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kindahoping4forever · 4 years ago

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Watch Me Bloom: A Few Hours Ago // Ashton Irwin

Here we are at the final installment! This section was honestly the driving force behind me deciding to write this whole thing - the night of the album release I was so inspired I told a handful of people about both this section and the fic as a whole, without knowing if I would ever follow through on it. I ended up writing it just to see if I could, unsure if I would even end up posting it. I’m glad I did and I hope you are too!

Thank you to everyone who has read and/or given feedback on the first two chapters - it really does mean a lot. Thank you to @ashtonangst for the real time reaction messages that are as equally entertaining as they are helpful. And like basically all of my work, this entire 10k+ monster of self-indulgence wouldn’t have been possible without the guidance, cheerleading and wisdom of @cal-puddies

Warnings: Boyfriend!Ash in fluffy, contemplative (and obviously smutty) situations. Weed smoking, oral sex performed on both a male and a female (perhaps simultaneously oop), unprotected sex within an established relationship

Word Count: 3534

Watch Me Bloom Masterlist

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Let me know what you think!

You knew Ashton had been wanting to do something to commemorate the album release but you were still shocked to wake up to the sound of him hauling your suitcase out of the closet.

“Oh good, you’re up!” He giggles. “Think you can be ready to take off for a few days by the time I’m done with my interviews?”

You stare blankly at him for a moment or two and he offers another round of giggles before quickly explaining the arrangements he’d made for a desert retreat to thank everyone who helped him put his album together; he’s talking a mile a minute, describing the Airbnb he’d booked, the safety precautions he’d asked everyone to take, the plans he had for activities once everyone got there.

It’d be a lot to take in even if you hadn’t just woken up but you love when he’s excited like this, so animated and bright, you can practically feel the joy radiating from him. You promise to be ready after lunch and with a quick kiss, he’s rushing downstairs for a Zoom appointment.

The drive to Joshua Tree flies by, the two of you singing, chatting and generally thrilled to get out of town for the first time since lockdown started. Once you arrive at the rental, he practically yanks you out of the car to enthusiastically show you around the expansive property.

After briefly teasing him that of course he chose a getaway destination that offers a ‘hammock circle’ as an amenity, you wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze him tight. “It’s perfect, babe. I’m glad you’re gonna get a chance to unwind after all this, you deserve it.” You tilt up and he pecks your lips. “When do the others get here?” You ask, starting to pull him back towards the house.

Ash grins and pulls on your arm, bringing you back into him. “Friday.” For the second time today, you look at him in utter bafflement. He kisses your knuckles and earnestly explains, “I know I haven’t been very present for you and this whole thing couldn’t have been easy for you to deal with so I thought we could use a couple days together to kind of reset and reconnect.”

“Ash,” you pout, unsure of what to say. You’re overwhelmingly touched and all you can think to do is to throw your arms around his neck and hold him tight. He chuckles and wraps around you as well, the two of you swaying together for a moment.

The next couple hours are spent exploring the grounds, arranging for grocery delivery and unpacking your bags. After a quiet dinner, you follow him out to the patio to relax and enjoy the idyllic desert landscape. He pulls his long hair back into a bun as he settles in on a couch.

You get comfortable, sitting cross-legged next to him, while he unzips his backpack at the foot of the couch and retrieves a glass stash jar, a small grinder and a pack of rolling papers; he turns to you, raising his eyebrows and you nod enthusiastically.

He grabs the acoustic guitar sitting by the couch, flipping it over to lay in his lap as a makeshift table. You realize for a relaxing retreat, he hasn’t really sat still since you arrived and you decide to check in.

“So,” you start, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly. “Couple days from now, people everywhere are gonna get to enjoy all your hard work. Hear everything you poured yourself into. How are you feeling?”

Ashton is focused on grinding the weed and his reply is brief and distracted. "I feel good, I feel ready. Probably the best I’ve felt about a release."

You’re unsatisfied with his easy answer so you press further. “Why’s that? Because there’s less pressure without the label? Or because it all belongs to just you?” You twirl your finger in the curls at the base of his neck, the ones he missed scooping into his bun.

He pauses, contemplating this time. “I mean, all of that feels great but I think I’m really just pleased with it because it was made with pure artistic intent… like, I’m not gonna gain anything from this. I didn’t have to make it but I needed to, you know?” He looks over at you expectantly to see if his point was made.

You nod and smile softly at him. Happy to be understood, he turns back to his task. You watch intently as he sprinkles the weed onto the paper, brow furrowing as he meticulously loads it with just the right amount. You always love watching him work and this was no different.

"I get what you're saying, babe… and I’m happy you’re feeling good about it,” you beam. “I’m so proud of you, Ash.”

He looks over and shoots you a toothy grin. You intended to continue, to keep him talking but you've become distracted by the way his long fingers look as he rolls the newly forming joint back and forth between them. When his tongue darts out to drag across the paper to seal it, you find yourself biting your lip, fascinated.

His voice interrupts your enraptured silence. “We can talk about something else if you want, you’ve been hearing about this non-stop for months now," he laughs, feeling around his pockets for a lighter.

“I like hearing your thoughts on things you’re passionate about,” you shrug, handing him the lighter off the coffee table. "Plus, it’s the reason why we’re here.”

Ash shakes his head as he turns the stick over the lighter's flame. “No, the album is the reason why everyone else is going to be here,” he insists. “The reason we’re here is different.” He lifts the lit joint to his mouth and takes a long drag.

“Right. Reconnecting. Resetting,” you parrot his earlier words breezily, watching the smoke pour from his mouth.

He scowls at your tone of voice. “I’m serious,” he says firmly, passing it to you. “This year has obviously been a lot but you really got the short end of the stick, having to deal with me.”

You look at him, puzzled. “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about,” you comment, taking a couple hits. “Parts of the year have been good, parts have been shit but the silver lining to it all is that I’ve gotten to spend so much of it with you.”

He reaches over and rubs your thigh. “I invited you to live with me for the lockdown and then barricaded myself in a studio all day everyday. Going to bed by yourself every night, waking up alone, seeing me at meals only if Matt forced me to take a break that day. And you also had to put up with me during the CALM disaster and the tour getting cancelled… it’s been me, me, me. All the time,” he points out.

“Oh, you don’t think I’m used to that by now?” You joke, giggling at his mock-offended gasp. He lightly smacks your thigh in protest and snatches the joint back. “Seriously, babe. I didn’t put up with those things, I went through them with you. It’s hard for me to see you frustrated or upset about situations that can’t be changed. When you’re disappointed, I’m disappointed. So to see you be so excited about something? Your joy brings me joy. I wouldn’t trade that for all the late night cuddles in the world.”

“Baby,” he breathes quietly, pulling you in to rest at his side. You’re both quiet for a few moments, thinking about each other’s words, feeling each other’s presence. “I hope you know how sincerely I mean it when I say I would not have been able to do this without you. This album belongs to you too.”

“Oh yeah?” You look up at him with a twinkle in your eye. “So what’s my percentage, how much of a cut am I getting, Mr. Label Man?” You laugh at your joke, pulling from the joint he’s just handed back to you.

Ashton laughs heartily and scoffs, “Why do you think I started growing my own vegetables? We’re fuckin’ broke now, sweetheart.” He giggles as if it’s the funniest thing he’s ever said.

“Well, you’re broke and out of work, I am currently still employed,” you playfully boast, gesturing with the cigarette for emphasis.

“Ohhh, that’s how it’s gonna be now?” He jabs over and over at your side and you dramatically yelp. “Do I gotta start calling you ‘Daddy’ now?”

You offer him a devilish smile and carefully get on your knees to straddle him. “Do you prefer the term ‘sugar baby’ or ‘kept man’?” You tease, placing the joint in his mouth before he can reply.

He runs his hands over your ass while he puffs away; holding the hit in his mouth, he moves a hand up to guide your face towards his. He presses his lips against yours and you open your mouth, allowing the smoke to transfer from his mouth to yours. You grind in his lap a little and he groans as he watches you tilt your head back and slowly let the smoke trickle out of your mouth.

After a few more shotguns back and forth, Ash quickly sets what’s left in the ashtray on the coffee table and buries his hands in your hair, crashing his lips into yours. You moan as he kisses you with an almost unreal intensity; his tongue feels like it’s melting into yours, his lips have never tasted softer or sweeter. His hands have slipped under the back of your shirt and his fingers are either icy cold or burning hot - you’re undecided but it feels incredible - as they trace tantalizing designs on your skin.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been making out - it could’ve been 10 minutes, it could’ve been 40 - when he states in a gravelly voice, “We need to get you inside and naked for me.”

You reply with a pleased sigh and attach your lips to his jaw, just below his ear; your face bumping against the coolness of his earring both distracts and delights you. You don’t realize you’ve been rocking relentlessly against his growing hardness until he firmly grabs your hips and rasps your name as a stern warning.

He lifts you off his lap and stands up from the couch. You don’t know whether to laugh or moan at the spectacle: eyes glassy from both arousal and blazing, lips swollen from slotting with yours, skin littered with your bitemarks. His hair is pulled halfway out of the bun, his shirt is unbuttoned all the way and the silk pants he’s wearing aren’t even trying to hide the tent that’s formed in them.

He pulls you up from the couch and right back onto his lips; you stand there on the patio for several more minutes, slightly swaying as you devour each other. You can’t remember the last time you felt this hungry for him; smoking together usually gets you both hot but this is next level.

By the time you finally pull away and breathlessly declare, “God, I swear I could fuckin’ cum like this right here,” he's got you down to your bra and panties and you’ve got one hand in his hair and one down his pants.

He nips at your neck a bit longer before separating from you and turning you towards the house. “Bed,” he commands, starting to gather up his things. You continue to linger and he swats at your ass to get you moving.

You set the mood when you get to the bedroom: opening the windows to bring in the cool night air, dimming the lamps, lighting some candles. You know he brought incense but you’re not sure where he unpacked it. Ashton slinks up behind you while you’re digging through a drawer and wraps himself around you.

“Why. Aren’t. You. Naked. Yet.” He complains, leaving wet kisses across your neck. You shiver as his fingers trail down your back before unhooking your bra and pushing it down your arms. You giggle as he tugs your panties down your legs right where you stand.

You step out of the underwear and let the bra fall from your arms, turning to him completely bare. “Your turn,” you lilt, lightly backing him up towards the bed, incense quest long forgotten. You laugh at how quickly he whips off his shirt before he lets himself fall onto his back on the mattress. You crawl next to him and as soon as you’re near enough, his hands are instantly playing with your tits; you take his pants down, licking your lips as his hard cock springs up against his stomach with a satisfying smack.

You stroke it where it lays, using just your thumb and index finger, finding yourself hypnotized as you watch your hand move, hear his breath get heavier, watch the first drops of precum appear at the head. His hand has made its way between your spread knees and he lazily drags his fingers through your folds, occasionally tapping against your clit; he’s barely using any pressure but in this moment, it feels incredible and you rock against him.

After a few minutes of mindlessly playing with each other, he reaches for your arm and gently pulls, wanting you to come closer to him; you lean in and even with his eyes half-closed, you note the fondness swimming in them. He cups your face with his hands and murmurs, “Love you,” just before he presses your lips to his. The noise of your sloppy kisses sounds almost musical to your stoned mind.

Ash moves his hand back to your center as you lean to peck down his chest, relishing the feeling of his skin shivering underneath you as you move down his torso. Again, you leave his cock on his stomach, giving the shaft a few sloppy kisses before taking his balls in your mouth.

“Baby… here,” he breathily directs you, gesturing for you to lay on your side while he turns onto his. He lifts your outer leg and rests his head on your other one; he sets your leg back down on the bed, bent at the knee, effectively creating a triangle of space allowing him access to your pussy. He moves closer and licks a stripe through your wetness to test, the resulting moan from you letting him know he’s spot on with his positioning.

You scoot closer to his crotch, reaching for his cock that’s now facing you, giving it a few strokes before guiding it to your mouth. You’re now deep in your weed and lust fueled haze so it takes you a few moments to wrap your head around giving a blowjob at this angle. The work he’s doing between your legs isn’t doing your concentration any favors so you buy yourself some time and stick your tongue out, tapping his cock on it before kitten licking over the head; you suckle at the tip while your fingers tease his shaft and you moan when you taste precum.

Ashton’s tongue darts in and out of your folds and he thinks to himself he should tell you that you’ve never tasted better but decides not to because he doesn’t want you off his mouth for even a second. He teases the tip of his tongue at your entrance and the way you jerk against him leaves him groaning; the vibration against you feels like tiny electric sparks shooting through your pussy.

You grip his ass, using it for leverage as you start to bob your head up and down on his cock; you move cautiously at first, still trying to navigate the position, but as you continue taking him, you realize how much you’re enjoying the slow pace. You swirl your tongue around him as you move, your heightened state making you appreciate every detail: the weight of him, the details of the veins and ridges on his skin.

You pull off with a pop and rub the tip over your lips before doing the same down his shaft; when you come back up, your tongue’s attention focuses on fluttering around the underside of the head. You feel Ash pull away from you and hear a “Just like that, baby,” muffled against your thigh as you take him down again.

He collects himself and dives back in, promptly sucking your clit between his lips. You whimper around his cock a few times before you have to let him slip out. Your brain tells you that you should let him know you’re getting close but your senses are so overwhelmed, you can’t find the words.

Ash knows your body and even his foggy mind can read the signs that you’re nearly there. He wraps his arm around your hip, trying to steady your unruly movements as he slows his work on your clit, edging you slightly.

You whine his name and even your own ears are surprised by how needy it sounds. You try to resume sucking him but your pleasure center feels like it’s in overdrive and you can’t make yourself focus. You rock your hips against his mouth, breathlessly conceding, “Gotta cum, babe… oh god, Ash, please."

His fingers dig into your thigh as he holds on while you writhe against him; his tongue ramps up on your clit, skillfully fluttering back and forth with voracity. Your legs shake around his head and your breath comes out in labored gasps as you climax; your pre-existing high melts into your orgasmic high and you lose yourself in it, unable to believe how many waves of sensation you’re feeling.

He licks at you until your tremors stop and then he’s carefully untangling himself and turning around so he can lay facing you. Your eyes flutter open when you feel him stroking your hair and you giggle at how adorably sinful he looks: curls askew, goofy yet lusty smile curling at his lips, face damp and shiny from your release.

You give him a soft kiss and then in what feels like one swift motion, you push him onto his back, lay yourself on top of him and slip him inside you. You unhurriedly move yourself on him, chest pressed against his, alternately pecking at or mumbling sweet nothings into his skin.

Ashton pulls you into a deep kiss and hugs you tightly to him, arms wrapping around you. He runs his hands over any skin he can reach, taking advantage of your closeness to create a tactile heaven for himself. He wonders if your pussy has ever felt so tight or warm around him; as if you can read his mind, you clench and he groans loud and long, hands moving to your ass.

His large hands grip your cheeks and you rhythmically rock against him as he lazily fucks up into you. The two of you murmur and moan at each other, neither of you particularly trying to express anything other than the total pleasure you’re feeling. Finally, his noises take on a different, more urgent tone, his hips begin to stutter and he whines your name as he cums inside you.

You lay in silence for what feels like hours but in reality can’t be more than a minute. He kisses the top of your head and carefully moves you to the side of him; he reaches over to the bedside table for some tissues and you watch reverently as he cleans the both of you up.

“I fucking love you,” you dreamily state, unprompted.

He giggles blissfully at your outburst as he settles back on the bed, opting to lay perpendicular, resting his head on your stomach. “Well, I fucking love you,” he beams, closing his eyes as you finger brush his hair. “You know, this is exactly what I pictured when I planned this whole thing.”

“The trip or the album?” You joke, stifling a laugh. “You know you didn’t have to make a whole ass album if you wanted to take me to the desert for a nice stone and bone, you could’ve just asked.”

Ash snorts and sits up to blow a raspberry on your bare skin. “You know what I meant.”

“Yeahhhh, I guess,” you tease. There’s a long silence before you muse, “I feel incredibly lucky to be with you during all this.”

“The trip or the album?” He laughs hard at his quip, crawling up your body once he sees the amused pout on your face. “Aww, baby, I’m the lucky one. Thank you for being here with me. For everything this year, not just the stuff worth celebrating.”

You offer a satisfied hum as he kisses you sweetly. He pulls back and raises an eyebrow to ask, “Have I made up for all those nights you were sleepin’ on the couch yet?”

"God… my back hurts just thinking about it,” you exaggeratedly grumble. He pokes at you and you snuggle into him. "Maybe you should light up the rest of that joint and persuade me a little more."

Ashton looks at you, eyes gleaming with admiration and amusement. "Deal."

————-

Taglist issues again so my apologies if you get notif’d more than once (or not at all)

@mymindwide @suchalonelysunflower @pxrxmoore @loveroflrh @ghostofmashton @sexgodashton @feliznavidaddycal

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#5sos smut #ashton irwin smut #5 seconds of summer smut #ashton smut #ashton irwin fic #5 seconds of summer fic #smut #Kindahoping4forever #kh4f fic #Watch Me Bloom #WMB: A Few Hours Ago #thank you to everyone who has supported this series #i will be the first to admit this idea spun way out of my control lmao #i did not mean to write over 10k like this #but the chaptered experiment was a fun one and i'm happy with how this all turned out!#Feedback is appreciated #i'm glad i got this concept out of my brain and into the world lol #Desert Daddy ftw

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x0401x · 4 years ago

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Jeweler Richard Fanbook Short Story #16

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Colombo’s Bookstore

Sri Lanka didn’t have as many bookstores as Japan. It had about three times as many used car shops as in Japan, I believed. But there were few bookstores.

In the first place, be them used car stores or bookstores, the shops were by no means big. This country was a tiny island with a national territory smaller than Japan’s, so lands that had forest reserves of local nature in them and real estate were probably valuable. If anything, I had an affinity for the place. But it was a pity that the bookstores were so few.

I often spent my time alone nowadays, so above all else, I appreciated having anything to read. I wasn’t the bookworm type, but there were just too many book-selling places in Japan. If you were getting off at some notable station in Tokyo, no matter which one it was, there would be at least one bookstore within walking distance. I also had a fresh memory of Saul-san telling me that “Japanese people really like their books”.

A street vendor was selling scissors in front of a bookstore in the sunlit streets of Colombo, the capital of Sri Lanka. Why did he decide to sell scissors by the road? And right before my eyes, a person on a bus riding slowly down the avenue was buying a pair of scissors from him. Did they have some bag that they wanted to cut open no matter what or something? I had no idea, but anyway, this was a world that operated with standards different from Japan’s, in which supply and demand were apparently well-established.

With glass doors, the bookstore had a magnificent structure and felt nice and cold when I stepped in. The study reference books were on the second floor, so I went up the arched stairs that parted to left and right, searching for the shelf that I was aiming for.

There you are.

I took three books from it, and when I went to the checkout, the female clerk, dressed in a sari, asked me, “Is this all?” in English. The official languages of this country were English, Sinhala and Tamil, with English being spoken by both Sinhalese and Tamils. I believed she was Sinhalese. Because the sari was not a Hindu but a Buddhist thing.

“These are volumes 2, 3 and 4. What about volume 1?”

“I bought just volume 1 a while ago. And it was really good, so I also wanted to learn the rest from this book series.”

“So you’re studying Sinhala. That’s rare. Where are you from?”

“I’m Japanese,” I answered.

What I had come to buy was a Sinhala language study reference book. It was a book for people who couldn’t read Sinhala, so it was, of course, written in English. Even so, I had read it a little before traveling. I also found and purchased a Sinhala language study reference book written by a Japanese scholar, which I was able to buy in Japan.

Regardless, it was kind of useless for my range of understanding, so I almost felt like throwing it away before I could learn anything. I told Saul-san about this when asking him for advice, at which he burst into laughter and then bought me a red paperback book.

A Sinhala book written in English.

The letters were very large and there weren’t too many words. As for the quality of the paper, on the bright side, it was straw paper, and on the downside, it was gray and flimsy. But the contents were very easy to understand and the insides were firmly packed.

This reference book taught Sinhala letters first, as well as the meaning and pronunciation of each one. From that point onward, I couldn’t be more thankful for it. Sinhala was a language written with a Sinhalese alphabet, after all. In addition to vowels such as A, I, U, E and O, it jumped on to a variety of consonants and other symbols that stuck one letter to another like joints. It explained each of them carefully so that even people who didn’t know Sinhalese at all could understand them. This book solved a large percentage of the problem that I had stumbled upon, namely “I can’t find the commonalities and differences between letters, so I don’t know how to tell them apart and can’t organize them in my head”. I was grateful for that. There was no need to ask Richard-sensei for a foreign language course via international call all the time anymore.

That being said, there were many letters in Sinhala. Meaning that there were several pronunciations. You’d think that the Japanese syllabary was cute in comparison. Not all of it could be explained in one book, and the lectures were extended over to the second volume, but Saul-san had bought only one book, in case it didn’t suit me. The results were as could be seen. It was the same kind of joy as reading one book from a novel series and then buying all the sequels.

Learning languages was fun. By the looks of it, learning how to link them directly to communication was what worked for me.

“But can’t you live in Sri Lanka while speaking English, even if you don’t understand Sinhala? Are you on a business trip?”

“Something like that, but if possible, I’d like to talk to people using a Sri Lankan language. I’m Japanese, but I’ve had the experience of being a bit happy when someone from a foreign country spoke in Japanese to me, so now I guess it’s my turn.”

“You have so much free time, huh!”

I had no words to reply. The clerk and I burst into laughter without any reserve and finished the checkout. As I went down the arched stairs, I found a space where they were selling festival tools, stationery and picture books. Many of the same books were arranged on two sides.

Or so I thought.

But that was apparently not it. What I thought to be the exact same large-format picture books were the English version and the Sinhala version. You’d miss it if you were distracted because the pictures were the same, but the picture book, which was probably a Sri Lankan version of a “Japanese folktale”-like work, was published in two languages.

“Y’see, the ones who buy these are parents who want their kids to learn English. ‘Cause speaking English comes in handy.”

When I turned around, the clerk who had been at the cash register on the second floor was right behind me. It seemed she had come to see me off. Apparently, the cashier on the first floor called out to her, telling her to go back to work or something like that, to which she replied at length, and the two exchanged laughs. Maybe the people in this bookstore were cheerful, as not all Sri Lankans expressed their emotions so openly.

“This one is the ‘Mean Old Man’. This one is ‘The Perahera Festival’.”

“Can even a small child understand it well?”

“Of course. This book is big so that it’s easy to read to them.”

Indeed, it was a thin picture book of a size larger than A4. In Japan, it wouldn’t be strange for it to have an anime or manga-style art, but the art of this one had an ethnic touch to it, perhaps to match the contents. The colors were rich, the mean old man was drawn in a vile yet comical way, and the blue gradation of the feathers in a bird’s tail looked tasteful.

“Hum, excuse me. Can I buy this too?”

“You’re going to buy it? Do you have children?”

“I’ll read it myself.”

The clerk laughed again, but after a moment, she made a straight face and told me that it certainly might be perfect for studying. I bought the picture book at the cash register on the first floor. Either way, it cost about 500 Sri Lankan rupees, which was about 600 Japanese yen, but in the eyes of this country’s people, that was probably quite a high price. This was a world of 10 rupees for a loaf of bread and 3 rupees for a cup of tea. Thinking like that, I could understand why there weren’t many bookstores and why there were so few people here.

You can’t eat or drink books. They’re not daily necessities either, like clothes, scissors or toothbrushes. Being able to spend money on such things as if it were obvious must be a sign of wealth. My country was all the more disagreeable for having bookstores everywhere. I’d never thought about it that way.

As I took the receipt and said, “Stūtiyi”, which was “thank you” in Sinhala, the black-haired woman smiled, looked at my face and said in Japanese, “Thank you very much. We will be awaiting your return.”

“Amazing!”

“Thanks.”

And so, she told me that her husband had been working with sheet metal in Ibaraki, Japan, for a while. Her pronunciation of the words “Ibaraki” and “sheet metal” was really good. Apparently, her husband had started up a small company with the money he had earned as an immigrant worker and was its president.

With her waving a hand at me and telling me to be careful, I left the store.

Even though it was early spring, the sunlight in Colombo felt like that of midsummer in Japan. But I was growing quite fond of this glare. Everyone walking in the streets was wearing mid-sleeves, and if they were so inclined, beach sandals too, but the humidity wasn’t as high as in Japan, so I could think that, indeed, this was also spring. The white of the temple flowers blooming along the road was refreshing as well. They reminded me just a little bit of cherry blossoms. And from this street, I could clearly see my favorite landmark.

Colombo Tower, a tower that had the lotus flower as its motif.

It was a Tokyo Tower-like landmark, not visible from my base camp, the mountain town of Kandy, and although the shape was grandiose, it was still under construction and nobody could enter it. However, one day – I didn’t know whether that would be while I was still in Sri Lanka or after I had settled somewhere else, but – I definitely wanted to climb that. I would.

May I be a little more proficient in the language of this country than I am now by then, and if possible, may I get to have small talk in the tower.

With a modest goal and a new book, I treaded the way to Saul-san’s office.

#housekishou richard shi no nazo kantei #housekishou richard #jeweler richard #the case files of jeweler richard #nakata seigi #richard #jr short story collection #tsujimura nanako #yukihiro utako #novel #my translation

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whump-a-la-mode · 4 years ago

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Villian-Sicle | Part 3

I didn’t expect to continue this beyond part 2, but I’ve come to love these characters. I hope you guys enjoy! Heed the warnings, this one contains a lot of medical stuff.

CW//Superhero whump, villain whumpee, hypothermia, hospital setting, cardiac arrest, blood, dialysis, talk of death, talk of “pulling the plug”

Taglist:

@whatwhumpcomments

@sola-whumping

@professional-idiocy

The machine was too loud.

Talking over it made Leader feel that they were tearing apart their vocal chords. Then again, the stress of the situation wasn’t exactly aiding in that respect-- they could practically feel their tense muscles tightening around their windpipe.

“They’re going to be okay, then?” Their tone was rushed and pressing.

“I don’t want to guarantee anything.” The Head Doctor bit their lip. “Really, I can’t guarantee anything. By all accounts, the patient should already be dead. Human body temperatures shouldn’t be able to get that low...”

“Humans shouldn’t be able to fly, either.” Medic shook their head, gesturing at Leader, who tucked in their wings, not even realizing that they had unfolded. “But here we are.”

“There’s nothing particularly unusual about their physical anatomy, though?” Head Doctor raised an eyebrow.

“Enhanced people have different anatomy by default. Higher heart rate, for one thing.” Medic provided, glancing towards the heart monitor sitting next to the hospital bed. The spikes were shallow, and abnormally close together, but none the less steady.

“Yes.” Head Doctor dipped their head. “Well, then, that would explain how our patient is still breathing.”

“They should remain that way, then, right?” Leader fretted.

“I have high hopes. We’re doing everything we can. It’s up to them, now. If their body temperature can raise before it’s too late.”

The conversation ended on the same worried note as it had began, and the groups’ gazes seemed to unanimously drift downwards, as if they had simply forgot that they were standing over a body halfway between humanity and corpsehood.

Villain’s skin was horribly pale, translucent, even, as if it were on the verge of melting away. The restraints on their wrists and ankles-- Leader had insisted as to their presence-- seemed far too loose around their captive’s thin structure, but they simply couldn’t be tightened any further.

The only patch of Villain’s body that did not lack color was their chest, in which a catheter of at least an inch in diameter had been inserted. The skin around was red with irritation, resisting feebly against the roaring machine drinking blood from the line, only to return it at the same access point.

The whole spectacle was horribly grisly, with tubes filled with scarlet draped over Villain’s chest in a gruesome web. The machine itself, sat off to the side, seemed to whine and groan with every feeble heartbeat its victim managed to make.

Hemodialysis, the doctor had called the process. Manually warming the blood in an attempt to warm the body. Despite its vampiric appearance, somehow, the process was keeping Villain alive.

A chill ran through Leader’s body at the very thought. Villain was a stubborn asshole, one they’d been pursuing doggedly for months. Somehow, regardless of what trap they placed or what situation they were thrown into, Villain made it out.

Now...

The machine was plugged into the wall with a single cord. Just a wire, just some electrons passing through metal. Something that could so easily be severed. A single tug, a clumsily placed foot. The fight would be over. Would it be so wrong? Villain had done such wrong... and they wouldn’t feel a thing. They’d part in an unconscious pool of their own delusion.

Leader bit their tongue.

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“You okay?”

Hero watched the small flame of force flicker between their fingertips, their eyes nearly crossed with focus. They had hardly realized that somehow had spoken to them, and it took several awkwardly long seconds for them to look up.

“Hm?”

“Are you okay? You looked distracted.” Counselor furrowed their brow.

“I think I’m... always distracted.”

“I know. Just... that was a lot, back there. And you looked stressed.”

“Just worried, I guess.”

“About Villain?”

“There’s not much else to be worried about.”

“I’m worrying about you, right now.”

“I think... Villain is the one that we need to worry about, right now.” Hero chewed their cheek. “You were in there, right?”

“For a minute, yeah.”

“Are they okay?”

“Alive. They were alive. But with Medic there-- well, I don’t think there’s a better authority on Enhanced biology on the seven continents. I think it’ll turn out okay.”

Hero chuckled humorlessly.

“That’s another thing I’m worried about.”

“What? Medic?”

“Yeah. Medic kind of. More Leader. Medic is... I mean, I love ‘em, and they’re the biggest hardass out there, but they’re a doctor more than anything else. Hippocratic oath and all that. But Leader...”

“You’re worried because Leader... isn’t a doctor?”

“No, no, it’s not that. Leader just seems so much more worried about the fight, and the mission, and the good of humanity, than, well, than anything that’s right in front of them. I’m just worried that...”

“That Leader’s going to make a bad choice?”

“Something like that.”

“I agree that they can be... a hardass. But they’re not a bad person. I don’t think they’d execute someone. Not like this. Not after everything.”

Hero’s gaze turned to Counselor. They hadn’t expected their friend to come to the base of their concerns with such speed.

Counselor gave a small smile in return.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Head Doctor left the room.

They had made their leave hurriedly, ensuring that they would be back in just a few minutes, to press the Code Blue button if anything happened. Leader had nodded along, hardly processing any of it.

They were focused on the person before them.

Over the last few minutes, by some miracle or curse, Villain’s heart rate had begun to stabilize. Though the beats came just as quickly, they were stronger than they had been. Not quite normal, but on their way.

Medic seemed fixed on the monitor, eyes narrowed as though they watched prey. The screen had more than just a heartrate reading. Alongside that, it showed a series of other graphs-- breathing rate, oxygen levels, among some that Leader was clueless as to the meaning of.

They glanced to the door. It was firmly closed. Certainly, the rest of the hospital would be too busy with the recent break-in to intrude.

“Medic?”

The doctor raised an eyebrow, but continued their fixation on the readings.

“Yes?”

“What would you say is the... the percentage we’re working with here.”

“The percentage?”

“Of survival.”

“Well... I suppose I can’t make an exact predication, but it’s climbing every minute. 80 percent? 85? They’re not completely out of the woods, yet, but their temperature is raising steadily. The dialysis is working.

“80 percent.” Leader hummed. “So... 20 percent chance that they don’t make it?”

“That is how math works, yes.”

“That’s not an insignificant percentage.”

“We’re doing everything we can. As I said, it’s rising, and quickly. If we can get their temperature back up into the 90s, I would say that continued survival is almost guaranteed.”

“Is that so?”

“What’s got you acting so weird, all of a sudden?” Medic finally turned from the screen, glancing to Leader.

Leader gulped.

“Do you remember when we were in Denver?”

“At the telecommunications hub? Yeah.”

“And in Vancouver?”

“Yes?”

“And at the bank, in Phoenix?”

“Leader, I assure you, my memory is fine.”

“No, no, I mean, Villain did all those things, right?”

“They had help.”

“But they led the charge?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“They’ve hurt a lot of people. Destroyed a lot of places... brought them to the ground. Leveled a city block, once.”

“Seriously, what is this about?”

Leader’s gaze glanced down to the Villain, pale, restrained, with a tube skewering their flesh, then back at Medic.

“No.”

“What?”

“No. No, no, no. I let you restrain them like some kind of beast, which, for your information, is completely against medical protocol. I’m not letting you kill Villain.”

“And why not?”

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Outside the hospital room, in a pair of plastic chairs, Hero and Counselor sat with far more relaxation between them. They watched passively as Head Doctor left the room, hurrying off to another room.

Hero took a fidget rope from a coat pocket and began twisting it between their hands.

“What do you think they’re going to do with Villain, then?” Counselor’s voice was considerably quieter, as if they were telling a secret. They stared off, down the hallway, instead of meeting Hero’s eyes.

“I just hope they let us have some input in this whole thing.”

“Me too. But... what would you prefer? If you had the choice?”

“I mean...” Hero sighed. “They haven’t been the best person, I think we can all agree on that. They’re dangerous. But I also think that... they’re scared. They’re scared, Counselor, really scared.

If it was up to me, I think we should help them. While in our custody, but, I think they need help. And maybe then, they can help us? I mean, they must know something about Supervillain. It’d be nice to have an informant.

Really, I just want to see them okay again. Even if it does mean that they go back to being an asshole.”

“That’d be nice.”

Hero nodded.

“I think Medic mentioned that, once Villain’s stable, we’re gonna move them back to base. Where we have the special medical equipment, the Enhanced care stuff.”

“Yeah. I think Leader is definently going to want to keep them in custody.”

“If they try to hurt them, though... I’m not gonna let that happen. If we have to keep them prisoner, we can at least be humane about it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“I just hope Leader agrees.”

“Me too.”

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“It’d be a waste.”

The answer was too analytical. Leader had expected to be yelled at, to get an earful about morality and ethics and other crap. Not something so simple, so factual.

“What do you mean?” Leader’s tone wasn’t accusing, at least they didn’t intend for it to be. It was far more dumbfounded in nature.

“Everything in this world runs on technology. Those lights, that door, this machine, everything. Everyone has a phone. Every building has a network, of both electricity and information. Villain can patch into all of that. You said it yourself, they leveled a whole city block. What else can they do?”

“What are you... what are you implying?”

“We keep them, and we use them.”

A garbled voice resounded throughout the room. Leader whirled around, half expecting Supervillain to be right behind them, before turning back.

“Was that y-” They began to ask, but didn’t quite get the chance.

“Code Blue! Code Blue!” Medic snapped. “Don’t be useless, press the damn button!”

It took Leader’s confused mind a moment to note the emergency that Medic was responding to-- that of a horrible, electric screech. The heart monitor was no longer showing a steady pulse.

At the sight, Leader’s own heart rate sped up. They nearly tripped over their own feet as they rushed to the blue button on the wall, jabbing it with their finger multiple times in a frenzied panic. Once they were satisfied that they spiraling terror had been registered properly, they returned to Medic’s side.

The doctor had their hands positioned on Villain’s chest, one over the other, slamming downwards repeatedly. In between, Leader could see a sharp rise in the chest-- they were still breathing. But for how much longer?

Dammit, dammit, don’t think like that, it’s someone’s life!

A resounding crash burst through the room as the door was slammed open. They rushed to the bedside, seemingly ready to continue CPR, before Medic raised an arm, preventing them.

“No, no, they’re okay.” Medic panted breathlessly. Leader raised their eyes to the heart monitor-- sure enough, a slow, steady rhythm was returning.

They’d made it.

“Mmm..”

Leader panted for breath, trying in vain to calm their racing heartrate.

“Mmm... whaaa...”

Leader’s shaking gaze shifted to the source of the noises--only to find their eyes locked with the wide ones of Villain.

#whump #whump prompt #whump community #villain whump #oc whump #villain whumpee #blood tw

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carewyncromwell · 4 years ago

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[Ficlet] We Can Beat Them Forever and Ever

Yep, another ficlet based on Quidditch Season 1, which focuses on the beginnings of the Carewyn/Orion relationship! 💚 This one actually centers around the actual match (chapter 7-8), though if you’d like to read the previous parts based on chapter 5 and 6, you can read those here and here! Carewyn and Orion only become a couple post-Hogwarts (and post-Second-Wizarding-War, for that matter!), but it’s been really fun kind of charting their beginnings, so that one can have a more complete picture of where they started and therefore how they ended up. This may be a platonic relationship at the moment, but even at this point when these two are babies (13 and 15, what!), they still have such fun platonic chemistry.

If you don’t want to read the previous parts, then as usual, here are the basic clip notes -- my girl Carewyn “Not-Yet-Mama-Bear” Cromwell is a third year Slytherin; the Quidditch crew is in their fourth year; Orion doesn’t have his facial hair yet because of course not; and this will ultimately be Carewyn’s only Quidditch match this year and only one of two in her entire school career (if you’d like to follow that second match, you can always consult the Quest for the Quidditch Cup tag!).

Hope you enjoy...and please consider commenting and reblogging if you enjoy it! I hope to include this as part of a masterpost chronicling my writings for the Carion relationship soon, so watch out for that too! xoxo

x~x~x~x

Carewyn didn’t think she’d ever feel more pressured than when she was dealing with the Vaults -- but abruptly becoming something of an unofficial Quidditch Captain just before Slytherin’s big match definitely provided stiff competition.

Following Orion’s instructions, she didn’t tell any of her friends about what was wrong. She did her best to put on a brave face, but she could tell that Rowan, Ben, Bill, and Charlie thought something was up. She felt so relieved that Andre didn’t seem to, so she ended up spending a bit more time with him during the next Quidditch friendly. His confidence was comforting in a weird way, especially since he never tried to ask her if anything was wrong.

With only three days remaining until the match, Carewyn knew she was going to need to come up with something fast -- and after practice that day, McNully pulled her aside into the Changing Room to talk to her. He’d heard about Slytherin’s “bait and switch” strategy from Orion himself, and although he granted that it was “typical Orion” and clearly wasn’t thought through in the slightest, he didn’t seem as worried as Carewyn.

“Look, for as rash and weird as it seems, it isn’t completely out of left field,” he told her. “You do have something of a mediating presence, but you’re also assertive. Orion’s got some pretty big expectations on his shoulders, as the youngest Captain in over a century, and everyone’s sort of been pulling him in different directions...me included,” he added a bit sheepishly. “...From what I gather, he wants to listen to everyone and make them feel represented and heard -- but at the same time, he’s team captain, and he wants people to trust his judgment too, even the players who were part of the team before he was Captain. And the odds he’ll be able to do both at the same time is somewhere around 16%. But you’re the sort to really value other people’s feelings, just like he is. You’re sensitive enough to want to include everybody, but you also have a good head on your shoulders and you’re sharper than most. What you lack in Quidditch experience, you make up for in sincerity, and you’re willing to put in the work to learn what you don’t know.”

McNully smiled.

“Honestly, I reckon Orion made a pretty good choice, in using you as a sounding board. You respect his judgment and will do right by him as Captain, but you can still kind of ‘check’ him somewhat, on those things he might overlook.”

Carewyn actually felt her shoulders relaxing slightly. She offered him a smile.

“...Thanks, McNully,” she said quietly. “I appreciate it.”

McNully’s smile broadened. “Good to hear it. We can’t have you getting too nervous before the match -- Hufflepuff’s already noticed it.”

Carewyn blinked. “They what?”

McNully crossed his arms, his expression becoming a bit more grim. “I overheard the Hufflepuffs talking after their own practice. Apparently Ulrich Dylan thinks that the ‘little girl’ Orion picked is losing her nerve. That’s why he was watching you even more at your practice today -- he’s hoping he can rattle you even more, thinking about how you’re going to have to go one-on-one against him.”

Carewyn’s eyes drifted away and she frowned. The Hufflepuff Captain was about three times her size -- so he thought that her nerves was because she was scared of him?

“Don’t let him get to you, though, Carewyn,” said McNully firmly. “Sure, Dylan’s the strongest link on the Hufflepuff team, and he’s brilliant at what he does...but I already told you, physicality is only a percentage of a player’s overall potential, and a low one at that, compared to strategy...”

“He’s not getting to me,” said Carewyn, and she was being completely honest.

She considered this for another moment, her fist resting over her mouth as her eyes drifted. Then her lips spread into a rather wicked smirk.

“McNully...when you next talk to Orion in class, will you tell him how worried you are about me?”

~~~

Carewyn was very pleased by how fast the rumors circulated. By the next day, just about everyone was talking about how Orion’s newest pick for the team had an emotional breakdown in the Changing Room after their last practice. The students on the Hufflepuff team clearly had caught wind of it too -- they were giving her the side-eye a lot over the next day and sharing knowing looks amongst themselves. Ulrich Dylan even made a point to stop in front of Carewyn in the halls at one point, towering over her for a long moment and blocking her from walking any further before innocently wishing her luck and walking away.

Trying to accent how much bigger he is than me again, Carewyn thought drolly.

She did feel guilty about Rowan and Bill pretty quickly rushing to coddle her and practically suffocate her with reassurance...but at the same time, it felt kind of nice, considering that she was nervous for a completely different reason.

Carewyn arrived at the Changing Room about a hour early. When she arrived, she found Orion meditating on one of the benches, his hands clasped in front of him.

“Hi, Orion,” she said gently.

Orion opened his eyes.

“Greetings, Carewyn Cromwell,” he murmured.

His face was not as pleasant as it usually was. His eyes grazed her face, almost searching for something.

Carewyn glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was outside the tent. Then she offered him a guilty smile and came over to sit next to him on the bench, her eyes resting on the floor rather than him.

“Orion, I’m really sorry,” she started. “What McNully told you -- ”

“No, Carewyn,” said Orion at once. “I believe it is I who should be sorry.”

“No, you shouldn’t -- ” Carewyn tried again.

But Orion held up a hand to stop her.

“I’m sure my decision must have seemed strange to you -- reckless, even,” he said quietly. “But I assure you, I was sincere when I said I was content in making it. Now, however, I find my spirit a bit unsettled.”

Carewyn felt her stomach crumpling up in shame. “Orion, it’s okay, I’m -- ”

“I placed a weight that was on my shoulders on yours,” Orion cut her off cleanly, “for it seemed to me that you’re the sort who takes strength from doing what must be done, for the good of all. But instead, it’s upset your own internal balance. And that, in turn, has greatly upset mine...”

“Orion, listen.”

Carewyn actually got up and took both of his shoulders so as to force him to look at her. The physical contact startled Orion so much that he rather resembled a cat with its hair on end.

“I’m okay,” she told him very firmly. She tried to offer him a smile, even if she still felt so guilty. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t explain earlier, but you said we shouldn’t discuss your plan outside the Changing Room, and I can never find you anywhere else in the school whenever I try to look for you. I’m really sorry I told McNully to tell you I was upset...but I needed you to react badly, at least at first, if my strategy is going to work.”

Orion blinked very slowly in a manner that made him resemble an owl. Then his eyes grew a little smaller, almost confused, as he considered her.

“...Perhaps you should tell me more about this ‘strategy’ of yours.”

Carewyn released his shoulders, taking a heavy breath.

“McNully told me that Ulrich Dylan thinks I’m scared of him.”

“Many in your position would be,” said Orion.

“Maybe others would be, but I’m not,” huffed Carewyn, crossing her arms rather haughtily. “I’ve been small my whole life. If I was scared of everyone who was bigger than me, I’d be scared all the time.”

The very slightest flicker of amusement touched Orion’s eyes, but it didn’t seem quite enough to lighten his face.

Carewyn grew more serious.

“From what I’ve heard from McNully, and from how the Hufflepuff team’s acted around me in the halls after hearing I had a breakdown, I reckon they see me as the ‘weak link’ of the Slytherin team. That means they’ll be trying to go after me, so as to pull the rest of us apart. And it makes sense. No one can get a good fix on you, particularly since this is your first match as Captain...and the other houses think we Slytherins don’t play fair, so they’ll probably be expecting the more experienced players to try to pull one over on them. But I’m the least experienced, the youngest, the smallest, and -- as far as everyone else knows -- the most fragile. Right now I’m the best possible ‘weakness’ Hufflepuff might be able to exploit.”

She smiled.

“That means, though, that Hufflepuff’s focus will be solely on me, and less on the rest of you. And if I keep letting them underestimate me...let them think I’m this scared little girl who’s stumbled into the big leagues...then I can throw off their center of balance when I play perfectly in the match. And if I can play perfectly...well...what does that say about the rest of our team, who weren’t those weak links? The Hufflepuffs will doubt their own judgment so much that they won’t be able to focus on their goal properly.”

Orion’s eyes seemed to clear as he brought up a hand to his chin thoughtfully. “I see...so you hope to make us appear off-balance, so that we can in turn be at an advantageous position to put our opponents off-balance.”

“Yeah,” said Carewyn.

Her expression became more ashamed again as she looked down at her own feet, dangling off the bench in front of her.

“I’m really, really sorry I upset you. I might not entirely get why you decided to have me call the shots for this, but...well, I meant what I sang. ‘I’ll do my very best, and it ain’t no lie,’” she sang a bit more sweetly, “‘if you put me to the test, if you let me try...’”

Carewyn’s singing seemed to soften Orion’s expression further. He smiled slightly at her.

“I accepted your apology the first time you made it, Carewyn Cromwell. Though it was easier to do, after our minds melded properly.”

He unclasped his hands, resting them on either side of him on the bench.

“...As for your role in this match...I chose you because you didn’t want to be chosen. Just like you don’t want to break curses, and yet you still do.”

Carewyn glanced at him out the side of her eye.

“How do you know I don’t like breaking curses?” she asked coolly.

“It seems to me that someone who likes being known for cursebreaking wouldn’t lose the light in their eyes whenever anyone brings it up.”

Carewyn was momentarily left speechless. When Orion glanced at her, she avoided his eyes.

“As a side,” Orion said levelly, “you may wish to apologize to Skye as well. Her internal balance was also shaken, when she heard the rumors.”

Carewyn felt her shoulders slump. Oh great.

“Don’t worry,” Orion reassured her. “She took out her anger on me, not our opponents. As is proper.”

“I’m sorry I troubled both of you,” muttered Carewyn. “I didn’t want to hurt your friendship...”

Orion shook his head with a smile. “You have nothing to be sorry for. All families have their disagreements, so I’ve heard -- and that includes Quidditch families. And yet they’re worth preserving, wouldn’t you say?”

Carewyn couldn’t keep back a small smile. “Mm-hmm.”

She glanced at Orion, her blue eyes a little softer.

“...It’s really cool, that you’ve made a second family for yourself here at school,” she said. “I really love my friends too...so I reckon it’s got to make things a lot less lonely, while you’re here.”

Orion’s eyes grew a little deeper, almost pensive.

“Indeed,” he said slowly. “Only...my family here is no ‘second’ for me.”

Carewyn looked up, startled. She stared into Orion’s deep black eyes for a long moment, trying to read his expression as she took in this information. Then, little by little, her entire expression seemed to melt. All hints of a smile or humor were gone, and her eyes had welled up with pain -- so much so that one might think she was grieving a loss of her own, rather than simply showing pity.

“...Do you...not have a family, Orion?” she said, her voice a mere ghost of its usual self.

Orion’s hands clasped lightly again in his lap as he considered her.

“Not one forged by blood,” he said lowly. His features then softened with the traces of a small smile. “But just because I’m parent-free doesn’t mean I have no family. As I’ve said, Quidditch gave me a family. Therefore my teammates are my family. You are my family.”

Carewyn was genuinely touched -- but she still couldn’t help but feel awful for Orion. As small and broken as her family was, she loved her brother and mother more than anyone else in the world. She couldn’t imagine how she’d function, if anything happened to either of them. As lonely as her childhood had been, she’d still had them. Jacob was still there to protect her from bullies and inspire her with his dreams. Lane was still there to teach and encourage her. But Orion didn’t even have that.

How lonely must his summer holidays be, with no one there waiting for him at Platform 9 3/4? she couldn’t help but think.

Carewyn had to tear her eyes off of Orion’s face and refocus her gaze on her feet -- she knew she probably looked really upset, and she didn’t like showing it so blatantly.

“...Do...I mean...does the rest of our ‘family’ know?” she asked quietly.

Orion’s eyes became a little smaller. “Only Skye and McNully. But I do not tell you this to make you feel sad, Carewyn. I’m telling you this because I want you to trust me. Many doubt my methods, but there is a reason why I was named Slytherin Quidditch Captain. On the path I have traveled, there is no one to follow...and so you lead. You keep a clear head because survival depends on it. You do not question where your decisions will take you because you have no destination. You listen to your heart first because its beat is more stable than the world around you.”

He smiled wryly, turning his gaze out toward the rest of the tent as he leaned back slightly.

“You could say I’ve been Inspired Broom Surfing through life -- and it hasn’t let me down yet.”

Carewyn felt herself smiling again, even with her eyes still downcast.

Trust isn’t really something I can do, but...

“You really are a cool person, Orion Amari,” she said softly. “And a good one, too.”

Orion’s smile spread and opened, showing white teeth. “And you are a Snidget of a person, Carewyn Cromwell. Small and seemingly fragile in appearance, yes -- but a rare creature that is quick, bright, and fearless.”

He seemed to hesitate, his black eyes drifting down to her shoulder absently. Then, looking as if he’d changed his mind about something, he returned his gaze to her face, even if it was still turned away from him.

“I have faith your heart will lead you well -- as well as us to victory -- if you merely listen to it.”

At that very moment, Skye came into the tent. At the sight of Carewyn and Orion sitting on the bench together, she immediately barreled over to them.

“I damn well hope you were apologizing to Carewyn and telling her you weren’t going to make her do your job for you, Orion,” she said at once, her eyes narrowing fiercely.

Orion raised his eyebrows coolly, his hands clasping in front of him again. “I would have, had Carewyn not already done what I asked of her.”

Skye did a doubletake. “What?”

Carewyn felt guilt prickling at the back of her neck again, and she was completely unable to look Skye in the face. “Let me explain...”

~~~

Skye wasn’t quite as quick to forgive Carewyn’s deception as Orion was, but she begrudgingly accepted it when she had to acknowledge that her plan to mislead Hufflepuff was rather clever.

“Well, we are Slytherins,” she’d said with a grin. “May as well own it.”

When the rest of the team arrived, Carewyn asked them to meet her in front of the blackboard. Once McNully had joined them too, she felt ready to explain her idea more fully.

“Okay...so...” She took a deep breath, her eyes hovering vaguely over the others’ heads rather than making eye contact. “We only have two days left before the match against Hufflepuff. I’ve done a lot of thinking and research, and this is what I’ve come up with.”

Taking out her wand, she copied the movement she’d seen McNully use. In seconds, a diagram of different yellow and green circles spread out across a makeshift “Quidditch Pitch” appeared on the board. Two of the circles, one yellow and one green, had stars in the center of them. Each of the green circles had arrows that pointed to one or more yellow circles. The smallest green circle had several arrows pointed right at the largest yellow circle with the star inside, which was in front of the goal hoops.

“From what I’ve heard from my friend Penny, Ulrich Dylan is a very ‘what-you-see-is-what-you-get’ sort of person. He’s upfront and honest and doesn’t see the need to hide what he’s doing. That’s why he’s not afraid of letting us see him when he comes to watch our practices. He’s confident enough in his own talents that he’ll favor physical skill over strategy. And well, yeah, he is good. I saw him in the matches last year -- he’s really strong and agile. Ravenclaw wasn’t able to score a single point in their match against him last year -- if it wasn’t for Erika Rath taking out their Seeker, Hufflepuff probably would’ve won.”

Skye crossed her arms. “Dylan may be stronger than you, but he’s not agile enough to beat Orion, you, and me when we’re flying together. And Hufflepuff’s Chasers are a joke -- the Parkin’s Pincer can more than take them out...”

Carewyn pursed her lips. She didn’t like being interrupted -- she had to take a minute to regather her thoughts.

“...Yeah. But we won’t be using the Parkin’s Pincer -- at least, not right away.”

Skye looked confused. “Huh?”

“Let her explain,” King soothed Skye. She gave Carewyn an encouraging nod. “Go on, Carewyn.”

Carewyn gave King a short, grateful nod in return. Her eyes drifting back to the board, she took a deep breath before continuing.

“...Everyone’s expecting us to use the Parkin’s Pincer. They know Ethan Parkin will be in the stands watching us play...and they’re expecting the more experienced members of our team,” she nodded to Orion, Skye, and the two Beaters, “to take the lead. We should use the Parkin’s Pincer, of course -- it’s a brilliant move, and it’s a classic for a reason. But before we do...we need to throw Hufflepuff off their game first. We need to use our brains as well as our brawn -- especially when brains is something Hufflepuff’s Captain isn’t using as much of.”

She glanced at McNully out the side of her eye.

“So...if it’s all right with you, McNully...may Orion, Skye, and I use your Thimblerig Shuffle, during the match?”

McNully grinned from ear to ear, his eyes lighting up. “But of course, Carewyn! I may play the impartial spectator, but we all know that’s for show.”

Carewyn beamed. “Good. But before we do that, there’s something else we have to do first.”

“Something else?” recurred Skye. “Carewyn, will you get to the point already? You’re going on nearly as long as Orion...”

Carewyn couldn’t fight back a miffed pout. “I’m getting to it!”

“Calm yourself, Skye,” said Orion serenely. “All will become clear soon enough.”

He nodded to Carewyn, and she returned the gesture before returning her focus to the board.

“Every team is made up of links, some stronger than others,” she explained. “For Gryffindor, their strongest link is their Seeker, Charlie Weasley -- their weakest is their Keeper. For Ravenclaw, their strongest link is Erika Rath -- their weakest is their new Seeker. For Hufflepuff, their strongest link is Ulrich Dylan -- their weakest are their Chasers. For Slytherin, our strongest link is Orion -- and as far as everyone else thinks, I’m our weakest.”

Her lips spread into a smirk.

“That’s why I’m the one who has to go up against Ulrich Dylan.”

McNully and the rest of the team excluding Orion all looked taken aback and confused. “What?!”’

“But Carewyn,” said McNully, “you said it yourself -- Hufflepuff’s weakest link are its Chasers. The Thimblerig Shuffle would be a much better choice to help you take them out -- hell, the Parkin’s Pincer too...”

Carewyn shook her head. “Hufflepuff’s only going after our supposed ‘weakest link’ because I’m the only part of our team they think they can take advantage of. Plus they probably think we Slytherins play dirty enough that we will go after their weakest players first. But we’re doing the unexpected...”

She grinned at Orion.

“...so we’re not going after their weakest link. We’re going after their strongest, so that he becomes their weakest link.”

She indicated the tiny green circle on the board beside the biggest yellow one.

“Dylan thinks that I’m this nervous little girl on a second-hand broom who’s scared of going up against someone as big and strong as him...and now the entire school does too. We’ll keep it that way all the way up until the match -- maybe even during the match, at least at first. Then, when the time is right, I’ll spring the trap on Dylan. In a second, he’ll suddenly be faced with a real opponent, instead of the scared little girl he expects. His center of balance will be shaken so badly that the rest of his team will be thrown off too.”

“Like aftershocks from an earthquake,” said Orion, his black eyes very bright with approval, “the entire Hufflepuff team will feel the devastation wrought by their Captain losing his stability.”

Carewyn nodded. “And once the Hufflepuffs start falling apart, we can latch ourselves onto individual members to cancel them out. Orion, Skye, and I can take out the Chasers with the Thimblerig Shuffle and the Parkin’s Pincer, while Crockett prevents them from scoring any points...and King and Shacklebolt can keep the Bludgers pointed at Dylan and Hufflepuff’s Seeker so that Hufflepuff’s Beaters can’t hit them at us and so that Lucky has free range to catch the Snitch herself.”

The rest of the team’s faces all suddenly appeared much brighter too. McNully was beaming with pride.

“Carewyn, that’s fantastic!” he cheered. “If the match follows this trajectory, I’d say there’s a 96.5% chance that Slytherin will win by a large margin. You really have mastered Quidditch strategy!”

Skye looked awfully proud too as she looked from the board to down at the tiny ginger-haired Chaser. “I have to admit, Carewyn, this is smashing. It really sounds like it could work!”

Orion, however, looked the proudest of all of them as he came up on the opposite side of the board as Carewyn, his black eyes gleaming as he smiled down at her.

“We shall have to play our parts to aid this ruse as long as possible,” he addressed the others. “When we go out onto the Pitch today and tomorrow, practice as you always do, but be aware of any audience we may have. And as before, discuss none of this outside the Changing Room, nor around anyone who is not already present. Now that all of our strengths have been pooled together...” he glanced at Carewyn with a bright white smile, “...we can place our faith in each other, and in ourselves.”

~~~

The day of the match was bright and sunny, but cold beyond reason. Carewyn was honestly kind of glad that she could forego the pre-match party Penny hosted, for the sake of bolstering the ruse that she was nervous but trying not to show it -- she much preferred the idea of staying indoors with her friends than freezing outside with complete strangers asking her pointed questions about the match and the Slytherin team.

Before heading out to meet the rest of her team in the Changing Room, Bill had gone all “Papa Bear” on Carewyn and made sure she put on one of his old Weasley sweaters on before heading out to the Pitch to change into her Quidditch robes.

“I know it’s big,” he said through an embarrassed flush, “but the last thing you need is to freeze when you’re playing out there.”

Carewyn carefully rolled up the sleeves of Bill’s old sweater, smiling up at him gratefully. “Thank you, Bill.”

Rowan looked concerned too. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay, Carewyn? You’re not still worried about the Hufflepuff Captain, are you?”

Carewyn gave her best friend a small smile. “Don’t worry, Rowan...I’ll be okay.”

“Of course you will,” Bill said firmly, his lips spreading into a smile too. “After all, Dylan’s a good head shorter than that Ice Knight you beat last year.”

“You mean we beat last year,” said Carewyn, glancing from Bill to Ben with a smile.

"You did most of the work, though, Carewyn,” said Ben with a self-conscious smile. “I don’t blame you for being scared of Dylan, though -- he is kind of intimidating...”

“Yes, but Carewyn can handle herself out there,” said Penny brightly. “Right, Carewyn?”

“Mm...”

Carewyn had to keep herself from reassuring her friends too much for the sake of her strategy -- after all, Penny was a Hufflepuff, even if she wanted Carewyn to do her best -- but she still gave them all a big hug before heading out to the Pitch.

~~~

Before the match, Orion gathered everyone around the blackboard for something called a “moment of vivication.” According to McNully, it was his version of a pep talk -- and sure enough, it was full of typical “Orion-isms” that could make the average person tilt their head in utter bewilderment but that made his teammates smile and shake their heads.

“To win, we must believe we can win,” he’d said. “And we shall, for the greatest loss we can have is loss of focus. I am Quidditch -- you are Quidditch -- we are Quidditch.”

Eventually, though, he got to a point.

“The time is nearly here, my teammates,” said Orion. “Although you have followed me in all of our practices, as your Captain, remember that once we are in the air, we will follow Carewyn’s lead, when it comes to springing our trap. Use patience, when waiting for her. Defend Crockett and our hoops with tenacity, while you wait for her. Show her the loyalty a teammate deserves. And once the trap is sprung, we can set loose all of our fire against our opponents. Let us go to the Pitch and make Slytherin proud.”

The rest of the team cheered. Orion glanced at Skye, McNully, and then Carewyn, all of them smiling.

“Blimey,” said McNully, “I’d better get to the commentary box. Good luck, everyone -- give me something to talk about!”

He smiled at Carewyn. “Good luck out there, Carewyn -- dazzle me with that strategy of yours, all right?”

Carewyn nodded determinedly, and McNully wheeled himself out. Not long after he did, Madame Hooch came into the tent.

“Come along, Slytherins!” she said stridently. “It’s time.”

The Flying teacher and coach gave Carewyn a rather long look as the Slytherins lined up in position. Instead of speaking to her, however, she addressed Orion.

“Since this is your first match as Captain, Mr. Amari,” she said, “you’ll signal your team to take flight, when McNully announces you. You’ll enter from the left side of the Pitch -- the Hufflepuffs are already in position on the right.”

Orion nodded. “Thank you, Madame Hooch.”

“I’ll be very curious to see what you do, Mr. Amari,” she said brusquely. “And I’m sure everyone else will be as well.”

Orion looked around at his teammates with a smile, his eyes resting on Carewyn last, before he took the lead and headed out of the tent, the others behind him.

They strode up toward the Pitch, coming to a stop under the stands on the left-hand side. Neither the Hufflepuffs nor the audience were in view. Once Madame Hooch left, the team got into formation, with Orion, Skye, and Carewyn standing in a triangular shape at front.

“Well...here we go,” said Skye. She glanced at Carewyn. “We’re counting on you, Carewyn.”

Carewyn gave her bravest, most determined expression and nodded. She then faced forward, her eyes resting on the small strip of sunlight on the grass just past them, and waited.

She could hear the crowd gabbing loudly overhead. Her eyes drifted over her head absently.

Rowan, Bill, Charlie, Ben, Andre, and Penny would all be watching up there...she wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse.

“Find your center.”

Carewyn glanced at Orion. His expression was very gentle and his voice soothing.

Carewyn’s face softened with a smile, and she nodded. Facing forward again, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath in through her nose and out through her mouth...and began to sing quietly under her breath.

“I...I wish you could swim... Like the dolphins...like dolphins can swim... Though nothing...nothing will keep us together... Oh, we can beat them...forever and ever... We can be heroes...just for one day...”

When she was finished, she slowly opened her eyes and looked at the others. She’d expected to see some smiles -- what she hadn’t expected was just how bright and courageous all of their faces looked, nor how fond Orion’s smile would be.

The crowd roared overhead, and through the overwhelming cheers and applause, Carewyn caught the sound of McNully’s voice.

“Welcome, one and all, to the first Quidditch match of the season -- Hufflepuff versus Slytherin! Put your Pumpkin Pasties down and your hands together for Hufflepuff, led by returning captain Ulrich Dylan! Look at them fly!”

The excited sounds of the Hufflepuffs in the stands was deafening. Orion mounted his broom, and everyone else followed suit.

“And now for the Slytherin team, led by new team captain Orion Amari -- also featuring a new addition to the roster, Carewyn Cromwell, flying alongside Amari and Skye Parkin as Chaser!”

The Slytherins all took off in perfect unison and soared out onto the Pitch. Orion, typical to form, looked ridiculously confident while flying -- there were quite a few points, when they flew around the stands, that he didn’t even have his hands on his broom.

They moved into their starting positions, with the Chasers in front and the Keepers toward the back of the Pitch. Carewyn could feel all the Hufflepuffs’ eyes zeroing in on her -- she kept her focus on the frayed handle of her broom, thinking hard.

I should let Orion and Skye duke it out for the Quaffle at first, she thought. It’ll be more believable that I’m nervous if I’m hesitant to grab it. It might even look like I’m distracted.

She resisted the urge to look at Orion or Skye to try to communicate her thought process to them.

They know what we’re doing. Best keep your cards close to your chest.

“And here comes Madame Hooch, striding up the Pitch!” McNully’s voice rang out overhead. “The Bludgers are released, as is the Golden Snitch! Remember, everyone: the Snitch is worth 150 points -- when a Seeker catches it, the game is over.”

Madame Hooch gave both teams a rather discerning look as she took out the Quaffle. Then, without warning, she hurled it up into the air.

“The Quaffle is released -- and so starts the match!”

~~~

The match was stressful and exhilarating from the start. There was no sense of restraint or politeness here -- every team player’s eyes were as hard as diamonds with their concentration. It was enough to rattle most anyone: even Carewyn had to admit, everything was so much faster and felt so much more important than when she played Quidditch friendlies.

It’s no wonder people treat this game like it’s a matter of life and death, she thought, when you’re out here with seemingly the whole world watching you, waiting for you to fail...

She purposefully missed the Quaffle Orion passed to her, letting Skye double back to reclaim it. A little while later, she purposefully failed to steal it from one of Hufflepuff’s Chasers herself, and even took some time to get yelled at by Skye. (Skye honestly wasn’t that good at acting, but her looking angry was all that was really needed.)

“Looks like we’ve got a dispute between Star Chaser Skye Parkin and newcomer Carewyn Cromwell,” said McNully, his voice dripping with concern. “One can only hope that Cromwell can get her head in the game...”

Carewyn glanced across the Pitch in Ulrich Dylan’s direction -- he was grinning as he shouted something at his Chasers.

Sure enough, in the next round, the Hufflepuff Chasers seemed to decide that they were purposefully going to stick to Carewyn. Whenever Orion or Skye tried to get close to them, they passed the Quaffle or slipped out from under them.

“Hufflepuff has possession -- Groves passes to Polson, over Cromwell’s head -- ”

Carewyn caught sight of Skye flying up under them. Catching Carewyn’s eye briefly, she smirked -- then, in an instant, she’d swerved upward, bumping Polson from below.

“Whoa, Polson’s lost his balance and drops the Quaffle -- Quaffle’s just barely caught by Cromwell -- ”

Carewyn held the Quaffle under her arm, soaring off toward the goal hoops. She could feel all three of Hufflepuff’s Chasers bearing down on her, trying to cut her off from Orion and Skye. She hunched down on her broom, her eyes darting quickly around from each of the three Chasers to Ulrich Dylan smugly lounging in front of the goal hoops.

And Carewyn’s eyes narrowed.

Now.

Just as the three Hufflepuff Chasers were about to try to attempt the Parkin’s Pincer themselves, Carewyn sidestepped them completely by diving. The two Hufflepuffs who had tried to pin her both slammed into each other.

“WHOOOA! What’s this?!” cried McNully, unable to hold back his excitement. “A modified Wronksy Feint?! Looks like Cromwell’s been studying with Slytherin Seeker Lucky!”

Once she’d dodged the first two, Carewyn fixed her sights on the remaining Chaser, sweeping around him in a tight figure-eight and bumping his face lightly with the tail of her broom. Although the move had no strength and didn’t hurt, the Chaser still felt the urge to try to protect his face from the bristles, which made him absentmindedly let go of his broom with one hand and almost lose balance.

“And Cromwell pulls out a Chaser variant of the Double Eight Loop -- signature move of Slytherin Keeper Crockett!” cheered McNully.

The other two Hufflepuff Chasers, looking faintly stunned, had flown back up after Carewyn, trying to regroup. It was as they flew at her that Carewyn knew the time was right. She hoisted herself up onto her broom in a standing position, the Quaffle under her arm, and she broom surfed right around them.

“Inspired Broom Surfing, ladies and gentleman!” said McNully, as an awed sound moved over the crowd. “Signature move of Slytherin team captain Orion Amari! Cromwell’s still in possession, approaching Keeper Dylan -- ”

Carewyn fixed her sights on Dylan. The tall, chiseled Keeper was staring right at her, and yet it was obvious he didn’t see her clearly -- just as Orion had suggested, he was too distracted by her technique, and her abrupt switch had clearly thrown him for a loop.

Smirking from ear to ear, Carewyn chucked the Quaffle right to the side of Dylan’s head. Rather than block it, the Keeper felt the subconscious urge to dodge, so as to protect himself -- and so the Quaffle soared right through the hoop over his shoulder.

“AMAZING!” McNully had to shout over the sounds of the delighted roar of the Slytherins down below. “Cromwell completely sideswipes Dylan and scores Slytherin’s first goal! Hufflepuff leads 30-10! Looks like she’s not as fragile as she looks, folks!”

Carewyn took the time to lower herself back down onto her broom as Skye snatched up the Quaffle again and headed back toward the goal hoops. The turnover between rounds was so fast that Carewyn had little time to recover -- so she didn’t see the warm, proud smile on Orion’s face as he watched her fly off after Skye.

The trap was sprung, and the Slytherins immediately let Hufflepuff have it. King and Shacklebolt kept Hufflepuff’s Beaters from attacking their players by keeping the Bludgers aimed at their Seeker and Keeper. Crockett whipped out the Double Eight Loop himself to protect the Slytherin hoops from any more goals. And Orion, Skye, and Carewyn became an unbreakable unit, shaking Hufflepuff’s Chasers off with the Thimblerig Shuffle and then crushing them with the Parkin’s Pincer. By the time Lucky had caught the Snitch, McNully was struggling to keep his commentary unbiased, thanks to the excitement echoing through every word.

“THE SNITCH HAS BEEN CAUGHT! LUCKY CATCHES THE SNITCH! Slytherin wins 250-30! What a match!”

The Slytherin team all came down to land in the center of the Pitch. Carewyn immediately rushed over to the others, her face alight.

“We did it!” she said happily. “We did it!”

Lucky grinned from ear to ear. “No, Carewyn -- you did it!”

“Don’t be daft!” Carewyn said with a smile. “I couldn’t have won by my -- ahhh!”

She gave a start when she suddenly felt herself being hoisted up into the air -- both King and Shacklebolt had picked her up, their hands under her legs as they bobbed her up and down and cheered.

“Oh no!” yelped Carewyn, trying to weasel out of their grip, “No, no, no, put me down, please --”

She knew they were excited, but she absolutely did not like being grabbed and picked up out of nowhere.

It took Orion some time to calm his teammates enough to put her down. Once she’d gotten back on the ground, though, he actually couldn’t restrain himself from wrapping an arm around Carewyn’s shoulders, taking hold of one of them so he could squeeze her against his side. His face was alight with delight and pride.

“I knew my choice was the right one,” she just barely made him say over the sound of the cheering Slytherins. “You flew like a Snidget, Carewyn Cromwell.”

Carewyn flushed with pride around her smile. “Thanks, Orion.”

Orion’s eyes sparkled like the night sky, even in the middle of the day. "No, Carewyn -- thank you. For your faith.”

The memory of Orion and Carewyn together on the Pitch with their team, with Carewyn’s friends Rowan and Bill both hugging her tight and Skye whooping at the top of her lungs in Orion’s ear, was an image so strong and blazing that it helped Orion -- three years later, in Defense Against the Dark Arts -- conjure his very first Abraxan Winged Horse Patronus.

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #my writing #quidditch #orion amari #carewyn cromwell #skye parkin #murphy mcnully #bill weasley #ben copper #rowan khanna #charlie weasley #andre egwu #and that's it!#i kind of feel like leaving this on a high note rather than on carewyn leaving the team #at least for now #I mean honestly it's not as much to tell -- it's basically just carewyn shutting skye down when the rumors against rath start #and with the original chaser having finally recovered carey bear just bows out with grace #and admittedly in the following years she can't justify rejoining the team with the vaults looming over her #her brother has to always come first :<#but yeah orion and carewyn always had a really strong bond compared to the other members of the quidditch crew #orion really was so happy he got to fly alongside carewyn one more time before graduating #also yes I had carey use all of the quidditch crew's moves because honestly I hate that we had to pick just one #they all have their uses!!#in game I picked inspired broom surfing and had carey use her head to make the decision #largely because if she went with her heart she felt like it might be more likely to hurt someone's feelings #and in her head she thought that throwing off her opponents with an unexpected play made a lot of sense #plus also orion is our captain?? hello?? and he trusted MC to make this important decsion??#I dunno I kind of felt like it would be honorable to show that same respect in return XD

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theramseyloft · 5 years ago

Text

Escher’s final update

Escher was put to sleep at south Pointe Animal Hospital this past Friday.

Because of their small size, the hospital has had to employ a curb side only service model, so I was expecting to have to hand my little girl out the car window and wait for her sad little body to be brought back to me, so that I could perform her necropsy at home.

when I opened the window, instead of reaching to take her from me, Dr. Mayer simply stood at the prescribed 6 foot distance and asked “I assume you’d like to be with her?”

When I asked if it was ok for us to, she solemnly informed me that the surgical suite was being prepped for us, and we could bring her once we were ready.

Highland would have put her to sleep for free, but I so firmly prefer the way South Pointe handles euthanasia that I am happy to financially support them.

On the surgical table sat the little 5 gallon glass tank with a fluffy towel folded at the bottom.

It’s fitted with a glass plane for a lid that has two holes in it for the anesthetic tubes.

Escher was nestled onto the towel and covered with a fleece baby blanket to keep her relaxed and comfortable while she drifted off to sleep.

Dr. Mayer and her staff took the time to make sure she was soundly asleep before lifting her out, and covered her head with a mask made for small animals both to remove the risk of a return to consciousness and to allow us to hold her.

The entire process took nearly an hour.

All to make absolutely certain that she would never feel the needle, or any other pain, in her last moments.

I cannot express the comfort that their compassion brought me in those terrible moments that twisted my gut with doubt.

The night before this, her jaw had started to lock and any attempt to take a step threw her into a 15-40 second fit of disoriented flailing.

Her pain was so obvious that I lamented having brought her home instead of ending her suffering at the end of her appointment.

But that morning, as she sat still, she looked so much like any curious little bird that I was in agony wondering if I was acting too early.

If I was about to just kill her just for having balance issues...

I agonized over whether or not I had made the right decision until I actually sat down to perform the necropsy.

I’ll spare you all the literally gory details.

Cancer was confirmed.

Peritoneal cancer is insanely rare.

The Peritoneum consists of the lining of the abdominal wall and the web of connective tissue suspending the abdominal organs.

Along with physically holding up the abdominal organs, it produces the fluid that supports them and allows for comfortable movement with in the abdominal cavity.

Escher’s Peritoneum was so obscenely thickened that its overgrowth was both engulfing and constricting her organs.

The overproduction of fluid filled her abdominal cavity like a water balloon, putting so much pressure on her chest cavity that her heart and liver were being deprived of oxygen.

This is why I perform necropsies on every bird that dies or needs to be put to sleep.

If the condition turns out to have been treatable, and the decision to euthanize was the wrong one, I will recognize those symptoms if I see them again, and know at least one treatment to try that might save that individual.

And in a situation like Escher’s, it’s confirmed beyond any shadow of doubt that what I did was free her from terrible pain and ease what would have been an inevitable, hideous death into drifting off to sleep and just not waking back up.

Peritoneal cancer is unspeakably rare.

I could only find human specific studies on it and like two on rodents.

From what we could find, it’s largely genetic, and effects individuals with ovaries the vast majority of the time.

Symptoms are nearly identical to ovarian cancer, and the survival rate in humans is 47%, with intensive chemotherapy, IF it’s caught early enough.

When it shows up in the even more infinitesimally rare cases involving those born with out ovaries, it spreads there from some place else.

It doesn’t start there.

Since both Ferdi and Astrid have had fatal health issues crop up in the hens of their lines, and this type of cancer has such a strong genetic component, we will be reshuffling the retirement priorities a bit.

Birds with both Ferdi and Astrid’s blood in them will be most strongly favored for retirement.

Followed by those with high percentages of Astrid’s blood

Then those with high percentages of Ferdi’s.

We are already making arrangements for new blood to add to our program in their place.

And we have let clients with related birds know what we found as soon as we found it, and how it could potentially effect their birds or their progeny.

I still want Old German Owls and Old Dutch Capuchine blood incorporated into the Ami project.

I’ve found unrelated Old German Owls, and am on the waiting list for offspring.

Now I just need to find an unrelated fit line of ODC.

It’s been a hellish, agonizingly painful week...

Hopefully, tomorrow will bring some much needed rest.

#tw: animal death #tw: death mention #TW: graphic content #tw: graphic descriptions #veterinary care #palliative care #tw: euthenasia

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hazelandglasz · 5 years ago

Note

AU klaine prompt inspired by the video with the window washer playing with the cat where blaine is the window washer and kurt is the cat's owner?

The aforementioned video

On AO3

Window washing was the Anderson family business. His father did it, and then, when his back didn’t allow him to climb and wash the windows himself, he started training Cooper and Blaine to follow in his footsteps.

Cooper loved the job, but he always ended up having to go back because he left traces on the windows.

Blaine, well… It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy doing it, the physicality of it, the work-out it represents, and the happiness he brings to some of his clients.

But he could definitely do without the small percentage of clients who are insufferable.

Luckily, today is a light day, mentally.

Today is Tuesday, which means that he has to clean the Plaza building. Not a lot of offices, which he prefers, and large window panels without convoluted stone carvings to clean around.

Blaine slides down from the roof and starts cleaning the window when a small black kitten appears in his line of sight.

“Hello,” he coos, applying the soap and giggling when the kitten follows the motion of his brush with his little head. Blaine is truly delighted when the kitten trots up to him when he moves to the next window on his right, the feline walking with his tail swishing from side to side.

Once the window is clean, Blaine decides that he can spare a couple of moments to play with the kitten.

He is so focused on his reactions that he misses the appearance of two socked feet behind him.

The music notes do get his attention, though, and he looks up to find a man giggling his head off as he films Blaine and his cat.

Blaine grins at him and waves, only for the kitten to bat his hand through the glass.

The man laughs harder but looks up from his screen, waving back at Blaine.

The cat seems very interested in his owner and moves away from the window, visibly meowing to be picked up.

Blaine shrugs and waves again, this time to signal his departure, before sliding down to the next floor.

That was a very nice moment.

And that man was very, very, very handsome.

---

From that day on, it becomes a sort of tradition.

Every other Tuesday, Blaine gets to meet the black kitten (who visibly grows as the weeks go by), while his owner records their encounters.

As cute and funny as the cat is, Blaine doesn’t really know if he looks forward to those Tuesdays for the animal or for his human.

They don’t speak to each other, per se, but he feels like they are having whole conversations through their eyes and gestures.

It’s been two months since Blaine met the black cat and his owner, and he still doesn’t know their names, and it’s bothering him more than he cares to admit.

So he prepared a sheet, saying, “Hi, I’m Blaine,” in the hope that it will prompt his Mystery Man to reply.

But first, entertain the Mystery Cat while doing his job.

The moment two human feet appear, Blaine reaches into his breast pocket to unfold the paper.

The man turns off the phone and comes to sit next to his cat to read it.

It’s a good thing Blaine is firmly attached with his harness, otherwise he doesn’t know how well he would be able to maintain his balance, because…

Wow.

The man looked handsome, cute even, from afar, but up close…

W. O. W.

Look at those eyes.

The man smiles as he reads Blaine’s introduction, before pointing at himself and waving his fingers in the hair.

A vertical line; two short diagonales; then a curvy one…

Oh!

Okay, Blaine can do this.

K.U.R.T.

He says it aloud. “Kurt?”

Mystery Man nods and beams at him.

“Nice to meet you.”

Kurt waves between them while nodding. Blaine interprets it as “Likewise”.

He then points at the cat, and Kurt wrinkles his nose.

It’s adorable.

And then, Kurt lights up, holding up a finger, pointing at his socks.

“Socks?”

Kurt shakes his head, twisting his upper body to show Blaine the brand.

(Blaine is absolutely not distracted from said brand by the sight of Kurt’s backside, presented to him in the same motion.)

“Ah! McQueen?”

A vigorous nod.

Blaine makes an approving gesture before tapping the glass with all of his fingers to respond to the aforementioned cat who was busy batting the window, demanding his dose of attention.

Kurt smiles at the two of them before returning his focus to Blaine, who tries really hard to fight his blush under such scrutiny.

Kurt opens and closes his mouth several times, visibly growing frustrated with each aborted attempt.

Meanwhile, Blaine moves on to finish cleaning Kurt’s windows. When he’s done, he lowers himself until his face is at ground level for the apartment and its residents, waving goodbye and planning his next move.

The next fortnight, Blaine has another piece of paper ready for Kurt.

“Here is my phone number.”

Kurt’s smile is blinding as he rushes to take his phone and save the number, rapidly typing a message as he goes.

Blaine can feel his phone vibrating in his chest pocket, but he never takes his phone out while suspended mid-air. He makes a gesture he hopes Kurt will understand to say “later”, before cooing at McQueen who is sticking his face against the glass.

When he’s back on the ground, Blaine takes his phone out and reads Kurt’s message.

“HI! I’m so glad I can finally tell you how much you’ve brightened my days with your kindness for my cat.

I hope to see you many times, but would it be possible to do so without a barrier between us?

Have a nice day and stay safe,

Kurt”

Blaine presses his forehead against his phone (and wipes it against his t-shirt because his forehead is quite sweaty after all) before typing his answer, looking up even if it’s useless once it’s sent.

“I would love that. Tomorrow is my day off, so, you tell me?

And just so you know, cleaning your windows has been the highlight of my weeks ever since I met… McQueen.”

Yes, he’s playing coy. So sue him.

Kurt’s response is immediate. “Starlight Dinner. For lunch. My treat?”

And, not even fifteen seconds later, “I’ll make sure to let him know how much you enjoy your dates.”

Oh, okay. Two can play that game.

---

“What’s the big occasion?”

Cooper lets himself into Blaine’s apartment and drops himself onto Blaine’s couch, looking at his little brother getting dressed.

And there must be an occasion behind that outfit—Blaine knows how to highlight his assets, he learned from the best after all.

“I have a date.”

Cooper straightens up, and Blaine can’t help but smile proudly at the idea of the upcoming date. “With the cute cat guy?”

“I told you his name is Kurt.”

“Right, right.” Cooper comes to stand with Blaine in front of the mirror, handing him a different belt to tie the outfit. “And you really want it to go well?”

“Duh.”

“You know what you need to do then.”

Blaine glares in their reflection. “I am not going to serenade him with a poppy lovesong in a public space.”

“Ah?”

“Not on the first date.”

“Attaboy.”

---

Naturally, Blaine gets to the restaurant early—far too early, if he’s being honest, but he was so worried of being late, and so anxious to escape Cooper’s ridiculous advice, that he left and walked to the place—but it gives him the time he needs to compose himself and let the odd ambiance of the restaurant soothe his nerves.

And then, someone enters the restaurant and makes a beeline for Blaine’s table.

Someone Blaine has been eager to see and meet and hear, wearing the most perfect sweater Blaine could ever imagine.

“Hi,” Kurt simply says, and his voice is even more perfect than the one Blaine imagined.

“Hi.”

Kurt sits down and crosses his arms over the table, slightly leaning over it to get closer to Blaine. “I almost can’t believe this is happening,” he tells Blaine, in a tone of confidence.

“Me neither,” Blaine confesses. “I had to check and recheck your text. My brother even pinched me to guarantee I wasn’t having a very detailed daydream.”

“Oh, I hope he didn’t hurt you.”

Blaine shrugs. “Anyway, here we are.”

“Here we are.”

Silence thickens between them until they both laugh, awkward all over.

“This would be easier if your matchmaker pet was here.”

“Wouldn’t it be, though?”

“A black cat named McQueen, that is quite the statement.”

Kurt smiles at Blaine, before launching into a story of how the cat got his name.

(Long story short, when Kurt first fostered him, the black kitten would always find his way to Kurt’s beloved McQueen scarves to nestle in them, and the name stuck.)

The ice definitely breaks when Blaine pushes his side of fries toward Kurt while they eat and Kurt covers Blaine’s hand with his before devouring half of the fries, in the most inelegant way possible.

Blaine finds it absolutely irresistible.

And he tells Kurt so, while Kurt has his cheeks stuffed with fries like a chipmunk.

“You’re adorable.”

Kurt freezes, before gulping as his cheeks turn bright pink. “Oh. Really?”

Blaine leans his head on his hand. “Really.”

Kurt looks away before returning his hand on top of Blaine and squeezing it. “I, um. Me too.”

“You, too, think you are adorable?”

Kurt shakes his head. “No, you jerk, I think you’re adorable too.”

“Kind of sending mixed signals, here.”

“Oh, okay. I take it back. You’re not adorable.”

“No?”

“No,” Kurt says, his smile belying his tone. “You’re insufferable. I hate you.”

“Right.”

Kurt brings Blaine’s hand closer to him, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. “But,” he continues, a darkness appearing in his eyes, “my cat loves you, so that must mean something about your character.”

“Oh, bless McQueen’s judgment call, then.”

“Indeed.”

Blaine nods, swiping the last fries for himself with his fork. “Didn’t mean to be a jerk.”

“Didn’t mean to call you a jerk.”

Blaine smiles. “This should make for an interesting second date.”

“Second date?”

“My turn to invite you.”

“Right.” Kurt cocks his head to the side. “A bit cocky of you, though, to assume there will be a second date.”

“I don’t assume,” Blaine replies. “All I know is that I would love to see you again, and not on my regular Tuesday.”

Kurt smiles, all bravado melting away. “I would love that too.”

“Then it’s a date.”

“It’s a date.”

“And I have to meet McQueen in person sometime in the future.”

Kurt laughs at that. “I’m pretty sure he will be beside himself to finally meet his favorite human.”

“Oh, second favorite, surely.”

Kurt smirks. “Surely, yeah.”

Two years later, when they get married and McQueen is the ringbearer, they are still debating who is his favorite human.

(The response is clearly a tie, but McQueen prefers to let them wonder.)

#Anonymous #sometimes i write #klaine au #cooper anderson is a good (wing)man #fluff

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ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes · 5 years ago

Text

Promises Not Kept Part 14

Summary: Tommy Shelby made a promise to Jonah Ward while in the war. A promise he didn't keep. But it comes to haunt him when he tries to drown out his sorrows with a young woman.

Part 14: They lay a good man to rest. Polly gives Leah some good advice.

Tommy remembered the morning after he returned to Small Heath from France. He was home but he merely felt like a ghost of himself. Everything he once knew felt strange and unlike he remembered it. He wasn’t the man he was when he left for the front lines. There was a brief memory of hearing Arthur and John downstairs, talking animatedly to Finn who was just a boy back then. Tommy stared out the window down to Watery Lane. The street he used to run up and down when he was Finn’s age. Now, he was back. A soldier bruised and damaged far deeper than just his skin. But he wasn’t done. The war hadn’t killed him so he wasn’t finished. The world would know the Shelby name whether it liked it or not.

The morning of John’s funeral, Tommy stood at the same window looking down at the same street. People were starting to remember the Shelby name. But the cost had been more severe than Tommy initially anticipated. There was no turning back though. He was in too deep.

With a sigh, Tommy stepped into the steaming bath in the middle of the bedroom. Charlie and Leah were still asleep. The little boy was completely unaware of what was happening around him.

Leah began to stir as Tommy lit a cigarette. She sat up and carefully detached herself from Charlie who was clinging to her in his sleep. It had been a long night. Most of the family was in a shock, unlike anything they’d experienced before. It seemed unfathomable to think John would ever die. He was such a robust figure of the family. Now the previously shattered family was further broken.

But at least they were all together for the first time in ages.

“Tom.” Leah sat up and tried to read his face. His eyes were glazed over, mind obviously elsewhere.

His head twitched slightly in her direction, the only acknowledgment that he’d actually heard her.

Leah sighed softly and stood. She picked up her dressing gown and wrapped it around herself. “How are you feeling today?” She pulled up a small stool up to the bathtub.

Tommy rested his hand on the edge of the tub, his cigarette hanging between his fingers. He stared at the wall in front of him. “I don’t know.” He finally admitted quietly.

Leah’s forehead wrinkled. “I’m sorry.” She whispered and touched his arm, catching on some of the lingering water droplets from the bath water. “I’ve been awful to you for the past few weeks.”

He shook his head subtly. “No. I haven’t been treating you the way you deserve.” Guilt pooled in his stomach, building up with all the rest of it he’d felt for everything he’d done. “I can’t promise it’ll all be easy from here on out.”

“I know.” She absent-mindedly rubbed her thumb over his arm.

There was a knock on the door. “Tommy, they’ve gathered.”

Leah grabbed the towel Tommy had set out for himself. She offered a hand to him as he stood up. “We should let Charlie sleep.” She suggested quietly.

He nodded and stepped out of the bathtub, drying off with the towel. They both began to get dressed, staying quiet so Charlie didn’t wake.

“My family’s downstairs.” He explained. “I want you to be there with me.”

Leah took his outstretched hand. “Okay.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tommy only let go of Leah’s hand so she could stand near Isaiah and Jeremiah. But he stopped her and pulled out a chair for her. Leah paused and looked at him questioningly. Sitting at the table was obviously a status she didn’t think she’d earned yet. Not even Finn was seated.

He cleared his throat and nodded, assuring her without any words. So she sat between Polly and Linda. She caught the gaze of Lizzie who averted her eyes pointedly only a second later.

The atmosphere of the room was somber. All of them mourning the brother and nephew. All of them worried for Michael still fighting for his life in the hospital.

“John is dead,” Tommy spoke in a low but steady voice. His hand was tight around Leah’s, pulling every ounce of support he could from her touch. “Esme has gone on the road with the Lees and she’s taken the kids. Michael is badly wounded. They say it’s sixty-forty in his favor.”

Polly glared at him. “There’s no number, there’s no percentage.” She informed him sternly. “My son’ll live.”

Tommy didn’t argue with her. There was no point. He wanted his cousin to survive just as much as the rest of them did. “Michael and John were shot because we killed someone. Vincente Changretta. His son, Luca, has come to take revenge.” He reported the reasons for the chaos the day before. “Men from New York and Sicily are here in Birmingham. These men will not leave our city until our whole family is dead. That’s how it works.” He looked to each of his family members. All who were left. “It’s called vendetta. An eye for an eye.”

Arthur reached into his pocket. “Yeah, well the bullet’s been written. Says Luca.” He twisted it between his fingers before carefully placing it on the table in front of him.

Leah could see the crude letters scratched into the metal surface of the bullet.

LUCA.

“When the time comes. And it’ll come.” He spoke firmly. “I will put this bullet in his fucking head.”

Tommy rested his hands on the table and looked exhausted. “There’s been some bad blood between us.”

Polly laughed sarcastically and shook her head. The tension between the two was almost visible and the rest of the room remained silent.

Still, he persisted. “Until this business is settled, we say together. And we stay here. Small Heath, Bordesley, Hay Mills, down to Greet.” He instructed.

“Daddy?”

Leah turned when she heard Charlie’s voice coming from the top of the stairs. She met eyes with Tommy. “I’ll get him.” She said quietly and stood.

Charlie was standing on the stairs, a pout on his face. “Wanted daddy.” He repeated again, clearly disappointed that Tommy hadn’t come running to retrieve him.

“He’s busy right now, poppet, I’m here though.” She said softly and held her arms out to him.

The little boy smiled and trotted down the steps into her arms, still dressed in his pajamas. “Breakfast?” He inquired.

“Not right now. Everyone’s talking in the kitchen.” Leah rested him on her hip. “Hopefully they’ll be done soon.” She bit her lip and looked towards the door. Part of her didn’t want to know what else they were talking about.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

One of the girls from the betting shop would watch Karl, Charlie, and Billy while the rest of them were at the funeral. Leah walked arm in arm with Tommy down Watery Lane, the rest of the family following close behind. There were heavily armed men standing by on each corner, some even up on the rooftops.

Leah tugged Tommy closer to her, afraid that they would still be attacked even with the battalion of men ready to fight for them.

Tommy kissed her temple. “S’alright.” He murmured. “Everything will be alright.”

In the field right outside the city, the vardos were already camped out, ready to give John Shelby a fitting farewell.

Leah quietly placed a bundle of flowers among the pyre. She softly spoke her words of goodbye and thanked him for keeping Jonah’s memory alive. She returned to the group, standing beside Ada.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed the ring.” Tommy’s sister said in a voice low enough that those around them wouldn’t hear.

“I let it be Tommy’s responsibility to tell everyone. Now’s not the right time.” She replied.

“None of this is scaring you away?” Ada wondered.

Leah stared ahead. Of course, she was scared. Tommy spoke of a war. A war like the one she’d lost her husband to. They would be in the trenches, fighting a war of vengeance. There was no telling who else they’d lose. “I lost my soul a long time ago.” She spoke steadily. “Tommy’s the only person who ever managed to lead me back to who I used to be. If I must fight beside him then I will.”

“You might die for him, Leah. What then?” Ada questioned. “You have no stake in this fight. What would you be dying for other than your loyalty?”

“All this family has right now is loyalty. All we have is each other.”

Tommy began to speak, disrupting any chance Ada had to try and convince Leah to get out while she could. His fiancee listened to him speak about France. His blue eyes met hers a few times as he spoke. His voice never wavering as he tried to remain strong and keep his family together.

“You remembered that God spared you,” Polly spoke up after Tommy paused for a brief second. The older woman stared daggers at her nephew with tears in her eyes. “But what did you do with that extra time he gave you? Aye, Thomas?”

“Poll.” Ada touched her aunt’s shoulder to both stop her from continuing and to comfort her.

Arthur decided to step in before they argued and lit a match. The family stood silently and watched as the pyre lit and began to envelop the vardo in flames. Snaking its way up the woodwork and setting the canvas cover ablaze.

Leah stepped toward Tommy and took his hand in hers. He kept his eyes straight ahead. Waiting.

Suddenly, the funeral was interrupted by a gunshot only yards away. Leah’s heart seized in her chest and she froze. Ada was quicker on her feet and dragged her to the ground for cover.

“At ease!” Tommy shouted. Along with Arthur, he was the only one still standing. The rest of the Blinders had dropped the instant they heard the gunshot. All of them thought it was their time and the funeral had made them into sitting ducks.

Leah raised her head when she heard Tommy yelling. “Do not return fire! The men doing the firing are on our side.” He held out a hand to his fiancee to help her stand.

She flinched when a second gunshot rang out across the field. “What’s going on?” Her eyes were wide with fear.

“I took the trouble of giving an invitation to Aberama Gold.”

The name was unfamiliar to Leah. But Johnny Dogs gave her some insight. “Oh fuck, now it’s begun.”

Leah began to feel dizzy and she reached out for Tommy’s arm. “I feel sick.” She whispered.

“You used John’s funeral fire as a fucking beacon,” Polly exclaimed in a ragged voice. The disbelief clear on her face.

“We were never in any danger, Poll,” Arthur said.

“You used us as fucking bait!”

Leah’s breathing became shallower and soon Tommy wasn’t enough to hold her up. Her knees began to buckle. “Tommy…” She gripped his arm tight.

“Finn!” He called out for his youngest brother. “Get a boat

In the distance, a group of men and horses began approaching the vardos. Leah’s stomach turned again when she saw the limp arm of someone slumped over one of the horses. Visible blood was dripping from the fingertips “Who’s dead?” She asked.

Tommy ignored her but Polly jumped on the question as well. “Who’s dead?” The woman demanded.

Leah’s vision began to blur and every word spoken was starting to blur together. Ada looked concerned when she saw how pale the young woman’s face had gone. “Sit, come and sit.” She had to pry Leah off her brother to get her to sit down.

“Anyone who wants no more part in this, ‘cause this is how it’s gonna be!” Tommy shouted, piercing Leah’s ears before she lost consciousness.

~~~~~~~~~

Everything about John’s funeral was dramatic. It was something he might’ve actually enjoyed. He always reveled in a little bit of chaos. But things calmed down once Leah was brought to the hospital and the Italian’s bodies were shipped off.

Tommy’s fiancee was placed in the same room as Michael so the men protecting him could also keep a close eye on her. She’d come to when they were still in the field beside the burning vardo. Polly knelt down next to her, propping her head up on the dew-covered grass while Ada and Tommy stood over her arguing.

“The first person they’re going to go after is your fiancee, Tommy, they already killed Grace!” The Shelby woman shouted.

With frayed nerves, Tommy was more than happy to oblige his sister and yelled back at her. “Don’t talk about things you don’t know anything about!”

“Right because I’m just a stupid woman. Stupid Ada who knows nothing. I know that Grace was killed by Italians. What’s stopping them from killing Leah too?”

“They’re trying to fucking kill all of us, Ada!”

Leah’s head still spun, her hand reaching for Tommy, trying to calm him down. Instead, Polly gently took her lifted hand and pressed a cold cloth to her forehead.

“Stop bickering and help me get her to the car.” Polly snapped at her niece and nephew.

Tommy huffed and stooped to scoop Leah up in his arms. Bringing her to the car, he assured her nothing would happen and not to listen to Ada. She simply pressed her face into his shoulder and closed her eyes. She didn’t know who to listen to anymore.

~~~~~~~

Michael was still out cold when Leah felt well enough to sit up. She was glad to see the young man was properly stitched up. She didn’t know much about medicine but he appeared to have a good chance of surviving.

After she sat up, Polly came into the room. She scolded the men slacking off by the door and confiscated their flasks before sending them out to the hall.

“How are you feeling?” The older woman asked as she slipped off her coat and draped it over Michael’s legs.

“Better, thank you. I just think it was shock.” She admitted. “I wasn’t expecting all of that.”

Polly frowned as she sat down. None of them were but maybe they should’ve gotten used to Tommy’s surprise tactics. It would make life a lot easier. “Have you been ill?” She wondered.

Leah shook her head. “No, I’ve been fine. Maybe just a little…” She sighed and shrugged. “It’s been a difficult few months. I mean, nothing like what you went through, I��m sure.”

She didn’t want to talk about her time in prison and how Tommy was the one to put her there. “You’re not pregnant, right?”

Her eyes widened a little in shock. She wasn’t expecting the question. “No, I uh…I bled last week.” She explained shyly.

“Good.” Polly nodded firmly. Now was not the time to have a baby. Not in the state they were in. A war.

Leah nodded absent-mindedly and ran her fingers through her hair to fix it. She found a few pieces of grass that had tangled in her blonde curls after lying on the ground. “Tommy and I…I feel like we haven’t even slept in the same bed in ages.” She whispered. Shame settled deep in her bones. How pathetic it was to spend such little time with her fiancee, to be so cold towards each other.

“My nephew is a complicated man.” Polly agreed and pulled the chair up closer to Leah. Her face had softened since the funeral. It appeared her aggression was only directed towards Tommy and didn’t include his fiancee. If anything she felt bad for the young woman. Anyone who fell for such a man was in for a surprise, and not necessarily anything good. She loved Tommy but he was a huge pain in the ass.

“Am I making a mistake, Poll?” Leah asked quietly. “I mean am I just being thick?” Her eyes lowered to the ring on her finger.

“Some people will tell you to be smart and look out for yourself and yourself only. Others will tell you to follow your heart blindly.” Polly rested a hand on hers. “But listen here, despite what people say, women are not meant to be put aside in the corner.”

She sniffled and let out a little tearful laugh. “Could’ve convinced me otherwise.” Leah thought about all the years she spent being submissive. Forcing herself to be quiet and complacent in order to pay rent and groceries. For a long while, she adopted the personality into her everyday life. If a man cut her in line at the butchers, she never spoke up. She grew a staggering amount of patience for the world around her and its inhabitants. She thought it was a good quality to have but sometimes it led to her being walked over.

A woman like Polly was something of an enigma to her. A strong person who ran the Shelby company while her nephews were off at war. Took shit from no one and announced her presence wherever she went to make sure people didn’t cross her.

Still, both women were damaged. That was clear if you pulled back the curtain. They were surviving in a man’s world. Doing the best they could while embroiled in a war they didn’t start.

“Speak your mind sometimes.” Polly encouraged in a soft voice. “If you keep it all inside then you’re the only one to suffer. A relationship, romantic or not, is a two-way street. The other person should have to listen as much as they talk. If they don’t want to listen then they should just get a fucking parrot. That way they’ll have someone to talk to and someone to agree with everything they say.”

Leah smiled and felt a little relieved that she wasn’t alone. “I do love him.”

“I know.” She nodded and squeezed Leah’s hand. “And he loves you. I know he’ll listen, he’s just stubborn sometimes.”

“Now’s really not the time to talk his ear off ‘bout petty things though.”

Polly frowned. “If he’s got time to fuck about with the Golds then he has time to listen to his wife-to-be.” She asserted. “Don’t make excuses.”

Leah nodded. “Alright, I won’t.” She promised. Her eyes moved to Michael’s bed when she heard him stirring.

Polly hurried over to speak to him for the first time since he awoke from his surgery. “Sh, sh, don’t move.” She soothed softly and touched his shoulder to keep him still.

As she spoke gently to her son, Leah mindlessly ran her hands through her hair, thinking about all the things she wanted to say to Tommy. It wouldn’t be easy, but Polly was right. She was only suffering by keeping her silence.

~~~~~~~~~~

A few days after the funeral, Leah went to find Tommy at the car factory offices. There was always a good deal of chaos there as it was a working factory, but when she entered, the air was filled with electricity. Something had clearly happened that had riled everyone up.

It wasn’t long before she found her fiancee speaking with his brother on the first floor. They were standing next to what appeared to be a makeshift boxing ring set up with ropes.

“Tommy,” She called out his name above the loud atmosphere.

He turned from talking quietly to Arthur. “Come to surprise me?” He smiled. Things after the funeral had been stuck in a strange stage between the two. They weren’t as cold to each other because there simply wasn’t time to argue or fight. Tommy’s mind was elsewhere but he seemed conscious enough to realize he had to be pleasant towards Leah to keep her spirits up. Especially now that the rest of the family knew about the engagement. All he wanted was to get rid of the Americans and get back to the good relationship he had with Leah. It was a tall order but Tommy was never one to shy away from a challenge.

She smiled back, hoping they could keep up the positivity, especially since she went to the factory to talk. There were things that needed to be said. Things that she’d been holding onto for some time, especially after her talk with Polly at the hospital.

“Missed a good fight, Leah,” Arthur told her joyfully. “We’ll make sure you don’t miss the next one.”

“As long as you tell me who to bet for.” She laughed softly and touched Tommy’s arm. “Can we talk upstairs? I’ve brought lunch, Ada and I made it, put a bit of Linda’s cake in there as well.”

“I’ve got a meeting, actually.” Tommy wrapped an arm around her waist and began walking towards the stairs with her.

“You didn’t eat breakfast, I’m sure your meeting can wait.” She insisted hopefully.

“She’s not a patient person, and I’m already running behind schedule. But you can stay in my office, we’ll have lunch after, aye?”

Leah nodded slowly. “Okay, I can wait.” She’d waited this long, what was another half an hour?

When noon struck, Leah was still in Tommy’s office. She was smoking a cigarette when she heard a commotion downstairs. Shouts and movement lured her back outside to the promenade that overlooked the first floor.

Tommy came out of the conference room with a stern expression. He stood at the railing watching the factory workers all walking out of the building.

“Tom,” She attempted to reach out to him but he simply turned to walk into his office.

He tugged viciously at his tie, pulling it off and tossing it to his desk. Leah could see every muscle in his back was taut when he shrugged off his coat as well. “Close the door.” His voice was firm and he turned to flip the blinds, blocking out the sun.

She listened and shut the office door behind her. “What happened? Where’s everyone going?”

Nothing. He simply began to unbutton his waistcoat and carelessly tearing off his cufflinks.

“Tommy.” She walked over to him and touched his arm. “Talk to me.”

He turned around abruptly and cradled her cheeks. Before she could react he kissed her fiercely. All of his anger and grief funneled into the kiss. He dropped his hand to her hip and guided her back against his desk.

Leah’s thighs hit against the edge of the desk. She grimaced and she pressed her hands against his chest to push him back. “Tommy, please, I wanted to talk.” She whispered, reminding him of the reason she’d come to the office.

His breathing was off-kilter and he touched his forehead to hers. “I can’t think right now.” He muttered.

“Just a moment…”

“Leah, please.” He stepped away from her and dragged a hand through his hair. “Now’s not the time.”

Leah perched hesitantly on the edge of his desk. “Will there ever be a time?” Her eyes lifted and she tried to listen to Polly’s previous advice and not just give in. She wasn’t going to let him just bend her over the desk to release his frustrations. Not if he wasn’t going to listen to her.

Tommy slipped off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “When I get home, yeah?” His words were hollow, his mind was clearly somewhere far from the room.

Leah swallowed and stood. Holding her purse close, she went for the door. She paused before reaching for the handle. “Before I go, I just want you to know that I love you. Enough to weather any storm.”

“Lee…”

“But if you’re tired of me, then please tell me now. If I’m not worth anything to you anymore, then cut me loose. Because I don’t know how much more I can handle.” Something in her throat stuck but she did everything she could to keep from crying.

Tommy reached out to take her hand. “Things right now will get better. But that doesn’t change how I feel about you. I’m doing everything I can to keep this family together.” His eyes were firm on her. “I love you, we’ll talk when I come home.”

There was a knock on the door and Leah decided to take her leave. Her hand slipped from his and she opened the door.

“Oh, pardon me.” The man waiting for Tommy apologized. “Mr. Shelby, a delegate from the European Council for Trade is here. He’s here to talk about the import of car parts.” He explained.

Leah passed through the doorway and went to leave. As she did, she noticed a dark-haired stranger lingering around the second floor. His eyes met hers and a smug smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He was well dressed and Leah noticed the cross tattoo peeking out from his crisp collar.

She didn’t know who he was, but he gave her a bad feeling. If only she knew it was the man trying to kill them all.

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#tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelbyxoc #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinders #peaky blinder imagine #peaky fookin blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #fanfiction #ofc #oc #polly gray #michael gray #john shelby #arthur shelby #ada shelby #ada thorne #luca changretta

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beatrice-otter · 5 years ago

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This started out as a reblog of this excellent reblog chain about racism and antisemitism in both Star Trek canon and fandom, but as a white gentile fan I didn’t want to intrude or take over. And I firmly believe that if you really love something, you should love it with open eyes, seeing its faults as well as its strengths.

The thing is, Star Trek is progressive ... but it’s a very white type of progressive resting-on-our-laurels type progressivism. Sure, TOS was very progressive for a TV show of its day, but ... that ain’t saying much, and the writers and directors and showrunners were all white men and it shows. So yes, it pushed boundaries by having Sulu and Uhura, and the first scripted interracial kiss, but that was the 60s. TNG/DS9/VOY/ENT ... uh. Still very heavily white and male. Still progressive, but nowhere near as progressive comparatively as TOS, nowhere near as groundbreaking. I mean, I’m glad they listened to Avery Brooks about how his character should be designed and written! When they made a show with a female captain, they should have at least done the same, and preferably had women in creative leadership roles (as DS9 should have had black people in creative leadership roles). (I mean, all media should have diverse creative leadership for a lot of reasons, but when you have a character of color or a white woman as lead, it’s even more important that the creative team not be a bastion of white cisheteropatriarchy.) DS9 was less racist and sexist than TNG or Voyager (but made up for it by being hella antisemitic, hello Ferengi) but the thing is, these are not exactly the Shining Beacons Of Progressiveness we white fans like to think of them as. Were they better than a lot of shows out there? Sure! Did they grapple with a lot of issues most other shows didn’t? Yup. But again, that ain’t saying much. (I haven’t watched Disco or Picard, so I can’t speak to those.)

As to fandom, just liking Star Trek doesn’t automatically make you somehow less racist. There’s this undercurrent among white Trekkers that “Star Trek is progressive, I am progressive, therefore all participation in the fandom is inherently progressive, therefore I don’t have to worry about racial issues in either my fanworks or my interactions with other fans.” It’s not that Trek fandom is the only fandom where white people want to assume that not actively hating black people is all you need to qualify as “not racist,” it’s that in Trek fandom we can use the perceived progressiveness of the show as additional armor against acknowledging the actual issues.

I’m white, but I remember how terribly the AOS fandom has treated both the character of Uhura (who DARED to break up the Kirk/Spock white male slash juggernaut) and fans of color. The argument was that it was homophobic to put Spock in a relationship with a woman. And that it was a betrayal of feminism for Uhura to have a romantic relationship. (A black woman getting to have a fulfilling romantic relationship is a step forward, not a step back. Nyota Uhura is not a white girl.) That whole discussion--which included fans of color getting attacked even in dedicated Spock/Uhura spaces, and ended up with the main Spock/Uhura LJ community doing a lot of educational pieces about racism and misogynoir and privilege and how not to be a dick--was back in 2009. Over a decade ago. And we are still having the same damned discussions and treating fans of color the same damned way. It’s exhausting for me as a white person; I can’t imagine what it’s like for fans of color. And the thing is, the reason we are still having the same. discussions. over. and. over. is that the majority of white fans do not learn. We don’t. We need to.

None of these issues are new.

Star Trek has usually been at least a tiny bit more progressive than the society around it. That doesn’t mean that the show is perfect, and it definitely doesn’t mean the fandom is. We can and should do better. If we are truly committed to the ideals of Star Trek, that shining world of the future where prejudice of all kinds is greatly reduced and people usually choose to do the right thing and act with justice and compassion for all ... that should be reflected both in how we treat one another, and in what stories we choose to write. And it isn’t.

Listening to fans of color and educating ourselves on anti-racism is a good first step, and then putting what we learn into action and working to treat fans of color better is a good second step, but there are a lot of other posts about those sorts of resources. I’d like to talk about fannish output, what we create.

You know how people say “oh, well, the reason fandom focuses on white men is because they’re a higher percentage of screentime, therefore they’re the ones most likely to be interesting.” Let’s look at DS9, shall we? A show with a black man in the leading role. As of June 30, there are 6725 fics tagged DS9 on AO3. Benjamin Sisko (you know, the LEADING MAN), is tagged in only 961 of them. If you look at how many fics each character is tagged in, he is the sixth person on the list.

But wait! you say, that doesn’t tell the complete story, because sometimes people only tag the pairings, not the individual characters, and therefore they don’t show up in the character tags! So let’s look at that. The top relationship is Bashir/Garak, with 2797 fics (almost HALF of all the stories in the fandom). You know what the second most popular relationship is? Platonic Bashir&Garak, with 372 fics! You know what the #7 relationship in DS9 is? Garak/Parmak. Parmak is a character from a book series who never appeared in the TV show. Sisko, the leading man of the show, doesn’t even APPEAR in the list of top ten relationships in the fandom! Julian Bashir is there four times, Garak three. (Jadzia/Worf is #6)

But wait! you say, the canonical pairings for Sisko were mostly recurring roles not main characters, and he didn’t really flirt with anyone he wasn’t canonically linked with, so maybe he does better when you go with only fics tagged “gen” i.e. not focused on romantic and/or sexual relationships. (I mean, I think it’s a stretch because Janeway gets paired with Tom Paris a lot, and she doesn’t flirt with him in canon, and she rarely gets paired with Tuvok despite how often they touch hands which for a Vulcan is ... wow. But for the sake of argument we’ll say that Sisko not flirting much with anyone besides his canon partners is the reason he’s not shipped much.) And sure, when you limit it to fics tagged “gen” he appears in the top ten list of characters! In fourth place, with 396 out of 1876 fics. (#1 is Bashir, with 822 fics. #2 is Garak, with 652 fics.)

And, like, I get that Bashir and Garak are certainly very slashtastic, the actors were going for that flirty vibe in earlier seasons until they were ordered not to. But it’s still ... pretty obvious that popularity of both shipping and gen fics is heavily influenced by racism and colorism.

I’m not trying to police fandoms or shipping or anything like that. I’m just saying that “but this is who resonates with me/this is who I like/this is who inspires me” doesn’t absolve us from looking at the reasons why some characters are more interesting to us than others. (It’s racism. We’ve all lived our entire lives in a world shaped by racism and colorism, and it’s shaped our gut reactions and our preferences even when we consciously believe racism is wrong.)

And you know what? You can influence your feelings. You can train your gut to be less racist. When you watch a show, pay conscious attention to the black characters. Take a few minutes after watching an episode to think up a piece of meta or a plot bunny or something for each character of color who appears in that episode. If you do this consistently over a period of time you will train your brain and your gut to be more interested in characters of color. Also, when you’re deciding what to write, actively choose to favor plot bunnies featuring characters of color. It’s not that you shouldn’t write white/lightskinned characters and ships, but that we should all be making a conscious effort to up the percentage of characters of color we write about. (And also, you know, do at least the bare minimum of work to not write racist or antisemitic tropes. @writingwithcolor has many useful resources.) That’s not the only anti-racism work we need to do to make fandom less racist, not by a long shot. But it is important work nonetheless.

And, above all, don’t be a dick to fans of color who point out what SHOULD BE obvious to everyone.

#fandom #racism

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jeanstoppable · 4 years ago

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12th, 13th & 14th OF OCTOBER

~locked here for forever~

~treasure that needs no explanation~

~I know my destination, I’m just not there~

(A/N: This is a Dark Academia story after all. So prepare for the spooks!)

Wake up. Wake up.

You’re here again. Wake up!

Is there really no other way? I don’t want to wake up.

The feel of soft sheets caressed her cheeks, the smell of burning incense filled her nostrils, and a quietness that’s not normal in any way, devoid of the blowing wind, birds, people. She’d woken up and those eyelashes drifted open as they normally do, routinely, constant and never changing.

Here again. You’re here again.

Despite the creeping sensation of fear and the unexplainable erratic beating of her heart, a peaceful calm washed over her, like she shouldn’t feel afraid because nothing’s happened. Nothing’s happened yet.

Later. Later. The thought vanished as soon as it came.

The girl pushed aside the sheets, smaller hands gripping the blanket tightly as she placed a foot on the floor, trying to test its temperature. The coldness of it was still the same, she’d remember becoming numb after feeling it over and over again, a painful cycle that would repeat each and every day.

Cycle? And once again the thought was forgotten.

She slowly stood up and fixed the bedding, neat and tidy—the girl halted as something throbbed on the back of her mind, delaying her movements for a few seconds.

No. You never lingered there for too long.

Her body suddenly moved forward as if pulled by invisible strings and that calm from earlier returned without warning, and her mind just went blank. Feeling languid, the girl opened the door to the dresser and picked out the dress in the middle, the only dress, then went towards the mirror beside it.

The girl stared at her reflection, holding it against her body—it was a long white dress with a v-neck, the ends of it were piled on the ground, the sleeves were also long, stretching further beyond her hands—it was enchanting and the girl found herself staring dreamily at it.

The girl’s attention flitted to her face for a split second—

Blood was smeared across it.

The dress slipped and fell to the floor as the girl backed away from the mirror, tearing her gaze away from it as fast as possible because…!

She frowned and then eyed the dirtied dress sitting on the ground. Because what? Why was the dress on the floor?

“You’re out of it, Dahlia.” The girl said to herself as she pulled the dress close and dusted it off, “Today’s the day, there’s no time for nervousness.”

Dahlia quickly stripped away her previous clothes, because she was running late after all, and stepped into that white dress with ease. She smoothed a hand down and finally turned towards the mirror again.

Beautiful. It fit perfectly.

The girl twirled, watching the dress trail from side to side as giggles soon filled the silent room and she was twirling and twirling. When she caught sight of her horrified expression on the reflection, she froze and rushed to grasp the border of the mirror. Dahlia didn’t remove her eyes from it, etching every single detail into her mind.

“Who are you?”

The girl in the mirror opened those blood streaked lips and mouthed something.

“What?” Dahlia asked, not understanding the word that she said.

It kept talking, and talking, and talking. Repeating the same word.

Dahlia read those lips for a moment before mimicking its shape, “Wake…Up?”

“But I’m already—“ Something wet touched her feet.

Dahlia looked down and paled at the blood pouring out of the mirror, her eyes snapped back the reflection to find the girl on her knees, shoulders hunched over and trembling.

“W-what?” She said fearfully and started crying out, “Wake up. Wake up!”

Because she now understands, none of this was supposed to happen, the girl in the mirror and the blood. Nightmare. This was another nightmare. Dahlia fled back to the bed, jumping on it carelessly even if the blood-soaked dress stained it. Her hands pulled the sheets over her head, breaths coming in short and quick puffs as she forced her lids shut and waited.

And waited. And waited.

Wake up. Please.

The blanket was suddenly pulled from her and Dahlia screamed her lungs out—

“No! No!”

Strong hands gripped her arms and shook them, “Hey! Hey, it’s me! Valerie, it’s Valerie!”

Dahlia didn’t hear the familiar voice of her friend and continued to thrash from the hold, believing she’s still trapped in a nightmare. “Wake up! Wake up!”

“Dammit.” The grip eased and disappeared, but she still refused to see. If what awaits her were those faces, she’d rather go blind.

Unexpectedly, a soft, fur-like sensation tickled her hand. Dahlia registered the strange yet comforting feeling, and unconsciously opened her eyes.

Honey orbs greeted her. And when the girl looked at the source of the sensation, a tail was there.

“...Dahlia.” The shifter in front of her said firmly.

“Valerie...?”

“Yes, it’s me. It’s me, doll.”

Dahlia collapsed forward and Valerie easily caught the girl in an embrace, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay.” The shifter hushed, “It was only a nightmare.”

“It’s only a nightmare.” Dahlia repeated the phrase, as she did like the nights before.

It’s not real.

Deny all you want. An ugly whisper wormed its way into her thoughts and Dahlia instinctively covered her ears.

You’re locked here forever. With us. With us.

No. No, that’s not true.

We’re still here.

And here, we are with you. Because we’re bound to you. And soon you’ll see.

WE’LL DRAG YOU DOWN.

Dahlia whimpered at the violent and manic voices shrieking, “...Valerie, my wand please.”

The shifter looked concerned and uncertain but reached over for the witch’s wand anyway and placed it into her waiting palm.

“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,” Dahlia said to Valerie who was about to make a comment, “The spell will help with the nightmares, I just won’t be dreaming again tonight.”

“You are pretty nifty with that thing, speaking from personal experience and all that.” The shifter weakly sighed and caved in, “Okay. Take care of yourself, I won’t be back for a while.”

“Leaving for classes?” Dahlia asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Goodluck tonight.” Valerie raised an eyebrow to which Dahlia simply offered her a tired smile in return, “And complain to me about how you get rejected once again by that Night Stalker of yours.”

Valerie’s lips curled upwards dangerously, “One day, you're going to eat your words, witch.”

With that said, the shifter shuffled towards the door, shooting Dahlia one final look before exiting and shutting the door with a soft click.

Dahlia dropped back on the bed, and stared at the ceiling for a couple of minutes. Relishing in the silence for she knows that the voices will shortly return, they never went away for too long and neither did they ever allowed her to have peace.

For as long as you live!

The witch ignored the resurfacing memory, and pointed the wand beside her head. And then finally, when ready, said the words of a spell.

. . .

They weren’t always that close.

In fact, their first impressions of each other were...dreadful. At best.

Who’d known that a shifter and a witch would have that much bad blood between them.

. . .

Valerie had been that one little kid that's always getting in trouble for being too curious for their own good, too nosy, too reckless—you’d think she’d leave that trait behind while growing up.

It didn’t.

Not even for a second. It stuck to her like a permanent scar. Still as fearless and daring as ever, never one to deny an adventure even those that had high risks. A small percentage of those were rewarding, but Valerie had to admit, most of them she would end up on someone’s shit list.

This was not an exception.

After all, it was her first time to see a wand up close, Valerie had barely contained her excitement. The other witches don’t use them anymore, it was old practice they’d said and then sent her off on her way.

When she heard that her new roommate was coming, she was beyond ecstatic. Valerie had half expected one of her own species, but it turns out, it was a witch. A human with magic powers!

Too curious for your own good, Val. The shifter thought as she sneakily picked up the wand on the witch’s desk. It was...an ordinary tree branch from which tree, she had no idea. It looks a bit worn. Well...To be very honest, Valerie was disappointed.

Wasn’t it supposed to be fancier?

She pouted and brought it much closer to her face, she didn’t know what prompted her to sniff it but—

The faintest scent of blood. Valerie eyed the wand critically before sniffing it again—the door opening was what made her freeze on the spot like a deer in headlights. The shifter cautiously turned around, forgetting that the wand was still in her hand.

The witch immediately spotted it and shouted, “PUT THAT DOWN!”

Valerie placed it down as quick as she can and started to explain, “Um, Dahlia, Dahlia right? I-uh listen, I was only…”

Dahlia was fuming, her left hand was clenched and bleeding from those sharp black nails of hers piercing the skin. Shoulders were shaking with rage and the shifter could see the storm building in her dark eyes, waiting to be released.

Valerie gulped, she really pushed her luck with this one.

All of a sudden, Dahlia stretched out a hand, barked a word and then the wand flew from her desk towards her open palm. Those fingers curled around the branch automatically.

Valerie’s jaw dropped at the marvellous display of magic and then instantly closed it, reminding herself that this was not the time and she should be—

“I’m sorry!”

Those dark eyes of her roommate hardened and hissed, “Don’t ever. Touch it.”

“Yes, I won’t.”

Surprisingly, the witch broke eye-contact first and shook her head, seemingly quite done with the shifter and turned to leave the room. Valerie let herself sigh in relief when—

Twisting back an arm, Dahlia launched a spell on the spot just a few centimetres away from where Valerie was standing. The shifter screamed as she jumped high in the air and ended up on the witch’s desk. Valerie’s eyes bulged out at the sight below her—the floor was cracked and something sizzled in the air—before sending the glare right back at Dahlia.

Her foot could have been that poor floor panel.

The shifter snarled, feeling fangs protrude out, “What the fuck?”

“Just a warning.” The witch said dryly.

“I said I won’t touch it!”

“People lie.”

“I fucking promise I won’t touch it, okay?”

Dahlia regarded her for a second, and then nodded.

“You’ll end up like that—“ she jutted a chin at the floor and Valerie shot her an unamused look, “—if you break your promise.”

The shifter held back a growl that was about to slip out of her lips and tried to get her breathing in control. This was her fault to begin with. Valerie sulked. She had to suck it up now she had a pissed off witch on her back.

Dahlia said nothing as her gaze slid down to her right hand that was holding the wand, unaware that Valerie was observing.

Valerie continued to watch as the witch’s orbs glossed over with an unreadable emotion, then replaced by fierce possession as if she wanted to hide it from the rest of the world and then the next was—hate. The shifter was surprised the wand didn’t combust into flames with how hard Dahlia had been glowering at it.

Although, Valerie could see that she valued the wand to a certain extent.

Like some twisted kind of treasure that needs no explaining. Just one look and it’s obvious---the witch was fond of it as much as she hates it.

Cursed.

One word stood out to her amongst all the others. The wand was cursed, Valerie would bet her entire fortune on it.

. . .

Like most things, she would come to underestimate it and how truly cursed it was.

. . .

Valerie found her roommate on the floor again—like the previous nights—kneeling and rocking back and forth. Sobs racking her entire body and shaking like a leaf in a storm. Her wand was nowhere to be found, she might’ve flung it somewhere in the room earlier.

Valerie briefly recounted the various incidents that have happened so far:

At first, it was the muttering---that incessant muttering of hers that would sometimes disrupt Valerie’s sleep since she had sensitive ears, given that she was a shifter. And then remembering a time being so pissed that she threw a pillow at her roommate. The act earned her a few hexes that lasted for days on end, she had to crash at someone else’s for a while.

Then came the sleep walking, which terrified Valerie on multiple accounts and would much rather have preferred the mutterings instead of being shaken awake by an unconscious Dahlia.

And now, nightmares had come to visit the witch and those were the worst of them all.

Valerie nearly, nearly had a heart-attack when she woke up to a blood-curdling scream in the middle of the night. At some point, it became intolerable that Valerie even had to switch classes just so she could avoid hearing Dahlia scream, because it was the kind of terrible sound that unsettles. A deep-seated disturbance that buries itself inside of you and doesn’t leave without its marks on your soul.

But if that was just from the cries, she’d shudder at the mere thought of what were the actual nightmares that plagued the witch.

However, these phenomenons become somewhat of a bridge for Valerie to befriend the troubled human.

Here we are again. Valerie thought as she left the warmth of her bed and towards Dahlia. She put a gentle hand on her friend’s back and stayed silent.

“I’m trying, Val.” Dahlia whispered and then curled herself further into a ball.

When the shifter opted to only listen, the witch continued to breathe life into her thoughts, “I’m trying to get better. I know what I-I should do, better than anyone else. I know where to start, where to go. I know my destination. How far—gods, Valerie, I know. But I’m just...not there.” Her voice cracked and Valerie’s heart shattered at the heaviness of it.

“I see the end, I really do. I can see...me being happy.” She laughed and nothing about it was humorous, “It’s like...I’m in the between. Stuck. Running in the same spot over and over again. And I don’t know why. Why? Why am I still here?”

“Dahlia...Look at me.” Those dark brown orbs flicked up to her and there she found the thing that gave Valerie the strength to fight the overwhelming hurt she felt for her dear friend, “I can see it in your eyes, you know? That you want to change, the drive to break free of whatever the hell that’s been clinging so desperately to your ankles, that’s why you try.”

“Why aren’t you there, you ask me...But doll,” Valerie gave her the brightest smile despite the tears in her eyes, ”I think you aren’t there yet. Yet. It’s the little things that count, the small yet stubborn belief to change a mindset. You aren’t there yet, but you will be. Keep chasing, no matter how tiring and exhausting, and if you truly see yourself happy in the end, just hold on to that hope, doll.”

“They haven’t taken you, Dahlia. You’ve got to remember that. You’re here. Here.” The shifter gestured her hands around their room, “With your shitty shifter friend,” Valerie pointed to herself. “It’s only us, you and me, no one else. The best those nightmares can do is knock you down—convince you that they still have control, but in reality they don’t because they’re not here.”

Dahlia burst into tears anew as Valerie looped an arm around her back and pulled the witch towards her. After a while of only sniffling and quietness, Dahlia soffly said, “...You’re not a shitty friend, Val.”

Valerie hid a smile, “I think so too, but hey, I’m glad you said it.”

The strange pair both laughed.

. . .

If those silly fairy tales that humans had written held at least some ounce of truth in it, she sincerely hopes that the part where there’s always a way to break the curse was true.

So that you can live happily ever after.

(A/N: very very late but I decided to make mash all three prompts into one! Finally we get a witch! October wouldn’t be complete without a witch. So Adding one more to the oc roster, Dahlia thw witch room mate of our precious shifter Valerie. They have a wholesome frienship even if they got off on a bad start, hope yall give them some love!! Peace!)

#alkinktober #my art #myoc #mywriting #dark academia short preview #dark academia oc’s #oh boy this one is tortured #like all my ocs :)#spooky stuff #ALSO I DONT KNOW HOW I DID THIS BUT HOORAY ITS DONE

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theseviolentdelightss · 5 years ago

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Counting Paths XVII

Series Summary: After a lifetime on the run from the Empire, Reader makes a move that could have drastic impacts for both friend and foe. A Reader insert/fanfic. Gifs belong to their respective owners.

Word Count: 4386

Author’s Note: Sorry again for the wait.

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Part X Part XI Part XII Part XIII Part XIV Part XV Part XVI

It was cold when you awoke. Eyes fluttering slowly as the memories came flooding back. The cantina, the code black, running yourself ragged which would explain why it felt as if someone had taken every muscle in your body and rung them out like a soaked cloth.

“Called it!” The sound of Roland's voice, while a small comfort, did nothing to stifle the pounding in your head nor the ringing in your ears. It rather enhanced it, earning an agitated groan from you as your eyes struggled to adjust. “Two hours and fourteen minutes, everybody pay up!”

All around you came the sound of grumbles. Money being dug out of pockets and wallets as Roland chuckled proudly. His paw out and ready for the taking.

“Did you seriously take bets on how long I would be passed out?” You asked coolly once the crowd had cleared. Narrowing your eyes as you stared down the older rebel, hands over flowing with newly acquired credits.

“No...” Roland stuttered. If you hadn't known better you would have sworn you saw guilt in his eyes as he adverted his gaze. Catching a glimpse of your reflection it was easy to see why.

Fainting from exhaustion and dehydration had done you no favors. The color in your cheeks had yet to return and your hands trembled as you ran them over your face. Apparently the first medic on site had struggled to find a vein, leaving the inside of your elbow an abstract mess off deep purple and sickly yellow skin. The bruise bloomed around the needle in your arm like a dying violet. Growing more gruesome by the moment.

When word first made it to Roland that you had ran out of the bunker with less than three minutes to spare he had assumed it was just another rumor. They seemed to have been following you as of late. Sprouting like weeds about your feet. It was only when Penny began to panic, pushing through the rows of bunks and cots towards the small infirmary area that he began to believe it. Nearly 30 flights of stairs and you had ran it three times in under five minutes. It was no wonder the exhaustion had gotten the better of you, not to mention the liquor. “Well maybe-”

“Give it!” You held your hand out, turning your attention away as you waited.

Dragging his feet Roland placed the pile of money into your palm. Licking your thumb you flipped through it before handing over a small percentage.

“Finders fee.” You smirked softly, feeling your head beginning to clear.

Following the IV in your arm you recognized the mixture hanging above you. A combination of saline and nutrients. Glancing around it was obvious that you weren't the only casualty of today's surprising great escape. A handful of cots sat occupied in the dimness. Strangers with swollen ankles and knees, a man with a thick piece of gauze wrapped about his head. Even from this distance you could spot where the blood had began to seep through. On the cot nearest you Penny lay dozing with no sign of visual injuries. Gently pushing aside her red curls you couldn't help but chuckle as the drool ran down her cheek. For now she would be fine, the hangover wouldn't hit her till she woke up.

“Where's Zara?”

“Off sleeping I think. Took some skinny kid half an hour to convince her you'd be fine.” Roland replied. “Want me to go tell her you're up?”

“No let her rest.”

“They need you.” Roland's eyes again shifted to the ground as he spoke. “In the control room.”

“Why?” You asked, unsure as to why the Rebellion saw need to punish you so quickly. Sure, you had disobeyed a direct order which in itself wasn't a first, but no one had gotten seriously hurt. Minus the guard you had punched but he had it coming. You still had the scar beneath your hairline from where he had struck you long ago. That was well worth a week of messhall duty. Still, that wasn't an urgent matter, not enough to warrant a trip to the control room in the middle of a code black no less.

“The hell if I know.” Roland spit bitterly. He was an amazing soldier yet for all his military prowess he hated authority more than a hormonal teenager. “Captain Andor ordered me to stay here and fetch ya as soon as you woke up so hop to it.”

“You do see the IV in my arm right?”

Licking his thumb and forefinger Roland reached forward, snatched the plastic butterfly wings on either side of the thin needle and slid it out from under your skin like a warrior drawing a sword.

“For fucks sake Roland!” You hissed, reaching up to smack the curly haired man across the back of the head. What had only moments before been a dull ache now stung white hot. “There's a reason people don't actually do that you jackass!”

A half roll of gauze and a handful of curses later Roland was escorting you through the dark tunnels that lead to the lowest level. To keep the temperature from spiking most everyone had been spread out among the various floors. The bunker itself had seven and at its heart sat the war council. The most highly concentrated area of people and still it did nothing to stave off the cold. By the time you made it through the beehive of workers busy at various consoles and tablets you could faintly see your breath in front of your face. Wrapping your arms around yourself you tried to find some degree of warmth. Dragging the sleeves of your jacket over the palms of your hands as Roland motioned you forward.

“Baby...” Roland muttered, side eyeing you as you began to shiver.

“Not all of us have been blessed with blubber to keep us warm.” You replied, eyeing Roland's protruding gut. Typically you weren't one to shame a person for their body but considering this was the same man who had only minutes before ripped an IV from your arm, you found it in yourself to make an exception. Thankfully it shut him up, allowing you a few moments of silence before coming to a stop outside a large set of wooden double doors. Unlike most on base these had been built in the old style that swung inwardly rather than sliding open or closed.

“From here on out your on your own kid.” Roland leaned against the wall as he spoke, retrieving a small knife from his pocket he began to pic the dried grease out from under his fingernails.

Sighing you knocked on the old wood nervously. The door opened with a low groan, kicking up a whirl of dust around your feet as you slipped inside. The space was noticeably cooler, the mood even more so.

“Sargent L/N please come forward.” Mon Mothma spoke calmly as always. She was a decent and honorable woman but that didn't mean her composed demeanor wasn't hiding an ugly truth.

Perhaps they had finally decided you were too much of a liability.

Maybe this most recent act of defiance truly was the last straw.

Stepping forward into the dim light your eyes scanned the various faces for anyone who might speak on your behalf. Cassian's dark eyes found you instantly, as if your gaze had been magnetically drawn to him. He stood with his arms crossed, jaw tense as if he were grinding his teeth. Draven sat at the large wooden table that stood in the center of the room. A massive piece carved with the same script and symbols as the door behind you. It had likely been there as long as the temple itself. Standing strong for hundreds of years. You couldn't help but drag your fingers across the surface as you made you way to your seat.

“We have serious matters to discuss.”

The edge to the ginger haired woman's tone might have upset you if it weren't for a sickening realization, one that washed over you like an icy wave.

“Where is Theodren?” You asked instantly, trying hard to hide the fear growing inside you. The silence that followed was no help, seconds ticking by like hours as you waited. “Where is-”

“We don't know.” Mon Mothma replied, her tone gentler than before yet straight to the point. No time for curtsies. “Commander Theodren had departed for Bakura shortly before we were alerted of an Imperial patrol entering our atmosphere. Until the code black has been lifted any attempts to contact him are impossible.”

It felt as if the floor had been ripped out from beneath you. That weightless feeling of falling that jolts you awake. Surely you must be dreaming. Your luck may have been notoriously bad but this was nightmarish. Grabbing a hold of the table for support you allowed your body to slump into the chair nearest you. Mon Mothma continued to speak, for how long you can't be sure, it wasn't until General Draven snapped his fingers in front of your face that your mind cleared. Glazed eyes blinking for the first time in minutes.

“Sergant L/N?” Mothma spoke calmly, holding out a hand to hush Draven as she stepped closer. The room was dim but it may as well have been pitch black. Even with eyes open you looked but did not see. It was only Theodren you thought of and the space where he should have stood. “You're bleeding.”

The words had no sooner left the woman's mouth when you felt the first drop collide with the back of your hand. Closing your eyes tightly you allowed a second and third to fall before reaching for the source. A stream of blood trailed from your right nostril. Stickily coating your fingertips and leaving the taste of metal on your lips. Out of the corner of your eye you watched as Cassian moved forward. His face calm and composed as ever. Before he could step any further you were already standing. Hand held firmly against your nose trying in vain to stem the flow. It made sense, your tears had long ago been used up, only blood remained to spare.

“I apologize...” You muttered, pushing yourself away from the table and towards the large doors you had came in through. They sprawled open rather easily at your touch. The chill of the room a distant memory as the heat bloomed at the base of your neck and began to spread. The mix of worry and fear enveloping you as you searched for an exit, not caring where it went. It was solitude you yearned for. A space of your own where you could internalize the wars currently raging between your head and your heart.

Sighing you spotted a door that led through yet another dark hallway. Pushing your way further down till the last door stood waiting. Without so much as a knock you let yourself in. The stale smell of dust and age rushing up to greet you as you stepped inside. Rows of empty shelves lined the walls. The pale light above flickering out as you settled to the floor.

You hadn't prayed in years. After everything you had done you doubted the anyone would pay you so much as a passing thought. Still, even as the cold seeped through your bones you found yourself murmuring the words. Blood stained hands held tightly together.

“I didn't know you prayed.”

“I don't-” You replied, red eyes adjusting to the small lantern the captain held in his hands. “not usually at least.”

“Neither do I.”

“Why not?”

“Because they were never answered.” Cassian's eyed you cautiously as he knelt in front of you. Noting that the bleeding that had provided you a perfect out had yet to stop. Sitting the lantern to the side Cassian dug his hands into his pocket, retrieving a clean rag he leaned forward to press it delicately around your nose.

“Mine were never answered either.” Your voice felt small as you reached forward, trying to take a hold of the rag yourself, expecting Cassian to let go yet he held on.

“What were you thinking?”

“Excuse me?”

There was no hiding the tone to your voice. It was one thing to question yourself. The last thing you needed right now was Cassian doing the same.

“I told you to stay where you were.” Cassian replied calmly, ignoring your weak attempt at an attitude.

“I never told you how my brother died, did I?” That caught him off guard. The frustration draining from his eyes as he gazed back at you. “Come to think of it, I'm not sure I ever mentioned him at all...”

Settling onto the floor with a thump Cassian let the rag slip from his grip. His expression gentler than before, clearly this new revelation was not what he had been expecting.

“His name was Willis I had just turned eight when he was born. I was so excited. I'd finally have a friend that I wouldn't have to say goodbye to after a few months...but mama died on the birthing bed so I had to step up. It wasn't easy, especially not at first. I was still just a kid myself, and a part of me hated him for taking my mother away, but that didn't last. He was too kind, too gentle to hate and he was so smart. He could be a real brat about it too, always correcting my spelling.” You chuckled lightly, losing yourself in a memory for one brief moment.

“He heard it first, woke me up. I thought he was just having another bad dream but then I heard it too. It all happened so fast, the chaos, the slaughter. It started in the outlying villages but it didn't take long to make its way into the city. All of the sudden they were in the streets, kicking down your door, coming through your front room window. That's when the exodus started. I had never seen anything like it. All around us the buildings were going up in flames. You could hear people screaming. I passed the body of the baker who had made my bread that morning lying in a gutter as we fled. His face was gone but I recognized his apron. It felt like we were at war.”

“Antar IV.” Cassian said quietly, turning his head to face you. “The massacre. You were there?”

Nodding you tried to steady your breathing. It had been years since you had spoken about that night and for good reason. Anytime it came up you felt your pulse quicken, the cold sweat forming on the back of your neck. As if some small part of you was forever trapped in the moment and just for a second it had pulled the rest of you under. Drowning you on dry land.

“I lost my father's hand in the crowd, my brother begged me to go back, but I had promised...so I didn't. I couldn't. I wanted to more than anything but I knew if I stopped, if I looked back we would both be lost. So I lied. I told him we would meet my father at the ship. The old man had been working on the same one for ages, kept it docked at this little hole in the wall station he worked at. I thought for sure by the time we got there all that would be left was ash and rubble but there it stood. No more than twenty yards away. I was moving so fast I didn't even see him until-”

You voice hitched in your throat with a weak shudder. The hairs on the back of your neck standing on end as you began to run your hands up and down your thighs.

“I begged him to let us go. We were just children. I swore to him we wouldn't tell anyone, not a soul, but he just put us in his sights.” Turning your eyes to the ceiling you were happy not to have to look at Cassian's face as he heard what came next. “I tried to move Willis out of the way, but he had twisted his ankle during the run and I was carrying him. All I could do was turn around, try to cover him with myself but it didn't make any difference. That fucker cut us down like we were nothing.”

“How did you survive?” Cassian asked softly.

“I drove a screw driver through his eye and out the back of his skull.” You replied coolly, the sadness in your voice replaced with an entirely different emotion. “The first life I ever took and it didn't even matter. Willis died anyways. He bleed out in my arms. One second he was crying and trying to say something and then he just...went still. I had never seen someone die before but I watched as the spark drained from my brothers eyes, and that pain...”

Again you had to stop, try to calm your thumping heart as it pounded away against your chest. There was a reason you avoided this subject. It was always painful to speak of, but now with Theodren's fate so uncertain it only served to frighten you more. To remind you of what it felt like to lose someone you love.

“I didn't think I'd ever get over it so I locked that part of me away. Stopped caring about everything and everyone.”

Across from you Cassian shifted, leaning his back against the wall as he took in all you had to say. Not entirely sure if he should be relieved that you were sharing so much with him or worried. Crossing his arms to stave off the chill he watched as you fidgeted with your hands, pulling at the edges of your sleeves, tucking those relentless loose curls behind your ears. His own hands itched to reach out, take a hold of your own and still them but he thought better of it. Now wasn't the time.

“I didn't join the Rebellion because I wanted to be a hero Cassian. I didn't give a damn about glory. A quick death was all I wanted, but then I met Theodren, and he was alone too. He was the only one that ever...he was my one true friend. I lost him once already, I don't want to lose him again.”

“You won't.” Cassian said with a bit too much certainty, overcompensating in his hopes of comforting you. “Theodren is the smartest person I know. I'm sure once this code black has lifted you'll hear from him.”

“Why are you here Cassian?” You asked suddenly, the urge to be alone over powering your usual politeness.

“I was worried about you.” He replied, not defensive in the least. A welcome surprise given your own change in demeanor. “Didn't want you to be alone.”

“I appreciate that Cassian, truly I do, but you don't have to worry about me.” You stated, maintaining your full attention on him. Noting the subtle change in the distance between the two of you. Typically the captain preferred to put added space between the both of you yet today seemed the expectation.

“Look, I worry.” He stated simply, laying his hand out flat in a gesture to simply accept that fact and let it go. “Just promise me you won't do anything stupid.”

“Cass I-” Chewing your bottom lip you considered lying, it would be easiest for everyone but Cassian deserved the truth. “It's Theodren, if there is even a small chance I have to try.”

“Are you in love with him?” Cassian asked, his eyes glued intensely to your own.

“Who?” You scoffed. “Theodren?”

The dark haired rebel nodded sheepishly and in that moment you could have kissed him because despite everything that had happened Cassian had managed to do the unthinkable. He made you laugh. No sweeter a gift could he have given you in that moment.

“What?” You half chuckled, the very idea of it still tickling your sides. Not that Theodren wasn't a catch, it was just so far removed from anything you could have imagined. The two of you had been best friends for years and not once had there been even an inkling of romance. “No! Of course I love him but Theodren is like family to me.”

“I understand.”

“Are you alright?” You asked, watching as Cassian began to draw in on himself. Scooting himself to sit with his back straight and flush against the wall. Hands swiftly shoved into the pockets of his jacket.

“I'm fine.” He replied but you simply shook your head. How the hell was this guy a spy?

“You're a shitty liar you know that.” You nudged Cassian's knee with your foot as you spoke. Thankful that the tension had for a moment been lessened enough to catch your breath.

“Only with you.” His answer was short but it was enough to return the tension tenfold.

Whelp, that didn't last long...

“And that bothers you?”

“I'd be a fool if it didn't.” Cassian's brows knitted as he spoke, looking any where but at you.

“Why?” Leaning forward you grabbed a hold of Cassian's hand and squeezed it tightly. “What's so wrong with being honest with me?”

“You're always saving people.” Cassian said simply, at last turning his gaze to meet your own.

“What-”

“Just-just listen.” He insisted calmly and you couldn't blame him. You were well aware of your bad habit of interrupting people. It wasn't that you were rude, some people just spoke so slowly by comparison.

“You're always saving people. You saved Zara, you saved Roland, hell you saved me the night we met. Its who you are.” Sighing Cassian let his eyes drift to where your fingers sat wrapped around his own. Your knees inching closer, unwilling to give in to his poor attempt at gaining distance.

“When I came down here I wanted to yell at you, to tell you that you were being foolish, convince you to stop...but I can't because that's not you.” Shaking his head Cassian smiled gently, his eyes warmer than before. Filled with an emotion you couldn't quite peg down but you were all too aware of how it made you feel.

“What's so wrong with that?” You half whispered.

“Nothing.” Cassian answered, turning your hand over in his own. Fingertips softly tracing along the lines of your palm. “Nothing, it just frightens me.”

“Cass I'm fine, seriously you don't have to worry-” You tried to put on your best smile as you spoke. If Cassian truly worried about you the least you could do was assure him you would try your best to stay alive. It was a bit of a priority anyways but if it mattered to someone else why not try harder?

Even if you weren't sure how to feel about it.

“And what if you weren't?” He asked sharply, turning the tables and instead interrupting you. “I know why you went back for Zara. I know why you want to go after Theodren. Because what if something happens and you could have done something but didn't? Then that's on you right? But if you go back and something happens to you then that's on me.”

“I'm not your responsibility anymore.”

“It's not like that.”

“Then what is it?” You pushed, trying to hide the faintest hint of desperation in your voice. As if months of second guessing had inevitability lead you here. “What are you so afraid of Cassian?”

“You want to know what I'm afraid of?” Cassian eyes burned as he leaned closer, bursting the tiny bubble of personal space that existed between the two of you. “Losing you.”

And there it was. The truth you had been running from. It wasn't often that you felt vulnerable. It wasn't the sort of thing you were allowed, not if you wanted to stay alive.

“Your turn, no bullshit this time.” Cassian said, his mouth twitching as he spoke.

Taking a sharp breath through your nose you allowed yourself a moment of rational thought. To think of how very wrong this may all go. How much you could stand to lose, but that moment ended.

Unblinking you watched as Cassian's eyes flickered with longing. Something you only now realized had been there all along. They continued to follow your every move, watching as you inched closer until your knee dug into his thigh. Trembled and shifted. A pale hand snaking its way along the back of his neck. For a moment Cassian felt as if his brain had stalled, unable to process what was happening like a teenager second guessing themselves, but then you kissed him, putting those fears to rest in an instant. It was everything he had remembered from that night many months ago when he had first stolen a taste.

Only now there was no limit. No hesitance.

It surprised you as well, how easily you melted into his grasp. Calloused hands swept along your sides until your shirt began to bunch between his fingers. The touch of his skin burning as it grazed your own. Feather light fingers threading through your hair as he pressed you against him.

Sometime later after you finally gave in to the need for oxygen did you allow the reality of what had just happened sink in. The terrifyingly true severity of it washing over you all at once. Still, it was impossible not to smile and lean into the palm of Cassian's hand as he held you close. Foreheads pressed against one another. So close you could feel his every exhale on your skin.

“That.” You finally admitted, knowing for certain that you were now well and truly fucked.

#cassian x reader #cassian imagine #cassian andor x reader #cassian andor imagine #rogue one reader insert #rogue one fanfic #sw reader insert #swfanfic #SW Fanfic #cassian andor #sw oc #Counting Paths

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marlahey · 6 years ago

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we stumbled in the dark; I knew we’d be alright (part twelve)

a shawn mendes rpf fic ratings/warnings: contains descriptions of a panic attack. and angst. notes: I’M ALIVE. thank you everyone for waiting so patiently; these last few weeks have been a lot busier than I was expecting. to make up for the long wait, this part includes links to ten photos from my personal instagram to give you guys a sense of Ellie’s London adventure, and clocks in at a whopping fifteen thousand words. and in other news, I have an ending. part thirteen will be the final part of this fic, and part fourteen (cause I like even numbers) will either be an epilogue or various outtakes – depending on what happens. thank you everyone for all your support! you’ve been amazing. (previously; start at part one here; find all parts here) manchester; now You’re not sure exactly what wakes you, but two thoughts slam forward when you blink your eyes open into a dark room. The first, accompanied by a split second of panic, is that you don’t know where you are. Memories flash quickly: the show, the video. Shawn.

The second, when you’re aware enough to take stock of the rest of your body, is that you can’t remember the last time you were ever really held. You and Shawn clearly shifted in the night; you’ve ended up on your side, facing the window out to a still-sleeping city, while the arm he’d tossed over your waist is now hooked around your ribs, which Shawn had apparently used to pull you firmly into the open curve of his chest.

His breath is warm over the back of your neck, and Shawn’s nose is buried in your hair. He’s holding your hands. You feel like crying, inexplicably. The temptation to close your eyes and fall back asleep is so strong that you’re almost all the way down before you flinch. You fell asleep in Shawn’s bed. You’ve been here all night. You nearly jerk upright, remembering Shawn at the last moment, still breathing even and soft against your skin. You’re half-afraid he has too tight a grip, but as you slide carefully away from him, Shawn doesn’t move. You’re so cold, all of sudden. You drag yourself to the edge of the bed, allowing yourself exactly eleven seconds to stare at him over your shoulder. His face, half hidden in the pillow and his wild curls, is untroubled in sleep, and as you watch Shawn’s body curls forward into the space you’ve just left. It feels like a strange sort of privilege, to see him this way. You didn’t know it was possible to want someone this much. You get up. The journal you bought him over a year ago sits on the bedside table with his prefered brand of black pen. About half the pages are discoloured at the edges and worn with use; you flirt briefly with the idea of leaving a note, loath to let Shawn think you just abandoned him as if this were straight off the album. But you don’t dare lay your hands on one of his most private possessions. A text will have to do. You tiptoe carefully across the room to the adjoining door. Ava is gone. Fuck. “How’d you sleep?” You jump, a shriek and a curse both lodged in your throat, but you shove them down. Your sister leans against the bathroom door with her hair twisted up into a towel, one perfect eyebrow raised. Is she judging you? Laughing at you? Your inner hysteria makes it hard to tell.

“Fine,” you choke out. The truth is though, that you’re exhausted. Ava lets you flounder for another half second before she laughs quietly, shaking her head. “Relax, Lenny. I know you didn’t get laid last night.” You can feel yourself turn pink. “How…?” She points at your phone, left behind on your bed. “Figured you hadn’t gone far. Opened the door when I got up and saw you, both fully clothed and on top of the covers.” Pink turns into red. You’re not embarrassed, exactly, nor are you upset that your sister made a logical guess in looking for you. But something in you flinches anyway at the thought of being seen a second time. “Nothing happened,” you say, unnecessarily if not for a silent it could have. “He just... needed me.” You will your voice not to shake. You won’t apologize for it. Ava meets your gaze steadily.

“Okay.” Her lips purse, just a fraction. “You filled your prescription before we left right?” Your next inhale is a wheeze. “Fucking hell, Ava.” She just raises the other eyebrow. “Yes, now can we please never talk about it again?” Your sister really does laugh at you now. “Doubtful. But consider it dropped for the time being.”

You suppose it’s as good as you’re ever going to get. Mostly, you’re grateful that Ava isn’t currently trying to give you The Talk, that she has not immediately jumped to a place of reservation or shame when it comes to the idea of you and Shawn being...intimate; she’d never do the latter, and the former well– she’s too late to the game. (She had, however, taken you to the doctor’s for birth control just before your fifteenth birthday, after you’d spent a large percentage of your last period lying on the bathroom floor in absolute agony, tearful and nauseous yet unable to even lift your head high enough to vomit. Pain of that magnitude had never occurred before and hasn’t since, and as you stood in line at the pharmacy she’d said, “It should help even you out. And you know, with other stuff. Whenever that happens.” You’d nodded, trying to blush too deeply in front of the elderly gentleman just behind you, holding a pill bottle in his veined and knobbly hands. “Right.” That had been that. Over a year later, after you’d exhausted yourself crying over an ending that included an important beginning, she doesn’t ask you if you were safe. It’s the first time you’d ever felt Ava truly treat you as something besides her little sister – a responsibility. Even though you suppress everything else about that spring, you’ll never forget that feeling.) “Did you know?” you blurt now. “That Shawn was going to ask me to come to New York?” Your sister nods. “He ran it by me, in Dublin.” Ava tilts her head. “Why? Do you not want to go?” “No, I do.” You can’t decide if you’d rather her be concerned or encouraging right now, which one you want versus the one you probably need to hear. “I’m just…” You trail off, remembering how you’d felt only minutes ago waking up in his arms, realizing your fear from Paris has compounded into something deeper. This thing between you and Shawn is real now, and you don’t know if you’re quite prepared to hold it up to the light and see all the ways it could be torn apart. “He’d understand,” Ava says gently. “If you’re not ready.” You shake your head. If he can be brave, you reason, so can you. “I don’t want to disappoint him. We agreed to just give it a try.” You muster a grin. “Besides, how can I pass up New York? There’s so many things I haven’t seen yet.” She laughs lightly. “Fair enough. Do you know what happened to the blow dryer?” You open your mouth to reply; a knock at the adjoining door cuts you off. You have the ridiculous urge to race your sister to the doorknob, but of course she doesn’t move as you answer it. You know it’s Shawn, and yet some part of you is still surprised. It’s too early. I’m not ready. I haven’t put myself back together yet.

He's pulled a hoodie over last night’s t shirt, the hood half-caught around one of his ears as he smiles down at you, still blinking a little sleep from his eyes. “Did I hear something about a blowdryer?” Shawn’s holding one of your constant tour companions, purple like Pablo, in one hand, his toothbrush in the other. “My saviour,” Ava says, crossing the room and taking the dryer. “All packed, kiddo?” Shawn nods. “You guys need help with your bags?” “Nah, we’re fine, thank you. Why don’t you both get dressed and we’ll meet downstairs in ten? We’ll grab some breakfast on the way to the airport.” Ava bumps you gently with her hip on her way to the bathroom. “Do a last toiletries and charger check for me before you close your suitcase, yeah?” “Sure.” Your sister disappears. Moments later, the roar of the blowdryer effectively drowns out anything that you or Shawn might say to each other in the next room. Even so, you’re strangely nervous to meet his eye in approaching daylight. “Morning El.” Everyone seems intent on inwardly laughing at you before you’ve even had a chance to wash your face. “Hi,” you say weakly. “Sorry for uh,” He’d put it well last night. “freaking out and ditching you.” Shawn’s lips twitch. “Don’t worry about it. But...” He leans down and tugs very gently at the hem of your t-shirt. “You should wake me up, next time. Before you go.” Your insides squirm at the idea of next time. “You sure? Even if I can’t stay?” He nods, tightening his grip on the pale pink fabric and using it to pull you forward. Shawn seems to like this, you’ve noticed, the ease with which he can draw you in and keep you. Not, of course, that you ever really resist. He drops a minty kiss on the crown of your head. “I like the idea of waking up to you.” Before your stomach can stop swooping, Shawn leans down further, and only at the last moment do you have enough presence of mind to pull back. “Shawn…” “Just one?” he murmurs, close enough that you can feel his breath against your face. Your stomach swoops again. “Av’s busy.” “I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet,” you complain. You’ve got your hand on his chest to bar him from further movement, but even that feels like too intimate a touch, feeling the broad firmness of him beneath the soft layers of his clothes, still warm from sleep. Shawn presses a little against your fingers. “Don’t care.” Shawn bends until you really have no choice but to bend yourself back – an almost reflection of the shape you’d both made on the bed – tilting his head so all that’s really required is for gravity to pull him down. You roll your eyes, lift your chin, and the curve of his smile touches your closed mouth. “Happy?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek so you don’t giggle. “Very.” He likes making you blush too much for you to ever be able to really stop. “You’re a goof, you know that?” Shawn’s smile is a little crooked, a lot pleased. “You like me anyway.” He’s not wrong.

Moments after boarding, Shawn coughs exactly twice. Everyone in the cabin exchanges looks, and Andrew declares immediate voice rest for everything that isn’t the BBC breakfast show, where Shawn’s due in two hours, and the following two nights of tour. Ava pulls out the air filtration mask, and Shawn proceeds to make silent faces at you for the next thirty minutes. You don’t mention the planned adventure with the gang, on your technically first day and night off since Germany nearly a month ago. You can tell without asking that he’s already thinking about it. At altitude, you’re proven right. shawnmendes: I can’t believe I’m missing tonight. lennysinclair17: You can’t come and just...not talk? shawnmendes: Doubtful. lennysinclair17: We can hang out instead if you want. Watch a movie. shawnmendes: No way. We’ve been talking about it with everybody for ages. You owe Brian tequila remember? This is true. You glance up, where Shawn is looking pointedly at you with only his eyes and eyebrows.

lennysinclair17: I hate the idea of you stuck in the hotel by yourself. shawnmendes: I’m used to it El. It’s fine. You’re going. You’re not missing out on London because of me. The girls have a million things planned.

This is also true. Everyone is meant to head for breakfast while Shawn is at the BBC, and when he returned the plan was to carefully mislead the legions of fans in the city about where you are and what you’re doing. When Shawn balked at the deliberate unkindness, Geoff had just leveled a look and said, “You want a repeat of your birthday?” There were no more objections after that. And now well – now Shawn couldn’t even speak his unhappiness if he wanted to. shawnmendes: I expect you to bombard me with photos. He looks at you again, and it aggravates you to no end that he knows he’s won the argument. shawnmendes: Do a shot for me.

london; now @TrackingSM: Shawn talking about the Manchester show this morning on @BBCRadio! [Shawn’s curls are only half-tempered by the enormous headphones covering his ears, the camera angle offering a full view of his shoulder and arms in a plain white t shirt. Greg James leans forward onto his elbows. “So tell me about Manchester last night,” he says. “Reports make it out to be a pretty emotional show.” “Yeah,” Shawn replies. “It was amazing. One of the most moving shows I’ve ever had. The crowd was phenomenal.” “I was hoping you’d put a bit of a rumour to rest for us Shawn. Twitter is all a flutter but video of the incident in question is pretty grainy and dark.” “Oh?” Shawn sits up a little, his pendant swinging with the motion. “What rumour is that?” Greg’s smile is gentle. “That you cried, during Youth. Fans in the front few rows swear it happened.” Shawn’s eyebrows fly up, scrubbing his hand up the back of his neck. “Do they?” “I thought you might like a chance to confirm or deny your sensitivity, just between us. It won’t leave this room.” “Oh but it’ll also be broadcast to millions of people?” Shawn and Greg both laugh. “But of course.” There’s a pause, and then Shawn shrugs good-naturedly. “I did shed a few tears last night. It was a pretty overwhelming moment. I’m glad to have shared that with everyone who was there.” “I also want to ask you about who you were spotted hugging after the show,” Greg says, “But sadly we’re out of time. There you have it ladies and gents: proof that Shawn Mendes is, in fact, just a bit like us mere mortals. Thanks for stopping by Shawn, and I hope you have an amazing two back to back shows in London tomorrow and Saturday. My sincere best wishes for the rest of the tour. Anything you want to say to your London fans?” “Thank you so much, Greg. Thanks for having me. And to everybody listening, I’ll see you very soon and I can’t wait to spend two nights with you. I love you so much.” likes: 703; retweets: 5] * There’s maybe half a dozen girls at the hotel by the time you and the gang head out for breakfast, who peer hopefully between Charlie and Brian and then lean back in disappointment; Ava and Paul will leave to pick Shawn up within the hour and sneak him inside through a service entrance. “Damn, Sinclair,” Charlie says as he watches you inhale a latte from across the table. “Preparing for a caffeine shortage?” You shake your head. “Just tired. I didn’t sleep much last night.” Brian raises his eyebrows. “Is that why Shawn’s on voice rest?” You promptly choke on your coffee; the boys lean away from the spray as you cough, your eyes streaming. Kristin tosses napkins on the table while Kelsey rubs your back, throwing dirty glares at Parker, Brian, and Charlie, who are all suppressing laughter. “Just because you haven’t gotten any in a year doesn’t mean you get to be disgusting at the table,” she snaps. Parker and Charlie howl. Even Geoff snorts. “I was kidding!” Brian objects, his ears red. “Jesus, Kels. You really gotta air a dude’s private info like that, huh?” Kelsey’s barely raised eyebrow is the most scathing silent expression you’ve ever seen. Apparently mollified, Brian mutters a “Sorry, kid” at you. You wipe your eyes and put down the glass of water Geoff had shoved across the table. “It’s fine, Bri. No worse than my conversation with Ava this morning.” Everyone at the table winces sympathetically. You just shrug, any embarrassment you had left long gone, especially with people who would never betray your secret. “Just fell asleep guys, perfectly tame. But we’re definitely not gonna make it a habit.” “Wise,” Geoff says. “But this is definitely the happiest I’ve ever seen him before the crack of dawn in a long time.” It’s your turn to blush. “Can we talk about something else please?” “Well we haven’t picked a museum yet, for after Big Ben and Buckingham Palace,” Parker offers. You smile at him. “What were we between? Victoria and Albert and National Gallery?” “The V&A is a little more fun,” Charlie remarks, and you’re reminded of all the anecdotes he’s told you about his year abroad when he wasn’t that much older than you. “You didn’t want to see Natural History¹?” “Vetoed by the New Yorkers.” Parker casts a sardonic eyeroll at Kristin, who meets his eye entirely unphased. “It’s the principle of the thing,” she says. “Just can’t do it.” “I’m down with whatever,” Brian chimes in, “As long as tonight ends in a pint glass.” “V&A it is then?” Geoff, as ever, is the mediator. There are nods all around the table. “And after?” Ellie and I are off to the Kew Gardens for a couple of their limited exhibitions.” Kelsey stirs her own coffee as she speaks. “If anyone wants to join us. Otherwise, shall we all just branch off and meet up tonight for dinner and drinks?” More nodding. “We’d better eat quick guys,” Parker says as the last plate is laid on the table. “Sinclair looks like she’s gonna pass out in her potatoes.” * Brian’s arm lands, a familiar weight, around your shoulders at the last crossing before you’re back on your hotel’s street. You’ve journeyed further into Central London and seen a few major landmarks, and everyone has agreed on a rest before going out again. “You’re not mad at me, are you?” You cast him a bemused look, though half your attention is still on the traffic, backwards to everything you know, mesmerizing in its strangeness. “Of course not. Why would I be mad at you?” The bassist shrugs almost sheepishly. “What I said, earlier. Didn’t want you to feel bad.” You laugh, and a quick glance around reveals you to be the only people at the light, so you’re comfortable enough to say, “Truthfully, Shawn and I don’t have a sex life to speak of. And even if we did, you’ve never offended me with a joke, okay?” You lean into his shoulder a little for emphasis. The light turns in your favour, and you let Brian carry some of the weight of your tired bones across the bustling street. “Let me at least buy you another coffee,” Brian says. “Take it up, take a nap after, and we’ll all be good to go for tonight. I won’t have you tapping out before tequila, Sinclair.” “We’re almost back,” you point out. “We can just order one, can’t we?” Brian points further down, to a place labeled simply EAT. “Charlie’s been talking about a fucking matcha something or other for weeks. Says he got it out the train station every morning for like three months. You don’t wanna try that?” You laugh again. “If that’s the way you sell it, Bri. Let’s go.” He shakes his head, relinquishing you from beneath his arm. “You go up, say hi to the boy wonder. I’ll grab us a couple to go. You like you’re about to fall over.” You should be insulted, probably, but even though your body is somewhat used to the constant movement and changing time zones, the moment your mind said we don’t have a show tonight, everything in you is screaming for rest. “Thanks,” you say, relenting. “See you up there.” You’d lost the rest of the gang at the corner while you and Brian talked, and now coming up to the hotel entrance alone, you wish desperately that you hadn’t. The six girls from this morning has somehow already morphed into more than you can count, taking up the pathways on either side of the entrance, much to the both bemusement and annoyance of passers by. People across the street are gawking. Your heart thumps, harder and faster than it should, as you force your legs forward. You tell yourself that just getting to the door will probably be easier than loitering in wait for Shawn’s bandmate, who would definitely give you away. So you swallow and try to keep your head down. And that seems to work, as you move past the throng of young girls and boys whose blending, half-hushed voices are like the buzz of a hive. Until it doesn’t. “Oh my god.” A hiss cuts through your concentration, and you’re stopped by a hand. You look up to the face of a girl, her highlight beaming and her lip gloss glistening, even in a half-overcast morning. Perfectly manicured fingernails wrap around your forearm. “You’re on Shawn’s crew, aren’t you?” “I–” You’re suddenly aware of dozens of eyes on you. “I’m–” There’s a dawning in her expression; you look desperately for anyone you know. “Are you the girl from Manchester?” “Do you know when Shawn’s coming down?” asks another voice. Nerves stick your vocal cords together. “I don’t think he is.” “What?” The distressed murmur of the girl next to her echoes through the crowd. “What do you mean?” “He’s tired,” you say, knowing it’s the truth – the message burning a hole in your pocket – though it feels like a major breach to concede to even this. “He was on BBC One this morning, and we flew in so early–” “But we’ve been waiting hours!” the second girl wails, and the one holding your arm tightens her grip, narrowing her eyes. You want to wrench yourself from her hold, but the screaming instinct to protect Shawn from this mob and the constant shadow of your secret freezes you in place. The crowd presses in tighter. “How do you know?” You feel like you’re in first grade. “He’d say if he was tired, wouldn’t he?” demands someone else. A phone appears in your peripheral vision; panic overtakes the nerves, squeezing your lungs. “Please let go of me.” “I don’t believe you.” There’s something so insistent in this girl’s eyes, a demand you could never fulfill. “Shawn–” “Red!” To your eternal relief, even though it’s a name you’ve never been called, you know it’s Brian. Ignoring all the heads that turn in his direction, the bassist makes a beeline for you, holding a tray of coffee. His eyes zero in on the pink nails still keeping you captive. “What’s going on here?” “Amber,” someone hisses, and you watch long imprints leave your skin. Amber’s mouth drops open when Brian reaches for your elbow and tugs you closer to him. “C’mon,” he says to you now. You’ve never seen Brian look anything but cheery and warm; his eyes are stormy as he leads you gently forward. “Let’s go.” You’re too grateful for a friendly face to speak. “W-Wait!” cries another voice in the crowd. “Is Shawn coming down or not?” “No,” Brian snaps without looking back. “He’s on voice rest till tomorrow.” There’s more agonized noise, like he’s just told the mass of heads and phones that Shawn’s leaving London entirely and never coming back. Some people start to leave in a huff. Only steps from the entrance, you notice a girl who can’t be older than you, being shouldered aside by the person next to her, clutching an envelope in her hands and clearly trying to mask her disappointment. You think abruptly of Clara, so much so that it stops you in your tracks. “Are you okay?” you ask. The girl’s chin jerks up, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry about this.” “N-No!” she stammers. “I understand, he needs time to rest. I’m–” The envelope creases between her fingers. You step closer so she doesn’t have to raise her voice. “I’m fine, thank you. I um, didn’t even really want a picture anyway, but I couldn’t afford a meet and greet and I just...” She trails off, clearly just as uncomfortable as you at being the centre of the crowd’s frenzied attention. You nod your head at the white rectangle. “Did you want to give that to Shawn?” Her eyes are glassy. Your inexplicable urge to cry from earlier suddenly rears its head again. “I can take it for you, if you want.” Tears spill over her cheeks. You’re very glad, even more than you were moments ago, that Brian is still there, holding you up. The girl hands you the envelope, labeled simply with Shawn in careful block letters. “What’s your name?” You accept the offering with care. “Are you coming to either of the shows?” “Morgan.” Her voice hiccups. “I’ll be there tomorrow night. Thank you so much.” You manage a smile. “See you tomorrow. I’ll make sure he gets this.” “Red,” Brian says, not a shout but sharp enough that you know he’s done with this whole thing. Phone camera are surely still rolling. You nod, and wave at Morgan with the envelope in your hand. Brian holds the door open for you; people are shouting for him, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. He doesn’t let go of you until the doors swing closed. “Red?” you ask as you wait for the elevator, chancing a glance at his still thunderous expression. The bassist exhales. “Couldn’t exactly call you Sinclair, could I?” “Sorry,” you start, suddenly ashamed, hoping he doesn’t think you an absolute idiot. “I tried to just walk past–” “Hey, no.” Brian turns fully to face you. “That wasn’t your fault. We just wanna keep you safe, yeah?” You blink in the face of his intensity. “I–” You have to swallow a new knot in your throat. “Yeah. Thanks.” To your surprise, he follows you off the elevator and into the hall. “Where are you going?” “He’s gotta know about this,” The bassist says, and before you can stop him, bangs with the flat of his hand on Shawn’s door. “Hey kid!” “Bri, no!” You drag his arm back. “I’m fine. He doesn’t need–” Brian shakes his head, raising his hand again despite your best efforts. Before he can knock again, the door opens. Shawn only looks half-awake, back in the hoodie from this morning. He smiles, but you can tell that you’ve been too slow to hide the panic that hasn’t faded yet from behind your eyes. Pablo is plugged in and puffing cheerily away; you force yourself to inhale deeply. “Looked out the window yet?” Brian asks. Shawn shakes his head, but his attention is over his shoulder at you, a question, even as Brian practically hauls him over to almost floor to ceiling glass. You watch as familiar eyes nearly bug away from sleep-mussed curls. “We gotta deal with this,” Brian says. “Sinclair just–” “I’m fine,” you insist loudly. Shawn’s head whips around. You point at him, a lightning reminder. “You cannot talk.” You swing to Brian. “And it wasn’t a big deal–” “Someone grabbing you wasn’t a big deal?” You wince at the shout. “What?” Shawn’s voice is crackly from lack of use, but there’s no mistaking the alarm. You try to recreate Kris’ truly withering expression from breakfast. Brian, however, does not look sorry. “What would you have done if I hadn’t walked up right then?” he demands. It’s hard work to ignore the pole of Shawn’s eyes; you manage it in favour of glaring at his bassist. “It’s not like I wasn’t six feet from the door!” Brian points an imperious finger at the glass. “That girl laid hands on you. Did you see how many people are out there? Some of those guys were twice your size!” More knocking on the door cuts off your opportunity to shout back, though in all honestly you’re not sure what you would have said. You didn’t think Amber would have actually hurt you, but you can’t deny that even now, dozens of feet above the street, the memory of the press of the crowd still makes your heart race. Andrew sweeps an eye over the room. Shawn no longer looks like he’s the referee of a really uneven boxing match, but the tension in the room is palpable enough that Ava shoots you a bewildered look behind Andrew’s back. “You’re not going down there,” the man says. “This part of London is extremely busy. Paul and Cam can’t contain three hundred people without the help of police, and we don’t want to bother them.” He narrows his eyes. “And you’re still on voice rest.” Shawn swallows and nods, though he’s visibly frustrated by the situation. You sneak a last glare at Brian, daring him with your eyes. If he gives you up now, you probably won’t speak to him for the rest of the day. “We thought you could do an Instagram Q&A,” your sister continues. “You know, that question box feature? Then you don’t strain your voice and people sort of get to see you today.” Shawn picks up his phone from the bedside table; moments later, Andrew lifts his own. “No,” he replies aloud. “We don’t need to check your answers beforehand. You can just treat this like an Instagram live. Do it for however long you like.” “Get some rest, okay?” Ava smiles gently. “You look beat.” His lips quirk, but the smile doesn’t quite reach Shawn’s eyes. His management team departs, leaving the both of you and Brian as the points of a skewed triangle in the middle of the room. The bassist sighs and places a single to-go cup on the window sill. “I won’t tell them,” he assures you. You let your shoulders relax a fraction. “But only if you agree that you won’t go wandering around without one of us for the rest of the tour.” Part of you balks. Ava and Andrew – and everyone – are surely going to see your face online before either of you has time to tell anyone, and you resent the thought of being chaperoned like a child. But the rest of you knows he’s right. You’re shaken by what just happened to you, even if a streak of stubborn pride will never let you admit it. “Fine.” To your surprise, Brian crosses the room in two long strides before leaning down and dropping a dry kiss on your cheek. “I’ll tell Kels to give you an hour at least, yeah?” And then all of a sudden you’re alone with Shawn the first time since you woke up in his bed this morning. The door is barely closed before he’s reaching for you, his hands skimming up your sides and over your elbows like he’s looking for injury. “If you talk,” you warn, “I’m going to hang out with the girls right now and I’m going to ignore you all night.” Shawn rolls his eyes, but when he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze, you don’t need to hear his voice to understand what he’s asking. “I’m not hurt.” You wrap a hand around his wrist. You know that’s not what Shawn really means, but pretending is easy when he can’t dispute you. “You better get on–” He shakes his head, emphatic. It’s your turn to roll your eyes, but Shawn can be stubborn if he wants. He’s not doing anything until you tell him. “The girl recognized me, I guess, from last night, and–” His surprise is clear. You pick up your pace, anxious to get all this talk over with. “They wanted to know when you were gonna come down, and didn’t believe me when I said you were tired.” A flash of irritation casts a shadow over his expression, followed by something you can only describe as a protective glare; you’re startled to realize that it’s not for him, but for you. Shawn’s eyebrows crease now as he brushes his thumb over the bags beneath your eyes, another question. You shrug. “I could use a nap,” you say honestly. “But if I lay on that bed I’ll never get up again.” He seems to consider this, before pulling you towards the enormous armchair next to the window. You watch as he sits, takes a quick selfie, and gestures for you to join him. “You’re a giant,” you protest, and he just snorts and reaches for you again. Shawn seems determined, so you fold yourself into his lap, angling your legs across him and the arm of the chair so your feet are supported by the sill. The coffee Brian left is delicious, and you make a note to buy another when you can actually appreciate it, offering the rest to Shawn. It’s surprisingly comfortable, this armchair jenga: your cheek against his soft sweater, Shawn’s arm wrapped around your back so he can hold you there and type with both hands in front of your face. Hey guys, I just wanted to confirm that I am actually on voice rest until tomorrow before the show so I can be in top form to play for you all. I wish I could come down and meet you, but security is also really concerned about the size of the crowd and I don’t want any of you or my team getting hurt... Instead, I’ll be doing a story Q&A for you! Leave questions and I’ll answer as many as I can! Love you xx “Not hurt,” you remind him, a little more petulantly than probably necessary. Shawn just leans his cheek against yours, holding up his phone so you can see the text he’s pulled over his smiling mouth in two photos and the question box. “You’re good. No typos.” He brushes his mouth over your hair in thanks, and you watch him post the photos. Almost immediately, his story is inundated. Shawn takes the first about the Q&A and M&Gs, assuring everyone that they’re still on. You see at least three demanding who Red is. Shawn gestures at the question but doesn’t move to answer it. “Brian. Pretty genius, not gonna lie.” His huff of laughter is warm against your face. You find yourself relaxing, almost unwittingly, into this cozy little space Shawn’s created for you. You blink drowsily, until Shawn flicks the white envelope you’d almost forgotten, still dangling between your fingers. “S’for you,” you murmur. “Saw a girl outside, she looked a bit like Clara.” He stops typing. “She couldn’t do a meet and greet and she just wanted to give you this.” Shawn takes the envelope gingerly. You concentrate on the view of the South Bank outside the window as he slides a finger beneath the seal and pulls out a thrice-folded sheet of paper, torn from a notebook but carefully freed of frayed edges, and full of impossibly neat blue ink. You feel him tap your nose gently when you let your eyelids drop closed. “Not for me to read,” you tell him without looking up, lulled by the steady rise and fall of Shawn’s breath. “She’ll be there tomorrow though.” He hums, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Don’t let me sleep too long, please.” You burrow into him a little like a cat. “I really owe Brian that shot now.” Shawn breathes another laugh, but squeezes you gently in reply. A minute later, his hand slides beneath your chin again, and you smile with your eyes still closed when Shawn kisses you, slow and languid. Your heart starts to race again for an entirely more pleasant reason. “If you keep that up,” you say when he pulls back for air, blinking to find his smiling face shining down on you, “I might reconsider leaving at all.” Shawn shakes his head and kisses your forehead instead. His left hand reaches up, sliding gently to tuck your hair behind your ear. As you settle back against his shoulder, his fingers continue to glide through in a steady rhythm, like a gentle wave that eventually coaxes you to sleep. * In the end, after almost getting lost in the depths of all the exhibits at the Victoria and Albert Museum², the gang parts ways like this: you and Kelsey board a Richmond bound overground train to the Kew Gardens³; Parker and Kristin wander Hyde Park; Geoff, Charlie, and Brian trek up to Brick Lane. Remembering Shawn’s request, you snap photos of everything, from the MIND THE GAP yellow platform line to everyone posing in front of Canada House⁴ in Trafalgar Square. London on its own is possibly one of your favourite cities you’ve ever been to, but the fact is cemented when Kelsey leads you through the Gardens; you visit Palm⁵ House⁶, the orchid⁷ festival⁸, and the most breathtaking of all: the Life and Death exhibit by Rebecca Louise Law. (Kelsey convinced you weeks ago to finally start posting to your still-private Instagram; she gets a particularly nice one⁹ on your third go round of the specifically marked path through the endless garlands of flowers, though Shawn also likes the slightly blurred one of you laughing too close to the camera.¹⁰ The exhibit reminds you of his desire to last, for his music to endure; you wish, like you’ve wished all day, that he were here.) A few hours later, Brian gets his wish. At a bustling pub maybe three-quarters full, one of the bartenders – an older Englishman with an impressive beard wearing a Star Wars t-shirt – patiently recommends the array of London beer available to the group. Geoff leans over the bar to shake his hand, insisting on his name so as to thank him properly. “Pete,” the man says. “It’s a pleasure.” Finally, you’re the last to order. “And for you?” You’re hyper aware of people leaning on nearly every inch of the dark wood, which runs in an enormous oval in the centre of the room. The only other bartender looks younger, though he’s as tall as Shawn; you can’t see much of his face through the thick crowd, but women in the room eye him with interest. “I’m not much of a beer person,” you admit, a little embarrassed. “Cider?” Pete offers, tapping the glossy label of the last spout in the row in front of him. “Sweeter, you know, made from apples and all.” “Sure.” “Pint?” He watches you consider the enormous glass in Charlie’s hand with trepidation. “Half?” “Half, please.” You smile delightedly when Pete produces a miniature version of a pint, shaped and embossed with the same cider name and text as the full-scale you can see dotted around the room. Geoff beats everyone to the punch paying for the round, and the gang snags a corner of benches and small stools on the far side of the pub, beneath a wall displaying twenty-five varieties of gin. Facing the bar, you have ample opportunity to people watch, dipping in and out of the flow of conversation; Charlie and Parker are currently debating the merits of pizza versus pasta in an ‘every day for the rest of your life’ context (you, for the record, choose pasta). The pub fills up quickly. The crowd seems to lean more towards elder locals, though as you sit there, a young woman, probably around Kelsey and Kristin’s age, snakes through the room, weaving easily around the throng to the end of the bar closest to you. She greets Pete by name and several clusters of people, taking a stool. When Kristin rises for another round several minutes later, you watch as the serious looking younger bartender looks towards the girl on the stool, but she nods her head at Kris instead, so he serves her first. When a half pint of cider is finally placed in front of her, the girl smiles warmly at him. He leans his elbows on the bar as they talk, familiarity between them though the pub is too loud for you to be able to make anything out. “He’s cute,” Kelsey says, more conversational than anything. You nod absently. You suppose it’s instinctive to compare this stranger to Shawn: this boy is similarly pale, though his hair is a lighter shade of brown and sticks up shorter where Shawn’s curls over his forehead. The other boy also has a more square face, and his eyes are a striking shade of blue. You think of Hannah. This bartender is exactly her type, right down to the eye colour (she’d lamented to you years ago about the boringness of brown eyed boys, though these days you couldn’t disagree more). If you were on speaking terms, you would have snuck a photo and sent it along with several suggestive emojis. But now you just let the thought pass with a dull ache.

* “Hey. Sinclair.” Charlie’s voice tickles your hair in a familiar whisper as you lean on the bar some three and a half rounds later. You need water. “Be cool.” “Right,” you reply without turning your head. You watch him slide his credit card onto the bar, beneath your hand. “You’re going to order the first round of tequila with this card, and you’re not gonna let Geoff or Brian see. They’re getting air with the girls. I’m supposed to be in the bathroom.” “Because they already suspect you?” “Obviously.” “Obviously,” you echo, smiling. “Okay, done.” “My girl,” he says affectionately. Charlie murmurs the pin in your ear and slips away again. A minute later, the young bartender finally turns to you. He looks expectant and you’re momentarily at a loss; fuck his eyes are really blue. “May I have a glass of water?” you ask, regaining your tongue, and he nods, lifting the spray nozzle in his hand. “And seven shots of tequila?” He raises an eyebrow at you as if to confirm he heard you right. “Seven?” His accent isn’t English, but you don’t have a good enough ear to place it. French, maybe? You flush just a little. “My friends are outside.” He nods again, exhaling like he’s holding back laughter. “Lime or lemon? Salt?” “Lime, please. And salt.” You watch him line seven glasses along the bar and fill them expertly. “Are you Canadian?” he asks, conversational. You blink in surprise. Most people assume the other side of the border. “Yes.” He smiles, a fleeting thing. “You sound like someone I know,” he explains, before turning away to slice a new lime on the centre island. Aware of eyes on you, you look up to catch three men with various shades of salt and pepper and silver hair, stealing glances down the bar at you and conferring amongst themselves. You look away, unsure of what to do. “Don’t mind them,” says a voice from behind you. You turn to find the girl from the end of the bar, her cheeks flushed. She lifts her chin at the men. “You’re new and pretty and they’re just being weirdos thinking you won’t be able to handle your liquor.” This must be the fellow Canadian. Some strange part of you is pleased. “Okay then,” you say slowly, and she smiles at you before sitting at an empty stool and turning towards the boy behind the counter. “Ben,” she calls, drawing out the ‘e’. He looks up. “May I have two shots of tequila when you’re done?” She glances over at your small fleet. “Or are you out already?” Ben shakes his head. “Got another bottle. You’re not having both are you?”

“Oh yeah, I’m double fisting it tonight.” The girl laughs. “One’s for Lex. She’s making friends outside, as usual.” The bartender nods his head at you. “Guess where she’s from?” From his tone, this seems like a well worn question. Her eyes light up as she turns back to you. “Canada?” You nod, and her smile is ridiculously wide. “Toronto.” You’ve never seen someone so delighted by your hometown before. “Amazing. Love it there.” “You?” you ask as Ben presents a small plate of seven nearly perfect wedges of lime. “Alberta. Oh sorry, how rude of me.” She reaches a hand out. “I’m Iris.” You shake. “Ellie.” “Nice to meet you Ellie. This is Ben.” Iris nods her head at the boy on the other side of the smooth, dark wood. “Who is terrible at introductions.” “I’m working,” he objects, depositing another two glasses in front of her as he says it. “You’re the one who likes talking to everybody.” You pay for the tequila with Charlie’s card. “And you talk to me, so we’re golden.” Iris grins at him, clearly pleased with her logic. Ben rolls his eyes, but there’s no real malice in it. He lays a wedge of lime over the top of each of Iris’ full shots and pushes the salt towards her. “You’re drunk.” “Not drunk,” Iris corrects. “Tipsy.” “How many have you had?” he asks. “Mm, four.” She squints at her shot. “No, five.” “Five?” Ben frowns. “I only served you three drinks.” Iris laughs. “Oh but Pete loves me, didn’t you know?” “Is there a magic number?” you ask, intrigued. She opens her mouth, but another voice says, “Seven.” From behind Iris another girl has appeared, though her accent is definitely English. In tow, somehow, is the entire gang. “Alex!” Iris hauls her friend forward. “This is Ellie. She’s Canadian.” “As are almost all her friends.” Alex gestures at the band and the girls. “Everyone, this is Iris, my tiny Canadian, who can only consume a specific variety of seven drinks in one evening before she’s pissed.” “Why is that always how you introduce me?” Iris complains. Behind the bar, Ben snorts. “Because it’s my favourite fact about you!” Alex winks at you. Introductions are made and shots are passed down. “Can I propose a toast? To Canada, for producing really cool people?” “Can we counter that toast with London for doing the same?” Brian asks, and Alex clinks her glass with his. “Here here!” You lock eyes with Iris last, who grins before tapping her glass on the bar and throwing it back. “Shall we take this back outside?” Alex suggests. Iris waves her off while the gang agrees.

“Gotta pee, see you in a sec.” You reach forward to help instinctively as Iris gathers all the empty glasses and discarded lime into a pile for Ben, who sweeps them off the bar and begins to serve again.

“Alright, Ellie?” Kelsey asks, and you nod. “I think I’ll hang here for a bit.”

“You know where to find us,” she says, and everyone leaves you and Iris seated together. “Six?” you prompt.

She nods, laughing lightly. “Six. Thankfully Lex lives literally three minutes down the street, so I don’t have far too go if we tip over the edge tonight.” Iris hops off her stool, proclaiming she’ll be back in two. You nurse your water, and watch in surprise as Ben reappears, sliding a steaming mug and saucer of tea across the bar in front of Iris’ empty seat. You can smell the peppermint from a foot away. He winks at you, lifting a finger to his lips. You blush before you can stop yourself.

Minutes later, Iris returns, staring at the tea as she sits down. “Did I order this?” You shrug. “Fuck,” she mutters. “Am I that sloshed already?” Iris furrows her eyebrows and leans forward to catch Ben’s attention. “Was this you?” He looks amused but doesn’t deny it. “I know you,” he says. “You’re drunk now, and you’re going to ask me for it.” Ben’s smile is teasing. “Only person ever to chase tequila with tea.”

Iris makes a face. “You know what, Ben?” But the question clearly doesn’t even have an answer; Iris just resorts to scowling and Ben’s laughter transforms his entire face. Oh, you think. I get it now.

“I hate you,” she mutters. “No you don’t,” he says matter of factly. Iris sighs, as if she’s long since resigned herself to the fact. But when she looks at Ben again her eyes are soft. “Thank you lovely.” Iris uses lovely like a noun, like a tender endearment.

You feel abruptly as though you’re intruding on something private. Ben shrugs a little. “That’s alright.” He glances down and then up again, smiling with one side of his mouth higher than the other – you’re reminded so viscerally of Shawn that it’s hard not to stare – before he’s called away further down the bar.

“He’s right though.” Iris laughs a little again. “I’m pretty much drunk now.” She runs a finger around the rim of her mug. “I’d better drink this.” Her smile is almost rueful. “Don’t become best friends with bartenders. You’ll start drinking way too much.” “Noted.” “So what brings you to London, Ellie?” You should lie, probably. “We’re on tour with a musician. He’s not here tonight.” “Oh yeah? Anyone I’d know?” The shot has loosened your tongue. But there’s something very warm in Iris’ gaze, something trustworthy. “Shawn Mendes?” Her eyebrows fly up. “Seriously? Holy shit! I love him. I wish I’d known he was in town sooner. I would’ve dragged Lex to go see him. Is everyone part of his team?” You nod. “And you?” “Um,” you say. “I’m not– I’m no one.” Iris casts you dubious look. You swallow. “It’s complicated.” The older woman studies you for another moment, before she smiles gently. “You don’t have to tell me,” she says. “I’m just a slightly drunk girl in a pub drinking tea.” Iris takes a long sip. You don’t know why you say it; maybe you’re also more drunk than you thought. Maybe, like with Taylor, something in you knows that Iris is safe. Or maybe you can’t bear the weight of this truth anymore. “I’m pretty sure I’m in love with him.” Iris puts down her cup. “Oh honey.” It’s not a condescension, but an empathy. Before you know it, the story in its entirety comes pouring out. You tell Iris about your sister, the first tour across the States, about every correspondence over the long break between albums, about Clara and Hannah and Amber and Morgan. You tell her about the Twitter threads, popping up faster than Ava can even ask you about them, about Andrew’s iron fist, and about this strange fear of your own wanting whenever Shawn’s eyes go dark. “It’s the talk, that’s the worst.” you admit. “They’re all just speculating, and I want to be able to just ignore it, you know, but some fans are just…” You don’t dare finish your sentence. Iris nods thoughtfully. “Gossip can be pretty awful,” she says. “It can ruin a lot, if you let it.” You follow her eyes across the room to Ben, who is pouring with both hands and then impressively, leaning his forehead on a third spout to finish a set Guinness. He makes a silly face at her over the row of taps and she smiles back at him, though when he turns away, there’s something very sad in it. Your curiosity burns but you don’t dare give it voice. “I know it must all feel like too much,” Iris continues. “But you know how Shawn feels about you.” She swivels to face you fully. “That’s more than a lot of us ever get. You took your chance before anyone could say anything about it.” She reaches for your hands and squeezes gently. “You deserve to be happy. And your secret’s safe with me, okay? I swear.” You’re going to cry, definitely. “I’m scared.” If you’re going to bare your soul tonight, you may as well go all the way. “I’m scared that all of this is going to ruin us before we even get started.” It could be the alcohol, but it looks like Iris flinches. You’ve regretted enough in your life to be able to see it, even distantly, in someone else’s face. “Don’t let people who’ll never matter in your relationship dictate your actions,” she says. You force yourself to hold her eyes. “You were that brave before. You can be that brave again.” She smiles, and that distant look disappears. “I know I’m not an expert in the business, but you’re such a sweetheart. And Shawn seems wonderful. Plus, you’re so young.” “I miss him,” you blurt, and she squeezes again. “Isn’t that stupid? I see him everyday.” Iris shakes her head. “Not stupid at all. You said you have tonight off right?” At your confirmation, she asks, “So what are you still doing here?”

Good question. “I’ll be right back,” you say now. Iris lifts her mug of tea in approval, her eyes sparkling as you rush out to the patio area. The gang is still chatting with Alex, who has her head on the shoulder of a handsome man as they sit amongst the low benches and chairs. “Kris?” The lighting expert looks up at you, her head tilting when she takes in your possibly wild expression. “I think I’m gonna go.” “Are you okay?” she asks, standing to give you a careful look. You nod. “I just…” You struggle to find the right words. “Want a little time.” Kristin’s gaze softens. “Sure. Let’s sort our bill and go, okay? We can Uber if we’ve missed the last train.” “You don’t have to–” you start, but she shakes her head. “Set up starts early,” she says, waving away your protest. Kris leans down to speak to Parker, who thankfully gives you enough grace to not even look up at you before he too, is on his feet. “I think we’re gonna call it,” he says casually to the group. “And we have Sinclair. We’ll see you guys in the morning for breakfast?” There are nods and goodbyes all around. As Parker and Kristin pay their tabs with Pete, you find Iris in the same place, accepting a kiss on the cheek from a short, older man with a weathered face and kind eyes.

“If I were just forty years younger,” he says, and her lips quirk like it’s something she’s heard before. “I’d absolutely say yes, John.” Her smile widens when she catches sight of you. “Ellie! Headed out?” You nod, and it’s oddly wonderful to have a stranger seem proud. “It was so amazing to meet you.” Iris pulls you in for a hug. “Go get him,” she says in your ear, squeezing tight. You look back once at the door. Ben is wiping the counter on the far side of the bar, and glances up. You lift your hand in a wave, which he returns. From her seat, Iris throws her head back in laughter with the same man, the sound just a touch louder than the music and the hum of conversation. Ben looks over at her, smiles, and goes back to work. * Shawn looks so pleased to see you that you nearly blurt it out right then and there. But then his eyebrows lift in confusion, and he taps his watch. You’re back early. “It just occurred to me,” you say, feeling slightly breathless, “that this probably looks like a booty call. Do people still call it that?” Shawn looks like he’s tempted to laugh, but you stumble on. “But I don’t care. I wanted to see you.” He blinks. Sober you would blush beneath the warmth of his gaze. “I probably also sound drunk,” you continue. “Which I’m not, entirely. I’m a little tipsy. But still perfectly in control of myself.” More or less. He’s going to laugh at you again. Before you can drop too far into mortification, Shawn pulls you in by the wrist. You can feel the tequila warming you through, emboldening you. It’s freeing in a way, the fact that he can’t speak and you instinctively stop wanting to either; you say enough, you think, dragging Shawn down by the collar, and so does he, pinning your hips against the door with both hands. Your mouths meet in the middle and well– Talking’s overrated, isn’t it? (You have enough presence of mind to set an alarm, this time.) You tiptoe back to your room at 12:37am, when midnight became ten more minutes, and then ten more, and so on and so forth. It’s burned into your brain, that look in Shawn’s eyes, as he sat up against his headboard and you knelt between his open legs, pulling yourself up so you looked down on him in a thrilling flip of your height difference. You’re grateful this shirt doesn’t wrinkle and there’s no visible proof of Shawn’s fingers having found their way under it, ascending the tower of your spine and making you shudder nearly as hard as he did when you seized his curls and tilted his head back for a kiss. He bumps into the bottom of your bralette and not-quite-drunk you is glad that despite how nice it looks, it’s not so easy to get out of. You know, and Shawn does too, judging by his smile, that anything beyond his gently wandering hands is probably a bad idea. It doesn’t stop you from trembling as he traces the lace around your back, over your ribs, keeping your eyes the entire time and making no move to pull it off or touch you beneath it. Even though both the tipsy and sober halves of you want him to. You wish, slipping into your dark hotel room, that you’d been just drunk and brazen enough to simply yank your top off, like in one of those smooth movie moments, but of course you hadn’t been. But that’s okay, you know, taking care not to drop the bottle of water Shawn had pressed into your hand between goodbyes at (against) the door. Tonight was not the night. You still have someday. * @stanmendes88: SOMEONE TRIED TO ASK HIM ABOUT RED WHAT THE FUCK. WHY ARE PEOPLE LIKE THIS??? [The horizontal video focuses mostly on Shawn, sitting with both legs dangling off the stage. At the edge of the camera, perfectly manicured pink nails wrap around the microphone. “I was wondering what your relationship with your crew is like?” “They’re the best,” Shawn replies easily, leaning back on his palm. “I’ve never worked with more hardworking and dedicated people.” “Anyone in particular?” the girl presses. He stiffens, almost imperceptibly. “I’m sorry?” Someone further behind the camera whispers, “Oh my god.” The girl is still holding the mic, even though her question is up. “People think you might be closer with certain members of your crew than others.” Heads are whipping back and forth like they’re watching a ping-pong match. The camera trembles as it zooms in on Shawn. “People think a lot of things,” he says, his tone measured. His eyes are flinty, the curve of his mouth frozen in place. “But considering this question doesn’t really seem about me, I think we should move on.” An audible murmur flits through the assembly of gathered fans. One face in view is shooting manicured girl an extremely judgemental look. “Hi Mr. Shawn.” Coos and ‘aww’s’ overtake the room as the camera turns to a little girl, no older than eight, as she smiles up at Shawn from the front of the room. Everyone’s attention turns to Shawn, who has hopped off the stage to crouch down in front of the new speaker. “Hi, sweetheart.” likes: 32; retweets: 6] * “Ellie, there you are.” You nearly drop the kit. Shawn’s manager looks strangely incongruous in the doorway of the spare dressing room, where all the extra, smaller pieces of fragile equipment are going to live over the next two nights. The O2 is one of the most intimidating venues you’ve ever seen; even tracing your steps back to this room for one of Kelsey’s lenses had been an ordeal. “Shawn’s two doors down,” you blurt, thinking he’s just mistaken, but Andrew doesn’t move. “I’m looking for you, actually.” Your stomach plummets. Dread takes root around your lungs, making it hard to speak. “Did you need something?” You haven’t broken any of the rules since you left Manchester. If anything, after news of the day’s Q&A spread, you’ve been avoiding Shawn entirely and he’s been giving you slightly forlorn, but understanding glances all day. But he’s due onstage in less than ten minutes so you’re in show mode now; some awful part of you is grateful for the distance. “No.” “Am I–” You scramble to put down the lens. It’s foolish to think he doesn’t know, this man who’s been part of Shawn’s life longer than anyone else on this tour. “Am I behaving unprofessionally?” He shakes his head. Your heart thumps in your throat. Andrew sighs. He looks tired, you think. You can’t imagine how much work it takes to manage Shawn’s success and all the wild layers that come along with it. “You’ve been identified on Twitter. You and Ava both, actually. Started sometime last night, confirmed just a little while ago.” You do drop the (thankfully empty) kit this time. Andrew steps further into the room as you manage to sink into the only chair without falling. “Do we–” You can feel a knot pressing on the question, but you force it out. “Do we know who...” Did she tell? “No,” Andrew admits, like it annoys him. “Not yet, anyway.” You’re glad you managed to sit down; the room feels like it’s tilting. “I suppose two years was longer than anyone expected us to be able to pull this off,” he continues. You can’t tell exactly by Andrew’s tone whether he’s upset, nor can you work out how you feel. Should you be scared? Relieved? “Ava was busy with meet and greets, but I wanted to let you know as soon as possible so you were prepared.” Prepared? Prepared for what? Legions of girls (and boys) to eviscerate you? “Um,” you start, and then stop. You have no idea what to say. “Okay.” Shawn’s manager gives you a look, as though he can’t decide if he should be satisfied with this non-reaction. “We can talk about it more later,” he says. “Let’s just get through tonight.” Andrew’s almost out the door before you call, “Wait.” He turns, and you nearly lose your nerve. You remember what Iris told you, what she reminded you that you’re capable of. Be brave. “I feel like I should apologize. And possibly thank you.” For the first time, you see a crack in Andrew’s infallible professional veneer; his expression crosses somewhere between confusion and laughter. You press on. “I know it hasn’t been easy, dragging me along all this time and keeping me a secret. I understand why it had to be done, to protect Shawn’s image. I’m sorry that you had to deal with so much. I’m sorry if–” You swallow. You can’t be sorry for having feelings, really. Nor would you be. “I’m sorry if our...our relationship caused you stress or difficulty.” “Ellie…” Is that remorse in his eyes? Is it even real? Does it matter? You muster a weak smile. “This has been the most amazing two years of my life. And I owe it to you, more than anyone. I just wanted to thank you, for this opportunity.” You gesture at the room. “And for allowing me to get to know him.” Andrew looks at you for a long time, long enough that you’re effectively brought back down from nervous confidence to plain old nervousness. “It’s my job,” he says finally, “to look out for Shawn.” Andrew levels you with a gaze that’s probably meant to be neutral, but feels cutting anyway. “What’s done now is done. This is nothing against you personally. I know you care about him, and I know he asked you to come to New York and Kelsey wants you on the rest of the tour, but considering what’s been going on…” Your heart sinks. “You need to think about what’s best for him. And his career.” Andrew leaves you sitting there, reeling. It’s not until your phone buzzes in your pocket that you remember you’re supposed to be getting back, but the buzzing doesn’t stop. Hannah wants to Facetime. Slide to answer. You almost drop your phone. But you don’t accept the call. * Shawn’s been anxious about the London shows since the dates were announced practically a year ago. The crowds here, he’s told you, are some of the best in the world. All he wants to do is to live up to their expectations. It’s why you push everything else out of your mind and make sure to take your spot, the same place you ended the Manchester show, so that you’re one of the last people to look into Shawn’s eyes before he hops over the last step onto the stage. You can’t even shout over the noise. You wish you could touch him but you don’t dare. You can do this. I believe in you. It’s going to be amazing. He’s a little nervous, still. But as Shawn turns away, you wouldn’t know it from the way he bounds up, guitar slung over his shoulder, to truly the most deafening screams you’ve heard yet on tour. After TNHMB and halfway into Lost in Japan, you know he’s alright. You can hear it in his voice. You should be with Mike on the floor; you can see Kelsey onstage, capturing, as she likes to, the first few moments of every show from as close as possible. But you only make it halfway up the catwalk, caged in on all sides by the press of bodies and the screaming and the waving hands. Your heart starts to race, your breath not quite coming as slowly as it should. Flashes of the crowd outside the hotel overtake you. You have to tighten your grip on your camera lest you drop it; the strap around your neck feels weightless, invisible. I can’t be in here. You can see Mike in a distance that’s only a few feet but feels like eons, staring at you. Your vision is blurring. Just don’t run. You manage a somewhat normal pace, spinning on your heel back towards mainstage. The walkie clipped to your hip crackles almost incoherent noise under the arena thrum. “–llie...catch her–” You brush past both Cam and Paul, past ground crew, weaving half-hazardly and miraculously not bumping into anyone, laying your shaking hands on the very back door just as someone calls your name. “Ellie!” Bursting into the static, mostly silent light of the backstage hall is so shocking you almost fall. “Hey.” Sam’s voice is alarmed. “Are you okay?” All you can do is shake your head. Sam wraps his hand around your arm. “C’mon,” he says, and leads you down the hall. You wonder where he’s taking you, until the guitar hand is shoving a door a open with his hip. Shawn’s cologne still lingers. Sam pries your camera from your hands. He is the only person besides the band that Shawn allows to handle his instruments. You should know him better, you think. From here, the din has faded to an almost faint white noise. “Just try to breathe,” he says, pushing you down gently onto the sofa. Pablo sits in his omnipresent place in the corner of the room. You point. “Can you–” you croak, gasping. Sam doesn’t ask questions. Soon enough lavender fills the air and you force as deep an inhale as you can manage, doubled over your knees and staring at the floor in an effort to get the room to stop falling in and out of focus. The dark, double knotted laces of his shoes appear in your field of vision. “Do you need a distraction?” Sam asks. You nod mutely. “Can you...can you name all the tour stops we’ve been on so far? In order?” “Lisbon,” you start, your chest heaving. “Barcelona. Madrid. Berlin. Brussels.” “Good,” he encourages. “Keep going.” You rattle them off. You stumble between Amsterdam and Stockholm. “And Oslo.” “You got it. Next?” “Montpellier. Paris. Dublin. Leeds. Birmingham. Manchester.” You don’t mean to wince, but it happens anyway. Your heart is still in your throat, but at least it’s slower now. “And where are we tonight?” “London.” You ease yourself upright and accept the bottle of water he offers you. “Thanks.” “Maybe you should sit this one out,” Sam suggests. You shake your head. “He’s been talking about these shows forever. I can’t miss it.” The guitar hand – he can’t be that much older than you, really, so how is it that you’re falling apart? – considers you for a moment. You meet his gaze. You didn’t cower with Andrew; you refuse to back down now. Sam glances at his watch. “At least hang here for a few songs. I’ll come get you before Bad Reputation.” You blink. Sam grins now, a little teasing. “You tell him you don’t have favourites, but we all know that’s a lie.” If you weren’t coming down off a panic attack, you would blush. “Okay,” you relent. “Thank you.” “You’re shaking,” he points out, and drags Shawn’s black Givenchy hoodie off the chair he’d left in on. Sam rolls his eyes at your hesitation. “It’s just me, Ellie. Come on. What am I gonna do, rat you out?” You wince again. His eyes are gentle now; what is it about your feelings for Shawn that makes you feel so scared? “You’re safe, alright?” He’s right. You know it, despite your trembling hands. You drag the sweater over your head, shivering in adjustment to the soft warmth of it, inhaling the even more concentrated smell of Shawn, beneath the cologne and the deodorant. You’re safe. “I’ll be back in a bit.” Getting up from the coffee table, Sam points at the bottle in your hand. “Drink all of that.” “Sam–” He stops. You hate how frail your voice sounds. “Please don’t tell. I’m okay. I don’t want anyone to worry.” He doesn’t pity you, thank god, but even his empathy feels like more than you can bear. “Mike called over the comm. I was just only person who managed to catch you.” Apparently you can still blush after all. “Oh.” Sam smiles. He, like Ben, is objectively very handsome. You would have thought in another life, but you can’t imagine one with Sam that doesn’t also involve Shawn. You’re stuck in his orbit; there would be no contest. “Just the crew channel,” he says, a reminder. “So you might be good, at least for now.” It’s a relief; the thought of Shawn being even momentarily distracted from the show is all Andrew needs to prove his – unspoken, yet crystal clear – point. Your stomach twists unpleasantly. Sam leaves you alone with Pablo and engulfed in Shawn’s hoodie, both of which give you comfort. The most fragile part of you wants to stay here. But Shawn’s out there. You finish the bottle of water, and turn off Pablo. Maybe fifteen minutes later, when Sam returns, you’re already on your feet. “Let’s go,” he says, holding his hand out for a fist bump. You hug him instead. * Shawn strums for what seems like a long time on B stage; Youth, Perfectly Wrong, and Life of the Party are all over and the crowd waits with bated breath to see which acoustic track they’ll receive tonight. “Before anyone accuses me of stealing,” he says, “Taylor told me to do this.” Laughter echoes. “She says that unique experiences have a singular power, and that every person who listens to our music has unique lives. Even though you probably all know the setlist and which guitars I use when, every crowd I’ve played on this tour has been different.” Shawn looks out at the arena, his smile brilliant. “And you, London, will always be one of the most incredible I’ve ever played for.” It’s a wonder that he hasn’t gone deaf yet. “So I wanted to give you something special. This song means a lot to me, and I’ve always been so floored when I get to learn what my music means to you. I’m truly humbled to be a part of your lives and to be there for you in tough times. Morgan, thank you so much for sharing your story with me. This is Hold On.” “No fucking way.” The girl closest to you clutches at her companion, true wonderment in her eyes. “He never does this live!” The sound of thousands of voices harmonizing with Shawn will never fail to give you goosebumps. You wish you knew where Morgan was in the room, but the feeling only heightens when you arrive at the last pre-chorus. And so I said Mo, stay with me Everything will be alright The O2 roars. The pause in the song stretches, as if he too is searching for the girl with the incredibly perfect handwriting. You blink a rush of tears from your eyes. “Morgan, what the fuck!” You whip your head around. It seems inconceivable; the O2 seats twenty thousand, and hundreds more are crammed onto the floor. But there she is, pressed against the barrier a third of the way down the catwalk. You have no idea how you missed her. Her stillness in all the chaos around her is striking. I don't know what You’re going through But there’s so much life Ahead of you So you just gotta hold on Kelsey has always let you have B stage; Shawn enjoys looking right into your lens at least once or twice a night, so pointing at Morgan from the bottom of the stairs isn’t quite as hard as you’ve have thought. He turns his head. All we can do is hold on, yeah Yeah, you just gotta hold on Just hold on for me Fans have fully embraced the tour aesthetic and taken to giving Shawn flowers as he returns to mainstage (your Instagram is now peppered with flatlays of his shirt and single stems from various tour stops), and tonight he accepts a bright yellow tulip from a shaking girl. You walk backwards carefully, stopping in front of Morgan so all you have to do is nod towards her when Shawn makes a beeline in your direction, Cam hot on his heels. The composure you can see Morgan’s been trying to hang onto wavers when he reaches over the barrier to pull her into a hug, lingering a lot longer than he’s meant to. You squeeze down on your shutter as tightly as you can tell Shawn’s holding her. You can’t hear over people screaming his name when he pulls back, but you can see the words on his lips as Shawn presents Morgan with the tulip and takes both of her hands in his. Thank you so much. He says something else, leaning close to her. She nods, her eyes wet and overbright. Unlike a lot of other fans he’s interacted with on the catwalk, she doesn’t reach for him when he peels away. Shawn has to take the rest of the stretch at a run, grabbing at hands and reaching for high fives even as he and Cam blow past you. Morgan has dissolved in tears into the girl next to her. You need to follow Shawn before you do the same. “Ready to dance, London?” he asks, sounding a little out of breath, and the band launches into Queen. You think you’re imagining a chorus of voices calling your name, but it keeps happening. “Ellie! Ellie!” You turn. Three young girls wave frantically from the floor. Stunned, your arm waves back without explicit instruction; they burst into screams, grabbing at each other in excitement. The world doesn’t end. No one is shooting you daggers with their eyes. This is fine, you think. I can do this. * “I can’t do this.” “What can’t you do?” Ava asks, leaning over. You lift your phone to show her the two hundred follow requests on your Instagram that have appeared since you decided to turn your phone off yesterday. Hannah won’t stop calling. It’s cowardly, possibly, but you’ve also realized that you have no idea what you’d say to her that isn’t an accusation, or anything you’re prepared to hear, especially if it’s a confirmation of her betrayal. “Holy shit.” “Hey,” you complain. “What happened to ‘language’?” Your sister just shakes her head. “I’m just surprised it took them till tonight to find you.” “That’s really helpful, thanks.” Ava shrugs patiently. There isn’t much to be done, really. Your account is still private, and no one can force you to delete it. You marvel internally at the perseverance of whoever initially discovered your account; you don’t use hashtags on your photos, and as Shawn pointed out to you last year, there are dozens upon dozens of ‘Ellie Sinclair’s on the app. And of course, you’ve never appeared on Shawn’s account (upon pain of death, as Charlie dramatically puts it). You sigh. “Well that was fun while it lasted, I guess.” Ava offers you a sympathetic look. While you haven’t left the hotel since returning from night one besides a trip to EAT with Charlie, Paul’s sudden desire for fresh air hadn’t escaped your notice. Thankfully, it was a lot easier to ignore people shouting at you when you were shielded by two hundred pounds of hulking, stoic muscle. Shawn didn’t go down to meet the crowd today either; Andrew insists on voice rest even more when you do multiple shows in the same city. But the second London show is over. Shawn had treated the entire band and crew to drinks in the hotel, and now you’re staring at your suitcase trying to figure out this nagging feeling that you’re forgetting something. “Don’t panic,” Ava says, toothbrush in her mouth. “We don’t fly out till tomorrow afternoon.” You don’t reply, too wrapped up in your thoughts. “What’s up with you? I would’ve thought you would be out celebrating with everyone. First leg of the tour is over! You get five days off. In a row.” You haven’t told her – or anyone, for that matter – about your conversation with Andrew. And besides a few questioning concerned glances, no one has brought up you fleeing the arena to have a small panic attack in Shawn’s dressing room. You don’t know how long you can keep up the charade. “Just tired.” Though he’s respected the rules you’re still technically bound to (even the thought of hiding it now is laughable), Shawn definitely knows something’s up. You’d claimed exhaustion last night easily enough, but you can’t avoid him now. Not when everyone else conspicuously called it a night early, leaving you to follow your sister, who waved cheerily at Shawn as you left the hotel bar twenty minutes ago. There is no grand and drawn out goodbye; you’re meant to be getting on the same flight tomorrow. Your stomach twists when you think about it for too long. A text chime surprises you out of your reverie. Shawn: Hey El it’s me. You left a sweater downstairs. You: Oh thanks! I almost forgot you had my number. Are you on your way up? Shawn: Haha you gave it to me the night IMB came out, remember? I figured you didn’t want to deal with Instagram. I’ll be at your door in ten seconds. You stare. You forgot, sometimes, how in tune he is with any social media involving himself or his fans. It’s disarming, too, to know that he’s probably seen what you have, that your handle has been found. That the accusations are already flying. That so many people you will never meet seem to hate you already. (You hadn’t had any illusions about being immune to online vitriol, but it’s hard to realize you’re not as strong as you want to be.) Perfectly on cue, there’s a knock at the door. “Hey you,” he says with a smile. Despite the depth of your anxiety, Shawn will never fail to settle something in you. “Hi.” You can’t physically cling to a feeling, but you can lean into his space. Even without real touch, you’re safe. You have to keep reminding yourself. His smile is a little more crooked than usual. “Are you drunk?” you ask. Shawn shakes his head. “I wish. But I hate flying hungover, so I stopped after a few.” “How responsible of you.” He just chuckles and holds up one of your favourite green hoodies. You thank him and launch it in the general direction of your bed. You miss, of course. Ava gives you a curt thumbs down. Shawn’s smile widens. “Wanna hang out? I’m so excited to sleep in tomorrow.” God, he’s adorable. It’s so curious, how he can be the eye of your anxious hurricane one minute and the bright, warm sun that banishes your doubt in the next. “Yeah.” Shawn leans further into the room to flash a grin at Ava. “Okay if I steal your sister for a bit?” She rolls her eyes at him from her bed. “You guys are seriously making me feel like one of those really old rich grandmothers who needs to approve everyone her grandchildren dates. Stop.” “Does that make me Nick Young?” you ask, delighted. “Amazing.” “Who?” Shawn looks from you to your sister as you both dissolve into laughter. “I’ll explain later,” you assure him, patting him gently on the chest. He catches your fingers in his, holding them firmly. It’s the first proper contact you’ve had since the night before last and you both know it. You look away first; Shawn’s gaze heats your cheek as you look back at your sister. “Night. Love you.” “Hey Shawn,” Ava calls. He stops after having pulled your hand from his chest, holding it so he can lead you out of the room. “Congratulations. I know we said it already, but it bears repeating. This leg was amazing.” The flush of his ears will never cease to make you smile. “I’m really proud of you.” He blinks, and then twice more, his impossibly (annoyingly) long eyelashes brushing the swells of his cheeks like the beat of graceful butterfly wings. Shawn looks, just for a moment, overcome. You squeeze his hand instinctively. “Thanks Av,” he says, something gravely in his voice. Her smile is fond. “Night, kiddo.” Shawn glances down as if to double check you’re still there. You tighten your grip on his hand and together you step out into the hallway, making the short journey down the hall to his room in relative silence. “TV?” he offers as you step out of shoes. “A movie?” “Whatever’s fine.” You’re sure you won’t be able to focus on it anyway. E4 is playing a Brooklyn Nine-Nine marathon. You’re both caught up but it’s always an easy rewatch. By some unspoken agreement you sit pressed together in the centre of the bed, your head tucked against his neck and Shawn’s arm wrapped around your shoulder. It’s terrifying to remember that no one will knock on the door tonight, and that you have nowhere to be in the morning. Shawn gives you till the end of the latest Halloween Heist before he says, “Okay?” His gaze is as soft as his question, like you could lie right to his face and he’d let you. “You seem...” You brace yourself. “Far away.” You can’t lie, but you can’t quite say your manager wants us to – to what? Break up? Can you break up with someone you were never really with in the first place? “I think so,” you manage at last. “These past few days were just…” It’s your turn to pause. “A lot.” Shawn keeps your eyes for several moments before he sighs a little. “I don’t think I made it any easier for you.” Well that’s not what I was expecting. You shift up so you can look at him properly. “What do you mean?” Shame isn’t something you’ve ever seen cross his face. “The Q and A. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I feel like I made it so much worse. And the crowd–” “Stop.” You reach for his cheek so he has to look at you. “Stop apologizing to me, okay? None of that was your fault.” Shawn’s jaw sets beneath your hand, like steel. “It’s not my fans that made you so anxious that you had to leave the show the other night? That grabbed you in public?” You try to cover your flinch. But your fingers slip and land on the comforter. I can’t believe he saw. “You can’t blame them for me having a panic attack,” you retort. You realize your mistake too late when his expression goes from tense to wildly concerned. But you don’t let him interject. “And what was I going to do? Stroll down to your meet and greet and say, hey Shawn, this girl you’re taking a photo with grabbed me in broad daylight and demanded I produce you like a freaking magician? And wasted her Q and A question trying to be a nosy brat? What would you have done?” You didn’t mean to start almost yelling at him. Shawn looks, more than anything, a bit shocked. You want to reel back, abashed, but he catches you before you can go too far, his hand covering yours. “I’m sorry,” you blurt, unable to look at him. “That was so unfair of me.” “I mean…” His fingers twist your hair back. The understanding you force yourself to recognize just piles on your contrition. “I don’t think so. It probably didn’t help that I literally haven’t been allowed to talk for like three days.” Shawn’s lips quirk like he’s trying not to smile. It makes you want to lean forward and kiss him, which you know, wouldn’t probably be productive to this conversation. You’re both capable of being serious adults. You still want to. “I can’t believe that girl,” you say instead. “Did she think you were gonna go, yeah her name’s Ellie and we kissed before breakfast this morning?” Shawn breathes a laugh. Tension unfurls a little in your stomach, though not enough that you can feel genuinely relaxed. “Okay,” he says, sliding his fingers up your wrist. “So maybe I couldn’t have done anything. But I still wish you’d have told me about it. Even if I couldn’t say anything.” His eyes have gone tender again. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to deal with all this–” Shawn lifts his phone, and then gestures out to London on the other side of his window. “by yourself.” Andrew’s words ring in your ears. You need to think about what’s best for him. “I didn’t want to distract you,” you admit cautiously. His eyebrows draw together. “These dates were so important to you and I...” You trail off, but Shawn seems resolute. “Tell me.” You cringe even as you say, “I feel like you have bigger things to worry about than some people calling me a clout chaser online.” He frowns. “You’re important.” Shawn ducks his head, drawing you in by the elbows. “You’re important to me. God El, you have no idea how badly I wanted to tell that girl to get the fuck out of the arena and tear her ticket in half.” You stifle a snort, shaking your head a little even as he presses his forehead against yours. “That’s a bit dramatic. And you would never. But thank you.” “Would’ve gotten the point across,” he replies, almost a grumble. Shawn sneaks a hand beneath your top and traces some indistinguishable shape against the bare skin of your hip. Before you can react beyond a shiver he shifts, twisting to open his body to yours and dragging you into him. Your nose bumps into the V between his collarbones as Shawn wraps himself entirely around you. “I’ll stop apologizing,” he says, “But I’m here now, okay?” You swallow a sob, breathing through it. But you still feel small when you say, “Kay.” Shawn tightens his grip and you feel your body go nearly boneless against him. You hook a finger over St. Christopher, laying against his t-shirt, and run the bend of your joint back and forth across the chain. For a few minutes you just sit like that, the tv still playing softly. “I can still hear you thinking,” he murmurs. In your pause, Shawn continues. “You don’t have to tell me. But I want you to know that you can.” You have to take a deep breath before you can force the question out. “Are you sure it’s okay that I come to New York?” “Yeah,” he replies. “Of course. We’re not doing promo till like, Wednesday so we have a few days to hang out.” Shawn leans back and glances down at you, seeming unsure for the first time. “I was thinking of sitting down with Andrew and telling him, you know, officially. Even though I’m pretty sure he already knows about us.” Your stomach lurches. “I figure he’d appreciate the gesture. I’m sure he’d want to like, strategize or something.” Shawn meets your eye carefully. “Are you okay with that?” You know you should tell him. But the last thing you want to do is ruin this. You can’t speak, so you nod. His shoulders relax. “So I have a question,” he continues. “Isn’t clout like, when you have a lot of power?” You nod. You watch Shawn turn this over in his head. “I don’t think I get it. Chasing clout? Do they think you want popularity or something?” You shrug. “I guess? I mean the last girl you were even sort of tied to is now engaged to Justin Bieber, so.” His face pinches until he sees your vaguely teasing smile. “Are you just using me El?” Shawn asks. You shrug again, enjoying the joke. “I can see it,” he says. You would never call Shawn cocky or pompous, but he knows how to pretend. His lips curl. “I’m a catch. You’re lucky.” “Shawn Peter Raul Mendes,” you gasp and he laughs, catching your wrist before you can whack at him. His (annoying, attractive) musician’s reflexes catch your other arm too. You wonder if he can feel your pulse thrumming beneath his palm. Shawn’s eyebrows lift, like a challenge. You attempt to wriggle away, but he holds fast – not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough that you’re stuck. You’re determined, suddenly. You’re not sure quite how you manage, but you bear all your weight forward so he has no choice but to lean down onto the bed. Your knees land on either side of Shawn’s waist and he stares up. You’re not sitting on him, exactly, but you’re hyper aware of the place where your hips would probably slot together. And even though he’s technically still holding you by the wrists, bracing you so you don’t fall, that smug little grin is gone. A flash of desire zips up your spine. “I should go,” you blurt. His grip on you tightens, just for a second. “Stay.” You can see that vulnerable edge, beneath the dark caramel. It occurs to you, with a jolt of feeling even deeper than wanting, that Shawn has possibly missed you these past few days as much as you’ve missed him. “Please stay.” “I should change,” you protest weakly. “And brush my teeth.” “You can borrow a shirt, if you want,” he replies without missing a beat. Shawn’s hand is ridiculously warm on your thigh. “And I have an emergency toothbrush in my backpack.” “You keep an emergency toothbrush in you backpack?” you ask, partly to distract yourself from his fingers moving up and down your leg. Shawn looks absurdly pleased to be pinned beneath you, which isn’t helping. “I keep two in there, actually. Just in case.” You roll your eyes. “What do you say El?” His smile is adorably small, like he’s trying to contain the boyish eagerness you can see crinkling around his eyes. “Want to make out and fall asleep watching tv with me? Want to call up room service in the morning and just laze around?” You’ve never wanted anything so badly in your life. You lean down, and Shawn releases you. You brace one hand next to his head to anchor yourself, and then rake the other through his curls. He leans into your touch even as you trace his cheekbone, his jaw, over his ear. You kiss him and you can feel him craning his neck when you pull back, still chasing you. “Yes,” you murmur. “I say yes.” (part thirteen)

#shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes writing #shawn mendes #wsitd #IT'S HERE IT'S HERE IT'S HERE #I WANNA CRY THIS PART WAS SO MUCH WORK

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jockedguy · 6 years ago

Photo

Unfreeze (Change Theory, part 1 of 3)

ONE

You can tell a lot about the guy in the picture up there. You can see a slice of his life, just from the second that was captured by the camera’s eye.

1) He’s not too bright.

Look at his eyes, the way his face is moving from one thought to the next. You can tell that it takes him a minute to process, that maybe he’s not too quick. You wouldn’t be able to make a pun, or talk about current events, with this guy. He’s young, he’s in the prime of his life, he’s maybe a little disoriented because of the hot sun that’s been soaking into his brainpan all day. Probably got a little spin on from that last in a chain of four beers he’s got in his hand.

2) He’s not from around here.

Here, in the city, where there’s barely a gasp of green, you don’t see guys like this. You see a lot of reflections of the urban color palette, like how the sky reflects on the ocean. Endless gray and slate. This is a picture of a guy who would feel ill-at-ease in a city, hyper-sensitive to the inundation of noise and technology, to the constant floods of people with their shoulders ratcheted up around their jaws.

3) He doesn’t give much of a fuck what you think.

This is a guy who’s worked his whole life outside, with his hands. As a kid, he probably spent all his time crashing through the woods or smashing into the still water of the local swimming hole. He saw the sunrise most days, and squinted into the dusking evening, as bats came out to lazily swoop from dark to dark. He caught lightning bugs in a jar. He shot off fireworks and smoked cigarettes at the gas station. He has an easy confidence.

There’s more, too, I’m sure, but all we get is what we can infer from the split-second the photograph shows us.

He’s the kind of guy I see on tumblr, scrolling endlessly through my perfect kind of man. Of course, since I live in the city, this kind of guy is harder to find, except for various dirty phone chats or Skype messages. Stuff that doesn’t last, but is enough to get me off quickly and efficiently.

Briefly (since this story is about me, too), I grew up in the deep South. I knew guys like this, was surrounded by them - if you can ever really be surrounded by anyone in the deep South, that is. They were my cousins, my neighbors, my schoolmates. I was always looking at them, even if I wasn’t, you know - “looking” at them. My life took me quickly through school and college - I’m an intelligent guy. I quickly understood what it meant to succeed, and with that understanding, I chose a career that would make me a good amount of money and best utilize my skills - advertising. I’m very good at persuasion. I see things very simply, and I speak very logically. Clients tend to like that. Hell, most people, including my small group of friends, like that. I think they feel like it’s a nice break from the modern-day affectation of wandering around the point.

I also happen to be a gay man, still single as I stare into my 30s. I’ve had a few boyfriends, all of which except for one lasted less than a year. I was never content with them - they seemed to need me in a way that I found kind of repulsive. They were depressed, or lackluster, or we just didn’t have the same goals. I’m a creature of change. I’m not happy to sit in one place, thinking the same thing - I want to know how I can better myself, how I can be more efficient. I’d started working out at the local gym, experimenting with my form, with my muscles, when I found you.

I’d never seen someone so much like a lump of raw clay. And it wasn’t just that - it was as though that lump had been possessed of some metamorphic desire, some inherent drive. It was almost as though I could see a hundred possible futures super-imposed on top of you as you struggled, over and over, to lift the dumbbell. I could tell you were hyper-aware of yourself, of your surroundings. Your eyes would dart surreptitiously from guy to guy, quickly sizing them up and continuing with your lifts. I could tell you weren’t the most confident guy, wearing a baggy t-shirt with sleeves and basketball shorts that came down to your knees. Most guys would come to the gym wearing clothes that accentuate their bodies - you, it seemed, were trying to hide yours.

Who knows why it was that I was drawn to you. You were just like so many other skinny white boys in brand new sneakers and ankle socks, headphones firmly screwed into your ears to block out the anxiety clawing at your brain. Maybe it was that glint in your eyes, that metamorphic desire that I mentioned earlier - it reminded me strongly, almost in an olfactory way - of my own drive to transform, to better myself. I caught myself wondering what your story was. Who you were.

I wouldn’t say I stalked you. That’s not the right word, and I think if anyone asked you now, you’d agree. There’s just some people in this world, you’re drawn to them - you see them once, maybe a handful of times. Maybe they’re one of those “stranger-friends” that you see every day on your commute. You just know, deep down, that this person is going to figure into your life, somehow.

It was easy, actually. I started seeing you in the gym more often. Maybe you had just started going. One day, after we happened to finish at the same time, making our neutral, civil nods to one another in the locker room, I just decided to follow you down the street. In this borough of this city, I would hardly be noticed. It was almost like you left a trail in the air, though - I was able to lag behind at least two or three steps without losing track of you. You lived in an apartment building a few blocks away from the gym, slightly to the west and south of my own railroad apartment. Conveniently, a small coffee shop across the street from your place served as my outpost. I could watch you come and go as I pleased.

It didn’t take long to figure out that you were gay, too. I actually got to see a date break down in a miserable fashion, watching you and a (surprisingly) much bigger guy part ways in front of your building. As you went inside, he lingered by the front gate for a second longer than I would have thought, head hanging. This only intrigued me further - this guy, whose t-shirt barely fit over his biceps, had been left cold by you at the end of the night without even a hand-shake.

You became a challenge in my mind. Your seeming distance, detachment from the world, was a heady ambrosia that left me not only curious (for the first time in a long time, believe me) but your continual drive at the gym spiked that curiosity and stoked the flames over a period of weeks.

I knew you were gay, but it wasn’t the normal hookup situation. I didn’t feel like I could make a move, cop a feel, arch a brow, have you sucking me off the in the showers before you knew what was good for you. You were different somehow.

On the day we first exchanged words, there was a massive weather pattern shifting and sliding over the city. The Saturday morning was bright, passive, and breezy. By noon, the sky was swirling with cruciferous heads of cloud. By mid-afternoon, the thunder rolled & splayed warningly. I don’t mind a rainstorm - I even love a great thunderstorm - and I headed out to the gym for my daily workout in just a sleeveless tee, basketball shorts, and my Nikes. The humidity had balled itself up to a stifling percentage, and I found myself soaked with sweat before I even got to the front door of the gym.

I had been jogging in place on the treadmill for about five minutes, eyes on the ceiling-mounted televisions. Our President was up to his normal dramatic shenanigans on one. An episode of SVU was on another. Recaps of NFL games blinked back and forth on the other. I don’t actually remember when it was that you were beside me, but I remember you had the first word.

“Hey,” you said. Your voice wasn’t reedy, wasn’t thin, but it wasn’t deep, either. For all that, it had a steadiness and even had a wry twist to it, as though you had already seen the future of the conversation.

“Hi,” I replied, neutrally, not looking away from the screens.

“I’m Tucker.”

“Jordan,” I replied. Edged my speed up a little.

“This might sound a little weird, but, um, I’ve noticed you around here a bit, and, well - I like your form, you know, when you lift. Do you think you could, I dunno, help me out a little?”

You had a unique way of speaking. It wasn’t hesitant, but it did involve a lot more words than I judged necessary. But I was able to pay attention to the words that mattered. Kind of like when all the letters are mixed up in a printed word except for the first and the last, but you can still see and understand what the actual word is.

If anyone else had asked me that, I probably would have spit out some kind of laugh or awkwardly referred them to a personal trainer. I’m not a personal trainer, and I don’t know how to make anyone else’s muscles grow. But for you, well - like I said, you were different. I was curious.

“Sure,” I said between breaths, maybe even surprising myself a little. “I’m just warming up here, then I’m gonna head down to do some arms.”

“Ah,” you said, face falling a little. “I was gonna do legs. Well, maybe another time.”

“Well, I guess I could do legs today,” I found myself saying. “Arms are a bit sore from yesterday.” I flexed, to show you, and I remember seeing your eyes widen a little.

“We could compromise,” you said. “Chest?”

“Deal.”

And just like that, our first workout session as bros started.

We didn’t talk much, which I liked. You went someplace deep inside of yourself when you lifted - as though it took intense amounts of energy to spark that mind-muscle connection. You seemed to stare through your reflection as you sat on the bench, performing the pectoral flyes. When we did talk, it was cursory. Shoulders back, down. Engage your abs. Breathe.

And when it was my turn, you were the same way. Focused on my body the way you had focused on yours. Quick, instinctive comments. By the end of our session, my chest ached like it hadn’t in a long time, and I could tell that you were exhausted, too. You didn’t exclaim about it, you didn’t even groan. When we stretched out to cool down, the only reaction you had to our workout was a squeeze of your eyes & a slight grit of your jaw as the muscle fibers stretched beneath your skin.

You pushed your glasses up on your nose as you slid out of your shirt and blinked in the light. You were solider in the core than I’d imagined - even had the shadowed ridges of a four-pack beginning. “Wow,” I said, impressed despite myself.

You grimaced, but flexed, and smiled bashfully. It was at that moment that I fell in love with you.

Well, maybe not you. Maybe the you I could see in the future. My boy.

More like the guy you see there, in the pictures.

TWO

I could tell you were smart. There was no denying that. We started going for food after our workouts, which were at least twice a week, if not more. It helped that there was an amazing Thai place just steps from the gym, and we could order a huge helping of chicken and rice from the kitchen. A few of the other regular gym-goers would go there as well, some even of bodybuilder status, and I remember feeling a glow of welcome as we ordered for the first time.

There’s a nice, heady feeling that comes with a post-workout ache. It’s a glimmer, an aura, almost like being drunk. Tongues loosen, bodies are uncoiled. More primal desires are closer to the surface of the body than other worldly concerns. You spoke a little more freely - told me about your life. You’d grown up in New England, you’d always been a loner, you liked books and TV shows, you smoked pot, you drank craft beers. I had yet to see you out of gym clothes, but that was because we only met at and after the gym. You’d been coming along nicely, and I’d mentioned that. Your form was strong, your lifts were becoming smoother, we’d even added plates on the bench press. But when you talked about your life outside the gym, your eyes skated around restlessly. You picked at the neckline of your shirt. You shifted in your skin.

For me, that was like a vole rustling through the grass to a hawk on a branch above. Everyone has their secret unhappiness. For you, that was a sort of disappointment in yourself - you’d never really “found” yourself, you admitted. That was part of the reason you’d started coming to the gym. As a child, your father disappeared and you were left with only a wounded mother to give you guidance. You never learned how to form your own opinions, for fear that they would damage the delicate balance of the household. You found yourself, later in life, able to agree with any viewpoint - something that was both valuable, but also a massive handicap.

To me, it was the way in.

Identity is a tricky thing. You can either create it yourself, and defend it as best you can against the cynical hurricane of society; or you can collapse and let society give you an identity. This last way is often the quickest way to unhappiness, and I surmised this was your quandary.

I smiled, and leaned in. “Dude, you’re doing fine. Who cares about all that shit?” I injected a good amount of masculinity into my phrasing, squared my shoulders. Flexed, for good effect. Grinned. “Who you are is who you make yourself, right?”

“Sure,” you said. And before I could believe it, you looked up from your protein and grinned back at me. Flexed back.

“That’s the spirit!” I held out my fist for a bump, and you laughed, but you bumped back with vigor. “You wanna know a secret?”

“Sure!” You were eager to hear my magic. I savored how your eyes developed a hunger, how the blood pumped a little faster through your dilated veins. Your pupils even opened a little wider, as if ready to take in anything and everything I was about to offer.

I leaned back, clasped my hands behind my head - maybe winced once as my sore pecs felt the stretch. “The secret is ... there is no secret.”

Your face fell. “That’s ... it?”

“Hear me out.”

“Okay.” You were a little wary. Deer in the forest, but still rapt. Maybe you were even a little hypnotized, even then, before anything.

“You make your own identity. You gotta ask yourself, bro -- who do you wanna be?”

You sighed. “That’s just it, man. I don’t know.”

“Sure you do.” I laughed, easily, for good affect, and reached over to squeeze your forearm. I knew I had you, then. “You know what you don’t like about your life, right? You just told me. You hate feeling like the guy who has all the answers. You hate the constant barrage of news and politics. You feel depressed and frustrated. You can’t figure out how to make opinions.”

“Yeah...”

“Isn’t that how you felt when you started working out? Confused, lost, overwhelmed?”

“Yeah...” But something was dawning in your eyes. I felt your forearm flex in my grip. I didn’t let up on your eyes.

“And how do you feel now?”

“Stronger,” you said, immediately.

“Nothing has to stay the same forever,” I concluded, letting my hand fall back, crossing my arms over my chest and shrugging. “You have the power to change whatever you want about yourself.”

You sighed, and narrowed your eyes at me, unconsciously crossing your arms over your chest - just like I had, without even knowing it. “So that’s it? I just have to ... will myself into being a different person?”

“Is that what you want?”

You blinked at me. This was the crucial moment. I could almost feel the strong under-current of your desires, battering at your hesitation like a rain-swollen river at the banks. If I’d done it right, if I’d led up to this moment perfectly, I’d hear -

“Yes. It is what I want.”

I nodded. “Okay, then. You’ve taken the first step.”

You nodded, too. “So what now?”

I spread my hands, then my mouth, into a wolfish smile. “Now we begin.”

[To be continued.]

#jockedguystories

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listoriented · 6 years ago

Text

Burnout: Paradise

youtube

1. Burnout. Spinning wheels without moving. Antipodean slang. The smell of burned rubber.

The blank word document is another rounded bend. A few cars here and there loaded in. Driving these virtual streets is seeing ideas, tangents, discourse, thoughts spill off. In front is always nothingness. An inability to grasp on to anything coherent. Yes this is synecdoche, yes this is consumerism, a shiny shell of petromodernity – an actual critical theory term that I now take seriously - yes this is me, my life, my phd in miniature, the imperfect totalising open-world game, or yes this is a microcosm of the entirety of trying to play through the letter “B” of my steam library, stop-start, hopeful then despairing, takes longer than it should, yes this game is a magnum opus and I wish so hard to fill my lungs and release until my fingers are pinching some inflated balloon perfectly full of a graspable idea, or yes this game is fundamentally empty, a comment on a comment; at the bottom of all searches for purpose we find searches for purpose, etc.

So I start and I start and I start again. I drive I drive I drive. Event after event ticks down, my license goes from learner to D to B to A and then I hit my goal, “Burnout license”, and still I don’t know what I’ll write. Something about driving, in general; driving as notionally relaxing, driving while thinking about other things. How do people write? Write things? My PhD is in pieces on the floor and in the computer and in my head. I drive around Paradise City and terrible emo from the mid-noughties plays, interspersed with long bouts of classical. Days pass, and in the game the day turns into night and back again, and I adjust the clock to make this happen slower, and the weather changes in Paradise City, a little – cycles of rain and cloud and sun - and here in Melbourne the weather changes too. It was the tail end of summer when I started, and we’ve been through the surprising highs and lows of autumn, now settling into winter, doing it all again. There are no roads leading in or out of Paradise City, and it’s a long drive back from the hills.

2. Burnout. A series of arcade-style racers made for various platforms by Criterion Games [official site] between 2001 and 2011.

It’s a little uncanny, this pocket of 2008. It just looks real good to my rusty, unfussy eyes, like in visual terms it hasn’t aged in ways other games from that year age (though my friend James vehemently disagreed). It does the trick. It does lots of tricks. And it seems rare too, to say of a 2008 game that it’s a masterpiece, that it’s the best of its class, though of Paradise this is surely true, if all reports are to be believed with regards to all other open-world arcade driving games that have come since, including everything else made by Criterion.

Any doubts about its age are firmly put to bed by the soundtrack, though, which despite prominently featuring that Guns N’ Roses song from 1987 just screams mid-2000s at me, abundant “rock” guitars, masc whine and all, very of its time, salvaged by one timeless Avril Lavigne banger, a chunk of classical, and (to a certain extent) personal nostalgia for a time when this sort of soundtrack just seemed vaguely synonymous with “driving game”. There’s also the dated blemish of inane unmutable advice-slider DJ A(u)tomica, who at least has the good grace to (somehow) avoid repeating himself, even after seventeen hours of driving, at a clip of one quip every few minutes or so. There’s also the very 2008 nod to renewable energy via Paradise’s wind farm, harking back to that post- An Inconvenient Truth moment of progressive euphoria when we really all believed we could build towards a sustainable future that would also accommodate our oily desires, before another decade of resource-industry funded filibustering hadn’t proven this, again, impossible.

And yet Paradise stands up in ways that surpass the non-ironic soundtrack of fragile masculinity and the very 00’s DJ Atomica, despite or because of the people-less world, the flat and drab urban interior, the hardly even tokenistic ways of engaging with the city as function rather than form. I particularly like how B:P has not even the faintest hint of story, how even in terms of progression it purely becomes a game of exploration, winning events, checking boxes. It melds (excuse me for a second) form and function and manages not to get in the way of itself – the story is what the player does in the game, where the player goes. It’s kind of breathtaking, rare for any game before or since. (Hopefully it’s clear that I’m not advocating for the dissolution of narrative in games, only that the lack of narrative pretence here is very suited to this particular game, and very preferable to the kinds of irrelevant and bloated narratives that are thrown over e.g. other driving games).

Ah, 2008. It was just there! And yet so far. I played Burnout Paradise for a running total of seventeen hours over nearly three months. During this time, I also played forty-two hours of Tetris99. Everything in its place. Criterion recently announced they’ll shut down the Burnout Paradise’s online servers in August, though Paradise lives on in Remastered (2018) glory, Origin only.

3. Burnout. The act of refuelling the boost capacity of an engine by running out of boost.

Despite the time I’ve spent with it, the fact that I managed to complete its main in-game objective, and the running thoughts on time and place and representation of cultural norms, I feel I’m struggling to say much of definition about Paradise that fits easily into the scrapbook nature of this blog. Perhaps in some ways it's too close to life; a series of arbitrary checklists through which feeling happens (nebulously) around. I "liked" it but do not feel moved to thought, and I'm aware that that is the point – it��s a game that allows you to drive, endlessly, if you want to, think and do whatever. It won’t get in the way (barring DJ Automica butting in every couple of minutes – he literally cannot be switched off).

I do not drive much these days. Last year when Lauren and I moved to Canberra, we drove nearly 4000 kilometres across the country. The landscapes wound by, at the time fleetingly, but they piled on and left deep rivulets in my head, and though it was just five days and nothing really happened – we leant on the accelerator, stopped every hour, listened to music, stayed in nothing-motels quite literally hundreds of kms from anywhere else and ate forgettable takeaway - it feels immense, now. Driving is funny like that - you are never quite in a place, separated from it by machine noise and windows and infrastructure, the one activity you can do to facilitate thinking about something else. Still, impressions, motion, the sense of having moved, of having journeyed. Here in Australia, the fossil fuel lobby has won its third straight election in a row. Hope is eroding into nothing.

Probably my favourite hour or two in Paradise City was spent mucking around in the online section with Roy and James, trying to check off a few of the game's multiplayer challenges. These involved such serious exercises as trying to do barrel a series of barrel rolls, or try and land on top of each other, or smash into each in mid-air, or drive on top of a parking lot to jump a ramp onto a shopping centre. It was very good, if a little eerie and dystopic, strewn with outdated real-and-paid-for advertising billboards, branded vehicles, quaint echoes of paused time and uncanny dilapidation.

The mill of the game I could never quite settle on - I “liked” it, I think, but it wasn’t without problems. I found the single-player events to be mindlessly enjoyable, ploughing other cars into crash barriers, or effortlessly holding down "boost" to accelerate down a straight and into a finish line, celebratory cutaway shot ensuing. Sometimes I crashed into too many grey girders that my eyes hadn't picked out and got frustrated, or sometimes I missed a critical turnoff and got frustrated. Sometimes they just felt like chores, and it was certainly sometimes annoying to not be able to restart events that I had botched, and it took me ten hours to learn you could opt out of races, stunt runs etc just by letting the car idle for a few seconds. And knowing this probably would have saved me a lot of time in the early game, because like I said it’s a long way back from the hills, where like three out of eight events end up at, and committing to staying in a race which after a couple of botched turns and unseen barriers you’re definitely not going to win, whose distant finish line is going to land you a long way from the nearest event (once you finally get there) can feel pretty dire, really, though there was also part of me that admired how Burnout refused to let you jump around the map, forced you to drive, take your time, see the city, see the sights.

I did appreciate the cracky coloured collectms of Paradise City, how they brought the city to life, sort of, or gave it the impression of being a well designed and thought-through playground, though I never got too completionist about them, the core exercise of the whole thing. Both John Walker of RPS and Chris Donlan of Eurogamer have written about Paradise’s fluoro crash gates, the impulse to reinstall the game every year and knock them all down from scratch. Along the way to getting my “Burnout license” I unlocked 36 of the 75 vehicles, jumped 35 of the 50 super jumps, broke 79 of 120 neon red billboards, and smashed through 353 of 400 aforementioned glowing yellow crash barriers. The game puts me at 55% completed. No steam achievements (woulda been nice, perhaps, given that Burnout Paradise is fundamentally a collectmup; nothing but metres and percentages). I’ve driven a little over 1000 miles, supposedly, which is certainly more than I’ve IRL driven over the past few months.

4. Burnout. noun Physical and emotional exhaustion; breakdown caused by overwork. Commonly associated with “crunch”, “the video game industry”.

But here there is also pure hesitation. Procrastination. The fear of moving on, even at the end of this little step of what has ballooned into an impossible project. I can see the next letter waiting there, a new chapter, a chance for renewal. The one disappearing behind us has drawn out so far, encompassed a few years and a fair bit of change, and now almost petered into nothing at the final gate. I want to hit the ground running but I'm not sure I'm ready, and in the meantime various other deadlines swirl around, make it difficult to see the clear path ahead that I crave. And so it is that the temptation has been there to keep driving the streets of Paradise, its anonymous suburbs and abstract goals, continue delaying the inevitable, or the nearly inevitable, or the not-inevitable-at-all of writing this post and moving on to the next chapter, because it turns out this is a project I once made a choice to begin, and could at one point choose to stop.

There are nagging questions, of course. Who blogs, anymore? Who reads blogs anymore? How does one find a blog they like and then continue to follow it for the span of its natural life? Does anyone use “bookmarks”? What’s an RSS feed? I'm not even sure, in a broader sense, that I know where to find the kinds of writing about games that I want to read at the moment, at least not reliably, outside of say the occasional check-through of Critical Distance or Unwinnable. I look at the slate of games coming out and find it hard to be excited by anything much, the hype and the saturation. It is bountiful until it is not. The guilt element of playing games – something inherited from childhood that I’ve never been entirely able to dissociate - has become more and more prominent. I've increasingly used games as a tool for procrastination and a coping mechanism, a distraction from various (work/study and other) anxieties. I've also been aware of myself doing this, and in turn the kinds of gaming experiences I've relied on have been more focused on short term, low-investment distraction (hence the sudden unyielding devotion to Tetris, which really was just filling the hole left by an earlier act of self-discipline AKA uninstalling Rocket League; more recently, as I’ve managed to put the Switch away for longer periods, I’ve turned back to another simple but deceptive time-filler in Mini Metro. Choose your poison, basically). For a while it seemed Burnout would not only fill this role but do it responsibly: it seemed great for dropping into in short bursts - win a race or two, unlock a new car maybe – without quite the same dangerously addictive pull for me as those other games. But then I heard the GnR song "Paradise City" one too many times (it's mandatory with startup), or got sick of the menu loading times, and it lost this specific part of its appeal.

And then there's the subjective nature of this particular Sisyphean project - the knowledge that here I am pushing a rock up a mountain of my own making, one that exists only for me, entirely built out of and defined by the games and bundles I chose and continue to choose to buy, the rules I chose to set. Life is short, this task is absurd, and at the moment it's not even a joke I feel particularly happy about sharing. Sometimes I get to play great games here, games I may never have gotten around to; at other times I am playing shit games for this blog, and in the process there are inevitably other things I'm not doing. One choice erases another. Increasingly it feels like an isolated pursuit - playing games in general, not just the writing and making of this here blog. It seems like I know fewer people who play games these days, between falling out of touch with friends, seeing lots of other old friends give up games in one way or another, and playing games less frequently with those who I still know. I’ve accidentally become something of a game hermit. For years I've loved the camaraderie and easy familiarity of social gaming experiences even when I haven't loved the games that conduct them - the feeling of being connected to people even in a transient, shallow, goal-oriented sense, but even these I'm not sure I believe in anymore, or I find myself less and less willing to invest in the "right" titles to facilitate it.

I’m into my thirties now, and maybe this is just a feeling of age, life, I dunno, priorities finally shifting to where people told me they should’ve years ago. One of my oldest friends is about to have a baby, though he more or less quit video games over a year ago now. I'm extremely happy for him. Two of my younger cousins just had children, several hours away by plane – my uncle, a new grandfather to two babies, makes posts on facebook claiming climate change is a socialist hoax, and I can’t help but think of the kind of world his grandchildren are going to inherit. I'm mulling over a missed deadline that's been a thorn in my brain now for months, the single-largest hitherto unsaid reason why this post has taken so long to dig its way to the surface. This month marks the five year anniversary of another cousin’s sudden/unexpected passing; he was five years older than me, and though I’ll never be able to make sense of it, I feel like I get that there’s something sort of vulnerable about this age, when the things you want don’t quite work out, or when you’re a bit aimless and stuck in your patterns and feel like things aren’t going to change. He was so kind and gentle, a beautiful soul and a terrible Zerg, and I miss him so much. And one year ago I drove from Canberra to Melbourne and slept on the floor of this house I now call home while I waited for a truck with rest of my stuff to arrive. I’m very aware of the calendar, of change and inertia, of patterns and decay, of newness sprouting underfoot, but I don’t know how games fit at the moment, or I’ve lost the thread of feeling like they’re actually important, or why, amongst all the noise.

Burnout: Paradise is at the start, in the middle, and right at the end of all these things. It's a great game, part of me feels, or wants to say I feel. Playful, irreverent, childishly violent, simultaneously full of stuff and empty of matter. I'm happy I've played it, happy I can say that I've played it, happy to understand on an experiential level most of what it offers, happy I'll be able to remember it later, nod in some hypothetical conversation where someone brings up Burnout: Paradise and say I know what they mean, yeah. I get it. When we were playing it online together briefly, a couple of months back now, Roy told me that Burnout Paradise is the only game he ever one hundred percented twice - once on 360, once on PC - and that it was almost three times, because the first time he was almost done with it, someone broke into his house and stole his Xbox and all his games, and that Paradise was the only game that he re-bought with the insurance money, so determined he was to tick every box the game left open to tick, even if it meant doing it all again.

But maybe – counterpoint - I don’t get it. I’m finding it harder and harder to make good sense of this kind of experience, or feel like this kind of thing is (in some arbitrary way) a net positive, or that it’s okay to keep glossing over the emulation of destruction that games of so many different kinds fundamentally rely on. Outside there is so much suffering, so much to be upset about, and I no longer feel like there is time enough to sink into mindless (rather than meaningful, perhaps?) distraction. Or I’m finding it harder to get beyond the thought that this is an extension of the distraction/avoidance behaviour that I realised might actually be a problem in my life.

“Burnout” is, you’ll know, here in the great mess of the year 2019, a buzz word, particularly in the games industry. Games company employees have perpetually been expected to work unsustainable hours out of some sort of devotion to the industry, creating a cycle of talent depletion and toxic work cultures. But as is often the case with games, it’s a tip-off of what happens elsewhere, across the board. The mass casualisation of careers across all industries, the gig economy, pressures caused by un- and under- employment, the dissipation of viable faith, social-media and political stresses: all of these are leading to burnout, everyone has burnout, we are inundated with burnout. There is something ripe about the words or the idea of Burnout: Paradise, the very conceptual juxtaposition that seems to be two sides of the same coin, that feels very reflective of this moment, what we are all experiencing versus what we were promised. But what does this have to do with Burnout: Paradise, the game in which you pretend drive fake person-less cars around a virtual city, have horrific, visceral crashes from which you immediately respawn and “beat” by achieving a long series of arbitrary victories, collecting all there is to collect? Something, nothing, I don’t know.

“Burnout” means a lot of things, and the meaning of “burnout” the game adopts isn’t the other ones I’d associate with cars – a burnt out engine, or the smell of burning rubber - but one that exists only for the series, so far as I can tell: getting to keep using your boost because you’ve been continually using your boost. Keep going at all cylinders or bust, basically – except not, because the consequences for interrupting the boost are slim even on the relative scale of things that can go right or wrong, in this game where there is never really all that much on the line for the player anyway.

Paradise. n. Heaven. A place to await judgement. An enclosed park. Eden.

In Paradise City the grass is trim; the girls (all humans actually) are non-existent, unless you happen to be riding a motorcycle, presumably because a motorcycle without a rider would look very weird.

In Paradise City the cars are peopleless and drive themselves, so maybe it is an early vision of the tech bro version of Paradise. Or maybe the cars are driven by people who can only exist on the outside of the world of Paradise City, looking in across the matrix. Or maybe in Paradise City the people are the cars. This is Cars, the movie, sans dialogue.

In Paradise City all the cars emulate brands and models that exist in "the real world" but are called by names that exist only in the Burnout franchise.

In Paradise City all the cars ostensibly run on petrol, which is infinite but unnecessary, because going through a petrol station merely refills the car's boost capacity, whatever that is, rather than imply that your car would stop running if you at some point failed to “fill up”. It's very important that you know, though, that the cars run on petrol, because otherwise it wouldn't be a realistic representation of cars. Even in Paradise.

In Paradise City cars exist and then don't exist.

In Paradise City a lot more cars suddenly exists if someone decides they want to flip their car over and see how much monetary damage they can cause.

In Paradise City cars crash and crumple in a hyper-realistic way, but it's okay because the cars have no drivers and anyway all cars are all miraculously fine again after a few moments.

In Paradise City the railway has been shut down to give cars more places to hang out.

In Paradise City the whole city runs on wind energy, because it's important to care about the environment too, because you can have both, promises the radio, though seeing as there's nobody there in all of Paradise's buildings it's unclear, anyway, what such energy would actually be running.

onward to Caesar 3

#game70 #burnout: paradise #burnout #criterion games #EA #cars #open world #humble origin bundle #2008 #petrol

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