#basil has... too many violent thoughts | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

blanxkey · 4 years ago

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the cardinal hits the window || 3.6k

lucas like hugs. he doesn’t get a lot of them, growing up.

for nat (@nachtumringt), who said: I would really like to read sth about touch sensitivity or being overwhelmed by emotions and sensations & then some tender caring and like, boundaries and comforting?

and, umm, somehow it got away from me and yet it’s neither of those things. but there are talks about boundaries and a meek attempt at comfort so,,,i’m sorry please enjoy.

read on ao3.

///

“you like it,” she says, eyes glimmering from the stars spun overhead. crying, he nods; he holds her tight.

his mama’s hands are warm where they press over his back. she gives good hugs, and she gives them freely. he likes that she does: her fingers in his hair where she scratches lightly, lovingly, gentle arms the only solace when he’s hurt, when it’s time for bed, when he needs it; even when he doesn’t. she doesn’t hold back, and neither does he. the vanilla of her hair is his favourite smell, maybe. it makes him feel safe.

her touch is warm, soothing. light. his father’s, on the other hand, is not.

he does not hug. doesn’t like to, lucas thinks. instead, he’s fond of giving a firm pat on the back, or rough handshakes, or a high five on a very rare occasion, all buddy-buddy slaps entirely not meant for a ten-year-old. his fingers are cool and clinical and commanding when they grip his arm, and they grip it often. lucas can only do too much to not shrug it off, to not recoil away from his touch.

his ways stand in such violent contrasts with his mum’s. he never curls up with them on the movie nights they have on saturdays, that’s just how he is, because he’s the same with his mum, as far as lucas knows. even when she becomes sick and dwindles away and does not get well again, he remains cold; he isn’t warm, never will be.

lucas has learned not to expect anything less than careful, meaningless touches.

he gets used to it, to locking that part of himself away that still wants. that never learned how to stop. over the years, he’s been given little leave to express himself, and he learns how not to. to pull away, to never let his hand linger, to repress the memories of his mum’s touch and her hands. he’s never been the one to forget. lucas misses her, misses the warmth that usually settled in her hold, and in the cool vacancies of the night, everything is far more pronounced. but that kind of things barely let him breathe, leave him with a terrible ache in his chest. he has to learn to put them away.

he doesn’t find much warmth in his new home, or rather, his only home. his nights are spent awake in a bed that feels too big, with the bone-crushing knowledge that he does not even have a previous home to miss. he gazes wistfully at mika when he places his arm around lisa so carelessly, mindlessly. the way lisa snuggles closer to him on the couch. they learn to leave him out of it, because, well, it’s his fault, isn’t it? he’s grown so sensitive over the years that little touches come to him as a shock, especially when he’s not expecting them. so.

he pulls away when arthur moves to rest his chin on his shoulder. flinches, without meaning to, when mika reaches forward to what he can guess is ruffle his hair, too many times. and they take it as a hint to keep their hands to themselves, after a while, to not linger too much near him. they’ve assumed it’s the touching that bother him, he believes, and not the fact that it happens without intent or unexpectedly. it hurts, but no one says a word, so he doesn’t have to, either.

it’s easier this way.

he doesn’t date much throughout high school. there are occasional flings, but he leaves too soon. before there can be any questions. the sex is great, mostly, it’s the after that makes him queasy. he’s never wanted to stay, anyway.

and then there is marc, who breaks up with him towards the end of summer, when he’s still trying to deal with the fact that college is starting in less than two weeks. marc’s whole face goes red when he says those words, as though he’s let them out accidently. they sound hollow, distant, but he doesn’t take them back.

“i’ve never been with someone who’s so distant after sex. during it, even,” he tells lucas, barely glancing in his eyes, stuttering throughout. the tight line of his narrow shoulders makes lucas want to reach out and touch him.

he merely shrugs, eyes averted.

“you’re doing it again. putting up a front,” marc says, in that soft voice he uses when he talks to his parent’s labrador. strangely enough, it stings. “i know something's wrong, but you won't talk to me. it’s not fair to me, lucas.”

and lucas wants to say – there’s nothing wrong. something does not have to be necessarily wrong for him for him to be like this. he wants to say that this is how he’s always been, how he’s cultivated to be. it’s just that the thought of being that physically close to someone without any intent makes him ache. he wants to. he doesn’t. and it’s another one of his faults.

it ends with a whispered apology from lucas, a promise of no hard feelings from marc. it ends, and it hurts. but it’s already ended before lucas can think about redeeming himself. and marc doesn’t take these words back. lucas isn’t sure if he really wants him to.

the university life starts without much fanfare. it rains for a week straight, thunder and lightning draping over paris in a watery sheen. the nights take on a gray hue, shivery and mildly unpleasant in the residual heat. dried leaves adorn the sidewalks and the grounds, and there is always some other thing that’s dying. the taste of an approaching storm is too blatant on his tongue; a perennial chill in his fingers that never goes away. nights are the same with their sullen clouds. it makes him miss the sun, and strangely enough, the stars too.

somehow, lucas knows that none of them will make much difference.

he’s grown used to the feelings the thought of physical touch brings him. ache, longing, apprehension — it’s all there like an ugly monster; crowding in his chest and pressing against his ribs. feelings made of broken metaphors and similes; mindless little synonyms stuck in his throat. but he is not a poet, has never been.

still, there’s something to be said about the way eliott demaury makes him feel the first time he bumps into him, that very first day, and every other time after. he’s a year ahead of them, but he fits into lucas life as though he was always meant to be there. his smile is serene, pretty, those glimmers like stars in his eyes, ocean-clear and beautiful. an unnatural sort of charm in his voice. charcoal always stains the skin over his hands — lucas watches him run nervous fingers over the jut of his bottom lip, rub his thumb and forefinger together, and there’s charcoal. deep obsidian smudged at the edges of his fingertips, against the pale of his hand, on the underside of his jaw.

and the scent of forest and sunlight — it makes him feel like eliott might be warm.

the days when the sun does appear are spent in the courtyard, leaning against a concrete wall which remains cold to touch, blending in with the contrived shades. they don’t stay around for long, though, because autumn has come with biting wind – all that cold, it makes for a saturnine landscape. they’ve grown used to spending what little time they have on their hands like houseplants reaching for the sun.

not too far away, someone sighs. “i missed it so much.” footsteps shuffle on the cobblestone. above him, against the faint sunlight, eliott stands, gaze soft, entirely affectionate. and maybe there’s irony hidden in those words, but lucas does not mind. “did you?” he asks. all around, it still smells like dirt and mud. a burn stretches itself across his lungs. eliott shrugs. “didn’t you?”

“our lucas misses the stars,” yann says, snickering from somewhere to his right. it has eliott looking away, but lucas just stares, and all he can see are the moles dotting the side of his face like little birds and the way the sun haloes around him.

“ah, well, same difference.” he turns to face him with the corners of his mouth curving up softly. “in a parallel universe, some other star is the sun.”

it’s so unexpected, the way he looks so sincere, that it has lucas sucking in a sharp breath. his words are pretty, deceptively so, flimsy in the way they make lucas hope. he blinks, flustered. “i didn’t take you for someone who believed in them.”

“we all have something we believe in,” the conviction in his voice is unnerving. his eyes twinkle. “maybe you don’t know me well enough.”

maybe there’s more truth to it than lucas likes to believe. maybe there are a million different things he really does not know about eliott. but he knows that smile. his voice. the pretty things his hands are able to create. his gentleness to his words. and it’s enough. a certain fondness makes home in his heart.

“parallel universes?” basile is saying. “it’s so cool, isn’t it, lucas?”

no words come, so he nods. there aren’t many things he could say, anyway.

the first time eliott leans in and touches him, his body freezes up.

it starts, as it always does, with a jibe from basile, and soon it’s turning into meaningless banter. they’re standing outside the coffee shop they like to frequent at the end of each day, and lucas’ coffee isn’t hot enough to soothe his shivering body. his friends rise to the bait almost immediately; he tunes out most of it in favour of rubbing his hands together, and then arthur and basile are laughing, and yann is laughing with them.

eliott joins in, too, and he is bending forward, gripping lucas’ shoulder lightly as he laughs and laughs. it’s a pretty sound. his fingers don’t meet lucas’ skin, pressing just over the material of his scarf, but lucas recoils, panicking, heart beating all wrong. the sudden touch is too difficult to bear. eliott doesn’t seem to miss it; lucas watches him straightening up instantly, smile slipping. a speculative look adorns his features as he studies lucas’ face.

belatedly, he realizes that no one is laughing anymore.

“lucas—” yann steps forward, lucas steps back, quickly making to leave. eliott doesn’t say a word, but he watches him go. lucas wonders what he sees.

the second time never comes. eliott is careful, almost too careful, like maybe he doesn’t understand. but he doesn’t ask, and lucas never tells. eliott never makes another attempt to touch him, and it’s silly and it should not hurt. but it does. something pointy blooming in him, all-consuming, hot like the shame that floods his insides.

“you’re awfully quiet today,” eliott comments as they’re making their way to class. to lucas’ class; eliott doesn’t even study in the same building. today, yesterday, every day. the words echo with a strange sort of pain. “lucas—” it makes him stop and stumble. he turns, searching eliott’s face, thinking this is it.

“i don’t know what you mean,” he says. there’s panic bleeding through his voice. “—we’re here.”

eliott averts his eyes swiftly, apologetically. there’s something like hurt contorting his features. he nods and says, “we’re here.” and then, “see you, lucas.”

(back home, lucas feels the cold as it seeps through his bones. it’s relentless, still, lonely. he thinks about eliott and pain and eliott, and his friends all looking at him like he’s a weakling. he imagines eliott asking them about him, imagines everyone chuckling and saying things like, oh, you know our lucas. he’s a little fucked up like that.

guilt churns messily in his stomach. he shouldn’t even be thinking thoughts like these)

september bleeds into october. nothing changes much beyond that. a certain chill infuses the air, sharp and biting as it always is. nighttime lengthens and drags, pressing through his windows with an inexorable hunger; it feels too slow. the rain still hasn’t found a rhythm. it falls and falls and falls over melancholy shades, flowers staying dead, soft thunder brooding overhead. it’s all the same.

the second time does come, just not in the way he’d been expecting it.

the sun sets. it’s dark and cold when they make their way towards the party daphne has invited them to. a friend of my friend’s, she says, the house isn’t too far from lucas’ place, their breaths coming out in feathery swirls as they make their way over. he stays behind when everyone else moves towards the living room to dance, and then eliott finds him there, in the kitchen, as he’s nursing his beer and searching for an excuse to head home early. it’s loud and packed and it makes his skin crawl, but there’s also something feathery beating underneath his ribcage when eliott gives him one of his grins.

like maybe he understands.

“it’s getting crowded.” there’s something hesitant in eliott’s voice. “would you like to go somewhere else?”

he nods. “i’d like to get out of here.”

eliott leads him away from the kitchen and out towards the door. they pass by yann and basile and arthur as they cross the living room, all of them giving them exaggerated thumb-ups and not saying anything else. they gather their jackets and lucas’ scarf by the door and emerge out into the front porch. the night is dark, so dark and completely lacking colour, but it isn’t raining. he breathes out a little easily.

eliott pulls out a joint from behind his ear as they walk. he turns to glace over at lucas, at the way he fidgets with his hands, his eyes colourful and colourless all at once. “do you mind?” his voice echoes strangely in the night.

lucas shakes his head. “it’s fine.”

the streets are empty, lit only by the streetlamps; there are no stars out. they’ve started walking towards lucas’ flat-share without him realizing, and he watches, enthralled, as eliott lights the joint and takes a hit, cheeks hollowing out. the smoke he exhales curls upwards in the air before disappearing.

wordlessly, he passes the joint to lucas, holding it so their fingers don’t touch when lucas takes it from him. the smoke settles almost hesitantly in his chest. he coughs on it, weakly.

“we’re nearing your place,” eliott states, after the joint gets stubbed under his shoe, and it’s another thing he knows about lucas without having to ask. the thought should alarm him. it doesn’t. “can i ask you something? you don’t have to answer, of course.”

worry eats away at his edges. glancing up at the saturnine sky, he thinks, this is it. “go on.”

“do you mind me touching you?” there’s a soft hint of reluctance in eliott’s voice; it’s not a why, or a how, either, but the words are still sharp. he could choose to not answer. he could. it’s eliott after all, he’d understand.

“i—no,” he says instead, and because it’s eliott, he makes himself keep going. “no, it’s not that.”

eliott nods. keeps on walking forward. doesn’t say anything else.

it’s cold, so cold, and maybe it’s just that, or the way eliott seems to keep his distance. it must have been the warmth lucas knows eliott wicks off, but the words come out frantically. “it’s not the touching.” he stops, they both do. “or maybe it is. it’s also that it happens without any intent, and when i don’t expect it.”

there’s a moment of silence before eliott speaks. “okay.” the light in his eyes is burning, barely concealed.

“okay,” lucas says, letting out a breathy laugh, disbelief hidden in the layers. there’s not much to say after that.

soon enough they’re outside lucas’ flat, and then eliott’s stepping closer right into his space, his fingers hovering right in front of him, never touching.

“a strand of your hair is sticking up,” he murmurs, his stare burning through the cold. “can i?”

and lucas — he nods.

it’s not touching, not really, but he has to breathe deeply as eliott fixes the strand. “see you, lucas,” he says, like all those weeks before, and he’s already turning away before lucas can form any sentence.

it’s not touching, not really, but it’s the first gentle thing he’s ever allowed himself in what feels like forever.

it shouldn’t come as a surprise when, after that night, it doesn’t become a thing. eliott doesn’t ask again, doesn’t come close enough that lucas has to back way. he’s always touching someone else, though: a hand to the crook of yann’s arm, playfully shoving arthur’s shoulder, ruffling his own hair often, like maybe his fingers are aching to hold something. it doesn’t stop lucas from wanting to reach out, his heart taking on an odd beat that only grows worse.

the carnival happens towards the end of november, when autum has already given way to winter and hard frost, the incongruous way with which it engraves itself over the ground. no one seems to mind it; lucas has long since stopped sharing how he really feels, because, well, his words are frayed and loose enough that they might run away, were he to set them free. he often wonders how long he can keep them in for.

it shouldn’t come as a surprise when they all end up going, when eliott asks, low and sure and not too long after, if lucas wants to leave. and, maybe, that has become a thing. it surprises him, however, when this time they end up at eliott’s place. he raids his fridge as lucas peruses the living room. there are sketches taped to the walls, and a piano pushed towards the corner, blending in with everything else. his place is cluttered, messy in a way that feels lived in. home. a small part of lucas envies him for it.

eliott comes out of the kitchen with two bottles. he’s smiling in that entirely soft way of his. “make yourself at home,” he comments, plopping down on the couch and placing the beers on the coffee table. lucas watches him tuck his hands under his legs. he’s restless.

lucas joins him soon after, close enough to touch, but there are still many inches between them. silence is all there is, neither of them willing to bite the bullet. he doesn’t know what he is here for. doesn’t know how much longer he can stay before leaving becomes necessary. he knows that, maybe, eliott wants to talk. maybe they’ll do that. that, or maybe, eliott will kiss him. he doesn’t know.

and it shouldn’t surprise him when the thought does not fill him with trepidation. he trusts eliott. completely, utterly, recklessly, he trusts him. it’s probably what makes him talk.

“i don’t touch, eliott,” he sniffs, aware that it’s not new information, not really. men didn’t touch without intent, that’s what he’s been taught. “sometimes i don’t want to. sometimes i can’t. i will never initiate, sometimes i’ll ask you to. but it — you do understand that it’s not something you can expect to change, or try to, don’t you? this is how it’s always been— how I’ve always been.”

he averts his gaze, body shrinking into itself, breathing weirdly. hands clenching in his lap, uncomfortable inside his skin, and he’s tired, so tired and cold, everything hurting. the beers stand forgotten, sweating improbably on the table. one of eliott’s hand twitches at his side. the lights glow a waning shade of white, so different from the moonlight, yet so similar in the way they wash eliott’s skin in plain ivory.

eliott doesn’t say anything for a long moment. glancing up, lucas sees him swallow. “i would never, lucas,” eliott says eventually. it’s so stiff that it startles him, and maybe there’s desperation bleeding through his voice. it breaks him. “i would never do that, you know that right?”

lucas looks at him, just looks. eliott looks back. his eyes are a haunting gray.

“eliott —”

“—unless you ask me to—”

“eliott,” he says again, voice wavering but it’s loud enough to drown the beating of his heart, colour burning on his cheeks, his ears. when it feels like he’s not going to fall apart — “my hands are cold.”

the statement hangs in the air for a moment. and then, eliott breathes out, almost like relief, a smile tugging the corners of his lips up, and when he shifts closer, minutely, a hand coming in front of him, he exhales too, his own smile pulling across his mouth. everything else seems to fall into place, feathery, alight. hopeful.

“i’m going to hold your hand now,” eliott breathes, “is that alright?”

he nods, sure. eliott’s smile is blinding, moon-like.

a hand reaches out towards his lap, before a fingertip traces delicately over the metacarpals, trailing down to his knuckles, his fingers, and then — and then eliott’s hand wraps around his own. it’s tender, so tender, like maybe eliott is a little skin-hungry himself. lucas inhales sharply, the sensation of eliott’s skin, the heat pouring out of it, the affection — it’s too much, but it’s not unpleasant. lucas watches it all, barely breathing, awed.

eliott demaury is careful with his words and his touch, and with everything else he is. careful in the way the night is with its assembly of stars, that is so unlike what lucas has always known, a certain gentleness in his bones. he pulls away, leaning back against the couch, sympathizing with the beer bottles standing bereft, but his heart is singing, flailing in the cage of his body. eliott leans back, lucas watches, his eyes shut closed, mouth curved up in a soft smile.

he lets out a breathy laugh, night curling around them, soaked in understanding and maybe-love in the heady proximity and it’s warm — warm, warm, warm.

#skam france #elu #lucas lallemant #eliott demaury #skam france fanfic #mywriting;#nat🌺

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end-the-transmission · 3 years ago

Note

Six: abatina, acanthus, aloe, anemone, angelica, basil, bay tree, belladonna, bluebell, carnation, chamomile, chrysanthemum, daffodil, daisy, forget-me-not, gardenia, gladiolus, hibiscus, holly, hydrangea, iris, lavender, lilac, lily, marigold, mint, nasturtium, oak, pansy, parsley, peony, poppy, rhododendron, snapdragon, tulip, violet, willow, zinnia

Mun: Wowzers! So many! I love it :D Thanks friend <3

Botanical Headcanons: -SIX- (Part 1)

Post for Context: X

Abatina: Six, within the confines of the AU, has changed her mind about decision-making drastically after realizing that she’s been stuck in a time loop. Her nightmares show Six committing an action that will continue the loop. After that, she does her best to make calm, rational choices rather than on the fly thinking that she previously used to do. Something Six will never change her mind on is how she views the world: cold and unforgiving.

Acanthus: Six is very cunning and does have the capability to lie, and well for that matter. She may lie to an enemy as a means to distract them or to bring out their insecurities to weaken them. Six has also lied to Mono, yet only does so to refrain him from worrying about her.

Aloe: Not well...When Six is deeply troubled, she has violent tendencies towards others and herself (She would never harm anyone she loved, however, including Mono). Six didn’t know how to handle her grief until Mono showed her. She’d break things, initiate fights with enemies, and bite herself to try and expel her sadness. When Mono and her become close, he teaches her that it’s okay to cry and to take breaks when needed. He wraps her in his jacket and they watch classic 20′s cartoons together (Six’s favorite).

Anemone: Six views the world as an unforgiving place yet believes there’s somewhere in the Overworld that has the potential to be peaceful. She knows the Maw used to be a lovely place for people to relax and dine with one another. Six believes if she was put in power, she could restore it to its former glory.

Angelica: Six’s father, the Toymaker, has been her inspiration. He was someone who worked very hard for little means, yet still lived a content and fulfilled life. Since he didn’t recieve much recognicion, it’s pushed Six’s motivation for power and dominance. She adopted his work ethic when she becomes The Lady, putting all her work into The Maw.

Basil: Six has a love/hate relationship with drawing. She scribbles often and loves to doodle as a means to relax, but sometimes wishes she could draw something more articulated.

Bay Tree: Six does seek glory. She wants to be praised not only for power but for her survival/problem-solving skills.

Belladonna: Thankfully, Six deals pretty well with silence. Too much noise (and loud noise for that matter) often overstimulates her and makes her more agressive, as seen when Mono’s shouting agitates her in her monster form. She figures if the silence is too prolongued, she can make her own noise by humming her favorite tunes.

Bluebell: Unaware of the time loop, Six is prone to make the same mistakes over and over, as well as Mono. Six has a hard time with change in general. She’s figured certain things have worked in the past (such as fending for herself), why change that? Why try to work as a team when she can succeed on her own? In fact she’s only cooperative when she knows it’s the only way to survive. Selfishness related mistakes are something Six has struggled with. Yet eventually, in one faithful loop amongst thousands of others, Six learns to be more selfless with the help of Mono.

Carnation: Six despises gender normalities, especially in regards to dress and etiquette. Her father was very loving and always gave Six a choice in what she wanted to wear. Seeing other girls having to dress cleanly and not get dirty always angered her, knowing that in a life or death situation, none of those things mattered. Six often would like to get dirty and play in the muddy puddles outside of the Maw. Becoming the Lady, someone who has to constantly worry about their appearence, was not done out of choice (she was brainwashed). This process has been destructive to her character and self-worth.

Chamomile: Six uses painful experiences she’s gotten herself into to learn from and prevent them from happening again. Painful experiences that were circumstantial or unavoidable are the ones that effect her the most. There are days where memories are so painful, she can’t get out of bed or move around. In those times, Mono carries her around throughout the day as he tries to get her to participate in relaxing activities with him. Watching Mono fishing, playing piano, or watching cartoons with him seems to help.

Chrysanthemum: Love is something Six struggles to understand through thoughts and words. It’s something she would never admit to feeling until much older. Because of this, she expresses love through actions: hugging, hand holding, caressing, etc. It’s not something she does/initiates often since Mono is more upfront with expressing his love for her. But when she does, most of the time it’s subtle when Mono barely notices: running her fingers through his hair when he’s sleepy, tracing the scars on his hand, extra second of eye contact, holding him a little longer in hugs. She loves by observing parts of the person she cares about, admiring them.

Daffolil: In normal circumstances, Six is loyal to an extent. She only makes bonds with people who she knows will help her continue her journey and protects those people as a means of protecting herself. For example, Six threw the boulder onto the Pretender to save the Raincoat Girl not out of graditute, but as to insure the safety of her ticket out. In short, Six is loyal to people who seem like valuable tools of survival until they’re of no use to her. Mono was an exception she did not expect.

#crystaltakashi7 #SIX: Child of the Maw #ASK: Are you a lost child too?#Information #Headcanons #little nightmares six #ln #ln2 #little nightmares #Little Nightmares II #Part 2 Comin Soon! :D

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tremble-in-the-hips · 4 years ago

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All right, you asked for it. A fucking Picture of Dorian Gray fanfiction I wrote in high school. Pine away, gays.

Dorian’s leg bobbed furiously. The cigarette between his fingers smoldered to an ashen stub. On his velvet purple couch, he stretched out, perplexed by the painting strung above the fireplace. He shuddered as his own oil-glazed eyes peered at him.

They weren’t really his eyes, he thought. The eyes belonged to Basil, whose skilled hands opened the window into Dorian’s soul, now sitting on the mantle. Dorian felt Basil’s presence in the canvas. His hands, cramping around a paint brush; his one eye open as he perfected his vision; his dark hair falling in clumps in front of his eyes. The concentration and adoration Basil put into creating the image was powerful. As he stubbed out his cigarette with a flick, Dorian felt the artist’s careful scrutiny staring back at him as he sat. He rubbed the back of his neck with a chuckle as he thought of being in Basil’s studio just that afternoon.

“Don’t listen to Harry,” Basil had warned. They were standing, a breath apart in the waning sunlight. Anxiously, Basil dug beneath his fingernails with a pencil to dislodge layers of crusting paint.

Dorian had scoffed as he straightened his cuffs. “Basil, I’m beginning to see a pattern,” he chuckled. “For someone you trust, you condemn Harry rather harshly, don’t you think?”

Basil smiled politely. Dorian’s smile unraveled. “What,” he cried, “have I said something amiss?”

Basil met Dorian’s eye and laughed as he clasped his rough hands around one of Dorian’s. “No, never, my dearest,” Basil cooed, “I only wondered when I claimed to trust Harry.”

Dorian bent towards Basil. Concerned, he whispered, “You doubt his loyalty to you? Your friendship?”

Basil shook his head with a grin and laid a firm hand on Dorain’s shoulder. Head bowed, he turned back towards the painting on the opposite wall. “That, I don’t doubt,” Basil proclaimed, “ours is a friendship more like a commitment than marriage. We’ve seen too much together, know too much about each other. He will take my secrets to the grave with his cynicism and darkness which he so loves to spread,” he muttered. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

Dorian eyed Basil playfully. “So, your lack of trust stems purely from experience? One too many nights of debauchery spent face down in a ditch due to one nefarious Henry Wotton?” Dorian stepped forward and took up all of Basil’s view. “Too many secrets falling out of his pockets?”

Basil chuckled and pushed Dorian away. Dorian giggled and shoved him back. The two poked and pulled on one another until Basil brought his hands over Dorian’s cheeks and held him back, both of them laughing raucously. (Seated on his couch, Dorian grinned at the thought.) Basil sighed and the air was calm. “Maybe,” he replied simply.

Dorian clasped Basil’s shoulders and shook him once. “My God, Harry dares to decry marriage when he is married to you!”

Basil leaned heavily on Dorian’s shoulder, guffawing as his knees gave out. Wiping joyful tears from his eyes, Basil sighed, “Oh, but only Harry would believe a friendship akin to marriage worth cherishing and the only truly good purpose for marriage besides politics.” Basil stood up straight, eyeing Dorian from beneath his curtain of hair. “More than anything, the man is quick to decry romance.”

“Ironic, for a man with cynically romantic notions,” Dorian cried with a laugh. He looked adoringly at Basil. “What would he think of a friendship akin to romance?”

Basil bit his lip, eyes wandering absently to his left. He scoffed, “More than likely shaking his grim head at us.”

Dorian huffed, emerging from his revere startled and breathless. Friendship akin to romance, he thought, what a delightful delusion. He could hear Henry Wotton’s voice repeat such a sentiment in his head. He shuddered. He sometimes did find Harry outrageously grim, even when he followed Harry with a childlike curiosity and adoration. As embarrassed as he was, he found himself smitten with the lord; Wotton was handsome and charming and enticingly treacherous. Whatever Wotton said felt like honey, despite later burning like vinegar.

Basil’s warning had shaken him. Dorian paused, considering how the night was to proceed. His party, which was to include Basil and Dorian, were to head to the theater after the club and witness one of Sybil’s first performances after their proposal. He was torn, intrigued and terrified by Harry’s promise of disappointment from Sybil’s love. Part of him wanted to continue heedless, so infatuated was he with Sybil; yet he felt hesitant, and chanced leaving Sybil if he got scared.

It felt real, his love for Sybil. More real than even Harry’s cynicism could penetrate.

Could there be a potential for failure in a feeling so strong? If only he could explain it to Harry! He paced the living room, drawing up articulate analogies. His satisfaction with Sybil was as permanent as the spring bloom, as lingering as a smoke cloud from a pipe, as tender as Basil’s affectionate brush stroke.

Dorian skidded to a halt in the doorway, hand clutching his chest. Why do I still think of Basil? he thought. He flopped into a lounge chair, groaning. One of his servants came to him, mumbling about the arrival of Harry and Basil (did his heartbeat quicken?) to take him to the club, then the theater. His heart thumped as he plucked a flower from a vase on the counter and twisted the stem clean off. He pocketed the newly fashioned corsage. A beautiful tiger lily, muted orange with maroon spots.

. . .

His corsage lay crumbled in his hand. His entire body felt heavy, as if sinking into the earth. The theater box, already half empty since the second act, felt cold and bitter.

Henry put it best. “Terrible,” he stated factually, “just terrible. Ah well - flames burn out. Such is life, such is theater.”

“This isn’t right,” Dorian gasped, barely looking up from the flower in his hand. He studied the creases in the petals. He attempted to smooth them out with his thumb, growing annoyed when the petals curled around his fingers. He huffed, “she must be ill, or upset, or possibly inebriated, or-”

“Oh dear, sweet Dorian,” Henry sighed, laying a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian barely looked up. “We both know those possibilities aren’t true,” Henry crooned. With a sniff, he looked toward the stage exit. “You’ve got to hand it to her thought,” he sighed, “she loves you. It’s clear in her face, the way she looked out into the audience, the way she breathed. That’s love. But it’s normal love, average - and acted love will always be more potent. Or at least it will present better on stage -”

“Where’s Basil?” Dorian cut in, shrugging off Henry’s hand with an irked groan.

“Home by now,” Henry relayed in a monotone, “he left partway through the curtain call, had to attend to a friend or a casserole or his own melancholy or something.” Dorian heard the click of a pocket watch opening. “Well,” cried Harry conspicuously, “your Juliet has more than likely returned to her dressing room now. I suggest you have a chat with her.”

Dorian grit his teeth, prickling against his clothes and skin. His annoyance felt like bile rising in his throat and he felt like spitting. Suddenly he was up, throwing the corsage against the floor. Through the unsettled curls of his hair, Dorian saw Henry step back with wide eyes and a smile.

“Dorian, love, what’s got you flying like this?” he questioned playfully.

Dorian huffed and crossed his arms. He felt inflamed, like a deceived child. Was this the product of love? A loss of sense, a loss of purpose? Sybil was supposed to be Dorian’s greatest prize, the person for him to be proud of forever. When she flitted across the stage, he wanted nothing more than to claim the moment, claim her, with a fiery passion. She was something to behold (in her prime, Dorian thought bitterly, which seems to have ended) and she was something he wanted to behold constantly.

Dorian flew, a trail of orange tiger lily petals falling at his boots. He felt confident in his ability to tell her just how he felt and nervous of her reaction. But he was angry! Truly angry! To watch her perform on any other night was to watch the gods of grace and whimsy in flight. What would become of the world, his world, without her gift, his pride? For her to fail or give up performance would be like if Basil put down his brush.

Dorian hovered hesitantly in front of Sybil’s dressing room. He could feel his heart clattering against his breastplate. He reached for the doorknob and felt his ill intentions bubbling in his throat. She’s a charlatan, Dorian thought wickedly, and I am a willing sucker to her ruse. She embarrassed me in front of my friends! She doesn’t deserve my advances, my praise. What a failure! I’ll see to it she realizes the shame, the embarrassment. I mean, what would Basil think -

Dorian’s hand shook violently as he grasped the doorknob. His breath escaped in sharp gasps. His grip loosened. To his left, he peered through a window and a vision formed of his own living room through the darkness. In the projection, he saw Basil smoothing the ruffles in Dorian’s jacket. His face was splattered with paint and a playful smile pulled his lips.

“You really are a wonder, Dorian,” Basil’s voice echoed. Dorian’s mirror image blushed. “So youthful, yet so open; so beautiful, yet so kind.” The vision of Basil looked away from the vision of Dorian and stared, knowingly, at Dorian in real life. Terror gripped Dorian and shame overcame him as the vision smiled at him, concern in his eyes and a slight, adoring tilt in his head. The vision whispered, “I can always trust you to handle important things with care and thoughtfulness. It’s what I like best about you.”

Dorian let go of the doorknob and stared at it pointedly. His face twisted and released. What was my plan? he thought. What would I have accomplished with such anger?

The door creaked open and Sybil’s heart-shaped face appeared like a moon over the horizon. She beamed. “Oh, love!” she yelped and pushed the door open.

Dorian looked forward and straightened his back. He swept his hair back and gave Sybil a polite smile. “My dearest,” he muttered shyly.

“I was hoping I had seen you on the balcony,” Sybil squealed with delight. She stepped into the door frame and swept her hand over the room. “Will you join me, good prince?”

Dorian met her eyes and sighed, feeling light and giddy. Despite the embarrassment, his physical feelings for her were strong. Sybil held her hand out for Dorian to take. Before he reached out, he thought of Basil’s unruly dark hair and affectionate smile.

The right thing? Dorian questioned fearfully. He took Sybil’s hand delicately and kissed her fingers. “I would, darling,” Dorian chuckled, “but I must attend to personal matters.”

Sybil recoiled slightly, but soon returned a polite smile. “Oh, that’s fine. Before you go, I was wondering what you thought of my -”

“You were lovely,” Dorian cried, “and I will explain away my hastiness later!” He leaned forward and gave her a sweet kiss on the lips. Once he was out the door, he began sprinting down the street.

. . .

Basil’s door flew open and he laughed with surprise and delight before pulling Dorian into his embrace. “I’m more than shocked,” Basil cried, “you came back for me! The night is alive with clubs and youthful spirit and you come to these unlit suburbs.” Basil sighed and leaned against the doorway to his living room with a jaunty grin. “Of course, the night’s youth allowed you to deduce that I had returned home.” Basil raised the wine glass he had been holding in respect. “You know me too well,” he chuckled.

Dorian giggled, “have you been drinking, Basil?”

Basil bit his lip against a smile and moved the glass behind his back. “Who’s to say,” he deflected, barely containing his laughter.

Dorian clasped Basil’s shoulder with a grin. “It’s no matter anyway. May I?” Dorian inquired, pointing lazily at Basil’s glass.

Basil shrugged and handed his glass to Dorian. “Why not? Here, have a head start.”

Dorian blushed, touched by the gesture. He took Basil’s glass, raised it to him, and took a sip. It felt like stinging, sweet ginger as it ran down his throat.

Basil poured another glass in the corner of the room. He eyed Dorian kindly. “I’m terribly ashamed of my behavior tonight,” he admitted, “I’m sorry for leaving the theater without so much as a goodbye. Sybil’s performance was important to you.”

“Whatever you are sorry for, you are forgiven, believe me,” Dorian assured, “I was only worried for your well being.”

Basil looked away, smiling to himself. “Thank you,” he whispered, “though, you could have called. You didn’t. You ran here. I’m curious as to what compelled you to do so.”

Dorian laughed. “I’m curious as to why you fled when you claimed you were eager to join us!”

Basil shrugged with an innocent smile, his lips touching his cup. Chuckling, he said, “I’m still not sure. I thought myself a bore on such a joyous night. Shakespeare often depresses me.”

Dorian nodded attentively, sipping at his drink. “I believe that is his point actually,” he wondered. “The dramas are meant to strike a chord with our humanity, to tell a story of unrequited or unfulfilled romance.”

Basil scoffed, staring into his swirling glass. He met Dorian’s eyes tenderly, sighing, “My dear, often it is the romance that depresses me.”

Dorian turned his head, brow furrowed, and Basil laughed, “it is nonsensical to anyone but me. I find myself incompatible with romance. I don’t hold onto relationships. I am quick to turn inward, quick to anger, and unable to respond to a lover’s cry for attention.” Basil huffed with eyes downcast. “Lovely, lovely Dorian, I am impossible to love.”

The room stood quiet. After a moment of discomfort in silence, Dorian sat on Basil’s dark green couch and beckoned to Basil. Basil shuffled over with tepid steps and flopped into the seat next to Dorian. Dorian turned his shoulders towards Basil and took his hands. He turned them over, lightly drawing on Basil’s palms with his thumbs. He whispered to Basil, “I left the theater tonight after the show because I was inspired by the idea of what you’d think of my actions.”

Basil leaned back against the arm of the sofa, surprise alight in his eyes. His lips drew taut as he tried to suppress a smile. “Go on,” he whispered.

Dorian cleared his throat. His palms were sweating and he cupped them lightly around Basil’s, trying not to dampen them. “I was inflamed,” he continued, “both by Henry’s words and the events at the theater. I felt mean like a snake, wanting to lash out.” Dorian chuckled darkly. “I thought myself deserving better. I thought of telling Sybil so, harshly if need be.”

Basil stared at Dorian with concern. He looked down, grasping at empty words. “I’m . . . sorry to hear you were in such a state, possessed by evil like that.” He clasped Dorian’s hands gently. “I am, however, proud and delighted that you thought of me and made a better choice.”

Dorian averted his gaze, beaming. “It seems I think of little but you lately, Basil.”

Basil blushed deep red and his face lit up with a delirious smile. Dorian hopped closer, encouraged by Basil’s response. He took a shaking breath, continuing, “Basil, whatever compels you to believe you are impossible to love, it is a false pretense; you create beauty out of nothing; you adore your friends with great and genuine enthusiasm; you corale me towards the right path,” Dorian declared. Running a hand through his flyaway hairs, he leant towards Basil with a serious look. “Despite my influences, you get me to see what is right and good with only the thought of your care, your kindness, and your love for me.”

Dorian let out a final breath. Basil’s eyes were locked with his, shining with earnest and insane happiness. His head rested relaxed to his left and he rubbed Dorian’s hands between his fingers. Dorian’s heart quickened and he looked away, clearing his throat again. Timid, he looked into Basil’s eyes. He whispered, “Who are you to say you are immune to romance? What about us? Fools in a friendship akin to romance?”

Breathless, Basil reached out, cupping Dorian’s face gingerly in his hands. Dorian lightly traced his fingers over the back of Basil’s hands. Basil shook his head in disbelief. He rubbed his thumb along Dorian’s cheekbone. “I,” he stuttered, “I, you, you’ve surprised, I’m . . .”

Dorian slid his hands down the length of Basil’s arms and dug his fingers into Basil’s shoulders. “Whatever you’re planning to do or say,” he breathed, “do it now. I despise suspense.”

Basil burst into laughter and Dorian joined. When both had caught their breath, Basil pulled Dorian towards him for a kiss. Dorian closed his eyes, sinking with relief as he wrapped his arms around Basil’s neck. Basil ran his fingers through Dorian’s hair and let his lips drag over Dorian’s sluggishly, intoxicated by the intimacy. Dorian pressed his forehead to Basil’s and Basil pulled back, gasping for breath. With a grin, Dorian nuzzled Basil’s nose, causing the two to giggle with childish giddiness.

“Do you believe you’re wrong now?” Dorian cooed. “About being incompatible with romance?”

“Possibly,” Basil retorted, playing with one of Dorian’s curls.

“I think you’ll do fine,” Dorian sighed, catching Basil’s eye and grinning. He reached into his shirt and pulled out a stem of lavender. Basil’s brows drew together in a question and Dorian explained, “I pulled it out of the vase at the theater..” Basil rolled his eyes and Dorian flicked his nose. “Enough,” he laughed, “I’m trying to perform an incredibly romantic gesture.”

Basil laughed heartily. “Okay,” he cried, “you’ve gotten me to believe in love again. Happy?”

Dorian beamed, “Always, with you.”

#the picture of dorian gray #oscar wilde #dorian x basil #how is there no ship tag for the original book?#oh well #fluff and angst #fanfiction

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theshrubbery · 4 years ago

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Chapter 5 of my fic :)

Chapter summary:

My father is shouting something, I feel like I should be listening to him, but all I can focus on is how beautiful Simon is. He’s fucking gorgeous and it’s breaking my heart. I love him so much that I can’t breathe, my chest is constricting and it’s all I can do not to lean back into him, let him swallow me whole.

SIMON

I didn’t mean to rifle through Baz’s personal things like this. I didn’t even know they were personal until I noticed how worn the newspaper clippings were, how thin the paper of the photo had become. It was a photo of a tall, beautiful woman holding a small Baz in her arms, both of them are smiling, standing in front of a window—I notice Baz’s father, Malcolm, in the reflection. One corner of his smile is peeking out from the side of the camera, which is held high, right to his face, as he squints through the viewfinder.

I’d shared a room with Baz for long enough to know that his mum had died, though I’d never really thought much of it. I realise that makes me sound like something of a complete asshole, but this is, of course, coming from an orphan.

Honestly, though, I’d been looking for some clothes to wear. I was too scared to go back to my room to fetch my bag full of my own clothes. I’d ditched them in my escape out of that fucking freak-hole, and I sure as shit wasn’t going back for them. As much as I hate the idea of borrowing Baz’s clothes (again) I hate the idea of going back to that room even more. So, naturally, I’d started looking through his wardrobe for something that didn’t look like it was over a bajillion pounds. Something more Primark, less… whatever expensive brands these silk shirts were.

For some reason, I’d figured that Baz must have just been keeping all his fancy shit out to show off. Most people would do that, I figured, and Baz definitely seemed the type to try and keep up his pretentious image like that, so I got up on my tip-toes and started to rummage around the top shelves, pushing a neatly folded pile of jumpers out of the way until I accidentally found the shoebox. Might I add that it was a very expensive branded shoebox, too.

Inside were the articles I’m sitting holding now: the newspaper clippings of Baz’s mum’s death. The newspaper clippings of Baz’s childhood kidnapping that I’ve never heard a fucking thing about. What the fuck?

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Baz’s voice sends a cold shock straight through me. My stomach drops through the floor, a sense of dread pouring like cement into my chest cavity. I’m holding the photograph when Baz opens the door. The one of he and his mum; he strides forwards and snatches it straight from me before I can think to surrender it of my own accord. I look up at him.

Baz is seething. In all the years I’ve known Baz, never have I seen him look so genuinely terrifying. It makes me wonder whether I’ve actually ever seen him mad.

“I’m sorry,” I say. But I say it too quickly, it sucks the genuineness out and leaves it empty, bland. I can’t help but curse myself, internally, there’s no way out of this one.

“For a genius you sure are thick,” Baz spits, shoving me hard in the shoulder as he gathers the clippings back into the box and holds them tightly to his chest. He gets to his feet and glares down at me, like he isn’t sure what to do next and doesn’t want me to know.

“You were kidnapped,” I say. Baz flinches. “You were kidnapped by your mum’s killers.”

Baz’s jaw tightens, his thick eyebrows lowering even further, casting shadows over his eyes. He’s scowling so tightly his lips are starting to whiten.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I try again, and I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know why I’m still going with this. It’s clear that Baz doesn’t want to talk about it, that he’s enraged I ever looked through his stuff without permission in the first place, but I guess now that the can of worms is open…

“Baz!” Mordelia shouts up the stairs. I can hear Malcolm trying to quiet her, but she shouts again anyways, reminding us that there’s breakfast to be had, a relationship to fake.

“I can’t believe you,” Baz snarls under his breath, and somehow his disappointment is an even sharper spear to the stomach than his anger. “I can’t believe you.”

“Baz, please, I really am sorry.”

“Just shut the fuck up, Snow, I don’t want to hear it.” Baz pushes a hand through his hair, pulling at it when he gets to the back of his head, then he forces a violent sigh through his teeth and throws his hand away from his scalp, slapping it against his thigh. He gives me this look, and it scalds me, like he expected more from me. What I don’t understand is why would he? It’s not like we’ve ever really been friends.

Baz turns away from me and takes a deep breath. “Let’s just go down to breakfast.”

“Right,” I say quietly, feeling like I really don’t have the right to talk at all.

“Come on, Snow. We’ll discuss this later but for now, don’t fuck this up for me too.” I don’t need to ask him what he means, I already know he means pretending to be his boyfriend. I feel like I owe him, I feel guilty, so on the way down the stairs, after Baz has (literally) thrown me some clothes to change into, I psyche myself up, and I grab his hand.

Baz freezes, stumbles, nearly misses a step, then rights himself and tentatively pushes his fingers through the spaces in my own, interlocking our hands. It’s strange, I think, how effortless it is to do this, how easy it is to pretend we’re a couple.

Malcolm looks down his nose at us, standing at the bottom of the stairs as we descend. I can’t see Baz’s face, but I really can’t imagine it would look much better. Baz’s hand tightens in mine and he pulls me closer to his body as his father’s eyes rake over me. Then, Mordelia comes bounding around the corner again, obviously over-exited at all the happenings. She probably doesn’t see many visitors inside the house.

“Cute!” She exclaims, her eyes ogling our joined hands. Malcolm swallows, as though he’s physically withholding himself from making some sort of derogatory comment.

“Enough, Mordelia, go back to the table,” Malcolm tells her, gently pressing his hand into her tiny shoulder and sending her away. He’s acting as though whatever me and Baz are, whatever we have, is infectious. It’s nothing short of frustrating. Really, it’s a lot more than frustrating, it’s disgusting, but this isn’t my place to say anything, not yet anyways. “Baz, you and… your friend will join us.” Malcolm’s voice curls around the word ‘friend’, wrapping it in sneeringly impolite undertones. It’s making me feel awkward and uncomfortable. Luckily, even though Baz and I aren’t really seeing eye-to-eye right now, he doesn’t just stand there and let his father pick at me.

“He has a name. And you know he is more than a friend,” Baz’s voice is flat, empty, but I can still make out the simmer in it that tells me he’s trying to keep his cool. “Just because you’re my father, it doesn’t give you the right to treat Simon this way.”

“Basilton,” Malcolm snaps. “You really need to rethink your position in this family, rethink your rank, your status, are you really going to throw that all away to gallivant around with this boy?”

Baz steps down a couple more steps, and I unwillingly follow. Not that I have a choice with how his sweaty hand has mine in a death-clamp. I’m not sure whether he even remembers he’s holding it.

“And what if I am?” Baz challenges. He’s already tall, but standing as he is, a few steps higher than his father, puts him inches above eye-level and forces Malcolm to look up at him.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The sooner you give this whole thing up, the better, it’s clear what you’re doing here, Basil.” My heart starts thudding just a little harder at the implications. Has Malcolm figured us out already? Am I really that bad at this whole dating thing? Baz gave me one job, granted I hate him, but letting people down once I’ve committed to a promise really isn’t something I like to do. It feels like a failure on my part.

“What are you talking about?” Baz demands. I can see his pulse in the hollow of his throat. I’m two steps above Baz and I slowly lower myself down one until I’m directly behind him, so close I can feel the heat from his body.

“You’re an idiot if you think I can’t tell what you’re doing here, Basilton. You honestly expect me to believe that straight after our conversation you’d reveal to be dating the one boy you’ve hated since first year? It’s clear to me you’re just trying to prove a point, and the act is up. So drop it.”

“You’re wrong, father.” Baz squeezes my hand. I look down at his whitening knuckles and then up to his clenching jaw, which I can just about see from this angle. I look to Malcolm and it irks me how fucking confident he is that he’s won this. Baz and I don’t convince him at all, even if he has only had one dinner to form his opinion of us.

“The act is up,” Malcolm repeats. “Basilton, come to your senses. Just stop this foolishness, it is, frankly, embarrassing.” I hear the hitch in Baz’s breath that he can’t quite cover in time. There’s a splotchy red flush of colour blooming in ugly flowers across his cheeks, down his neck, his chest, where I can see a bronze ‘v’ of skin between the fabric of his button-down shirt.

My ears feel kind of like they’re ringing, I feel a little like I can’t see properly, like I’m standing on the other side of a glass window looking in on my own life. It’s strange. I feel like I’m floating, weightless and unreal.

In hindsight, my body probably knew what I was going to do next before my brain caught up with it. The chemicals surging in my brain, the adrenaline trembling through my veins, it was all because of a subconscious thought that hadn’t quite reached the forefront of my mind yet.

Unsure of what I’m doing, I pull at Baz’s hand, turn him at an angle, use his momentary surprise to tilt his head towards mine with my other hand, cradling his jaw for what feels like an eternity. I’m not looking at his eyes, but his parted lips.

And then, I kiss him.

BAZ

He’s kissing me. Simon Snow is kissing me. I feel dizzy, lightheaded, I feel like melting. I haven’t ever been kissed before, I wonder if Snow knows that this is my first, wonder if he can feel the same fireworks that I can. My heart is pounding when we pull gently away. He doesn’t jerk back with the disgust I’d have expected from Snow, I’m sure it must’ve sunk in that he’s pretending to be in a relationship with a gay man by now. I never imagined that Snow would ever willingly kiss me and look as dazed as he does right now. His eyes are glazed, his lips are flushed pink, his cheeks on fire, his pulse pounding in the column of his golden throat, the freckled skin fluttering.

My father is shouting something, I’m vaguely aware of him storming away and I feel like I should be listening to him, but all I can focus on is how beautiful Simon is. He’s fucking gorgeous and it’s breaking my heart. I love him so much that I can’t breathe, my chest is constricting and it’s all I can do not to lean back into him, let him swallow me whole.

Snow is looking at me, I am looking at Snow, neither of us know what to do now. My father distantly tells us to get down to the dining room at once, he sounds disgusted, he probably thinks we’re disgusting and I just don’t care. Simon Snow just kissed me. Snow’s eyes widen, his head jars back suddenly, and I can’t help the jolt in my stomach, I knew it was too good to be true. He doesn’t say anything though, not for what feels like an eternity. He just stands and stares, his hand sweating where it’s still holding my jaw. I want to push my face into his hand and breathe him in, but I can’t. I can’t, and it’s killing me.

“I—Sorry, that was—that was too much,” Snow stutters. Nausea is swirling unpleasantly in my gut. There it is. The rejection. Though… does that really count as rejection when he’s the one who initiated it in the first place? Snow looks uncomfortable, like he doesn’t know what he should do now, and I decide to put him out of his misery.

“It’s fine, Snow, I get it,” I tell him, forcing my voice to stay level. Forcing myself not to allow the thickness in my throat to constrict my words. I can’t scare Snow off, not now. “You’re… doing well, my father will have no choice but to believe us now.”

“I just—how could he say those things to you? It was—I didn’t think—I just—” I hold up a hand to stop him. He must really be feeling quite turbulent if he’s stuttering over his words like this, it’s been a long while since he stumbled over each word like a hurdle in this way.

“We don’t need to talk about this, I understand, Snow. We can discuss things later.”

There is an awful lot we need to talk about later.

Breakfast was so tense I was half positive Snow was about to get up and run. He scoffed his food like he always does, though I think he was just nervous. Mordelia wouldn’t shut up, asking us all sorts of questions as to the status of our relationship. In the end Malcolm had snapped at her to be quiet, something he very rarely did. Daphne took her away from the table as soon as she could, taking the rest of the kids with her too with the help of two maids. When Snow and I had arrived, the house had been empty, but in the mean time Daphne had returned with Mordelia and all my other siblings. I love them, I do, but I don’t feel like I can handle all the attention at the moment. Though I don’t let anyone into this, I can’t, my mother taught me better than to lose my composure.

So I remained composed, dignified, ate my breakfast, reprimanded Snow on his eating habits just to reassure him that I wasn’t mad at him. Not for kissing me, not for finding out everything I never wanted anyone to know. My father didn’t make any more remarks, in honesty he tried not to look at us, I’m not sure what I want from him—other than acceptance of course. It hurts to have my father treat me this way. It hurts to feel like a disappointment for something that I can’t control. It’s even worse knowing that he still loves me, I know that he does, he’s always done everything he can for me its just… he cannot stand me being attracted to other men. He’s always ignored it, probably in hopes that it’s just a phase. But it isn’t, it never was, and it never will be. I have no idea if he’ll ever stop letting this be a wedge between us.

“What are—what are we doing today then, Baz?” Snow asks me after breakfast. We’re the last ones at the table, father has excused himself to work and I’m grateful I can drop my ramrod posture, if only a little. To be honest, I hadn’t really thought that far ahead when I invited Snow here. Usually I would spend the holiday studying, attending formals with my father, counting down until I could go back to school. Snow has always stayed at Watford over the holidays, I’ve always speculated over what he spent his time doing in our room alone, though those thoughts often ended up wondering down a hormonal path that I really should steer clear of at the moment.

I cross my legs and lean back in my seat.

“Anything you want to do?” I reply as nonchalantly as I can. Snow glances at me and then quickly away, I can’t work out what he’s thinking. Is it about the kiss? Is it about finding him rummaging through my mother’s articles? My kidnapping? I don’t know whether I want to distract us from these thoughts, or talk them through. It feels like too much, all mounting up on me like this, I can’t help but feel anxious.

Snow shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders. “I’m the guest here.”

“I’d use that lightly,” I huff. “You’re not exactly getting the best hospitality here, are you?” I say it flatly, Snow knows that it’s not a question but a fact. He shrugs again. He’s always shrugging. His eyebrows pinch like his trying to think about how to word something.

“Don’t you feel—”

“Let’s study,” I say, cutting him off. I don’t want to answer anything that is poised as a question and includes the word ‘feel’.

“Study?” Snow asks, like he’s hearing the word for the first time.

“Yes, study.” He’s looking at me like I’ve just told him I’m a vampire. “What? Christ, Snow, aren’t you meant to be a genius? Are you telling me you’ve never studied?”

“No, that’s not. That’s not it, I study plenty, thank you very much—I just. I’m surprised you’d suggest studying.”

“Surprised?”

“Yeah, considering everything that’s happened, I just—”

“Please,” I interrupt again. I can’t have this talk right now, any of these talks. I don’t want to deal with feelings, I just want to pretend everything is fine, just for a little longer. I don’t want to talk about my mother, I don’t want to talk about myself, I don’t want to talk about that kiss, I just don’t think I can. I don’t trust myself not to spill everything I’ve been holding back for years. I just—I need to pretend. Just for a little longer. “Let’s just—let’s not talk about anything just yet, Snow. Let’s study. I’m still not entirely convinced you even know how to read.”

“Of course I can read!” He exclaims, sounding genuinely offended. I bless the heavens above that it’s so easy to distract him, so easy to rile him up. I love him for it.

“Oh really?” I taunt, pushing away from the table. He follows without breaking eye-contact. “I guess you’re just going to have to prove how smart you are then, scholarship-student.”

“I literally got the third highest grade in English!”

“Yeah, after me and Bunce.”

“You probably have like eighty private tutors and a rich-people machine that feeds knowledge into your head!”

“Snow, can you hear yourself?” I can’t help but laugh at him. Though it’s short and controlled. I manage to make it look like a sneer. Snow is most comfortable around me when I’m like this, playing the enemy, picking a fight.

“Fuck off, Baz.” He starts walking away from the table, then stops and looks over his shoulder to see if I’m following him, which I’m not.

“What is it?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“I don’t know where to go,” he says blankly. I huff through my nose, bite my lip to try and keep from smiling as I watch him standing there in my clothes which are a size or two too big. The sleeves hang over his hands; he has the fabric of each cuff bunched up in each freckled hand. I love him. I love him.

“Come on then, you git.”

#snowbaz #simon snow #simon snow fanfiction #snowbaz fic #snowbaz fic rec #fanfiction #carry on fandom #Wayward son fanfic #carry on fanfiction #baz #basilton pitch #Tyrannus Basilton Pitch #snowbaz fanfiction #cibcty

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oudenoida · 4 years ago

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First Impressions

It had been a long two weeks. Moving all of your belongings 6700 miles around the world while trying to set up the lease on a shopfront, find a flat, and settle into both was a herculean effort, and Ryo thought that now that he was here, he wasn’t going anywhere for quite some time. Most of his efforts had been focused on the shop, with his spartan flat suffering because of it. He’d made a number of pieces throughout his time at Mahoutokoro, and especially as part of his final year thesis, but there was still the nagging thought in the back of his head that it wasn’t enough to open a shop on, even if most of his business, he was sure, was going to be bespoke creations. It was leaving the still-shuttered but about to open shop one evening that he decided to finally poke his head into the herbalist’s shop that he had leased an apartment above. It always seemed to be a hive of activity and simply from walking past the window he had no idea who actually ran the shop. But if he was to be living above them it was only polite that he made an introduction.

Winter had truly begun to settle in in Diagon, but crossing the threshold from blustery London to the inside of the shop made it easy to forget. It was so warm Ryo was forced to pull his wand from his back pocket, a muttered incantation clearing the fog from his glasses as he held the door open for an exiting customer. Inside was even more chaotic than it had first appeared through the window, but with an inherent rhythm and order that Ryo could appreciate. The bustle was frenetic, but everything was neat and in its place and everyone seemed to know exactly what they were doing.

“GOODEVENINGWELCOMETOTHESHOPSOMETIMESCALLEDTHEPLANTSHOPUSUALLYJUSTCALLEDTHESHOPBYTHERIVERHOWMAYWEHELPYOUTODAY.” Delivered in a single breath and at breakneck speed Ryo took a long moment fix hair blown by the winter wind to parse out exactly what had been semi-shouted at him by a child who appeared to be standing on a stool behind the counter.

“Well you got all the words right, Alice. But let’s try to take it about five times slower.” A woman not much older than him appeared in the crowded shop, brushing hair out of the girl’s face and shooting Ryo a soft smile.

Alice, as Ryo assumed the young woman was called, took a deep long breath, “Good evening, welcome to The Shop, sometimes called The Plant Shop, usually just called The Shop By The River. How may we help you today?”

He couldn’t help but smile broadly and half-bow, a hand over his heart, “Good evening Alice. I was wondering if I could please speak to the proprietor of this shop.”

It was clear fairly immediately that proprietor had been too complex a word but the woman who’d prompted a reduction in speed in favor of comprehension smiled again, one of the most genuinely heartwarming smiles he’d ever seen, and patted Alice on the back, “He means me, dear. Go help Mr. Castro. I know he thinks he’s the best at it, but nobody can pick the best damask rose blossoms like you can.” Alice’s face erupted into a supernova of a smile and she scampered across the shop to a handsome man sitting behind a mountain of dried roses, gently signing to a child next to him, apparently teaching them how to tell which ones were the best.

“Perry Abrams, owner and operator of this little slice of chaos, what can I do for you?”

Taking a moment to collect himself in the face of the unrelenting and blinding love Ryo swept hair out of his eyes before reaching out his hand, “Good evening Ms. Abrams. Ryoichi Katsuhoji. I have recently leased the apartment above your shop, in addition to a storefront three doors down. I wanted to come down to introduce myself and apologize if it has been too noisy over the past few days. I am mostly unpacked now and the noise will diminish.”

He was rewarded for this monologue with a brief pause, and then another absolutely brilliant smile, “So you’re the new shop everyone’s been buzzing about! The butcher paper over the windows very much gives a Christmas present vibe and the street can’t wait to unwrap it. It’s lovely to finally meet you, Mr. Katsuhoji. Alice!” the child from the counter sped back over, a crown of dried blossoms now resting in her flame-red hair, “Please run down the street and tell Chef Conrad that we’ve figured out who the new shop belongs to and we’re ready for the welcome basket. If Mr. Goshawk is outside tell him where you’re going”

“YESMSABRAMSSCUSEMEMRKATSUHOJI” Before he could respond Alice was out the door, pausing briefly to talk to a familiar dark haired man that seemed to constantly be standing outside, ostensibly guarding the shop. Ryo had never introduced himself to the man but they nodded at each other every morning when he left his apartment.

“As to the noise, Mr. Katsuhoji-”

“Just Ryo is fine, Ms. Abrams.”

“Then you’ll call me Perry.” It wasn’t really phrased as an option, and Ryo respected that. “As to the noise, Ryo. I’m more shocked that we don’t bother you with everything going on down here. As you can see, we run a bit of a chaotic operation.” Gesturing broadly to the shop around her Ryo took in the scene that her hand encompassed. Children and young men and women helped dry herbs, some carefully labelling, some tying bundles together, a few of the older ones over small cauldrons distilling essential oils. He had seen far more children and teenagers in this portion of the alley than he had elsewhere in the city, and there had been moments when he was fairly certain he’d been followed. Some greater story was unfolding in this portion of London that he wasn’t yet privy to, but was certainly on the outskirts of.

“I keep myself busy enough that by the time I am in a state of stillness to be bothered by outside noise it has long fallen silent.” A half step took him to a shelf lined with immaculately bundled herbs; nothing he couldn’t find in any herbalist’s anywhere in the world but clearly treated with a care that set this shop apart. He pulled a small bundle of licorice root, a larger bundle of dried basil, and an even larger bundle of dried mint down, setting them on the counter as he turned back to look at Perry, “Though I am glad I have not disturbed you with the ruckus of unpacking a life I had to move almost seven thousand miles. If at any point I am a disturbance please let me know so I may fix that.”

Before Perry could respond, the door opened again, the bluster of a frigid November bearing Alice in again, dried rose crown askew, with a young man, in his late teens from Ryo’s eye, right on her heels. It was difficult, however, to get too good a bead on the man accompanying Alice as he was mostly obscured behind one of the most mammoth baskets Ryo had ever seen in his life. Alice cleared a spot on the counter for him to set it down, and when he had relieved himself of his burden Ryo could get a better look at the young man who’d carried the load that would have crushed young Alice, for all her energy. He was thin, thinner even than Ryo himself, and carried himself in a way that issued to all who looked at him an apology for taking up space. But more striking than that were the violently neon blue eyes and the charcoal black veins snaking their way up his arms, the tell-tale signs of an addiction that Ryo had only heard whispered about at Mahoutokoro.

“Ch-Chef Conrad sends apologies, Ms. Abrams.” his hands were never still, flitting from his pockets, to the buttons on his shirt, to the choker around his neck in quick succession as it appeared the young man tried and failed to keep himself grounded, “Unfortunately h-he’s in the middle of d-dinner service or he’d come himself.”

“Thomas.” It wasn’t Perry that responded, but the handsome man who had been signing to a child over a mountain of dried roses, walking over from his portion of the shop while rolling sleeves down over arms too-muscled for a simple herbalist. “How many days are we up to now, mijo?”

Thomas’ face split into a slow smile, “Three weeks yesterday, Mr. Agusti.”

Both Perry and Mr. Agusti both pulled Thomas into a tight hug, their various congratulations overlapping and weaving in and out of each other and Ryo couldn’t help but smile at the honest love and support he was currently privy to. As they pulled away Agusti clasped Thomas’ forearm, “Three weeks to be proud of. We’re proud of you for it, I know Jake is too. Remember you can always call if you need an anchor. This only works if we’re all working together.”

The flash of genuine gratitude that illuminated Thomas’ face was pure and deep and again Ryo had the impression of a story he didn’t know all the pieces of. “Th-thanks Vic. I promise I will. If I need it. R-Rhys has been taking me to yoga with him. It’s really b-been helping.” Thomas turned from Vic to Ryo and straightened up just a little, gesturing to the massive basket on the counter which Ryo could see was filled with a smorgasbord of baked goods, jars of delicious looking preserved pickles and jams, some cleaning supplies, and at least two bottles of wine. “Chef Conrad wanted me to g-give you a heartfelt welcome to the neighborhood s-sir. He hopes you’ll come by to dine with us one evening s-so he can say so in person.”

Ryo stuck his hand out, shaking Thomas’ firmly, “Please thank Chef Conrad for me Thomas. As soon as I have my life in any semblance of order I will make his restaurant one of my first destinations.” Releasing the hand he started to poke through the contents of the basket, nodding sagely, “As to this far-too-kind gift from what I can only assume is both Chef Conrad, Ms A-” a gentle throat clearing made him quickly backtrack, “Perry, and many others in this neighborhood… your generosity is overwhelming. I will never be able to eat all of this on my own, and I have no family on this side of the world to share it with.” He could see several ravenous glances from the children who were trying to focus on the work at hand and failing miserably, “I wonder if any of you could please help me eat Chef Conrad’s cooking with the speed and vigor it deserves.” The horde that descended on the basket was faster than their tiny legs should have made them and Victor broke away to attempt to corral them as Ryo took the two bottles of wine and some supplies, pushing his three bundles of herbs across the counter, “And I would like to purchase these as well, Perry.”

She wrapped the herbs with care and placed them in a small bag, sliding it across the counter and patting his hand gently, “Any man who chooses to regift something special to my kids can have a few bundles of herbs on the house Ryo. This round’s on me.”

He smiled and bowed again, pushing hair out of his face as he turned to leave the shop before a small ginger comet collided with his knees; small Alice, face covered in frosting, giving him a tight hug, “VICSAYSWEGOTTASAYTHANKYOUWHENWEGETPRESENTS.” A deep inhale and a purposeful and slow exhale gave her enough stasis and grounding to get each word out individually, “Thank you for sharing super good food, Mr. Katsuhoji.”

“Alice. Any time I get something delicious and frosting covered I hope you are nearby to share it with.” Another hug and she vanished, back either to the fray around snacks or her pile of roses and he looked up to see that beautiful radiant smile stretch across Perry’s face.

“Welcome to the neighborhood, Ryo. We’re very happy to have you here.”

It had been a long and difficult move, but, in the middle of this oasis of warmth in the infancy of winter, Ryo felt the exact same way.

#m: ryo #opp: perry

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hieromonkcharbel · 4 years ago

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SOME THOUGHTS ON LAUGHTER

Laughter, too, falls into this sense of taste and not to another, and must be avoided, especially violent laughter that is so uncontrolled and loud that it often produces tears. Such excited laughter causes the gums and teeth to show in those who laugh loudly just as they do with horse when they neigh. St. Basil has strict rules against loud laughter. "To be overcome by uncontrolled and meaningless laugher is a sign of intemperance and the lack of modesty in our behavior; it is also a sign that the foolishness of the soul is not controlled by precise reason." St. Basil also said: "Loud laughter and violent reactions of the body are not proper to one who is contrite of heart, mature, and self-controlled." This is why this form of laughter is discouraged in the bible as something especially harmful to the stability of the soul: "I said of laughter, 'It is mad' (Eccl 2:2).

Solomon was right in point out that the laughter of the foolish is similar to the sound of thorn bushes being burned. "For as the crackling of thorns under a pot, so is the laughter of fools" (Ecc. 7:6). St. Gregory the Theologian in his Iambic Poetry wrote: "All laughter deserves the laughter (contempt) of wise people, especially the sinful laughter; but disorderly laughter brings about tears." St. Basil has set a boundary to acceptable laughter: "The mirth of the soul may be revealed to the point of a happy smile which is not improper, as long as it only reveals what is written in the Scripture: "A glad heart makes a cheerful countenance" (Prov 15:13). Also the wise Sirach wrote: "A foolish man raises his voice in laughter, but a prudent man will smile in silence" (Sir 19:30; 20:5-6).

Moreover, when we take into account that our responsible and sinful life is carried on in a valley of sorrows, even our laughter must be turned to mourning and our smile and joy to grief, as St. James has said: "Let your laughter be turned to mourning and your joy to dejection" (Jas 4:9). St. Isidore the Pelousiotes wrote to the presbyter Dorotheos:

"If the priest is called and is the model for the flock and the light for the church, then it is imperative that this be impressed upon his way of life as a seal is impressed upon wax. If he really wants to be alight to his people he must hate coarse jesting and the show of laughter, so that he may not teach many to misbehave. After all, he is a priest, an angel of the Lord God Almighty. An angel can not be versed in laughter when his purpose is to serve with the fear of God."

(St. Nicodemus of the Holy Mountain)

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dememarquette · 5 years ago

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Stockholm

It has been a rough year. Complete Hell, actually, but we made it. We're home. Home. 2018, where the leaves are turning red, cable can be paused, and our old record shop exhausted itself into extinction.

That's all I needed. After death, my standards dropped through the concrete. I found gratification in the mundane. I appreciated the small things. I enjoyed the understated conversations, the intimate ones, the quiet. Just- Any time absent of violence. Pain. When I didn't have to worry about the orders being screamed at us, or the anxiety living under the heel of someone much bigger and nastier. Was it a lot to ask? Generally, no. Following a thwarted attempt at societal collapse? Maybe. We made it back half a year ago. That was six months on the run. We were fugitives. 'War criminals.' We avoided trouble by bouncing back and forth from Hell, running missions, training, and staying on the move while ensuring Buné's new order- Point is, I've been exhausted. I leaned against our apartment. I lost track of what city we're in but when you're anarchists of the divine, it stopped mattering. I didn't want to think about it. I didn’t want to think at all. I let my world fall into serenity and I took peace in as cars passed. I felt the breeze on my skin, the procession of life outside the damned. There was normalcy in the city. I offered smiles to the pedestrians that walked by. I reminded them of a preacher, the charismatic one they used to watch every Thursday night. I obviously wasn't the same guy. I was a disheveled, sadder version, but some smiled back- Before a loud crash sent them running. "Son of a BITCH." Metal clanged against stone. One girl dropped her umbrella. She ran. Her rubber boots beat the pavement until she turned a corner, a block away. "Mother. Fucker. LIED." Adria kneed a recycling bin. "I should have known this would happen. It was too fucking easy." "Too easy...?" "No one gets promoted that quick! Doesn't MATTER if you do all his dirty work," The bin split. "Start an apocalypse," Glass shattered. Garbage blasted down the asphalt. "Beat the new guys in!" I had no idea what part of the last few months had been anything short of excruciating. I just knew better to argue. I picked up the discarded umbrella, shaking off the puddle. "Is it off the table, then?" I asked, spinning it. "Obviously not! I'm up here aren't I?" "Why, then?" She violently bucked her leg. A tenacious grocery bag that clung to her boot. "He wants another job! Another fucking errand before I can prove myself, get OFF! Stupid-!!" She dislodged it, but not without throwing out her calf. The cops would be here in fifteen minutes. In twenty, she would be destroying our wall instead. We weren’t getting that security deposit back. "I thought that's what Glenshollow was." I shuttered the umbrella's canopy closed. Peace was over. "Proving yourself." "Yeah well, it wasn't enough!" "'course it wasn't." It never would be. There was always more hoops, more grunt work. She punched a trash can into the street. It launched past me, aluminum warped. When her fist whipped back around, it specked the wall, corrosively leaving hissing black holes in the brick like the spray of a Tommy. "One more." She huffed. "Just- one more. He says I'm close." "When you're immortal everything is close. What if he never promotes you? What if he is a liar, like he's always been?" "Shut up." My brows furrowed. "Adria. What's the point in trusting him if-" "Shut up. This was the limit. I knew it. There was no reasoning with her. She glared, shoulders heaving with a finality saying I was a much more satisfying target than a garbage bin. I let it drop. I receded to the street in silence. Back against the wall, I stood at my post: Protecting the outside world from Adria. - - - The attack on Delgado yielded over 200 casualties. Months of preparation amounted to a twelve hour skirmish. Powers above squashed the epidemic in no time. It was an incursion controlled by dinner yet the effects rippled through the decades. History was made. It was covered up, then made again, but Buné never cared about petty tragedies and coverage above the surface. He cared about what happened after. It was a victory, not a failure. Overnight, his army doubled. They arrived onto his doorstep in droves. Marked. Branded by their wrath, the shambling husks were primed soldiers. Their consciousness’ were forever crippled into malleable potential Buné can use. Due to her stellar efforts, Adria earned respect, boons, and prestige. Just not the title. Her notoriety made her optimal for missions back in the present. He turned a blind eye to her angelic compatriot, and gave her a team. None of whom she cared for, but she thought maybe her parade of volatile dumbasses was a start to prime her for the big leagues. It wasn't. 'Lieutenant' was a bar being raised higher, and Adria's patience was burning out. Having a team didn't mean jackshit if she was still at the bottom. There was no repose to be had under someone else. While I also yearned for a delusionally quiet life- It just wasn't feasible. Details arrived the following morning. "What is this?" I wandered into the kitchen to find Adria pouring over blueprints. They were three feet by one thin drafts of paper, and full of intricate blocks with barely legible text. I'm by no means an architect or mechanic, but ‘boat’ was a safe bet. She was sitting there, nails knotted in her bangs, reviewing them like she had any idea of what they meant. "His assignment." "And this is what will supposedly get you promoted?" I said, skeptically. "It better." 'Or else what?' I wanted to ask. "And this is supposed to be harder than zombies?" "It's not supposed to be harder. It's finishing what we started." "How does that make sense?" I said, picking at another sheet. I didn't trust our 'team' to go get milk without fucking up, much less a heist? "I do what I'm told so I can get out of this shithole." While I intended to correct her on the ‘we’ situation, of that we could agree on. No matter how far this rabbit hole goes, I was sure there was something to be found at the end of it. Call me an opportunist. I hopped onto the counter. Tilting my head, I realized if you removed the claws, fangs, subterfuge, this felt familiar. I imagined a kitchen. Countertops crowded claustrophobically with congratulations and community love. A bare room that felt like bustling potential and a new lease on life rather than a pit stop. I scooched closer, crossing my legs to wedge between an imaginary dinette set and unpacked vacuum- She knew me by now. Too well. I could see it when her shoulders tense, her eyes snap to meet mine. ’Don’t-’ All that mattered was that her subconscious beat her to it. “So if you're promoted soon…” I rehearsed. “How are we going to celebrate?" Finding no room there, he crossed his legs instead. She was unpacking a mess. An obstacle course of bins, stacked impossibly high. There was no space except the marble. Adria had a hard time throwing anything vaguely sentimental out, and the collective town of Ashwater sent her off with enough supplies to stock a bunker. In lieu of helping (as he had invited himself over to do) he read over her acceptance letter to the Modena Police Academy three times over. He had the message memorized, and its creases too. The edges were folded from her happy dance, and the text smeared from her tears. How many Shakespearean ways could he recite it to her? How many ways could he decree her new title? The answer was a lot. But when that stopped being fun, he asked. "Soooo with this new promotion.” He slid closer. “How are we celebrating?" This came after a mandatory lunch. 5 box milestone. 15 minute break, then a ten. Finally dinner, and now a catch-all celebration. She looked up at him grinning, arms full of silverware. She was hopelessly behind, and would’ve had the place done at noon on her own, but what could she say? "How about we celebrate by...unpacking the kitchen?" "C'mon dep- oops." "Detective." “Detective Kyriakoulopoulos.” He waggled his brows. “It’s time to party! One does not become the most esteemed detective of the wild, formidable city of Modena every day.” "Not yet!" She swiped the letter. Before he could protest- talking with his hands, like he always did- she grabbed them, effectively silencing him. He was pulled to the floor, where his strategy switched. He hooked both arms around her waist, pulling her in. She’d weakly protest. "Come on,” She said, not fighting it. “I need to make it look like I got something done. My family is coming over tomorrow." "And they're going to be real disappointed if they don't have anything to unpack.” He grinned. “Think of Basil and Elyse, all bored. They want to help." “And you don’t?” "...Champagne?" When she came to I was off the counter. It'd been days since her last episode. Weeks. So few and far between, on days where she was kicking some guy’s teeth in, I worried they were gone for good. But she blinked. I held my breath for the fallout. Only she saw these memories, but I felt them. I lived in them every time her eyes went dark, when her lips twitched, and I knew she was following the subtitles. In those quiet moments where the pit of venom in her heart receded, Adria crawled back from her grave. Always in painfully brief snapshots, but she was there. These were the tick on her EKG, the surge in hope telling me she was still alive, under all the cruelty and malice. She didn’t receive them as well. She never did. They hit like a jackhammer. No matter how light, they weren’t her life, they were fake, and she didn’t give a shit about them. Getting as worked up as I did was a small betrayal but one I couldn’t resist. She hated me for it- But still. She was quick to tell me how useless I was when she didn’t oblige. How I would mope for weeks if she couldn’t recite this ‘stupid fantasy’ back. It was the only thing I had, despite promises I’d made to the contrary. We never said it, but we both knew. "What did you see?" I asked, breathless. She dug the heel of her palm into her eye socket, burrowing into it like she’d scrape it off her retinas. “No.” She growled, low. "Adria..." I begged. “NO, Demetrius.” She snatched the blueprints. “I don't have any time for this shit today! I have work to do." “Please.” "Mission. First. Are you going to come with me or not?" The answer was a given. - - - Under the cover of night, we hit the docks. I wasn't given the specifics. That wasn't to imply they did, because they didn't. Wrath demons maximized their shadiness. We never had any idea what we were walking into because Buné expected us to handle it- especially his aspiring lieutenants. There was no hand holding. We had a location, a number, and a time limit. Be a good soldier, and that's all there was to it. Adria corralled us to a neighboring container ship. The ship Buné marked- The Sandfly, an antiquated naval cruiser- bobbed beside us. We were to board, grab our shit, and leave. Casualties didn’t matter. Fifth didn’t care about getting dirty if you had something to show for it. Even so, sneaking past enemy lines didn’t mean a thing when there was friendly fire. She and her ‘team’ had been trading blows the whole way here. One lost a tooth, another revived an ancient blood feud, and a third tried for Adria’s head in a manner that was custom. He was promptly put down. "ENOUGH," Adria slammed him into a metal wall. Spines chipped on impact, and the wall buckled. It wasn’t the first time she cracked a bone on her own soldiers, and she never laid hands on them without leaving something to remember. His wound audibly sizzled and but it was so routine no one revelled in the example. "ALL of you are idiots, but if you want to live, get your shit together NOW. Buné does not care about you stupid peons, and I don’t even remember your names! Do you understand? You're fucking expendable." Three grumbled reluctant acceptance. The forth hissed from the ground. Her patience was thinner than mine. I stood idly by, impassive to the petty demon squabbles. They tended not to mess with me. Not seriously, anyways. They didn't care for me being here. I couldn’t escape errant comments but I never cared about hecklers. Adria abraded anyone who tried harder, and operating under her coriaceous wing meant I learned how to defend myself. Procedural power-grabs out of the way, we moved as a group to board. Those with the spare limbs to do so glided to the bridge with no problem. I needed the extra help- not without snide remarks but Adria shut them up with a heel through their feet. We convened on the other side, up to five injuries before mission start. "I go in first.” She debriefed after egos were bruised, and rebellious spirits squashed. “On my command you will join, one at a time! Any sooner I'll kick your ass back down to Hell. I want us in and out, no showboating. Understood?!" "Yes." They said. No one was ignorant of how important this mission was to her career. She told me on the way here she’d bury anyone who stood in the way. But I was the one interrupting this time. "No-" I said. "Wait." I held a hand to the wall. Nonsensically I felt comfort since boarding- and not because Adria held me by the waist to fly me over. I felt warmth. A metaphysical type. One that replaced the ever-present rotting in my chest I've come to associate with Adria (it’s an acquired taste, psychologists would claim). Whatever this ship was emitting- this cloying homesickness- couldn't be good. My disruption was met with the usual scorn. Special privileges meant I could speak out when others got a boot to the face. She took any input from me during these missions seriously. For reasons that were obvious- I didn't talk much otherwise. "What?" I moved my palm with the wave of energy. The feeling persisted down the entry hatch, and upward, as if part of the ventilation. “Let me go in first. I think it's a trap.” "Of course it's a trap. What else would it be?" The other demoness on our team spat. "Since when is your pet calling the shots?!" "He's going to get us killed." It wasn't unusual for members of her meathead party to be disgusted when I said anything. Perks of sleeping with the boss; I had seniority, even if it didn't align with their thug rules. One bland look and she threw out their objections. "Back off!” She snarled, slapping them behind her.“He's going first." "But-" "No arguing!!" I dipped inside. Their fragile hierarchy devolved into fighting. Stealth was never part of their operation but Adria had been in the game long enough to hold off all four. I padded down the corridor, unconcerned, and tracing the path. The ship was a relic of the past. The whole thing was corroded ceiling to floor, suffering a carmine splattering of rust. Stairs were welded grates, and the doors were embedded with port holes too scratched to see through. It was an asbestos goldmine but I wasn't looking for the ways it'd kill a person. Where the heat ended, the nauseating rot of corruption was back, even if I knew our team was far behind outside. Demons. "-Two of them are in." A radio transponder scratched. Sound feed bounced off the metallic halls. Luckily, I'd been quiet. "She's not." "What's she doing?" Said the room's inhabitant. "Standing guard?" I slid around the door frame. His back was to me. He flicked a lighter in his hand, reclined all the way back in a dubious office chair. On, and off went the flame, prompting me to look above. What I was feeling above was the sprinkler system- conveniently blocked in this room. As tempted as I was to trip a holy water shower, knowing she'd be safe, I knew better. "Yeah." Said the radio. "Seems like it." “She's not one to be a pussy.” "Well she is tonight!" "Maybe she needs encouragement.” He hunched over the command station. It wasn’t modern enough to be outfitted with anything more than ham radio and inscrutable dials. I approached from the behind. I wasn't armed. I never carried anything on me because I never came on these missions to do anything but protect Adria. Anything that could truly hurt her was beyond a pistol or rusty shank. “Shake down one of her lackies, make it real loud. She'll come running." "While you're in there and I'm out here?" The conspirator barked a laugh that crossed the feed like a spike in static. "Hell no. She isn’t known for her patience. Give her time." I wasn't going to. I gripped the back of his chair. Using all 150 pounds to my name, I tipped it. It's wheels spun out from under him. He crashed into the floor, the collision ringing out like gun fire. I took advantage of his momentary disorientation to stomp on his wrist. "What was that?" The disarmed radio chirped, fuzzy. "Was that them? Are they in?" It earned a good kick under the desk. Volume whirred as it spun, revolving on the tile, but safely dispatched. By the time I turned to him, he'd gotten to his feet and was bracing for me. Rigorous training meant I knew how- in theory- to respond to hand-to-hand combat. I was no natural. I didn't have the years of combat these guys did. I didn't have to fight my way out of a sewage pit to survive. I had the eye for one move at a time, not chains. I thoroughly leaned on what she taught me. Eye which foot was forward, recognize where he was putting his weight, while minding my own. So while I was able to lean away from the first hook he threw my way, that's where my advantage expired. The second his fist whirred through the air past me, his leg compensated for the dodge and lobbed the office chair into my knees. No matter the power behind it, in our cramped space with plush seating, that move was good for nothing except bruised knees. She taught me to be skeptical- so as I stumbled awkwardly back, my hands flew up to my face. He hopped the chair. Feinting for another hook, his opposite hand drove heavy punch to my gut. The small, obstacle-ridden area did not give him much of a charging period for momentum but he wasn’t exactly lanky or baby-soft. It hurt- God, it hurt- but pain meant a lot less when you could habitually heal faster than the damned. My block fell to latch onto his forearms. I grabbed him before I could go down. I was winded but he was wailing. I fired them up- I pumped wave after wave of bright energy into his forearms, clinging for dear life. Contrary to the way I set this fight up, I have nothing flashy. Months under her tutelage taught me none of her instinctual killer moves, technique, or style. Maybe for a lack of trying but this was it. My God-given and only finisher- it never failed me before. Why would I stop now? My ribs just stopped aching when he bucked. He took three solid jerks to try to rip my arms out my sockets. All failed when I kicked at knees, and hung off his arms like my next kick was going for his gut. It didn't- he'd drop me, and Adria swore that loss of balance is deadly. Instead I bowed and jumped, headbutting for his jaw. He tucked his head to protect his throat. I got his nose instead, but noted from pitch of the swear, I was doing a whole lot more damage from the arms. I seeked to remedy that. Before I could go for another, he dissolved the height difference and dropped. He twisted- twirling under my arms like a grade school dance. Just when my arms were at the apex (having never let go- his arms were gruesomely soggy in my grip) he jutted up. I arched across his back, then over his shoulder, into the air, and then on the floor. I crashed into the ground dazed, lifting my head just in time for his spined tail to pull a filing cabinet drawer into my temple. It was a miracle I stayed conscious. The collision whited out my vision. Pain lanced through my brain like an electric volt, my head humming. But I didn't need to see him when I could feel him. Those senses worked on another level. I blindly reached out. I found his leg, one hand after the other. Forgoing healing, I devoted every spare bit of Holy power into a lateral pull-up that caved his calf between my fingers. The splitting headache motivated me beyond precedent. His flesh squished, bowing with the pressure fingers exerted like memory foam that didn't bounce back. He collapsed. The muscle was rendered useless, and his cry was ear-shattering through the cellar, and the only thing that pierced the intense ringing in my skull. The lighter fell out of his opposite hand. I swatted that under the desk, too, to join the radio paging frantically for updates. They were right; she would come running when she heard us. I felt her now. "You were going to kill her." I pulled myself to a slouch, hand slipping on the rustle of papers and demon grease of my palms. “You were going to kill her.” He was emerging blearily through the spots in my vision. His hands hovered over his disabled calf, unable to tend to it after I shaped it into an apple core. "What do you care?” He half-cried. “For fuck's sakes, you're the fucking laughing stock of the whole circle. The bitch calls you her pet-" She did that in front of me. "She thinks you're wrapped around her finger!" And she does. Glow from my hands reached my elbows, reflecting in his inverted eyes like cataracts. "Remind me why you care about our relationship?” "Relationship? Is that what you call it?" His leg wobbled. While one arm reached for leverage, the other was after something in his back-pocket. "She's using you. She doesn't love you." She says that to keep up appearances. I followed him to his feet, unconcerned that my vision hadn't fully returned. This fight wouldn’t last much longer. "You were going to kill her." I repeated. "What happens when you fall, huh? What happens when this catches up to you and you aren't worth shit to her anymore? When she has no use for y-" My eyes flicked upward one second before her hand plunged through his neck. Knowing just the way to circumvent his spine, four fingers wiggled through the opposite end of his windpipe. Venom bubbled out his mouth before blood did. Poison seared canals through his lips. Chips of his eroded teeth landed in his lap. His body tipped. "What's with you and talking to them?" She snarled, irritated. She flicked excess onto his back. His final syllables gurgled into the tile, and my power guttered with it. "You were wasting time. You should have taken care of that!" "Sorry," I said, still. I got around to healing my temple, clearing up the humming. Just in case she had anything to refute about what she heard. She didn’t. "What's I say? No time for playing around. Let's go." - - - Shortly after taking care of the riffraff, we had the cargo. It was delivered back to Buné at once. Theoretically this was supposed to prove Adria was competent at not just societal overthrow, but leading too. I didn’t care enough to join that meeting back. I went straight home to cook dinner and mentally prepare for disappointment. When she returned, she slammed the door as per usual. I had dinner on the way, and was wrestling a can opener for dessert. She wasn’t immediately razing the town so it must’ve been good news, despite the firm set of her brow implying the contrary. “What’s the word?” I asked, confused. "My coronation is tomorrow." “...For lieutenant?”

Her promotions thus far have been unceremonious. ‘Now you don’t have to live in the mire,’ ‘Now we won’t beat the shit out of you,’ ‘Now you don’t have to work minimum wage to support a zombie apocalypse.’

"I didn't picture Buné to be one for fanfare." "Yup." "That's- that's great! Isn’t it?" "All that's left now is to get rid of everything holding me back." I frowned. She said it so cold. So sterile, and she hadn’t made eye-contact with me since she walked in. She just threw down her brass knuckles and kicked off her boots under the table.. "-Me?" She snorted. "No, not you." For the barest of seconds I felt relief. With the way fifth worked, that probably meant axing some a big cat, or turf-war over a street above ‘sea level.’ It concerned me as much as any of her new hobbies. But that relief turned to restlessness, and that restlessness to desperation now that we were both here, back in our quiet kitchen, absent of screaming and bloodshed. It was 2 AM and this time was traditionally ours. “What did you see?” I asked. “Earlier I mean.” She glared, snapping out of whatever she was daydreaming about. “You think you deserve that?” I didn’t respond. “You didn’t even take care of the scraps today. You acted like that guy was going to make you cry.” I looked back at her. Looking at her like this used to make her face fall. Back when she felt things like remorse or concern. This Adria held her ground, yielding only when dinner was going to burn. “Whatever. You can make it up to me tomorrow.” “For your coronation…?” “Yes.” She knew how I hated going to demon things. “It’s not going to be in Hell.” She elaborated, when it must’ve been apparent on my face. “Where then?” "Ashwater." I stopped, pot boiling behind me. "...What? How is that what’s holding you back? You want nothing to do with it." "Buné's orders. He wants to make sure. You coming or not?" "Of course.” I said, my conscious late to catch up. Funny how it deteriorates with disuse. “It’s not going to be a team thing, is it? “Nope. You and me. Just how you like it.” “Good.” - - - That night when she showered, I stole her phone. This was double suicide. She'd kill me if she found out, and she'd kill who I was talking to for good measure. If that happened she'd rot in Hell forever, and they would never have a chance. She'd never have a chance. I ducked outside, and shut the sliding glass door behind me. I cowered behind the curtains. Finding the number required an incognito tab. I punched the number through the cracked glass, and prayed for an answer. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon-" I beat against the balcony rail. It was several painful seconds of ringing, but at the third note, I had an answer. "Hello!" She answered, drowsy. "Ashwater Cottage, Margie speaking!" "Margie!" I cradled the phone with both hands. "I need you to pass on a message. Now." "Huh-?" Her sleepy customer service persona dropped. In the background, a Gilmore Girls rerun muted. "Who is this? I don't understand-" "Get the Kyriakoulopoulos' out of town. I don't care how you do it. I don't care where they go. But get them out of Ashwater. All of them." "What-?" "They are in danger," I swore, wishing she could see my face. I couldn't intone the right amount of peril. Not with Adria listening one thin motel wall away. "But they're in danger if you tell. Trust me on that." "Who is this-?" "It doesn't matter." "Deme...?" She faltered, in disbelief. "Deme? Is that you?" I squeezed my eyes shut. "Just do it. Please. It's their only chance. I don't care if Theo has a gun. It won't help, not against this. It will only make things harder. This is your only warning, for the love of God listen. You're the only one who can help. I trust you." "But, this is- I?" I hung up and blocked the number. - - - The following day we made the drive out to Ashwater. I rode backseat, arms wrapped around her waist. If I had to pick any aspect of our new life to love most, it was this. The very concept of a motorcycle was terror before immortality was in the equation, but this was a way to be close. I learned to love it: it was a way to hang onto her that felt organic. Nothing at all like the way she touched me now. It was a two-hour journey that breaked thirty minutes outside Ashwater. She'd nearly toppled the bike when she jumped off. I held it in place, as she hit up a gas station. She pulled two cans from the saddlebags, and kicked the machine until it caved. It spilled gasoline over her fingers in exchange for a crumpled twenty. "What's this?" "Preparation." I lifted the glass of my helmet. "Preparation?" "Buné says I can't commit without burning some bridges." "Literally, huh." Not necessarily a novel concept in our lives. "Sort of like the hideout?" Her head whipped to me- indignant, before letting it go. Cyrus was never on the discussion table. Any proximity to the subject was too close, but whatever was on her mind disarmed the usual backlash. It gave me a little hope that this is what he meant. Lord knows I'd be more than happy to burn down an elementary school if it meant I was wrong. “Help.” “On it.” Together we straddled four full tanks on the bike. But instead of the compound, our first stop was her old police building. Their town never needed more than two people. It was no surprise when there were no cruisers out front. Cameras were new but our faces were shielded by a thick plate of black plexiglass of our helmets. They wouldn't know how to explain what they saw if they saw it. Demetri and Adria were gunned down at the corner of Lancaster and Franklin. They had a monument in their honor, maybe some ghost stories, but they have been dead for years. Dave, too. She doused the front. She sprayed their unfunded equipment with gasoline.. We watched it burn from the tool shop across the street. Kitschy knick-knacks aside, tourism didn't change the town integrally. Ashwater was asleep by ten. The fire alarm blared, but no one was around for miles. Assistance in arson was no small sacrifice but it’d been gutted of Adria from the inside out. I wondered if she realized the irony of this- burning away a past she supposedly didn't remember. “Why does Buné care about the police station?” I asked, as the front buckled. Electrical equipment I helped fund popped, shooting sparks into the flames. She crossed her arms, staring into the flames. Her expession, unreadable. Adria was never a mystery when it came to her face- I was reading too much into it. There was just nothing there. “It’s not why he cares. It’s why I care.” “You care?” “Not anymore. Come on,” She said, kicking back into gear. “Next stop.” When we moved out to Modena, we didn't leave anything behind. I wondered if she remembered her house on the edge of the property. In her false timeline, it was never hers. She hit the road as a delinquent. In reality it was probably repurposed since her move. Perhaps sold, or given to Celia when she graduated. I wasn't volunteering its existence, and she seemed to ride past it without incident. My gut rolled as we pulled up to her parent's place, though. I was right- even though I was hoping we'd detour. I'd love to burn Cyrus' shit a second time, spit on his memory. I would be just as ecstatic as she was- But she stopped out front, kicking the stand, and parked. No cars lingered in the driveway. There was the daunting possibility Melina's van was in the garage but I needed, needed, to believe Margie worked her magic. "Stop, no." I followed at her heels. My charade broke after she marched up to it in grim determination. "This isn't necessary." "'Isn't necessary'?" She jerked the gas can at the house. Three years ago we enjoyed pie and coffee on the stairs. We listened to Celia's poetry where the gasoline splattered the wood. She was spitefully through, going as far as to break a window for further access. "Those people never cared." "Then why does it matter?" I arced around her as a bodyguard of the front door. "Fuck them. Fuck them all, let's just go. You think he’ll double check a small town in the middle of nowhere? " Tension was heightening. Something snapped. She pitched the empty gas can at the porch, breaking the glass inches from my face. I flinched "SEE? This is what I'm talking about!" She stabbed a finger into my ribs, knocking me back. "This bullshit is why I couldn't get promoted! It's you! It's fucking you! You haven't learned since Mark!" "Me? You said it wasn't-" "Yes, you! You and your stupid, insane sentimentality! This fake life you’re holding onto!" "How is it- NO" She struck a match. I snatched the end in my palm, snuffing it. "Don't." She slapped my hand, grabbed my arm. Bending it in a way it didn’t belong, she slammed me against the door. "What's your hold up, huh?! Spill it.” She threatened. “Give it up. I don’t give a shit about any of this- why do you!" I squirmed. How do I explain? It’s the one thing that’ll bring her back. It’s the last enduring piece of her life that’ll exorcise this monster she’s become. "They cared.” I kept my hands up, placating. "I know you don't want to hear it but they did. J-just go inside. Once. I can see it from the mantle-" I'd burn my whole arm if I had to, I'd throw myself into the fire to spare it. "You'll see the pictures- you don't even go that far ! The halls are covered, Adria. Covered. They have a shrine for you. Remember the school play-? Tree number four? That's how I knew about it." "I DON’T CARE what you think you know! That isn't a thing! It's not a fucking thing, Demetrius!" God, just look to to your left. In the window, where she was smiling. She was missing teeth in a family portrait from the 90's. “LOOK-” "No." Her grip loosened. She lit another, holding it outside of my range. Her nails narrowly clipping it together. "Y-you don't even have to!" My voice cracked. In a spark of courage, I pried her claws and jumped past her. I grabbed the knob. It was locked but that barely can be considered an obstacle compared to the Hell we'd been through. I'd break a window. I'd throw my shoulder out, I'd bust the door in. I'd rob their house, dragging every knickknack onto the lawn like a fucking yard sale to get one memory out of her. Her unhappy childhood wasn't real if there was photos of her playing the recorder at six. She wasn't dead if I could prove she tripped across the stage at her high school graduation, and she wasn't a thug if Melina had clippings framed every time she made the paper thereafter, a hero in their smalltown. "I'll find them for y-" "Don't even think it," she said, icy. "You don't have to come! I'll show you. Buné doesn't have to know-" "NO," She wrenched me inches from her face. "Walking through that door means you're attached to a fucking lie. Are you?" She shook me when I didn't respond. "Are you?! Are you wasting my time?" "No!" "She's dead. You said you understood that so prove it. Prove it, Demetrius." But why are you ignoring the truth? Aren’t you even curious? Don’t you want to see? The look in her eyes said it didn’t even matter. My fingers twitched on the handle. I knew I didn't care if she lit the building with me inside if it meant I had proof. A piece of our past. Hers was a family of love, encouragement, and support that created the most perfect being I knew, but this Adria didn't understand that. Her eyes were heartless and black through the tinted glass. She didn't care if anyone was inside. She didn't check. She’d be just as quick to dismiss cold hard proof as planted evidence of my delusions. Either that, or that Adria was never something she wanted to go back to. I swallowed and let go. My arm dropped to my side. "So." I said, numb. “What's the plan?" She knocked me aside. I stumbled to the other side of the porch. "We get rid of it. Just like the police station." "Great." I said, hollow. "Not so fast." She jammed a tank in my chest. I looked down at it. The acrid scent burned my eyes, even through the helmet. "What?" "This is a test for you." "I don't understand-" "You care a lot more than I do. Clearly." She started at me, cold and hard. I was one wrong answer from failing. “...Fine.” Without taking the time to acknowledge what I was doing, I shook the gasoline over the house. Thinking about it meant I’d see my Adria smiling back. In her uniform, at attention from the living room. My heart twisted. I dropped the light. It went up in minutes. Heat buffeted my face when I lifted my helmet. I hoped physics of some sort would spare the pictures in the frames, maybe a magnet on the fridge but in truth I wasn't looking at them right now. I staggered back to where she was sitting in the dirt. Legs crossed, she watched it burn. We answered everything with fire. It wasn't a stretch to want something out of this. The optimist, opportunist in me says it can't be a waste. I needed something. Anything. Anything that reassured me I didn't sever my own past in the process. I needed to know I wasn't throwing away all physical evidence. Everything that could bring her back. Her memories took shape in the stupidest things. Like a touch at the theater or stupid joke in the car. I pleaded for her to see something . But she watched on with no emotion. No bitterness, no remorse- Nothing. Perfectly blank. Perfectly alien. Her head tilted as we smelled the rubber dripping of Damon and Elyse's bikes, leaning against the side. I breathed in the ash of her destroyed home. I buried my head in my arms. shutting my eyes tight. There was numerous moves I could make here. So many callbacks to the formative flames that made us who we were- 'Fancy meeting you here.' 'Just like that?' Just any time we won. How we reacted with humor, conquest, and of course. Fire. But this wasn't the same. We stayed. We sat there until the roof crashed into the lawn. "Did you wanna know what I saw?" she said, after I'd gone quiet for too long. The smoke in the air was turning to a different scent. Chemical. I imagined this meant the kitchen was up in flames. with it, all of the kid's art, and Melina's recipes. "Yes," I answered, muted. She had removed her helmet. Her green eyes reflected the fire monstrously, until they adopted a brownish tint. Her braid- dark, but not black, fell across her back. Messy, but in the way I remembered it. My heart skipped- the first real thing i felt in a solid hour. "It was a small one." She said. "The first time you held my hand." I picked my head up from the grass, confused. That was not the set-up I used. I brought up her promotion. Usually prying was hopeless. She didn't delve deep into these things, as they were never her life, but I had to try. "Tell me about it." I said, quiet She watched the burning building, hugging her knees. For not remembering her old life, she sure was mimicking it. She looked softer as she tried to recall. But too soft- it was forced. "It was easy.” She said. “I just remember how easy it felt. Carefree." The first time I held her hand I was on a lot of morphine. We both survived a grievous monster attack. Carefree was a funny way to put it. I stayed quiet, before I noticed she wasn’t going to go on. "At...the hospital?" "Yes," she said, too keen. "At the hospital. And what happened after. What she said to you then." My eyes slid to hers, suspicion clawing. She must've known how hard it was to look at her. How much this felt like a continuum of her sick trial. "...The first time she accepted a date, to Jo's? Once we were both patched up?" "Yes." My breath hollowed within my chest. "Yeah." I said, dead. "We always were saying how she had the best coffee in town, didn't we?" "Yup." I buried my face in my hands and laid on the ground, wishing I could sink into the dirt. It took salt in the wound to realize this isn't who I was. I wasn't a man who lived in the past. There was always something new and exciting ahead. I thrived in the moment, and I planned five paces ahead, but this is where I've been months. Disjointed. A fraction of my former self, whittled down into core needs brought out of my by Adria. I am not who I should be and this wasn't who she should be. I needed to go. I needed to cut the dead weight and leave. Today was the last straw- that sick joke was it- She's not there anymore. She was gone. My Adria, the one who always knew what to do, my loving, compassionate, spitfire Adria- would be as disgusted by this monster as I am. And the monster I've become, chasing it. This house was a pyre. A testament to the last chance l had. Adria died in Mark’s basement but I was the one who took every last trace and cremated it. But if there was nothing left for me down here, why was I here? I was doing more harm than good. I could have left her memory in peace. I could have treasured that golden smile, those fond memories, and the way she got high of danger- not sadistically drunk off it. I could have mourned, at left her be in her prime. Instead, those memories were being replaced. They were overwrit by violence. How many times could I watch this Adria cave in a head, before I forget how she'd kiss mine? How many times can I watch her lose her temper, felling the world into destruction behind her before I forgot how she'd cry at pound commercials? How many times can I watch her callously disregard the innocent, before I started to forget how she'd stop at nothing to save them all? At what point is there nothing left of Adria, and I am just as complacent in her murder? The answer should have been never but it was already starting. I aided in the apocalypse. I accepted her deal. I torched her parent's house. I didn't know if she knew what I was thinking or if it was some twisted reward for playing by her rules but she leaned into my shoulder. Her lips were parted, enough to feel the heat of the threat without the intention. I looked to her mouth. Fangs she forgot to hide pressed against the bottom, the pitch black shine reflecting the flame before she licked away the venom. I wasn't looking at my Adria's face. I was staring at a choice: what felt nice versus what was right. But what felt right and what felt right didn't co-exist outside of us. It was learned- and she taught me that yet this year of living off scraps took it back. Without Adria I regressed to where I started: selfish man driven by whims. If I held onto nothing but the way she make me felt, I could have saved her. If I remembered how her embrace was rough, but tender I'd know this Adria was an imposter. If I had held onto nothing except the way she felt against me, I'd reject this monster that gripped me obsessively like a vice. But I didn't. In these long months I forgot it all. I couldn't bring myself to do without, because even a cheap imitation was something. And eventually- everything. I collapsed on the grass, dragged by her hold. She held me against her, rolling until her wings blocked out the firelight. Until the smell of Hell replaced the Melina's singed garden. Until the possessive traction of her lips made me forget I was kissing this demon on Adria's grave I was never going to leave.

#i was going to hate myself if i didnt do anything during qurantine #bitch!adria #bad end #took long enough ):#story

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pupcrimes · 5 years ago

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*gentle gasp* oc meme for Sev!?

( from this thing )

Ah, yes, Sev, my favorite asshole…

Full Name: Sev Kilvaer, born Sevaarin Raltí Kilvaer

Gender and Sexuality: Still in that place where he’s questioning stuff. Gender is null. Sexuality is very firmly in the Not Het category but other than that… not a fucking clue. Personally doesn’t think it important enough to label. He just.. doesn’t think about it. @sunsetofdoom puts it best: Everyone Is Bi In Space.

Pronouns: He/him. See also this post.

Ethnicity/Species: Zabrak from my made up world of Jiroo, though he grew up mostly homeless in the slums of Nar Shaddaa, trying to scrape by with his brother Basile. Eventually they wound up working for the Exchange, running drugs and tech through difficult checkpoints.

Birthplace and Birthdate: Sev was born on Jiroo, in the Bajon region. He’s 39 by 3632 BBY.

Guilty Pleasures: Bubblegum pop. His life is a fucking nightmare so sometimes he just needs to put on his headphones, kick back, and let some teeny bopper pop band soothe his soul.

Phobias: Being abandoned is a big one for him. Being forced to kill the people he loves. He also… really cannot stand lightning, especially Force lightning. Freaks him out.

What They Would Be Famous For: He is actually already famous on his homeworld, for being the living vessel of the Bajoni deity Ras as well as ending the oppressive reign of Comtois. He is also the son of a king, but that’s not nearly as impressive as being the first Ralzaar in over 1000 years. Outside Jiroo, uhhh, probably all the shit he’s done when he was still with the Exchange, which he would absolutely detest. Sure, he ran a good crew, smuggled guns and drugs to some of the hardest to reach places in the Republic, but he is not proud of that shit At All.

What They Would Get Arrested For: Intimidation, aggravated assault, bribery, unpaid parking fines, take your pick. He has been arrested… so many times. Now that he’s sober, arrests for public intoxication have gone waaaaay down, but he fights just about the same. Self-destructive dumbass.

OC You Ship Them With: Zhadi and Andronikos! It starts off just as a way for him to blow off steam and be taken out of his head for a little while, but then he begins developing getting capital f Feelings…

OC Most Likely To Murder Them: Probably Hataria… She would be very fascinated in Sev’s connection to Ras, would want to pick at his brain and run experiments on him. He’d probably die on the table like most of her other subjects.

Favorite Movie/Book Genre: Sev loves comic books, especially the ones where the underdog protagonist saves the day. Basile used to give them to him, as a way to keep him occupied when Basile was out Taking Care of Business.

Least Favorite Movie/Book Cliche: Romance plots, especially ones that don’t add to whatever he’s looking at. He finds them boring and unnecessary. He especially hates it when people kiss on-screen and you can hear the noises. Who thought that was a good thing to put in a movie?

Talents and/or Powers: Sev’s very birth foretold a bad omen, that the deity Ras had glimpsed something in Jiroo’s future and came in this vessel to later exact vengeance when the time was right. Sharing his body with a literal god of prophecy and vengeance, Sev has extremely vivid and violent dreams (and visions, later on when he learns how to harness his connection to Ras) that nearly always come true. Also thanks to Ras, Sev is able to manipulate the Force so as to make himself jump farther, run faster, and hit harder than the average being. There is also a bit of.. physical transformation, but that’s mostly when Ras decides he wants a turn controlling the body.

Non-Ras things: Sev is a proficient boxer with a remarkable endurance - dude can take a beating. He knows all the best ways to smuggle various drugs through security checkpoints. He is able to resist Force mind tricks.

Why Someone Might Love Them: Extremely loyal to the ones he loves. Can be rather open-minded, moreso especially post-Jiroo. Awkward as hell when receiving affection, which can be rather endearing.

Why Someone Might Hate Them: Snarky bastard asshole, blunt and cynical and sarcastic as fuck. Resting Dick Face. Gets in a lot of fights over stupid things, and might not apologize for it ever.

How They Change: Sobers up, escapes the Exchange with Dego, lives as close to a life on the “straight and narrow” as he can get, what with collecting bounties and all. Doesn’t really live, though, not until he reconnects with his birth culture and learns of his role within it. Learns what his dreams mean, who it is that whispers in his brain. Learns to open himself to communicate with Ras and how to shield himself when he needs it, and just this one thing changes so much… He leaves Jiroo feeling like a different person, lighter, more himself than he has ever been in his life.

Why You Love Them: He started out pretty much as a way for me to talk about my depression and some of the ways it manifests (which is actually why I don’t… post about him a whole lot honestly), but he has become so much more than that over the past couple of months. He gives me hope for the future, that things won’t always be the way they are and that it’s never too late to discover something new about yourself. Reminds me that it does no good to numb yourself to the lows of life because, ultimately, you’ll numb yourself to the joys too.

Ahhhh, other than all that Personal Shit™…. Despite being an asshole, he cares for his friends and his people very deeply, is willing to go to the ends of the galaxy for them and he always, always comes back. Even when he feels he’s fucked things up beyond repair, even when it would be easier to run, Sev comes back. He’s stubborn like that.

#this is..... probably the most i've ever spoken about him sfksdfhlksdf #one day i will make a post about jiroo and all that fun stuff #soon as i work it all out and write it down #..mostly writing it down is the part i'm stuck on #anyway #here's my depressed bastard son #oc: sev kilvaer #ask.txt #long post #sunsetofdoom #!! thank u sunset

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son-of-drogo · 6 years ago

Text

Tried my hand at script writing. What do you think of Episode 2 of Mattimeo?

Int. Gatehouse-day

Matthias the Warrior stands South his back to the empty fireplace. Her is a sturdy mouse, about 28-30 seasons old. Although the table is set for breakfast, the food is untouched. Matthias is not relishing facing his wayward son.

A knock is heard, the camera pans to the door.

Matthias (O.S)

Come in, please.

Formole, a greying mole enters, nodding to Matthias and smiling until his beady eyes almost disappear.

Formole

Gudd morn to you'm, Mattwise, yurr. Uz moles diggin a cooker pit t'day. May'aps you'ud loik to 'elp?

Matthias

(Smiles fondly and pats his friend's back)

Thank you for the offer, Foremole. Unfortunately I have other more serious business to attend this morning. (There is a thump in the next room. Matthias's ear twitches) Hmm, that sounds like it in the next room, just getting out of bed. Will you excuse me?

Foremole

(Chuckles and shakes his head)

Hurr hurr, ee be a roight laddo, yurr Mattee. Doant wack 'im too 'ard now. (Exits)

Mattimeo

(Appears looking touseled and apprehensive)

Matthias

(Beckoning to his son)

Come on, Mattimeo.

Mattimeo glances hungrily at the breakfast table, but his attention quickly turns to his father.

Matthias

(Sternly)

Well, what have you got to say for yourself?

Mattimeo

(Mumbled)

M'sorry.

Matthias

(Crosses his arms)

I should hope so.

Mattimeo

(Mumbles a bit louder)

M'very sorry.

Matthias

Foremole says I should wack you. What do you think?

Mattimeo

M'very very sorry. 't won't happen again, Dad.

Matthias

(Shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose, but lays a paw on his son's shoulder)

Matti, why do you do these things? You hurt us and got your friends into trouble. Why?

Matti

(Is unsure about what answer his father wants)

Matthias

(Watches his rebellious son for a moment before turning to take down a magnificent sword from above the fireplace. He offers it to his son)

Here Matti, see if you can wield it yet.

Matti

(Takes the sword with trembling paws and shining eyes. He tries to swing it twice, but he stumbles, pulled down to the floor by its weight.)

I can nearly swing it Father.

Matthias takes the sword and begins to perform what almost looks like a dance. Snicking the stalk from an Apple, slicing the bread without touching the table, carelessly flicking the rind off a wedge of cheese. He brought the sword up on a warrior's salute before bringing the blade to rest, point quivering, in the floor.

Mattimeo looks at his father with admiration.

Matthias

One day you will take my place, son. You will grow big and strong, and I will train you to use the sword like a real warrior. But it is only a sword. It will not make you a warrior just because you carry it. Weapons may be carried by those who are evil, dishonest, violent, or lazy. A true warrior is good, gentle, and honest. His bravery comes from within; he learns to conquer his fears and misdeeds. Do you understand?

Matti

(Nods)

Matthias

(Grows stern)

Good, I am glad you do. I will not wack you. I have never laid a paw on you and I don't plan on starting. However, you attacked Vitch and I will not have my son fighting. At first I thought I should not allow you to attend the feast...

Shock and disbelief crosses the young mouse's features.

Matthias

But I have decided that you may go, if you go straight to the kitchens. You must ask Friar Hugo to give you double the tasks he have Vitch. When you have finished, go and help your mother pick flowers until she says you are free. Understood?

Mattimeo it's shocked. He's never before been asked or ordered to perform any tasks.

Matthias watches his son's reaction, testing to see if he will show character or behave like a spoiled brat.

Matti

I will do as you have asked, Dad.

Matthias

(Clapping him on the back)

Good lad! That's the mark of a warrior in training, obedience. Off you go now!

Int. Great Hall- Day

Morning sunlight lances through the high Windows, light falls in soft pink relief to the floor of Great Hall. Mattimeo passes under a beam of light and the camera pans to follow him. As he passes the Tapestry of Martin the Warrior he stops abruptly. He turns, checking to see if someone is following him. There is no one.

CLOSE UP ON THE PICTURE OF MARTIN THE WARRIOR

Matti

(Draws close to the portrait)

I could feel you watching me, Martin. I'm on my way to do penance in the kitchens, you probably know that. I didn't mean to disobey my parents, but I had to fight Vitch because he said things about my dad. I couldn't allow him to insult my family. My dad wouldn't have punished me if he knew, but he's my dad. I can't explain things to him properly. You're different, Martin, you understand.

Martin's expression doesn't change.

Matti

(Shuffles his paws)

Sometimes you're just like Dad. Look, I'm sorry, I'll try to be a better mouse. I promise not to get in trouble anymore.

Mattimeo shuffles sulkily to the kitchens muttering.

Matti

I wish there was another Great War, I'd slow them. Huh! They'd be glad I could fight then. I wouldn't be sent off to scour pots then. They'd probably have to give me a medal or something.

The camera returns to Martin and his smile seems gentler. He seems to be watching the retreating figure of the young mouse.

Int. Kitchens-day

Friar Hugo is the fattest mouse on Redwall Abbey. He wears a white apron over his habit and always carries a dockleaf in his tail, which he used to fan himself, Rub on a scorched paw, or use as a visor to peer down into bubbling pots.

Matti waits for orders.

Hugo

(Checking the lists)

Hmm, let me see, that's six large raspberry seed cakes. We need four more. Brother Sedge, take that pot of cream off before it boils over! Sister Agnes, chop those onions and add the herbs to the woodland stew. Er, what's this? Ten flagons of strawberry cordial? We need twice as many. Nip down to the cellars, young Matti and fill more flagons. Have Ambrose Spike let you in.

Matti Is glad to be out of the hustle and bustle of the kitchens. He salutes the fat friar and runs of, dodging between the kitchen workers.

Int. Cellars-Day

Ambrose Spike is blowing foam from a bowl of October ale when Mattimeo comes up on him.

Matti

'Scuse me, please Friar Hugo sent me t-

The old hedgehog choked and sneezed as he whirled around.

Ambrose

(Rubbing at his snout)

Don't sneak up on me like that, lad. Hold still a moment will you.

(Drains the bowl and smacks his lips)

Harr, wunnerful! Though I do say it meself, no creature brews October ale like the Spike family. Now what can I do for you, mousey?

Matti

Friar says I've got to fill more flagons of strawberry cordial sir.

Ambrose

(Points down the hall)

Oh, right barrels are in the next section. The ones marked pink, flagons are against the wall as y' go in. Don't disturb the elderberry or Blackcurrant wine or they'll go cloudy.

The camera follows Matti. As he is waking info the next section he is hailed.

Tim

Psst, Matt, sssshhh, over here!

The twin churcmice, Tim and Tess, and Sam Squirrel are longing by the barrels of strawberry cordial.

Matti

(Tip toes over)

What are you doing down here?

Tess

(Stifles a giggle)

We slipped past Ambrose while he was dozing. Come and have some cold strawberry cordial, it's scrummy.

They prise a bung from the barrel and use hollow reeds to drink the sparkling juice.

Tess passes Matti a straw and he joins them.

Some time later Ambrose passes by to see the four youngsters filling the flagons.

Ambrose

(To himself)

Hmm. S' funny, there was only one of 'em here before.

Int. Kitchens-Day

The kitchen staff are working flat out now in preparation for the feast.

Hugo

(Fanning himself)

You there, Billum, can you dig me a nice neat tunnel through the middle of that big marrow?

Billum

Hurr, gaffer, oi serpintly can. Pervidin' oi can eat it as oi goes along.

Hugo

Righto, carry on. Oh there you are young Matti. Take your friends along to the larder. I want two small white cheeses flavored with sage, two large red cheeses with beechnut and rosemary, and one of the extra large yellow cheeses with acorn and apple bits. Be very careful how you roll the extra large yellow; don't go knocking anyone down or breaking furniture.

All four together

(Dash off whooping)

Hooray, we're going to roll cheeses!

Abbot Mordalfus, normally a dignified creature, appeared from behind a large cake, his whiskers festooned with cream and candied peel.

Hugo

(Dusting off his friend's face with the dockleaf)

Ha, there you are Alf. Well, how's the special Redwall Abbot's Cake coming along?

Mordalfus

(Chewing on some candied peel thoughtfully)

Very well, thank you Hugo. Though I still suspect it lacks something. What do you think?

Hugo

(Dips his dock leaf in the mixture and tastes it)

Hmm, I see what you mean, Alf. If I were you, I'd put some redcurrant jelly in to make it look more like an Abbot's Cake. Doesn't hurt to cheat a little. After all you're only going by Abbot Saxtus's recipe, and that's a matter of taste. Yes, put more redcurrant in and we'll name it Redcurrantwall Abbot Alf Cake.

Mordalfus

(Dusting flour off his paws, smiling proudly)

What a good idea. Hi there Matthias, where are you off to?

Matthias

(Carries two fishing lines and bait, he dodges a pair of moles pushing a trollyful of streaming muffins, calling across to Mordalfus)

Don't you remember, Abbot, we were supposed to be going fishing in the Abbey pond for our annual centerpiece?

Mordalfus

(Clapping a paw to his brow)

Goodness me, so I have. I'll be right with you Matthias.

Matthias

(Looks around the kitchen)

Friar Hugo, have you seen my son?

Hugo

(Chuckling)

Indeed I have, Matthias. The young feller's been a great help. Haha, I've sent him and his pals to roll cheeses out. That'll keep them busy. Constance is the only one strong enough to deal with the big yellow cheese that I've told them to roll out. Hahaha I'd love to see how they do that.

Matthias

Didn't laugh too soon, Basil Stag Hare had just arrived. I just let him in the main gate. He says he's been on a long patrol and hasn't had a decent meal in three sunrises. Oh, and he said to tell you he's appointed himself official sampler.

Matthias and the Abbot flee the kitchens as Hugo puffs up with indignation.

Hugo

(Outraged)

What? Never! I'm not having that retired regimental glutton feeding his face in my kitchens. Oh no! Why the skinny great windbag, he'll eat us out of store and larder before sunset! Oh my nerves I don't think I'll be able to stand it!

Ext. Abbey grounds

Cornflower and Mrs. Churchmou

#mattimeo #Redwall

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seadeepywrites · 3 years ago

Text

find the wrong within the past

Character: Basil Noctis Words: 2508 tw: Chath and Basil's fucked-up headspaces, references to childhood abuse & neglect

"Has anyone ever told you," I ask Basil, "that there's something really wrong with you?"

Basil blinks at me. "Yes. Many times."

"I don't mean that in like, an insulting way," I add as an afterthought.

"I didn't think you did."

I stir my bowl of gruel, and actually take a moment to think before I speak. "Have you always been like this?"

"Like what?"

Basil sits further from the fire than I do, cross-legged and unassailably composed. I served him a third of the portion I ladled out for myself, but he set his bowl aside after taking only a few bites. If I nag him about it, he'll just retreat into a frosty silence.

Frowning, I say, "You know how high elves are supposed to be all calm and repressed?"

"I've heard that's the stereotype, yes."

"Well, most of the ones I've met still have emotions under all that," I say. "They just don't want to show them. Or something."

Basil arches an eyebrow.

"But you..." I shake my head. "Did they like, beat them out of you really young?"

"The emotions?"

"Yeah."

Basil's thin lips twitch in amusement, but he seems to be actually considering the question. Eventually he says, "Something like that, perhaps."

"Wait, really?"

Being Basil, he doesn't exactly relax, but he does shift his weight, settling into a more neutral position. The green of his eyes glints gold as he studies me in the firelight, and shadows snag along the sharp edges of his cheekbones.

"I can tell you that there was certainly no place for emotion in my relationship with my family," he says, as matter-of-factly as discussing the weather. Then again, I've heard him use that same tone to detail the gruesome torture of innocent civilians, so maybe it's not a great metric for how fucked-up his childhood was.

Hence the topic of this conversation, I guess.

Basil adds, "But I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge your point about elven society. It's true that many elves are bred to hide their stronger sentiments beneath a veneer of civility."

I stare at him. "Ignoring the fancy vocabulary words, you're saying you're an exception?"

He sighs. "Yes. That's most definitely a possibility."

"Say more about that."

Basil tilts his head. "You mean 'elaborate?'"

"Okay, now you're just doing it on purpose."

"I am," he agrees placidly. Stretching out his fingers, he flexes them once or twice before continuing. "I would say that I saw many, many small dramas play out over my years in Bastion. Rivalries and politics and heartbreak. I had my own share of challenges, but I never got involved in that side of things, exactly."

"But do you think that has more to do with your position in the household or who you are as a person?" I ask. "Was it because you weren't," I gesture, "you know, a proper noble?"

"Partially. I never had any honor to defend in the first place." Basil's clear-eyed gaze fogs over a bit. "But I was aware from a very young age that I didn't tend to pour energy into relationships the way that others did."

"And by young age," I say, "you mean, what, thirty-five?"

A sliver of a smile from Basil, just a flash of his pearly-white canines. "Yes."

"Elves," I grumble, motioning for him to go on.

"I don't know that there's much more to tell." He looks at me with a courteous degree of interest. "Was it like that in your childhood? With everyone getting involved in petty squabbles and all that... yelling and crying?"

I grin, baring my own canines, and toss my mane of black hair. "The other kids were pretty scared of me. A lot of people still are."

"So I've noticed."

It's one of the things we bonded over when we first met -- how even in a monastery full of murderers, thieves and outcasts, we are considered unsettling. Me for my violent emotions, and Basil for his complete lack of them.

"I did a lot of yelling and crying, yeah," I say. "Are you telling me you didn't?"

"Not particularly. There were things I wanted, to be sure, but..." Basil's eyes narrow, before he shakes his head. "No. Not that I remember."

"You little freak," I say, but affectionately.

"To your earlier question," Basil says, "it wasn't as if I had many peers of a similar social status to myself. There were the servants, and then there were the members of the nobility, and neither group really saw me as one of their own."

"Oh." I stir my gruel, aching with a sudden sense of connection between us. "It was kind of like that for me too. With the orcs and the dark elves."

"So while I don't have any comparisons I can draw to other Noctis bastards in the same position as myself," Basil says, "I also believe myself to be predisposed to... tranquility."

"Is that what you'd call it?"

"It seems more descriptive than 'something really wrong,' don't you think?" Basil says, looking at me meaningfully.

I grumble, conceding the point.

Basil is silent for a few seconds before he adds, "I have not found myself capable of the, ah, attachments that others form. Nor any kind of powerful emotion like love or hate."

Even having known Basil for over a decade, there are times that he makes my skin crawl. It's some kind of visceral physical reaction -- quite separate from the attraction I've felt towards him, though both are primal instincts I cannot control.

As I look at him now, I shiver. Something about the emptiness in his expression as he says it unnerves me, the unnatural sharpness of his elven features. It sets my teeth on edge, though I have trusted him unquestionably since the day he disobeyed Hieram's orders and saved my life.

"Well, maybe you're better off that way," I say, weakly, not really believing it. "It's a lot less messy, huh?"

"I suppose. I don't have much to compare it to, aside from observing people for whom the opposite is true." Basil fixes his gaze on me, and I breathe in suddenly against the sensation -- like being impaled, a butterfly pinned to felt inside a collector's case. "People like you."

"Yeah..." I hold up one hand and murmur a word, setting my fingers alight with smoky purple flame. "I know my magic is a gift from Our Lady, but sometimes I almost think..."

Basil doesn't roll his eyes, but it's a near thing. His tiny blasphemy gives me the courage to continue.

"It feels like it comes from inside me," I say. "From my emotions. The angrier I am, the more powerful my spells get."

"Couldn't your Lady have given you magic that works in that way?"

It does not escape my notice that he refers to the Starshadow as my goddess and not the both of ours. All these years in the monastery, and he still clings to his impiety with the stubborn force of a mollusk.

I close my hand around the purple fire, which smolders out. "Yes," I say firmly. "I guess that's a better way to think about it."

"Glad I could help," Basil says, tone as dry as drought.

"What I'm saying is that for me, being emotional makes me better at what I do. Do you think the reverse is true for you?"

"It's possible." Basil blinks a few times. "I suspect the acolytes at the monastery would prefer a bit more rabid devotion and fewer level-headed decisions, but in the Spire? A Lieutenant who prioritized the organization over any personal influences was desirable."

I genuinely have to sit with those sentences for a moment, sifting through the ridiculously long words to get to the meat of what he's saying. Sometimes listening to Basil talk gives me a headache.

"So you were good at your job in the Spire, then?" I ask, hoping to entice him into dropping more details about his past.

Basil sets his bowl down and folds his hands neatly in his lap. "I would like to think so," he says. "Many of my superiors have also seemed to believe as much, over the years -- though unfortunately not all of them."

"Mmm. Where does Hieram fall on that list?"

"Above Adrian Crowstar," Basil says instantly. "For giving me a chance to work in the field instead of saddling me with babysitting duty."

I gape. "They let you near actual children?"

"Sixteen years old," Basil says with a huff. "Not a thought in that empty head of hers."

"Oh." I'm a little disappointed, actually. I say, "I was kinda hoping you meant like, a toddler. Because that would have been hilarious."

"I would have left much sooner, had that been the case." Basil's face has clouded over, stormy and disdainful. "It was out of respect for the others in the Order that I stayed as long as I did."

"And some of those..." I hold up my two hands and weigh them like balancing scales. "Better or worse than Hieram?"

Basil tucks his displeasure into the corner of his mouth as he considers.

"I won't tell anyone," I say hastily, realizing he might be worried about bad-mouthing his current boss.

"I have few objections to Hieram," he says after a moment. "It's simply that Magister Uthgart was... well, he understood my abilities on a level that few have, before or since."

"You liked him." I point triumphantly. "Admit it."

He glances at me, irritated. "As I have just finished telling you," he says, "I do not form attachments the way the rest of you do."

"Yeah, yeah." I wave my hand. "Whatever. You tolerated him."

"I tolerate many people."

"You..." I screw up my face as I search for the right word. "You wanted to hang out with him?"

"I do not ‘hang out’ with anyone." Basil glares. "Not even you."

I pitch my voice up and affect a godawful posh accent. "You preferred his company over the unwashed masses."

Basil flicks a pebble at me. He has annoyingly excellent aim, so it bounces off my forehead and lands in my gruel. I grimace and fish it out, growling a little.

"Okay." I say, relenting. "You worked well with him. I get it."

"I don't know that you do," Basil says.

I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off.

"I'm not saying you've never cooperated with anyone." His smile is thin and bright, like light off a knife's edge. Just a flash, and then gone. "Though I'm tempted to imply as much."

Glaring, I hold onto my snarl because I want to hear where he's going with this.

"But you... the best you get is agreeing with someone. I don't think you know what it is to..." Basil pauses, searching for words. "To fit together as a larger part of something."

My hand goes to my amulet, curling around the cool enamel of the disk.

Basil doesn't miss the gesture. "I'm not talking about religion. Or perhaps I am, but the mundane aspect to it. The organization."

I think about this. Then I say, "What?"

"Chath," Basil says, pronouncing my chosen name with enough delicacy and care to make me shiver, "do you know what it's like to be one stone in the foundation?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

There is a set to Basil's face that I haven't seen yet in this conversation, a glow beneath his skin's usual pallor. He says, "Like a stream joining a river. All flowing in the same direction, gaining force with every mile traveled."

I look at him. "Where are you going with this?"

He holds his hands parallel to each other, then rotates them a quarter turn and brings them down again, like he's outlining the sides of a small box. "There's a satisfaction to be found in order."

"Like, following orders?"

"That as well. But I meant clean lines and neat edges. A well-crafted object. Fulfilling one's function."

"I feel like my purpose is to follow the Starshadow," I say, stumbling over my words a little. "Are you talking about something like that?"

"No." Basil inhales through his nose in the way he does when someone is trying his patience. "There are many people involved in it, and your own purpose is... not as important. Submerged. Included, but not given particular emphasis."

I frown, frustration licking up around the bottom of my ribcage like a dozen hungry tongues of flame. The thing is -- I can almost figure out what he's getting at. Not because of anything I've experienced, but because I've seen how happy it makes him to be given an assignment, and then carry it out. It's the closest he gets to real joy, the only times I see him make true, lasting facial expressions. Most of the time, Basil reminds me of a wax figure -- animated by magic to move and bend, but lacking some essential component of life. I look at him, and I wonder what's missing. Maybe that's why I asked. I thought he might know the answer, after a century and a half inside his own head.

"And that's a good thing?" I say doubtfully, picking up the thread of the conversation from where I dropped it a few moments ago. "That doesn't sound very appealing."

"Not to you," Basil says with subtle emphasis. "Because you and I are very, very different."

"Hmm. I won't argue with that. But what does that have to do with the feelings thing you were saying earlier?"

Basil stares into the fire, so I do too. I look at it and I see life -- an animal that cannot be tamed, and yet one I love with my whole wild heart. To him, it's probably just a campfire.

Basil says, "I liked what I was doing in the Spire when I was working for Magister Uthgart. Because it felt like that. I don't think any kind of personal feeling for him entered into it."

"I don't really understand the line you're drawing there, honestly." I shake my head. "It sounds the same to me."

"One more comparison," Basil says, mouth firming into a flat line. "Before I give up my attempts to communicate entirely."

"Hit me," I say. "Not literally."

"A piece of woven fabric," Basil murmurs, unwinding the cloth strip that binds his left hand. He tugs at the end, pulling it loose from between his knuckles. "The threads in it are small, but pulling one loose can affect the integrity of the whole garment."

I stare at him helplessly. "You want to be important."

Basil says nothing to that, but I can see his jaw clench.

"I give up," I say, holding my hands up in surrender. "Sorry, little man. You lost me."

"Call me that again," Basil says pleasantly, "and I will snap your neck."

I believe him. But I do light up my fingers again in purple flame, and grin back. "You can try, Basil. You can damn well try."

#Chath POV #Basil backstory #Basil #title is from 'Natural' by Imagine Dragons #....again #it's an excellent Basil song and I won't apologize #Ask Me About Basil's Psychopathy

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aion-rsa · 3 years ago

Text

Why Werewolves Within Isn’t Your Typical Werewolf Movie

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

The small town of Beaverfield is much like many others across the nation in 2021. There is political polarization, longtime residents suspicious of newcomers, a stark wealth gap, infidelity, gossip, and at least one guy who is either a scary loner or just wants to be left the hell alone. But in the new film Werewolves Within what really sets Beaverfield apart is their lycanthrope problem.

Based loosely on the multiplayer Ubisoft VR game of the same name, the film — which is now playing in theaters and hits Digital Rental & VOD on July 2 — is a horror-comedy whodunit where a handful of locals are locked down during a winter storm while a monster hides amongst them.

Directed by Josh Ruben (Scare Me) with a script by novelist Mishna Wolff (I’m Down), Werewolves Within shares cinematic DNA with Clue and Knives Out on the mystery side, as well as The Thing and An American Werewolf in London on the horror end, with a little Fargo thrown in for good measure.

The audience enters the world of Beaverfield through the POV of plucky pushover Finn (Sam Richardson from Veep), the new forest ranger in town before introducing Cecily (Milana Vayntrub, Die Hart), a welcoming postal worker hungry for a new person to meet. Through her, a cast of quirky townsfolk come into focus as the storm approaches, and everyone bickers over the proposed oil pipeline that will bring in big money but is environmentally devastating. And that’s before the corpse is discovered.

What makes the mystery of Werewolves Within especially fun is Beaverfield’s residents are played by a roster of character actors who bounce off one another in the way the cast of Clue did: Harvey Guillén (What We Do In The Shadows), George Basil (Crashing), Sarah Burns (Barry), Michael Chernus (Tommy), Catherine Curtin (Orange is the New Black), Wayne Duvall (The Hunt), Rebecca Henderson (Russian Doll), Cheyenne Jackson (30 Rock), Michaela Watkins (Brittany Runs A Marathon), Glenn Fleshler (True Detective).

Ruben and Wolff joined Den of Geek for a Paranormal Pop Culture Hour to discuss their collaboration on the video game adaptation. In the following interview, they likewise talk of a shared love of werewolf flicks, as well as why murder mysteries and creature features go hand-in-paw.

Note: Quotes edited lightly for clarity and length

What were the werewolves you loved growing up? Mishna, since your last name is Wolff, I think that entitles you to go first.

Mishna Wolff: There’s so many. Joe Dante’s The Howling, for sure. Definitely Wolfen, starring Albert Finney. That’s a great werewolf story. He’s actually wasted in that movie, as well. I would say Silver Bullet has a fun kids’ story in it.

Obviously, An American Werewolf in London, but I was always like, “More decaying humans! Can we get more decaying humans on the screen?” I feel like he uses them so sparingly. I could’ve done twice as many decaying humans.

Josh, what scratched your lycanthropic itch?

Josh Ruben: Clawed, even. I mean, the first one that really hit me was the guy in Monster Squad. He was a blue collar, everyday fellow who you really seem to feel his excruciating pain and torment, and that really hit me. There was something about the kids that kind of went after all the entities in that movie, but the werewolf in that one was particularly terrifying, and so much of it came through his performance. I think between him and the one in Silver Bullet, ridiculous as it ultimately ended up looking, that is a dreadful — as in a good dreadful — terrifying film. It really felt like what would really happen if you and your drunk uncle had to take on a lycan.

Later in life, my most recent favorite is Late Phases. I think that movie is so good. It’s so brilliant, and it’s also a Hudson Valley production. I was shocked by how much I loved that one. That’s a new fave.

Video game adaptations are so often not very good movies. So what was your approach? Was it to just sort of toss away the entire game? What elements do you think were important to preserve from the VR game?

Mishna Wolff: The feel. I mean, I feel like that was always the thing. All screenwriters who you talk to about adaptations, and they talk about, “What do you owe the source material?” I think you owe it the feel, and I feel like certainly, in the midpoint of the movie, when everyone’s huddled in the inn and they’re trying to ferret out who the werewolf is, it does feel like that video game, even though it’s a different era.

How did you set out to play with archetypes and the role women often play in these films?

Mishna Wolff: The movie started out with a lot of thinking about archetypes. I happen to love movies with pretty clearly-drawn archetypes. I like archetypes. I feel like it’s reassuring when you walk into a movie and you feel like “Oh, I know who that guy is.”

I like upsetting archetypes and having little things be different about the archetype than you expect, but feminism certainly plays a role in those archetypes and women in film haven’t always been given life and death stakes, so that was a huge thing that I was thinking of.

Josh, in Scare Me, there is a werewolf sequence. Was that in a strange way, a being a bit of an audition of sorts for Werewolves Within as your second feature?

Josh Ruben: I think it ended up being the case in Scare Me because it is the creature that freaks me out the most and that story, silly as it is, the first one out in Scare Me, is an idea I’ve had in the back of my head forever that just kind of collects cobwebs. It’s all crazy coincidence, and I’m happy to find my brand in recessed shadows, creatures in the dark and quirky, emasculated human beings. I think I’d be fine to tell those stories again and again.

Why do werewolves and murder mysteries pair well?

Josh Ruben: Going back to Silver Bullet, you have that priest character who, once it was revealed he was the big bad, it became that digging your fingernails into your knees, like “Oh my God, they have no idea they’re in the presence of this awful thing.” That’s terrifying, more so than a vampire or pretty much anything else. It’s the true movie monster, where they can walk amongst us during the day and be our brother, best friend, mother, father, whatever, but turn out to be the most violent thing, and terrifying thing imaginable.

And we can all have a monster within?

Josh Ruben: It makes sense, in the allegory of it all. In a film like this, everyone can be implicated. The allegory and theme of it all is, we all have violent, dreadful thoughts every once in a while when pushed to our limits. Even Sam’s character, as wonderful a protagonist as he is, he’s pushed to his limit, as well. Every character could have reason to be a werewolf, hence the wonderful mystery of it all, but it played lockstep for me. It’s a testament to Mishna’s incredible work. I just opened it and was just like, this feels like Arachnophobia and Fargo.

Sam Richardson’s Finn is the new ranger in town and he’s a nice guy. But there’s the notion that either nice guys finish last, or nice guys are too good to be true. So why are we so against nice guys?

Mishna Wolff: Well, yeah, a person can be too good to be true. There’s a couple of nice guys in this movie that are suspicious, and the reason Finn is such a nice guy is because the movie that we fashioned is his worst nightmare. He’s afraid of conflict, he’s a nice guy and he’s about to enter the epicenter of meanness. This movie’s designed to torture him and break him, and it almost does.

Josh Ruben: Nice guys have werewolves within them, mean guys have werewolves within them. Oh, it’s just fascinating to play with the archetype because I think Bundy was a nice guy, at least in his circle, and Gacy, so it’s fun to play with those kind of expectations. There’s a wonderful moment, without giving anything away, where even this wonderful protagonist reaches a breaking point where he has to match everyone else and it should raise the question “Well, shit, could it be the nicest character of all?”

Was there any version of this movie where there may not have been an actual werewolf?

Mishna Wolff: No. I thought about going there and just having it be more cerebral and meta, but I always start everything with the end in mind. Josh was super collaborative, and he had some tweaks on the ending. The werewolf is the werewolf, and that didn’t change, but he made some really nice changes to the ending and I thought it worked really quite well.

Josh, what did you discover about the challenges of tackling a werewolf movie where you’re ultimately going to have to show the monster?

Josh Ruben: When it came down to the werewolf, it’s like, “Well, we don’t need to see skin breaking, we know what this is going to be, we can evoke that visceral transformation and the terror of it all, but let’s just get to it.” At that point, when it came to the werewolf itself, it was nothing too extravagant. It was just like, “Oh shit, this is going to happen.”

Also, within the mythology of this character and this thing, and how fast it killed, it was fun to think about it having control over its changing as part of its, again, mythology and how it went about its business.

Mishna Wolff: That was such a conversation in the room, too, about, “Can it control? It can’t control? How come it can control? What kind of … ” It’s like “Doesn’t matter. Trust me.”

Josh Ruben: No one will be writing mean letters if they’re along for the ride, if they feel taken care of, whether the claws retract or extend, whether they change quickly or not, it’s just got to be a fun ride.

Mishna Wolff: I think the creature features that Josh and I grew up loving were always done a little bit on the cheap with the exception of maybe The Thing and Alien, which were really crazy expensive, but I think that’s part of the fun of the creature feature, to me at least

Josh, with Scare Me, you used the word “incel,” which you filmed before it was part of our lexicon. Now, this is neighbor against neighbor, people are either hiding the truth or rejecting it, and there is the idea that being grouped together can lead to your own death. You could not have predicted the relevancy of this, so how is it landing for you now?

Josh Ruben: It’s pretty phenomenal when people like Michaela Watkins improvise a line like “Antifa.” You think “Oh, that’s going to be the shelf-life joke that will end up on the cutting room floor.” And no, it remains to be one of the more relevant pieces of the film and of this character.

I mean, she’s a Karen. She was a Karen before the Karen thing. With incel, it’s funny, too, because Aya Cash was the first one. She improvised that line, “What are you, an incel?” I didn’t know what the word meant and Fred quite was.

It’s unfortunate how relevant it is, but I’m thrilled that it is because I’d like to think that the film is a ride so, hopefully, regardless of what people take away from it, regardless of the relevance of it all, I’d like to think that it’s coming out at a time where, after the trauma of it all, from the insurrect-y through the pandem-y, that people can at least forget the trauma of the past 16 and a half months and sort of go for the ride. We’re offering less bleak fare; we’re offering more fun fare coming out of this dark chapter, but it’s both wonderful and terrifying that it’s so relevant and will remain to be. There will always be people who are narrow-minded in small corners of the world and narrow-minded in the most liberal corners of the world, as well. The newcomers are no better than the townies, in some cases, in many cases in the film. Mishna Wolff: I think we were banking that people would be ready to laugh at everything that’s gone on, at this point, that people would be ready … Can we make fun of it now? Is it too soon? No?

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Werewolves Within is in theaters now, and will be available on Digital Rental & VOD July 2, 2021

The post Why Werewolves Within Isn’t Your Typical Werewolf Movie appeared first on Den of Geek.

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drhu0806 · 4 years ago

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14 - “You better leave now”

Context, for @voidnoodles - I remember you once mentioned meeting herb man’s handler and they were the original base for this. I ended up moving away from that but the spirit of it is still here (I could technically write different versions for all Basilmancers)

The assassin stalks about, languidly pacing back and forth while Basil stands perfectly still. His entire body is tense, as if he’s ready at a moment’s notice to flee but an invisible force is trapping him in place. His gaze is latched onto the skulking figure, eyes wide and practically bulging out of their sockets.

“Why don’t you consider it? You were one of the best we had. And things have changed since you last left.”

The thought of going back to that place churns Basil’s stomach so violently he feels like he’s about to vomit, but he’s so tense he isn’t sure he’s physically capable of it at the moment.

Unbeknownst to them, Tessa hides behind a tree nearby, quaking under the shadow of the leaves. Xe had a bad feeling before and trailed far behind Basil without telling him, only to happen upon this rendezvous at the last moment. Something about the newcomer initially sent chills down xyr spine, even from a distance. They move so much like Basil: lithe and with obvious skill. But unlike the ranger there’s an active deadliness in their gestures, an aura of true, murderous intent that xe has almost never felt from Basil. Tessa is frozen in terror as xe continues to listen in on the encounter.

They saunter up to Basil, arms open as if welcoming him, all but with the look of a predator sizing up its prey. “You really think you belong out here? With the common folk? You’re above them. You can do things not many can do. Talents that would be wasted if you stayed where you are.”

His fingers are itching for his weapon, to silence them, but the blood is pounding in his ears, and it feels like his soul is very, very far away. Even if he could move, he knows Tessa is nearby; it’s too dangerous to provoke the stranger, especially when he knows exactly how deadly they can be.

“You’re better than them. We’re better. They gave us the ability to hold people’s lives in our hands to do with as we please. Don’t you miss it? Don’t you miss that power?”

Basil’s mouth has run dry. His fingers continue to itch, but this time not from the urge to draw his weapon. It’s almost like he can smell the rust, feel the stickiness of fresh blood coating his hands. He can remember the feel the dagger, the loss of weight from the corpse slipping from his grasp. That cold, heavy void in his chest from the empty gazes of the dead staring up at him.

They really think he misses that?

“Don’t you?”

He shakes his head, hoping to shake the dark memories away so he can think clearly. “I’m not going back.”

The assassin raises an eyebrow. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m not.”

Their expression grows dark, and their body language immediately shifts to something Basil recognizes more easily. They place a hand on their weapon, shifting their stance closer to a prowl.

“You really think you belong here? With them?”

“If we’re really doing this, get to the fucking point already.”

They sniff derisively. “You can’t seriously think you fit in here, in the outside world. Not after everything you’ve done, after all you’ve seen.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You really think you can live a normal life after all you’ve done? You really think you’ll find a place to belong out here? There isn’t a single soul out there who would understand you. No one who would look at you twice.”

He doesn’t respond. He wouldn’t know how to, not when there’s a part of him that agrees.

“You’ll always be a killer. You won’t know anything else, you won’t ever be worth anything else. It’s as ingrained in you as the mark they branded us with. One of these days you’ll snap and throw off that cute little civilian mask you’ve been wearing, and all the people you’ve been chummy with will be gone, dead by your hands. So what’s the point? Why try to be anything else? You know you can’t run from it. You’d be useless as anything else. So why not come back, and do the one thing you know you’ll ever be good at?”

The urge to vomit returns, washing away all of the things Basil thought he could have said in response. A deep hopelessness takes hold as the assassin’s words steadily crawl into the crevices of his heart. Over a decade spent bloodying his hands, then six more years of living on the fringes of society alone. He doesn’t want to return to that kind of life, but perhaps they’re right, and it’s an inevitability. What does he know of living with other people? All he knows is the best way for them to end up in the ground.

Gripped so tightly by these dark thoughts, he doesn’t immediately respond to the way the assassin approaches, their grip tightening on their weapon.

They’re both startled when someone bursts out from behind a tree, leaping in front of Basil. Tessa cuts in between them, spreading xyr arms wide in an effort to shield him from the assailant.

“Leave him alone!”

The stranger takes a step back, startled at the sudden appearance of a lone dragonkith. Basil is finally shaken from his brooding, fearful for his companion.

Tessa glares up at the assassin, and it’s easily apparent that xe’s trembling. And for once, it’s not from fear. Something about the assassin’s words creates a tight, fiery knot of fury within the pits of xyr stomach, growing until it threatens to burst at the haunted look on Basil’s face.

The stranger regards the new arrival with a look of skepticism. “Well now… Who are you? I didn’t even notice you were here.”

Xe doesn’t answer their question. “You… You shut your mouth! You better leave him alone or so help me…”

Basil, alarmed, tries to push xem behind him before xe does anything else rash, but Tessa shakes him off. Sparks jump from the surface of xyr skin as xyr anger swells; xe takes a step forward, actually forcing the other assassin to move back.

“You don’t know anything about him, so what right do you have to say those things?” xe hisses. Tessa is fully aware of the dagger still under their grip, and who knows what else they have under their belt, but the world feels so hot xe doesn’t care.

“Just because it’s all you know doesn’t mean it’s all he knows. Who says you can’t learn to be anything else? Who says he can’t be anything else? He can do whatever he wants! You people made him do all those horrible things and you still think you can tell him how to live his life?” Growing bolder by the second, Tessa steps even closer to the stranger, xyr magic rolling of xem in waves now. “Basil can do lots of cool things! He can be more than what you made him! He’s great! So you can just… You can just… Fuck off!”

The small, electrifying dragonkith has stunned the assassin into silence, and though he wanted to shield xem before, Basil too is almost shocked into silence. He stares, and a feeling he can’t quite recognize wells up within him. It’s warm and tender, chasing away the gloom that threatened to overtake him, and it takes several seconds before he finally comes to a realization.

Ah...

“You’d better get your head on straight, and go find your own corner to cry in and watch while he becomes better and better every day!”

Eventually, the stranger is able to find their voice again. “I bet you don’t know anything of what he’s done. You wouldn’t be saying those things if you really did.”

“I know he’s not perfect! He sulks, and he’s kind of scary, and just awful with people a lot of the time. I know he’s hurt a lot of people, but he also doesn’t want to do that anymore. So why not let him? Why does he have to keep being bad? I think you’re a giant piece of shit for even asking that of someone! So… So you better leave now, or else… Or else I’ll do something you’ll regret later!”

The odor of ozone fills the air around them as the sparks coming off Tessa’s body evolve into thin arcs of lightning. The assassin, no stranger to gauging magical threats, grits their teeth when they realize they’re outmatched. They take several steps back, leering at the remaining two.

“The people you’ve found must be as bloodthirsty and twisted as you are,” they spit. “I’d bid you good luck but that would be a lie. We’ll see each other again, Basil. I pray by then you’ll give me your own answer.”

They retreat back into the thick of the woods, vanishing between the shadows in the blink of an eye. Tessa’s chest is heaving as the adrenaline begins dying down, the air returning to its normal state as xe reins in xyr magic.

“Yeah… Yeah you better run…” she huffs.

As the high gradually dies down, Tessa’s protective stance wilts as xyr entire body begins to tremble. The reality of what xe just did finally begins to hit xem, and xyr knees buckle.

“Holy shit,” xe wheezes. “Holy shit. I looked a trained killer in the eye and told them off. I looked them in the eye and told them to fuck off. I did that! I did that and lived.”

“They couldn’t do anything even if they wanted to, not with me here.”

Basil crouches down next to xem, his expression tense with worry and disapproval. “That was still so dangerous though. Why would you do that?”

“I don’t—I don’t know! I had to do something! All the things they were saying made me mad.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why? They were saying such awful things.”

“But they weren’t wrong.”

For a moment, the strength returns to Tessa’s limbs, and xe gives him a smack on the arm. “No! They were wrong and it needed to be said! You weren’t saying a damn thing! I might not be the bravest but I—Why are you looking at me like that?”

The worry lines have melted away, replaced by an expression so earnestly soft it makes xem want to curl in on xemself.

“...It’s nothing. Come on, let’s go back.”

His grip is tight around xyr hand as he helps her up from the dirt. But before he leads xem back through the woody path, Basil pulls Tessa into a tight embrace, placing a kiss on the top of xyr head.

“Basil?”

Xe can’t see his face, but for some reason xe feels something wet against the top the xyr head. Tessa doesn’t quite understand, but xe wraps xyr arms around him regardless.

“Oh… Okay. This is...nice.”

He’s fended for himself for so long he doesn’t remember what it’s like to not fight alone in his own battles, much less anyone would fight for him. Basil clings to Tessa, the bravest and most cowardly of them all, with all his strength, thanking whatever divine powers are out there for the first time in years, and hoping beyond hope that this is the one who stays.

“Thanks,” he whispers.

“You’re welcome.”

#owlscratch #my writing #afd #other people's ocs #fictober20 #original #otp: maybe i need a little company

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