#but if its somebody elses art i will be less judgmental

[autisticaradiamegido]

day 107

thinking about putting this guy on my body permanently. as a treat.

[kookingtae]

falling into you (pt. 8) PREVIEW

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4 | pt 5 | pt 6 | pt 7

→scenario: Jungkook’s innocence is like a breath of fresh air in your wild life, and though you know you’re toxic for him, you just can’t seem to stay away.

→genre: college au, slow burn, mutual pining, shy/nerd jk + bad girl oc (mature themes)

→a/n: so i’m not finished with pt 8 yet, since it’s such a climactic chapter it’s taking a bit longer than i anticipated unfortunately BUT i dont want u guys to think ive forgotten about it!!! i know u all are waiting so patiently, and i cannot thank you enough from the bottom of my heart <3 i hope this preview keeps you excited for what’s to come!

Jungkook could never face Y/N again.

God, how could he, knowing that he’d not only finished in five minutes like a pubescent teenager, but also in his pants while she was on top of him?

Embarrassment didn’t even begin to describe the mortification he felt. He’d never wanted the earth to swallow him whole as much as he did in that moment. Sure, he was aware of his slight social anxiety, the way he was constantly looking to bolt from uncomfortable situations—but this was different entirely. This was new territory for him; he’d never done anything remotely sexual with someone else, period, much less with the girl who hung the stars, moon, and sun in his eyes. What was he supposed to do? There was nowhere to escape to in his own bedroom, no running away from his problems that made him uncomfortable. No, he had to stand there with his head down and his crotch dripping wet while he practically begged her to leave. He had never been so ashamed of himself. He had never felt so pathetic.

But then Y/N surprised him like she never failed to do: she’d given him reassurance, another kiss even, while telling him that she actually enjoyed the experience—went so far as to say it was the best in her life. Now he knew she was lying to spare his feelings. Of all the men Y/N had been with, there was no way a virgin cumming untouched in his pants was the best of them. She was cruel to make him believe otherwise, to give him false hope.

He wouldn’t allow himself to think any differently. He couldn’t allow himself to get hurt.

Which was why he made it his mission to avoid her at all costs—something he’d gotten very good at over the past few months, and the past few weeks, specifically.

But in the same way he’d learned from the patterns of her daily routine and used them as a means to remain hidden, she’d also learned his and utilized them to her advantage as well. It was the only explanation as to how he was turning a corner inside the art building (about to take the rear exit, since she usually waited for him out front) and suddenly she was standing right in front of him.

He instantly skidded to a halt, heart rate shooting to astronomical levels and eyes widening on their own accord. “Y-Y/N,” he stuttered out involuntarily, the sight of her causing every single detail of their time spent together to come rushing back to him like a tidal wave ready to wipe him out.

As if he needed another excuse to think about the moment they shared that had changed him forever, about the way her moans sounded in his ear and her body felt on his lap and the way she touched his cheek, his neck, the way her lips felt on his skin, god help him—

Already he could feel the beginnings of a blush start to rise to his suddenly hot cheeks, and he cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other to keep from springing yet another boner in front of her.

He slid his books in front of his waist, just in case.

While she usually approached him with the natural ease of self-confidence and charm, today she seemed worried, unsure. She chewed at her lower lip—something he didn’t think she really ever did, as he would certainly remember the way it stirred within him—and looked up at him beneath delicate lashes that framed her eyes.

He didn’t have it in him to keep from outright staring at her beauty.

“I… I missed you,” she finally murmured, and he felt the breath physically whoosh from his lungs to join his butterfly-filled stomach all the way at the floor.

It had been a few days since he’d last seen her, since she’d been in his room that night where they opened up about their past and confessed how they truly felt about one another and shared the most life-altering moment he’d ever experienced. He missed her too, god he missed her. He missed everything about her the moment she left his side—would picture her face in his mind as soon as she left his field of vision. But for some reason unknown to him, she was too kind to him, spared his feelings despite knowing what little experience he had. There was no way he’d be able to satisfy a girl—mentally, physically, emotionally—who could have anyone she wanted. Perhaps she pitied him. Either way, if she wouldn’t put a stop to it, then he would.

Or so he’d try, but alas, nothing ever went according to his plans where Y/N was concerned. And here she was, three simple words mumbled into existence and he couldn’t even remember his own name, much less why he’d been trying to fight this.

She seemed to expect he would say nothing—either that or she’d grown used to his silence—because before he had enough sense in him to even think about responding, she was speaking again. “How have you been?”

The question was asked with deliberate, genuine curiosity and concern; she really wanted to know if he was okay, how he was handling things after what had transpired between them. And no matter how hard Jungkook tried to fight this, fight her, fight himself, he was only human.

And so he stopped fighting.

“I�� I missed you too,” he breathed out, and it was like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders and relocated to his gut. He tensed at his confession, mentally berated himself for his words even though she’d been the one to say them first. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, what with the way his throat locked up.

Though the second he witnessed the smile that sprang to her tantalizing lips, he felt as light as a feather floating in the breeze.

“You did?” Her eyes lit up, sparkled under the fluorescent hallway lights that still managed to capture all of her beauty despite the unflattering lighting. He didn’t think it was possible for any scenery, not even that of a dull and stuffy university building, to make her appear any less breathtaking than she always was.

“I was so worried after I left last week,” she continued without prompt. The mention of his premature finish had him stiffening in dread, though she didn’t let enough silence fester between her words for the anxiety to claw its way up his throat. “I didn’t want you to beat yourself up. I’ve noticed you tend to be too hard on yourself sometimes.” She glanced up at him with the hint of a sheepish grin dancing on her lips.

Her expression said it all: that’s an understatement.

And this shocked him to his core, because she was absolutely right.

Just how well had she gotten to know him in their time spent together over the last few months? And how? And why?

The last question would always boggle him until the end of time; he would never understand why she was interested in him. Why was he the one she had feelings for, when she claimed she never had feelings for anybody? Though he supposed he could ask himself the same thing: why did he feel things for Y/N that he had never felt for anyone else in his life? And the answer was quite simple, really: because it was her.

He didn’t know what about himself was so special to make him stand out in her mind, and as a result he still couldn’t help but be skeptical, even after her confession. But it wasn’t like he had any choice in the matter on what to do with that skepticism—not when his heart kept leading him back to her.

At some point after her accurate description of the inner turmoil that’s been plaguing his mind, his mouth had fallen open slightly. He couldn’t hide the surprise from his face even if he tried; he was speechless.

Y/N gazed up at him, not seeming in any hurry to rush the conversation along, and for that he was grateful. He’d never met somebody so patient and understanding before—just another reason to make Jungkook’s heart flutter with endearment. And it was no secret to himself anymore that he yearned to be in Y/N’s presence for as long as possible whether he was aware of it or not.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed, you know,” she continued as if she could read his mind, and that was when he realized the way his eyes avoided hers and the fact that his skin was the color of tomatoes must’ve been dead giveaways. “I meant it when I said that was the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.”

Jungkook balked, practically choking on his spit at her forward, shameless words. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the way she spoke her mind so openly without any fear holding her back. She’d gone through so much in her childhood, in her life—Jungkook not even knowing the half of it, he’s sure—and yet she was still so strong and brave and everything he wasn’t. He couldn’t help but admire the person she was today, despite all the prejudice and judgment he’d held for her when they first met.

He realized now that he was too quick to judge her, to write her off based on rumors and first impressions. He realized now that he was too quick to do that to a lot of people. Just how long had he closed himself off from others based on his skewed, morally righteous perspective? His whole life, if he had to say.

The epiphany that she was physically prying open his third eye with a crowbar, that he was now self aware and changing for the better for her—for himself—hit him all at once.

It was the most frightening sensation of his life, the introvert in him wanting to crawl back into his shell where it was safe and comfortable and dull. But deep down he knew it was also for the best.

“W-why?” He heard himself asking before he knew what he was doing. “Why do you keep saying that?”

He had to know why she insisted on standing by her statement that his mishap was not only hot, but the hottest ever. Why did she insist on lying to him, on giving him false hope? She spoke her mind in every other situation, or at least that’s what he assumed; why did she insist on sparing his feelings in this incident? Was he really that pathetic? Did she pity him that much?

She simply blinked at him once, twice, before: “Because I really like you, Jungkook.”

As if in slow motion, you could visibly see his eyes expand to the size of saucers at your words.

You would’ve found the sight comical had the situation been any different. But the way he continued to disbelieve that you could have feelings for him, that you could be attracted to everything about him despite who he was, despite his inexperience—it made your heart break in your chest. You now knew from where this inferiority complex stemmed—he’d told you himself about his family situation—and if anything, it made you want to rebuild his confidence that much more. He needed to see himself the way you saw him.

But you also didn’t want to overwhelm him, either. And you were more than willing to walk that fine line with Jungkook no matter how long it took.

“So are we on for a study sesh tonight?” You continued nonchalantly, wanting to return things to normalcy for him as much as possible before he ran away mid-conversation as he’d done so many times before. You wanted to ease his self-doubt so he’d stop avoiding you—like he’d been doing the past few days—as much as possible.

Jungkook blinked as if trying to adjust from the whiplash of your subject-change. “U–uh… if you want?”

“Of course I want to,” you replied without missing a beat, not caring how desperate you seemed so long as he didn’t question where you stood. You took a step forward, unable to help the intangible, magnetic draw you felt to him as you gazed up at him beneath your lashes. “That is… if you want to.”

You watched in agony as a gulp slowly raked its way down his throat.

“I–” his voice was hoarse before he cleared his throat. “I uh, can’t tonight. I have to study for math.”

You weren’t even sure how one studied for math, but you weren’t about to question the expert. “That’s fine! We could… do it tomorrow?”

Jungkook chewed at his bottom lip, an action he always did when he was internally struggling with something before he finally nodded his head yes in a slow, hesitant manner. “N–not in my room though,” he added as an afterthought, and when your gaze snapped to his he had a pleading expression in his eyes.

A mix of emotions rolled through you. On one hand, you were horrified at the possibility that he thought the only reason you wanted to study again was so that you could get in his pants. Which—okay, you’re not going to lie, you would love to have a repeat of last week—but that definitely wasn’t why you wanted to see him. He meant more to you than just a means to get off, which was what you’d thought of flings in the past. You didn’t want him to be just a fling, though.

You didn’t want to think of the meaning behind that fact right now, either.

But on another hand, you understood where Jungkook was coming from. Maybe it was because you’d studied him enough over the past few months to learn some of his behavior (for once you finally saw the appeal of studying), so you knew that level of intimacy was probably extremely overwhelming for Jungkook and he needed a moment to step back. Hell, it was even overwhelming for you, and that was saying something. Never had your senses, your heart, your body, your soul been attacked like that with such an abundance of emotional pleasure, and you hoped with all your might that Jungkook was feeling the same—that that was the reason he needed a breather from being alone with you, and not the fact that he just didn’t want to be intimate with you.

Unless…

Oh god, had you misread the situation entirely? Had Jungkook hated everything about that night?

Suddenly you were feeling sick to your stomach. The thought of you misunderstanding his confession—or worse, him changing his mind completely—made you want to escape to a dark and desolate stairwell and cry in the hidden nooks of the windowsill again; the irony that not only would you be pulling a Jungkook by escaping mid-conversation, but that the stairwell was also the place the two of you had your first real conversation, wasn’t lost on you.

“M–my roommate is staying in, studying for finals.” The sound of Jungkook’s voice was like a breath of fresh air whooshing into your lungs after almost drowning underwater. You blinked out of your inner turmoil, focusing on him. “So he’ll be there, i–in my room, this whole week.”

And suddenly your heart was warming with relief, hope, appreciation, like flowers blooming in the spring after a torrential downpour. Just when you thought you had him figured out, this enigma of a boy continued to surprise you. It was usually easy for you to hide your emotions—you’d been doing so for years, always wore a mask around others so that they couldn’t see the real you—and yet somehow, Jungkook must’ve sensed them anyway. He sensed the doubt, the pain, the fear that you vowed never to cage you crawling up your throat and threatening to consume you whole, and he eased it. He didn’t want you to misunderstand him. He wanted to reassure you.

If anything, that was just a testament to how Jungkook had broken down your walls—how much you had let him in, how well he was able to read the emotions you wanted to keep hidden. Your mask had begun to break, the real you showing through the cracks, and Jungkook was still standing here. He hadn’t run away.

You fought the urge to grab him and slam your lips onto his.

“Not in your room, then,” is all you managed to breathe out beneath a fluttering smile.

[tessatechaitea]

Cerebus #11 (1979)

The only weapon you need to provoke a police officer to violence is scorn.

Sorry! The above caption had nothing to do with The Cockroach's first appearance in Cerebus and everything to do with how the Omaha Police arrested peaceful protesters by claiming that they're purpose was to "attack and/or provoke police officers to violence." Also, you can tell they're already spinning and lying by adding the "and/or" so they can imply that the protesters are planning on attacking police. And, well, even if they weren't (and they did say "or"!), their other main plan was to provoke them. But of course everybody whose ability to perceive reality isn't clouded by their incessant need to defend police no matter what understands that police will abuse their power at the drop of an eye roll. They believe any slight disrespect is an excuse for a violent rebuttal. They force physical violence on people whom they have no reason to arrest simply so the person can struggle against the assault, as any normal person would do, and then claim resisting. Police should be confronted by scorn and disrespect at every turn. Only when they learn not to instantly resort to violence and threats will they deserve to not be. Welcome to my comic book and/or police review blog! Deni's "A Note from the Publisher" continues on a theme that I hadn't noticed until just now: every new issue of Cerebus now seems to be a landmark issue! It's an interesting self-promotion take that I have to admit I'd never thought of trying. "Every new Eee! Tess Ate Chai Tea review is a landmark review!" You know what else is a landmark? Places & Predators, my Cribbage-based Roller Playing Game! You don't even really need any friends to play it. Just read it like a book and enjoy it! Or play it like a Fighting Fantasy Adventure Book! Use some online Cribbage app! Figure out how to use the crib in ways the online app definitely won't let you! Oh, the reason this is a landmark issue is because more letters came in than normal! It's a hit! Deni also reveals that she'll be making the Cerebus plush toys that were advertised in previous issues and at half the price! So kudos for stealing that job from the person who originally made them! It probably wasn't anything so dramatic but what fun is going through your life defaulting to the best, most optimistic possibility in every given situation? Have some fun! Act paranoid! Purposefully misunderstand your father and scream in his face! Kick a dog! Sorry! I got carried away! I would never kick a dog unless it was attacking me. But even then, I'd be wishing I was kicking the owner who let it go off leash. The dog doesn't deserve my epic self defense tactics in its soft face. But the owner certainly does!

The basics on the origin of The Cockroach.

I didn't realize Dave came up with The Cockroach because it was gross and disgusting. I just thought it was a more clever version of a bat, keeping to the shadows, hiding, surviving, a constant annoyance to poor people. In any case, The Cockroach is the greatest parody of The Batman, hands down. Because The Batman has become such a parody of himself time and time again, you just need an absolutely Batshit insane version of him. I don't do segues so Cerebus has come to Beduin to sell the Black Blossom Lotus. Just look at all the continuity Dave Sim is giving his readers! I wonder how many comic book fans would list "continuity" as their number one favorite thing about comic books? Like, are there people who would list that above great writing or terrific art? Judging by how terrible a lot of mainstream comic books are and how rabid many of the fans, I'd suspect it was a fairly high number. Maybe 65 out of 100, Bob. Change that card! The Merchant Cerebus deals with is a kook who might just have a super secret identity. It's weird to think of the Roach as being capable of actually living an independent life! I suppose he's just barely hanging onto his sanity at this point (and, of course, only during the day). But then he comes into the mystical aura of strangeness that aardvarks apparently exude out of their buttholes and he just loses it completely. He becomes less a merchant slash superhero and more a superhero slash zombie cosplayer. Also he becomes one of the greatest characters ever created! There are like four of them in the entirety of Cerebus! The exclamation point is because I think that's an incredibly high number and not because I think it's an incredibly low number. Most comic book's protagonists never quite make it to the greatest ever! Plus I'd probably give Cerebus more than four but a lot of them are just really good parodies, satires, and slightly-off representations of characters and people who already existed. The merchant buys the Black Blossom Lotus from Cerebus for 100 gold pieces and then promptly drops it out of the window and into the Feld River.

Not only does Dave Sim come up with a bunch of memorable plots across three hundred issues, he also comes up with a lot of good Dungeons & Dragons campaign ideas.

The Merchant pays Cerebus a sack of gold and gets ready for bed as Cerebus begins to leave. Before Cerebus can even exit the hallway outside the merchant's bedroom door, Cerebus begins to hear loud ranting coming from the other side. It's a lot of hissing and threats of murder. Against his better judgment, Cerebus decides to see what's happening and gets his first look at the guy who will be a huge headache to him for the next two hundred issues or so.

One thing I like about Dave Sim is how honest he is when recounting where he came up with or stole his ideas. He gives plenty of credit for the Cockroach and his hissing to Marshall Rogers and Jules Feiffer. It's admirable because a lot of people would just figure, "It might make me look less of an artist and who's going to know anyway?!"

Just a few days ago, my old elementary school friend who was blown up in Iraq and then became a comedian playing to Christians and patriots (which I mention so you'll understand how, as a wounded veteran, he'll never be criticized by his audience and he'll never really grow as a comedian) posted a Tik Tok on Facebook that was just a film of a television set capturing the "Masked Debate" bit on Last Week Tonight with John Oliver. The clip only shows all the clips of news readers saying "masked debate" and none of Oliver's or the show's set-up. He then watermarked it with his Tik Tok name. Now all of those naive followers who can only seem to reply to his posts with the laugh/cry emoji probably think he wrote it. Better yet, they're probably mostly Trump followers who would never admit to finding that libjerk Oliver or his show funny. What's even better is that the Tik Tok has some quote along top that's watermarked with somebody else's Tik Tok name! So it looks like Bob doubly stole the bit. Man, I wish I'd joined the army and gotten blown up and then found Christ and developed an audience of uncritical naive yahoos who would wildly applaud everything I wrote! Why didn't I join the army?! Oh, that's right. Because I believed I had a future right out of high school. Well, I guess Bob is having the last laugh now! Cerebus follows Cockroach across the rooftops to find out what's going on. He eventually witnesses the Cockroach confront a man in an alley, accuse him of killing his parents, knock him out, and steal his gold. The gold part of the night helps Cerebus to ignore all of the other confusing stuff. The Cockroach doesn't gloat for long. He's off to find another victim! Cerebus witnesses him mug another guy whom he also accuses of killing his parents. He also admits to doing this for thirty years. So now Cerebus thinks the guy is crazy but also crazy rich. At the end of the night, the Cockroach returns home and drops the gold purses into a secret panel in the wall. He falls asleep, wakes up, and, when he sees Cerebus, acts as if Cerebus were just leaving. So Cerebus realizes that the merchant doesn't have any idea what the Cockroach is doing. Which means Cerebus is going to recover those gold purses before the Cockroach comes back! At the moment, Cerebus doesn't realize that he's going to be finding thirty years worth of gold purses in the merchant's walls. Can you imagine how boring the last two hundred and eighty-nine issues of Cerebus would have been if Cerebus managed to steal all of the Roach's gold?! I'm sure some of you are thinking, "It wouldn't have been any worse than the last hundred issues we did get!" Also, can you imagine how fat Cerebus would have gotten drinking tons of ale and eating loads of rich foods? I'm laughing so much just trying to picture it! Ha ha!

Eight feet of gold would make Cerebus fatter than a domesticated raccoon!

In the end, Cerebus only makes it away with three sacks of gold. But in the process, he manages to completely screw up the Roach/Merchant equilibrium that's lasted for thirty years. In trying to exploit the man's mental illness so that he'd help Cerebus move the gold, Cerebus drags the Roach personality into the daylight. From here on out, the Roach will simply be a pawn of others, susceptible to almost any second-rate demagogue (although most of the people who subsequently control the Roach are of the first rate variety). The Aardvark Comment section was two pages this issue and had this letter that I don't think was being sarcastic?

I guess I also wouldn't necessarily consider a chainmail bikini as "a disgusting costume." He's probably thinking about Power Girl.

Also, and I admit it might have been a joke, but Dave Sim reveals that Ronald Reagan is Cerebus' father. That, um, makes sense! Cerebus #11 Rating: A. I almost gave it a B+ for variety but then I remembered I just read the first appearance of the Roach. I also forgot that my ratings don't actually mean anything.

[thelioncourts]

title: beyond the pale author: marrieddorks fandom: captive prince pairing: damen/laurent word count: 22204

Laurent DeVere was off limits. There were no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

A lot of that — 43% — was because of Laurent himself. Despite only being nineteen years old, Laurent seemed to have long mastered the art of appearing as aloof and cold as humanly possible. Displays of emotion were limited to disdain and boredom, but even those were better to be on the receiving end of than the craftily cultivated blank stare he spent most of his time wearing as he wandered campus.

But Laurent was beautiful. There were no ifs, ands, or buts about that either. Though he tended to dress somewhat severely with high collars and covered wrists and ankles, his outfits were form fitting and it was quite a form that they fit. And while it would have been nice to see him in something not darker than the heart lying in his chest, the contrast of his muted clothing compared to the porcelain quality of his skin, the flaxen shine of his hair, and the unclouded blue of his eyes only garnered him more stares of longing and desire from classmates, professors, and passerbys alike.

So, while Laurent was dubbed as the cast-iron bitch of Arles University, he was also beautiful and that meant most of the student body wasn’t controlled enough to take the warning of his temperament to heart.

But Laurent DeVere was off limits and the reason that was obeyed — the other 57% of the reason — was because he was Auguste DeVere’s little brother and Auguste said so.

Auguste DeVere, unlike his brother, was loved and adored by all. Everyone wanted to be Auguste’s friend. And, in a way, everyone was Auguste’s friend. Auguste was the kind of guy that always had something nice to say about somebody else. He went out of his way to help those around him, whether it was the cliché of helping an old lady load her groceries into her car, insisting that his apartment was a space where anyone could come and crash if they needed it, or volunteering to tutor the undergrads that were struggling in their classes. There was no person better than Auguste, really.

But Auguste was fiercely protective of Laurent. That fact had been established long before Laurent got to Arles University. Since Auguste’s freshman year, he had talked nonstop of the love held for his little brother. With the loss of both their parents at such young ages, the two boys had grown up with nothing but one another. It had built an unbreakable and sacred bond, one untouched by anyone on the outside.

When Laurent had finally hit college age, Auguste had sat down his friend group calmly and respectfully. He had informed them that Laurent would be moving to campus, would be living in the other bedroom in Auguste’s home, and that Auguste wanted everyone in the room to continue to be part of his life but that meant Laurent would be part of theirs too; the brothers were a two-for-one deal after all. Of course, everyone had agreed vehemently. Then Auguste, just as calmly but with warning in his smile, had told them that Laurent was off limits romantically, sexually, and even emotionally. Off course, everyone had agreed again, this time with a lot of confusion to accompany their nods.

When they had finally met Laurent for the first time several weeks after Auguste’s preliminary meeting, they understood.

For that first year, everyone had obeyed diligently. They had needed to get a feel for Laurent’s personality anyway and upon discovering it and finding it less than amorous, leaving the beautiful and forbidden younger DeVere was an easy task to follow. Well, for all them but Lazar.

With summer come and gone far too fast, however, everyone was making their way back to campus. A few of them were starting their first year of grad school. Auguste was in his final already. And Laurent was a sophomore and even more beautiful than he had been the year before. It was now that things started to change. People noticed.

[Continue on AO3]

    1. Nik

The entire team was close. Practically blood-oath close. They were the equal of a fraternity, but without the out-of-pocket money for Greek life fees. Instead they paid for their bonds with their blood, sweat, and tears. It was well spent too. They were the division champions for the third year in a row as of last year. This year they were trying to make it a record four.

The first week on campus was spent mapping out schedules and routes, stocking up on food for their dorms, apartments, and houses, and catching up with all the guys like no time had passed at all. The first text, sent out in the obnoxious group text they had set up, said a simple “7 @ Kesus?” and had been followed by almost a dozen accounts of “Yes,” “Hell yeah!” and a few emojis that all signified the same, including the Ferris wheel emoji for unexplainable reasons.

Kesus was a pub downtown. It became their go-to spot when the convenience of its placement in comparison to their favorite drunken food run, a food truck located right on Barbin Avenue, managed to filter through their eventually sober minds. It was made even better by the fact that it had a table in the back large enough to seat their whole motley crew, even when a few extras managed to tag along.

As it was, by seven o’clock less than half of them were seated at their table, but that didn’t mean they were any less loud than normal. Rowdiness was in their nature.

“How do classes start next week already?” Orlant groaned.

“Time moves forward and tasks and events fall on a timeline, thus —”

“Shut up!” Orlant groaned again.

“But time is a construct.”

“This is why God abandoned us, you know,” Rochert pointed out.

“Okay, I’m leaving,” Jord chimed in.

“No!”

“Who are we missing?” Nik asked.

“Lazar, Pallas —”

“That’s no coincidence,” Damen snorted.

“Huet, Berenger, Auguste, and Alexon. I think that’s it though.”

“Huet won’t be here until Thursday.”

“Do you think Auguste is going to bring Laurent with him?”

“Let’s hope so.”

“Let’s hope not. If I wanted to deal with that level of bitchiness today, I would’ve watched some god-awful reality T.V. before coming here.”

“He’s not that bad,” Damen said, smiling.

“Neither is the common cold, but I still don’t want it hanging around me,” said Nik.

“At least he’s good to look at.”

“Yeah, but if Auguste catches us looking at him, we’re dead men walking.”

“If Auguste catches us looking at what?” came Lazar’s voice. Most of them had to turn to watch Lazar saunter in, eyes bright and hair mussed, with a pink-faced Pallas under his arm.

“At Laurent.”

“I don’t know how he expects us not to stare,” Lazar continued, pulling out a chair and tugging Pallas into it with him. “Has anyone else seen Laurent’s ass in the pants he wears? Magnificent.”

“It’d be hard to see his ass when I do my best to stay at least fifty yards away from him at all times,” Nik mumbled.

“God, just get a restraining order, it’d be more efficient for you.”

“Don’t think I haven’t looked into it,” said Nik all too seriously.

“And how are you planning on doing that?” Damen laughed.

“Simple. Get a temporary protection order, get everything filed within the court, and, eventually, convince the judge to grant me a permanent restraining order.”

“What evidence are you going to show?” Lazar asked with a grin. “How he makes your cock involuntarily hard?”

Nik flushed, though whether it was from the truth or the implication no one could be quite certain.

“Yeah, I don’t think things will work out in your favor if you try to get a restraining order on him that way,” Jord said.

“Who’s getting a restraining order on who?” came Auguste’s question.

“What is with you all and sneaking up on everyone at the wrong time?”

“Nik,” Damen emphasized, “doesn’t want a restraining order on anyone.”

“I want it against your brother. Oh, hi, Laurent,” Nik said, this time with an accompanied eye roll.

Sure enough, Laurent was standing at Auguste’s side, posture relaxed and almost bored, his right hand tucked in one of the back pockets of his dark pants. If it was possible, Laurent had gotten more beautiful over the summer spent away from Arles University. Everyone noticed. They let Lazar speak it for them, however, which was a grave mistake on their part.

“Laurent,” Lazar practically growled in greeting. “My lap is able to fit two beauties if you’d care to join.” He patted at his left thigh, the one Pallas wasn’t currently putting most of his body weight on and waggled his eyebrows all too suggestively.

“As wonderful as that sounds,” Laurent started, his voice clear like a bell and doubly as sweet, “I fear that since you only think with that poor excuse that you call a dick, you definitely lack the capacity to pay proper attention to one person right in your vicinity, let alone two. I’d also like to avoid being entirely disappointed before the school year starts at the very least.” It was impossible to miss the judgmental flick of those pellucid blue eyes to Lazar’s jean-covered crotch.

Despite Laurent not being on the team and despite him being the youngest of the group altogether, it didn’t feel like he was tagging along. Sure, some of the guys liked to tease that Laurent was the equivalent of some of the guys’ clingy girlfriends, but it wasn’t true. Laurent had his own place with them, and he fell right back into it without any effort, taking a seat between Auguste and Jord for the remaining unruliness of the evening.

Sadly, the unruly night passed by too quickly as did the following days. Before anyone knew it, they were back in classes and clutching to whatever free time they could find.

For Damen and Nik, best friends long before the college years hit them, that meant finding at least one day a week to grab lunch together. It was a tradition they started their very first semester. Being in different majors, they didn’t see much of each other throughout the week and this was a guaranteed way to spend a good hour together not quietly sitting across from each other in the library or partying with the rest of the boys.

One semester they had been lucky enough to have time for three days of meeting up for lunch.

This semester they were only able to squeeze in one day. Thus, every Tuesday at eleven-thirty it was impossible to miss the two guys trying to shoulder by each other through the doorway of Belloy’s Bagels, the bagel deli that made the biggest and best bagel sandwiches within fifty miles of Arles.

“I’m just saying,” Nik started as they made their way to the window seats, hands warmed by the tin foil hiding their sandwiches, “that I’ve only been in this class for a single day, but I’m inclined to believe that this professor is going to spend more time mentally fucking over half of the first row than teaching at all.”

“Maybe it’s for the best. You said that this class was going to be a waste of a semester anyway,” Damen pointed out to him. The window seat was one of the draws to Belloy’s Bagels. They were thinking long term, after all, and come October they were going to need some give from the incoming cold. But for now, in the hot air of August, this also gave them plenty of sunlight to bask in.

“That’s true, but that doesn’t mean that I want to deal with that kind of incompetence for fifteen weeks.”

Their mouths were already full but that didn’t stop them from getting to talking as they always did, falling into it like it was the most natural thing because it was, and the first half hour went by way too fast for either of their liking.

Damen opened his mouth to voice such a feeling, but it was then that a flash of blond caught his eye. Laurent DeVere walked by the front of Belloy’s Bagels, two books under one arm and a messenger bag slung over the other. He didn’t seem to see Damen and Nik, or if he did, he didn’t acknowledge them which wouldn’t be surprising, and he was there and gone in seconds. The last of him that remained was the shine of his hair in the sunlight as it caught in Damen’s sight.

Damen was staring after him.

“Please don’t.”

Damen turned to Nik.

“What?”

“Well, to start, you have bean sprouts hanging out of your mouth. But what’s worse is that you stared after Laurent like we’ve seen Lazar do.”

“Lazar leers. I wanted to make sure it was him, that’s all,” Damen said.

Nik hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, I do suppose you had to lean out of your seat and press your face against the window to make sure it was. Perfectly understandable.”

“Cut it out, Nik!” Damen was laughing. “You’re being dramatic. As per usual. He’s our friend.”

“Maybe you consider him a friend.”

But the next week was one in the same. Their food was long devoured, the tin foil that once held their sandwiches balled up into shiny spheres, and Laurent walked by right at noon. There was a pair of headphones peeking out from his hair this time.

“You stared again.”

“I didn’t!”

“You did. What’s with that?”

Damen waited a beat, then two. Then he exhaled loudly, head falling forward. “Come on, Nik. Auguste is going to graduate at the end of this year. He won’t have anyone but us. Least we could do is keep an eye on him.”

“I knew the second that blond-haired-blue-eyed snake was brought here that you were doomed,” Nik moaned.

“I told you that’s not what this is about!”

“But you are attracted to him.” It wasn’t a question. They both knew that.

“I’m not going to do anything about it.”

The next week, however, Damen still stared with the kind of quiet longing that wasn’t so quiet when he didn’t have to be aware of Auguste’s eyes on him. Or even Laurent’s.

The week after that Nik was talking, telling Damen a story about his law and society course, when he noticed Damen was zoned out, brown eyes all too focused on the world outside as though he was waiting for something.

“...and then a bear walked in wearing a hat and said, “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I can’t seem to find the bathroom anywhere.”

Damen nodded.

“Damen.” Nik snapped his fingers in front of Damen’s face three times and Damen came back to himself with the slightest shake of his head, eyes finding Nik’s in startled confusion.

“What?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m right here, I’m just —” Damen stopped suddenly, sentence still hanging in the air around them, and Nik rolled his eyes and opened his own mouth to ask what was wrong when Damen jumped out of his seat and ran to the front door of Belloy’s Bagels, one large hand pushing and holding the door open.

Nik watched as Laurent came walking by and didn’t give Damen the satisfaction of jumping at the sudden intrusion on his otherwise silent trek across campus. Nik watched as Damen did all the talking, hands moving a bit animatedly with his words. Nik watched as Laurent raised one delicate eyebrow before shaking his head and continuing.

Damen was back inside in seconds.

“What,” Nik began, and Damen wouldn’t meet his eyes, “was that?”

“I invited him in for lunch,” Damen told him honestly.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because it’s lunch time and he always looks so alone when he walks by here.” Nik kept staring and Damen could read the expression.

“Yes, I’m sure you’re being entirely selfless here.”

“Auguste wouldn’t want us to see him and not talk to him,” Damen argued.

“Auguste also wouldn’t want you pursuing Laurent either, but that want of his doesn’t seem to be stopping you from doing it anyway. And, besides, Laurent is grown. If he wants to hide away, that’s on him.”

“Asking someone to lunch is hardly pursuing them.”

Nik didn’t argue anymore, and he didn’t have to. The next week was like clockwork and Damen once again ran to the door and asked Laurent inside. This time Laurent at least said something. His blue eyes fell toward the direction he was walking in and then flicked to Nik before he said something along the lines of, “I have class in a few minutes,” before he was off again.

The next week, Nik was shocked to walk in to Belloy’s Bagels and see that Damen wasn’t already seated, but had his lunch, Nik’s lunch, and a latte from the cafe next door with him.

“What’s this?” Nik asked as he pulled out his chair and slid in. The sandwich was still steaming hot, indicating Damen hadn’t been there all too long.

“Thought I’d surprise you,” Damen said. He was smiling and had his hands on his drink. Like all the weeks before, they started talking, and after a while Nik asked around a mouthful of food about the latte.

“Since when do you drink lattes from Chastillon?”

“I’ve never tried it, but since it’s right there,” Damen jutted a thumb in the general direction behind them, “I thought I’d stop in and see what was going on.”

Nik wiped his hands with a napkin. “Then why haven’t you drank any of it?” Grabbing the cup quickly, Nik was able to garner from the steam still rising from the cup what flavor it was. “Could it be because it’s a vanilla cinnamon latte and I’ve never known you to order that in your life?”

Damen didn’t answer. He didn’t have to either. A flash of blond walked by and Damen was out of his seat, the latte precariously sloshing up the sides of the cup a bit as he ran out the door. Nik heard him call out Laurent’s name and had first row seats to watch Laurent turn around and look at the drink as though it could bite him. Damen was talking animatedly again, and Laurent finally gave a curt nod after Damen stopped. With elegance not befitting the situation, Laurent crossed the distance between them and reached for the latte, cradling the warmth of it to his chest. Nik saw him say thank you and turn without another word or look.

The next week played out the same, except Nik did his very best to ignore the latte on Damen’s left. When he paused their conversation to run outside and give it to Laurent, Nik continued to act like nothing happened. It was easier, especially when it happened again the next week.

They were now halfway through the fall semester, over seven weeks in, and Nik prayed that next semester he and Damen would choose a lunch spot Laurent didn’t wander anywhere near. He was praying for such a thing as Damen handed Laurent the latte in his hands when Laurent didn’t immediately walk away. Damen had retreated inside, but Laurent was following.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Laurent told Damen just as Damen was grabbing his seat again.

“Doing what?”

“Don’t be daft. These things are at least four dollars now.”

“There’s a perfectly good reason to buy them. It’s starting to get chilly outside,” Damen said as though that made everything fine.

Laurent said nothing. Instead he stood there with an unreadable expression, chin high and hair wind mussed. His messenger bag strap was twisted below his shoulder.

“What are you usually doing around eleven?” Damen asked, filling the silence.

“Waiting until it’s time to go to class.”

“You could meet me at Chastillon. I’ll even let you buy your own latte if you’d like.”

Nik knew not to be surprised the next week, but he still was when he was just feet away from Chastillon and saw Damen and Laurent through the window. They were sitting across from one another at a table by the far wall. Laurent had his laptop and a series of books spread out in front of him and Damen had a notebook and a pen. Damen looked up at Laurent once. Twice. Three times.

The next week Nik watched as Laurent did the same.

    2. Jord

The relationship Jord shared with the DeVere brothers was odd. Okay, odd was perhaps not the right word; the relationship Jord shared with Laurent DeVere was odd. The relationship he shared with Auguste was simple and easy. It was a friendship full of mutual respect and camaraderie.

Jord had known Auguste since their freshman year of school. Despite having the money to afford a place of his own, Auguste spent his first two years in the dorms and threw himself into the roommate pool. Jord and him were randomly assigned and Jord silently thanked the fates for it because Auguste really was a great friend.

Because of Jord’s past with Auguste he also was the only one of the group to have known Laurent just as long.

It was impossible to forget meeting Laurent. When Jord had, Laurent had only been fourteen years old. Even then he was smart as a whip and twice as pretty as anyone else. One year Jord even spent part of the holidays with both DeVeres. His avoidance of his own family made him susceptible to Auguste’s suggestion he come back home to The Manor with him where Laurent’s judgmental gaze waited.

Though their start was a rocky one – to keep a long story short, Laurent left Jord lying in the dirt right outside the stables – years of keeping Auguste’s friendship had cemented Jord’s relationship with Laurent.

As the years progressed, Jord came to a frightening realization that he felt protective of Laurent. He wasn’t at the level Auguste was, and he never would be, but it was impossible to not feel protective after witnessing the comments thrown Laurent’s way as he aged.

Despite the odd and brother-esque relationship Jord shared with Laurent, there was no other person he would rather have in his class this year.

Jord was TA’ing for a Roman military history course this semester. Dr. Paschal was Jord’s advisor, mentor, and favorite professor at Arles University. He’d been in the doctor’s class his freshman year and it was his guidance and passion that allowed Jord to conclude what he wanted to major in.

When Laurent had walked in on the first day a few weeks ago, he had looked at Jord with that cool stare of his and said nothing as he elegantly sat down at the end of the first row, just in front of Jord’s own desk.

Jord had been nervous. Dr. Paschal was a no-nonsense kind of guy. And while Laurent wasn’t the kind to disrupt the class for attention or for the simple purpose of being disruptive, Laurent was the kind to tell the professor they were wrong and, should the professor try to argue, eviscerate them with words alone.

By the third day, Laurent was Dr. Paschal favorite student by far. The doctor tried not to show it during class, but in private with Jord he sang countless praises of the intelligence Laurent showcased with every question, comment, and argument he made.

After several weeks, Jord lessened in his tension and, instead, joined the doctor in his amusement and even pride at Laurent’s analytical nature taking the front seat of most lectures.

“He’s a handful,” Dr. Paschal laughed one day, handing Jord some lesson plans for the following week.

Though he should have, Jord never considered that Laurent was watching. Laurent was always watching though and after class one day he had let Jord know that fact.

“If you keep laughing every time I prove someone wrong you may be accused of playing favorites.”

The cool-toned observation had startled Jord who had still been at his own desk, gathering up the four-week essays all the students in the class had written and turned in.

“I don’t think it’s me who needs to be worried about that kind of accusation. Just the doctor.”

Laurent’s lips had upturned, so slightly, and Jord still couldn’t tell you how it happened or why, but he had suddenly found them both on their way to the library in a comfortable silence.

Ever since that day, Jord and Laurent had gone to the library after their shared class. It made sense, Jord had told himself after the third time; Laurent spent most of his free time in the library anyway and going right after class was the only guaranteed way Jord would get his TA’ing duties out of the way on time.

Their studying was done in silence. Jord had learned quickly that Laurent was not to be talked to, messed with, or anything of the sort while he was studying. By the time they would grab a table (always on the fourth floor) and spread their papers, laptops, and notebooks out, Laurent would have his headphones in and his eyes on the tasks in front of him.

It went on like that for several weeks, a routine created in quiet comfortability. On occasion, Auguste even joined them, bringing along five-inch-thick textbooks that Laurent glared at when they took up too much of his own space on the table.

Though their sessions were quiet, Jord came to appreciate not only the productivity of the almost two-hours-long spent studying, but also the way they shifted his relationship with the youngest DeVere. Auguste had long lamented Laurent’s introversion. It wasn’t that Auguste had any problems with his little brother being quiet, bookish, standoffish, and even albeit shy, but he did have problems with the fact that those factors often meant one thing: that Laurent’s friend group was limited. While Jord recognized that these hours spent with Laurent would never lead to a best-friends-forever kind of situation, it did give him hope that Laurent would allow Jord to be part of his life after Auguste graduated this coming spring.

Midterms came and went and Jord and Laurent’s study sessions seemed to drag on longer than normal. Laurent, ever the perfectionist, wouldn’t leave until every line even semi-related to whatever he was working on at the time had been read, reviewed, noted, and read once more. Jord, dealing with his own personal midterms as well as his grading for Dr. Paschal’s class, was drowning in a flood of mediocre to superb sophomore papers all relating to the social reforms that shifted Rome from its republic to its time of the mid-Roman empire, couldn’t seem to catch up at all.

A particularly tense Roman military class went by in a blur the week after midterms. The doctor wasn’t happy with several of the students’ assignments and Jord found himself on the receiving end of several dirty looks from those who knew he himself did a large chunk of the grading. Jord blamed the tension on how he missed the approaching figure throwing a bout of shade on the library door.

“Let me grab that for you guys,” a deep and warm voice said from behind and to the right. Both Jord, and appearingly Laurent, had been too in their own heads that they had missed Damen of all people joining them on the front steps of the library.

“Damen,” Jord started with a smile, moving to the side so Damen could pull open the first door, “what are you doing here right now?”

Damen was a hard to miss kind of guy with his height, muscles, and large personality and heart to match, and Jord mentally sped through the last several weeks in his head, trying to place if he’d seen Damen here. It wasn’t that it was an unexpected thought for Damen to be at the library, but the group was close enough that if even one person was present somewhere, it would be odd to miss another.

“I’ve got a group project for my physiology class,” Damen made a face. “I usually go to the gym around this time, but it was the best time for everyone else to meet. I can always do the gym later.”

Jord hummed in agreement, only to remember Laurent was beside him. Quiet as always, Laurent seemed unfazed at running into Damen here. Instead he was looking at the door handle still in Damen’s hand before commenting in a monotonic voice, “Are we going to stand here and blockade everyone inside or are we actually going to walk through the doors? I’d hate for you to be late.” He said the last part while pointedly moving his eyes up to Damen’s face, but Damen only smiled. There was a dimple indented in his left cheek.

With an ever-so-slight flourish, Damen pulled the door wide open and Jord followed Laurent’s determined footsteps, pausing to tell Damen a quick thanks.

The fourth floor was relatively empty, a fairly usual sight at one o’clock on a Thursday, and by the time Jord caught up with Laurent he was already spreading out two notebooks, a textbook, and his laptop. Before long they were both taking up most of the table with all their things and studying like normal. It was hard to keep focused, however, when a group – large and loud – came up the staircase and onto the fourth floor, assumingly looking for some tables. The vibration of plasticky wood across thin library carpeting a few minutes later indicated they had found those tables.

When Jord looked up from his own laptop, he immediately was met with seeing Damen again. He was with the other five people that had wandered up the stairs and he waved at both Jord and Laurent upon seeing them again. Jord waved back and sighed in silent relief when the group got much quieter upon settling down.

The six had pushed three tables together and fished a thick packet of papers out of each of their bags. For a while, the only sounds were the hushed whispers of one of them reading over, what Jord could only assume were, the requirements for their project and the familiar sound of papers being flipped and turned as they continued along.

It was only after a few minutes of that that Jord realized there was another familiar sound missing. Looking up curiously, Jord found that Laurent wasn’t touching his laptop as per usual. Instead he was staring unblinkingly at the page of notes lying on the table in front of him. His face was too close and, upon watching him for a moment, Jord realized that was so he could look over to his left without being too obvious.

Unsure of what to do or what was going on, Jord forced his gaze back into his own papers and soon found himself caught in the rhythm of it all. By the time Jord looked up again, Laurent seemed back to his normal self. The keys of his keyboard sunk down with the fast pace of his fingers and the pages of his book turned with purpose.

It wasn’t until the next week that Jord managed to put two and two together.

Damen met them at the front door again, holding it open with another flourish and a smile, and Laurent seemed to pay no mind to it until Damen was settled in with his group. Confused by Laurent’s distractedness, Jord did his best to keep working diligently. He succeeded for some time, but when he felt Laurent jolt beside him, he found his desire to understand what the hell was going on takeover.

It didn’t take a genius to realize the only thing that could have caused Laurent to jolt was Damen’s laugh. It was a loud laugh, one that came from the chest and lit up Damen’s whole face, and it wasn’t library quiet. But it wasn’t that the sound scared him, Jord knew that much, because they had endured much louder in the university library. Staring at the blond, Jord found him not hiding how he looked to his left now. Following his line of vision, Jord watched as Damen talked animatedly to the woman next to him. She must have been the cause of his laughter and Jord was captivated by her long dark hair. It curled at the ends.

It was the woman’s turn to laugh this time and her laugh was quieter than Damen’s own. It did get louder when Damen playfully plucked the stack of papers out of her hand and held them high above his head, an area far too high for her to reach. Jord knew Laurent heard her too as she loudly whispered, “Damen, stop! Give it back!” before putting her right hand on Damen’s left shoulder so she could try to get some leverage.

It made sense. Laurent had a crush.

For a few minutes, Jord couldn’t put a finger on why this all bothered him. Laurent had a crush, so what? But then it dawned on him in one exact moment, the terrifying way in which this could all go alarmingly wrong and it panicked Jord so much that he almost reached for his phone so he could tell someone about it all and get them on his side.

There’s too much fragility here, he thought with his eyes still on Laurent. Damen was a great guy, he was, but he was also a bit of a heartbreaker. And he had an affinity for blonds. Meanwhile Laurent had never been interested in anyone and, with another grim thought, Jord played with the notion of Laurent’s feelings becoming known. There were several things that could happen and none of them were good.

Jord grabbed his pen, tilted his notebook, and made a quick list.

If Laurent’s feelings were ever known:

    1. Damen would think with his dick and not his head and Laurent would be another blond at Arles University left alone after a few fun nights. It would strain, at the very least, Auguste’s relationship with all of them.

    2. Damen would think with his head and not his dick and Laurent’s first (known to Jord) crush would be unrequited and would leave him heartbroken. It would strain, at the very least, Auguste’s relationship with all of them.

    3. Damen would think with his dick and not his head, but try for an actual relationship with Laurent, only for one of them to do something that would lead to a – probably – messy breakup soon. It would strain, at the very least, Auguste’s relationship with all of them.

    4. Damen would think with his dick and not his head, but try for an actual relationship with Laurent, only for Damen to graduate and move on with his life plans, ultimately leading to a breakup because of the different points they would both be at in their lives. It would strain, at the very least, Auguste’s relationship with all of them.

Jord lamented as he looked down at his messy scrawl. This wasn’t good.

The next week played out much the same. Neither Jord nor Laurent seemed to get much work done. Laurent kept looking to his left, expression unreadable, as Damen worked and joked around with his project partners. Jord kept looking up at Laurent, wishing he had a superpower where he could change people’s thoughts. While he looked at Laurent, he tried his best to look on the bright side of things. Damen was a great guy and would never go out of his way to intentionally hurt Laurent. And Laurent was smart and practical and wouldn’t be petty should Damen, rightfully, turn him down.

Laurent was so quiet that there was a chance that no one outside of Jord would ever know anyway. Jord found himself asking within his own head, When was the last time Laurent shared his feelings with the group? The answer was an obvious “never.”

Jord also found his shoulders easing with the knowledge of how dense Damen could be. For a guy that hooked up as often as Damen did and had an endless line of people interested in him, Damen oftentimes missed that people were into him. Jord thought of Jokaste – or as the group fondly referred to her, Lady Macbeth – and how she had to walk up to Damen and declare “We should fuck” before he got the message.

There was hope.

The following Thursday went by about the same, only Jord thought he could feel Laurent’s heart beating all the way from his own seat. Damen, as always, was focused most of the time, only getting distracted when everyone else needed a break from thinking. Recognizing Laurent’s look meant he could recognize the look the girl with the beautiful dark hair was giving Damen as well.

The next week went by a bit different. For one, Damen was chattier, and he even went on to join Jord and Laurent as they made their way to the fourth floor of the library. Jord noted how good Laurent was at controlling himself. He looked unbothered by Damen’s presence, as though he could be doing any mundane task and would be more entertained, and Damen merely talked amicably to the both of them like he didn’t notice.

When they went their separate ways, Damen to his group and Jord and Laurent to their two tables, Jord awaited the settling that occurred before Laurent felt unwatched enough. But Damen’s group didn’t settle this time. They were rowdy, reminiscent of the way they were the first day they came to work on the project, and Jord quickly found out why; he could hear them talking, could hear one of the other guts say “Let’s look over everything one more time and call it.”

Soon (far too soon for an entire readthrough of the project) there was a too loud shriek of happiness from the beautiful dark-haired girl and Damen was clapping everyone on the shoulder. Goodbyes and “See you all on Wednesday!” and “Dress like you’re not hungover for once, Hendric!” were exchanged. Jord switched his view from the group to Laurent, in front of him as usual.

Laurent was outwardly engaged in whatever was on his laptop screen. He had the eraser-end of his pencil pressed against his mouth and one of his feet was tapping ever-so-quietly under the table. Jord had to hand it to him, Laurent could act out almost anything convincingly. He could act almost anything so that he didn’t look nervous or anticipatory as Damen walked over to them after giving one last wave to the project group.

“Hey,” Damen started, his voice much quieter than that of what he had left and Jord looked up only to realize Damen wasn’t addressing him. “We’re finally done with that awful project, but I’ve gotten used to coming to the library around this time. I was wondering if I could join you for the rest of the semester?” He looked earnest with his genuine smile and his bag swinging at his feet.

“I thought you went to the gym around this time,” Laurent simply said, no question or heat behind his words.

“I’ve actually been getting up early so I can work out before any of my classes.”

“Prioritizing studying and your health above your sleep? I’m shocked.”

“It’s a new semester, new me,” Damen laughed. “Well, sort of. A new half of a semester, a new me. So, what do you say?”

Laurent said nothing but went to busying his hands with moving around his laptop and notebooks. Damen didn’t repeat himself. Instead he turned to Jord and Jord shrugged. He wasn’t about to get involved in this now that they’d ignored him anyway.

“Oh, do sit down. I was merely making room for all your giantness to have a place.”

Damen’s grin was brilliant, and he pulled out the free chair to Laurent’s right and Jord’s left.

“If you’d like, I can bring you one of those lattes you love,” Damen said. Laurent hummed.

“We have a perfectly fine school café here on the second floor. I’ll have you fetch Jord and I something from there sometime.”

“I’m fetching now, am I?”

“Why else would I agree to you being here?”

Once the ribbing had gotten out of their systems, things got quiet. The next week, Damen beat the both of them there and had their table all ready. It was now that Jord realized, when Damen wasn’t working on a project he spent as much time, if not more, as Laurent when it came to staring at the other. Sometimes Jord would glance up only to find Damen completely enthralled in Laurent’s studious face. Sometimes Jord would glance up only to find Laurent scanning from the top of Damen’s head to the tips of his fingers. Jord felt intrusive.

Gently pulling his notebook out of his bag, Jord flipped to the page where had made his “If Laurent’s feelings were ever known” list. Some of the pencil had smudged from being jostled around while Jord walked about, but it was still plenty readable. Eyes down for the first time that day, Jord found himself adding to the list and laughing at himself for how stupid he was for making the list in the first place.

    5. Damen and Laurent would both think with their dicks and not their heads but would ultimately beat the odds stacked up against them. Auguste would be happy Laurent was happy.

    3. Jokaste

Even though she was a head-turning beauty, Jokaste wasn’t exactly the most popular person. There was a list of things that could be blamed for such a fact, and whilst Jokaste herself would list other peoples’ intimidation of a woman making her way in this world with no attention given to what others thought, the main reason was simply because she wasn’t kind.

Her pregnancy hadn’t changed that. Kastor had made a joke once that maybe she would lighten up a little when the baby decided to play with her hormones. She was six months into the ordeal now and not a thing was different. People still went out of their way to stay clear of her bad side, and her bad side still made appearances as often as she saw fit to keep things on track.

Though there was no softness about her, there was something the pregnancy had changed. She would never admit such a thing, of course, as it would be too vulnerable to say out loud, but as the baby kicked and shifted within her, she found herself wanting more and more to raise this child in a family.

It was obviously hormones putting a nasty toll on her body and mind, but it didn’t make it feel any less real. And the realness of it always hit her in the dead of night as Kastor slept soundly beside her.

There were some nights that her mind wandered to the time she was able to be part of something. The boys had been just that – boys. But they had been kind and funny and had gone out of their way for her more times than she could count. Sure, Nik only came to change her tire and Berenger only gave her his umbrella on a rainy Wednesday and Alexon only gave her his notes from their once-shared philosophy class for a day she had missed because she was Damen’s girlfriend and Damen’s girlfriend alone, but it had been something.

Inevitably, with a hand on her stomach and her head next to Kastor’s, her mind would wander to Damen and she would force it to cease its thinking immediately. But sometimes her wandering won, and she thought of him anyway.

There were a lot of things to think about when it came to Damen. Jokaste most often found herself thinking of the weight of his arm around her shoulder or the warmth of his laugh. Lately, the latter made her think of him laughing with his child – their child – and she would make herself face Kastor’s sleeping form and accept her decision to have his child instead.

It didn’t make it any easier.

The realistic part of her knew that even if this child was Damen’s (and it wasn’t, that had been made certain by Kastor), her relationship with Damen was unsalvageable. Fucking someone’s brother behind their back made trust impossible to rebuild. And even if Damen and his big heart wanted to give her another chance, she had witnessed the way Nik and Auguste and the rest of that group looked at her now. They were like bodyguards of Damen’s heart-covered sleeves.

The few times she had ran into any of them since The Incident had been brief, nothing but passings-by from people living in the same city. There was one time she had seen Nik in town and momentarily wondered if he had snipped the brakes in her car. Other than that, her run-ins with them were cold-shouldered and uneventful...until tonight, anyway.

She was grocery shopping. It was a mundane but necessary task, and Jokaste preferred to do it late into the evening. There were less people, less screaming children, and it gave her more time away from Kastor’s watchful eyes. She hadn’t been in the store long when she heard them. They were loud as ever and one indecipherable screech, from Orlant or Lazar, surely, almost made her drop the mango she was inspecting.

“Listen up,” came Auguste’s unmistakable leader voice, “we don’t have all night. Mostly because I have class at eight tomorrow morning. New Year’s is in three days. Our best way to do this is to assign sections and split up.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” That was Lazar.

“Orlant, Rochert, and Huet are in charge of chips and the like. Nik, Berenger, and Alexon are in charge of mixers. Jord, Pallas, and Lazar are with me to get the alcohol. Damen, you can go grab some ice and meet up with Nik, Berenger, and Alexon after. All clear?”

“What about me?”

“Laurent, you can go wherever you want. But you have to be out of here before we buy everything.”

There was a lot of laughing and Jokaste could imagine the elbows being shoved in rib cages at this exact moment.

“It’s because he’s a baby,” someone cooed.

“He’s going to get our drinks confiscated,” someone else teased.

“You’re all laughing, but he could kill you and make it look like an accident,” Auguste said all too seriously. “So, are we all clear?”

“Crystal, captain,” Orlant said, joining in on Lazar’s fun.

The shuffling of their feet as they split up was too loud in the otherwise quiet store. By the time Jokaste made it into her first aisle, they were long gone to their designated areas. As she wove in and out of the aisles, she caught glimpses of some of them. She saw the back of Orlant’s head across the way as she walked by the breads. She barely missed on running into Nik as she went to grab her juice. It wasn’t until she was almost done shopping, finishing up in the frozen foods’ aisle, that she first heard him.

It wasn’t just his voice, but the way he was speaking. There was a fondness to his tone, a softness in his approach, and when he laughed at something that was said back to him it was that laugh. Jokaste knew what that laugh was, what it meant. Finding herself in a moment of weakness, she peered around the corner.

There stood Damen and next to him a lithe blond. Jokaste almost laughed. They were in front of the ice creams and frozen juice concentrates and they were pressed shoulder to shoulder as though the aisle was swarmed with more people than just them.

“Okay, but consider,” Damen started. The blond didn’t seem to want to consider, however. He was talking too quietly, too lowly, for Jokaste to hear from where she stood, but he was making good of the argument he was voicing.

“I guess, but what about afterward?” Damen asked, but he was already decided to do whatever the blond wanted. Jokaste could see it in the way he was angled, nearly drowning the blond in his presence alone.

“Fine!” Damen was laughing that laugh again. “Since you clearly know what’s best, you get it all, Laurent.”

Laurent. Jokaste knew the name and not from the brief conversation she accidentally eavesdropped on when they all first arrived. It had been the only name she couldn’t put a face to, the only name that was new. But there was still something about the name that lit a memory in her mind.

Laurent threw open one of the freezer doors before nearly crawling in to grab at things. Instead of juggling it all, he shoved them all in Damen’s awaiting arms. He moved to the next freezer door and pulled another three things out of there as well. By the time he was done, Damen’s arms were loaded with items, and Laurent was shivering ever so slightly.

“I would offer you my jacket, but my hands are a little full,” Damen told Laurent and he was all too serious about the jacket.

They had moved close enough for Jokaste to hear Laurent say, “I appreciate the offer, but I refuse to walk around smelling like Axe body spray.”

Damen scoffed, shifting the grocery load precariously stacked in his hold.

“This is Creed, Laurent. Pierce Brosnan wears it.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“He was James Bond!”

“And?”

“James. Bond. I feel like this isn’t something I should have to repeat.”

“If I say that I think that’s really, truly something spectacular, will you refrain from doing a James Bond impression?”

“No, because I know you’ll be lying.”

“What will it cost for you to not do a James Bond impression then?” Laurent deadpanned.

They continued to playfully bicker back and forth and Jokaste nearly couldn’t stomach it. Knowing they were going to see her sooner or later, she turned the corner with the intent of getting it over with. They didn’t notice her at first and it was only when she was facing them fully that she saw how close they were standing now. It wasn’t just shoulder to shoulder; it might as well have been chest to chest.

Damen, expectedly, noticed her first. She felt her heart go off its rhythm once. His eyes fell to her stomach and she had to turn away. She looked at Laurent instead.

He was a head-turning beauty also. His hair was white-blond, and it complimented the pellucid blue of his eyes and the flawless expanse of his skin. His lips, drawn tighter at her interruption, were full and a contrasting warmth in his otherwise cool-toned appearance. He had piano fingers, long boned and elegant, and they went along so well with the hold of his spine and the elegance of his frame. Yes, he was exactly Damen’s type, even moreso than she was.

“Hi, Jokaste,” Damen greeted her after the pause in conversation. Jokaste turned back to him.

“Hello, Damen,” she started. “I must say, this is one of the last places I would expect to run into you.”

“Likewise,” he agreed. “Is Kastor’s child keeping you up?”

She couldn’t help but let her eyes look down at her own protruding stomach and her right hand soon followed. The baby shifted.

“I suppose you could say that.” Her eyes turned to Laurent who was watching her with an unreadable expression. “Oh, Damen, do introduce me. We’re being quite rude to your,” she drew it out, “friend.”

“Right, of course. Jokaste this is Laurent DeVere.”

“Laurent DeVere? As in the little brother Auguste DeVere used to rave so much about?”

“He still raves as much,” Damen confirmed, and his eyes were on Laurent.

“Yes, I fear my brother has no self-control when it comes to even my smallest accomplishments.” The blond’s voice was like honey, soothing in the cold of winter and so smooth that viciousness would sound almost complimentary. He was dangerous for Damen, that she was certain of.

“Well, I’ve heard of many of them and they didn’t seem that small then and certainly not now.” Jokaste’s own voice couldn’t quite match.

Damen was still looking at Laurent and Jokaste realized what that look in Laurent’s eyes was. It wasn’t a surprise he would know about the past she shared with Damen and, upon further inspection, he very much could imagine strangling her. She almost giggled at how very Nik the look was.

Sighing too loudly, she put both of her hands back on the handle of her cart. Jokaste knew a lost cause when it was right in front of her and whatever was once there between her and Damen was long lost. It took her pushing the cart a few inches for Damen’s gaze to leave Laurent and come back to her.

“Your arms are going to freeze off if you don't take that armful to the registers soon. And your brother will be calling me soon if I don’t get home.” She took another deep breath before saying her most risky thing yet. “You should call him sometime, Damen. He does miss you.”

Once, such a suggestion would have been impossible. She hadn’t ever said it to him and, as far as she could assume, no one close to Damen would have made the same suggestion. She and Kastor were as good as dead in all their eyes. And it was easy to guess how Damen three years ago would have reacted. His anger at Kastor’s betrayal had been palpable then, physical in the way it took over him.

“I probably should,” Damen agreed now with ease. “Drive home safe.”

“You as well. It was nice meeting you, Laurent. Goodbye, Damen.”

With a bit more force, she kept on walking. She passed directly by them on Laurent’s right and when she got to the end of the aisle, she took one last look over her shoulder. Where once Damen would have stared after her with longing, he now didn’t look back, his eyes preoccupied with the one by his side.

It was almost bittersweet and as she turned into her final aisle for the night, she found herself hoping Laurent was less like her than he appeared.

    4. Lazar

The DeVere house was the unofficial-official meeting spot for the group. Auguste had made it clear from the day he moved to campus that his house was intended for anyone and everyone. It was a safe space if you needed a place to crash or needed a meal that wasn’t ramen, and that’s why it also became the unofficial-official party house. Lazar couldn’t count on both hands the number of times he had woken up from a drunken stupor at some odd place in Auguste’s house.

When Laurent had been about to start college and move in with his brother, many in the group quietly wondered if the DeVere house would stay the same. They hadn’t met Laurent at that point yet, but they had heard enough from Auguste to deduce that Laurent wasn’t quite the people person Auguste was. But when Laurent finally did move in nothing changed. If Laurent wanted privacy he simply went to his bedroom, but otherwise he was out and about the house with all the others that made their way in and out the DeVere front door.

The parties had continued too. Last night’s New Year’s party was no exception. After their grocery run three days earlier, putting things together had been easy and by seven o’clock yesterday, the thirty-first of December, the house had been packed with the usual suspects.

Music had blared from a handful of speakers and the kitchen counters had been cleared to make way for all the pizza boxes and drinks alike. The television in the living room had Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve playing, but no one had given it much attention until the last minute of the year. Instead they had all made themselves busy by talking and laughing the rest of the year away.

When Lazar finally woke up, it was at least ten in the morning on the first day of the new year. His eyes didn’t open at first, too tired and hungover and all-around disoriented from the night, and he started to feel around to get an idea at where he was. It was always a fun game for Lazar on these types of mornings. Once he had felt around and proceeded to fall down the stairs that led to the front porch. Another time he had woken up only to immediately hit his head on a pipe and he swore then and there that he would never fall asleep underneath the kitchen sink again. Today was less dramatic than either of those events. With one hand he grabbed at, what he found to be, a dresser. Groaning as he forced himself to sit up, he opened his eyes and immediately squinted at the doomful shine of the sun. A blurry look around the room confirmed several things. The first was that this was Auguste’s bedroom and Auguste was quite present, passed out soundly on his own bed with his right arm thrown over his face. The second was that the reason Lazar couldn’t feel his leg was because Pallas had made it his pillow at some point during the evening. The third thing was that his other hand was stuck underneath the dresser, somehow having slotted its way in a too tight space.

It took longer than he’d ever admit to free his arm and he almost knocked over the entire dresser while he did it. Nevertheless, he gingerly – he was a gentleman after all – moved Pallas’ sleeping head to one of Auguste’s discarded sweatshirts and hoisted himself off the ground. Everything around him swam and his hand found its way back to the dresser, this time to the top of it, to balance himself.

“Oh, god,” he groaned, and he pressed his lips tightly together to stop himself from vomiting.

Finding his way to the bathroom reminded him of that stupid game where you put your head on a baseball bat or pole of some sort and spin round and round and round until you can’t move in a straight line. The hallway was an ocean and Lazar was a mere sailor trying to survive a dreadful trip. Orlant and Rochert were already gone to the waves, leaning against one another on the left side of the hallway, a picture frame precariously hanging loose above them.

Being in the bathroom made Lazar feel better. He threw up once, twice, and then found the coordination to relieve himself. Jord was passed out in the bathtub. When Lazar flushed the toilet, Jord jerked in his sleep but was otherwise unaffected. Lazar’s hands went for his pocket, looking for his phone, and came back empty.

“Do you know how funny it would be to turn the shower on right now?” he asked Jord as though Jord could hear him. Before that kind of fun, however, he needed coffee or water or bacon covered in all its grease. Or all that.

His journey to the kitchen was much better. Getting some of the alcohol sitting stagnant in his stomach cleared his head and he was able to laugh at Nik who was sleeping upside down in a recliner. Wanting his phone even more now, he was practically running to the kitchen when he heard two voices.

They were far too sober sounding. In fact, they were talking at normal speaking levels which meant, to hungover people, they were screaming. Lazar smelled coffee too.

“Question, do you actually like the taste of coffee or do you just like having a drink you can put four cups of sugar in if you like?”

It was Damen talking, his voice warm and bright and not at all hungover sounding.

“I like coffee just fine, but why not sweeten it up? It’s no different than people eating cinnamon rolls doused in a pound of icing for breakfast.”

Laurent?

Never the posterchild for self-control, Lazar peeked around the corner. Laurent was sitting on the turn of the countertop. A steaming cup of coffee was held between both his hands and his legs were swaying back and forth ever so slightly. Damen was leaning against the counter, back pressed to it and arms crossed over his bare chest.

“Besides,” Laurent continued, “if my morning vice is putting more sugar than you deem necessary in a cup of coffee, than yours is walking around here with no decency.”

“No decency?”

“Did you forget your shirt? Did it magically fall off sometime last night? It’s absolutely freezing outside. One might think you’re trying to show off.” Laurent took a long drink.

“How dare you imply such a thing?” Damen grinned and he made an obvious flex of his muscles, his arms bulging and his abs defining even more than usual.

Lazar would have fallen out of his seat if he was sitting in one. Damen was flirting – no, scratch that – Damen and Laurent were flirting with one another.

“I never sleep with a shirt on. I’m hot-blooded. I’d kill over if I slept with that many clothes on.” Damen had moved closer as he spoke and now his left arm was tight against the outside of one of Laurent’s swaying legs.

“So, you often wake up in strange houses and decide not to put your shirt on before wandering, I take it?”

“It’s your house so it’s hardly strange. Are you really that put out about my lack of shirt?”

“Put out isn’t the term I’d use,” Laurent said.

“Flustered then?”

“You’re walking a thin line, Damen.”

The line appeared thinner, Lazar thought, as Damen invaded what space was left and settled between Laurent’s legs. His hands weighted him on either side of Laurent’s waist and Laurent didn’t even put his coffee down. It was quiet for a moment, nothing but eye contact, and Lazar couldn’t be certain with as far away as he was, but he swore Laurent’s eyes flicked down to Damen’s mouth.

“My brother will be up soon. Hungover or not, he’s nothing but punctual.”

Even leaning and even with Laurent sitting on the countertop, Damen was almost at equal height with him. It made Lazar’s stomach hot. Of course, that reminded him how nauseous he was from last night.

Yawning louder than any human ever needed to and purposefully hit the wall as he stretched. Damen jumped back like he’d been shot.

“Is that coffee I smell?” Lazar asked all too innocently.

“It is, but I’m afraid there’s none for you. I made a pourover,” Laurent told him. He looked unfazed by Lazar’s interruption and merely acknowledged Lazar with a hint of amusement at his disheveled state.

“You’re saying words that I don’t understand. Is there coffee, yes or no?”

“Not at the moment, but I can get some on. Auguste will want some when he gets up anyway.”

“You want any, Damen?” Lazar asked. Damen lifted a coffee cup from the other end of the counter and tilted it.

“Pourover.”

“Both of you keep saying that word like I know what it means.”

“It’s a brewing method, Lazar.”

Laurent got off the counter more elegantly than anyone had any right to and grabbed at the coffee pot, filling it up with water and filling the basket with grounds. Sitting in one of the kitchen chairs with his feet on the table, Lazar had a perfect view of Laurent at work and had to give a silent round of kudos to Damen; the guy might get murdered by Auguste by the end of the year, but it would be way worth it if Laurent’s ass was anything to go by.

The smell of coffee permeated the whole house almost immediately after and it’s like it was an alarm. They could all three hear Auguste’s feet hit the floor, could hear him almost trip over Pallas still lying somewhere at the foot of his bed, and could hear him grumble at other sleeping bodies he walked by. Entering the kitchen, Auguste was a sight for sore eyes. His sandy blond hair was all on the right side of his head only, the left side being completely plastered to his face, and his eyes were bloodshot.

“You’ve looked better,” Laurent commented without missing a beat.

Auguste grunted, swiping none-too-gently at his eyes, before he managed to garble out “Coffee. Ibuprofen.”

Not even bothering to hide his eye roll, Laurent went about fetching both things. The coffee was kept black and the four small white pills were a miniscule weight in his hands as he carried everything and a glass of water over to Auguste.

Pretty soon after that, all the others seemed to follow suit and Laurent, Damen, and Lazar found themselves passing out pills like they were candy and brewing their third pot of coffee for the morning. The kitchen was overflowing with hungover boys. Nik, silent in his pain, had shuffled in and immediately pulled out one of the three stools at the breakfast bar. He was joined by the now-walking duo of Orlant and Rochert. Berenger and his boy toy (Lazar still wasn’t certain what that situation was) pulled out two of the chairs next to Auguste and Lazar himself. Pallas copied Laurent and hopped up on the counter at the other end right next to the refrigerator. Lazar briefly got lost in the idea of copying Damen and slithering his way between those muscular thighs.

Shaking himself out of that too-good daydream led to Lazar searching out the two that had put it there in the first place. Laurent had resumed his position on the countertop, legs still swaying. Damen was over at the breakfast bar with a gentle hand on Nik’s back. Everyone else was too miserable to notice how Laurent’s eyes never wavered from staring at Damen across his way. Lazar couldn’t tell if he was staring at Damen’s face, at the cut of his arms, or the expanse of bare skin left on display, but all were certainly tempting. Everyone else was too miserable to notice how Damen’s gaze fell on Laurent the moment Nik quit giving him much mind. They were all too miserable to notice his none-too-subtle head-nod in the direction of the front door.

Pulling a Lazar, Laurent fake yawned as he once again hopped off the counter more elegantly than he had any right to. The stretch of his arms lifted his shirt at the expense of exposing his hipbones.

“If I don’t get moving now, I fear I’m going to go back to sleep and waste my entire day.” The reasoning was good enough and no one truly cared anyway, not with how close they all were to collectively throwing up.

That’s why they didn’t notice, or seem suspicious of, Damen doing the exact same thing almost word-for-word not five minutes later. Within the next half hour, the front door opened and closed only one time and Lazar found himself hoping they were smart enough to at least travel separately on Laurent’s way home.

    5. Nicaise

When Auguste was thirteen years old, he had volunteered in an after-school program called Big Brothers for a Big Future. The program placed eighth graders with fourth graders in need of some guidance. After school, the eighth grade Big Brothers would head over to the elementary building alongside their teacher and they would do a range of activities with their fourth-grade companion. Most of the time that activity was academically focused. But sometimes it was something fun, like heading down to the ice cream shop on the corner or playing a few rounds of kickball on the otherwise-empty playground. The program was a benefit to all parties involved. The fourth graders got the attention and role models they needed, and the eighth graders got to leave feeling accomplished.

When Auguste had first signed up, Laurent had been eight and he had cried the day Auguste told him.

With pleading eyes, Auguste had followed the sounds of Laurent’s sobs all the way up to the boy’s white bright bedroom with chapter books scattered all over the floor. It had taken a while for Laurent’s crying to subside to coherent sentences. When it finally had he had broken Auguste’s heart.

“But you’re my big brother!” the then eight-year-old Laurent said, the words muffled by the wet pillow under his face. It had taken a few more minutes for Auguste to coax Laurent to sit up, but when he had he made certain the first thing he had done was hug him.

“Laurent, I’m always going to be your big brother,” he had begun explaining to the eight-year-old. “But don’t you think other little kids should get to see what it’s like having a big brother too? Some kids don’t have any brothers or even any sisters.”

It hadn’t taken much more explaining for Laurent to understand. From day one he had been bright and the drop of his shoulders when Auguste had told him other kids didn’t get to have what he had had been all the sympathy Auguste needed to see to know Laurent had gotten it.

Over the years, Auguste had stayed with Big Brothers for a Big Future. He had always been great at connecting to younger kids, something he attributed to being such a large part of Laurent’s life, and connecting to these kids had not only been second nature but had been rewarding in ways he had never imagined.

Then there was Nicaise.

Nicaise wasn’t a Big Brothers for a Big Future kid, though he might as well have been given his past. Instead, Nicaise was closer to the DeVere’s than anyone else...well, by blood anyway. To explain it simply, Nicaise was Hennike’s cousin’s child.

Depending on the family and depending on the relevance of distance, these types of cousins may or may not be close family members. But in the instance of Auguste and Laurent, Nicaise was their closest family member and had been for the last decade. After all, when there are only three of you left living, it’s hard to be picky.

Despite everything though – the lack of remaining family, how good Auguste had always been with kids, Nicaise’s short relationship with his now-dead mother – Auguste never managed to get through to Nicaise.

Auguste blamed himself for most of it. Laurent had told him repeatedly over the years that it wasn’t his fault. But Auguste would read off his failures as though he had them on a bulleted list somewhere: how he didn’t take action after Nicaise’s mother died, how he didn’t fight for Nicaise when Nicaise ended up in the system, how he didn’t seek Nicaise out for a long time afterward, etc. And every time there was a perfectly justifiable reason to every “failure” and Laurent would read off his own list:

“Perhaps you didn’t take action after Nicaise’s mother died because you were fifteen years old, Auguste. And perhaps you didn’t fight for Nicaise when Nicaise ended up in the system because you were, again, fifteen years old and by the time you were old enough to fight, you were fighting for me as we had just lost our own parents and uncle was pleading with the courts to take me home with him. And perhaps you didn’t seek Nicaise out for some time afterward because you could worry about yourself and your own future for once in your life.”

No matter how logical everything Laurent always said was, it didn’t soothe Auguste’s heart in any way. The only thing that did was that, out of all the people in the world, Nicaise did seem to seek out a (somewhat convoluted) kind of approval from was Laurent himself.

The two had an odd relationship. If somebody were to ask what each thought about the other, Laurent would no doubt shrug as though he couldn’t care less about the boy and Nicaise would probably spit on the ground to showcase his distaste. But sometimes they held hands as they walked, acting as though Nicaise didn’t try to sabotage Laurent’s entire day in some diabolical way. And sometimes Laurent read Nicaise to sleep out of children’s books Auguste and Laurent’s own mother had read to both.

Now that Nicaise was a little older and a teenaged hellion, he had more freedom to go about as he pleased. The thought terrified Auguste and, frankly, Laurent wasn’t all too thrilled with it either. But his freedom allowed him to spend his spring breaks at Arles University with his dear cousins.

“I feel like we should be putting baby gates up or something,” Auguste lamented while Laurent made up his own futon as a makeshift bed.

“I’m just guessing, but I think he can climb over those now,” Laurent said. He was finishing tucking the corners of the comforter around the edges.

“He tell you about what he wants to do while he’s here?”

“Not really.” Laurent placed the last bit of decoration on the bed, a hand embroidered pillow Nicaise made in his home-ec class that was full of flowers and a lovingly stitched scrawl that said, “Fuck You.” “He called last week and said something along the lines of ‘Since I’m not allowed out of the country for legal purposes and I refuse to stay in this god-fucking-awful place a second longer than I have to, you should go ahead and get a bed ready for me. And not on that fucking excuse of a thing you call a futon.’ So honestly everything is all set as far as I’m concerned.”

About half an hour later there was a knock on the front door that made Auguste jump. Rolling his eyes, though whether it was at the door or Auguste’s jumpiness Auguste wasn’t quite sure, Laurent opened the door wide, revealing an already-disgruntled Nicaise.

Nicaise was a pretty thing, just on the cusp of leaving boyhood and entering that fun stage between boyhood and manhood. He had a mess of auburn curls atop his head that always seemed to look artfully tousled and his blue eyes were almost an exact match to Laurent’s, bright and clear and the color of the sea in the iciest places.

“You were supposed to call when you got to town,” Laurent told him, not bothering with a hello. Nicaise shouldered his way inside.

“What’s the fucking point of calling when I’m in town if I’m already here?” He dropped his bags with a resounding thud right in front of the door and kicked off his shoes like he belonged.

“How was your trip?” Auguste tried.

“Just peachy. I adore taking busses that stop every three minutes along the way and are full of passengers consisting of screaming babies and creepy old men. It’s truly my favorite thing.”

The first two days Nicaise spent with the DeVere brothers were uneventful, to say the least. Laurent woke Nicaise up at seven sharp every morning (“He needs to not wreck his entire schedule while he’s here. It will take him weeks to function normally again.”) and Nicaise, like a drowned tiger, growled and groaned at Laurent any time Laurent took a breath even a little louder than the last. After mostly sleeping, rifling through Auguste and Laurent’s belongings as though they were his own, and eating them out of Poptarts, waffles, and bags of chocolate chips, Nicaise felt as though he was sufficiently caught up on sleep and sweets and was ready to explore.

“Am I ever allowed to leave this dump, or am I being held prisoner until I am inevitably sent off to where I came from?” he asked after running and jumping on Laurent’s bed.

“I suppose that depends on you. You’re not seven, plan something and I’ll see if I can make it happen.”

“Oh, you’re impossible. I don’t know what’s here, so I don’t know how to plan anything. Take me exploring. I can work from there.”

Auguste, off in his classes for the moment, wasn’t privy to watch the two moan and groan as they got ready. Laurent didn’t find Nicaise’s first outfit appropriate and Nicaise thought Laurent looked like a Mennonite in his high necklines and wrist-covering shirts. It was going to rain so Laurent tossed a pair of closed-toed shoes for Nicaise to wear, but Nicaise found them ugly and tossed them right back. After a good twenty minutes of that they were both finally dressed and out the door. Other than Laurent’s black umbrella in hand and blond hair partially tucked out of his jacket collar, he and Nicaise could have been brothers.

“Where’s your car?” Nicaise asked after they walked to the end of the street.

“You wanted to explore so we’re exploring. You can’t explore in a car, Nicaise.”

“Fuck off. I’m not walking miles in this.”

“Then we can turn around.”

The rain wasn’t even bad. The raindrops that were falling were large and sparse in between, and the saturated sidewalks had hardly any puddles in their cracks and crevices. Laurent’s black boots still looked immaculate and, sure, they had only walked fifty yards or so, but it was enough to make Nicaise grunt and keep walking.

They walked a few blocks, bypassing some larger puddles and the few wandering students that were braving the rainy day, before they came across their first stop, Chastillon. It was March, and still chilly, and the inside of the coffee shop smelled of cinnamon, espresso, and raspberry danishes.

“Hi, Laurent!” the barista behind the counter said cheerily. His hair was sandy like Auguste’s, but he was tiny in stature and width and his smile was almost childlike in its purity. Laurent gave a nod in the barista’s direction.

“Isander,” Laurent greeted back with familiarity.

“Do you want your usual?”

“That would be wonderful. Can you also get me one of those disgusting large caramel blended things with all the whipped cream on top?”

“Sure thing,” Isander giggled. “You know you don’t have to pay.”

Laurent sighed, but it was accompanied with a small smile of fond exasperation. “Yes, I know.”

Isander got busy on the drinks, pressing and pulling espresso through the portafilters and putting vanilla and cinnamon in a medium hot cup and what seemed like a half pound of caramel in a blender, and Nicaise was done looking around so he turned to Laurent instead.

“Why don’t you have to pay?” Laurent’s eyes flicked down toward him. “Are you sleeping with the owner?”

“Don’t tell Auguste,” Laurent hummed.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” The screech of the milk being steamed rang out before it quickly died into a muffled bubbling sound and Laurent continued. “I have what you could call a tab here. Only as I’m not the one picking it up, I can’t answer how much I owe.”

“Is he your boyfriend?” Nicaise asked, indicating at Isander.

“No.” Laurent’s smile was real this time though.

“But you do have a boyfriend then.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Isander waved them off as they exited back outside. It was raining a little harder and Nicaise had to huddle closer to Laurent under the umbrella to avoid his jacket from being soaked.

“Where are we going now?” Nicaise asked. By the next block his drink was halfway consumed, and Laurent was sipping at his.

“I thought we could do something educational. Perhaps stop by the historical library downtown. We could even read all the plaques on the buildings and learn their stories.”

“I can’t tell if you have a stick up your ass or if you’re fucking with me,” Nicaise grumbled loudly, earning a share of dirty looks from older passerbys.

“I’m always fucking with you. If you haven’t picked up on that yet, I fear for the other obvious things in life you’ve missed.”

It was a ways away, but their next stop was a small shopping district located in Arles. There was a strip mall further down the road, but Laurent and the others preferred the convenience and experience of staying in town. It was also nice to support local business owners as often as possible.

First was a shop called Treasure Chest. Treasure Chest was true to its name and had an array of items all created by local people. Some pieces were hanging art, some clothing items, and others were knick-knacks and creations that could change on a whim. Nicaise kept going back to a ring made of kyanite. Laurent made certain to place it on the counter to buy before they left. The next stop was a bookshop, unsurprisingly one of Laurent’s favorite places in town. The bookshop owner also recognized the blond and smiled cheerily at him. Nicaise didn’t know what to make of Laurent’s seemingly wanted presence by people. Nicaise perused the shelves silently behind Laurent until he got tired of doing so and voiced such a thing. Ignoring him, Laurent continued to look, eyes scanning high and low, until he plucked a red sleeved book from one of the bottom shelves. When he went to pay, Nicaise threw down a handful of bookmarks and pens.

“For school,” he said with an eye roll.

Their next several stops were all clothing stores. Laurent picked himself out a scarf from a post-winter sale at the haberdashery on Main and suggested that the closer they got to the next school year approaching Nicaise should come visit and get fitted for a suit. “It’s never a bad idea to have one nice suit in your closet,” Laurent pointed out. A tiny boutique next to it was geared for the younger crowd and Nicaise had an armful of shirts, jackets, and colorful socks that Laurent bought without even needing asked. Across the street was a shoe store where Laurent already had an order on hold that he picked up, telling Nicaise how the winter weather destroyed his favorite pair of brown-laced boots.

Though they had nowhere to be, they made a hurried few drop-ins at small shops as they made their way to the most important part of the day, a stop for food.

“You’re going to let me order for you at Mellos,” Laurent told Nicaise. The crinkle of their shopping bags matched in rhythm with the steps of Laurent’s boots.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I know what you would like best.”

As it was only a Wednesday, Mellos wasn’t too packed at all. Laurent and Nicaise were seated right away at a little table by the window and Nicaise browsed the menu, pretending disdain. After a moment, he tossed the menu with a flick of his wrist.

“Something wrong?” Laurent asked, not looking up from his own menu.

“Well as you’re ordering for me, I don’t see the point in wasting my time looking,” Nicaise said. The waiter brought out coffee and water for the both of them and Nicaise made certain to bark a request for a raspberry lemonade instead.

“You need to ask nicely,” Laurent told him after the waiter walked away.

“Eat me,” Nicaise spat.

“You’re not better than him or any other person, Nicaise. Even if you don’t want to be kind, be polite.”

“Are we here to improve on my lacking personality traits?”

“I thought we were getting lunch,” Laurent said. He finally put his menu down and looked straight at Nicaise.

“Stop looking at me,” Nicaise said after a moment. Laurent smiled a bit but didn’t look away. The waiter was back and dropped off Nicaise’s raspberry lemonade. “Thank you.” Laurent’s smile quirked at the corners a bit more.

“Now that you’ve seen some of the town, is there anything you’d like to do before you go back to school?” Laurent asked him.

“There’s not much here. I don’t know how you and Auguste stand it here, it’s very boring.” Nicaise was slumped now, arms crossed over his chest.

Laurent made a noise of understanding and adjusted the placement of his silverware on the table. “I suppose it is boring here for a fourteen-year-old. When you’re here at school, it becomes much more important to find these places for life’s simple pleasures. Like a place to find a good book or a hole in the wall with warm food.”

“Auguste says it’s important to make good friends,” Nicaise said.

“I suppose that’s true as well. Auguste is very good at making friends. He has so many that he met through the university.”

“You don’t have many friends, do you?” Nicaise asked. Laurent looked more closely at him and, for once, could see this wasn’t an attempt at maliciousness. There was an innocence in Nicaise’s curiosity here, something he didn’t often show since hitting double-digits.

“No, I don’t.” With a delicate hand, Laurent gently mixed the sugar and cream into his coffee. “I’ve never been very good at making friends. If it wasn’t for Auguste’s love of me, I often wonder if I would have any here. I’m sure it’s no secret that all of my friends are Auguste’s own. They’ve taken me in.”

“Like a stray cat.”

“That’s a good analogy for it.”

The waiter came by once more and this time Laurent placed their orders. For himself he ordered lemon mascarpone crepes with a bowl of fresh fruit salad. And for Nicaise he ordered Mellos’ specialty, a banana foster French toast bake.

“So, you don’t have any friends of your own then?” Nicaise asked, clearly still interested.

“Not really,” Laurent said honestly. “Everyone I talk to knew Auguste first.”

“What about the barista at the coffee shop we went to today? He seemed to like you. Or the boy at the bookstore?”

“The boy at the bookstore is simply used to seeing me. I’m in there quite often, unsurprisingly I’m sure. As for the coffee shop, I believe Erasmus looks forward to me coming in solely because of my usual coffee shop companion. You should see how red his face gets.”

“He does seem like the type to fall all over Auguste,” Nicaise said.

“Surprisingly, Auguste doesn’t have much effect on the poor boy. I thought he would as well, but Erasmus is usually preoccupied with watching one of Auguste’s friends instead,” Laurent explained. If Nicaise would have been a dog, his ears would have perked up noticeably.

“Do you often go to the coffee shop with one of Auguste’s friends? Or is Auguste usually with you?”

“It depends, I suppose,” Laurent answered flippantly.

“Maybe I’ll ask Auguste what his favorite drink at that shop is. The caramel drink you got me was fine, but maybe I’d like what he gets instead. It was called Chastillon, yes?” Nicaise asked, pulling his phone out from his back pocket. Laurent’s stare was full of warning.

“Auguste doesn’t attend Chastillon with me often, actually,” Laurent said. His voice was clear as crystal.

“Interesting.”

“I’m not quite sure what is interesting about it. But by all means, I can fish around and get other recommendations for drinks at Chastillon if you’d like.”

“We’ll see how your food taste compares to my own first,” Nicaise said, calculating.

Laurent and Nicaise must have inherited the same sweet tooth gene from their mothers’ side, which was something Laurent had been betting on anyway. Both of their plates came out dripping in syrups and berry compotes and both were eaten clean within twenty minutes. They didn’t get much talking done with their faces full, but Nicaise was quick to speak when he was done.

“I suppose that was...” he trailed off, right hand over his too-full stomach.

“Adequate?”

Nicaise hummed in agreement and wiped a dreg of syrup from his face. His hands were childlike-sticky, and he glared at the spring of unread notifications on his phone.

“I’m going to go wash my hands,” Nicaise said, pushing back from the table.

“Perfect. I’m going to run out the door and leave you with the bill,” Laurent said. He was already pulling his wallet out and rifling through his cash.

After paying and strolling out the door, Laurent repeated his most asked question once more.

“Alright, if you don’t have any places you want to go right now, I say we head back home. We can wait until Auguste gets back and go to the movies tonight,” Laurent suggested as they waited to cross the street.

Nicaise didn’t say anything at first, fine with whatever Laurent wanted to do next, but as they continued walking a bright pink and yellow sign caught Nicaise’s eye and he subconsciously slowed down. He could see inside and there wasn’t a line present to hold him back from immediate gratification.

“We could go there first,” he said, trying for a casual thumb-jab in the direction of the still-holding-his-eyesight pink and yellow sign.

“An ice cream shop?” Laurent asked, eyebrow raised. “Didn’t you get enough sugar at lunch?”

“I’m fourteen. There’s no such thing as too much sugar,” Nicaise said matter-of-fact.

“Fine, but the moment you start bouncing off the wall I’m handing you over to Auguste.”

The cold temperature of the ice cream shop hit them in a wave the moment they opened the door and the cute bell above rang out. They were greeted kindly by a young woman in a white hat and Nicaise immediately beelined to the counter so he could look up at the wide menu.

“Look,” Nicaise started, tugging on Laurent’s sleeve. “They have eight different kinds of strawberry ice cream.”

“There are over twenty different kinds of toppings you can get on them all, too.”

“Hello,” Nicaise said to the girl at the front. “On a scale of one to ten, how good is the strawberry cheesecake ice cream?”

Laurent was having too good a time watching Nicaise interact passionately about ice cream that he didn’t pay any mind to the bell above the door jingling. Instead he stepped up and made his own order and moved down to the register to pay.

“Actually, can you add a scoop of sea salt and honey ice cream to that order? I’ll get it.”

Nicaise wouldn’t have thought much of the voice, wouldn’t have noticed the man was adding something to his and Laurent’s order, but Laurent’s head actually whipped to the side in surprise and that was enough to turn Nicaise’s attention from the smooth push and scoop of the strawberry cheesecake ice cream into the cone.

When Nicaise turned around, he was met with the biggest man he’d ever seen this up close. The man had waves of dark brown hair that were slightly damp, no doubt from the earlier rain, two bulging biceps that were threatening to tear the thin material of his t-shirt, a wide and bright smile that only didn’t show when he was speaking with his warm voice, and a pair of kind brown eyes that hadn’t left Laurent’s face. It wasn’t odd for men to look at Laurent like that. It wasn’t even odd for men to look at Nicaise like that. But there was a softness in the gaze that Nicaise didn’t know how to read and the way Laurent’s ears matched the pink of the strawberry ice cream at the counter was even more unexpected.

“Did he get the affogato?” the man asked Nicaise. “He really likes those, but sometimes he’ll go for a chocolate heart attack, a disgusting display of chocolate ice cream, hot fudge, chocolate chips, and crushed Oreos.”

“Here’s your affogato!” the girl behind the counter said with a big smile, answering the man’s question. Laurent took it from her gently, ears still pink. The man handed the girl a twenty and when she handed him his almost seven dollars in change, he stuffed it all in the tip jar.

“Damen,” Laurent started, reaching for his own wallet, “let me at least pay for mine and Nicaise’s. And give you back money for the tip.” The man – Damen – made a face and took his own ice cream from the girl.

“I’ve got it.”

Laurent sighed and started out the door. Nicaise watched with interest as Damen followed and held the door open for Nicaise to exit out of first. The rain had long let up and the few tables outside of the ice cream shop were under an awning that had kept it all dry.

“Damen, this is Nicaise. He’s my cousin. Nicaise, this is Damen. He’s one of Auguste’s friends.”

“One of Auguste’s friends!” Damen exclaimed. His free hand went to his chest in mock-shock. “That hurts, Laurent. It hurts right here.”

“Oh, do stop,” Laurent said. It was as close to begging as Nicaise had ever heard from him

“Are you Laurent’s coffee shop companion as well as his ice cream shop companion then?” Nicaise asked. Damen turned to him. Nicaise’s stomach flipped a little.

“Coffee shop companion? Yes, I suppose that’s a fitting title,” Damen laughed. Laurent huffed. “That’s actually how I convinced him to get the affogato for the first time. He had been in an exam that day, so he didn’t get his morning coffee.”

“He’s dreadful without his coffee in the morning,” Nicaise commented.

“So, you know why it was so important to get him a sufficient amount of caffeine then?”

“I am not unbearable without coffee,” Lauren defended himself.

“But he still wanted something sweet,” Damen continued. He nodded once at Nicaise’s own ice cream cone, three scoops of strawberry cheesecake ice cream starting to drip down the sides, all of it covered in crushed graham crackers and chocolate drizzle. “It seems to run in the family. The affogato seemed to cover both of those wants, but I fear it’s made him an espresso monster instead.”

“Will you two stop talking about me as though I’m not here?” Laurent asked, but his almost smile was hidden behind his spoon.

“How are you?” Damen asked as he immediately gave in to Laurent’s request. His voice was low in his chest, smooth like the honey dripping down his own ice cream cone.

“I’m fine. I’ve been busy watching this one,” Laurent said.

“I don’t need babysat,” Nicaise protested.

“How are you?” Laurent asked back, ignoring Nicaise.

“I’m fine. Just had lunch with Nik. I’ve got my comparative history midterm in about thirty minutes.”

“Comparative history...is that the course with the professor who wears flip flops with his suit?”

Damen laughed.

“It is. He said there’s a surprise question at the end that isn’t not having to act out a speech given by a historical figure. So,” Damen said, eyebrows raised as though it was now dawning on him how terrible this midterm could be, “keep me in your thoughts so I survive the day.”

“I doubt me thinking about your poor life choices to be a history teacher will help ease your pain,” Laurent pointed out.

“Maybe not, but at least I know you’ll be thinking of me.”

Laurent said nothing, but the flush from his ears had conveniently moved to his face and that expression Nicaise was confused about earlier made a lot of sense. The intense shared eye contact was making him uncomfortable now though. He coughed once to regain their attention. It was granted.

“How long are you visiting your cousins, Nicaise?” Damen asked him.

“I’m leaving on Saturday.”

“Maybe we’ll run into one another again then,” Damen said.

“I have a feeling we will,” Nicaise told him. Damen grinned.

“Well, until then,” he trailed. “I’m off for what will be one of my weirder tests. Bye, Nicaise. It was wonderful to meet more of the DeVere family.”

“I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow?” Laurent asked, trying to sound indifferent and almost succeeding.

“I suppose you will. Goodbye, Laurent.”

“Bye. Until tomorrow.”

Damen had been smiling since the second Nicaise first turned around and saw him, but his smile at this moment rivaled the shine of the sun.

“Until tomorrow.”

With his ice cream still in hand, Damen turned and started back toward the university buildings. His bag was hitting at the back of his thigh as he walked and Nicaise and Laurent both watched as he waved to a few people he clearly knew down the road. Nicaise stopped watching Damen and instead watched Laurent once more. His eyes didn’t leave Damen until Damen disappeared behind a building further away. It seemed only then that he noticed Nicaise’s stare.

“What?”

“I thought you didn’t have a boyfriend.”

Laurent stood up and walked over to the trashcan near the entrance to the ice cream shop and dumped his empty cup into it. Silent, he grabbed the bags he had gathered along their trip and had sat on the table. Nicaise followed, still licking at his ice cream cone.

“I never said that either.”

    +1. Auguste

Auguste wasn’t a crier. None of the DeVere family were criers. Auguste could count the number of times he had seen both of his parents cry on one hand. Auguste could count the number of times he and Laurent had cried on his other, unused hand. It was a shock, then, that Auguste found himself tearing up on his graduation day.

Yes, graduation day had arrived in an unexpected fashion. It snuck up on everyone, eating up all their time and patience with long nights stuck in their books, and suddenly it was here. For most of them, it meant being one year closer to completing the seemingly impossible task of graduating. For Auguste and Jord, it meant moving on from Arles University and into the world around them.

Some people are fearful of what lies ahead after graduation. But Auguste wasn’t afraid of the path he’d made for himself. Seven years of hard work had made him confident in his field and he had a wonderful opportunity lined up for himself. His future was bright and clear.

But his future was also sending him off to Alier, a whole five hours from Arles. Most shakingly, a whole five hours from Laurent.

Five hours may not seem like an eternity of time, but it did put limitations on how often Auguste could come visit and how often Laurent could come visit him. The thought made his chest ache. Given their past and their lack of family to rely on, the two brothers had been inseparable as long as they could remember. Now Auguste was doing the separating and a small part of him worried that Laurent would never forgive him.

“Are you going to walk across stage like a normal human being, or are you going to do something inevitably embarrassing, like trying to backflip and falling on your face?”

Laurent had gone to fetch a proper tie for Auguste’s suit and Auguste turned and tried to wipe at his eyes before he was found out.

“I’m more worried about Lazar or someone trying to humiliate Jord and I by screaming an awful amount or doing that thing they did at the final match of the year,” Auguste confessed.

“You mean when Lazar moaned every time you scored?”

“Yeah, that thing.”

The conversation had Auguste thinking he was in the clear, but he should have known better. The moment he turned, Laurent saw. Auguste watched as his always-with-a-plan baby brother took an uncharacteristic pause to assess the situation and he watched as Laurent’s face dropped in confusion and, what almost appeared to be, fear.

“What’s wrong, Auguste?” he asked. His voice was quiet, unsure, and Auguste smiled true and wide to ease that away the best he could.

“Nothing.” He took a few steps forward and took the tie – blue – from Laurent’s hands. He looped it once around his neck and let it lie there undone and with another gentle movement, he pulled Laurent in close for a hug.

It took a moment for Laurent to catch up, but when he did his arms wrapped around Auguste with a strong grip. It was quiet except for their shared breathing and Auguste was taken back to the first time he held Laurent. That early spring morning twenty years ago was so vivid in Auguste’s mind. He had felt so big then, at the wonderful age of six, and Laurent had been handed to him to hold, one of his tiny little hands wrapped around Auguste’s own. And Auguste knew at that moment he would do anything to keep his little brother safe.

“I feel as though I’m abandoning you,” he admitted. Laurent pulled back, eyes searching, and then he smiled brilliantly.

“How on earth are you abandoning me?” Laurent sounded genuinely taken aback, and a bit amused, and Auguste took another step, this one backwards, to let them both breathe.

“I don’t know,” Auguste started. He began attempting to tie his tie, crossing the two ends and looping one of them around the other. “We’re all we’ve got, you know? We’re all we’ve ever had. I fought so hard to keep you from uncle after we lost mom and dad. I watched you work so hard on your own to be the best person you can be. And suddenly I’m leaving for Alier. I’m leaving you here on your own.”

The tears were starting to come back and Auguste was frustrated at their reappearance. He wiped his hand at them again and laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.

“Look at me crying and worrying as though I don’t know you’re not capable of taking care of yourself.”

“I am,” Laurent said. “But that’s only because of you.”

“You would have been more than fine on your own. You’re the strongest person I know, Laurent.” The tie was still hanging limp against Auguste’s dress shirt. Laurent stepped forward once more, reaching for the ends of the tie and beginning to loop it in a perfect Kelvin knot.

“That’s still because of you. And it is also because of you that I am going to be perfectly fine here. You’ve paid off this house so I have a place to live while I continue my education here. You’ve done nothing but encourage my career pursuits and ensured I was on the best path to see to those here at Arles.” Turning, Laurent plucked Auguste’s matching suit jacket from where it was resting on the chair. The tie was impeccably tied. “Don’t repeat this, either, but you’ve also introduced me to some pretty wonderful people.”

Auguste looked at him, eyebrows raised, as he shrugged into the jacket. Laurent smoothed down the lapels himself and rolled his eyes when he caught Auguste staring.

“Oh, don’t act surprised. You’ve befriended some nice people here. While I trust my own capabilities, I also believe that if something were to happen, I could go to any of them and they would help me,” Laurent said.

“They are all pretty great,” Auguste agreed with a wide smile. It was amazing how his shoulders had untensed with Laurent’s honesty and he found himself smiling even wider. If he smiled anymore his cheeks were going to ache. “So, you like my friends? You’ve never said that.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t know that already,” Laurent said. He walked over to the mirror and smoothed out his own clothes. “I wouldn’t be around them all the time if I didn’t somewhat enjoy their presence.”

“It’s still good to hear it.”

The graduation ceremony went by in perfect form. And perfect form meant it went the way everyone expected. It was long, speeches were given that put people to sleep, and the line of graduates was so extensive that people could hardly keep their focus for when their graduate was finally crossing the stage. That didn’t stop Lazar from doing what he’d said he’d do and, sure enough, when both Auguste and Jord crossed that stage, Lazar had the cowbell ready to clang as loudly as possible.

“You look very smart with your diploma,” Laurent said in greeting as Auguste and Jord managed to stumble out of the wild crowd of graduates and their families blocking at the convocation entrances following the ceremony.

“And you look far too pleased at Lazar’s antics,” Auguste laughed. He accepted the barrage of hugs from the entire group and continued to laugh as Jord was pulled from where he was a step behind Auguste and crushed by them all as well.

“Well it wasn’t all that funny until you tried to wave off the sound and that poor group of girls thought you were waving at them and they all swooned.”

“I thought I brought a well-needed amount of life to graduation,” Lazar defended, not sounding at all chastised.

“You brought a not-needed amount of obnoxiousness,” Nik said.

“You keep saying stuff like that, Nik, but before we graduate, we’re going to end up in bed together in a drunken tumble. We both know it.”

Nik made a face, and everyone elbowed at him suggestively. No one commented on the fact that Lazar’s arm hadn’t left from around Pallas’ shoulders for the last several months. Lazar would always be Lazar after all.

“Speaking of drunken stumbling and tumbling,” Auguste said, shaking his hair from its greased down look from underneath his grad cap, “let’s go back to my place and party one last time.”

As it was an expected thing, Auguste had long had the house prepared for a large party. The others had added their own personal touches to make it feel like a true graduation party. Laurent had ordered a graduation cake from Fortaine, a bakery on Main, with both Auguste and Jord’s names on it. Alexon was a bartender and could get alcohol at wholesale prices, so he had the kitchen counters well stocked and in need of a ton of mixers. Damen and Nik had provided those mixers along with food from a friend who wanted to try his hand at providing catering. Berenger, unintentionally, provided entertainment with his boy toy, Ancel, who still had everyone scratching their heads. Lazar had only provided his graduation gift to Auguste and Jord, a crude hand drawn picture of the three of them in bed, cuddling, that they had to share as it was such a masterpiece Lazar couldn’t have been expected to recreate greatness. And everyone else provided more and more guests to fill up the house with laughter and party-appropriate ruckus.

“I can’t believe this is our last party,” Orlant lamented. Though there were a good thirty other people in the house, the group was sitting together in the living room, drinks in their hands.

“It won’t be the last,” Auguste assured him. He was sitting on the arm of the couch, legs outstretched, and Laurent was sitting on the floor beside him, pressed between him and Damen. Lazar, boldly, had his head on Laurent’s own outstretched thigh and Damen took it as a prime opportunity to make Lazar’s stomach his footrest. Nik, on Damen’s other side on the couch, kept “accidently” swinging his feet and kicking Lazar in the crotch.

“But it won’t be the same,” Pallas agreed with Orlant. He was lying between Lazar’s legs, hand swatting playfully at Berenger’s untied shoelaces.

“Maybe not,” said Auguste, “but you’ll all still be here harassing Laurent and Laurent will put up with it. You can’t rule out that Jord and I won’t make visits here either.”

“Don’t give them permission to harass me,” Laurent said.

They fell into inane conversation. When Rochert and Huet got drunk, they tended to make up songs, and they made at least three in twenty minutes. By the third one they had at least half of everybody else singing along, off pitch and out of rhythm.

“Don’t yell at me for being cheesy, but the friendships I’ve made with all of you is what is making this place so hard to leave.”

Though there was music blaring and people walking all around them, it was impossible to not spend a moment quietly reminiscing. It got to them all though and a moment later a few of them were standing, dusting off their pants, clearing their throats, and it was Jord who said, “God, I need more alcohol. You all keep singing “Kumbaya” though.”

There were chuckles and affirmative agreements and the group all got up and wandered into the kitchen. All except Auguste and Laurent. From his place still in front of the couch, Laurent tilted his head back to look up at Auguste.

“You should try to enjoy yourself,” he told Auguste over the roar of the music.

“I am enjoying myself,” Auguste said, smiling softly. “But it’s a bit bittersweet at the moment.”

“Well then you’re clearly not drinking enough.” Laurent pulled himself up to stand and then extended his hands to help Auguste up. “Go have fun. Drink like you’re a freshman again and don’t focus on the bitter part.”

“And what are you going to do?” Auguste asked, shaking at the melting ice cubes in his glass to unstick them from one another.

“Supervise,” Laurent commented drily. As if cued, a crash of glass sounded out, making both Auguste and Laurent whip their heads toward the back porch. “It seems very needed right now.”

Hugging Laurent briefly with one arm around his shoulders, Auguste muttered a quick “Thank you,” and set forth into the cacophony of sound and the flood of people all in the kitchen. With smiles and exclamations of congratulations, Auguste was swarmed with love from acquaintances and casual friends who admired him as much as everybody else. He poured himself another drink, this one a bit stiffer, and fell into a pleasant conversation with Kyrina. After a few minutes he began to wonder if tonight would end as a lot of his and Kyrina’s past nights did, with them tumbling into bed after a different kind of pleasant conversation.

Eventually he got sidetracked into a different kind of conversation with Hendric. They were both going to Alier and exchanged phone numbers in hopes of having at least one familiar face. Hendric was in the middle of telling Auguste about the firm he was starting at when Ancel decided it was an opportune time to give Berenger a lap dance. All fifty-something people in the house wolf-whistled and hollered as Berenger’s normally stoic face went as red as Ancel’s waving hair.

Auguste was pouring himself his third drink when the subject of Berenger and Ancel came up from the welcome source of Kyrina and her hand on Auguste’s arm then down to his thigh made him smile.

“Laurent told me to celebrate tonight like I was a freshman again.” He covered her hand with his own, reveling in the softness of the back of her palm under his own rougher one.

“I remember when you were a freshman,” Kyrina commented lowly. “Do you remember finals week that spring?”

“You mean when you had me wear your panties to my introduction into poetry final?” Auguste asked back even lower.

“They were my prettiest blue pair. Matched your eyes,” she practically purred, hand cupping his chin.

“Coincidentally,” Auguste started, “I did make sure that my tie and boxers both matched my eyes today.”

“Boxers? How scandalous, Auguste.”

“Did you do anything as scandalous, Ky?” Auguste asked.

“Today or just in general?” Kyrina asked back.

“Oh, I know what you’ve done in general,” Auguste laughed. “But how about today?”

Kyrina put a finger to her mouth in a mock thinking pose, scrunching her eyebrows up for fun too, and Auguste wanted to kiss her.

“My underwear matches my lipstick,” she told him, smile bright. “I know it lacks creativity, but it was the best I could do on such a short notice.”

The room seemed too hot suddenly and Auguste found that the bottom of his glass was empty again. Forcing himself to pull back, to think, he maneuvered to the counter where all the mixers were long drained. He refilled his glass with ice and topped it over with cheap bourbon. Kyrina was behind him, fingers dancing over his shoulder blades.

“We still have time to make up something more fun, if you’d like.”

Auguste took a deep drink and it felt warm going down. “I very much would like that.”

“Then I tell you what,” she said, fingers still dancing. “I’m going to head upstairs to your room and you’re going to wait fifteen minutes before you follow me.”

“And then what?” Auguste turned, smile teasing. Kyrina’s lips grazed his jaw in answer and she did her own turn, winking at him as she sauntered up the staircase. The clock on the oven read 1:04. With a happy sigh and another long drink of his bourbon, Auguste began his countdown to 1:19.

It was only then that he noticed how empty the house had become. Somewhere between Kyrina and Hendric and Ancel and Berenger and Kyrina once more, the party had died down significantly to a small trickle of people consisting of his friends.

Nik and Alexon were muttering to one another in the living room, sitting across from each other in the chairs they had scooted across the floor. Huet was using Nik’s calf as a pillow and Auguste swore he could see Huet drooling from all the way across the room. On the couch was the cuddliest pile Auguste had ever seen in his life; Orlant, Rochert, Lazar, and Pallas were squished onto the worn gray cushions, each pillowed on various body parts of the other. It was sentimentality that kept Auguste at the threshold, watching his friends sleep and ramble drunkenly. They’re all so odd, he mused.

Berenger was nowhere in sight and Auguste took that as a good sign, for him and for the soon-to-be veterinarian. There was no doubt he was off with his redhead somewhere and Auguste felt a welcome flush of relief that he didn’t have to see them going at it...again...like they had during their St. Patrick’s Day party...in Auguste’s bedroom.

He knew Jord had left some hours ago with one of his own old flames. As Auguste slowly stepped about the house, he almost laughed out loud to himself at his and Jord’s luck. His laughter was only subdued by the too-sober hope that this would let Jord get over Aimeric.

The clock on the wall said 1:11. Anticipation rolled pleasantly in his gut. He set about looking for Laurent. It wasn’t in the need to overshare or posture that Auguste gave Laurent warning before he hooked up with a girl. It was more because of the time Laurent had visited over the holidays, years before he was set to start at Arles, and Auguste had hooked up with a girl one night. That following morning had been quiet, and Auguste hadn’t given it any thought after he walked the girl out to her car. But when Laurent had said calmly, over the rim of his coffee cup, “I never wanted to know that your voice range covers four separate octaves when you come,” Auguste had sworn then and there he would always give Laurent proper warning before hooking up in the bedroom next door.

“Little brother,” Auguste sing-songed, side stepping a pile of shoes. “Laurent! I know you’re not drunk because there are too many not broken things left in the house.”

He wasn’t in the living room, Auguste knew, and he couldn’t have been in the kitchen because Auguste had just been there. It took a moment for Auguste to get his bearings about him, but when he did, he started his sweep of the house. The laundry room was empty, as was the study. The lights were on in the bathroom, but the only evidence of a person in there was in the soap bubbles still sitting on the sink drain.

“Laurent, if you’re up in your room already...I’m sorry in advance,” Auguste called out loudly. It was 1:16. He was about to drag himself up the stairs, knowing full and well it would take him three minutes in his current state, when a flash of gold from outside the front door caught his eye.

Squinting, Auguste walked over and peered out the glass of the door. The gold must have been the watch on Damen’s wrist because it was still glinting softly in the dim lighting from the porch. It matched the glint coming from Laurent’s hair. It took Auguste a moment to process what he was seeing out there.

Laurent was talking away. It wasn’t the type of talking he did when he was giving someone the correct answer or eviscerating them with words alone. Auguste had seen that enough times to recognize it for what it was. No, Laurent was talking away, hands moving with some of his words and eyes swimming with exposed emotion. Auguste had seen that enough times to recognize it for what it was as well, but he couldn’t recall in that moment if he had ever seen Laurent speak that way to anyone other than himself.

Damen was listening raptly, eyes never straying from Laurent’s face. Damen’s always open emotions, these ones of concern and something Auguste couldn’t place yet, were worn out on his sleeve. He seemed utterly captivated in whatever Laurent was talking about.

Auguste watched as Laurent sighed. His shoulders heaved then dropped and his head fell forward, hair covering everything that had been so exposed. He must have said something else from underneath his curtain of hair because Auguste saw Damen smile. It was such a fond smile and it made Auguste’s eyebrows furrow together. Damen’s hand, the one free of his watch, moved forward suddenly and, with his smile still in place, he brushed that curtain of hair from the right side of Laurent’s face. His touch looked soft as he tucked the hair behind Laurent’s ear.

If Auguste had been totally sober, he probably would have raised his eyebrows in his shock. But as he was about three-quarters drunk, he physically took a step backward in the entryway, almost knocking over the table he and Laurent always threw their keys on.

His brain was so busy trying to process what he was seeing that he almost missed the way Laurent leaned into the touch, his cheek squishing adorably against Damen’s palm. Damen must have said something then because Laurent’s face was once again exposed, and his smile was a mirror of Damen’s own. His head came back up and he retucked a few stray strands behind his ear again. He said something else and looked directly at Damen, eyes dancing.

Auguste hadn’t given much thought to the way Laurent would kiss. It didn’t seem particularly important or brotherly to think about such a thing. But in those moments that he had contemplated Laurent in relationships, he didn’t expect Laurent to initiate a kiss. So, when he did, hands fisting in the front of Damen’s white tee to haul him forward, Auguste did, in fact, stumble backward and knock over the table. It was enough to garner the attention of a mostly sober Nik and Alexon. Lazar, always in tune to things with drama surrounding them, snuffled as he awoke. He excavated himself from his cuddly pile of bodies to run to the door as well.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Nik mumbled as soon as he helped Auguste off the ground. If Auguste wouldn’t have just knocked the table over, Lazar would have done so in his own play of shock.

“Is he a dead man? Absolutely. Does it look worth it? Ab-so-lute-ly,” he whistled.

Auguste’s mouth was gaping. It seemed like an eternity, though in actuality it was one minute, that the two stayed pressed together. In his head, Auguste knew he should stop; stop watching, stop the others from watching, or stop both things, but he couldn’t quite comprehend what he was seeing.

Laurent must have sensed the audience. Auguste watched as he gently, softly, pulled back, lingering for only a moment. Then his eyes opened and found the door. He didn’t turn red like Auguste thought he would, but his jaw clenched. It seemed to take Damen a second longer to gather his wits, but when he turned around, he was the one flushing red instead.

There were about twenty seconds of awkward staring between Damen and Laurent and everyone else. Then Laurent leaned forward again, this time to tell Damen something, and he stood. Auguste couldn’t not watch the way their fingertips slid apart with such reluctance.

“Not a word,” Laurent said as soon as the door opened. Damen was behind him, hand that was just holding Laurent’s own rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck.

There was a lot going on at that exact moment. Nik was glaring daggers and it wasn’t obvious if Damen was avoiding eye contact with him or Auguste the hardest. Lazar was beginning to sing “Damen and Laurent, sitting in a tree, K-I” and was silenced by Alexon slapping a hand over his mouth. Auguste was apparently still open-mouthed like a fish.

“Come on.” Laurent was talking to him. And he was following Laurent up the stairs.

Climbing the stairs felt like doing a trail run. He could feel his quads straining and heart racing, but whether the latter was because of the stair climb, his current blood-alcohol level, or his brain repeating the phrase “What the fuck?” over and over again, he couldn’t be certain.

“Is something the matter?”

Kyrina was standing in Auguste’s bedroom doorway with a sheet wrapped around her and nothing more. Auguste wanted to slap himself for forgetting her. He was grateful Laurent was still sober.

“Auguste will join you momentarily,” he told her calmly, and he ushered Auguste into his bedroom. He shut the door.

“Laurent –”

“No, you are going to let me speak before you say anything,” Laurent said, demanded. “I love you, Auguste. You know that I do. There is no one on this planet that I seek the approval of more. I am aware of the sacrifices you’ve made for me ever since we lost mom and dad. And I hope I’m, at the very least, on the right path to making you proud. But you had no right intervening in my personal relationships before I even got the chance to make them.”

Auguste was sitting on Laurent’s bed. It was meticulously made, as Laurent made it every morning, and the comforter was soft underneath Auguste’s hands. He scratched at the textured surface.

“I understand the protectiveness. Given my past, it was, and is, welcome. But if you trusted these people as your friends than it should have been a welcome thought that I would, perhaps,” Laurent paused, “engage in consensual relations with one of them. If they were your friends, you should have trusted them to treat me with kindness as they have treated you. And I should have said something earlier than now, I know that. But I am saying it now and I need you to take it to heart.”

It was a sobering conversation. Auguste took in the way Laurent was pacing, walking from his bookshelf to the edge of his desk. His copy of The Emerald Peacock was lying face down on the floor, opened to about halfway through. Auguste’s eyebrows furrowed together again, this time at the genuine worry Laurent was radiating, and he sank back further onto the mattress.

“Laurent,” Auguste tried.

“No, I need you to understand.”

“I do.” Auguste was standing now, and the room wasn’t spinning. His hands were on Laurent’s shoulders so Laurent had no choice but to look at him. “You really like him, don’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. It was enough, however, to make Laurent flush bright. Auguste smiled brilliantly. Laurent’s eyes, downcast, flicked down to avoid that smile. But when they came back up, they were accompanied by an almost reluctant head nod.

“Don’t make it a thing,” he begged.

“I’m not,” Auguste lied.

“You definitely are. I can already see the evil thoughts swirling in your brain,” Laurent said.

“Am I allowed to ask questions?”

“No.” Laurent stepped back, sighing, and Auguste followed him as he walked out the door. Kyrina was still standing in Auguste’s doorway.

“When did it start? How did it start? Have you been sneaking around like illicit lovers in the night? I never knew you were that romantic, Laurent.”

“Oh, fuck off. Go join Kyrina,” Laurent said, but he was laughing beautifully. He started down the staircase and Auguste held a finger up to Kyrina, indicating he’d be with her in a minute.

All those awake were back in the kitchen. Lazar was sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, feet up on the table, and Alexon was in another chair, his feet also on the table and kicking at Lazar’s, trying to shove them off. Damen and Nik were leaning against the countertop and stopped talking abruptly when Laurent and Auguste entered.

“Friends,” Auguste began, doing his best not to laugh when Laurent pulled out another of the chairs and slumped in it, “thank you for a great graduation party. I could ramble about my gratefulness for you all being there for me during these years, but that would take too long and we’re all far too tired to deal with that tonight. I’m off to bed with a beautiful girl I’m probably going to disappoint when I fall asleep immediately. I’m letting you all know that I want breakfast at Toutaine’s tomorrow, so you better have your asses up at a decent time.”

He rubbed his knuckles hard against Laurent’s head, reminiscent of how they roughhoused when they were children, and started back for the staircase after a few bids of goodnight from the others.

“Damen?” Auguste had one foot on the first step, and he could see Damen’s eyes leave Laurent and find him. “We’re talking before breakfast.”

“Auguste!”

Morning came too quickly for everyone’s liking. Auguste woke up bleary-eyed and with a sleeping Kyrina drooling against his shoulder. Maneuvering out of bed without waking her was more difficult than it should have been, but he managed. Looking at her, he laughed quietly at his luck and hoped that they could make up for last night’s loss at another point in time. He couldn’t hear anything going on downstairs and Laurent’s bedroom door was still closed. It wouldn’t hurt to make a pot of coffee while he rounded up the group, he thought.

The stairs were a whole different kind of daunting this morning. Instead of spinning underneath his feet they felt like riding the rock of the ocean’s waves which could be comforting when he wasn’t nauseous. The smell of brewing coffee calmed the nausea down some.

Damen was leaning against the same countertop he had been leaning against last night. The coffee pot was three-quarters of the way full and steaming. There were two cups next to Damen. One was almost empty, but the other one full.

“For you,” Damen told him, handing him the almost full cup. “With a splash of cream.”

“Thanks.”

The coffee was a welcome warmth and the two spent a few moments in silence. Auguste noted that it was a comfortable kind of silence.

“I always laugh when I go get coffee with Laurent,” Auguste started. “I typically end up ordering first and I get a coffee with some room for cream. Those poor, overworked baristas always look thrilled. Then Laurent goes up and orders his honey-cinnamon-vanilla or whatever with oat milk and three shots of espresso and you see their shoulders drop.”

Damen smiled.

“Yeah, you can almost guarantee that Laurent will order the most complicated thing anywhere you go.”

They both took a drink of their coffee and fell back into silence. There were a lot of things Auguste wanted to say, but his mouth didn’t want to move, it wanted to keep drinking his coffee. Luckily for Auguste, Damen wanted to talk instead.

“I can’t apologize,” Damen said. His free arm was crossed over his chest and Auguste could see the muscle in his forearm twitch. “A part of me knows I should, but I can’t.”

“Why should you apologize?” Auguste asked genuinely.

“Because you asked us all to do one thing and I couldn’t do that for you. I went behind your back in pursuing Laurent.” Damen took a deep breath. “I don’t feel like it’s necessary for me to make you promises. All the promises I need to make, all the ones I’ve already made, need to be to Laurent.”

Auguste brought his coffee cup up to hide his smile.

“But I need you to have some faith in me,” Damen pleaded.

“Damen, if anyone should apologize, it’s me,” Auguste said. “Moreso to Laurent than anyone else, but to you as well.”

Damen swallowed once, the sound audible with the click of his throat, and he shifted his shoulders as though he was preparing for a blow.

“Laurent’s always been the smartest one out of all of us. And last night he gave me a well-deserved lecture about controlling parts of his life before he ever got the chance to live first.

You see, I’ve felt such a need to protect Laurent my whole life. And, overall, I feel like I’ve done a good job at balancing protection with encouragement to live. But then I think about the things I’ve done – guilting him into coming here to Arles because I conveniently bought a house for the two of us to live in and controlling his love life before he ever got a chance to start a relationship – and I realize how unfair I’ve been. Then, not only was I unfair, I missed out on watching,” Auguste gestured with his hands at Damen and then vaguely at the ceiling, “this.”

“Given Laurent’s past, and your own, I can’t blame you for doing the things you’ve done,” Damen said quietly.

“Still…”

The coffee cup in his hand was almost empty. Somehow, even with the talking, he had drained the whole thing. Auguste pushed off from where he was leaning and placed the cup in the sink. He was right by Damen then.

“Take care of him next year,” Auguste said with as much sincerity in his voice as he could muster. “I know he can take care of himself, but I feel immensely comforted knowing you’ll be here for him.”

“I will be,” Damen made one promise to Auguste. “You know I will be.”

“Am I interrupting?”

Laurent was standing at the bottom of the stairs, hair sleep-mussed and shirt rumpled. Auguste was close enough to see Damen’s eyes soften with his smile. He cleared his throat and stepped back, a step closer to the living room.

“Not at all. I’m off to wake up the troupe. Let’s say be ready to leave in half an hour?” Auguste asked. Laurent raised an eyebrow and his eyes flicked between Auguste and Damen once.

“Sure. I’ll give Jord and Berenger a call. But I’m telling Berenger to leave his entertainment at home.”

Thirty minutes turned into forty-five minutes. Over half of them looked worse for wear and it took two cars and some illegal seating arrangements to get everyone in two cars. Toutaine’s seating was fairly open when they arrived, and they were immediately seated at a long party table.

“What a surprise you order a mimosa,” Laurent said to Ancel after drinks were ordered.

“If I have to deal with you all morning, I’ll need six just to get through the day,” Ancel snapped back.

The table was cramped. Everyone was bumping elbows with everyone around them and there wasn’t enough room for all the food and drinks ordered. They were so loud, too. Auguste was more than aware of the looks some of the other customers were throwing them and he couldn’t bring himself to care.

There was so much laughter. Auguste’s cheeks hurt from smiling and he knew everyone else’s had to be hurting too. When Huet threw a whole handful of grapes at Pallas, the bittersweet knowledge that he was going to miss this hit him hard.

“Are you feeling what I’m feeling?” Jord asked him over the noise.

“I think so,” Auguste said.

Across the table, Laurent was leaning into Damen ever so slightly. They also were talking over the noise, but Auguste couldn’t make out what they were saying. Instead he watched them for a moment, trying to see what he had missed this year. He watched Laurent take a drink of his coffee and he watched Damen kiss the taste of it away.

He watched as Laurent smiled. He looked free.

Auguste had a strong feeling next year at Arles University would be Laurent’s best.

[dustedmagazine]

Dusted’s Decade Picks

Heron Oblivion, still the closest thing to a Dusted consensus pick

Just as, in spring, the young's fancy turns to thoughts of love, at the end of the decade the thoughts of critics and fans naturally tend towards reflection. Sure, time is an arbitrary human division of reality, but it seems to be working out okay for us so far. We're too humble a bunch to offer some sort of itemized list of The Best Of or anything like that, though; a decade is hard enough to wrap your head around when it's just your life, let alone all the music produced during said time. Instead these decade picks are our jumping off points to consider our decades, whether in personal terms, or aesthetic ones, or any other. The records we reflect on here are, to be sure, some of our picks for the best of the 2010s (for more, check back this afternoon), but think of what follows less as anything exhaustive and more as our hand-picked tour to what stuck with us over the course of these ten years, and why.

Brian Eno — The Ship (Warp, 2016)

You don’t need to dig deep to see that our rapidly evolving and hyper-consciously inclusive discourse is taking on the fluidity of its surroundings. In 2016, a year of what I’ll gently call transformation, Brian Eno had his finger on multiple pulses; The Ship resulted. It’s anchored in steady modality, and its melody, once introduced, doesn’t change, but everything else ebbs and flows with the Protean certainty of uncertainty. While the album moves from the watery ambiguities of the title track, through the emotional and textural extremes of “Fickle Sun” toward the gorgeously orchestrated version of “I’m Set Free,” implying some kind of final redemption, the moment-to-moment motion remains wonderfully non-binary. Images of war and of the instants producing its ravaging effects mirror and counterbalance the calmly and increasingly gender-fluid voice as it concludes the titular piece by depicting “wave after wave after wave.” Is it all Salman Rushdie’s numbers marching again? The lyrics embody the movement from “undescribed” through “undefined” and “unrefined’” connoting a journey toward aging, but size, place, chronology and the music encompassing them remain in constant flux, often nearly but never quite recognizable. Genre and sample float in and out of view with the elusive but devastating certainty of tides as the ship travels toward silence, toward that ultimate ambiguity that follows all disillusion, filling the time between cycles. The disconnect between stasis and motion is as disconcerting as these pieces’ relationship to the songform Eno inherited and exploded. The album encapsulates the modernist subtlety and Romantic grace propelling his art and the state of a civilization in the faintly but still glowing borderlands between change and decay.

Marc Medwin

Cate Le Bon — Cyrk (Control Group, 2012)

There's no artist whose work I anticipated more this decade than Cate Le Bon, and no artist who frustrated me more with each release, only to keep reeling me in for the long run. Le Bon's innate talent is for soothing yet oblique folk, soberly psychedelic, which she originally delivered in the Welsh language, and continued into English with rustic reserve.

Except something about her pastoralism seems to bore her, and the four-chord arpeggios are shot through with scorches of noise, or sent haywire with post-punk brittleness. In its present state, her music is built around chattering xylophones and croaking saxophone, even as the lyrics draw deeper into memory and introspection, with ever more haunting payoffs. It's as if Nick Drake shoved his way into the leadership of Pere Ubu. She's taken breaks from music to work on pottery and furniture-making, and retreats to locales like a British cottage and Texas art colony to plumb for new inspirations. She's clearly energized by collaboration and relocation, but there’s a force to her persona that, despite her introverted presence, dominates a session. Rare for our age, she's an artist who gets to follow her muse full time, bouncing between record labels and seeing her name spelled out in the medium typefaces on festival bills.

Cyrk, from 2012, is the record where I fell in, and it captures her at something close to joyous, a half smile. Landing between her earliest folk and later surrealism, it is open to comparison with the Velvet Underground. But not the VU that is archetypical to indie rock – Cyrk is more an echo of the solo work that followed. There’s the sharp compositional order and Welsh lilt of John Cale. Like Lou Reed, she makes a grand electric guitar hook out of the words “you’re making it worse.” The homebound twee of Mo Tucker and forbidding atmosphere of Nico are present in equal parts. Those comparisons are reductive, but they demonstrate how Cyrk feels instantly familiar if you’ve garnered certain listening habits. Songs surround you with woolly keyboard and guitar hooks, and one can forget a song ends with an awkward trumpet coda even after dozens of listens. The awkwardness is what keeps the album fresh.

She lulls, then dowses with cold water. So Cyrk isn't an entirely easy record, even if it is frequently a pretty one. The most epic song here, reaching high with those woolly hums and twang, is "Fold the Cloth.” It bobs along, coiling tight as she reaches into the strange register of female falsetto. Le Bon cranks out a fuzz solo – she's great at extending her sung melodies across instruments. Then the climax chants out, "fold the cloth or cut the cloth.” What is so important about this mundane action? Her mystery lyrics never feel haphazard, like LSD posey. They are out of step with pop grandiose. Maybe when her back is turned, there's a full smile.

Who are "Julia" and "Greta,” two mid-album sketches that avoid verse-chorus structure? Julia is represented by a limp waltz, Greta by pulses on keyboards. Shortly after the release, Le Bon followed up with the EP Cyrk II made up of tracks left off the album. To a piece, they’re easier numbers than "Julia" and "Greta.” The cryptic and the scribble are essential to how Cyrk flows, which is to say it flows haltingly.

This approach dampens her acclaim and her potential audience, but that's how she fashions decades-old tropes into fresh art. She’s also quite the band leader. Drummers have a different thud when they play on her stage. Musicians' fills disappear. She brings in a horn solo as often as she lays down a guitar lead. The closer tracks, "Plowing Out Pts 1 & 2," aren't inherently linked numbers. By the second part, the group has worked up to a carnival swirl, frothing like "Sister Ray" yet as sweet as a children's TV show theme. Does that sound sinister? The effect is more like heartbreak fuelling abandon, her forlorn presence informing everyone's playing.

Fuse this album with the excellent Cyrk II tracks, and you can image a deluxe double LP 10th anniversary reissue in a few years. Ha ha no. I expect nothing so garish will happen. It sure wouldn't suit the artist. In a decade where "fan service" became an everyday concept, Le Bon is immune. She's a songwriter who seems like she might walk away from at all without notice, if that’s where her craftsmanship leads. The odd and oddly comfortable chair that is Cyrk doesn't suit any particular decor, but my room would feel bare without it.

Ben Donnelly

Converge — All We Love We Leave Behind (Epitaph)

Here’s the scenario: Heavily tatted guy has some dogs. He really loves his dogs. Heavily tatted guy goes on tour with his band. While he’s on the road, one of his dogs dies. Heavily tatted guy gets really sad. He writes a song about it.  

That should be the set-up for an insufferably maudlin emo record. But instead what you get is Converge’s “All We Love We Leave Behind” and the searing LP that shares the title. The songs dive headlong into the emotional intensities of loss and reflect on the cost of artistic ambition. The enormously talented line-up that recorded All We Love We Leave Behind in 2012 had been playing together for just over a decade, and vocalist Jacob Bannon and guitarist Kurt Ballou had been collaborating for more than twenty years. It shows. The record pummels and roars with remarkable precision, and its songs maniacally twist, and somehow they soar.  

Any number of genre tags have been stuck on (or innovated by) Converge’s music: mathcore, metalcore, post-hardcore. It’s fun to split sonic hairs. But All We Love… is most notable for its exhilarating fury and naked heart, musical qualities that no subgenre can entirely claim. Few bands can couple such carefully crafted artifice with such raw intensity. And few records of the decade can match the compositional wit and palpable passion of All We Love…, which never lets itself slip into shallow romanticism. It hurts. And it ruthlessly rocks.  

Jonathan Shaw

EMA — The Future’s Void (City Slang, 2014)

When trying to narrow down to whatever my own most important records of the decade are, I tried to keep it to one per artist (as I do with individual years, although it’s a lot easier there). Out of everyone, though, EMA came by far the closest to having two records on that list, and this could have been 2017’s Exile in the Outer Ring, which along with The Future’s Void comes terrifyingly close to unpacking an awful lot of what’s going wrong, and has been going wrong, with the world we live in for a while now. The Future’s Void focuses more on the technological end of our particular dystopia, shuddering both emotionally and sonically through the dead end of the Cold War all the way to us refreshing our preferred social media site when somebody dies. EMA is right there with us, too; this isn’t judgment, it’s just reporting from the front line. And it must be said, very few things from this decade ripped like “Cthulu” rips.

Ian Mathers

The Field — Looping State of Mind (Kompakt, 2011)

Looping State of Mind by The Field

On Looping State of Mind, Swedish producer Axel Willner builds his music with seamlessly jointed loops of synths, beats, guitars and voice to create warm cushions of sound that envelop the ears, nod the head and move the body. Willner is a master of texture and atmosphere, in lesser hands this may have produced mere comfort food but there is spice in the details that elevates this record as he accretes iotas of elements, withholding release to heighten anticipation. Although this is essentially deep house built on almost exclusively motorik 4/4 beats, Willner also plays with ambient, post-punk and shoegaze dynamics. From the slow piano dub of “Then It’s White,” which wouldn’t be out of place on a Labradford or Pan American album, to the ecstatic shuffling lope of “Arpeggiated Love” and “Is This Power” with its hint of a truncated Gang of Four-like bass riff, Looping State of Mind is a deeply satisfying smorgasbord of delicacies and a highlight of The Field’s four album output during the 2010s.

Andrew Forell

Gang Gang Dance — “Glass Jar” (4AD, 2011)

Instead of telling you my favorite album of the decade — I made my case for it the first year we moved to Tumblr, help yourself — it feels more fitting to tell you a story from my friend Will about my favorite piece of music from the last 10 years, a song that arrived just before the rise of streaming, which flattened “the album experience” to oppressive uniformity and rendered it an increasingly joyless, rudderless routine of force-fed jams and AI/VC-directed mixes catering to a listener that exists in username only. The first four seconds of “Glass Jar” told you everything you needed to know about what lie ahead, but here’s the kind of thing that could happen before everything was all the time:

I took eight hours of coursework in five weeks in order to get caught up on classes and be in a friend's wedding at the end of June. Finishing a week earlier than the usual summer session meant I had to give my end-of-class presentations and turn in my end-of-class papers in a single day, which in turn meant that I was well into the 60-70 hour range without sleep by the time I got to the airport for an early-morning flight. (Partly my fault for insisting that I needed to stay up and make a “wedding night” mix for the couple — real virgin bride included — and even more my fault for insisting that it be a single, perfectly crossfaded track). I was fuelled only by lingering adrenaline fumes and whatever herbal gunpowder shit I had been mixing with my coffee — piracetam, rhodiola, bacopa or DMAE depending on the combination we had at the time. At any rate, eyes burning, skull heavy, joints stiff with dry rot, I still had my wits enough to refuse the backscatter machine at the TSA checkpoint; instead of the usual begrudging pat-down, I got pulled into a separate room. Anyway, it was a weird psychic setback at that particular time, but nothing came of it. Having arrived at my gate, I popped on the iPod with a brand new set of studio headphones and finally got around to listening to the Gang Gang Dance I had downloaded months before. "Glass Jar," at that moment, was the most religious experience I’d had in four years. I was literally weeping with joy.

Point being: It is worth it to stay up for a few days just to listen to ‘Glass Jar’ the way it was meant to be heard.

Patrick Masterson

Heron Oblivion — Heron Oblivion (Sub Pop, 2016)

Heron Oblivion by Heron Oblivion

Heron Oblivion’s self-titled first album fused unholy guitar racket with a limpid serenity. It was loud and cathartic but also pure beauty, floating drummer Meg Baird’s unearthly vocals over a sound that was as turbulent and majestic as nature itself, now roiled in storm, now glistening with dewy clarity. The band convened four storied guitarists—Baird from Espers, Ethan Miller and Noel Harmonson from Comets on Fire and Charlie Sauffley—then relegated two of them to other instruments (Baird on drums and Miller on bass). The sound drew on the full flared wail and scree of Hendrix and Acid Mothers Temple, the misty romance of Pentangle and Fairport Convention. It was a record out of time and could have happened in any year from about 1963 onward, or it could have not happened at all. We were so glad it did at Dusted; Heron Oblivion’s eponymous was closer to a consensus pick than any record before or since, and if you want to define a decade, how about the careening riffs of “Oriar” breaking for Baird’s dream-like chants?

Jennifer Kelly

The Jacka — What Happened to the World (The Artist, 2014)

Probably the most prophetic rap album of the 2010s. The Jacka was the king of Bay rap since he started MOB movement. He was always generous with his time, and clique albums were pouring out of The Jacka and his disciples every few months. Even some of his own albums resembled at times collective efforts. This generosity made some of the albums unfocused and disjointed, yet what it really shows is that even in the times when dreams of collective living were abandoned The Jacka still had hopes for Utopia and collective struggles. It was about the riches, but he saw the riches in people first and foremost.

This final album before he was gunned down in the early 2014 is full of predictions about what’s going to happen to him. Maybe this explains why it’s focused as never before and even Jacka’s leaned-out voice has doomed overtones. This music is the only possible answer to the question the album’s title poses: everything is wrong with the world where artists are murdered over music.

Ray Garraty

John Maus — We Must Become Pitiless Censors of Ourselves (Upset The Rhythm, 2011)

We Must Become the Pitiless Censors of Ourselves by John Maus

Minnesota polymath John Maus’ quest for the perfect pop song found its apotheosis on his third album We Must Become Pitiless Censors of Ourselves in 2011. On the surface an homage to 1980s synth pop, Maus’ album reveals its depth with repeated listens. Over expertly constructed layers of vintage keyboards, Maus’ oft-stentorian baritone alternately intones and croons deceptively simple couplets that blur the line between sincerity and provocation. Lurking beneath the smooth surface Maus uses Baroque musical tropes that give the record a liturgical atmosphere that reinforces the Gregorian repetition of his lyrics. The tension between the radical ironic banality of the words and the deeply serious nature of the music and voice makes We Must Become Pitiless Censors of Ourselves an oddly compelling collection that interrogates the very notion of taste and serves an apt soundtrack to the post-truth age.

Andrew Forell

Joshua Abrams & Natural Information Society — Mandatory Reality (Eremite, 2019)

Mandatory Reality by Joshua Abrams & Natural Information Society

Any one of the albums that Joshua Abrams has made under the Natural Information Society banner could have made this list. While each has a particular character, they share common essences of sound and spirit. Abrams made his bones playing bass with Nicole Mitchell, Matana Roberts, Mike Reed, Fred Anderson, Chad Taylor, and many others, but in the Society his main instrument is the guimbri, a three-stringed bass lute from Morocco. He uses it to braid melody, groove, and tone into complex strands of sound that feel like they might never end. Mandatory Reality is the album where he delivers on the promise of that sound. Its centerpiece is “Finite,” a forty-minute long performance by an eight-person, all-acoustic version of Natural Information Society. It has become the main and often sole piece that the Society plays. Put the needle down and at first it sounds like you are hearing some ensemble that Don Cherry might have convened negotiating a lost Steve Reich composition. But as the music winds patiently onwards, strings, drums, horns, and harmonium rise in turn to the surface. These aren’t solos in the jazz sense so much as individual invitations for the audience to ease deeper into the sonic entirety. The music doesn’t end when the record does, but keeps manifesting with each performance. Mandatory Reality is a nodal point in an endless stream of sound that courses through the collective unconscious, periodically surfacing in order to engage new listeners and take them to the source.

Bill Meyer

Mansions — Doom Loop (Clifton Motel, 2013)

I knew nothing about Mansions when I first heard about this record; I can’t even remember how I heard about this record. But I liked the name of the album and the album art, so I listened to it. Sometimes the most important records in your decade have as much to do with you as with them. I’d been frantically looking for a job for nearly two years at that point, the severance and my access Ontario’s Employment Insurance program (basically, you pay in every paycheck, and then have ~8 months of support if you’re unemployed) had both ran out. I was living with a friend in Toronto sponsoring my American wife into the country (fun fact: they don’t care if you have an income when you do that), feeling the walls close in a little each day, sure I was going to wind up one of those kids who had to move back to the small town I’d left and a parent’s house. There were multiple days I’d send out 10+ applications and then walk around my neighbourhood blasting “Climbers” and “Out for Blood” through my earbuds, cueing up “La Dentista” again and dreaming of revenge… on what? Capitalism? There was no more proximate target in view. That’s not to say that Doom Loop is necessarily about being poor or about the shit hand my generation (I fit, just barely) got in the job market, or anything like that; but for me it is about the almost literal doom loop of that worst six months, and I still can’t listen to “The Economist” without my blood pressure spiking a little.

Ian Mathers

Protomartyr — Under Colour of Official Right (Hardly Art, 2014)

Under Color of Official Right by Protomartyr

By my count, Protomartyr made not one but four great albums in the 2010s, racking up a string of rhythmically unstoppable, intellectually challenging discs with absolute commitment and intent. I caught whiff of the band in 2012, while helping out with editing the old Dusted. Jon Treneff’s review of All Passion No Technique told a story of exhilarant discovery; I read it and immediately wanted in. The conversion event, though, came two years later, with the stupendous Under Color of Official Right, all Wire-y rampage and Fall-spittled-bile, a rattletrap construction of every sort of punk rock held together by the preening contempt of black-suited Joe Casey. Doug Mosurock reviewed it for us, concluding, “Poppier than expected, but still covered in burrs, and adeptly analyzing the pain and suffering of their city and this year’s edition of the society that judges it, Protomartyr has raised the bar high enough for any bands to follow, so high that most won’t even know it’s there.” Except here’s the thing: Protomartyr jumped that bar two more times this decade, and there’s no reason to believe that they won’t do it again. The industry turned on the kind of bands with four working class dudes who can play a while ago, but this is the band of the 2010s anyway.

Jennifer Kelly

Tau Ceti IV — Satan, You’re the God of This Age, but Your Reign Is Ending (Cold Vomit, 2018)

Satan, You're The God of This Age But Your Reign is Ending by Tau Ceti IV

This decade was full of takes on American primitive guitar. Some were pretty good, a few were great, many were forgettable, and then there was this overlooked gem from Jordan Darby of Uranium Orchard. Satan, You’re the God of This Age, but Your Reign Is Ending is an antidote to bland genre exercises. Like John Fahey, Darby has a distinct voice and style, as well as a sense of humor. Also like Fahey, his playing incorporates diverse influences in subtle but pronounced ways. American primitive itself isn’t a staid template. Though there are also plenty of beautiful, dare I say pastoral moments, which still stand out for being genuinely evocative.

Darby’s background in aggressive electric guitar music partly explains his approach. (Not sure if he’s the only ex-hardcore guy to go in this direction, but there can’t be many.) His playing is heavier than one might expect, but it feels natural, not like he’s just playing metal riffs on an acoustic guitar. But heaviness isn’t the only difference. Like his other projects, Satan is wonderfully off-kilter. This album’s strangeness isn’t reducible to component parts, but here are two representative examples: “The Wind Cries Mary” gradually encroaches on the last track, and throughout, the microphone picks up more string noise than most would consider tasteful. It all works, or at least it’s never boring.

Ethan Milititisky

Z-Ro — The Crown (Rap-a-Lot, 2014)

When singing in rap was outsourced to pop singers and Auto Tune, Z-Ro remained true to his self, singing even more than he ever did. He did his hooks and his verses himself, and no singing could harm his image as a hustler moonlighting as a rapper. He can’t be copied exactly because of his gift, to combine singing soft and rapping hard. It’s a sort of common wisdom that he recorded his best material in the previous decade, yet quite apart from hundreds of artists that continued to capitalize on their fame he re-invented himself all the past decade, making songs that didn’t sound like each other out of the same raw material. The Crown is a tough pick because since his post-prison output he made solid discs one after each other.

Ray Garraty

[questionsonislam]

Does the Lord of the Quran make plans (set traps)? How can we answer those who make these claims by using some verses as excuses?

The origin of the word translated as "trap, trick, plan" is the Arabic word "MKR". The concept "divine makr" is well known. While explaining the issue, we will use the terminology of the Quran in order to avoid wrong expressions. Lexically MAKR means to divert somebody from his target through a trick.

The word "MKR" has two reflections: The first one is the MAKR that is praiseworthy and the second one is the MAKR that is that is unworthy.

The nice "makr" is the makr that aims to reach a nice outcome. Allah, who informed His Messenger about the trap/plan of the unbelievers who decided to kill him in Makkah and enabled him to migrate from Makkah the same night, explains the incident as follows:

"Remember how the unbelievers plotted against thee, to keep thee in bonds, or slay thee, or get thee out, (of thy home). They plot and plan and Allah too plans but the best of planners is Allah." (al-Anfal, 8/30)

The MaKR of Allah mentioned in the verse is a nice example of praiseworthy MAKR. (R. Isfahani, Mufradat, MKR item)

We can give the following verse as an example of bad MAKR:

"They swore their strongest oaths by Allah that if a warner came to them, they would follow his guidance better than any (other) of the Peoples: but when a warner came to them, it has only increased their flight (from righteousness)―On account of their arrogance in the land and their plotting of Evil. But the plotting of Evil will hem in only the authors thereof. Now are they but looking for the way the ancients were dealt with? But no change wilt thou find in Allah's way (of dealing): no turning off wilt thou find in Allah's way (of dealing)." (Fatir, 35/42-43)

The trap set by the tribe of Thamud in order to kill their prophet, Salih, is a bad trap but the trap set by Allah in order to save His Messenger is a nice trap. (ibid) Both kinds of makrs (traps) are mentioned in the following verse:

"They said: "Swear a mutual oath by Allah that we shall make a secret night attack on him and his people, and that we shall then say to his heir (when he seeks vengeance): `We were not present at the slaughter of his people and we are positively telling the truth.' They plotted and planned, but We too planned, even while they perceived it not." (an-Naml, 27/49, 50)

It is understood from the explanations above that Allah's MAKR/trap is always a nice tactic in a sense. It means to eliminate the bad traps of the oppressors.

This is the true meaning of the "traps set by Allah" about which people make a great fuss.

We should not forget that Allah, who has endless knowledge and power, does not need to set traps - in the sense that we know - nor does He condescend to do so. However, the Quran addresses people; therefore, it has to use the language that people will understand. One of the phrases that are widely used not only then but also today is "to set a trap, to trick" and words that connote the same meaning. The reason why the Quran, which will be valid up to the Day of Judgment, uses these words in its universal message is a strategic style to influence the people it addresses.

After this short explanation, we can have a look at the verses regarding the issue one by one. First, we will quote the translations of the verses that are used in the objections; then, we will explain them briefly.

1. " By it He (Allah) causes many to stray …" (al-Baqara, 2/26)

Its explanation:

The translation of the relevant verse is as follows: “Allah disdains not to use the similitude of things lowest as well as highest. Those who believe know that it is truth from their Lord; but those who reject Faith say: "What means Allah by this similitude?" By it He causes many to stray and many He leads into the right path but He causes not to stray, except those who forsake (the path).” (al-Baqara, 2/26)

As it is clearly expressed in the verse, some ignorant deniers regarded it very simple for the Quran to give a "mosquito" as an example and regarded it as unfit for Allah. The main reason behind this criticism is the fact that those who criticize the Quran do not believe in it. Thus, Allah answers those unbelievers through those verses. He draws attention to the following points in the answer:

Firstly: It is underlined that mentioning a mosquito is by no means wrong as they think. In fact, no state disdains some of its citizens by ignoring them; similarly, Allah does not regard the mosquito, which is a disdained being, out of the guardianship of His divine state. Besides, there is something else that those ignorant people do not know: the mosquito is a wonderful work of art of Allah. It is not less sophisticated than an elephant in terms of art.

Secondly: Whether a mosquito is worth mentioning depends on the viewpoints of people. Unbelievers can disdain animals because of their negative viewpoints. However, believers think that every living being is a wonderful work of art of Allah and that a mosquito is also a divine work of art worthy of being mentioned in the book of Allah.

Thirdly: Man was created so that he would be tested; therefore, his free will cannot be removed from him because he needs to prefer one side. Therefore, a door is opened for the mind but man cannot be forced to prefer a certain direction. Some people use their minds and believe; others prefer unbelief using their minds. The following phrase in the verse underlines this fact: “He causes many to stray and many He leads into the right path”.

Fourthly: That Allah causes some people to stray is not something random and without a reason. Contrarily, it is based on the acts of the sinners who rebel against Allah and go astray. The following phrase in the verse indicates this fact: “but He causes not to stray, except those who forsake (the path)”. As it is seen, there is no trap or groundless confusing here.

2. "And the best of planners is Allah." (Aal-i Imran, 3/54)

Its Explanation:

“When Jesus found unbelief on their part, he said: "Who will be my helpers to (the work of) Allah?" Said the Disciples: 'We are Allah's helpers we believe in Allah and do thou bear witness that we are Muslims. Our Lord! we believe in what thou hast revealed, and we follow the Messenger; then write us down among those who bear witness.' And (then unbelievers) plotted and planned, and Allah too planned, and the best of planners is Allah.” (Aal-i Imran, 3/52-54)

In the verses above, the state of the disciples of Jesus and those who made plans to kill him is indicated. The word plot/plan mentioned in the following sentence describes this bad plot of those who wanted to kill him:“And (then unbelievers) plotted and planned, and Allah too planned, and the best of planners is Allah.” The meaning of "Allah's planning" is His ascending of Jesus to the sky and ruining their plan. That is, He caused the soldiers to think that the person who showed them his place was Jesus by making him resemble Jesus; thus, He ruined their plan. (According to some narrations, the person that showed the soldiers the place of Jesus was a disciple.)

3. "If some evil befalls them …Say: 'All things are from Allah'.” (an-Nisa, 4/78-79)

Its Explanation:

The translation of the relevant verses is as follows: "Wherever ye are, death will find you out, even if ye are in towers built up strong and high!" If some good befalls them they say "This is from Allah"; but if evil, they say "This is from thee" (O Prophet). Say: "All things are from Allah. But what hath come to these people, that they fail to understand a single fact? Whatever good, (O man!) happens to thee is from Allah; but whatever evil happens to thee is from thyself And We have sent thee, as a Messenger to (instruct) mankind: And enough is Allah for a witness." (an-Nisa, 4/78-79)

In the verses above, attention is drawn to two points:

Firstly: It is the answer given to hypocrites (munafiqs). In the previous verse, it is stated that they are afraid of fighting in the war; in the verses above, they say the booties obtained in the war were granted to them by Allah (in order to eliminate the idea that they were obtained thanks to Hz. Muhammad (pbuh)) and that the sorrowful incidents like death, wounds, etc took place because of the Prophet. Allah answers their ignorant claims by drawing attention to the issue of creating: “Say: 'All things are from Allah'.” That is, Allah creates both the good and the evil.

Secondly: The issue is analyzed from the viewpoint of causes not creating and the following is stated: “Whatever good, (O man!) happens to thee is from Allah; but whatever evil happens to thee is from thyself.” That is, all of the good deeds coming to man from Allah is a grace of Allah because the creator of all of the bounties is Allah only. All of the good deeds of man are a result of the bounties given to him beforehand; they are not preliminary to or a means of the good deeds to come. On the other hand, the cause of a bad deed that comes to man is man himself; he gives fatwa to qadar for the bad deeds to come because of the bad deeds he commits.

As it is seen, we are face to face with an issue whose philosophical dimension is very big. It is really a big boldness for those who cannot make their simple minds understand these profound issues to try to regard Allah as responsible.

4. "Allah hath set the seal on their hearts." (an-Nisa, 4/155)

Its Explanation:

The translation of the relevant verse is as follows:“(They have incurred divine displeasure): in that they broke their Covenant: that they rejected the Signs of Allah; that they slew the Messengers in defiance of right; that they said "Our hearts are the wrappings (which preserve Allah's Word; we need no more)"; nay Allah hath set the seal on their hearts for their blasphemy, and little is it they believe.” (an-Nisa, 4/155)

As it is seen, the verse above, which describes the situation of Jews, is very clear. They deny Allah’s signs (verses) and kill Allah’s messengers unjustly; while doing so, they say, “our hearts are the wrappings; they cannot understand these issues" by making fun of the message of Allah. For, the stronger the relationship between crime and punishment is, the stronger justice will be manifest.

It is understood from what is stated by the verse above that Allah did not set the seal on people's hearts at random. On the contrary, He set the seal on the hearts some fanatical irreligious people who committed many major crimes, killed their prophets, closed their hearts to the truths with their free will and sealed them, and then boasted about them.

5. “From those, too, who call themselves Christians …We estranged them, with enmity and hatred between the one and the other, to the Day of Judgment." (al-Maida, 5/14)

Its Explanation:

The translation of the relevant verse is as follows:“From those, too, who call themselves Christians, We did take a Covenant, but they forgot a good part of the Message that was sent them: so We estranged them, with enmity and hatred between the one and the other, to the Day of Judgment. And soon will Allah show them what it is they have done." (al-Maida, 5/14)

The people mentioned in the verse above are Christians. Allah obtained from Jesus the same promise that he received from the previous prophets: to advise his ummah to believe in and to help Hz. Muhammad, the last prophet that would come at the end of time. Jesus gave some advice to Christians to fulfill the requirements of this vow. This issue is mentioned in some Gospels. (Ibn Ashur, the interpretation of the relevant verse) However, they ignored this vow and forgot about it in the course of time. Finally, when Hz. Muhammad came as a prophet, they opposed him instead of helping him. Allah caused disagreements among them to show them that they were not consistent.

It should not be forgotten that the disagreements that occurred among Christian sects like Catholicism, Orthodoxy and Protestants were caused by Christians themselves. For, these disagreements originate from the different views of those sects. What leads them to those different views is various feelings like interest, love of leadership, posts and ranks, originating from their own souls. That is, the real cause of these disagreements is themselves. However, in the verse, attention is drawn to the point of divine punishment, not to the cause, acting upon "the creation of the deed" in order to state that a punishment was given to them. It is underlined that their negative attitude toward Hz. Muhammad (pbuh) had a great role in this sociological incident and the punishment given to them.

6. "For such it is not Allah's will to purify their hearts." (al-Maida, 5/41)

Its Explanation:

The translation of the relevant verse is as follows: “O Messenger! let not those grieve thee who race each other into Unbelief: (whether it be) among those who say: "We believe" with their lips but whose hearts have no faith; or it be among the Jews,― men who will listen to any lie,― will listen even to others who have never so much as come to thee. They change the words from their (right) times and places; they say "If ye are given this, take it, but if not, beware:" If anyone's trial is intended by Allah, thou hast no authority in the least for him against Allah. For such it is not Allah's will to purify their hearts. For them there is disgrace in this world, and in the Hereafter a heavy punishment." (al-Maida, 5/41)

In the verse, the free will of man is compared to Allah's universal will as a necessity of testing. "Belief is defined as light put into the heart of man by Allah after he takes the necessary steps by using his free will.”

Accordingly, first man needs to make efforts in order to believe in the messages of Allah sent by Him as revelation by using his mind and free will; then, Allah will activate His universal will, open his heart to the truths and give him the ability to understand. Those who tread on this principle because of their sensual desires will bear the consequences.

This is the situation mentioned in the verse. Hypocrites and fanatic Jews betray Hz. Muhammad. They do not believe in him heartily but they say they believe in him. In order to express their enmity toward Hz. Muhammad (pbuh) and the religion of Islam, they keep saying to the people around, “If Muhammad gives you a fatwa like this, accept it; if it is not given, do not accept it.” That is, they assume an anarchic attitude like accepting or not accepting the laws of the state based on their own desires and try to shake the authority of the state.

We can understand the truths expressed by Allah in order to console His Messenger, who became very worried because of the betrayal of the mischief-makers, as follows: “O Messenger! Do not worry about what they do. Their hearts are spoiled; they cannot understand the truths. If I wished, I would clean and purify their hearts. It is not beyond my power. However, they blackened their hearts deliberately through their persistent unbelief and hypocrisy; so, they will continue to remain like that. They will definitely suffer the consequences.”

7. " The Jews … Amongst them We have placed enmity and hatred." (al-Maida, 5/64)

Its Explanation:

The translation of the relevant verse is as follows:“The Jews say: "Allah's hand is tied up." Be their hands tied up and be they accursed for the (blasphemy) they utter. Nay both His hands are widely outstretched: He giveth and spendeth (of His bounty) as He pleaseth. But the revelation that cometh to thee from Allah increaseth in most of them their obstinate rebellion and blasphemy. Amongst them We have placed enmity and hatred till the Day of Judgment. Every time they kindle the fire of war, Allah doth extinguish it; but they (ever) strive to do mischief on earth. And Allah loveth not those who do mischief.” (al-Maida, 5/64)

The explanations about Christians are also valid for Jews, whose situation is described here.

The real cause of the enmity among them is pursuing their sensual desires by abandoning the orders of Allah.

However, the penal aspect of the issue is put at forefront because the divine justice would be overshadowed if they went unpunished. Their crimes are listed and attention is drawn to the punishment they deserve - without giving any details about their deeds that have to occur sociologically.

Their crimes: To accuse Allah of stinginess by saying, “Allah's hand is tied up.” To act in an unruly way toward the revelation of Allah sent to Hz. Muhammad (pbuh). To try to pick a war all the time by eliminating world peace. To try to cause mischief on the earth.

Thus, Allah punished them with their own traps they prepared for the humanity; He allowed them to fight one another as a punishment for trying to make people enemies of one another. He left them fighting one another.

8. "The best of planners is Allah." (al-Anfal, 8/30)

Its Explanation:

The translation of the relevant verse is as follows: “Remember how the unbelievers plotted against thee, to keep thee in bonds, or slay thee, or get thee out, (of thy home). They plot and plan and Allah too plans but the best of planners is Allah.” (al-Anfal, 8/30)

As it was stated in the introduction, the phrases meaning “Allah’s setting traps” in the Quran means His eliminating those traps. All of the tafsir scholar understood it like that. To set secret traps and make secret plans in the sense that we understand means to try to do something in an unnoticed way because of fearing from the other party. Does Allah, who has enough power to destroy the whole universe at once, need to set secret traps? Then, this expression is an emphasized style of speech that can be understood by people. Nobody who knows Allah and is aware of the style of the Quran has difficulty in understanding this style. To set a trap is a bad deed but to eliminate a trap is a good deed.

In the Quranic terminology, a good makr/trap is the makr that is made in order to reach a nice result. Allah, who informed His Messenger about the trap set by the unbelievers who wanted to kill Hz. Prophet (pbuh) and enabled him to migrate from Makkah, describes that incident as follows in the Quran: “Remember how the unbelievers plotted against thee, to keep thee in bonds, or slay thee, or get thee out, (of thy home). They plot and plan and Allah too plans but the best of planners is Allah.”(al-Anfal, 8/30). Allah’s MAKR/trap mentioned here is a very nice trap.

9. " I will fill Hell with jinn and men all together!" (Hud, 11/119)

Its Explanation:

The translation of the relevant verses are as follows: “If thy Lord had so willed, He could have made mankind one People: but they will not cease to dispute Except those on whom He hath bestowed His Mercy: and for this did He create them: and the Word of thy Lord shall be fulfilled: "I will fill Hell with jinn and men all together.” (Hud, 11/118-119)

The issue mentioned in the verses above is a topic of qadar. Qadar is a part of Allah's knowledge. The attribute of knowledge is a property that has no power of sanction. This means as follows: Allah knows everything in detail and how they will take place. Endless knowledge means knowledge that surrounds everything. Ignorance cannot penetrate into the knowledge that surrounds everything.

In the verse above, it is stated that Allah knows with His endless knowledge which way people will follow - through their free will - and whether they will go to Paradise or Hell at the end of the way they choose. There is no compulsion here. The biggest evidence that there is nothing like sending some people to Paradise and others to Hell without any legal and ethical criterion as if drawing lots is the fact that God created all of the beings in the universe in a wonderful system considering all of the necessary balances, that He teaches justice in the heavenly books He sent, that He says He never likes oppressors and that He does not need to do any injustice as a being who has endless power.

10. "Allah… He leaves straying whom He pleases and …"(an-Nahl, 16/93)

Its Explanation:

The translation of the relevant verse is as follows:“If Allah so willed, He could make you all one people: but He leaves straying whom He pleases and He guides whom He pleases: but ye shall certainly be called to account for all your actions.” (an-Nahl, 16/93)

The meaning of the verse above is as follows: If Allah wished, he would force all people to accept Islam and unite them as one ummah. However, this compulsion would be contrary to the mystery of testing; so, He did not do it. Contrarily, He would lead some people astray and others to guidance acting upon their performances based on their free will. For, to prefer guidance and aberration depends on a person's will but to create them belongs to Allah. The expression of this fact aims to make people turn toward Allah, beg and pray Him.

Accordingly, no matter how much a person worships, he thinks that he may go astray any time because of the suggestions of Satan and his soul and that Allah may leave him in aberration; therefore, he always feels that he has to take refuge in Allah and takes refuge in Him. Similarly, no matter how much a person sins, a sinner thinks that he can make himself forgiven by Allah by going to the door of Allah, who holds guidance in His hand by creating; thus, he gets rid of the problem of hopelessness.

The last sentence of the verse, “…but ye shall certainly be called to account for all your actions” indicates that everything will develop based on man's free will and in the way that divine justice foresees. For, if there were compulsion and force, questioning would not be fair. Anybody who believes in Allah believes that Allah is away from oppression and understands the expression of the verse as we have mentioned.

11. " I will fill Hell with Jinn and men all together!" (as-Sajda, 32/13)

Its Explanation:

The translation of the relevant verses are as follows:“If only thou couldst see when the guilty ones will bend low their heads before their Lord, (saying:) "Our Lord! We have seen and we have heard: now then send us back (to the world): we will work righteousness: for we do indeed (now) believe." If We had so willed, We could certainly have brought every soul its true guidance: but the Word from Me will come true. "I will fill Hell with Jinn and men all together.” (as-Sajda, 32/12-13)

As it is seen in the verses above, the answer given to those who feel remorse on the Day of Judgment and want to be sent to the world again is in question. People are warned seriously lest they should encounter that terrifying scene on the Day of Judgment, which subdues the oppressors. It is indicated that Paradise and Hell exist and that people will go to either of these places after death. This issue was determined in Allah’s pre-eternal knowledge. Therefore, Allah promises that He will not send people to Paradise without testing them, that He will test them in order to differentiate between the good and the bad, the oppressors and the oppressed and in order to give the people what they deserve and that He will send those who pass the test to Paradise and those who fail to Hell.

12. "If it be His wish to give you Punishment … Nor will they find for themselves, besides Allah any protector?" (al-Ahzab, 33:17)

Its Explanation:

The translation of the relevant verse is as follows: “Say: "Who is it that can screen you from Allah if it be His wish to give you Punishment or to give you Mercy?" Nor will they find for themselves, besides Allah any protector or helper.” (al-Ahzab, 33/17)

In the verse above, it is clearly emphasized that Allah holds the reins of everything, that His power penetrates everything, that all beings obey Him and that it is Allah who creates everything good or bad. Through those expressions, it is indicated that there is no god but Allah, that there is no sultanate except His in the universe and that Allah is the only owner of the property hence it is necessary not to worship anybody but Allah.

Instead of being a sincere slave of Allah by taking lessons from these clear truths, following a way that will cause a person a lot of troubles and to make superficial objections instead of understanding seem strange.

13. "If anyone withdraws himself from remembrance of Most Gracious, We appoint for him an evil one."(az-Zukhruf, 43/36)

Its Explanation:

The translation of the relevant verse is as follows: “If anyone withdraws himself from remembrance of Most Gracious, We appoint for him an evil one to be an intimate companion to him.” (az-Zukhruf, 43/36)

It is stated in the verse above that an evil being is appointed as a friend for those who do not see and recognize Allah, who has endless mercy, Hz. Muhammad (pbuh), whom Allah sent as mercy to the realms, and virtually pretend to be blind. In return for their pretending to be blind by ignoring the truth, they become slaves of Satan, which makes them blind and unable to see by blinding the eyes of their hearts. For, an angel protects those who are believers. When a person abandons belief, the angel no longer protects him. The person who is unprotected is surrounded by devils. This is a very important lesson and warning.

In fact, an unbeliever always ignores the Quran and is deceived by Satan all the time; similarly, some believers sometimes ignore the Quran and are deceived by Satan. It can even be said that the root of all evil and sins is the time when the Quran is ignored. It is necessary to understand from the following hadith the sign how the devil that approaches man drives him away from belief even if it is for a second:“A person who steals is not a real believer at the moment he steals; a person who drinks alcohol is not a believer at the moment he drinks.”

We are in need of the hearts that can see the truth without any prejudice not without any knowledge.

[meditationadvise]

Three Simple Ways to Pay Attention

The most usual reaction I listen to these days when I inform a person I teach reflection is "I'm so worried out. I might actually make use of a few of that." I am also entertained to listen to fairly often "My buddy should actually fulfill you!" I enjoy to see that meditation is recognized increasingly more as something that could be directly handy in our daily lives. Anywhere stress plays a function in our problems, meditation can have a possible role in its relief.

Meditation technique need not be tied to any idea system. The just necessary idea is not a dogmatic one, yet one that says each of us has the ability to comprehend ourselves much more fully, and to care extra deeply both for ourselves and for others. Its techniques work to free us of regular reactions that create us excellent sadness, such as harsh self-judgment, and also to develop wisdom as well as love. Meditation gives any person who seeks it a chance to look within for a sense of abundance, depth, and also link to life.

Rather compared to an ornate, arcane collection of directions, standard reflection is composed of practical tools to help deepen concentration, mindfulness, and compassion.

1. Concentration

Concentration is the art of collecting all that energy, that stormy, scattered interest, and settling, centering.

Concentration steadies as well as focuses our interest so that we could allow go of harmful internal distractions-- is sorry for concerning the past, stresses over the future, addictions-- and also keep from being attracted by external ones. Interruption loses our power, concentration restores it.

We commonly experience our interest scattering to the four winds. We take a seat to assume something through or work with a problem, and prior to we understand it, we're gone. We're shed in ideas of the past, commonly concerning something we currently regret: "I should have said that more masterfully." "I ought to have been less shy and also spoken up." "I should have been smarter and also closed up." We aren't assuming things via to locate a method making amends. We're just lost.

Or our distractedness drives us right into anxiety-filled projections regarding the future. Envision you are resting in an airplane at one of the New York City flight terminals. All of a sudden you begin assuming, "Oh no, I think this airplane may leave late. I make certain it will certainly be late. Currently I'm mosting likely to miss my connection. Exactly what will that suggest? That suggests I'm mosting likely to show up in Rose city, Oregon, after twelve o'clock at night. There will not be any taxis! Exactly what's going to take place to me?" It's as though Portland were famous for having people vanish if they land after midnight!

Without concentration, our minds dilate into the future in such a way that isn't really such as competent preparation however more like exhausting rumination. When I see my very own mind starting that arc of anxiety, I have a claiming I utilize to assist restore me to balance: "Something will certainly take place." There will certainly be a bus. I'll invest the evening in the airport. Something will certainly take place. I can't figure it all out right now.

Concentration is the art of collecting all of that energy, that stormy, scattered focus, and settling. A person came near speak to me just recently when I was educating, opposing my use words focus. He said it advised him of suppression, as though he were squeezing his attention into something, withstanding and feeling bitter anything else that came near pull his interest away. I asked him if steadying or clearing up would excel substitutes, as well as he happily accepted them. That's what concentration in fact suggests. It's not a required, stressful, stretched effort. It's letting points choose exactly what goes to hand.

2. Mindfulness

Mindfulness fine-tunes our focus to ensure that we can connect extra totally as well as straight with whatever life brings. Numerous times our understanding of just what is happening is misshaped by bias, practices, worries, or desires. Mindfulness aids us see with these and also be much more aware of exactly what really is.

Imagine you're on your means to a celebration when you run right into a good friend who points out an earlier meeting he had with your brand-new colleague. He claims, "That person is so boring!" When at the celebration, that do you locate yourself stuck speaking to but that brand-new associate! Because of your good friend's comment (not even your personal understanding), you end up not really listening meticulously to them or looking completely at them. More probable you are assuming about the following 15 e-mails you have to send or fretting as you gaze concerning the room and also see a lot of individuals you prefer to be speaking with. Whatever he or she is stating increases your displeasure and frustration.

But if you understand just what's taking place, it could be that you drop the filter of your pal's comment and also determine to discover out for yourself, from your own straight experience, exactly what you think about your new coworker. You pay attention, you observe, you are broad-minded, interested. By the end of the evening you could choose, "I concur. I locate that individual really uninteresting." However probably not, life also supplies many shocks. Just what is essential is that we're not just led by exactly what we've been told, by the beliefs of others, by conviction or bias or presumption. Rather, we shape our perception with as clear as well as open an assumption as possible.

Mindfulness does not depend on just what is occurring, however has to do with how we connect to what is taking place. That's why we state that mindfulness can go anywhere. We could be conscious of pleasure as well as grief, pleasure and also discomfort, stunning songs and also a screech. Mindfulness doesn't imply these all flatten out and also come to be one huge blob, without distinction or intensity or flavor or structure. Instead, it indicates that old regular methods of connecting-- maybe holding on fiercely to pleasure, to make sure that, ironically, we are in fact appreciating it less, or frowning at as well as pressing away pain, to ensure that, regretfully, we experience a great deal much more, or numbing out, detaching from average, not really interesting experiences, so that we're half in a desire a great deal of the moment. All these self-defeating, restricting reactions don't have to be there.

We could easily misinterpret mindfulness and consider it as passive, complacent, also a little bit boring. I was showing someplace lately and also began the formal meditation guideline, as I usually do, with the recommendation to just sit in an unwinded method and also hear the sounds in the room. Somebody raised his hand right now and asked, "If I hear the noise of the smoke detector, should I simply rest here 'mindfully,' knowing I'm hearing the smoke detector go off, or should I stand up as well as leave?" I responded, "I 'd 'mindfully' obtain up and also leave!"

I understood his concern. When we hear phrases typically used to explain mindfulness, like "simply be with exactly what is," "approve today moment," "do not get shed in judgment," it can appear very inert. The actual experience of mindfulness is of vibrant, alive, open area where imaginative responses to situations have area to emerge, precisely since we're not stuck in the well-worn grooves of the same old habitual reactions. In mindfulness, we do not shed discernment and also knowledge. These high qualities, in reality, come to be much more intense as stagnant preconceptions as well as automated, inflexible responses no more rule the day.

3. Compassion

Compassion opens our attention and also makes it a lot more inclusive, changing the method we view ourselves and the globe. Rather than being so caught up in the construct of self and other and also us and them that we often tend to see the globe via, we see things much extra in terms of connection to all. This fundamental makeover from alienation begins with more compassion to ourselves.

Even in methods that do not especially emphasize compassion or concern, these high qualities are inevitably being created in reflection. If we return and also consider the fundamental workout I defined, establishing focus, we locate that it is typically done by choosing a things such as the feeling of the in and out breath, then resolving our attention on it. What we uncover at first, often to our shock, is that it typically isn't 800 breaths prior to our minds wander. Much more commonly, it is one breath, maybe two or 3, after that we are lost. Possibly extremely shed in a dream or memory.

Then comes the minute we understand we have actually been distracted. Our usual reaction would certainly be to feel that we have actually failed, to rail against ourselves. Just what we practice, however, is releasing delicately rather than roughly as well as returning to the breath or our item of concentration with kindness as well as compassion for ourselves. Therefore, those high qualities of concern as well as kindness strengthen also if we do not offer voice to those words.

And what we provide for ourselves, we could likewise start to do toward others. A few years ago I got on my means to Tucson, yet my strategies were tested when I located myself in an airplane resting on a path for four and also a half hours at La Guardia Flight Terminal. Looking back on it, I often refer amusingly to those hours as "the breakdown of human being." It was hot, and also it expanded hotter. After a point, people beginning screaming, "Let me off this aircraft!" The pilot resorted to hopping on the system and also stating sternly, "No person is leaving this plane."

I had not been really feeling all that chipper myself. I could not connect with individuals in Tucson that were intended to select me up at the flight terminal, as well as I was concerned regarding them. I had a house to head to in New york city City and also maintained thinking, fruitless, "I can simply return there and also try once more tomorrow." I was warm. I really felt mauled by the people yelling around me.

Then I recalled a photo that a friend of mine, Bob Thurman, writer of Infinite Life: Seven Merits for Living Well, typically uses to define the flow of generosity and also compassion that comes from seeing the world more truthfully. He says, "Imagine you get on the New York City metro, and also these Martians come and also zap the train vehicle to ensure that those of you in the cars and truck are mosting likely to be with each other ... for life." What do we do? If somebody is hungry, we feed them. If a person is freaking out, we attempt to calm them down. We could not such as everyone or authorize of them, yet we are mosting likely to be together for life. We need to react with the knowledge of just how interrelated our lives are-- as well as will certainly remain.

Sitting on that airplane, I recalled my close friend's story. I browsed the cabin and also thought, "Perhaps these are my individuals." I saw my worldview shift from "me" as well as "them" to "we." The claustrophobia eased.

In terms of meditative understanding (as opposed to our usual mindset, which may relate to these high qualities as gifts we could do nothing to grow or as prompt psychological reactions we take pleasure in yet can't support), compassion and compassion are undoubtedly skills we establish. Not in the feeling of compeling ourselves to feel, or perhaps worse, pretend to really feel, a feeling that is not there. Instead, if we learn to listen in a various, more open means-- seeing the excellent within ourselves rather than focusing on what we do not such as, noticing those we usually neglect or look right via, releasing groups as well as assumptions when we associate with others-- we are producing the problems for generosity and also empathy to flow.

We method meditation ultimately not to come to be great meditators however to have a different life. As we deepen the skills of focus, mindfulness, as well as empathy, we locate we have less anxiety, even more satisfaction, more understanding, and also greatly much more happiness. We change our lives.

[comicgeekscomicgeek]

Their Hero Academia – Chapter 39: Call Me Hero

Presenting the next raw and unedited chapter of my on-going, next-gen, My Hero Academia fic, Their Hero Academia!

Earlier chapters can be found here

Back in school after two days off, Isamu Haimawari was still riding a pretty good high.  While a part of him still refused to believe that he’d won the Sports Festival, hearing the congratulations of so many people, both those in his neighborhood and people who had just seen him on TV, along with all the discussion and replays being shown on the news, had helped to cement it in his mind.  He was going to take pride in what he’d done, while still acknowledging there were several times it could have gone either way.  If Midoriya hadn’t come up with the plan for them to cooperate or if some of his matches had been different people or gone just a little differently, he likely wouldn’t have done as well.  

Still: he actually felt like a winner.

“Newb.”

He looked up to see Kirishima-Bakugo standing in front of his desk, muscular arms crossed in front of her chest.  Her red eyes narrowed as she looked him over, everything about her body language reading as a challenge.  But there was something else there too, some subtle sign of acknowledgement that wasn’t there before, as though for the she was seeing him as worthy of her attention for the first time.  She did seem to respect strength and skill, after all.

“Yes?” Isamu asked.

She stared him down for a moment longer before speaking.  “You did good,” she said.  “Seems I underestimated you.”

He definitely wasn’t expecting that, but he quickly found his voice.  “Ah, thanks,” he said.  “You did good too.  Pretty impressive fight against Izumi.”

“Izzy kicked my ass is what she did,” Kirishima-Bakugo replied.  She moved to take her seat.  “But believe me.  I won’t be underestimating you again.”

Well.  That wasn’t worrisome at all.

At the desk next to his, Mineta turned so she could talk to Kirishima-Bakugo.  “What?  No congratulations for me?”

“I still can’t believe you came in second,” Kaminari told her, rolling her eyes.  

“What, like it’s hard?” Mineta replied.

At her desk, Kirishima-Bakugo fumed.  “I’m acknowledging your victory while refusing to acknowledge you, Horse-Girl.”

Mineta shrugged.  “You know what, I’m going to take that as a win here.  On top of my actual win.  Which I had. And you didn’t.”

Kirishima-Bakugo started rising out of her desk again, rage twisting up her features.  “I swear, I will I will blow those damn horns right off your head…”

“Can I get out of the way first?” Kaminari asked, Extension Cords up in the air.  “Or maybe just tase you both?

Kirishima-Bakuago growled, but sat back down.  A quick glance around showed that Izumi had turned around in the front row and was watching them.  Thank goodness for small favors.  “You’re still an idiot, Horse-Girl.  I’m not gonna underestimate you either.  So keep up or get out of the way.  And don’t think you can rely on provocation all the time.  It won’t save you from me…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Mineta said, rolling her eyes.

“How did Uncle Minoru take how you won?” Kaminari asked.

Mineta shook her head. “He called it ‘great use of psychological tactics’.  My innocence is his eyes is safe.”

“Talk about blindspots…”

“On the other hand,” she went on, “he did threaten Shinji when Mom invited him and his dad out to dinner to celebrate my win after the festival…”

Isamu did remember a large teen in a Shiketsu school uniform embracing Mineta after the Festival, twirling her around.  He hadn’t gotten his name then, but that must have been Shinji.  Who’d have ever thought someone like Mineta would have a friend like that?  And apparently as a boyfriend?

He wasn’t sure if he should feel sorry for the guy or not.  At the very least, it didn’t look like it was restraining her personality any.  She was still Mineta, still hitting on everything that moved (which included him).

Of course, he had his own potential for a girlfriend on the horizon too.  He’d spent a decent amount of time over the break texting with Kana Tetsutetsu, even video chatting with her for a little while.  She’d turned out to be a pretty fun person to talk to and seemed a lot like a less scary version of Kirishima-Bakugo.  Intense and dedicated, but not ready to go off at a moment’s notice.  Plus, they’d turned out to both be fans of the cheesy martial arts flicks from the early days of Quirk-based films, which gave them a lot to talk about.

If all went well, they’d try and watch one together before the internships started next week.

The internships.  He’d tried hard not to think about that over the two days.  As the winner of the Sports Festival, he was likely to get a lot of offers.  How would he know who to choose?  And there was still the possibility of being overlooked. His win would give him a lot of cache, but considering how many kids of important Heroes were in his class and the others, he wondered if people wouldn’t be more likely to scout them instead, trying to network or curry favor…

Around him, everyone in the classroom was talking about their Sports Festival performance, some happier than others, some lamenting how early they’d been knocked out.  The noise was only broken when Aizawa’s sleeping bag clad form suddenly appeared from behind the lectern.

“So.  Let’s talk about the Sports Festival.   Pretty cute, the way you used teamwork to get past the First Stage.  A nice exploitation of a loophole, since it’s not against the rules.  And Heroes should be able to work together with anyone.”

You could have heard a pin drop in the classroom.  Aizawa as a teacher as perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop.  He didn’t hand out praise easily, so where this was leading, no one seemed to know.

“Which means I’ll just have to make sure All Might and the others ride you harder to make sure your individual skills don’t atrophy.”

There it was.  That was the other shoe.  Heroics Classes already were pushing them right up to their limits and beyond… how much worse could it get?!

Aizawa continued. “With that being said, we can discuss the Internship offers that have come up.”

He tapped a button on the lectern and the results of the Internship offers appeared on the board.  “These numbers are not necessarily reflective of the total number of offers you received. All Might, Midnight, Principal Nezu, and I spent a considerable amount of time reviewing your offers and eliminating any offers that appeared to be made simply to take advantage of who your parents are.”

Toshinori Midoriya: 4007

Isamu Haimawari: 3546

Mika Mineta: 1451

Izumi Torodoki: 400

Kimiko Ojiro: 203

Asuka Tokoyami: 106

Katsumi: Kirishima-Bakugo: 73

Sora Iida: 40

Chihiro Kaminari: 8

Takuma Sero: 7

Tensei Iida: 6

Shota Shinso: 5

Takiyo Aoyama: 4

Daisuke Shoji: 3

Kenta Sato: 2

Akaya Koda: 2

“Hey!” Mineta cried out. “I did better than Midoriya! Why’s he got so many more offers than me?”

“Maybe because Toshi’s not a lunatic nymphomaniac?” Kirishima-Bakugo said.  “Who sexually harassed her opponents on live television?”

“…Besides that!”

Isamu was pretty sure his heart had just stopped.  How had that many people noticed him, thought he was worthy of their attention?  Maybe not as many as Midoriya, but way more than he would have ever expected.  He couldn’t help but feel bad for some of the others though, who hadn’t gotten nearly as much attention.

“Alas,” he heard Aoyama say. “My radiance did not draw the attention it deserved.”

“You shall have other chances,” Koda assured him.  “And if your internship goes well, it will already open doors to further notice.”

“I suppose so, Mademoiselle Koda, but still…”

“Congratulations, Sister!” Tensei Iida said.  “You do the Iida Family line proud by your successes!”

“Do not be so quick to dismiss your own, Little Brother,” Sora Iida replied.  “With two of us, the honor is twice as large!”

“Go Kimiko!” Sero said. “I’m totally tagging your videos with “Sports Festival Finalist” now.  Our hit count’s gonna be through the roof!”

“Sorry you two didn’t do better,” Ojiro said.

Sato waved it off. “Always next year.  And apparently somebody liked what they saw with me…”

“Oh, man, everybody was so awesome,” Shinso squealed. “You all did so great!  Toshi was all bouncing around and Izumi was throwing all that ice and Tokoyami did that super-cool armor trick and Haimawari was all ZOOOOOM and…”

“Breathe, Shota,” Tokoyami said.

“Still, an impressive accounting by all of you,” Izumi said.

“Guess stretching by Cords out wasn’t all for nothing,” Kaminari added.

“I suppose it’s an honor just to be noticed, even by three people,” Shoji said.  Isamu didn’t know him well, but he didn’t sound particularly depressed by it.  Little seemed to faze the six-armed young man.

“Thirty-five hundred people,” Isamu said quietly.  “Still don’t believe it.”

“If you’re all done?” Aizawa snapped, impatient working its way into his voice.  “I’ll be distributing the requests that go with those numbers shortly.  As I expected, there was significant coordination on the part of your parents. Technically, a logical exploitation of a loophole in the rules I issued them against scouting their own children. So not unexpected.  However, in the meantime, we need to discuss your Hero names.  I’m sure most of you have had these planned for a while, but Midnight would try to murder me if I didn’t indulge her little games.”

“Oh, don’t sound so judgmental about it, Eraser,” Vice-Principal Midnight said, standing in the now open classroom door.  “I love listening to what these fresh young minds have come up with…”

***

Koharu struggled to still the shaking of her hand as she pushed open the door to the door to the school’s office.  She’d been abruptly summoned from her Homeroom class to come to come to there and her mind raced with possibilities about what it might entail.  The two days since the Sports Festival had passed quickly, but with plenty of congratulations from family and friends and even total strangers.  Already, the rest of her Class was treating her like the second coming of Shinso.  

Inside, one of the school secretaries, a woman pale green skin and blonde hair, looked up.  “Can I help you?” she asked.

Koharu gathered her wits. “I’m…  I’m Koharu Kocho.  I got a message saying they wanted to see me down here?”

The woman nodded and pointed to a door marked with the name “Nezu” on its nameplate.  The Principal’s office.  “In there,” the secretary said.  “They’re expecting you, so no need to knock.”

Taking another breath to steady herself, Koharu crossed the room and opened the door to the Principal’s office.  Inside, the strange mouse-bear-dog that was Nezu sat behind a massive mahogany desk, with All Might on one side of his chair and Water Spout on the other, all of them pouring over papers strewn out across the desk and a paused video of some kind of an angled computer monitor.

“Ah, Miss Kocho, welcome!” Nezu said, gesturing towards a chair in front of the desk.  “Please, have a seat.  May I offer you some tea?”

The hyper-intelligent animal was spritely, despite the small but thick glasses that rested on his nose and the grey around his muzzle.  Koharu didn’t know how old he was, but he’d been the principal for well over twenty-five years, even before Heroes like Deku and Ground Zero graced the halls. He had to be well past the life expectancy of… whatever it was he was, exactly.

This wasn’t the first time she’d been in the presence of All Might, of course, having received her medal (and a hug!) from him at the Sports Festival.  But here, away from the cameras, he seemed just a little more serious, a little more subdued.  Water Spout was a new one, though.  

“I, ah, yes, thank you,” she said, as she took a seat.

“Very good,” Nezu said, nodding slightly.  “If you wouldn’t mind, Water Spout?”

“Of course, Principal,” the dark-haired Hero said, moving to the corner of the office where Nezu kept a tea service.  “It’ll be just a few minutes.”

“I must congratulate you on your win again, Miss Kocho,” Nezu said.  “You nearly set a new record for the General Studies department.  Of course, there are those who do not count Akamine’s first place victory of a few years ago, since all he did was endure the attacks of others based on his invulnerability.”

Koharu shook her head, slowly, so as not to overly agitate her antennae.  “I wouldn’t.  He used his Quirk and his head and won fair and square.”

Nezu nodded. “Mmm-hmm, my assessment as well. His path may have lead him elsewhere, but in that moment, it was surely his victory.”

“Young Kocho,” All Might began, his deep voice kind and encouraging, “how would you describe your performance at the Sports Festival?”

Koharu closed her eyes for a moment, taking in a breath.   She accepted the tea that Water Spout handed her.  “Sugar?  Honey? Milk?” he asked.

“Honey, please,” she said, then, when that had been added, extended her proboscis into the tea and took a long sip.  It was warm and sweet, perfect to her taste.  If any of the three adults seemed disturbed by her drinking method, it didn’t show on their faces.  She appreciated that.  Wings and antennae were one thing, and while they brought her plenty of attention, they didn’t bring her much bigotry.  But when she started to drink, that’s when the looks of disgust usually came out.

The long drink gave her a moment to formulate her answer.  “I did alright during the Obstacle Course.  Middle of the pack.  My Quirk was pretty good at bringing down the drones and I was able to fly around a lot of them.   Quirkball… I survived.  Barely.  My Scales and my String-Shot were good at taking people down so they could be hit, but it was a lot to keep track of.  I didn’t always do that good a job, didn’t always realize just how big a target I was.”

All Might and Nezu nodded.   “Good,” All Might said.  “Please, go on.”

Koharu drank some more of her tea before she continued.  She’d come this far.  They deserved nothing less than her total honesty.  Besides, she was fairly certain this was some kind of test in and of itself. She’d heard rumors about the Principal and all the wheels within wheels he spun.

“I got lucky in the Tournament.,” she said.  “My first match was Monoma.”  Once I got out of the range of that Binding Cloth of his, there wasn’t much he could do to me.  It was just a matter of time before I got him with my String-Shot or my Scales.”

“Nothing wrong with having a Quirk your opponent can’t match,” Water Spout said.  “That’s why I get called in to fight fire and flame villains, even though I’m a Rescue Hero.  Not much most of them can do against a few dozen gallons of water. But it still takes strategy.”

Not a bad point, now that she thought about it.  

“You should know Monoma speaks rather highly of you,” Nezu added.  “He’s sent no less than a dozen e-mails to myself, the three Hero Class Homeroom teachers, and several of the other teachers insisting that you be added to the Hero Class.”

He looked down at a printout in his hand. “Ah, yes, and “preferably in Class 1-B.’”

“Against Ojiro, though, she was faster on the move than he was.  She got up close instead of trying to go from the distance.  Plus, you know, the whole invisibility thing.  So I had to use my antennae to find her, but once I did, I could take her out with my String-Shot.   I took a lot more of a beating in that one though.  Much more of a physical fight.  Not totally used to using my wings like that.”

“And you still emerged victorious,” All Might said.  “Young Ojiro is an extremely skilled fighter.  You did quite well to overcome here.”

“If you would talk about your last fight, Miss Kocho?” Nexu prompted.

“Against Mineta?” she said. “Yeah, okay.  I wasn’t prepared for it.  Not really.  I watched her other fights and she’s pretty hard to get a read on.  One minute, she’s fighting or brawling, the next she’s trying to get in somebody’s head.  Add in her ability to fire off those balls, she was pretty dangerous.  I figured I had the best chance if I got airborne and just took her out with a Sleep Powder or a Paralysis Powder, but she was just all over me, shooting those balls everywhere.”

She looked down at an empty teacup.  Nezu, All Might, and Water Spout gave her the moment to gather her thoughts.  “They got all over my wings.  Pinned them to the ground.  Maybe I could have kept fighting.  Even if I was pinned, I still had my String-Shot.  But I was afraid to tearing my wings.  I don’t know… I don’t know if I could heal from that.  So I gave up.  Not very heroic, really.”

“You understood your limits,” All Might said, gently, coming around the desk.  He got down on one knee next to her chair and put a hand on her shoulder.  “There is nothing wrong with being afraid.  Even the mightiest of us have felt fear.  But if you’re to join the Hero Course, you’re going to have to learn to surpass that fear and find new limits.”

“I… what?”  Nothing in that last sentence made any sense to her right now.

“We’ve been viewing your Sports Festival footage, as well as your performance during the Entrance Exam,” Nezu said.  “We’ve also spoken to your physical education teacher, and several of your other teachers. What happened to you during the Entrance Exam was a rather tragic accident.  Based upon your initial performance and your performance during the Sports Festival, I was able to extrapolate a probable score for you if you hadn’t been knocked out.”

Nezu pushed his chair back and hopped down, slowly walking around the desk with the aid of his cane. “You should have passed with flying colors.”

“I… what?” Koharu repeated.

Nezu offered her a hand. “Miss Kocho, if you are willing to put in a, frankly, considerable amount of work to get caught up, we are pleased to offer you a place in the Hero Course for the second semester.”

***

Isamu wasn’t surprised that all of his classmates had names ready to go.  And he probably shouldn’t have been surprised that Aizawa had opted to hide himself in his sleeping bag in the corner while Vice Principal Midnight ran the show.  He had a habit, from what Isamu had seen, of doing that to avoid anything he didn’t want to be bothered by.  

He was, however, definitely surprised by the outright hungry look Vice Principal Midnight was giving much of the class.  Wasn’t she in her fifties?  And in a committed relationship with Present Mic (the tabloids were always speculating on whether or not they’d get married or if she was cheating on him behind his back)?  Of course, given the first time he’d met her, he’d nearly run head first into her cleavage and she’d just laughed it off, he really shouldn’t have been surprised.  Currently, she was perched on Aizawa’s desk, her short skirt giving everyone a good view of her legs.

Honestly, half of being in this school was learning not to be surprised by things.

Midoriya had volunteered to go first, which wasn’t surprising.  He was pretty much always leading the way or taking charge.  “Okay,” he said, “so maybe this is a little simple, but I really wanted to honor Grandpa Might, so I’m going with The Gravity Hero: Gravi-Might!”

“You are such a dork, Toshi,” Kirishima-Bakugo groaned.

“A bit direct,” Midnight said, “but appropriate in your case.  I’ll allow it.”

Kirishima-Bakugo took the stage next, wearing one of those grins that usually preceded her punching something.  “So, how about Queen Explosion Murder?”

Midnight pinched the bridge of her nose.  “…No, kid. Just no.”

The explosive girl laughed at that, a harsh, barking sound.  “Aw, don’t be so serious.  I’m just yanking your chain.  Call me… The Explosion Hero: Bombshell!”

“…I’m going to approve that just so you sit down,” Midnight said.  She looked across the room.  “Question, Mineta?  Or do you want to volunteer?”

“Oh, it’s a question. I just want to know how Kirishima-Bakugo thinks she can be a bombshell with boobs that sma…”

A glare from Kirishina-Bakugo quickly silenced that.  Mineta and Kaminari both scooted their desks closer to his when Kirishima-Bakguo took her seat.

Izumi took to the lectern next.  “Shoto gave me a bit of help with this, but I rather like it.  The Ice and Fire Hero: Thermo-Dynamic!”

“Oh yeah!” Shinso cheered. “You used my idea!”

Midnight let out of a laugh. “Well, at least you picked one,” she said.  “But it’s got passion!  I love it!”

It was a good name, Isamu had to admit.  Maybe a little bolder than he expected of Izumi, but she’d shown herself to be pretty bold at the Sports Festival too.

Tokoyami took to the front of the room next.  As she opened her beak to speak, Frog-Shadow appeared.

“The Froggy Hero: Super Frog-Shadow!”

“We are not calling ourselves that!”

“I get a say in this!  That’s my vote!”

“You don’t get any say!”

Frog-Shadow crossed her arms, looking like she was pouting.  “Fine,” she said.  “You’re no fun!” She disappeared back inside Tokoyami with a slight popping sound.

Tokoyami just shook her head, staring at the floor.  “I must apologize for her.  But I have chosen the name Bright Side Hero: Amaterasu!”

“You just made that up!” Sero said.  “No one said we could just make up words!”

The bird-headed girl shook her head.  “Perhaps it is presumptuous.  Amaterasu is the sun goddess, counterpart to my father’s moon god, Tsukuyomi.  But it seemed fitting.”

Frog-Shadow appeared again. “Can I change my vote to that?  I like being a goddess!”

“Make it three votes,” Midnight said.  “You’ve got confidence, Tokoyami.  I love it!”

The Twins went next.  “While we are certain Father would one day like for one of us to carry on the Ingenium name,” Sora Iida said, “now is not the time for that!”

“He still has an illustrious career ahead of him,” Tensei Iida added.  “So therefore, we have come up with names of our own!”

Sora posed, flexing a bicep. She wasn’t as muscular as Kirishima-Bakugo, but she was certainly in good shape.  Midoriya was a lucky guy.  Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t be thinking that about a friend’s girlfriend.  But he was only human.  “Therefore, I shall be The Speedy Flying Hero: Jet-Red!”

“And I,” Tensei said, arms weaving a chopping motion through the air, “am The Flying Speedy Hero: Jet-Blue!”

“Really,” Kirishima-Bakugo groaned again.  “Twin-themed names.  You’re really doing that?”

“It is a show of familial solidarity!” Sora snapped.

“We are united as siblings in science and in heroism!” Tensei added.  

“A bit flat,” Midnight said. She placed a hand to her face, tapping on her cheek with one long finger.  “Still… it will do, I suppose.”

Sero sauntered up to the front next.  “Just call me The Acid Tape Hero: Stick ‘Em Up!”

Midnight sighed.  “Seriously, Sero?”

He gave her a grin.  “I focus tested it with all my ViewTube followers. Eighty-five percent positive approval.”

“No changing your mind?”

“Nope.”

She waved a hand in the direction of the desks.  “Fiiiine.”

Ojiro was up next.  “So, um,” she began, “I’ve been talking with Doc Clock and she’s really suggested I could be a great Medical Hero someday, so… this isn’t the name I thought I’d use, but I came up with it a few weeks back.  I’m going to be the Paramedic Hero: X-Ray!”

Sato and Sero let out a cheer.  “You got this, Kimiko!”

“You go, girl!”

Huh.  Isamu knew Ojiro was a martial artist and a gossip fiend, but this was new.  She’d probably be good at it, now that he thought about it.

“How uplifting!” Midnight squealed.

Then Sato’s turn.   “Ah…  So, I was thinking the Hungry Hero: Chomp!”

“Now that’s a name with bite!” Sero shouted.

“Puns, really, Pinky?” Kirishima-Bakugo groaned.  She gave a quick look to the front.  “Still… not bad, Lips.”

Midnight seemed to approve as well.  “Short, to the point, perfectly encapsulates your Quirk!”

And then Shiso.  As usual, he was practically vibrating with excitement.  “Before I go, I just wanna say thanks to Kirishima-Bakugo!  She’s really the one who came up with this!”

“…I did what now?”

“I’m gonna be… The Octave Hero: Loud Kid!”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Well, you always call me that, and it’s such a good name, so I really hope you don’t mind if I use it…”

“Knock yourself out, Loud Kid.”

At that, Midnight nodded slightly.  Even she seemed inclined to tiptoe around Shinso.  “What youthful vigor!”

Then it was Aoyama’s turn. “Please, please, silence all conversations and give me your attention.”  He posed theatrically, as though whipping around the cape he wore with his Hero costume.  “And now, set your eyes on The Dazzling Hero: Radiance!”  He let loose a small flash of light at the same time, forcing Isamu to look away, blinking furiously.

“You do bring a certain sparkle to things, Aoyama,” Midnight said.  “But next time, lay off the special effects.”

Koda followed him.  “My own choices are not quite so spectacular or outlandish as some of yours, but I hope that they will suffice.   You may call me the Gardening Hero: Nurture.”

“Well said, young lady,” Midnight added.  “Simple… but I think it fits.  And if you ever need any help on “nurturing” the boys…”

Isamu could have sworn he was Koda’s rocky face blush slightly.  “I am quite all right, Miss Midnight, thank you.”

Then it was Shoji.  “Nothing fancy,” he said.  “the Well-Armed Hero: Octo-Punch.”

“Not bad at all,” Midnight said.  “I wouldn’t have expected anything fancier from you, Shoji.”

“Hey!” Mineta piped up. “You said you were going to go with my idea!  The Hentai-Hero: Tentacles!”

Shoji gave her a flat look. “I lied.”

After that, Kaminari took her own turn.  “Been thinking about this one for a while, but figured I’d go with something that combines my Quirk, which is electricity with my Cords, with something about me, music. So from now on, I’m going to be the Plug-In Hero: Shock Jock!”

“How electrifying!”

Mineta followed after that. Before she could even speak, Midnight interjected.  “Now, I love a good double and triple or more entendre as much as anyway.  And I’d love it just as much as you to see some of these boys and girls squeal and squirm.  But I must insist that your Hero name be at least somewhat family friendly.   The Hero Commission is really cracking down on R-Rated Heroes and Heroines these days.”

Mineta looked somewhat deflated by that, but she pushed on.  “Okay, fiiiiine.  I used to think you were cool.”

Midnight looked offended by that.  “Oh, child, I am still “cool.’”

“Anyway,” Mineta went on, “I’m going to be the Cavalry Hero: Purple Rein!”

“That’s… surprisingly subdued for you,” Midnight said.  “Are you feeling all right?”

“Right as Rein,” Mineta said.  “Nothing? Anyone?  …Well, it’s a lot funnier in English.”

Finally, Isamu went to the front.   He tried not to wither under the gaze of his classmates.  Midoriya, Tokoyami, Shinso, and Izumi: encouraging.   Mineta: Looking like she was sizing him up to eat him.  Kirishima-Bakugo: Glaring at him like usual.   Midnight: Also sizing him up in a way that was probably really not appropriate for a women in her fifties.

“So…I’ve been thinking about this one a lot,” he said.  “And I want something that tells the world who I am.  I’ve got a simple Quirk, but I learned a lot about how to use it and make it work for me.  So I’m going to be the Three-Point Hero: Slyde!”

“Spoken like a true champion!”

***

So much paperwork to prepare for the transfer.  Private lessons after school and during her gym periods, lots of coursework to study, it was all happening so fast, Koharu thought her head was spinning.  She’d have to design a costume, get that fitted and made…   And if she did well enough preparing, she’d even get to attend the Summer Training Camp. They were still apparently discussing which Heroics Class she’d get into, but it was a real, tangible thing now.

“One more thing for today, Miss Kocho,” Principal Nezu said.  “Since I know you’ve had aspirations for the Hero Course for some time… Have you considered a Hero name?”

She nodded at that. She had for a long time, ever since she’d decided she was going to try out for the Hero Course.  “I have,” she said.  “the Lepidopteran Hero: Yamamai.”

“A, ah, bit on the nose, isn’t it?” Water Spout asked.

She shrugged.  “People with animal Quirks like mine get looked down on a lot.  And called a lot of names.  I’m not hiding from who I am.  I’m embracing it.”

“Well said, Young Kocho, well said,” All Might said.  “The perfect beginning to your hero academia!”

[phydia63-blog]

Working an eight-hour day

Working an eight-hour day, she earns close to 4,000 euros (£3,600) per month - nearly 10 times the Romanian average wage. As Lana's employer, Studio 20 also makes 4,000 euros per month from her online sessions. And at the top of the video chat money-making pyramid, LiveJasmin - the online cam site that streams Studio 20's content and is responsible for collecting payment from the credit cards of clients - takes double that: 8,000 euros. One thing that I admittedly dont have control over, proven by the phone conversation that spurred me to write this piece, is the judgment that others will cast on my when they know that I do for money. Even those who know that as well as dancing, I am a student and hold a day job in retail. Its a shame that women are continuously told not to express themselves for fear of judgment and labeling. Why are we told that there are good girls and there are whores? In my life, I want to embrace every aspect that comes with being a woman. I want to be sexy and intelligent. I want to be passionate and headstrong but I want others to know that I feel too.I get a mixture of emotions. Mostly people react positively because of the way I speak about it. It's so different if you're really shy and timid and quiet about it. It immediately gives off this idea of ‘oh they're not completely ok with it.' But if anyone ever asks me, I'd be like ‘fuck yeah I webcam, I love it!' I get to mess around at home all day and I get to be as open and as genuine to myself as I can possibly be, and there's a lot of people who aren't ok with that because I'm into some very unusual things myself. I don't have to hide and pretend that I'm someone else; I can really be my true self.Theres so much free porn that I feel webcamming is more of a personal one-on-one. You can go online and find any ol stuff, but webcamming is more personal; its tailored exactly to what you want and what youre looking for. Youre not sharing it with 100 thousand other people. This is your show. Most of the time you build up a relationship, I talk to you as a friend and I respect you as a person. How has your day been, what did you get from the shops, what are you cooking for dinner… its like an online relationship.

So as I sat there, in front of my laptop, I thought to myself, Why didnt I just respond the way that I normally do when somebody proclaims something which I dont agree with? Why didnt I just say, firmly but reasonably, you are wrong and these are the reasons why… Perhaps it was because it was so personal, that I felt like for once, I wasnt defending femininity as a whole, but just myself. Which on the surface would seem like a less daunting task, but for me it left me stumped. I knew that I was a feminist and it wasnt often that I had to justify myself to anybody. I was used to breaking down all the reasons that men used to justify their behavior."I usually go for dresses, lingerie, or leather," she says."It's about selling your brain, not your body," she says. "I see it like a performance, like a show. But this is not a job for everybody - a lot of girls quit after a few weeks or even days, because they have this mindset that they're selling their body. Your mindset is what matters in this job. I have my limits, and I truly do not feel exploited.It took six years to reach this life of dilettantism and occasional sex work. Anna wasn't always free. She started camming when she moved from her backwater Romanian hometown to attend college in Bucharest for a degree in psychology. When she relocated, she knew no one and had no money. But, like Domino, heard things about the lucrative streaming flesh trade — a recommendation from a male friend who convinced her to strip from his cramped two-room apartment as he did the same in the other room.

It is true that when I am up on stage I feel powerful. In my 7-inch heels and latex leotards and frilly skirts, my body feels beautiful in a way that I dont see it in everyday life, and I feel confident and empowered. When the music comes on, I go with it, when I dance it is natural and its fun. The money is ultimately what I am here for, but this isnt just something I do just to pay the rent. This is my art, and whilst I am making myself sexually desirable, nobody can objectify me, as I hold that power. I am in control, because I objectify myself, if you like.Each network will ask you to fill out a brief bit of biographical information — list your interests, and try to sound fun — and then check a box or pull down a menu saying that you're 18 or above. You'll need to submit some sort of identification proving your age, but with standards low, laws international, and documents scanned, forging such a thing is a cinch, making underage cam girls a real problem.I choose who I perform for, when I will perform and for how long it will last. I choose how I perform. When I dance, I feel like I have found liberation in the free expression of my sexuality, in a world that usually tells me to be ashamed of my body. And it is true, I do feel a curious kind of control over those who watch me, a feeling that is so far removed from the usual feeling of my body being controlled by men in my everyday life. I have felt more objectified being a waitress where I politely and quietly serve the needs of men than I do as a stripper.Heidi sells her underwear for $100 and has performed sex acts on other girls for her followers. CONTINUED BELOW...

[tuneuploops-blog]

HOW TO FIND RINGTONES ON GOOGLE

TUNEUPLOOPS.COM

this website is updating its ringtones everyday to give the user the best experience about new ringtones.Ringtones is a very big market people tend to  have ringtones of there choice rather than the stock ringtones which they get from there mobile company.Music is in all different languages same as there are people from different countries and different languages so tuneuploops is providing ringtones for free in all the categories o all countries.to download hollywood ringtones,apple ringtones,samsung ringtones,free ringtones.ringtones 2019,english ringtones, VISIT https://www.tuneuploops.com

Why Music Is the Most Important Form of Art

Music is officially characterized as the specialty of consolidating vocal or potentially instrumental sounds together to make articulations. These incorporate our enthusiastic responses. Music can depict sentiments and considerations that numerous individuals have, yet they can't express. The word music is really a thing that implies music in Latin and started from the Greek word muse. The word music has equivalent words like tune, agreement, and melody. Music is a characteristic instrument since it is an all inclusive type of correspondence. At the point when creatures sing their tunes to each other, this is music utilized for conveying and notwithstanding mating. People use music for a wide range of reasons, for example, amusement or for working out and entertainment from best site www.tuneuploops.com. "Music is commonly seen as the most widespread of all works of art." The exacting significance of the word 'music' as indicated by any lexicon is: 'specialty of consolidating vocal or instrumental sounds in an agreeable or expressive manner.' But music has an importance which is far more extensive than this. Music is life. Music implies Self-development and unity. It is a workmanship without anyone else. Craftsmanship, in any of its structures, is produced by an individual, or a gathering of capable yet normally customary individuals, that express, energetically or not, a feeling with respect to present occasions. It's anything but a need; it is a need.  On the off chance that you attempt to envision yourself without it, you will undoubtedly feel fragmented. For a considerable lot of us, it has turned into a need of our lives. Music has no limits. Music has numerous extraordinary employment. Truth be told, music is even advantageous to an individual's well-being and state of mind. Studies have demonstrated that individuals who tune in to music consistently score higher on knowledge tests than individuals who don't. This is on the grounds that they can hold more data and are in more joyful temperaments for longer time-frames. Indeed, even plants and children can profit by tuning in to music. Music ought to be incorporated into everybody's life! There are a wide range of music classes to look over. Every classification contains its very own extraordinary sounds, beats, verses, and messages. Music types are basically an assortment of music craftsmen, rhythms, and beats. The sort of music classification an individual appreciates tuning in to relies upon individual inclination, state of mind, or kind of movement. Numerous individuals appreciate tuning in to various music sorts. Whatever you tune in to, the music will improve your life! Is music the most significant type of aesthetic articulation? Sky no, music is simply one more focal point through which to encounter the stunning and wonderful secret that is the universe. Whenever you use words like "most' or "best" you are making a counterfeit and abstract judgment that is auspicious not ageless. Any type of craftsmanship is the most significant right now you are encountering it. ALL types of craftsmanship are significant. The worth put upon each is much subjective depending on each person's preferences. For genuine workmanship epicureans, the substance of a rich life claims or approaching perspective, the perfect works of art the person in question venerates. For music darlings, we could have the entire universe of visual workmanship accessible to us from prehistory completely through spring 2019; People who love the visual expressions most likely feel a similar way. As do the individuals who discover their energy in the showy expressions. Workmanship comes in numerous structures, and I think of it as the most phenomenal thing that we as people can achieve paying little respect to its introduction or media. Music is the all inclusive language (the same number of individuals’ state). Individuals can tune in to a melody and identify with the tune or craftsman. Certain music can change somebody's state of mind into glad to dismal or tight clamp versa. Studies have likewise demonstrated that music can improve somebody's test scores/grades. Everyone tunes in to music. You can hear it on the radio, in the stores, and in films. You can appreciate music without speculation since it is an all inclusive type of amusement. No doubt, music is the most significant work of art. Analysts guarantee that individuals who appreciate listening to music are less inclined to experience the ill effects of pressure, tension, and misery. Snap www.tuneuploops.com and read to completely the article to know how music impacts your life. Music is firmly connected with moving. You can't move without music. Music gives cadence and makes moving conceivable. What's more, moving itself is an incredible movement. It is entertaining. Individuals everywhere throughout the world go to clubs so as to get together, be dynamic, and associate in various structures. Current culture relies upon music in light of the fact that else, it is difficult to get such a significant number of individuals go to clubs. Additionally, you can discover a ton of single women there to hit the dance floor with. What's more, once more, moving and tuning in to music is a type of correspondence. You can tune in to music and discuss your sentiments with the moves of your body. In this manner, you can mess around with individuals whose language you don't have the foggiest idea. Music gives you unwinding. Individuals regularly state that it occupies you from negative contemplation and enable you to simply be without deduction. Individuals take care of different exercises so as to escape from repeating musings. Your inconveniences at work, in the family, and life may pressure and discourage you. Tuning in to your main tunes makes you increasingly tranquil. It likewise furnishes you with a chance to simply escape what encompass you and jump profound inside the profundity of your brain and soul. Music normally will in general express something; this is just a deception, and not a reality. It is absolutely this, which delivers in us an exceptional feeling which shares nothing for all intents and purposes with our conventional sensations and our reactions to the impressions of day by day life. Music communicates, at various minutes, tranquility or vivacity, lament or triumph, rage or joy. It communicates every one of these mind-sets, and numerous others, in a countless assortment of contrasts. It might even express a condition of importance for which there exists no satisfactory word in any language. All things considered, artists regularly prefer to state that it has just a simple melodic significance. They here and there go more distant and state that all music has just an absolutely melodic importance. Our own conviction is that all music has an expressive power, some more and some less, however that all music has certain 

Music is a form of art 

Workmanship is in our regular daily existence. Regardless of whether it's the structure on a soup can or a real painting you see it consistently. A large number of the things we see each day are in acclaimed pop workmanship sketches. The development Pop Art began in the late 1950s to the mid 1960s. It spread broadly through Britain and the Americas. The Movement Pop Art was named by the craftsmanship faultfinder Lawrence All way. From the start the open didn't acknowledge Pop Art as a type of workmanship. It was later acknowledged by numerous commentators. The pundits felt it demonstrated that while we concur each type of workmanship is significant, the current inquiry "is music the MOST significant?" as a result of that we just need to demonstrate it's somewhat more significant than the other artistic expressions for it to in fact be the most significant. I'll give you 4 reasons why music could really compare to some other work of art 

1) It’s all over, in your vehicle, in motion pictures, TV appears, recordings, workmanship shows, it's a fine art so general that it even shows up in other fine arts.

 2) It's a lot bigger industry than some other artistic expressions and gives occupations to a huge number of individuals around the world 

3) It can have an extremely solid impact on your state of mind, as it very well may quiet, startling, stimulating, it can create practically any feeling. It can impact individuals to a scale that other artistic expressions can't. 

4) Music is the most all inclusive artistic expression, engaging the most measures of individuals, or if nothing else being accessible to the most measures of individuals. It doesn't attempt to make an exterior of predominance like depictions or models do.

Music in Nature

Music is something we can discover in nature. Each culture has distinctive sort of music in without fail and individuals hear them out. There are different kinds of music, for example, conventional music, present day music, and so on. Today, music become current and a few people think present day type of music is better known than customary kind. As I would see it, music is turned out to be one of part in our live. Everyone tune in to music. Inquires about shows music has a great deal of points of interest. Right off the bat, we can tune in to music for unwinding. For instance, in the event that we tune in to the sound of the sea, we will have a decent dream. Furthermore, music and apparatuses for correspondence between individuals. Individuals don't see each language, yet they can feel the music. At last, music transforms us. Music is significant piece of a culture. On the off chance that music changes, therefore, our way of life and life will be change. These days, a few people think conventional music isn't as mainstream as present day music. In our general public, youngsters tune in to present day music, for example, pop or hip jump and more established individuals like to listen customary. We can't state customary isn't helpful any longer since present day music is utilized conventional. We have a great deal of band that attempt to utilize customary music in new ways due to youngsters. Taking everything into account, we should state both conventional and current music are significant in our life. We can't overlook any of them and we can't state which one is increasingly famous and valuable in our life. Music is sounds however music does not, and isn't intended to sound like ANYTHING, it doesn't sound like winged creatures or mutts, or smashing waves or wind or anything as a general rule. These are blended from different instruments, fake contraptions with strings and squares and pipes and reeds or drums created since the beginning of man. Workmanship as per Objectivity is something which at its center is identified with a feeling of life and something which serves a need in man to find in a minute or generally limited capacity to focus time a whole of all his insight and qualities and reasoning of life (right me if this isn't EXACTLY the need of man) and this no one but craftsmanship can do... what's more, apparently what does it must be workmanship. So we see that different types of writing and artistic creations and figure should bring to the fore in the psyche of the onlooker of the workmanship a feeling of life. On the off chance that I see accurately these must have content which is illustrative of that feeling of life. It should by one way or another is in excess of a deliberation which gives simple sensations or feelings; it must incorporate something which interfaces with the intellectual staff with a certain goal in mind. Objective does not concede to a discretionary twofold standard. Unadulterated music itself does not impart a feeling of life... it is unimportant, and simply dynamic. 

We finish up: Music IS the best work of art... furthermore, the least legitimate type of workmanship as indicated by Objective.

This kind of music individual tunes in to say a ton regarding their enthusiastic state. Music is a strategy for break, similar to time travel or shape moving. Music makes us feel that another person comprehends our bliss, trouble, rage, dread, envy, and so on. Whatever the feeling is that we have to feel or getaway from, music is consistently there like www.tuneuploops.com to help the music client

[mst3kproject]

620: Danger!! Death Ray

Buppa-duppa-da-dah… ba-dup-dup-dadda-da-dah!  Yes indeed, while Radar Secret Service’s distinguishing feature was a lack of distinguishing features (honestly, it lacked features, period), Danger!! Death Ray’s is the second most persistent earworm in the MST3K canon.  Only the Sad Mushroom Ukulele Anthem is worse.  I guarantee you that Buppa-Duppa-Da-Dah will be the soundtrack to all our inner monologues for the next week – complete with Tom Servo going “wait for it… ting!” every time.

Radiation expert Dr. Carmichael has invented a Death Ray, which he shows to the UN on condition it be used only in the interests of world peace.  At the summit in disguise are agents of the international arms dealer known as Scarface.  They kidnap Carmichael and steal the Death Ray, and take them away to be used for nefarious and non-world-peaceful purposes!  Elsewhere, the CIA or somebody drags agent Bart Fargo out of bed to put him on the case.  He follows Scarface’s toy submarine to Barcelona, where the Death Ray is turned over to the mysterious Mr. Carver.  It’s up to Fargo to find Carver before he can put his ill-defined plans for Carmichael and the Ray into action!

I don’t want to believe this movie was actually filmed in Barcelona.  Barcelona is famous for its art and for architecture ranging from the Gothic to the Art Nouveau, which make it one of Europe’s most popular tourist destinations.  Danger!! Death Ray makes the city look like a suburb of Detroit.  That’s actually kind of impressive in a very perverse way.  It’s as if they filmed in the Vatican and lit Michelangelo’s Pieta to make it look like a pile of elephant dung – yeah, it’s kind of amazing that they managed that, but… why?  If your point is that even the world’s most beautiful cities have a seedy underbelly, then you still need to show us the pretty parts for contrast.  If you actually can’t afford to go to Barcelona, that’s why stock footage exists.

At ninety-three minutes, the movie is a bit too long for its own good, and very little of what MST3K cut has any real effect on the plot – the beginning is particularly padding-heavy.  Those of us who only know Danger!! Death Ray through the Satellite of Love missed the opening bit where the bad guys ambush the car taking delegates to NATO and take their places, but even in the bit we saw the opening drags.  There’s the extended sequence of driving in the dark that serves no purpose except having credits over it, and then the whole bit with guys in suits walking through wherever the hell they are to get to the Death Ray lecture room.  Surely the driving could have been cut down a bit and the credits extended into the White Guys Walking in Herds, to save some time and patience!  The movie never again gets that slow but later chase or stalking sequences all go on a little too long, and there’s no reason to see as much as we did of things like the dancers at the restaurant (instead of seeing, for example, the nice parts of Barcelona).

The hero of Danger!! Death Ray is Secret Agent Bart Fargo, played by a guy named Gordon Scott who spent most of his career playing Tarzan or Maciste.  We’ve already seen him in the Episodes that Never Were, in Goliath and the Vampires.  Fargo’s got a lot in common with Brian Cooper of Secret Agent Super Dragon, and all of it is the stuff I spent that review complaining about: he’s introduced to us in bed, and he goes right back to bed with practically every woman who crosses his path.

In terms of establishing him as a glamorous secret agent, Fargo’s introduction is actually worse than Cooper’s.  Cooper, meditating by his pool, was at least establishing that he can hold his breath for a long time, which comes in handy later when the bad guys nail him into a coffin and throw him in a river.  Fargo is literally in bed, supposedly on vacation, and gets scared awake by two women who just walk right into his hotel room.  Our hero, right here.  Then, like Cooper complaining that he’s retired now, Fargo’s response to being told to save the world is that he doesn’t wanna, he’s supposed to be on vacation.  I think we’re meant to assume that the UN demanded the best to retrieve Carmichael and his peace-loving death ray, but Fargo was going to Toshi Station to pick up some power converters, damn it!

Was this a thing in the sixties?  Secret agents who would rather stay in bed?  If so, why was it a thing?  Is it supposed to make him relatable?  I know I would rather stay in bed some days, but that’s probably why I’m not in charge of saving the world from guys with Death Rays.

In the man-slut category, Fargo is even more than a turd about it than Cooper because unlike Cooper, Fargo already has a steady girlfriend.  He’s seeing his boss’ secretary, Roberta, and has promised her a trip to Majorca.  In Barcelona, however, he is immediately captivated by Lucia, an artist who sits around painting female nudes while wearing very few clothes herself.  I dunno about you guys, but if I met a woman who did that I would probably assume she’s not into the whole ‘heterosexuality’ thing.  Then again, she asks him out, so I guess what’s actually going on here is the writers just thought it was hot.  Fargo and Lucia hit it off spectacularly, but then a blonde he met on the plane turns up at his door and he immediately takes her to bed despite the sign around her neck that says ENEMY AGENT. Then in the closing scene, Roberta (remember her?) is trying to contact Fargo on his radio wristwatch, reminding him about that trip to Majorca, and he takes the watch off and throws it in the pool before running off with Lucia! Not even an I think we should see other people.  What a prick!

At least nobody ever ties our hero into a death trap.  When these bad guys want to kill Fargo, they use actual knives, guns, and other things that do not allow him more than half a second to think and get out of the way. The Society of Halfway Smart Villains approves.

All right, so besides Glamorous Secret Agent tropes, what else is going on in this movie?  Does Danger!! Death Ray have anything much to say?  Surprisingly, it kind of does.  The very existence of the titular weapon seems to be trying to tell us something about the nuclear arms race.  If you listen to Dr. Carmichael’s presentation to the NATO guys without the riffing, he explains what he means when he says he created a Death Ray to ensure world peace: it’s intended as a deterrent – nobody will dare to start a war if they know they might be Death Rayed for it!  This was the justification for the arms race throughout the cold war, and it worked for the major powers, I guess.  They got to live in relative peace while making smaller, less prosperous states do all the fighting and suffering for them.

The existence of a Death Ray probably wouldn’t change that, but Danger!! Death Ray isn’t really interested in that problem with the arms race.  It’s interested in the other difficulty that periodically dogs our nuclear-armed world: sooner or later one of those doomsday weapons is going to get into the hands of somebody with insufficient understanding of the consequences, who might actually use the damn thing.  The movie demonstrates that Carver is in this category by having him threaten Lucia and Fargo with the ray, which is completely overpowered for the purpose – a handgun would do fine.  Of course unwise use of his weapon of mass destruction bites Carver in the ass, but only a little – he realizes that his burning a hole in the door of his secret torture dungeon is the only reason Fargo was able to get in.  This isn’t the most emphatic way for the movie to make its point, but if they couldn’t afford to show us Barcelona then they definitely couldn’t afford to Death Ray the Sagrada Familia, so I guess they used what they had.

There appears to be a second, lesser motif going on as well, and that’s to do with the idea of watchfulness.  At the beginning of the movie, when the Death Ray is stolen, it is removed from a compound full of security cameras – at the end, when it is recaptured, it is taken from a villa where the security cameras have guns.  In both cases we see a guy watching a bank of tv screens, panicking as he tries to do something about the developing situation but ultimately unable to prevent catastrophe.  This seems to be an earnest attempt to bookend the movie, and what I think it’s trying to say is that watchfulness is not enough.  In both scenes, the guy looking at the monitors is powerless to act.  The NATO guy is shot and help arrives too late to save him or the Death Ray.  Carver does slightly better in that he can shoot at what he sees, but he cannot aim, and the more mobile Fargo takes his cameras out one after the other.  High-tech security is all very well, but no match for actual people.

As you can probably guess, I’m not sure if any of this were intentional or whether I’m just reading it in.  It’s possible that the writers just thought Death Rays and security cameras with built-in machine guns were really cool.  I mean, we are talking about a movie in which an assassin hurls himself at the hero only to go flying right out a window, and the movie treats it as a narrow escape instead of a moment of slapstick comedy.  God, I love that bit.  Even without Mike and the bots I laugh every time.

Danger!! Death Ray is basically just another crappy EuroSpy movie, but it’s a better crappy EuroSpy movie than Secret Agent Super Dragon… in fact, when I think back on the other installments, it may just be the best of MST3K’s crappy EuroSpy movies, but I feel like it’s too early to make that judgment for sure.  I need to see the rest of them before I bring the gavel down.  It definitely has the catchiest theme song, though – buppa-duppa-da-da-da-dah!

[ask-de-writer]

LOST TIME (part 1 of 3) A fantasy of Flocking Bay.

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Flocking Bay

LOST TIME

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

5556 words

© 2020 by Glen Ten-Eyck

written 2003

All rights reserved.

Reproduction  in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the  express written consent of the author or proper copyright holder.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users  of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in  my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical   compositions. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge   for their images.

All sorts of Fan Activity, fiction, art, cosplay, music or anything else is ACTIVELY encouraged!

///////////////////////

It stands out even in the dark ... It shouldn’t. It’s just a house. A damned old house. Not even that old really, not for New England. It’s a two story salt-box style with an observation deck under a cupola at the peak. It is probably just the setting. Rusty old iron fence, gnarled elderly trees, unkempt lawn not quite out of control, windows that the neighborhood kids haven’t broken. It should be a witch’s house but it isn’t. It is mine. I just closed on it yesterday.

The kids are going to have a field day this time. I don’t like the daylight... been on night shift as far back as I can remember. That’s a longish way back. But I’m not a witch, nor vampire. Nothing exotic that I know of. I’m just one of those people (you probably know one or two) who don’t show their age. If you envy me, think again. YOU try to explain to a traffic cop why your ID has you pegged for seventy+ and you don’t look over twenty. I carry a copy of my fingerprint record from the military, because they can check that.

Funny part of it is, I really don’t have the slightest idea how old I am. Traumatic amnesia the doctors called it, during the war. The head wound was minor, they said.

That is a matter of opinion. It robbed me of my past, my name, my identity, my loves and hates but left my skills intact. I was an empty shell. I am still trying to find my past.

The name that I use comes from more or less modern myth. Vandervekken. The Flying Dutchman. Wandering Dutchman would be more accurate. He sails the seas off the Cape of Good Hope until Judgment Day. He can’t find his home either. I bought the house because it is the first place that I have seen in over fifty years where I want to stay. You explain it.

The rusty gate opened silently, thanks to the bit of oil that I put on the hinges. Going up the uneven walk, between the looming trees is an experience. The door lock is old-fashioned but still works smoothly. Covered furniture could have made ghosts to haunt the place, if I were superstitious or given to being easily frightened.

As I said, I like the night. I even enjoy things with a bit of a spooky atmosphere. I also like antiques and handcrafted things which is why, if I ever find out who did it, I will cheerfully throttle whatever philistine covered the finely inlaid hardwood parquetry floors with battleship gray paint.

Stripping and refinishing those floors was on my priority job list. Actually, I shouldn’t beef too much. Pointing out the problem got me a price reduction of nearly $2000 on an already underpriced house with all of its furniture as part of the deal. Estates can be wonderful when you are on a tight budget. Too bad that someone else had to die to create my good fortune.

As I pulled the dust covers from the furniture, I saw that my good fortune was been complete. It was all sturdy, hand-carved hardwood with Chinese silk brocade upholstery. The furniture alone was worth what I had paid for the house and contents. The tops of even the smallest hall tables were inlaid with rich veneers, ivory and mother of pearl. You couldn’t buy furniture like this any more. Besides the cost, the ivory in the inlays is no longer legal to obtain. I could get as much from the sale of just one or two pieces as I could from a year of writing if I could bring myself to part with any of this treasure. It just feels like the house would not be complete without it.

Whoever it was that had died and left this for me to have has whatever blessings it is in my power to bestow. The only wonder is that this place stayed on the market long enough for me to find it. Usually, deals like this get snapped up by the real-estate brokers before people like me ever see them.

When I got to the kitchen, I received another little jolt. I knew that it was fairly up to date, but some thoughtful soul had stocked the fridge and set out a bit of a snack for me. Just cookies and a glass for the milk, which was staying cold in the cooler. Thoughtful. I wondered who did it.

While munching on the cookies, I opened a few windows to air the place out a bit. Going out to my car, I saw that the flags of the walk needed leveling because of the weeds that grew up between them. I drove around to the alley behind the place, opened the garage and parked Lilitu, my classic pre-war Packard touring car. She looked right at home in there. Few, even of modern garages were big enough for her. I ferried my few personal goods up to the house. On my last trip, I saw a couple of wide-eyed kids looking over the back fence.

“Told ya, told ya so!” one of them chanted. “There’s somebody sneakin’ inta the ol’ Vekin place!”

“I wouldn’t call it sneaking, to move into your own place,” I answered as civilly as I could manage. “I just bought it. Why do you call it the Vekin place?”

“If ya ain’t sneakin’, why ya goin’ in the back way? An’ after dark, too?” she shot back. I could now see that they were a girl and a boy. She was obviously in charge.

“I like nights. I’m a writer, so I can keep any hours I like. Why is it the Vekin place?” I asked again.

“Dun’no - Crazy guy named Vekin used to live there,” she contradicted herself.

“Lot of folks tried to buy the place since then,” the boy piped in.

“But nobody ever stays,” the girl finished for him firmly.

“So, this is the neighborhood’s haunted house?” I inquired jovially.

“No,” was as far as the boy got.

“Its down the street, on t’other side,” she cut in.

“I looked at that one,” I said thoughtfully. “The old Victorian. Somebody’s broken out all the windows. Not like here. If the Vekin house is so bad, why hasn’t some kid chucked rocks at it?”

“‘Cause we’re not THAT crazy!” exclaimed The boy, getting out a whole thought. The girl gave him a push, and they ran off into the night.

I got up about noon, after the most restful night’s sleep that I’d had since the War. After my breakfast and a quiet tour of the place from attic to basement, I went out. My goal was the local newspaper. THE FLOCKING BAY VOICE was sprawled across the plate glass window in Old English style letters of gold leaf and black. Smaller letters proclaimed Est. 1841. I pushed open the door. My nose was assaulted by the multiple odors of printer’s ink, paper and grease. The VOICE occupied one large room. An elderly web press crouched at the back of the space, behind several rolls of newsprint. Cubicles made offices in the middle of the room. An old oak counter that had once seen duty as a bar had several signs suspended over it on thin chains. They read ‘submissions’, ‘advertisements’, ‘subscriptions’, ‘billing’.

There was a bell on the counter. Some wag had put a sign on it, “Please ring bell, it won’t help but it will give you something to do.” I gave myself something to do, energetically, a few times.

A trim little blond lady answered the bell’s summons. She wore a green eyeshade and a pin on her sweater announced, ‘Lois Martin - cook, bottle washer & EDITOR in CHIEF.’ “What can I do for you, today?” she asked.

“I came to see what I can find out about the Vekin place,” I answered, trying not to stare at her.

“Just a moment, I’ll get the file out of the morgue. I was going to get it anyway. Somebody went and bought the place again.”

“Wait a minute,” I protested. “Someone buys a house and that makes news in Flocking Bay? This town must be even quieter than it looks.”

“Oh,” she retorted, “it can get downright interesting around here when the old Vekin place sells. You’ll see.” She disappeared among the cubicles and I heard her feet clattering down a flight of stairs. I heard a file drawer creak and slide, then slam shut. It wasn’t long before she reappeared, a rather fat file clutched in her hand.

“If you’d like, we can have lunch over at Mike’s Soda Shop,” she proposed. “He makes decent submarine sandwiches and real ice-cream sodas.”

“Well ... ” I pretended to hesitate, “I haven’t been invited out by a beautiful blond in a long time, so, yes.”

“I hope that I haven’t just made a fool of myself,” she remarked, laying aside the eyeshade. “You are Mr. Vandervekken aren’t you? The man who just bought the place?”

“Too true,” I said.

“Then I’ll make it an interview and deduct it from my taxes,” she smiled.

“You make enough to pay taxes?” I asked, looking back as we crossed the street.

“I have hidden assets. The paper is a tax shelter.” She opened the door of Mike’s and ushered me in.

As I was seating her, I just couldn’t help blurting out, “Your assets seem to be pretty obvious.”

She grinned, “Go ahead and stare. I don’t mind. If I did, I wouldn’t wear a snug sweater and put my pin just here.” She pointed, then added, “Looking at it will keep you off your guard while I ask my questions.”

“OK, Ms. Martin, but let me look at the file first. You can order for me. You know the food here,” I said, reaching for the file.

“Lois,” she replied, “call me Lois, everyone else does.” Then she hollered to the man behind the counter, “Oh, Mike! Two butterscotch sodas and a big turkey sub! Divide it in half!”

“How did you know that I liked butterscotch?” I asked. “It’s not that common a preference these days.”

“I just had a hunch, that’s all. You looked like another butterscotch type person.”

I was leafing through the file on the rather beat-up table while we waited. I couldn’t resist snorting with amusement at the name of the house’s builder. Capt. Von Der Vekin. The house had been built in 1894 by the Capt. and his elusive son, Charles. Nobody had ever seen Charles until he came into town, on April 1st, 1900, to report his father’s demise and burial on the property. He ordered a headstone hewn of the local limestone. Charles had returned from WW I with honors and lived quietly, claiming to be a writer, though nobody ever saw any of his work in print. When asked, all that he would say was ‘Pseudonyms are great for privacy’. He was not so lucky when he volunteered to assist the French resistance in 1939. He never came home.

Next==>

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Flocking Bay

[hotelconcierge]

THE FALSE NEGATIVES

In The Company Of Men (1997) opens in an airport where two middle management guys have just arrived: a bespectacled seborrheic named Howard, and an ex-jock good ol’ boy named...Chad.

Howard walks out of the bathroom. He’s been hit, by a woman, just for asking the time—like, Mountain or Central. “Wait, wait. You're telling me about some sort of unprovoked assault here?” Chad says, “Did she give you the time at least?” 

Howard doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even seem to recognize it as a joke. And therein lies the problem, for him and everyone else.

The two men are in town a few weeks to work at a branch office. They exchange complaints. This place blows. The job sucks. Coworkers are vultures. Can’t trust anyone. Howard just got dumped by his fiancée. Chad says he just got dumped too.

CHAD: I'm standing there, no note...not a “thanks for four years of a roof over my bleached-blonde head”...nothing. You know? And it comes to me...the truth. I do not give a shit, not about anybody. A family member, a job, none of it. I couldn't care less.

HOWARD: Geez.

CHAD: Don't get me wrong. We're pals.

HOWARD: Same college.

CHAD: Exactly, and that means something. But these other folks...You know, jump on while the going's good? No, that will not do.

“Circle the date on this one, big guy,” Chad says, “We keep playing along with this 'pick up the check,' 'can't a girl change her mind' crap...and we can't even tell a joke in the workplace? There's going to be hell to pay down the line, no doubt about it.”

They move to the hotel bar.

CHAD: I don't want to shock you. It's just a thought. It's the same crap we played in school, only better, because we get a payback on this messy relationship shit we're dealing with.

HOWARD: No, right, it's funny, it is. it's just...way out there.

CHAD: I think it would be refreshing, I really do...and very therapeutic coming off the women we just have. 

HOWARD: Well, just for instance, who would it be?

CHAD: No idea. But she’s out there, I know it. Just waiting for us to find her.

Let’s start here.

They say guilt is omniscient; that doesn’t mean you can’t throw sand in its eyes. Unlike shame, guilt is universal, at some level everyone knows that violating the NAP makes you a dick. But suppose you like, really want to. How do you get from Crime and Punishment to Crimes and Misdemeanors?

The above scene is demonstrative. First, replace the human object with an idea. Hurting an innocent woman is obviously evil—plus, why would you do that? Women are soft, thoughtful, have nice voices, etc. But hurting “women” in general? “Women,” who smile right past you and say “that’s so funny!” instead of laughing and sing along to vapid breakup songs like they could ever know the pain of a sensitive incel? God knows “they” want to hurt “men.”

Second, remove the subject: you aren’t going to do anything. A passive process, inevitable given the laws of thermodynamics, is going to occur. You remember that one scene in Glengarry Glen Ross? “Somebody should stand up and strike back. Somebody should do something to them.” Deus vult.

But that explanation doesn’t do justice to Chad’s cunning. He alternates between 1) “big guy”-ing Howard re: office politics and romantic troubles, and 2) brutal, frequent, almost compulsive misogyny. These are twin strategies in the same campaign. When Chad says, “some corn-fed bitch who'd mess her pants if you sharpen a pencil for her,” Howard gives a single snort of laughter. I know that one. It’s a social laugh, slave morality coming straight from the spinal cord, brain playing catch-up, “oh, it’s funny because it was a joke.” Like all the nice construction workers asking ladies to smile, Chad wants to be a friend. It would be rude not to laugh at the joke of a friend. But when your ego endorses a perspective your superego rejects, you build up a debt of guilt. The heavier your debt, the more you have to borrow from the abstraction of ideal over real. The more you suspend judgment, the more you have to rely on the judgment of others. The more crimes you share with an accomplice, the deeper you enmesh yourself in conspiracy. So a few hours later and a little drunk:

HOWARD: What'd she say? 

CHAD: "I don't trust anything that bleeds for a week and doesn't die."

(Both laugh)

CHAD: So you in?

HOWARD: Aw, shit man...yeah, I’m in.

CHAD: Alright, let’s do it. Let’s hurt somebody.

Somebody shows up the next day.

The object is a deaf woman named Christine. Reads lips, self-conscious about this so wears headphones so coworkers will have to attract her attention. A copy-editor or something, 90 words per minute. Brunette and pale, short hair, slender neck, narrow frame, Améliesexual, Forever 21.

When a male coworker informs Chad of her disability, Chad does an imitation “dolphin voice” and gets a big laugh. Then he goes and introduces himself.

CHAD: You're new here, aren't you? Don't be embarrassed. We're all new sometime, right? (Pause) That's a lovely blouse.

“A, E, I, O, U and sometimes Y is like the Holy Grail to this poor wretch,” Chad tells Howard. Howard, sitting down to urinate, gives an ambiguous response. Chad: “You're not pussing out on this, are you, Howie?”

HOWARD: All I mean is, I think everything's a business, whatever you go into. Your typing there or my opportunity directing this project. Doesn't matter. Every walk of life's an industry...from child care right on up.

HOWARD: So, on a personal level, that's what I'm doing here. I was walking by, saw you, figured, "What the hell," you know? You probably have a boyfriend, but you gotta take your chance, right? And who knows? It might turn out to be mutually advantageous. So, that's really just a long-winded way of saying...I'd like to go out sometime. Maybe get a drink? My name's Howard, by the way. I'm free this weekend.

Act III shows the two Lotharios in parallel. Howard’s dating sim begins with a motorized tour cart ride at the zoo. Howard arrives late, blames this on having to “ream out” some employees, has to define “ream,” clarifies that, no, you don’t have to feel bad for them, like, it was no big deal. Then he backtracks and admits he was lying—none of that happened, he ran back to the hotel to change his shirt. “I get so used to saying what I think people want to hear...I forget they might just want the truth sometimes,” Howard says. “It’s all right,” Christine says, “Just remember: I can't hear you when you're lying.”

Cut to:

CHAD: I have to face this. My job ends here in a few weeks, and...I want you to know that whatever you do is all right with me. I don't care about your dating other guys...and if we're apart for a while or...

CHAD: Well, I just want you to know that, whatever happens, I trust you. Okay? Oh, boy, this is really hard. I like you. There, I said it. It's out. I'll eat better now. It's true. I look at you, and I see...good, nice, kind. I am very happy with you, and I want our relationship—you feel this could be a relationship, right? I want to nurture it and just see us blossom.

Christine then proceeds to eyelash flutter like Chad said he cried listening to Carrie & Lowell. We have the power of camera angles, but even without them—this is so, so, so obviously bullshit, right? Like a Markov chatbot trying to simulate “boyfriend”? But hold up. Under oath: can you point out the lie?

Chad’s branch office job does end in a few weeks. He really does see Christine as good/nice/kind, trusts her, doesn’t care if she dates other guys, wants the relationship to blossom (at least in the short term). Contrast with Howard’s “ream out” anecdote, which, objectively: Fake News, Not An Argument, Myth Busted. And yet if Howard hadn’t confessed the plot would have moved on without a missed beat—to you, the viewer, it rings exaggerated, but not intuitively false. 

And you’d be right, because truth cannot be extracted from individual words. Here’s the 2x2 for all y’all Ribbonfarmers: factual-truth = math; factual-lie = lie of omission; counterfactual-truth = metaphor; counterfactual-lie = I’ve got a bridge to sell you. I’m not pulling a po-mo fast one. Objective truth is great, it gave us Youtube and stuff. But words are imprecise no matter how many footnotes: since they compress preverbal desire, they always contain a lie of omission. And metaphors, though annotated with “citation needed, does not actually look like a summer’s day,” sometimes reveal crucial and unspeakable truths about the algorithm that creates them.

Point: lies cannot be proved or disproved by geometry. Counterpoint: still, being lied to is a distinct subjective experience. Example: when a minor fall to major lift makes you spit rage, it’s never because the song is particularly bad, no one actually enjoys math rock but no one gets mad at it either. The anger is instead a response to perceived manipulation. People get mad at rap/country/Bieber because these genres lean heavily on identity; the artist is, from the first guitar twang/phat beat/“baby,” trying to convince you of something about him/her/yourself. “Well, doesn’t everyone do that?” Extremely duh, but note that if you accept the artist’s claim as true or false then the nausea doesn’t occur. You can’t be manipulated if you’ve made up your mind, a sufficiently bad lie stops being one, see also, camp.

That’s the horror of the middle-place: if you just let yourself slide, if you just stopped being you, you would like it. Times Square neon makes me vomit blood but Casablanca is charming despite the same level of weapons-grade ideology. The former might persuade me to drink Suntory, the latter has zero chance of getting me to enter World War II. The propaganda of the past—the art of the past—will always be better than that of the present, not just because of selection bias but because it doesn’t feel manipulative, and it doesn’t feel manipulative because it’s not talking to you.

Ergo: we feel lied to = when we can tell + that we are being told + what we want to hear. And this is why Howard’s anecdote doesn’t feel like a lie: it wasn’t. Sure, the words were bullshit, and maybe he fooled Christine, but what he communicated to you—“I want to be seen as a man despite my multiple and obvious failings”—was 100% genuine.

Why can’t Howard tell a fib? One possibility is that he learned about girls from hentai and Roosh V and so thinks that women are attracted to toughness rather than the conquest of toughness. But more likely is that he doesn’t want to: he’s more interested in having Christine see him a certain way than in giving the Good End answers. So Howard, like you, tries to work Million Dollar Extreme references into his Tinder convos, which makes him a narcissist and a tool but not a liar. Proof of the pudding is that it doesn’t work.

Contra Chad: how come it’s so obvious that he’s lying? But of course: the words weren’t meant for you. Chad has self, not self-image, and so no compunctions about roleplaying to get what he wants. For us, his dialogue falls in an uncanny valley. But if you’re the target audience...

“Did she give you the time at least?” Howard never laughs at Chad’s deadpan because it’s too on the nose, it’s exactly what a friend should say, fact check = TRUE, bleep bloop. Howard social-laughs at Chad’s misogyny because it’s so absurd, he must be joking, fact check = FALSE, bzzzt. Christine makes the same mistake: Chad speaks the language of romance, she agrees to see him as such, and she stops asking questions. They outsource their superego to the etiquette of conversation, and who can blame them, their fantasies are coming true. Only you have the outside view, or so it seems: perfect etiquette masking irony, irony masking anger, anger masking unspeakable sociopathy: that even the anger is fake. But if you see that, then he was talking to you, that was the whole point, to give a winking apology to a fellow conspirator—“Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

And therein lies the problem, for you and everyone else.

In The Company of Men does not have a happy ending.

Chad sleeps with Christine. (“God, I am just so taken with you. I just...”) Howard sees them at lunch together and gets worried. He pulls some work levers to get Chad out of town, refurbishes his ex-fiancee’s ring, and invites her to dinner.

HOWARD: Maybe this isn't the perfect time...but I care about you, Christine. I want you to know I like you a lot. I need—I just don't want to lose you.

Christine cuts him off. She’s made a horrible mistake by letting things get this far: she’s in love with Chad.

CHRISTINE: It’s all my fault...You both should have known about this...When you don't date for a while...you wonder...if you're attractive...or interesting to someone. You let things get out of hand first chance you get. That's what I did.

Pause.

HOWARD: We did know.

“Chad? He doesn't like you. He loathes you. He detests you and your pathetic retard voice. That's what he calls it. Christine, you bought that shit?” 

Christine freaks out and screams that’s not true, stop it, but Howard keeps going, spilling the beans about the game, apologizing and begging:

HOWARD: Can't you see I'm the good guy? I'm the good person here. I can't alter what we've done, and I'm a fuck...and a bastard and everything else on your list, but I'm here. I'm here, and I'm telling you...I love you.

He brings out the ring.

HOWARD: It's not a game to me anymore. Take it.

Christine doesn’t, and Howard promptly explodes that she’s “fucking handicapped,” “you think you can choose, men falling at your feet?” and so on.

The standard take on this type of (very common) story is that even though [beta male] loved [manic pixie] more than [Chad], the beta male’s complaisance to the patriarchy makes him “just as bad.” Fair enough, consequentialism ftw, but it’s suspicious that the narrator of these tales is often the beta male protagonist himself. No one self-flagellates unless they get off on it, and the above take hides an assumption: that (e.g.) Howard really was in love with Christine.

Was he? There’s no doubt he had some of the relevant chemicals floating around. Yet it’s very possible for abusers to love their victims and cheaters to love their cuckolded spouses. It’s very possible to love each and every other member of the orgy. Hell, I know some meditators who can connect with the astral rhythms of life itself—and they aren’t bullshitting, they really feel it. But drugs are cheap. What does your oxytocin rush mean for anyone besides you?

I’ll tell you why Howard thought that he was in love: he went through the motions. Just as Howard decided that Chad was his friend because that was the role he played, he decided that Christine was marriage material because...she was there. They had nothing in common, they had zero chemistry, but she was there. You gotta serve somebody. “I need—I just don’t want to lose you.” Love as manifest in the material plane requires sacrifice, is sacrifice, of opportunity if nothing else. Howard’s love is meaningless because it costs him nothing. Maybe Uber-Howard would still care about Christine, but not only is it impossible for Christine to know that, Howard himself doesn’t know. Power doesn’t corrupt, power reveals that you were corrupt all along. “Can’t you see I’m the good guy?” See what?

The next day, Howard gets demoted at work. Something went wrong with a fax machine and the copy came out too light; yeah, like a symbol. Chad sees Christine one last time. She confronts him. Chad tries to keep a straight face and then breaks out grinning: “Fuck it. Surprise.”

CHAD: So how does it feel? I mean right now. This instant. How do you feel inside, knowing what you know?

Christine slaps him and begins to sob.

A few days later, Howard shows up at Chad’s place. He’s distraught. Chad jokes around about the contest, then gestures to the other room, where his old girlfriend is sleeping in his king-sized bed. “What the hell? I mean, when did she crawl back?” Howard says. “She never left, Howie,” Chad says, “She’s always been right there.” “Then...why? Why, Chad?”

Good question. The first clue is when Howard runs into Chad and Christine on a date: “Howard and I have the same alma mater. He graduates a semester ahead of me, and now he's my boss,” Chad says, and for once the bitterness creeps in. The second is when Howard, blaming the higher-ups, sends Chad out of town:

CHAD: The real injustice here is if I could throw a curveball—you know, a really good one—just that, nothing else, no education, nothing—none of this would matter. Play in the big leagues for ten years, retire to Oahu.

Chad is handsome, confident, clever, and quite possibly a representation of The Great Deceiver himself. And yet, to get laid, Chad has to contort himself into a puppy. To get paid, he has to kiss ass to Windows 95 robots who wear beige and drink decaf. He spends the day humoring people who won’t acknowledge the joke—that if he could just play stupid arbitrary baseball, he wouldn’t have to. He’s powerless: no matter how well Chad tells his lies, the system determines the signifiers into which these lies fit. 

But Howard—Howard believes in the system. He’s exactly the sort of person who created the phatics that Chad has to obey, who follows even the most vacuous rules with moral seriousness, clings to them all the harder as they turn him into a self-loathing nebbish. Chad’s revenge is to turn the rules against him, to show that no matter how oppressive social protocols get, they will always oppress Chad less, since he’ll say whatever bullshit is required while you’re stuttering your feelings on Whitman. The more checkboxes you demand checked, the more you favor the liar. Chad is bound by the rules of the game, but these rules are what gives him relative power: they make people trust him. “Because I could,” Chad says. “See you Monday.”

There’s a practical lesson here. Every day ambulances scream into the ED carrying young men who moan and complain that they are bedeviled by wine-loving dog moms, fluent in sarcasm, and yet for some reason they can’t get the time of day from those goth chicks who have tongues stuck out and eyes rolled up at all times. I’m not here to kinkshame, send pics if you’re a goth chick with your tongue stuck out and eyes rolled up at all times. But please be aware that lusting after a mannequin is a surefire way to get [extremely Taleb voice] fooled by randomness: the more detailed the script, the more you favor the actor.

I’m not saying you can’t have a type, but the person willing to sacrifice that last ounce of selfhood will always be closest to your 21st century ideal of bimboification. “There are smart women, but I don’t know many women with truly original ideas,” says the cerebral young man who needs four search operators to find adequate porn. Don’t worry—this process is dehumanizing for the fetishized person, but it’s dehumanizing in the other direction as well: only someone who doesn’t care what you think about them, about their real self, would consent to play a fake.

The problem with fetishization is that it prizes symbol above reality, and unfortunately for Christine, dating is systematized fetishization. Not a diss—this is how dating is supposed to work. If our intuition for love is inculcated by Disney, dating replaces the hero’s journey with its symbols: clothes and music as proxy for backstory; movie or pub crawl as proxy for adventure; astrology, Myers-Briggs, and 36 Questions as a proxy for intimacy. Dick pics and nudes test sexual potency without costing the two drink minimum, text and emoji idiosyncrasies reveal more about class and education than a brunch and a half. Dating is an attempt to economize romance, it’s unsurprising that the term was coined in the wake of the Industrial Revolution.

“You know that birds sing, right?” Sure, but nobody has any illusions about what the birds are looking for. I’m not knocking ritual, just ritual that pretends it’s something deeper. If milord sends milady twelve roses, a thoroughbred, a fiefdom, and a bard playing D’Angelo, this courtship is not taken as evidence of good character. It is judged on its own merits, i.e. this guy is either really interested or thirsty af.

This would be common sense except that every force in modern society is opposed to it. Since women are valued as approximations of fetish, they a) lose points for wearing the wrong symbols, and b) lose points if a partner doesn’t fit the brand. So now the first date Scantrons become radiant with their own fascination, because even if they have no meaning except “went through the motions,” everyone on Facebook is acting like they do, and “he seemed nice” is no excuse for dating a Trump supporter or a black guy. And now that privacy has moved public, the list of checkboxes lengthens as men try to gerrymander pussy (which again, always favors Chad) and Cosmopolitan feminists generate new metrics by which women can fall short.

These bureaucrats may have been hurt themselves, they may have the best of intentions. Perhaps that’s why their regulations are never phrased as hostile takeover. Instead, they take the form of advice, #lifehacks, and laugh-tracked satire at a third party’s expense. That’s how it always is, a friendly voice lends you a superego and all you have to do is pay interest on shame. The system wins when its values become your own.

However strong this force was historically, it’s stronger now that society consists of, let me check my phone, everyone. Just as metropolises are now made up of showrooms and gift shops, the demands of 7.442 billion potential tourists outweighing a pittance of locals, the citizens shape themselves into fungible, neon-dyed tchotchkes, while being tormented by the possibility that they have fallen short in this important moral task. The end-game of dating is the targeted ad. 

Before you start in on “swipe culture,” let’s be clear: no one has met cute through friends since the second war in Iraq, and Tinder, whatever faults it may have, at least requires the sacred fumbling of getting to know a stranger. OKCupid is a better example of modern anti-romance, with its careful sorting of partners by politics and caste, with its swamp of information bias that disguises—encourages—lying on the internet. But of course a Yelped bar or bookstore offers the same anonymity, the same curated selection who respond to the same empty lines until you start to hate them for it, like how dare you force me to lie, how dare you be so predictable, and this weakness makes them human which isn’t what you wanted anyway. No doubt they feel the same.

If this sounds bad, it gets worse: the above process is directly responsible for the most modern misandry and misogyny. Please note that the Women Are From Venus stereotypes have largely disappeared, even among misogynists. Please further note that #blackpilled misogynists rarely objectify women; in fact many of these men intentionally desexualize the “female race” and substitute, say, male crossdressers. The catcalling misogyny of the past came from a position of power: internet death threat misogyny comes from desperation. The twist is that the same transition has occurred among women—that despite every metric claiming that women are better off than before, women have moved from Men Are From Mars to a nagging suspicion that anything with a phallus should die.

Why would both sexes feel more powerless? Not discussed in polite society, but heavily discussed by misogynists, is the apparent epidemic of transactional sex: paypig/findommes, camgirls, sugar babies, and omnipresent Amazon wishlists. Sorta kitschy, free country, whatever. I’m sure part of this is mere technological transition, the gyration of the strip club from analog to digital, and Kanye informs me that there have always been implicit gold digging arrangements. But think about what happens when these private arrangements go public. First, some guy starts to associate “hot girl” with “:P spoil me”, and FYI, anger and lust, both performed with a closed fist, are exactly zero degrees apart on the axis of masturbation. And now that our guy has this (maybe unconscious) association, women have to rise to the occasion, e.g. make snotty demands for Venmo donations, because even though this makes him howl with rage, if it’s not there, he assumes the girl’s not that hot.

Everyone loses: women learn that they have to put on an act to get attention, except that half of men think they should die for this act and the other half—even the ones looking for a Serious Relationship—seem to lose interest if it’s ever turned off. Meanwhile the guy grows increasingly lonely/desperate/bitter as he tautologizes that every single girl he likes is an “attention whore." Our guy doesn’t know who he is or what he wants outside of anger and its aesthetics. Maybe he’d hit it off great with one of those women; maybe he should choose a different set of superficialities to pursue; maybe people lie on the internet; regardless, OKCupid gives them a compatibility of 43%.

And meanwhile women are wondering the same thing: how can you know?

There’s one more crucial scene In The Company of Men. Howard arrives at an airport and sees Christine working at a desk. He walks over to her and says, “Listen.” She doesn’t respond. So he says it again, “Listen,” and again, and again, screaming now and—

—but what could he say? Even if his intentions were pure to the utmost, what could he possibly say or do that wouldn’t be perceived as an act? What could any man do that wouldn’t be perceived in the same way? “I asked her what time it was. You know, Mountain, Central.” No wonder she hit you.

This is how society arrives at an absence of faith. It’s no coincidence that Chad executed his scheme as a tourist: that meant there were no witnesses to his character. It’s no coincidence that he picked a nervous brown-eyed waif—someone with too much self-doubt to trust her instincts, someone who draped herself in the trappings of goodness, someone too inexperienced to know that perfect is always a trap. But Christine was chosen because she was deaf. She couldn’t hear voices, she could only see the words. Now the words are gone. The question is what remains.

[purkinje-effect]

The Purkinje Effect, 27

Table of Contents

A few days later, for most of the afternoon Geek toiled over KL-E-O’s workbench, with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. With the belt sander, he sharpened his latest project. His wrench-shiv served as a reverse tang of sorts, atop which he practiced controlling his metallic sweat, building up its blade with whatever his palms would excrete. Occasionally, he would lick his fingers, or the knife directly, to slick down the material into curves. What flowed readily seemed mostly lead and tin, and the approximation of his sweeping, jagged work of art to solder was not lost to his amusement, as he smoothed and added, smoothed and added, time and again picking at it until he felt less dissatisfied than before. The piece ended up something between a machete and a karambit, but both the heft and functional shapes pleased him. A series of stylized keyholes trailed the center, and a pair of exaggerated false edges swept both the tip and base of the spine of the blade. He wondered whether he could control the concentrations of the alloys that his pores eliminated, by means besides mitigating his diet.

The sickle-like curvature of the false edges evoked the notion of Cronus. Lead was associated with Saturn, wasn’t it? Classical mythology had filled one of the books in his collection at the vault. It was decorum, to name a blade such as this, a testament that he could weaponize the trauma and from it forge constructive artifacts. Alchemy, he mused to himself. He’d have to futz with his knuckles, if Cronus could prove itself.

Kill or Be Killed had an open store front right on the plaza. As the pink ghoul honed the forming weapon, he noticed across the way in his peripheral, someone come through the one entry into Goodneighbor: a Mister Handy with a ton of wrong parts. He stopped working to watch, absently intrigued as the pale blue hovering mishmash of robotics paused in the plaza, only to zip down the alley.

“That--”

Geek wrapped up his mostly-finished project in a piece of canvas and tucked it in a thigh pocket, to sprint out after the robot. Somebody had been riding on the domed back of that robot. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the dreg, but he didn’t have to, to know they fit the description.

Did he really manage it? Geek thought to himself, scanning the once Scollay Square to tail the robot-riding idiot. Anybody smart enough would’a taken the chance to skip town without wearin’ Hancock’s crosshairs. Why the hell would he come back?

The Neighborhood Watch ghouls on duty at the front face of the Third Rail noticed Geek’s demeanor and gestured at the double doors with their rifles. He nodded with a slouch and jogged in. Ham, the ghoul bouncer in a black pinstripe suit, started to say something to him, but he patted Ham on the shoulder without stopping on his way down the stairs to the subway loading platform that had transformed into the settlement’s illustrious bar. Now that he knew what Jet smelled like, he recognized the previous elusive sweet-stink to the humid atmosphere down here.

A quick skim of the main hall yielded nothing. Losing interest, he approached Charlie for a drink.

“Ah, it’s you again. Gotta thank you again for taking care of that rat problem before. Sure you’re interested t’hear I’ve added the mineral variety to the spirits I pour out.”

“Very.” He doused a few caps on the counter while the Handy reached under the counter to produce the requested tin of turpentine.

“You might also like t’hear the mayor’s in the VIP Lounge at the moment. Something about a private meetin’.” Charlie began to polish at a glass with its pincer-tipped tentacle-limbs. “Seemed like you were followin’ somebody when you first came in, and the timing suggests to me he’s your man.”

Geek sprinkled a few more caps where the first dozen or so had been, as gratuity, and patted at the counter with endearment.

“Exactly what I needed, Charlie. Thanks.”

He took the tin with him to the back room, strung with cage lights, and eavesdropped on the meeting from the corridor that led into the lounge itself. The pale blue Handy idled at one end of the room, while the vault dweller sat on a couch at the far wall, fidgeting with a cane in his lap. Though he couldn’t see around the corner, he could hear that Hancock and Fahrenheit sat opposite the dweller. Yeah, he had a Pipboy, too--but was it his? This frail guy looked in his forties, huge round white-rim glasses, had an undershaven black ponytail that had half-fallen into his face, and wore a tailored single-breasted off-white suit. There seemed to be a high white leather gorget with dark seams beneath the cream dress shirt--no, it was medical gear. It all made sense now. The braces, the cane... and his Frankenstein of a Handy. It doubled as a wheelchair, didn’t it?

“--And you’re lucky I didn’t die,” Fahrenheit seethed. “Still stiff as fuck.”

“I-- I am,” the dreg stuttered out. “I panicked. When I came to town, I didn’t know who to trust, and when it came out Bobbi had played me an’ Mel. I couldn’t make sense of the situation in the moment. Makin’ it look like I’d greased you an’ your guards was the only way I thought I could get away with not killing anybody.” He bit at his lower lip and stared at his Handy as it floated there. “I don’t regret having to take care of Bobbi like that, but I sure am glad I didn’t have to get rid of Mel. He didn’t know who he was working a job on any more than I did.”

Listening to the guy nagged at Geek. It had been carefully groomed over time, but that was unmistakably a Russian accent.

“And what of the caps we negotiated, hm?”

The guy flinched at Hancock’s threat-loaded question.

“Can’t we-- work something else out?”

“Reading my mind. Finn in the dirt, and Bobbi written off, I’m lacking brawn and brains. You were crafty enough to swindle me, and resourceful enough to adjust the playing field in real time--quickly--to compensate for... mistakes. That sounds like the makings of an idea man. Definitely the kind of Nimrod I want even closer, if you catch my meaning.”

Geek spat out a mouthful of spirits. Knowing he’d given himself away, he walked in. Hancock patted at the free spot of the couch beside him opposite Fahr, both of whom were relieved to see it was just him. The mayor threw his arms around both of them once Geek sat.

“Just the ghoul I wanted to see.”

“You gotta be kidding me, Hancock,” he started, taking a fresh swig of turpentine as he gawked back and forth between the dreg and his boyfriend. “This guy blew up your strongroom and drained it dry, and he damn near killed Fahr. An’ ain’t it his fault Finn’s dead?”

Shaken beyond composure, the dreg produced a flask from his waistcoat pocket, and took after Geek. Though the jamjar lenses obscured the exact way he was looking at the pink ghoul, he was sure he could tell exactly what the dreg was thinking. Everyone always reacted badly to his complexion.

“Melancholy, this is Geek. Geek, Melancholy.”

Hancock stopped picking at his fingernails with his hunting knife and pulled out two cigarettes. The ghoul briefly borrowed Fahr’s cigar to stoke them off the cherry before handing it back, then offered Geek one while he took the other for himself. Geek stared, displeased, at this Melancholy dreg and, without breaking eye contact, swallowed his turpentine cap before taking the smoke from Hancock. ‘Choly straightened and tried to stifle an awkward chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“The pleasure’s all his, I’m sure,” Geek said.

“Oh. Ohh, it is.” ‘Choly sniffed, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I assure you, it is.” Geek’s face soured at this.

“...Ain’t about t’tell you how t’run y’town, but you trust this loon after what he did?”

“I trust the Mayor’s judgment on this, long as 'Choly keeps that damn bloatfly gun holstered in town.” Fahr snarled in disgust, and put out her well-chewed cigar on the arm of the couch before flicking the butt across the room into the cardboard box in the corner. “Never want to see anything like that again in my life. Still having nightmares. Gonna have nightmares for weeks.”

‘Choly couldn’t help but smile and murmur in sly reminiscent pride.

“I-- am not gonna ask.” Geek rubbed at his forehead a minute with his smoke hand, already wearing conversational exhaustion on his face. “Y’wanted t’see me, though?”

“Sure you heard most of our conversation up to now,” Hancock mumbled warmly, pulling him closer by the shoulder. “I’m filling recently... vacated positions. If he’s the brains, you’d certainly make great brawn, love.”

Geek slipped out of the mayor’s arm and sat next to ‘Choly, and squeezed his knee with sustained eye contact. He noted that he could feel the hinges of leg braces, as he’d suspected, beneath the slacks. Up close, he could see white splotches mottled the right side of the dreg’s face, and a scar slashed his lower lip.

“What vault you say you was from again?”

‘Choly pushed Geek’s hand off his knee with both hands, squirming in discomfort, then looked back up at him and clasped his cane firmly.

“I-- I’m from Concord. One-eleven. Why?”

The cigarette twitched in Geek’s lips.

“It’s just I don’t get it. Who fucked up and let a Commie in a vault?” ‘Choly wrung at his cane, put on the spot. “Who’d you kill for that Pipboy, mh?”

‘Choly stared at him from over the top of his glasses, cataracted eyes glazed and jaundiced.

“--I could ask you the same thing, you... you pink Plymouth. You’re from a functional vault, I’m guessing?”

Geek swallowed his lit cigarette, incredulous, and barely kept himself from decking the dreg.

“Gentlemen!” the Handy interjected, unnerved. “There’s no use in being contrary. Isn’t that right, Sir?”

“It’s all right, Angel.” Indignity softening, he looked Geek up and down as he adjusted his glasses again, more for emphasis than need. “He’s easy on the eyes, even if his belfry’s not all in order.”

“Now--” Hancock bolted up before he crossed his arms and cooled himself into a chuckle. “Geek’s one thing you aren’t gonna get away with stealing from me.”

Geek sputtered a laugh and leaned onto his knees, cradling his face into one hand. ‘Choly glanced between them, overtaken by a deep flush. Fahr rolled her eyes, and decided to kick her feet up across the couch since Hancock had begun to pace.

“If you’re interested in sticking around town, you might do well to go speak to Clair in the Rexford,” the mayor urged. “All I’m asking is you think about my proposition, ‘Choly.”

“Oh, he’ll proposition you,” Fahr grunted. “Damn sleaze.”

‘Choly ignored her and looked expectantly to Hancock.

“So you’re... you’re not running me out of town, then?”

“Long as you’re good for business, rather than disrupting it.” The mayor grinned. “Fred tells me you make some mean Mentats. Gonna have to prove it.”

“I, yes. Definitely. Definitely!” ‘Choly put up his flask and patted his chest where he’d put it, then leveraged his cane to stand. Approaching Hancock, he offered a gloved handshake and took the mayor’s in both of his. “Let me sleep on it, Mayor. I’ll... I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“All right, now.” Hancock grinned and patted him on the shoulder with his free hand. “Shoo. Mingle. And try not to put both feet in your mouth?”

As 'Choly and his Handy exited shrewdly, the sound of his cane-gait shadowed their departure. Hancock walked over to Geek, who’d stood with the transparent intent to follow the newcomer again.

“Y’really trust a Red to finance Goodneighbor?” Geek asked him, the three of them leaving the lounge as well. “A Red who ripped you off?”

“It’s been two centuries since one’s nationality was a reliable measure of their credibility, Geek. My sources tell me that lil’ Ruski dismantled an entire raider operation just a few months back. The survivors aren’t even confident they’ve got an accurate account of what happened, it happened so fast. He might not look like anything, but he’s a whip.” Hancock glanced to him with a stern pleasantry. “Nobody’s stoppin’ ya from keeping an eye on him, if your gut feeling is strong. But try not to run him off before he gives me his answer, okay?”

The pink ghoul finished off his turpentine, and watched as ‘Choly mounted the cloth stirrups of his Handy, and the two scaled the stairs and vanished rounding up to street level.

“You bet your ass I’m keepin’ my eye on him.”

[buzzdixonwriter]

Where Is The Martin Luther For American Evangelical Churches?

A lot of people I know are looking at the title and already salivating:  Yes!  Where is the Martin Luther that is going to lead the American Evangelical Church back into its glorious position as the dominant cultural and political force of the world?

Uh…guys?  Sorry to disappoint, but…no.

You are the corrupt Vatican of today, and somebody needs to take a hammer to you and knock some sense into your thick skulls.

The Roman Catholic church has a long history of corruption and abuse of power (to be fair, they are far from the first, much less only, religious organization to succumb to this).  As far back as the 13th century this was becoming a serious problem, serious enough for St. Francis of Assisi to feel he had been called by God to “repair My church” (St. Francis started with a very literal interpretation of this command -- fixing a rundown local church -- but soon came to realize he was meant to take on the entire Catholic hierarchy).

St. Francis did a lot of good and still serves as a wonderful inspiration to this day, but in terms of actually fixing the problems in the church…well…let’s just say Pope Innocent III deftly deflected any real change St. Francis might have aimed at them and sent the good man and his followers off to enjoy a monastic life in the countryside, far from the centers of real power.

That only bought the Roman Catholic church three centuries of breathing room before the ///next/// crank showed up -- this one a feisty, pissed off German instead of a dreamy, ethereal Italian.

Martin Luther, like St. Francis and many, many, many other pilgrims in the medieval world, had come to Rome to worship at the seat of (Western) Christendom and had been suitably horrified at what he had seen:  Indulgences (i.e., buy your way out of hell for a suitable donation), hypocrisy (supposedly celibate cardinals and popes with battalions of mistresses and legions of offspring), greed (boy howdy!  St. Peter’s is beautiful but that didn’t come cheap), and a naked lust for power.

Unlike almost everybody else who came home shaking their head but saying / doing nothing to rock the ark, Martin Luther wrote up his famous 95 thesis, nailed them to the door of his local church in the same way we’d post a listicle on Facebook today, then sat back and waited for the reply posts.

The fact we have an evangelical church movement (along with dozens of other offshoots) is testimony Luther succeed beyond his wildest dreams (though technically he might think he only achieved something beyond his wildest dreams, not that he had succeeded in his original intent:  To spur discussion and reform within the Roman Catholic church).

Look, there’s a lot of conflicting motives behind all the various factions for and against the Protestant Reformation, and I’m not going to even try to encapsulate their history briefly.

Suffice it to say, Rome’s greedy / bossy / domineering / judgmental ways were a sore point with a few million people in Europe, and those few million had the military resources to hold the pope/s and their allies at spear’s distance for a few centuries until finally everybody more or less settled down by the 19th century and found other reasons to fight one another.

Martin Luther was right with his 95 thesis* and in the end what historian Rodney Stark has labeled “the church of power” was supplanted -- at least on paper -- by “the church of piety”.

The naked licentious behavior of medieval popes and cardinals was officially censured and whatever sins were committed by the new leadership, they were small indeed compared to the grandiose misdeeds of the past.

Which brings us to the 21st century, out of Europe and into America where our version of the medieval church -- a weaponized / Americanized  / huckster driven bastardization of Christ’s teachings loosely called the Evangelical Church movement -- is committing the exact same sins that had set Martin Luther off 500 years ago.

The.  Exact.  Same.  Sins.

Indulgences?  Send them good ol’ boys (and gals; we’ve got some shady female preachers, too) some money and get your special anointed healing oil packet -- and if you make your donation now we’ll throw in a genuine prayer rug (1 square inch) from the Holy Land.

Hypocrisy?  The louder some Evangelical preacher screeches about gay sex, the more likely he’s going to be found in the company of a rent boi.

Greed?  The only thing the American Evangelical church can’t buy is taste; the Roman Catholics at least have all that really great Renaissance art to show for their accumulation of filthy lucre but their 21st century counterparts have truly deplorable, plebian tastes, building unamusing amusement parks that fail miserably instead of the magnificent architecture, art, and music of the renaissance church that still stand and inspire millions to this day.

Naked lust for power?  Look at who far too many of them feverishly and energetically support in the White House.

Case closed.

Game over, man.  Game over.

And it is the end of American Christianity…at least the way it’s been practiced since the first English colonies were established on this continent.

The Christian faith in imploding on the American census.  More and more people are leaving the various Christian denominations and checking the “other” box instead…be it spiritual or agnostic or full blown atheist.

It’s not happening for any outside reasons.

Satan isn’t winning a war against Christendom.

Satan is sitting down in hell with a big tub of buttered popcorn, laughing at the spectacle of so-called Christian leaders resolutely dismantling the very church millions of people took two millennia to build.

It’s happening because people inside the churches today get one look at what those organizations really stand for, recognize whatever it is they’re personally looking for it won’t be found in any pre-packaged / consumer branded denominational church, and they hit the silk.

Sayonara, suckers.

That’s why the American Evangelical church so desperately needs a modern day Martin Luther -- or Martha Luther (makes no never mind to God so long as the job gets done, and the best theologians in the country today seem to be increasingly female).

They need someone who can shake them up, pound some sense into them.

They need someone who will make them genuinely and sincerely ashamed of the horrible job they’ve done represented Christ’s message here on earth and will get them to repent (quite literally, turn around) and follow the actual teachings of Christ instead of trying to line their own pockets and feather their own beds.

 * Those of you who wish to point out Martin Luther was also a pretty awful anti-Semite whose writings helped paved the way for first pogroms then the Holocaust, yeah, you’re right.  Now shut up:  We’re not talking about Martin Luther’s failings but about who today will do the equivalent of the good things he did in order to stop the terrible perversion of Christianity in America.

[jmkartworks]

The Gods of Gravity: A Story: https://ift.tt/310VlSp

Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me!

A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time.

D.H. Lawrence

Not long ago, the owner of a gallery in which I wanted to be represented visited my studio. She had a discerning eye, a successful gallery, and I respected her judgment. To my dismay, however, her verdict on many of my paintings was this: “Miguel, I love your Imagination and these dream-like paintings are mysterious and beautiful. The problem is, I have no idea how to sell them.”

She was right, of course, dreams are strange. They may be real and compelling to me, but why should anyone else have any interest in them?

And yet, and yet, the wind blows….

Many non-artists assume that painters, writers and composers understand what their own works mean, and non-artists are often surprised that I don’t understand any more about what my paintings mean than they do. I explain that I’m trying to paint some things, or better yet, some forces that I can’t see, but that I know are present. I use colors and shapes to suggest hints, intuitions and glimpses of something invisible. Sometimes the painting is successful, sometimes it’s not. Sometimes, like baseball, it gets rained out.

The Gods of Gravity – Oil on canvas – 16 x 20 inches

But even if I don’t understand what a painting means, a story about the thoughts, insights and choices that went into the making of it can be entertaining. The Gods of Gravity, for example, was conceived in Northern Europe, specifically in Iceland and Finland. I had never visited the countries of Northern Europe, but had been awarded a sabbatical leave by Sierra College to do research in Scandinavia for classes I was teaching in Art History and World Mythology. I wanted to answer two questions that had long puzzled me: Other than Edvard Munch, who have been prominent artists in the Northern part of the world? Also: a lot is known about Zeus, Aphrodite and Hades; why don’t we know more about Odin, Frigg and Hel?

So, about the piano: A few short years ago on a warm afternoon in late summer, I limped a couple miles from the Laajalahden tram stop in Helsinki to the home/museum of Akseli Gallen-Kallela in the forest outskirts northwest of the city. (I was dragging my left foot because two weeks earlier, in Stockholm, I had been cursed by a witch. But that’s a story for a different post.)

Gallen-Kallela’s home remains largely as it had been when he died in 1931, with bedroom, kitchen, salon, dining room, and his studio with an etching press and a magnificent grand piano. The piano enchanted me immediately and I spent an hour drawing the sketch you see here. (I added the shoes and candelabra later.)

Sketch of G-K’s Piano – Pencil on paper – 7 x 11 inches

The word “enchanted” is not nearly strong enough. Cellos, bassoons and violins are celestial creations, but pianos are pure magic. I took lessons as a boy, and even though I stopped playing piano in favor of playing baseball, it’s still my favorite instrument. No mornings pass when I begin work in my studio without the presence of Mozart, or Johann Sebastian, or Domenico Scarlatti. In the afternoons it’s Keith Jarrett, Mary Lou Williams and Leszek Możdżer.

There will be more said about pianos in a minute, but first I must tell you about the World of Akseli Gallen-Kallela. The Kalevala, Finland’s national myth, was published only thirty years before the artist was born in 1865. The story unfolds in a beautiful and savagely harsh landscape of dense green forests, snow-covered lakes and fields, and it contains all the elements of epic poetry anyone would want: magical adventures, revenge, incest, betrayals, jealousy, shamans, murder, blood feuds, suicide, child abuse, shape-shifting, fratricide, magic spells, kidnapping, theft, thwarted love, heroes, incantations, death and resurrection, “nameless diseases,” shipwrecks, magical animals, the imprisonment of the sun and the moon, epic battles, virgin birth, sacred groves, a miraculous infant, and so on, all flowing toward a shadowy and inconclusive outcome, as if in a dream. Like the Icelandic Eddas, it exerted a huge influence on J.R.R. Tolkien. It also cast its spell on Gallen-Kallela. On me as well.

Lemminkäinen’s Mother – Tempera on Canvas – 34 x 44 inches

In this painting, one of the heroes, Lemminkäinen the shaman, has been killed by his enemies, his body thrown into the River Tounela and torn apart by the rapids. With a copper rake given to her by a god, his mother dredges every scrap of his body from the depths, stitches them together and restores him to life with the help of honey from a magic bee. (You can barely see it at the bottom of the wavy golden rays that descend diagonally from the top of the composition. In the top left corner floats the ominous Black Swan.)

Intuitively in The Gods of Gravity, I wanted to invoke three levels of existence– the Celestial World, home of gods and angelic forces; the Under World, land of the Dead, the hidden world of treasures humans attempt to extract from it, (and things we prefer to conceal in its depths); and Midgard, the human world between above and below.

The fires bursting out of the snow come from the volcanoes of Iceland. I doubt that anyone knows the exact number of volcanoes murmuring under the surface of the island, but the general consensus is that 30 or so are currently active. Even in Reykjavik I felt a pulse underfoot, as if I were walking on the skin of a drum. Perhaps that’s why I eventually added the shoes, even though I never gave the slightest thought to oxfords or brogans. The shoes needed to be feminine.

Why? I don’t know. I didn’t think about anything: no thoughts, no theories no analyses, no ponderings or musings or ruminations about this or that, no studying, no deliberations. Only the wind.

When the painting first began to gestate, there were no mountains or fires under the piano, only snow as part of the landscape of the forest. Why I added the fissures and smoke and lava, I don’t know. After the painting was finished and I could think about it, I figured that the earth is feminine, we are born into this world through the feminine. The muses, at least in my case, are incontrovertibly feminine, so the font of creativity must be feminine, and for all I know, so is the wind.

In my imagination, the ghostly candelabra lives in the upper world and often casts no shadow into this one. Why only one candle still burns, I can’t say. But it felt to me that, like the shoes, they had to be colored red, blue and yellow as part of a larger rainbow. Also, the legs of the piano had to reflect the colors of the creative forces rising from the Underworld into this world.

The Gods of Gravity – Oil on canvas – 16 x 20 inches

As we all know, pianos are made of wood, so now we come to two totems that are inextricably linked, the forest and the piano. The three-legged monster in Gallen-Kallela’s studio was a rich ivory black, but it didn’t occur to me to paint it in any colors other than as a dark rainbow. I wanted to suggest the creative energies of all Three Worlds: gifts that come to us through the hands of Mozart and Bach and Keith Jarrett.

Alas, the most important totems are invisible. What keeps everything suspended in space? We could call those forces Gravity and Anti-Gravity, I suppose, but those are only words. Except for brilliant souls like the theoretical physicist, Lisa Randall, we know as little about these invisible forces as we do about Dark Energy and Dark Matter.

Whether The Gods of Gravity succeeds, or fails, or is only a ragbag of associations–not even a rained-out baseball game–I don’t know. I used to think that I as I grew older I would understand more. But now the opposite is happening: Life is more mysterious, not less. In spite of that, what better subject to try to paint than what exists beyond what we can see? But how does an artist attempt this? Bach and Mozart knew. So did D. H. Lawrence. His poem that began this post is called Song of a Man Who Has Come Through. Here is how the poem ends:

What is the knocking?

What is the knocking at the door in the night?

It is somebody wants to do us harm.

No, no, it is the three strange angels.

Admit them, admit them.