somebody you know who can.

Any other time, you’d be cringing away at the thought of going to him for help, but this was your friend’s life on the line. If you needed to, you would drag that bastard down here by his horns.

“I’ll be right back,” you promise the alien, and then once again you’re running like your life depends on it for the door. Flying back up the stairs, you take a right on the next level and sprint down the corridor to the last room on the left.

No time for hesitation. You ball your hands into fists and rail on that door like it insulted the Mother Grub. “LANQUE! Lanque, open the door! I know you’re in there!”

Something bangs from inside the respiteblock, and a muffled curse is all the warning you get before the door swings open to reveal a very pissed-off Lanque Bombyx, looking like he just woke up from a nap.

Any other time you’d feel a prickle of victory at catching Lanque in his sweatpants, no signature eyeliner to be seen, but now was not that time.

“I need your help,” you get out.

“What the hell? Why me?” he spits. “You know I’m on duty first thing tomorrow-”

“I don’t care! You know first aid, right?” you hiss, shoving your face right up against his.

He jolts back, lips peeling back to reveal wickedly sharp fangs, but then his eyebrows furrow. Something on your face must have told him what he needed to know, because he signals you to wait with one pointer claw before darting back into his respiteblock. Not three seconds later he emerges with a mediculler kit and an ice pack.

You take off, trusting him to keep up with you. You’ve never been more grateful for everybody else to have been off doing whatever. If Bronya saw you two right now, actually working together she’d probably go into bloodpusher failure and die on the spot.

The second you open the door Lanque stiffens, and you know he’s smelling the blood. You shove past him and rush over to your friend. The blanket you’d tossed over the loungeplank has a decent-sized blood stain underneath the alien.

You hear him cautiously slink inside, and then a shocked yell reverberates off the walls.

He’s on his knees beside you before you even have the time to jump, eyes wide with horror. “What-- how?! Fuck, why is there so much blood?”

You’re completely taken aback. Lanque had been close with the alien, too? How come you had never heard about this?

“Their left side,” you say. Lanque pushes the hoodie up and growls. Setting the mediculler kit and the ice pack down, he shoves his arms underneath the alien’s shoulders and legs and picks them up, before rotating them around so that their injured side is facing you and Lanque. With a surprising amount of precision, he then proceeds to wiggle their arm out of the hoodie sleeve and tuck it out of the way.

“Hand me the scissors, I need to get the sports bra off,” he orders.

“You what?”

“The gash goes underneath the fabric.”

You splutter something incoherent, feeling your face heating up, but you pop open the mediculler kit and hand him the scissors. He takes them from you and cuts through the sports bra in two clean swipes. Then, he grabs a rag from the kit and starts cleaning away the blood from the gash.

“Go ahead and bandage that other cut below it. That one doesn’t need stitches,” Lanque mutters. Keeping the rag pressed against the gash on the alien’s upper torso, he grabs a small container with the needles in it. Somehow, he holds the needle steady between his fangs, and with his free hand he threads the string through the top and ties it off. The small part of your thinkpan that isn’t losing its shit over your injured friend is a little impressed (how on Alternia did he learn how to do that?), but you decide you’d made him teach you how to do that later. Thankfully, by the time you clean the other lesser wounds they aren’t bleeding nearly as much, and you bandage them up without a problem.

It takes several long moments for Lanque to stitch up the gash. Ultimately, you decide it’s for the best that your friend is unconscious at the moment, because that really looks like it hurts.

You can’t help but wince when Lanque tugs on the thread to tighten the bonds. Immediately you expect him to taunt you for it, but when you glance up at him it looks like he’s in pain, too. It’s such an unexpected sight you nearly freeze in place.

He finally ties off the stitches, tapes a cooling bandage over it to numb the surrounding skin, and grabs another blanket to throw over them.

Then, you just… sit together.

The longer wand on the alien’s timeteller moves several ticks to the right before Lanque breaks the silence.

“Where did you find them?”

“... Natiri said she smelled cholerbear and blood. I went outside to investigate and found them half-unconscious underneath a sprucesteel tree, with the cholerbear about to kill them. I chased it off and brought the alien to my study. Then I went to go get you because I don’t know how to do stitches,” you tell him.

Lanque nods and then presses his forehead to the alien’s shoulder.

Again, you’re stunned by how much Lanque seems to care about the alien. “Were… are you two close? I didn’t realize you kept in contact with them.”

“... I did. Up until they disappeared a few perigees later we’d hang out and go to parties. Bronya liked that I was friends with them because she was under the impression they would keep me out of trouble.” He snorts.

“Did they?”

“More than I’d like to admit.”

You’re tempted to scold him for dragging your beloved friend into his messes, but Lanque is still holding on to the alien like a lifeline, and so are you, and so for once you keep your mouth shut.

“Daraya and Wanshi are going to be so happy,” you whisper.

A smile makes Lanque’s fangs flash in the light of the bioluminescent fungi growing on your ceiling. “Our friend is back.”

[thismightbeaterribleidea]

Accidental Snowbirding

So I went to Florida and accidentally became a snowbird. I drove south in September with no real timeframe for anything in mind, and I ended up staying on the Gulf coast north of Tampa (Pasco County) for almost three months, minus a couple of weeks I was in Georgia.

Some friends have asked me how the new, nomadic life is going, and I tell them that it hasn’t really felt that nomadic. I’ve enjoyed being close to my friend Ron — I had a regular rotation of several campgrounds, none of them more than half an hour from his place. It reminded me of the decade-plus ago when we both lived in Denver, in old, cheap apartments within walking distance of each other. A friend calls and says “do you want to come over?” and you just go over. It’s lovely. We both got into paddleboarding (more on that later) and explored some rivers. We even took an airbnb trip to the Smokies and northern Alabama before the pandemic escalated. So it’s been interesting and good, if different from the types of images that motivated me to buy this big-ass van (wilderness, solitude, aspen groves, desert mesas).

Here’s what I remember from the last few months:

A cotton-candy-pink bird forages on a shoreline and it is so quiet that you can hear its three-clawed feet pattering in the mud. Ninety minutes later we are scarfing down fried chicken in the car in a crowded parking lot.

In the trailer park, people drive golf carts around in loops: maybe this passes for exercise, or maybe they are hoping to run into someone to talk to.

Until November, I sweat and sweat and sweat, and then it cools off enough for me to run in the morning and it’s glorious. 

During the day, there is constant traffic and the lights are always red. There are a lot of billboards, all promising different things, but the one that makes us angry is the one that says “Jesus promises stability.”

I spend the night at a trailer park and the ladies in the office are sweet and efficient and wearing masks. But the spot I’m assigned is across from a mobile home with one of those flags that is half the U.S. flag and half the Confederate flag, and although my privilege probably keeps me safe here, I keep running through the equations with slightly different variables: who would be safe in this spot, in this trailer park/this county/this state/this country, and under what circumstances? What could make all of us safer? And the people who chose to pay for and display that absurdity of a flag, why is that flag the story they tell themselves? And what is the topography of the shared responsibility for all of this bullshit?

We paddle the Hillsborough River and see no other boaters but two alligators. One is basking on a log, and when I turn my head for a second it drops into the water with a massive splash: one moment there was a six-foot alligator; the next moment there was nothing but ripples. It was that fast. My friend decides he will not paddle here alone.

I see live oaks that have Spanish moss hanging from their branches, sure — but they’re also covered in lichens, and on the horizontal branches there are carpets of multiple kinds of moss and clusters of foot-tall ferns. It’s a whole ecosystem in one tree.

I’m driving “home” (most frequent campground) late one night and I am alone on a very dark road. In my headlights, I see a human figure in the middle of my lane, facing directly at me. I think: goblin! But it is a human person. I swerve into the other lane in case he moves. But he doesn’t move a muscle. He is in a half-crouch with his hands on his knees. I catch a glimpse of him in profile as I pass: his face is set in a rictus, jaw clenched. He is still staring straight ahead, unblinking, as if he hasn’t even seen me.

I call Ron just to reassure myself that I haven’t slipped out of the real human world and into someplace else.

“Oh my God,” he says. “But no, you’re still in the real world. There’s a lot of meth around here. He’s not a demon or anything. It’s just Florida.” He is wearing a dark sweatshirt and standing in the dark on a dark road; what if he gets hit? I call the police and I hate that to this day I still wonder if that was the right decision.

We get into paddleboarding. Ron already has an inflatable paddleboard, and I buy one with money I should be saving for things like van insulation or the loose crown on my lower left molar that is already living on borrowed time. But the paddleboard is amazing. Previously, I hadn’t gotten it: why stand when you could sit? I’m lazy and I have crappy feet; I hate standing. But this isn’t regular standing. It’s walking-on-water standing. In our favorite river, the Weeki Wachee, you can see all kinds of things from a paddleboard that it’s harder to see in a kayak, just because of the angle. On a paddleboard, you look straight down and there’s a fish striped like a zebra, an old pine log submerged ten feet down in the clear water, a scurrying blue crab, a bed of rippled sand.

We start at the public park and paddle up against a stiff current. Twice, we get to the three-mile mark and there is the same black-and-white cormorant in the same tree both times. We are familiar with the fact that if you time it right, so that you get back to the park as late as possible without actually paddling in the dark, and the crowds taper off so you have the river to yourself, the deepest pools are turquoise on our way upriver and viridian on our way down.

There are sometimes manatees on the river. In this part of the world, manatees are THE charismatic megafauna. And they are charismatic as hell. Once we are out late, a couple miles up the river with no one else around, and we see a mother and baby grazing on eelgrass in shallow water. We watch for minutes, mesmerized. The baby is tiny for a manatee: about the size of a Corgi. It must be very, very new. There is another manatee that I’m pretty sure I see several times on different days: it is very plump, with three pink slash marks across its back. We get to the point where, if there is a throng of other boaters stopped near where manatees are feeding, we don’t try to stop and see the manatees. We’ve seen them before, and we’ll see them again, when we don’t have to worry about the people and their kayaks and canoes in the current.

The last time I went to the Weeki Wachee, I went alone. The leaves were turning, because the calendar’s close-to-Christmas is Florida’s fall. I hadn’t ever planned on seeing a blazing orange maple next to tropical blue water, but it happened. Close-knit formations of big, soft gray, doe-eyed fish darted under my feet, and at the appointed time the water started turning dark green. In one of the final bends just upriver from the park, there is a deep spot called Hospital Hole. As I paddled down towards it, I saw one manatee, then another break the surface to breathe. I drifted over the hole, away from the manatees near the surface, and I saw the outline of another one eight or ten feet down against the very dark blue of very deep water.

The Weeki Wachee is a very narrow river, usually not more than thirty feet across and often only twenty. It’s also shallow, four or five feet on average, twelve where the current has carved a deep groove or pocket. Hospital Hole is at one of the river’s widest points, I’d guess maybe 150 feet from bank to bank. The hole itself — technically a sinkhole, but with a couple of small springs feeding into it — is only about 30 or 40 feet wide, but 140 feet deep. It goes down so far that there are different layers of water: freshwater, saltwater, a layer that is anoxic, another layer that is so full of hydrogen sulfide that divers can smell the rotten-egg odor even though they’re breathing compressed air. I read online that the manatees often go to Hospital Hole to sleep at night. The sinkhole-spring, like a big deep pocket, gives them space to stay together and still spread out. They can sink down below where they have to worry about boat engines or curious paddle boarders or whatever else manatees worry about. Every so often, they come up to breathe, then sink down again. Respire, rest, repeat.

It’s 7:17 p.m. as I am writing this, so they’re probably there right now.

***

So that’s Florida! Other, more nuts-and-bolts things that have happened include...

I installed lights and outlets. This was a big project and a big deal, since it means that I can have things like a fan (to keep me from sweating to death in the summer), an electric cooler (a.k.a. mini-mini-fridge) for things like vegetables and hummus and cheese and cold boozy beverages, and, well, lights at night that aren’t a harsh blue-white solar lantern, which is what I was using before October, when I made these improvements. Anything electrical is always a little scary; I’m nervous every time I have to go into the breaker box and always surprised when I’m able to touch it without shocking myself. I also had an extremely minimal understanding of how to splice wires together and how to connect all these lights to each other, to the dimmer switch, and to the breaker box. This involved a lot of googling, and even though the DIY van blogs seemed to say that installing lights would take half a day, it took me the better part of two days. But it’s done, and I’m very happy with it. Fiat lux, motherf***er!

My new favorite public agency is the Southwest Florida Water Management District. Occasionally, if I’d had a few drinks at Ron’s house, I spent the night parked in his driveway. Sometimes I stayed in private RV parks. (This was mostly driven by the need to empty the van’s port-a-pot once a week or so — public dump stations are not easy to find in this area of Florida; the closest was about an hour away.) But mostly, I stayed at campground operated by the SWFWMD. These campgrounds are in big tracts of forested, marshy, watery land, and they are great primitive campgrounds that cost $0. There’s no water, no showers, no other fancy campground amenities, but there is usually one outhouse, and each campsite has a picnic table and a fire pit. They’re basic and beautiful.

My favorite campground is called the Serenova Tract. It’s about 15 minutes from Ron’s house, and the campground is in a bunch of pines and live oaks. Horses are allowed, and on one of the last weekends I spent there, several people with horses stayed overnight and hung up Christmas lights. The next morning, they were joined by a dozen other horses and riders who all went for a morning trail ride through the woods. I was insanely jealous.

The other SWFWMD campground I stayed at was called Cypress Creek. It’s a little farther from Ron’s place than Serenova, so it was my second choice when Serenova was full but my van’s shitter wasn’t. It’s a beautiful spot, with tons of big pines. But right now I’m a little wary of it because the last time I stayed there I woke up from a dead sleep at 4:51 a.m. when I heard someone singing and talking to themselves. (The campground had been totally empty when I got there and still was as far as I could see.) It was probably just someone who had come in on foot and was drinking because it was cold (40 degrees) outside, but it was still a bit unnerving. 

I also have a favorite RV park. I was thinking that my relationship with these places would be strictly utilitarian, and it still mostly is. But out of the three RV parks that I’ve stayed at, there’s one small one called Suncoast that I actually kind of enjoyed: even though I only went there occasionally, the three staff people remembered me when I called or came in, and they often gave me a discount on their regular rates because I don’t use any electricity. They (both staff and most guests) also seem to be taking pretty good pandemic precautions. (I actually saw someone get kicked out of the office when they tried to come in without a mask, something that I’ve never seen in any other business since March!) The place has nice big pine trees, and by the office there’s a table where people put free food that they aren’t using, or occasionally two-day-old bread that someone got from Publix for free. The last time I was there, some people had decorated their campers and RVs with lights and it was kind of charming. I still heavily prefer to be out in the woods by myself and not spending any money, but I’m glad I found someplace pleasant for my once-a-week-or-so sewer/water needs.

I figured out how to stay warm while sleeping. This is a bigger deal than it sounds because a) I haven’t insulated the van yet, so at night, it’s only a few degrees warmer than whatever the temperature is outside, and b) I’m a very cold sleeper. Florida is SUPER WARM compared to any other place I’ve ever lived, but in December, it started getting a little chilly at night: down into the fifties, then the forties, then, a few nights ago, 30 degrees. I’ve camped in near-freezing or slightly-below-freezing temperatures before, but sometimes it wasn’t very comfortable — even with good long underwear and socks and a hat and a zero-degree-rated sleeping bag. But I’ve figured out a system for my bed that uses four blankets, layered like a licorice allsort: a quilt, a heavy wool blanket, another quilt, and a faux-wool blanket. If it gets below 40, I can add my zero-degree down sleeping bag and be not just comfortable but actively toasty, like a baking croissant.

Unrelatedly, I’ve been having a hard time getting out of bed in the morning.

I’ve found that my life in a van is basically like my life has been anywhere else. I work. I sleep. I stay up late reading things on the internet when I should be sleeping. Sometimes I go running or do yoga (while trying not to bump into the cabinet or kick the front console or hit the ceiling). Sometimes I do fun things, like paddleboarding or talking to friends. I make goals and plans and don’t follow through on them, except when very very occasionally I do. But when I’m looking up van stuff online, I often run across photos of people who are #selfemployed #vanlife and the photos of them working are:

A woman is seated propped up on pillows in the bed in the back of her van. The doors are open, framing a view of the cerulean sea, so that you can practically smell the gentle breeze blowing over the dunes. She has a laptop on her lap and is looking thoughtfully out to sea while a cup of tea steeps on a tray that is on the white coverlet of her bed.

Or

A man is seated at the dinette in the back of his van. He has a laptop, a French press, a mug of coffee, and a plate with two scones on it on the table. The table, and in fact the whole dinette with its two upholstered benches, would be at home on a small luxury yacht, and it’s the kind of dinette that you make into a bed at night. The astute, intent expression on the man’s face give the viewer to understand that he is competent and disciplined and never stays up two hours past his bedtime because he’s too lazy to lower the dinette table and rearrange the cushions and put on all his sheets and blankets. We are also given to understand that the electrical system in his van would have no problems handling the power drain of a bean grinder, even though he is clearly parked in the high Rockies — again, with the back doors open, the better to take in the late spring air and see the fresh green of the aspen trees — and it’s often cloudy. Lastly, we are given to understand that he baked those scones himself, because when he’s not working, hiking, lumberjacking, or otherwise living his best life, he enjoys unwinding by baking bread and pastries. (Not in the van; don’t be silly! He bakes outside, over a wood fire.)

(A tangent: Why do so many people have their van doors open in photos I see online? Do they only stay in places with no bugs? If I tried that in Florida, or even Maryland or Colorado half the year, I’d be awake half the night swatting at mosquitoes and/or flies.)

In contrast, a photo of me being self-employed in a van would look like:

A woman is sprawled in an ungainly fashion on her narrow bunk. Her laptop is braced by her lower ribs and propped up with a pillow placed over her gut. The pillow has a cat on it. The windows of the van are covered in silver bubble-wrap, so very little light gets in. Absolutely no doors are open, because the van is parked behind a Dunkin Donuts so the woman can get free wifi and not burn through all the data on her phone plan. She takes a break to heat up a can of Campbell’s soup on an alcohol stove, adding a handful of dehydrated mixed vegetables, to be healthy. As she stirs the soup, she gazes contemplatively out the windshield towards the adjacent parking lot, where there is an IHOP. #vanlife

Or

A woman is sitting in the passenger seat of her van with her feet on the dashboard and her laptop on her lap. Beside her in the cupholder is a steaming Hydroflask full of the cheapest tea she could buy at Publix. The van is parked in a grove of live oaks. Spanish moss sways gently in the morning breeze. Behind the woman, in the dark recesses of the van, sets of clothes are hanging: leggings and a shirt, still sweaty, by the side doors, a bathing suit over the sink, a t-shirt and shorts for sleeping in by the rear cabinet. Several kitchen towels are draped on the driver’s seat and on the dashboard because the cab leaks above the sun visors when it rains, and even though she’s tried caulking it three times, she still can’t get it to stop. #vanlife

The good thing, though, is that I’m still getting work and making a living. I can do it someplace that’s safe, without having to risk my life to do it. And I’m getting paid a fair hourly wage. But then the very terrible thing is that everyone should be able to say what I just said, but so many people can’t: they’re not making a real living through their work, they have to risk their lives to do it, and they’re not getting paid a fair wage.

(Brief interlude as I stare at the ceiling angrily.)

***

Here’s what I’m doing next: I left Pasco County on the 16th. I’ll be in what I think of as “traveling quarantine” until the 30th, staying in a national forest near Jacksonville. (With a couple of stops at state parks to refill water, empty the port-a-pot, and maybe take a real shower.) I’ll be in Maryland on New Year’s Eve and will stay at my parents’ while I insulate the van, build interior walls, and do a bunch of other stuff so that I can call it (mostly) finished. Then I’m thinking of going to New Mexico and spending late winter/early spring there… parked on top of a mesa… sipping a cup of French-press coffee on my white coverlet while I thoughtfully gaze out the open doors of my van… (I really would like to park on top of a mesa though.)

[ohblackdiamond]

careening (bruce/paul, pg-13)

"There’s no—casting couch for a bunch of has-beens. No magic bullet. You can push and promote however you wanna, but if they don’t play it, it doesn’t fucking matter.” Struggling with Gene's indifference towards the band, Paul takes Bruce out to dinner after a recording session.

Notes: For @lillianastras who I believe requested Bruce/Paul a long, long time ago. My only wish is that it was cuter.

“careening”

by Ruriruri

we measure our gains out in luck and coincidence lanterns to turn back the night and put our defeats down to chance or experience and try once again for the light –al stewart, “a man for all seasons”

“What do you mean, you’re not coming?”

Bruce looked at Eric, who shook his head dully, but didn’t say a word. As soon as Paul’s back was turned, he ran his finger in front of his neck. Bruce nodded.

“We can’t just cancel for today. We paid for the studio space already. We—I don’t fucking care, Gene. I don’t. No. You’re not—you’re not listening to me.” An exhale. Paul had the phone cord wrapped around his fist, was pacing back and forth. “The hell does that matter? You still think you’re gonna be some big star?”

Bruce had thought things were improving between them. That long break after the last tour should’ve done them some good. He’d mentioned it to Eric a few months back, after a shoot. Eric, weirdly cynical, had just shrugged.

“Gene wants to get a finger in a bunch of pies at once.” He’d looked off somewhere, past Bruce and past the room itself, not really wistful, and not really condemning, and took a swig of water. “Paul doesn’t like taking chances. Which is kinda funny, I mean, music’s such a… such a big risk in the first place. But I guess it’s the only chance he ever took.”

“What about you?” Bruce had asked, and Eric had laughed, a little.

“Well, my chance didn’t get me there half as fast, but maybe I’m better off for it.” He’d paused, pulling something out of his hair. A rhinestone that must’ve fallen off his outfit during the photoshoot earlier. He squinted at it, then he flicked it to the floor. “I don’t want anything bigger than I have. The fame bit, the glamor bit… it’s crap, Bruce, you know it, I know it—but they—they don’t know it. And they’re not gonna ever figure it out.”

It was a hell of a thing to say while drinking a bottle of Evian. It was also a hell of thing to tell a guy who’d known both of them, in the periphery, before KISS was even a band. But Bruce knew Eric was sincere. He couldn’t help himself. That it-factor, star power, whatever, that could spin pretense into reality for two hours at a time—it wasn’t in Eric any more than it was in Bruce. And that was fine, that was fine, except that it meant they never had any leverage. It forced them both into hours spent sitting through Paul and Gene’s arguments, paid to spectate, paid to shut up and do their jobs. Like right now. Paul was in particularly bitter form this afternoon, Queens accent getting stronger with every sentence. Bruce could picture Gene on the other line, unemotional at first, all-business, gradually devolving into defensive protests as Paul kept on.

“Oh, don’t start. Don’t start. I don’t wanna hear it. Personal? No, it’s not personal, it’s just my fucking livelihood and our fucking band—why the hell would I be upset? Yeah. Yeah, why the hell not. You didn’t even write the shit you mailed in—” and Paul cut himself off. Bruce could feel his gaze on him. It made him stop—despite Eric shaking his head earlier, he’d been trying to leave the room.

Something in Paul’s gaze seemed like it faltered. Maybe some residual piece of shame. He took the phone from his ear, cupping the receiver in his palm.

“I’m almost done, Bruce. Don’t leave yet.” And then, quieter still, without raising the receiver to listen in again, he hung up. Not with the slam Bruce had heard at least five times just during their time in this studio. Just set it down almost timidly, as if it were a piece of crystal instead of plastic. As if he were giving up. It was another few tense seconds before he spoke again. “Three-fourths of the band, that’s seventy-five percent. That’s still a passing grade, right?”

Eric nodded. Bruce repeated the gesture, added a quick “yeah” that didn’t seem to bolster Paul any. Paul still managed a faint twitch of a smile.

“C’mon.”

--

It wasn’t much of a recording session. Paul messed around on the guitar a bit, going back and forth on some lyrics. Eric was too enthusiastic on the drum fills, trying to make up for the tension in the studio, still heavy as L.A. smog in the air. It seemed like it just pissed off Paul further, but for once, he kept all snippy comments to himself.

Bruce just played when he was told, the chords as easy and rote as folding clothes. He knew Paul was looking for that sound—that one melody to bring it all back. That confidence behind a sure-fire hit. Bruce didn’t know what that feeling was like, but it must have been something else, or Paul wouldn’t still be chasing it ten years later. Gold record sales and MTV video rotations didn’t matter like Billboard bullets. Proof of success wasn’t in the tape deck—just in sold-out stadiums and constant radio play.

And Bruce couldn’t kid himself, really. There was no way this album would even get a top-40 single, no matter the press or the songs or the guitar work. No amount of effort could court a burnt-out audience. The old KISS Army had long since devolved into a bunch of twenty-somethings more interested in the stock market than heavy metal. Gene understood that. Paul didn’t.

Paul cut the session about half an hour short. Eric ducked out quickly, just a fluffy mess of curls rushing out the door, and after awhile, Bruce found himself nearly alone in the studio, with just Paul standing there, watching him pack up his guitar. Bruce raised his head, expecting a goodbye and getting a question, sudden and a little edgy, instead.

“How long’ve you been in KISS now?”

He didn’t have to think about it.

“Three years.”

“Three years? Three years and I haven’t ever taken you out to dinner. Jesus. Well. We’ll fix that.” Paul got up, putting his own guitar, one of them, back in its case. “I haven’t had a bite all day. What do you like, Bruce?”

“I’m not picky.”

“Then I’ll be picky. There’s a sushi place a couple miles from here. I’ll drive us over.”

And that was it. Ten minutes later, he was in the passenger’s seat of Paul’s car. Paul fidgeted, stuck in a CD (“the damn things skip as bad as a record, I should’ve got the tape player”). For all his interview claims of not listening to other bands, Bruce knew better. He had Slippery When Wet in there, was tapping his fingers against the wheel to the beat. Always on the lookout for a hook to riff off of, or a turn of phrase to peel away. Something dirty and distinctive. Emulating the other bands wasn’t getting them any airplay, but God, were they all trying.

“They say Mick Jagger’s putting out another solo album this year.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Paul nodded, turning up the volume. He was always doing that. When Bruce had first joined KISS, Gene had pulled him to the side one day, told him, quietly, that Paul needed to stand or sit beside him during interviews and T.V. appearances. Bruce had thought that was the oddest bit of micromanaging he’d ever heard of, telling him where to stand, or where not to stand. It had taken him awhile—probably half that tour—to really figure out why. Paul’s hearing wasn’t great, and it made his nerves worse. Particularly when there was more than one interviewer, more than one voice he had to focus on. He depended on Gene’s oddly gentle conspiracy, Gene’s automatic willingness to stand next to him and repeat any question for him, to even get out there, as if Bruce or Eric couldn’t have done the same.

“If it does well enough, he might cut out.” Paul said it almost like a dare. Still on about Jagger. Bruce raised his head.

“Of the Stones? I don’t think he would.”

“No, out of the Commodores. Of course the Stones.”

Bruce flinched slightly. He felt Paul’s glance on him, brief and almost softer, heard him clear his throat.

“Sorry. You don’t think he’d leave? Why not?”

“Because he can’t. There’s the money, but… he couldn’t cut out of being one of the Stones, not even if he wanted to.”

“You’re real naïve, Bruce. It’s cute.” Paul skipped the next song on the CD, then, once he’d surveyed the deck, he pushed another button. The CD swapped out with a humming sound, and after a second, Bob Seger came rasping through the speakers. Paul went silent then, except for that slight rap of his fingers against the steering wheel.

Bruce didn’t push for more conversation. Something mild about the weather, maybe, but that was about it. Paul was an oddly adept driver; Bruce had known that beforehand, but being in the car with him cemented it. He threaded through the traffic as adroitly as the cabbie he hadn’t been in fifteen years. Pulled in to the restaurant, a restaurant that didn’t look as luxurious as Bruce had expected.

He knew, three years in, that the flush of fame was more than half a put-on, that pretense was the name of the game, but he was still surprised. Paul and Gene kept a tight fist on KISS’ image, made sure the Playboy playmates and the rented mansions were all the public got a glimpse at. Even tried to keep him and Eric from really seeing what was behind the scenes. The money situation, the tour situation, like the two of them couldn’t count the empty seats from their vantage points onstage. But the put-ons had continued anyway. When they’d had sit-down dinners as a band, depending on the area, Paul and Gene would do their best to go somewhere classy, somewhere the right people would be. Not someplace like this.

He was surprised when Paul stepped out ahead of him and opened the restaurant door for him. Less surprised at the flash of recognition from the hostess, and the hasty way she led them both to a table.

“You come here often, Paul?”

“I’m just a good tipper.”

They sat down. The waitress awkwardly tried to pull back their chairs for them. Bruce cocked his head at that, but let her. She passed out the menus, rattling off the evening’s specials as if she wasn’t used to giving them, taking furtive glances at Bruce that Paul didn’t seem to notice, handing back the menu after barely looking at it.

“I’ll have a Long Island iced tea,” he said, “and he’ll take—Bruce, what do you want?”

“Coke is fine.”

“Are you sure?” Paul paused. “I probably won’t have half of it, if you’re worried about my driving—"

“I’m sure.”

“All right. … Go ahead and start me off on the spicy yellowtail roll, I think.” Paul said it so conversationally that Bruce thought he was still talking to him and not the waitress, at first. It didn’t help that he wasn’t quite looking her in the face, just turned vaguely in her direction. Antsy. The busboy darted over, passed out their glasses of water and a small saucer of lemon slices—Paul must’ve come down here more than once or twice.

It felt odd. The whole thing felt a little off-kilter, as if the tenseness from the studio had lingered like a shot of novocaine in his system. As if there was something—something everyone else was expecting. Bruce gave the waitress a second to scribble the order down before adding his.

“I’ll have a California roll.”

“Damn, you’re really breaking the bank here,” Paul said dryly.

“Nah, just kosher.” It was the first joke he’d even tried to go for since getting in the car, but Paul seemed to appreciate it. Enough to smile.

“I won’t tell. In fact, I might have one myself.” Paul took one of the lemon slices, squeezing it into his glass of water before dropping it in, shoving it down to the bottom with his straw. “Can’t get any farther from yeshiva than Hollywood, can you?”

“There’s always San Francisco.”

“You’re pretty funny when you try, Bruce.” Paul sipped at his water. “Did you go?”

“Go where?”

“To yeshiva.”

Bruce peeled the paper off his straw, shaking his head.

“Nah. Bob did. I wasn’t that interested.”

“Me, either. Hell, I didn’t even have my bar mitzvah. How’s Bob doing these days?”

Bob wasn’t a topic Bruce expected Paul to broach on his own. He blinked, then nodded, answering after a swallow of water.

“He’s good. Still touring with Meat Loaf.”

“Good.” Paul toyed with his straw. “If… if he gets a break, tell me. I’d like to catch up.”

Bob probably didn’t want to catch up. With him, the resentment simmered deep under the surface, probing its way up at regular intervals that only Bruce ever had to deal with. Fifteen years of it. Awhile back, Bruce had gone on a tour of Mount Kilauea, over in Hawaii. The guides had let them walk nearer to the lava flows than Bruce ever thought they would, and one guy almost lost his shoe from taking a second to step on the stuff. That was how Bob was. Volatility that seemed harmless right up until it set you on fire.

“Well, he’s on that world tour now, he’s pretty busy.”

“Yeah.” The corner of Paul’s mouth quirked up faintly as the waitress returned with their drinks. He was looking at her now—he kept looking at her past when she left their table—a wry expression on his face that Bruce couldn’t quite figure out. It wasn’t interest. She wasn’t Paul’s type; not blonde and not beautiful. Just a regular girl with an irregular patron. “I know.”

“I think he’s got a month off in July,” Bruce finally offered.

“Cool. Let me know?”

“Sure.”

Not a whole lot they could talk about that Bruce could see. Bob hadn’t ghosted a track for KISS in five years or so, and with Bruce around, he wouldn’t need to. Maybe Paul was just feeling sentimental, wanting to visit somebody that had been his friend. He didn’t exactly have a surplus of those.

Bruce sipped at his Coke, but Paul was already downing his drink like it was water after a marathon. Strange to watch. Bruce had never seen Paul take more than a single glass of wine at a party. New Year’s saw him more sober than most nursing home residents. Another absence out of Gene shouldn’t have been enough to change that.

“You probably think I’m a prick,” Paul said out of nowhere, waving his hand before Bruce could respond. “It’s fine, everybody does.”

“I don’t.”

“Jesus, Bruce, we’re having dinner, not discussing your contract. You can say I’m a prick if you want to. It won’t hurt my feelings.”

“I think you’re under a lot of pressure right now.”

“Is that what Eric told you to say?”

“No, I’m just—things seem like they’re getting to you.”

“Then it’s that obvious.” Paul laughed. “It’s so obvious you’re calling me out on it.”

“Paul, I’m not calling you out—”

“You are. That’s fine.” The Long Island iced tea was already halfway gone. Bruce hadn’t had more than three swallows of his soda. Paul shifted. “Hell, it’s kind of refreshing. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I’m not trying to—” Bruce started, but Paul continued before he could even finish the thought.

“I like it, all right, Bruce? Nobody but Gene’ll even try to tell me off anymore. And he doesn’t care enough to bother.” Paul only paused to take a long gulp of his drink. “Tell me what I should do. Tell me how to calm down.”

Bruce hesitated. His palm felt like wood against the side of his glass of Coke. He’d seen this before out of Paul. Not particularly often, and almost never toward him. That weird, calculated lashing out. It made him feel like a frog in the hands of a biology major. The amount of evisceration didn’t matter; he’d be dead no matter what.

“I don’t know. Look, man, your business is your business.”

Surprisingly, Paul went silent at that. His brow was furrowed, but he didn’t look angry or put-out. He didn’t look much of anything. The waitress came by with their sushi rolls, but Bruce only took the chopsticks in his hand and broke them apart, waiting for Paul to answer, or change the subject, watching him drain the last of his drink and order another without much of a pause.

“My business is your business, there’s the problem. Yours and Eric’s and Gene’s and—and Peter’s, isn’t that a laugh? His share of KISS hasn’t expired yet. God. I’ve been paying his rent for seven fucking years. Serve him right if the new album didn’t sell one copy.”

That was news to Bruce. He tried not to react visibly.

“You don’t mean that.”

“You sure I don’t? A quarter of zero’s still zero.”

“You want the album to do well. So do I. So does everybody involved.”

“It’s not gonna do well. Y’know what me and Gene did? We fucked ourselves over. We threw out everybody that we thought was trying to—to steer the ship out from under us. We stacked the deck so full of yes-men that we couldn’t see past our own asses.” Paul exhaled. “You… you’re never gonna tell me my lyrics are shit. You’re never gonna tell me I’m making a goddamn fool of myself out there onstage. I wish you would. I wish for one minute somebody would tell me exactly—”

“Do you really want someone to hurt you that bad?” Bruce said it softly. His throat felt like wet cardboard. Paul’s gaze—vaguely on his face, nowhere near his eyes, ever— dropped straight down to his drink, his fingers twitching before grasping his empty glass again, as if to steady himself.

“I’d beg them for it. If it’d get KISS back on top again, I-I’d let anyone do whatever they wanted.” Paul finally seemed to notice his plate of sushi. He picked one of the rolls up, slipping it into his mouth. He didn’t speak again until he’d finished swallowing. “Course, that’s not how the music industry works. There’s no—casting couch for a bunch of has-beens. No magic bullet. You can push and promote however you wanna, but if they don’t play it, it doesn’t fucking matter.”

Bruce didn’t know how to answer that. The silence spread like the cigarette smoke from a few tables over. He took in the scent, thinking of barrooms and ballrooms, thinking of KKB’s sad little shows when he was a teenager. The way the three of him would go out there for a handful of people, certain it’d work out, because it was working out for his older brother’s buddies. Because they were on tour, only Bruce didn’t know back then that tour was full of pubic lice and moldy boots, only Bruce didn’t know back then that tour nearly ended only a couple months in. He’d only scratched the surface. He hadn’t understood.

Paul’s second drink was set on the table, the drained glass disappearing like a magician’s feeblest trick. The waitress shot both of them a questioning look, one Paul ignored, taking his first swallow. Three shots worth of alcohol in a single glass of that shit. Three shots on an almost empty stomach. Bruce didn’t want to look at Paul right now. Instead, he looked over at the girl, wanting, strangely, to speak to her, to ask her what her expression was for, what she knew that he didn’t. It seemed—it seemed, strangely, like he ought to know, like everyone else knew—but she was back to the other patrons once she’d refilled Bruce’s glass.

“It isn’t even just about being on top anymore. It isn’t about the—the ego trip the way it used to be. I don’t give a damn these days if anybody recognizes me on the street or not.”

Bruce doubted that. He doubted that intensely. He’d seen Paul peering out the tour bus windows after they were in the hotel parking lots too many times. He knew he was always hoping for the old throng of autograph seekers and groupies. Gene, too. Even Eric, in scattered, abashed moments, would talk about the Australian and European tours back in ’80, the utter insanity of it (“so many girls I could’ve made it with, but I didn’t know any better—I thought they couldn’t want me, man, they had to be wanting somebody else”). Paul could still pick any girl he wanted out of the crowd, have a roadie bring her backstage. He still did it most nights. But the adulation had disappeared before Bruce ever arrived at the scene.

“If I could get a hit… if KISS could fill a couple stadiums, just a couple… then it’d be all right. I’d feel okay. God, who knows, maybe Gene would even show up to record again, you think?”

“He’ll be back anyway, Paul.”

“He won’t. He thinks we’re finished.” He was working on that second glass, almost as enthusiastically as the first. “Ace was mailing in his guitar parts just before he quit. But at least they were his. Gene’s throwing me songs he bought off the nearest wannabe writer on the street. And I sucked it up like an idiot at first because I thought he was gonna come back anytime, say he was sorry, get back to how it was. Instead he lets me handle everything, album after album. He gets credit for the successes like he even showed up. And he blows off the failures ’cause he’s got plenty of other bands he’s managing. Never mind his own.” An exhale. “He doesn’t give a damn anymore.”

“I think he does.”

Paul’s expression changed at that. The cynical cast to his features, the tight way he was holding his jaw, all that shifted, flickered, and for a bare, odd second Bruce could almost see the twenty-year-old Bob had brought over to their parents’ apartment and introduced as Gene’s friend. Then Paul shook his head and the moment disappeared.

“You don’t need to prop me up like that. It’s okay. I can’t give him what he wants, I need to cut my losses and quit trying.”

“Paul, listen, you’re not looking at this right. Gene’s not—”

“You don’t know how Gene is. I could be as understanding as Mother Theresa and he’d still be blowing me off.” Paul paused, drink midway to his lips. “I’m sorry. Am I ever gonna let you talk, Bruce? I can’t afford two therapy bills.”

Bruce shrugged.

“I don’t mind.”

“You’ve got a lot to say and I don’t ever let you say it. Not on MTV or the interviews… God, I act like we don’t all sleep in the same crappy hotels.”

“I don’t really like interviews, it’s fine.”

“Bruce, I’m trying to apologize.”

Bruce’s free hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing awkwardly, before resting back on the table.

“I know what you hired me to do. I’m not expecting anything else.”

“Maybe you deserve it.” Paul’s hand was on the table, fingers curled inches from Bruce’s own. “I like writing songs with you. I never… I didn’t write any with Ace, and Vinnie, well…” He shrugged. “It feels good. It feels real good.”

“I like it, too. It’s fun.”

“It makes me think it’s ’76. Like I’ll turn around and find Bob Ezrin snorting a mountain of coke in the office. And—and Ace and Peter, too, looking like they used to. I can fucking see Ace’s card deck. And Gene’d be right there, leaning up against the music stand—I can fool myself pretty good, when I want.”

“Look,” Bruce said, rubbing his chopsticks together with his finger and thumb, the sound soft, dry, “look, I honestly think things might be turning around.”

“They won’t turn eleven years around. I can’t fool myself that much.” Paul’s expression darkened back up, and he reached for his drink again. More than half of it was gone now. The side of his boot brushed against Bruce’s ankle for a brief moment before pulling back. “My accountant told me to stop sending my parents so much money. Like I was a kid spending all his allowance. I’ve cut so many expenses I’m down to a fucking one-bedroom apartment.”

Bruce’s gaze dropped to the untouched California roll on his plate, and the chopsticks in his hand. Paul laughed again.

“Go for it. It’s fine.”

“I wasn’t really that hungry.”

“Your check’s gonna clear with or without the sushi. Trust me.”

“Paul—”

“In fact…” Paul trailed, pulling his own plate forward, “that’s not how you eat sushi, anyway. When we went to Japan in ’77… we went out to this real authentic restaurant, supposedly. The sushi chef came out there and our guide, she’d translate everything he said… he said you don’t eat it with chopsticks, you eat it with your hands. ’Cause it was fast food, before Americans turned it into something it wasn’t.” Paul paused, picking up the second roll on his plate. “This used to be their version of a fucking hamburger, can you believe that?”

“That’s interesting,” Bruce said, and he meant it, but Paul’s expression got a little deflated.

“It’s not interesting, it’s awful. Like the hula girls in Hawaii. Every-everything turned into a commodity. You gonna eat that roll, Bruce?”

“Yeah, I’ll—”

“One bite.” Paul popped his own into his mouth to demonstrate. A few seconds of chewing, a swallow, and then he continued. “Course, you didn’t get the real stuff, so maybe it doesn’t matter, but…” He waved the waitress back over, absently. “Get him a rainbow roll, would you? Thanks.”

“Paul, c’mon—”

“If you don’t eat it, I will.” Paul said. His eyes looked a little sharper now, a little more intent. Bruce set down his chopsticks, picked up one of the small California rolls on his plate. The rice was sticky and cold against his fingers. He stuck it in his mouth, not bothering with the smear of soy sauce on the dish. The taste of surimi and cream cheese burst onto his tongue, neither excellent nor terrible, just there, competently mediocre. He reached for the next one, almost mechanically, but Paul’s hand was there already, closing over the roll before he could.

“Not real crab, I know,” he said, quietly, “but maybe it’ll taste better this way.” And then Paul had the roll in his palm, extended towards his face like an offering.

“Paul—”

“Go on, Bruce.”

Bruce reached for the roll. He meant to pick it up out of Paul’s hand, but something stopped him. Not Paul, not exactly. Paul didn’t curl up his hand or push it out further or say another word. Maybe it was pity, that bastard child of all emotions, that made Bruce just tip the sushi a little closer with his fingers as he ate it from Paul’s palm. One bite. His tongue didn’t get anywhere near Paul’s skin. But Paul seemed to relax at that. He was starting to smile again, mouth wavering like wind-tossed stalks of wheat in a field. The pads of his fingers brushed up against Bruce’s almost delicately, before he withdrew his hand.

“How was it?”

“Good. It was good.”

“Good.” Paul took another piece of his own sushi, dipping it lightly into the soy sauce. “Want to try some of mine?”

“I—no, that’s fine.”

“You don’t have to worry. Nobody here is gonna bother us.” Paul started in again, conversationally. “Are you shy, Bruce?”

“No. I’ll just finish what I’ve got.” Two pieces left. The waitress hadn’t returned with the rainbow roll yet. Bruce hesitated; for an insane moment he felt like he should add a thank you, but he cut himself off with another swallow of sushi. Across from him, Paul just shrugged and popped his own piece in his mouth, following it up by downing a little more of his drink.

“You are shy. That’s all right. I am, too.”

“Paul—”

“It’s cool.” Paul reached his hand across the table, resting it on top of Bruce’s, running his fingers up and down his wrist. His face was faintly flushed. “I mean, to be honest, it sucks, being shy in a rock band, but—it’s cool, I get it, if you’d rather in private—”

Bruce drew his hand back belatedly. Slowly, not wanting to startle Paul, whose expression barely faltered at all.

“I don’t think so.”

“Bruce—”

“You’ve had too much to make an offer like that.”

“I’d make it sober,” Paul said. Deprived of Bruce’s hand, he shifted forward. A second and Bruce felt the side of Paul’s boot against his ankle again. “You’re a good guy, I always liked you.”

“Paul, no.”

“I did. I always did. You…you’re reliable, you listen, you’re easy on the eyes—Bruce, it’s not—if you’re worried about your job, don’t be, this doesn’t need to—be anything, it’s just—”

“No.”

“Bruce, please.”

“No.” The wet cardboard feeling in his throat was back again. He could feel Paul’s eyes on him, not sharp anymore but suddenly desperate instead, his mouth tight as a steel trap. He should’ve stopped him. Shouldn’t have let him keep on and on. He’d never have gotten to this point then. He’d never peel back this much of himself, like the soft insides of a crab, weak and exposed. Bruce never should have let him do it.

He shifted his foot and stood up.

“Give me your keys. I’ll take you to the hotel.”

“I’m not—”

The waitress arrived with that second plate of sushi. This time she wasn’t looking at them at all. Something caught deep in Bruce’s throat then, something dark that he didn’t want to place or name for sure.

“Bruce, please.” Now Paul was standing, leaning one hand heavily against the table. A step, hand sliding to the edge of the table, and he was in front of Bruce, his other hand clamping around his shirt. Bruce could smell the cologne in his hair, the alcohol on his breath. “It—if you’d just stay with me—"

“Paul, let me have your keys.”

Paul pulled them out. Fumbled with his wallet. Bruce shook his head, taking the keys but nothing else, putting a couple bills from his pocket on the table before Paul could try to argue. He felt Paul press in against him, push his mouth sloppily against his neck, but that was all. No other come-ons or protests. Nothing. He shifted easily after, let Bruce walk him to the car, to the hotel, to his room, even. Bruce didn’t give the keys back until after that hotel door was unlocked and Paul was inside. He was tempted to hold onto them, even then—but Paul’s expression was faltering so badly that he didn’t want to strip any last piece of pride from him. He’d had sense enough to let Bruce drive. Surely he’d have sense enough to stay in his room.

Paul’s fingers closed around the keys for only a few seconds. Bruce watched as he dropped them on the dresser and stumbled to the bed, peeling off his boots, head bent and turned away from him.

“Go on. Would you go on, Bruce? I got it from here.”

Bruce hesitated at the door.

“Go on.”

Every reassurance he could make sounded hollow even in his brain. Even the ones from that afternoon. He couldn’t ease a burden he didn’t have the means to lift.

He turned the knob and left without a word.

--

He didn’t see Paul again until their next recording session. He’d left an apology on Bruce’s hotel answering machine, and a written one under his door, his cursive cramped and uneven, but he didn’t say a word. Bruce didn’t expect him to.

Gene was there at the studio, surprisingly, indifferent, with a copy of Variety open on his lap and a Pepsi in hand instead of his bass most of the session. Paul looked more sunken in than ever, vying for his attention, fooling around and playing riffs nearly twenty years old (“that’s how it goes, Gene, right, do you remember—‘My Uncle is a Raft,’ that’s the first song you ever—“) instead of laying down tracks.

It’s crap, Bruce. They don’t know it. They’re never gonna figure it out. That was what Eric had said, and maybe it was true, but maybe it wasn’t. And maybe he could do something, now that he’d seen past the last desperate bits of glamor Paul had left to offer.

Paul left before he did. Bruce watched him crank his car from where he stood outside the recording studio, the taillights glinting to life, and then the faint sound of the radio before he sped away. Mick Jagger blaring out “Just Another Night.”

Eric ducked out soon after, his ’79 Porsche like an artifact backing out of the parking lot. Gene’s chauffeur was already waiting, engine idling. Gene had the magazine under his arm. Bruce reached over on impulse, briefly grasping his forearm.

“Hey, Gene.”

“Bruce?” Gene looked up at him. “You need anything?”

“Could you do something for me?”

“You need a lift? You don’t have to ask—”

“I don’t need a lift.” His taxi had pulled up. He could picture the meter running, numbers spinning up like years, the inverse of the Billboard charts. “It’s not really for me, anyway. It’s for Paul.”

“What about him?”

“Be kinder to him. That’s all.”

Bruce expected Gene to protest. Give out the old lines he trotted out every interview, we’re like brothers and it’s like a marriage, tired and overplayed even five years ago. Instead, Gene hesitated.

“Bruce, you don’t understand.”

“No, but I’ve got a good idea.” The cab driver was looking at him, staring impatiently. Just a five-mile ride back to the hotel, a five-mile ride that’d take forty-five minutes, easy, this time of day. “You keep on hurting somebody and they’re never going to forget it. Whether this album’s a hit or not. Whether KISS ends up back in stadiums or back in ballrooms. That’s it. That’s all, Gene.”

He didn’t wait on an answer, just walked over to the cab. Gene clapped his shoulder on the way, and for a second, Bruce almost thought he’d say something, or follow him to the cab, something. But he just saw the brief shift of Gene’s expression the second before he shut the passenger door, the faint tightening of Gene’s mouth as he walked past the cab and to his own car, dropping the magazine to the pavement as he stepped inside. Bruce watched the car’s back wheels run it over, and then the cab’s, the pages fluttering on the pavement, nothing but vapid gloss against concrete.

[tenspontaneite]

The Time Will Come (Chapter 1/?)

There was a time he’d have given up everything to be here today, before Sai vanished, and try to change something. He’d have sacrificed his life for the weight of that desperation. Now, though…

 (Posted for Hikago Day. Enjoy!)

Content warnings: blood, grievous injuries, depictions of grievous injuries, automobile accident.

Hikaru awoke on a quiet, anonymous Tokyo roadside in the middle of the night, the side of his chest in awful pain and his blood rattling in his lungs. He gasped, and dragged himself wordlessly along the rough pavement, unseen, just how he remembered – remembered –

What? He wondered, uncomprehendingly, pulling himself into the glow cast by a streetlight and collapsing against the side of a storefront as every part of him ached. His side felt cold and wet. He brought his hand to his jacket and his fingers came away bloody. He remembered that. He remembered this, remembered struggling from the impact of an unwary vehicle and the world going dark as his lung drowned in gore, remembered the pain and the foam of blood over his lips, remembered the metal taste on his tongue-

I’m still dying? He wondered, hazily, mind numb with pain and breathlessness, and hunched over. Someone walked past. He tried to call out for help, but he didn’t have the breath for it. He couldn’t breathe. His jacket was black, his trousers were black – in the dim lighting, it probably wasn’t obvious he was bleeding at all.

I’m still dying, he thought, desperate, and reached out a weak, trembling hand after the late-night traveller who hadn’t given him so much as a second glance. He was just another drunkard, to them. Just another vagrant. They hadn’t even looked…

He didn’t want to die. He wasn’t even forty, he had so much left to do. He didn’t want to die, but he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, and the pain was pulling him under again. He was going to die – and no one was even watching.

With something like despair clutching at his sluggish, labouring heart, Hikaru’s eyes fell shut. The sound of his breathing rattled in his ears as the world, yet again, went utterly dark.

  When he next woke, it wasn’t as hard to breathe, and that was pretty confusing. Hikaru remembered passing out. He remembered passing out for the second time, after the impact from a car had undoubtedly done something fatally horrible to his ribcage and its contents. He hadn’t expected to wake up again at all, much less under the same street lamp he’d expected to die under.

He stared up at it, befuddled, the harsh light it cast vaguely painful to his eyes. Tentatively, he moved a trembling hand to his side, and hissed – that still hurt. He coughed, and something wet and metallic came up into his mouth. He gagged, and then turned to the side to vomit. What he brought up was unsettlingly dark-coloured in the shadows of the city-lights.

Finally, he summoned the mental acuity to put his hand into his pocket, to get his phone – the screen lit up immediately, not even cracked, and the lock screen obediently lit up, the numbers of the time swimming so madly in his vision he couldn’t read them. He swiped up the emergency symbol in the corner, not something he’d had to use before, and waited, shakily, for salvation.

Instead, the phone beeped regretfully at him, returning back to the lock screen. He stared helplessly, and brought it close to his face in hopes of reading it.

No signal. Somehow, there wasn’t even enough signal to call an ambulance. He hadn’t thought that would be possible in the modern day, in the middle of Tokyo.

Hikaru closed his eyes for a moment, body aching and exhausted and breath still wheezing unhealthily with every sucking movement of his chest. He cursed his luck, and then tried to stand. Surprisingly, he didn’t immediately fall over. However, his vision swam horribly, and he wasn’t certain how long his hold on consciousness would last. He looked around, but to his dismay, the street was all but deserted. That’s what he got for walking through the side roads to get home, but it was not helpful. There was no one to talk to, no one to call for help-

He just…had to get to a bigger road. He just had to keep walking home, and he’d find someone. He would. It would be fine.

Clinging onto the wall for support, Hikaru managed to pull himself into the tiny side alley that would bring him to where he needed. It was such a short, insignificant shortcut most days. It wasn’t even twenty metres long. Maybe not even ten. But it felt like a mile now, and every step was pulling horribly at something in his chest.

Exhaling shakily, Hikaru had the sense to lower himself to the floor before he passed out for the third time.

 The third time he woke, he felt suspiciously not-bad.

Hikaru blinked once, twice, and three times to clear the blurriness from his eyes, but his vision wasn’t swimming any more. His chest felt a bit tender, but there was none of the shooting pain, and his thoughts were oddly clear. He had a bitch of a headache, but it wasn’t that hard to focus. He sat up, bizarrely alert, and felt quickly at his side. It was cold. Still very wet with blood. But…

He wondered if a lack of pain was a bad sign. Maybe it meant he was too far gone to feel it. Maybe he was in shock. Maybe…

Hikaru looked up, and noticed with a jolt of shock that the sky was getting light. He’d been there for hours. Hours, when he was sure he’d been bleeding out, with his lungs logged with blood and no one around to give a damn that he was dying on a random back road. How was he even alive, let alone so bizarrely clear-headed?

He checked his phone, which informed him it was nearly five in the morning, and that there was still no signal. He unlocked it and tried turning the mobile data on and off, tried searching for nearby wi-fi networks, but…nothing. Bewildered, he put it back in his pocket, and then, after taking a deep breath, slipped a hand under his jacket and shirt to feel carefully at his side.

His fingers trailed over half-formed scabs that dislodged from his skin and smeared in the still-wet blood around them. There had been so much blood. But…

The skin felt tender, maybe. Bruised. But it was whole. There wasn’t a single wound.

Hikaru withdrew his hand, thoughts reeling wildly, and looked at his bloody fingertips as if they could reveal the answers to whatever was afoot. “What the fuck,” He whispered, to himself, and his voice was hoarse but not weak. Not choked. Not dying. He coughed and cleared his throat and brought up some red-black phlegm, looking for all the world like a blood clot as he spat it out next to a dumpster, and the evidence was in the blood. He had been injured. Badly. He hadn’t imagined that. But – somehow he was magically healed? It didn’t make any sense.

He shook the helpless confusion away and stood up, facing back along the alley. His apartment wasn’t far from here. He should just – get home. Get home, and clean up, and put on clothes that weren’t caked with blood, and hope the world made more sense then. He could figure it out later, when he hadn’t just been unconscious in an alley for hours and couldn’t taste copper every time he swallowed.

He wiped the blood from around his mouth and wiped it on his trousers, since it wasn’t like a bit more would make a difference, and walked.

  “What the fuck,” Hikaru said again, this time less of a whisper and more of an incredulous demand, finding before him not his familiar apartment building but a fucking construction site. There was the shell of the familiar building’s shape there, an orderly mess of scaffolding, a billboard cheerfully advertising the apartments being built and advising potential buyers to get in contact with the agency ahead of the completion-

It was his apartment complex being advertised. His own fucking place, the same company, right there. Definitely in the right place. He double checked the road signs and it was all right – except-

Since when was that storefront abandoned? It was definitely a KFC last time he looked, he’d gone there a couple times when too drunk or too tired to go around the corner to the cheap ramen shop, but it…just plain wasn’t there, now. And the convenience store next to it looked weirdly fresh and new, the adverts looked weird and old, and the magazines advertised in the next shop over looked weird, and everything was all just so strangely off that he had no idea what to do with it.

Hikaru slumped against the nearest building, head aching and thoughts confused. Am I hallucinating? He wondered, and turned to peer more closely into the dark store, at the advertisements, at the rows of magazines sheathed in the shadows. He looked at advert after advert, reading offer ends on the first of June! on one, ends on 20th May! on another, each one sending another jolt of confusion through his system.

It’s July, he thought, incredulously, looking at the apparently very out-of-date adverts with suspicion. This store wasn’t, in his experience, negligent enough to leave expired offers up for longer than a day or two, but months? It was incomprehensible. He looked back across the street to the befuddlingly incomplete apartment building, then back across the changed storefronts, and felt a seed of extremely ridiculous suspicion take root in him.

He turned away and walked slowly down the road, stopping at every shop window to look in. Not all of them advertised much in the windows, but they all mainly seemed to have offers expiring in May. No year listed, that he could see, but…

Hesitantly, he withdrew his phone and turned the flashlight function on, shining it at the fine print at the bottom of the page, and saw something he did not like. Something that absolutely could not mean what his stupid brain thought it did. Something that was, assuredly, just a random fluke. Surely. Heart in his throat, he turned to the next leaflet, and looked at its fine print too, and then the next, and the next, and then he saw a newspaper sticking out of a nearby bin and – that was kind of…harder to ignore.

The date on the discarded newspaper was May 4th, 2001. The dates on all the adverts were 2001. There was absolutely no reason for false leaflets and newspapers to be all over the place when they were over two decades out of date, but that – that was impossible, surely, people didn’t just get hit by cars and then wake up twenty-four years in the past-

He turned off the phone torch and groaned, bringing his breathing carefully into a forced regularity that ought to help calm him, in theory. He breathed for a couple of minutes until his heart was being less of a frantic bastard and his thoughts weren’t going off in every direction, and that was good enough.

“God, what even is my life.” He said to himself, and then a moment later lamented “I’m too old for random unexpected time travel.” And then he looked at the date on the newspaper, and it started kicking in, started occurring to him, made him think wait-

If this was yesterday’s paper, and yesterday was May 4th 2001, then today…

Hikaru looked up at the lightening sky with trepidation, and – something shifted.

Hikaru woke feeling oddly disorientated, more than the tiredness of too-little sleep after an eventful day should warrant. There was a bizarrely distant headache, like an echo of pain, in his head, something oddly sore about his chest that didn’t respond when he rubbed at it. He scowled, resolving to ignore it, and moved to extract himself from the roomful of futons of event-going Go professionals.

It was way too early to be awake, but that wasn’t really a bad thing. He needed to get going early, just in case Ogata remembered anything from when he was all drunk and made a fuss, which was the last thing he needed. He was exhausted, but he could sleep on the train. Carefully, he stepped around the lines of sleeping people, footsteps soft, and left the room, Sai trailing silently after him-

Hikaru jolted on the street, holding a steadying hand against the nearby wall, and wondered what that had-

Sai offered a quiet good-morning, once they were out in the hallway, but Hikaru still couldn’t respond. It was too quiet around, and someone might easily wake if he spoke-

Sai?

Sai looked over the rows of gobans in the event hall with that familiar longing expression, but for whatever reason, he didn’t try to suggest that Hikaru stay and play, didn’t speak, and that was a bit weird but welcome, considering he had to get to the train station soon if he was going to get the early train-

Hikaru staggered with the weight of it, a scattered trace of a morning from decades ago, a morning that was now and happening now. He pulled himself along the street until he found a random bollard to sit on, planting his backside on it as he tried to acclimate to the bizarre experiential effects of witnessing his younger self going about his morning.

That’s what it was, right? That’s what it had to be. Leaving the event facility early to avoid potential repercussions from Sai’s last game – though he’d had no idea at the time that it really was Sai’s last game-

The morning was light in a way that suggested clear weather later on, the skies clear as the sun rose. It would probably be hot today-

Hikaru tried to concentrate past it, slapping himself lightly on the face as though to instil greater alertness.

Why was he here? Why had he woken up over two decades in the past, instead of dying? Why today, of all days, the still-reigning worst day of his life? Was it some kind of divine intervention, like Sai had been granted to linger as a ghost for a thousand years past his death? If so, what was the point? What was going to happen? Was he meant to be doing something?

…was he even alive, or just another ghost?

Hikaru recalled interacting with the newspaper, and decided that, no, he probably wasn’t a ghost. Probably.

So why…?

He rubbed at his eyes, and then stood to go looking for…something. Some sign, something that might shed light on whatever he was doing here. He had no idea what he was searching for. But what else could he do?

  His younger self boarded a train and sat down, kicking his legs out and sprawling out to nap on the journey. Sai was surely there, too, but younger-him wasn’t paying attention to that. The thought of it caused a familiar pang of old regret in him, softened and smoothed by years and years of life and memory.

Meanwhile, Hikaru was picking through his wallet on a street corner, where he’d found a t-shirt vending machine and became suddenly desperate to have at least one un-bloodied article of clothing. A lot of the coins, and especially the notes, had changed over time, but some of them would maybe be accepted by a vending machine. Vending machines probably couldn’t read the minting dates of coins, right?

Thanking small mercies for having broken a larger note for dinner yesterday, he fed coins into the machine, and was delighted to have them accepted. The machine presented him with an exceptionally cheap black t-shirt which, for whatever reason, was decorated with a smiley-face in white. Thankful that it was in a plastic wrapping, he went in search of somewhere with a bathroom he could get changed in.

Quietly, in the strange other-part of his awareness, his younger self fell asleep on the train, and gave him back his concentration.

Tokyo, in the end, was a city, and had plenty of 24-hour businesses when you got to the right roads. He wavered over a few coffee shops and one manga café, and in the end selected the coffee shop that looked least likely to have CCTV cameras. Although – it was 2001, were cameras even as omnipresent now as they were in the future? He had no idea. Either way, he really needed to wash up.

Once inside, the one person who seemed to be on staff apologetically informed him that the restroom facilities were only available to paying customers. Since Hikaru didn’t want to try his future-money against a real person, he accepted that and left, eyeing the other establishments with consternation.

In the end, he went looking for a public toilet.

It stank unpleasantly when he found it, and seemed mostly bereft of things like toilet paper, but he was mainly there to wash up a bit and change shirts, so that was okay. Hikaru peeled off his suit jacket, grimacing at the noise of its fabric tearing the blood-bonds it had to the undershirt. He sent a modest spray of dried blood dust onto the already-unpleasant flooring, and set the jacket carefully aside to inspect his shirt.

It had been blue, once. It definitely wasn’t now. The side where he’d been injured seemed a bit damaged, the fabric lightly scored, and there was an enormous bloodstain reaching from half-way around his chest to half-way around his back. Only the edges were approaching dry. Carefully, Hikaru undid the buttons and took that off too. He’d never been shirtless in a public toilet before, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.

The mirror over the sinks was cracked but not shattered, and was perfectly sufficient to inspect the state of his side. It looked…gory. Absolutely caked with blood, which had thickened all-over into a sludgy mess halfway between liquid and scab, interrupted only by the clumsy lines his fingers had shoved through it earlier. He had no idea what the state of his skin underneath was.

After some searching, Hikaru retrieved a small cache of clean toilet paper from the last cubicle, wetted it in the sink, and started clearing the mess on his side away.

Underneath, the skin was whole and unbroken. There was a horrible bruise there, black and purple over his side, but no sign of an open wound at all. It was patently impossible, but…so was time travel. Hikaru sighed, and used a combination of the tissues and the clean section of his shirt to wash and dry his skin. The sink was absolutely crimson with blood.

In the end, his torso was as clean as it could reasonably get in a public toilet with no replacement available for the bloody trousers, so Hikaru removed the 500-yen t-shirt from its plastic wrapping, put it on, and felt immediately far less disgusting. He stared at his reflection in the mirror as he tried to wash the worst of the sink-blood away, noting the bags under his eyes and the faint unhealthy pallor to his skin, and wondered if he should worry about the consequences of surviving certain death.

Eventually, Hikaru bundled up his bloody clothes and took them outside to find a bin, and then he was done with them, and had no more idea of what he should be doing than before.

Directionless, he wandered until he found a bench, and then sat there, staring at the sky. He was starting to feel vaguely hungry, his stomach apparently making itself known now that there didn’t seem to be any danger of death. He felt tired, of course, since he’d never had an opportunity to actually sleep last night, rather than just passing out for several hours failing to die. He felt hungry and tired, and he wasn’t dead, and he wasn’t sure what to do about any of that.

Somewhere, he was sleeping on a train, unaware of the sorrow the day would bring. Somewhere, Sai was sitting beside him, unaware that no one would be watching when he disappeared.

“What the hell did I do to deserve being shunted back to today?” He asked the sky, without expecting any particular response.

He stared at the sky, and nothing changed.

  A while later, a thought occurred to him. A flash of memory, of thought, half-grasped between the blood and burbling breath and a world going dark at the edges.

“Aw shit.” He said to himself, out loud, like an absolute madman. “That’ll have done it, if someone was listening.”

He couldn’t be certain. But he thought, maybe, that before the first time he’d passed out in the future, he’d thought of Sai. Something like: maybe I’ll see Sai soon. Or possibly: I guess I always wanted to see Sai again.

Maybe the gods weren’t done screwing around with Sai, or the people his life had touched.

“Maybe that’s it.” He sighed, and drew some stares from passers-by. It was Golden Week, so there wasn’t much of a commute going on, but it’s not like everyone could get time off in that week, or society would collapse. Hence, the streets were far from abandoned now.

Maybe that was it. Maybe he was here to see Sai again. Maybe that was why he was here.

He considered it, and watched a wispy cloud spread across the blue of the sky.

Sai’s disappearance was an old scar, now. With the passage of years, it had come to hurt less, and the weight of his regrets had worn thinner and lighter with every passing month. He’d talked about Sai, to the people who cared about it, who cared about Hikaru. He’d shared the games, still immortalised in his memory, and with the inexorable advance of time, they had become good memories. The games, the conversations, all the time he’d shared with Sai – they were memories to be treasured, and cherished, and they weren’t so painful anymore. It wasn’t as though a person could ever really completely move past a loss like that, but…

It hadn’t really hurt for a long time. There was a time he’d have given up everything to be here today, before Sai vanished, and try to change something. He’d have sacrificed his life for the weight of that desperation. Now…

He watched the cloud, and pondered.

It was a nice thought. He’d like to see Sai again. Of course he’d like to see Sai again. If that was why he was here, if that was why he hadn’t died…it was a nice thought. Maybe he was only here on borrowed time. Maybe he was only here for the sake of a last wish, and then he’d be gone. He wasn’t sure, but at this point, there was little to be gained by waiting.

He stood, and considered where he ought to go from here.

  Hikaru had never slept especially well on trains, no matter how tired he was, so it wasn’t surprising that he kept waking up. He shifted restlessly, shuffled his feet, got up and blinked a few times, glanced to his side to see if Sai was doing anything, and went back to sleep about a dozen different times over the course of the journey. Whenever he managed to doze off, his dreams were…weird.

Once, he woke up convinced there was blood all over his hands, that he’d just been cleaning it off. He looked at his fingers in bleary-eyed confusion before going back to sleep again. He dreamed of cloud-watching, of taking a different train, of knocking his side against something and sending a horrible pain through the bruise there – but he didn’t have any bruise on his side, so that was stupid. In the end Hikaru conceded to the inevitable and allowed himself to wake fully, still exceptionally drowsy from the heat and lack of proper sleep.

He looked over at Sai, who was staring at his hand, oddly pensive-

God, it had been so long since he’d seen Sai. He’d not considered that he’d see him again any time soon-

Hikaru blinked, and shook his head with dizzy confusion.

Sai noticed, and looked back at him. His hand disappeared back into his sleeve. “Hikaru?” He asked, voice still unusually subdued. Hikaru wasn’t sure what was up with him. He’d been acting all depressed for days, even when he’d got to play Ogata last night. “Is something the matter?”

He made a dismissive noise. “Nah. Just weird dreams.” He said, and sighed. “We’ll be back soon anyway, and I can have a proper sleep.”

Sai opened his mouth, then hesitated strangely. In the end, he didn’t say anything. He was acting so weird. Hikaru turned away. If Sai wanted to say something, then he could-

It was strange to see, how determined he’d been to ignore the signs. How convinced he’d been that things would remain as they were, that people couldn’t just suddenly disappear one day, that people you loved would always stay-

Hikaru swayed a little in his seat and held a hand to his forehead in confusion. Was he sick? Was he still asleep?

“Must be more tired than I thought.” He muttered to himself, and for the rest of the short journey, ignored the weird dreamlike fragments of – thinking, standing on a train, getting off a train, stepping outside a platform to wait-

Whatever the connection was seemed to be getting stronger. Maybe because they were getting closer. It wouldn’t be long now-

Hikaru closed his eyes to try to make the weird-waking dreams stop, but they didn’t. For the rest of the train ride, he endured the strange snippets of experience, like he was in another place, waiting, waiting, waiting-

Finally, they arrived. He stumbled when he stood, mind dizzy and distracted, and had to wave off Sai’s concern when he roused from his quietude to ask after his wellbeing. He stepped off the train at his station, where he could change trains and then get off at a station less than ten minutes from his house. He couldn’t wait to reunite with his bed and sleep off whatever weird sleep-deprived state he’d ended up in.

He stepped off the train-

Waiting

Stepped falteringly along the platform, head swimming, Sai growing increasingly worried beside him-

They’re nearly here

He was going to have to sit down, find a bench, he could barely think. Fuck, this couldn’t just be him being tired, it was suddenly so much worse, he had to be sick, or something. Hikaru staggered off the platform, looking around for somewhere he could rest for a minute, but then-

Then-

Oh!

There was a sensation like double-vision, like looking at himself, like seeing himself and Sai both, emerging from the platform, like he was seeing himself from outside his body-

It’s been so long, a thought that wasn’t his said, almost longingly, with a torrent of old emotion, old nostalgia, old regrets surging out as though from a burst dam. I forgot what he looked like! Not completely, of course, but – oh, look at him.

Old love, old hurt, a strange starburst of gratitude and joy. Hikaru swayed and would have fallen over if Sai hadn’t supported him, now thoroughly flustered about whatever was happening to him. He was talking. Saying something. Hikaru could barely hear the words, let alone understand-

….ah, whoops,

He looked over, mind caught horribly between two sets of visual input, and-

He looked over, and met the eyes of someone who looked very, very much like himself.

  “Shit.” Hikaru cursed, quietly, as the dual-consciousness thing passing between them immediately built into a screaming, overwhelming feedback loop of stimuli and confusion the second their eyes met. It was almost impossible to think past, and he could see – could feel – that it was harder on his younger self than him. Small-Hikaru had practically fallen over, Sai was holding him up and flailing frantically, the poor man, but he couldn’t really pay any more attention to that than anything else-

What was he meant to do? It was getting worse with their closeness, so – should he just – leave? Go away? Let himself disappear, or whatever was going to happen now?

It was probably sensible. It was…probably what he should do. But…

His eyes remained utterly, inexorably fixed on those of his counterpart, and he couldn’t budge an inch. He didn’t think he could have moved if he tried. All the while, the mess of confusion between them grew, and grew, and spiralled out of control-

Sai finally looked over, finally following small-Hikaru’s eyes, and froze at the sight of him.

“…Hikaru?” He asked, utterly bewildered, and Hikaru heard it-

Hikaru?

-through two sets of ears, two minds, two bodies-

They were too close, too far, their minds were ripping apart from the proximity but too distant to heal, it was too far, too far, it was going to kill them-

Somehow, Hikaru stepped towards him / stepped towards him, pulling Sai with him

“Hikaru, is that-“ / Hikaru, is that / he started, started, voice torn between them, broken up, scattered fragments of comprehension that wouldn’t integrate correctly,

Another step, another step / another stumble closer / still too far, too far.

“Help,” One of them gasped, maybe both of them, and they couldn’t have known whose lips the word passed, if it was both, if it was neither, there was no way of knowing. “Sai, help – help me move-“

“I don’t / “I don’t understand,” / Sai’s helpless voice filtered through their ears, nearer and further, closer and farther away, but he helped. He helped, he helped, he helped-

Hikaru reached out a trembling hand and Hikaru reached out to grasp it like a lifeline, and Hikaru and Hikaru shuddered and trembled as the unravelling pieces of them reached out and bound together, rushed together, remaking themselves in an overwhelming second of change and confusion-

They blinked, and were looking at each other, that double-vision still there, hand in hand. There were two sets of eyes seeing the world, two sets of ears hearing it, two bodies standing and two hearts beating and two people living and breathing in some random train station in the middle of Tokyo in 2001-

But there was only one mind.

Tentatively, Hikaru withdrew his hand. Both of them withdrew at once, and it was a weird sensation, two separate sets of movement, each processed individually but – linked.

“What the hell,” They said, and the words came in utterly identical timing and cadence from two separate mouths. They tried to look down, and both of them did it, the double-vision splitting into one adult man in bloody trousers and a cheap t-shirt, and a fourteen-year-old boy in the same clothes he’d slept in. “What the hell,” They said again, helplessly, and the only difference between the words was which throat they emerged from.

“…Hikaru?” Sai asked, in a small and overwhelmed voice, and they both turned to look at him, their dual vision filling with the sight of him, so familiar, so dearly-missed. “What – what is happening? Are you-“ He looked at one of them, and it took looking down again to distinguish that it was the older body he was looking at.

“Um.” They said, as quietly as they could, aware that people were starting to look at them weirdly and that they were in the middle of a train station. “…help me outside? Please?”

Sai stared at – him, older Hikaru, then looked to other him, and then between them, eyes wide and baffled and plainly anxious and his back stiff with tension. But, after a moment, he reached out. One hand for each of them.

It took a great deal of effort, when they reached out, to reach for separate hands, instead of both reaching for one. They didn’t entirely succeed. One of them took the right hand, but the other was still reaching for it, and trying to move it for the other hand instead resulted in the other one moving too, and it was so difficult to move them separately-

Sai, hesitantly, reached out to take the stray hand himself, and pulled gently at them. Helpless, and half falling over with every step, the two bodies of Hikaru allowed themselves to be let gently out towards the door.

  ---

End chapter.

Notes: one of the most indulgent story ideas I’ve ever had, and I like it a lot. I wrote it last year sometime, around November, maybe. Given it’s all about 5th May stuff it seems an appropriate release for today. Happy Hikago Day, everyone! (this story is also on ao3)

Story stuff: this story mainly exists as a concept so I can fuck about and also have a plausible scenario for chill, mostly un-angsty hikasai. Absolutely no underage herein. Details in this story are subject to change, e.g. Hikaru’s age. Also this probably won’t update for ages. Sorry!

This story is named after the first line of one of my favourite poems: Love after love, by Derek Walcott, shown here.

The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was your self. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.

[thephantomofthe-internet]

Homeward Bound: Chapter 1

Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader, Billy Hargrove x Henderson!Reader

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13

Word Count: 2,015

Warnings: swearing, death mention, general fear and anxiety

Author’s Note: So this, with any luck will a series if y’all like it!!! I’m really happy with what I’ve written thus far. I know this chapter isn’t exactly thrilling, but it’s the preamble to what the story will become. If you like it, send a comment or ask, I really wanna know what you’re feeling on this one, cause if you hate it I won’t continue. Also, might change the title cause it’s shit!  Anyway, enjoy!

Permanent Tag: @hotstuffhargrove @denimjacketkisses @flamehairedwritings @lilmissperfectlyimperfect @steveharringtonofficial @giftofdreams @feverxxdream

Feedback Appreciated!!!

   Leaving Hawkins was the right choice. After your parent’s divorce and the mess that was the disasters in Hawkins’ Labs, your family being heavily involved, you were more than happy to take your government pay out and move as far away as possible. So while Dustin finished off his years at Hawkins High School, you pursued a law degree at Berkeley. Then, you switched to teaching. Then, you dropped out altogether. You wrote your first novel in parts, mostly in a well-worn spiral notebook with chunks coming in from napkin and coffee sleeve scrawling while working in a coffee shop in San Diego, watching struggling actors chase hangovers with caffeine and Valium and sitting through the careless flirting from rogue beat poets and other moustachioed hipsters.

But you were fabulously happy. Sure, every so often, when money was tight and morale was down, you thought about going home. But then you remembered that home meant Hawkins and Hawkins meant reliving the day your best friend Heather was eaten by demo-dogs right before your eyes. You couldn’t bear the thought of repeating that memory over and over again in your head. You couldn’t bear to see if Hawkins had moved on without her.

And besides, you could breathe easy away from your old small town. Nobody knew you, at least not by what happened to you and your family, and those who recognized you kept away. You could easily blend in to the crowds and not stick out as the girl who survived the labs. You felt free and easy, calm for the first time in years.

So, you stayed where you were. You made excuses on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter every year like clockwork. You flew out to Chicago to see your dad once, if only because Dustin was going and you missed him like crazy. He understood, of course. If not for Lucas, Mike, and Max still living in town, he would’ve moved in with dad and Marnie in a heartbeat. He called as often as he could, telling you tales of triumph and woe.

In his last call, he’d spent thirty minutes bragging about how many girls asked him to prom, including the first girl to ever spurn him, Stacy Canfield. He had delighted in rejecting her the same way she did him way back in the eighth grade. But now, on the phone, he didn’t sound so pleased.

“So? Did Marcy say yes or not?” you giggled excitedly, pressing the phone tighter between your shoulder and head as you leaned down to paint your pinkie toenail neon pink, the wet polish shiny on your toes.

“Huh? Oh, yeah she did…” Dustin mumbled on the other end and you swore you could practically hear his feet shuffling awkwardly all the way in California, a leftover from his guilty toddler years.

You sighed, shaking your head slightly, you long mismatched earrings clattering against themselves. “Alright, what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing!” Dustin cried.

“Dusty, you spent months talking up this chick, you finally land her and all you can say is ‘oh, yeah’? Something’s bugging you so just tell me.” You insisted, dropping the tiny brush back into the tiny bottle, waving your hands over the wet polish.

He sighed “It’s just…I’m graduating soon and mom’s on my case about inviting you down and I don’t want to make a big deal and I know you hate Hawkins…”

“Stop.” You interrupted, silencing him in an instant. “Do you want me there?”

“Yes.” He gulped, his voice shaky and awkward and small; like a boy trying to hide the voice cracks of puberty.

“Then I’m there.” You replied swiftly, smirking as though you’d won. Truly you had.

“But what-” he started again, causing you to groan loudly.

“Ah! Don’t worry about me! Worry about exams and prom and Marcy! Have mom call me with the date and I’ll book a flight.” You promised.

This made Dustin happy, which was the ultimate goal, but it planted a seed of anxiety in your stomach that could not be soothed. You suffered through calls from your mother, filled with tense excitement and worried questions. You pushed through the fear, you bought the ticket and gave your editor your mother’s phone number. You packed your bags and handed your neighbour, Stella, your spare key and the twenty dollars you’d promised her son Georgie to water your plants.

You got on the plane, manuscript in hand, ready to edit the novel you’d spent nearly three years on, your editor’s initial notes running through your head. The flight was four hours long, then you’d have to drive from Indianapolis to Hawkins, a nearly five hour drive. Your day was set to be long and awful and it made you want to turn back and not coming back, returning to the warmth and comfort of your tiny apartment.

But you pushed through. You owed Dustin that much. You felt like a terrible sister having never come to visit, but you pushed away that feeling. You’d be home in nine hours and you’d have a full two weeks with the younger boy you adored so much. You just had to push through the journey, to hell with it being the true adventure; you knew coming home would be more intense than getting there.

Still, the drive was filled with the same sickly memories of leaving Hawkins for the first time. It had been a day trip with your almost boyfriend, Steve, just into Chicago to find the child killer their only believable source, Jane, had described.

Steve.

You hadn’t even thought about him when you were planning your trip back. He was still in Hawkins, as per his mentions in Dustin’s letters. The two were still thick as thieves, the older brother Dustin never had. Of course, you were still happy that he hung around with your brother, even after your friendship and “relationship” fell apart. You always worried that once you two became friends, he’d leave Dustin in the dust, but he didn’t. You worried that he was just using Dustin to get in your pants and he’d stop when he got what he wanted, but he didn’t. You especially worried that he’d stop hanging out with Dustin when you two fell apart, but he didn’t. Now, with you gone, you hoped their friendship was strong. You hoped that with you there, Steve wouldn’t be put off from coming to see him, from going to his graduation.

You two had not ended well.

Hopefully, that wouldn’t get in the way.

As you drove down the interstate, your mind flashed memories of going the opposite way.

September 1986, a late summer breeze blowing your hair out of your face as you stuck your hand through the wide open window, fingers wiggling in the breeze, a smile on your face so effortless and bright it could rival the sun, R.E.M’s The One I Love blasting through the speakers, Steve’s not-so-secret latest favourite song. He was singing along, off-key of course; Steve wasn’t exactly a fabulous singer, his fingers tapping out the rhythm on the steering wheel. You were laughing at his awful British accent, watching him for a beat longer than usual, mouth open in the aftermath of the laugh, still smiling. The sun was beginning to set, golden hour slowly shifting its soft light over the sky. You’d left late, Steve’s fault, he’d woken up late and spent too long choosing the appropriate road trip snacks.

“It’s an important decision, Y/N.” he insisted inside the grocery store, mulling over bags of chips. “If done incorrectly, this could ruin our entire trip!”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. “This is so stupid…” you muttered, stalking off to grab a bag of jerky, which wasn’t on Steve’s list but ultimately saved his snack collection once you were on the road.

It would be night soon, you’d have to eventually stop and rest or switch drivers. You weren’t necessarily comfortable driving at night, but Steve had insisted on driving the first shift, claiming that he wouldn’t know where you were going if he wasn’t in the front seat, with you holding the map. Jane had told you to simply take a Grey Hound bus, like she had, but you weren’t interested in sharing public space for hours, besides you’d still have to drive to the Grey Hound station, three towns over.

But watching Steve in that moment, you felt it for the first time-love. Or something like it. Him golden in the sunset, wearing a goofy smile as he sang along to the radio, his sunglasses slipping down his nose, freckles poking up from the sunlight. He looked…well stunning. His hair had deflated hours ago, his forehead caked with sweat, a light sunburn on his neck and shoulders, his shirt stained with sweat. By no means was he at his peak, but he looked so at peace behind the wheel. So long had you two been two steps away from danger, death following you everywhere, but now he looked calm and easy. Even though you were headed towards at worst a dangerous killer and at best a dead end, he looked as though you were just taking a normal summer road trip, going to his parent’s beach house for a weekend with some friends. Everything was calm and the roads were beginning to clear out, signs for motels picking up on the road signs and billboards. The danger of Hawkins miles behind you, you almost felt like you were free from it. Almost. But watching Steve, so calm and cool, you felt the anxiety constantly pulling at your heart never lessening its tight pull. You would be okay, as long as you stayed in that car, in that moment, singing along to Whitney Houston and Heart and whatever else came through the station’s playlist.  

That memory, of Steve’s happy, easy expression behind the wheel of his first car, filled your heart with the same lightness it did at the time. You were certain it was just emotional memory, the same way remembering watching your parents fight on Christmas morning made your stomach churn to this day. You couldn’t push away the feeling, which made you a bit nauseous; they stayed persistent in your heart, as did the memory. That was one of the good ones from that time, before everything was going up shit’s creek on a daily basis and fear was as normal of a feeling as complacent boredom. You could count the genuinely happy and peaceful moments of those tense years on two hands.

But you wanted to make new memories, you wanted to not hate that town every time you had to go back, you didn’t want to be filled with dread as you drove past the welcome sign.

You couldn’t remember a time when you really loved Hawkins. Sure, you had some good memories there-mostly with Dustin and Heather, but other memories were smattered with happiness, usually with boyfriends and your other friends. But now those memories were tainted with the blood of those lost and the sheer terror the labs left behind. You moved to Hawkins for your mother as a safe haven, but you left in cloud of dust looking for your own. Coming home felt like you were entering shark invested waters with nothing to hold onto.

Unfortunately, driving past the sign now still filled you with the utmost dread, terror, and nauseous fear that forced you to pull off to the side of the road to throw up; your whole body pale and shaky, a thin layer of sweat and goose bumps covered your skin. You couldn’t do it.

Too bad you had to; you knew that if you didn’t show, they’d only get worried and start making calls, looking for you everywhere. So you pulled your legs back into the car, turned your body back to face the road and turning the engine back on.

Once, it clicked. Then twice. Then three times. The car wouldn’t start.

“Well, fuck…” you muttered, dropping your head onto the wheel.

[slyreaderslibrary]

Ch. 7 Associates

AO3: Here

Fanfiction: Here

Summary: Keeping a secret identity secret is normally hard enough but when you’re as beautiful as Minako Aino you’re bound to have all kinds of creeps and weirdo stalking your every move. Now there’s a cop hot on her trail and she’ll have to be quick on her feet if she’s to keep her identity on the DL. Just what is a gorgeous super-heroine to do?

Keisuke arrived in the Azabu-juban district at nine twenty five in the morning with a cramp in his back and an irritable mood weighing him down. He'd only gotten a few hours of sleep the night before after a late night alert went out, calling all hands available to a nearby murder investigation. Luckily Usui had arrived on the scene first, thus making him lead of the investigation and granting Keisuke leeway to return home and try to salvage what sleep he could before his meeting with Ueda later that morning.

He slipped into a nearby cafe to grab a bagel and some coffee and then headed to the nearby bank to withdraw some cash. He was running low on his bribe money and he wanted to restock before seeing Ueda. Not that he thought it would be necessary...it was just better to err on the safe side.

Finishing the last of his bagel, he walked up to a wooden kiosk, grabbed a withdrawal slip and began filling out the form when he noticed a flash of gold in his peripheral. It was Aino entering the establishment, blond hair and sandaled wedges moving confidently across the linoleum floor while carrying a large, navy deposit bag. He dropped his pen in his surprise and cursed when he banged his head on the kiosk when he bent to pick it up.

It seemed today just wouldn't be his day.

"Everybody listen up! This here's a robbery!"

Keisuke—still crouched from his efforts to retrieve the pen— slowly closed his eyes and sighed. Of course the bank was being robbed.

After allowing himself that small display of frustration, he adjusted his crouch to kneel and peeked around the kiosk to better assess the situation. There were five masked men that he could see: two confronting the tellers, two pointing what looked to be AR-15s at roughly a dozen civilians and one blocking the exit. He imagined there was at least one getaway driver nearby but then also figured they could have planned to use the civilians as a bargaining tool. Either way he was outnumbered and outgunned.

He shot off a quick text with these observations, as well as the bank's address, to his superior and moved a few inches back to scrutinize his surroundings and attempt to form a plan.

"Alright, everybody put your hands out in front of ya and drop your valuables and cash in the bag as my friend here passes by and no one will get hurt."

From his position, Keisuke could see the robbers' reflection off the glass office walls and took the moment they were distracted to slip around to the side of the bank's main front counter. His new vantage point allowed him to directly see the thug collecting the civilians valuables with quick efficiency.

Then he stopped in front of Aino.

"Give me the bag blondie. I won't ask twice."

Aino clutched the deposit bag tighter to her chest.

"Did you know that twenty percent of all startups fail within the first year?" she rattled off randomly. Keisuke would have assumed she was nervous if he hadn't seen her take down that rapist the day before.

It seemed to stall the robber however, who stared at her and then looked to his partner who motioned for him to hurry up.

"Alright, er…" The robber frowned and lifted his bag. "That's interesting, miss. Now give me the money!"

Aino appeared not to have heard him though, instead continuing her previous line of conversation with added hand gestures to emphasize her point. "And did you know that that number is tripled when that startup is a new and unknown restaurant? That's a sixty percent failure rate! It's a travesty!" Her hand flew out knocking the bag of stolen goods from the robber's hand to the floor. "Oops! Sorry about that, I'm always knocking over or tripping over something it seems."

The robber hastily snatched up the bag but he'd drawn the attention from his friends, including the ones who'd been harrassing the tellers.

"What are you doing Taka? Take her money already," ordered one of the robbers closest to Keisuke.

Taka reached for the deposit bag but Aino stepped back, managing to avoid him.

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that. You wouldn't want my friend to become just another failed statistic now would you?"

"Lady I don't care what happens to your friend. Just give me the money!"

Aino sidestepped Taka again, earning Taka several jibes from the other robbers. The two crooks harassing the tellers joined the ones harassing the customers and formed a semicircle around Aino. Keisuke used their distraction to slowly rise to a standing position.

"We don't have time for this," the quasi-leader of the group complained. He grabbed Aino's arm and yanked the bag from her fingers before shoving her to the floor and causing her to cry out. Keisuke's hands clenched into fists as he inched closer.

"Hey doesn't she look like that model on all the billboards lately?" asked another.

"She is! We could make a fortune off her!" replied the fourth man, "Imagine what the magazines would pay for her nudes!"

Keisuke tapped the excited robber's shoulder, prompting him to turn around, and then slugged him in the face. The robber's gun flew out of his hands and skidded across the floor while Taka seemingly lost his feet and fell to the ground next to him. Keisuke chalked it up to Aino but didn't waste time to check having already turned to block a bat spiked with nails flying at his head. He managed to catch the bat just beyond the spikes and swung his body towards his assailant's arms before sending an elbow to the other man's face while simultaneously wrenching the weapon free. He then turned to the leader, who was already on the floor with Aino's wedge sandal squishing his face into the linoleum.

Keisuke relaxed his stance, "nice wo—"

"NOBODY MOVE!"

Shit. He had forgotten about the one at the door.

"DROP YOUR WEAPONS! I SAID DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"

Keisuke slowly lowered his weapon to the floor and then stood back up, hands raised high as he turned to face the last robber. Aino likewise had turned around but her hands remained low by her side. The robber guard pointed his weapon at a middle age woman but never took his eyes off them.

"Drop your weapons or this bitch here gets it!"

What on earth was he talking about? Hadn't they done just that? Keisuke frowned and tried to discreetly check Aino's hands in the glass reflections but couldn't see anything past all her blonde hair.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Keisuke snapped his gaze back to the robber in time to see the gun, surrounded by a golden glow, bend and twist unnaturally until the barrel pointed at its wielder. The robber screamed and hurled the weapon away from him, an action which could be clearly seen beyond the bank's doors because the reinforcements he had called in had finally arrived and wasted no time bursting through the door and tackling the lone robber while the others corralled around the four still unconscious on the floor.

A man—who was clearly in charge given the way the officers responded to him—walked through the doors and Keisuke recognized him as the Commissioner General's second-in-command, a hardworking officer who'd been dedicated to his job for fifteen years named Toshio Wakagi. Wakagi looked around, studying the mess, and then walked up to Keisuke and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Good work, Detective Koizumi correct? I recognize you from the picture you have on file. Your name has been coming up quite a bit back at HQ. You do good work, although..." Wakagi glanced at the men being hauled away. " In this situation, I'd normally write you up for poor judgement. Five against one is too risky but seeing how things worked out I'm going to let it slide."

Keisuke shook his head in denial, "I didn't do it on my own." He pointed towards Aino. "She helped."

Wakagi glanced in Aino's direction and immediately scowled before attempting to regain his composure. However he wasn't quite successful because his face was still twisted in a grimace when he turned back to Keisuke. "Either way Commissioner General Sakurada is going to want to play this up for publicity. Our recruitment numbers have been down and this is just the sort of thing to motivate the faithful citizens of Japan to sign up. Besides, Aino-san's not going to want the attention. Her fans might not like someone capable of violence."

"It was self-defense," Keisuke argued, suspicious of how Wakagi knew Aino but not about to let him besmirch her actions either. A lot of people could have been hurt if not for her. "Besides, even if she agrees, what happens when the press get the video feed? They'll have a field day if they think the police are hiding something."

Wakagi sighed and Keisuke got the impression the other man knew something he didn't.

"I don't think that'll be a problem but just so you're satisfied I didn't tamper with the feed, go ahead and get a copy for yourself first. I'll go and talk to Aino-san." Wakagi gave a short nod goodbye and then walked away to talk with the woman in question while Keisuke was left to wonder exactly how the two knew each other.

He watched Aino light up when she noticed Wakagi and smile a mile wide before elbowing him in the arm and smirking mischievously. The sight left him feeling uneasy and suspicious. If she knew the second-in-command to the Commissioner General, who else was she connected to? Was this why Goto had wanted him to back off? And what had made that weapon twist and glow like that?

Keisuke decided he needed answers, now, more than ever. He pulled out the spare flashdrive he kept in the hidden inner pocket of his leather jacket and headed to the desk where some officers were pulling up security footage. He flashed his badge.

"I'd like to get a copy of that if you don't mind."

oOo

"You know, anyone just arriving on the scene would think you were robbing the bank, carrying a bag of your money around like that," Wakagi told her. Minako recognized the tone. It was the same tone Artemis used when he was preparing for a lecture.

"It's not my money!"

Wakagi looked alarmed and then furious as he demanded she keep her voice down. "What if someone heard you?"

"Relaaaaax," Minako giggled, playfully slapping his arm. "It's my friend's. She's been short staffed all week and didn't have a chance to deposit her earnings last night, so I offered to do so for her this morning."

"Well I'm glad that's easily cleared up but you know it'll be a lot harder for me if the press catches wind of you in the middle of a bank robbery."

"It's not like I planned this!"

"That doesn't make cleaning up your messes any easier," Wakagi shrugged, crossing his arms. "Anyways, I'll do what I can and Sakurada will get in touch if anything comes up."

"Aw, you big softie. What would I do without you?" Minako smiled and then gave him a kiss on the cheek, grinning when he grew flustered and then annoyed in response. She walked away before he could lecture her about "personal space" and "harassment", with Mako's deposit bag securely in hand. It was too bad she hadn't been able to deposit the money but she doubted the tellers would be open for business until at least this evening, if not tomorrow, considering they'd just been held up and nearly robbed.

"And here we thought you needed help," a husky voice chuckled as Minako walked out of the building. She turned and spotted two silhouettes emerging from the shadows.

"Haruka, Michiru," Minako greeted. "I didn't think you'd get here so fast."

"We were in the area," Haruka shrugged.

"Oh?"

"I was hoping to encounter your detective friend," Michiru murmured, stroking her mirror, "I had tried to scry him the day before, to get an idea of who we're dealing with, but I was only able to see a silver mist."

"That's odd." Minako turned back towards the bank and squinted, hoping to catch a glimpse of the detective through the windows. Not that it would help much. She couldn't read auras like Rei or Hotaru, so she wouldn't be able to tell if something was shielding him, and although she was deadly accurate when it came to emotions, Mr. Fox emitted about as many emotions as a rock.

"Wait, he's in there now?" demanded Haruka, clueing in from Minako's actions, and looking ready to have a different sort of encounter with the detective. Mainly one that involved her fist.

Minako sighed, giving up, and turned back around.

"He is. He's the reason you girls came all this way for nothing." She smiled, "Thanks for that by the way."

"No problem. Now if you'll excuse me, I think it's time I have a little chat with your stalker." Haruka grinned, cracking her knuckles as she strode past Minako.

Michiru was quicker, however, and snagged Haruka's arm before she could take more than a single step. "Patience dear. He's currently surrounded by officers."

"What's that matter?" Haruka scowled, settling back down, "Doesn't Minako have the TCPD in her pocket?"

"Just their boss," Minako corrected.

Haruka threw her a disgruntled look that said 'same thing.'

"In either case," Michiru continued, ignoring their interruptions, "I don't think it would be wise. He's merely doing his job. Confronting him would only add you to his list of suspicious suspects and me, as well, by association." She gave Haruka a stern look. "I do not want to become a suspect, Haruka."

"Well then," Minako smiled, bringing the couple's attention back to her, "I suppose that's my cue to leave before he catches me out here talking to you both. You'll tell me if you learn anything further?"

Michiru nodded her acquiesce while Haruka huffed in the background, still itching for a fight.

Minako thanked them again and departed for Mako's cafe. She made it two blocks and around the corner before letting her shoulders drop in fatigue. Using her powers without transforming always left her feeling a little anemic. Good thing Mako-chan had a dark, raspberry mousse hidden in the back fridge with her name on it! She couldn't wait to eat it up.

And then she would call Rei and ask her to "look" deeper into one Detective Koizumi.

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[disorientedblog-archive]

举杯望明月，低头思故乡。- I Raised My Glass and Look to the Bright Moon, Then Lowered My Head and Think of Home

by EJ Mitchell / photo: Bufan Zhu

He smiles, satisfied.

I watch as Mark rocks the shaker back and forth, the ice, green tea infused gin, passionfruit, and red pepper syrup sloshing around until they are perfectly blended. He takes a straw to taste his concoction. “嗯。”

(“Mmm.”)

He grabs a fizz glass and carefully places three ice cubes inside. He pours the mixture, gently shaking out every last drop. I appreciate such care.

He adds a few splashes of seltzer, and the fruity aroma begins to perfume my nose. I pick up the glass and inhale deeply, taking a generous sip.

“嗯，可以 !”

(“Mmm, pretty good!”)

Mark helps another guest as I enjoy my drink. AirPods in ear, I listen to Amber Mark’s “Love Me Right” for the nth time, letting the layers of Mark’s creation and Mark’s harmonies soothe me. I normally don’t drink by myself. But around this time of year, when Beijing is emptied by 春运 (the Spring Festival travel rush), I am alone and most reflective. The beginning of 2019 begets the transition into a new zodiac year, the anxiety surrounding performance reviews, and my fifth annual winter odyssey back to the US. I also find that people are at their most inquisitive:

What are you doing for New Years?

Where are you going for Spring Festival?

Are you staying for another year?

How much longer do you see yourself in China?

When are you coming home?

These questions assume a lot—that I have funds to do something or go somewhere, or that I am thinking about leaving China, or that one day I will eventually “go back.” The longer I live in Beijing, the more the last question perplexes me.

Beijing is where I have accumulated over six years of formative experiences. I’ve cried because I was in love (or so I thought). As an educator, I’ve experienced my worst nightmare—the loss of a student and the ineffable numbness that follows. I’ve even danced my way into free rounds of tequila shots on my birthday. At least that’s what I was told. If nothing else, Beijing is certainly the only place where I feel confident in my adulting skills. Literally, and I mean literally, every time my Didi arrives, the driver says,

“我还以为你是我们中国人！没想到你是外国友人，打电话听不出来！”

(“I thought you were Chinese! I didn’t think you were a foreign friend. Couldn’t tell over the phone!”)

This is a compliment that I have learned to authentically accept humbly (”我中文还行吧…“ / “My Chinese is okay…”), instead of simply saying thank you. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t proud of my Beijing accent, but I know better than to think that just because I have adopted erhua and say things like “Bu ri dao!” or “Ma qu?” that I can by some amount of sheer effort become or be seen as a true Beijinger. When asked, “你什么时候回家？” I intentionally, and perhaps defensively, reply, “我要去美国,” emphasizing that I am going to America, not returning home. Have I not done enough to demonstrate to others that I am at home when I am in Beijing?

I have the last gulp of my drink and have a feeling that I am going to need another.

“Mark，再来一杯。你随便调吧。“

(Mark, another one. Mix as you see fit.)

As Mark readies a mixture of blackberries, aged sherry, port, and rum he calls “Darker the Berry,” I find myself starting to feel guilty. Here I am, sitting in not just any bar, but my bar. Five Beijing blocks away the streets are lined with H&M, Alexander McQueen, stadium-style night clubs, and the entrance to my gated apartment complex. In a mere few days I will return to Forest Park to sleep on my mother’s living room couch in a Cincinnati suburb of fewer than twenty-thousand people, in contrast to the three and half million that call Chaoyang district their home. If I’m honest with myself, though I love my mom’s cooking and dearly miss my five siblings, I could do without the tear-filled overtures of emotional baggage and petty arguments masked as “discussions.”  

“很快就能回家啦，开心了吧？” Mark asks.

(“You’ll be returning home soon. You must be happy?”)

“嗯。” I feign a smile.

(“Mhmm”).

Counting the time in my head, I haven’t gone back to Cincinnati in over a year and a half, choosing instead to visit a friend and former colleague from Beijing in Scotland last summer. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just running away.

“You don’t know…you weren’t there! You’re never around!”

This isn’t the first time my brother’s words have echoed in my mind, but this time I feel different. My ears are warm. I can’t tell if it’s from the stiff drink or because of recalling my adult brother’s emotional eruption the last time we were together. His words, though at the time came as a shock, were true, and to some degree still are. I remember writing in my personal statement for college about how, following the dissolution of my parents’ marriage, I felt that I had outgrown my family and that I, too, needed a divorce. Now 6800 miles away in Beijing, I have my chosen family, a job that I don’t just like but love, memories of vacations to St. Petersburg’s palaces and Almaty’s mountains, a savings account with actual savings…

Haven’t I done enough? Am I not the child my parents raised? Am I not a person that they—no, that any parent or family—would be proud of?

“You’re never around! You’re never around! You’re never around!”

Apparently not.

I have reveled in the freedom that I have discovered in Beijing, a place I did not have or want to share with my family until their first venture out of the US to visit me; I was too hurt by what was behind me and too overwhelmed by what was in store. Yet, in my attempt to free myself from the aftermath of my parents’ divorce, I have created a distance between myself and my family beyond just physical separation—a college degree, language barriers, and inadvertent intellectual elitism, to say the least. But the distance hasn’t been all bad. In fact, in many ways, it has provided the critical space that I have needed to begin metabolizing the guilt that has been left to fester over time.

With a fonder heart, I am learning to patiently explain that Tokyo is neither where I live nor a city in China instead of rolling my eyes, and I strive to get as many hugs and selfies in with my youngest sisters, though I often wonder if they even know who I really am. Acquaintances and strangers alike have a habit of reminding me that I could always “just go back home,” reasoning that I would be closer to, and arguably closer with, my family (and definitely less frequently stared at). But one doesn’t just simply “go back” and expect years of mismanaged expectations and trauma to be fixed. Though well-intentioned, they are missing the point. I choose to stay because of the acceptance and affirmation from my friends. I stay because when I walk the streets and hear or see police I am not afraid for my life. I stay because when I look at a billboard I am not perplexed by the characters’ strokes but still in awe that I understand the language of the future. I stay because the look of ecstasy on my sister’s face after having her first bite of kaoya or my mom’s after her first sip of baijiu at dinner in Haidian with my host family is priceless.

As I empty my glass, my attention turns to the Cocaine 80s song in my ears.

“Or maybe you're just going through shit

And that's a part of your design

Just maybe all your dreams are lucid

Been in control the whole time…”

I used to dream that one day my family’s issues would work themselves out. But dreaming that I’m there for my brother isn’t enough to lift his spirits when he’s down. No amount of dreaming can change the fact that I can only remember celebrating one birthday with my sister who turns ten this year. The distance between me and my family is our reality, but that doesn’t mean I can’t build bridges. I can pick up the phone more—I’m always on it anyway—or offer to help offset the costs of visits. My experiences leading up to and in China have provided access to a life that was previously unimaginable, for me and my family. If I want to continue to do better for us, I have to acknowledge that things don’t work themselves out. I have to put in the work, despite how uncomfortable it may be.

“...Relationship nightmares

Your soul is drained

The demons that you've been dreaming up

Are angels under the pain”

Maybe, just maybe, I’m finally ready to do that.

EJ Mitchell has been working as an educational consultant in Beijing since 2014 and is a co-owner of Sanlitun cocktail bar 50/50.

[darknpretty-blog]

So someone's reached the main 5 oh oh! Their 50th birthday celebration! Not any major deal. fifty will be the healthy forty. And denial is the brand new mathematics! Anyway, it is one of the milestone birthdays, that somehow always seem to be much more funwe hostile, when was the final time you went to a surprise 48th Birthday Party?

Needless to say, you want to be right there with an unusual methods to help your birthday celebration star glow in the spotlight! So listed here are 50 amazing ideas for a 50th birthdaysome that will cost as little as 50 centssome which are a little more extravagantsome designed to just need your thoughtfulness and time. And that's a thing they'll like as much if not more!

Tell it such as it's. Write a listing of 50 reasons why they are the very best, then get it framed! Or even also include 50 photos as well as convert everything into a photo guide.

Stress-free birthday. Gift a 50 minute knead, manicure or facial foundation. Join them if you are able to pay for it!

Living is a roller coaster. Top for the amusement park with the birthday star, you, as well as three more friends as well as ride 10 different rides. Sure, the carousel is important.

Being lucky? one by one wrap fifty one dolars lottery tickets.

Have a sweet teeth? Buy fifty portions of special chocolates or candies from yesteryearor gift label fifty donut holes or even 50 of their favorite cookies! (Wrap in batches of five or 10 so they are able to freeze some for later!)

Let's assume cheesy. Make a fun 50-minute video clip of family and friends wishing them a happy day.

Couch-potato free. Get in concert once a week to walk one mile 1 day. It's a present which usually keeps on giving. (Take two weeks from out of 52 for vacations, etc!)

Talk about some teeth. Get together with family and friends and overflow the mailbox of theirs with 50 birthday cards!

Talk about a few laughs. Fill up their inbox with 50 distinct digital songs, video games and birthday wishes!

Try painting the city. Give them a $50 gift card to the fave restaurant of theirs, theater, club, etc. Not terribly original, we know, but generally appreciated! A word: Limo

Bingo! Imagine every one of the video games you can play using fifty penniestiddly winks, bingo, penny pitch, etcthen enjoy yourself enjoying them!

Might I help? Deliver 50 minutes of tutoring in a number of apps they do not know how to work with.

Tis safer to giveMake a summary of fifty simple ways you could potentially volunteer the time of yours, then go and help out together. Or donate $50 to the preferred charitable organization of theirs.

Kill the dollar. If saving $$isn't the thing of theirs, get them an investing for dummies book as well as give them $50 to get their first share of stock.

Cheers! Gift wrap a $50 can of wine with a note that it is an unique bottle to be provided with their another person special.

One reservoir excursion. Treat them to a whole day of situations which are inside a 50-mile radius of where they live. (A rise in the woods, a round of mini golf, lunch in the park, etc.)

Just what the heck does that suggest? Opt to discover fifty new words if you gather (over time, of course!) For fun, keep paperwork and find out who remembers probably the most fresh phrases!

Sorry, I am not really a mind reader. Gift a 50 minute psychic readingmake the own predictions of yours ahead of time and then check notes in the future!

I am here for you. Promise one another a number of 50-minute soulful conversations sans texting, email-checking, phone answering, twittering, etc.

I will never forget Paris. Share with each other a list of 50 men and women, places, things that made you who you are today.

2 left legs. Gift item a 50-minute swing dance lesson. Gift item 1 for you as wellyou deserve a little fun, too!

LOL! Spend 50 minutes with each other doing a thing you both dislike (laundry, grocery shopping, etc.), but do it in a different manner (blindfolded, in heels) for making it funny and ridiculous.

The Big 5 0. Invest the day together going around city taking photographs of clues, billboards, etc. with the number 50 within them. If you cannot find lots of, perform the 5 as well as the 0 separately and develop a collage!

Flashback! Throw a retro gathering commemorating the 50-year-old's birth year-complete with music, hair styles and clothing from that particular era.

Attack which! Get a group in concert, go bowling and find out who can mark under 50 while not spreading gutter balls.

That is a lot of hot air! Get a 50-balloon bouquet and tie it to their wrist.

Yeah, that as well. Make a 50 is nothing to Snicker at indication and put it in a bowl of bite sized Snickers bars!

For Her: Add a cannot trust you're flippin' 50! label to a pair of interesting flip-flop sandals.

For Him: Create an It is (Name's) 50th Birthday! Tie one on! Have a bunch of older connections in a bowl and in addition have everybody who use 1 for a team picture!

Money Does not Grow on Trees. Effectively, perhaps it doesA money tree is a fun strategy to present fifty dolars money!

Still Hot at fifty. Gift basket filled with hot sauces and spices perfect for a great cook or grill-master.

A Box-o-Balloons. Put notes or maybe cash inside fifty inflated balloons then seal them in a label. A lightweight present to provide and / or drive (ground delivery).

Really? Gift item a 1-year membership to AARP!

A Farewell to Youth. Throw a party by having an RIP tombstone cake, fifty black balloons, etc., as well as advise navy outfit.

Just how many techniques are you able to say fifty? Finish off the sentence Turning 50ġ with items in a gift basket. Example: ȡis nuts! (peanuts); ȡstinks. (air freshener); ȡis merely peachy! (schnapps).

Might the force be with you. Have the team think of fifty lines from favorite movies and also see how many they are able to drop into the chat at the birthday party of theirs.

Hmmmthat's puzzling. Get a jigsaw puzzle with 50 parts. Or create one by lowering a big greeting card into puzzle shapes, placing in an envelope and mailing with your best wishes! You can also order a personalized New York Times puzzle with the real front page of their birthdate!

Call me moneybags. Offer the birthday star $20.50in fifty quarters, 50 nickels, 50 dimes as well as fifty pennies. Naturally you are able to make that $70.50 by bring 50 singles, also!

Red-colored alert! Reddish alert! Create a 50th Birthday Emergency Kit and also include whatever you think is suited for any birthday celebration owner (aspirin, noisemakers, adult diapers, etc.)

Something Old. Something Gold. It is their personal 50th anniversarygive them something in vintage gold or something wrapped in gold.

M-m-m-m beneficial. Purchase 50 MY M&M'S Party Packs of personalized candies complete with pics and words and phrases!

An evening meal is Served. Arrange a progressive 50th birthday dinner party, with each host/hostess serving a thing that was to the entire year the birthday celebration star was born. Dress correctly!

Who stated that? Make a book of fifty quotations on birthdays and also ageing, ranging from enjoyable to inspirational.

Suits me to a T. Purchase a custom T-shirt with some enjoyable copy on it. Example: Looks twenty two, Feels eighteen, Acts 10that can make me fifty! Or Does the shirt make me appear fifty? Check out online for some other creative ideas!

Better YetOrder customized t-shirts for the whole gang that feature a picture of the birthday celebration star and also a personalized email about converting fifty! Wear them at a party, out to a birthday dinner or even to a favorite watering hole.

Lots of memories. Take fifty downloadable pictures & fill them into an electronic photo frame.

Checking between the collections. Present them along with the publication, fifty Things to do When you Turn fifty: fifty Experts about the subject of Turning 50. It's a wonderful assortment of thoughts from people as Garrison Keillor, Suze Orman, Erica Jong, along with a lot more. Well, 47 additional, to be exact!

Did another person say party? Throw a themed gathering such as a South of the Border fling with invitations for any Nacho Average 50-year older. Fulfill Mexican food, hang a few piatas, etc. Some other themes could possibly consist of tropical-Life's a beach and afterward you switch 50! etc.

A treasury of your time. A number of days before the big working day, have friends and also family members every produce a scrapbook page which has favorite accounts, cards, mementos, photos, and more. Take all of the pages in unison and make a really special recollection album.

It all offers up. Do most of the things on this list. We're sure it will guarantee a lifetime of enjoyable as well as relationship!

[blackkudos]

Celia Cruz

Úrsula Hilaria Celia de la Caridad Cruz Alfonso, also known by her stage name Celia Cruz (October 21, 1925 – July 16, 2003), was a Cuban singer of Latin music. The most popular Latin artist of the 20th century, she earned twenty-three gold albums and was a recipient of the National Medal of Arts. She was renowned internationally as the "Queen of Salsa", "La Guarachera de Cuba", as well as The Queen of Latin Music.

She spent much of her career working in the United States and several Latin American countries. Leila Cobo of Billboard Magazine once said "Cruz is indisputably the best known and most influential female figure in the history of Cuban and Latin music".

Early life

Úrsula Hilaria Celia de la Caridad Cruz Alfonso was born on October 21, 1925 in the diverse, working-class neighborhood of Santos Suárez in Havana, Cuba, the second of four children. Her father, Simon Cruz, was a railroad stoker and her mother, Catalina Alfonso was a homemaker who took care of an extended family of fourteen.

While growing up in Cuba's diverse 1930s musical climate, Cruz listened to many musicians who influenced her adult career, including Fernando Collazo, Abelardo Barroso, Pablo Quevedo and Arsenio Rodríguez. Despite her mother's opposition and the fact that she was Catholic, as a child Cruz learned santería songs from her neighbor who practiced santería. Cruz also later studied the words to Yoruba songs with colleague Mercedita Valdés (an Akpwon santería singer) from Cuba and made various recordings of this religious genre, even singing backup for other female akpwons like Candita Batista.

As a teenager, her aunt took her and her cousin to cabarets to sing, but her father encouraged her to attend school in the hope she would become a teacher. However, one of her teachers told her that as an entertainer she could earn in one day what most Cuban teachers earned in a month. Cruz began singing at Havana's radio station Radio García Serra as a contestant on this station's popular "Hora del Té" daily broadcast, where she sang the tango "Nostalgias" and won a cake as first-place finisher. She often won cakes and also opportunities to participate in more contests. Her first recordings were made in 1948 in Venezuela.

Career

With Sonora Matancera, she appeared in cameos in some Mexican films such as Rincón Criollo (1950), Una gallega en La Habana(1955) and Amorcito Corazón (1961).

When Fidel Castro assumed control of Cuba in 1959, Cruz and her husband, Pedro Knight, were prohibited from returning to their homeland and became citizens of the United States. In 1966, Cruz and Tito Puente began an association that would lead to eight albums for Tico Records. The albums were not as successful as expected. However, Puente and Cruz later joined the Vaya Records label. There, she joined accomplished pianist Larry Harlow and was soon headlining a concert at New York's Carnegie Hall.

Cruz's 1974 album with Johnny Pacheco, Celia y Johnny, was very successful, and Cruz soon found herself in a group named the Fania All-Stars, which was an ensemble of salsa musicians from every orchestra signed by the Fania label (owner of Vaya Records). With the Fania All-Stars, Cruz had the opportunity to visit England, France, Zaire (today's DR Congo), and to return to tour Latin America; her performance in Zaire is included in the film Soul Power. In the late 1970s, she participated in an Eastern Air Lines commercial in Puerto Rico, singing the catchy phrase ¡Esto sí es volar! (This is to truly fly!).

In 1976, she participated in a documentary film Salsa about the Latin culture, along with figures like Dolores del Río and Willie Colón.

Celia Cruz used to sing the identifying spot for WQBA radio station in Miami, formerly known as "La Cubanísima": "I am the voice of Cuba, from this land, far away...I am liberty, I am WQBA, the most Cuban! (Yo soy de Cuba, la voz, desde esta tierra lejana...soy libertad, soy WQBA, Cubanísima!) During the 1980s, Cruz made many tours in Latin America and Europe, doing multiple concerts and television shows wherever she went, and singing both with younger stars and stars of her own era. She began a crossover of sorts, when she participated in the 1988 feature film Salsa alongside Robby Draco Rosa.

In 1990, Cruz won a Grammy Award for Best Tropical Latin Performance – Ray Barretto & Celia Cruz – Ritmo en el Corazón. She later recorded an anniversary album with Sonora Matancera. In 1992, she starred with Armand Assante and Antonio Banderas in the filmThe Mambo Kings. In 1994, President Bill Clinton awarded Cruz the National Medal of Arts. In the same year, she was inducted intoBillboards Latin Music Hall of Fame along with fellow Cuban musician Cachao López. In 1999, Cruz was inducted into the International Latin Music Hall of Fame in 1999. In 2001, she recorded a new album, on which Johnny Pacheco was one of the producers.

On July 16, 2002, Cruz performed to a full house at the free outdoor performing arts festival Central Park SummerStage in New York City. During the performance she sang "Bemba Colora'." A live recording of this song was subsequently made available in 2005 on a commemorative CD honoring the festival's then 20-year history entitled, "Central Park SummerStage: Live from the Heart of the City". Cruz appeared on the Dionne Warwick albums 1998 Dionne Sings Dionne & 2006 My Friends & Me with their Latin Duet version of (Do You Know The Way To) San Jose.

In March 2003, the Spanish-language television network Telemundo produced and aired a tribute special honoring Cruz, ¡Celia Cruz: Azúcar!. It was hosted by American singer Marc Anthony and Cuban-American singer Gloria Estefan. It featured musical performances by various Latin music and Anglo performers including Victor Manuelle, Paulina Rubio, José Feliciano, Milly Quezada, Los Tri-O, Estefan, Patti Labelle, Arturo Sandoval, Ana Gabriel, Gilberto Santa Rosa, Tito Nieves, Albita, Johnny Pacheco, Alicia Villareal, Olga Tañón, Mikey Perfecto, José Alberto "El Canario", Rosario, Luis Enrique, Anthony and Gloria Gaynor.

Death

On July 16, 2003, Cruz died of brain cancer at her home in Fort Lee, New Jersey, at the age of 77. Her husband, Pedro Knight (died February 3, 2007), was there for her while she was going through cancer treatments. She had no children with him. After her death, her body was taken to lie in state in Miami's Freedom Tower, where more than 200,000 fans paid their final respects. Multiple vigils occurred worldwide in cities such as Havana, Miami, and Cali (the Cali vigil became notorious in Colombian history due to its three-day span) Knight had Cruz buried in a granite mausoleum that he had built in Woodlawn Cemetery in The Bronx, New York City earlier in 2003, when she was dying. Knight chose the plot on which it stands, which is near the gravestones of Duke Ellington and Miles Davis because it was accessible to fans and had four windows built into it so that fans could see inside when paying their respects. Knight was known to share his time there with visiting fans. Knight himself was buried with Cruz in the same mausoleum following his death on February 3, 2007. An epilogue in her autobiography notes that, in accordance with her wishes, Cuban soil which she had saved from a visit to Guantánamo Bay was used in her entombment.

Legacy

In February 2004, her last album, Regalo del Alma, won a posthumous award at the Premios Lo Nuestro for best salsa release of the year. It was announced in December 2005 that a musical called Azucar! would open in Tenerife before touring the world. The name comes from Cruz's well-known catch phrase of "¡Azúcar!"

On June 4, 2004, the heavily Cuban-American community of Union City, New Jersey heralded its annual Cuban Day Parade by dedicating its new Celia Cruz Park (also known as Celia Cruz Plaza), which features a sidewalk star in her honor, at 31st Street and Bergenline Avenue, with Cruz's widower, Pedro Knight, present. There are four other similar dedications to Cruz around the world. Cruz's star has expanded into Union City's "Walk of Fame", as new marble stars are added each spring to honor Latin entertainment and media personalities, such as merengue singer Joseíto Mateo, salsa singer La India, Cuban musician Israel "Cachao" Lopez, Cuban tenor Beny Moré, Tito Puente, Spanish language television news anchor Rafael Pineda, salsa pioneer Johnny Pacheco, singer/bandleader Gilberto Santa Rosa and music promoter Ralph Mercado.

On May 18, 2005, the National Museum of American History, administered by the Smithsonian Institution and located in Washington, D.C., opened "¡Azúcar!", an exhibit celebrating the life and music of Celia Cruz. The exhibit highlights important moments in Cruz's life and career through photographs, personal documents, costumes, videos, and music.

On September 26, 2007, through May 25, 2008, Celia, a musical based on the life of Celia Cruz, played at the off-Broadway venue, New World Stages. Some performances were in Spanish and some in English. The show won four 2008 HOLA awards from the Hispanic Organization of Latin Actors.

On March 16, 2011, Celia Cruz was honored by the United States Postal Service with a commemorative postage stamp. The Cruz stamp was one of a group of five stamps honoring Latin music greats, also including Selena, Tito Puente, Carmen Miranda, and Carlos Gardel.

The Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History collaborated with photographer Robert Weingarten to create an object-based portrait of Celia Cruz featuring artifacts in the museum. The portrait was unveiled October 3, 2012.

On October 21, 2013, Google honored her with a Google Doodle. At 41st American Music Awards, American singer Jennifer Lopez performed a medley of Cruz's songs.

Discography

Filmography

Salón México (Mexico, 1950)

Una gallega en La Habana (Mexico, 1952)

¡Olé... Cuba! (Mexico/Cuba, 1957)

Affair in Havana (USA/Cuba, 1957)

Amorcito Corazon (Mexico, 1960)

Salsa (Documentary, 1976)

Salsa (USA, 1988)

"Fires Within" (USA, 1991)

The Mambo Kings (USA, 1992)

Valentina (TV) (Mexico, 1993)

The Perez Family (USA, 1995) Luz Pat

El alma no tiene color (TV) (Mexico, 1997)

¡Celia Cruz: Azúcar! (TV) (Tribute, USA, 2003)

Soul Power (Documentary of Kinshasa, Zaire Music Festival 1974) (USA, 2008)

CELIA, Celia Cruz Bio-Drama (2015 on Telemundo)

Wikipedia