#arthur first entered my top 10 a few months ago

[juliamccartney]

funny how both 'arthur' and 'jonathan' had already been two of my top 5 favourite traditionally masculine names for a while before i ever started listening to tma or re:dracula or malevolent, what are the chances

[haiky-u-lously]

King Kuroo and the Red Knights (9)

Summary:

A Camelot AU where King Arthur is Kuroo Tetsuro, and the Knights of the Roundtable of characters from seasons 1-4 of the HQ anime. Eventual Kuroo X Reader.

Themes:

Action/fighting/killing, dead bodies, Fluff, Angst, Humor, Eventual Romance

Warnings:

Mentions of stalking and abuse of power, Language, Angst in feelings, Gore and fighting, mention of explosion, mention of seeing dead bodies

Word Count:

For Chapter: ~2800words                 

Questions/Comments/Concerns/Ideas welcome as always.

-Admin Red

Hi everyone! First, I’d like to half-apologize for my sudden disappearance from the weekly updates. I say half-apologize because I do feel bad about it, but the first week was supposed to be a break because I’ve had some physical issues come up and it really really hurts to type so I was trying to take a week away from overly stressing my fingers and putting them through more than necessary pain. So like, it was going to be fully justified even though I did feel bad. 

But, after that first weekend without an update I got 7 anon and 2 not-anon asks and 2 direct messages all from individuals basically being hate messages. Regarding how I must be lazy for not keeping my posting up after only two weeks, regarding how the story is crap and they were happy I wasn’t flooding the tags with the b*s anymore. And for how few positive responses I have received regarding the story as a whole after 2 months of posting each week to receive so much after only 1.5 weeks...it was pretty much a punch to the gut.

I realize I am not a top writing for the HQ fandom, I realize that only like...maybe...10 people actually read this story each week, and I am truly grateful to everyone who does. But like that fact that I got so many rude messages as opposed to nice ones really tore me up, especially since in the absence (until yesterday) I hadn’t received any word that anyone was still enjoying the work.

This is why I would like to once again thank the anon who messaged me yesterday. As I said, the kindness you wrote to me made me cry because I’d been so down about this piece. And, I am really glad this work brought you any joy that it did, I hope it continues to do so.

Finally, I have a doctors appointment to get my hands checked out. After basically a month of being in pain with them hopefully something will come of it and I can get back to writing for this work. For now though, here is chapter 9. I hope those following for this piece enjoy it, and honestly if you only wish to send hate please keep it to yourself. Constructive criticism is fine, welcome even (as proven by the fact that I owned up to being wrong about certain characters being third years), but hate messages...those are just pointless.

I hope you like this next installment. Enjoy!

–Admin Red

Chapter 9: Morning of the Tournament

It had been a long few days as the castle staff, knights, and royals of Camelot prepared for the tournament they’d decided to hold. But everyone was in high spirits at breakfast that morning, even Suga and you who’d had a few close calls with your new hall-mate liking to barge in without so much as knocking to indicate his approach.

After the third scare of him walking in while you were eating, you’d started to use your magic to lock the door whenever your helmet was off.

“I still can’t believe how quickly he accepted that you just had (h/l), (h/c) hair when he saw the back of your head,” Suga commented biting into his eggs from his breakfast plate.

You laughed a bit before responding, finishing off your own mouthful of food. “Yea, he is very friendly though. I appreciate how true his comment was. Saying this was the most private hall of the castle? We only come across him regularly, it is pretty nice to be afforded the level of privacy I wanted. Even if there were a few mistakes at the beginning.” You smiled as you went in for more food.

Suga had finished clearing his plate before mouthing to you that he agreed with your assessment.

*knock knock*

When you heard the knocking from your door, rather than the whines of a knight who felt excluded from the so-called party, you knew it was someone other than the King’s right-hand man at your door. Quickly you put your helmet on, still hiding your true identity and removed your magic hold on the door so Suga could open it.

“Excuse me,” Futakuchi called upon entering your chambers. “Ah so you are both here, great! Makes this less work for me then.”

Suga laughed on both of your behalves at the attendant’s joke, having grown accustomed to his sense of humor as it was similar to your own.

“The King has asked me to tell you the order of today’s fights.” He said, pulling a piece of parchment from behind his back with a wide grin.

Suga’s eyes lit up as Futakuchi spoke, and you knew your friend was looking forward to this show of strength as much as any of the men of Camelot, and you smiled proudly behind your face-wear.

When a full minute passed without a word from the magician, Suga threw his hands out in exasperation, “Well then, what is it?”

“Oh, right!” The brunet fumbled the paper before moving to place it on your dining table to review with your pair. “So the first battle will be the most entertaining as the side by side matches should be--!”

His explanation was cut off by the ringing of bells from the courtyard.

“Another attack?” Suga questioned, not knowing the differences in Camelot’s alarm system since you’d heard it less than a handful of times.

Futakuchi shook his head, “No, it means a visitor. But I have no clue who could be approaching today of all days. Come, you should see who it is with me.”

Your group made it down to the front square of the Castle, only to watch as all of the knight’s you’d slowly begun to know over the course of the week run up to a pair of men riding in on horseback!

“You’ve made it!”

“What took you two so long?”

“Where have you been, idiots? The guests of honor arrived a week before you!”

“With Asahi and Ushijima here we are in for a real tournament!”

“Grand welcome for two of Camelot’s strongest! Welcome back to the castle latecomers.”

Watching the group, you realized the men were as close to one another as Suga and you were with your own band of Knights. You were grateful for the reminder of home, even if it made you miss your friends a bit more.

“Ah, so they really did show up today.” You heard from beside you and turned to face the speaker, “Pardon their inept ability to make proper introductions, Red Knight. The two newcomers are the pair I told you about before. Since they have arrived, I may make them participate in the tournament as punishment for being so late.”

You nodded to the King, indicating you’d heard him before stepping back to let him address his men from a better position atop the stairs.

“Thank you,” He smiled fondly before taking your prior position and screaming out to the men below him, “Ushijima! Asahi! Men!” The knights filed up at the base of the staircase, with the two new arrivals front and center. “Why are you so late?”

“Late?” Asahi asked, “You know, you all keep saying we are late, but we just got these summons a few days ago.”

Ushijima just shrugged and looked bored, “If we are supposedly late, we can just go back to where we were.”

The men around the pair started shouting obscenities at their friends’ casualness. You noted the joking manner between the group of twelve and realized that this kingdom truly did feel like they were in a time of peacefulness after the decades of darkness that befell them.

Looking to Suga, you noticed his eyes trained on the men below, joking and horseplaying as he had with his own companions, and you made a note to show how grateful you were to him once more. He’d left his home and friends to stay beside you, the least you could do is remind him how appreciative you were.

“--wever, the matter at fact is that our guests arrived a week before you. To top that, they fought on our side when the castle was attacked without all her guards in place. So I’ve decided you will join our tournament today, and I will not accept any excuses of being tired from your journey.” The King smiled down to his men. The pair grumbled about how unfair a punishment was being forced on them, the other men just showed excitement at the prospect of their friends joining.

“Yes! Yes! Yes! I want to fight Ushi!”

“Hells ya! Make them fight for their dinner while we’re at it!”

“I wouldn’t mind kicking some sense into the glass hearted giant myself!”

“Woaho! Fight time, let’s go!!”

Even the few not shouting out in pure joy had grins on their faces as they looked to and nodded at one another, all of them ready for what they now perceived to be a perfect tournament.

Waving your hand, you caught Suga’s attention, and holding your fingers up to make a triangle, you told him to ask about the tournament set up.

“Excuse us, King Kuroo.” He approached the royal, “This will probably change your line-up for the tournament?”

“You’re right! Futakuchi!” He yelled, to get the attendant’s attention away from joking around with the men below. “Come, we have to rearrange some things.” After his announcement, the King reentered the castle.

As he passed Futakuchi slowed to ask Suga a question, “How against are you showcasing your magic?”

Suga looked to you for your decision. Since showing magic would be the first test against the King’s ability to truly reconnect with the Order you decided it would be a fine move. 

You shrugged your shoulders to indicate you didn’t care either way, leaving it to Suga’s discretion since he too knew of the testing methods.

“If I fight another magician, I don’t mind.” He answered positively.

Futakuchi’s grin overtook his features as he bobbed his head before following after his king.

“You sure like them, don’t you?” You whisper asked your friend.

“Like you don’t?” He laughed back. “If it goes well, perhaps we really can trust this new King and then you can focus on your other mission.”

Behind your shielded mask, you rolled your eyes and stuck out your tongue before answering, “Perhaps you can shut up because no one asked you about that.”

He laughed at your ire, but brought it down to nothing more than a smile seeing the knights climbing the stairs.

“Oh let me introduce you!” Bokuto yelled excitedly seeing your pair atop the staircase. “Ushijima, Asahi, these are the Red Knight representatives. This is Sugawara, the Knight’s squire, and that...well, we just call him the Red Knight, I’ve seemed to have forgotten his name.” The Knight ended up drawing out his introduction as he racked his brain trying to recall it.

“Oh the Red Knight doesn’t mind, we’ve been doing it all week.” Terushima countered, defending his friend’s forgetfulness, and you stifled a laugh as you imagined it was because he too forgot the name you’d chosen to use.

“Wait, you’re Sugawara? From the Order?” A longer haired male asked, stepping from behind the other men to look at your friend closely. After what you guessed was further inspection he grabbed your companion in a tight embrace, “It’s been years! How are you old friend?!” The male shouted in his ears.

You’d moved to unsheath your sword, only to pause at Suga raising his hand towards you.

“It’s okay Yomimasu, I actually think I remember this man.” He finally said once released from the embrace. The taller male backed up and sheepishly scratched at the stubble of hair growing against his jawline. Suga did his own visual study before grinning from ear to ear and giving the man his own version of a soul crushing bear-hug. “Azumane, goor sir. It’s been a long while. Glad to see you’re still alive!”

Hearing the name Suga called, memories flooded your mind of Suga’s friend from the summer years back. A traveling group stayed in a town near your own and the pair met in the forest when Suga was searching for you. After enticing the over-grown child’s help, Suga made fast friends with the boy. Sneaking off himself to go teach him some sword fighting skills and some of the things you’d taught him as well.

“Wait!” Semi interrupted your thoughts and the pair’s reunion. “You two know each other?”

Suga nodded, and Asahi moved to explain, “I stayed a summer nearby to where Suga lived when I was a child. He was the one who taught me to use swords, and his cousin taught us both how to write. Thought I’d never see them again, honestly. What are you doing in Camelot?”

Being questioned, Suga fell back into his more reserved mannerisms, “Of course, I am here as escort to the Red Knight as the Order has sent us to determine if Camelot is worthy of being considered an ally once more.”

The official reason for your visit.

It still angered you that it was your only excuse, that you weren’t meant to share your other reasons. But things were the way they were, and thus you stayed silent, watching the encounter from the sidelines.

“What are you doing as a knight of Camelot? I thought only those in some roundabout way related to the King’s lineage were accepted as knights?” Suga questioned.

“Oh, Kuroo did away with that rule long before he even became King. Quoting about how men should be fighter’s by their merit not their bloodlines.” Yamagata informed your pair.

Aone got a disgusted look on his face that made you want to laugh out, but you swallowed the feeling, he asked, “Did you think we were all somehow related?”

Suga glanced at you, and you did nothing to indicate your own thoughts of the matter, he sighed in defeat and answered, “Well not recently, but yes I felt your family trees must have connected somewhere down the line to the King’s.”

The group of men before him burst into fits of laughter as they regarded the idea and its apparent absurdity. 

“What of your cousin? How does the Princess fair?” Asahi questioned, changing topics to try and save his friend some embarrassment.

“Cousin?” Daichi guffawed.

“Princess?” Atsumu and Osamu blurted out simultaneously.

Your body went stiff at Asahi’s question and you had to take a few deep breaths to calm yourself and tell your mind that they weren’t actually calling to you.

Suga grinned as if he didn’t have a care in the world as he answered his old friend’s question, “She’s happier than she’s ever been, last time I saw her.”

He turned to reenter the castle, probably to return to your room, but you weren’t sure. You were going to follow him  but stopped dead in your tracks as Bokuto, Satori, Terushima and Atsumu all followed after him, asking so many questions over one another even you couldn’t make any of them out.

“So who are you?” A tall man, with short dark hair turned to you. He felt like he’d probably be more intimidating than Aone, but as you were currently sporting a full suit of armor, and held a secret that none in Camelot, save your own friend, knew, you didn’t actually feel frightened.

Daichi and Iwaizumi both stepped between your figure and the large knight, hands up defensively.

“Actually, Ushijima, while in uniform the Knight cannot speak. It’s a little challenging, but we’ve managed pretty well this past week. It’s easier to ask simple questions.” Daichi informed, and you appreciated the complete switch in the knight’s attitudes since you’d first arrived.

Iwaizumi nodded, “The letter you received should have detailed the purpose of their visit, Futa did a great job explaining everything in ours at least. We did a shite job of first impressions the night they arrived and yet he still helped us defend Camlot’s castle. The Red Knight is good people, trust us on that in the very least.” 

It amazed you how much the male reminded you of your old childhood acquaintance. You wished you’d know the boy better to tell if he was the same man for sure, but alas, only Oikawa would have known...And, it’d been years since you’d seen him either. You felt the tear roll down your cheek before realizing you’d started to cry at the recollection. Closing your eyes you let your mind settle on nothingness to rid it of the negative memories regarding your ex-friend.

“Then perhaps you can answer simple yes or no questions?” The giant, presumably Ushijima questioned you. Upon seeing you nod, he hummed before continuing, “Are you really only here to see if Camelot can reconnect with your Order?”

While you knew how Suga would want you to respond, you also knew it wouldn’t be truthful. It’d been a long week developing trust with the members of Camelot’s court, and you the only way to keep that streak would be to stay honest. You shook your head in the negative.

Ignoring the shocked exclamations of the men around him, your interrogator continued. “Do you wish to bring Camelot or Kuroo harm?”

You stood at attention and shook your head once more, expressing clear displeasure at the mere idea.

The male hummed before bowing out of his inquisition, “I see. I look forward to getting to know you then.”

Watching him move inside the castle, you stayed where you were in anticipation of the other’s questions to follow your first answer.

“Aye, you weren’t being serious in having another motive, were you?” Osamu questioned, looking at you with disbelief dancing in his eyes.

You just bowed your head in apology.

“Does Sugawara know of your other mission?” Daichi questioned further.

You thought for a moment before rocking your hand side-to-side in front of you, telling the knights he kind of knew a bit about it, but entirely.

Semi shook his head and stepped forward, a frown clear on his face as he tried to find your eyes hidden in the shadows of your helmet, “Have you deceived us?”

His voice sounded so angry, almost threateningly so, but you knew you couldn’t answer that question without Suga by your side to explain. Thankfully you didn’t have to.

“Oi!” King Kuroo yelled from one of the windows overlooking the front gate. “Get to the main hall for review of the schedule!”

“In a minute!” Semi yelled back, still looking you up and down distrustingly.

Kuroo didn’t like this attitude in his knight’s defiance and yelled back, “Now!” Then laughed as he added, “Or no supper for any of the knights, Semi!”

The silver haired male tsk’d in annoyance before rushing inside.

“We trust you,” A voice called your attention from watching the others follow after him. “Not sure why it’s such a strong trust, but we do.” Aone looked at you directly, unbeknownst to him catching your eyes’ gaze with ease. “Don’t betray us.”

What could you do but bow in a show of understanding and acceptance. You really didn’t wish to betray them, and should they discover your secret in a manner not befitting your true identity, then the power will lie with them to do with you as they please.

   _______________________________________________

Table of contents:

Chapter 8                                                     Chapter 10

[myhauntedsalem]

Ghostly warning: Dead gangster Ma Barker doesn’t want her house moved

He called the newsroom with a warning: They can’t move that house.

“I’m worried something terrible is going to happen,” the man said in a thick New York accent. “I have to warn somebody.”

Then he told me a ghost story.

His name is Donald J. Weiss. He’s a 62-year-old retired police patrolman from upstate New York. He had moved to Ocala several years ago and visited the house where gangster Ma Barker had been killed. He had wanted to see the site of the longest shootout in FBI history: four hours, more than 2,000 bullets.

But when he wandered beneath the live oaks, a voice growled, “Get outta here, lawman!”

And when he took a photo of the front porch, a shadowy figure appeared.

“That woman is still in that house,” he told me. “And she’s pissed.”

He gave the photo to the Marion County Sheriff’s Office because he wanted to enter it into evidence. And because bad things started happening as soon as he had blown up the print. “I had a heart attack,” he said. “You think that’s a coincidence?”

The property has been sold, he told me. County officials want to move the house.

“They have no idea who or what is in there,” Weiss said. “That woman has the power to do a lot of things. We are dealing with the afterworld here.”

I thanked the caller for his concern.

“When are they moving it?” I asked.

He paused, as if to make a point, then said gravely, “By Halloween.”

Reporters get a lot of crazy calls. Many might have dismissed this one. But I knew this house, and so did my photographer friend John Pendygraft.

“Hey John,” I called across the cubicle wall. “Do you remember that story we did on the Ma Barker house?”

John’s eyes got big. “Do you remember what happened?”

Our story four years ago had been about real estate: historic home for sale on nine waterfront acres, eight miles north of the Villages, two hours from Tampa. And about the gangsters who hid out there until the end.

We had toured the four-bedroom house with a Realtor, whose assistant shivered and said, “I get the weirdest feeling when I’m in here.” We had reported rumors about flickering lights and an unsuccessful exorcism.

But we hadn’t written about what had happened to John. Or what he saw when he enlarged one of his pictures.

John has worked in war zones in Afghanistan and the Gaza Strip. He has photographed the dead from an Asian tsunami, a Mexican assassination and Hurricane Katrina. If he ever is scared, he won’t show it.

That fall day in 2012, in the Ma Barker house, he had gone alone into the front bedroom to take pictures through the window, looking out toward the lake where the FBI agents had crouched behind trees.

All of a sudden, John rushed out, cameras, lights, tripod flapping over his shoulders, nearly sliding down the 13 stairs. “I don’t know what happened, or what that was,” he panted. He heard the mattress fall, then saw it, dangling through the bed frame. “I didn’t touch it,” he insisted.

We left that afternoon, as dusk began to descend. From beneath the Spanish moss, John shot a few final frames. The next day, when he zoomed in on his laptop, he saw a strange figure on the screened porch: The silhouette of a stout woman with a bun, who looked like she was holding a machine gun.

Her story starts in Missouri, in 1873. Her parents named her Arizona Donnie Clark. She and a farmhand, George Barker, had four sons. As soon as the boys were grown, her husband left.

Legends vary about Ma Barker’s role in her boys’ gang. Some say she just cooked and cleaned. Others say she was the mastermind.

They began by robbing banks, then murdered a policeman. From 1910 through 1930, they are said to have stolen $2 million. And killed at least 10 people.

The FBI’s first director, J. Edgar Hoover, called them “the worst criminals in the entire country.” Ma Barker became the only woman to top the most wanted list.

In 1934, the gang split and went into hiding. One son fled to Chicago. Ma and her favorite son, baby Freddie, moved to Miami where, posing as a wealthy widow, she asked if anyone knew a secluded spot where she could spend the winter.

Someone introduced her to Carson Bradford, whose family had a lovely home in the center of Florida, on Lake Weir.

The house sounded perfect: fully furnished, set back from the road, with a boat tethered to a dock out back. Ma paid the full season’s rent in cash. Just before Thanksgiving, she moved in with Freddie and a couple of his friends.

In a letter to her son Arthur in Chicago, she drew a map of the lake and circled the closest town, Ocala. She mailed it from Ocklawaha’s little post office.

FBI agents found Arthur the following January, and with him, the letter, which led them to Ma’s hideout.

In the predawn darkness on Jan. 16, 1935, a dozen officers pointed their guns at the upstairs windows. “This is the FBI,” an officer shouted, according to an agency report. “You are surrounded.”

Some say the gun battle lasted as long as six hours.

When it was over, they found Freddie, 32, shot in the back of his head. Ma, 63, was curled on the floor, cradling her Tommy gun. That day, Hoover said, marked “the end of an era of violence.”

For nine months, the corpses lay unclaimed. Finally, a relative moved them closer to home.

But some say Ma still inhabits that two-story, cream-colored house with forest green shutters. The cop on the phone, my friend the photographer, the former and current owner all saw, heard or felt … something.

But how do you report a ghost story?

I started with the Marion County Sheriff’s Office and that “evidence” photo the retired cop mentioned on the phone.

Lt. Dave Redmond remembered some man bringing in the photo, but the deputy hadn’t seen anything in it.

Records only go back to 1990, said department spokeswoman Lauren Lettelier. “But since then, there have been no reports of hauntings at that house.”

I talked to Carson Good, 47, the great-grandson of the man who built the house. He has memories of swimming and sailing in the lake. And of countless sleepless nights, cringing in the dark. “I’m not a big believer of ghosts, but I heard a lot of sounds in that house,” he said. “Voices. Furniture moving. People walking up and down the wooden stairs.”

His grandmother didn’t like to talk about it, but she often heard spirits stirring. Years ago, he said, a psychic from Cassadaga held a seance at the house and convinced the ghost of Freddie Barker to move on. But the medium said Ma refused to move.

Good and his family sold the property for $750,000 and donated the house to the county, which hired a contractor to lift the home off its foundation and float it across Lake Weir to a park called Carney Island. County commissioners allocated $270,000 for the move. Private donations and fundraising will finance the museum.

County tax collector George Albright, who grew up next to the storied house, envisions an homage to the early days of the FBI, as agents set out to capture notorious gangsters like “Baby Face” Nelson, “Pretty Boy” Floyd, Bonnie and Clyde and, of course, the infamous Barker gang.

“We’ve already had calls from people asking about ghost tours. If they want something like that, or to hold seances, we’ll look into that,” said the tax collector, “as a revenue source.”

Some say the gang buried Mason jars filled with cash along the lake. Local children used to spend summers digging for the treasure, but came up with shovels full of sand.

As soon as the home is removed, before the new owner closes on the land, the tax collector plans to bring in a team with ground-penetrating radar to scan the soil.

“Let’s hope she’s a friendly ghost,” he said.

On a gray Wednesday in October, more than 81 years after the shootout, John and I returned to the scene. The house already had been lifted on jacks. The screened porch was gone; workers were carrying out lamps. A true-crime novelist was parked in an SUV, taking pictures.

Like John, he swore he had seen a face in a window.

“I think whatever’s in there doesn’t want us to come in,” said Tony Stewart, who had driven from Indiana to see the house in its original setting. “And it won’t come out.”

We had told the retired cop that we would meet him later. The tax collector didn’t want anyone else at the construction site. But Weiss pulled up in his white Cadillac, quaking in his tassled loafers.

“This is where their bodies were. They dragged ‘em right down this driveway,” said Weiss, clasping his arms across his chest. “She’s not at rest. She will never leave this property.”

He has felt this before, he said. “I sense spirits.”

The first time was in 1992, just before Christmas. He was on patrol in White Plains, N.Y., resting in his car between calls, when he had a vision of a sad teenage boy: long hair, pale, with a pug nose. Two days later, he was sent to a home where a teenage boy had hanged himself. “The same boy I’d seen.”

[ottelis]

"I gave you my life, Eliott," Lucas's voice shatters, splinters.

Eliott replies softly, broken, hollow, "And I gave you mine."

"No," Lucas says, low and dark. "No, you didn't."

.

.

aka: eliott and lucas grow up together, but are separated when eliott is institutionalized in paris after a severe depressive episode. they reunite two years later when eliott is released, but everything has already changed before their eyes.

epigraph. i. ii. iii. iv. v. vi.

06—memory

tw: manic and depressive episodes, internalized homophobia, minor character death, major character death, suicidal thoughts, and a suicide attempt

december 25th, 1965

10:21

caen, france

~

Eliott wakes that Christmas morning feeling happier than he's felt in a long while. It wasn't that he was unhappy before, it was that he felt  lighter  now. But it  is  Christmas, a holiday he's always held close to his heart. He never received many gifts, but the few he received were always meaningful. He loved opening his presents and giving his parents as big of a hug as he can. Christmas was  warmth,  and  love  . It was seeing his mother's eyes light up when he opens his presents. It was hearing his father's soft, kind voice tell him about how they decided to pick that present out for him, and all the things he could do with it. It was the fire gently crackling in the fireplace. It was dinner at the Lallemants' house, sitting with Lucas and talking about the presents they got and what all happened that day. It was Lucas playing Christmas songs on his piano with everyone singing at the top of their lungs around him. It was going to sleep that night feeling perfectly content and full. It was closeness, intimacy, safety. It was  joy .

Eliott makes his way down the stairs, already able to smell the  pain au chocolat  his mother is making. He smiles, breathing in the smell of warm pastry and bitter chocolate. He  knows this will be the best Christmas he's had in a long while.

"Eliott, my boy," his father chuckles. "Merry Christmas!"

Eliott looks over and sees him placing the last of the presents under the Christmas tree. Eliott grins and bounds over to him, giving him a tight hug. "Merry Christmas, Papa."

His father laughs as he hugs him back. "Go tell your mother 'merry Christmas' now, son."

Eliott turns and goes to the kitchen, kissing his mother on the cheek. "Merry Christmas, Maman."

"Merry Christmas, Ellie," she returns, ruffling his hair. "You're awake just on time. Breakfast will be ready in just a second. Then we can open all our presents."

"Great!" Eliott beams, giving her another kiss on the cheek. He steps back as she pulls the  pain au chocolat out of the oven, the pastry golden and steaming. He excitedly takes his place at the table, already piling food onto his plate. His father takes his place, too, chuckling as Eliott shovels food into his mouth.

"Slow down, Eliott, you'll choke," he cautions through his laughter. "We can't have you dying on Christmas day."

Eliott laughs, too, listening to his father and slowing down. He savors the way the  pain au chocolat melts in his mouth, the way the freshly brewed coffee warms his belly, the way his parents talk to each other with so much love and care. 

"I'm happy," he says, not quite blurting it out but not meaning to say it aloud. 

His parents are silent for a moment, but then they both grin. He thinks he sees tears in his mother's eyes, tears of joy. He feels his father pat his hand on his shoulder, and his heart  glows .

"We're happy, too, son," he replies, his voice ever soft and ever kind. "We're a happy family, aren't we?"

Eliott nods, smiling so wide his cheeks are aching. "We are."

They finish their breakfast in a comfortable, almost musical silence. Eliott feels content, almost like he's fuzzy at his edges, like he's bleeding into the world around him but it's welcoming him into its arms. Like he's fading into a background. Like he's living in a picture, but he knows every shade of every color, every shadow and its shape, every face and all its beauty. The world is beautiful, and he  belongs  in it. It could be  his  if he wanted it to be. He could bring everyone he loves along with him. His parents, Lucas. They could be in his picture with him and they could see the world the way he sees it. Wouldn't that be  wonderful ?

Eliott's excitement only grows as they start opening presents. He picks up the gift he can recognize first; a crisp, clean sketchbook. He flips through the blank pages, imagining all the things he could fill it with. He could create a comic book and put all the drawings and dialogue in here, or do a series of portraits or landscapes. He loves new sketchbooks and all the possibilities they hold within them, only waiting to be seen and realized. He goes through it four or five times, listening to the pages shuffle against each other. He doesn't quite pay attention to the presents his parents are opening, but he knows his father got a new pair of pants for work and his mother got a new book that had come out recently. He waits patiently but excitedly for his next turn so he can open his other gift, the one he can't tell what it is just by looking at it.

Finally, it's his turn again, and he notices his parents giving each other a sly, almost ecstatic look. "What are these faces for?" he asks, chuckling.

"This is a really big present, honey," his mother replies, grinning at him. "Your father and I scrounged up just enough money for this one."

Eliott's eyes widen, and he looks back at his father to see if he'll give anything away. He just shrugs, stretching his hand out a little. "You won't know what it is until you open it."

Eliott grins, tearing open the wrapping paper and the small box inside of it. His mouth drops open.

"A camera?" he asks, awed. "Like Arthur has?"

Both his parents nod at him, smiling like he's never seen them smile before.

"But these are so expensive," Eliott continues, shaking his head. "You didn't have to spend so much money on me."

"You were just so excited when Arthur let you take some pictures with his camera," his father replies. "We knew we had to get you one."

Eliott grins, studying the buttons and gears on the camera. He studies the film canister it comes with, too, imagining the same things he imagined with his sketchbook. He looks back up at his parents, opening his arms. He pulls them both into a hug, saying "thank you" almost a million times. His heart is  bursting .

He watches, grinning as his parents open their last present. His father tells his mother to go ahead and open hers with that same sly look he was giving Eliott. His mother smiles, confused, but takes off the wrapping paper and opening the box. Her hands immediately fly to her mouth. 

"This is that dress I saw in that store window months ago," she gasps. "When did you buy this, Eduard?"

His father looks at her with so much  love in his eyes as he replies, "The day after we saw it. I knew you'd look beautiful in it, and I saw how much you loved it."

Eliott looks and sees the dress. It's a light, powder blue that tucks into a royal blue, pleated skirt. It has a crisp, white collar with delicate flowers embroidered on it.

"Go put it on, Maman," he grins. "You'll look so pretty wearing it."

"I'm about to work on what we're bringing to dinner tonight," she dismisses, shaking her head. "I might get stains on it, and it's just so lovely."

"Just try it on, Noémie," his father replies. "You can change when you start cooking."

She smiles, looking back down at the dress. She looks back up, nodding. "Okay. I'll be right back." She takes the dress and runs up the stairs to his parents' room.

"Maman's going to look so beautiful," Eliott says, his heart bursting even more. He thinks it's bleeding into his voice. 

"You should've seen her on our wedding day," his father replies, his voice wistful, reverent. "She hates wearing white, but she was a vision in it that day. I cried as soon as I saw her enter the chapel.  She was the most beautiful woman in the world. She  is the most beautiful woman in the world."

Eliott grins as he listens to his father, close to tears himself. "I want to love somebody the way you love Maman. And I think I want someone to love me the way you love her, too."

"Someone will, my boy," his father reassures him. "We're all meant to love somebody, I think. Something like a soulmate."

"Are you and Maman soulmates?" he asks, his chest stirring at the thought of love being woven into every part of him.

"If you ask Maman, she'll tell you we're not," he sighs, still smiling. "But your mother isn't romantic like that. If you ask  me , yes. A thousand times, yes."

"How did you know that?" he asks. "That she was your soulmate? That you loved her?"

"I always knew, Eliott," he answers almost immediately. Then he continues, thoughtful and warm. "I think it's a matter of when I recognized it, called it by its name. And I did that when I heard her sing one time at a choir concert when we were in school. You know she has a beautiful singing voice, but that night, there was this  look in her eyes as she sang. Like she believed every word she was singing. Like she knew she had to sing because she had something to say and she believed it was important. Like she was in love with music and life itself. Then her eyes found me and she smiled and her voice was louder and clearer than it had been before. She was singing to me for the rest of the concert. And I've loved her ever since."

He hears the door to his parents' room open, then, and he hears his mother's footsteps. He sits up, his smile widening. 

"Are you two ready?" she asks, her voice floating excitedly down the stairs.

"Yes!" they both reply, equally as excited. 

She appears at the top of the stairs, her hair pulled up into a bun and her new dress fitting her perfectly. She twirls, the skirt of her dress rippling like the waves. A few strands of hair fall loose from her bun, framing her face. She grins, and it makes her glow.

Eliott's father stands up, rushing up the stairs to meet her and kiss her softly. Her arms drape over his shoulders as she kisses him back, and it reminds Eliott of the movies. A love that overcomes any obstacle that stands in their way, a love so powerful and yet so soft and tender. He grins, warmth filling his chest.

We  are  a happy family.

His parents walk back down the stairs, then his father opens his last present. It's a new watch, one that his mother says wasn't too expensive, but she remembered him complaining that the watch he has now isn't working as well as it used to. He studies it for a moment, its fairly cheap but shining band, the gilded lettering along its face. He latches it onto his wrist, promising to never take it off unless he absolutely has to.

It's well into the afternoon now, so his mother changes out of her new dress and starts working on the side dishes they'll be bringing to dinner at the Lallemants'. She sings an old song she used to listen to during the war, one that reminded her of his father when he was a soldier. Her voice floats all around the house like sunlight, the words she's singing promising to wait in perfect patience, in perfect love, for the man she loves. His father is watching TV, and occasionally staring at his new watch for a while. He smiles, his eyes following the second hand tick, tick, tick by. Then, he'll look up and chuckle at a joke in the show, then he'll look back down at his watch. Eliott has already begun sketching in his new sketchbook, drawing dresses he thinks his mother would look pretty in, ones that would make her smile, ones that made her look like she was an actress in a movie. He doesn't know a thing about designing dresses, but he knows what would make his mother happy. Eliott can't help but think that this was what he meant when he said Christmas is warmth and joy. He can't help but think he's the happiest he's ever been.

Soon, they're all getting dressed for dinner at the Lallemants', as well as the party they always hold afterwards. Eliott's wearing a heavy, almost itchy sweater, but he likes its greenish gray color, and he's worn it the past couple years. He supposes it's a bit of a tradition. His father wears his new pants and one of his newer shirts, and his mother once again considers wearing her new dresses, but decides it's better to be safe than sorry. She still wears a beautiful dress, though, a red one with long sleeves and a hem that nearly touches the floor. They all carry a small plate as they walk over to the Lallemants' talking and laughing and letting the biting winter air carry their voices a little farther than they can reach. Eliott's also cautiously carrying his new camera, ecstatic about showing it to Lucas. He really liked Arthur's camera, too, and Eliott figures it could be special if they both have pictures they've taken saved on film.

His father, the only one with a free hand, knocks on the door as they reach the Lallemants' front porch. Madame Lallemant answers, wearing a rich green button-up shirt and dark slacks. She smiles widely when she sees them, offering to take one of the plates from Eliott's mother. Lucas comes running up to the door, his eyes lighting up when he sees Eliott. Eliott feels his chest warm, feels himself become lighter.

"You're wearing  that  sweater again?" Lucas asks, chuckling. "I don't think it fits you anymore,  mec ."

Eliott shrugs. "Tradition? Besides, you're one to talk. That sweater is new, but it's not as stylish as mine, I think."

Lucas looks down at his sweater, a gray knitted one. "What's wrong with my sweater?" he asks, almost pouting. 

"I'm kidding, Lucas," Eliott chuckles, pulling him into a hug. "It's a nice sweater."

He feels Lucas tense a little bit, but he eases into the hug. "Thanks, Eliott."

"Of course," he replies, hugging Lucas a little tighter. He pulls away after a moment, grinning. "Hey, do you want to see my big present?" he asks excitedly, trying to hide his camera.

"Yeah!" Lucas grins, his smile wavering ever so slightly. But Eliott pretends he didn't notice it.

He shows off his camera, his eyes never leaving Lucas's face. His eyes widen, and his mouth drops open a little. He looks back up at Eliott, stammering and chuckling.

"A film camera?" he asks. "Like Arthur has? Don't these cost an arm and a leg?"

"Maman said they managed to get enough to buy one for me," Eliott replies, his words starting to run together a little bit. "I need to toy around with it a bit and figure out how it works, but once I do I can give you some pointers and you can take some pictures with it."

Lucas's eyes widen even more, his lips spreading into a grin. "Seriously? You'll let me?"

"Of course," Eliott shrugs, as if it were obvious. "You liked Arthur's camera, too, right?"

"Yeah," Lucas replies, nodding. His smile fades a little, and he looks up at Eliott again. "Can I see it?"

"Yeah, here," Eliott smiles, handing it over to him.

Lucas turns it over in his hands, his smile returning as he studies it. "It's so cool."

"I know, right?" Eliott replies. "I can't wait to start taking pictures with it."

"Me, too," Lucas grins, giving it back to him. "Don't let me break it, though."

Eliott shakes his head, laughing. "I think you should be more worried about me breaking it."

"Boys, we're eating!" Madame Lallemant calls, making them jump.

"Coming, Maman!" Lucas responds.

They enter the dining room, where a large, tempting array of food lay set on the table. At the center was a decadent turkey, surrounded by warm slices of bread and steaming plates of vegetables. Lucas and Eliott both look at each other, their eyes wide and stomachs beginning to rumble. Lucas looks away quickly, though, and Eliott thinks he saw his cheeks flushing. They quickly take their seats at the table.

"Eduard," Madame Lallemant says. "Could you say grace?"

"Of course," he smiles. "Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen."

"Amen," everyone echoes, signing the Cross.

Lucas pulls his hand away rather quickly, and Eliott once again tries to pretend he doesn't notice. He starts picking at his potatoes, listening to the conversation going around the table. Madame Lallemant asks about his father's health, which has been much better recently. His mother asks Madame Lallemant how she's been doing as far as her mental health, and she says that she's been much better, too. His mother asks Lucas if he's shown him his new camera yet, and Lucas smiles politely and says that he's seen it. Lucas and Eliott both get asked about how their semester went, and Lucas has better things to report than Eliott does, but that's how it always was. Lucas was always smarter than Eliott.

Eliott tries to steal glances at Lucas, but he seems distracted, absentminded. Eliott's first thought is that he could be nervous about playing the piano later, but Lucas did that every year, and he was rarely nervous. Then he thought he could be having leftover nerves from exams, but Lucas is acting differently than he does when he's stressed about school. Lucas tends to ramble to himself when he's working through a math or science problem, but he's awfully quiet right now. Eliott feels the need to again pretend he doesn't notice Lucas's behavior, but he knows him too well not to notice every shift in his face or in his mood, even if it's only for a fraction of a second.

He nudges Lucas, who jumps a bit but then turns to look at him. " Ça va? " he mouths.

Lucas nods, giving him a fake smile.

Eliott raises his eyebrows in response, not believing him.

Lucas's smile drops, and he just shrugs. He tears his gaze away from Eliott, staring intently at his food. Eliott feels himself deflate.

Him and Lucas don't talk much throughout dinner, finishing their food long before their parents do. It goes by fairly quickly, though, and Madame Lallemant starts bringing out the  bûche de Noël , like she makes every year. It looks wonderful, like it always does, and when Eliott looks over, Lucas is genuinely smiling. He maintains it mostly while they eat, and Eliott smiles, too, his heart slightly at ease now.

"Lucas," Madame Lallemant says as they finish eating. "Are you ready for your annual concert?"

Lucas perks up, a sense of anxiety almost radiating off of him. But he recovers and smiles, nodding. "I think so."

"Great!" she smiles back. "Let's all go to the piano, then."

Everyone rises from their seats and crosses the room to the piano, Lucas sitting at the bench and Eliott sitting next to him. Their parents stand off to the side, Eliott's father putting his arms around his mother and Madame Lallemant gazing lovingly at her son. 

Lucas takes a deep breath, lets his hands hover over the keys for a moment, then he begins to play. Eliott recognizes the tune immediately: "O Holy Night." Then Lucas starts singing. 

Lucas has always been a singer, but his voice sounds  different . It's softer, warmer, gentle like a candle flame. It fills, it swells, it sweeps. Usually, everyone would sing along, but they're quiet; listening to every note, every change in inflection in his voice. He's never sounded more beautiful. 

Eliott's eyes can't leave Lucas's face, his eyes. He's afraid he'll miss something there. He doesn't know what that something could be, but he feels like he can't miss it for the world. 

Lucas's eyes are filled with  melancholy  , a  longing  . His lips tremble as he sings, as if they can't bear the weight of the words they  want to say, but can't. But then, he takes a breath and his lips spread slowly into a content, peaceful smile. A blush starts bleeding into his cheeks, the tip of his ears. Lucas looks like a star is exploding within his chest, filling him with a thousand wishes and the fires of millennia. It coats his throat, his tongue, coming out sweetly, almost sickly. Eliott wonders what it feels like, tastes like for Lucas. It must be sweet for him, too, the way he's smiling and the way his eyes seem to yearn for more, but is no longer ashamed of it.

Lucas turns his head and looks at him, and he swears the world stops in its tracks. It's like when he would read books under his blanket, with time frozen and the earth silent, but Lucas is here now, too. It's like he somehow sneaked in through some veil, some barrier, and he's found Eliott. He was looking for him. And he found him. Eliott doesn't mind that he's here, either. He's not a character in a story he can take and mold and shape. He's someone he loves, someone he can't change, but someone he also trusts enough to help him keep the universe in perfect balance. Much like the melody Lucas is playing, much like the kindness that seems to drip from his fingers, Eliott knows his universe is safe in Lucas's hands.

Lucas doesn't look away. He lets his hands remember the shape of the melody, his tongue remember the waves of each note, but his eyes stay focused on Eliott. And Eliott can't quite look away. He feels a  burning  fill his chest. He wonders if his heart heard Lucas's crying out and offered to shoulder some of the burden. But as he lets it burn a bit, as he becomes familiar with its heat and the breathing of its flames, he knows there's only one possible name for this fire, this  burning : love.

He remembers his father's story about his mother, how music filled the air—music nurtured by the lungs and hands of two of the most precious people in the universe. How two sets of eyes find each other and can't let go of each other. How the music shifts, how it finally sees a direction, how it finds something to exist for, to be  beautiful for. How everything makes sense, how every twist and turn and knot the strings of fate took just to allow for this single, breathtaking moment. The moment love blooms, the moment its beholder finally sees its gorgeous petals, its sturdy, smooth stem, and suddenly remembers a seed being planted and watching it grow. For the briefest, deepest moment, Eliott's eyes have never been clearer, and his heart has never sung more from within its cage.

Love.

Eliott's breath pauses, realizing just like he is that from this moment on, it will never fade in and out of the air the way it did before. It has found its direction, its purpose, too. His breath now lives and dies for Lucas, sings and falls silent for his voice, his patience, his smile. It finally escapes his mouth, stumbling and shivering but with  joy .

But Lucas looks away, and Eliott's breath peters out, cracked.

Lucas finishes the song, his voice and the plucking of the piano dying out like a hearth, warm and sighing. The blush leaves his face, and he breathes out the embers still left in his lungs. His fire has been snuffed, gently suffocated. The coals in Eliott's chest seem to burn brighter, hotter now that it seems to burn alone.

Eliott's parents and Madame Lallemant begin applauding loudly. Eliott joins in, clapping weakly and putting on a small, brave smile. Madame Lallemant traps her son in a tight, loving hug that Lucas seems to melt into.

"That was beautiful, baby," she coos, kissing his forehead. "I'm so proud of you."

"It's just the Christmas show, Maman," Lucas chuckles. "It wasn't anything that special."

"It was!" she beams, taking the words right out of Eliott's mouth. She pulls away, placing her hands on his shoulders. "You could've performed that on a big stage in front of the entire world and they all would've loved you."

Lucas shakes his head a little as he bows it, his eyes tracing the grain of the piano bench. He's bashful, glowing. He looks back up at Madame Lallemant, shrugging. "Thank you, Maman."

She gives him another kiss on the forehead, taking a step or two back once she sees that he's a little embarrassed. Eliott hears her apologize in the quietest voice, and he sees Lucas tense a little. He sees him shake his head, but he doesn't hear him say anything.

"That really was amazing, Lucas," Eliott's mother says, still clapping lightly. "You really outdid yourself this year."

"I guess I'd better start thinking about what I'll play next year soon," Lucas jokes, still tense. 

"I'm sure that will be amazing, too," Eliott's father replies. "I can't wait to see it."

Lucas nods, turning to Eliott. He relaxes, just a little. "You're quiet, Eliott," he says. "What did you think?"

Eliott sees the clarity in Lucas's eyes, the slight twitch in the corner of his mouth, the way he's wringing his hands. Eliott smiles, trying to put Lucas at ease. "You're surprising. I've known you all these years but you keep surprising me. That was gorgeous, Lucas."

Lucas's nervous smile changes into a shy yet sweet one. Eliott can tell he wants to smile wider, but he doesn't know why Lucas is trying to hold it back. He's beautiful when he smiles all wide and toothy.  He's beautiful.

The fire crackles then roars in his chest, a new life breathing into the flames and helping them grow. 

What is he supposed to do with them?

"Eliott?" Lucas says, his voice quiet, soft. It almost sends a shiver down Eliott's spine. " Ça va? "

Eliott nods, trying to muster the most genuine smile he could. Lucas's smile widens, and Eliott doesn't need to force the genuineness anymore. Lucas's hand, almost in slow motion, travels over to Eliott's shoulder. His fingers seem to hover, but then touch the fabric of Eliott's shoulder gently, as if they were afraid of what would happen if worlds collided. Lucas's hand becomes comfortable, welcome there, and his smile widens again.

The fire is eating Eliott from the inside out.

"Thank you so much again, Madeleine," Eliott's mother says, snapping both Lucas and Eliott out of their little bubble. "I think we're going to head home."

Eliott's smile falls, and Lucas's does, too. They share another look, one that Eliott is sure is filled with longing. He feels another scorch in his chest. They both stand up from the bench, giving each other a hug. Lucas lifts his chin so his head can rest on Eliott's shoulder. Eliott's fingers brush Lucas's hair, but he lets them stay there for a moment.

"Goodnight, Lucas," Eliott whispers, letting his eyes close for a moment. 

"Goodnight, Eliott," Lucas whispers back, his voice soft and warm as ever. Eliott bites his lip to keep from grinning.

Lucas pulls away first, his hand lingering on Eliott's back for the briefest moment. Eliott pulls away, too, giving Lucas another sweet, genuine smile.

He sees his parents giving Madame Lallemant a hug out of the corner of his eyes. He walks over to her as they walk over to Lucas. She grins at him and holds out her arms. He grins back and hugs her.

"Thank you, Madame Lallemant," he tells her. "Everything was wonderful."

"Of course," she replies. "Merry Christmas, Eliott."

"Merry Christmas," he returns as he pulls away.

He glances over his shoulder and his eyes lock with Lucas's again. Lucas has the sweetest, smallest smile on his face as he looks down at the floor. Eliott can see the blush in his cheeks, even with his face turned down.

"Come on, Eliott," his father calls from the front door.

"Coming," he replies, bounding over to them. He swears he feels Lucas's gaze on his back, and he can't help but smile. 

december 26th, 1965

03:00

caen, france

~

Eliott can't sleep. He can't sit still. He can't slow down. He can't think straight. He can't breathe. He's dizzy. He's anxious. He's bursting. He's exhausted. His vision is just out of focus. His heart is beating ever so slightly off rhythm. His hands are shaking. He picks apart the darkness, banishing it and filling it with all the extra thoughts he doesn't have room for in his head. He plays records so quietly he has to hang his head just above the vinyl to hear it, and it's even still too quiet over the scratching and carving of the needle. He's tried drinking tea but he doesn't quite taste it, only burning his tongue on it. He paces his room on his tiptoes, afraid of the floor crumbling beneath him if his heels ever touched the ground. His lips are pulled taut, and he can't quite tell if he's smiling or just holding back every ramble on the tip of his tongue. Everything is bleeding. His thoughts leak into his blood, his blood seeps just beneath his skin, his skin blends into the air. He's fading into the background again. Only this time, the picture he's been trapped in is unfamiliar. He's been developed onto film that was left in the sun too long, or was too old, or not right for the camera. He doesn't know what to do.

My new sketchbook,  he thinks suddenly.  I can start drawing in it.

He grabs it as well as his pencils and tears out the page with the dresses he drew on it, setting it aside. He stares at the new blank page in front of him, trying to decipher any single thought but they move along too quickly for him to make out anything they said. He's chasing his own tail,  thousands of his own tails.

He exhales slowly, methodically, his eyes trailing over to the corner of his room where his lamp sits. He follows the trail of light as it spills onto the floor. He watches it mix like paint with the moonlight filtering through his window, creating a dreamy, purple hue. Then he sees the darkness creeping behind it, slowly inching forward. It attacks slowly. It bleeds. 

Light and dark,  he thinks again, his mind slowing down.  Light can only reach so far. Darkness can only reach so far, too. What happens at the intersection? What happens the moment they collide, at the place where they fragment?

Eliott shifts closer to his lamp, to the light, his hand immediately sweeping over the page, leaving charcoal trails behind. He builds a bridge, each of its stones trying to break through the mortar and war with the others, trying to chip and crack away at each other. He paves a road, the dirt and the leaves lying on top of each other, litters of bodies and skeletons. He grows a forest, each tree with their own unique circumference, their own number of branches and leaves, their own height, their own love for their neighbors. He forms a night sky, dark and inky and suffocating. He authors an opera between the stars and the moon, songs where the lyrics and the melodies are familiar and the characters are beloved friends. He forges a bond between the self his hand creates more so than the self every grain of glass he's seen reflect back at him. He creates a world, at least a corner of it so far, but he  knows something is missing. 

What's missing?  his brain asks him.  Find it. Find it before it slips away. Find it before it gets bored of waiting for you. Find it before you lose it forever. Find it before your world becomes obsolete, before it becomes timeworn, before it's gone. Find it.

Eliott searches his drawing, his room. His eyes are moving too quickly for his brain to catch up now. He swears he feels his pupils enlarge.

Find it find it find it find it find it find it FIND IT!

He shakes his head violently, trying to knock the thoughts out of his skull. He starts tearing through his room. He rips after thousands of sheets of paper, throws his comforter and sheets off his bed, yanks all the books off his bookshelf, turns his lamp on and off until the constant shifting starts hurting his head and eyes. He can't move fast enough. He can't look hard enough. His heart isn't beating fast enough. His brain isn't thinking fast enough. The thing he's looking for is moving too quickly. It's too hard to see. It speaks in a language that Eliott can't understand. He can't find it. He can't  find it  . He can't  breathe .

He shoves his window up to open it, sticking his head out and taking in gulps of the chilly, inky air. Maybe the thing he's looking for is out there somewhere. Maybe it's buried beneath the sand, or hidden in the seafoam, or seeking refuge in the moonlight.

Refuge. Moonlight. The fear of the dark. Lucas.

Eliott leans out of his window a little more, craning his head so he can see Lucas's house. Lucas always had a lamp on in his room, but when Eliott looks, the lamp is off but the main light to his room is on. He's awake.

Lucas's light can only reach so far. His darkness can only reach so far, too.  Our  light and darkness can only reach so far.

Eliott grabs his sketchbook from off his bed, trying his best to sit on his windowsill so the moonlight can guide his hand, so the light from Lucas's room can help him find the missing piece.

No. He  is  the missing piece.

Eliott turns to the next page, snatching scraps of pictures in his mind and pasting them onto his page. He's mostly just shading as darkly as he can, leaving a space in the middle for Lucas, the missing piece.

His brain still won't stop tripping over its own thoughts. His hand still shakes as he draws, smudging the charcoal. But he's beginning to smile. The pictures are becoming a cohesive story. A boy who's afraid of the light, and a boy who's afraid of the dark.  Love  is what happens at the intersection between dark and light.  Love is what happens the moment they collide, at the place where they fragment. Light and dark can only reach so far, but love can reach father, and it can never fall short.

He fills his sketchbook in a few short yet dragging hours. There's scene after scene, opera after opera, bridge after bridge. Eliott starts becoming comfortable with the cool shadows of the dark. Lucas starts becoming comfortable with the warm pools of sunshine. Lucas and Eliott hold hands. They kiss. Their foreheads touch. The sun rises. They don't leave each other. 

The urgency Eliott has felt all night is practically dripping from his sketchbook. It's obvious in the spots where Eliott pressed the graphite down on the page a little harder than he needed to. It was apparent from almost every single line, bowing and curving and staggering. He could see it in the way he drew their hair, a collection of assorted strands all pulling in different directions. He could feel it as he flips through the several pages where Lucas's lips are against his, watching every shift of their lips, their chins, their hands on each other's faces. This sketchbook, this story  is  urgency. The urge to get over fear, the urge to go after what your heart yearns for, the urge to touch and kiss and feel and love and  be loved.

All Eliott can feel right now is  want , anxiety, pins and needles, suspense. Even after filling his sketchbook. Even after drawing out such an elaborate and desperate fantasy, one that he never really considered before. His hand isn't even tired. None of these urges he feels has gone away. He doesn't know how to make them go away. He doesn't know if he's felt anything like this before. He doesn't remember himself ever feeling high as a kite and then suddenly needing to navigate massive gales and thunderstorms. He doesn't know if this is normal. He doesn't know if something is wrong. He just doesn't know.

He watches Lucas's room from his window, hoping it would calm him down. Lucas turned off his light and turned on his lamp a while ago, but the small flicker of light there in his window is comforting, almost. It's playing with the lightening sky, almost encouraging the sun to rise and share its light. Eliott wonders, too, if Lucas sees the light of his lamp appears in his dreams, maybe his nightmares, comforting him in sleep, too. The thought makes Eliott smile, and his anxiety eases just enough that he can watch the sunrise.

He wishes he had another spot in his sketchbook to draw it. He wishes he had another spot in his sketchbook to draw Lucas one more time.

january 9th, 1966

10:17

caen, france

~

"Eliott?" a voice says, gently beckoning Eliott from his dreams.

Eliott opens his eyes, and a familiar, soft face smiles at him, veiled in sunlight.  Lucas . His eyelashes are long and almost blond in the light, his eyes even brighter and bluer than Eliott knows them to be. Even the side of Lucas's face that's shadowed is beautiful. His light still shines through, just enough to break through the darkness. He really is beautiful. Especially when he's soft like this, sweet and happy. But Eliott can't seem to smile as he studies the line of Lucas's nose, the curve of his lips. His heart can't seem to glow and beam like it usually does when Lucas is next to him. 

"Are you okay?" Lucas asks, his face suddenly slacking with concern. 

Eliott isn't sure. His body feels heavy—his eyelids, his chest, his limbs. His mind is foggy, too, almost lethargic. He doesn't feel sick, though. He doesn't feel like he has a fever, and his nose isn't congested. His stomach doesn't feel queasy, either. It's a little hard to breathe, but does that mean he's sick? He shrugs. "I don't know."

Lucas's brow furrows, and there's a knowing look in his eyes. "Do you want me to get your parents?" 

Eliott doesn't know how to respond. He doesn't want to bother his parents when they might be busy, and he doesn't want to make Lucas get them for him. He decides to shake his head. "No, it's okay."

Lucas somehow seems even more worried now, his eyes frantically searching Eliott's face for something they can't find. "Are you sure you're okay, El? You're not sick, are you?" 

"I don't think so," Eliott replies, trying to examine his own body. 

"Try sitting up," Lucas suggests, standing up and sitting back down at the edge of his bed. 

Eliott manages to, slowly but surely. He feels a little dizzy, but he shuts his eyes and regains his bearings. 

"How are you feeling?" Lucas asks. "Just in general?"

"I'm exhausted," Eliott sighs. "I fell asleep before 9 o'clock last night, but I feel like I haven't slept a wink. And my head feels... Cloudy. Dark clouds. Storm clouds, but they haven't let their rain out yet. But it's weighing down my whole body. My arms and legs feel heavy. My chest feels empty, though, like everything inside it withered while I was asleep and there's just ashes left. I don't... I don't feel like myself, Lucas. I feel like I woke up in someone else's body."

Lucas is listening carefully, but he can't hide the worry on his face. He can't hide the way it steals a bit of the light in his eyes, or the way it strikes the smile off his face. Eliott could see it from a million miles away, from another universe, and he thinks seeing it could kill him every time, every place. He doesn't have much strength left to ask him what's wrong, so he can only feel the pain  radiating  off of Lucas, the pain that  he caused.

"You're worried," Eliott manages to say, his voice flat.

"You worry about me all the time," Lucas replies, tearful. "I know you do. Isn't it my turn to worry about you?"

"Who said you needed to wait your turn?" Eliott asks. "Who said you couldn't worry about me?"

Lucas sighs, shaking his head and avoiding eye contact with Eliott. He shrugs as he replies, "I don't know."

Eliott reaches carefully and takes Lucas's hand. Lucas tenses, inhaling sharply, and his eyes flick quickly between Eliott's hand and Eliott's face. He doesn't squeeze Eliott's hand and he tenses even more when Eliott tries to. Eliott sighs, realizing he's crossed a line. He starts to pull his hand away, but Lucas tenses again. He quickly latches onto Eliott's hand, almost desperately. 

"S-sorry," Lucas stammers, letting go of Eliott's hand. 

"You didn't do anything wrong," Eliott replies, shaking his head. "You don't have to apologize."

Lucas shrugs again. He cradles his own hand in his other one, caressing his palm and his knuckles. He traps it in his other hand, holding and squeezing it tightly, as if caging it to keep it from lashing out, reaching for something it shouldn't. "I know," he mumbles unconvincingly. 

"Lie with me, Lucas," Eliott suggests quietly, all of him hoping he's found the way to make Lucas smile again, make the worry melt off his face. "I'm sleepy. And nothing can happen to me if I'm asleep and you're next to me. You won't have to worry about me as much."

Eliott shifts closer to his wall, leaving space for Lucas to lie next to him. Lucas doesn't move, though. He stares at Eliott, incredulous, anxious. He sighs, squeezing his hand over the other again. He studies the empty space, that same longing charging him during his Christmas concert washing over his face. He glances at Eliott, his eyes flicking over every inch of his face. He has the faintest smile on his face as he nods once, lying down next to Eliott. He tries to keep an inch or two of distance between them, but Eliott doesn't mind. Lucas is warm, wide, and deep. His weight is comforting as it presses down on the other side of the mattress, reminding Eliott that he isn't alone. 

"Thank you," Eliott says.

"You're welcome," Lucas returns, his voice soft, quiet.

Eliott falls asleep a moment later, falling into a complete, almost comforting darkness. He doesn't dream. He doesn't feel, for a moment. And when he wakes, the darkness lingers, tinting his vision and staining his muscles. It seems to darken when he realizes that the sun is setting, and that Lucas isn't weighing down the other side of his bed. His weary fingers brush against a piece of paper resting on his pillow. It has his name on it in Lucas's jagged cursive. He unfolds it slowly, taking a deep breath.

  I'm sorry I had to leave. It was getting late, and I didn't want to wake you. And I'm sorry I couldn't say all this earlier. I didn't quite know how to. But as I watched you sleep and as I listened to my brain remind me of all the things that could go wrong, the words finally came to me.

Earlier, when you were talking about how you were feeling, all of it reminded me of Maman. And when she gets like that, she likes to sleep, too. That's why I'm worried. It makes me sound like a bad friend and a bad son, but I don't want you to be like her, Eliott. Every time she gets depressed she seems to lose another piece of herself and I slowly forget about my own mother. I've seen what the depression does to her, and I'm afraid those same things will happen to you. I don't want you to hurt like my Maman has. And I don't want one of the last few good things in my life to slip through my fingers. I don't want to lose you like I've been losing Maman. I don't want to lose everyone I love. Is that selfish of me?

Sorry. I'll let you sleep. Let me know if you need anything. I may not have the words, but I can be there. I'm sorry again that I had to leave. Sleep well, Eliott. I hope your dreams are sweet instead of dark and bitter. I hope this is just a random spell, and not some twisted sign of something much, much worse. I care about you. I know you know that, but I needed to say it, and I have a feeling you need to hear it. I'm sorry again. I'm so, so sorry.

 Eliott must've read it a thousand times trying to process every word, trying to analyze the bigger picture. And every time he feels worse, his guilt opening its jaws and scraping its teeth against his skin. Every time, he keeps seeing the  look on Lucas's face, the darkness in his eyes. Every time, he wishes he could throw off his blankets and run to Lucas's house, asking him if they can talk. But every time, he sinks further into his bed, melting into his sheets and being pinned down by his blankets. 

He shuts his eyes, hoping for all the things Lucas is hoping for, and so, so much more.

april 11th, 1966

18:30

caen, france

~

Lucas watches helplessly as Eliott smiles and laughs so brightly he's convinced the sun isn't setting tonight, but retreating in defeat as it realizes that something brighter burns beneath it. Eliott  is  brighter than the sun—warmer, softer, closer. How  beautiful  the world could be if Eliott became the sun, and how  miserable  Lucas would feel at the same time. But then again, Lucas is still miserable when the sun is sitting right next to him, when the sun is so close he could only stretch his fingers and touch him. Then again, he'll be miserable no matter where the sun is around the world or within the universe. He's miserable because he's in love and he's afraid that he'll never not be. He's miserable because he doesn't know how much more of this he can take—the burning and the blushing, the serenity and the shame. He doesn't know if he can keep coming to the realization that his father was right all along without feeling like he could implode at any moment. He doesn't know if he can muster another prayer without feeling like the first sinner that God couldn't save. He doesn't know how much longer he can try to convince himself that Eliott could love him, too—that he would be willing to face any God-given punishment or hell itself and hold Lucas's hand all along the way. He doesn't know how much longer he can live like this.

"Lucas?" Eliott says, his voice pulling Lucas out of his thoughts and giving him a soft place to land. His face has fallen, drawn slightly taut with concern. "Are you okay? You seem a little distant."

Lucas nods, almost forgetting to smile. "Yeah, I'm okay. Just thinking."

Eliott's smile perks up again. "About?"

"A lot of things," Lucas decides to say, shrugging. He tries to chuckle, but it doesn't come out like he wanted it to. He looks down at his lap, avoiding eye contact with Eliott, but he can still feel his gaze on him.

"Your maman isn't getting bad again, is she?" Eliott asks carefully, his voice quiet.

"No," Lucas answers quickly. "No, she's doing okay right now."

"That's good, but," Eliott replies, sighing. "What's on your mind, then?"

Lucas bites his lip, and he can feel it trembling beneath his teeth. How could he ever say what he's been thinking? How could he ever admit any of that? 

"Lucas," Eliott says again, placing his hand on Lucas's shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know how to tell you," Lucas replies, trying to fight back the tears filling his eyes.

"Tell me what?" Eliott tries, gently, patiently.

Lucas takes a deep but shaky breath. He shakes his head, closing his eyes. "I can't tell you, Eliott."

"Lucas..." Eliott starts, but his voice trails off. Lucas hears him sigh deeply. "Why not?" he says then, with something in his voice that Lucas has never heard before. Fear?

Lucas doesn't know how to reply. He's afraid that if he starts talking he won't be able to stop until every word that's piled on his tongue and down his throat and in his chest has been set free. He thinks he tastes blood, poison in all those words, and he's afraid, too, that he'll vomit them up and be left with a bitter taste in his mouth. He can't see any scenario where he stays silent, though, and this realization makes more fear bloom in his stomach than anything else. He feels his chest tighten, his lungs squeeze, his heart constrict. His blood runs cold, his fingertips tingle, his head spins. Panic. All he feels is panic.

"Hey, Lucas," Eliott says, his voice much more concerned now. He gently moves Lucas to where he's facing him, and his touch feels like a burn, a scorch. Lucas hears a noise whimper out of his throat, something like a sob or a snivel. He feels like his throat is closing up.

"Lucas, look at me," Eliott says, lightly squeezing Lucas's shoulders. "Look at me."

Lucas musters another mite of courage and lifts his head, his eyes meeting Eliott's. He's spellbound for a moment, watching blue and green and gray mix and bleed into Lucas's favorite color. But there's something like a film over Eliott's eyes, probably concern and worry. Eliott always worries. Lucas has seen Eliott try to hide it sometimes, and he doesn't know if he would prefer if he hid it now or not. But after a moment, the concern melts away and Eliott's eyes soften, fill with kindness. It makes Lucas smile. 

"There you go," Eliott smiles back. "I love it when you smile."

Lucas's smile widens, and the familiar blush colors his cheeks. There's that lingering sense of shame, of course, just beneath his skin and fingernails, but Eliott is stronger than it. His touch is stronger, his voice is stronger,  he  is stronger. Lucas just needs to focus on him, the feeling of his fingertips just barely digging into his skin, the feeling of their knees resting against each other. Maybe if he lets Eliott anchor him, he can stop choking and let all his words spill out. Maybe Eliott won't wiggle free and let himself be whisked away by the ever-changing tide. Maybe he'll stay. Maybe.

Lucas studies Eliott's eyes a moment or two longer, finding every spot where the color changed ever so slightly, finding every spot that shone a bit brighter, finding every perfection and imperfection. He can breathe again, and his words aren't as heavy. He breathes in and out slowly, the last breath he'll take before the long overdue truth he's hidden for so long will be known.

"I don't think I can fall in love with girls, Eliott," he finally,  finally  admits. "That's what's wrong. I think I've been falling in love with boys."

He pauses for a moment, watching Eliott's face carefully. Something lights in his eyes—hope? But his face doesn't change much besides a slight smile tugging on the corner of his lips. He nods at Lucas, urging him to keep talking. 

"It's a sin, I know, but," Lucas continues, almost choking on the word  sin  .

"It's not a sin," Eliott says firmly, shaking his head. 

"It is," Lucas disagrees, his throat closing up. "The Bible says—"

"It's  not  , Lucas," Eliott interrupts, a fire in his eyes and on his tongue. "It's  not  . Do you hear me?"

"How do you know that?" Lucas asks, his chest tightening again. "We don't get to decide what's a sin and what's not a sin. Only God can."

"Because it doesn't make sense!" he almost laughs, incredulous. "And it isn't fair! Especially to you, Lucas! I don't remember you missing a single mass since we were kids. You can quote half the Bible from memory. You know the words to almost every song in the hymnal. You love God and anyone can see it in your eyes. Now all that is obsolete? Just because you like boys? How is that fair? How does that make God a just God? You're not a sinner, Lucas, not like some people at church want you to think you are."

"Then why do I feel like one?" Lucas blurts out, his words trembling. "I've prayed every night, Eliott.  Every night.  After hours of hearing memories of my father and the boys at school calling me a queer, or staring at my ceiling and watching myself fall in love with and marry a girl and having to hear my heart whisper how it could never want something like this, I would pray. And every time, I prayed that all these sinful feelings would just go away and I could be  normal.  That I could prove my father and everyone wrong. I couldn't be a queer. I  couldn't  . The night after Christmas last year I prayed that God would just  kill me  before I let myself give into temptation. That way I had a chance at getting into heaven. Do you understand that, Eliott? I asked God to  kill me  . Why would I do that if it wasn't a sin? Why would I ever lose sleep because I keep listening to the heart beating in my chest and hoping it was just off-rhythm somehow, that it could be fixed somehow? Because I thought it was just blind and can't tell a boy from a girl and that it would open its eyes someday and realize that it was looking in all the wrong places? Why would I do any of that if I didn't think it was wrong or that I would go to hell for it? Why?"

Eliott doesn't reply at first, and the silence is unbearable. Lucas is left to watch Eliott's face, left to scour for any trace of emotion. But his eyes are a little wider, and something like tears are shining in them. His mouth has shrunk to a thin line, and his lower lip is starting to stick out. He shakes his head once, looking off for a moment. Lucas hates the way he needs Eliott to look at him again, the way he needs Eliott to just  say something  . He hates the way he needs Eliott. He feels a tear roll down his cheek, and it's as cold as ice.

Eliott finally looks back at him, and his eyes follow his tear. He lifts his hand, his thumb carefully wiping it away. Slowly, the rest of his hand gently cradles Lucas's face. His hand is soft, warm, familiar. Lucas melts into the touch, leaning into Eliott's hand. His eyes close, and a heavy, relieved sigh escapes his body. Eliott's thumb is tracing Lucas's cheekbone now, and it's so gentle Lucas wonders if anything else in this world could ever hold him so softly, so lovingly. He doesn't want Eliott to stop touching him.

"You can't make it stop, can you?" Eliott asks quietly, placing his other hand on the other side of Lucas's face. "The falling in love?"

"No," Lucas shakes his head. "I can't."

"Well, God made us in His image, didn't He?" Eliott replies. "He made you, Lucas."

"Do you think He made me this way?" Lucas asks, toeing the fine line between hope and fear.

"He shaped you by hand," Eliott answers, his voice the kindest thing Lucas's ever heard. "He's the perfect potter. How could He ever make a mistake with you, Lucas?"

"But if He made me this way," Lucas says, leaning towards fear. "Why would He say that who I am is a sin?"

Eliott sighs, smiling sadly. "I don't know. But He made you, and He made people that are like you, too. He made  me  , too."

Lucas's eyes widen, his heart skipping a beat. "Wh-what do you mean, Eliott?"

"I've realized that my heart is a fickle thing," Eliott replies, smiling softly. "It can fall in love with anybody it wants to."

Lucas feels himself smile. "Even boys?"

Eliott nods, grinning. "Even boys."

Lucas's smile falters the slightest bit as a question comes to his mind. But he doesn't let it weigh him down. He lets it spill. " Can it fall in love with me?"

Eliott's smile softens, the faintest blush staining his cheeks. "It already has."

Lucas's heart doesn't skip a beat this time. It blooms, it flutters, it sighs. His heart doesn't feel wrong right now. It doesn't feel like a well of thick, black ink or a cold, unforgiving stone. Right now, it feels like a garden, the way Lucas has always imagined a heart  should  feel—rich soil to grow from, sweet fruits and hearty vegetables to taste, fragrant flowers to breathe in. Right now, Lucas hopes he can plant a seed in his new garden. He hopes he can nurture it. He hopes it'll inspire him to grow, too. He hopes this can become like the garden his heart is becoming. He hopes, he hopes, he hopes.

Eliott rests his forehead against Lucas's, their noses brushing tenderly against each other. Their lips are a breath apart. Lucas's never kissed anyone before. Let alone a boy. Let alone his best friend. But his heart finally says that the time is right, that the person is right. So—gingerly, delicately—he tilts his head and kisses Eliott.

There's no heat, no hunger. Only the slightest sense of trepidation—the way you cradle the one thing you've always wanted, or the way you sip your morning coffee or evening tea. The way you touch glass, diamonds, gold. It's the fear of the smallest destructions. It's a breath, a blink, a whisper, the ones you wouldn't miss for the world. 

They ease ever so slightly deeper into each other, like the way you ease into a hot bath. The way you wade through the shallow end, the shore, before you trust the waves to hold you, to carry you. Everything is familiar, warm. They know each other better than they know themselves. There's no need to explore, to push and pull. It's like crawling into your bed at night and floating into sleep. It's like coming home. It's like breathing. Nothing has ever been easier. Nothing has ever been more beautiful. Nothing has ever felt more right than this moment.

Eliott mutters against Lucas's lips that he tastes like sleep. Lucas doesn't know what he means, but he smiles. He tells Eliott how he tastes like peace. Eliott doesn't know what he means, but he smiles. They keep kissing, every touch accentuated with a smile, with an almost giddy giggle. They keep kissing, letting the undefinable tastes they've discovered become familiar, become clear and plain. They keep kissing, the world around them stopping for a moment to admire the moment every turn, every revolution has led to. Lucas wishes the world could literally stop in its tracks. He wishes he could be trapped in this moment forever, with Eliott's lips on his and his strong yet elegant hands tangled in his hair. He wishes he could be trapped so he'll know he'll never have to recite a hypocrite's prayer another miserable night. But slowly, the world returns to normal, and time inches forward once again.

Lucas's only wish now is that there'll be countless more moments just like this one—moments where everything is  love.

may 29th, 1966

02:01

caen, france

~

Lucas has held Eliott's hand the entire car ride to the hospital, and Eliott is surprised he hasn't snapped the poor boy's bones in half. But Lucas doesn't seem to wince or flinch. He just squeezes a little tighter when Eliott does and smooths his thumb across Eliott's knuckles. During a particularly dark part of the drive, Lucas kisses his knuckles, one by one. Eliott feels him whisper against the thin, white skin there, feels his lips and his breath. He doesn't know what Lucas said, but the warmth, the care is comforting through it all.

Honey, I need you to get Madeleine to take you to the hospital as soon as she can, okay?  his mother's voice reminds him shakily, sending a chill down his spine.  Papa... He's getting worse.

Eliott closes his eyes, resting his head on Lucas's shoulder. He lets the soft fabric of Lucas's shirt and his sweet, familiar scent drown out every fear creeping across his mind for a moment. He feels Lucas kiss the top of his head, and he says something else, something he can hear this time.

"Everything will be okay," he whispers, his voice quiet and kind. "And I'm here,  mon amour . Always."

Eliott nods, feeling a tear roll down his cheek. He bites his lip, fights to keep more tears from falling. His father will be okay. He has to be. He always has been. It's worse this time, but that doesn't mean he won't get better. He  has to get better. 

But he knows that's not what Lucas means. Everything will be okay when the wounds start to heal, not when his father make a miraculous recovery and they'll get to go home a happy family once again. Everything will be okay when the grief subsides and Eliott learns to smile again, not when his father can breathe a litte easier once again. Everything will be okay after his father can finally rest, not after he survives tonight only to get sick again by the end of the year.  That's  what Lucas means, and  that's what's bringing the tears to Eliott's eyes. 

Suddenly, the car is drifting to a stop.

"Eliott," Lucas says, shaking him gently. "We're here."

Eliott opens his eyes, and he sees the hospital he's visited a thousand times. But like everything else, it's different this time. His father could be dying in there right now, or dead already. He shakes his head, all the tears he's been holding back suddenly spilling over. 

"Eliott?" Lucas says again, his voice brimming with concern. 

"I can't, Lucas," Eliott sobs. "I can't go in there."

Lucas squeezes Eliott's hand tighter, but he doesn't say a word. He sighs, and Eliott doesn't think he could ever forget the way his breath is shaking. 

"I'll go get Noémie," Madame Lallemant says, unbuckling and opening her door. "Stay with him, Lucas." 

As Madame Lallemant walks away, Lucas sighs. Eliott can  feel the pity in his eyes as he studies him. But then he feels Lucas's hand lifting his chin. Their foreheads and noses rest against each other. Eliott is shaking, and he thinks Lucas is, too.

"Eliott, I know this is hard," Lucas begins, stumbling over his words. "But he needs to see you. And you need to see him. And your maman needs you right now, too."

"But what if he's already dead, Lucas?" Eliott chokes out. "What if I walk in there right now and I see Maman crying because he's gone and I was too late? What if I never had the chance to say goodbye? Or what if he is alive right now and I have to watch him die? What if I have to watch  my papa  die? What if he's awake when it happens and he has to feel it happening to him? What if he dies with his eyes open? What if I look at him and I have to see those eyes? What if Maman and I fall asleep and he doesn't, and then we wake up and he's gone? Or what if we all fall asleep and when we wake up he can't? What if I wake up and he's dead and I have to wake Maman up and tell her? What if I wake up to Maman telling me that he's gone?" He trails off, his whole body trembling with the force of his sobs. "Every possible scenario  terrifies me , Lucas. How am I supposed to walk in there knowing that any of them could happen, but that it won't matter because no matter what he's going to die? How are we supposed to live without him? Without Papa?" 

Lucas doesn't respond. Eliott hears him sniffing like he's crying. "I don't know," he finally replies. "But remember what I said? That I'm here. Always. We can just stay together right?"

"They won't let you in his room," Eliott shakes his head. "You and your maman will probably just be in the hallway. You can't be there when I need you most." 

"Maybe…" Lucas stammers. "Maybe they can make an exception. Right?"

Eliott shakes his head again. "That's not how it works, Lucas." 

"Then how can I be there like I promised?" Lucas asks, his voice raised and desperate. "How can I leave you alone like this?" 

"You can be there as much as you can," Eliott replies, still trying to speak through his sobs, his hiccups. "You can hold my hand."

"People will see, Eliott," Lucas mumbles. "They'll know. And so will our parents." 

"I don't care," Eliott croaks. "I don't care if they see or if they know. I want you here. I  need you here." 

Lucas pulls away ever so slightly, his gaze shifting to somewhere off in the distance. Softly, he agrees, "I know." 

"Don't let me go, Lucas," Eliott pleads, gently turning Lucas's head back to him. "Please. Not until you need to." 

Lucas pulls Eliott's hand down and kisses from his wrist up to his palm, his lips and cheeks wet against Eliott's skin with tears. "I won't," he whispers. "I love you, Eliott."

"I love you, too," Eliott returns, letting himself smile. 

"Can I kiss you?" Lucas asks carefully, quietly. 

Eliott answers by pulling Lucas closer, their lips slowly finding each other. The kiss is brief, soft, bitter like salt. It's a wave crashing on the shore, both of them breaking together. 

Eliott pulls away. His lips part but no sob comes out. It's a sigh, but not quite of relief. "I'm ready," he says, nodding. "Just don't let go of my hand." 

"I won't," Lucas shakes his head. "I promise." 

Lucas leads Eliott out of the car, not letting go of his hand like he promised. And when his hand shakes, or when a stray sob makes him tremble, Lucas squeezes a little tighter and maintains the gentle, reassuring pressure. Eliott feels  anchored , supported and carried as they make their way to the hospital entrance, step by step. He needs to hold onto it as long as he can. He needs to memorize every muscle, every curve of Lucas's hand. He can still have him, even when he's not there.

Eliott pauses as they reach the door, halting Lucas in his tracks. Lucas glances at him, concerned yet patient. "I'm here, Eliott," he says, squeezing Eliott's hand a little tighter. "It's okay."

Eliott nods, taking a deep breath. He keeps walking, and Lucas lets him lead. 

Madame Lallemant and Eliott's mother enter the lobby as Eliott and Lucas do, and a flood of emotions fills Eliott's chest. His mother still has tears running down her cheeks, her eyes bloodshot and her face swollen. She grins when she sees him, but her body is overtaken with sobs. She runs up to him, and he lets go of Lucas's hand and envelops her in a hug. He starts crying again, too, burying his face in his mother's shoulder. They hold each other for a few minutes, relief and fear pulling them closer together. 

"How is he?" Eliott asks as he pulls away, the smallest hope that a miracle has happened burning in his chest.

"He's only getting worse, honey," his mother replies, sniffling. "But he's here right now. And he's been asking for you."

Eliott nods, taking a deep breath. "I'll be right there, Maman, I just... I need a minute."

"Okay," she sighs, brushing the hair out of his face. "We'll be in his room."

Madame Lallemant gives Eliott's mother a brief hug, then leads her down the hallway. Eliott watches as they shrink, as they turn and enter what must be his father's room. He takes another deep breath, trying to compose himself. His father can't see him like this. He doesn't want his last memories of him to be the image of his son heartbroken and weeping. He tries to smile, but his lips are wobbling too much to stay steady and genuine. He feels something brushing against his hand, something familiar. He sighs in relief, latching onto Lucas's hand.

"Thank you," he chokes out, turning to face him. "I'm sorry I let go."

"It was your maman, Eliott," Lucas reassures, shaking his head. He takes Eliott's other hand, their fingers interlocking. "And you weren't the one who promised not to let go. I was."

Eliott nods, his thumb absentmindedly tracing the curves of the back of Lucas's hand. "I know."

"I'll hold your hand as we walk down the hallway," Lucas says. "When you're ready. Okay?"

"Okay," Eliott agrees. "Not just yet, though."

Lucas nods, giving him a sweet, patient smile. It falls, though, and Lucas's eyes turn down to the floor. He leans in, their foreheads touching. He's warm, but he's trembling. Eliott rubs his nose against Lucas's lightly, and he sees a ghost of a smile return to his lips. This smile doesn't last long either.

"How are you?" Eliott asks quietly, trying to ignore the pang of guilt that reminds him he should've asked before.

"He's been like a papa to me," Lucas answers, tearful. "He's been a better father than my own papa has, by leaps and bounds. I don't want him to die either, Eliott. And I can't stand seeing you like this either, but... But he's  your  papa, Eliott. Not mine.  Your grief comes first. Not mine."

"You can be sad, too, Lucas," Eliott replies, squeezing Lucas's hands reassuringly. "It's okay."

Lucas nods, a few sobs ripping from his throat. "I'm sorry," he chokes out, letting go of his hands and pulling him into a hug. "I'm so sorry. This isn't fair. You deserve so much better than all this."

Eliott cries with him, their bodies trembling against each other. Eliott kisses the top of Lucas's head, smoothes his hand over his back. He feels Lucas clinging onto his shirt, the fabric bunching up in his hands. Eliott shakes his head then, replying, "Everything will be okay. Like you said. Right?"

"Yeah," he breathes slowly, sniffling. He kisses Eliott's shoulder, right near the dip of his collarbone. He repeats, "Everything will be okay."

They hold each other a moment longer, their tears drying and their breathing evening out. Eliott weaves his hand into Lucas's hair, gently pressing against his skull, hoping it would bring him just a mite of comfort. "I'm ready when you are," he whispers in his ear.

Lucas takes a deep breath. "Okay. I'm ready."

Their hands find each other again before they fully break the hug. They both squeeze, both cling and cherish. They begin their walk down the hallway, their strides matching and the echoes of their footsteps striking the floor harmonizing. With every step, they squeeze a little tighter, breathing becoming a little harder. They see Madame Lallemant standing outside the door, and they watch her get closer, her image becoming clearer. She must've heard them coming. She turns, smiling sadly when she sees them. Her eyes briefly flick down to their clasped hands, but she looks back up at them almost as quickly. 

"He's been asking for you," she tells Eliott quietly.

Eliott nods, his heart sinking as he realizes that this is the moment Lucas will need to let go. He feels Lucas place his other hand on top of Eliott's, caging it in a warm, soft embrace. Lucas gives one last squeeze, then slowly lets go—palm by palm, knuckle by knuckle. There's the slightest moment where their fingertips barely latch onto each other, but the contact is broken both too slowly and too quickly. Eliott's hand feels so much  colder , alone. He curls his fingers into a fist and relaxes slowly, letting the blood flow and the joints loosen. He looks over at Lucas, and he has that same sweet, patient smile on his face. A tear rolls down his cheek, but he quickly wipes it away.

"Thank you , Lucas," Eliott says, his voice clear but quiet.

"You're welcome," Lucas replies, his smile widening. 

Eliott smiles back as much as he can. He takes the deepest breath he can, turning his head forward and walking into his father's room.

He stops just past the door, his heart nearly stopping at the sight. 

His father is paler than he's ever seen him, paler than flour or milk. He's covered in sweat, his hair glued down to his scalp. His lips are blue, almost tinged with purple. His nails are blue, too, and even from where he's standing Eliott can tell that his hands are shaking. His chest trembles uncontrollably as it rises and falls, and his breathing is so shallow and hoarse it doesn't even sound human. His eyes are closed, but they open as Eliott enters. The color is muted, and they're bloodshot, and glazed with an almost milky, shiny film. His father smiles feebly when he sees him, lifting his hand and reaching for him.

"Ellie," he rasps, sitting up and then almost immediately falling into an intense coughing fit. The ventilator mask fogs up, almost hiding his father's lips. His mother quickly stands up, placing a hand on his shoulder and wiping his brow with a cloth. She tries to soothe him, but her voice is thin and choppy. She looks over her shoulder at Eliott, biting her lip to keep it from trembling. 

Eliott is frozen, his blood running cold and everything inside of him telling him to run away. He's never seen his father like this. He thought he'd seen him on the verge of death before, but all those times are nothing compared to what he's seeing now. If he weren't moving and talking, he would look like the corpse he's apparently become. Eliott does everything he can to fight back his tears, fight against his fear. He slowly makes his way to the other side of his father's bed, taking his hand. It's freezing, clammy. Eliott flinches, praying that his father won't notice. He takes a deep breath, gathering his strength as he sits down. 

"You're here," his father says, quieter this time. His smile is still weak.

"I'm here, Papa," Eliott replies, forcing a smile. "I'm here now."

"My boy..." he sighs, becoming tearful. "My little Ellie."

Eliott feels a tear roll down his cheek, but he keeps his smile on his face. "I'm here," he chokes out, squeezing his father's hand.

His father looks over at his mother then. "My darling Noémie."

His mother doesn't respond. She kisses his knuckles, the back of his hand. She opens it and holds it to her face. His father weakly, gently wipes away her tears. 

"I love you both," his father mumbles, glancing between them. "So much."

"I love you, too, Papa," Eliott replies, his voice thick with tears. 

"I love you, too, Eduard," his mother smiles.

"I miss you," his father continues, tears rolling down his cheeks. "Miss you already."

Eliott can't keep smiling anymore. He lets his sobs wash over him, lets them push him until he bends, burying his face in his father's bedsheets. He clings to his father's hand like a lifeline. But soon, this hand will never ruffle Eliott's hair again or pat him on his back or his shoulder. This hand will never cradle his mother's face again or help her with the clasp on her necklace or the buttons on her dress. Soon, this hand will grow even colder, and never hold anything again. This hand will soon forever lay on his father's chest, guarding his still, dead heart. This hand will soon wither until it's nothing but old, sick bones. Now is the last time Eliott will ever hold his father's hand while there was still blood running through it, while there was still a living brain to tell it to move and hold and love. Now is the last time Eliott will hold the hand that shaped him, that taught him that kindness and bravery are the same thing, that reminded him that life is the most precious gift that we receive. How can Eliott live without this hand? He holds it in both of his hands, holds it tighter, kisses every inch of it. He bathes it with his tears, washes it with the words he'll never get to say to him. Perhaps his father's bones will remember. Perhaps the memory will echo throughout the earth. Perhaps it'll reach his father somehow. Perhaps it'll reach up to heaven.

"You're a brave, strong boy, Eliott," his father says softly. "Know that you'll learn to miss me and smile at the same time."

Eliott lifts his head and looks up. His father is smiling, wider and a little stronger. He feels his mother place her hand on top of his. She smiles at him, too, ever kind and loving. Eliott smiles back, weakly but genuinely. "Thank you, Papa. Thank you, Maman. Thank you."

The night wears on, time passing gently by as they live in memory, their tongues spilling with echoes of laughter and singing. There's a haze in the room—a pleasant one. One perfumed with love and understanding and joy, stained with flushed faces and swelling hearts. They smile. They cry tears of mirth and joy. They don't let go of each other. They abandon the world outside and only focus on what matters in this moment: their happy family. Eduard, Noémie, and Eliott. Husband, wife, and child. Kindness, empathy, and joy. What more could they ever need? If you had asked Eliott only an hour ago, he would've said more time. But they don't need more time. If this is the time God has given them, why waste it then ask for more? If this is the time God has given them, He knows that it's all they need. He knows that this time that He's made is beautiful, perfect, sacred. God had given them sorrow and grief moments before, but He made way for joy and healing, too. They don't know what will happen once Eliott's father breathes his last breath, but that's time God has set for them in the future. God will protect Eduard Demaury. When it's time, He will take his hand and guide him home. Perhaps He will leave a blessing for Noémie and Eliott, one of comfort and peace. God is kind. God is loving. God will not abandon them. And that's why they have such  joy .

As God prepares to take another one of His children in His arms, the Demaury family falls asleep together for the last time.

may 29th, 1966

06:43

caen, france

~

Outside Lucas's window, the waves hiss against the shore and retreat quickly back into the sea. They slide against each other, the sand clinging onto the water and the water squirming away, foaming in agony The wind is quiet today, suddenly aware of something else that has appeared in the air—a discordant note from a piano, or maybe a misstroke on a typewriter. The moon has faded from the sky for a moment, but the sun is having his turn. He seems to rise a little slower, as if he's afraid of bring this day to pass. He seems to be burning a little hotter, too, as if he were angry or in grief. He roars, rumbles, "This is the storm, this is the war, this is the burning heat. Brave through, my warriors. To be brave is to be lifeless, to be feeble. All I ask is that you remember, still, to be cruel all the while."

Inside Lucas's room, the only light is the rising sun filtering through his window. Its rays shine on clean, pristine pages filled with Eliott's drawings that he studies longingly, his heart heavy in his chest. He hated leaving him there at the hospital, but he thought his sketchbooks would make him feel better. Besides, his mother wanted to leave and get breakfast made and bring it back to the hospital. He left a note for him, too, so Eliott will know where he is and that they'll be back by seven, just in case. He just hopes nothing will happen until they get back. He doesn't want Eliott to be alone when it happens. He wants to be there to hold him, like Eliott did when Lucas's father left that one night. He hopes now, too, that he'll finally have the right words to say to him. Not like last night, not like when he visited Eliott when he couldn't leave his bed for two weeks. He has to be a good friend, a good boyfriend. Eliott needs him. 

Outside, a tap on his window startles him from his thoughts.   Eliott  , he thinks. Monsieur Demaury.

He rushes over and opens his window, a summer breeze sweeping over them. Eliott is standing there, his eyes bleary with tears, his cheeks rosy from the heat, his hand hovered by his mouth with his nails between his teeth. He's trying to stay quiet, hold back the sobs. He's shivering. 

Lucas helps Eliott through the window, making sure he lands softly onto the carpet. He takes Eliott's face in his hands, the question he already knows the answer to getting caught on his tongue. But once Lucas's skin meets Eliott's, all his sobs escape. He throws his arms around Lucas. With a trembling breath, with a hiccup, he confirms the answer Lucas had in his mind: "He's dead, Lucas."

Still, Lucas's heart drops to his feet. He holds Eliott as tightly as he can. He feels his tears soaking through his shirt, feels his body trembling with the force of his sobs. He feels tears of his own wet his cheeks. He doesn't say a word. He lets Eliott cry. He waits for Eliott, patiently, gently.

Once Eliott starts to calm down, Lucas slowly guides him to his bed, laying him down gently. He lies down next to him, pulling him close. Words start to spill out of Eliott's mouth before Lucas could find his own words, the right ones.

"I woke up when I heard something clatter," Eliott starts, his voice thin. "I look up, and I see a nurse staring at Papa. She dropped the clipboard with his chart on it. Then she started yelling for the doctor, asking for a crash cart. And then I looked at him and... His eyes were open, Lucas. There was no color in them. He was looking out the window. He was awake when it happened. He felt all of it. And I was so  afraid  of that, Lucas. We all fell asleep. I thought maybe he would die in his sleep but he didn't. He was awake. I think I screamed when I saw him. And I woke Maman up and I think she screamed, too. The nurse took our hands and led us out of the room as a bunch of people ran into the room. They shut the door behind them, but I could hear them yelling at each other. Then it got quiet. Then the door opened and the doctor told us that they did everything they could but he was dead. He said we could see him, so he took us inside—"

Eliott starts to crumble again, more rivers of tears streaming down his face. "I didn't recognize him. His skin was almost gray. And his lips were so blue. And his eyes were closed. And he was dead."

Lucas holds him tighter, his chest getting sore from holding back his tears. 

"Papa's gone, Lucas," Eliott weeps, clinging to Lucas's shirt. "And he's not coming back. He's dead. After all those times he got sick and he got better he finally got too sick. The doctors finally couldn't save him. There were so many times where I thought he would die but then he didn't and I remember how   happy  I would be. But he's dead. He's really dead this time. We'll have to tell everyone that he's dead and have a funeral and sing his favorite hymns and I'll have to look at him lying in his coffin and then we'll have to bury him by pouring handfuls of dirt over him and say goodbye for what might be forever and—"

"Eliott," Lucas begs, his voice breaking. "It's okay. I'm here, like I promised."

Lucas feels completely helpless as he holds Eliott tighter, his words failing him once again and grief filling his chest. So, he promises him that everything will be okay. No matter how far time stretches away from him, no matter how many tears he sheds, no matter how much it feels like his world is crashing around his ears. He promises him that he's not alone. And a small part of Lucas hopes he isn't lying to him through his teeth.

june 4th, 1966

12:02

caen, france

~

Eliott's hand shakes, the smallest mites of dirt slipping through his fingers. He doesn't want to open his hand and let it all fall onto his father's coffin, reducing him to the dust that he came from. He doesn't want the dirt to keep piling up until his father is completely buried, never to be seen again in this life, on this earth. When he lets go of the dirt in his hand, he'll be letting go of his father. He's not ready to. But the minister is reciting the prayer much more quickly than Eliott hoped he would, the fateful words making their way to the tip of his tongue. So, he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, hoping it separates him enough from his body that his mind will take over.

"We commend to Almighty God our brother Eduard Demaury, and we commit his body to its resting place: earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust..."

Eliott opens his eyes, and he sees his hand open and empty, remnants of dust staining the palm of his hand. He sees the small handfuls spread across his father's coffin, the beginning of the end.

"The Lord bless him and keep him, the Lord make His face to shine upon him and be gracious to him, the Lord lift up His countenance upon him and give him peace."

There's a chorus of "amen"s, but Eliott's voice doesn't join it. They recite the Lord's Prayer, but Eliott keeps his silence. He only raises his voice to heaven as the congregation is invited to, as the minister prays over the people. But his voice is weak, broken. His words are nonsensical, desperate rambles. But they drown out the words of the prayers, another countless chorus of "amen"s. It keeps his head bowed, keeps his eyes downward so he doesn't have to see everyone looking at him with such pity. It keeps his eyes away from his mother. He thinks he could die if he looks into her wet eyes for more than a few seconds. He never thought he would see his mother in such pain. So, he keeps his head bowed, says his pointless, powerless prayer. 

He doesn't sing "Lead, Kindly Light." All he can hear is his father singing this hymn in masses and around the house. He can hear his father's voice getting weaker, thinner as the years burn on in his memory. Now, he can't hear his father's voice singing his favorite hymn, and he doesn't know if he can sing it ever again without his father's voice supporting him. His mother doesn't sing, either, too consumed with her tears. He can hear Lucas's voice somewhere behind him, its warm timbre guiding Eliott along every word, every lilt of every note. The hymn seems to drag on. Somewhere, in the back of Eliott's mind, he hopes that the more than familiar melody is realizing that this is the first time his father won't sing it. He hopes that it's mourning, too; weeping and groaning as it tries to accept that it will never be the same again, that it's already changing at the hands of someone else, the hands they can't control. 

Then, all at once, the song ends, and silence crashes over the cemetery and the congregation. Eliott hasn't cried a single tear today, but the deafening  boom of it leaves him with a lump in his throat and an urge to bite down on the inside of his cheek. He knows that this is the first of many silences. This is the silence after the burial. There will be a silence after every birthday and every anniversary, a silence every time someone mentions his father's name, a silence every time Eliott tells someone he's just met that his father is dead. There will forever be a silence where his father once stood, silence where he once would've spoken and laughed. The weight of his father's absence, the weight of his father's coffin is something he could never forget. But there'll be people wanting to bear a bit of the weight themselves, and there'll be people that will try to fill all those silences. People sharing their own stories of losing their father, or rambling about how they could never even imagine what Eliott went through. People apologizing a thousand times for his loss. People offering him advice and telling him that they're for him if they need him. These silences will be filled with a million good intentions, and that's why Eliott knows that he can't bear hearing it.

This first silence fills quickly. The congregation says their last goodbyes to him and his mother, and most of their words don't quite reach his ears. His mother hugs most of them, so she doesn't cling to him as much as she has the whole funeral. He thinks that's why he hasn't cried yet. He's a rock right now, his mother's rock. But the weight of his mother is becoming too much for him to carry. He loves her with all of his heart, but that doesn't make him strong enough to show it. He loved his father with all his heart, but it wasn't strong enough to save him. So, he stands to the side, nodding vaguely at muddled voices, weakly shaking blurred hands. 

His friends talk to him, too. Manon, Daphné, Alexia, Emma, and Imane all give him a tight, warm hug and give him sweet, genuine smiles. He believes them when they tell him he'll be okay. Basile hugs him so tightly he can't breathe, but he can hear Basile sniffling and see him try and hold back his tears. It's comforting. Arthur and Yann both linger a moment, asking him if he needed anything. He doesn't know how to answer, so he shrugs but thanks them for coming. They both pull him in for a tight hug. Sofiane and Idriss hold him for a while, too, whispering everything he needs to hear in his ear.

The last person he sees is Lucas, after everyone else has already left. He started crying as he played the first hymn during the mass, and Eliott can tell he hasn't really stopped since. He's trapping and squeezing his hand again, only this time he seems close to crushing it and shattering the bones. Eliott steps toward him, carefully placing his hands over Lucas's. He gently breaks them apart, taking them in his own. Lucas's hands are cold, shaking. Eliott wants to steady them, but he can only imagine how cold his own hands are, how much they're trembling. Thunder rumbles above them, the clouds darkening and shards of lightning bursting out of them. Their eyes meet. There are a thousand things hidden in Lucas's eyes—memories they share of Eliott's father, memories of the father he got but didn't deserve, memories of losing both of them so suddenly and when he was so young. And through all of that, what shines through in his eyes is pain, grief, and  understanding . 

The clouds break open, and so does Eliott, washing and cleansing the earth with rain and tears. He falls into Lucas's arms, heaving with his sobs. Lucas holds him tightly, carefully helping him to the ground as he crumbles. He gently rocks him, pulling him closer to his chest to shield him from the rain. All Eliott can hear is Lucas's heartbeat, strong and steady. All he can smell is the rain and the sea salt that always seems to linger on Lucas's skin. All he can feel is Lucas's arms around him, his lips on his forehead, his hairline, the top of his head. All his world consists of now is Lucas, and the world outside is a breath away, but Eliott can't quite breathe right now anyway. His eyes, his nose, his mouth, his lungs all seem to be overflowing with tears, suffocating him more than it ever has before. At least he knows that if he drowns he'll rest in the safest place he knows. At least he knows Lucas will never let him go.

july 20th, 1966

06:00

caen, france

~

Lucas wakes from the first full night of sleep he's had in a month to someone kissing him. He startles a bit at first, but he opens his eyes and sees Eliott's face smiling at him the way he used to before his papa died. Lucas can't see Eliott's eyes they're so squinted, but he  missed  those crinkles by his eyes. 

"Good morning,  mon amour  ," Eliott almost sings, rubbing their noses together.

"Morning, darling," Lucas hums, smiling back sleepily. He pulls Eliott close and kisses him,  melts  into him. He must've had tea before he left his house. The fragrant taste of it is staining his lips, his teeth, his tongue. It makes Lucas smile even more, warmth softening the edges that kept him and Eliott from becoming one person again. He could almost fall asleep again right here, with Eliott's fingers in his hair and on his neck, his lips against Eliott's, their heartbeats embracing each other. He almost does, but Eliott kisses him a little deeper, their noses smushing against each other. He chuckles, pulling away slightly. "You're feeling better?" he asks hopefully, breathlessly.

Eliott nods. "Things are going back to normal," he replies, his voice sweet and melodious. "I'm starting to feel like myself again."

Lucas grins, his heart warming and glowing in his chest. "Really?"

"Mm-hmm," Eliott beams, nodding. "What about you?"

Lucas kisses the tip of Eliott's nose, and somehow it makes him smile even wider. "If you're happy, I'm happy."

Eliott kisses him again, soft and sweet and gentle. Lucas missed kissing Eliott so  much  . He knows the time has never been right to kiss him like this again, but he's felt it starting to come again the past week or two. Eliott's been smiling more, talking more. He's started taking more pictures with his camera, reading books again, laughing at jokes on the TV again. He's been eating again. Not much, but more than he has before. Lucas's been waiting for the right moment for everything to return to normal, but he didn't need to try and see if the moment was right, because Eliott beat him to it. Eliott was the one who kissed him first, and Lucas can kiss him back without worrying about crossing a line.

"I have a big day planned for us today," Eliott says after a moment, sitting up.

"Oh, yeah?" Lucas smiles, sitting up, too.

"Well, 'planned' isn't the best word," Eliott admits, chuckling. "But I have some ideas. Like, we could have breakfast at the bakery and lunch at the bistro. Then run around town and go in all the shops and buy a bunch of stuff."

"I don't have any money, love," Lucas laughs, leaning his head on Eliott's shoulder.

"I'll buy you anything you want," Eliott promises, grinning.

"Promise?" Lucas challenges, raising his eyebrows. 

"Promise," Eliott nods, giggling. He pulls Lucas close, and his face fits perfectly into the crook of his neck. He plants small kisses there, breathes in Eliott's smell, his skin. He closes his eyes, laughing along. Eliott pulls Lucas away so their eyes meet, taking his face in his hands. "Anything for my Lu," he grins.

Lucas goes to kiss Eliott one more time, but Eliott backs away, tousling Lucas's hair. "We have a long day ahead of us," he says. "We have to get started as soon as we can."

Lucas rolls his eyes, but he chuckles. "I'll go get ready." He gives Eliott a kiss on the cheek as he gets out of bed, and the blush on Eliott's cheeks makes him blush, too. The warmth, the fuzziness, carries him to the bathroom where he quickly brushes his teeth. His mother isn't awake as far as he knows as he walks back to his room, but he makes sure to remember to tell her where they'll be before they leave. 

When he opens his door he sees Eliott lying in his bed on his stomach. He grins again when he sees Lucas, almost jumping up and bounding over to him. 

"I was gone for a minute," Lucas giggles as Eliott rubs their noses together again. 

"I missed you," Eliott shrugs, kissing him softly. He smiles, small yet content. "I like your toothpaste."

Lucas's brow furrows, but he chuckles fondly. "Thank you?"

"You're welcome?" Eliott replies teasingly, kissing Lucas's forehead. "Let's get you dressed so we can go."

"Okay," Lucas snickers. "Are we in a hurry?"

"The sun is only up for so long,  mon amour  ," Eliott reminds him. "It's rising right now, and I plan on staying under it as long as we can today."

Lucas's brow furrows again. "Okay."

"When the sun sets we can go back to your house, or maybe we can go to mine," Eliott suggests, taking Lucas's hands. "We can fall asleep in each other's arms tonight and wake up in the same place in the morning. Does that sound good?"

Lucas smiles, blush staining his cheeks a much deeper scarlet. "That sounds amazing."

Eliott tilts Lucas's chin and brings their lips together, Lucas melting once again. Eliott pulls away far too quickly, guiding Lucas towards his closet. Lucas pouts to try and distract him again, but Eliott starts looking through his shirts.

"You should wear this one," Eliott says, holding one up to Lucas.

"It's just a red t-shirt, Ellie," Lucas laughs. "I didn't even know you gave this one back to me however long ago."

"Yeah, but you could wear it with those blue shorts," Eliott replies, grabbing the shorts he's talking about. "It's simple, but you look amazing in anything."

Lucas wishes Eliott would stop making him blush. "Okay. I'll wear them." 

He starts changing into the outfit and putting on his shoes, and Eliott's grin once he's finished makes his heart flutter. Lucas kisses him again, unable to resist the urge. "Ready to go, my love?" Lucas asks softly.

Eliott nods excitedly, almost bouncing. 

"Let me tell Maman we're leaving first," Lucas smiles. "Meet me at the front door." 

Eliott kisses him goodbye, walking out of Lucas's room.

Lucas makes his way to his mother's room, carefully opening her door. She's still asleep. He doesn't want to wake her, so he borrows a sheet of paper from a notebook she keeps by her bed.

 Eliott and I are going to be out for the day. We should be back around dinnertime. 

  He scribbles a little heart beside it, leaving it on top of the notebook. He leaves her room as quietly as he can, closing the door behind him. He grins when he sees Eliott waiting patiently yet excitedly by the front door. Eliott opens it for him, bowing politely. "After you,  mon amour  ."

Lucas blushes again as he bows in return and goes out the door. Eliott leaves, too, then puts his arm around Lucas, pulling him a little closer. Lucas rests his head on Eliott's shoulder, kissing the spot where his collarbone is just barely exposed. He wants to get in one last display of affection before they go into town and have to hide again. He can't deny that it hurts that he can only love Eliott in the dark or behind closed doors, but he can't deny that they need to value and protect their safety as well.

"I'll race you down the street," Eliott proposes, snapping Lucas out of his reverie.

"Like when we were kids?" Lucas replies, grinning. 

"Like when we were kids," Eliott echoes, nodding. "Are you up for a race?"

"You're on," Lucas confirms smugly.

"All right. The race starts  now  !" Eliott shouts, bolting down the street. 

Lucas blinks, stumbling to a running start. "That's not fair! Cheater!" he yells with a laugh.

"Like when we were kids!" Eliott calls back over his shoulder. His laughter bounces off the boiling asphalt and fills the air, becoming the wind that shakes the trees and ruffles Lucas's hair. Lucas could listen to him laugh forever.

He gains speed, quickly whizzing past Eliott. Eliott always found a way to give himself the early advantage, but he was never as fast as Lucas. Eliott always made jokes about Lucas being tiny and "more aerodynamic", and they always made Lucas blush but laugh, too.  

He hears his feet striking the asphalt, then hears Eliott's feet just after. Their footsteps have become echoes of each other. They've become something close to music. This morning, the world will wake up to this noise, and Lucas falters as he wonders if people will hear the same sweet music he's hearing. Their footsteps, Eliott's laughter, Lucas's own heartbeat drumming in his ears. There could never be a more beautiful piece of music, right?

Eliott starts to pull ahead again. "Will I finally beat Lucas Lallemant in a race?" he asks teasingly, out of breath.

Lucas shakes his head, smirking. "Not today." He calls on his last bit of stamina and surges ahead, letting his footfalls propel him forward and forward. He can just see the town in the distance, and just ahead of him is the old, weathered sign that they both designated as the finish line years ago. He slows to a jog as he approaches it, leaning against it and smiling smugly. Eliott isn't too far behind him, though, catching up a few seconds later.

"I was much closer that time," Eliott sighs, trying to catch his breath. 

Lucas rolls his eyes. "Sure you were." 

Eliott tries to respond, but he only huffs, slowly sitting himself down on the ground. 

"Do we need a breather?" Lucas laughs, sitting down next to him. 

Eliott nods, then lies down on his back. "Yes, please."

"You've lost your touch," Lucas points out teasingly, fixing the sweaty hair glued to Eliott's forehead. 

"Shut up," Eliott chuckles, sighing. "Oh, what are we going to do when we get old?"

"Will we be racing down this street when we're 80 years old?" Lucas asks, chuckling softly.

"Maybe we will," Eliott shrugs. "Can't you see us growing old together, though?"

Lucas's heart warms as he considers the thought. He nods, his lips spreading into a grin. "I can."

"I don't think we'll be here, though," Eliott says, reaching to cradle Lucas's face. "We'll be living in Giverny. By Monet's gardens. We'll be secretly married. We'll have this cute, little cottage. We paint together all day and hold each other all night. Your hair will be white and it'll make your eyes look even bluer. You'll still be so beautiful and I'll wonder why you ever settled for someone like me. But we'll be happy. We will have spent almost every second of our lives together but we wouldn't have it any other way. Can't you see it, Lucas?"

There are tears in Lucas's eyes as he nods. "But I think you'll still be beautiful, too, my love. How could you ever not be? I mean, look at you!"

Eliott blushes, running his thumb over Lucas's cheekbone. Gently, he pulls Lucas down towards him. Lucas lets himself fall, closing the space between them with a sweet, passionate kiss. He can't stop smiling, and neither can Eliott. Their teeth knock against each other and Eliott accidentally bites Lucas's lip. He tries to apologize but he starts laughing, pulling Lucas close. The gentle tremble shaking Eliott's body as he giggles is comforting as it starts to ripple through Lucas, too. He can taste blood, but it doesn't matter. He's giggling, too, and it's hard to stop. 

"I love you, Lulu," Eliott says through his laughter, almost wheezing.

"I love you, too, Ellie," Lucas returns, his laughter turning into a content sigh. "I love you, too."

july 20th, 1966

14:16

caen, france

~

Lucas misses holding Eliott's hand already, but more and more people are arriving in town, browsing the shops and eating at the restaurants. It's strangely busy for a Wednesday, but the weather today is much milder than it has been for the past couple of weeks. Nevertheless, the large crowd that only seems to keep growing is making Lucas more nervous than he wants to admit. He's not holding hands with Eliott or being affectionate towards him, but he still feels like people are staring at them, drawing conclusions. He knows he's being paranoid, but he can't deny the turning of his stomach or the racing of his heart.

But when he looks over at Eliott, he looks like he doesn't have a care in the world. He's scanning the crowd with a small smile on his face, and he has a bounce in his step that Lucas can't keep up with. Eliott has always been more easygoing than Lucas, but the fact that he doesn't seem worried at all is frankly confusing to Lucas. With all these people around them, who knows who might notice something, and who knows who might get confrontational or even violent? 

"There's a lot of people here, Eliott," Lucas says, trying to give him a hint that he's uncomfortable. "Maybe we should go home."

"No, not yet," Eliott replies, looking over at Lucas. "There's one more shop I want you to see. They have these clothes that would look great on you. I just need to remember where it is."

"You don't know where it is?" Lucas asks, his worry starting to grow.

"I have a vague idea," Eliott reassures him, though the effort falls flat.

"Do you at least remember what it's called?" Lucas tries, starting to fidget. He clasps one hand over the other, squeezing tightly.

"I'll know it when I see it, Lucas," Eliott responds, chuckling. He points ahead of them at a corner. "I'm pretty sure it's just around there. Don't worry, mon amour."

"Don't call me that here," Lucas almost hisses, trying to keep his voice down. "There's too many people."

"It's okay, Lu," Eliott says again, emphasizing every syllable. "Everything's okay."

They turn the corner, and there seems to be significantly fewer people in this part of town. Lucas feels himself relax a little, let out a sigh of relief.

"See?" Eliott smiles. "Everything's okay."

"Everything's okay," Lucas repeats, nodding and managing a smile.

"I can see it!" Eliott grins, starting to jog down the street.

"Eliott, slow down!" Lucas calls after him, laughing.

Eliott stops by a shop halfway down the street, holding the door open. Lucas slows down, quickly trying to catch his breath. He smiles and nods at Eliott then enters the store. His mouth drops open as he sees displays of shirts with outrageous patterns and pants in colors Lucas never thought should be worn on people's bodies. He chuckles, looking back at Eliott over his shoulder. "I would look great in these?" he asks, waving his arm vaguely at the clothes.

"I know it's a little gaudy," Eliott shrugs, smiling almost bashfully. "But there's some things here I think you'll really like. Just give it a chance. It might surprise you."

Lucas sighs, nodding. "Okay. Lead the way, I guess." 

Eliott grins, bounding over to the first rack of clothes he sees. He scans through them, occasionally looking up at Lucas then back down at a piece of clothing. The first thing he pulls out is a navy blue shirt with a red and green paisley pattern that makes Lucas bite his lip to keep from laughing. Eliott notices, though, tilting his head to the side.

"What's wrong with it?" Eliott asks, holding it up to Lucas's chest. "I think it would look really good on you. It's blue, so it'll make your eyes look even prettier."

"I'll have to try it on," Lucas shrugs, chuckling. He feels a blush burning in his cheeks. "We could have a little fashion show in my room when we get back."

Eliott's eyes light up, and his grin spreads even wider on his face. "I love that idea. So, you'll give it a shot?"

"I'll give it a shot," Lucas agrees, nodding. 

Eliott jumps, his eyes sparkling and squinting. Lucas grins, too, his heart warming again. The old Eliott is coming back. He's standing in front of him, smiling so hard Lucas feels his own cheeks hurt. The old Eliott is coming back!

Eliott shows him several shirts and pants and shorts that he would never wear in a million years, but they all make Eliott smile, so Lucas agrees to them. He doesn't know when something else might happen to take his smile away. He wants that smile to stay on Eliott's face as long as it can, and if he can help it stay, he'll do whatever he can to do so. 

"Lucas!" Eliott gasps, pulling two things off the rack. They're two blue and white striped two-piece sets, a button-up shirt and shorts. One looks like Lucas's size and one looks like Eliott's size. "We could match!" he proposes, grinning like an idiot while he waits for Lucas's response.

Lucas, unfortunately, is speechless. He lets out a laugh, shrugging. Dumbly, he replies, "I love it."

"Perfect!" Eliott almost squeals, adding them to the stack of clothes he's carrying in his other arm.

"Hey, Eliott," Lucas says, noticing him struggling with the weight. "We should probably go ahead and check out. I mean, do you even have the money for all this stuff?"

"Of course I do," Eliott replies, adjusting his stack. "I promised I'd buy you anything you wanted. And this is getting pretty heavy."

"Here, I'll take it," Lucas offers, giving Eliott a smile. Eliott smiles back at him, carefully placing the stack in his arms. Lucas stumbles a little, huffing. "Yeah, let's go."

Eliott giggles as he helps Lucas to the register, the clothes clattering loudly on the counter.

"So sorry," Lucas apologizes, breathless. 

"Oh, don't worry," the cashier replies, whose nametag says 'Lucille.' She has short, brown hair and kind eyes, maybe only a year or two older than them. "I end up buying too many clothes here, too, and I work here," she adds with a smile. "So, I completely understand."

As she rings up their items, Lucas looks over and sees Eliott pulling out a large bundle of money from his pocket. His eyes widen as he sees him pull out 10 and 20 franc notes and hand them to Lucille. 

"Here's your change," she smiles, placing notes and coins in his hand. "Thank you so much for shopping with us!"

Eliott waves her a quick goodbye as he takes their bag of clothes. Lucas waves goodbye, too, then rushes to catch back up with Eliott.

"Where'd you get all that money, Eliott?" he asks, trying to keep his voice down.

"Maman," Eliott replies a little too quickly.

"She has that much money lying around?" Lucas questions, his brow furrowing. 

"We have a jar at home," Eliott answers, his words almost stumbling over each other. "We put money it to have just in case something happens. And I promised you I would buy you anything you wanted, so I took some money from it for today."

"Does your maman know?" he presses, hoping he'll get the answer he wants.

"Of course she does," Eliott confirms, shrugging. "I'll put whatever I have leftover back in the jar. Everything's okay. Right?"

Lucas nods, unconvinced. "Right."

"Good," Eliott nods. "Let's get home."

Lucas sighs as an uneasiness he can't ignore settles beneath his skin. Still, he walks beside Eliott. They walk down the same road they raced on this morning and countless times throughout the years. They don't talk very much, but Lucas keeps catching Eliott staring at him. He blushes, like always, but his unease gets worse every time.

"You're beautiful, Lucas," Eliott says at one point, smiling sweetly. "You know that?"

Lucas lets himself smile. "You tell me all the time," he chuckles, shrugging.

"I mean it," Eliott replies, his voice soft but confident. "You... You seemed a little upset so I thought I would tell you."

"I'm not upset," Lucas shakes his head, sighing. "All the money freaked me out I guess."

"You didn't think I stole it, did you?" Eliott asks quietly, his brow furrowed.

"No, no," Lucas answers quickly. "No, but... I wasn't really thinking anything, I... I don't know."

"No, it's okay, Lucas," Eliott dismisses, smiling weakly. "Just know that I didn't rob a bank or anything, okay?"

"I know," Lucas smiles back, nodding. Silence passes, and Lucas's smile widens as he has an idea to make Eliott smile a little wider, too. "Am I the most beautiful person you've ever seen?"

Lucas's plan works. Eliott chuckles, nodding. "Yes, Lucas. You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen."

"More beautiful than Yann?" Lucas teases. "Arthur? Idriss? Sofiane?"

"Yes, Lucas," Eliott laughs. "More beautiful than Yann, Arthur, Idriss, and Sofiane."

"What about the girls?" Lucas presses, Eliott's smile widening even more.

"You're more beautiful than all of them, too," Eliott nods. "You're the man of my dreams."

Lucas feels his cheeks get red hot. "What was that?"

Eliott stops, holding Lucas's face in his hands. "You're the man of my dreams, Lucas Lallemant," he repeats, his voice spilling like honey.

Lucas kisses him as he says his name, his worry beginning to melt away. "You're pretty great, too, Eliott Demaury," Lucas smirks once they pull away.

Eliott rolls his eyes, putting his arm around Lucas. Lucas nuzzles his face into Eliott's neck, breathing him in as they walk down the last stretch of street before their houses. 

"Maman isn't home," Lucas says as he looks up, noticing her car isn't in the driveway. "Maybe she's getting groceries."

"Do you wanna wait until she gets back to try on all your new clothes?" Eliott asks, gently shaking the bag from the store.

"I think so, actually," Lucas nods. "But we can try on our matching outfits if you want." 

"Yes!" Eliott grins, nodding eagerly. He starts running down the driveway, dragging Lucas behind him. Lucas yelps at the yank on his arm, but dissolves into chuckles. 

"Someone's excited," Lucas comments teasingly as they enter through the front door. His words are cut off as he's pushed against the wall and Eliott's lips are suddenly on his. He hears the bag crash onto the floor as he kisses Eliott back, weaving his hands into his hair. He giggles as they break for a moment. "Very excited," he breathes, grinning.

Eliott picks up the bag and Lucas takes his hand, guiding him to his room. He shuts the door behind them just in case, leaning against it and breathing out a content sigh. He looks over at Eliott, who's sitting on his bed, and their eyes meet. Eliott grins, his head tilting ever so slightly. Lucas grins back, walking over to him. He looks in the bag and pulls out their matching outfits, unable to hold back his laugh this time. It's adorable, really, and Lucas never thought he would buy matching outfits with his boyfriend, especially when his boyfriend ends up being his best friend.

Eliott laughs, too, grabbing his outfit from Lucas's hand. "We'll wear this on our wedding day."

Lucas smiles, remembering their conversation from this morning. "Will the wedding be in Giverny, too?"

Eliott nods vigorously. "It'll be at midnight, when the moon is all silvery on the water. It'll just be the two of us. And the officiant, of course."

Lucas sits by Eliott on the bed, starting to blush again. "Who'll officiate?"  he asks, waiting to cling onto every word of Eliott's answer.

"For some reason, in my head, I see the girl at the register," Eliott replies, almost giggling. "Because if she didn't say anything when we bought these, I'm sure she won't mind marrying us. What was her name? Lucy?"

"Lucille, I think," Lucas corrects, then shrugs. "You were close, though."

"Lucille will officiate," Eliott nods, starting to fidget with stray strands of Lucas's hair. "I can see us kissing as husbands until the sun rises and people see us."

"What do they do?" Lucas asks, the thought starting to wipe the smile off of his face. "When they see us?"

"See, they get outrageously jealous because they know they'll never have a love like ours," Eliott answers, a shine Lucas doesn't recognize filling his eyes. "They'll never break into every parallel universe and fill all of them with their love like we do. So, they come at us with pitchforks and torches and chase after us, cursing our names and the love we have and spitting on us until we're soaking wet. But, we get away. We outrun them because we're so much stronger than them. They're sweating buckets and they can't quite catch their breaths, but we're fine. We barely broke a sweat and breathing is easier than it has been before. We look over our shoulders as we keep running, and we smile."

Lucas isn't sure how to respond. If Eliott's words were stumbling over each other before, they're bleeding into each other now. They're a thousand colors mixing until they form a brown, muddy puddle, until they're almost indecipherable as distinct sentences and thoughts. He's never really heard Eliott talk like this before. Like he would explode if he didn't get all his words out. He manages a smile, shrugging dumbly. "What do we do after that?" he asks weakly.

"We keep running," Eliott replies, as if it were obvious. "What if all those people start chasing us again? Are we supposed to wait there like sitting ducks, only running again when they're right on our tails? No. We keep running. We're holding each other's hands like we always do, and we push each other forward. If we run faster, we could move the whole earth until it's night again and we can hide like we did on our wedding night. We can't hide in the dark forever, but we have each other, and we'll have each other forever, and that's enough. That's more than enough. In fact, as we keep running every morning, and as we keep hiding every night, we don't need water and food to survive anymore. We just need each other. That's all we need to survive. That's all we need to keep our hearts beating. And we run faster and faster until every grain of soil in the world has kissed our feet, until we've traveled the whole world. Before we know it, the whole world is whispering about Lucas and Eliott. They call us something cheesy and cliched like the Fleet-footed Lovers or something, but we don't mind. They talk about how they want a love as powerful as ours. They go around looking for their other Fleet-footed Lover. People propose using those words. 'Will you be my Fleet-footed Lover?' The whole world will know about us, Lucas. And they won't care that we're two boys in love. We'll make all of them realize that the love between two boys is even more powerful than a love between a boy and a girl. We'll change the world, mon amour. We'll build a new one with our feet, with our clasped hands, and as people have babies and raise them, they'll tell them about the Creators. They'll talk about us. Lucas and Eliott. The Fleet-footed Lovers. We'll create a whole new world, and it'll ripple through all of our parallel universes. We will do this. We will."

Lucas almost doesn't recognize Eliott. Everything about him is wide. His grin, his too bright eyes, his hair pointing frantically in every direction. He's a hole, opening up and looking to swallow up whatever gets too close to him. He's gaping, yawning, his chest a cavern Lucas feels too anxious to traverse alone. His words, his illusions of grandeur were enough to send all the dissipated worry back into the pit of Lucas's stomach, but this face, this body in front of him makes it sink even further, nearly reaching his toes. Lucas feels his mouth go dry, feels his throat close up. 

"Wh-what about our cottage?" he chokes out, taking Eliott's hand in his. "What about painting all day and holding each other all night? Can we not do that anymore? Are we too busy becoming these epic, legendary lovers?"

"No, we'll still do all those things, mon amour," Eliott smiles reassuringly, using his free hand to cradle Lucas's face. "Once we change the world. Once it's ours. We'll have our cottage. We'll have all our paintings and art supplies. We'll have our bed. We'll still only need each other to survive. In fact, we'll live. Live unlike anyone else has before. We'll be the first of many things, the fathers of many things. I know we will."

Lucas musters a smile, leaning into Eliott's touch and closing his eyes. He remembers all the time he used Eliott's touch to ground himself, only to realize now that he's trying to use his own touch to ground Eliott. He places his other hand on top of Eliott's, running his thumb over the back of his hand. He hears something inside him say, wherever you are, come back to me. His chest tightens at the idea of thinking such a thing, and the idea that right now the answer to his prayer is all he wants.

"Hey," Eliott says softly, Lucas opening his eyes slowly. "Maybe we can start by trying these outfits on?" 

Lucas nods, barely widening his smile. He waits for Eliott to climb out of bed before doing the same. He watches him carefully, as much as he hates to admit it, noticing how all his muscles seem to be wrapped around a spring, how his feet seem to just know that they can fly so they try to help him take off. He noticed all these things before, but not in the way he does now. Maybe that should've been some sort of warning sign, a red flag. He takes a deep breath and gets off his bed, starting to take off his clothes. He notices Eliott is stripped down to his boxers and has his back turned, so he takes a step toward him.

"No, Lu, you can't look at me yet," Eliott says just over his shoulder. "Turn around and let me know when you're changed, okay?"

Lucas obeys, facing his window. "Okay." He takes off his shirt and shorts, trying to get changed as quickly as he can. He tries to watch the waves, though they're fairly distant from his window. They're calm, breathing slowly against the shore. He tries to match his breathing to theirs as he works up the courage to tell Eliott to turn around. In, out. In, out.

"Turn around," he manages to say, turning around himself. 

Eliott's eyes light up even more as he laughs delightedly. "You look amazing, mon amour!" he grins, his eyes scanning his body. The outfit suits Eliott really well, too, but it doesn't make Lucas smile like it probably would have under different circumstances. Eliott takes a step forward and pulls Lucas close, kissing him.

Lucas tries not to seem hesitant as he kisses him back, muttering against his lips, "You look amazing, too, my love."

"Not as amazing as you," Eliott counters, deepening the kiss. Lucas stumbles a bit, but Eliott helps him regain his balance. Lucas opens his eyes, noticing that Eliott is looking out his window. "We should go swimming," Eliott smiles, looking over at Lucas. "The sun isn't going down anytime soon. We have time."

Lucas bites his lip, his worry turning his stomach. He doesn't think it's a good idea, though he can't explain why. He tries to think of some sort of excuse, hopefully one that will convince Eliott to stay here in his room. He shrugs, fidgets with the collar of Eliott's shirt. "I don't know," he starts, trying to make his lie as smooth and believable as possible. "It's been a long day, I'm pretty tired. I don't feel like swimming."

"Come on, Lucas," Eliott encourages, taking his face in his hands. "It's beautiful outside, and the sea is calm. It's a perfect day for swimming!"

"I don't know, Ellie," he replies, dumbly. "We can swim another day, can't we? We could go tomorrow. I'd rather stay here with you and kiss you and let you hold me."

"We'll do all that later, Lucas," Eliott shakes his head. "Remember what we agreed to? We'll relax when the sun goes down."

Lucas nods, but doesn't know how to respond. Eliott tilts his head so he's looking up at him.

"Would it make you feel better if I said we'll only stay out there for a few minutes?" Eliott asks, moving his hand to caress Lucas's cheek. "How about thirty minutes?"

Lucas sighs deeply, unconvinced but knowing that Eliott is persistent right now. He nods reluctantly, forcing a smile. "Okay."

Eliott grins, kissing Lucas again deeply. "Let's go!" he says once he pulls away. He takes Lucas's hand and leads him out of his room, out of his house, and down towards the beach. Occasionally, Eliott will look at Lucas over his shoulder, and every time Lucas loses another piece of recognition. Every time, it gets a little harder for Lucas to fake his smile. Every time, he feels a little more strongly that he needs to let go of Eliott's hand. Every time, his worry and his dread tighten his stomach and his chest, send bits of ice into his bloodstream. Every time, Lucas finds himself more and more lost in some strange cosmos. 

As they reach the shore, Eliott sweeps Lucas off his feet, carrying him into the water as if he were his bride. Lucas starts panicking, but before he can find words to say, Eliott throws him in the water. He resurfaces quickly, spitting out water and trying to catch his breath. He hears Eliott laughing, and when his eyes clear, he sees him doubled over. A strange sense of betrayal fills him, a despondence. The waves gently lap against him trying to push him towards Eliott, but he feels frozen. 

"Ça va, mon amour?" Eliott asks, his voice rising above the lull of the waves. 

"Ça va?" Lucas replies, confusing Eliott.

"What do you mean?" he asks, tilting his head. 

"Ça va?" Lucas repeats, taking a careful step towards Eliott. 

"Ça va," Eliott answers, nodding. He chuckles, shrugging. "Why wouldn't I be well when I'm with you?"

"You're not yourself, my love," Lucas says quietly, afraid of Eliott's reply but unable to hold back his tongue. 

"Of course I'm myself," Eliott shakes his head, scoffing. "Who else could I be?"

"I don't know," Lucas admits, shrugging helplessly. "You're different."

"Are you still upset about the money?" Eliott asks, his brow furrowed. "I told you, I—"

"It's not the money, Eliott," Lucas sighs, shaking his head. "Did you hear yourself in my room just now? Rambling about how we'll change the entire fabric of our world as we know it?

"We will, don't you think?" Eliott replies, taking Lucas's hands.

"By running until our feet bleed?" Lucas asks, his voice rising. "The world isn't ready to see us yet, and I'm not ready to run yet, either. Maybe at some point I will, but not now, my love."

"I never said we had to run now," Eliott shrugs, laughing. "I never said we had to get married in Giverny tomorrow. I never said you needed to rush and do something you're not ready for."

Lucas sighs, closing his eyes. He feels Eliott envelop him in his arms, feels his warm lips against his forehead. It doesn't ease his mind, nor his stomach or his chest. It doesn't do anything. 

"I want to go home," Lucas whispers, suddenly on the verge of tears. "I want you to hold me like this in my bed."

"Okay," Eliott whispers back. "Before we go, can I kiss you?"

Lucas nods weakly, letting Eliott gently push him away while he waits for their lips to meet each other once again. Eliott kisses him, slowly and softly, just the way he needs it. It eases everything—just a little, but enough. 

"I'll take you home now,   mon amour," Eliott whispers, smiling against Lucas's lips.

"Merci," Lucas breathes, kissing Eliott quickly.

He feels Eliott take his hand and gently guide him forward. He keeps his eyes closed, tries to focus on the memory of Eliott's lips on his.

From behind him, he hears a wave, large and roaring. He opens his eyes then, looking over his shoulder. It's approaching them rapidly, growing taller and taller until it starts to tower over them. Lucas's heart nearly stops, and his feet are planted to the sand below. He feels Eliott's hand slip away from his, hears him stumble and ripple the water. Before Lucas can start running, the wave crashes over him, pulling him in all directions until he's too disoriented to swim back up. He sees wave after wave crash just above him, all of them merciless and pushing him further and further down.

Once, just once, there's a gap between the waves, and Lucas breaks through, finally breathing air. With the one gulp he gets, he cries Eliott's name.

Another wave crashes over him, and another, and another, forcing him down and under and down and under.

Lucas drowns.

july 20th, 1966

16:22

caen, france

~

Eliott stumbles forward, tripping on the muddy sand beneath him. He hears a wave crash behind him, and he feels it spray lightly against his back. He isn't holding Lucas's hand anymore. He whirls around, but Lucas is nowhere to be seen. 

"Lucas!" he calls, panic edging into his voice. He scans the water, waiting for him to stand back up and return to the shore. But he doesn't.

"Eliott!"  

Lucas's voice is strangled, desperate, a bloodcurdling cry. His hand is just visible as it reaches up into the air. His voice and his hand are drowned out by the sound of the waves; the crashing, the frothing.  Lucas is drowned out by the waves, burying him and pushing him deeper and deeper into the water.

Eliott's heartbeat lurches to a stop as he stands there, helpless, waiting for Lucas to resurface. Wave after wave crashes by, growing and breathing and looming before him. He can't see Lucas anywhere.

"Lucas!"   Eliott cries at the top of his lungs, swimming desperately towards where he last saw him. He beats back against the waves beating against him, his muscles becoming sore and salt filling his mouth and stinging his eyes. He spits out water, blinks it away, pushes past the burn exploding all over his body. One thought fills his mind, his heart.

I need to get to Lucas.

He keeps swimming, looking for Lucas, breaking through every wave that gets in his way.

Lucas's name fills him, becoming louder, stronger than all his aching muscles, his aching lungs. 

I need to get to Lucas.

It feels like an eternity has passed when Eliott spots something in the water—a flash of golden skin, a wet mess of brown hair. Eliott's heart skips a beat, and he's filled with a new strength. He swims as hard and as quickly as he can, finally,  finally reaching Lucas. He tries his best to tread water as he gathers Lucas in his arms. His eyes are closed, but Eliott doesn't have time to try and wake him up. He quickly positions Lucas on his back, trying his best to keep him secure.

He lets the waves push him forward, closer and closer to shore. He focuses on keeping his grip on Lucas, keeping them both afloat. He sighs in relief when he feels his feet touch the ocean floor, trudging through the muddy sand with trembling but desperate and hopeful legs. He keeps walking until the sand becomes dry, until the waves are just noises behind them.

Eliott falls to his knees, the exhaustion finally weighing on him. He repositions Lucas to where he's cradling him in his arms. 

"Lucas? Lucas," Eliott stammers, breathless. "Can you hear me? Open your eyes."

Eliott doesn't think he heard him. His eyes stay closed. Eliott places a hand on Lucas's cheek, but he doesn't lean into his touch. He tries to push his hand gently against Lucas's face, but his head lolls to the other side. He runs his thumb down his cheekbone and along his jaw, and he can feel his cool skin growing colder by the second. Realization socks Eliott in the jaw. Familiarity lingers, spreading to all his limbs and traveling across every synapse in his brain. 

"Lucas," Eliott tries again, unable to hide the fear bleeding into his voice. "Lucas, please. Can you hear me?"

Eliott rests his forehead against Lucas's, rubs their noses together, desperately kisses him. Still no response. Eliott shakes his head, pure panic flooding over him.

"No..." Eliott chokes out, his hand drifting down to Lucas's chest. It's not rising or falling, and despite all his searching, he can't find Lucas's heartbeat. He looks up at Lucas's face again, and he can  see the color draining from it. He looks the same way his father did. Ghostly, almost not real. A shadow, a small flicker of light that's out of focus. "Not you. Not you, too. Not you. Not you. Not you, please."

Tears start running down his cheeks as he lays Lucas down on the sand. His brain turns off, and he feels as if he's watching himself press down on Lucas's chest with all his weight, watching himself breathe as much air into his lungs as he can. He begs Lucas to wake up and open his eyes and  live  , begs his lungs to open and empty and  fill  , begs his heart to stir and drum and  beat . He begs the love of his life not to die, not to leave him, not to be lost to the waves. His desperation is stronger, growing out of his body and reaching out to anyone that could help him.

Another eternity passes by of Eliott nearly crushing Lucas's still, hollow chest, of Eliott feeling Lucas's cold, silent lips against his. There's been an ache pooling down his arms, and he can't ignore the strain anymore, nor the pangs in his lungs. As he goes to give Lucas more rescue breaths, his arms buckle and he collapses just on top of Lucas. He rests his forehead against his, exhausted. He exhales deeply, Lucas's name spilling out of his trembling mouth and falling on deaf ears. He takes Lucas's face in both of his hands and musters another mite of strength, giving him as many more rescue breaths as he can manage.

Eliott pulls away after he gives the last breath he possibly can, his eyes closing. There's only silence for a fraction of a moment, but it spreads and stretches itself out, looking to every other moment in time for direction, for answers. It searches and searches, its body swelling and close to bursting. As it takes its last breath, Eliott's heart whimpers, whispers to it,  begging .

Please. Please let it be enough to save him.

Eliott's eyes fly open when he hears Lucas choking, coughing. He sits up, quickly turning Lucas onto his side. New rivers of tears stream down his face as he hears Lucas take labored gulps of breath, sees his chest rising and falling again. His heart swells as he hears Lucas breathing more easily, the hoarse, shallow breaths becoming deeper, fuller.

"Eliott..." Lucas mumbles after a moment, his voice weak.

A sob rips from Eliott's throat as he pulls Lucas close and clings to him. "I'm here,  mon amour  ," he whispers in his ear. He peppers his face with kisses, threads his fingers through his hair. "  You're here," Eliott breathes, joy bubbling from his chest with a giddy giggle. 

"I'm here," Lucas rasps. Eliott can feel him smiling feebly. He sighs, and his breath tingles down Eliott's neck. It's enough to make Eliott feel like he could explode from sheer relief. Lucas is  breathing again. He can feel their chests breathing together, and he can just barely feel Lucas's heart murmuring there, too. It's slow, weak, but it's there. It'll gain strength every day. It'll heal. Maybe it'll love even more than it has before.

"I'm so happy you're here,  mon amour ," Eliott sighs, kissing Lucas's forehead. "I'm so happy you're okay."

july 20th, 1966

23:32

caen, france

~

Eliott can't sit still as he sits outside Lucas's hospital room, waiting for the doctor to finish more tests. He hasn't seen him since they arrived at the hospital. They were separated almost immediately, Lucas being taken to a room to have his vitals taken and some initial tests being performed. Eliott was told to stay in the lobby, where someone placed a warm, soft blanket around him and a nurse kindly guided him as he recalled what happened to Lucas. It's been nearly seven hours, which another nurse told him is a potential turning point for drowning victims. They either stay stable because they were able to get adequate life support, or they start taking a turn for the worst. They won't let Eliott see him until they're sure that the former happens, or that they'll be able to get him stable if it's the latter. 

As time has gone on, the relief and joy Eliott felt initially has faded. He may have been able to bring Lucas back, but now they're waiting helplessly for something to go wrong, desperately hoping for some miraculous recovery. Eliott can't stomach the thought that he might've brought Lucas back only for him to suffer even more for hours and reach the same fate he did before. Yet it still circles his mind, tangling on itself before it forms a knot that squeezes his brain tight. 

Suddenly, the door opens and Eliott rises to his feet, anxiety blooming in his stomach. The doctor comes out, stopping in front of Eliott.

"He's stable," he reports. "We think you got to him sooner than you thought. We'll keep him here overnight, just in case, and we'll keep him on oxygen and fluids until he has his strength back up. He should be well enough to be released by tomorrow evening at the latest. I'm almost tempted to call this a miracle."

Eliott sighs in relief, nodding.

"Would you like to see him?" the doctor asks with an inviting smile. "He's been asking for you all night." 

Eliott grins, his heart warming. "Yes, please," he laughs. "I can't thank you enough."

"There's no need," the doctor smiles. He claps his hand on Eliott's shoulder, then walks down the hallway. 

Eliott takes a deep breath as he enters Lucas's room, unable to hold back his grin when he finally sees him. 

Lucas has a ventilator mask on his face, but it can't hide his smile when he sees Eliott. He weakly holds out his hand, and Eliott bounds over to him, giving as good of a hug as he can. 

"I was so worried," Eliott whispers, kissing Lucas's ear. 

"I know," Lucas whispers back feebly. Then he says, a little louder, "Come here, Maman." 

"No, it's okay," she replies. Eliott looks back and sees her in the corner. She's smiling but there's this deep  sadness in her eyes, shining and dark. It strikes Eliott deep in his chest somehow, filling him with even more guilt than he had before. She nods, forcing a smile. "I'll leave you two alone." 

"Maman," Lucas starts, his voice dying in his throat as she leaves the room. 

"Does she know?" Lucas asks quietly after a moment. 

"I didn't have the heart to tell her," Eliott replies. "But, earlier, they asked me about the bruises on your chest and your rib. So, they must've asked her, too."

Lucas sighs shakily, closing his eyes. 

"I'm sorry," Eliott chokes out. "I didn't know how to say it."

"It's okay," Lucas replies, shaking his head. "I'm... worried."

Eliott doesn't know what to say. He's frozen by his guilt, consumed by his anxiety. He watches Lucas, listens to him breathe. He looks at Eliott, then, his eyes bleary and unreadable.

"Lie with me, Eliott," he whispers, his voice strained. He holds out his hand weakly again, and Eliott feels tears filling his eyes. But, he carefully climbs into the bed with Lucas, resting his head on his chest. The fabric of his gown is warm but rough and thin, and Eliott can just barely see Lucas's bruises through it. They're a greenish brown, and the color creeps across his skin in thin lines, like veins.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" Eliott asks, lifting his head a bit.

"No," Lucas mumbles. "Painkillers are working."

Eliott sighs in relief, setting his back down. He closes his eyes and listens closely, carefully Lucas's heartbeat is a little stronger, but still hard to hear. His breathing is slow, deep, still shaky. Eliott thinks he hears Lucas's blood humming through his veins, too. The more he listens, the more he remembers the way Lucas's chest used to sound, and the more he realizes Lucas shouldn't be here right now. He never should've made Lucas go to the beach with him. He should've let Lucas stay home because he was tired. Lucas's lungs should never have filled with seawater, and his eyes should never have closed, and his heart should never have stopped beating. It doesn't matter that Lucas is alive again. He never should've died in the first place. He never should've been a breath away from heaven.

The more he listens, the more he realizes that this is all his fault. He remembers over and over Lucas's hand slipping out of his grasp. The moment everything went wrong. 

"Lucas," Eliott begins, taking a deep breath before he continues, gathering the courage he needs to ask the question and hear the answer. "What did dying feel like?"

Lucas doesn't reply at first. He inhales sharply, exhales shakily. His hand drifts lazily through Eliott's hair for a moment, tugging gently. "Awful," he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Painful. Horrifying. Dark. All I could do... was think about you. And Maman. The last time I said I love you. The last time I said goodbye."

Eliott doesn't respond quickly, either. The guilt deepens, darkens.

"It would've killed Maman," Lucas continues, tears rolling down his cheeks. "It's killing her..." he trails off as he starts coughing, gasping for air.

Eliott sits up, panicked, pressing the ventilator mask against Lucas's face. "Breathe, Lucas, breathe," he begs. "Breathe, please."

Lucas squeezes his eyes shut, trying to breathe as slowly and deeply as he can. His chest starts to rise and fall much more steadily after a moment, but there are still tears rolling down his cheeks. Eliott wipes them away gently, fighting back his own tears.

"Maman," Lucas sniffles, his voice so hoarse Eliott doesn't recognize it.

"Don't talk, Lucas," Eliott says, trying to keep his voice steady and kind. "You'll strain yourself. You need to focus on breathing right now, okay? Just breathe. You're  alive  , Lucas. You're okay. Your maman will be okay. She loves you  so much, Lucas. You're her baby boy, remember?"

Lucas nods, trying his best to smile. 

"She has her baby boy back," Eliott continues, managing a smile. "She just has to deal with the fact that she almost lost you. She's grieving, right now. I'm grieving, too. But everything will be okay. You're getting better. You're getting stronger. You'll be good as new soon. We all need time to heal, you especially."

"I love you, Ellie," Lucas smiles weakly, gently caressing Eliott's cheek. His eyes start to droop. He mumbles quietly, "I'm tired."

"I love you, too, Lulu," Eliott returns, kissing the palm of Lucas's hand. "Get some sleep."

"Goodnight," Lucas whispers, closing his eyes. Eliott moves Lucas's hand from his cheek and places it on his stomach. He rests his head on Lucas's chest again, listening to the weak trickle of his heartbeat. He waits until he feels Lucas's breaths even out. He looks up and sees Lucas's beautiful, sleeping face. Most of the color has returned, and his eyelids are fluttering ever so slightly. He's the most beautiful person Eliott's ever seen, and he's been able to call him his. But he held Lucas's hand and led him to his death, letting him go and leaving him to his own devices when the waves came. He let Lucas die. He breathed life into him again, but that didn't change the fact that his hand is the one that held Lucas by his throat and  squeezed until his body went limp. It wasn't the water. It wasn't the waves. It was Eliott.

Awful. Painful. Horrifying. Dark.

My fault.

He needs to leave. He needs to go home. He'll call his Maman. Or maybe Madame Lallemant could take him home. He just needs to leave. He can't look at Lucas a minute longer without feeling like he could explode.

He carefully climbs out of Lucas's bed, but thankfully he doesn't stir. Before he leaves, he kisses Lucas's forehead. His lips linger for a moment, feeling warmth there,  life . He smells the sea salt lingering in Lucas's hair, his skin, sighing as he pulls away. He gently cradles Lucas's face in his hand. Lucas smiles, but doesn't wake.

"I'm so sorry,  mon amour ," Eliott whispers feebly, his voice thick with tears. "I'm so sorry."

july 22nd, 1966

04:09

caen, france

~

Everything is cold. The tears on Eliott's cheeks, the rough, wooden floor against his cheek, the air around him, the blood coursing through his veins. He can't even remember what warmth feels like. No, warmth feels like Lucas's touch, sounds like Lucas's voice, tastes like Lucas's lips. But he doesn't deserve warmth anymore. Lucas gave it to him so selflessly, so kindly, so tenderly. All Eliott has ever done is hurt him. He's the cold to Lucas's warmth, the ice to his fire. He's no good for him. He'll only hold Lucas back, keep him cool when he needs to burn bright and faithful. 

They've been best friends their whole lives. They've loved each other their whole lives. Why is it just now that Eliott is realizing that everything could've been a mistake? Why is it only now that he's realizing that something was wrong between them, something that doomed them from the start? 

You're not yourself, my love

"I'm not myself," Eliott mutters beneath his breath, singing along with the memory of Lucas's voice.

You're different

"I'm different."

Something's wrong. He'd taken the money from the jar without telling his mother that morning. He'd sneaked into her room and carefully taken it out, shoving it in his pocket and put the jar back. He'd lied to Lucas about it when he asked where he'd gotten the money. It was a half-truth, really, but the fact that he ever hid anything is wrong. The whole day, his heart beat so fast he couldn't keep up with it. He felt he had no other choice but to follow it. It told him to shower Lucas in love and attention and gifts. It told him that he feels good around Lucas so he should stay with him as long as he can. It was that same anxiety he felt at Christmas, but it fixated on Lucas because it eased whenever he was around. He should've known something was wrong, then, too. Falling in love with Lucas, filling a whole sketchbook with some romantic tale of them falling in love. The other day, he let himself ramble on about Giverny and running across the earth because that same anxiety was eating at him, so he entertained another fantasy. He keeps relying on figment, on Lucas, on what he considers safe, on what he holds dear. 

Then there's the few times when he's been so fatigued and despondent he can barely lift his head from his pillow. That dreary day in January, that long and gray month after his father died. Lucas knew something was terribly wrong in January. Why didn't Eliott know, too, deep down? And anyone would've been depressed after losing a parent, but Eliott legitimately never thought he would be happy again. He didn't eat. He only slept, hoping he would have good dreams so he would have something to hold onto and hope for. He barely spoke a word. He didn't draw. He didn't read. He didn't take pictures. He barely breathed. He barely did anything besides exist and hope that he's wrong and he'll find the strength to smile again. Lucas had warned him depression would kill him slowly, softly, as if it were lulling him to some eternal sleep he secretly longs for. He didn't listen. He read the words on the page, but he didn't take them to heart like he should have. He neglected Lucas. He neglected his mother. He neglected himself. But somehow, the depression eased only to send him off the deep end again, only this time, he was flying instead of sinking. No, he wasn't flying. He was falling. He was falling until he hit the water again and started to drown again.

Is this a cycle his mind is starting to subject himself to? Something's wrong. Something's wrong. He can't deny it anymore, but he doesn't know how to acknowledge and address it, either. What do you do when you're suddenly aware that a poison is entering your system, that a virus is plaguing you and you know that you'll never be able to find the antidote, the cure? Let yourself die?

Eliott's tears begin to dry. He sits up slowly, his mind calming and centering itself on a single memory.

Awful. Painful. Horrifying. Dark.

Eliott gets on his feet, a sense of calm washing over him. He walks over to his desk, sitting at his chair and pulling out two sheets of paper and a pen.

His hand is surprisingly steady as he writes two letters, two apologies. The words come to him as easily as breathing, as easily as a trickle of water down a stream. He folds both sheets of paper neatly, nearly perfectly. He takes them and leaves his room.

He enters his mother's room quietly, where she's sleeping soundly, peacefully in her bed. He leaves a letter with her name on it on her bedside table.

"Goodnight, Maman," he whispers. "Sweet dreams."

He walks down the stairs, and they thankfully don't creak. The front door doesn't groan against its hinges, either.

The grass is soft and quiet beneath his feet as he walks to Lucas's house. The moon is fading, beginning to hide her face. The stars are blinking out.

He approaches Lucas's window, hoping he can open it from the outside. He can barely see Lucas sleeping in his bed in the corner. Ever so carefully, the window opens, and he leaves Lucas's letter on his window sill. 

"Goodnight, mon amour," he whispers. "Sweet dreams."

He walks past the spot where the grass ends, down the white, pearly sand, stopping at the shore. The remnants of crashed waves lapping at his feet.

He takes a deep breath, and walks forward.

july 22nd, 1966

05:44

caen, france

~

Lucas wakes with a start, sharp pain erupting in his side as he sits up. He squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling slowly as he waits for the pain to pass. As he opens his eyes, he notices that his window is slightly open, and that there's a piece of paper resting there. He doesn't remember it being there before, and who would leave a letter on Lucas's window sill. Eliott? But Eliott knows that he can tap on Lucas's window if he needs him. A sense of dread he can't explain settles in his stomach, telling him to get out of bed and read the letter.

He takes another deep breath, bracing himself for the pain as he climbs out of bed. He manages to get to his window without much pain, but his dread intensifies with every step, morphing into unease then apprehension then anxiety. 

He picks it up and sees his name written in Eliott's handwriting. His heart starts to race as he unfolds it, as he sees the calm, neat handwriting etched onto the paper. He begins to read, silently praying that he's worrying about nothing. 

 My dearest Lucas,

I'm sorry I wasn't there when you were discharged from the hospital. Whenever I looked at you, all I could see was you when I pulled you to shore. I can't get your face out of my mind. All I can hear is your silence. And all I could think about was how this was all my fault. I could never express how much I regret everything that happened that day. I regret kissing you awake that morning and racing you down the street and buying you clothes and helping you brave the waves. I regret even waking up that morning. I should've just slept all day like I had been for a month, but for the first time since Papa died, I woke up and I wanted to face the day. And I wanted to face it with you. That was selfish of me. And you paid the price for it. You were completely innocent,  mon amour , but you were the one that suffered.

I can't stop thinking about what you said at the hospital the other night, when I asked you what dying felt like. I can't imagine it. It's a pain so few people can say they've felt, but  you  can, Lucas. And that kills me. You shouldn't know what the most permanent thing that a person can go through is like. Not when you're so young. Not when you had so much light in your eyes. But you did, and that's my fault. No one can deny that. When I get to heaven and I'm judged, God will tell me that I let you die and I'll be condemned for that. I deserve it. I deserve every punishment available to me. I don't deserve your forgiveness, though I hope that someday I'll be able to receive it. Maybe in some other life, some other universe.

I've loved you my whole life and yet it wasn't enough to stop me from hurting you. I've hurt everyone close to us. Our Mamans, our friends, everyone. The weight of what I've done is wearing on all of you, when it should only be my burden to carry. So, I'm taking that burden away. I'm letting the waves swallow me up. I'll know what you went through. I'll understand. I'll die and I'll never hurt you again. You can heal. You can start to breathe easier again and your heartbeat will become familiar to you again. My life is a small price to pay for yours. 

When you wake up, when you read this, I'll be sinking to the ocean floor. I'll be painting the ocean the same color as your eyes, and I'll be singing your name until it reaches the waves and they carry it, over and over until the ocean runs dry. I can't imagine doing anything else in my final moments.

I love you, Lucas. And thank you for loving me, too. 

  The letter flutters to the floor from Lucas's hand, its ruffling accompanying the fleeting of a thousand images in his mind. The weight of Eliott's body in his arms, the crack of his ribs as Lucas presses down on his chest, drops of water resting peacefully on his eyelashes, Lucas kissing him for the last time but his lips are cold and still, Madame Demaury screaming when she sees her son, Lucas's fingers hovering over piano keys at Eliott's funeral, a gravestone next to Monsieur Demaury's, thousands and thousands of flowers wilting there, thousands and thousands of tears dripping from Lucas's eyes. 

Lucas throws open his window and climbs out, ignoring his screaming rib and running as fast as he can to the shore. He remembers his own words, the ones that inspired Eliott to take his own life. Pain. Panic. Darkness. Eliott doesn't deserve to feel what Lucas felt. No one does. No one should ever experience something so horrible Lucas believes that a just God could never have designed it for every last one of His children. Eliott deserves it the least. It's not his fault. He never could've known that the water would darken and tremble and scream. It's not his fault. It never could've been and it never will be.

Lucas should have told him when he had the chance. His voice was weak and it hurt to talk, but he could've told Eliott somehow. It's not your fault, my love, please don't ever think that any of this was your fault.

The sun is about to rise, and the world is stained a light, hazy blue. Lucas can see a shadow in the distance, just barely, walking into the water. It has to be Eliott. It has to mean that Lucas isn't too late. It has to mean that he can save Eliott back. Lucas tries to run faster, but his pain is becoming too great to ignore and push through.

"Eliott!" he cries, hoping he can hear him. 

He's closer now, right on the edge where the sand is damp and crumbling. He can see Eliott, still walking forward. He can only see his head, and it's quickly disappearing. No. He can't be disappearing. He has to turn around and swim back. He has to come back to Lucas and Lucas has to hold him again. He can't drown. He can't die. He's just within Lucas's reach, but he's starting to slip through.

"ELIOTT!" Lucas screams, his voice echoing off the air, the water, the sky. His rib feels like it's shattered and he can't breathe anymore, but Eliott  turns around  . He starts running towards Lucas, letting the waves carry him forward until he's falling into his arms. Eliott's body shakes, his sobs come out in wheezes and hiccups, and Lucas holds him tightly, carefully guiding him away from the water.

"I'm so sorry," Eliott chokes out. "I'm so, so sorry."

Lucas doesn't think he can cry, even though his best friend was practically minutes away from death. He remembers all the tears Eliott cried when he woke up, all the kisses he left all over his face, how tightly he held him, but Lucas knows he can't react the same way. Something is stopping him, something that's stirring in his chest and closing his throat. Lucas feels himself begin to shake, too, so he holds Eliott a little tighter.

"You're safe now, my love," Lucas manages to say. "I'm here."

"Eliott?" Madame Demaury's voice calls out. Lucas looks over his shoulder and sees her running towards them. He must've woken her up when he called Eliott's name.

"Maman?" Eliott says quietly, pulling away. "Maman!"

Eliott starts running towards Madame Demaury, calling for her. Lucas watches him fall into her arms, watches her take his face in her hands and ask him what's wrong. She starts guiding him towards their car, leaving Lucas alone on the edge of the shore. That  something  he felt earlier starts swelling in his chest as he watches them drive away, and he finally has a name for it:  anger  . It's a boiling, a scorching, a burning in his throat and in his stomach.

Eliott just tried to kill himself. His only goodbye was a  note  that he left on Lucas's window. He thought his punishment for saving Lucas should be dying himself. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a son for a son. He thought he was committing some act of holy vengeance, divine justice. He thought taking himself away from all of them was the solution, the  only  solution that existed. He thought it was all his fault, but by killing himself, he would've shifted the blame to Lucas. He saved himself and he saved Lucas, but Lucas couldn't save Eliott. How could he ever consider letting Lucas live with that sort of guilt? How could he think he was lifting the weight off his shoulders when he would be adding his own dead weight instead? How could he be so  selfish  ? How could he lack such compassion, such love that they agreed that they shared? How could he leave Lucas in the dark, then thrust more of it on him? How could he leave so many words hanging in the air? Words that were said but never listened to, words that they can never say now? Words that Lucas wishes he could take back, words that he wishes he should've said more often. But it's too late. Eliott is gone. He doesn't know where Madame Demaury is taking Eliott, or what will happen to him now, but for Lucas, he's gone. Eliott left Lucas. It doesn't matter if he thought it was for the best, or if he thought he was doing it out of love and care for Lucas. His intentions didn't matter. His actions did. And he  abandoned  Lucas.

Maybe Lucas was always right. Him and Eliott were both born sinners, but they both had a chance to ignore their nature, to a live a pure and Christlike life. They both gave into their desires, listened to the voice chanting in their hearts and not the one whispering to their souls. They sinned, so they must be punished. Their worlds are imploding on themselves because God had warned them so many times about who they could be and what they could do, but they didn't listen. Maybe this is all a part of God's will. Maybe He's trying to keep them apart so they don't make the same mistakes over and over again. Maybe Lucas was supposed to die, but Eliott somehow managed to defy heaven and save him. Maybe God scrambled and decided Eliott needed to die, but Lucas has defied heaven now, too. Maybe whatever happens to them now is God's plan "C" and they don't need to meddle anymore. Maybe they need to let things be. Maybe Lucas is ready to let Eliott go.

Sunlight starts to peak from the horizon, golden and hazy. It's warm, soft, but it doesn't dampen his anger. He can't breathe. His chest feels like it's on fire. He swears he still feels Eliott's touch brushing against his skin, familiar but cold now. But he knows he feels guilt, knows that Eliott can never touch him that way again. Yet all his thoughts revolve around Eliott, and it makes him want to tear his brain out of his skull. Maybe that would be the only he could ever truly forget Eliott. He starts pulling on his hair, grinding his teeth. Hot, bitter tears pool in his eyes.

He rips open his throat, breaks open his chest, cracks open his skull and  screams  , his voice faltering as he crumbles to his knees. 

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

Sweltering

This is a request from a few months ago? Well technically two in one. Someone asked for Arthur and reader to go swimming and another asked for the same thing but with smut SOOOOOO

You swore that Hell itself had rolled through your little town overnight.

It was only 10 am, and even through the air conditioning of your house, the heat was sleeping through slowly. You sat at your kitchen table, munching on some cereal as you scanned the weather app on your phone. It was 86 degrees, and due to reach almost 100 by midafternoon. You sighed and put it down, knowing it would probably be best to stay in today.

“Somethin’ wrong, darlin’?”

You looked up at Arthur who sat across from you. “It’s gonna be hotter than Satan’s balls today,” you replied, “It’s just an expression.” You quickly added with a giggle, catching the look of confusion on his face.

He hummed in response, glancing out at the window. The sun shone through the blinds, streaming a golden light into the kitchen. “Good thing we ain’t out there then.” He chuckled slightly.

You nodded, finishing off your meal before standing up. Halfway across the kitchen, the steady hum of your air conditioner suddenly went short. You stopped in your tracks, listening to the now complete silence that surrounded you. ”Uh…”

“What?”

Your eyes first went for the microwave, searching for the bright green numbers on the screen. There were none. You turned and flipped the light switch experimentally, your gaze fixated on the bulb above. Nothing happened.

“Well,” you sighed. “There goes the power. Which means it’s gonna get hot in here real quick.”

Arthur leaned back in his chair and looked at you curiously. “So what now?”

You sighed in thought, wondering what the extent of this power outage was. Town-wide? County-wide? How soon would it come back on? Either way, you weren’t determined to sit around and find out. You scratched your head, contemplating on driving around town to see if any stores would be open to keep cool in. Perhaps the movies, even?

Grabbing your phone, you began to check your social media. Statuses began to appear, complaining about the recent outage. Apparently it was county wide, meaning you were shit out of luck for doing anything local. You groaned lightly and scrolled through some more absentmindedly, hoping for some other news, until something caught your eye. It was just a simple ad, one that you’d scrolled past dozens of times. A photo of an island beach with clear skies and crystal clear water against perfect white sand.

You hadn’t been to the beach in forever.

“Arthur,” you looked up from your phone. “How do you feel about going to the beach?”

--

In an attempt to beat the heat that slowly crept into your house, it didn’t take long for you to get ready. Although you spent at least ten minutes trying to dig your bathing suit from storage, silently cursing yourself that you hadn’t done it much earlier this year. After putting a light colored sundress overtop it, you began to pack other necessities. Towels, sunscreen, sandwich ingredients and drinks, the works.

Since you didn’t have swim trunks for Arthur, you planned on stopping by one of the surf shops to grab a pair. Once you had a tote bag and a cooler packed and ready to go, the two of you headed outside. Stepping outside was like diving into a blanket of fire, the heat pressing into you as you hurried to your car.

The initial drive wasn’t long; at least an hour. The scenery gradually changed, the mountains giving way to summer rental houses and corner shops. You passed by many boats being towed, cars with surfboards or kayaks on top. The sidewalks were littered with people in shorts and tank tops, excited kids already in swimsuits carrying buckets and shovels.

It was obvious that it would be busy today, to which you didn’t mind. You found a parking spot fairly close to the shoreline, although your first goal was to get Arthur his own swimsuit. Stepping out, you could smell the ocean in the warm breeze. You led him to the nearest shop, which was fairly busy. You managed to locate swim trunks, pointing them out to him so he could pick out a pair.

You noted the look of confusion on his face. Of course, swimsuits from his time were much different. He eventually pulled out a pair of dark blue trunks, which you promptly paid for and headed back out.

The walk from the shop to the shore took only five minutes, but you were sweating already. From the edge, you observed the huge crowd that already took up the majority of the beach. It certainly would be hard to find a spot, but that didn’t matter at the moment. Off to the side, a building with bathrooms caught your attention. The changing area.

Wandering over, you pointed Arthur to one of the changing stalls. As you waited, you peeled off your sundress. You were eager to get into the water and cool off.

Hearing the door open, you turned to see Arthur stepping out. He seemed a little shy, looking left and right before emerging entirely. God, you could never get tired of looking at that man’s torso. As soon as his gaze landed on you, his eyes widened.

Of course, this was his first time seeing a bikini.

“Jesus, Y/N. You’re practically naked!” he exclaimed.

You merely shrugged. “These are pretty common, don’t get yourself worked up.”

He mumbled something that you didn’t hear, and you began walking out into the sand. Up close it was easier to find a spot, placing yourself a small distance between other beachgoers. You could feel Arthur’s eyes on you as you set up the towels and umbrella.

Once you finished, you eagerly shook your sandals off and turned to face him. It’s as if the awe were permanently plastered on his face as he was poorly hiding it. “Arthur?” you said, catching his attention. “Arthur, you’ve seen me naked. And look around, most women are dressed like me. This isn’t a big deal.”

His cheeks flushed slightly, tearing his gaze from you as he rubbed his neck sheepishly. “M’ sorry, just ain’t used to…seein’ you like this in public. I’m from-”

“A different time, I know,” you huffed slightly. “Just ignore it, okay? We’re here to cool off and have fun,” you reached out for his hand. “Now, let’s get into the water!”

He looked at you again. “You go on n’ have fun. I’ll join ya in a bit…I’m hungry.” He added, noting the look you gave him.

“Alright, don’t take too long, cowboy.” you said, stretching up to kiss his cheek before stepping away and running to the water.

As you approached the water line, you stepped into an rolling creep of a wave. The cool water immediately felt so relaxing, washing up over your feet. Walking in closer, allowing yourself to become waist deep before diving in, engulfing yourself within an oncoming wave. The force pushed you back up to the surface. Taking a deep breath, you whipped your hair out of your face. The water felt so refreshing.

Continuing to swim around, diving into waves and floating atop them, you realized a little bit of time had passed and Arthur hadn’t joined you. You glanced out towards the sand, spotting him sitting underneath the umbrella. He didn’t seem to be eating like he said he would.

Frowning, you made your way back to the shallows and stepped back onto the sand. Dodging a pack of little kids, you approached him. He had his knees up, arms wrapped around them and looking uncomfortable. Upon seeing you, his expression changed. “Done already?” he asked.

You shook your head. “I’m wondering why you’re not joining me. And why you haven’t eaten yet.” You glanced toward the cooler that hadn’t changed position since your arrival.

“I…” he trailed off, shifting slightly in his spot. “I just…”

Your head tilted in curiosity, and you knelt down in front of him, feeling genuinely concerned. “It’s okay, you can tell me.”

He broke his gaze from you, although you could have sworn his eyes went straight for your cleavage beforehand. His cheeks bloomed pink. “It’s…kinda embarrassin’…” he murmured so quietly you had to strain to hear.

“What?” you asked, leaning a little closer to him.

His lips pursed, still keeping his head turned. “I, uh…” he huffed. “I-I have a problem…”

You stared. “Problem?” you repeated, unsure what he meant.

“You know…” he continued, giving you a side glance. “My-”

“Oh!” you exclaimed, a little too loudly. His flinch calmed you down. “Sorry,” you dropped your voice, shuddering with a small giggle. “Really?”

“It’s that damn swimsuit,” he said through gritted teeth. “I can’t help it…”

You couldn’t help but to giggle more. “Is that all? Why are you embarrassed about that?”

He gave a sigh of annoyance. “Cause I can’t get rid of it, Y/N. I try to think o’ somethin’ else, but nothin’ helps. All I see is you…in that godforsaken outfit.”

Oh, this poor man. More like a hormonal teenager who thought with his dick. You kept that thought to yourself, however. You reached out to caress his cheek. “Guess I should have shown you beforehand, huh?”

“So I could fuck ya in the privacy of your home, yeah.” He muttered, though slight amusement in his voice.

You raised your eyebrows in surprise at this. So straightforward. “So…you wanna fuck me right now?” You asked.

He snorted slightly, staring at you directly now. “You have no idea, woman.”

His expression was so intense, those blue eyes reflecting the arousal within him. It wasn’t the ideal place to do so, not while being surrounded by families. You glanced back toward the changing building. A little bit of a distance away, but somewhat private. Maybe you could get away with it.

“Then let’s fix that,” you gestured for him to stand. “Come on.”

He looked at you, confused and surprised. “What...wait, I can’t-”

“Tuck it in your waistband, silly,” you instructed. “Then follow me back to the building.”

Arthur did as you told, carefully shifting himself without making his actions too obvious. He then stood up awkwardly, trying hard not to tug on the fabric as he stepped behind you. He kept close as you led the way, noting the amount of people entering and exiting the changing stalls.

They were mostly empty by the time you’d approached them, with a couple still closed. Quickly looking around, you pulled Arthur into one farthest away from anything else. Closing the door behind him, you turned to face the blushing cowboy.

“Ya sure we’re good in here?” He asked, appearing sheepish. “Ain’t want trouble from anyone.”

“We’ll be fine,” you said reassuringly, reaching for his swim trunks. Tucking on the drawstring, you loosened the waistband. The bulge underneath immediately released with it, and you tugged the fabric down to unveil it in its entirety. “Just be quiet.” You added, wrapping your hand around his length.

His breath hitched slightly at your touch. He opened his mouth to speak, yet was cut off when your mouth engulfed the head with ease. A low groan emanated from his stomach as he leaned against the wall.

You teased him first, sucking just a little and placing small kisses along his warm pink flesh. His hand tangled itself within your wet hair, prompting you to go further. You did so, slowly taking his length to the root, before pulling back and bobbing slowly.

He shuddered against the wall, quietly moaning your name. His touch gentle, yet firm as he pressed on the back of your head for more. You have in to the pressure, swallowing him a few more times at a tantalizingly slow pace. Though you weren’t planning to spend much time on the foreplay.

 Another moment passed by, sliding your lips back to the tip, popping them off before standing back up. The slight forlorn look on his face soon changed when you shimmied off the bottom of your bikini.

It was as if a switch had been flipped. The hunger in his eyes gleamed brightly as he practically lunged forward to you, his hands gripping your hips hard it was almost painful. “Turn around.” He commanded, the dominant growl in his throat sent a shiver down your spine.

You obeyed silently, turning to face the opposite wall and sticking your ass out teasingly. You heard him make a satisfied noise as his hands ran down your back. He squeezed the soft flesh of your butt as he stepped forward, running his erection along your folds and center. It didn’t take long for him to begin, easily sheathing himself in one smooth glide. You gasped softly as your inner walls stretched for him, and uttered a soft moan as he began to move within you.

He gripped your hips again, using the leverage to drive himself deeper. The sudden change brought up a yelp that you bit down. It certainly would be hard to keep quiet.

“You feel amazin’,” he growled lowly, leaning to kiss the back of your neck. “Fuck…”

Your only answer was a moan, your back arching to enhance your pleasure. He hit your G-spot perfectly, your knees buckling from the sheer ecstasy that washed over your body. He managed to hold you still, pounding away with such power.

His teeth ravaged your flesh, knowing he’d leave marks on your already mostly bare body. His nails dug into your skin, so tight with your hips. He was relentless in his pursuit of his pleasure, wanting nothing more to release the energy into you. The way his voice rumbled was like music to your ears.

He whispered profanities to you, sinful utterances which ignited your core even more. A hand brushed against your belly before his fingers found your clit, expertly dancing against your sensitive nerves. Throwing your head back, forcing down another yelp that nearly left your lips. Arthur was quick, covering your mouth with his other hand. Though muffled, you were able to express your pleasure.

“That’s it, darlin’.” He groaned to you. He eagerly buried himself to the hilt over and over, feverishly toying with you without a pause. Somehow it seemed as if he was going even faster, the sounds of his hips slapping against your ass overtook your muffled mewls.

Your peak was arriving quickly, your mind too addled to staunch it. The climb was short; the explosive ache that cascaded down your core. You sang out loud, though still stifled by Arthur.

“That’s m’girl.” he huffed, pausing to kiss the back of your neck. The fresh moment of intimacy swayed you, your knees trembling, threatening to buckle as your body came down from your high. He didn’t give you any time to recover, as he thrust deep within once again. His hand moved from your soaked pussy to run his hand down your back a second time before gripping your waist.

“Arthur!” you cried out against his fingers, the muscles in your legs almost rendered to jelly. It was amazing how you still stood, though part of it had to be from him. Pinned between the wall and his strong grip, letting him have his way in this miniscule changing booth.

“I-I’m close.” he grunted, shoving himself even harder within you. Tears formed in your eyes as he hit a sensitive spot, though the pain felt wonderful. Your hands grasped at the smooth wall, unable to hold onto anything. With a few more heavy pounds, he released your mouth to grip your waist hard, so hard that you whined. Growling your name, his hips pressed hard with yours, he held you still as his spend emptied deep within you.

The silence surrounded the two of you for a long moment, until Arthur eased his grip. He pulled away from you slowly, a trail of his seed dripping down your leg instantly. He took a deep, shuddering breath and straightened up. You turned to face him, pulling the swimsuit bottoms up, the warmth gathering in the damp fabric.

“Feel better?” you asked, a hint of amusement in your voice.

“Yeah,” he said breathlessly. “Christ, that’ll keep me good for a while.” He pushed his slightly sweaty hair out of his face and fixed his swim trunks.

“Good,” you responded. “Now will you join me in the water?”

He gave a short chuckle. “’Course.”

You exited the booth first, carefully peering around to make sure no one was within vicinity. You hoped no other beachgoers heard what was going on, but it seemed safe enough. Arthur quickly joined you, heading back to your spot on the beach as if nothing happened. Despite the ache that lingered between your legs, you were able to hit the waves once again, pulling Arthur in with you.

[thefaeriereview]

Tour: The Memories We Bury

https://ift.tt/2NIw6zK

Today I am thrilled to share with you all, H.A. Leuschel's latest novel, The Memories We Bury, "An emotionally charged and captivating novel about the complexities of female friendship and motherhood." From June 29th to July 5th, you can purchase her book for ONLY $0.99 on Amazon! You can also try to win a digital copy of The Memories We Bury by entering the giveaway below!

The Memories We Bury

Publication Date: April 17th, 2020

Genre: Contemporary/ Psychological Suspense

An emotionally charged and captivating novel about the complexities of female friendship and motherhood. Lizzie Thomson has landed her first job as a music teacher, and after a whirlwind romance with Markus, the newlywed couple move into a beautiful new home in the outskirts of Edinburgh. Lizzie quickly befriends their neighbour Morag, an elderly, resourceful yet lonely widow, who’s own children rarely visit her. Everything seems perfect in Lizzie’s life until she finds out she is pregnant and her relationship with both Morag and Markus change beyond her control. Can Lizzie really trust Morag and why is Markus keeping secrets from her? In ‘The Memories We Bury’ the author explores the dangerous bonds we can create with strangers and how past memories can cast long shadows over the present. 

Add to Goodreads

Available on Amazon 

Click the link below and try to win a digital copy of the book!

a Rafflecopter giveaway 

Excerpt

Chapter 3 – Lizzie, 29 November 2013

Sweat was pouring down my back, and I struggled to put one step in front of the other. Where was my mum when I most needed her? A sister would have been nice, too, or an aunt. Picturing them in my head, they were smiling, tender, whispering soothing words into my ear, holding me up under the armpits, and rubbing my aching back.

I had to suppress a scream after accidently bumping my chest into the doorframe reminded me of how heavy and sore my breasts had become. With clenched teeth I moved over to a chair to hold onto and steady myself. I conjured her up again in my mind – my mother with her tired, pale but soft gaze whenever I was ill. Her harsh nature would have slipped off her like the skin of a snake, revealing her softer self for long enough to help me through this moment if she’d still been alive. I sighed and shuffled towards the sofa to sink into its soft cushioning.

An imaginary person standing next to me slowed down my beating heart, pushed the panic out of my nervous limbs, and suppressed the fear I felt for my little one, rummaging inside my body, pushing down on my bladder, making my stomach heave with the acidity that rose into my throat and mouth. I braced myself for the imminent waves of pain. The baby had no room left to move, had stretched my skin to a tight bulky protrusion, and my slim legs in stark contrast stuck out of my warm maternity dress below. ‘If Markus doesn’t take us, Morag will’, I whispered, stroking my tummy.

I leaned back into the sofa and thought of Morag, my dear neighbour and friend, a woman who’d made me feel so special from the moment we’d met. I closed my eyes and let myself believe that it was okay to dream of her as a mother, replacing the old image of my real one swatting me away as if I’d been a fly buzzing into her ear.

Morag’s hand was warm the first time I held it, her eyes attentive and her demeanour gave me the impression that she was genuinely interested in me. She’d been busy in her front garden where she’d snipped at her neat rose bushes and trimmed hedges. Her dark eyes were alive, matching her words. ‘It’s so wonderful that I will have steady neighbours again.’ She beamed. ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’ She turned to Markus and held out her hand, who shook it heartily.

‘Yes, I checked on the house on a few occasions. It’s been a good rental investment, but I look forward to moving out of the city centre and enjoying it… with my lovely wife.’ He’d laced his arm around me and squeezed me into his toned chest.

My eyes lingered on a framed picture, pulling me back to reality. It was my wedding photo that reflected a different person to the one I was becoming. I was already a trained music teacher when I first met Markus, filled with the passion for my craft. I was what you’d call a typical introvert because I avoided crowds and interactions with people and shied away from eye-contact. Music had been the ideal vehicle through which I wanted to communicate with the world.

I’d spent our first year together moving between Markus’ rental accommodation on Holyrood Road, near Edinburgh’s historic Royal Mile, and my childhood family home in Craigmillar. From Markus’ living room window, I couldn’t peel my eyes away from Arthur’s Seat, an extinct volcano, offering me a different view every day. Whether fog or rain were blurring the shades of the city’s prominent green hill one day, or sunshine and blue skies making my eyes spot hikers and dog walkers mounting the strong rock on other days, I marvelled at the sight each time. ‘I would never tire of this view, Markus,’ I said, sipping my coffee and standing at the window.

‘Yeah, a cool spot, isn’t it?

I had to agree. We were close to Edinburgh’s oldest landmarks and just minutes away from the city’s bustling centre. ‘My grandad would have loved this,’ I said, with an ache in my throat.

‘Now, you’ve got me,’ Markus said, wrapping me in a big hug at the mention of my beloved grandfather.  The start of our relationship had been a period of spontaneity, fun and first love for me. I’d been living with my dad until he suffered a fatal heart attack three years earlier, the last remaining member of my family gone. Falling in love with Markus had helped me move on. I’d inherited my parents’ small family apartment, and despite its setting in one of the less affluent parts of Edinburgh, I was glad for the financial independence it offered.

‘You’re such a gorgeous woman, Lizzie. The moment I spotted you and watched your fingers travel over the piano keys, oh my word, I knew we had to be together.’ His eyes had a cheeky gleam when he’d spoken these words, and at the end, his hand had travelled to his top jacket pocket to extract a small box. I’d been tongue-tied about being offered my first gift of precious jewellery. He’d hooked the delicate necklace around my neck, before sweeping me off my feet to make me laugh.

Half a year later, it was an engagement ring he slipped onto my finger, as he’d grinned into my astonished face. ‘Markus!’ I’d said, clutching at my chest.

‘I’m a romantic at heart.’ He looked at my hand, and kissed it where the sparkling gem was covering my skin, causing my eyes to well up. ‘This is to show you that I mean every word I said months ago. We should give notice to the tenants in my house in Dalkeith, you move out from your place – not just some sexy underwear and the odd blouse that have found their way into my wardrobe’, he winked. ‘I want us to have a real home.’

‘A real home,’ I said, and nodded as if Markus had read my mind.

‘Yes, and I know we spoke about kids and all, but maybe we shouldn’t rush in that department yet, okay?’ Heat rose to my cheeks at the mention of children.

My father died relieved that he lived long enough to see me receive my teaching diploma and that he’d been able to leave me with a debt-free patch to live in. He’d been the last person I’d called family.

A gasp escaped my throat as another contraction pulled me back into reality, piercing my lower spine like a knife, taking my breath away. My false ideas about natural and women have been through this pain for thousands of years vanished into thin air as I moved over to the rug, lowered myself towards the floor, and once I was on all fours, let out a groan. I’d read many accounts of childbirth, its painful progress described in minute details on insightful websites. However, the reality was far worse than I could have ever imagined.

‘It’s too early for us to become parents,’ Markus had said.

‘You knew I’d forgotten to take the pill…’

‘Yes, don’t remind me; what a disaster.’ He’d sighed and slumped back into a chair, looking as heavy and grey as the clouds darkening our living room that day.

From that moment, I’d been on my own with the baby, only getting the odd reluctant yet kind query from Markus when I’d been up in the early morning vomiting and struggled to ready myself two hours later for work. Sometimes he seemed to awaken from a slumber and apologize for his lack of presence. The baby had become an ice cube stuck between us. It would melt over time, I hoped, and vanish as soon as Markus held his child for the first time.

I hummed to myself for a while, willing the reprieve from pain to last longer, and tried to explore what a steady tone may achieve during the height of a contraction. It helped me control my fear and prepared me for the next onset of tight muscles that contracted through a life of their own. I crawled over to the coffee table and reached for my mobile again, the small white headphones still plugged in from my previous listening session. The screen was blank, no new messages.

I’d started contracting the night before but dismissed them for Braxton Hicks contractions. By 9:30 I noticed that they were getting as regular as the beats on my metronome and I sent a text to Markus who’d left early that day, with no response. I called his direct line at work and then his mobile again, both of which rang off without an answer. It was 10:15 and my husband was out of reach. I dialled his number again and got through to his colleague who reassured me that Markus should be back from a meeting any time soon. ‘I’ll try to get through to him, Lizzie. Is there someone else who can help you in the meantime?’ Yes, you moron, but I want my husband here, not someone else. I didn’t utter the words aloud, but said, ‘Yes, sure,’ through clenched teeth and hung up. Another contraction cut through me as sharp as a razor and left me bathed in sweat. There was no time for anger, as much as it hurt to feel stranded like a whale on dry sand.

It was a shock to realize that after weeks and months of his loyal phone calls during the day, he was unavailable when I most needed him. Markus had come around to the idea of a family – or so I thought – pleased I’d given up my teaching job in town, sold my parents’ home and provided some stability to his former chaotic lifestyle by creating a homely and welcoming place to come back to in the evening.

I placed both hands on my tight belly and exhaled loudly, noting with dismay that whenever I had tried to get in touch with Markus, he was never available or only responded hours later. It had always been on his terms. Frustration made me want to throw the vase he’d offered me for my last birthday off the table. I’d asked for a vase yet had been incredulous at the choice he had made. He had looked pleased with himself and his eyes had seemed innocent when he asked whether I liked it with that endearing eagerness to please in his voice. Markus had thought the best place for the hideous black item should be the centre of the coffee table where, until then, I’d left my books or some magazines.

‘So, is that a way of telling me you don’t like my magazines and books lying out?’ I’d asked cheekily, watching his eyes roll in response.

‘You don’t like it?’ He grimaced with a mock impression of a sad face.

‘What? No, it’s lovely… unusual… interesting,’ I’d mumbled, conditioned a long time ago to never criticise, and noted that he had not answered my initial question.

‘I knew you’d like it,’ he said, slapped his hands on his thighs and got up to pour himself a beer.

I eyed the wretched item, but before I could satisfy my sudden urge to dethrone it, another contraction was pulling me to the ground and I knew I had to act fast because despite all the maternity books showing that a first birth was slow and its journey often scattered by false alarms, my symptoms were challenging the statistics now.

‘Hello, Morag,’ I breathed down the line, my hand sweaty as it held the phone too tightly. I urged my body to finish the sentence before another contraction would mute any sound escaping my mouth. ‘I need you…’

‘Lizzie? Are you OK?’ Morag’s voice cut through my sentence and because I only managed a gasp, she continued, ‘I’ll be right over, hold on tight, pet.’ I burst into tears, and managed a silent nod before the line went dead. Morag had been keen to make me her friend and, by the looks of it, even make me into another of her children, so urgent and intense were her maternal reactions to help and protect me.

Remembering my father’s casket being lowered into the ground not that long ago still brought back a dull ache at the centre of my stomach. I’d stood at the foot of his grave, the heels of my soggy boots sinking into the mud, realizing that I’d never found a common ground with either of my parents. It wasn’t your fault, my dad had whispered to me on his death bed. You’ve been a wonderful daughter to me. I’m sorry that we’ve not been such good parents. However, I still felt it had been my fault that I’d never invoked the tender feelings in my mother I so yearned for. I could still picture her proud smile when I came first in a local music competition or was given a prize at school, yet that smile was distorted by the pain she could inflict, inked into the image like a botched tattoo. My mother’s hands went clammy, her voice changed in tone and her eyes blinked when she left the safety of her four walls, and nothing would change this – no loving, patient husband or a quiet and obedient daughter like me. To break through that complex web of insecurities, it would have needed a great deal of determination and self-knowledge which I didn’t have as a child.

And now there was Morag.

I checked again for a text from Markus, and leaned over to rest my head and my arms on the nearby sofa. The coming and going of the pain had filled my morning and now it was lunch time, and still there was no sign of my husband.

‘Morag!’ I called out, relieved to see her silhouette appear in my line of vision. We’d insisted to trust her with our extra set of keys because I was turning into a heavily pregnant woman and Markus into an increasingly absent husband. You never know, Morag had said, nodding with approval, my expertise as a former nurse might come in handy.

Morag came close enough for me to smell her familiar floral perfume mixed in with something else, sweet and almost spicy. She must have been in the middle of baking one of her awe-inspiring cakes for a charity event or other social gathering because the smell carried an aroma of pleasant, sweet scents. It made my nose tickle and I sneezed before I could greet her.

‘Bless you, dear,’ Morag said, and placed a hand on my bulging tummy. ‘So, do you think our little one is ready to come out?’

‘I think so, yes. Gosh, it’s so good you’re here.’

‘You’re lucky I was still at home. I started the baking late today, but no worries darling – I’ve saved the dough and have already finished the cupcakes. It’s all under control.’ Her voice was chirpy and fresh while I felt sweaty and dishevelled next to her apparition of perfection, her styled silver hair, and clothes that matched with her shoes and handbag. As usual, she had starched her blouse to within inches of its life.

‘I couldn’t bake to save my life,’ I said.

‘Yes, and you look like corn ready to pop,’ she added, with her eyes wide, and I couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

‘That’s a good one, Morag, you come out with some crackers.’ I emitted another giggle before the next contraction transformed it into a deep groan, noticing that Morag’s face also changed from bright to solemn. The urge to scream overwhelmed me as the next wave of pain pushed its way through my body but ended up as a choked whimper.

‘Take it easy. Shallow breaths. Relax as much as you can,’ Morag said, while her right hand stroked my lower back in circular movements.

‘Aaaah.’ I exhaled slowly, the contraction subsiding and the warmth of Morag’s hand reaching through my skin.

‘Yes, dear. I know – I’ve been there... a few times. Can you believe that? And there were no epidurals and gas or whatever they give you now to help with the pain. Oh, sorry lassie, no reproach intended.’ She stepped away from me, clasping her hands together with the determination that I recognized as resourceful, and ready to take on a task. ‘Anyway, I’ll get everything ready. Our wee one is in a hurry!’ she said. ‘I’ll fetch the overnight bag… I guess you left it in the bedroom?’ I nodded, wiped my moist forehead and sipped some water from a half-filled glass Morag suddenly held in front of my face, to ease my parched throat. While I heard Morag’s busy footsteps move about the house, I heaved myself up and walked to the kitchen sink, cupping some water to refresh my face and drinking a few more mouthfuls straight from the tap.

‘Are you okay?’ Morag called from the upstairs landing. I exhaled through my mouth and braced myself for the next wave of discomfort, shouting, ‘Okay’ up to where Morag continued to rummage about. ‘We’re almost ready, love,’ Morag said as she reappeared downstairs, flitting between the kitchen to fill a small water bottle and the bedroom where she picked up a clean T-shirt for me. I was sweating and she commented that a looser top would help cool me down. ‘Here you go, and there’s a damp cloth to freshen you up a bit.’ The distraction stopped me from crying out as the next contraction made me grip the sides of the sofa, and I willed myself to breathe evenly. The intensity that had come and gone like a dark force within astounded me, because its grip squeezed and released my muscles without warning.

‘So, where is your husband?’ Morag asked, poking her head around the corner, and there was an undertone of disapproval. I mumbled some feeble excuse about work but knew I couldn’t fool her. She nodded with pursed lips. ‘Ah. I thought so,’ she said, her face like a loch’s flat and impermeable surface yet presaging unknown depths beneath. She was difficult to read because most of the time she had friendly chats with Markus even though I had a niggly feeling that she wasn’t too keen on him. ‘Don’t worry, the two… well, the three of us I should say, will be fine. Your husband is working hard, I’m sure,’ she conceded, shrugging into her coat and carrying mine over to the sofa to help me into it.

I’m not sure whether Markus deserves you, she’d once said.

But Morag, you don’t know him, I’d replied, hoping that I didn’t sound too reproachful.

I’ll give him one thing, pet. He’s found a lovely, gentle soul in you. So, there is hope, I suppose, she’d said, and her eyes had glazed over, lost in her own thoughts.

We were about to close the main door behind us when Morag shouted, ‘Hang on, hold your horses,’ and ran off to fetch what she’d forgotten. ‘The hot water bottle will ease the contractions when you sit in the car, my lovely. Let’s go,’ she said, hugging the fluffy item against her chest. ‘Aw, how exciting, Lizzie. You’ll be holding a baby in your arms soon. I can’t imagine anything more special than that.’ She smiled at me, prickling with excitement. ‘I remember that first encounter so well. The beginning of motherhood, everything ahead… a fresh start.’ She reached out her hand and patted my forearm. ‘I’m there for you. You’re such a slight little thing…’ Her last words floated in the air and I smiled.

‘I don’t know how I’d manage without you,’ I said, averting my eyes and looking down at my bump.

‘It’s a pleasure, Lizzie dear,’ Morag responded, while I flinched and clutched at my tummy instinctively. ‘Oh, another contraction already? Hmm, if only Pete could see me now,’ Morag exclaimed, her comment a reminder she’d been a widow for ten years and had told me she still struggled to come to terms with the lonely days at home, despite having joined a vibrant seniors’ book club, and contributed to many social events throughout the year. ‘Now I have you, my life is complete again. Thank you, darling,’ she’d let slip another day, before hoovering the floors for me and preparing a fish pie that was soon baking in the oven for dinner. ‘My children seem to be oblivious of my loneliness. They have found their life partners but after all these years, still no grandchildren in sight.’ Seeing the sad look in her eyes, I thought better than to mention that bearing a child surely was a personal choice. If I had, she’d have turned and walked away plumping up my sofa cushions, straightening my curtains or rearranging my jars and cans in height order in the kitchen. In the Little Miss book series, she’d have inspired the Miss Tidy title, no doubt.

When I previously asked her what she thought of me taking a break from work, she commented that ‘putting my career on hold was the best decision in my life. Why have a child if you plan to give it to a stranger to look after? Trust me, you won’t get bored. You have your whole life in front of you to work but only one chance to see your baby grow. And who will decorate your house, cook and look after the garden, make it a real home?’ Her eyes had lit up and without me even noticing it, we were shopping at Dobbies Garden Centre, preparing the baby’s bedroom together, and she taught me how to manage a household with expertise and a level of finesse I’d never known before. She kept me on my toes and weeks had passed before I realised that I’d neglected my two best friends, sending Cathy and Juanita short text messages only.

So sorry for not being in touch. Morag is awesome, like a mum. You must come over to see for yourself xxx.

‘Did your mum teach you all this?’ I’d asked Morag one day, but to my surprise the question only earned me a deep frown and a shake of her head.

‘My mother led a life of her own,’ she ended up saying to break the awkward silence. It was all she ever said about her mother, a relationship that I suspected was as mired a minefield as mine had been.

When I’d announced that the nausea overcoming me whenever she prepared a fresh cup of coffee was because of the early stages of pregnancy, Morag’s eyes had lit up like a Christmas tree and she’d run over to hug me. She’d had tears in her eyes when she let go again and looked into mine, holding me at a small distance away from her, her cheeks flushed with pleasure.

‘You love kids, don’t you?’

‘You have no idea how much, Lizzie,’ she’d said. I’d deduced that because both Morag’s son and daughter had opted to have no children, the yearning would have built up for years, making its landfall at my doorstep. ‘Sometimes, you need to accept that you can’t depend on your family for making your dreams come true,’ she’d said. ‘So, from now on, you can count on me like you can count on a real mother,’ Morag had added, and squeezed my arm.

As the memories came and went, I carried my bulky body to the car, apprehension pitted in my stomach. After laboriously settling into the passenger seat, the reality that I was about to give birth hit me as well as another contraction. I groaned and doubled over, retching at the smell of air freshener dangling from the rear-view mirror.

‘All right love, hang in there.’ Morag patted my bent back, then drove out of the tight garage.

I reached for the window. ‘Sorry, Morag. I need fresh air, or I’ll be sick.’ She frowned, nodded in response while adjusting the mirror, checking that the towel she had placed on my seat was still covering all the edges.

‘Just in case,’ she’d said, as usual a step ahead with planning unpleasant eventualities. ‘In case your waters break.’ She smiled and off we went onto the main road. There was a chill in the air with my window down a quarter of the way and we chatted about the possibility of a white Christmas this year. We listened to the radio, a forecast telling us to expect a very wet weekend, the chatter cut short by my hand turning it off. I needed silence to endure the increased frequency of the pain.

Morag stayed by my side, holding my hand, rubbing my back and talking soothingly into my ear when we arrived on the maternity ward, pulling the trolley bag behind us while supporting me with her other free arm. My eyes burned with tears at seeing her kindness.

My real mother had succumbed to a virulent cancer of the lungs, causing her to live the last months of her life in bitter regret and anger. Why me? she’d asked anyone willing to listen, and added how unfair life had been, which would culminate in an unfair death to top it all off.

I’d been tempted to burst out laughing the first time I heard her lament because it was a comical remark, coming from the woman who’d not only submitted her body to decades of chain smoking but also exposed her husband, daughter, and father-in-law to it. We suffered from her addiction as much as we also understood how hard it would have been to give it up. She’d known no different as a child. I didn’t want her to be in pain, whether or not it seemed almost a logical consequence. She was my mother and something ingrained it in me that I needed to honour her, regardless of whether or not she deserved it. You have only one mother in life, don’t you?

My vision had fogged up with the pain that returned in my lower back. I put all my efforts into steadying my breathing, willing my knees not to shake. My hands were chilled, and I slid them under my coat where they settled onto my tight, warm bulging tummy, a little heater that seemed to have attracted and now contained all of my body’s warmth. I resigned to give in to the inner force at work, an independent power that had settled in a corner of my body and had grown to its biggest size, and was now about to move out.

It was not at all what I’d expected but, I wasn’t sure what I had expected. Explanations from other pregnant women during my antenatal classes were too descriptive or too vague for me to internalize. I only went to two classes anyway, as Markus never made it on time and I gave up rather than face a room full of couples alone, and their inevitable scrutinizing gazes or the risk of being pitied. To Morag’s queries I proclaimed that the classes were boring and not worth both my and Markus’ time. For once, my neighbour had not prodded further, simply nodded. ‘You’re right. There is nothing that I can’t tell you anyway, dear. Don’t waste your precious time.’

When I held my baby in my arms, Morag was the one who wiped my tears and hers out of our faces and, thanks to her, I believed all would be well.

’Well done, darling,’ she whispered. ‘This was a quick birth. I admit I’m surprised. He’s quite a hefty fella, given your little frame.’ The compliment elated me. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ she added, and a mixture of relief and love for my friend’s selfless dedication made me shake with tears. ‘Now, now, come here, my darling,’ she said, and embraced me. ‘The moment Markus sets eyes on our little miracle, he’ll fall in love with his beautiful son.’

My mobile phone bleeped with an incoming call the moment I settled my baby in his cot for the first time. Words tumbled out of my mouth as I heard Markus’ voice at the other end. He listened to my story of giving birth, the wobbly knees, the searing labour pains that had come fast and furious as soon as I had lumbered myself to the hospital lift, with Morag in tow. He reassured me he’d be up in a minute, that he was looking for a parking space. I sighed with relief that he’d not abandoned me. He’d not apologized nor explained his lack of response to my attempts to reach him, yet I’d not let him talk either, so I put the phone down and slumped back into the bed with a sigh and closed my eyes.

Morag was leaning over the cot while my mind adjusted to being a mother. The midwives had all commented on the ward that for a firstborn it had been quick, too quick even to assist with an epidural. I shivered at the memory of having squeezed Morag’s hand so tightly that the woman had winced in pain herself. It should have been Markus sitting by my side and the more time passed, the more it stung, leaving my heart aching. ‘Keep breathing, focus on your breathing. You’re almost there,’ Morag had said, her voice reaching me through the fog that clouded my senses during the most intense part of labour. The baby’s weight had borne down towards my hips and I grasped onto the sides of the bed as if sailing on a ship on a stormy sea. I’d been a vessel whose cargo was being released onto dry land. When he cried his lungs into shape, I threw myself into a life I cannot put into words yet.

About the Author: Helene Andrea Leuschel gained a Master in Journalism & Communication, which led to a career in radio and television in Brussels, London and Edinburgh. She later acquired a Master in Philosophy, specializing in the study of the mind. Helene has a particular interest in emotional, psychological and social well-being and this led her to write her first novel, Manipulated Lives, a fictional collection of five novellas, each highlighting the dangers of interacting with narcissists. She lives with her husband and two children in Portugal.

HA Leuschel | Twitter | Facebook

LB | Goodreads | Instagram | Pinterest

Blog Tour Schedule

June 29th

Cocktails & Fairytales (Spotlight) https://www.facebook.com/CocktailsFairytales

The Purple Shelf Club (Review) https://www.purpleshelfclub.com/

Rajiv’s Reviews (Review) https://www.rajivsreviews.com/

Jessica Belmont (Spotlight) https://jessicabelmont.wordpress.com/

June 30th

Breakeven Books (Spotlight) https://breakevenbooks.com

The Faerie Review (Spotlight) http://www.thefaeriereview.com

Tsarina Press (Spotlight) https://www.tsarinapress.com

Libroum in Sepiternum (Review) http://libroruminsempiternumhome.wordpress.com

July 1st

Meli’s Book Reviews (Review) https://melisbokreviews.wordpress.com/

My Comic Relief (Review) https://mycomicrelief.wordpress.com/

Stine Writing (Review) https://christinebialczak.com/

July 2nd

Rambling Mads (Spotlight) http://ramblingmads.com

Dark Whimsical Art (Spotlight) https://www.darkwhimsicalart.com

52 Weeks with Books (Spotlight) https://www.instagram.com/52weekswithbooks/

July 3rd

Reads & Reels (Spotlight) http://readsandreels.com

Book Reviews by Satabdi (Review) http://satabdimukherjee.wordpress.com

Tranquil Dreams (Review) https://klling.wordpress.com/

Blog Tour Organized By: R&R Book Tours

via Blogger https://ift.tt/2NTkTMV

[thrashermaxey]

21 Fantasy Hockey Rambles

Every Sunday, we'll share 21 Fantasy Rambles — formerly known as 20 Fantasy Thoughts — from our writers at DobberHockey. These thoughts are curated from the past week's ‘Daily Ramblings’.

Writers: Michael Clifford, Ian Gooding, Cam Robinson, and Dobber

  1. Vegas is a team I really struggle with. Their top two lines, one of which Alex Tuch is a part of, are incredible. I know the top line has struggled to score this year but that’s more luck than anything. The second line has been great, particularly when Brandon Pirri was there.

Unfortunately, it’s not a situation where they’re given huge opportunities for success. For example, no forward this year is averaging 19:30 of ice time per game, only three are over and/or around 19 minutes (William Karlsson, Jonathan Marchessault and Reilly Smith. They also spread out the power-play minutes between eight forwards: 2:00 to 3:00 PPTOI/game.

So, without loads of ice time and heavy PP usage, can Tuch be a 70-point player? Well, the top line did it last year. Why not the second line this year (or in future seasons)?

Tuch is a very, very good real-life player and a very, very good fantasy option, particularly in leagues that count hits. He’s only 22 years old and has seemingly locked himself into top-six minutes plus one of the power-play units. Maybe he doesn’t hit his true ceiling, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be very valuable in the fantasy game. (jan17)

  2. Speaking of guys who produce good-but-not-great numbers because of a lack of power play production (and minutes):

I understand that 26 points in 48 games isn’t a great fantasy campaign for Travis Konecny owners, but he’s second among the team’s forwards in points/60 minutes this year, trailing only Claude Giroux.

He’s also first among their forwards in shot attempts/60 minutes. And he does everything we look for in a player’s underlying metrics: drives the play, shoots, looks for exits/entries with possession, and knows how to find his teammates.

Konecny is a burgeoning star. This is a guy fantasy owners who are currently way out of the league race should be targeting. You can probably get away with a very good roster player and a draft pick to get him. I would be at least inquiring. This kid is going to be a very, very good fantasy asset for the next decade. (jan17)

  3. I’ll admit I’d been a bit underwhelmed with Jonathan Marchessault’s production entering Saturday action (31 points in 49 games), especially since I’d used a draft pick just outside the top 50 for his services.

If you felt the same way, you were relieved to see Marchessault score a hat trick against the Penguins. Marchessault entered the game with just one point in his previous seven games, so you could argue that he was due. His 182 shots places him in the top 10 in that category. However, despite his hat trick, his hat trick his 17 goals still doesn’t even place him in the top 50 in that category. Expect a stronger second half from him. (jan20)

  4. Since the team-imposed suspension on Sergei Bobrovsky, Joonas Korpisalo has started four of the past six games for the Blue Jackets. A three-game winning streak might have had something to do with it, but Korpisalo had that streak snapped on Friday against Montreal. Bobrovsky was back between the pipes against the Wild on Saturday.

With Bob’s future likely not to be in Columbus after this season, this is a situation worth monitoring. I don’t see Bobrovsky being traded at the deadline, though. Not with the Jackets in a battle for first place in the Metro Division (which the Islanders now lead!). (jan19)

  5. It couldn’t have gone any better for coach Barry Trotz in his return to Washington on Friday. Thomas Greiss stopped all 19 shots he faced in the Isles’ 2-0 win over the defending Stanley Cup champions. Greiss has struggled at times this season but he’s allowed just one goal with a .983 SV% over his last two starts. Like Robin Lehner, he’s benefitted from the Trotz/Mitch Korn influence.  (jan19)

  6. Speaking of Lehner, there were plenty of comments about him on Ramblings and Facebook this week. I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s important to bring up the drug addiction and mental illness that he has overcome as key reasons for his breakout season. Along with the Vezina Trophy, Lehner should definitely be considered for the Masterton Trophy. If you have an Athletic subscription, take the time to read this October 26 piece on his addiction and bipolar diagnosis.

Someone commented that they weren’t sure what Lehner’s value would be next season with him only being signed to a one-year contract with the Islanders. That’s a very good point, because the Isles also own the rights to Ilya Sorokin, who is dominating the KHL (32 GP, 1.17 GAA, .942 SV%). According to writer Arthur Staple, Sorokin would be on a one-year, waiver-exempt deal if he decided to come over next season (which he is reportedly interested in), although it’s no sure thing when it comes to the KHL. There are also the Sergei Bobrovsky rumors, which you can read more about in the article. Either way, it’s not looking good if you’re holding out hope that Greiss will be the starter. (jan19)

  7. One Panthers’ scoring center returned to the lineup perhaps earlier than expected late this week. Vincent Trocheck recorded an assist on Friday, while dishing seven hits in his first game since fracturing his ankle two months ago. (I sure didn’t have that recovery time when I fractured my ankle!) Trocheck played on a line with Jonathan Huberdeau and Nick Bjugstad, although he skated on the second-unit power play. (jan19)

  8. In spite of his rough start, Nick Leddy has collected eight points (all assists) over his last 11 games. Even though his overall production (one goal and 18 points in 47 games) might not cut it for your team, he is still receiving first-unit power-play time for the Islanders. It might only be a matter of time before he is moved off the first unit, considering that the Islanders’ power play is in the bottom third of the league. The last time I checked, though, first-unit power-play time matters for defensemen.

Leddy has reached the 40-point mark in each of his previous three seasons, so he’ll be doing his job for your roster if he assumes a half-point-per-game pace for the rest of the season. I think that’s worth a buy-low pickup. (jan18)

  9. The Wild didn’t go ‘wild’ in the scoring department on Saturday, but they scored enough to defeat the Blue Jackets by a score of 2-1. One particular line of interest featured two new members of the Wild: Pontus Aberg and Victor Rask, the latter who was playing in his first game with the Wild.

Both Aberg and Rask assisted on the game-winning goal scored by new linemate Zach Parise, who has now reached 20 goals. This line combination could be positive for Aberg and Rask while giving the Wild three solid scoring lines. Aberg is already on his fourth NHL team in three seasons, while Rask was a huge disappointment this season (six points in 26 games in Carolina), so both players clearly have something to prove here. (jan20)

More about Aberg: He was often deployed with Ryan Getzlaf while in Anaheim, it seems as though teams are willing to try him with their top scorers. But if he’s not scoring, teams don’t want him in their lineups. I added Aberg for a few weeks during his run in Anaheim, but I’d be looking for continued ice time with Parise and consistent scoring before adding him again. (jan18)

  10. One day after being traded for Victor Rask, Nino Niederreiter made his Hurricanes’ debut. He was held without a point, took four shots on goal, and skated a total of 16:57 on a line with Justin Williams and Greg McKegg, which also included some second-unit power play time.

Obviously this is a fluid situation as Niederreiter adjusts to his new team, but this doesn’t seem like the kind of usage that would motivate me to add him right away (24 percent owned in Yahoo leagues). For more on Thursday’s Hurricanes/Wild trade, see our Fantasy Impact article. (jan18)

There’s still time to save your fantasy hockey season and purchase your copy of the 2019 DobberHockey Midseason Fantasy Guide for immediate download! Details at the Dobber Shop.

11. John Gibson owners can breathe a sigh of relief. The Ducks’ overworked goalie stopped all 37 shots he faced in picking up the shutout on Thursday, and then held the fort for another win on Saturday, 3-2 against the Devils. Since his last game off on December 18, Gibson had appeared in 11 consecutive games and not picked up a single victory – a span of nearly an entire month.

The Ducks are in a logjam for one of the final two wild card spots in the Western Conference, so it’s clear that Gibson will need to carry this team if they are going to make the playoffs. But in the meantime, he may continue to have a tough time earning wins. (jan18)

  12. Part of the Ducks’ shakeup this week involved the recalls of prospects Max Jones and Troy Terry. It just so happened that Terry scored both his first NHL goal and added his first NHL assist on Saturday afternoon.

The punchless Ducks (30th in the NHL with 2.35 GF/GP) could use Terry’s offense, as he now appears to be NHL-ready (37 points in 32 AHL games). Terry lined up with Jones and recently reacquired Derek Grant, giving the Ducks what is truly a brand new line. That might be what the Ducks have needed, as they have now won two games in a row after losing 12 in a row before that. (jan20)

  13. Peter Cehlarik was called up by the Bruins earlier this week and immediately skated on the second line with David Krejci and Jake DeBrusk in his first game. This is important because it resulted in the healthy scratch of David Backes.

I had hopes that Backes could flourish alongside a playmaking center and a talented, young scoring winger but he’s simply floundered. Some of his play-driving metrics were strong as recently as last year, so I don’t think he’s fallen off the map as a player.

With that said, the 20-goal, 50-point seasons are long gone. If he can be a solid two-way, bottom-six winger for the balance of his contract, I think that’s the best Boston can ask for. (jan17)

  14. Jordan Binnington has literally come out of nowhere to be one of January’s hottest goalies. With a 28-save win against the Senators, Binnington now has wins in four of his last five games. He has now at least forced a timeshare with the struggling Jake Allen, although there is definitely a case where he should be the outright starter in the short term while the Blues try to climb back into the playoff race.

Ville Husso was assumed to be the goalie-in-waiting for this team, but Binnington has posted better AHL numbers this season. He is deserving of this opportunity and making the most of it. (jan20)

  15. Apparently, general manager Peter Chiarelli is ready and willing to make a splash. Rumours have swirled of late that the Oilers are willing to move this year’s first-round selection to push for a playoff spot. And according to Elliott Freidman on the NHL Network, Jesse Puljujarvi has joined in on the fun as an official trade chip.

Firstly, if ownership allows Chiarelli to destroy their future even further by dealing that pick or Puljujarvi, then there must no longer be any doubt; Chia has some disgusting dirt on Daryl Katz.

Whatever happens in Edmonton (and I assume it’ll be an unmitigated disaster), Puljujarvi getting out of town seems like the best hope for his fantasy value moving forward. Either that or a locked in spot next to Connor McDavid. A scenario that does not appear to be in the cards. (jan16)

  16. Back in the middle of November, I wrote part of a Ramblings on three young defensemen with standout starts to the 2018-19 season: Thomas Chabot, Miro Heiskanen and Henri Jokiharju. Since then, none have proven themselves anything other than standouts.

Though Chabot just returned from injury, Heiskanen is playing for a boring team, and Jokiharju’s ice time is declining, the results have still been very good for all three since the time of writing. It��s truly a triumvirate of talented defensemen, all of whom could be in the upper-tier of blueliners in a few years’ time (Chabot may already be there). (jan15)

  17. Nolan Patrick’s two-goal, two-assist game earlier this week was his first point(s) of any kind in 10 games, his first multi-goal game of the year, and his first multi-point game since November 1. I will say, the young Flyer has looked better than his points give him credit for. He just needs more time. (jan15)

  18. Carl Soderberg now has 16 goals on the season, which ties a career high. He’s also over two shots on goal per game for the first time in his career, and the additional shots are leading to goals. Who knew. (jan15)

  19. I don’t care how great Thatcher Demko is, I am the lone wolf of the DobberHockey writers – Demko isn’t going to usurp this.

Jacob Markstrom is posting stellar numbers, he was a highly-touted prospect (more highly-touted than Demko is now, even), and yes, he had some rough years and took six years longer to ‘make it’ than we wanted – but he’s getting it done and he’s making $4 million next year.

So, he’s getting all the starts he wants for the next year and a half. And you know what? If he keeps posting a 0.920 SV% as this team gets better, the best prospect in the world isn’t going to take it from him. I’ve seen it before and I’ll see it again (remember Jonathan Bernier was the next big thing, but couldn’t wrench the job away from a fella named Jonathan Quick who got there a year earlier).

If Markstrom continues to play above average and gets paid $4 million next year, what if they extend him in the summer? You know the Canucks will try to lock him in, so what if he gets extended for even higher salary for three or four more years? Then what happens to Demko then? I’ll tell you what happens – he gets the Schneider treatment. An extra couple of years too long in the AHL, plus far too long as a backup goalie.

So, here I am. The lone wolf. I think highly of Demko and his upside. I would trade him away in my keeper league because I want someone who will actually play a lot in the next couple of years. (jan14)

  20. Blue Jacket Kevin Stenlund played his first and second career NHL games last weekend. He’s a solid middle-six prospect that had a great training camp and, as an AHL rookie, was heading toward a 20-goal season until his recall. He was plunked on a line with Alexander Wennberg and Anthony Duclair in his debut weekend. (jan14)

  21. Chasing backups is something that I don’t do in keeper leagues unless I see a chance at the player becoming a starter. I had mild interest in Casey DeSmith, now that interest is gone. I have interest in Collin Delia, I have interest in David Rittich, and I like Cal Petersen over Jack Campbell. That’s it. (jan14)

  Have a good week, folks!!

from All About Sports https://dobberhockey.com/hockey-home/21-fantasy-hockey-rambles/21-fantasy-hockey-rambles/

[investmart007]

NEW YORK | Federer stunned by 55th-ranked Millman in US Open 4th Round

New Post has been published on https://is.gd/EGTY4W

NEW YORK | Federer stunned by 55th-ranked Millman in US Open 4th Round

NEW YORK — Roger Federer served poorly. Closed poorly, too. And now he’s gone, beaten at the U.S. Open by an opponent ranked outside the top 50 for the first time in his career.

Looking slow and tired on a sweltering night in Arthur Ashe Stadium, the No. 2-seeded Federer double-faulted 10 times, failed to convert a trio of set points and lost 3-6, 7-5, 7-6 (7), 7-6 (3) in the fourth round to John Millman in a match that began Monday and concluded at nearly 1 a.m. on Tuesday.

It’s only the second time in Federer’s past 14 appearances at the U.S. Open that he’s lost before the quarterfinals. He is, after all, a five-time champion at the tournament, part of his men’s-record haul of 20 Grand Slam titles.

“I have so much respect for Roger and everything he’s done for the game. He’s been a hero of mine, and today he was definitely not at his best,” Millman said, “but, you know, I’ll take it.”

So much for that highly anticipated matchup between Federer and 13-time major champion Novak Djokovic in the quarterfinals. Instead, it’ll be the 55th-ranked Millman, an Australian who had never made it past the third round at a Slam until last week, taking on No. 6 seed Djokovic.

Millman was adamant he would not be intimidated by Federer, and perhaps was helped by having spent time practicing together a few months ago ahead of the grass-court portion of this season.

Still, this was a stunner. Not simply because Federer lost — he entered the day 28-0 at the U.S. Open, and 127-1 in all Grand Slam matches, against foes below No. 50 in the ATP rankings — but how he lost. Start with this: Federer held two set points while serving for the second at 5-4, 40-15 and did not pull through. Millman knew that was the turning point.

“I felt like a bit of a deer in headlights to begin with, to be honest with you. The feet weren’t moving. Roger had me on a string. He was manipulating me around the court,” Millman said. “But I got out of a tough second set and really found my feet and started to be a little bit more aggressive.”

Then Federer had a set point in the third at 6-5 in the tiebreaker, but again was stymied.

In the fourth set, he went up a break at 4-2, yelling “Come on!” and getting all of those rowdy spectators in their “RF” gear on their feet, prompting the chair umpire to repeatedly plead for silence. But Federer uncharacteristically got broken right back with a sloppy game, most egregiously when he slapped what should have been an easy putaway into the net.

And then there was his serve.

In the final tiebreaker, he double-faulted twice in a row. The first obvious signs of trouble for Federer came far earlier, in the second game of the second set. He started that 15-minute struggle by missing 18 of his initial 20 first serves. While he eventually held there, he needed to save seven break points along the way. It was clear the 37-year-old Federer was not at his best.

Maybe the 75 percent humidity played a role. Millman’s big rips on groundstrokes didn’t help matters. As the unforced errors mounted — Federer would finish with 77, nearly three times as many as Millman’s 28 — Federer’s wife, Mirka, couldn’t bear to look, placing her forehead on her hands in the guest box in the stands.

Federer hung his head at a changeover, a little black fan pointed right at his face, but nothing seemed to make him feel like himself. Hours before, Djokovic left the court for a medical timeout — the second time during the tournament he’s sought help from a doctor because of harsh weather — during what would become an otherwise straightforward 6-3, 6-4, 6-3 victory over 68th-ranked Joao Sousa of Portugal.

“I’m not 21 anymore. That was 10 years ago. I still don’t feel old. But at the same time, there is a little biological clock that is not really working in your favor,” Djokovic told the crowd afterward. “Sometimes, you just have to survive.”

He reached the quarterfinals for an 11th consecutive appearance in New York as he bids for a third U.S. Open championship and 14th Grand Slam trophy.

The other quarterfinal on the bottom half of the draw will be a rematch of the 2014 U.S. Open final: No. 7 Marin Cilic against No. 21 Kei Nishikori.

Cilic, who beat Nishikori four years ago for his only major title, was a 7-6 (6), 6-2, 6-4 winner against No. 10 David Goffin, while Nishikori advanced by defeating Philipp Kohlschreiber 6-3, 6-2, 7-5.

By HOWARD FENDRICH, Associated Press

[taniasinel]

CHARLESTON CHARM

  It’s that time again!  Bravo’s hit show – “Southern Charm” just started it’s fourth season and it continues to be one of their most watched reality shows.   Who can resist?   The houses that a few of its stars live in are so gorgeous, it’s hard to change the channel.

  A few years ago I wrote a two part story about a few of the Southern Charm houses, including Patricia Altschul’s house, shown above.  She had moved to Charleston after she was widowed and brought Mario Buatta along with her to decorate her newly bought house.  Since I wrote that story, Architectural Digest featured her house and more recently, this month Charleston Home and Design put Patricia on their cover. 

    This wasn’t the first time a home of Patricia’s had been featured in Architectural Digest, it’s her third go-round!   Before moving to Charleston, she had lived in a Fifth Avenue apartment and a 30 room country estate on Oyster Bay named Southerly, both designed by Mario Buatta – and both showcased in AD and in Mario’s book.

In my original story, I showed Patricia’s Charleston house and how it looked before she bought it and I also showed the Architectural Digest photoshoots of her Fifth Avenue apartment and her country estate.  Unfortunately, the new AD photoshoot of her Charleston house came out right AFTER my story, so it was never really complete, which always really bothered me.  Now, with yet another magazine feature, I thought I would visit her house again.  Her Charleston house is a dreamy confection of English fabrics and antiques and fine art – and I can’t get enough of it, which is one of the main reasons I tune in to watch “Southern Charm.”

  Becoming a Reality-TV star in your golden years was, I’m sure, never a goal of Patricia’s.  Her only child, son Whitney Sudler-Smith, is the producer and developer of Bravo’s “Southern Charm.”  When he started the show, he asked his mother if she would like to guest on it – maybe five minutes here and there.  Thanks to her sharp wit and willingness to be brutally honest, Patricia became the break-out star of “Southern Charm” and this month she even released her first book – a primer on Southern manners and mannerisms.

  “The Art of Southern Charm” – click on the photo to order her book.

I was surprised to read “The Art of Southern Charm” and learn that Patricia is much more than just a martini drinking widow that she pretends to be on the show.  She has a masters in Art History and Archeology(!) from George Washington University where she had graduated cum laude, quite a feat at GW, which is a very highly rated school.  After graduation, she worked as a college professor, lecturing on Art History.  Later she began her own company, buying art collections for wealthy clients, one of whom became her late husband.

Altschul’s book is filled with stories of her life, her parents, her son and her husbands (3).  If you are a fan, you will enjoy it.  I did.

  When she and Arthur Altschul married,  they had several homes – one on Fifth Avenue where Sister Parish had once lived  and a large, 30 room, country estate on Long Island called “Southerly.”  After Mr. Altschul passed away, Patricia drove around, with her infamous butler Michael in tow, looking for a southern town to land in.  Charleston was it.   It all sounds so simple now, but the hunt for the perfect town and house took her three years. 

  Patricia, her son Whitney on the far left, and the other male stars of “Southern Charm.” 

    The story about her Charleston house is most interesting because Mario used her furniture from her other two New York houses  – just recovering and repurposing everything.   It all looks so fresh in her Charleston home.  Even the Zuber wallpaper in the dining room came from her country estate – it was pulled off the walls and reinstalled in Charleston.   I admit I’m a bit obsessed with her house.   I can’t help it!!

  The Roman Revival house is known in Charleston as the Issac Jenkins Mikell House after the cotton planter who built it for his 4th out of five wives.  It was the town library from 1936 until 1960 when the building was going to be razed.  Luckily, it was sold and restored by a couple who then sold it to the Historic Charleston Foundation, who later sold it again.  When Patricia bought the house, some of its 10 bedrooms were being used for apartments.

  The earliest view of the Mikell House in the 1850s before the stucco wall was built.  There does seem to be a wing on the right side of the house.

  In the early 1930s, the main house was photographed.  To the right is the wing that houses the library, dining room, and butler’s pantry.

  Here, is the kitchen wing, to the extreme right of the main house and its wing.   Through that door with the fan light – today, is a sitting room.  At some point, shutters were added to this wing, too.  Trees and shrubs have grown so large that now it’s hard to see this wing through the greenery.

  In 1936 through 1960, the house was used as Charleston’s library.

      Here is the aerial view of the Mikell house’s corner lot which is hidden behind a stucco wall on one side and an iron fence on the other side.   You can see the main house with the wing with the dining room & library at its side, along with the kitchen in the next wing with its lower roof.  The kitchen wing is hidden behind the trees and shrubs.   At the very right, across the driveway, is the old carriage house with its red tiled roof.   The front door to the house is located on the side street, at the side of the main house.

    An early photo of the house with its large piazza.   A later owner painted the columns and today, the shutters are green.  I like the shutters painted the same color as the stucco as shown here.

  BEFORE:  An early owner painted the base of the columns red and the tops brown – if you can believe it!  Patricia has kept the shutters green but she restored the columns to their original color.

  TODAY:  Inside the house, a large double drawing room opens onto the large piazza.  Above, the master bedroom suite and guest suite open onto a balcony that overlooks the front lawn with its koi pond and swimming pool.  Patricia planted potted lemon trees on the piazza.

  Close up of the shutters.  During Hurricanes, Patricia doesn’t have to evacuate.  She just closes her shutters and “hunkers down” as we say in the south!   The house has stood since 1853, unharmed, through all those many hurricanes and storms.

  The front gate on the side street that leads to the front door.

  Since moving in, screens have been added to the gates to give privacy to the estate.  Today, horse drawn carriages lead tourists past this now well-known house.

  Patricia Altschul greets you at the front door.  She is usually wearing a caftan and at 5:00 pm, her butler Michael presents her with his perfect martini.

  TODAY:  Inside the front door - and its fabulous foyer.  Mario Buatta painted the wood floors to brighten up the dark space.  To the left is the morning room.  The staircase is past the arches.

  I love this oriental antique chest in the foyer next to two French chairs, covered in velvet.   The walls in the foyer, staircase, and landing have been marbleized, while the wood floors were painted.

  BEFORE:   The front lobby before the floor was painted.  To the right is the Morning Room.  Originally, there were columns and a large opening to the Morning Room.  Patricia removed the columns.

  TODAY:   The Morning Room.  This is where Patricia makes calls on the “house phone.”  The floor is covered in seagrass and the walls are wallpapered in a stripe.

  Another view of the morning room.

  From Charleston Magazine, a view of the fireplace.  Patricia collects French mantel clocks – there are enough for each fireplace. 

  In the morning room is her large collection of pug dogs.

  The bar is set up on this console.  There are three bars set around the house.

  A close up of the Morning Room curtains with their gilt cornice.  These were originally at Southerly, in the living room.

  Patricia on her “house phone” – making her morning calls.   I love her hair – it’s so flattering!

  BEFORE:   The staircase with its stained dark banister.  I must say – I do love this antique light fixture.  I would have kept it myself!

  TODAY:  The staircase hall is off the foyer.  In this view you can see the foyer at the left and the Morning Room entry, without the columns.  I adore this painted floor.  It is fabulous!   On the walls of the stairs is the silhouette collection that Patricia and two of her husbands collected with her.   The banister was painted white by Buatta – which I love.   Here you can see the antique light fixture that Patricia installed here.

  The roundabout in dark pink.    Across from the stairs is the entrance to the double drawing room.

  The view looking down at the stairs.  This is such a beautiful space.  The windows overlook the back side of the house.  The one thing I’m not crazy about in the house is the runner, but that’s personal.

  Close up of the fabulous antique silhouette collection.  She owns one of George Washington and Robert E. Lee!!!

  The only silhouette of George Washington that he sat for!  Amazing!!!!

    BEFORE:  The double drawing room was actually originally set up to be a living room and dining room.

  TODAY:  The Double Drawing Room is the highlight of this fabulous house.  The furniture is a combination of Patricia’s Fifth Avenue living room and Southerly’s living room.   Cream sofas combined with Lee Jofa chintz arm chairs.  Southerly’s one large rug was cut into two to fit these rooms.  I think the wall color is stunning – I wonder whose it is – is it custom?  It truly makes the room.   The Buatta décor is classic and timeless.    Gorgeous!!!!

  The double drawing room is entered off the stairway hall, which you can see here.  The smaller drawing room on the right leads to the library, dining room, and the kitchen wing.

  The smaller drawing room.  Instead of curtains, Buatta made fanciful shades.   The two chandeliers were removed – I wonder if they will be replaced?  On the mantel, an antique French clock.

  From the NYC Fifth Avenue apartment, this chinoiserie desk is beautiful.

  The large drawing room with the cream sofa.  Both rooms have fireplaces with matching mirrors that face each other at opposite ends of the rooms.  On the mantel, another antique French clock.

  The other side of the larger drawing room.

  Patricia in one of her signature caftans.

  And sitting in the larger drawing room, wearing one of her animal caftans, which she now sells.  You send in a photo of your pet and it is printed on the fabric.  Those sconces are gorgeous!

  In the smaller drawing room, Michael serves Patricia her daily, 5:00 pm martini.  She says he makes the perfect martini.

  This view is of the balcony right outside the large drawing room.

  I love the area between the two rooms where this console always has a beautiful flower arrangement.

  And yet one more floral design.  Patricia is good friends with another new Charleston citizen, Carolyne Roehm.

  BEFORE:   Southerly, the library.  Some of this furniture, and its curtains, was used in the Charleston library.

  TODAY:   Across from the smaller drawing room is the second foyer that opens to the wing.  The library is off this second foyer.  Here, the walls look almost magenta, but they are a true red.

  A nighttime view of the library with the fireplace going.  There are quite a few books and now knowing Patricia’s academic history, it makes perfect sense that she would have a large library.

  Bar #2 is set up here in the library.  After-dinner drinks and cigars are served here.  It’s unusual to allow smoking inside these days, but Patricia does.

  The bar and cigars!

  And you can see here the painted floor from the second foyer that leads to the library.  Next to the library is the dining room.  Originally, this library was where the kitchen was, but Patricia reconfigured this part of the house and moved the kitchen to the second wing.

  BEFORE:   The library was originally the kitchen!  Hard to believe.  You can see here what it once looked like.  What I can’t figure out is the mantel.  This mantel is now in the dining room and the mantel that was in the dining room is now in the library for some odd reason.

  BEFORE:  Here is the dining room before Patricia bought the house.  This mantel is now in the library/kitchen and that mantel is now in the dining room.  Through the door, you can see what is today the butler’s pantry – which was once a sitting room.  Patricia moved the kitchen from this area to the wing off the butler’s pantry.

  TODAY:  Next to the library is the dining room.  This room was first designed in Southerly and Buatta reused all the elements here in Charleston.  Although the curtains actually came from Patricia’s former Fifth Avenue apartment.  The Zuber paper is gorgeous – it was taken off the walls in Southerly and rehung here.    These ceilings are higher though, so to stretch the wallpaper, Buatta added a trim piece and then painted sky blue above it to mimic the sky in the wallpaper.  Very smart, Mario!!!   The room has four windows – two on each side.  These two windows face the front yard and open to the balcony.   The textured rug tones it all down – instead of being too dressy, the room looks warm and welcoming.   Another fabulous room, IMO.  I love this house!!!

  Through this door you can see the second foyer where the library is.  To the left of the foyer is the small drawing room.

  The view towards the other direction which faces the back of the house.  This side has two windows, but one is faux, it is actually a door.  Instead of panes there are mirrors. 

  BEFORE:  Here is the Zuber wallpaper in the dining room at Southerly – you can see the ceiling is not as high as the Charleston house.   Buatta cleverly added the trim piece, then painted above it to make the paper “fit.”  Remember, Jackie Kennedy also painted above her own antique Zuber paper to make it fit the White House Diplomatic Room.

  Patricia in her dining room.

  Her blue and white corralled for a dinner party.

  BEFORE:  The Butler’s Pantry was once a sitting room with stairs that lead up to the second floor in the wing.  Patricia closed off the small door and added built ins on each wall to hold her extensive plate collection.

  TODAY:   The butler’s pantry connects to the new kitchen in the far right wing.  The pantry is a large bar/staging area.   The kitchen is past the doggie gate at the very right.

  Another view of the Butler’s Pantry – with Cameran, one of the stars of “Southern Charm.”

  Michael preparing for a dinner party.  The French doors leads out to the front balcony and yard.

  The view from the outside – the right wing with the library and dining room and butler’s pantry.  Whitney and Shep, another star of “Southern Charm” stand on the balcony off the butler’s pantry.  Seen here at the very right, are the two windows from the kitchen building.

  The kitchen is a large, charming country style room with two farm sinks and a fireplace!  Mostly all the dogs stay in here.  The island’s top is made of copper, as is the stove’s hood.  Love the ceiling.   The door opens to the driveway and the carriage house.

  The kitchen’s fireplace is surrounded by blue and white tiles.  To the left is the door that leads to the breakfast room and sitting room.

  Another view of the kitchen – when it’s not styled for a photoshoot. I love how this is a brand new kitchen, but it looks decades old.  Amazing!  The cabinet doors under the sinks add to the charm, as do all the sconces around the room.  I also love how low the sconces were hung.

  The breakfast room off the kitchen has its own brick fireplace.

  BEFORE:  The sitting room was dark with mirrored walls on one side!  Mirrors?!

  TODAY:   The room looks totally different, painted white and bright with the mirrors removed.  The sitting room is off the driveway court, next to the kitchen entrance.  Outside the French door is the old Carriage House.   Much of this furniture came from Southerly’s sitting room.

  Patricia and Whitney share appetizers.  Up the stairs is the kitchen, where Michael is headed.  Up the higher level is the breakfast room.

  Southerly:  Buatta was able to reuse much of this in Charleston.

  BEFORE:  The second floor landing off the main staircase.  Patricia kept the arched trim work at the end of the landing.

  TODAY:    Here you can see how Patricia utilized the arched trim work upstairs.   To create some architectural interest, she added a faux mirrored French door.

  Further down the long hall, the walls are papered.  I love those sconces!

  The landing – shelves were added for even more books.

         BEFORE:  In the main house, above the double drawing rooms are two bedroom suites.  First is the guest room, seen here, before.

  `

Today:   The guest room.  This furniture was moved from New York – where it was Patricia’s master bedroom furniture.  The room leads out to the front balcony.  Just beautiful.   This photograph by AD is so pretty!!

  Above the desk is a needlework from Jackie Kennedy that was once in the White House.

  The view into the guest room from the landing.  The wood -floors are painted white.

  Patricia calls this the Dog Room because of the paintings.  Notice the ceiling is pink.  Photograph by Charleston Magazine.

  FIFTH AVENUE:   Here is the same furniture, as it was in Patricia’s Fifth Avenue apartment.  Buatta was able to reuse it all!

  The guest bathroom.  Sweet.

  BEFORE:   Over the larger side of the double drawing room is the master suite, shown as it was, before.

  TODAY:   Patricia’s master bedroom is a copy of her Southerly bedroom – the same furniture and fabric was used, just refreshed.  The bedroom opens up to the front balcony.  The room sits on top of the double drawing room.  I have to say this is such a pretty bedroom – a classic and one of Mario’s best rooms!!!  I had been a fan of the Southerly bedroom for years before I ever heard of its owners.  I bet you were too.

  From Charleston Home Magazine.  The floor is painted white wood.  It’s so interesting to see how the photographers from Architectural Digest take such gorgeous photos while Charleston Home’s photos are just photos.  The AD photos are by Scott Frances and he is unbelievably talented.  Incredibly so.  Just compare the AD marked photos with similar ones of the same room and you will appreciate how gifted Frances truly is.    For instance – compare the beautiful, fragile linen lampshades in each photo.  In AD’s  photos – you can see each one in detail, in the other photo, they disappear.  Notice the sun’s dappled light in AD’s photo.  Frances waited for the exact right time to take that photo.  Not sure how he even finessed that?

  This is an antique dog bed!  Adorable!

    While packing for a trip to NYC, you can see the landing at the right door, with the crystal chandelier from the Fifth Avenue apartment.  Through the left door is the bathroom.

  BEFORE:  The master bedroom.  Through the left door is the bathroom.  Through the right down is the stair landing.

  BEFORE:   The master bathroom.  Patricia removed the cabinetry and cleared out the room to completely renovate it for her bathroom.  This tub was reused in the guest bathroom.  The mantel stayed put, although the stone surround was changed.

  TODAY:   The bathroom with its cabinet where the heated toilet is concealed.  The floor is painted here again. A fireplace in the bathroom!!   Is this the prettiest bathroom, ever?  The walls are mirrored strips.  Just gorgeous!

    Gorgeous!!!  What I would give for this bathroom!  That mirror!!!

  SOUTHERLY:  Patricia’s bedroom on Oyster Bay.  The main difference is there is no canopy here!

  BEFORE:  Southerly – the other side of the bedroom.

    Here are the Architectural Digest photographs from Patricia’s Southerly and Fifth Avenue living rooms so you can see how Mario Buatta used their previous decor:

  Southerly:  The same rug was used, as were the sofas and chintz chairs.  The ottoman was also reused, as was this French checked chair.

  Southerly:  The other side of the room.  This was all reused in Charleston.  The curtains were put in the Morning Room.

  Fifth Avenue.  The cream sofas were used in Charleston.  The curtains were reused in Charleston’s dining room.  This red desk was also used.  The crystal chandelier is now on the second floor landing, right outside Patricia’s bedroom suite.

  Another view of this apartment which was once Sister Parish’s.  The velvet chairs, tables, lamps, stools – were all reused in Charleston, thanks to Mario Buatta.

  This room is just incredible – three photos in AD!  The mirror above the fireplace ended up in the Charleston library.  The screen?  I don’t think that was reused.  In Charleston, the antique oval mirror is in the second foyer, outside the dining room.   But that desk!!!  Gorgeous!!!

  Want a caftan with your pet’s photo on it?  Go HERE.

Books to go with this story – click on the photo to order:

SHOP THIS COLLECTION & TONS MORE OF EUROPEAN ANTIQUES:    HERE

from COTE DE TEXAS http://cotedetexas.blogspot.com/2017/04/charleston-charm.html

[myhauntedsalem]

Dead gangster Ma Barker doesn’t want her house moved

He called the newsroom with a warning: They can’t move that house.

“I’m worried something terrible is going to happen,” the man said in a thick New York accent. “I have to warn somebody.”

Then he told me a ghost story.

His name is Donald J. Weiss. He’s a 62-year-old retired police patrolman from upstate New York. He had moved to Ocala several years ago and visited the house where gangster Ma Barker had been killed. He had wanted to see the site of the longest shootout in FBI history: four hours, more than 2,000 bullets.

But when he wandered beneath the live oaks, a voice growled, “Get outta here, lawman!”

And when he took a photo of the front porch, a shadowy figure appeared.

“That woman is still in that house,” he told me. “And she’s pissed.”

He gave the photo to the Marion County Sheriff’s Office because he wanted to enter it into evidence. And because bad things started happening as soon as he had blown up the print. “I had a heart attack,” he said. “You think that’s a coincidence?”

The property has been sold, he told me. County officials want to move the house.

“They have no idea who or what is in there,” Weiss said. “That woman has the power to do a lot of things. We are dealing with the afterworld here.”

I thanked the caller for his concern.

“When are they moving it?” I asked.

He paused, as if to make a point, then said gravely, “By Halloween.”

Reporters get a lot of crazy calls. Many might have dismissed this one. But I knew this house, and so did my photographer friend John Pendygraft.

“Hey John,” I called across the cubicle wall. “Do you remember that story we did on the Ma Barker house?”

John’s eyes got big. “Do you remember what happened?”

Our story four years ago had been about real estate: historic home for sale on nine waterfront acres, eight miles north of the Villages, two hours from Tampa. And about the gangsters who hid out there until the end.

We had toured the four-bedroom house with a Realtor, whose assistant shivered and said, “I get the weirdest feeling when I’m in here.” We had reported rumors about flickering lights and an unsuccessful exorcism.

But we hadn’t written about what had happened to John. Or what he saw when he enlarged one of his pictures.

John has worked in war zones in Afghanistan and the Gaza Strip. He has photographed the dead from an Asian tsunami, a Mexican assassination and Hurricane Katrina. If he ever is scared, he won’t show it.

That fall day in 2012, in the Ma Barker house, he had gone alone into the front bedroom to take pictures through the window, looking out toward the lake where the FBI agents had crouched behind trees.

All of a sudden, John rushed out, cameras, lights, tripod flapping over his shoulders, nearly sliding down the 13 stairs. “I don’t know what happened, or what that was,” he panted. He heard the mattress fall, then saw it, dangling through the bed frame. “I didn’t touch it,” he insisted.

We left that afternoon, as dusk began to descend. From beneath the Spanish moss, John shot a few final frames. The next day, when he zoomed in on his laptop, he saw a strange figure on the screened porch: The silhouette of a stout woman with a bun, who looked like she was holding a machine gun.

Her story starts in Missouri, in 1873. Her parents named her Arizona Donnie Clark. She and a farmhand, George Barker, had four sons. As soon as the boys were grown, her husband left.

Legends vary about Ma Barker’s role in her boys’ gang. Some say she just cooked and cleaned. Others say she was the mastermind.

They began by robbing banks, then murdered a policeman. From 1910 through 1930, they are said to have stolen $2 million. And killed at least 10 people.

The FBI’s first director, J. Edgar Hoover, called them “the worst criminals in the entire country.” Ma Barker became the only woman to top the most wanted list.

In 1934, the gang split and went into hiding. One son fled to Chicago. Ma and her favorite son, baby Freddie, moved to Miami where, posing as a wealthy widow, she asked if anyone knew a secluded spot where she could spend the winter.

Someone introduced her to Carson Bradford, whose family had a lovely home in the center of Florida, on Lake Weir.

The house sounded perfect: fully furnished, set back from the road, with a boat tethered to a dock out back. Ma paid the full season’s rent in cash. Just before Thanksgiving, she moved in with Freddie and a couple of his friends.

In a letter to her son Arthur in Chicago, she drew a map of the lake and circled the closest town, Ocala. She mailed it from Ocklawaha’s little post office.

FBI agents found Arthur the following January, and with him, the letter, which led them to Ma’s hideout.

In the predawn darkness on Jan. 16, 1935, a dozen officers pointed their guns at the upstairs windows. “This is the FBI,” an officer shouted, according to an agency report. “You are surrounded.”

Some say the gun battle lasted as long as six hours.

When it was over, they found Freddie, 32, shot in the back of his head. Ma, 63, was curled on the floor, cradling her Tommy gun. That day, Hoover said, marked “the end of an era of violence.”

For nine months, the corpses lay unclaimed. Finally, a relative moved them closer to home.

But some say Ma still inhabits that two-story, cream-colored house with forest green shutters. The cop on the phone, my friend the photographer, the former and current owner all saw, heard or felt … something.

But how do you report a ghost story?

I started with the Marion County Sheriff’s Office and that “evidence” photo the retired cop mentioned on the phone.

Lt. Dave Redmond remembered some man bringing in the photo, but the deputy hadn’t seen anything in it.

Records only go back to 1990, said department spokeswoman Lauren Lettelier. “But since then, there have been no reports of hauntings at that house.”

I talked to Carson Good, 47, the great-grandson of the man who built the house. He has memories of swimming and sailing in the lake. And of countless sleepless nights, cringing in the dark. “I’m not a big believer of ghosts, but I heard a lot of sounds in that house,” he said. “Voices. Furniture moving. People walking up and down the wooden stairs.”

His grandmother didn’t like to talk about it, but she often heard spirits stirring. Years ago, he said, a psychic from Cassadaga held a seance at the house and convinced the ghost of Freddie Barker to move on. But the medium said Ma refused to move.

Good and his family sold the property for $750,000 and donated the house to the county, which hired a contractor to lift the home off its foundation and float it across Lake Weir to a park called Carney Island. County commissioners allocated $270,000 for the move. Private donations and fundraising will finance the museum.

County tax collector George Albright, who grew up next to the storied house, envisions an homage to the early days of the FBI, as agents set out to capture notorious gangsters like “Baby Face” Nelson, “Pretty Boy” Floyd, Bonnie and Clyde and, of course, the infamous Barker gang.

“We’ve already had calls from people asking about ghost tours. If they want something like that, or to hold seances, we’ll look into that,” said the tax collector, “as a revenue source.”

Some say the gang buried Mason jars filled with cash along the lake. Local children used to spend summers digging for the treasure, but came up with shovels full of sand.

As soon as the home is removed, before the new owner closes on the land, the tax collector plans to bring in a team with ground-penetrating radar to scan the soil.

“Let’s hope she’s a friendly ghost,” he said.

On a gray Wednesday in October, more than 81 years after the shootout, John and I returned to the scene. The house already had been lifted on jacks. The screened porch was gone; workers were carrying out lamps. A true-crime novelist was parked in an SUV, taking pictures.

Like John, he swore he had seen a face in a window.

“I think whatever’s in there doesn’t want us to come in,” said Tony Stewart, who had driven from Indiana to see the house in its original setting. “And it won’t come out.”

We had told the retired cop that we would meet him later. The tax collector didn’t want anyone else at the construction site. But Weiss pulled up in his white Cadillac, quaking in his tassled loafers.

“This is where their bodies were. They dragged ‘em right down this driveway,” said Weiss, clasping his arms across his chest. “She’s not at rest. She will never leave this property.”

He has felt this before, he said. “I sense spirits.”

The first time was in 1992, just before Christmas. He was on patrol in White Plains, N.Y., resting in his car between calls, when he had a vision of a sad teenage boy: long hair, pale, with a pug nose. Two days later, he was sent to a home where a teenage boy had hanged himself. “The same boy I’d seen.”

[cwebberphotography]

Two New YouTube videos: https://youtu.be/ipOWwYufwa4

Holi is the festival of colours. It’s also the day I chose to take a break from Pokhara. After breakfast I got a ride on Nirmal’s motor bike to the bus stop. I didn’t get a seat for about 20 minutes so I bumped around in the isle. Then I walked four hours up to Panchase. Got lost, stopped a lot.  I asked directions a couple times and when I got to Green Village I was pulled in for a tea and dal baht. Arjun said if I stay a week it would be 700 NPR/night for a room and three meals a day plus all the tea I can drink.  Now I have lots of time to meditate explore, photograph, sit with the cats and watch them make food in the Gurung kitchen.

There are no decorations in this place. Mud walls and floors a fire on the ground some pots and pans and stools five inches off the ground. Somehow everything is possible in the kitchen. They have a big pot that acts as the sink/compost which they feed to the buffalo once a day. And running water outside that comes out glacier cold. After lunch I walked the trail to one of many Shiva Temples. Lots of good view points and half way up stopped in a secluded spot to meditate on a rock. Found a tree and put my hand on it to see if it would speak to me. It just said he was old as time immemorial. When I came back at sunset it was raining and hailing so I went by the fire and the cool cat warmed my lap while they made dinner. Eventually my legs fell asleep and thankfully the cat moved off. Then slowly the life blood came flowing back again. They hired a carpenter from the next village to stay there and make 20 bee hives and furniture. He was treated like a second class citizen the entire time, he ate last, only millet and dal, usually outside or on the floor away from everyone else and had his own plates and cup…I thought he was a slow neighbour at first as he chatted on about god-knows.  While eating he was striking all sorts of poses he was also drinking lots of local wine.

Soon I’m off to bed. Shuba raatri. What stars aren’t clouded over are completely over taken by the brightness of the full moon. Made even more powerful by the lack of power on top of the mountain.

A letter to the man who just arrived: This place will eat you alive. If you let it. You may leave a different person. You may not like the long cold nights and the silence of the days may cause a blissful malaise. Bamboo forests and fires in the distance. Dusk in the meadow. Hermits who don’t wave back, abandoned foundations and empty river crossings. Cow bells hidden by mountain passes. Himalayas tower over me tall with white clouds blown over, smeared across time from day break to now, they stand watch in the North over tiny galaxies in the leaves.

The higher I get the better I feel. Nepal is the top of the world. This place just got a road in 2012 and electricity is also new. I can take an evening stroll and see nothing but the view. The stars shine bright and the food is fresh within a few feet. There are no preservatives no refrigerator and the air and water are clean. The only voices I hear are miles away.

The sun emits radio waves through the vacuum of space. Exactly two months into this trip. Two months ago I left home now I’m in a cave in Nepal in a mountain in the forest with my feet up. I see maybe three or four people everyday. Wake with the sun. Ma lights two incense and makes tea and I stretch and gaze at the Himalayas. Wash my face and eat breakfast then walk into the mountains to find Shiva temples and small caves. Pink and red rhododendron trees line the path. Sit in the sun. nap on a stoop, my jacket packs into little pillow. Smell of wet green forest and only the sound of birds and falling leaves occasional bees and far away single engine airplanes. I’ve had too much dal baht. Probably eaten my weight in rice. Singing Om with John Lennon listening to Let It Be the sun dries my tears as I descend the mountain. Several Beatles references this week have brought back the thought that as time goes on coincidences and synchronisities will grow as well. The song Across the Universe has new meaning for me now as Lennon sings the mantra Jay Guru Deva and then says Om.

Fog straddled the mountain and caressed it from all angles. As I pass flowers after flowers and my path is lined with red pedals the smell of a woman enters my nostrils and I know it’s no woman but the fragrance of God and it’s he who makes all the beautiful women smell as good as they do. Without flowers there would be no perfume.

Green Village guest house is at least 25 years old. Arjun’s grandma’s older brother lived in town and lost everything in a card game so he came here where there were only a few buffalo farmers. He built the original place and lived here 50 years before he was robbed and returned to town. Slowly his family moved up the mountain and started the first tea house and added to it as others came to make a full-fledged ‘hotel’. I had a lot of questions for Arjun, he said they go to town once a month for supplies sometimes less sometimes more. Sometimes they’re without power for months at a time and before the road his aunt would walk both ways.

Today I was caught in the rain. Turned hail storm. I sat under a tree to stay as dry as possible then continued to shoot. Someone who knows Nama the Mother is here now. He’s my age and working in England and is home visiting for a funeral. He says he’s Buddhist and could not do vipassana because he’s not strong enough.

Bishal left this morning after another good talk.  Also my phone is dead and there is no sign of power coming back on. We had breakfast around 6:30 and lunch after 10 a.m. Between we chatted about London, meditation, smoking, family, LSD, books, music and getting together in Pokhara. His family caste is from Himalayas, the Gurung warrior caste, and have been with the British Army for 200 years. He told me two stories of vipassana he’s heard. One was his friend ran away early on the third day and another friend did it and told his long time girlfriend after that he had been cheating and also has a wife. Today I saw Ma with a pile of buffalo shit in her hand walking down the path.

Woke at six and had a millet pancake which includes five teaspoons of sugar, water, eggs and honey on top. The moon is still high in the sky as the sun rises. Mountains are invisible and the sky is blue. The dew and condensation drops from the roof and ceiling as the local news plays on the radio and the dude hammers away at bee hives. I went to a part of the mountain with no birds or bees or breeze and felt complete silence. It’s fleeting and actually deafening. After it disappeared I was happy to hear again. Ok with the radio, the birds and bees the chatter in any language was welcome. Here I’m able to meditate all day and stretch and read and be 100% in nature all the time. Best of all I have no worries. No worries of the future or present. All my food and shelter are taken care of, my toilet, clothes, TV time at night when there is power. Even without power or electricity I’m fine and happy.

Occasional sense desires come but that’s why I’m here. To get away from cake and chips and jungle talkies and tourists because soon enough my life will be turned upside down in Japan and Kathmandu. Monday of this week like the last 10 at least have come and gone without a whimper. Just a smile if I realize which day it is. It truly is your job you hate not a certain day of the week.

After an hour sit in my room I walked the path to Arthur and found a spot to sit in the sun. Stopping every 10 feet to smell a new smell or listen or stare far away and regain my long distance sight which dissolves in the confines of a city. Seeing people on these trails is as rare as seeing a moose in Canada. I heard people have around 60,000 thoughts (conscious and subconscious) a day and 95% of them are the same as yesterday. We are all writing our stories day by day. I would like for mine to have no repeats.

It’s Thursday, yesterday I had a hot water bucket bath and today I did my laundry which may never dry. As I walked the ridge I could hear two women in the bush and figured they were pruning trees for buffalo like the woman I came across on the way up, way up in a tree. After sitting I heard them closer, then saw four human size bunches of leaves go down the path laughing and chatting along. These people are masters of camouflage.

After an afternoon nap, out my window a man and Ma were carrying wood on their foreheads and dumping it. She’s old and he’s older and I found myself watching thinking maybe they’d let me stack the wood. I asked Arjun and he said go ahead and grab a basket. If she can do it so can I. Now she’s stacking and he’s carrying so I grab a basket and start. After 1.5 hours working bare foot the pile disappeared. It’s hard work, and if you stop paying attention to what you’re doing for one second you can really hurt yourself. That night I had two roxies (local wine) and watched the Waterboy until her Hindi soaps came on.

Pani is water. Jaro is cold. Basa means sit. Chiya is tea. Chiini is sugar.

Second last day a man from Vancouver came and we talked most of the time. He’s 44 has a house and family. Works for the city as an engineer and micro-doses LSD and mushrooms for ideas and to stay fresh. He said he couldn’t live without meditating before bed. I said I also enjoy it. On the walk down Ram Dass said meditation is a method and a trap. You need to become trapped in it for it to work but ultimately it is a method and should be dropped. The goal is not to be a meditator but to be free.

The days are long and life is short. I take it one hour at a time. I love laughing with Nama and Arjun. I could live in this area but it’s changing fast. The road is starting to be used more and people searching for solitude are all coming here. Today a picnic bus came with people crammed in and over flowing onto the roof.

After a long walk I went to warm up and watch the festivities. As soon as I sat down two guys grabbed me and forced me to dance a fast song. I danced with an old man who looks like Gandhi with foggy glasses and missing teeth. My reward was some of the best food I’ve had to date.

Thankful to be traveling alone and for strangers who dance.

      Seven days in Bhangjyang Two New YouTube videos: Holi is the festival of colours. It's also the day I chose to take a break from Pokhara.

[myhauntedsalem]

Ghostly warning: Dead gangster Ma Barker doesn’t want her house moved

He called the newsroom with a warning: They can’t move that house.

“I’m worried something terrible is going to happen,” the man said in a thick New York accent. “I have to warn somebody.”

Then he told me a ghost story.

His name is Donald J. Weiss. He’s a 62-year-old retired police patrolman from upstate New York. He had moved to Ocala several years ago and visited the house where gangster Ma Barker had been killed. He had wanted to see the site of the longest shootout in FBI history: four hours, more than 2,000 bullets.

But when he wandered beneath the live oaks, a voice growled, “Get outta here, lawman!”

And when he took a photo of the front porch, a shadowy figure appeared.

“That woman is still in that house,” he told me. “And she’s pissed.”

He gave the photo to the Marion County Sheriff’s Office because he wanted to enter it into evidence. And because bad things started happening as soon as he had blown up the print. “I had a heart attack,” he said. “You think that’s a coincidence?”

The property has been sold, he told me. County officials want to move the house.

“They have no idea who or what is in there,” Weiss said. “That woman has the power to do a lot of things. We are dealing with the afterworld here.”

I thanked the caller for his concern.

“When are they moving it?” I asked.

He paused, as if to make a point, then said gravely, “By Halloween.”

Reporters get a lot of crazy calls. Many might have dismissed this one. But I knew this house, and so did my photographer friend John Pendygraft.

“Hey John,” I called across the cubicle wall. “Do you remember that story we did on the Ma Barker house?”

John’s eyes got big. “Do you remember what happened?”

Our story four years ago had been about real estate: historic home for sale on nine waterfront acres, eight miles north of the Villages, two hours from Tampa. And about the gangsters who hid out there until the end.

We had toured the four-bedroom house with a Realtor, whose assistant shivered and said, “I get the weirdest feeling when I’m in here.” We had reported rumors about flickering lights and an unsuccessful exorcism.

But we hadn’t written about what had happened to John. Or what he saw when he enlarged one of his pictures.

John has worked in war zones in Afghanistan and the Gaza Strip. He has photographed the dead from an Asian tsunami, a Mexican assassination and Hurricane Katrina. If he ever is scared, he won’t show it.

That fall day in 2012, in the Ma Barker house, he had gone alone into the front bedroom to take pictures through the window, looking out toward the lake where the FBI agents had crouched behind trees.

All of a sudden, John rushed out, cameras, lights, tripod flapping over his shoulders, nearly sliding down the 13 stairs. “I don’t know what happened, or what that was,” he panted. He heard the mattress fall, then saw it, dangling through the bed frame. “I didn’t touch it,” he insisted.

We left that afternoon, as dusk began to descend. From beneath the Spanish moss, John shot a few final frames. The next day, when he zoomed in on his laptop, he saw a strange figure on the screened porch: The silhouette of a stout woman with a bun, who looked like she was holding a machine gun.

Her story starts in Missouri, in 1873. Her parents named her Arizona Donnie Clark. She and a farmhand, George Barker, had four sons. As soon as the boys were grown, her husband left.

Legends vary about Ma Barker’s role in her boys’ gang. Some say she just cooked and cleaned. Others say she was the mastermind.

They began by robbing banks, then murdered a policeman. From 1910 through 1930, they are said to have stolen $2 million. And killed at least 10 people.

The FBI’s first director, J. Edgar Hoover, called them “the worst criminals in the entire country.” Ma Barker became the only woman to top the most wanted list.

In 1934, the gang split and went into hiding. One son fled to Chicago. Ma and her favorite son, baby Freddie, moved to Miami where, posing as a wealthy widow, she asked if anyone knew a secluded spot where she could spend the winter.

Someone introduced her to Carson Bradford, whose family had a lovely home in the center of Florida, on Lake Weir.

The house sounded perfect: fully furnished, set back from the road, with a boat tethered to a dock out back. Ma paid the full season’s rent in cash. Just before Thanksgiving, she moved in with Freddie and a couple of his friends.

In a letter to her son Arthur in Chicago, she drew a map of the lake and circled the closest town, Ocala. She mailed it from Ocklawaha’s little post office.

FBI agents found Arthur the following January, and with him, the letter, which led them to Ma’s hideout.

In the predawn darkness on Jan. 16, 1935, a dozen officers pointed their guns at the upstairs windows. “This is the FBI,” an officer shouted, according to an agency report. “You are surrounded.”

Some say the gun battle lasted as long as six hours.

When it was over, they found Freddie, 32, shot in the back of his head. Ma, 63, was curled on the floor, cradling her Tommy gun. That day, Hoover said, marked “the end of an era of violence.”

For nine months, the corpses lay unclaimed. Finally, a relative moved them closer to home.

But some say Ma still inhabits that two-story, cream-colored house with forest green shutters. The cop on the phone, my friend the photographer, the former and current owner all saw, heard or felt … something.

But how do you report a ghost story?

I started with the Marion County Sheriff’s Office and that “evidence” photo the retired cop mentioned on the phone.

Lt. Dave Redmond remembered some man bringing in the photo, but the deputy hadn’t seen anything in it.

Records only go back to 1990, said department spokeswoman Lauren Lettelier. “But since then, there have been no reports of hauntings at that house.”

I talked to Carson Good, 47, the great-grandson of the man who built the house. He has memories of swimming and sailing in the lake. And of countless sleepless nights, cringing in the dark. “I’m not a big believer of ghosts, but I heard a lot of sounds in that house,” he said. “Voices. Furniture moving. People walking up and down the wooden stairs.”

His grandmother didn’t like to talk about it, but she often heard spirits stirring. Years ago, he said, a psychic from Cassadaga held a seance at the house and convinced the ghost of Freddie Barker to move on. But the medium said Ma refused to move.

Good and his family sold the property for $750,000 and donated the house to the county, which hired a contractor to lift the home off its foundation and float it across Lake Weir to a park called Carney Island. County commissioners allocated $270,000 for the move. Private donations and fundraising will finance the museum.

County tax collector George Albright, who grew up next to the storied house, envisions an homage to the early days of the FBI, as agents set out to capture notorious gangsters like “Baby Face” Nelson, “Pretty Boy” Floyd, Bonnie and Clyde and, of course, the infamous Barker gang.

“We’ve already had calls from people asking about ghost tours. If they want something like that, or to hold seances, we’ll look into that,” said the tax collector, “as a revenue source.”

Some say the gang buried Mason jars filled with cash along the lake. Local children used to spend summers digging for the treasure, but came up with shovels full of sand.

As soon as the home is removed, before the new owner closes on the land, the tax collector plans to bring in a team with ground-penetrating radar to scan the soil.

“Let’s hope she’s a friendly ghost,” he said.

On a gray Wednesday in October, more than 81 years after the shootout, John and I returned to the scene. The house already had been lifted on jacks. The screened porch was gone; workers were carrying out lamps. A true-crime novelist was parked in an SUV, taking pictures.

Like John, he swore he had seen a face in a window.

“I think whatever’s in there doesn’t want us to come in,” said Tony Stewart, who had driven from Indiana to see the house in its original setting. “And it won’t come out.”

We had told the retired cop that we would meet him later. The tax collector didn’t want anyone else at the construction site. But Weiss pulled up in his white Cadillac, quaking in his tassled loafers.

“This is where their bodies were. They dragged ‘em right down this driveway,” said Weiss, clasping his arms across his chest. “She’s not at rest. She will never leave this property.”

He has felt this before, he said. “I sense spirits.”

The first time was in 1992, just before Christmas. He was on patrol in White Plains, N.Y., resting in his car between calls, when he had a vision of a sad teenage boy: long hair, pale, with a pug nose. Two days later, he was sent to a home where a teenage boy had hanged himself. “The same boy I’d seen.”

[myhauntedsalem]

Ghostly warning: Dead gangster Ma Barker doesn’t want her house moved

He called the newsroom with a warning: They can’t move that house.

“I’m worried something terrible is going to happen,” the man said in a thick New York accent. “I have to warn somebody.”

Then he told me a ghost story.

His name is Donald J. Weiss. He’s a 62-year-old retired police patrolman from upstate New York. He had moved to Ocala several years ago and visited the house where gangster Ma Barker had been killed. He had wanted to see the site of the longest shootout in FBI history: four hours, more than 2,000 bullets.

But when he wandered beneath the live oaks, a voice growled, “Get outta here, lawman!”

And when he took a photo of the front porch, a shadowy figure appeared.

“That woman is still in that house,” he told me. “And she’s pissed.”

He gave the photo to the Marion County Sheriff’s Office because he wanted to enter it into evidence. And because bad things started happening as soon as he had blown up the print. “I had a heart attack,” he said. “You think that’s a coincidence?”

The property has been sold, he told me. County officials want to move the house.

“They have no idea who or what is in there,” Weiss said. “That woman has the power to do a lot of things. We are dealing with the afterworld here.”

I thanked the caller for his concern.

“When are they moving it?” I asked.

He paused, as if to make a point, then said gravely, “By Halloween.”

Reporters get a lot of crazy calls. Many might have dismissed this one. But I knew this house, and so did my photographer friend John Pendygraft.

“Hey John,” I called across the cubicle wall. “Do you remember that story we did on the Ma Barker house?”

John’s eyes got big. “Do you remember what happened?”

Our story four years ago had been about real estate: historic home for sale on nine waterfront acres, eight miles north of the Villages, two hours from Tampa. And about the gangsters who hid out there until the end.

We had toured the four-bedroom house with a Realtor, whose assistant shivered and said, “I get the weirdest feeling when I’m in here.” We had reported rumors about flickering lights and an unsuccessful exorcism.

But we hadn’t written about what had happened to John. Or what he saw when he enlarged one of his pictures.

John has worked in war zones in Afghanistan and the Gaza Strip. He has photographed the dead from an Asian tsunami, a Mexican assassination and Hurricane Katrina. If he ever is scared, he won’t show it.

That fall day in 2012, in the Ma Barker house, he had gone alone into the front bedroom to take pictures through the window, looking out toward the lake where the FBI agents had crouched behind trees.

All of a sudden, John rushed out, cameras, lights, tripod flapping over his shoulders, nearly sliding down the 13 stairs. “I don’t know what happened, or what that was,” he panted. He heard the mattress fall, then saw it, dangling through the bed frame. “I didn’t touch it,” he insisted.

We left that afternoon, as dusk began to descend. From beneath the Spanish moss, John shot a few final frames. The next day, when he zoomed in on his laptop, he saw a strange figure on the screened porch: The silhouette of a stout woman with a bun, who looked like she was holding a machine gun.

Her story starts in Missouri, in 1873. Her parents named her Arizona Donnie Clark. She and a farmhand, George Barker, had four sons. As soon as the boys were grown, her husband left.

Legends vary about Ma Barker’s role in her boys’ gang. Some say she just cooked and cleaned. Others say she was the mastermind.

They began by robbing banks, then murdered a policeman. From 1910 through 1930, they are said to have stolen $2 million. And killed at least 10 people.

The FBI’s first director, J. Edgar Hoover, called them “the worst criminals in the entire country.” Ma Barker became the only woman to top the most wanted list.

In 1934, the gang split and went into hiding. One son fled to Chicago. Ma and her favorite son, baby Freddie, moved to Miami where, posing as a wealthy widow, she asked if anyone knew a secluded spot where she could spend the winter.

Someone introduced her to Carson Bradford, whose family had a lovely home in the center of Florida, on Lake Weir.

The house sounded perfect: fully furnished, set back from the road, with a boat tethered to a dock out back. Ma paid the full season’s rent in cash. Just before Thanksgiving, she moved in with Freddie and a couple of his friends.

In a letter to her son Arthur in Chicago, she drew a map of the lake and circled the closest town, Ocala. She mailed it from Ocklawaha’s little post office.

FBI agents found Arthur the following January, and with him, the letter, which led them to Ma’s hideout.

In the predawn darkness on Jan. 16, 1935, a dozen officers pointed their guns at the upstairs windows. “This is the FBI,” an officer shouted, according to an agency report. “You are surrounded.”

Some say the gun battle lasted as long as six hours.

When it was over, they found Freddie, 32, shot in the back of his head. Ma, 63, was curled on the floor, cradling her Tommy gun. That day, Hoover said, marked “the end of an era of violence.”

For nine months, the corpses lay unclaimed. Finally, a relative moved them closer to home.

But some say Ma still inhabits that two-story, cream-colored house with forest green shutters. The cop on the phone, my friend the photographer, the former and current owner all saw, heard or felt … something.

But how do you report a ghost story?

I started with the Marion County Sheriff’s Office and that “evidence” photo the retired cop mentioned on the phone.

Lt. Dave Redmond remembered some man bringing in the photo, but the deputy hadn’t seen anything in it.

Records only go back to 1990, said department spokeswoman Lauren Lettelier. “But since then, there have been no reports of hauntings at that house.”

I talked to Carson Good, 47, the great-grandson of the man who built the house. He has memories of swimming and sailing in the lake. And of countless sleepless nights, cringing in the dark. “I’m not a big believer of ghosts, but I heard a lot of sounds in that house,” he said. “Voices. Furniture moving. People walking up and down the wooden stairs.”

His grandmother didn’t like to talk about it, but she often heard spirits stirring. Years ago, he said, a psychic from Cassadaga held a seance at the house and convinced the ghost of Freddie Barker to move on. But the medium said Ma refused to move.

Good and his family sold the property for $750,000 and donated the house to the county, which hired a contractor to lift the home off its foundation and float it across Lake Weir to a park called Carney Island. County commissioners allocated $270,000 for the move. Private donations and fundraising will finance the museum.

County tax collector George Albright, who grew up next to the storied house, envisions an homage to the early days of the FBI, as agents set out to capture notorious gangsters like “Baby Face” Nelson, “Pretty Boy” Floyd, Bonnie and Clyde and, of course, the infamous Barker gang.

“We’ve already had calls from people asking about ghost tours. If they want something like that, or to hold seances, we’ll look into that,” said the tax collector, “as a revenue source.”

Some say the gang buried Mason jars filled with cash along the lake. Local children used to spend summers digging for the treasure, but came up with shovels full of sand.

As soon as the home is removed, before the new owner closes on the land, the tax collector plans to bring in a team with ground-penetrating radar to scan the soil.

“Let’s hope she’s a friendly ghost,” he said.

On a gray Wednesday in October, more than 81 years after the shootout, John and I returned to the scene. The house already had been lifted on jacks. The screened porch was gone; workers were carrying out lamps. A true-crime novelist was parked in an SUV, taking pictures.

Like John, he swore he had seen a face in a window.

“I think whatever’s in there doesn’t want us to come in,” said Tony Stewart, who had driven from Indiana to see the house in its original setting. “And it won’t come out.”

We had told the retired cop that we would meet him later. The tax collector didn’t want anyone else at the construction site. But Weiss pulled up in his white Cadillac, quaking in his tassled loafers.

“This is where their bodies were. They dragged ‘em right down this driveway,” said Weiss, clasping his arms across his chest. “She’s not at rest. She will never leave this property.”

He has felt this before, he said. “I sense spirits.”

The first time was in 1992, just before Christmas. He was on patrol in White Plains, N.Y., resting in his car between calls, when he had a vision of a sad teenage boy: long hair, pale, with a pug nose. Two days later, he was sent to a home where a teenage boy had hanged himself. “The same boy I’d seen.”

[myhauntedsalem]

Ghostly warning: Dead gangster Ma Barker doesn’t want her house moved

He called the newsroom with a warning: They can’t move that house.

“I’m worried something terrible is going to happen,” the man said in a thick New York accent. “I have to warn somebody.”

Then he told me a ghost story.

His name is Donald J. Weiss. He’s a 62-year-old retired police patrolman from upstate New York. He had moved to Ocala several years ago and visited the house where gangster Ma Barker had been killed. He had wanted to see the site of the longest shootout in FBI history: four hours, more than 2,000 bullets.

But when he wandered beneath the live oaks, a voice growled, “Get outta here, lawman!”

And when he took a photo of the front porch, a shadowy figure appeared.

“That woman is still in that house,” he told me. “And she’s pissed.”

He gave the photo to the Marion County Sheriff’s Office because he wanted to enter it into evidence. And because bad things started happening as soon as he had blown up the print. “I had a heart attack,” he said. “You think that’s a coincidence?”

The property has been sold, he told me. County officials want to move the house.

“They have no idea who or what is in there,” Weiss said. “That woman has the power to do a lot of things. We are dealing with the afterworld here.”

I thanked the caller for his concern.

“When are they moving it?” I asked.

He paused, as if to make a point, then said gravely, “By Halloween.”

Reporters get a lot of crazy calls. Many might have dismissed this one. But I knew this house, and so did my photographer friend John Pendygraft.

“Hey John,” I called across the cubicle wall. “Do you remember that story we did on the Ma Barker house?”

John’s eyes got big. “Do you remember what happened?”

Our story four years ago had been about real estate: historic home for sale on nine waterfront acres, eight miles north of the Villages, two hours from Tampa. And about the gangsters who hid out there until the end.

We had toured the four-bedroom house with a Realtor, whose assistant shivered and said, “I get the weirdest feeling when I’m in here.” We had reported rumors about flickering lights and an unsuccessful exorcism.

But we hadn’t written about what had happened to John. Or what he saw when he enlarged one of his pictures.

John has worked in war zones in Afghanistan and the Gaza Strip. He has photographed the dead from an Asian tsunami, a Mexican assassination and Hurricane Katrina. If he ever is scared, he won’t show it.

That fall day in 2012, in the Ma Barker house, he had gone alone into the front bedroom to take pictures through the window, looking out toward the lake where the FBI agents had crouched behind trees.

All of a sudden, John rushed out, cameras, lights, tripod flapping over his shoulders, nearly sliding down the 13 stairs. “I don’t know what happened, or what that was,” he panted. He heard the mattress fall, then saw it, dangling through the bed frame. “I didn’t touch it,” he insisted.

We left that afternoon, as dusk began to descend. From beneath the Spanish moss, John shot a few final frames. The next day, when he zoomed in on his laptop, he saw a strange figure on the screened porch: The silhouette of a stout woman with a bun, who looked like she was holding a machine gun.

Her story starts in Missouri, in 1873. Her parents named her Arizona Donnie Clark. She and a farmhand, George Barker, had four sons. As soon as the boys were grown, her husband left.

Legends vary about Ma Barker’s role in her boys’ gang. Some say she just cooked and cleaned. Others say she was the mastermind.

They began by robbing banks, then murdered a policeman. From 1910 through 1930, they are said to have stolen $2 million. And killed at least 10 people.

The FBI’s first director, J. Edgar Hoover, called them “the worst criminals in the entire country.” Ma Barker became the only woman to top the most wanted list.

In 1934, the gang split and went into hiding. One son fled to Chicago. Ma and her favorite son, baby Freddie, moved to Miami where, posing as a wealthy widow, she asked if anyone knew a secluded spot where she could spend the winter.

Someone introduced her to Carson Bradford, whose family had a lovely home in the center of Florida, on Lake Weir.

The house sounded perfect: fully furnished, set back from the road, with a boat tethered to a dock out back. Ma paid the full season’s rent in cash. Just before Thanksgiving, she moved in with Freddie and a couple of his friends.

In a letter to her son Arthur in Chicago, she drew a map of the lake and circled the closest town, Ocala. She mailed it from Ocklawaha’s little post office.

FBI agents found Arthur the following January, and with him, the letter, which led them to Ma’s hideout.

In the predawn darkness on Jan. 16, 1935, a dozen officers pointed their guns at the upstairs windows. “This is the FBI,” an officer shouted, according to an agency report. “You are surrounded.”

Some say the gun battle lasted as long as six hours.

When it was over, they found Freddie, 32, shot in the back of his head. Ma, 63, was curled on the floor, cradling her Tommy gun. That day, Hoover said, marked “the end of an era of violence.”

For nine months, the corpses lay unclaimed. Finally, a relative moved them closer to home.

But some say Ma still inhabits that two-story, cream-colored house with forest green shutters. The cop on the phone, my friend the photographer, the former and current owner all saw, heard or felt … something.

But how do you report a ghost story?

I started with the Marion County Sheriff’s Office and that “evidence” photo the retired cop mentioned on the phone.

Lt. Dave Redmond remembered some man bringing in the photo, but the deputy hadn’t seen anything in it.

Records only go back to 1990, said department spokeswoman Lauren Lettelier. “But since then, there have been no reports of hauntings at that house.”

I talked to Carson Good, 47, the great-grandson of the man who built the house. He has memories of swimming and sailing in the lake. And of countless sleepless nights, cringing in the dark. “I’m not a big believer of ghosts, but I heard a lot of sounds in that house,” he said. “Voices. Furniture moving. People walking up and down the wooden stairs.”

His grandmother didn’t like to talk about it, but she often heard spirits stirring. Years ago, he said, a psychic from Cassadaga held a seance at the house and convinced the ghost of Freddie Barker to move on. But the medium said Ma refused to move.

Good and his family sold the property for $750,000 and donated the house to the county, which hired a contractor to lift the home off its foundation and float it across Lake Weir to a park called Carney Island. County commissioners allocated $270,000 for the move. Private donations and fundraising will finance the museum.

County tax collector George Albright, who grew up next to the storied house, envisions an homage to the early days of the FBI, as agents set out to capture notorious gangsters like “Baby Face” Nelson, “Pretty Boy” Floyd, Bonnie and Clyde and, of course, the infamous Barker gang.

“We’ve already had calls from people asking about ghost tours. If they want something like that, or to hold seances, we’ll look into that,” said the tax collector, “as a revenue source.”

Some say the gang buried Mason jars filled with cash along the lake. Local children used to spend summers digging for the treasure, but came up with shovels full of sand.

As soon as the home is removed, before the new owner closes on the land, the tax collector plans to bring in a team with ground-penetrating radar to scan the soil.

“Let’s hope she’s a friendly ghost,” he said.

On a gray Wednesday in October, more than 81 years after the shootout, John and I returned to the scene. The house already had been lifted on jacks. The screened porch was gone; workers were carrying out lamps. A true-crime novelist was parked in an SUV, taking pictures.

Like John, he swore he had seen a face in a window.

“I think whatever’s in there doesn’t want us to come in,” said Tony Stewart, who had driven from Indiana to see the house in its original setting. “And it won’t come out.”

We had told the retired cop that we would meet him later. The tax collector didn’t want anyone else at the construction site. But Weiss pulled up in his white Cadillac, quaking in his tassled loafers.

“This is where their bodies were. They dragged ‘em right down this driveway,” said Weiss, clasping his arms across his chest. “She’s not at rest. She will never leave this property.”

He has felt this before, he said. “I sense spirits.”

The first time was in 1992, just before Christmas. He was on patrol in White Plains, N.Y., resting in his car between calls, when he had a vision of a sad teenage boy: long hair, pale, with a pug nose. Two days later, he was sent to a home where a teenage boy had hanged himself. “The same boy I’d seen.”