#and if yall can confirm or deny — hopefully confirm — that last part it would be great

[angeleirene]

So the ADHD has fixated again — on three things actually — and so we’re gonna talk about one now and maybe I’ll curse ya on more later.

So NonNomNami exist, and they’re perfect, and while being doused in her content and inevitably enamoured, I’ve started listening to Bad End Theatre’s true end version, and so here’s just a few cute things I’ve noticed and died over. No they’re not gonna be mind blowing, but they’re cute and so I gotta talk about them even if I’m an echo from the choir.

The song is written as a beautiful call and response, designed as a beautiful mirror between the first verse and chorus and the second. The first sang from Tragedy’s POV and Second from her lover.

“To the lost, the cold”, reflected by “searching all alone, searching for my lost love”. Then the welcome to bad end theatre matched by her stumbling into it, and giving that song a stronger semblance of duality and emphasis on the title.

“When the curtains close, you’ll come away stronger. Or maybe you’ll break, not my fault you sought this pain” gets reflected in a few ways. “Though it’s plays were cold, I still felt this warmth from them”, as she came away stronger. And they would, eventually, even with Tragedy’s own slow work to break herself and all of her characters. More so, this second set is written in a reverse: Tragedy sings about maybe coming away stronger, a hint of hope, yielding to the pessimism of suffering and pain. Yet her lover feel that cold, but remains unyielding, reminded of warmth and her search for it.

And then the chorus, “Share in my misery, for all eternity, labyrinth of suffering…”. It’s a triplet of the same. Pain with no time or place it would ever end, lost *much like the first line* and ultimately as a chorus it leaves itself, its rhymes and its cadence unfinished. Most importantly its missing rhyme was left hanging with ‘suffering”.

So her lover comes in, “for all your tragedy, I’ll write happy endings”, seeing all that pain, the viscous circle of it and changing it. Looking for the happy ending and even breaking hard the rhyme with “endings” instead of “eternity” to “misery”. And finally, she echoes the “suffering” rhyme, as if taking over for Tragedy and doing what she does best: writing their happy ending. “I’ve missed you my darling”.

Tragedy’s part gets even worse when you look at the structure between lines, as in her song she almost doesn’t allow herself to end. “Welcome to bad end theatre- when the”, that ‘when the’ is part of the following line, yet it’s slipped right into the end of that bar. Same cappers between “when the curtains close- you’ll”. And with “come away stronger- or”, and with “maybe you’ll break- not”.

It gives the song an unfulfilled energy, something that lacks closure… lacks an ending.

Then in the chorus, and this might be nitpicking, but ‘misery’, ‘eternity’ and suffering’ all exist alone in their own bars. The melody itself stops having that cadence and instead lets the pain and suffering hold. Yet when it’s asked to end its chorus it doesn’t, as if Tragedy was melodically stuck without a way out.

AND HER LOVER JUMPS IN. And she’s much the same. Her origin is more stable in its bars till bad end theatre, where herself too is lost in that unfulfilled pattern, but less. She does give herself some finality. “Still felt this warmth from them” doesn’t lead to anything. Same with “help thinking of your face”. There’s no sudden jump into another line. Yes on both their preceding lines there was that sense of despair, but it’s like they were fixed before their pairs had to end. Starting unfulfilled and ending fulfilled.

And when she gets to the chorus, much like tragedy, she keeps the pace of [most of the line] then [single word and emotion left hanging]. But changes it up in her own style through the words. And there’s a key there. “For all your” - “tragedies” is paired with “I’ll write happy” - “endings”. Not happy endings, but endings, the one thing that Tragedy never got, the one thing she was stuck without. Ultimately undoing Tragedy’s viscous cycle of “suffering”…

“I missed you my” - “darling”, by providing the love and fulfilment that tragedy was missing. She allowed the presence of tragedy, while pairing them up with her comedy. Because ultimately tragedy was lost and meaningless without her pair, comedy. Because, like the characters themselves their meanings exist only through the existence of the other, otherwise incomplete while alone.

But this last part is to the much more capable and knowledgeable music theorists out there because this has all been very basic and done by someone who truly has a lot to learn, but. Did the song modulate between A minor and C Major? Cause if I caught it right then the first verse is A minor, which carries a sense of melancholy and sadness. Tragedy. But did by any chance it modulate to the structurally parallel C Major? Particularly during the (first and!) second chorus? Changing to the happier and more soothing C Major? Keeping that duality of a sad start matched up by a happy ending?

Cause if it did that then that’s even cooler.

[tequiilasunriise]

Alright, so I just made a Wenclair post but imma make another one right now because oh my LORD I just saw the fandom breaking reviews, so sit down and grab a snack because it’s rambling time.

I see that many of you are discouraged from the prospect of Wenclair not being canon, this is understandable as I myself am really invested in these two. Hopefully this goes without saying, but NO ONE should hate on the show, the actors, etc etc. I refuse to let such toxicity run through this fandom. Like, this is just reviews for the first season. Please, I really, really don’t want a repeat of the Voltron fandom and cries of queerbaiting (and I wasn’t even remotely near being part of the Voltron fandom! It just got THAT bad that even I knew of its notorious reputation). Again, the show isn’t even out yet. Who’s to say Hunter going ‘fighting for Wenclair’ didn’t mean the course of their relationship in future seasons? We only have information on a first season that isn’t even out yet, so please, calm down on any hate and queerbaiting accusations.

That being said- y’all telling me you’re not buckled down for a slow burn? Wednesday is a character who needs a LOT of time and effort to build trust with on a romantic relationship level, so getting Wenclair all in one season would have been cool or whatever, but it also would’ve been pretty OOC since season one has confirmed only 8 episodes. On the flipside, the payoff of Wenclair’s growing friendship, that blooming trust, the eventual deep bond between them that not even Wednesday herself can deny? Is that not peak sapphic experience? Frenemies to begrudging allies to ‘I find your existence… not the worst’ ‘ppfft, thanks, Addams’ to friends to friends who would murder fer each other to ‘you are the sun that burns and enchants me, I hope this drought lasts a lifetime’. LIKE C’MON??? THE FLAVOR?? Don’t give up on Wenclair just yet y’all. (That being said, the line about droughts should be in a fanfic so imma mark that down fer later.)

And like, I think this next point is the most important thing to note. We all acknowledged our love for Wenclair as a delusion, ever since the beginning we knew we were pulling crumbs and making silly little headcanons. Yes, I would love if Wenclair became canon. Would I stop shipping it if it never does, though? Let’s see, I am a veteran Whiterose shipper of several years. Those two barely had a conversation in the entirety of Volume 8 and I am STILL willing to die on this hill fer them. I am a Lightcannon enjoyer despite the next to NOTHING crumbs in the entirety of their respective existences. Oh, you would not believe how many rarepairs I hold dear in the Pokémon world. The list goes on and on and on. Canon is cool and all but I hoard my random ships like a dragon of ye olde. Just look at what we, the OG Wenclair Warriors, made with just a few trailers and interviews and random instagram comments. The lovely art, the heart wrenching fanfics, the god tier headcanons. I dunno bout yall, but I’m not ready to give that all up just because canon said ‘mmmm no’. If no one got me, ao3 got me.

Trust me, I am well-aware the importance of good representation and I’m not saying you can’t be disappointed over this. What I am saying, however, is that you shouldn’t always let canon 100% dictate how you’re going to consume and enjoy a piece of media. So what if Wenclair isn’t canon? Their dynamic is AMAZING and nothing can take that away from me. There’s still potential and writing room for future seasons, and to that I say buckle down homies, we in it fer a long time and a good time.

[georgemackayhey]

Worth Fighting For (Part : One)

summary: You're entirely certain George is the one. So he hasn't got to put up much of a fight... but in a way, that's all he knows to do.

a/n: Drum roll! I believe this is the moment you've all been waiting for! I'm really excited about this one, too yall. So just know... I'm fully committed to this fic! I cross my heart to update as often as I can, but it maaay be a little slow. I hope yall enjoy the beginning of this labor of love. Let me know what you think, and if you'd like to be tagged!

w/c: 2k

───※ ·❆· ※───

You watched as a dozen grader schoolers fumbled out of the studio door, clutching their mother's hands, some still dancing.

Every Friday, that's all they did. Your job was to teach them how. To the best of your ability, you helped kids learn to let loose through music on the weekends. You took pride in your perfectly crafted playlists and the fun patterned joggers you'd show up in; your favorite being a bright green pair that's pockets turned into dinosaurs when you pulled them out.

When you signed up to teach the weekend classes to a bunch of kids, you figured it would be the easiest job in the world. But the rambunctious group kept you on your toes in more ways than one, and always left you breathless at the end of every Friday. Still, you'd hardly have it another way. How could you wish for more?

Okay sure, maybe it would be nice to afford a car so you could get away from the dreaded city bus. And maybe you'd like to drive your hypothetical car to your very own hypothetical home in the country, one day. But all that empty space would only leave you lonely for now.

Good thing you were busy, these days. There was usually too much going on for you to think of anything besides your schedule. Between Friday dance classes with the kids, you taught private lessons to more serious paying customers. To top it all off you were often called in to choreograph all of the local school's plays and productions, community theater included.

You stayed later this afternoon, to think up a dance between a few props the school choir director dropped off for you to work with. So once your group of kids had flooded down the hall that separated the row of studios from the massive gym in the front of the building aptly named Fit For All, you got to work.

You'd been loaned a large paper mache tree and an old pirate chest to think up a dance around. As you started to move the props to the middle of the room, you found the pirate chest was much heavier than you'd expected. You cursed, using the bit of momentum you gained to pull the thing along, but lost your inadequate grip too soon. The chest came slamming down on your hand with an unsettling boom, and your shriek that followed might have been embarrassing if it didn't hurt so bloody bad.

You pushed the chest away and yanked your hand to your heart in a flash, backing up from the scene as if that would help ease the numb sting

"Y/n? What happened?" A voice thick with concern and hurried in asking echoed through the empty studio. You turned to see a friend of yours... well, someone you'd known for a while now.

George was almost always at the gym, every time you peeked in on your way to the studios in the back of the locally owned community center of sorts. The nights you both headed to the parking lot at the same time, you'd chatter about the weather as he walked to his car, before you stalled at the bus stop.

Once, when he was waiting on a ride from a friend, and your bus was late, you'd stood under the awning out of the rain and talked a little about why you were both always where you were now. George was some sort of trainer, you gathered. His jarringly shy demeanor must have put the kids he worked with at ease. But that's just nearly all you knew about the guy.

"I just- ow- I just lost my grip and-" You tried to explain calmly, gesturing to your stiffened hand with the other, trying to move the fingers that you couldn't quite feel anymore.

George took a few steps to meet where you stood, focusing his eyes on your injury. He brought a hand to your shoulder and gently nudged you out of the room while you went on explaining what happened.

What a sight you must have been. In your bright orange joggers and the t-shirt with spaceship designs you bleached to make it look a little cooler. Your hair mused loose from the tight hold you tried to keep it out of your eyes during this afternoons lesson. Dressed like you hadn't managed to let go of the past, trying not to go woozy from the way your hand pulsed with a steadily growing ache, now.

If you knew George would have been the one to swoop in to save the day, you might have at least applied a fresh layer of lip gloss.

He led you toward the gym, but entered one door too soon. Inside was a small medical station, where the athletes came to find first aid kits and tape for their wrists, but hardly much more. George found an ice pack, though, and asked you a series of questions all of which you failed to answer correctly.

"Your hand is most definitely broken."

"Thanks for coming to the rescue." You shrugged, trying not to let your new blossoming worry show.

"Come on." George waved, lingering in the door way of the tiny medic room. His sky blue eyes were ringed with hints of exhaustion as they considered you for a beat. You stared back, more anxious about the fact that he'd just given you instructions than worried about why. Then, you wondered.

"What?"

"Come on. You missed the last bus till nine."

You floated along at his command, because only a fool would deny him. Your glance crossed the clock on the wall that read a few minutes past when your bus was due at the end of every day. You weren't even thinking about getting home when Geogre pressed the icepack to your knuckles. You were too busy trying to play off the sting.

George turned to make sure you were following close behind, as he started opening the door that flooded out to the car park.

///

So that's how you ended up sitting in the waiting room of an urgent care with a melting bag of ice that's chill numbed the hand you could feel- next to George. He shoved his hands in the pocket in the front of his pale jumper and slouched next to you without a word.

When the doctor came round for you, and confirmed your hand was, of course, definitely broken- you listened to his recommendations and thanked him for the few minutes he spent assuring you the injury could be fixed much easier than most others.

George was still sat in the same lazy position when you came back from getting checked out and halfway fixed up. And when he insisted on driving you home instead of letting you linger at the nearest bus stop, you let him. But you had something else in mind...

"Are you hungry?" You asked, bouncing your knee in the passenger seat of his old, warm car. Its personality shone through the vintage detail, as it's floors and seats were empty of any kind of clutter.

"Are you?" Geogre asked back, casting his bright blue eyes to you for a second before his attention focused back on the road ahead.

"Well, yes. Come to dinner with me. I'll buy since you've been entirely too kind to me this afternoon." You grinned, hopefully. Yeah, you wanted to thank him for wasting a couple hours of his night to help you sort out your situation. But you were also mostly looking for an excuse to spend a little more time at his side.

George was painfully quiet. You hadn't gotten to know him better at all during the couple of luxurious hours he'd spent near you tonight. You were nearly more confused by the guy than you had been back when he didn't know to acknowledge you on your matched leaves from the centre where you both worked. It made you even more desperate to know what he was about.

And for a couple of blocks, you tried to coax him into pulling into the lot of the fanciest place he could think of, in order to repay him properly. But Geogre just chuckled and waved you off.

"How about just DeAngelo's?" Geogre looked to you as he turned the wheel in the direction of the towns most beloved eatery. Frequented by all types at odd hours and as often as one might get away with, without breaking bank. Which was easy, because their exceptional food was just as exceptionally priced.

"Just DeAngelo's? That's like saying, how about we just have the best night ever?" You chuckled, as the blink of a broken stop light stalled Geogre's car behind a few others.

"Okay." George grinned too, a smile you had to pull your oggling stare away from. "Just the best night ever it is."

///

The diner was aptly busy, but you managed to score a cozy booth near the back. Next to a window that might have let in a draft on colder evenings, you had to actually think before reaching for a menu, because your dominant hand was out of commission and, for a dancer, you were embarrassingly uncoordinated.

"Order one of everything you'd like!" You mused, from behind the worn familiar menu. You were the kind who ordered the same thing almost everytime. But there was something about George's presence that made you feel as if you had to peruse the list of options. "Hell, I'll buy the place out if that's what you want."

"Well, I won't ask too much of you just yet." George tossed away the menu in his grasp after only a brief consideration. You had to bring your laminated list a little closer to hide your blush, though.

You both gave your orders to a tired eyed waitress who smiled your way when you remembered her name.

Then there were two.

"So..." You bit your lip, glancing over the vast expanses of the table that separated you from the mysterious and meek George. His piercing blue gaze was already sleepily settled on you as you dared to venture further into small talk. "Boxing, yeah?"

"Yeah," He agreed with a strain. "These days I just train, though."

"Just train." You arched a brow, hoping he picked up on your call back to the way he'd placed the adverb before his decision to come to DeAngelo's- wondering if he meant anything any it now.

"It's work." He grinned, casting his eyes down to your hand that had been given a new home inside an ugly, removable cast.

"I see." You shifted your weight, trying not to visibly squirm under his pretty, intense gaze.

"I like the sport. But I found it wasn't worth all the trouble." Geogre explained, vaguely. You had to bite back a laugh at how withheld he seemed. The way he studied you, as if there was so much on his mind. The way he kept to himself, even as you nudged for him to tell you more. So you tried his trick of keeping your mouth shut and your eyes focused on his. You nodded to George with a smile that insisted he keep talking. That promised you were listening.

And after the waitress left your drinks on the edge of the table as she breezed by, George slowly spoke up again.

"Boxing, it's... the only thing I'm good at. I could never be a banker or a builder or anything. So I'm lucky to have this job."

And you start to get the tiniest hint as to why he sounds so divided. So cautiously passionate. But every time he opens his mouth to answer your questions that you're hoping clear the enigmatic air about him, George only leaves you more complexly mystified.  

Then he asked about you. First, by wondering if the dinner you ordered was up to par. Then by asking if your debilitated hand would give you much trouble dancing. The answer was no, not really. You'd be set back a day and likely rush through recycled show choir moves to teach the kids later. But if anything, you were fine as ever. You'd even venture to say you were very good, but you blamed your calm happiness on the pain killers and went on talking about your work- because Geogre asked.

It wasn't often you got to gush over your job to someone who didn't already know how dearly you loved it. It wasn't often someone who asked about your dancing, to seemingly fill the gaps of conversation, listened as intently as George.

You figured it was because he was eager to bring up Barney. The older gentleman who'd built and ran Fit For All, with his late husband. The pair were interested in so many types of fitness they decided to open a space big enough for their favorite kinds of sports to live. The studios in the back were rented to dancers, yoga classes, and a few odd takewandow lessons. The gym in front was for boxers, bodybuilders and whoever felt like popping round to wear down the tread mill once a week.

According to Geogre, Barney was the one who coaxed him into picking up boxing. And you weren't surprised. Since the passing of his husband, Barney spent most of his time in the building, marveling over the classes and encouraging new faces to come back and get better. He'd watched you take lessons in the very studio you held yours own in now. It was home away from home, and Barney made it so. Even the mild George seemed to light up a little bolder while he yammered on about the owner.

Your history with Bareny was all either of you talked over till your meals were finished.

"How was your just DeAngelo's, then?" You asked, hoping sincerely that you'd treated him to something lovely enough to make up for his helping you, earlier.

"It was pretty close to the best, like you insisted." George chuckled, shoving his plate away as you noshed on the last of your chips.

"Well then we'll just have to come back till it is the best." You smiled coyly, as your waitress floated by to take away your rubbish.

///

George was quiet as ever as he drove you home. But for the first time, you were less mystified by his silence, and far more eager for a chance at asking him twenty questions the next time you got the chance.

When his vintage ride pulled to a stop outside your flat, George offered you a pleasant goodnight as you collected your bag. But before you returned the sentiment you dared to ask one final question. "See ya tomorrow?"

"Probably." George answered in a thin veil of sarcasm. The look in his eyes made his answer seem inevitable. The tone is his voice made it seem like he wasn't done keeping you on your toes. You took the smile on his lips as a good sign either way, as you returned a grin of your own- and thanked George one last time.

And on your skip to the door of your flat, you kept your cool and didn't look back to the guy you'd spent all night trying to get to know. But you crossed your working fingers as you slipped inside and wondered if it'd be entirely too strange if you started to pop round the gym more often.

───※ ·❆· ※───

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