#and the Moss House can maybe still be about Louis trying to find him and not succeeding

[cbrownjc]

Can I also throw out another possibility?

The hug might be from the reunion between them from toward the end of The Vampire Lestat.

Now, granted, that would mean that:

Rockstar Lestat happened in the past, probably in the 1980s still. And that,

Louis going to the Moss House would have to have occurred way before the year 2000. Like, at least before 1985 or thereabouts. Or, his going there might actually be about something else altogether.

For the first point, I've always felt that Lestat's rockstar career already happened in the past. And that the setup for it would be quite easy to do IMO, even without the ITWV book having not been published. And that it just makes more sense to me for it to have still happened back in the 1980s instead of happening in the present day.

But what you said here about the jacket Lestat is wearing in the hug scene is what just made it click for me that this very well could be from when Lestat and Louis finally met again during Lestat's rock career; which he not only did to try and protect Louis but to find Louis again as well. Because that jacket looks pretty new-ish and, as you said, modern. Not worn, old, or threadbare, which is what I would more expect from a Lestat living in an old moss-covered shack.

Now, as to the second point, I'm not going to pretend that I know a lot about cars. But is there any possible way that by at least getting cars from before 2000, they could fudge the exterior shots a bit, to at least make it look like Louis is there in the late-70s or even the very early 1980s looking for Lestat? And, if not, then maybe Louis goes to that house for another reason than to look for Lestat which, whatever it may be, becomes the reason why he stops trying to feed on humans in the year 2000? I honestly don't have any idea why or what that could be, but . . .

Anyway, I do agree with you 100% that the scene isn't Louis and Lestat reuniting in the present day with him having left Dubai. For the simple reason that, unless the show is going to break its own setup with this that it established in Season 1, all the present-day scenes are seen from Daniel's POV. If Daniel isn't around for it in 2022, then we, the audience, don't see it. So for that scene to be Louis and Lestat reuniting in the present, with Louis having left Dubai to go find him then, as the show has currently set it up, Daniel would have had to go with him. And I really don't think that is the case here.

So yeah, at the moment, I think that hug is from the Rockstar era, which still happened in the 1980s, just like in the book. And that note about the jacket, and the style of it, is what clicks it, at least for me.

Heeey , Nalyra !!! If Louis's suicide scene occurs, how would it work with that scene where he hugs Lestat, possibly in NOLA? I'm confused . Would the suicide event occur before or after the meeting in NOLA?

Hello dear!

The suicide attempt will likely be the cliffhanger of season 2. IF they go there. So that will be modern Dubai.

The hug...

It could be NOLA, yes, if it is, then it's likely the disputed-to-have-never-happened-in-the-books scene... and if that is it then I think that is in the year 2000. (They were looking for trucks for the street which are older than that, which was interesting.)

So it would be after the NOLA meeting.

I do not think we will get a full Loustat reunion this season, at least not in the sense of the word.

But, of course, Lestat has to show up somehow for season 3. :)

If that hug is not NOLA though then I take it for an hallucination.

Possibly during the travels.

Because Louis will miss Lestat, terribly.

That said: However, while I was making the gif I noticed the jacket (and therefore threw a screenshot into the editor):

That is a floral pattern on a jacket.

I have a coat by Desigual that has something like that, too, here is a similar one:

Now, we know Carol Cutshall is on top of her game (and I am no expert), but that jacket calls back to "velvet jacket / court cut / pattern" for me. In the books Lestat would wear red velvet, but we know Sam likes black, and I mean...

I think that's modern day (or at least closer to modern day) Lestat.

So. I'm staying with NOLA (for now), though... I mean... could be... like... the possibility is there... 👀

IF they're not mean and do a cliffhanger again.

And I am quite afraid they are that mean *laughs*

[drabsyo]

I was wondering...I was always confused about Narcissa’s hair. It’s been a while since I read the books. Did she color it blonde to show her now belonging to House Malfoys. Or was it naturally blonde? Movies confused me a bit I guess.

Yes, this had me confused too! I've agonized and toiled over it, more than I probably should, about how I should draw her hair because people have generally different views, which is totally understandable! 💕

And I've always wanted to discuss it, so now that I've been given a reason to... Well.

If you take a look at some of my Narcissa fanart, you'll notice the different ways I'd color her hair. I was so confused. Is she a light blonde? Dark blonde? A mix of raven hair and blonde hair? If she has blonde hair then why does her family have (mostly) dark hair? And WHY does she have blue eyes?! This woman is absolutely confusing! (Which is kind of, you know, fitting because Narcissa always loves to be a mystery to literally anyone lol)

So I did my homework, asked around, and scoured every bit of information, canon or otherwise, that I could find about her. It led me to this:

In canon, this is what the Black sisters look like. You can find the page here. Narcissa is a child here, and already has blonde hair. So we can go ahead and safely assume that she was born with natural blonde hair. But in the films, Narcissa has black and blonde hair. I don't actually know why they gave her that hair color, maybe so that the audiences wouldn't question her blood relations with the Blacks--I don't know. I really don't. But now we have a book version Narcissa, one who has full blonde hair. And a movie version Narcissa, one who has raven and blonde hair. At least, that's how the different hair colors started: a movie version, and a book version.

So... here's where it gets confusing.

To my knowledge, it isn't actually explained why her hair color is the way it is in both the movies and the books. Having blonde hair does raise many questions, how is she the "only" blonde in a family of dark hair and dark eyes? To top it all off, it gets even more confusing, because fanon writes and draws her either as a full blonde or a mix of raven and blonde hair. We just have this large pile to sift through of her having either hair color. No one actually explains anything. She's just... infuriatingly there. She's either blonde or raven haired and blonde. BUT fanfiction writers, as I've observed, give their own reasons why Narcissa's hair color is the way it is in their respective stories. And it's actually pretty creative and interesting! It adds even greater depth to her character, and it fits the narrative of the story even better. Remember, the character we're dealing with is Narcissa Black. One of her main traits is "she won't do anything unless there is a clear purpose behind it." This character is deliberate, meticulous, and she makes sure to plan ahead at all times. And so, some fanfiction writers decide to play on that.

You can skip this part if you want to avoid spoilers but I've compiled a small list of instances in (Cissamione) fanfiction where Narcissa's hair is mentioned.

🔹 In Extinction by rubikanon in Chapter 10: Build and Break, Hermione asks Narcissa about it. Here, Narcissa has black and blonde hair. She explains that she only decided to dye it blonde to "fit in with the Malfoys." We can gather two things from that alone, which resonates with her character perfectly: 1.) Narcissa is loyal and 2.) Narcissa purposefully wants to show the rest of the world how loyal she is by committing to having blonde hair. The woman has some serious commitment, and it shows. But now, the way that it's slowly growing back into her natural black hair color, hints that perhaps Narcissa no longer wishes to fit in with the Malfoys. However, if we take an even closer look, we can safely assume that Narcissa isn't the kind of person to just leave her hair color "unattended" like that. Remember, she's meticulous. And this is a big deal for her, the fact that she's just kind of letting it grow back instead of either fully dyeing it back to black, or dyeing it back to blonde. It suggests that perhaps she's a little unsure this time, perhaps it is her uncertainty that is the reason why it's now a mix of both. Another grey area? Or maybe it's actually something more deliberate? Maybe now, she likes that it's a mix of both. That other half now being solely for Draco, and not to fit in (completely) with the Malfoys any longer. Who knows why Narcissa does things the way she does? We can speculate to the ends of the earth, or be as smart as Hermione Granger (or with the case of Extinction, see Hermione's thoughts), but something tells me we'd still be a good step behind.

"Which one is your natural hair color?" I wondered aloud.

(Narcissa) She glanced up at the unexpected question. I was relieved she hadn't sensed my attention yet. It's not like I meant anything by it, I told myself. She was so beautiful, one couldn't help but notice. And feel physically drawn to her. And want to see her two-toned hair fanned across her back, slipping over the bare skin, silky beneath my fingers...

"Why do you ask?" Her query brought me back to reality, and I hurriedly corrected my imagination to include a pretty dress covering the rest of her.

"I don't know." I chewed the inside of my cheek, suppressing my other thoughts. "I'm just curious."

Her gaze returned to the fire. "You've seen enough of my relatives to guess which color is genetic. The blond is something I added to fit in with the Malfoys, after Draco was born." She was quiet for a moment. "He looks so much like his father. I suppose I wanted to share some resemblance."

🔹 In Killing Me Softly by Looktotheedges in Chapter 4: Nagging, Hermione suggests that perhaps Narcissa is part Veela because of her blonde hair and very attractive features, like Fleur. Which is this whole other theory/plot that's very interesting, but won't be discussed in this post. Narcissa tells Hermione that Sirius has always been blonde, and that it isn't out of the question for her to be blonde either. Sirius Black. A blonde. I know! Maybe it's there because it's funny that Sirius is actually blonde like Narcissa. Prissy, haughty, lady-like Narcissa. Arguably the 'girliest' cousin that he has. No, no, no. He doesn't want to be anything like Narcissa. Anyway, if that's the reason, I think that's hilarious and cute.

Narcissa turns away. 'I am aware my appearance is frightfully drab. Work has been…'

Hermione holds back a disbelieving scoff. 'Narcissa. You always look beautiful. And you’re talking to the witch with grass in her hair who practically lives in her office all week.'

Narcissa just leans further over the crib. 'A blonde little boy. It has been so long since… I can almost imagine…'

Hermione stands next to her. Looks down at the peacefully sleeping Louis. He does look remarkably like Draco. 'Are you sure there’s no Veela blood in you? You weren’t secretly switched at birth?'

'Like a changeling?'

'It would explain your blonde hair.'

'Sirius was also blonde, it is not completely out of the question for us Blacks.'

What?!

(...) 'I know. But it is the truth. He was blond until he was about seven… then it began to darken. Mousy. Dull. He wanted to look cool and brooding instead, so he got his hands on some kind of charm right before he set off for Hogwarts. A new, edgy Sirius. It was around then he forbade us from calling him Siri. Said it sounded too girly.'

🔹 In Fixed in Time by TheWorldsaBeastofBurden in Chapter 9: Sisters and Saviors, it's also tackled a little humorously. Andromeda let's a little comment slip while they're in the middle of trying to heal Hermione. Something funny, something that suggests Andromeda and Bella, when they were children, have always wondered why Narcissa is blonde unlike them.

The first words spoken occurred after they’d risen and attempted their casting. Andromeda’s preparedness to take on their task had been clear in her mind so Narcissa rose with her sister, wrapped an arm around her waist and held her near as the woman raised her wand to draw up the rest of the injury she’d dropped, half a slash across Hermione’s hip bone…

That remained half, as Andromeda growled out, “...it isn’t working.” she looked to Narcissa, “Why aren’t you powering me?”

What nonsense? “I am!” she insisted. She was! Or “I- I am trying to!” Her magic was active and alive, pulsing to rise from her skin and transfer into Andromeda’s but it- it wasn’t working! “Could...could it be that you were disowned?”

“Disowning doesn’t take away the fact that we share blood, our magic is directly related. Ugh, Bella always said you were adopted!”

“Oh ha- oh.”

“...oh?” Andromeda returned.

“...it’s not an issue of power. It is what I intend to aid in casting,” Narcissa slowly worked out. Oh, it was most blessed Mister Goyle could be brought to assist the present Hermione. If her present self had been brought to aid Andromeda? “...I cannot harm Hermione.”

Andromeda sighed with some frustration. “I understand you are so tenderly in love-”

“It isn’t- I’m avowed! I- when we arrived from the future we had to escape Malfoy Manor, I couldn’t bring Hermione through the wards without...I couldn’t add her directly, that would be visible. I had to...attach her permission to mine.”

🔹 In Glass Silence by Zarrene Moss (Menzosarres), which probably gives one of the most interesting backstories for Narcissa's hair, for why it's blonde. I can't put a clip of the scene here without hogging up a huge chunk of space on your dash, so I'll try to explain it as best I can instead.

Understand that these come with serious 🛑spoilers🛑 so please do read it at your own risk.

In Glass Silence, Narcissa's hair and eye color was black at birth. But after an accident with raw magic, something Bellatrix wasn't able to control when they were children, Narcissa almost dies. Bellatrix, using even more raw magic, tries desperately to pull Narcissa's "life force" back, but at the cost of losing the eumelanin that made Narcissa's eyes and hair black. Narcissa survived, but now has very little eumelanin left, which is why she's so pale, blonde, and has blue eyes. Every time Narcissa looks at a mirror, her reflection is a reminder of the day she almost died. Bella, on the other hand, is reminded of that day every single time she looks at Narcissa.

So! These are only a few fanfictions I could think of at the top of my head that tackles the issue of Narcissa's hair. In the books, to my knowledge, she is described as having blonde hair and very pale skin.

But let's take another deep dive, if you're up for it.

These are mostly theories, which are largely unconfirmed, but I think they're interesting to think about.

There's this description in the wiki:

"Narcissa Malfoy is described as tall, slim, "nice looking", and very pale, with blue eyes, long blonde hair, and a clear, cold voice. Her hair colouring thus differs from most of the House of Black, who generally have dark hair, though Narcissa does possess the arrogant good looks characteristic of her family."

There's also this pinterest photo of the Black sisters being compared to each other side by side, descriptively and physically. I'm so sorry, I don't know who drew it, but here's a link to the post on pinterest.

"Narcissa threw back her hood. She was so pale she seemed to shine in the darkness... long blonde hair streaming down her back."

Which is interesting because this hints that she's... different. It's a bit literal in this sense--she comes from a pureblood family, arguably the most influential and notorious one, the Blacks, who mostly have dark hair and eyes, and yet her physical appearance directly contrast that. There's also the matter of her namesake. She's the only Black to be named after a flower instead of a galaxy or a star. We aren't really given any explanation why she's the only one who's different. Even Sirius, who fought and died for the side of the Light, is named after the brightest star in the sky. Even Andromeda. It's been said that this is actually meant to be a parallel of some sort to Lily Evans. Narcissa and Lily are both named after flowers, even Petunia (Lily's sister). And I know there's this thing where it's a tie up to how Harry was ultimately saved by a mother's love: Harry lived at the beginning because of his mother's love, and Harry lives once again at the end of the books because Narcissa, a mother who wanted to save her own son, saved him.

If you read that scene in the books where Harry is saved by Narcissa, the whole scene is actually... pretty soft? There's that sort of disarming softness about Narcissa in that moment, where Harry expected to be callously dragged and prodded for a heartbeat. Instead, he gets a surprisingly gentle touch, a curtain of long blonde hair shielding him from the darkness, and the kind of tenderness he wouldn't expect from his enemies, "Is Draco alive?"

It's almost like Narcissa's appearance is something of a "tell". With Andromeda, she's described to have kind eyes, open, unguarded. She inherited her family's dark eyes and dark hair, and she even looks like Bellatrix's twin. I suppose we could say, Andromeda wants to fight that in any way she can by being openly kind. Narcissa is quite literally the opposite--guarded eyes, stoic expressions, cool and calculated emotions. We're veering into this fine line between fanon and canon in terms of their characterization (but only due to lack of canon materials) but personally, I think Narcissa having blonde hair and blue eyes is somewhat more fitting for her character. Again, this line:

"Narcissa threw back her hood. She was so pale she seemed to shine in the darkness... long blonde hair streaming down her back."

It's like that one glaringly obvious hint that everyone overlooks simply because... because it's the most obvious one. "Me! I'm different! I'm the last person you'd expect, but it really is me!"

Anyway. I've rambled on long enough. Hope this clears up some of that confusion, anon. Hoping it didn't ADD even more confusion... 😂 At the end of the day, this is just me speculating, gushing, and being One Big Fool™. So.

But either way, blonde hair, dark hair, mix of both, I adore her. Pretty much.

[formeandmyfics]

Jugenea Fan Fiction ‘LOCKED IN’

Because Judy & Gene are having ‘marriage on the rocks’, Sinatra & Bacall decide to do something about it. But, will their plan work out? 

Spring 1956

Gene stood at the end of the Bogart's driveway, next door to his home, as he took one last drag of his cigarette. He could hear the sounds of steel drum and ukulele music echoing from the back yard, along with sounds of his rowdy friends, and many familiar cars lined the Beverly Hills street in front of their houses. Exhaling the smoke into the night sky, he then dropped the cigarette the the ground, and stepped on it before heading up the driveway.

When he walked through the gate, he saw that the Luau was in full swing. With strings of yard bulbs lit up over the party, he could see everyone was dressed in Caribbean attire, with women wearing flowered lei's, as they hung around the tiki bar or the large buffet table.

Gene's eyes scanned the crowd for one particular person, but didn't see her. There were many people, and being so short, sometimes it was hard to find her. It was, however, never hard to hear her, but right now that voice of hers was non-existent over the music and chatter.

"Hey, bud, you made it," Van said walking up next to him in a bright yellow shirt with palm trees all over it.

"Hey, hey," Gene said smiling wide as they gave a hug and pat on the back.

"Here," Van said reaching for one of the sea-shell lei's on the welcome table, "Lazar said entry into his birthday party is that everyone has to wear one."

"That's fine," Gene said as he bent so Van could place it around his neck, "I haven't been laid in a while."

"That's 'cause you were on the other side of the pond for 5 weeks."

Yeah, add three weeks on top of that five, Gene thought a little irritated, as they joined the crowd.

"His birthday was last month. Why are we having it 3 weeks late? Not that I'm complaining. I'm happy to be here."

"He was over in Australia, I think. Bogie wanted to throw him a party with all of us."

"Where is Swifty?"

Van motioned, pointing back and forth behind Gene. Gene turned around and saw the familiar 5'2 bald man in glasses in a serious conversation with Moss Hart, another client of Paul's, or 'Swifty' as they called him. 90% of everyone here was, or had been, a client of Swifty's at one time or another, including himself.

"Look at him," Van said, "He's at his Luau and he's still over there discussing work."

"And with Moss, too. They're probably closing some business deal."

"And it's probably regarding your wife," Van teased as Swifty was Judy's current agent and Moss was her last film director.

Gene took the cold beer that Van offered and scanned the crowd again when Lauren walked up in a halter top and grass skirt.

"How ya doin' suga," she said in her best Mae West accent.

"Hi, doll," he chuckled giving her a friendly peck on the lips, "How are you?"

"I'm good. We've missed you."

"Oh, I've missed you all, too. It's good to be home."

"How good," she asked cautiously raising her eyebrow.

"Haven't made it that far yet," he said taking a swig of his beer.

"I'm glad your back. My husband's been taking me on the boat in your absence. He's says I'm not as good of a skipper as you are."

"Oh, being on the boat again sounds amazing. The weather over in England is shit."

"Cloudy?"

"Rainy and cloudy. Imagine spending over a month in that."

"Well, it definitely hasn't been like that here. It's actually been quite warm for this time of the year."

"Good. Maybe I can take a dip in your pool tomorrow if it's warm enough."

"Oh, yeah, anytime."

"Where is your other half, by the way," Gene asked.

"Over there at the Tiki Bar," she said, and in perfect timing the group of men there burst out in a roar of laughter, "They've just started doing the Jack Daniels."

"Oh, it's about to get fun then," Gene laughed.

"You know it. Oh, and your other half is in the house with Junie if you're wondering. I'll be right back."

Gene looked at the back patio door, as if he expected Judy to come walking out at that moment. When she didn't he started walking to go in, but he suddenly heard his best friend's unmistakable, but slightly intoxicated, voice.

"Gene!"

The other men joined in seeing him, as it'd been over a month, and he couldn't help but get pulled into their welcome circle.

Judy sat at the island in the large kitchen as June made them both another Mai Tai and discussed 'You Can't Run Away From It', a movie she was almost done filming at Columbia.

"As much as I love my husband, I gotta tell ya, it's been a little annoying working with him like this, as the producer and director, and then coming home together. I don't know how you did it with Vincente."

"During The Pirate, it was hard. It was really hard. I wasn't in the best shape, mentally, but I think working together like that put a lot of strain on our marriage. That's why I wanted him replaced on Easter Parade. I didn't want it to make our marriage worse, but it didn't matter in the end, anyways. I didn't understand it because I loved working with him on St. Louis and The Clock."

"That's because you two weren't married then. You didn't have to come home together afterwards."

Judy giggled, "That's true."

"Do you think if Gene directed you in something right now, you'd be as annoyed with him as I am with Richie?"

Judy put on a smile. She heard her friend's frustrated tone, and knew it was a hypothetical question, but it hit pretty good.  

"Well, I don't have to work with him to get 'annoyed' at him, but actually, it's the opposite with us. We work so well together, you know? He knows the way I work. He directed me in all the dance choreography for the last two films we shot together, and we weren't married then, but it always brings us closer together when we work. It's been hard going in two different directions, professionally. Working together is all we've known, it's how we met. And even after I left Metro, he was there helping me when I started my concert career and he was there to help me when I went over to Warner Bros for A Star is Born."

"And now you're away doing concert tours and he's making films."

"Yep."

"Or, he's away making films and you're here doing albums."

Judy sighed, resting her cheek in her hand, "Yes, June."

"But you always come back to each other. You're back from that small tour up north and he's finally back from London. Didn't he get back yesterday?"

"Yeah. Yesterday morning. He spent the afternoon with the kids when I was at the recording studio."

"I spoke to Pete on the phone this morning. He said he is subletting his Wilshire Terrace condo to Gene for a little while."

"That's what I've been told," Judy said licking her lips before taking a sip of her fresh cocktail.

"It's convenient, as it's literally right down the road, but...what the hell, Judy?"

Judy nudged her shoulders, "It's his decision."

"I know you, my friend, and I know Gene, which means I also know that you have a lot to do with that decision of his," June said in a motherly voice as she waved a skewer of sliced oranges and grapes at Judy.

Judy huffed and grabbed the skewer before June poked her in the eye, "Give it."

"Have you seen him yet since he got back?"

"Not yet. Frank said he was going to stop over here tonight, though.”

Just then there was a roar from a bunch of men followed by laughing. Junie turned to look out the window behind her.

“What’s going on out there,” Judy asked.

“I don’t know. Looks like the guys are up to something.”

“My gosh, they’re making a lot of noise,” Judy said getting up to follow behind her friend out the door.

They walked to where the group of men stood but first saw Lauren cracking up pointing.

“What is going on,” Judy giggled to Lauren.

Just then the crowd parted and there stood a few of the men in straw hats, bare chested, with coconut bras on. When Judy saw this, she laughed hysterically, grabbing onto Lauren’s hand for support, as the two women almost doubled over.

When Gene saw Judy happily laughing, it made him smile. He hadn’t seen her like that for a while. When their eyes finally met, they were both chuckling, and he took that opportunity to walk up to her. But he did so in a sexy stride and tilted his straw hat on his head, the way she does with her fedora in her Get Happy number.

“What do you think,” he asked smiling proud.

Judy giggled and placed her fingers on her lips as she looked down at the bra covering part of his naked torso, “I think you look ridiculous.”

“Good, just was I was going for.”

“This the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe you’re all wearing those.”

“Touch em,” he said playfully grabbing her wrist but she quickly pulled her hand away laughing.

“Get out of here.”

“Wanna try em’ on,” he said untying the back.

When they were off, she took it from him and examined the petite, wooden cup, “Darling, I’m afraid they’re a bit wee small for my liking.”

“Let me see,” he laughed and took the bra back. He was about too place it up to her chest when she pushed him away, crossing her arms.

Gene laughed and took his big, straw hat off and placed it on top of her head.

“This is not what I was expecting once you got back home, but it’s pretty damn funny,” she said adjusting the hat.

“What were you expecting,” he asked, his tone a little more serious.

“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” she said taking the hat off, “Can you please put your shirt back on, we’re at a party.”

“Yes, dear,” he said in the all-too-familiar husband voice.

After Gene grabbed his shirt that was sitting by the tiki bar and put it back on, he found Judy sitting at a vacant picnic table. He immediately sat next to her, beer in hand.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t home yesterday when you got back.”

“It’s okay. I know you were working.”

“The kids were so happy to be with you again. They couldn’t stop talking about it,” she smiled.

“I gotta tell ya the truth, I got teary eyed. I missed the all so much. I’m glad Liza was there, too.” “You handled all four of them alone, huh,” she asked with a raised eyebrow as she needed help doing it herself.

“Oh, sure, but they were on their best behaviour, just because it was my homecoming I’m sure.”

“Kerry spent the night for a few days.”

“She told me. She said you took her to Capitol Records with you. She thought it was the coolest thing ever, her words.”

“Well, I promised to take her shopping and out to eat, but I had to record a song up at the tower first. She insisted she wanted to go with. I thought she’d be bored.”

“Oh, no. I think it’s thrilling to her. You know how excited she gets whenever she gets to come to the studio or one of your shows.”

“For a few hours, it was just the two of us. I’ve only been able to do that a few times with her since we got married, but now that she’s a teenager, it’s a different kind of bonding. I really enjoyed it.”

“I really appreciate you doing that for her, and treating her like your own ever since we moved in together. I cannot believe it’s been six years already.”

“I know, and I can say the same thing about you and Liza.”

“How’s the album coming along?”

“It’s going really great. I love the playlist.”

“Is there a title yet?”

“Oh, yes, one that I think beats my last title.”

“What can be better than ‘Miss Show Business’,” he asked dramatically.

“Judy.”

“Judy,” he repeated and she nodded with a gleam in her eye, “Well, damn, that does beat it. That’s not original at all.”

She laughed, genuinely, and reached down to scratch the bandage over her ankle. He remembered her telling him about her ankle sprain. They hadn’t spoken much over the phone while he was away. When they had, it was distant and cold and only about the children. The one time they actually spoke like a married couple was when their daughter had told him that Mama broke her ankle. When Gene had gotten Judy on the phone, worried, she told him about the sprain while she was in Frisco. He was happy that she was okay and at least didn’t break it. Judy reminded him that their daughter had an affiliation for over-exaggeration but thanked him for caring.

“How long do you have to keep the bandage on?”

“Two more weeks, just so I don’t sprain it again. It’s just a wrap. I don’t have to walk like a toy soldier or anything.”

“Does it hurt,” he asked taking her ankle gently and lifting it on his lap.

“It’s sore if I’m on it for long periods of time, but doesn’t hurt. It developed a nasty bruise though.”

He undid the bandage and there he saw her a large bruise over half of her foot now fading.

“Shit, Judy.”

“I don’t even know how I did it,” she giggled.

“Probably falling down while you’re sleepwalking,” he said putting the bandage back on.

“I don’t sleepwalk.”

“Whose that walking around the house at 3 a.m., a ghost,” he teased.

“Yeah, the ghost of Dorothy’s past.”

He looked at her as she smiled, looking down as she stretched her bare legs straight. His eyes traveled up them to the tight, and short, high-waisted white shorts she wore. A yellow, mid-drift shirt was tied around her waist, with a matching bandage holding up her hair, and a pink lay of flowers was around her neck. She looked very cute, and more radiant, than she had the last time he saw her. Of course he had watched her GE performance on television like everyone else, and noticed she had lost about 10 pounds, but now in front of him, she looked younger as well.

When her eyes didn’t meet his, he knew that she knew, that he was staring. So, he leaned over and whispered in her ear, “You look so beautiful.”

Across the way, Lauren nudged Frank with her elbow, to get his attention. When she had it, she motioned for him to look at their two best friends. When he did, it was just in time to see Judy look up at Gene, smiling, flattered by his comment.

“They’re getting along,” Frank said.

“Let’s hope it stays that way. I’m not looking for a repeated performance of what happened last time they were at my place.”

“What happened,” he asked.

“It was a few days before he left for Europe…” she said trailing off.

*

“Judy! Open the door! Judy! I swear, I’ll break it down!” Gene’s yelling caused the dog next door to start barking as Lauren walked around the bushes that separated their yards. “You’ll huff, and you’ll puff, and you’ll blow the house down,” she said, her arms crossed in front of her. “Oh, Jesus,” he slurred. “May I ask what you’re doing?” “She locked me out. She took my god damn keys and now all the doors are locked.” “Why did she take your keys,” she responded calmly. “Because she didn’t want me going out even though I had these plans for the past few weeks,” he smiled with his finger up like he was smarter, “So, I had Frank come pick me up. Ah ha, she couldn’t stop me then.” “She took your keys because you were probably drinking before you left,” Lauren responded matter-of-factly. Gene swatted his hand and shook his head, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He turned back to their front door trying the knob as if it was going to miraculously open again, “OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!” Lauren slightly jumped and placed her finger on her temple,“Dear, she isn’t home.” “Yes, she is. Her car’s right there.” “She . isn’t . home,” she slowly stated in aggravation. “Then where the hell is she?” Lauren pointed to her own house and Gene rolled his eyes before heading that way.            Judy was singing at the piano, as Kay played, when Gene entered the living room, Lauren on his heels. It was a small group, as Bogie, June & Richie watched. Gene was ready to have words, but seeing Judy singing, he sighed and composed himself.  No one interrupted when Judy Garland was singing, not even her own husband.

When Judy saw Gene, singing loudly through a long note, she nonchalantly lifted her left hand giving him the bird. The room turned to look whom she was flipping off and Gene looked at Lauren who smiled, putting her finger up to her lips to shush him. “Whatever you did, maybe you should apologize,” a man in his late 20’s said with a chuckle, as he walked up to Gene out of nowhere. “Why are you immediately taking her side…‘cause she’s got the tits,” Gene asked as if talking to a friend, but then when he looked, he didn’t recognize the guy. “Yeah,” the man chuckled. “Who are you?” “And if you don’t make up, maybe I’ll end up having the tits, too. Hi, I’m Robert,” the man’s voice was full of sarcasm, clearly joking, and he extended his hand happily to introduce himself but Gene turned red. In his current state, with the current circumstances, Gene took the comment the wrong way and saw red. He suddenly grabbed the guy by the collar with his fists and baked him up to the wall startling everybody. “Don’t fucking talk about my wife,” he shouted. “Oh, Jesus,” Judy said and quickly ran over. Robert put his hands up, “Whoa, I was joking! BACK OFF MAN!” “Gene!” Lauren shouted. Bogie grabbed Gene from behind, calmly, to back him off but Gene just stared at the man, still in a hold. Suddenly Judy was next to them. “Gene, that’s Lauren’s cousin, now BACK OFF,” she hissed. Hearing her voice, suddenly brought him back to reality, and he let go. He looked at the man with complete remorse, helping him smooth his jacket. “I’m sorry.” They watched as Gene walked out of the room, running his hand through his hair. When he passed Richie & Junie, the two looked at one another shocked. “I am so sorry, Robert. Please do forgive my husband. He’s not himself right now,” Judy pleaded. “He’s not usually like that,” Lauren added. “I thought we were joking around. I guess it got misunderstood.” “He’s a walking bottle of whiskey right now, hey, Judes,” Bogie asked a bit amused but she didn’t find it funny. Judy shook her head, looking at Lauren, before she walked the opposite direction that Gene went.

* Lauren handed Frank his fresh beer, “Judy really locked him out of the house that night. He spent the night in our guest room. I had never seen Gene’s temper like that.”

“Yeah,” Frank chimed in, “Even when drinking, he isn’t like that.”

“Judy really wasn’t lying about his temper becoming a problem.” “But from what he told me, Judy’s mood swings are a huge problem as well. With his temper like a short fuse, and her bi-polar moods, that ain't good. Do you know what they've been fighting about?"

"No clue. But Judy did tell me they had a blow out the day before he left. She said it was the worst fight they ever had. I guess they both said things that were pretty hurtful, attacking below the belt, and all. She doesn't know where their marriage stands right now."

“Well, maybe they’ve made up, or will later,” he said wickedly.

Judy turned her head away when Gene had leaned in to kiss her and it really pissed him off. He didn’t say anything, but his face said it all as he slowly leaned back from her.

“Gene, don’t,” she said. She wasn’t playing hard-to-get, she was serious.

Gene exhaled, not wanting to get into an argument, especially here at the party, “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I have no definite plans.”

“Good. We need to talk.”

Judy didn’t like his tone one bit, “I’m not sure I’ll be in the mood to talk tomorrow.”

Hearing her actress voice, he whispered, “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but that thing you sent in the mail, is full of shit. Just know that.”

Without another word, Gene got up and walked away. Judy’s eyes followed him until he sat down in a chair by the pool.

Back across the way, Frank and Lauren looked at each other.

“Well, that didn’t last long,” Lauren said.

“I wish we could do something to help ‘em, you know?”

“What we ought to do is lock them in a room together until they figure things out.”

Frank nodded and took a swig of his beer but suddenly his eyes widened.

“Betty.”

“Hm?”

“I got an idea.”

Debbie Reynolds sat next to Judy, and playfully nudged her shoulder as she did so. Judy acknowledged her friend’s presence with a gentle smile, but that not-so-like-Judy welcome alerted Debbie.

“Alright, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing for you to worry about, darling.”

“Man problems?”

“If you want to call it that, sure,” she giggled.

“Is it that time of the month for Gene,” Debbie joked.

“Yes, but for both of us, and has been that way for more than just a week, let me tell ya.”

“Oh, it’ll be okay. Every marriage has ups and downs.”

“I know,” Judy said a bit frustrated, “I’ve had my share of downs with my past two marriages, but not with Gene, at least not like this.”

The seriousness in her friend’s voice altered Debbie’s smile and she took Judy’s hand, “You’ll be okay, I promise.”

“How are you so sure?”

“Because it’s you two.”

They were quiet a moment before Debbie spoke up again, “Now, I have some exciting news to tell you that might turn that from upside down.”

“You’re pregnant,” Judy said joking.

“How’d you know,” Debbie answered gleefully.

“Wild guess,” Judy giggled back, still joking, but when she saw the look on Debbie’s face, her eyes grew wide, “Are you really?”

“October.”

Judy gasped, with a huge smile, before putting her in for a big hug, “Oh, darling, that’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”

“Thank you. We haven’t announced it to everyone yet, but I’m so thrilled.”

“Oh my goodness, I bet Eddie is excited.”

“Oh, he is. It’s not for another six months, but I think he’s already gone and bought cigars for when the baby’s born.”

Both girls laughed.

“Hey, Judes,” Frank said walking up.

“Yah, honey,” she asked turning to look at him over her shoulder.

“Can you stand up a moment?”

“Why?”

“Can you stand up a moment,” he repeated.

“No. Why?”

“Come on, come on.”

Judy and Debbie gave each other strange looks before Judy stood up, a little self conscious. Frank walked up arms length, and put his hand up so she would place her hand in his, which she did. He kept a hold of it and looked at her, as if observing her outfit.

“What the hell are you - what are you doing,” she asked now trying to get her hand away but he kept a hold of it.

“Mm hm, mm hm,” he said then all of a sudden yanked her to him and picked her up over his shoulder.

Judy gasped and grabbed onto the shirt of his back so she wouldn’t fall, “Frank,” she yelled, “Put me down!”

“No can do, babe,” he said as he started walking down the small hill.

“God dammit, Frank, put me down,” she continued and kicked her legs. Instead of a verbal response, he gave a small slap to her behind. Judy leaned up, angry, and hit his back in response to this. Everyone pointed and laughed as they watched Sinatra carry Judy over his shoulder down towards the pool.

Gene just lit his fresh cigarette, sitting on a poolside lounge, when he heard commotion coming his way. He turned to see Frank walking towards him as his wife angrily wiggled over his shoulder yelling vulgarities.

“What the fu--,” he mumbled as they got close but he was interrupted by Judy.

“Don’t you dare,” she said hitting Frank’s back again as she saw the pool in front of her. When Judy saw them about to pass her husband, he reached her hand out, “Gene!”

Gene immediately put his cigarette in his mouth, so he wouldn’t burn her as she almost violently reached to grab his hands. Laughing, Gene was able to grab her arms hanging off the back of Frank, and pulled. Frank kept a hold and took a few more steps. This alarmed Judy, and she gasped, wrapping her arms around Gene’s neck, his chest now pressed up against Frank’s back.

Gene lifted his chin up to the sky, holding Judy, the cigarette dangling back and forth between his lips as he spoke, “Come on, man, let her go, she’s gonna choke me.”

“And I’ll choke you to death if you let go, Gene,” she warned kicking her legs.

“Ow,” Frank said as she nearly kicked in him the face, “Ok, ok,” he said and loosened his grip.

With that, Judy slid off, and clung onto Gene. Near the edge, Frank then tackled Gene’s side, giving a huge push.

“Oh my God,” Lauren said, but not surprised, when she heard Judy scream before seeing the big splash as the couple landed in the pool. She placed her hand over her eyes, stifling a giggle. Frank hadn’t been kidding.

Judy and Gene walked into the master bedroom soaking wet.

“I can’t fucking believe he did that,” Judy stated furiously.

Gene chuckled, “The little shit.”

“Why are you laughing,” she asked untying the wet bandanna from her hair.

“It’s just water, baby, lighten up,” he said starting to unbutton his shirt.

“Lighten up,” she asked with a shriek and was about to go on when the door opened.

“Hi,” Lauren said smiling, “If you don’t mind, I just have to…” She trailed off as her eyes landed on the bedside table and she walked across the room.

Judy and Gene both just stood there, confused, as they watched her pick up the phone. She fiddled with it before the cord was no longer plugged in.

“Ah ha, there we go,” she said and head back towards the door.

“What the hell are you doing,” Gene asked.

“Why are you taking our phone,” Judy added completely flabbergasted.

When she went out the door, Frank appeared with a tray of veggies in one hand and fruit in the other, obviously from the party.

“Here ya go, something to hold you over til’ morning. You’re good with just water til then, ya?”

“What are you talk--what the hell is going on,” Gene said taking a step towards him, his arms out confused.

Frank smiled, gave him a thumbs up, before shutting the door behind him.

Gene looked at Judy, who was making a strange face, before he walked back to the doors. But, they wouldn’t open. He tried again.

“What the fuck,” he said and tried again.

On the other side, Frank had tied one of the kid’s jump robes around the double door’s handles like a tourniquet. Lauren stood by smiling when she heard Gene and Judy mumbling inside.

“Frank! What the hell are you doing,” Gene yelled.

“Locking you both in.”

“What do you mean,” they both answered at the same time.

“Now, darlings, don’t get mad…” Lauren started.

Judy interrupted as she stomped to the door, “Darling’s going to get mad if you don’t open the god damn door!”

Frank looked at her eyes wide hearing that rare, but intense, yell, “I think she means business.”

Lauren went on, “Now, listen, you two are going to stay in there together, and work on whatever shit you’re going through, no ‘if’ ‘and’s’ or ‘but’s’ about it.”

“We are not going to stay in here, now OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR,” Gene yelled and hit hit fist against the door which made Frank back away startled.

“Stop it,” Judy said pushing Gene away and put on a calm and sweet voice, “You cannot just leave us in here.”

“Sure we can. You have a bathroom, you have snacks, you have water, you have a bed, you have each other, you’ll be fine until morning,” Frank added.

“We’re not joking,” Lauren said walking closer to the door, “We’re not letting you out until you can work out your problems.”

“Great,” Gene said, “We’ll die in here.”

Judy gave him an evil glare before trying the door herself, but of course it didn’t open, “Betty, I love you, I really do, and I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you don’t know anything about what we’re going through, and quite frankly, it’s none of your business.”

There was silence a moment before a piece of paper was slid under the door. The couple didn’t even have to pick it up to know what it was: Deposition for Divorce. Gene sighed, running his hand through his hair, as he started to pace.

“Found this on the table in the foyer on my way up. Frank and I planned this little charade before I even saw this. I may not know why this exists, but, as your friend who knows you both very well, I do know that it shouldn’t exist.”

“I agree,” Frank said matter-of-factly.

“You’re really going to keep us in here,” Judy asked, trying to avoid Gene’s gaze.

“Just until morning.”

“What about my children?”

“Oh,” Lauren said cheerfully, “I’m taking them over to my house for a sleepover. Won’t that be fun?”

“You’re going to wake them up, to take them over to your place, just to go back to sleep,” Gene added ridiculously

“They’ll be fine.”

“Have fun with that one,” Gene added.

“I have kids of my own, remember. I’m well aware how they work.”

“You guys need anything before we leave,” Frank asked exuberantly.

“How about for you to let us out of here,” Judy called out frustrated.

“Cannot process that request. Anything else?”

“Well, I do know one thing, I’m going shopping for a new best friend after this,” Gene stated.

“Ok, well, if you don’t need anything, have a good night.”

“Tata,” Lauren added.

Gene pressed his ear up to the door and heard the footsteps fade away. He then looked at Judy shocked, “They’re really leaving us in here.”

Judy just gave him a look and walked into the bathroom slamming the door loud behind her, the picture rattling on the wall.

Gene exhaled through his nose, “This will be fun.”

When Judy emerged from the bathroom, she was wearing a black, silk robe that came to her knees, and her face was freshly washed, damp curls framing it.

Gene, who had changed into a pair of dry pants and a t-shirt, was standing on their bedroom’s small veranda looking down at their enormous backyard. As Judy walked over, she could hear the echo of the party still going on next door.

“Might be a bad idea, Gene,” Gene mumbled to himself, “you might break something if you jump.”

“Are you insane,” Judy said ridiculously, “You’ll break your damn neck.” She looked over the side at the vines that covered the back of the house, “What if you, you know, shimmy down the vines?”

Gene was the one to look at her ridiculously now, “This isn’t The Pirate, Manuela,” he emphasized and Judy looked at him insulted as she placed her hands on her hips. He went on, “Besides, even then I was harnessed to a safety wire.”

Judy followed him inside, shutting the veranda doors behind her. He walked over to the large, white mahogany, double doors and placed his hands on his hips.

Judy looked at him warningly as she saw the determined expression on his face,“No.”

“No, what,” he asked, but was preoccupied with turning the door handles gently to see if whatever was locking them in would come loose.

“Whatever you’re thinking about doing, it’s a big fat no, buster.”

“What am I thinking?”

She placed her hand on the door in front of his face, leaning on it, “You’re not going to try to break my door down, Gene.”

“Your?”

“Our,” she corrected rolling her eyes, “These are brand new doors that I had specifically made to match the carvings on last ones. That hole you kicked in them was there for a month before I could get it fixed.”

Gene sighed. She knew exactly what he had been planning…kicking the door through enough to unlock it.

“Is it really that horrible to have to be stuck in a room with me for a night that you’re willing to break down the doors?”

“Of course not. I just don’t like to be a prisoner in my own fucking house and I know you don’t like this either, so don’t even try arguing with me.”

“Look, you can’t jump off the damn balcony and I’m not letting you break the door down, we don’t have a phone, so we’re just going to have to make the best of it. Besides, the doors are heavier than the last. You might hurt yourself in the process.”

“Oh, so you still care,” he exaggerated but Judy took offense.

“Don’t be silly.”

Gene walked over to the veggie tray and picked around as she turned on the radio and grabbed a magazine.

“Well, at least they left us food, though I wish Frank woulda left me some bourbon.”

“I bet you do,” she sassed back with her eyebrow raised as she head for the lazy boy chair in the corner.

“What,” he said with a warning tone that told her that he knew exactly what she said but was challenging her to say it again.

“Nothing,” she half sung as she curled her legs up underneath her and opened her magazine.

“Can we at least try to get along,” he said out of frustration, “I mean, you know Judy, I’m back home after being gone over a month and…”

She cut him off sharply, “You wouldn’t even be here right now if they hadn’t locked us in. You’d be down the street at Petey’s apartment.” Gene was silent a moment as he bit into a baby carrot, “Do you have a problem with that?”

She ignored his question, “Why did you decide to stay there?”

“I told you over the phone, Peter was looking for someone…”

“...to sublet the apartment to,” she finished for him, “Yes, I know. But he has lots of friends who could do it. Why did *you* decide to do it?”

“Because I wanted to help him out. Besides, it’s only a couple minutes down the road.”

Judy blinked as she slowly turned a page of her magazine, avoiding his eyes, “Is that the only reason?”

“Well, this has something to do with it, too, but I’m guessing you already knew that,” he said dropping the divorce paper in her lap and walked away.

Judy placed the paper on the table beside her and went back to her magazine. Gene walked back out onto the balcony as he lit a cigarette. He exhaled only once before he spotted Richie and Junie start down the Bogart’s drive way.

“HEY! Powell! Up here!”

“Oh, hey,” Richie waved.

“Junie, come up and help us!”

“Help you what,” Rich called back.

“We’re locked in!” “What do you mean?!”

“Lauren & Frank locked us in!”

For a moment Richie started to walk towards the house but June quickly grabbed his hand. She spoke to him briefly before she smiled and waved pulling her husband with her. Richie put his hand out as if to say sorry and followed his wife down the driveway.

“OH GO TO HELL, POWELL!”

Judy was sitting up straight, obviously alerted to the fact they almost got out of ‘jail’, when Gene walked back inside slamming the door behind him.

“I assume they were told not to help us,” Judy said amused.

“Yeah, nice friends, huh?”

With a new Bing Crosby show starting, Gene laid on the bed to listen and finish his cigarette. For the entirety of the show, the two didn’t talk. Any show of Bing’s was a favorite of theirs and they both chuckled in almost all the same spots. For how uncomfortable their situation was, the atmosphere never felt uncomfortable when they were together, even in silence.

When guest singer Jo Stafford sang one of her most requested songs, ‘You Belong to Me’, Gene lifted his head up to look at Judy.

“Did you sing this song before, I can’t remember.”

“Mm hm, a few years ago, on his show, coincidentally.”

Gene dropped his head back down, “You sing it better.” Judy giggled, “How do you know if you don’t remember me singing it?”

“Because,” he said stretching before sitting up, “you sing everything better.”

“Oo, even ‘Singing in the Rain’, hm?”

“Ok, maybe not everything,” he teased and got up walking into the bathroom.

About fifteen minutes later, he re-merged wiping his now freshly shaved face with a towel. He noticed Judy staring out the patio door, resting her head on her hand, deep in thought.

He switched off the radio, which he knew would tick her off, but he wanted to talk without corny laughter or cheery music in the background. When Judy didn’t even glance his way, he found it a little irritating.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Things,” she mumbled.

“What things?”

Judy sighed and looked up at him impatiently, “Things that are none of your business.”

“None of my business?”

“Gene, my thoughts are my business. Always have been, always will be.”

“Oh, well, considering you’re my wife, that’s my business. And this is half of my bedroom that we’re both stuck in, that’s my business, particularly in a house that I mostly paid for. Anything, and anyone, in my house,” he pointed to himself, “is my business.”

“You sound like a prick right now, stop it,” she said disgusted, and then stood up, “You know what, while you ran off to Europe, I have been here for over a month alone running *your house* and taking care of *your children* while I was also working. Since this is *your house*, maybe I will go stay at Peter’s and you can take a crack at it for a while.”

She stormed past him, but when she got to the doors, and they didn’t open, she yelled in frustration, hitting her palm against the door. In the heat of the moment, she forgot.

“How’s that working out for you, hun,” he said sitting down in the chair she was just in.

“Shut up,” she chuckled placing her hands on her hips, and looking up at the ceiling trying to calm down.

Hearing her laugh made him smile a bit and he continued, “I mean, I would call Peter myself to see if he would be okay with the switch but…” he motioned to the empty spot on the bedside table where their phone used to be, “Bacall.”

Judy knew he was trying to make light of it, but if he wanted to talk, then fine he would get it.

“You knew I wasn’t comfortable with you being away for 5 weeks, but you took the job anyways.”

“Because I loved the script and I am under contract still. I’m not fighting about this again. It’s was a job. I didn’t tell them to film in another country. And you weren’t alone. You have help and I took care of everything before I left. So, don’t play the ‘abandoning’ game with me, Judy.”

“I begged you not to go,” she continued, “A wife shouldn’t have to beg her husband to do anything.”

“Well, the last time I saw you, when you told me to get the hell out of your life, I thought, maybe, you changed your mind,” he said in a very sarcastic undertone.

“It seemed fitting to say after you yelled that maybe we shouldn’t be together anymore,” she said tilting her head at him, reminding him of his words.

Gene stood up in rage and walked over to her, “I only said it because you told me that this, us, wasn’t working out the same anymore.”

“It wasn’t! It isn’t. I meant that we have to change something. I didn’t once say we should not be together anymore. Those were your words,” she yelled, tearing up.

Gene took two strides to the dresser grabbing the piece of paper and held it up to her face, “THEN WHAT THE HELL IS THIS!”

Judy pushed it out of her way and walked past him.

“I know exactly what you’re doing, and I want you to admit it,” he said standing in the same place she left him.

“Admit what,” she said, her back to him, her hands resting on her elbows.

“Why you sent me this stupid thing.” Judy didn’t respond, but when he saw her try to flick a tear away, without being too obvious, he clenched his jaw, looking down feeling bad.

His body relaxed and he sat on the end of the bed speaking calmly, “If you won’t be honest about the divorce papers, then at least have the decency to apologize for what you said to me and I’ll do the same. You know what I’m talking about.”

She nodded but still didn’t turn to look at him.

*

“Judy, it’s out of my fucking hands! I’m under contract, or do you not remember what that’s like? The schedule and on-location can be hell, but I love the business, and being in movies, and I’m not changing my mind.”

“If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even be in movies.”

Her comment hit him so hard, and was so shocking to him, Gene couldn’t help but what came out of his own mouth, “And if it weren’t for me helping you to get into a stage career, and A Star is Born, you’d still be an MGM has-been!”

*

Gene spoke a little emotional, remembering it like it was yesterday, “I’ll start. I’m sorry for what I said to you, sweetheart. It was beneath me.”

Judy let out a sob before she sat back down on the lazy boy chair. Her expression killed him, but so did her comment.

“You really hurt me, Gene. You know you’re the one person I trust with all my insecurities and then you just sweep the rug from under my feet.”

“Honey, I only said it in retort from what you said to me. It was like a god damn punch to the gut. You know how grateful I am to you for…”

“I know,” she cut him off not needing to hear it and lowered her voice calmly repeating, “I know. I’m sorry, truly.”

Gene nodded, hearing the guilt and sincerity in her voice. Gene scooted back on the bed and rest his back against the headboard. Even though they both apologized for the blows, it didn’t change the situation

For, what seemed like an eternity, the two sat in complete silence lost in their own mind. The stress was heavy hanging over them like a dark cloud. After a while, Gene couldn’t stand the stillness any longer.

He got up and walked past Judy, who was hugging her knees to her chest, her face hidden. He thought she looked smaller than usual as he glanced at her before looking out the window. The Bogart’s party had ended and now it was pitch black in the backyard.

“The first movie we saw together was Casablanca.”

Judy lifted her head up and looked at the back of him, curiously, as he had his back to her, with one hand up resting on the wall, the other on his hip.

“It was only like a week after we first got together. Do you remember that,” he asked looking at her over his shoulder and she nodded, a little taken back by his random memory. “We snuck into a night showing at some theater on Hollywood Boulevard and sat in the back row so no one would see us. I held your hand the entire time. I was so enamored by what was happening between us, it didn’t matter that I was thirty-years-old, when I was with you, I felt like a love stuck teenager. And so much so, I even made love to you in my car afterwards. Even though we had already slept together, a few times before that night if I remember correctly,” he joked which made Judy giggle and he went on, “You said to me that you were usually not that easy on a first date.”

Judy’s smile had disappeared by then as she stared at him, as he stared out the window, a slight curve on his lips. She remembered that night fondly and, because of it, the movie had always been one of her favorites. It almost shattered her heart to think about it. Not to mention that the star of the movie lived next door.

“Why are you thinking about that now,” she asked in almost a whisper.

“I don’t know. I suppose it’s normal to think about the beginning of something towards the end of it.”

Judy felt her heart flutter, in a bad way, when she realized that she just heard Gene’s confession about where he thought their marriage stood. She hadn’t signed the divorce papers, because she wanted to know how he felt on the situation. If he sent the papers back to her signed, then she knew. But he hadn’t signed them, and that gave her some hope, though she was not going to admit it until he did. But now here he is, thinking of the end of them. This was not a game. It was real.

“I’m getting sleepy,” she said sounding as casual as she could as she got up.

Gene watched as she walked over to the bed, tossing the throw pillows on the ground, before getting under the comforter. He checked his watch before heading into the walk-in closet to change into pajama pants.

When he returned, he walked over to the bed respectfully, “I don’t want to sleep on the floor.”

“I don’t care if you sleep in the bed, Gene,” she said coldly, “Besides it’s your house, your room, *your* bed, right?”

Without another word she turned off the light. As he got into bed, he noticed she rolled on her left side, away from him, something she never had done in the past, ever. As Gene turned out the light and rolled onto his back, he stared up at the shadows of the palm trees dancing on the ceiling. It was a new, but odd feeling, he suddenly felt. Judy was there with him, but the room felt very empty.

Stop

That was the word that went through her sleepy head, but she didn’t dare say it out loud. It felt too good. Her body was betraying her mind as an aching arousal was building between her legs. It had been so long since they had sex. She wasn’t thinking about anything that had transpired before they went to sleep, and she didn’t even know what time it was, all she was focused on was how her body was feeling.

Still on her side facing away from him, Gene’s left arm was slid under her neck, resting on her breast though her silk robe, his thumb moving against her nipple back and forth slowly through the fabric. His other hand was also moving slowly, up and down her thigh, knowing how much that always turned her on. She couldn’t help the pleasurable whimper escape her mouth as his sucked gently against her neck. And the sound of his lips against her skin, the only sound in the room, just heightened the sensation.

In their dark room, the bed made a slight sound as Gene pressed his body closer to the back of her. She could feel his hard on, which always excited her, but the warmth of his body cascading hers always made Judy feel safe. Feeling safe wasn’t what was going through Gene’s mind. It had been about 6 weeks since they had sex, and even though they were fighting, it didn’t matter. They never failed to get turned on, and God o’mighty, he was horny. And he missed her, he missed the feel of her. And judging by the sound she made, he knew she felt the same. He also knew he wasn’t going to last long. It had been a long time…a long, stressful time.

Gene’s hot breath tickled her ear as he breathed heavily, rolling his hips gently against her as he pulled her closer. The sensation suddenly engulfed her body with pleasurable shivers and she slightly gasped at the feeling of it, her nipples also tingling in the process. She leaned her head back against him and Gene took that opportunity to leave hard, wet kisses along here neck as his hand slid between her thighs, which were pressed tightly together. He had trouble reaching the spot he wanted, and tried to nudge her legs open but she quickly grabbed his wrist stopping. Instead she rolled onto her back and lifted her bum, quickly shimmying out of her undies.

Seeing this, he let out a breathy groan in anticipation and tugged his pajama pants down. Crawling between her open knees, he jerked himself a few times before grabbing her hips. He scooted her towards him and lifted her a bit, the perfect angle, before pressing into her. He gave off a moan as he did so, she was so wet and there was absolutely no resistance. Wish he could say the same for her attitude sometimes, he actually thought, as he reached all the way in. But then her muscles immediately snugged around him, and he forgot about any attitude. As he slid in and out all the way a few times, he really knew he wasn’t going to last long. So he willfully adjusted himself, and her, knowing all-too-well where her spot was and started a rhythm. And she didn’t disappoint. Her sighs quickly turned into mewling cries which each thrust. The arousal he created for her earlier, was now growing, forming into one spot feeling better and stronger each time the head of him pushed up on it.

Her tiny screams, his desperate moans and the sound of his pelvis hitting her skin, getting louder and faster, was so erotic to both their ears.

Gene was so lost in the sensation of being inside of his wife again, he barely heard her whimper that she was coming, until he felt her body tighten, and her moans stop. He slowed down, but hit her with rough strokes when all of a sudden she let out a loud gasp. Gene stopped moving when her orgasm milked him hard, wanting to feel the sensation around him. He almost came then. When her body relaxed, she gave off a little ‘mmm’ and he started moving again. It only took him a few more strokes until he started panting and then gave off a loud groan, his body jerking into hers. It seemed endless as he kept coming into her hot warmth.

When Gene stirred out of sleep, he heard the quiet sound of some commercial playing over the radio and the sounds of birds chirping. Opening his eyes, he noticed the patio door open, the drapes blowing in from the spring breeze, and the sky was blue.

Sighing relaxed, he turned over and noticed the bed was empty, her robe laying where she had slept. He was about to call out for her when he heard the sound of the shower running. Gene threw on a white t-shirt before he grabbed his smokes and walked out onto the veranda. It was a gorgeous morning he thought as he lit the cigarette. Leaning on the banister, he took a drag, when he heard familiar sounds of children. He couldn’t see all the way into the Bogart’s backyard, but he could see a few kiddos running around, and he knew one of the was his baby girl, as a dog also barked obviously playing with them. He smiled a moment, at the peace, and had a sudden urge to kiss Judy and tell her everything would be okay.

After finishing the cigarette, he smashed it out before walking back into their bedroom. As he passed the dresser, he did a double take before stopping. Slowly, he picked up the piece of paper.

Judy wrung her hair out, and was about to turn the shower off, when the door suddenly banged open and the shower curtain was ripped aside.

She jumped, startled, “Jesus, Gene!”

“Get out of there,” he said and motioned for her to come out.

She gave him a funny look before speaking irritated and turned off the water, “I was about to. What the hell’s wrong with you barging in here like that?”

He tossed her a towel, “Come on.”

She secured it around her body and stepped out, “Do you mind?”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her out, though she tried resisting, “It’s cold. What are you doing?”

“I want you to see something.”

He stopped at the dresser and took the paper. Staring her dead in the eyes, he slowly tore the deed, the divorce papers, that now had her fresh signature on them.

Judy looked a little surprised, “Why did you do that?”

“Why did you sign it,” he asked her back.

“Because you made it clear last night that our marriage is over.”

Gene looked at her ridiculously, but also trying to understand her, as he placed his hand on his hip, “By making love to you?”

Judy laughed, “We did not make love,” her voice got almost venomous, “We both just got off, and you know it.”

“What the hell does that matter? I didn’t want to fuck Betsy, even just to get laid, at the end our marriage. Where did I make it clear last night that I want our marriage to be over?”

He placed his hand on her cheek, being very serious, but she quickly moved out of his way afraid of the sudden affection, “You were thinking about when we first got together. You told me it’s because it was the end of us.”

“Judy, it was just my mind getting sentimental because we were sitting there locked in a fucking room together with divorce papers under our nose. Look at me,” he demanded, but with a soft voice.

She looked at him and he stared at her a moment, biting down on his jaw a few times, “I know you’ll have no trouble getting another set of papers drawn up, but I’m telling you right now, I’m not signing. I’m not giving you up that easily. It took me nearly a decade to make you my wife, I’m not giving that up from one fight. And if you think I am, you’re a damn fool.”

“I don’t want this either, Gene, but we obviously aren’t working out the way we used to. Look at us, we’ve been locked in a room together and all we’ve done is argue. If this was before, we would’ve spent the time playing games or dancing or…”

“It’s just a stressful time and stressful situation, Judy, we will get through it.”

“Are you really sure about that? We’re changing as people, and our careers have changed. We’re not the same people we use to be.”

“No one is. But we’ll work through the changes,” he reiterated, “I’ll do anything…even marriage counseling if that’s what it takes. You know how the thought of that makes me ill but I’ll do it. But you need to help, too. It takes two to tango, baby.”

He took her hands desperately, “Tell me, what do *you* need?” When she didn’t answer, only looking down with sorrow, he sat them down on the bed, “We need to communicate or we won’t get anywhere. Tell me.”

“For you to be home more. For you to not drink as much, no matter how stressed you get, because your temper scares me. And I need you to understand why I don’t want you to be away from me so long. I know I’m selfish about that, but it is for my mental health. Please no more 5 weeks away.”

“If, and I say if, either of us are going to have to be away for long for work, we will travel together. I’ll make sure it’s in our contracts. But you have to understand, that some things are out of my hands and I never do anything to purposefully upset you or hurt you. And I promise to work on not drinking like that anymore, but you need to be calmer with me as well. Your erratic behaviors scare me, sometimes.”

Judy’s voice cracked, “You know sometimes I can’t help that.”

“But you can control the intake, especially when *you’re* stressed,” he said referencing to her medication. It was something she often relapsed with, but when she did, he was in control of it. But it had been harder with him away working so much, and she wasn’t good at that kind of control, especially since it was her own body. To Judy, it was like money, it was something she needed but always relied on other people to control or take care of.

Judy squeezed his hands, “Do you really think we can go back to how things used to be?”

“No, because like you said, we’re not the same people we used to be. We can certainly grow together and change together but still be us. We just have to find a new way to make things work. And instead of arguing right away, we should talk through it and consider our options.”

“Except when picking a television show,” she said wickedly.

“King of the house, I own the remote.”

“We’ll see about that, buster,” she said playfully elbowing him.

Gene chuckled before getting serious again, “Judy, I love you. I love you more than life itself, but you’re fucking mad sometimes.”

Judy laughed gleefully, “Good. I feel the same way about you. You drive me insane.”

“Come here, sweetheart,” he said cuddling her damp body to him.

She rest her cheek on his chest and sighed, feeling like a weight was lifted from her shoulders. When she felt his finger lift her chin, she looked up at him.

“I’d like to kiss you hello,” he said remembering how she ignored it when he tried kissing her at the party.

His lips almost touched hers when she leaned back, placing her hand on his chest, “On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“That you make love to me.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he breathed as his lips met hers in a passionate kiss.

She purred, practically melting into him, as his tongue pushed its way into her willing mouth. Judy didn’t even realize her back was on the bed until Gene suddenly lifted himself off of her as the bedroom doors opened.

Lauren was walking in when Judy and Gene both yelled, “Get out!”

Her eyes opened wide as she quickly retreated, shutting the doors, a huge grin on her face as she walked down the hallway.

[ericsonclan]

Love is For the Birds

Summary: Clementine and Aspen go on a bird-watching date.

Notes: Did an OC swap with @king-of-clubs98 that was a ton of fun! :D

Read on A03: 

Aspen woke up slowly, the sunlight trickling through his window gradually pulling him from his slumber. With a long yawn, he stretched out, feeling his joints protest slightly. Even after a full night’s rest they were still a bit sore. At least he wouldn’t be walking around that much today. All he had was meal prep with Omar, helping Ruby harvest some of the vegetables from the garden, and-

Shit. Aspen realized, his eyes widening. Clem and I are going outside the gates today! Is she already waiting for me? Hurriedly he rose from his bed, pulling on his worn-out boots and bending to get through the doorway. If only his whole room could have been built to his size. It wasn’t like Ericson housed a lot of 7’5” kids before the apocalypse. At least he had the comfort of a properly sized bed though. He had to remember to count his blessings.

As he hurried along the walkway toward the main gate, Aspen spotted Louis walking along. The dreadlocked boy saw him as well, turning to him with a smile. “Hey, Aspen. What’s the hurry?”

“Oh, uh, I… Clem,” Aspen managed.

Louis’ face brightened. “That’s right, you guys have that date today! Aasim and I will be heading out on hunting duty pretty soon too. If we see you, we’ll be sure to keep our distance,” he gave a playful wink that almost made Aspen die of embarrassment right there and then. “Hey, are you free tonight to work on our song again? I think I’ve got the melody down pat this time, so no more awkward pauses!” Louis pulled proudly on the collar of his coat.

“That sounds nice. I’ll probably have time. Right after dinner?”

“I’ll jot your name down in my planner,” Louis quipped, pretending to scribble upon his hand. “See you later then – have fun!”

“Thanks!” With an awkward wave, Aspen was back on his way. The front yard wasn’t very busy at this time of day. He spotted Violet sitting up on the wall as she usually did. They shared a noncommittal nod as he passed. Aspen couldn’t believe Violet had still found a way to climb up to her old spot. The thought of climbing up there was scary enough before; it seemed it would only be scarier now with her limited eyesight. To each their own though.

Rosewood was pushing A.J. on the tire swing, something the youngster seemed to be thoroughly enjoying. “Higher, higher!” he called, kicking his feet to help boost himself further into the air. Rosewood caught Aspen’s eye, offering a friendly wave before returning to their task. Aspen was glad to see them smiling again. It’d be a hard couple months for them with everything that happened with the Delta…

“Faster, Willy!” His sister’s laugh broke out behind him, causing Aspen to turn around to see what was going on. Cedar was flying across the yard in her new wheelchair, being pushed by Willy as he sprinted behind. Their hair blew back in the wind as they made a sharp turn, barreling toward Aspen. “Aspen!” Cedar exclaimed, her smile wide as the wheelchair screeched to a halt in front of him. “Look what Willy just added: a seatbelt! That way even if we slip while racing I’ll still be safe and secure,” She looked up into her brother’s eyes for confirmation, her own green ones bright with excitement.

Aspen was still worried by the whole “racing” part of things, but he could tell how happy it made Cedar. Rather than comment on the safety of it all, he merely smiled and nodded. “It looks cool,”

“I was working all night to add improvements!” Willy jumped in, his gap teeth prominent as he beamed proudly at his work. “The whole wheelchair is stronger now, so it can take a hit, and check it out…” He pulled a lever on the back of the chair and a series of pointed stakes shot upward along both sides of the wheelchair. “Chair spikes! Nobody’s gonna be able to get to Cedar in this!”

“Those are cool, Willy, but maybe keep them down while you two are racing around,” Aspen noted.

“Oh, right!” Willy pulled the lever again and the spikes fell. “They’re only gonna be used for emergencies, promise!”

Hopefully we won’t have any of those for a while. “Well, you guys have fun. I’ve gotta find Clem,”

Cedar nodded towards the admin building. “We saw her about five minutes ago talking over something with Aasim. She’s probably still up there,”

“Thanks. I’ll see you two later,” As Aspen headed towards the admin building, he wondered what Clementine had been meeting with Aasim about. Probably a strategy meeting given that Aasim was the de facto leader of Ericson now. Approaching the steps, Aspen was pleasantly surprised to find Clementine starting to make her way down them herself.

A smile broke out on her face when she saw him. “Aspen! Sorry, have you been waiting long?”

Aspen shook his head. “Nah, I just got out here,” His eyes latched onto the book in Clementine’s hands. “What’s that?”

Clementine grinned, slipping the book behind her back. “Well, I checked with Aasim since he has a running inventory on everything at Ericson to see if he knew if the library had any books on bird watching and…” She lifted the book up proudly. “He gave me an encyclopedia on all the birds in West Virginia! We’re about to be the best bird-watching duo ever!”

“Holy shit,” Aspen breathed, reaching out to take the book. “I can’t believe I never thought to ask about that,”

“It was actually Omar’s idea at first. I was telling him what we were planning for our date and he said the library might’ve had something on birds that could help us,”

The book looked tiny within Aspen’s hands. He was able to flip open the cover, but the pages beneath were another story. They were that thin, silky kind that was usually used on Bibles and such. Aspen was surprised it hadn’t been discovered and rolled up into cigarettes back when there were still kids who smoked around here. A grunt of frustration escaped his lips, causing Clementine to look up with a sympathetic smile.

Getting on her tiptoes, she gently plucked the book from his hands. “How about I narrate the book and you lead the expedition? You’re the one with the expert birdwatching eyes anyway.

“Well, OK then,” Aspen looked towards the front gates. “You ready to head out?”

“Yep, let’s go!”

It was a short walk to the front gates and then they were out in the world. As Aspen closed the gate behind them, he looked down at Clementine’s prosthetic worriedly. It had only been a few short months that she’d had it on. He knew the first couple prosthetics had hurt like hell when she wore them, but Clementine had been adamant: she wanted to get off of her crutches as soon as possible. We’ll make it a short walk, Aspen told himself. There was no way Clementine would let him know if she was in pain and he wasn’t risking her receiving any further injuries for the sake of her pride.

“Caught you,” Clementine gave a rueful smile.

Aspen looked away in shame. “Sorry. I won’t mention it,”

“It feels fine today,”

Aspen studied her eyes, hoping he knew her well enough to be certain of the truthfulness of her words.

“I promise,”

“I trust you,”

The happiness in Clementine’s eyes told him he’d made the right choice. They walked alongside each other, Aspen keeping his eye out for birds as Clementine leafed through the book. Suddenly a giggle escaped her lips. “Man, I really hope we come across a dickcissel. That has to be the funniest name I’ve seen yet,”

“Can I see?” Aspen glanced down at the book, studying the illustration Clementine pointed to as she held the book up towards him. It was a small, sparrow-sized bird with brown markings and a bright yellow chest. “Oh, I’ve seen those before. They tend to hide out in the tall grass. Never knew what they were called though,”

“Well, keep your eyes peeled,” Clementine continued to leaf through the book. “I want to be able to tell A.J. each and every bird we saw when we get back for dinner tonight,”

They continued their walk, not coming across anything too interesting. A few crows crossed overhead and Clementine flipped to the section on crows, choosing the fish crow which seemed to match the birds they’d seen best and reading what she found out loud. “When fish crows find a good source of food, they may cache the surplus for later. These hiding places can be in grass, in clumps of Spanish moss, or in crevices in tree bark,”

“Maybe we should try to follow them and see if they lead us to their secret stash,”

Clementine wrinkled her nose at the suggestion. “If they’re storing fish inside trees, I bet it taste like shit,”

“Just cause they’re called fish crows doesn’t mean they only eat fish,” Aspen rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Here, lemme see that for a second,” He held the book up closer to his face so he could make out the tiny words. “See? It says here that they’re ‘supreme generalists, eating just about anything they can find’,”

“Guess you’ve got a point then. We could use as much food as possible back at the school,”

Aspen fumbled with his fingers. He knew Clementine was thinking of him. She always worried that he wasn’t getting enough and often tried to force her food on him. He wouldn’t take it though. Clem was way too skinny as it was. She needed the food just as much as he did. Fishing in his pocket, Aspen decided to change the subject by focusing on something else. He soon found his bird whistle, one he had made for himself out of some foam he found in the old art room and a piece of one of the medical gloves from the nurse’s office. Placing the instrument against his tongue, he waited a few seconds for it to soak up some of his saliva before positioning it at the tip of his tongue and lightly blowing past his lips. A shrill whistle pierced the air, followed by a series of short trills.

Clementine looked up at him proudly. She was always impressed at how many whistles Aspen had mastered. The first time he’d shown her, things hadn’t gone as smoothly though. Clementine had reached for his hand and Aspen had choked mid-whistle, swallowing the instrument and devolving into a coughing fit. It wasn’t a big deal; it was easy to make another. This time though, Aspen made sure the whistle was firmly lodged at the tip of his tongue before reaching out for his girlfriend’s hand.

Clementine seemed to enjoy the gesture. She leaned against his arm for a moment, humming happily to herself before her eyes suddenly widened. Pressing a finger to her lips, she caught Aspen’s eye. There just a dozen yards from them was a full-grown rabbit. Clementine had come prepared. Pulling the bow from behind her back, she notched an arrow, barely breathing as she steadied her aim. The arrow flew and hit the rabbit dead center. It flopped lifeless to the ground. Clementine hurried over to retrieve it. “Looks like dinner’s on us!”

“I can carry it,” Aspen offered. Clementine handed it to him and he threw it over his left shoulder. He had enough experience toting wild game that he wouldn’t need a hand to steady it. Instead his hand returned to Clementine’s completely enveloping hers as the couple continued to walk along.

They saw several more species of birds throughout their date and thanks to the encyclopedia were able to identify most of them. Boreal chickadees, Smith’s longspur, Kirtland’s warbler… Clem dog-eared each page that contained a bird they had spotted so that they’d be able to share each and every one with the group tonight. Aspen’s whistles, trills and warbles had birds flitting over to nearby branches, tittering back at him.

“So, do the birds think you’re like, flirting with them?” Clementine asked. “That’s why birds make calls, right? To attract mates?”

Aspen shrugged. “Hell if I know. I can make the calls. Doesn’t mean I know what they mean,”

“I suppose I have nothing to be jealous about then,” Clementine teased, dog-earing another one of the pages. “That one looks to be a Western kingbird. The book says they defend their territory with “wing-fluttering, highly vocal” attacks, so let’s try not to piss it off,”

“Birds are pretty chill for the most part,” Aspen replied. “You leave them alone, and they do the same for you,”

“Is that why you like them?”

“Yeah, and, y’know, music,” Aspen looked up towards the sky, studying the horizon. “We should probably be heading back. Don’t want to be out too late,”

“It’s not even near evening,” Clementine protested. “If this is about my leg, I can keep going,”

Aspen smiled down at his girlfriend. She was so cute when she stood her ground like that, hands on her hips, lip set in a pout. Terrifying too under the right circumstances, but in this case she was simply cute. “What if I told you I was the one who needed a break? My joints have been aching since this morning.

That seemed to change Clementine’s mind. She clearly wasn’t fully convinced whether Aspen was faking his claim or not, but she wasn’t going to risk it. “Ok, we’ll head back then,” Still hand in hand, the pair turned to start the journey back to the school.

By the time they returned, there were still a couple hours before nightfall. That didn’t make Aspen regret his decision in the least though. Clementine had started to fade a bit on the way back, her brow furrowing in concentration and her breathing growing heavier. She tried her best to mask it, but Aspen could still hear it. He didn’t say anything though. He knew she’d refuse any help he offered, and it was good enough that she’d agreed to head back. He was glad though when he felt her leaning just a bit more upon his arm, a silent agreement to accept his support in some small way.

The front yard was fairly quiet as they stepped inside the gates. Omar waved to them from the watchtower. “Looks like you guys caught something,”

“Yep,” Clementine smiled proudly. “Another rabbit to add to tonight’s stew along with whatever Lou and Aasim bring back,”

“I’ll be ready to help with dinner prep soon, Omar,” Aspen added. “Just gotta drop a few things off in the room first,”

Omar nodded. “Willy’s on watch next so as soon as he comes out I’ll get to work on preparing the stock. You’ll be on vegetable prep,”

“Sounds good. See you in a few,” Aspen and Clementine walked off together, meandering toward the dorm rooms.

“Clem, Clem!” A.J. ran forward excitedly, practically tackling Clementine with a hug. “You’re back! Did you see anything cool? Did you catch any birds?”

Clementine chuckled, ruffling A.J.’s hair. “The goal wasn’t to catch the birds, goofball, just to watch them. We have a book though that we’ll show everybody after dinner. It’s got pictures of all the birds we spotted,”

A.J.’s eyes leapt to the book in Aspen’s hand. “Is it that one? Lemme see!” He jumped for it, but Aspen quickly lifted it out of his reach.

“Sorry, squirt, you’ll have to wait till after dinner just like everybody else,”

A.J. pouted, an expression that Aspen was pleasantly surprised to see matched Clementine’s own pout quite well. Before either of them could say anything further though, an almost imperceptible groan left Clementine’s mouth.

“Clem? You OK?” A.J. asked, eyes wide.

“We’re getting you inside,” Aspen declared, a hand moving down to circle round her waist.

“I’m fine, you two, just… I should probably sit down for a while,”

“We’ll head to your room first,” Gently, Aspen guided Clementine forward. A.J. circled round to her other side, his own hand coming up alongside Aspen’s to support Clementine. It was clear she had reached her limit. Aspen internally cursed himself for not insisting they turn back sooner. Thankfully it wasn’t too long of a walk before they reached Clementine and A.J.’s room. Ducking to get inside, Aspen made sure Clementine was securely seated on the bed before kneeling down to remove her prosthetic. The buckles were a bit fidgety in his large hands, but he was able to manage them well enough to pull the prosthetic off. He leaned it against Clementine’s dresser where it would be easy to reach.

“Thanks,” Clementine breathed, clearly exhausted. “I think I’m just gonna lay down for a bit, close my eyes. You don’t have to stay, A.J., just let me know once dinner is ready,”

A.J. seemed hesitant to go, but nodded, quickly leaving the room without another word.

Clementine turned back to Aspen who was still kneeling before her. “You can go too,” Her hand reached up to play lightly with his sandy brown hair. “I know you have things to do,”

“I’ll finish them as soon as I can,” Aspen’s eyes searched hers for signs of pain. “You’re sure you’ll be alright?”

“I’m sure,” Clementine held his gaze for a few seconds before leaning forward. Her lips grazed his in a soft kiss.

Aspen felt his face heat up at the gesture. He wanted to lean in and kiss her again, but Omar was waiting and Clementine was clearly on the verge of falling asleep. Instead he settled for cupping her cheek, her head resting against his hand. “You get some rest, okay? I’ll see you later,”

“Later,” Clementine murmured.

Aspen slowly lowered her head till it rested upon the pillow. He then rose to his feet, heading back toward the door.

“Aspen?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you,”

Aspen’s heart fluttered within him. “Love you too,” Bending, he made his way into the hall, heading for the stairs. It really had been a wonderful date.

[stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale]

sit with me a while

Requests: Can you do a sequel for Write to Me? / Can you write a fic about Willy mourning Mitch? We didn’t get to see much other than the beginning of episode 3... / I know you said you wished we could have gone to Mitch’s funeral, so maybe you could write a fic about that?

[Thank you for the pic, Pi!]

Read on AO3

---

The water’s freezing, the cold soaking into his bones as he kicks his feet at the passing fish. 

With the sun peeking over the horizon, barely lighting the lake or the trees, one would think the air is just as chilled. It’s the opposite- warm and heavy with the scent of summer, something sweet and floral. The perfect temperature. 

Willy’s cheeks flush crimson as if he just finished an hour-long run, or if he were running a fever. Scooting closer to the edge, he sticks his long, lanky legs further into the coolness, soaking the ends of his shorts. Mud squishes between his toes as he digs them in deeper. Something wiggles against the soles, perhaps a worm or even a snake, but he’s not too worried about it. 

He slips further into the water until fully engulfed. The contrast between hot and cold burns his flesh in an oddly pleasant way. Willy remains beneath the surface for a long time, the pressure in his ears or the need to breathe not a pressing issue or even a concern. 

No, if anything, the only things that hurt are his eyes. They’re sore, heavy, and somehow dry even when submerged. He can barely keep them open to admire the beauty within the water. Schools of tiny colorful fish, bright blue crabs crawling among the moss and iridescent rocks, seahorses whizzing around each other as if playing a game of tag. 

Willy wants to watch it all, wants to swim out there and join the underwater creatures, but he can barely see. 

He can’t remember the last time his eyes hurt this much. 

Hell, the last time he cried like this-

There’s laughter.

It’s muffled, deep. 

Willy squints through the pain, searching the water, but the source of the laughter isn’t down here. 

Of course not, he thinks. Fish can’t laugh. 

The water breaks and he takes a gulp of fresh air. He spits, blowing his nose and shaking his head, droplets spraying from his sopping locks. 

The laughter is clear now. 

“Oh, c’mon!”

The crash of a can.

High-pitched whimpers. 

Willy rubs at his eyes, wincing. 

“Really?!”

A voice responds, something gargled like if a walker tried to talk. 

It’s enough for him to pull forward, clinging to the land and climbing up, still rubbing his eyes on his arms and blinking away any blurriness brought on by the water. 

Frantic, exuberant barking. 

His eyes- his ears- they’re lying to him. They have to be. 

Royal purple adorns the front of Louis’ shirt as a man- someone unrecognizable- flings a paintbrush at him. Rosie jumps and barks with excitement as she chases after it. 

Willy becomes rigid, half stuck in the cold water at the sight before him. He blinks several times, but nothing changes.  

Louis dodges to the side, the paintbrush smacking against the side of the house-

The house?

Willy hurts his neck cranking it back to try and see the top of the half-painted house- no, not a house- half-painted mansion but all he sees are clouds. Big, fluffy, gray clouds high up in the orange and lavender sky hide the rest of the building, and for the first time since his growth spurt, Willy feels small. 

Small, cold, weakened, dumbfounded, a little terrified- a cocktail of emotions boiling in his belly. 

The mansion towers over everything; over the trees, over the lake, over the whole world. Old, metal ladders press against the side, paint cans, rollers, and brushes spread out across the healthy grass, and plastic protects new pristine windows. The double doors are missing from the front, laying against the staircase leading up to their future placement, glossy from a fresh coat of white paint. 

Rosie barks again, Willy's gaze darting away from the doors and back to her. She buzzes with radiant energy, bouncing and howling for attention. 

There’s something heavy and sour in his throat as he watches Louis pick up a paint can and move it over to the ladder, whistling for Rosie to follow. She’s close behind, her tail wagging gleefully and her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth. 

“Rosie…” Willy covers his mouth as liquid warmth spreads behind his sore eyes. He tries wiping them on his sleeve again, but the material’s soaked, only making it worse. 

Louis calls out something more, but being so far away, the words are like soft murmurs hidden in the breeze sweeping the area. 

The man- Willy tries to get a look at his face, but can’t- shakes his head and walks away with an endearing little grin. Louis calls after him, holding up the paint can for emphasis. 

“Louis…?” The name feels strange on his tongue, like one that hasn’t been spoken in a long time, nearly becoming foreign. 

He continues to speak, more so to himself and Rosie, and perhaps Willy could hear him better if his heart wasn’t beating so damn hard in his ears.

Burying his face in the grass, Willy allows darkness to overcome his sight as he counts to five before looking up.

“No, no, that’s-”

It’s still Louis kneeling down to adjust the ladder, and it’s still Rosie sitting beside him, so he does it again. 

Still Louis, chuckling about something the man said as he pours paint. 

Still Rosie, leaning forward to press her snout against the grass. 

She finds a clean paintbrush, picking it up and sitting patiently with her little tail wagging in the grass. 

Louis chuckles, patting her head and taking it from her. 

“Good girl.”

If there was ever a distinguishable laugh ingrained in Willy’s brain, even after all these years, it would be Louis’, and it brings a heartbreaking nostalgia that bubbles over in his stomach up into his chest.

A shaky breath passes his lips as he yanks himself fully out of the water and stumbles to his feet. Whether it be due to the physical weight of the water in his clothes or the weight in his mind and chest, he struggles to stay standing. Stumbling, practically crawling on his hands and knees, he gets closer. 

The closer he gets, the more clear Louis’ form and words, the more panicked his gut becomes. 

That’s when Willy realizes that he’s not just speaking- he’s singing. 

“...I wish I had something more to give you...”

Willy stops. 

Rosie softly howls with the song as if to sing with him. 

“Good girl,” Louis laughs. “...You've been feeling bad this time of year...”

That night- 

It hits him quick, like a flash in his brain. 

The last image he had of Louis prior to this moment. 

That night they brought everyone home. 

“...If I could I would drive out to see you…”

Well, almost everyone. 

“...Take it from me, I'd be lost without you…”

Clementine, AJ, and Tenn were still out there, lost in the chaos of the delta explosion and Louis refused to stay put. Aasim tried to get him to stay, said it was too dangerous for him to go out there alone, said they needed his help to take care of Omar and Violet, said they would go out for them in a group once they’ve rested, but he didn’t- he couldn’t. 

“...I try to run away, but you're running up on me faster, and I could barely breathe, I couldn't even turn around…”

The last time Willy ever saw him was when he ran through the gates and out into the woods. 

That’s it. 

Can’t even remember the last thing he said before he left. Willy didn’t think about it at the time- he was too busy sorting through the supplies he stole off the rafts. 

“...I only hope we make it home safe and sound…”

The next morning, AJ wheeled Clementine up in a wheelbarrow, both of them covered in walker guts and Clem missing her leg, barely holding on.

Tenn was missing. 

And Louis was dead. 

“...Safe and sound…”

Eaten alive.

Nothing left of him.

When they had his funeral, they buried his deck of cards. 

Clementine wouldn’t let them touch the piano, not even to break a piece off to bury, too. Even in her weakened state, she still threatened Aasim when he suggested it. 

No one said it, but they all thought ‘no one is going to play that piano anymore, so why not lay it to rest with him?’

But, they weren’t going to fight with her on it, not when she had to drag herself out on crutches to attend- against Ruby’s concerns- and could barely stand through it. Willy had to bring around a chair for her to sit down, and Ruby covered her with a heavy blanket before she collapsed. 

They weren’t wrong, though. 

No one has played that piano in five years. 

The only one who goes in the music room anymore is Clementine, and when she’s in there, no one else is allowed in- AJ’s rule. 

He doesn’t know what she does in there, not really. He knows she sits at the piano with the wooden cover placed over the keys, and he knows she sits there and writes stuff in some notebook. 

He spied on her one night through the crack in the door. He wasn’t trying to be creepy, even though AJ thought he was and banned him from the music room forever, which was a little harsh. He just wanted to make sure she was okay. 

Willy feels a chill that starts at his muddy feet and travels up his calves, along the shirt clinging to his back and shudders his shoulders with every step he takes closer to the mansion.

Louis begins singing a new song, which excites Rosie as she begins yapping at him and howling along. 

He looks... 

What’s the word Willy’s looking for?

Bright? Carefree? Buoyant? ...Real?

...Alive?

“...So we'll find a mountain path on down the hill... C’mon, Rosie! ...Meet me where the snow mount flows...”

Willy can’t even remember if he cried at Louis’ funeral. Surely, he must have, didn’t he? 

Did he?

Was that the last time he’s cried this much…?

No.

Willy forces himself to stand. 

No, that would be Mitch’s funeral.

After Willy had lashed out at Tenn, shoving him to the ground and threatening him until the other boy ran away, Louis went after him. 

He got down to his level and forced eye contact. In his fit of heated rage, his heartbreaking despair over the loss of the most important being in his life, Willy swung and pounded his fists against Louis’ chest, not even bothering to hold in his tears and enraged sobs. He remembers Ruby telling him to stop, but more so he remembers Louis grabbing both of his wrists to pull him into a hug. 

When he closes his eyes, he can still hear Louis telling him it’s okay that he’s upset, to let it all out, get it out of his system. 

Eventually, he calmed down and Louis helped him carry Mitch to the grave Ruby dug. 

Willy never forgot that.

Not a single detail- Mitch’s bloody face, his lifeless eyes, Clementine’s promises, Louis’ warmth and comforting hug, Tenn’s shame and guilt-ridden, downcasted gaze, Ruby’s muffled sobs- was forgotten. 

If he closes his eyes, he can see himself standing before the freshly dug grave where Ruby covered Mitch with shovels over dirt until he was gone. Gone and never seen again, nothing left of him. 

The only thing Willy to remind him of what Mitch looked like was a school picture of him when he first got here. The one he keeps tape up on his desk next to Mitch’s favorite knife. 

The funeral was over quick- they didn’t have time to mourn him. Not really. 

They had raiders to kill. 

Willy finally approaches them, close enough to that what he’s seeing is true. 

Rosie’s head bolts up, her ears straight and amber eyes alert. She scans the area, sniffing the air.  When she sees Willy, he holds her stare just as he holds his breath, waiting. 

There’s barely any time to react or gasp out when she bolts towards him. Falling back to his knees, Willy opens his arms to her as she leaps at him, lapping at his face and whines. 

“Rosie!” Willy sobs into her warm fur, holding onto her tightly for fear that she’d fade away. “Oh, it’s you! Good girl! Good girl!”

A shadow falls over them. Willy pulls the eager dog away from his line of vision to see Louis’ wide, curious eyes peering down at him. There’s paint dried to his cheek and hands, but his skin appears bright and so… alive. 

“Louis?”

Something registers within him, and Louis grins. 

“Willy, I thought it was you,” Louis chuckles, sitting down beside him and pulling Rosie off from her attack on his face. “It’s been a while.”

Rosie barks, refusing to be ignored, pressing her wet nose into his neck. When Willy goes to pet her again, he notices that all of the white and gray hairs are gone from her muzzle and around her eyes. No more deformed lumps scatter across her sides and hips, no more broken teeth or bent whiskers, no more blood caked to the fur around her bum or tail. 

She’s young again, perhaps a little older than a full-grown pup. 

“How ya doing, buddy?” Louis’ tender voice interrupts his thoughts. 

A ball of dread plops down from his chest into his stomach, something that nearly jerks him back to reality- or rather, whatever this is. When he touches her face, he expects her to fall cold, maybe become old again, but she doesn’t. 

“With everything, I mean,” Louis adds. “Heard it’s been a tough week.”

He ‘heard?’ What did that mean?

“I know what happened,” Louis answers without him breathing the question, something Willy would’ve immediately concluded as physic, telepathic superpowers, but since Rosie’s here in the first place... Of course he knows. 

“I… I don’t know.”

Louis nods, sighing as he looks back at the mansion. 

“I used to worry about it, you know,” he says, “What it would do to everyone, especially you and Tenn since you both grew up with her.”

Rosie snuggles herself into Willy’s lap, playfully nipping at his fingers as he pets her neck and face. 

“I ever tell you I had a pet turtle?”

“No,” Willy shakes his head. “But, Clem said you did.”

“Geoff,” Louis beams. “I loved him. He was small and slow, but he could devour one of those huge strawberries in seconds. It was awesome.”

“Why a turtle?” Willy asks. “Why not a dog? Or a cat?”

“Mom was allergic to a lot of furry animals, and Geoff was anything but furry,” he laughs, reaching out to rub Rosie’s belly. “When I got sent away, I wasn’t allowed to take him with me. He had to go stay with my grandma and I never got to see him again.”

“Oh...”

“Well,” Louis smirks, “until now. Geoff’s in charge of the garden in the back. He’s strict and a little grumpy, but he grows the best damn strawberries you’ve ever eaten.”

Willy bursts into a fit of giggles. “What?”

“He does!” Louis insists. “Strawberries, raspberries, corn, carrots, blueberries! And, he just planted some apple trees, too. Best damn garden turtle I could’ve ever asked for.”

Willy can’t help it, he’s almost choking because he’s laughing too hard. Rosie sits up, curiously watching the boy with her tail moving at top speeds. 

Louis laughs with him, and when that laughter dies down, he places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

 “It’ll get better,” he says. “I promise. Shit like this always hurts like hell at first.”

“I know.”

“If it makes you feel better, Rosie misses you guys just as much.”

Rosie barks in agreement, and Louis chuckles. 

“See?”

Willy tries to smile, but can’t find it in himself as he scratches Rosie’s ears, studying her youthful face. Those are nothing but vibrant amber, a contrast to the bloodshot black that she had in her final moments.  

“She loves it here.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s just-” Willy sighs, “it sucks. It really, really sucks.”

Louis studies him a moment, his hand absently running along Rosie’s back. She’s calmed down, her large head resting in Willy’s lap again as her eyes droop shut. 

“How’s everyone else doing?”

“They’re okay, I think. AJ and Tenn drew this big picture of her with all of us there with these treats laying all around for her to chew on. Aasim helped me make a big cross to stick in the grave and I carved some cool designs in it. We bur- um, we buried her between you and Marlon.”

Louis nods, smiling. 

“That’s a good place.”

They’re quiet, enjoying the humid breeze that rustles the grass and watching the golden sun continue to rise. 

Willy glances over at him, wondering if he should continue.

“Clementine did it,” he says slowly. “Put her down, I mean. Aasim was gonna do it but… looking at her just- none of us could, so she stepped in and...” he trails off. 

“Took care of her,” Louis continues to nod, though his smile falls into a thoughtful look as his hand travels to Rosie’s chest, scratching the one good spot that always got her leg kicking. “Of course she did.”

Willy’s chin quivers, but he takes a deep breath to calm himself down, sighing, “We didn’t want her to suffer anymore, y’know?” 

“I know.”

Louis gets to his feet, rolling his shoulders as if to relieve some tension. 

“Well, Willy, it’s good to see you again, but I have a feeling I’m not the one you really wanted to talk to about this, or that you’re here to help me with my project,” he jerks his thumb back at the mansion. “Five years and I’ve only got about two-hundred of the floors built.” He shakes his head, hands resting on his hips. “Turns out, nine-hundred and fourteen is a lot. Go figure.”

“Nine-hundred and fourteen?” Willy looks up at the never-ending mansion. 

“I told Clem it’d take me a long time to finish this thing. Then again, I am damn proud of the two-hundred I have now. Besides, it’s going a lot quicker with the others helping out more recently.” 

“The others?”

Louis nudges him with his foot, saying, “C’mon.” 

Willy takes his hand, letting himself be pulled up as Rosie groans, disturbed of her rest. They stare out over the lake, now glossy and glimmering with the rising sun.

“Over there,” Louis points. 

It’s the largest oak tree Willy’s ever seen- one with a tire swing attached and what looks like a treehouse under construction. Hell, the biggest damn treehouse he’s ever seen, too. Perfectly placed in the middle, it almost looks like someone built the base of a house, picked it up, and plopped it up in the tree only to find out it’s the perfect fit. 

How did he not see that before?

Louis wraps an arm around his shoulders and guides him closer, Rosie following close behind. 

“Looks pretty good, huh?” 

“It’s huge!” Willy marvels. “Did you build this, too?”

“Nope.”

“Geoff?”

That gets a loud laugh of out him. “No, not Geoff.”

There’s movement, a shadowed figure passing by one of the unfinished windows. Boot heels click against the wood above them, accompanied by unintelligible grumbling. Something metal drops, clanking against something so familiar- a toolbox?

“Shit!”

Willy comes to an abrupt halt at the curse, lips parting in a hitched gasp. He stares up at Louis with wide, bewildered eyes, questioning his sanity more so than ever now. Just to ground himself again, Willy grabs ahold of Louis shirt- it’s really there, the fabric in his hands- as he waits, gazing up at the treehouse. 

More footsteps, then the pounding of a hammer. 

“He put his heart and soul into this,” Louis says. “Keeps pretty busy up there most days.” 

“...Really?”

“Yeah,” Louis grins. “He won’t admit it, but he’s been hoping you’d come visit for a while now.”

Willy goes to speak but finds his mouth dry and tongue heavy. 

Regardless, Louis gives him a knowing look and pulls his arm back, leaving Willy’s shoulders feeling much colder against the wind. 

“You shouldn’t keep him waiting. He could use the company, I think.”

With that, he turns to walk back as panic shoots through Willy’s spine.  

“Wait, Louis?” he calls after him. 

“Hm?”

Willy finds he can’t hold his gaze, instead choosing to peer down at the caked mud stuck to his feet. 

“You… you’re not-”

“I know, Willy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”

“Who cares how long it’s been? I still feel sorry that it happened. I just…” Willy finally looks at him. “I wanted to tell you that Clem- Clem really misses you,” he murmurs. “AJ, too. And Tenn, he still draws pictures of you and Clem together... here, I think. I don’t know, but he really misses you, too, and so does Violet, and-”

That glow Louis had about him dulls, just a bit, as his expression becomes darker, sadder. He blinks several times in an attempt to compose himself, to hide that gloss to his eyes. 

“I know, buddy. I miss you all, too,” he finally says, offering a genuine, but dejected smile. “Now, go.”

“Yeah, yeah I will.”

He claps, gaining Rosie’s full attention. 

“C’mon, Rosie! You’re slackin’ again! This place isn’t going to build itself! Hop to it! We’ve still got seven-hundred floors to go!”

Rosie barks.

“Excuse me! Seven-hundred and fourteen! Can’t forget the fourteen! Clementine will have my hide if we forget the fourteen!”

She peers up at Willy one last time, panting and licking her lips. Willy moves back down to her, hugging her to him as she whimpers.

“You’re the bestest girl in the whole world,” Willy tries to keep his voice calm, but it comes out as more of a croak. “Goodbye, Rosie...” He presses a kiss against her forehead, which she returns with a lick on his cheek. 

Willy lets her go, watching her trot off after Louis.  

Together they get back to work on the mansion. 

Willy lingers to soak in that image of Louis to replace the real one he had, the one that was a blur, and to remember Rosie as a dog with nothing but youth and love coursing in her veins.

“Shit-” 

His hands cover his face as he takes long, shuddering breaths. 

The hammering above him grows louder. 

Willy sniffles, mumbling, “Stop it, stop...” 

He’s not a child anymore. He can’t go up there like this. No, he needs to get his shit together and show that he’s grown up now. He needs to act his size. 

One deep breath after another, Willy calms his heavy, racing heart and faces the treehouse again. Thick planks of wood secure against the trunk of the massive tree create a ladder to the opening beneath the structure. 

With another heavy inhale, Willy begins his climb. While this isn’t the longest tree he’s ever made his way up, it’s still the biggest. He didn’t know a tree’s trunk could grow like this. The ones surrounding Ericson are twigs compared to this monster.

The pounding of the hammer is close, nearly vibrating through the wooden pieces. Once he reaches the top, Willy cautiously peeks over the edge of the opening. 

It’s...

It’s set up to resemble the basement, with a workbench and several cases with shelves adorning various tools, toys, books, weapons, and other supplies. However, unlike the basement, it’s bright and open with plenty of space to move around and work in. The glassless windows let in the morning sun to heat the floor and illuminate the center of the place. When he pulls himself up more, he spots a couch with a brand new guitar pressed against it, and posters of various bands and movies cover the walls, all with graffiti smeared over them. 

The hammering stops as a string of incoherent grumbles hum behind him. 

Willy’s breath hitches when he turns. 

Down on his hands and knees in the doorway of the treehouse, Mitch checks the sturdiness of the frame, grasping and giving it a jerk. When it doesn’t move, he nods to himself and moves to the other side. 

Willy’s hands shake violently, even when he balls them into fists. Scrambling to his feet, careful to mind the opening as he moves in closer. 

“Mitch?”  

The hammering stops again. 

Neither of them moves. 

Willy can see Mitch glance at him from the corner of his eye. Then, he slowly turns on his heels to face him. 

He’s exactly how Willy remembers; fair skin adorned with various freckles, dark hair that falls around the nape of his neck and hides his forehead, broad shoulders and long legs, a dimple in his chin, a scar along his right hand...

It’s even the same shape and color, crossed around the back of his hand and up his wrist. He got it when one of Willy’s traps malfunctioned, nearly dropping a log on him before Mitch yanked him out of the way. The force of it sent them flying back into their supplies where one of the arrows sliced up his hand. They were lucky it didn’t go through, but it still brought on overwhelming guilt every time Willy looked at it, no matter how many times Mitch said he’d rather have a fucked up hand instead of the alternative. 

Yet another thing Willy did to hurt him...

“Holy shit,” Mitch breathes out. 

He stands, letting the hammer drop to crash against the wood. 

Willy’s eyes burn as he swallows the lump in his dry, sore throat. He has to bite his lip to still his trembling chin, screaming in his mind to hold himself together. 

Mitch steps closer into the warm light, eyeing him up and down in disbelief, gaze widening and brows furrowing. 

 “Holy shit…” he repeats. “Look at you.”

When he’s close enough, Willy realizes that for the first time he can look Mitch straight in the eye without any trouble, a jarring contrast to five years ago when he would jump on the furniture and pretend he towered over him and everyone else.

Mitch smirks.

“Told’ja you wouldn’t be small forever.” 

Willy smiles wide enough to cause a strain in his cheeks, barring all of his crooked teeth. 

“Yeah, you did,” he shakes his head. “Should’ve listened to you.”

Willy tries to memorize everything he can of Mitch’s face but looks away when heat begins to threaten his eyes again. He twitches, wanting to throw himself at Mitch and hold him, sob into his chest like he did when he was little, when the world ended and they were abandoned. 

He doesn’t- can’t.

Instead, Willy holds out his trembling hand. 

“I- I’m happy to see you.”

Mitch cocks a brow at the gesture, but takes it silently, giving a firm shake. 

His skin feels real, his warmth soaking into Willy’s and it boggles his mind. He tightens his grip, shaking back. 

Mitch chuckles, rolling his eyes. 

Before Willy can question it, he’s jerked forward and enveloped by Mitch’s arms around his shoulders. Stunned, he stands there as Mitch presses a hand against the back of his head, smoothing out his hair, and grumbling, “No need to be so formal, old man. I’m happy to see you, too.”

“...You hate hugs.”

"You’re an exception.” 

With that, Willy allows himself to wrap his arms around Mitch’s waist and hug him back tightly. 

When it’s time to pull away, he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want Mitch to see the tears threatening to spill over or the quiver in his chin. 

“C’mon,” Mitch pulls him out the doorway and onto a porch. “Come sit with me for a while.”

 The sun’s higher in the sky now, burning orange within the lavender sky, illuminating the world much more than before. From out here, they can hear Louis and Rosie singing again. 

They sit together at the end of the porch, letting their legs dangle over the edge. Willy peers down, realizing just how high up they are. Not that he’s afraid of heights of anything, but something about being this close to falling makes him nervous, so he scoots closer to Mitch.

“Rosie hit you pretty hard, huh?” he asks. 

Willy’s quiet, watching the dog in question bring Louis a new paintbrush. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he sighs. “When she showed up here, we were all worried about it, about you and Tenn and AJ and whatnot. Didn’t know how you’d take it.”

“We didn’t have a choice.”

“No, you didn’t. It’s better this way, though, and I know how shitty that is to hear right now, but it’s true. Keepin’ her around in the state she was would’ve been cruel.” 

“I know.”

“You’re gonna be okay.”

“I know.”

“Willy.”

He meets Mitch’s eye. 

“...What else?”

“What?”

“You’ve got more on your mind than Rosie.”

 Of course, he does, how could he not? 

Mitch- real or not- is there beside him for the first time since the delta attack so long ago. 

Willy’s glance falls down to Mitch’s throat. There’s no wound, no blood, not even a scar as if what happened to him was only a nightmare. 

Like Louis, Mitch has another worldly glow about his skin, a light in his stare, something so real that Willy finds himself at a loss. He wants to believe that he’s here- actually, physically here- and that everything around him is true. 

Except it’s not.

“When we were saying our goodbyes to Rosie, I kept thinking about you,” Willy starts. “Kept telling myself not to cry because you wouldn’t. You’d be strong and pull through it, just like you used to whenever we lost someone. But, I couldn’t keep it in.”

He looks to his hands in shame. 

“I thought I was done crying... done being small.”

“You’re not small anymore.”

Mitch stretches out one of his legs, nudging him to do the same. Their legs reach out the length, almost. Actually, comparing them this way, Willy’s reach is farther. 

“Somethin’ always told me you’d outgrow me,” Mitch mumbles. “Damn.” 

“Really?”

“Really,” Mitch grins. “So, stop callin’ yourself small.”

“Can’t help it. Still feel that way, like I’m not doing everything I can for everyone. They’re all sad, but Aasim’s still taking care of the rabbits and Ruby’s still running the greenhouse. Violet’s damn near blind and Clem has no leg and they’re doing more than me.”

“Willy, that’s bullshit. You’ve stepped up a lot, fixed a lot of things I never got the chance to, made things more secure for everyone. I always knew ya had that in you. And the shit with the delta? Who built that bomb? You did. You helped kill those fuckers and stop them from ever bothering our home ever again.”

"...I did do that.”

Mitch chuckles. “Felt that explosion from here, y’know.” He knocks his fist against Willy’s shoulder. “Hell of a bomb, kid. Couldn’t’ve done it better myself.”

Something swells around Willy’s heart, something comforting.

“Seriously,” he adds.”I wasn’t right about everything and I said and did some stupid shit, but I wasn’t ever wrong about you. Yeah, Rosie’s gone and that sucks, but you know what? You’re gonna be sad for a while and then you’ll be better. Thing’s’ll get back to normal, just like they always do. You’ll get into that flow again, building traps and making weapons, just like how I taught you.” 

The words sink in slowly just as something bubbles in Willy’s throat. He turns to Mitch again, studying his serious face. It’s the same one he used to make whenever Willy beat himself up over messing up a trap or whenever he missed a shot while hunting. The face that said, “Don’t sweat it, you’ll get better.”

“...What do you know? You’re dead.”

He doesn’t mean for that to slip out, or for it to be so harsh, but the effect on both of them is instant. Mitch’s frown deepens, his brows furrowing as his eyes become dark, slipping shut as he takes a deep breath. 

"Yeah,” Mitch nods. “Been dead for a while now, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m talking about or that you shouldn’t listen to me.”

“It means you’re not really here.”

“So what?”

“So, none of this is real. Not you, not Rosie, not Louis, not the sun, not the treehouse, nothing. You’re dead and I...”

Mitch grabs his wrist, squeezing tightly. 

“Then pretend it is and hear what I’m telling you. You’re better than this. What happened to me wasn’t your fault, or Tenn’s, or anybodys. Hell, if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine,” his shoulders slump, defeated, “realized that one a little too late.”

He loosens his grip.

“Left you a lot sooner than I ever wanted to,” Mitch admits. “Always said I’d be there, y’know. Told’ja I’d make sure nothing ever got you, that you’d always have something to eat and wear and fight with-.”

“Why?” Willy interrupts without thought.

“Why what?”

“Why’d you do all that? Why were you always so nice to me?” Willy asks. While he knows this isn’t real, he still finds himself desperate for an answer. “I was just a weird kid who did stupid, gross stuff. You never had to take care of me, but you did. I should’ve been better than that.”

“Willy-”

“I should’ve done more so that I wasn’t slowing you down or wasting your time. If I was stronger then, or smarter, or faster, I could’ve helped save Tenn and then you wouldn’t have died!” With each breath he takes, the words come faster and angrier. “Then, we could’ve made that bomb and blew those assholes up together!”

The tears finally overflow, dripping down his cheeks and onto his shorts. Wiping his nose on the back of his hand, he twists himself around and leaves the edge of the porch, struggling to his feet.

Chirps of passing birds catch Mitch’s attention for a brief second, his face falling before he rushes from the porch to follow Willy back inside the tree house. 

“Hey-”

“No,” Willy shakes his head. “I didn’t- I didn’t mean to be a burden, Mitch, and now you’re gone and I can’t even- I can’t even thank you or tell you I’m sorry or how much I miss you-”  

The chirping grows louder, the birds landing outside the door and looking in. Mitch turns to glare at them, hissing out, “In a minute!”

The floorboards beneath Willy’s feet suddenly feel unstable, like one wrong move and he could fall through. The weight of his our head is too heavy for his shoulders, falling forward for him to drip his tears, staining the wood. 

“Willy,” Mitch’s voice is softly melancholic. “It’s time to wake up.”

“I- I know.”

“Listen, I-” Mitch pauses, gaze falling to the ground as he crosses his arms over his chest. “I never got to say this because, uhm, y’know... Shit, Willy, you weren’t just some kid I looked after, you know that, right? You have to know that.”

Willy says nothing. He doesn’t think he can.

“I had a lot of brothers, you know. Real ass hats. Didn’t miss them for too long after everything went to shit... but I had you.”

Fingers grasp his shoulder, and he’s being turned around. Once again, blinking back tears he stares straight into Mitch’s eyes, his vivid green eyes that hold an eternity of life in them. 

“I never cared if you were weird or if you did stupid shit. I was weird and did stupid shit, too. You were fun and silly and I liked talking with you and I liked the way you used to follow me around like- like I was some sort of hero. You just- you were so little and scared out of your mind and I knew I had to step up and help you, because if I didn’t, you wouldn’t’ve made it and I couldn’t live with myself if you ever got bit or killed or whatever. You meant too much to me.”

Now he holds both of his shoulders, never once breaking their locked gazes. 

“You were never a burden, Willy. You were more of a brother to me than my own blood, and I’m sorry that I can’t be there for you anymore. But, I need you to take care of yourself and the others, okay? I need you to grow even taller than you are now, and live until you’re eighty-years-old-”

“Eighty?”

“At least,” Mitch chuckles. “Think you can do that for me?”

“...What about after that?”

“After you hit eighty?”

“Yeah.”

“Then... then you and I can build a nine-hundred and fifteen-story house across the lake, just to piss Louis off.”

Through his tears, Willy laughs, sniffling and asking, “What color?”

“Up to you.”

Willy’s vision becomes spotty, colors fusing together around black blobs. 

“Orange,” he says. “Let’s paint it orange.” 

“Orange it is,” Mitch sighs, smile falling in sorrow. “If... if you ever need to, come see me again. We can hide out here and sit and talk, or carve some shit. Or, y’know, it wouldn’t kill ya to write...” He grumbles that last part.

“What?”

“Nevermind,” he shakes his head. “Time to go, Willy. You’ve got morning watch.”

Willy takes a step towards him, throwing his arms around his shoulders and giving him one final hug. Mitch doesn’t hesitate, holding him back.

“Thank you.” 

“Make me proud, okay?”

“I will,” Willy sniffles. “Sorry I yelled at you. And cried.”

“Don’t be.”

Willy clings to his shirt. 

“Goodbye, Mitch...”

He lets go.

Willy watches him through sore, teary eyes as Mitch moves to the doorway, stepping into the light.

“Love you, kiddo,” Mitch murmurs. “No matter what, remember that, okay?”

With that, he fades away. 

[i-am-very-very-tired]

Designed for DestructionFor a time, starting in the early 1990s, Isabella Blow and Alexander McQueen were inseparable—fashion muse and master—lovers without the sex. They shared something else: a self-loathing so intense it would devour them both, with Blow’s suicide in 2007 and McQueen’s in 2010. In an adaptation from her new book,

Champagne Supernovas

, Maureen Callahan reveals how two great British talents lost the battle of their lives.by

MAUREEN CALLAHAN

SEPTEMBER 2014

From the beginning of his career, in 1992, Alexander McQueen defined himself as a designer who trafficked in raunch, filth, and perversion so heightened it was almost funny. He was an outsider, and he reveled in it, but only three years later, he was losing himself.

He had just shown his autumn-winter 1995–96 collection, “Highland Rape,” and it was his breakout: his models stormed the runway with bare breasts, wearing slashed tartan and lace and punk-rock rubber pants. It made McQueen a star, and now he wanted to fit in with the fashion people he’d once ridiculed: he’d already had his teeth fixed, and would later have liposuction on his stomach and lose the wattle under his chin.

He took to life at Hilles, Isabella and Detmar Blow’s country pile, and Issie (as she was always known to close friends), a blue-blooded star-maker who’d discovered McQueen when he was just a student, made sure falcons were on hand for her bird-obsessed protégé. His friends found it all so pretentious: Lee McQueen, the cabdriver’s son, trying to inhabit the grandeur of his new, more fashionable first name—actually, it was his middle name, and it was Issie who suggested he adopt it. Far more regal, she said.

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He agreed.

His old friends, who still called him Lee, knew McQueen would soon be gone. “I remember him telling me that someone at British Vogue said that we should split up,” says his then boyfriend, Andrew Groves. “That it would be better for his career.”

McQueen was happiest in Soho’s gay bars, hanging out with prostitutes. He’d also begun spending time in New York, crashing with his friend the fashion designer Miguel Adrover. They’d hit clubs in the Meatpacking District, or go to Bowery Bar, where they’d sometimes see Marc Jacobs, then collapse in Adrover’s basement apartment in the East Village.

Back in the U.K., the decadence continued. He was on his way to becoming the kind of fashion person that he loathed—demanding, materialistic, status-obsessed. McQueen also told Detmar and Issie how he liked to be degraded, how one partner made him have sex with another man while he watched—that he didn’t like it but that it played into his sense of victimization.

“He was very attracted to people being abused,” says Detmar Blow. When he was younger, there was much about Lee McQueen that was buoyant and light, sensitive and caring. Now those aspects were receding.

According to McQueen’s old friend Chris Bird, after Issie confided her inability to conceive, McQueen, who could be willfully cruel to those he cared for most, later turned to Detmar and said, “I’ve heard you’ve been shooting blanks.” He’d see her shuffling his way in tears, undone by her latest crisis, and say, “Here comes mad old Issie.”

“Lee wasn’t the nicest person to her, but she loved his genius,” says designer Julien Macdonald, another Issie discovery. “He was so crazy. One minute he’d be a wonderful person, and the next he’d be telling people to piss off.”

Many of McQueen’s friends suspected he was bipolar; over the years, Issie would also struggle with the disorder.

“The signs were there all along,” Groves says, but the highs and lows were easily blamed on the mad rush to complete collections. Alice Smith, his first publicist and longtime friend, also thought McQueen might be bipolar. “He was extremely vivacious sometimes, and others he could hardly speak.” She recalls seeing him and Issie at a Central Saint Martins fashion show sometime after “Highland Rape,” side by side in the front row, staring into space. Smith went over to say hi, and McQueen, in sunglasses, ignored her.

“I remember thinking, My God, what’s happened to him?”

After “Highland Rape,” everything Lee McQueen had been working toward became real. He was named Designer of the Year by the British Fashion Council. He had the most prestigious slot at London Fashion Week, showing last. Louis Vuitton Moët Hennessy was circling.

LVMH was formed in 1987 when the fashion and champagne companies merged. Bernard Arnault, the C.E.O., was most interested in expanding the new company’s fashion holdings and reviving its mustiest houses. By 1996, Arnault was considering Alexander McQueen for Givenchy.

McQueen was breaking a little under the stress. He was seeking relief in hard drugs and anonymous sex and had lost many of his old friends.

After her last encounter with McQueen, Alice Smith was surprised when he invited her to a gathering. “Come to my party … loads of Charlie,” the invite read. Smith showed up, and the stylist Katie Grand was there, but hardly anyone else, maybe 15 people in the socialite Annabelle Neilson’s cavernous Notting Hill flat. McQueen was doing coke in the bathroom; when he was out in the living room, everyone was dancing strenuously, trying way too hard to have fun. He couldn’t hide his disgust.

“I remember going up to him and saying, ‘Are you all right?’ ” Smith says. “And he said, ‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ . . . He just got black moods, and he couldn’t shake them off.”

The same was true of Isabella. She’d been at loose ends since the fall of 1994, when British Vogue sidelined her: she was far too mercurial and extravagant, having run up the budget on one shoot to nearly $130,000. “She would say, ‘I’m so unhappy. I’m so unhappy,’ ” Plum Sykes, her former assistant, told New York magazine. “And I’d say, ‘But what about Detmar? What about this fabulous thousand-acre estate? What about your gorgeous flat in town?’ And she’d say, ‘But, Plum, I haven’t got a child.’ ”

To the fashion press, Issie and McQueen still presented themselves as inseparable, the muse and the mastermind. And McQueen did love her. She was his most articulate ambassador, explaining his point of view as he never could. “What attracted me to Alexander,” she told Harper’s Bazaar in 1996, “was the way he takes ideas from the past and sabotages them with his cut to make them thoroughly new. . . . He is like a Peeping Tom in the way he slits and stabs at fabric to explore all the erogenous zones of the body.”

It was similar to the way they described themselves: lovers without the sex. “Dante,” the show he staged in a church in Spitalfields, would be dedicated to her.

McQueen wanted the job at Givenchy and declared himself a convert to luxury. “I think people want that now,” he said. “They don’t want to look as though they bought all their clothes in a thrift shop.”

With “Dante,” McQueen used masks that referenced the religious iconography of photographer Joel-Peter Witkin, sheathing his models in military coats and corsetry, their pallid faces slashed with crimson lipstick. Writing in The New York Times,Amy Spindler described “Dante” as a combination of “Blueblood and hot blood.” McQueen, she said, “brought the excitement, edge and theatrics he is known for but added a wonderful fourth element for the first time: maturity.”

“Fashion Is a Vampiric Thing”

On October 14, 1996, LVMH announced that Alexander McQueen, now 27 years old, was taking over as head designer at Givenchy. His appointment left founder Hubert de Givenchy disconsolate. “I find it a total disaster, and I suffer,” he said, “but what can I do?”

When McQueen took the job at Givenchy, Isabella assumed that she’d be named the house muse, that McQueen would put her on salary. He gave her nothing. She was heartbroken.

“She gave Lee everything,” says Julien Macdonald. “All her money, all her time, all her energy. She introduced him to everybody. And then, when he went to Givenchy and he had money, he told her to piss off. He had millions, she was penniless, and he gave her nothing. He just shut the door.”

Issie, hopeful all would be made right, tried to keep her mouth shut, but not long afterward, while being interviewed, she got drunk and the truth came out.

“The role of a muse is changing,” she said. “If Alexander uses some of my ideas in his show, and he has, I don’t get paid; he does.”

McQueen was furious. His great baseline fear was that everyone he knew, except his mother, was using him. Issie would ask, “Do you remember the good old days? You knocked me up”—the most poignant metaphor a childless fashionista could conjure. And McQueen would say, “That world is gone, Issie.”

For someone who would soon sit down with Charlie Rose and declare, “Fashion people are not that intelligent,” McQueen had no problem adapting. He was running around with Kate Moss and Naomi Campbell, Bella Freud, and Elton John. He hated taking the Eurostar, so LVMH often flew him and his team back and forth—commercial, not private. They gave him a driver and an apartment in Paris, which he shared with his crew. Though McQueen’s office was quite small—at about 8 by 12 feet, it was the size of a walk-in closet—he seemed happy just to have one.

He set to work immediately; he had three months till his debut at Givenchy, which had become a fashion-world fixation. Was this hellion capable of going commercial?

McQueen’s debut won mixed reviews. He “left his audience cold and confused with his first show for Givenchy,” wrote Amy Spindler in The New York Times. But Heath Brown in The Times was laudatory: “The gamble has paid off,” he wrote. “McQueen pushed the boundaries of fashion to its limits.”

After that first show, Lee McQueen was gone. He was Alexander now, the imperial genius.

“Givenchy was the point where Lee started to change, on many levels,” says Simon Costin, his then set designer. “The stress involved in doing prêt-à-porter, couture, and his own label was pretty horrendous.” Costin, like others before him, began to suspect McQueen was bipolar. “He was up and down a lot more, harder to work with,” Costin says. “The people who perhaps answered back or said ‘Don’t be ridiculous’ would disappear.”

When Kate Betts interviewed McQueen for an American Vogue profile, he lit into her. The headline subsequently asked, “Does Alexander McQueen have enough talent to keep Givenchy going?” Betts wrote that his latest collection was “almost revolting.” He was in the throes of a persecution complex.

“It’s like Hitler and the Holocaust,” McQueen told Newsweek. “He destroyed millions of people because he didn’t understand. That’s what a lot of people have done to me, because they can’t understand what I do.”

Feeling abandoned by McQueen, Issie found a new protégé, American designer Jeremy Scott. It was like taunting an old lover with a new one, and Scott implied that McQueen was threatened: “Isabella told me he threw an ashtray at her and said he wanted to kill me,” Scott said. “But I don’t know that I believe it. She was always talking about other people and how they did her wrong.” He was 24 years old, as brash as McQueen, his top row of teeth encased in a gold grill that spelled J-E-R-E-M-Y. The fashion press loved him.

In 1997, The Independent ran a profile of Scott called “Move Over McQueen—Here Comes the Kansas Ranger.” Scott was perfect for Issie at the moment, and her artful feints, the idea she’d love another designer as much, if not more, kept McQueen coming around. He still lent her some pieces, which she found a pathetic metaphor for their relationship. “He likes to use the clothes as power over me,” she would later say, but from McQueen’s perspective, Issie had become a bottomless pit of need: there was no satisfying her, and she was self-destructing.

“She’d made some pretty rash and not great decisions about her own career,” says Chris Bird. “She’d gone on holidays and not returned. She wasn’t turning up for work and getting fired and she puts her hope on Lee. . . . His instinct was ‘I want to be my own person. I worked bloody hard for this.’ ”

The milliner Philip Treacy, another Issie discovery, was worried, too: more and more she wanted hats that covered her face. She was never a beauty, but she had style and joie de vivre; now she was suddenly looking very old and tired, with huge bags under her eyes. McQueen suggested plastic surgery. Instead, she went to Philip for hats and gave the press a tortured explanation: “Fashion is a vampiric thing,” she said. “That’s why I wear the hats, to keep everyone away from me. They say, ‘Oh, can I kiss you?’ I say, ‘No, thank you very much. That’s why I’ve worn the hat. Goodbye.’ I don’t want to be kissed by all and sundry.”

Issie and McQueen: here were two of the fashion industry’s most influential, beset by so much self-loathing amid so much beauty that they were alienating friends and colleagues, sabotaging themselves, and, in the designer’s case, degrading himself. McQueen told Detmar that he needed to be abused sexually: “Detmar, that’s the way I want it.”

“I think the way he tried to metabolize [his pain] was by having sex,” says Bird. “His personal relationships were very volatile.”

For all their dysfunction, Issie had always kept the door open for him at Hilles: there, McQueen could do what he liked with whomever he liked, and it would stay behind those walls. When it came to that, Issie would never judge.

“Can Everybody Not Give Lee Any Drugs?”

In 1997, for the second time in two years, the British Fashion Council named McQueen Designer of the Year (an honor he shared with John Galliano). No number of accolades could sway his detractors: “His only usefulness,” Vivienne Westwood said later, “is as a measure of zero talent.” Yves Saint Laurent called him a “talentless upstart.”

As it turned out, McQueen hated France. He could barely speak the language. He was under pressure to turn a profit.

“The couture collections were amazing,” says Macdonald, who succeeded McQueen at Givenchy. “The ready-to-wear—nobody bought the clothes. If you looked at the figures, it was a disaster.”

Behind closed doors, McQueen’s crudeness was calcifying. A boyfriend had recently tried to commit suicide, and McQueen’s reaction, Bird says, was alarming: “Lee said, ‘How dare he try to kill himself in my fucking house?’ ”

McQueen was now constantly on coke, even asking Eric Lanuit, then head press officer at Givenchy, for help.

“He would call to ask for certain ‘vitamin substances,’ ” Lanuit said in the documentary McQueen & I. “I’m not talking about vitamin C, I’m talking about cocaine.” McQueen also took up cigarettes, which shocked even him. “I never smoked in my life until I started at Givenchy,” he said. He consumed as much as Kate Moss and Marc Jacobs, two packs a day.

“It was like, ‘Can everybody not give Lee any drugs?’ ” Macdonald says. “He was completely off his head. He was, like, taking coke, taking E—he was just uncontrollable. In a mad way, in a state, I think. The stories you used to find out. . . . Oh God, that guy really needed help.”

McQueen, in the depths of self-pity, became obsessed with physical impairments and disability. This became the theme for yet another breakthrough, his spring-summer 1999 show, “No. 13.”

The Paralympian Aimee Mullins, a double amputee, walked in wooden prosthetics. For the finale, Shalom Harlow stood on a rotating platform, swirling in white as two robot arms splattered her with spray paint.

“The triumph of London’s fashion week,” Suzy Menkes wrote. “McQueen captured the raw aggression of Britpop and the swaggering showmanship of the art scene.” McQueen agreed. “It was my best show,” he would say, “that moment with Shalom!” He later said he was so moved that he wept.

As usual, McQueen was working out his own demons on the runway, and “No. 13” was a plain depiction of how he saw himself: hobbled, disabled, a puppet on a pedestal vandalized by automatons.

“Anger in my work reflected angst in my personal life,” he would later tell Menkes.

He wanted out of Givenchy. He’d lost weight, dyed his hair, and rolled with rock stars and royalty, yet he was sure that the fashion elite were mocking him, the fat East Ender who thought he was good enough for French couture.

Issie took credit for what happened next. As Lauren Goldstein Crowe writes in her book Isabella Blow: A Life in Fashion, she was seated next to Tom Ford at a dinner in May 1999 and told him, “You should look at Alexander.” Ford, then creative director at Gucci Group, was interested: not only was McQueen the most revolutionary designer of his generation, but poaching him could be the best revenge against Bernard Arnault, who’d recently attempted a hostile takeover of Gucci Group. Ford and C.E.O. Domenico De Sole successfully fought that off by persuading the French conglomerate Pinault-Printemps-Redoute to inject $3 billion into the company, later acquiring Yves Saint Laurent as well.

McQueen went to the press: “Fire me!” he said.

Gucci made him an offer: for a 51 percent stake, McQueen would only have to produce for his own house. The one caveat: McQueen had to make clothes that would sell. In late 2000 he officially announced his defection to Gucci Group.

“Talk about bite the hand that feeds you,” McQueen said. “I bloody chewed it up and spat it out.”

“The Loneliest Place on the Planet”

While he seemed to be stabilizing professionally, McQueen was a wreck in his personal life. He’d met a new man, George Forsyth, who, at 22, was several years younger than McQueen and had never been exposed to the fashion industry. He was saddened by what he saw. “The fashion world is the loneliest place on the face of the planet,” Forsyth told The Mail on Sunday. “It’s a shallow world full of party people and party ‘friends.’ Lee knew that.”

His escalating mood swings were shrugged off as a genius’s eccentricity: There was the night McQueen took Forsyth to drinks in Paris, dinner in Spain, then dancing in Amsterdam. There was the lounging at home, watching a documentary on Africa, with McQueen deciding that should be their next trip—and there they were, on a plane 48 hours later. Two days more and they were over it, calling Naomi Campbell to meet up for New Year’s. McQueen and Forsyth “spent three days partying and taking drugs,” Forsyth said. “Naomi didn’t do any coke even though she was surrounded by people who were.”

Issie was furious that McQueen was throwing away money while paying her nothing, but she was more upset by his drug use. “This boy she loved—this is her creative genius, and what is he doing?,” Detmar says. “He’s shoveling it; he’s destroying himself.”

McQueen and Forsyth were usually partying with Kate Moss, Sadie Frost, Annabelle Neilson, and the heiress Davinia Taylor.

“It was a very incestuous, cliquey world,” said Forsyth in The Mail on Sunday. “They were hard-core—staying up for days, either drinking or taking drugs, in some cases both. . . . People had a lot of money so they never had to stop.”

The two had been dating for about six months when McQueen asked Forsyth to marry him. They wanted a small ceremony, but Kate and Annabelle took over, delivering them to a massive yacht stocked with something like $30,000 worth of champagne. In attendance were many of Kate’s friends: Sadie Frost and Jude Law; Noel Gallagher’s then wife, Meg Mathews; and actress Patsy Kensit. The priest barely spoke English. The whole thing seemed less like a wedding than another excuse to party.

“Everyone was eating and drinking and taking drugs,” Forsyth said. “There were no family. It was all party people.… In the fashion world there were very few people who said, ‘There’s someone who needs looking after.’ ”

Isabella would have gladly done so, had she been welcome. She was spending increasing amounts of time in Paris, renting McQueen’s old apartment in the Marais. By the end of 2002, she and Detmar had separated.

For months Issie had been sliding into a deep, intractable depression—trying antidepressants to no avail, talking openly about suicide. She had drawn up a will, which—according to a New Yorker profile around that time—included provisions for her head to be severed and sent to her father’s estate, and her heart to be mailed to Detmar.

“You know how hard it is to live with someone who’s trying to commit suicide all the time?” Detmar says. “It’s really fucking hard.”

Issie took comfort in the small things. Tom Ford gave her a V.I.P. taxi pass to use in Paris; she slept in a bed once owned by Freddie Mercury; she was still a front-row presence nonpareil. For the opening of “When Philip Met Isabella,” a 2002 exhibition of Treacy’s work for his mentor, Isabella wore an enormous, semi-translucent red disk on her head.

But nothing and no one was as important as McQueen, and when he took Tom Ford up on his offer to join Gucci Group, Issie allowed herself to think that maybe now he’d pay her back somehow. He didn’t. She was so bitter she told Detmar that “when she’s dying it’s not [in] a McQueen.”

“Paris for Couture, London for Suits, America for Psychiatric Hospitals”

For his spring-summer 2001 show, “Voss,” McQueen staggered the terror—deliberately starting an hour late, forcing his audience to sit around an enormous reflective Perspex box. What better revenge than to make all these horrible fashion people compare their looks, maybe find themselves, as McQueen had, falling so short?

“I was looking at it on the monitor, watching everyone trying not to look at themselves,” McQueen said. It was his greatest retribution.

And then, suddenly, the lights went off, and the giant box was lit from within, his models—who couldn’t see out—going crazy against the glass, sheathed in white caps, some with stuffed birds framing their faces. The show closed with the collapse of a box within the box, revealing a naked model, flesh spilling over, her head encased in a demonic gray mask. She was hooked up to a breathing tube and covered in moths, the tableau a replica of Joel-Peter Witkin’s Sanitarium.

The Guardian, the International Herald Tribune, The New York Times all raved.

“Up until Mr. McQueen’s glorious crack-up, there was no discernable reason to get out of bed for the London shows,” said *The New York Times’*s Cathy Horyn, who went on to call McQueen “a great designer who is not only making beautiful clothes, but also responding, like an artist, to the horror and insanity in contemporary culture.”

McQueen was also working through personal traumas. His relationship with George didn’t last long.

Though still estranged from Issie, McQueen was hearing things. Her bare breasts spilled out of her top during lunch with a Prada exec, yet she continued the conversation as if nothing happened. Her underwear came untied at a couture show, so she stepped out of it and kept going. She introduced the Duchess of York to a photographer by saying, “This is Donald. He has an enormous cock.”

In the summer of 2003, Issie sought treatment at London’s Priory, the fashion world’s mental-health clinic of choice; Kate Moss went there for rehab in 1998. Issie had no money, and McQueen pitched in more than $8,000. Her doctors put her on lithium, and when she was released, in September, she was nearly catatonic. She began electroshock treatments, which only seemed to speed up the cycling of her mania and depression.

Detmar, who had never really left Isabella, tried to persuade her to go to the United States after he had had a conversation with Andrew Solomon, who’d written The Noonday Demon about his own battles with depression.

“He said to me, ‘Detmar, Paris for couture, London for suits, but America for psychiatric hospitals.’ ” But Issie didn’t want to leave: London was where her friends and family were, and she never lost hope that McQueen would come back to her.

As Issie decompensated, different doctors were called upon, different drugs tried, electroshock therapy resumed, yet nothing worked. She tried to kill herself at least three times in three months: overdosing on pills, wrecking a car, and eventually throwing herself off an overpass known as Suicide Bridge, smashing both ankles. She was told she’d never wear heels again.

She was institutionalized and placed under the care of Dr. Stephen Pereira, who would also treat McQueen for mixed anxiety and depressive disorder. Issie was now going so far as to burn her vagina with lit cigarettes, a literal form of self-abuse for someone who couldn’t have the babies she so badly wanted.

“Everybody knows I’ve fucked up,” she’d say.

On May 5, 2007, Issie guzzled weed killer, the same way Detmar’s father had committed suicide 30 years earlier. She was rushed to the hospital, where she grew irritated that the nurses didn’t recognize her: “Google me!”

When her doctors told her she’d be dead within weeks, she was relieved; she’d told her sister Lavinia, “I’m worried that I haven’t taken enough.” She’d ingested as much as 20 times the amount needed to kill her.

She sat in bed and waited to die, and though many stories circulated after her death about Issie in her silver lamé lingerie next to stacks of fashion magazines, smoking cigarettes and wearing red lipstick, none of them were true. She sat up in bed in a public hospital, dressed in cotton, on a drip—nothing glamorous about it. “It’s bullshit to pretend otherwise,” Detmar says.

When they heard Issie was dying, those closest to her, including Philip Treacy, came to see her. McQueen was not among them.

On August 6, 2011, New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art took the unprecedented step of remaining open until midnight: such was the response to “Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty” that people lined up for hours, snaking down Fifth Avenue on the exhibition’s final two days. It brought in an estimated $15 million over three months and became the eighth-most-popular show in the museum’s history.

Left unsaid was a brutal truth: “Savage Beauty” would never have been mounted had Alexander McQueen not been found dead the year before, at age 40, on February 11, 2010, just a few weeks before his next show in Paris.

The industry had long since come to regard McQueen as an endless generator of fantastical ideas, the sustained quality of his output having long ceased to amaze. Yet he was the first fashion designer whose death felt like a larger cultural, generational loss, on the level of Kurt Cobain’s suicide or the accidental deaths of River Phoenix and Heath Ledger: these were originals all.

In the years before his suicide, McQueen, in his way, tried to make amends, showing up at a Christmas party thrown by Simon Costin. He saw his old friend Chris Bird, and in a rare moment of vulnerability revealed that he was H.I.V.-positive. “I just sort of said to him, ‘Well, that was bloody stupid, wasn’t it?’ And he just said, ‘Yeah.’ ”

Most everyone who knew Lee is convinced that his suicide was a rash impulse brought on by darkness and drugs, by the recent death of his beloved mother, but as Dr. Pereira testified at the inquest, McQueen had tried to kill himself twice before, in 2009. He had felt isolated by fame, let down by people he loved, existentially depressed after the triumph of a show, a failure in every way except professionally. His mother’s death, his psychiatrist said, left him feeling that “there was very little to live for.”

On February 10, two days before his mother’s funeral, McQueen did an Internet search: “When someone slits their wrist how long does it take for them to die?” He did enough coke to kill himself three or four times over, swallowed some sleeping pills, then took his dressing-gown cord and tried to hang himself in the shower. He failed. He grabbed a cleaver and another knife, then went into his closet. He looped his favorite brown belt around his neck, slashed his wrists, and hung himself, leaving behind a note that read in part:

*Please look after my dogs. Sorry, I love you. Lee.

PS Bury me at the church.*

In his flat, in pride of place, were two portraits of Issie by Steven Meisel. “It was the most valuable thing I learned in fashion, her death,” McQueen told The New York Times in 2009, months after his own two failed suicide attempts. “Isabella was so strong in her public image but couldn’t stand her ground in her personal life. I know the other side. She would say that fashion killed her, but she also allowed that to happen in a lot of ways.”