#and for having such great writing for me to pilfer shamelessly

[raendown]

Pairing: ObitoShisui Word count: 1790 Soulmate au: The one where each morning there is written on your arm an event which will happen to your soulmate that day

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

Chapter 122: Obito/Shisui

Obito made it three steps in the front door of the hotel before a massive hand caught hold of his collar and he found himself hauled in to the air, feet kicking at empty space and hands scrambling to hold on to the straps of his backpack. He was barely in to his teens but Obito wished he would just hit his growth spurt already so that no one could do this to him anymore. Not that he didn’t know exactly who it was holding him up by the neck.

“You,” a familiar voice growled in his ear, “are going to behave yourself this weekend.”

“Madara-ji. How nice to see you too!” Obito made an effort to twist his body and offer a friendly smile to the looming figure behind him. Instead of greeting him in return, Madara shook him like a rag doll.

“I mean it. If I have to put out a single fire this weekend I will sic Tobirama on you.”

Shuddering at the thought of having to deal with his uncle’s crazy scientist husband, Obito hoped his nodding made him look innocent and pure. “Of course! No fires, I promise! Er, can I go back to the ground now?”

With a great harrumph Madara dropped him. Obito stumbled and hurried away as soon as he managed to find his feet again, rushing in to the venue with no idea where he was going but a great amount of confidence he would find his way somehow. The building was absolutely crawling with people he knew would be willing to help him if he asked.

One of the largest clans left in Fire Country, able to trace their ancestry all the way back to the original founders of the village Obito had been born in, the Uchiha clan had since spread out to all four corners of the elemental nations. He wasn’t sure whose idea it had been to have a massive reunion for them all but he was grateful to whoever it was. Konoha was but a mere shadow of its former glory; any excuse to get out of town for a while was a blessing and the chance to meet members of his distant family was even more so. The only family Obito ever saw was his crotchety Uncle Madara and the frail grandmother he had lived with since he was a baby.

Pushing up his sleeve to check the words on his arm for perhaps the fifteenth time that morning, Obito grinned and headed towards a bunch of teenagers who looked his age, most of them blessed with the distinctive Uchiha looks. Meeting new people was always a delight but it was only half he reason he was so excited for this weekend. This morning his already high excitement had tripled upon waking up to see the event that his soulmate would experience today was “will meet their soulmate”.

As he had for the entire drive here, Obito spent his morning in a state of joy he’d heard referred to as walking on air. Every corner of every room and every new person he met felt as though they were filled with possibilities. He shook every hand he could and forgot more names than he remembered, bouncing from place to place until he found Uncle Madara tucked away in the hotel bar with his husband, both of their looking supremely uncomfortable surrounded by so many strangers.

“Find ‘em yet?” his uncle grunted. Obito shook his head.

“I will!”

“You’ve got dirt on your face, you know.”

“What!?”

Obito spun around to peer over at the mirror behind the bartender, mortified to see that there was indeed a giant streak of dirt down on side of his face. There was no telling how long it had been there or how many people had been too polite to say anything, though it was probably from leaning his face against the window in the car. What an excellent first impression he’d been making! Trying to scrub off the mark with the heel of his hand did nothing so Obito hurried back out of the room to where he’d seen a sign for the public toilets.

The first thing he saw when he burst in to the bathroom was a tall thin boy a few years older than himself, perfect brows folded inwards to form the most aristocratic frown he’d ever seen.

“You should find another bathroom,” the boy said. Obito wrinkled his nose.

“I just wanna use the sink and the mirror,” he said.

From inside one of the stalls there came an ominous rattling. “Ah, let him fix his hair,” a new voice called. “Someone in this joint needs to look good.”

“We are Uchiha,” the tall boy pointed out. “We all look good. Now quit being melodramatic and can we please find somewhere more sanitary to spend our time?”

“I am in the throes of depression, my lowest hour, and if I want to hang out in a toilet I will!”

“Could it at least be a more private toilet?”

Obito inched towards the sink, grabbing a few paper towels on the way. As he dipped them in the water and scrubbed at the dirt mark on his face, he kept one ear tilted towards the voice over in the corner, eavesdropping shamelessly. Movies always made family drama sound so interesting but the only drama he ever got to see was when Uncle Tobirama tried to do science in the kitchen.

He watched in the mirror as the boy apparently named Itachi rubbed at the bridge of his nose and gave a snooty huff at whoever was hidden in the last stall of the row.

“You are making a big deal out of something small.”

“Am not,” the other voice replied. For someone who was apparently depressed they sounded particularly upbeat, cheerful even. Obito noted that his face was completely clean now but he kept scrubbing anyway. This conversation was the most interesting he’d heard so far today.

“Please come out, Shisui. You know exactly who arrived today and if he catches us doing what I think you’re doing there will be trouble. I don’t want trouble. Mother says I can’t go to Math Camp if I get in trouble.”

“Only you would be enough of a nerd to think having Math Camp taken away is a punishment.”

Itachi blinked slowly. “I enjoy math. Now put down the lighter and let’s go.”

More curious than ever, Obito finally turned the taps off and tossed his paper towel in the bin. He decided against making any efforts to hide his actions, instead marching over to where the two others were talking and popped his head around the door before Itachi could react. Considering their conversations he had expected to see someone in the toilet stall with a cigarette or a pilfered bottle of alcohol, perhaps even partaking in some sort of recreational drug.

What he found was a boy a few years older than himself trying to get a flame from his lighter so he could set off the bottle rockets he’d strapped to the back of the tank. ‘Shisui’ looked up at him with a wild grin.

“Hey there! What’s your name?”

“Obito.”

“Do you like fire, Obito?”

“I love fire but Madara-ji said he’d be watching me like a hawk today.”

“You see?” Itachi huffed beside him. “Even he knows not to cross Madara-sama. Can we stop this foolishness?”  

Shisui waved him off, eyes set on Obito. “Nonsense. What that old wind bag doesn’t know won’t kill him. Do you want to help me light the rockets Obito?”

“Alright!” Obito dove inside the stall with stars in his eyes, beyond happy to have met someone who shared his propensity for mayhem, and reached out to take the lighter from the older boy. The moment their fingers met a spark jumped between their skin and they both snatched their hands back. Obito looked back and forth between his fingers and Shisui.

“Holt shit,” the other murmured.

“Doesn’t that mean–?”

“Pull up your sleeve! What’s your event for today say!?” Obito held still as Shisui lunged for his arm and pulled up his sleeve, reading it out loud. “Will meet their soulmate. How come yours is so straight forward and mine isn’t!?”

“W-what’s yours say?”

Shisui rolled up his sleeve to show off the black writing curled down his forearm, which read “will fall in love”. As soon as he read it Obito promptly turned red in the face and clutched at the straps of his backpack as though they might steady him against the embarrassment. He was intrigued, sure, but anyone would be to find a soulmate as awesome as Shisui – and they barely even knew each other! It was hard to imagine how much more amazing the other boy would be once they got to know each other a little better.

“I thought you were going to fall in love with someone and then maybe someday we would meet and find out we were meant to be platonic soulmates! Don’t get me wrong, platonic is fine. It’s fine! But…”

“That’s not what you wanted?” Obito ventured. Shisui snapped his fingers.

“Exactly.”

“So…you were going to light bottle rockets in a hotel bathroom…because you thought your soulmate was going to fall in love with someone else?”

The other boy twisted his mouth to one side wryly. “Well anything will sound silly if you say it in that tone. Look, what I do in my utter devastation is my business.”

“Do we really need to keep up the dramatics?” Itachi asked from behind them. Instead of looking at all embarrassed by his own behavior, Shisui gave a haughty sniff and held his lighter aloft once more, clicking it a few times until he finally got a flame going.

“Speak for yourself, Drama King. Hey – Obito, right? – do you still wanna light some rockets with me?”

“Of course!” Shuffling closer, Obito all but plastered himself to Shisui’s side, a massive grin splitting his face

While Itachi groaned behind them and muttered about leaving so they couldn’t drag him down in to their mayhem, Obito and Shisui both huddled closer to the rockets strapped to the tank of the toilet, giggling like a pair of children. As the first fuse lit and the familiar scent of burning met his nose, Obito couldn’t help but send out a silent prayer of thanks to the universe for bringing him someone so perfect.

Just as the other boy’s arm had predicted, he was pretty sure he was already in love. Finding his soulmate was worth every hour of the endless lecture Uncle Madara made them sit through once he caught them.

[narcisbolgor-blog]

Introducing The Russell Prize 2017

Image caption Philosopher, mathematician, Nobel Prize winner - and masterful prose craftsman: Bertrand Russell in 1962 on his 90th birthday

I'm thrilled to introduce licence fee payers to a new prize and ceremony, because goodness knows we need more of them.

The Russell Prize, which in 2017 celebrates its inauguration, is named after my hero, Bertrand Russell.

These awards celebrate journalism and writing that honours intellectual and moral virtues Russell's prose exemplified. Before explaining what those virtues were, let me admit I am shamelessly pilfering an idea colonised by David Brooks of the New York Times, whose Sidney Awards are always a pleasure to read.

Given that wisdom begins with the realisation that original ideas are over-rated, I make no apology for that.

Let me also add that the recipients of these awards have been through a rigorous selection process: they were submitted, by me, to a discerning and impartial selection panel comprised of one member, also me, where I am honoured to hold the title of founder, convenor, president and chair.

So anyone who says this blogpost, indeed this entire ceremony, is just an excuse for me to re-up my favourite bits of writing this year is completely wrong.

A trinity of virtues

I used my influence in the panel to ensure the Russell Awards truly reflect the eccentric greatness of Bertrand Russell's prose, which in my view was the finest of any craftsman (or craftswoman) writing in English in the 20th Century.

Like all the finest prose, he combined three qualities.

First, plain language, resulting from clarity of thought and diction. Not all George Orwell's rules about how to write are worth living by, but his warning against the dangers of inflated prose was vital, and it is true that it takes real guts to use plain English. Cowards conceal themselves in verbosity. Using simple language is a mark of courage.

Second, pertinent erudition. Erudition is a virtue, but it is often redundant, and most valuable when apposite. For instance, I am (ahem) close to erudite about the varieties of thumb-generated back-spinners used, mainly, by Australian bowlers such as my other hero Clarrie Grimmett in the inter-war years. But that's not much use in an article on, say, why Rupert Murdoch has sold up to Disney. (Both, I suppose, are spin doctors of a kind). Deep scholarship and learning is wonderful to read, if applied with a light touch, and pertinent.

Third, moral force, especially through an instinctive and visceral revulsion at injustice. Naturally the greatest writing has a kind of ethical energy about it. Who wants to read leaden, plodding prose that equivocates so meekly it leaves you feeling like you've just come off a see-saw?

Very, very few writers are able to combine these three virtues consistently. In the 20th Century, only Orwell also managed it, and The Orwell Awards were taken.

Tzvetan Todorov, Susan Sontag, Isaiah Berlin, Martha Gelhorn, Ernest Hemingway and Michael Oakeshott touched these heights at times. Christopher Hitchens had erudition and moral force in abundance but little interest in plain English.

In our time, the only writers whose work I know well, and who have a claim to be in this sort of company, are Roger Scruton, John Gray, David Runciman and Ta-Nehisi Coates. Of those who I know less well, it strikes me that Hilary Mantel (for her prose in the London Review of Books), John Lanchester, Andrew O'Hagan, Zadie Smith and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie are clearly very special.

But that lot have had plaudits aplenty.

So let's honour other writers who are keeping the trinity of virtues Russell exemplified alive.

I'm delighted to announce that the winner of this year's Russell Award is…

Ronan Farrow, New Yorker: 'Harvey Weinstein's Army of Spies'

It's not often a reported essay can be said to shift a culture, turbo-charge (and arguably launch) a global movement, bring down a mogul, and overturn sickening injustice perpetrated for decades, potentially leading to multiple jail sentences - but that's what Farrow's remarkable work achieved.

Image copyright Getty Images

Image caption Ronan Farrow: His Harvey Weinstein story for the New Yorker magazine is a remarkable work of journalism

Deeply reported, and displaying the tenacity and sensitivity to encourage brave women to trust him, his article is already and rightly the stuff of legend.

And how about this as a lesson for wannabe journalists: the story was rejected when he first took it to bosses at NBC. So another virtue of this inaugural winner of The Russell Prize is that it has shown a generation of young journalists the value of persistence, and backing yourself to take on the mighty.

When I consulted the judges, they felt the other candidates were all so strong that they should be jointly declared runners-up.

So in no particular order of merit, here are the recipients of the runners-up Russell Awards for 2017...

1. Sarah O'Connor, Financial Times: 'On the Edge'

Everyone now says globalisation is failing millions of people in the rich world. A related phenomenon is de-industrialisation: the collapse of industries away from capital cities and metropolises that had once held communities together, and given workers a sense of dignity and purpose. But taking this story from the realm of dry economics to a place of real human suffering isn't easy.

Image copyright Sarah O'Connor

Image caption Sarah O'Connor's cover article for the Financial Times magazine tells the story of de-industrialisation in Britain's coastal areas through an epidemic of mental health problems

In a magazine cover article, Sarah O'Connor did just that, telling the story of de-industrialisation in Britain's coastal areas - and specifically Blackpool - through an epidemic of mental health problems. It was hugely readable, urgent, packed with big ideas and told an essential story very well. Whoever came up with the headline 'On the Edge' for the magazine cover deserves a pay rise. Russell would have approved (of the pun, not the pay rise - though maybe both).

2. Stephen Bush, New Statesman: 'On the Tube, I saw the father I'd never met'

Bush's piece, published just this week and about why he didn't say hello to his father when given the opportunity, went viral in an unusual way. When I looked it up online, I was taken aback by the number of people who said they had been in a similar situation, or made a similar decision.

Image copyright Stephen Bush

Image caption Stephen Bush as a six-year-old, with his mother Rachma Bush

I thought that what took it remarkable heights wasn't just the moving nature of the story, but the chatter high up in the piece about how digital technology has changed the options available for unconventional families today. Above all, there was a strong authorial voice, despite the simplicity of the prose, which had a reductive, distilled quality. Russell would have approved.

3. Ross Douthat, New York Times: 'The Crisis for Liberalism'

OK, it's true, this was written last November. Strictly speaking, it should have entered last year's competition - but the judges felt that it would be wrong to penalise the writer for their own failure to get organised this time last year.

Douthat's column is a defining columnar critique of liberalism, and where it has gone wrong, in the aftermath of Brexit and Trump - and not just because it takes, to an exquisite apogee, themes I've been trying to articulate for a decade. Douthat grasps the fact that the demoralisation of liberalism followed inevitably the de-moralisation of liberalism.

Image copyright Ross Douthat/New York Times

Image caption Ross Douthat: His New York Times article from the end of 2016 is a defining critique of liberalism post Brexit and Trump

As Douthat sees it, the 20th Century was a triumph for the ideology of freedom; but civilised societies need more than freedom. They need deeper forms of human association; they need to create a sense of belonging and membership, and - in his view - liberals had left those behind. For writing the one piece you had to read in the wake of Trump and Brexit, the judges were delighted to recognise this article, despite its falling outside the parameters of the competition.

4. Ta-Nehisi Coates, The Atlantic: 'My President Was Black'

Coates's work is very challenging, not because he uses difficult language or particularly complex ideas; rather, because his ideas are alluringly simple. In his remarkable books, he sees American history through a clear prism, and has such powerful ideas - for instance, that America is built on the destruction of black bodies - that to read him is to feel in the company of a uniquely articulate champion of the oppressed.

Image copyright Getty Images

Image caption Ta-Nehisi Coates: Challenging writing

It doesn't always feel like he gives due consideration, let alone weight, to alternative points of view; but then that's not really his style. He has become a troubadour not of Black America, but Democrat America, and his exhaustive reflection on the Obama years makes sense of that presidency from a very particular, and very valuable, perspective. In favouring words with fewer syllables over more, Coates has done his bit to revive the idea that plain language is a weapon, too.

That concludes this year's awards ceremony.

The judges are delighted that the inaugural recipients of The Russell Prize and runners-up awards should obtain such high standards, and commend the runners-up for their outstanding work.

Entries for the 2018 competition open on 1 January.

May plain prose and erudition long outlast the injustices our esteemed winners have sought to vanquish.

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