#also this is a mirror of the previous prompt - both being on the boat

[nk-rinji]

A thousand thousands thoughts race through her head - memories of joys and sorrows shared, questions to which answers yet remain untold, worries of unsure tomorrow. Which is why, when she heard that voice, that dared to sound consoling, all she felt was anger. Ascending the stairs, she found her quarry - and suddenly, her mind drew to a blank. Instead of feeling mad, all she felt was… confusion. How can she be angry at someone who, with all the told power and might and people's love… looks so much like her?

JUNELEZEN DAY 7 - "BOAT"

[6.0 spoilers]

— Note: A rare WoL!Rinji screenshot.

*WoL!Rinji is the character who goes through and is involved in the MSQ. RP!Rinji is a character I have made for RP with other people and who most of my posts are about.

—

[thephantomessoftheopera]

Notes on Gaston Leroux’s “The Phantom of the Opera” - Chapter 13: “Apollo’s Lyre”

Image of the Apollo statue on the rooftop of the Palais Garnier from Wikimedia Commons

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The chapter “Apollo’s Lyre” constitutes the basis for the “rooftop scene” between Raoul and Christine in the ALW version, but in the book, it is really all about Erik. It’s quite possibly the most important chapter in the novel because we meet our title hero face-to-face for the first time, and because Erik overhearing Christine‘s plan to escape provides a turning-point for the plot.

The symbol of Apollo's Lyre is not only present in the Apollo statue on the highest point of the rooftop (that Erik is supposedly clinging to here), but also adorns the chandelier both in the Palais Garnier and in the original production of the musical.

At the end of the preceding chapter, Raoul had vowed to take Christine away, but she is still at war with herself about the idea. She wants to leave because she is afraid, but at the same time, warns Raoul that he will probably need to force her to leave since she isn’t emotionally ready to let go:

““But if I refuse to go with you when the time comes for you to take me away, you must make me go!” [...] she spoke these words with a forcefulness that seemed to be directed against herself.”

Every time Raoul offers to take her away right then and there, Christine refuses with an excuse of why it’s not possible to leave just now. Yet she is afraid that the next time she goes to Erik, she may never leave again. Erik seems to make her feel very deeply - but too much feeling can be very terrifying, especially if it’s a wild ride on that emotional rollercoaster of ecstasy, horror, pity, despair and passion that he sends her on. It’s no wonder she rationally wants to get out before it consumes her, and yet is afraid of losing it.

While she begins telling Raoul the whole story from her perspective, they repeatedly think they hear sighs, but still remain in the same place. This is a bit odd, considering how they kept running around before, but now, Christine insists that they stay, which is a bit curious. It is possible that she thought they were safe - but considering her general unwillingness to leave, I think it is even possible that she might be subconsciously sabotaging her own escape plan.

When Christine speaks about how she first met Erik, it becomes clear that masquerading as the Angel of Music was not initially Erik‘s idea. When Christine heard Erik in her dressing-room for the first time three months ago, he sang and spoke to her like a real man, except that he had this beautiful angelic voice and was hiding in the passage behind her room, so that he could not be seen. The first person to suggest that he might indeed be the Angel of Music is Mama Valerius, who prompts Christine to ask Erik if he is the Angel her father had sent for her. Erik jumps at the opportunity presented to him and confirms that her assumption is correct, and asks if she will let him teach her. She consents, and together they make amazing progress, developing both Christine’s technique and her inspiration to hitherto unknown heights.

One day, Christine sees Raoul at the Opera, and eagerly tells Erik about it. I bet he bitterly cursed himself then for passing himself off as an Angel, leaving enough space in Christine’s heart for a real man. But his threats to leave cause her to despair and to try to ignore Raoul - also because a marriage to him would be out of her reach anyway. Now it’s Erik’s turn to whine and accuse Christine of being in love with Raoul in the same way we’ve seen Raoul do before. But just like with Raoul, she won’t have that and even challenges Erik that she will ask Raoul to accompany her to Perros. According to her, Erik’s jealous reaction made her realize that she loved Raoul. I wonder if madly jealous Raoul also made her realize that she might possibly be just a little bit in love with two very different men?

Subconsciously, she seems to kind of know already that Erik is not really an angel, because when the chandelier falls, she is half-mad with panic and terribly afraid that it may have killed “the Voice” (and it would be a bit difficult to kill a heavenly being even if you dropped a chandelier on it). She also admits that then, Raoul and Erik were both “the equal halves of her heart” (and I think they still are, beneath all the complications that have arisen in the meantime). She runs to her dressing-room because that is where she is most likely to find “the Voice”, and when she hears the sounds of Erik singing and playing the “Resurrection of Lazarus” on his violin, she follows his voice through the mirror without being able to say how exactly she disappeared through it. She suddenly finds herself being gripped by a man in a black cloak and a full-face mask and tries to fight back, but then faints. When she wakes, she is resting on the ground near a fountain, and Erik is gently tending to her, but doesn’t reply to her questions so as not to give himself away as “the Voice”. Christine recognizes César the horse, and realizes that even though she never believed in the ghost, she had heard the rumours about him stealing the horse.

Erik takes Christine to the house by the lake, first on César’s back (that’s what he needed the horse for, after all) and then in the famous boat (which is rowed in the novel). She is no longer terrified, but feels strangely peaceful - an effect which she attributes to the possibility of having been drugged, even though she admits that at the same time, she was still in full possession of her senses.

“Lake Averne”, the name of the lake under the Opera House, is a play on words as well as meaning. First, “lac averne” is almost the same as “la caverne”, which means “the cavern”. There is also a real lake named “Lago d’Averno” in Italy, and in Roman mythology, that lake is one of the entrances to the Underworld. This fits with the fact that Erik also bears characteristics of Charon, the ferryman to the Underworld, whose name can be literally translated as “with glowing eyes”. The iconic boat ride certainly resembles the passage into the Hades, which is even alluded to in the novel.

The water tank below the Palais Garnier. Image from atlasobscura.com

Let’s stay in the Underworld for a moment. “The Phantom of the Opera” can also be seen as a variation on the story of Hades and Persephone (Christine’s ship in “Love Never Dies” is not called “Persephone” for nothing). Hades, the god of the Underworld, fell in love with the young and beautiful Persephone and wanted to marry her, but as the goddess of spring, she wasn’t willing to abandon the world above and go to live in the Underworld. Therefore Hades abducted her, she finally consented to marry him and became queen of the Underworld. Due to the intervention of her infuriated mother Demeter, it was finally decided that she would divide her time between living on earth for some months every year and living in the Underworld for the rest of the time.

When they arrive, Erik sets a confused Christine down in his brightly lit drawing-room, which has been decorated with an enormous amount of golden baskets full of flowers. It is not quite clear where all the flowers come from, so I guess he bought them all for her. With a salary of 20,000 francs, he could probably afford the luxury of spending so much on flower decorations… He tells her that she is in no danger, as long as she doesn’t touch his mask. When Christine realizes that the Voice is not an angel, she starts crying. Erik then kneels down in front of her and proceeds to tell her without further ado who he is, begs her to forgive him, and lays his heart at her feet. He confesses how much he loves her, and how wrong his actions were, but that he did everything out of love for her. It seems that Erik was rather anxious to reveal the truth that he is not really the Angel of Music and end his deception, but at the same time, was waiting for an opportunity that would allow him to explain everything without the risk of her running away from him forever. Keep in mind that he took on the role of the Angel of Music for just a couple of months, not years as it is commonly assumed.

Christine then stands up to demand her freedom, and is taken aback when he actually concedes it to her, telling her that she is free to leave. But after all, she does not leave because he starts to play the harp and sing for her. The piece he is singing here is the “Canzone del Salice” from Rossini’s “Otello”, in which Desdemona laments the cruelty of love. It is often assumed that the „Otello“ Leroux is referencing here is the more famous “Otello” by Verdi, but that one didn’t premiere until 1887, while the story is definitely set before 1886. Furthermore, Rossini’s version of the “willow song” is the only one that starts with a harp solo. The song is included in the playlist, listen to it here:

https://open.spotify.com/track/25ILZhCIWIRjJVK8SqDWzn?si=U5EPiO_ySBOlIy5XvI1BGw&dl_branch=1

The next morning, Christine awakes on the couch in „her“ bedroom (aka the “Louis-Philippe room”) where Erik must have carried her after she had fallen asleep. When she can‘t get out, she suffers a fit of hysterics, although it seems that she has simply been unable to locate the door set within the wall. Erik has been out shopping for her, which is a rather cute scene when he comes back with all the boxes for her while she yells at him. He calmly tells her to get ready for lunch, and she slams the door in his face so she can take a bath in peace. She places a pair of scissors within reach so that she could kill herself if Erik “stopped behaving like an honourable man”. Her concern is understandable, being alone with the man who is madly in love with her, however it is important to note that Erik never physically forces himself on her throughout the story.

Remarkably, Erik’s house had both hot and cold running water, something that was still very rare then, which suggests that he actually lived in better hygienic conditions than most people at that time, and that he was a skilled engineer.

When she finally joins him, he tells her that she does not need to be afraid, and that all he asks for is that she will spend 5 days with him. After that, he hopes that she will come back to see “poor Erik” from time to time, shedding a few tears beneath his black mask as he speaks. He serves Christine lunch in the drawing-room, consisting of crayfish, chicken wings and Tokay wine, but he himself does again not eat or drink. From their conversation, we learn that Erik has taken on his name “by chance”, whatever that means. The meaning of the name is “sole ruler” which is quite fitting for him.

When Christine has finished eating, Erik invites her to see his room, and she doesn’t hesitate as she instinctively trusts him. Apparently Erik has a very gothic taste as far as room decorating goes, and all this also plays heavily into the death symbolism of his character. Erik sleeping in a coffin is reminiscent of vampire stories, especially because it seems to be a choice and not a necessity. There is also an organ with the score of “Don Juan Triumphant” on it, written in Erik’s customary red ink(?). Erik tells her that he started composing it 20 years ago. Christine asks him to play her something from his “Don Juan”, but Erik refuses because “some music is so formidable that it consumes everyone who approaches it”. It is quite significant that the “sing for me” motif is absent from the novel version, in contrast to the ALW version where it is very strong. Erik, in the novel, has no plans for Christine to sing any of his music. He wants her companionship and her love, and he wants to sing together with her and lose himself in their shared passion for music, but he definitely does not see her as an instrument of sorts. He did help advance her career, but not with the intention of having her perform his work.

Erik makes it clear that his own music is very different from Mozart’s „Don Giovanni“ and from “opera music” in general. “Don Juan Triumphant” can be seen as an allusion to Lord Byron’s epic poem “Don Juan” (in which, incidentally, Don Juan is sold as a slave to the sultana of Constantinople).

He sits down at the piano and starts singing the duet from “Otello” with Christine. There is of course more than one duet in “Otello”, but this one is most likely “Non arrestare il colpo/Notte per me funesta” from Act III (here: https://open.spotify.com/track/151M60b3qxzqKLDFwIVuUB?si=WX4TDWCeQVmIChqd6u7CyQ&dl_branch=1 and here: https://open.spotify.com/track/2Ep1OncGZCNR9yFevG6Pb6?si=QzG2JztuQ42MDoiVrLAaew&dl_branch=1 ) In this scene, Othello accuses Desdemona of betraying him, while she tries to convince him that she is innocent. She realizes that she has fallen victim to Iago’s plot, but Othello does not believe her and stabs her. This opera, for once, is in Italian, while most of the other pieces that appear in the “Phantom” are sung in French.  

The unmasking in the novel happens while Christine is swept up in the passion of her duet with Erik. She “stepped closer to him, attracted and fascinated, enticed by the idea of dying at the center of such passion. But before dying [she] wanted to see his face…”

It’s not like she is sneaking up to him out of pure curiosity, but rather reacting to an instinctive wish to pull away the barrier between them. The scene is even more tragic because with a normal face, the passionate mood that Christine was in would have potentially led to her kissing him. But sadly, his face is anything but normal, so Christine recoils in horror instead. Erik’s reaction to the unmasking is violent and horrific as he goes mad with rage at her, even hurting his own face with her fingernails - an expression of his self-loathing. Throughout the scene, Christine seems fixated on the horror of his face more than his behaviour, though. Ashamed of himself, Erik crawls out of the room and shuts himself up in his bedroom.

“Apollo’s Lyre” by Annie Stegg Gerard

Erik’s appearance as described in the novel is indeed bordering the realm of the fantastic and supernatural. He is so stuffed with death symbolism that it is hard to take everything literally. Christine’s description makes it rather hard to see him as “real” because he seems to look like something straight out of a nightmare.

It is important to note that Erik is not just run-of-the-mill ugly, but that he is very clearly associated with death in many ways - from sleeping in a coffin and having funeral-style decor in his room to actually looking like a „living corpse“. Erik and Christine can be seen as a literal expression of the artistic topos „death and the maiden“, which especially towards the end of the 19th century associated death very strongly with the erotic (see https://eclecticlight.co/2020/01/05/paintings-for-our-time-death-and-the-maiden/ for a very good overview of the motif). Death here is usually represented as either a skeleton or corpse, or as an angel - which is very much in line with Leroux’s Erik.

”Girl and Death” by Edvard Munch

Combined with the fact that Erik‘s music creates feelings of passion, rapture and ecstasy in Christine, it is not a big stretch to conclude that Erik is associated not only with death, but also with sexuality. The duality of sex as both a life-creating and life-threatening force was acutely perceived by the people of that period. Love and death are connected, and both are represented in Erik‘s character. ALW‘s musical adaptation recognized this strongly erotic undercurrent in the story and translated it very aptly into songs such as „Music of the night“ or „Point of no return“. The way in which Christine describes her lessons with Erik - that they “awakened an ardent, voracious, and sublime life” in her, and made her live in a “kind of ecstatic dream” can also be interpreted as her romantic awakening, with all the frightening emotional chaos attached to it.

Raoul, on the other hand, is more associated with purity and propriety - which is reflected in how he views Christine, and the standards that she must conform to in his opinion.

Before seeing Erik’s face, Christine admits that she *would* have come back, but that now, she would never return because “you don’t go back into a grave with a corpse that loves you”. Note how she switches from the first person to the impersonal “you” in this sentence - “you” might not do that, but we already know she did in fact go back more than once. And she is still able to see something of the angel in him because he does not take advantage of the situation, but leaves her alone, turning to his music again.

And then, “music has the power to abolish everything in the outside world except its sounds, which go straight to the heart”. Erik starts playing the finale of “Don Juan Triumphant” where “ugliness, lifted on the wings of love, had dared to look beauty in the face”. Through the music, Christine can glimpse into the depths of Erik’s heart and soul, feel his torment and suffering, and is overwhelmed with compassion.

Once again, she is the one to tear down the wall between them. She pushes open the door to Erik’s room and asks him to show his face, sincerely thinking that she can handle it - but it turns out, she really isn’t quite able to when there’s no music between them. But she manages to put on a brave facade and lie to him about being able to look at him without horror. She despises herself for her lies, but then she also does what she must in order to be set free. Erik takes her for walks along the shore of the underground lake, and for carriage rides to the Bois de Boulogne (that’s where they ran into Raoul in Chapter 9). After two weeks, Erik finally trusts her so much that he is willing to set her free (with conditions, of course). It’s really heartbreaking when she mentions how he dared to try to make her look at him even when he wasn’t singing, like a “timid dog”. At this point, he is in her power just as much as she is in his.

When she finally leaves, she is moved more by his tears than by his threats, and his pain is what gets her to come back in the first place: “Those sobs attached me to him more strongly than I thought when I said good-bye to him.” Part of why she is afraid to leave is that she fears it will kill him if she leaves him.

At the end of the chapter, Raoul asks the fateful question that sums up the tragedy of Erik and Christine:

“You’re afraid, but do you love me? If Erik were handsome, would you love me?” “Why tempt fate, Raoul? Why ask about things that I keep hidden at the back of my mind, like sins?”

Christine’s reply along the lines of “Don‘t ask” was cut from the de Mattos translation. It clearly evidences that Christine has conflicted feelings for Erik that go beyond only horror or pity, and that she prefers to suppress them so she doesn't have to deal with them. The statement also shows that if Erik had not been cursed with his face, then things might have looked very different for him and Christine. Attentive readers of de Mattos might nevertheless notice that her next line „If I did not love you, I would not give you my lips“ evades addressing the „what ifs“ Raoul posed, but it still makes her appear less conflicted than she really is. Christine’s heart is a pretty deep ocean of secrets, and at the back of her mind, there seem to be quite a few things that she is unwilling to admit to herself, as Raoul suspected before:

“You obviously love him, and your fear, your terror - all that is still love, of the most exciting kind! The kind you don’t admit to yourself.”

I haven‘t really counted, but this must be like the fifth time that Raoul insists on his suspicion that Christine is in love with Erik, and he just can‘t get a „no“ out of her. That “no” is given very directly though when he asks her if she hates him. She kisses Raoul to prove that she loves him, at the same time telling him that the kiss is just a one-time thing („for the first and last time“). Then “the night is torn apart”, and the last thing they see is a pair of glowing eyes looking down on them from Apollo’s lyre - which are clearly Erik’s, who has overheard the entire conversation…

Image from wikipedia

Next chapter >>

[randomoranges]

a million yrs ago i drew an art with the wheel. and there was a fic for an au and i was like theres another part thats not au

i never got around to it - didn’t really know how to go about it really

and then the other night this idea came to flirt with me and it had more banter but i still dont know how to plug my brain into a word doc so that convos that play in my head can happen on “paper”

anyways; yes i over use same themes over and over and over again :) 

Ferris Wheel Summer 2021+

  “So,” Edward started as they rounded the corner and had a clear view of the Ferris wheel, “How many times have you been on it since it opened?” He asked his boyfriend, joking tone and all. It was a bright sunny summer day and a walk around town had inevitably led them into the Old Port.

  “Honestly? Probably a lot less than you think – I’ve only been on it once,” Étienne told him with a shrug.

  “You got me; that is less than I thought, but you mean to tell me that you haven’t taken any of your hot dates on a romantic ride on the Ferris wheel?” Edward waggled his eyebrows for show and Étienne laughed, but crinkled his nose at the thought of doing such a thing.

  “Nah – it’s too much for a casual thing – too loaded. The whole get to the top and stop, romantic vibes abound and such. Ferris wheel is either for families, tourists or couples. Maybe a group of friends, but it depends.” He declared as though a study had been made on the fact and he had spent hours studying these factors.

  “All right, so you’re not a tourist, I doubt you came here with your brothers, last I heard you’re not in a relationship with anyone else – who’d you come with?”

  “You’re right on all accounts, but you forgot I have a sister. El and I came on opening day,” He admitted, if a little sheepish.

  “Of course you were here on opening day,” Edward said with a roll of his eyes. How silly of him to think that the Maisonneuve twins wouldn’t have been here on the inauguration of the wheel, when they were known to be at every opening of every new thing in the city – especially new, in vogue things. “But also, that’s sweet.” He added. He’d always thought it was nice how close Étienne and Élyse were and how even though they didn’t always agree and had different opinions on literally everything; their love for their city prevailed and they found time to enjoy it together. Edward tried to picture himself doing something of the likes with his own sister and nearly laughed. This would not have been the type of thing he and Edith would have done together, but then again, their relationship was different. Maybe it was a twin thing.

  They fell quiet and kept walking closer to the wheel, strolling down the boardwalk in front of it. It was nice to see the waterfront busy again and filled with locals and tourists alike after the emptiness that had befallen it in recent years due to the pandemic. In a sense, it reassured Edward that if anything, this part of the city was recovering and that Étienne would still have this.

  They stopped at a clearing and leaned against the railing to observe the wheel and the small plaza around it and it was nice to listen to the bird song and the excited chatter of the people around them, while below, others peddled on rented pedal boats.

  “We should go,” Edward said after a while, breaking the silence.

  “Now?” Étienne asked to be sure he was hearing right, surprised, really, that Edward would suggest going.

  “No, next Tuesday – yes now, come on. We’re here, I’ve never been, and I can tell you’d want to go on it again.”

  Edward smirked and Étienne closed his mouth, letting his comment die at his lips. His boyfriend had a point. He did actually want to go on it again, but going on it alone seemed a little silly and Emma hadn’t really wanted to ride the wheel. Bringing a fling had seemed like too much – as though he was trying to impress when really, they were both in it for something much different and less lasting. However, Edward was his boyfriend and – he had thought of bringing him out here. On more than one occasion. (But there had been a pandemic and then they had done other things on Edward’s last visit and there hadn’t been time for this.)

  Now, however...

  Edward grabbed Étienne’s hand and led him over the footbridge and to the small line. Étienne tried hard not to trip over the fact that Edward had willingly and without prompting reached out for his hand and then reverted to his usual “tour guide” information dump as he blabbered on about the finer points of the wheel, the design, the great features about it and the overall charm it had in this location. Edward thought it was utterly endearing and loved it when his boyfriend went into his excited chatter about different aspects of his city. He could hear the passion and love Étienne had for his home and it made some part of his heart melt. He’d missed this, over their break – missed the palatable excitement Étienne had and could have – the way his face lit up and his hands moved around as he gesticulated. 

  “Bonjour, deux billets s’il-vous-plait.”

  Étienne blinked and realised that he’d been distracted with his ramble to the point where Edward had snuck ahead of him and had now taken out his wallet to pay for the tickets.

  “Édouard.” Étienne cautioned, “What are you doing?” He wasn’t about to have his boyfriend pay, not when this was an extremely splurgy thing and highly unnecessary.

  “Buying our tickets, move over,” He nudged Étienne out of the way and managed to extract his credit card from his wallet, without Étienne ripping it out of his hands.

  “What – no, let me. We’re in Montreal. I pay for things in Montreal.”

  Edward looked him dead in the eyes as he tapped his card on the terminal, much to Étienne’s horror and shock. This was betrayal of the highest degree.

  “This is not part of our deal!”

  “Curly, we have no such deal.” Edward replied calmly as he took the tickets from the teller and thanked them, “Now, come along, you can pay for ice cream later.” Edward put his wallet away and then moved ahead, pleased with his little plan.

  “Who said anything about ice cream?” Étienne squawked as he followed Edward to the next line to get onto the Ferris wheel.

  “I did – you can take me afterwards.”

  Étienne tried to protest, but Edward took his hand again and led him to the railing to get to their Ferris wheel gondola. Étienne tried to pout and be annoyed, but his giddiness over being here with Edward quickly won out as they took their seats side by side.

  “See, these are high tech gondolas. You can fix your own temperature and either put the AC or the heating on, weather depending, and you get really nice views once you’ve gained some height.” His previous annoyance was quickly forgotten and Edward silently congratulated himself as Étienne’s previous mood returned.

  “Shall we put the heating on?” Edward teased as the doors closed and the gondola started moving quietly.

  Étienne rolled his eyes, “It’s summer; I’m good. We can put the AC on if it’s too hot for you. Wouldn’t want you to melt.”

  “We can compromise,” Edward said, rolling his eyes, fond, as he adjusted the dials so that they would both be comfortable, but if it was a degree or two on the cold side so that Étienne had an extra excuse to sit close to Edward, well, that was between them.

  They settled in afterwards and Edward took in the multiple angles of the view. “Are we supposed to make-out when we get inevitably stuck on the top, or...?” He asked as the wheel quietly turned, a gentle seamless whirring in the background.

  “Only if you want and you don’t think it’s too cliché.”

  Edward studied him for a moment as Étienne looked at him and then busied himself with the window. Even after knowing him for so long, Étienne could still be an enigma, but Edward liked to think that he had gotten quite good at deciphering him. For as much as his boyfriend claimed he didn’t do romance, Edward had finally found out that it had been a cover – to protect himself from his own difference – from his own way he felt and reacted to romantic attraction. It made sense now, retrospectively, and they’d talked about it, but knowing that and now knowing how it was Étienne felt about him, Edward could tell that there were certain “typical things” Étienne still wanted to do with him – even if they were considered to be a “cliché”.

  If anything, Edward thought it was endearing and even if he wasn’t the most outward of people when it came to expressing his emotions and love, he didn’t mind the idea of a kiss or two at the top of the wheel. There was no one else around them anyways. They never needed to tell anyone, if they so desired.

  But those were thoughts for later and for now, Edward focused on the view surrounding him.

  Étienne hadn’t been lying (not that he would have expected him to); the views were stunning. The canal hugged one side of the island, cradled it close and separated it from the two manmade islands that had been the crown jewels of Expo. Edward remembered that time fondly, even if it still seemed like a hectic fever dream, but there had been a bustle in the air of the city that had left everyone dreaming and hungering for a better future. They had been exciting times full of promise, somehow, and looking back, he thought he could still feel the remnants of that frenzy – still lingering in the air, caught in small glimpses on occasions. Now there were only a few buildings left, prestigious in their own ways, and they added to the charm and attraction of the city, nestled safely in their own spots of the picturesque postcard view.

  Behind, the Clock Tower stood proud and erect, a beacon of the past that guided tourists and city folk alike to come and admire its beauty. Further away still, if Edward turned on his seat, the Jacques Cartier bridge connected Montreal to the South shore, while it looked over the brilliant turquoise greens of the water on a sunny day. Sometimes, if the light hit just right, Edward could swear he saw a mirrored image in Étienne’s own eyes and he would feel pulled in – lured in and he’d willingly go – every time.

  The wheel completed its first turn and there was still much he hadn’t properly looked at. The Old Port came into view and then panned out as the wheel gained height once more. From above, he could see how the original village – the original city of Montreal had fought floods, fires and winters alike to survive and expand. The original building blocks may have been safely buried underneath their feet and preserved lovingly in Pointe-à-Callière, but the true spirit of the city – the heart of it really – of what it had been and had become lay further ahead, ensconced and treasured in the heart of the mountain that had guided and sheltered many for so long. There, really, was the essence, he believed.

  It happened on the third turn. The wheel came to a gentle stop at the top and Étienne leaned closer to one of the sides to get a better look at the waterfront, the bridge, the Biosphere in the back and the bustle of activity below them, mesmerised in what he saw. “It’s really something from this angle...” He murmured, almost as if to himself.

  And Edward had to take a small step back to take in the fuller picture before him. The gentle smile splayed out on Étienne’s face was a sight to behold on itself and the way his boyfriend’s face relaxed as he took in the scenery pulled at his heart. Edward could read, even from here, the pride and joy Étienne felt in seeing his own people mingling about and how that tiny little village from before had evolved over the centuries – had thrived despite all odds. Here was where one part of the story had started and further ahead was its origin point, but Étienne was all of that – the element that brought it all together.

  It hadn’t always been easy and Edward knew of the struggles Étienne had gone through, but the soft look on his face was worth it and a look he hoped Étienne could carry more often than not. He wordlessly reached for his boyfriend’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze as they both quietly took in their own different views.

  “It really is,” He agreed, “It really is,” He repeated, softer.

  Étienne did the mistake of turning to look back at him and Edward was left speechless by the depth of green he saw in Étienne’s eyes; lured and pulled in once more, like always. Étienne gave him the softest of smiles and Edward swore that the butterflies he felt in his stomach were real; that the swooping feeling he always got when Étienne smiled at him was here to stay.

  He tugged himself closer, pulled gently on Étienne’s hand until they were closer and then caressed his boyfriend’s cheek. Edward’s hand was certain and warm, and Étienne leaned closer to him still, holding him, not wanting to let go just yet.

  “I love you,” Edward thought, pressing his lips to Étienne’s as the Ferris wheel started its descent. And maybe Étienne heard his thoughts, for the look on his face when they pulled away was open and loving. He looped his arms around Edward’s neck, laughing softly, before going for another kiss and then a third and a fourth.

  He didn’t know what it was about the circular form of the gondola – the safety of the bubble that gave them both an illusion of being in a safe enclosure, but it made Edward just a little more daring as he chased a kiss across his boyfriend’s lips and it made Étienne cherish the moment even more.

  FIN   

[foularcadebanana]

To Forgive and Forget

Day 7 Prompt for the Untamed Fall Fest 2020 is ‘Reunion’. I was inspired to write this from my previous prompt. So although this is a stand-alone, it can be read as a sequel to my previous fic ‘Smothering You with Love’.

Jiang Cheng did not know what to make of Sect Leader Nie’s visit to Lotus Pier. It had been a few months since the Guanyin Temple incident, but Jiang Cheng was still wary of him. Especially since the Sect Leader could have chosen any other time period to visit him, but he chose to visit Jiang Cheng when Wei Wuxian was temporarily residing under his roof.

Wei Wuxian had told Jiang Cheng that he would be staying for a while, just to take a break from travelling for some time before he resumed it.

“Apple must be tired from all of the travelling. She hasn’t been eating that well. Maybe I could take her to a vet one of these days,” Wei Wuxian had insisted.

Jiang Cheng hadn’t believed Wei Wuxian’s idiotic reasons for even a second, but he also hadn’t dared to hope for what the true reason might be.

This meant that when Sect Leader Nie arrived at Lotus Pier, Jiang Cheng stood at the docks to greet him along with Wei Wuxian, who actually seemed happy at the thought of meeting him again.

“It’ll be like meeting up with an old friend,” he had said.

“After everything that’s happened, how can you call him a friend?” Jiang Cheng had asked.

“It is because of everything that has happened that I still call him a friend,” Wei Wuxian had responded.

As Sect Leader Nie stepped off of the boat, Wei Wuxian greeted him with a hug. Sect Leader Nie hugged him back and Wei Wuxian whispered something to him that made him laugh.

Jiang Cheng observed that Sect Leader Nie’s fan was still tied to his robes. He never hid his face with it anymore, he didn’t cover up his emotions with it either. They were for the entire world to see now.

Sect Leader Nie approached Jiang Cheng cautiously, as though approaching a wild animal. Jiang Cheng’s reputation as the Sandu Shengshou was probably to blame for that. “Sect Leader Jiang,” Sect Leader Nie bowed politely to him. “It is a pleasure to be here.”

“Sect Leader Nie,” Jiang Cheng mirrored the gesture just as politely. “It is a pleasure to have you here.”

For a few moments, they just stared at each other. Nie Huaisang…Sect Leader Nie opened his mouth, as if wanting to say something to Jiang Cheng, but then he shut it and looked away. A knot appeared in Jiang Cheng’s throat at that, making him look away too.

“So, should we go inside? Because I’m starving,” Wei Wuxian said, walking past them and gesturing for them to follow him. Their path back inside, away from the docks was littered with leaves. Silence surrounded them as they walked on the wooden planks, the air thick and heavy with unanswered questions and stirred emotions ready to burst.

Jiang Cheng was startled out of his deep thoughts as he bumped into Wei Wuxian. He was about to berate him and ask him what he thought he was doing, when his eyes fell on the thing that had made Wei Wuxian stop. Even Nie Huai— Sect Leader Nie held his breath as he looked at it.

It was a pile of leaves. It almost reached up to Wei Wuxian’s knees. None of them moved a single muscle as memories of Gusu flowed through their minds. Of the way Jiang Cheng had fallen into the pile of leaves outside their rooms in Gusu with Wei Wuxian on top of him, and Nie Huaisang had chosen to join them by falling on top of Wei Wuxian.

“Wei-xiong,” Nie Huaisang spoke up, turning to Wei Wuxian. “I never did manage to ask you. Had you actually drawn yourself kissing Lan Wangji on the piece of parchment back then or had you just been joking with us?”

Jiang Cheng watched the back of Wei Wuxian’s neck turn red. “I had drawn us kissing.” And just like they had back then, Wei Wuxian and Nie Huaisang shared a look before dissolving into fits of giggles. Jiang Cheng sighed, wishing he could let go of old hurts and wounds as easily as his two companions could, and wishing he could be as carefree as they seemed to be in that moment.

“Huaisang, do you remember how we smothered Jiang Cheng with our love?” Wei Wuxian asked Nie Huaisang, and Jiang Cheng bristled.

“You didn’t smother me with love, you stupid fucker, you smothered me with your giant ass!”

Nie Huaisang and Wei Wuxian began another bout of laughter, making Jiang Cheng’s anger rise up. “Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian said, tears running down his face as he laughed. “You’re amazing.”

“Ah, Jiang-xiong, you truly are!” Nie Huaisang said laying a hand on Jiang Cheng’s shoulder, and suddenly, everything grew quiet. Nie Huaisang straightened up, pulling his hand away as he realised what he had done. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly.

Jiang Cheng swallowed down his anger, knowing that his terrible temper was to blame for the tense expressions on Nie Huaisang’s and Wei Wuxian’s faces. All he did was bring his bottled-up rage to eradicate fun wherever he went. His brother and his friend were better off without his particular brand of anger and hatred.

“For what?” Jiang Cheng asked, his voice cracking slightly. Nie Huaisang chanced a glance at him and blinked. Wei Wuxian’s shoulders seemed to relax too.

Nie Huaisang reached out to Jiang Cheng, hesitated, and then gently held Jiang Cheng’s hand between both of his. “For everything,” he said softly, sounding every bit as sincere as he looked. “I know it’s too little too late, but I truly am.”

And maybe, just maybe, Jiang Cheng was tired of holding life-long grudges and being angry all the time. Maybe for once, he just wanted to forgive and forget and be as carefree as the two men standing in front of him.

So, he nodded his head. “Okay,” he said.

He saw a hopeful look on Nie Huaisang’s face. “Okay?”

Jiang Cheng nodded his head. “I forgive you Huaisang. It’s alright.”

“You really mean that?” Huaisang asked, and Jiang Cheng realised that Nie Huaisang had been Jiang Cheng’s friend for almost two decades now, until the Guanyin Temple incident, and they had been awfully close during that time.

They had constantly written letters to each other, mostly gossiping and bitching about their elders and other sect leaders. Jiang Cheng had attended Nie Mingjue’s funeral and Nie Huaisang hadn’t left Jiang Cheng’s side during his sister’s and brother-in-law’s funeral. He had always been there for Jiang Cheng when he had become too wound up about Sect Leader duties or when he grew frustrated with Jin Ling.

Jiang Cheng in turn had always been there when Nie Huaisang had felt too overwhelmed by Sect Leader duties or to offer advice when he didn’t know whether he was making the right decisions for his sect and his people. So, their friendship probably meant just as much to Nie Huaisang as it did to Jiang Cheng.

“I really mean it.” Jiang Cheng reassured and saw Nie Huaisang’s features brighten and his eyes light up. He gave Jiang Cheng a genuine smile, and Jiang Cheng felt a warmth growing in his chest because of it.

“Now that you two have sorted things out, can I smother our Sect Leader Jiang under my tiny, sexy ass again or do I have to wait until Nie-xiong goes away?”

Jiang Cheng was inside his home, walking along the corridors of Lotus Pier before Wei Wuxian could complete his sentence.

“Oiii! Jiang Cheng, where did you go?” Wei Wuxian asked loudly.

“Jiang-xiong?” Nie Huaisang’s head peaked inside although his body was still outside.

“Huaisang, why don’t you let Wei Wuxian know that I have Sect Leader duties to attend to? I will meet both of you and talk to you later.” Jiang Cheng responded calmly. As soon as Nie Huaisang’s peeking head disappeared, however, Jiang Cheng sprinted away as though running for his dear life.

READ ON AO3

[shadowdianne]

You wanted a prompt? The blob has a prompt! Cissamione, if that's OK. Boat ride from Azkaban -- both Narcissa and Hermione were there (the reasons are up to you) and share a Tense ride back. Bring on the angst!! (or don't! Maybe you've hit your head and become The Master of Fluff, who knows!)

Sweet sweet blob, fluff? I don’t know her!

Thanks for the prompt tho, Nara. I hope this one it’s to your liking 😉

PS: Some non-canon thingies going your way. JK can suck it. Also, pre-relationship. (Don’t say I didn’t warn you)

The soggy wood beneath her fingers gave up a fraction of an inch as Hermione grasped into it, eyes lost into the slowly disappearing Azkaban tower, the grey waters lapping mercilessly against the rocking boat that slowly made its way to shore. It didn’t matter how hard or long she stared at her back, however, as she could feel the stormy eyes that had been following her every move ever since she had looked at the enchanted boat with her feet firmly planted into the pebble-covered road that made its sinuous way towards the main entrance of the prison.

She had known what she had agreed to when she had offered up her name when rumors about Narcissa Black being permitted to visit her sister had spread all through the Ministry. Yet, when she had asked for the permit, pulling up the rank her status as one of the Golden Trio gave her, she had felt just as dirty as she now felt the back of her throat to be: as if something had gotten stuck there, a non-said spell, an almost swallowed curse. And now, as the blonde witch kept on looking at her, beyond the sea waters, beyond the invisible set of magical wards they kept on slowly trespassing as they moved away from Azkaban, she felt as if about to implode.

“You don’t need to keep on gloating.”

Narcissa’s voice reached her beyond the sound of the waves as they kept on moving: two witches aboard the only magical way left to reach and return from the dark island. She sounded defeated, tired, and the younger witch pursed her lips at the words, knowing there was very little she could say in order to defend herself. It was, after all, what could be perceived as what she was doing: staring, gloating.

She always had found difficult keeping her mouth shut, however. And knowing she already was halfway into a hopeless discussion couldn’t really make her do it.

“I wasn’t.”

She turned towards the prow of the boat, glancing at Narcissa fully for the first time since they had left the deepest caverns that took their root well beneath ground level back at Azkaban: the humidity of the air visible on the dampened rocky walls. The blonde looked paler than usual, grey tint around her usual ice-like eyes. Back straight, however, hands neatly folded on her lap, the previous Malfoy matriarch still looked very much the nobility-holding title witch she had once been.

A shadow of something close to a sneer colored the rictus on her lips, though, and Hermione couldn’t do anything but roll her shoulders, knowing the conversation they were about to have was long overdue. After all, she had expected to have it such when they first had embarked in that very same boat a few hours prior; with the blindness the still-yet-to-have met up brought with it.

But Narcissa had remained silent then, eyes piercing the horizon rather than Hermione and a part of the brunette had been happy for it. Relieved. It seemed, however, that her luck had run out.

“Don’t even try, I know you insisted on coming, Miss Granger.”

The words didn’t quite hurt as much as the use of her surname. The brunette could remember how their last lengthy conversation had ended: with them waiting, surrounding by press, witches, wizards, mages, as the Lestrange trial started beyond the Wizengamot’s closed doors. She had made a promise, after all. A deal with the devil.

She could remember Narcissa’s eyes then, blue, like gems, as she had tried to feign she wasn’t about to cry with every bit of shame and guilt making them glow with unshed magic. She could remember the way the older witch had broken, like glass against stone, the way she had used her name as she had uttered how she knew it was far too much to ask, for her, who had suffered so much back at Malfoy Manor, for, at least, the ability to be able to visit the dark-haired woman whose fate was already sealed.

And yet, when the resolution had been shared, despite her promise of trying, Hermione had eyed Harry, had eyed Ron, and she had walked away. She hadn’t felt remorse from her decision, but she had seen the eyes, the glances, the magic, the promise taken ahold inside her chest.

Lowering her eyes, she looked back to Narcissa’s fingers, to the way they were pressed together, interlocked, knuckles whiter, magic dribbling through.

“I know you had been insisting on the visit. I wanted…”

She halted there, not knowing what exactly she was supposed to say. She had asked for her being the witch assigned to the task out of a sense of duty she couldn’t quite understand after all. And so, not even explain.

Ron had gurgled out curses when she had shared what Narcissa had asked out of her, with Harry looking at her with that mix of curious and doubtful glimmering its way through his irises. She ought to have felt much more incensed, she had told to herself: the gall the blonde witch possessed of even asking maybe too much for her. Yet, she hadn’t quite reacted to the words, numbness slowly eating her insides while she merely nodded, knowing beforehand she couldn’t really give a straight answer of what she could do.

War wasn’t always about battlefields and dates that became important once they passed: it was the remains what mattered and, by the time of the trials, there were far too much fragmented pieces of her still being rebuilt for her to have been capable of answering the tiniest fraction of a question.

She also knew that Narcissa, deep down, had understood her hesitation. Yet, expecting a logical answer from either of them when Bellatrix was involved was too much on itself. And so, she let her tongue fell flat, firmly between her teeth as she tried to find a way of adding to an already rotten layer of words.

I was concerned.

That was probably the best type of answer, but it implied much more, and Hermione glanced at the foam gathered against the external walls of the boat as the tension kept on mounting: Narcissa’s eyes following her once again. She had, indeed, been concerned. About what could potentially happen to Narcissa, to Bellatrix, to the reunion that had been bound to be difficult from the start.

Because, as they had quickly confirmed, Narcissa’s own necessity of checking that her sister was alright despite her situation, her condemnation, the older Black sister didn’t feel the same. Her screams had followed them both out of the caverns, the expletives as bad as -and even probably worse than- the ones a younger Hermione had once heard in the Black mansion, when she had been little more than a teen and there still had been adults padding the way to war.

She feared what any other mage, any other wizard or witch, would have done with an obviously devastated Narcissa whose divorce had already been long and extraneous enough.

Yet, concern and pity hold the same image when reflected into the Black’s mirror and the brunette knew that it wouldn’t be accepted so she sighed, deeply, while glancing up once more, the shadow of something close to land beginning to extend at Narcissa’s back.

“You had the privilege of a visit. You deserved it.”

It wasn’t much of an explanation and she tensed as Narcissa tilted her head, eyes as piercing as before but a glow of rendition on them. The grey around them had been red before stepping into the boat, the very much mortal and human wardens around the island silently watching as they retrieved their wands from where they had needed to leave them: open mockery and hate on their postures. Hermione knew she should never mention that detail: not in her report, not to anyone else.

Looking away from the brunette for the first time, Narcissa crossed one leg over the other while remaining as upright and as unbothered by the rocky waters as before, pushing the question inside Hermione’s subconscious if she had gotten her clothes magicked in some way.

Ironing lines that weren’t truly there, picking up lint that was indeed invisible, the Black sister sighed, lips pouting for a moment, before she took into Hermione’s form once again.

“And I suppose you are expecting some grateful words due to it.”

The younger witch shook her head. She didn’t deserve them: she had been duplicitous and they both knew it, a way of both shooting the guilt she felt and the words they both had shared during the trials. She wasn’t proud of her decision, but she knew there were worse actions to take.

“But I will ask on being your assigned witch if you ever wish to come back. The permit let you such, if you wished it so.”

And, despite her words, Bellatrix hadn’t said she didn’t want to see her sister anymore so…

The blonde hummed as the boat rocked and stopped, the small bumping motion against the shore the signal they had reached their final destination with more gates to cross until they were considered to be completely clear. Standing, the older woman stepped outside the boat and looked quizzically at Hermione, following her steps while the scent of salt filled their nostrils, seagulls framing her answer.

“I suppose it’s fair. Hermione.”

And so, she turned, her footsteps leaving prints as light as smoke on the wet sand. Her words, however, heavy.

Thank you

[bellshells]

Splitting Hairs ch.3

Hello! Here is chapter three, as always thank you so much for reading. It means the world. Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated <3 

Summary: So Sev is still berating himself and Minerva is top gal pal, sad Valentine is sad.

Word Count: 2411  Severus x OC

Warnings: None ALL THE ANGST 

Previous Chapter Next Chapter Start from the beginning 

Severus spent the next two days alone in his rooms. He could count on one hand the times he had left them, whether to deliver a potion to a colleague, or to arrange and then re-arrange his classroom. Severus couldn’t bear the thought of bumping into Valentine before he specifically had to. She had slipped a note under his door late Saturday night inviting him for a cup of tea by means of apology and Severus had ignored it. He tossed the note into the fire and watched sadly as the flames ate away at the parchment. Strangely, he felt satisfied by his dismissal of Valentine, like he was remaining true to Lily, but he had been so conflicted over the last few days; his head was a complete mess. He was not naïve to the ridiculousness of the situation; he was a free man; he had always been one. Yet, Severus had loved Lily so fiercely, so purely, it felt inappropriate to entertain the idea of an attraction to somebody else.

He was also wary of Valentine. She was an incredibly young witch; it was unheard of for a person so young to hold an important position at a school as prestigious as Hogwarts. Then there was the other thing, the Beauxbatons thing. Severus had no doubt that she did in fact attend Beauxbatons; it was the reasoning behind it that he had trouble believing. A welsh girl being sent to a French school on account of her father working across the sea, the notion was dubious at best, but with Severus’ ability to read people he was able to gauge she was not being truthful with him. It was enough for him to justify his decision to cut off all unnecessary contact with Professor Valentine. He had every faith that he would be able to keep himself tucked away safe in his rooms, away from any potentially dangerous situations; like the one on the way home from Dumbledore’s office. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, it had been there all weekend. Whenever he thought about the kiss he shared with Professor Valentine; he felt an all-consuming guilt which would stay with him for hours. Whilst much of his guilt was for his own sake, he felt guilty for Valentine too; she probably felt horrendous the next morning with the memory that she had initiated something akin to intimacy with Severus. At least, that’s what he told himself.

Severus had successfully avoided Valentine until Sunday evening. He knew the Sorting Ceremony was imminent and he would have to face her, but he felt pride in having gone a few days without endangering his position. He got ready slowly, he took his time bathing and getting dressed; just trying to prolong the inevitable. A loud knock at his door tore him from his ritual, he grimaced at himself in the mirror as he made his way to answer the door. He swung it open wide and Minerva stood in the archway, arms folded across her chest and her foot tapped impatiently. “I have been waiting for you by the Grand Staircase for twenty minutes.” She snapped. Severus felt another pang of guilt. “My goodness Minerva, please accept my apologies. It had completely slipped my mind that we had agreed to meet.” He said as he ushered Minerva into the corridor and hastily closed his chamber door behind them. He offered Minerva his arm as they walked briskly away from the dungeons and into the main body of the castle, she nestled her hand in the crook of his elbow and gave Severus a warm smile. “I have been looking forward to seeing you all day, Severus. It appears we have much to discuss.” Minerva said quietly as they maintained their swift pace. “Oh? What might that be?” Severus enquired. “Not here,” she said, “The students will arrive any minute and I want to be able to speak freely with you. May I come to your rooms later? We can have one last firewhisky before term starts?” She looked at him expectantly and he reciprocated her smile. “Of course, I look forward to it.” He said. He led her into the Great Hall which was decorated in anticipation of the student’s arrival, which would be any moment. He greeted his colleagues with nods and the occasional handshake as they took their seats at the high table. Albus stood in position behind the grand lectern ready to greet the students with warm smiles. Severus noted the promptness of his house’s students, most of Slytherin were seated and waiting before the main body of students arrived. As usual, they were waiting for the Gryffindors to settle down. He shot a smirk to Minerva who sat on his left, she harrumphed and stood from her seat. She clapped her hands once and like a shot, every Gryffindor head snapped in her direction, quickly ceasing all discussions carried over from the train. Quite pleased with herself, Minerva sat back down returning Severus’ smirk with an arched eyebrow of her own. They chatted idly between themselves as they waited for the last few stragglers to be seated, it was Filius’ turn this year to meet the first years off the boats so the seat next to Severus on his left was vacant. That was, until he felt a hand on his shoulder. “May I sit here, Professor Snape?” Severus’s head whipped in the direction of the voice. Of course, Valentine stood there, hair swept up into a neat bun and dressed in smart teaching robes. He nodded once and returned his attention to Minerva, slightly turning his back on Valentine as she slowly sank into her seat.

Severus endured the Sorting Ceremony almost in silence, save for a few comments passed between himself and Minerva. This year’s crop of students were decidedly unremarkable, and Severus was satisfied that most initiated into his house held no familial connections to his former life. He breathed a little easier, that was something at least. All the while he was sat, he didn’t let himself glance at Valentine, even though it would have been easy to do. Even when Albus introduced her to the Hall, and a ripple of applause swept through, he clapped his hands politely but most definitely, did not look at her. Severus could see the looks of surprise etched on the faces of some students. Professor Quirrell, who at the end of the summer term announced his imminent travels, was expected to be replaced by an equally tedious man and yet, Albus had surprised them all. He could see the pompous looks and elbowed jeering between some of the sixth and seventh year boys after eyeing Professor Valentine. Severus would have scoffed aloud if he had been bothered. But he wasn’t. He most certainly was not bothered and that’s what he told himself. Repeatedly.

He was glad when the food appeared, pleased not to pretend to be grossly interested in the chatter between Albus and Minerva. Valentine sat quietly by his side; she exchanged a few words with Pomona but it was palpably clear that she wasn’t the same woman who had tried to seduce him over the weekend. Severus couldn’t help but feel guilty about it. She wasn’t to know. She hadn’t done anything wrong other than looking like a ghost, and she shouldn’t be penalised for that. Yet, he still couldn’t bring himself to look at her. He could feel her next to him though, the heat from her body radiated over to him and he felt flush under his cravat. She was so close, close enough to touch. If he stretched his arm out a little further his fingers could make contact with hers as she held onto her goblet. But he didn’t. Instead he kept his hands firmly in his lap, no matter how much he yearned to touch her.

He wasn’t even sure exactly what it was about her anymore. The dazzling energy she emanated was enough to make anybody stare, and Severus wondered whether he was just a part of the throng who desired to be close to her and nothing more. But when she finally smiled and laughed lightly at a joke spoken over his head; he was fifteen again.

Severus was sat at the Gryffindor table when he shouldn��t have been, Lily’s head rested on his shoulder as Sirius Black shouted something to another at the end of the room. They both looked in the direction that Black had shouted and saw Peter Pettigrew trying desperately to put out a flame that had erupted on the frayed edge of his school cloak. Remus Lupin appeared at Peter’s side and roared with laughter, he half-heartedly attempted to help the stout boy salvage his uniform. Severus rolled his eyes and Lily turned to face him, a wicked smile on her face as she leaned in close and whispered in his ear; “Lets hope he gets James Potter next.”

Severus smiled sadly at the memory. That’s all he had now; memories. He was tortured endlessly by them without a whisper of reprieve. He was all too aware he had made some abhorrent decisions in his life; unaware at the time of how they would impact him so. Was he to pay penance for the remainder of his days? Was this Lily’s last act of revenge? He contemplated this over his apple crumble, stabbing his spoon into the bowl as he heard a quiet voice next to him. “Jesus, remind me not to do whatever that pudding has done to offend you,” He slowly looked in the direction of the voice, Valentine smiled weakly at him, not waiting for him to respond. “I wanted to speak to you. If you’ll let me. Well- apologise really. I made an absolute fool of myself the other day, and I’m sorry. I should never had acted so inappropriately and I’m so embarrassed.”   Severus was taken aback by her outburst; he didn’t really know how to reply. Valentine looked at him with an earnest look he had seen once before when they had first met. He felt his resolve soften slightly, she looked so young in that moment. Not quite meeting his gaze and yet captivating his attention all the same. Why was she so intent on apologising to him? Surely it didn’t matter to her, of that he was certain. Either she had an exceptionally big moral compass and truly cared about his feelings, or she cared more of what others thought of her. Maybe she thought Severus would have told Minerva that she had tried to instigate something between them, and she was frightened to spoil her reputation? Nonetheless, everybody had seen the intimate way they had spoken at the party, Severus’ hand on her waist as she dipped her head to his ear, they had left together after all. He was sure tongues were already waggling. If nothing else, Severus decided to put her out of her misery; she didn’t deserve to feel anxious about her standing with him. He just needed to set clear boundaries and move on with his life. “Professor Valentine,” Severus started, looking at her properly for the first time that evening. “I can assure you; you have no need to apologise. We both had far too much to drink and blame lies at both of our doors. So, if you can accept my apology, I’m satisfied we can leave the matter there.” He was sterner than he intended to be, but decided against rambling on any longer, quite content with the sentiment. Valentine breathed a little sigh of relief, a smile crept from her lips to her eyes as she relaxed into her seat.

The rest of the evening passed without incident. Albus stood and dismissed the students to their respective dormitories, their heads bobbed out of the Great Hall in a cacophony of benches being scraped across the floor and excited voices. Severus exhaled tiredly, one of the more arduous evenings of the academic school year over with, he allowed himself to rub his hand over his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. Minerva rose out of her seat and tapped Severus on the arm; “Come on,” she said dryly, “Merlin knows I need a drink after that.” Severus chuckled and stood to meet her slowly, his eyes glanced over Valentine as she sat in her chair, looking down at the table. He peered at Minerva who frowned as she looked at Valentine, he gave her an exasperated look as Minerva silently pleaded with him. With a dramatic eyeroll and an irritated nod from Severus, Minerva spoke again. “Elizabeth?” The young woman’s head snapped up immediately, she seemed to take in the sight of Severus and Minerva, both stood awkwardly staring at her. “Severus and I are retiring for a drink; would you like to join us?” Valentine looked from Minerva to Severus weighing up her options. “I don’t really know if I should, I’m still recovering from Friday.” Valentine stated unconvincingly, she looked bewildered as Minerva extended a hand to Valentine, smiling at her gently. “I assure you, it’s just a little debrief after tonight. It’s nice to grasp on to the moments of being an adult when you can. Its easy to get caught up in the teenage drama, believe me.” Minerva said kindly, she took hold of Valentine under the arm and almost hoisted her to her feet; still, she didn’t move. Valentine bit her lip and Severus watched as she brought her green eyes to meet his, she reeked of apprehension and he wondered if he did too. “Severus?” she asked laying it all at his door. He contemplated silently; he was desperate to talk to Minerva about everything. He needed to be told that he was being ridiculous and then ignore whatever advice the older witch gave him, but he couldn’t ignore the searing want he had to be near Valentine. He dismissed the incredible feeling of guilt he had wash over him as he smiled feebly at Valentine and said, “If you would like.” She looked just like Lily used to, when she would hide from him the extent of her time spent with James Potter. He felt dizzy. Valentine stood and smiled at them both, Minerva returned it in kind. “It’s good to have a friend here,” Minerva declared, “In whatever shape they assume.”

[lonelyandgone]

Previous Chapters:  Teaser/Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

 Unexpected – Chapter 4

He should probably be admiring the view.  The endless miles of pristine lush landscape, occasionally interrupted by long stretches of sparkling blue water, white sailboats lined up along its edges.  The scene is as Americana as it comes. Fields of green.  Cape Code-esque houses, complete with perfectly trimmed hedges, carefully constructed flowerbeds and, of course, a flag waving mightily in the warm breeze, all poised against crystal blue skies.  On any other day, he would feel like he was in some sort of Thomas Kinkade painting.  No doubt getting lost in the land around him.  

But today, he is lost in something else, only occasionally noticing anything about the towns they sweep through.  

He places his elbow on the door, just below the window, and moves his hand to his chin.  He rests his head there.  His eyes are on the road, only on the road, and he can feel his mother’s presence beside him.  She, at least, is enjoying the view.  Neither of them have taken this drive before.  An hour ago, he had cautiously tapped the address into his GPS and studied the monitor for a few minutes.  But as he looked at the map displayed there, he couldn’t help but feel that the thin red line that led from Boston, MA to Watch Hill, RI was more than just an indication of their journey.  

Way more.  Though he isn’t quite sure what that more is.  

He takes his eyes from the road only long enough to glance in his rearview mirror to make sure that Scott is still following behind them.  When he sees that he is, he allows his mind to wander again.  

He attributes the last week to being on a rollercoaster.  Not just any rollercoaster.  A wooden rollercoaster.  The ones that are rickety and rocky, full of ups and downs, with exhilarating rises and stomach dropping falls.  The ones that leave you feeling an intense rush but also leaves you with bumps and bruises, likely in places you didn’t expect bumps and bruises.  It leaves you a little worse for wear.  But still you’re totally ready to do it again, for reasons you’re not really sure of.  When that thought enters his mind, he shakes his head slightly to himself. Never in his life has he had so many elements in his life, so many strange emotions and feelings, all that he isn’t sure of.  And while he isn’t sure of what is going on, he is sure of why.  

Taylor is why.

His stomach tightens a bit when her name slips back into his thoughts.  He had not expected to hear from her.  Not after that morning when he waited for her on the edge of his bed.  She was smiling, those vibrant blue eyes sparkling, when she walked out of his bathroom toweling her hair.  He had lifted her phone up to her then, forcing a smile as he told her she missed a phone call.  When he had said who the call was from, he watched the color drain from her face, the smile fall, the sparkle fade.  For the faintest second, he wondered why.  After all, this was what she had been wanting, what she had been waiting for. Why did she look like she had been sucker punched in the gut rather than jumping for joy?  But then, he shook his head, marveling at his own stupidity. She looked that way because of him. Because she felt guilty for sleeping with him the night before, that she likely felt like she had cheated on Tom even though she had walked away from his girlfriend label long before.

She had sat down on the bed beside of him and for a moment, neither of them spoke.  She turned the phone over and over in her hand and he could see her chest rising and falling rapidly.  He hated the way the room felt.  The tension that floated throughout it, the intense sound of utter silence.  She was waiting on him to say something, he knew that, but damn he couldn’t think of anything to say.  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, summoning a word or two, any word or two.

You got your bite, he finally said, forcing a chuckle that sounded far more strained that he wanted it to. It felt as if it smacked against the wall.  He had thought that the laugh she provided after sounded the same.  He reached into the depths of his soul for more words and subsequently hated the way they felt as they came from his lips.

He told her that the night before had been wonderful but wrong.  They had gotten wrapped up in the day, in the wine, in the weight of loneliness that both were feeling.  He knew she loved Tom, he had whispered, and he wanted to make things work with Jenny. She had said nothing, giving him only an occasional delicate nod when he would pause and wait on her response.  He had wished that she would say something, anything, but she never did.  Instead, she sat on his bed beside of him until he could no longer find his voice and then she slowly got up, went into the bathroom and got dressed.  

She didn’t look at him when she grabbed her purse and started toward the door and he didn’t look at her.  But he did hear her stop, hear her walk back into the bedroom where he remained on the edge of the bed.  He still didn’t look at her when she stepped to him, leaned down and brushed her lips against his.  Good luck with Jenny, she had whispered, her voice steady and straight, almost sounding rehearsed.  

He remained in the same position for a while after she left.  Thinking.  Processing. His mind sifting through thoughts, feelings, memories of Jenny and of his night with Taylor.  The only thing it bringing forth being uncertainty and plain and simple confusion.  But then he repeated to himself the words he had said to Taylor.  They had gotten wrapped up.  They were both lonely.  

That was all.

He called Jenny that night. They had talked about what was going on in each of their lives, he omitting Taylor’s name entirely.  Their conversation was simple and it had eased his mind just enough.  Just enough. They made plans for dinner when he flew back to Los Angeles and he had hung up the phone feeling accomplished. Accomplished.  He hated that that was how he felt.  

He went about his life. Meeting up with Jeremy and Ava again the next day and then going boating with his family.  When he found his mind slipping to Taylor, it doing so more often than he cared to admit, he would will the thoughts away.  When Jeremy or his mom or one of the kids would say her name, he would carefully steer the conversation in another direction.  His days had been good.  His nights however, that was another story.  

The damn wooden rollercoaster.  Leaving him bumped and bruised.  Full of surprising twists and turns.

He had gotten her text last night.  He had been lounging on his couch, beer in hand, feet propped up on the table.  The Red Sox game was in the eighth inning and they were down 5 to 2.  When he saw her name on his screen, his body stiffened and he tossed the phone down beside of him.  It took him 10 minutes to finally read the message.  

If your family is still interested, I’d love to have them come to Watch Hill for a couple of days.

Them.  

When he hadn’t responded, she had sent a second text.  

I apologize, I’m sure everyone is busy.  

It took two hours, three beers and a million self-arguments for him to respond one single word.

Ok.

He doesn’t recall much of his call to his mom, just that she was surprised and that she had agreed to call his siblings to extend the invite.  I didn’t expect her to actually follow through with the invite, she had muttered at one point and he had silently agreed.  He hadn’t expected her to either.  And the fact that she did so barely a week after their romp in his bed surprised him even more.  He had fully anticipated her to be wrapped up, or around, Tom by now.  Of course, he also relented that she could still be. And, in all actuality, Tom could actually even be in Watch Hill with her.

That would certainly be rollercoaster worthy.  

Regardless, he had said ok. And he didn’t regret it.  Truth be told, he missed her.  Not in that pining for a long-lost love kind of way, the way he had pined for Jenny when they first broke up.  Not really even in that I enjoyed having sex with you and miss your body sort of way.  But he missed her enough to cause a dull ache in his soul when he thought of her.  Enough for him to agree to drive his family to Watch Hill to see her again, even if it meant skirting the inevitable awkwardness and the possibility of Tom being there.  

“Are we there yet,” he hears a small voice proclaim from the backseat, reluctantly prompting him back to the present.  

He smiles into the rearview mirror at Miles, chuckling when he sees him haphazardly shifting his shoulder, trying his best to push Stella’s sleeping head back onto the side of her booster seat.  On Miles’ other side, Ethan steadily eyes the video game in his hand.  “Soon,” he says with a nod and Miles lifts his shoulders before letting out a loud oomph.  

It’s 8 minutes past 12 p.m. when they pull onto Taylor’s long driveway.  He keeps his eyes focused on the house as he hears words like “stunning” and “finally” escaping the mouths of his passengers.  He pulls in and parks, Scott pulling alongside of him before doors start opening and people start stretching their legs and arms from the drive.  

They are soon greeted by Brandon, Taylor’s bodyguard smiling at him as he approaches his family.  He points over his shoulder at the front door. “Taylor’s in the back.  She said for you all to make yourselves at home.” His eyes move to the kids.  “The pools warm, the slide is up and she made sure that I got the makings for smores for you all.  Of course,” he laughs, “there’s also always the ocean.  Welcome to Watch Hill.”

He notes how relaxed Brandon is, a far cry from the protective mode he was in on the airplane to Paris and in Boston.  Here, he seems more like a family member or a friend, and he’s sure that’s exactly who his family thinks he is.  

He’s the last to enter the house, falling behind and laughing as he accepts Brandon’s ribbing about the Red Sox loss the night before.  They move into and through the house, his gaze roaming over the pictures on the walls and upon the mantles, along the warm tones of the rugs scattered about the house.  He sees her piano, a notebook resting atop it, a pen tucked into the pages as if to save a certain position.  The house smells of chocolate chip cookies as he enters but he recognizes the distinct smell of ocean water and charcoal mixing in as they near the door to the back terrace.  

He hadn’t noticed how far he had fallen behind everyone else until he reaches the door and looks out to see the kids tearing off clothes as they spring into the pool.  Scott stands near the edge of the water, his gaze perplexed as he likely warns the kids to stop running and to be careful.  On the other side of the terrace, his mother and sisters stand around the grill, their arms and mouths moving in unison.  When his eyes graze across the figure standing with them, his stomach clenches.

Taylor stands closest to the grill, a pair of long silver tongs in her hand.  His eyes rove down her, noting the hint of a black bathing suit peeking out from under the thin white cover up she is wearing.  Her hair is tousled, like she’s just got out of the bed or the pool.  It reminds him a hell of a lot like how she looked when she walked out of his bathroom that morning, her skin gleaming without a hint of makeup.  She’s barefoot, also like before, but her toes sparkle with some sort of silver polish.  

He’s staring at her, still in the house, when he hears Scott’s voice through the door.  He looks at him, shaking his head when he sees him waving his arm to come out.  He must want backup for kid duty, he chuckles to himself.

He can feel her eyes on him the moment he opens the door and steps out.  Bringing his own gaze to her, he nods, watching as a soft smile hedges on her lips.  

He ignores the yelps of the kids and a plea from Scott for help and instead finds his way to Taylor. Time to get the awkward over with, he tells himself.  As if on cue, his sisters and mother glance his way and then leave.

Chris looks down at the grill, at the rows of hot dogs and hamburgers.  “I wasn’t sure which your family preferred,” she says softly, “or even if they preferred either.  I probably should have waited to see if you all were even hungry.”

He can sense the nervousness in her voice, can see it when she pulls her gaze from him and refocuses on the food.  She’s cooking to help ease her anxiety.  He knows that.  He saw much of the same when she was sauntering around his kitchen before.  

Running a hand through his hair, he shakes his head.  “No, no. Trust me, my family will eat just about anything and just about any time.  We don’t pass up food.  Ever.”

She smiles but keeps her gaze on the grill.  “That’s good to hear.”

She flips a couple burgers and he waits for the sizzle and smoke to die down before he clears his throat and then moves his view, glancing around the pool area and then to the door. “Where’s Tom?”  

He feels her stiffen, her body bucking up, and then she shakes her head.  “I don’t know.  London I would assume.”

His eyes narrow on her but he knows she doesn’t see it.  She keeps her eyes focused solely on the food in front of her.  “Have you talked to him?”

He’s aware that he probably shouldn’t have asked that.  It’s not of his business or his concern and certainly doesn’t make an already awkward situation any less awkward.  But he asks anyway because . . . well, because he wants to know.

“No,” she breathes heavily, “I mean yes.  I’ve talked to him but we haven’t actually spoken about anything yet.  He wants to meet in person.  He asked to come here in a few days.”

He wants to ask more. So much more.  But he can tell by her stance, by her body language, that she’s uncomfortable.  Discussing Tom with the man she slept with just days before probably isn’t high on her conversation list.  Not that he blames her.  It’s not like he really wants to talk to her about Jenny either.  

“Anyway,” he laughs, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he takes a step closer to her, “I was surprised to get your text.”

Her body relaxes the tiniest of bit and she glances at him.  Her smile is soft and warm but still edged with anxiety.  “I promised your family.”  She opens her mouth to say more but then stops, turning her gaze away again.

“Is that all,” he pushes, taking another step toward her without thinking.

Her eyes meet his briefly before she pulls away.  “No. If you want to know the truth . . . . I asked you all here because I enjoyed spending time with your family in Boston and,” she takes a deep breath and places her baby blues back on his, “I missed talking to you.”

Her words surprise him. Enough to cause that clench in his stomach that is becoming all too familiar.  He shakes his head, grins, and lowers his gaze.  “I’ve missed talking to you too, Swift.”

Her body relaxes with his words and she turns to him, tongs still in hand.  “I realize that this is awkward and strange and weird.  We had sex.”

“Good sex,” he interrupts, the words escaping before he can censor.  He expects her to tense up again but she doesn’t, instead, she laughs.  

“Yeah.  Good sex.  I can’t deny or change that.  And I don’t want to.”  He nods, his view back on her again.  “And I considered never reaching out to you again because, well, this is awkward and strange and weird . . . . but we had started building this friendship and I don’t want to stop building that.  So, what do you think?  Can we do that?”

“Well, I’ve never really had a friendship,” he holds his hands up as if to place the word in quotes, “with a woman that I’ve seen naked and who has seen me naked.”  He watches as her cheeks grow pink and she lowers her head.  “But I’m certainly willing to try.”

So this is approach he is taking, he tells himself.  Funny. Bantering.  Doing just about anything to lighten the mood, to release the tension.  To make his moments with her, his friendly moments with her, a little less awkward, strange and weird.  It’s what is needed and what he will give her to keep their friendship alive, to keep her from thinking of him as a regretful romp in the bedroom.

Stepping in beside of her, he reaches over and takes the tongs from her hand.  “Condition number one of this friendship.  You have to share cooking duties.  I can’t let you think that I don’t know how to use a pot or a pan . . . or tongs.”  He leans to his side, bumping his shoulder to hers.  “And a grill is supposed to be a man’s domain.  I can’t let you take away my man card.”

“You know I’m not going to agree to that statement,” she giggles, the tension that wrought her body before all but vanished, “a grill is not a man’s domain.  However, I’m going to let you have your man card for now with a sidebar that condition number two of this friendship is that you try really hard not to play the I’m a man, I need to do manly things crap again.”

With a glance and a wink, he replies, “Do I get a beer if I agree to that?”

 They eat a short time later, his mom and Carly joining Taylor to set the table and carry potato salad, chips and a fruit bowl outside.  He sits the furthest away from her, allowing Scott and Shanna to occupy the seats nearest her.  He smiles when he sees her turn her body, involving herself in an animated conversation with his brother.  Occasionally, Scott catches his stare and smiles.  

The kids had reluctantly removed their soaked bodies from the pool to eat so it’s no surprise when they bolt from the table the moment their final bites are stuffed in their mouths and head back to the water.  From the table, Shanna yells a warning about swimming so soon after eating to which they instantly dismiss.  He chuckles to himself as he watches her cursing under her breath.  

The bold Rhode Island sun continues to rise in the sky, the humidity rising with it, and soon his sisters find their way to the pool following promptly after by his mother. Taylor and Scott remain lost in conversation so he gets up from his seat and takes the few short steps needed to get to the edge of the pool.  He stands there, watching Miles splash around and Ethan beg for his puddle jumper to be removed, with his sister providing a stern no.  

“Are you going to get in,” Taylor calls from behind him and he pivots to see her walking to him. From the corner of his eye, he sees Scott open her back door and go inside the house.  “It’s a pool, it’s meant for swimming, not for watching.”

He cocks his head to the side and glares at her.  “I don’t believe you have been in yet either.”

“Oh but I have.  This morning.  Before you all got here.”  She grins, moving her gaze to the pool.  “It’s actually my favorite time to swim.  Then and late at night.  I used to do it because I was so convinced some guy with a camera would be flying over during the day trying to get a shot of what was going on here but I continued doing it when I realized that one, that wasn’t really happening and two, this is my house so I didn’t really care even if it was.”  

“So you aren’t going to swim,” he questions, raising an eyebrow to her.  

She shakes her head, glancing back behind her quickly, “No, I think I’ll wait and swim in the ocean later. The beach gets pretty secluded as the day wears on.  Most people come early and get scorched by the sun and have to leave or they come early, drink too much and then the sun causes them to get sick so they have to leave.” She stops for a second and he watches as she bites at her bottom lip before a sly smile pierces across her face. She turns to him.  “Did you bring your I heart JS t-shirt?”

He’s shaking his head, about to give a smartass comment, when Scott appears beside of Taylor, reaching a Beats Pill out to her.  He strips his shirt off and jumps in the pool as soon as the speaker is safely in Taylor’s hand.  

“You can’t have a pool party without music,” she says with a glance and then takes a few steps toward a table.  She places the speaker on it and then lifts her cell phone from the pocket of her coverup. She presses a few buttons before she looks to him again.  He takes a couple steps closer to her.  “Don’t worry, I’m not playing my own music,” she laughs.  

He can feel a hint of sarcasm bubbling up within him.  He cocks his head to the side, smirking at her.  “Good.  Because I much prefer Katy Perry.”

When he starts singing California Gurls, complete with euphoric gestures, her eyes grow wide and then her face softens.  She tilts her head to the side, tugs at her lip with her teeth and smiles slyly.  She tosses her phone on the table as the first notes of Justin Timberlake��s Can’t Stop the Feeling bellow through the speaker.

“Katy Perry huh,” she laughs, taking four quick steps toward him as he takes a couple steps back. Before he can respond, and before he can even realize, she’s pushing him.  He loses his balance, it swinging backward as he tries to maintain his stand on one leg.  The pool, he now knows, is directly behind him, Taylor, directly in front.  When he accepts his inevitable fall into the pool, he reaches out and grabs her, pulling her along with him as they hit the warm water.

He can hear the whoops and hollers of his family even underwater, can feel Taylor’s legs and arms tangling with his as she struggles to regain composure from his surprise pull. When they reemerge, the yells intensify and he notices for the first time that he has clasped his arm around Taylor’s back and she is pressed against him.  When he feels his body reacting to her, he pushes back.

He laughs loudly when he sees her push her hair out of her face and wipe the water from her eyes.  Her thin coverup is stuck to her shoulders and he can see the black bikini underneath it.   She lunges for him, putting her full body weight on him as she pushes on his shoulders and plunges him back under the water.  He grabs her legs, pulling her back down with him.  He can hear her laughing through her struggle under the water and he instinctively pulls her to him once again, holding her there for a second before he lets her go and they pop up to the top.  

She’s coughing, laughing and shaking her head, the laughter of his family mingling with hers.  “You don’t play fair, Swift,” he chuckles a she swipes at her hair again.

“I’m fairly certain you started it.  Katy Perry,” she returns, feigning hurt as she paws at her heart.  When she removes her hand, she splashes water directly into his face.

“C’mon now,” he whines, “you know I much prefer you.”

It’s an innocent comment. A completely innocent comment. But when that familiar clench returns to his belly, he’s not totally sure he meant it innocently.  And the rosy tone to Taylor’s cheeks tells him that perhaps she didn’t take it innocently either.  But she smiles, pushing herself back to float against the wall of the pool.

She stays there for a few seconds, her eyes resting on him and then she turns, placing her hands on the side of the pool and hoisting herself up.  He watches as water puddles on the concrete around her and then allows his gaze to trail up her body, along her long, tan legs and to the coverup that clings precariously against her skin.  “Fuck,” he mutters to himself when he realizes what she is doing, pulling the thin piece of wet fabric over her head to reveal her bikinied body.  

She blushes when she catches him staring at her but then grins.  “I’m sorry I’m no Cal-i-fornia Gurl,” she sings giddily before she turns and starts walking quickly toward the opposite side of the pool.  

The kids catch on to where she’s going before he does, squealing as they jump out of the pool to join her at the bottom of the steps to the inflated slide.  “Finally,” he hears Scott yell and he sees him spring from the pool as well.  

Taylor takes Stella’s hand, laughing as she leads her up the steps, the air falling some from the steps under the weight of them both.  When they reach the top, he watches as she whispers something to Stella, places her firmly in her lap and then pushes off.  They both scream at the top of their lungs as they slip down the slide and into the waiting water.

“My turn,” Miles yells, powering up the stairs with his little legs.  He flails his arms in the air as he comes down.  

Ethan and Scott follow after and he glances around to see his mom, Shanna and Carly at the edge of the pool, smiles alight on their faces as they watch on.  It doesn’t take long though for Taylor to coax them to join in as well.

His mother struggles up the steps, more due to her inability to stop laughing rather than her ability to climb.  Shanna follows behind her, acting as if she’s having to push on her bum to get her up. The laughter that ensues is infectious and rather perfect.

Everyone minus Chris has slid at least four times before Taylor makes her way to him and reaches her hand out.  “I won’t beg,” she laughs, “but I will ask.  I promise it’s fun.”

“I don’t know if those steps can hold me,” he mumbles with a headshake.

She sneers.  “Of course they can.  C’mon, don’t tell me Captain America is afraid of a little inflatable slide.”

Reaching her hand down farther, she grabs onto his arm and attempts to pull him, getting nowhere. She laughs at her lack of progress. “Don’t be a spoil sport, Chris. Slide.  I’ll slide with you if you’re scared.”

“Promise,” he retorts, raising his eyebrow.  He knows she is joking but she stops, turning her body and nodding slightly.  She tugs on his arm again and this time, he pushes himself up with the other arm, pretending to stumble as she pulls him across the concrete toward the slide.

He wills himself, somehow, not to look at her ass as she climbs up the stairs ahead of him. Knowing his family looks on aids in that willpower.  But when they reach the top and she plops down, he accepts for the first time that she’s actually going to slide down with him.  He curses to himself, runs a hand through his wet hair, and then sits behind her, leaving a good foot in between their bodies.

And then . . . his mother. As if sensing his discomfort, she yells, “You aren’t Superman and she isn’t kryptonite.  If you stay like that, she’s going to land five seconds before you and then you are going to plow into her.  Did you not learn the etiquette of tandem sliding when you were five?”  

“Thank you for pointing that out, ma,” he yells and the group giggles.  

He pushes himself forward, resting his legs around Taylor as she sits in front of him.  He presses closer and it feels as if she settles back onto him.  His body reacts instantly to the feel of her skin against his.  He closes his eyes, slipping one hand around her bare waist and resting it on her stomach.  “Jesus Christ,” he whispers.  There is no doubt that she hears him, that she feels him, but she says nothing.

Taylor digs her heels into the slide and he uses his free hand to push, propelling them both forward and down the slide.  She leans back against him more as their momentum increases and he clutches her strongly to him.  

By the time they hit the pool of water at the bottom, she’s pressed fully against him, her ass riding up onto him ever so slightly.  Her skin clings to his.  Her legs tangled under his.  He’s acutely aware that there is very little fabric that separates them fully, acutely aware of his family watching their interaction with suspicious and prying eyes.

He raises his leg, pushing back, up and away.  His skin tingles with the absence of hers.  He’s turned away from everyone, well aware of his reacting body, feeling the fabric of his shorts tight around him.  He’s walking away when she steps in beside of him.  She leans in, punching her shoulder against his as he did to her earlier.  He laughs when he glances at her and finds her smiling widely.  “It’s a natural reaction,” she whispers and he shakes his head. When she leans in closer, their movement still in step as they walk around the edge of the pool, he hears her laugh impishly.  “Condition three of this friendship, no more tandem sliding . . . . and,” she adds and he can feel her grinning beside of him, “condition four, absolutely no more Katy Perry.”

 The hours pass with more dips in the pool, more trips for food, and more, much more, laughter.  He laughs.  God he laughs.  At her. At his family.  He laughs so hard that he forgets completely about his dilemma on the slide, forgets that this is supposed to be awkward.  The words and emotions, easy and natural, once again taking center stage.  He never imagined it would be like this with her.  Never imagined that his family would find such naturality with her.  

They add a couple more conditions to their friendship as time goes on.  He stating that she was to never utter a word about his obsession with Diane Lane and Cherry Valance.  She crossed her hand over her heart before she added that he could not use the words low and key toward her anymore, after he had already used them four or five times in the hours before.  When he tried to add the condition that she wasn’t to call him Captain America anymore, she scoffed, nixing the idea with a “No way, Captain America” and a wink.  

When she smiled, those blue eyes bearing into him, he relented.

The humidity of the early evening settles in, causing his skin to feel sticky.  The two youngest kids start to grumble upon their canopied lounge chairs as his mom starts to rustle them up from a nap.  The oldest, Miles, is nestled beside of Taylor on another lounge chair, watermelon juice sliding down his face and onto his chest as he gnaws on a large slice.  He smiles when he sees Taylor glance at his nephew and then lean down to place a soft kiss on the top of his head.  Across the way, he sees Scott’s smile, knowing he has watched the interaction as well.

With the kids finally alert, his mom looks toward Taylor.  “They want to know if they can go to the beach now.”  

Taylor nods.  “Of course, but let me tell Brandon.  I doubt security is needed but he’ll want to check first.”  It’s the first time the entire day that he’s thought about who she really is.  The first time she’s showed any inkling that she’s a loved, and threatened, star.  

He watches after her when she gets up and pads across the terrace and into the house.  She emerges a few seconds later behind Brandon but takes her seat back beside of Miles as Brandon continues on toward the edge of the property.

A few minutes pass before he returns, stepping beside of Taylor and saying something before he moves back toward the house.  She squeezes Miles’s arms.  “Give me ten minutes and then we can hit the sand.”

When she enters the house, he waits a few seconds and then gets up and follows her path.  He weaves back through the house, out the front door and then to his car.  He grabs something from the backseat, smirking to himself as he takes the steps back up to her front door and goes back in.

He glances out the door before he hears her coming from a back room.  Taking a seat on the back of her couch, he crosses his arms across his chest and waits for her.  She’s wearing a new swimsuit when she does, a red white and blue one piece.  

“Perfect,” he chuckles as he eyes her and then tosses the item in his hand across the room, hitting her squarely in the chest.

She gasps, grabbing at it. “What?”  When she realizes what she is holding, her smile widens and she moves her head defiantly.  “You’re too much,” she says, turning the shirt in her hand toward him.  Upon it, the Captain America symbol.  

“Condition seven of this friendship . . . . if you get to call me Captain America, I get to make you wear that shirt.”  

With her hand on her hip, she cocks her head to the side.  “So this is a bribe?  So I won’t call you that anymore?”

He winks, grinning from ear to ear.  “Something like that.  So what do you say . . . . deal or no deal?”

She raises her eyebrows, widening those expressive eyes on him, and then she opens the shirt at the bottom and slips it effortlessly over her head.  “No deal.”

He ignores the suspicious eyes of his family, specifically those of his mother, when he and Taylor emerge from the house to join them.  No one says anything though their gazes each fall to Taylor’s shirt and then back up to her face before grinning.  Part of him says he needs to clarify this action, tell them that this is all a joke, that he and Taylor are just friends.  Not even just friends, they are friends with conditions.  That he’s unequivocally in love with Jenny.  Jenny . . . the woman he’s not thought of one time since arriving in Watch Hill.  

But he doesn’t say a word.

The sky takes on beautiful hues of pinks and oranges as the sun slowly falls from it.  It provides the perfect backdrop to the rising and falling waves of the ocean, to the joyous sound of laughter and playfulness from the kids splashing about.  When he sits in the sand, he takes in the scene around him and he can’t help himself to think how perfect it is.

 The evening wears on with Taylor and Carly helping Stella and Ethan build elaborate sandcastles, with Chris joining Scott to toss a football that Scott had fetched from the trunk of his car.  Taylor calls Brandon at some point and a few minutes later, the bodyguard that he’s discerned as Taylor’s most trusted, scurries down the side of the hill from her home carrying three bags.  He hands one to Taylor and she looks up at him, her smile widening across her cheeks.

Within seconds she has tossed water guns, completely full of water, to all three kids and Scott.  She keeps one for herself.  

They attack him, hitting him with blast after blast of the icy cold liquid as he struggles to get up, his foot slipping in the sand as he goes down on one arm.  The entire beach erupts with laughter and claps.  

The kids soon turn on each other and then on the women but Scott and Taylor keep their attack focused on him.  He’s smacked in the face, on his chest, his legs, pretty much every inch of his body.

He lunges for Scott first, after finally finding some sort of balance in the sand, but his younger brother is able to elude his reach, jerking his body to the left as Chris falls forward.  He rebounds by planting his body firmly, pivoting and taking off running in a full sprint toward Taylor standing to his right.  She screams when she realizes what he’s doing, pumping the water gun repeatedly to douse him as she propels herself backward.  She’s not very graceful and by the time he reaches her, she’s already starting to fall back.  He stops her movement by grabbing her around the waist, twisting his body and hers as she squeals.  

She drops the water gun when he tightens his arm around her tiny waist, throwing her head back laughing. His own laughter mingles with hers. Turning her head slightly, her eyes latch onto his and he feels his breath hitch in his throat, a shrill spinning through his body.  “Fuck,” he mutters, releasing her waist quickly and stepping back.  She pushes back as well and he knows that whatever he was feeling, she was feeling it too.  

Shaking his head, and shaking off his feelings, he grabs for the water gun in the sand and laughs as Taylor instantly takes off running.  He blasts her in the back, watching as she lunges her body forward at the feel of the icy water.  She turns around, her face giddy.  When he stops in his tracks, she does too.  

“You know,” he chuckles, his voice loud, “that shirt gives me the perfect target.”  He pulls back the lever on the gun, sending another trail of water across the short distance and smacking her dead center on the star of the Captain America shirt she still wears.

Falling back on the sand, she feigns being shot, and he tosses the gun onto his shoulder, walking toward her until he stands just to her side.  She’s laughing, her head buried slightly into the sand, her face glowing with happiness.  She looks incredibly beautiful, he thinks, before he quickly wills the thought from his mind.

“I surrender,” she pants, barely catching her breath between laughs, “Captain America has fallen.”

When she reaches her hand up, he takes it, pulling on it until she lifts up and stands before him. She wipes at the sands covering her body, still laughing profusely.  

She’s just about clean when Miles sneaks up behind her and hits her again with water.  He watches as she turns and runs after him, their giggles echoing across the beach like music.

The play continues on.

 As the sun disappears from the sky, replaced by the brilliance of a fully illuminated moon, Taylor enlists Scott to help her build a small fire and place marshmallows on the end of sticks.  He grabs Stella, lifting her up and placing her on his shoulders as they walk along the edge of the ocean.  Miles and Ethan walk on either side of him.  

They meander, occasionally stopping to pick up a shell sparling like a diamond in the moonlight or to kick water at each other as they laugh.  From the corner of his eye, he sometimes catches Taylor watching them, before she notices his gaze and she pulls away to open packages of Hershey bars and place them near graham crackers on a makeshift bench.  

When they settle in for smores a few minutes later, he takes a seat in the sand near his mom.  Taylor sits on the other side of the fire, Ethan between her legs as she wraps them both in a large towel.  He can’t help but watch her, watch how at ease his family is with her, how his niece and nephew gravitate to her much as they do with him, how all of this is happening even after they have known her for such a short time.  

And for the first time, he allows himself to really think about Jenny.  To think about how he wishes that his family were as drawn to her as they are to Taylor.  To think that even though they love Jenny, there has never been a sense of ease and comfort in their interactions.  The kids, he recalls, barely remember her name.  Maybe it’s due to Taylor’s effervescence, the childlike nature of her playfulness in moments like this.  Jenny always having to put her best foot forward as she approached their meetings as an audition for the role of girlfriend in his life.  Taylor, meanwhile, has no specifications to meet, no approval to garner.  That’s likely it, he tells himself, his eyes still resting on the woman across the way.  It's likely only that Jenny has pressure while Taylor has none.

Regardless, he knows, it doesn’t matter.  

An hour or so passes before the kids all pass out and everyone starts to pack up.  He walks to Taylor, leaning down to pick a sleeping Ethan up from her but she shakes her head.  “I will get him.”  He nods and walks to Miles, knocked out on a towel nearby.  Scott lifts Stella and his sisters and mother gather the remainder of the stuff in bags.  They climb the hill, return to the house and place the kids down on the couches in the living room.  Taylor gathers blankets and pillows, carefully moving his nieces and nephews to nestle pillows under their heads before laying blankets over them.  When she’s done, she directs his family to rooms they can use for the night.  She smiles wearily at him telling him “goodnight” before he nods and smiles back at her.

 He’s exhausted.  More exhausted than he anticipated.  More exhausted for him to easily find sleep. It’s a curse he’s dealt with his entire life.  The more he needs sleep, the less he actually does.  Tonight is no exception.  The more he tries to find comfort in the warm bed, the more he beats at his pillows, the more awake he becomes.

He tosses and turns for the first hour, turns on his phone and attempts to read a book on his Kindle app for the second but loses total interest by hour three.  He glances around the room, at the slight nautical motif, at the pale blue curtains that blow slightly in the breeze against the window he opened during the first hour.  He knows there is a reason he is awake, one more than just simple exhaustion.  It’s because for virtually the entirety of the three hours he has been in this room, his mind has been on Watch Hill, on the spectacular day they had just had.  On Taylor. And no amount of cursing himself has changed that.

“Fuck it,” he mutters to himself before he exits the bed and makes his way out of the room.  He’s not really sure where he’s going but he knows that rest isn’t coming anytime soon so staying in bed isn’t going to do much good.

He smiles when he steps into the living room, eyeing his niece and nephews still sound asleep on the couches.  Miles, he notes, has shed the blanket Taylor carefully placed on him and now sleeps haphazardly, with half of his body hanging precariously over the edge.  

Slipping into Taylor’s kitchen, he opens the refrigerator door and grabs a beer out.  Sam Adams, he chuckles.  He meanders back into the living room, his eyes falling on his kin once again before he steps to the door and looks out onto the terrace.  

He can hear the subtle sound of the waves crashing into the shore, smell the faint tickle of salt in the air.  In the distance, the moon holds court over the land and sea below it, illuminating so brightly that he would almost guess it was daybreak, not 3 in the morning. Looking out at the perfection of the Rhode Island night, he understands why Taylor chose to buy a home here.  

He watches out over the view, taking it all in, before he takes a long draw from his beer and gently opens the door.  He closes it carefully behind him, not wanting to wake the kids from their slumber.

He’s a few steps out when he hears a small voice beckon from his right.  “I can’t escape you,” Taylor says, her voice soft and steady.  It’s not loud enough to startle him but is enough to surprise him.  He had fully expected to be alone out here at this hour.  

When he sees her, barely visible in a lounge chair, her legs hidden under a thin blanket, he smiles. Striding across the terrace, he grabs another lounge chair and pulls it close, placing it just beside of hers.  She grins softly at him as he does.

He’s sitting down, a smirk settling on his lips, when he responds. “Do you want to escape me?”

It’s probably not the right words, he knows.  But when she lowers her head, her grin softening and says “no” he can’t seem to be upset with his asking.  

He rests back into the chair, kicking his legs up and crossing his ankles.  When he feels a delicate chill settle onto his skin, he wishes he had given some thought to his clothing before he sauntered outside.  Maybe he would have pulled a pair of jeans on or a thin sweater instead of the shorts and t-shirt covering him.  He glances at Taylor, noting the long sleeve shirt covering what appears to be a tank top.  He’s not sure what’s she’s wearing underneath the blanket but he can see her bare legs through it so he assumes its shorts of some kind.  At least she had brought the blanket, he tells himself.  

“Should I ask you why you’re not asleep,” he asks, taking another swig of beer.

She laughs, a lack of comfort in the way it sounds.  “Probably not.”

He looks to her, watching as she moves her legs up a bit on the chair, turns her body to the side to face him and places her hands underneath her head to cradle it.  “I come out here often.  Sometimes I even sleep out here.  I love looking at the stars and watching the flashing lights of the planes that fly overhead.  I wonder where they are going or if I know anyone that might be on them.”

He chuckles at her words, his gaze moving to the sky and then back to her.  “I had never actually considered that.”

“No?  I do.  All the time. I imagine that maybe Benicio Del Toro is on one,” she laughs, “or sometimes Tom if I know that he’s flying anywhere near where I am.  Even in Paris . . . the night after my photo shoot I sat on the balcony of my hotel and wondered if maybe you were on any of those planes flying over.  Even though I didn’t even know when you were leaving.”

He turns his gaze upward, his eyes scouring over the diamond sky until he finds the red flashing lights of a plane.  “So that one,” he utters, lifting his beer toward the sky and then looking at her, “who do you think is on it.”

“Hmm….I’m going to go with Jay-Z.”  She squinches her nose, the humor painted all over her face.  He shakes his head, his eyes staying steady on her.  The moonlight lies like a delicate sheen on her face, brightening her cheeks, causing the hue of blue in her eyes to intensify.  To gleam.

She’s so beautiful, he thinks, before he shakes his head and forces out a gargled laugh.  

“You know,” he croaks, nursing his beer again, “you’re making it really difficult for all of my other friends with these awesome days we keep having.”  She smiles, bringing a grin to his face.  “It’s really rather unfair.  They are going to have a pretty high friendship standard to live up to.”

“Well I’m glad I can heighten your friendship goals,” she gloats, twisting her body in the chair once again so that she rests fully on her backside.  

Nodding, he lowers his eyes, staring at the bottle in his hand.  He softens his voice.  “But really, thank you.  My family had an amazing day and so did I.”

“Good.  That’s exactly what I intended.”  

From the corner of his eye, he watches her fold her hands in her lap and rub at them.  She opens her mouth.  Closes it.  And then opens it again.  “I wasn’t sure you would come,” she says, her voice barely audible, “I wasn’t sure if it would be odd.  But I’m so glad you did.”

Lifting the beer to his lips, he takes a long and slow draw and then lowers it again.  “I’m not gonna lie, Taylor, I wrestled with the thought of coming here.  I wasn’t sure how it was gonna be.  If it was gonna be odd or weird or strange.  But I figured if I wanted to have anything to do with you at any point, I was gonna have to face you.  And . . . . I missed our chats.  I missed you.”

He can see her face in the moonlight, soft and calm, still so very beautiful.  She looks to the sky, his gaze still on her.  “He’s coming here in three days.  I don’t know what that is going to mean.  He gave me no indication on the phone of how he is feeling or even what he wants to talk about.”

His eyes fall shut briefly as he listens to her words.  To the way they seem nervous, anxious.  To the way she avoids saying Tom’s name to him.  To how very unsure she sounds.  “Taylor, he wants you back,” he says quietly, the words heavy on his tongue, “I knew he would finally realize that he would regret not giving you this chance.  He would be a foolish man not to try.”  

She gives him a forced half smile before she turns her gaze away, rubbing her hands together again in her lap.  He watches her as she looks at her hands, as her lips open slightly before she pierces them shut again, as her chest rises and falls faster and faster.  

Inhaling sharply, she asks, “What about you?” His heart twinges faintly. “What about you and Jenny?”

He twists the beer bottle in his hand, then places it down on the floor beside of him and shrugs. “I talked to her,” he stutters, his voice raw, “we’re going to talk more when I go back to Los Angeles next week.”

He can see her nodding, her head barely moving but she says nothing.  Neither does he.  He looks down at his hands, looks out toward the ocean, but never at her.  Not even when he hears her take another deep breath, the noise sounding so splintering against the gentle crash of the ocean.

“Tell me you felt it today too,” her voice sounding like a desperate plea.  

Her broken words gouge him, rip relentlessly into his soul.  He had anticipated her to speak about Tom, maybe even about Jenny.  He isn’t, however, prepared for her to address the elephant head on.  Not prepared at all.  

He can feel his reflexes kick in, his natural inclination to want to joke in situations that are uncomfortable.  He wants to laugh and tell her it was the wine that they didn’t drink or that they got wrapped up, yet again.  He wants to tell her he didn’t feel anything.  

He wants to lie.

He gulps, the lie stuck in his throat and then lets out a long, ragged breath.  “Yeah I felt it.”

She winces as if his words pain her, her eyes snapping shut.  He knows they probably do.  They pain him too.   Because he wasn’t supposed to feel it.  She wasn’t either.

She hesitates again, briefly this time, and then opens her eyes.  “Chris, there is part of me that wants to ask what we are doing,” she murmurs, “Why we aren’t seeing what is going on between us.  But I know we need to work out our feelings for Tom and Jenny. I know you love her.”

“And you love him,” he interjects, his gaze falling back on the ocean.  The salt burns at his eyes as her words, and his, burn at his soul.  

“I do,” she says weakly, “I’m very confused but I do.  And . . . you know . . . we can be amazing friends.”  She stumbles over her words and he finds himself clenching his eyes shut. Part of him wants to press her to say more, to say why she’s confused and what she’s feeling, but he can’t bring himself to do so.  He knows it doesn’t matter.  Their relationship was forged under the knowledge of their respective love for others and he knows that it must stay there.  

“Amazing friends,” he mutters after a few moments, his voice sticking again in his throat.

“The most amazing,” she adds, her words still meek.  

When she moves her eyes to him, he can no longer see the gleam, no longer the twinkle or sparkle. They are glossy, dark. Sullen.  Still saying words that she does not speak.  

She blinks, lowers her gaze and licks at her bottom lip and instinctively, he reaches across the sliver of space separating their lounge chairs and slides his arm around her shoulders. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.  Doesn’t allow himself to think about it.  But he pulls her, shifting his body at the same time until they rest against each other.  

He tightens his arm around her as she nestles her head onto his chest, just below his chin.  

Neither of them say a word.

He holds her there for 10 minutes.  30.  An hour.  He rubs his hand down her arm, occasionally moves his head so that his lips rest on her hair.  Eventually, she moves her hands across his torso and around his waist, hugging him to her.

He won’t allow himself to think of how this feels.  Won’t allow himself to acknowledge the clench in his stomach or the twinge in his heart. He pushes thought after thought from his mind and just holds her until he feels her breathing grow slow and steady.

She’s asleep, he realizes, and he finally allows himself to look down at her.  He shakes his head as he gazes at Taylor in his arms.  And then the thoughts come flooding in.  

He thinks of Paris. Of Boston.  Of Fenway and his bedroom.  He takes in the way she feels in his arms.  The feel of her warm skin on his, the delicate smell of her body, the way her heart beats against him as he clutches her.

He holds her tightly, clinging to this woman that he’s had sex with, yet this act feeling far more intimate.  Far more real.  

Clamping his eyes shut, he shakes his head.  “Friends,” he mutters to himself, struggling to regain any sense of appropriate thought.

He holds her tighter when he opens his eyes and gazes down upon her sleeping figure again.  And there, he places another unspoken condition on their friendship.  One he knows he must adhere too.  For his sake. For her sake.  For Tom’s.  For Jenny’s.

Jenny, he repeats, shaking his head once more.  

Condition eight of this friendship, he says to himself . . . Don’t.  Fall.  In love.  

He takes a deep breath, feeling every inch of her against him.  Every single inch.  

Condition eight, he silently repeats as he rests his eyes on Taylor, don’t fall in love with her.  

He won’t allow himself to consider that maybe he’s already started that fall.  And that maybe, just maybe, she has too.