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braemjeorn · 10 months ago

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CHAPTER XVI [masterlist]

pairing: bang chan x ofc

genre/notes: general audience; regency period drama; family fluff; domesticity; ocassional angst; slowburn; governess!oc; nobility!BC; age differences; age changes

wordcount: 3.5k

summary: mari resettled her calibre and hyunjin celebrated his 10th birthday.

also available in ao3, if you prefer that format

⚠️ All characters that shares the name of real life person in this story are represented in a fictional manner for entertainment purpose, and not to be alluded with real life.

TAGLIST: @spookykryptoniteperson @nixtape-foryou @do-you-know-what-else-is-big

Mari departed after Sunday lunch. Mother Ahn gave some of her biscuits and Junhee the flowers, while Inha tied the ribbons of her hat and hugged her warmly. The carriage—summoned in a rather sudden manner that Sunday—rattled away, and Mari thought that never before had she ached to be in another place within another company in her life when she was ever content to be confined in the school and the village of O–.

It was dark when she arrived at Barlnshore, but Mr Kang received her just as warmly as he did months ago. She meant to quietly go upstairs to clean herself a bit before surprising the boys by their bedroom. Yet Mari had but started to climb the flight of stairs when she felt and heard the thrum of footsteps, rushing down the hall and then descending the steps in a flurry. She laughed as Changbin’s voice rose higher in his excitement, “You’re home, you’re home, you’re home! Miss Son’s home!”

“I am home!” Mari laughed, as she caught him in arms on the landing. She sat down at the hurl of his weight, and the lad merely leaned further into her hold as he crouched down with her. Mari pulls him away to take a better look at his grinning face.

“Did you grow taller? Our Changbinnie?”

“He grows wider,” came a biting grumble from above them.

“Minho, be kind—what did I say about your teasing?” Mari laughed, reaching a hand to the approaching figure. Changbin turned to swat the elder but moved to let him hug Mari.

“That I am not to be insulting— especially to my brothers. I am to run my remarks through my head before I speak to them,” Minho recited flatly, by way of greeting. His punishment for the evening was a tightened hug that made him yelp, and then Mari nuzzled and ruffled his hair before letting him go for the next boy waiting for her.

“Hyunjin, sweetness—come kiss me.”

The boy gave her cheek a soft peck, melting into her arms. “You mustn’t leave, ever again!”

Mari might laugh at the statement to ease the boy otherwise. Yet as she looked into his wide eyes and found it grave, she realized that the settled arrangements would never allow it, and his eyes reflected her fears. It won’t do them both any good to ruin the joy with the truth now, so she settled by kissing him warmly upon his brow.

She let Jisung pepper her with as many kisses as he pleased and pulled Yongbok tighter as he giggled and nuzzled under her jaw. Behind their huddling figures was Commodore Bang, minding them all to let her breathe after a long journey, only for Seungmin to slip through him and crash into her arms. Mari smiled, and he relented to the nature of his overexcited pups.

“One would think you have returned from the other side of the ocean.” Commodore Bang shifted Jeongin in his hold and pulled one hand free to shake hers. “Good to have you back, my—... Miss Son.”

Mari’s heart jumped to her throat, but she returned his smile, and they both ignored the slip. His grasp was a comforting reassurance. Mari was happy to note a warm, natural welcome in her heart. She knew she was in good company, and extended her thanks to him as far as his kind patronship over her all this while. Commodore Bang teased her for her sudden pretty words; the boys laughed; and Jeongin was stirred from his doze by the commotion. Mari cooed over his bleary eyes and tilted her head to be in his vision.

“Yen-ah,” Commodore Bang whispered, tapping the boy’s nose. “Look who’s back.”

The youngest took her in, quite in doubt with himself over the haziness. Mari chuckled. In that dreamy state, he extended his arm and reached out for her, thus eliciting raucous giggles from his older brothers.

“He’s so adorable!” came a squeal.

“Hyung, his eyes are barely open…”

“He just knows Miss Son is here. Don’t you, Yen?”

“No, Yennie, she just came home from a long trip,” Commodore Bang said. Though barely awake, Jeongin made a most insistent effort. Mari let him come gladly, cherishing his warmth and weight.

“I don’t mind, Commodore,” she said. “Might as well take them all to bed.”

“You must rest yourself,” Commodore Bang replied, as Jeongin settled in her arm. “I’ll send for tea. We have rice cakes today with red beans - if you are hungry?”

Mari nodded, she could not refuse. “That will be lovely, Commodore, thank you.”

It all felt too homey.

“A letter for Mr Bambam.”

The man had been lounging in the garden’s chair as if melting under the warm weather. But at the announcement he started, turned, and received the letter with glee that is almost childlike. “My angel remembers me!”

Sitting by him, Mari amusedly went on with her embroideries. They were enjoying the start of spring and the warm sun. The boys were talking with Bernard or playing, while the Commodore and Lady Jang took a turn around the garden. Mr Bambam opened the letter but closed it soon after a short perusal.

“I must save it for later—before a warm fire, and a glass of good wine. Otherwise, she will distract me from my surroundings.”

As he folded the sheet, Mari noticed his gold ring, glinting sharply in the light. She paused and stared, wondering how she could have missed the article, being in his company all these months.

“You are married, Mr Bambam?” she found herself asking, more baffled than accusing. But quickly she felt it an impertinent remark, and continued, “Forgive me—it was rude of me to assume…”

Mr Bambam merely laughed. “I am. You are surprised, Miss Son? One would have thought you would be more observant. But then you already have seven heads to mind.”

“Bachelors are not uncommon,” Mari argued. “Or…—”

She nearly bit her lip at her slip, looking up rather fearfully at her companion. Mr Bambam’s eyes only glinted more playfully at her slip.

“Ah-ah-ah, come now—what ideas are evoked there, Miss Son?”

“Oh, forgive me. The thought of a lover did spring to mind,” Mari replied frankly. “My brains are quite scattered these days.”

“What if it is a lover?” Mr Bambam returned. “Will you think ill and lowly of me, Miss Son?”

“Perhaps,” Mari admitted quietly, for the lack of security and—in a way—general respect would not settle well with her. “I’m dreadfully proper and all… But I would not be unkind unless I genuinely dislike you, and I do not. I might argue a little, but otherwise… I would leave you to your stance of things.”

“Then spare your mind from such worries,” Mr Bambam said. “My wife and I were bound rightfully before the church and the law.”

They fell quiet for a moment; Mari wondered that the carefree uncle retained a bond with a woman like any other man. But with the state of things at present, it could hardly be measured as similar. Mari asked again. “Then why doesn’t she come with you?”

“You see how other couples are inseparable, we are quite the opposite. We don’t mind being as far apart as to be separated in countries, that is true, but not on bad terms.” The new look he gave Mari was more sincere but did not reduce his previous good humour. “Our marriage was arranged in our youth, and we married younger than you are now. We respect each other to not break the arrangement, but our desire for independence and exploration is yet satisfied. So we agreed to give each other leave to travel in our separate ways, delight in separate companies, and take responsibility for each endeavour’s outcome. People don’t understand how we can bear being separated for so long from one another, but then we are not united under normal circumstances. Others assume we loathe each other and were surprised at how warmly we’d greet one another if we crossed at an assembly, not knowing how long we haven’t seen one another.”

“I can imagine.”

“At least we do have a townhouse, a little place to retire to after the summer visits, balls, and excursions end. And well, there are the letters, which she has forgotten for some while, bless her soul. Considering the thickness of it, she must have missed me just as much to pay for so much news. My dear lady—even her writing delivers different comfort than those offered by friends.”

His gaze was upon said friends, who were laughing with his boys. Mari felt sorrow and warmth from his description, and declared, “Despite the peculiar arrangement, I am glad. I wish you both great happiness.”

Mr Bambam turned to Mari, his humour returned with a chuckle, “Miss Son, you and your kind soul!”

“Please always be kind to one another. Should I not be able to find it on my own, I would like to see others having it.”

“I hope that will not be the case, Miss Son,” Mr Bambam said, taking her hand warmly and setting his expression into a hen-like aunt that made Mari giggle.

“If you cannot find happiness with the prince of your dreams, then I hope you shall be comforted with one whose presence you can tolerate. And respect—that is important. But I wish you every good happiness under the sun—beyond mere toleration and contentment to a situation. You deserve greater than it, you deserve one who shares your regard and mind and admiration—for you are young and good, better than the rest of us common folks..”

“Mr Bambam, you know goodness doesn’t make happiness more deserved to few than others...”

Yet he dismisses her by shaking his head and grasping her hand with more insistence, “Take my wishes and fight for your happiness.”

Mari lowered her head, and Mr Bambam took it as a nod and returned to his tea. She picked up her needle again; after some quiet contemplation and boldness stemming from the sweet sponge sandwiches, found herself inquiring, "Do you think...one day you will live with her? Again, as couples commonly do?"

Mr Bambam paused from sipping his tea, a small smile rising on his face. "I should like to."

There was a reduction in the number of tables, therefore placing Mari at the end of the table. The boys were well aware of it.

“Where is her Ladyship?” Seungmin asked.

“She cannot leave the capital for so long—therefore she returned,” Commodore Bang replied. Mari felt it was somewhat too curt and sudden news. She barely expected it at all when they all adjourned for their soiree last night, in the drawing room. She recalled Lady Jang requesting Mari to play for her a particular tune, and her being quite reconciled to the state of beings to indulge the baroness—it was a rather quiet night for the adults, the children filling in the noise aside their playing. Commodore Bang and Lady Jang hardly shared glances.

“When did she leave?” so Mari asked.

Commodore Bang started as he looked up to her, seemingly surprised at her presence or perhaps placement right across him on the table. A cleared throat, then he answered, “At dawn; she wished to arrive by noon.”

Breakfast passed on with enough chatter, Changbin’s whines at Jisung’s teasings, and Jeongin’s giggles. The Commodore made another announcement nearing the end of the meal.

“I shall look into schools starting tomorrow,” he said. “I have received my recommendations, and there is a particular institution I wish to look into. Who knows which might suit our Minho and Changbin better.”

“I suppose,” the eldest mused. The news didn’t bother him much, or he was in such good humour with a satisfied appetite, and thus Minho proceeded to tease the next eldest with winks. “Changbin’s school will have to be a particular one.”

"And some education would do good to smoothen that nonsense of yours, brother?” Changbin responded blandly.

“Oh, but aren’t I taking you with me, Binnie? To occupy ourselves.”

“Minho…” Mari was concerned Changbin might strain his eyes squinting and frowning to the eldest. “Why don’t you finish your milk?”

“Yes, Mother.”

There was a strong thump in her ear, and Mari swore she cracked her neck looking up at the boy. Minho had returned to his plate, unaffected by his… slip? Was it intentional? A joke?

While she was frozen in place, Commodore Bang was as flustered by the words—his cup clattering upon the saucer as his ears bloomed red. He stared at the boy, who pointedly gulped his honeyed milk as the table fell silent. Changbin and Hyunjin gaped; the twins started; Jeongin persistently licked his jam, and Seungmin turned to look at the others. In the end, Mr Bambam’s loud entrance broke the tension and diverted their focus.

The days pass with relative amiability. Mari kept her word that she would return a more energised figure, and their lessons went as well as she might have hoped. The following post-nap walks to the warming hills and fields under the blue sky allowed the spring’s warmth to envelop her soul. The eight of them went to the rivers and creeks they’ve traversed through the summer, delighting in the fresh green of the trees and flowers, pointing out the fishes in the now flowing river. Mari was revived in her pleasure of enjoying the boy’s company—everything was well in her world. Even as her final days as a governess were countable, and somehow busier than ever, she is determined to enjoy everything that passed in between.

One morning—not long after the Commodore’s departure to inspect a few schools—she was retrieving a better shirt for Jeongin and came upon Minho and Changbin sitting in the latter’s bed. Their vests were still unbuttoned and shoes untied, dressing forgotten as their heads leaned together in conversation, quite unaware of the flurry in the next room that is Hyunjin and Jisung bickering and the rest preparing themselves. Minho had glee lighting up his eyes; Changbin’s features more severe with his frown as he attended to the elder’s whispers, which were quite distinct for Mari to hear,

“…it should not be improper!”

Changbin groaned. “It’s too early in the morning to make any sense—should we not think of it further—?”

“Thinking would never achieve anything—we have to act!” In a harried manner, Minho pressed on, “Binnie, we’re running out of time—and who else would suit?”

“Does she even like him!?”

“Of course, she does!”

The floors creaked as she crossed to the wardrobe. There was a rustle of sheets. When she gazed back towards them, Changbin’s wide eyes flitted to her as he fixed his collar, while Minho began to tie his shoes. Mari tilted her head at them, more concerned at the lateness of the day.

“Breakfast is ready, come on and hurry down,” she said.

She didn’t see them again until they descended for the dining room, now fully dressed yet still absorbed in their low discussion; sharp whispers which certain bits came to her hearing.

“I could not care half the world if she’s not a lady, she’s better than the rest.”

“Was there ever any other?” came Changbin’s tired return.

“There you are kid, you’ve got the point! But then I meant it in the future probability…”

Mari wondered if their mischief had alighted, and thus sighed deeply at the possibility of injured and offended parties of people—especially if it involved matchmaking. Is it for the servants? She settled to keep a close eye on both without straining her nerves, just to delay the damage and urge them to take responsibility for any consequences.

Commodore Bang returned to the house just a day before Hyunjin’s birthday. The young man would say he was fine if they were to miss his big day, but Mari knew that everything fell into perfection for the boy the moment the carriage wheels rolled into the front of the house at the end of breakfast. The Commodore was in good humour, considering his laughter and the length of time it took him to relinquish Seungmin from his arms.

At times Mari was concerned at the chances of Commodore Bang suffocating his boys with all his love—there’s no other word for it. It barely started and Changbin would send her this fatigued look (like he didn’t jab at his father every other hour) and Mari would ask the Commodore to release them from the coddlings. He’d sigh in surrender but gave them one last kiss with fondness lingering in his brown eyes. She wondered how he survived refusing all that love for three years.

Studying was cut short for Hyunjin’s birthday celebration. There was nothing much for the party but Mr Bambam, Mari, Commodore Bang, Mr Kang, Minatozaki-san, and the boys. There was little acquaintanceship with the neighbourhood boys their age, but soon Hyunjin would grow older, and invite his friends home or assemble his parties in some apartment in the capital. A far too raucous image for Mari to think of the young black-haired angel before her at present. For now, she joined his delight over the books and toys from his brothers and Mr Bambam, receiving his beaming smile over the new handkerchiefs Mari stitched for him.

“I feel like a true gentleman,” he declared as he hugged Mari, to the giggles of the room.

There were his favourite foods and treats, but Mari was certain, nothing pleased and awed him more than the watercolour paints in the mahogany box his father presented to him. It’s a beautiful, polished wooden box; on the inner side of the lid, a picture of the brand, and the box itself is separated into several compartments: for eighteen watercolour cakes, the brushes, the sponge and napkin, a deep box for the water glass and the most interesting contraption of the drawer at the bottom. It was filled with thick papers, and the Commodore offered another rim of it wrapped in brown paper.

Unable to contain his excitement at being indulged so, Hyunjin leaped away to his feet, was all smiles and laughter upon his father as he skipped in the middle of the room. “Appa, Appa! There’s so many!”

He’s a sight of sheer childish joy; his older brothers laughed at him good-naturedly, and the Commodore smiled, satisfied and revelling in his son’s pleasure. “Do you like them?”

Hyunjin finally settled down his jitters, only to run and leap into his father’s open arms, clutching the man with his four limbs tightly.

“You're welcome,” Commodore Bang laughed, arms holding Hyunjin close to him and brushing over his back. “You know,” he continued. “There is a painter in town willing to give you some lessons. If you’d like to, I'll take you there every Tuesday and Friday for an hour of lessons.”

Hyunjin pulled away to look at his father with a gasp one might have thought exaggerated. Mari couldn’t blame him—she met the Commodore’s twinkling eyes and sighed, “Oh, Hyunjin, how wonderful!”

“I just thought it would be nice if you—”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes! ”

“—know how to use these paints to create the finest art.” Commodore Bang chuckled halfway at Hyunjin’s eager nods, despite the loud reply that might have rang his ears. “All right, then?”

“I’ll work very hard for that! Oh, I’ll do very well—I promise you won’t regret it, Father.”

“I know, Hyunnie, I know.” They hugged warmly for another moment until Hyunjin slipped down to observe the paints more closely with his brothers.

“Anyone else joining the artistic endeavour?” Mr Bambam inquired from his seat and his glass of ginger soda.

“I’ll settle with my slate and chickens,” Minho said blandly. “At least Bbokie likes my chickens, right?”

The younger twin giggles, “Scrawny legs!”

Come Sunday, Minho paused in their walk returning from church, waiting for Mari who trailed in the back as the rest urged their Father to hurry for breakfast. He paced by her side, and by and by asked,

“Do you like Father? Honestly?”

Mari turned to the eldest. “All of a sudden?”

“You’ve known him for nine months. I would like to know your opinion of him.”

“And what purpose will that achieve?” Mari laughed but soon returned to a degree of seriousness, and said in a quiet breath against the fullness in her bosom, “Do you want my assessment? Well, I do like him. How could I not?”

“Truly?”

“He’s a good and admirable man, and I regard him with high respect,” so Mari satisfied the boy with some elaboration.

“As an… employer?”

Mari nodded, and Minho fell quiet again, until he asked, “Do you—think of him as a friend?”

“I could not claim it. I think such a degree of relationship is something we both must agree upon.”

“It’s just friendship,” Minho mumbled. But then he gave himself a nod and they turned to speak of other matters instead. It did not quite leave Mari’s mind for some days, especially when she could take in the Commodore’s presence and consider him. It was easier to laugh at her meltdown earlier that month when she went home to Mrs Ahn’s—and the lack of Lady Jang’s presence did some good to relieve her from the miserable dread that she was doomed to eternal loneliness and estranged forever on from the house; the most depressing outcomes in her occupation as a teacher.

i edited this with my short free time, but I hope you like the reunion scene. minbin are picking up a scent, are they?

minho's the mom of the group but I do wonder what chaos may happen of the other six look up to him as an actual brother.

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lucianovecchio · 2 years ago

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More Legion of Super-Heroes deep cuts: Visi-Lad and Golden Boy

Digital Commissions

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why-i-love-comics · 4 years ago

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Visi-Lad info page

#visi lad #visi-lad #rhent uslin #DC #comics #comic books #info page

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sebeth · 7 years ago

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Spin My Tail

#Legion of Super-Heroes #Legion Academy #Bouncing Boy #Comet Queen #Karate Kid #Visi-Lad

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legend-collection · 3 years ago

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Aibell

Aibell (sometimes Aoibheall (modern Irish spelling), also anglicised as Aeval) was the guardian spirit of the Dál gCais, the Dalcassians or Ó Bríen clan. She was the ruler of a sídhe in north Munster, and her dwelling place was Craig Liath, the grey rock, a hill overlooking the Shannon about two miles north of Killaloe. Aibell also had a lover (called Dubhlainn Ua Artigan) and a magic harp (of which it was said "[w]hoever heard its music did not live long afterwards").

The name Aoibhell may come from Gaelic aoibh, meaning "beauty" (or aoibhinn "beautiful"). Alternatively, as a theonym it could be derived from Proto-Celtic *Oibel-ā, literally "burning fire", which may have been a byword for the notion of "ardour"; the Romano-British equivalent of this Proto-Celtic theonym is likely to have been *Oebla. A variant name for the character is Áebinn.

Creation by Jill Willich

In Seán Ó Seanacháin's song An Buachaill Caol Dubh, Aoibheal appears to the "Dark Slender Boy" (representing alcohol addiction) and his friend the drinker. In the last verse Seanacháin expands by saying that, when Aoibheal met the two of them walking the road, she promised the lad a hundred men if he would let go of the poet. The lad replied that he was steadfast and true and would not desert his friends until they died. Thus Seán acknowledges his addiction will never disappear.

Lady Gregory

AND Aoibhell, another woman of the Sidhe, made her dwelling-place in Craig Liath, and at the time of the battle of Cluantarbh she set her love on a young man of Munster, Dubhlaing ua Artigan, that had been sent away in disgrace by the King of Ireland. But before the battle he came back to join with Murchadh, the king's son, and to fight for the Gael. And Aoibhell came to stop him; and when he would not stop with her she put a Druid covering about him, the way no one could see him. And he went where Murchadh was fighting, and he made a great attack on the enemies of Ireland, and struck them down on every side.

And Murchadh looked around him, and he said: "It seems to me I hear the sound of the blows of Dubhlaing ua Artigan, but I do not see himself." Then Dubhlaing threw off the Druid covering that was about him, and he said: 'I will not keep this covering upon me when you cannot see me through it. And come now across the plain to where Aoibbell is," he said, "for she can give us news of the battle." So they went where she was, and she bade them both to quit the battle, for they would lose their lives in it. But Murchadh said to her, "I will tell you a little true story," he said; "that fear for my own body will never make me change my face. And if we fall," he said, "the strangers will fall with us; and it is many a man will fall by my own hand, and the Gael will be sharing their strong places." "Stop with me, Dubhlaing," she said then, "and you will have two hundred years of happy life with myself." "I will not give up Murchadh," he said, "or my own good name, for silver or gold."

And there was anger on Aoibhell when he said that, and she said: "Murchadh will fall, and you yourself will fall, and your proud blood will be on the plain tomorrow." And they went back into the battle, and got their death there. And it was Aoibhell gave a golden harp to the son of Meardha the time he was getting his learning at the school of the Sidhe in Connacht and that he heard his father had got his death by the King of Lochlann. And whoever heard the playing of that harp would not live long after it. And Meardha's son went where the three sons of the King of Lochlann were, and played on his harp for them, and they died. It was that harp Cuchulain heard the time his enemies were gathering against him at Muirthemne, and he knew by it that his life was near its end.

Aoibheal also features prominently in the 18th-century comic poem Cúirt An Mheán Oíche by Brian Merriman. The poem begins by using the conventions of the Aisling, or vision poem, in which the poet is out walking when he has a vision of a woman from the other world. Typically, this woman is Ireland and the poem will lament her lot and/or call on her 'sons' to rebel against foreign tyranny. In Merriman's hands, the convention is made to take a satirical and deeply ironic twist.

In the opening section of the poem, a hideous female giant appears to the poet and drags him kicking and screaming to the court of Queen Aoibheal of the Fairies. On the way to the ruined monastery at Moinmoy, the messenger explains that the Queen, disgusted by the twin corruptions of Anglo-Irish landlords and English Law, has taken the dispensing of justice upon herself. There follows a traditional court case under the Brehon law form of a three-part debate.

In the first part, a young woman calls on Aoibheal declares her case against the young men of Ireland for their refusal to marry. She complains that, despite increasingly desperate attempts to capture a husband via intensive flirtation at hurling matches, wakes, and pattern days, the young men insist on ignoring her in favour of late marriages to much older women. The young woman further bewails the contempt with which she is treated by the married women of the village.

She is answered by an old man who first denounces the wanton promiscuity of young women in general, suggesting that the young woman who spoke before was conceived by a Tinker under a cart. He vividly describes the infidelity of his own young wife. He declares his humiliation at finding her already pregnant on their wedding night and the gossip which has surrounded the "premature" birth of "his" son ever since. He disgustedly attacks the dissolute lifestyles of young women in general. Then, however, he declares that there is nothing wrong with his illegitimate children and denounces marriage as "out of date." He demands that the Queen outlaw it altogether and replace it with a system of free love.

The young woman, however, is infuriated by the old' man's words and is barely restrained from physically attacking him. She mocks his impotent failure to fulfill his marital duties with his young wife, who was a homeless beggar who married him to avoid starvation. The young woman then argues that if his wife has taken a lover, she well deserves one. The young woman then calls for the abolition of priestly celibacy, alleging that priests would otherwise make wonderful husbands and fathers. In the meantime, however, she will keep trying to attract an older man in hopes that her unmarried humiliation will finally end.

Finally, in the judgement section Queen Aoibheal rules that all laymen must marry before the age of 21, on pain of corporal punishment at the hands of Ireland's women. She advises them to equally target the romantically indifferent, homosexuals, and skirt chasers who boast of the number of women they have used and discarded. Aoibheal tells them to be careful, however, not to leave any man unable to father children. She also states that abolishing priestly celibacy is something only the Vatican can do and counsels patience.

To the poet's horror, the younger woman angrily points him out as a 30-year-old bachelor and describes her many failed attempts to attract his interest in hopes of becoming his wife. She declares that he must be the first man to suffer the consequences of the new marriage law. As a crowd of infuriated women prepares to flog him into a quivering bowl of jelly, he awakens to find it was all a terrible nightmare.

#Aibell #ireland

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ashintheairlikesnow · 5 years ago

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The Night Oliver Branch Died

CW: Drowning, threats with a gun, discussed/referenced noncon of a minor, discussed pet whump/dehumanization, oliver branch is gross but hey he dies in this one so, related note: character death

Tagging Chris’s crew just because I feel like you’ll all appreciate this: @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @stxckfxck , @slaintetowhump

READERS: Tell me if you guessed it before reading this!

TIMELINE: Takes place in the future of Chris’s timeline, when he has been free for years and has enrolled in college.

The night Oliver Branch died was absolutely ordinary.

He spent some time going over the notes for the trial, sitting in his nicely appointed but perfectly modest three-bedroom home, scanning his handwritten planned remarks for the press while he ate a light dinner of soup and salad. The cook left for the night, and Oliver was the only one in the house.

Well, or so he thought.

It used to bother him, but honestly he didn’t mind the solitude any longer. Years spent with a full staff, worries he had to constantly consider at all hours of the day and night, natural disasters and economic downturns and everything else. It was nice just to take a deep breath, smell the candle burning in the center of the table, a soft sweet magnolia smell that reminded him of his childhood home.

After the trial, perhaps he would move back home. He’d lived in this state for twenty-four years, was its governor for eight of them, but he felt… a bit tired of it all. He wanted to go back to a place where people moved more slowly, wandered the streets after church in pale linen suits in the summer with the ocean air a constant truth of everyday life.

They would know, of course, about his disgrace. But they would be polite about it, keep it to themselves. He had the sense that while the scandal would follow him, it would be easier to ignore in a place where people keep their secrets safely behind closed, locked doors.

Oliver had done the same, once upon a time, only to have the secret simply walk away when someone else opened the door.

He sighed, sitting back, looking at his half-finished soup with a wistful sort of sadness.

Honestly, he couldn’t complain. He was just grateful to be out of prison, living in his own house with his own cook and the cleaning woman who comes by twice per week. Almost back to normal. Once this trial was over, of course, he’d sell the house and move back home, and it would all be just fine.

He took a deep breath and picked up his notes, handwritten in a series of different ink colors to differentiate which part of the speech he was in. It helped him to memorize if he thought of the colors. The only one he didn’t like, but used, anyway, was a deep teal ink in the paragraph where he admitted to what he did to his beautiful boy.

His beautiful boy, who had ruined himself with freedom, just as Oliver had always known he would. Some people were meant to be kept, they could not be trusted to keep themselves. His Baldur had been one of those, he had known the moment he’d been shown the intake photo, of the pretty boy curled up in a corner of a plain white room, hands up over his face in some attempt to protect himself.

We believe this will suit your specifications, the email from Ms. Renfod had stated in flat, clean prose that could never have encompassed the perfect leap in Oliver’s heart at the sight, the excitement that ran through him from scalp to toes at the fear and tears in big green eyes. We have recently acquired this individual as a result of a deal involving a family member. No inconvenient missing persons report, Mr. Branch. Perfect confidentiality, no complications. We believe he will require three and one-half months of training, plus two weeks extra for final preparations. I have attached a price list for added fees.

God, what a sight, the pretty thing before they’d taken him from himself, before he’d been delivered smiling and silent and still in the dead of night to Oliver’s door.

Honestly, what a loss that he was roaming around like some wild animal now.

Some people needed a keeper, and every time he had seen his beautiful boy since his liberation it had only emphasized to Oliver how badly Baldur needed the right sort of keeper. This new one, the tall young man with his threats and curses, clearly wasn’t doing a very good job.

Well. That was fine. Not his problem any longer, and soon enough Oliver would stand up at a podium before the press, looking at all their little recorders, and he would tell everyone exactly who Christopher Stanton was and what he had been. Oliver’s disgrace would be total, but if he played this right, Baldur would never go anywhere again without no longer being able to hide behind his earrings and awful hair and the patch of scarred skin where his barcode once had been.

Baldur might have gotten away from him, all those years ago, but Oliver intended to ensure he could not get away from what he had been made to do, to be. One did not stop being a pet, once they were made into a thing to be used for pleasure, there was nothing else for them to be.

Baldur might have delusions otherwise, but Oliver could ruin those, for him, just like his boy had ruined himself.

Kicked out of his fancy little college for his fake identity, maybe even charged with it. All his new little friends would know who he was. It was the last bit of pettiness Oliver intended to allow himself to indulge in before he returned back to his hometown and let Baldur’s fragile new life come down around his ears.

Oliver smiled, trailing fingertips over the teal ink, the exact shade of Baldur’s hideous dye job. He still had a PI on retainer, taking pictures of his pretty boy out living his life. Oliver liked to keep tabs on his old flames, just to ensure they were keeping quiet, keeping to themselves, living nice respectable lives.

Lately, with his reduced income, he’d had to cut that down to tracking Baldur alone.

Christopher Stanton. Oliver snorted. Awful name. Hardly did any justice to the perfect line of his cheekbones, the still-gentle curve of his jaw, the nicely full lips that would no doubt still part just so with a press of the right fingertips-

“Daydreamin’, are we?” A strange male voice asked, and Oliver looked up to stare down the barrel of a gun.

His heart stopped, eyes caught by that circle of infinite black surrounded by unfeeling metal, and then he raised his eyes to see a man he had never seen before. He wasn’t very tall, draped in heavy clothing that disguised his body type, though he seemed a bit on the muscular side. Perfectly average face, difficult to describe to any law enforcement, blondish-red hair cut in a flattop, narrowed eyes, smattering of freckles. Too far to see the eye color.

Robbers, really? Tonight, of all nights?

Oliver put both palms carefully down on the table as his heart began to pound. “Can I help you?”

His voice was admirably steady, and he was more than a bit proud of himself for that. He did not visibly tremble or shake, but he was deeply, deeply aware of that gun. He could see the safety was off, the man’s finger resting lightly around the trigger.

“You can,” The man said, with a hint of amusement in the blocky lines of his face. It came out more like ye can, an accent Oliver couldn’t quite place. Irish, maybe? “Hearing some rumors, about someone planning to testify next week. I was hoping’ you’d be able to disabuse me of such a disturbin’ notion.”

Oliver blinked, caught off-guard by the man’s friendly, personable tone even as the gun never faltered but it’s position held pointed directly at him. “If you work for WRU-”

“Oh, I don’t. No, as heartbreaking as it is, lad, Rossi’s group got the WRU rejects pipeline all sewn up, don’t he? Clever fuck. And I am a good many things, but I’m not a man stupid enough to cross Giovanni Rossi. You don’t put that man in a bad mood and walk out alive, do you?” Once again, the word slipped into ye, and Oliver was sure now that the accent was Irish. Faded, with the local accent flattening the vowels and roughing up the consonants, but the Irish was there nonetheless.

It occurred to him that it didn’t really matter if he identified his accent, because he almost certainly wasn’t going to walk out of this alive if the man was so easily dropping names.

“I wouldn’t know. If you’re not with WRU, I don’t see why there’s-... there needs to be a problem,” Oliver said, without moving, barely even letting his lips form the wounds. His heart still pounded in his chest. His dreams of moving back home by the coast, to Charleston’s beauty and grandeur and age, were rapidly feeling like scraps of tissue paper dissolving in water.

“You’re not just testifyin’ about the company, now, are you?” The man sighed, pulling a chair out on the other end of the table, sitting down without lowering the gun, keeping it trained on Oliver, just shifting it slightly to aim directly into his chest.

Oliver had taken a few courses in self-defense, back in the day. Aim for the center mass, the easiest thing to hit. People in movies can nail an arm or a leg with accuracy but in real life it’s rarely so easy. Aim for something lethal.

“The trial is about the company,” Oliver said, voice shaking, his own genteel accent thickening the more the fear settled in.

“It is, at that,” The man said, nodding. “But it’s not only about that, either, is it?” He snapped the fingers on his other hand, and Oliver jumped nearly a foot in the air as he realized there were two other men standing behind him he hadn’t even noticed. They appeared on either side of him, one of them picking up the papers on the table and moving them over to the man, who gave a soft, polite thanks and looked them over.

Suddenly, Oliver’s different ink colors for different aspects of his speech seemed… superfluous. He was never going to give that speech.

“What else is it about?” Oliver asked, breathy. He was going to die, and he’d always hoped for one more chance to visit his parents’ graves. Spit on them once or twice, leave flowers, and go. He’d always hoped…

Something occurred to him.

“Is this about my Baldur?”

The man’s face twisted in an expression of utter, absolute disgust.

“Is that it? Did his new keeper send you to-”

“No. Oh no, fucknuts, no.” The man laughed, looking over the papers, flipping through them idly with one hand as his associate stepped back, one of them lurking on either side of Oliver, hands pressing steadily into his shoulders to keep him right where he was. “No, no. I’ve nothin’ to do with that young lib boy. Know of ‘im, though. We keep an eye out, on our own. It’s been a long, long time, but… I owe a debt.”

“A… A debt?” Oliver’s voice caught in his throat.

“Indeed.” The man set the papers down, and for a moment, Oliver could have sworn there were tears in his eyes, emotions that played openly across the man’s utterly nondescript face. Grief, anger, sadness all warred there.

The hands on his shoulders tightened.

“Long time ago now, but I don’t forget, do I? Ah, look, here ‘tis.” The man tapped his finger in the teal paragraph so carefully written on the third page of the speech. “Here’s our lad. Tristan.”

“Tristan-... are you talking about Baldur?”

The man snarled, and Oliver flinched back against the back of his chair, waiting for the burst of sound and the bullet and his own death. Nothing came, and after a moment he opened his eyes. The man had settled his expression, but it was with effort - the anger was still clearly visible. “I’m not talkin’ about your bullshite pet name in the slightest, you sack of shit. No, I’m talkin’ about my friend’s boy Tristan.”

Oliver swallowed, and offered, “I believe… I believe he goes by Christopher now. I could give you his address-”

“We know where he lives, gobshite.”

“Then why are you here-”

“I told you, my debt. You’re an awful thick, aren’t you? We’re not the type to abduct a wean, although that never gave your like a pause, did it?” The man tapped his gun on the table, the first time it had truly lowered since Oliver had first realized he was here. Oliver let out a breath of relief.

“What is your debt, exactly?” His voice was still airy, but he tried to sound calm, in control. Never moved his hands. “I still have some funds the courts are not aware of, perhaps we could work out a deal-.. I have a safe upstairs-”

“Not that kind of debt. I had to stand by when my mucker and his wife got his face shot in by our own boss, no less, but I’m the boss, now. Took a while, took too long. I’ve had to wait and wait and wait, but me and my lads here, we’ve all owed Paul Higgs a debt since, Lord, has it been nearly a decade now? And I intend to pay it tonight.”

The man smiled, briefly, at Oliver.

“Couldn’t stop Paul’s boy from the sufferin’ already inflicted, but I can ensure you don’t say a word about him ever again, can’t I? Ah, no, we can’t have that. He’s got a good life now. Nice boy, all grown up. Hair’s a bit bollocked but who are we to judge, hm? He’s got himself a nice life goin’ and I intend to ensure he does his da proud, just like he would’ve if he weren’t forced to fuck you, you depraved bit of dogshit on my shoe. Fucking a child. A boy. What’ve you got to say for yourself?”

Oliver didn’t even bother to open his mouth. He understood that any attempt at self-defense wasn’t needed or even wanted. He understood that probably there was absolutely nothing he needed to say, ever again. He closed his eyes, lips moving in some dim form of prayer.

“Ah. A man of God, then?” Oliver looked to see the man pull a rosary from underneath his shirt. “That’s a fuckin’ laugh, considering what you’ve done. But, hey, He’s forgiven worse, I imagine. Tristan might even forgive you, too, he was always too good a boy for it all. Too bad for you that I don’t forgive shite.”

“If you’re going to shoot me,” Oliver said, barely able to get his voice above a whisper, “then do it.”

“We’re not going to shoot you, idjit.” The man rolled his eyes, giving his companions an exasperated can you believe this? look. One of the men, the one on Oliver’s right, laughed. “They’d trace it, we’d have to deal with the law, and honestly I am just not in the mood to pay any cops off this week. I’ve already paid Rossi off to keep him from gettin’ pissed at me, although he’s a man who understands the value of family, I think he’d have let us anyway. Still, never hurts to grease a palm, does it? What we’re going to do, Mr. Branch, is drown you. Your bathtub’s chock full of river water.”

“What?” Oliver swallowed, jerking forward as if to push himself up, but the hands on his shoulders pushed him back down. “H-how-... why-”

“When we dump you in the Trelawney,” The man said, calm and easy, “your lungs’ll already be chock full of its water. Nothing unusual about that, hm? Just another child molester dumped in that chemical swamp where he belongs. My mucker’s boy-... I couldn’t help him. I’ve owed Paul for that, we all have. This is my organization, now, and I will ensure Paul’s boy’s name never leaves your lips again.” The man snapped his fingers and Oliver shouted as he was dragged to his feet by the other two, kicking out, knocking his chair over with a clatter.

Just beyond the window were a hundred other houses, lights on in some, families laughing in front of their televisions. Utterly unknowing as their neighbor was dragged upstairs to his own master bathroom, to a custom-made clawfoot tub absolutely full of disgusting, muddy river water dredged up and brought here and Oliver had never even known they were in the house.

They held his head over the water as he screamed for help.

The leader leaned back against the sink, lit a cigarette, took a long drag and let the smoke float over his face. His eyes were green, Oliver realized with a kind of hysterical panicked giggle. His eyes were green.

Like Baldur’s.

“W-wait-, wait-... one question, just one, one question-”

The leader held up his hand. They kept Oliver’s head a few inches above the brackish water in the tub.

“Paul Higgs-... Baldur’s-... the boy’s father.” Oliver could barely breathe, barely get out the words. He was going to die, why was this question so important? Still, he couldn’t stop himself from asking it. “The boy’s-... just a friend?”

The leader snorted, flicked his cigarette onto the bedroom carpet through the bathroom door. A trail of thin smoke began to rise. “Paul was my best friend, yes,” He said flatly. “His da and mine were cousins. The looks run in the family, don’t they?”

“Why… why now? Why not before? When he was-... why only now?”

The man’s lip pulled to the side in a sneer. “Had to wait ‘til the company couldn’t protect you, didn’t I? You’re not a client now, Mr. Branch. Just a bit of blood on Karen Renford’s shoes. Loose thread. You’re not the only one keeps tabs on runaways, you know.”

“What?” Oliver’s eyes widened, the muddy water giving him a strange, distorted, half-transparent view of his own reflection. “What, what are y-you-”

“Ah, it’s not worth explaining this shite to him, is it?” The man rolled his eyes. “Renford knew where he was. She knows where all the runners are. She’s not going to let you fuck the company just to get your fifteen minutes, gobshite. I hate that insufferable bitch and she’s the one who made Paul’s boy into a pet, but I know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth even if the one given’ it should probably be shot herself.”

“Wh-why-”

“Shut your feckin’ hole. We may not have the pleasure of a regular contract, but I was happy to accept this little job free of charge. Everyone gets what they want, don’t they? Paul’s boy gets his nice little life for keeping, Renford gets the blood out, and I get to make up to Paul what I couldn’t do back then. Ah, Tristan was a sweet boy. Bit of a wild thing, but…” The man sighed mournfully. “Well. We all lose people, in this business, Mr. Branch. I’m sorry to’ve lost him but I’d never think to take him from what he’s got. I’m no monster.”

Laughter bubbled in Oliver’s throat, and he barely held it back. No monster, but you’ll kill me, will you?

“Tonight, everyone gets what they want.”

“I wanted Charleston,” Oliver said, staring into the brownish silt-soaked water, thinking of the blue of the ocean, the waves battering the shore, white-capped on rougher days, the salt-smell of the sea. His mother’s hands holding him, sitting on his father’s shoulders, before it had all changed. “I, I wanted Charleston.”

The words were more plaintive than he intended them to be.

“Sad for you,” The leader said without sympathy. “The heart bleeds. Perhaps you should’ve kept your wee dick in your pants and not touched our friend’s boy, then, hm? Bit late for that, though. Hope the Good Lord’s feelin’ His mercy today, pervy fuck, ‘cause you’ll see none from us.”

He snapped his calloused fingers, and Oliver’s head went under the water. He’d jerked in a final breath just before, and as he held it - lungs burning, time running out - Oliver had only a single remaining defiance. His last thought, before he had to pull water into his lungs, before the thrashing and the choking and the final blackness that pulled him under, wasn’t of Baldur at all.

He was found in the Trelawney River, the water in his lungs a perfect match for the water around him. His bathtub had been recently cleaned, but that wasn’t suspicious, as his cleaner had been there only the day before and Oliver rarely took baths. His dinner table was clean of any sign of his final meal.

There were no papers on the table, or anywhere in the house, detailing his intended speech to the press. Those papers were burned and the ashes spread on the graves of Paul and Veronica Higgs, along with a fresh spray of daisies, Ronnie’s favorite flower.

Oliver Branch’s testimony could no longer be given, due to his untimely death.

The suggestion that he had killed himself because of the shame of his own actions made the rounds in the press, followed by certainty in certain spaces that he had been murdered to protect WRU on Karen’s orders.

Perhaps a handler had done it, the rumors went, sent by the strange emotionless Karen Renford, who sat on the stand and spoke with perfect diction and a total lack of feeling on the particulars of her job, and who had never once set off a lie detector in her life. Perhaps a pet liberation member had finally snapped - there had been an incident years ago with someone who had beaten Oliver nearly to unconsciousness, maybe that person had hunted him down again.

Maybe Karen had killed him herself.

The rumors went in circles, but no one ever guessed the truth.

Oliver’s final defiance was known only to him, and went with him to the grave he was eventually buried in. His final thought was simply of the crash of a white-capped wave against the shore.

Oliver Branch died thinking not of his crimes, but with the ocean behind his eyes.

#death of a villain #original fiction #drowning tw #gun tw #threats with gun tw #chris the strawberry blond romantic #oliver branch is gross #but also very dead now #so that's nice #whump #character death tw #creepy whumper #villain death #did anyone guess 'paul's mob friends'?#karen renford #wru #box boy #box boy universe #box boy multiverse

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camerist1 · 4 years ago

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The Ole’ Windmill The old windmill still sits on the hill, just as it did when I was a young lad, visi ting my father's home place near Fryburg, Ohio.!

#Hill #Homestead #Silhouette #Windmill #Young Lad

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doctorslippery · 2 years ago

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(via Luciano Vecchio on Instagram: “More Legion of Super-Heroes deep cuts: Visi-Lad and Golden Boy Digital Commissions”)

#instagram #visi-lad #golden boy

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brooklynislandgirl · 8 years ago

Text

Render Unto Kray

@ronmanmob

She never knew exactly what was spoken within it’s walls. The wood did not give up their secrets, nor did glass or velvet or any of the other fixtures of the small, private room. But little of it mattered. They have a job later in the night, some Security thing and honestly, she paid such talk no mind. Her lot wasn’t quite mixed in their endeavours, and Pat seemed grateful when she didn’t ask him. That gratitude became something else when she asked him for a favour, which turned to intrigue when she explained further. The devil was a gleam in his eye when she concluded her request. He took all of half a minute to incline his head as a silent acquiescence, which earned the bald pate a kiss as he was bent to the limit of her reach. The lads came and went, those dear and familiar faces to her now, and she smiled more brightly than she normally did as they left one by one. Eventually Pat brought the car around, and Ron paused by the bar with last minute requests no doubt. She came round the side and stopped right in front of him, bouncing on the tip of her toes. There was a certain affection underlining a tension that if anything seemed to broaden his shoulders, that sang in his blood a tattoo of war. She fussed over his tie a moment. Reg being the last out of the nest was forced to play witness to her rising up on the tips of her toes and Ron in not so rare generosity leaning just a touch down toward her. Air stilled just then before her cheek pressed to Ron’s. Just that. A brief but tender gesture, no words passing from either of them. None were needed. She had no eyes for his brother, or Pat who waited by the door, as she straightened his lapel. And that was the end of the moment, before Ron and Reg left in the car.

~*~

As she knew he would be, Reg was the first to arrive.

He looked shagged out, weariness heavy under his eyes, his body stiff. But his hair was immaculate, his suit still pressed. He didn’t bother to greet her as he walked past the bar and straight for that door; the one she shouldn’t have known about, but did thanks to the gift afforded her weeks ago. She watched him pass, glanced down at the slim little watch on her dainty wrist. She’d have a good ten minutes if all went according to the bargain struck.

She took down the single-malt she rather liked, and two shot glasses. She turned the radio on, one of her favourite stations, the one they often listened to of a quiet pub afternoon. She then proceeded to follow Kray the elder. Suit coat hung on the back of his chair, his head leaned against the lattice-back. Eyes closed, knuckles tucked into ice. She could have asked for a more perfect scene had she set it up herself. She sauntered slowly his way, in the dim light of the room. She set the glasses down, the bottle beside it on the table next to his ice.

She stopped before him, lifted the hem of her ankle length skirt until the hem just brushed the soft skin barely above her knees. She put one each of them on either side of his hips, and Reg startled to her presence, opening his mouth to speak. She put one delicate finger to his lips.

“Shhhh. Don’ move. Jus’ stay li’dat.” Underneath the digit came a slow but confused smile. She was of course warm and soft as she settled in his lap and she could see a flash of curiosity in his dark gaze. He didn’t say anything when she removed her quieting hand to pour them both a drink. She allowed his hands to settle around her hips without shuddering. But if it encouraged him to obedience, well.. must needs, yeah?

Once she was certain all of his attention was focused on her, she lifted her hands to his face and classed each cheek. “Dis some kine I wan tell ya for a while now, jus’...no sure how.”

‘Coulda fooled me earlier, luv.’ There was a certain tone to the chuckle she didn’t care for.

“Lissen for me, jus’ dis one time. Lissen for real.” She raised his face so he’d return his gaze to her eyes rather than the shadow of her modest cleavage where it had dipped down. He whetted his lips but nodded.

“Ya braddah, Ronnie, yeah? He’s schiza’phrenic, Reg.”

“ ‘Ang on, luv, I already-” She reached up and pressed her fingers to his mouth again.

“Ho, naw, naw, naw. Dis is you talkin’. Wha’ I ask is ya for lissen me, an’ ya will. Each word. Ronnie’s schiza’phrenic, Reg. Le’dat sink in. Le’ it flow t’rough ya t’oughts, down til it reach ya heart.

“Some folk, dey born wi’ blue eyes. Some born wi’ dark. No can change dat. Use contacts for look like a different colour, but unnerneath, same same. Is a fact.” She took a soft breath that might have come out a little like a sigh. “Ya need for know, is okay. I can feel it, Reggie. Heah,” she placed one palm over his heart. “Ya scared. Ya worry. Of course ya are. He’s ya lil brah, an’ ya duty is protect him, but ya couldn’t. No from dis. Dat’s okay too. No ya fault. No his. Sometimes, much as we hate admit it, t’ings jus’ happen.

“An’ I see ya, Reg. Ya wanna swim away because it makes ya uncomfortable. It hurts ya for see him poorly. Hurts him too. And me and everyone else. But he still walks wi’ it. Ronnie no can wake up one mornin’ and decide no be schiza’phrenic dat day cause it’s inconvenient. Ya get dat, yeah?”

“Where d’ya ge’orf finkin’ ya can tell me about me own fuckin’ bruvvah, Aliza’bef?” She twitched at the way he called her by her Christian name. “I ge’ off, because I know Ronnie lives wi’ it every day of his life, Reginald. Day an’ night, summer an’ winter. You, ya got Frances. Ya got ya friends. Ya got ya security work, an’ ya parties, an ya got every kine for keep ya busy, so ya ignore it. Ya know what Ronnie’s got? He’s got Pat, an’ me. He’s got Claude and Noe an’ da oddah pups.” Her voice broke here, thickened to a smokey honey.

“Ya know what he’s no got, Reg? He no has you. Some days, he’s no got himself. An’ is dose days, when he’s lost inside his own head, lost in a place no can find his way back from, dat’s when he needs ya most. Ya swim way because ya can, cause is easy for ya for pretend ya no can see. An’ it hurts him. Ron’s feel poorly. No have good day. Leave him, he’ll come round. I’ve hear you say dat, seen ya do it.

“Did ya visi’ him once while he was at Maudsley? He wrote me every day, Reg, an’ he never mention it. Never mentioned ya comin’ for see him. For ya to ask him how he was feelin’. Not once. EVERY DAY.” Her hands slipped to his shoulders and she shook him bodily, perhaps because she was furious with him, perhaps because she ached for Ron, perhaps because her own hands trembled violently and she couldn’t hide it otherwise.

“STOP DAT!” Realising she was shouting at Reg, she took yet another breath, this one for calming purposes.

“An’ if I don’t? Wotcha gone do’en, Alizabef? Gonna yell at me some more?” She smiled sweetly though there was a faint bitterness at its edges. “If ya don’, Reggie, I will ask Pat ta kindly put ya on ya knees. Den, I will reach down ya t’roat an’ pull ya kidneys out, one by one. If Ronnie’s gonna suffer ya abandonin’ him when he needs ya, I’ll see to it dat it’s permanent, so at leas’ ya no can mess wi’ his head anymore. An’ don’ worry. We’ll name a dog for ya, won’ dat be nice?” At her outlandish threat, his fingers dug into her hips, hard enough to bruise her. His teeth clenched, his face so close to hers she could see each individual pore where a blow of some kind landed and marred his cheek. “D’ya even hear yersel’ woman?”

“I do. Yes.”

He looked her deep in the eye. His narrowed as hers widened, and after a moment of contested wills, he muttered under his breath, “Oh, for fuck sake. You’re-”

“Yes.”

“Serious.”

“No wha’ ya was gonna say, but yes.”

“Nuffin’ comes easy or cheap for him or me, so wha’ you proposin’ then?” That galled her, but he was a businessman to the end, wasn’t he? There was something so wrong about her having to bargain, to teach him how to be a better brother, but at least... at least she could see that he did love Ron, would do, but that he was overwhelmed and drowning by something he couldn’t fix. Maybe that’s what softened her, what made her let go of his shoulders at long last.

“Look, I can do da day for day kine. I can make sure he gets his tablets on schedule. I can be here for him when you no can. Will be for as long as Ronnie lets me. Pat already takes da brunt of da hard days, me an’ Claude can take da softer, scarier ones. But you... ya gotta reach out for him, Reg.

“Ya no can have da lil braddah ya once knew, but get for know da one ya got now. He’s an amazin’ man, even when he’s poorly. Jus’ do dat. No for me. No for any body but you an’ him. Please?”

“Right, an’ me? Wha’s my take?”

“Ya get keep ya braddah. Ya get keep ya kidneys. Ya become a beddah man. No can put a price on any of dose kine.”

For a moment she thought he was going to choke her then and there. But his grip on her hips fell away, and he laughed. Not because she said anything funny, but because in his own way, he needed the catharsis too.

“Are all American gels like you, luv?” She shrugged. “Dunno, brah. I’m Hawai’ian.”

“Do you know wha’ ‘ee’d say, if I even f’ought about tellin’ him about this conversation?”

“Pretty sure he t’ink ya a bit paranoid,” she couldn’t help but giggle. Honestly, as small and slight as she was, who would believe she could be a threat to anyone, least of all either of the Kray brothers? “Seriously t’ough, will ya at leas’ try?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Choke mahalo.” She climbed off his lap and replaced the warmth and weight of herself by handing him the first of the shot glasses, and then primly arranged her skirts. He took it and slammed it down before catching her wrist. “Whadd’ya gonna do now?”

“Me? Gonna take dis bottle. Gonna go upstairs, and wait. Dere’s a radio drama and a menthol rubdown he’s gonna want.” She turned to leave.

“Ain’t ya forgettin’ yer own drink?”

“Naw, I don’ drink. Pour it for ya, jus’ in case ya made it all da way t’rough dis wi’out losin’ ya fingers.”

“Nigh’ Bef.”

“Aloha ahiahi, Reg.”

#ronmanmob #{London Calling}#{cut for length}

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bourbakiaxiom · 8 years ago

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Still Life - The Blue Vase (1920) by Giorgio Morandi

Epiphany - Labels

- by Imants Ziedonis (my translation from the Latvian original)

All of us are bottles and boxes, jars and poster columns. We have all been labelled, are, and will be, labelled - it is public custom. For the label is the human identifying mark: you have a wide garbadine coat - you’re your own man; you have tattoos on your arms, you’re one of us; you have a guitar and pinkish hair - you’re our lad. You’re a gentleman, you’re a fool, you’re a snob, you’re a citizen. Others are known by their imported fashion clothes, global-trend sunglasses, hats, coats and suspenders. Others have impossible-to-obtain expensive real-fur caps.

But the time comes, when you cast that all off and become pure, as you were from the beginning.

I struggled long. I had acquired the habit from you. I had long been patient, I had long sat at a table with you lot, fearing to stir. I had worried, whether my tie might appear crooked to someone. I had worried my elbow was perhaps not in your salad.

I’d feared that perhaps the buttonholes of my jackets weren’t matched up with the right buttons (now I stick a daisy in my buttonhole!)

Draw up your left leg, son, and bow down; ask for a dance, but don’t cross the dance hall; kiss the lady’s hand; smoke your pipe like Ehrenburg * ; don’t interrupt your speech, and listen with respect. And I listened. Grinding my teeth. Groaning inside. Sweating like a pig. I was afraid to get up and leave. Scared I might nudge someone’s shoulder, dislodge a cushion (man, your words are strange, are you sure you’ve not stolen them?). I was worried I’d fall down in the midst of the auditorium, like having an epileptic fit, twitching desperately as you spoke. Afraid to tell you, that blowing from your own horn was just slimy custard. Can’t you hear yourself, that you are playing that march?

All the time I was afraid; but now I’m telling you: go to hell!

I was a beautiful, shimmering bottle! Then I got plastered with labels, and the sun didn’t sparkle my glass anymore.

Slowly I tore off the labels. I could still feel the glue of the labels on my skin, but soon I’ll be free. My navel is only my navel, so why paste a label on my navel? A child is born naked. After that we pop a blue cap on his head - that’s a boy; and a red cap on the head - that’s a girl. Though it was already visible, that the boy has this; and the girl, was a girl.

After that we add extra labels.

The more sensitive are killed by the labels. I remember, once near the pine trees there was a boy covered in a foil of labels, transformed into an angel. Humans breath with the whole body, with our entire surface. But he was so plastered over, that he was short of breath. He fainted, no one knew what to do with him. When he collapsed, the doctor came, and said that he had been glued over too much. But the angel had already died.

We are all bottles, jars, and poster columns. All plastered over and keep getting plastered over. Through habit? Through necessity? I speak the dialectic of another necessity - scrape them off.

- Imants Ziedonis

(Notes: Ehrenburg refers to Ilya Ehrenburg (Soviet writer, 1891-1967))

For the Latvian original...

Imants Ziedonis

Epifāni

Visi mēs esam pudeles un kārbiņas, burkas un afišu stabi. Visus mūs aplīmēja, aplīmē un aplīmēs – sabiedriska paradumība. Jo etiķete ir cilvēku pazīšanās zīme: tev ir plats gabardīna mētelis – tu esi savējais; tev ir tetovējumi uz rokām un krūtīm – tu esi mūsējais; tev ir ģitāra un pinkaini mati – tu esi mūsu puika. Tu esi džentlmenis, tu esi nelga, tu esi snobs, un tu esi pilsonis. Citus pazīst pēc importa apģērba gabaliem, pasaules modes saules brillēm, cepurēm, kamzoliem un bikšturiem. Citiem ir nekur nedabūjamas dārgas zvērādu cepures.

Bet pienāk laiks, kad tu kasi to visu nost un kļūsti tīrs, kā no sākuma bijis.

Es ilgi mocījos. Es biju pieņēmis no jums etiķeti. Es biju ilgi bijis pacietīgs, es biju ilgi sēdējis pie viena galda ar jums un baidījies pakustēties. Es biju baidījies, vai mana kaklasaite nav kādam likusies šķība. Es biju baidījies, vai man elkonis nav ielikts jums salātos.

Biju nobijies, vai tikai žaketei visi pogcaurumi pareizi aizpogāti (tagad es pigu iespraužu pogcaurumā!).

Pievilkt kreiso kāju, puisīt, un paklanīties; lūdzot uz deju, neiet pāri zālei; dāmai roku skūpstīt; pīpēt pīpi kā Ērenburgam; nepārtraukt runātāju un klausīties ar cieņu. Un es klausījos. Zobus griezdams. Mokās stenēdams. Līdz izmisuma septītajiem sviedriem. Baidījos piecelties un aiziet. Baidījos gāzt šim pa plecu, lai polsteri izmežģījas (Tev ir sveši vārdi, vecīt, vai neesi tos zadzis?), baidījos nokrist zāles vidū kā epilepsijas lēkmē un izmisīgi raustīties, kad tu runā. Baidījos pateikt, ka ķīselis saliets tavā taurē. Vai tu pats nemaz nedzirdi, kad tu spēlē šo maršu?

Visu laiku es baidījos, nu es saku: - Ej ellē!

Es biju skaista, mirdzoša pudele! Tad mani aplīmēja etiķetēm, un saule vairs nemirdz manā stiklā.

Lēni plēšu nost etiķetes. Jūtu vēl etiķetes līmi uz ādas, bet drīz būšu brīvībā. Mana naba ir tikai mana naba, kāpēc man jāļauj līmēt etiķeti uz nabas? Bērns piedzima pliks. Pēc tam viņam uzlika zilu micīti galvā – tādu puikam, un

sārtu micīti galvā – tādu meitenei. Kaut gan tāpat bija redzams, ka puikam ir tas, kas puikam pienākas, un meitenei, kas meitenei.

Pēc tam līmēja citas etiķetes.

Jūtīgākos etiķete nobendē. Es atceros, kādreiz pie eglītes viscaur aplipināja ar staniolu zēnu, iztaisīja par eņģeli. Cilvēks elpo ar visu ķermeni, ar visu savu virsmu. Bet viņu aplīmēja tā, ka pietrūka elpas. Viņš paģība, neviens nezināja, ko ar viņu darīt. Kad viņš bija nosmacis, atnāca ārsts un teica, ka zēns par daudz aplīmēts. Bet eņģelis bija jau miris.

Visi mēs esam pudeles, burkas un afišu stabi. Visus aplīmē un aplīmēs. Paradumība? Nepieciešamība? Es runāju par dialektiski otro nepieciešamību – kasīt nost.

- Imants Ziedonis

#giorgio morandi #imants ziedonis #epiphanies #epiphany #authenticity #my translation

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