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uni-seahorse-572 · 2 years ago

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keeper aro week qpr (part 1!!)

local tumblrina starts fic ri knows full well is going to be in the 4-10K range and then proceeds to act shocked when they can't finish it in less than a week, more at seven

notes: I wanted to get part of this out while the week is still technically on, so here we are! it's still technically a one-shot, so I'll post the whole thing on ao3 when it's fully finished (... whenever that ends up being). anyway i love keefe's pov he's such a sad, silly little guy. what we have here is a soulmate au with some childhood friends and a dash of angst thrown into the mix. much thanks to @xanadaus and @gay-otlc for hosting :)

The first time someone tells Keefe about soulmates, he nods as if he understands and turns back to assessing how to sample the platters of absurdly decorated sweets when he still can’t reach the tops of the white-clothed tables. It isn’t one of his parents, just some family friend who fancies themself good with children.

It would have been hard to entirely avoid the idea thus far—his parents flaunt their status tastefully, the only sign being the careful designs on each of their ring fingers, intricate enough to emphasize that a tattoo could never fake such a bond. Stray marks have appeared on his own skin from time to time. He can never be sure whether they’re his or not, as they’re the same clumsy evidence of a kid experimenting with colors, shaky-handed and wandering.

But it’s the first real explanation he’s ever gotten. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it’s disappointing.

The woman continues. She should be able to tell she’s unwanted. “It means you’re meant to be with someone,” she explains. “It means you’re going to be in love forever. It’s destiny. And it’s what tells us that any children the union produces will be absolutely perfect.”

Keefe’s pretty sure she’s wrong. He knows he’s seen couples who couldn’t possibly have kids with the same colors splayed across their bodies, but maybe they really are just tattoos like his father always claims. That seems like a lot of trouble to go through for a lot of nothing. He doesn’t think he’ll ever love even his soulmate, so why pretend to have that with anybody? But then again, maybe it’s impossible to love anyone else. Maybe that’s why people delude themselves.

He squints across the room. The area around one of the dessert tables has vacated, and it’s right by the stairs up into the rest of his house. That’ll work well enough. “I’m not feeling so well,” he says, and makes as if to leave. The woman follows him, because of course she does.

By the time he reaches the other side of the suffocating party, he’s pretty sure he’s done a good enough job of holding his breath to make his face pale. He sways in place, carefully timing his dizziness so he can pretend to go down when someone jostles him and grip onto that stupid white tablecloth. His weight brings the dishes crashing down.

A hundred-odd gazes land directly on him. With one hand, he stuffs as many sweets as he can find into his pockets and puts on a show of tired confusion. The annoying woman rushes to his side. At least she’ll probably help head off his parents.

The treats, he finds later, are more decoration than food with their cloying tastes against his tongue.

Though there has always been a house next door, with two children Keefe will see very occasionally in their yard, mostly he’s alone in the towering five stories of his home. It’s especially silent in the afternoons, when he’s been dropped off from school.

His father works, and while his mother doesn’t she still manages to be gone more often than not. He’d ask them for a sibling if he was under the delusion that they liked children. He knows better.

No matter how much noise he makes, Keefe can’t break the quiet. He certainly tries. He runs through the hallways and slides down the banisters, banging makeshift pot and pan cymbals. There isn’t much to do in his house. Nothing in it is built for children. He draws, of course, but he isn’t built for being still and there’s only so long most acceptable activities can keep his attention.

So when the weather permits, and often when it doesn’t, he whiles away his days outside. His pride and joy is the treehouse tucked back in the yard so it can’t be seen from the street. It isn’t like the treehouses he sees on TV, with a slide or swings, or even like the ones some of his friends boast, achingly home-made with their messy wood planks. His is carefully built with sturdy slats of oak. It’s all polished. He takes his markers out to draw on the walls. On the days when he falls asleep out there, wrapped in a woolen blanket, his parents say nothing. It suits him fine.

Then one day there’s a boy in the treehouse. He sits primly, back straight, the way Keefe’s father always tells him to. He doesn’t startle or even look ashamed at Keefe’s entrance. There’s a game of solitaire laid out in front of him.

Keefe doesn’t take the time to think through what he’s going to say. “What are you doing here?”

“If my parents can’t find me, they’ll leave without me,” the boy answers as he moves a king of spades into an empty column. “And they won’t look here.”

“What do you need to get out of that badly?” Most of the time, Keefe jumps at the chance to leave the house. He rarely goes anywhere interesting, but it’s nice, to leave the same stale air behind. He picks up the stack of cards and shuffles three of them out—he thinks that’s how you’re supposed to do it, anyway.

“Do you mind?” the boy snaps.

Keefe shrugs. “It’s my treehouse.”

“And my deck.” The boy takes his cards back, scowl affixed firmly in place. If he’s trying to be intimidating, he’s failing badly. “It’s some kind of play, I think. I kept almost falling asleep at the last one they dragged me to but my mother just kept elbowing me in the side. Plus I’d have to wear my itchiest suit.”

“I think that’s just how suits are. I’m Keefe Sencen.” First and last name, like his father taught him, even though nobody in his first grade class gives both.

“Tam.” He flicks through the draw pile until at last he finds the one he needs, slotting it carefully into place.

Keefe frowns. “I don’t think that’s allowed.”

“Who cares? It’s a made-up game anyway. You lose half the time no matter what you do—that doesn’t make sense. Usually my sister plays with me.”

“Oh. Do you know any good games?”

Tam rolls his eyes, sweeping the solitaire spread back into a deck. “Of course. We can play war. You only need two people.”

“I don’t really have anybody else at home,” Keefe admits.

Usually, the people at his school react weirdly when he says stuff like that, but Tam takes it completely in stride. “That’s okay. I’ll teach you.”

Keefe agrees, easily, and the treehouse morphs from being his spot to their spot. Often, when he enters Tam will already be sitting there, or else he’ll clamber up after he arrives. They start to leave notes taped to the walls—are you busy today? I won’t be here tomorrow, my father’s making me try out for soccer. Someone at school gave me a bag of gummy worms and we can share them later.

They hoard candy in one corner, behind a propped-up pillow. The treehouse railing becomes the bow of a pirate ship or a palace balcony or the top of a beanstalk. All the lands beneath them are subject kingdoms, or occasionally enemy territory. And though Keefe has never had a best friend before, he takes to it quickly.

Unlike the kids at school, Tam doesn’t laugh at him when he falls or messes up simple math problems—at least not much, anyway. He likes to think about things more than any other kid Keefe’s met, tilting his head to one side to contemplate what superpower he’d most want and whether he’d rather have toads for ears or spaghetti noodles for feet. And he explains things much, much better than anyone else.

Like soulmates.

“Everyone in my class is obsessed with finding theirs,” Tam complains. “Ever since Mrs. Albright read that book last week, with the people communicating through art. I can’t stand it. If soulmates actually meant anything, my parents wouldn’t snipe at each other every chance they get.”

Keefe nods in solemn understanding. They’re both splayed out on their backs, a blanket thick and warm beneath them and curling around their legs, trying to see the stars. It isn’t that dark out yet, merely enough so that the trek back to his house is a treacherous mission, and the sky is cloudy dull with pollution. “So what do you think soulmates really are?”

“An accident,” Tam says.

“That doesn’t make sense, either,” Keefe points out. “No one at school really cares. Except the kids who like to tease that I’m soulmates with Alice.”

Tam’s nose wrinkles.

“She’s blond like me and once she kissed me on the cheek on the playground because she was playing Marie Antoinette.” Keefe stumbles over the name, trying to sound it out like Alice said it. She’s nice. But if soulmates end up like his parents, he wouldn’t want that with anyone, no matter how nice they are.

“See, that’s silly. I bet really some people are born with too much skin and some people get too little, so they take some people’s skin to give it to others, and that’s where the connection really comes from.”

“Ew.” Keefe rolls over to look at Tam directly, pinching his own arm and making a face. “What if this isn’t really mine?”

In the night, Tam’s dark eyes are big and mischievous. “You wouldn’t know. You never do, until you get older and finally all the adults let you in on the secret. And that’s why soulmates all get married, because they want to be close to the rest of their skin.”

Keefe nods seriously. “I do want it back. If I had extra, I could have webbed fingers, or maybe I could flap it and fly.”

“That’s smart,” Tam says, breaking off to yawn. He’s missing one of his teeth. He pulls the blanket tighter around himself, eyelashes fluttering as he seemingly fights to stay awake. Both of them need to head back home, but they won’t yet, not if it means leaving their bubble of warmth and stars. Nothing can touch them in their treehouse. So long as they stay here, safe, they’ll be friends for forever.

Not many people are allowed to watch Keefe when he draws. Out of the entire third grade, he’s by far the best, with his artwork nearly always hanging up in the hallways. He doesn’t like it when his parents look as he sketches or when his classmates crowd around to see in art class. Some of it’s private, just for him, and some of it just shouldn’t be seen until it’s exactly how he wants it.

Tam is a rare exception. Maybe the only exception.

As Keefe paints onto the treehouse walls, layering a new image over faded markers, Tam clambers up behind him. There’s the sound of a body plopping into a beanbag and then attentive silence. Keefe smiles and keeps working. He’s been trying to redo parts of the original decorations, as he hadn’t been this good when he’d done them. Sometimes he can’t help but laugh at his past self when he’s in here.

He’s never exactly been a neat painter. He has a tendency to dip his elbows in the paint, to streak it over his eyebrow or on the back of one shoulder. His workspace always ends up splattered with color no matter how hard he tries to keep from flicking his brush. There’s no cause for concern when he smears a healthy blob of green across most of his thumb. He just kneels to grab his paper towel, and then he notices Tam just staring at him, eyes too wide for his face.

Suddenly self-conscious, Keefe asks, “Is something wrong?”

“Your hand.” Tam fidgets in place with nervous energy. He lifts one arm up, splaying his fingers out to display the shades splattered across them. “I’ve—I’ve been watching them appear for a while today. I knew they weren’t from me, you know?”

“Oh.” Frowning, Keefe presses the brush to his forearm, scrawling out every curse word he knows and laughing at the consternated expression on Tam’s face. “What? I’m testing it.”

“Dude,” Tam complains, “my parents are going to flip if they see that.”

Keefe snickers. “You can’t call me dude. I’m your soulmate.”

Tam sobers, still-round face going solemn. “What now? Does anything really change?”

“No,” Keefe says decisively. “I haven’t changed my mind on soulmates. And it doesn’t really matter, does it? We’d be best friends with or without it.”

“Good.” Tam lets the silence sit for all of half a minute before asking if he wants to play Nintendo. Keefe could almost forget the conversation happened at all, if not for how their skin quickly becomes a rapid form of communication. Throughout boring school days, they trade doodles and jokes back and forth, though when they get home the treehouse remains their sanctuary. They keep writing the notes and tucking them under rocks for the really important things. Nothing changes, but everything should, Keefe figures.

It doesn’t matter. He likes their friendship as is just fine.

Well, more than fine.

The first year they’re in the same class at school, it’s fifth grade, and Keefe’s father has just transferred him to the same fancy private institution that Tam has always attended. The rules are strict and the academics prestigious. And while at public school Keefe had grown into a sort of ringleader of children with sheer confidence and natural charisma, here he finds most of the kids irritating.

At recess, where the playground is more of a yard than anything else—a vast space of green without any true play structures to be found, Keefe takes to climbing the tall trees. He likes it up high. He likes that there’s a place where his teachers don’t know to look for him, and sometimes when they call everyone inside he’ll stay silent and still, evading notice so long as no one thinks to look up. They never do.

Except Tam. He cranes his neck up to look at where Keefe rests on the broadest limb, one leg dangling precariously in the air. “How’d you get up there?”

“Flew,” Keefe shoots back.

Tam rolls his eyes. He’s unfairly good at that. Keefe can’t stop his eyelids from fluttering when he tries.

When Tam starts up, he’s tentative, testing every handhold before daring to transfer his weight. He stops before he gets to the first true branches, frowning down at the ground and tightening his grip around the trunk.

“Don’t look down,” Keefe advises. “Well, not more than you already have, anyway. There’s a knot to your right, it’s pretty sturdy. Once you’re up on it, the rest of the way’s a lot easier.”

It takes more shouted instructions and some curses muttered under Tam’s breath, the ones he’d taught Keefe a while ago after his dad lost his temper on a waiter, but eventually Tam clambers up and settles beside him. “Scooch over.”

Keefe shifts a couple of inches. “Why do you get to sit closer to the trunk?”

“Because I’m not about to fall.” Tam rests his head against the bark, keeping his arm loosely wrapped around the tree.

“I don’t think that would help you if the branch did break.”

Tam shrugs. “Who said I was worried about the branch breaking? Maybe I just don’t trust you to shove me off.”

“No matter how much you try to strangle the tree, I could still shove you off if I really wanted to.” Keefe bumps his shoulder against Tam’s just to see his unimpressed glare. Both of them have black pen scribbled up and down their forearms from a particularly boring math class earlier. Keefe’s intricate little doodles sit beside Tam’s messy sketches, the mocking caricatures he likes to make of Keefe with his hair all wild like the blue jay’s nest near their treehouse. It had descended into an argument over whether Squirrel girl or Bugs Bunny would win in a fight.

“Not worth it. If you killed me, you’d never get rid of my ghost,” Tam says. “Face it. You’re stuck with me.”

Keefe sighs dramatically, barely remembering not to flop backwards in time. “I suppose so. You let someone into your treehouse one time and all of a sudden it’s a hostage situation.”

Tam laughs, opening his mouth to say something else, but then there’s a shout from below.

“Hey, lovebirds! What are you doing up there?” Below them stands Bryce, by far the worst bully in their grade with his tired taunts. “Tam and Keefe, sitting in a tree, K-I—”

Before he can finish the rest of the juvenile chant, Tam snaps a thin twig off the branch and pelts him with it. “Leave us alone!” he calls down.

Keefe joins in readily, and while none of their missiles hit Bryce gives up the game when the whistle blows for them all to head back inside.

Tam starts to shimmy down, glancing up when he’s halfway to the ground. “You coming?”

“After you,” Keefe says, waving one hand dismissively. He doesn’t know why his stomach’s dropped to his toes. He’s not scared of heights, and he’s definitely not afraid of Bryce. But Tam is his best friend. Always has been. Why should it be weird between them now? Keefe’s skin is crawling, and when he looks at his forearms again he wants to claw the ink off. He wants to forget why it stains his skin. He wants to yank a jacket on so no one else can see and make assumptions, so he doesn’t have to hear the same stories again, so he can pretend he doesn’t know what it means. Pretend it means nothing at all.

Because people care here. People care so much. They dream about the day that they finally meet their soulmate, and here Keefe is, close with his already. It doesn’t make sense. He has time. Maybe that’s all it is, all he needs, time to get there on his own terms.

But he doesn’t want to get there. He wants to want it. Can that be enough? Can he be whole if he pretends hard enough?

Tam’s standing on the grass, looking up expectantly. Keefe follows him down, the way he always will, and when they trade grins after Tam dares him to race back to the school doors that messed up thing in Keefe settles into place again. Because they’re best friends. Because today, after school, he’ll go back to the treehouse that this oak at school isn’t a true substitute for and it’ll all be okay again. Okay away from the rest of the world.

The worst happens. The worst is worse than Keefe could ever have predicted, and he’s a pessimist who masquerades as an optimist, so he can predict a whole lot. There’s no warning. No closure.

Because after a weekend away with his parents, spent with his frustrating extended family—who all say things he doesn’t like but doesn’t know how to argue with, the last pf the moving trucks is pulled into the neighbor’s driveway. The tasteful Song mansion has clearly been cleared out. Even the carefully tended orchids have been dug out from the soil, transplanted into pots and leaving the garden gouged and tattered.

Keefe is already running when he sees it. He can’t make sense of it.

He doesn’t know what he’s looking for until it’s not there. The letters are where they put everything important, hold it down with paperweights and reply when they can, translating messy elementary school handwriting into words. There’s no letter. Tam has left nothing behind. His blanket is gone, the one with the silly Lilo and Stitch pattern he’s had since he was five. All that remains is a single forgotten plush cat, lying discarded in one corner and half-hidden by an old and empty pizza box. Tam’s favorite. Keefe had helped him name it—Artemis, for Sailor Moon, and now it’s here but Tam isn’t.

Tam’s gone.

The treehouse is empty. Quiet.

Keefe isn’t used to the quiet anymore. For so long, the treehouse has been an escape from his hollow, hollow house. It rings with laughter and light. It’s the kind of closeness a younger version of himself would never have dreamed of. As much as the treehouse had began as his own space, his one refuge, it doesn’t mean anything anymore when he’s relegated to this loneliness.

The swell of hurt builds and builds in his chest. He can’t be here anymore. He can’t look at these four wooden walls and wait, wait like Tam will come up the ladder any moment, because he won’t. He never will again.

How dare he? How dare he leave like that? In a fit of anger, Keefe kicks over the empty water bottles and overturns their careful collection of colorful erasers, letting them spill across the floor and fall onto the dirt below. He rages until there’s nothing else to take his anger out on and hurls Artemis against the wall. Again and again and again.

He grabs a black marker, thick-tipped, and writes I HATE YOU on his arm until it crowds out all the empty space. He writes it, and doesn’t stop, teeth clenched and anger boiling out his blood. It feels like absolution. It feels like victory, because maybe he wasn’t the first to leave but he will be the first to get over it. He writes those three words until he believes them. Until the feeling subsides.

And then he picks up Artemis again, and pretends that, when he clutches her close to his chest, the wetness he hides into her soft surface isn’t tears.

#kotlc #keefe sencen #tam song #ari can words #ari writes #keeper aromantic week 2023

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colleenmurphy · 2 years ago

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It all started on a very normal evening out for drinks and dinner with her newest beau, a really sweet cop from Chicago that had dreamy blue eyes and a voice that could melt her brain into her shoes.

"So here I am half way down seventh and park just on my beat when I pull up and see this little girl, pigtails in ribbons, backpack too big for her pink sneakers the works. Then it dawns on me that it's the little girl that went missing four hours ago and her parents are frantic..."

Colleen was hanging onto his every word as he sipped his tequila and water and she occasionally drank her white wine. Then she smelled it...or them, rather. A noxious blend of cloying night jasmine and sickly honey mingled with mugwort and cedar capped off by bitter ivy and icy birch. To her it was gag inducing but it soon passed.

"I pull up along side her and ask her if she's lost 'cause she was walking all determined. Kinda like you.."

Biting his lip she resisted the urge to jump him right then and there. It had been many moons since Colleen had felt this spirit in this form. She felt a blush rise high in her cheeks as she drank deeply. Her time in Endor she'd felt it strongly only to be left well into the 1700s until he popped up again. But she digressed and turned her attention again from the annoying smell and back to Bill.

"She answered me with a tiny timid yes and she had these huge green eyes that just struck me and that's what pulled me into the search. I was well out of my way and technically on a different beat entirely. But I'd found her. I introduced myself and let her wear my hat and play with the buttons a little. But I really won her over when I hand delivered her to her mom on their front porch. Made me proud of myself that day. All the shit I did in my life, over there...that was a life away from what I did to get where I am now. I helped someone. I knew I was in the right line of work."

She smiled and again her ancient heart melted. Taking his hand in hers she traced his lifeline. Good and strong mount of Venus. Unbroken.

"You're awfully affection this evening, Col."

She smiled again before leaning over to kiss his cheek.

"It's Friday, I got paid and I'm with one of my all time favorite people."

"Ya mean besides Helene?"

A throaty laugh left him as he shook out a cigarette, something Colleen didn't quite approve of but couldn't fault him on since she herself had her own hand rolled cigarettes of a different variety in her purse. She'd already lit up I the ladies room to get her nerve up to even consider asking him about taking the next step she felt was right in their relationship.

"Yes. What was what drink you were trying to get me to try?"

"Oh it was a margarita...little different than what you're used to, babe. Aren't you Miss Colly Safety usually? You sure you want to mix your wine with liquor?"

Yes, he knew her very well, almost too well. But now was her turn to surprise him.

"I'm feeling a bit wild this evening. We don't have to be up early and we're booked for the Keys tomorrow evening. Helene's going to lose her mind when she sees the rental."

He stopped playing with the raven and triple moon charm on her bracelet.

"What if I told you it wasn't a rental?"

Their waitress came back over in a cloud of spun sugar sweetness of maraschino cherries and presumably spilled cheap vodka and Jasmine.

"Anything else for you two tonight? Dave in the back he can whip up somethin' quick if you've got a drive ahead of you."

"I'll have that margarita thingy..."

"Colleen you've never said 'thingy' in your life...are you sure?"

"Yes, I've had one glass of wine and it was paired with the usual crab cake and salad."

She was logical and practical but Bill had to admit that he was surprised.

"Ok, get your pen out Tammy...a double shot of silver tequila, a shot chambourd and Gran Mariner shaken over ice and garnished with the salt sugar rim and a lime."

A slow blink and a pop of her gum gave it away that Tammy was a touch impressed and jealous of Colleen and her taste in male company. As she walked away Colleen smelled it again. This time her stomach gave a lurch.

"I'll be right back."

"Ok, but the drinks are almost here."

Dashing off as fast as her feet could carry her towards the ladies room she bolted the door and made a fumble for her Tiger's Eye.

'Helene...do you feel it? Is it what I think it is?'

Colleen had been around for a very long time and she had grown to feel that nothing could frighten her these days. Until she felt the twinge of being hunted by whatever...no, whoever was giving off that god awful stench. A twinge of brimstone mingled now until it wafted away as quickly as it had come over. She stood there clutching her Tiger's Eye and shaking out a joint in there other. Slipping it onto her necklace chain she sighed and inhaled. Giving herself a good three minutes before breathing deeply and spraying herself down lightly with whatever was in her purse. Some aquatic and airy. Perfect. Walking back out she met his eyes and he shook head slightly as he chuckled.

"Did I miss something?"

"The other waitresses think there's a skunk out back, Col."

Biting her lip to stifle an equally embarrassed and amused snicker she blushed.

"Whoops..."

"Sorry about the wait...damn skunk must be back out there again by the dumpsters. Here's your drinks and your bill. Ya'll have a wonderful night."

"Cheers, Colly baby."

"Slainte, Liam."

A clink of glasses and a few sips and Colleen was feeling positively giddy. She had sipped from the fountain of youth for the sheer fun of it ( it's slightly carbonated and a tad salty with a tinge of Mangosteen if you really want to know ) and she had the privilege of partying in wine from many courts of many kings and nothing compared to the ambrosia that had graced her palate.

"Holy shit you've never made that sound before."

Opening her eyes she gave him a worried look that shifted to a flush of self awareness and the alcohol hitting her stomach. Liquid courage was starting to hit and she touched her necklace once more.

"Maybe you will...later."

She watched his eyes widen and a wolfish glimmer take hold. If the floor could have opened up she would have thrown herself in head first as she blew him a kiss.

"I said that aloud...hollyhocks and sunflower stalks.."

Cradling her head in her hands for a second she ended up laughing at herself. For the first time in ages. With him.

"You are literally the only person that talks in flowers when they're embarrassed and I love it."

"Only when truly and deeply embarrassed. But, at least I've got a nice little in onto the next subject."

Fiddling with her straw she sipped again. This time she was surprised to find a splash of grapefruit soda hitting her tongue. It was pleasant mind setter.

"I know your feelings on marriage after your divorce with Katherine and you know how my last relationship ended with Jeremy. But what about..

Her mother's voice rang out in her head.

'Every time you look at him you get lost in his eyes. I see what was, what could be and what will be. Just ask him.'

A flurry of activity hit as door the tavern opened in a whirl wind of rain and leaves. Helene's curls sprang out as she came in searching the place.

"Hey!"

Politely walking passed a few other couple she made her way over to their booth by the fish tank.

"I hate to break this up but...I've got bad news and good news. I'm an agent of change right now. Don't know what's got my tongue but this cat showed up and now I can't shut up. I'm too honest. Oooh..tequila!"

Taking a sip she pulled a face.

"Oohh. somebody's gonna feel that in the morning."

Bill chuckled as he finished his and took Colleen's hand.

"Oh, She's been dancing with the devil's lettuce, eh? Ok, here's my shot because she won't be blunt with you. You love her and she loves you. You know her knitty gritty past when it comes to love and you know she's into kinky shit. She's wild for and about you and you her. Colleen's at that age in a witch's life where babies are on the brain. Big time. She sees you she wants babies. Specifically your babies, k? We all know how you both are about walking the aisle again and I really don't know if she can..technically. But...yes, she wants to settle down and have a home with you. Buutt...here's where it turns like mega shit bad. We're being hunted. Someone's out there looking for Col and I and we need to skedaddle on out of here before they find us. I've got Mama Murphy on the case and Pops on it. How fast can you drive or should we let Col do it?"

"The smell!"

Bill to his credit was sitting there stone silent taking it in.

"Yep. So yes, let's get paid here and get to getting 'cause whatever it is is Big Mad and Big Bad. "

Helene wandered of towards the bar to ask about a to go cup of whatever that was that she just drank.

"This is the part where you run screaming for the hills, right?"

Tears had welled up in her eyes, partially from having her bubble burst in a big way. She and everyone that she loved and cared about were being hunted by something so god awful she couldn't put a face to the smell. But it was locked away so deep that could only mean something horrible.

"No...this is where I get you and your best friend, our best of honor, to our new home a bit sooner than expected. Which is good. We'll have time to talk about turning a third guest bedroom into a nursery...or something."

She smiled as she kissed him.

"Hey lovebirds! Let's get a move on, please! Paradise awaits us!"

#@aristobun #hocus pocus verse #something new and I hope it's ok I borrowed Helene for it

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vixenzorra · 1 month ago

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Samhain Sacrifice Continued...

“An L…” Celeste couldn’t help the smile that tugged her lips upwards.

“Thank you, good evening,” Lily rolled her eyes and pulled Celeste away. “An L. Of course it’s an L. The same as that of the man who has hired them? Who is lining girls up at the gate to court? Shocking.”

“You think it’s a hoax?”

“Oh dear gods yes,” Lily snorted. Celeste tried not to look disappointed. “All the girls are probably getting an L.”

“I suppose it adds to the mystique of the whole affair. Garners extra interest from the girls.” Though from behind them Celeste heard a girl squeal as an “M” was declared. She pushed it from her mind. Getting excited was foolish.

“Do you think he really wants to spar?” Lily asked, making Celeste’s attention snap back to her.

“I think so. He seemed genuinely interested. Why? Does the idea of sparring with a thousand year old warrior intimidate you sister?” she giggled.

“Warrior?” “Indeed. Through many ages.”

“Many ages?” Lily’s eyes widened. “Exactly how much reading have you done?”

“A lot,” Celeste laughed. Enough to keep her awake at night and give her a migraine. But Lily didn’t need to know that.

Lily dragged her to dance and the girls took advantage of the revelry and being away from their mother before they spotted their looming family, waiting for them at the edge of the dance floor. Celeste could see their mother’s impatient foot tapping even at a distance.

“We can come back. The event goes on until morning,” Lily murmured. She sounded determined. “What do you suppose they want?” Celeste had finally been enjoying herself, and the presence of Ragnar, their sister’s hulking husband, did not bode well.

“Ivy has probably discovered that not only does Lucien like cards, but that he drinks blood and occasionally whiskey,” Lily sniggered.

“How scandalous!” Celeste giggled.

“Girls!” The smiles vanished from their faces in an instant. “We have been looking all over for you.” Lisbet’s arms were crossed over her chest, foot still tapping.

“There was no need to fret Mummy,” Celeste wanted to head their mother off before the rant really got rolling. “We were dancing. And you have always said that to be seen dancing in the centre of the action is the perfect way to show off one’s beauty and garner exactly the right amount of attention.” Lisbet eyed her for a moment. The tapping stopped. The compliment to her wisdom had, it seemed, quelled her. For now at least.

“Come. There is much to discuss.” Lisbet drew them all to a table where Alder sat with a similarly tall, though much more slender man. Rollo, Ragnar’s younger brother. Once they were all sat Ivy opened her mouth to speak, but her husband cut her off before she could get a word out, earning a scowl.

“There will be a book opened tonight. Beauxment is offering people the opportunity to ‘opt in’ to his communications and potential visits.” Ragnar’s lips pulled up in a sneer as he spoke. Celeste couldn’t help but feel that his teeth always looked unnaturally sharp. As if he had already found someone to Turn him.

“It’s open for business, social connections and for those who wish to express interest in courtship. All of which would be useful to our family,” Alder murmured, earning a silent nod from Rollo.

“The book is going to be on the path down through the woods. On the way to the sacrifice.”

Her nose scrunched at that last part. They had all known. It had been on the invitation. Their mother never had been good with blood. “We should go early, so that we are higher up on the list. We do not want to get lost in the masses.”

“We mustn’t seem cloying,” Alder scolded.

“Not the earliest! Just higher up!” Lisbet said. Celeste winced at her mother’s petulant tone. “Oh, and we should register your business interest.” Bickering ensued between their parents, and Celeste found herself tuning out.

+++

Once everyone had eaten Lisbet ushered the girls along towards the woodland path. The moon had risen, bathing the manor in silvery light. Shadows stretched further, hushed murmurings replaced the raucous chattering as people headed towards the woods.

“Heads high,” Lisbet instructed. “You never know who is watching.”

“It’s all so archaic,” Lily whispered as they made their way down the path towards a wide clearing, at the mouth of which stood a small podium with a large open book, manned by a boy in deep dark red livery. “Clever though. People have to witness the old practices if they wish to sign up. Or they have to face the public scrutiny of leaving after signing their names up.” There were already two dozen or so names and addresses in the book by the time they reached it. Some had put family names, others – individual men seeking political acumen, some were simply their daughters’ names. Alder snatched up the pen before Lisbet could, putting their family details down.

The crowd hushed, and a man ascended to the altar. He was stripped to the waist, old tribal tattoos marking his defined muscles. When dark red hair caught the moonlight Celeste’s eyes widened. It was Lucien. Like a god fallen from the heavens, carved from white marble against the moonlight. He knelt, head bowed before the altar. He was an adonis, a perfect dangerous creature carved from stone. She wondered if he would be cold to the touch. If his skin would be soft or hard.

Lucien rose, his hollowed cheekbones catching the firelight as the shadow herself wrapped her arms around him. A crown of twisted branches, leaves supporting a great set of antlers was placed on his head before the priest handed him a long, slender blade that flashed as the firelight glanced off of it. Heads turned as a large snuffling boar was led on stage by a second priest. Lucien started to speak, a language that placed frowns on all of the faces around them. A few people gasped as one, then two bonfires roared into life, one either end of the altar. Lucien raised a hand and when his fingers clenched, a gemstone buried in the hilt of the dagger glowed a deep dark red. The boar froze, lifting into the air. He guided it to hover over the stone altar where a large brass bowl had been placed. The crowd stood still. Celeste couldn’t’ even hear people breathing. A sickening gushing slice broke the silence and blood poured from the creatures neck. It fell over Lucien, streaking over his face and chest before spattering into the bowl in a waterfall of crimson. A few gasps filled the air, even a scream. But Celeste did not look away. She could not look away. Her eyes fixed on the man, the vampire in front of her, the blood so dark against his white skin it was almost black. He was a man who held life and death in his hands. When his eyes caught hers through the crowd, she felt a tingle trickle down her spine. The danger did not frighten her. It thrilled her.

#vampire romance #vampires #vampire fiction #dark academia #writing #vampire #gothic #the veiled world #dark romance #lucien and celeste #hot vampires #vampires are hot #vampire smut #vampire fantasy #vampire lore #dark fantasy #gore

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fatalsmilemoved · 2 months ago

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CHARACTER SHEET

FULL NAME. juliet nora kostenko NICKNAME. julie, jules PRONOUNS. she/her SIZE. 5 ' 02 " AGE. 19 - 25 ZODIAC. scorpio SPOKEN LANGUAGES. english &. french

𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒

HAIR. long blonde , loose waves / curls EYES. blue BODY TYPE. fit / toned , hour glass shaped VOICE. Luscious: sweet to excess; highly pleasing; satisfying; cloying mixed with whisper: to speak with soft, hushed sounds. DOMINANT HAND. right POSTURE. Good, learned from a young age not to slouch SCARS. None, verse dependent BIRTHMARKS. none MOST NOTABLE FEATURES. her eyes, the death glares she gives people

𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐃

PLACE OF BIRTH. Ormond, Alberta, Canada HOMETOWN. Ormond, Alberta, Canada SIBLINGS. Nathan & Ava Kostenko PARENTS. Ember & Noah Kostenko

𝐀𝐃𝐔𝐋𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄

OCCUPATION. artist & influencer CURRENT RESIDENCE. Ormond, Canada or verse dependent CLOSE FRIENDS. Susie Lavoie, Joey St. Claire, and Frank Morrison FINANCIAL STATUS. Julie is a trust fund baby, so she's well off and posed to take over Kostenko Pharmacies once her parents step down. DRIVER'S LICENSE. yes CRIMINAL RECORD. Yes, mostly for getting into fights. VICES. sex, occasional drug use

𝐒𝐄𝐗 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

SEXUAL ORIENTATION. pansexual &. panromantic PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE. Preferred Submissive, can be a switch depending on the partner TURN OFFS. cheating TURN ON'S. honestly, it all comes down to loyalty. Be there and make her feel like you care and she's putty. LOVE LANGUAGE. quality time &. physical touch RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES. Julie is all about devotion. If she's with you she's all in, like she doesn't even see other people. She's very protective, obsessed, and jealous when it comes down to it. Her love tends to make a turn into obsession, wanting to be with the other person as much as she can. This may be due to her borderline personality disorder.

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐒

CHARACTER'S THEME TUNE. love is embarrassing by Olivia Rodrigo, all the good girls go to hell by Billie Eilish, and you should see me in a crown by Billie Eilish HOBBIES TO PASS THE TIME. writing, painting, drawing, singing in the shower, cuddles with her cat shadow, getting in trouble with legion. LEFT OR RIGHT BRAINED. right SELF-CONFIDENCE LEVEL. outwardly , appears to be overly confident in oneself . though at times - can really struggle internally with their own self confidence and worth

tagged : @hellconsumed 85 years ago.... but hey it's finally done.

#♡ 。 devils roll the dice; angels roll their eyes › headcanon #♡ 。 loves a game wanna play? › dash games

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botched-lineart · 3 months ago

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There's something that's been weighing on me.

I feel like the only reason I'm not seen as a notoriously narcissistic flaky failure is that I've never had a bigger following than 200 people who occasionally pay attention to what I do.

Because like. I disappoint people all the time. Daily, even. I'm selfish with my time, only make what I impulsively want to make, sit around being jobless on my parents' dime...

It's not cute. I feel like a vile creature trying to pretend to be a decent human being. And I can't even pretend all that well.

Some of my mutuals and discord acquaintances follow this blog and may even take the time out of their day to read this post and... There are so many things I could say. I'm sorry for being a chronic ghoster and for never following through on my promises. Sorry if I hurt your feelings by barely reacting to something you made or failing to pretend to be interested in a collaborative project because it wasn't exactly the way I wanted.

But I'm not sorry?

God, it feels horrible to say, but it's true.

"But Rocket, if it's sooo hard to say and you feel really bad, why are you vagueposting about it instead of working on yourself?" Because like I don't know what to tell you, man. I've been kind of an asshole my entire life. No matter how many years I've spent in therapy or obsessively dissecting every facet of myself, combing for flaws that I think other people might see in me, my actual pattern of behavior is iron clad.

When I look at myself on a deep, fundamental level, I know that I care more about what others think of me than about having real integrity.

I'm a fucking narcissist. It isn't cute, quirky, relatable, or something I can easily train myself out of or fix with the right meds. I have a deep, cloying pathological need to be seen as excellent. Cool. Admirable. But I know the truth about myself better than anyone else. If you cut me, I bleed green. I'm envious to my core.

I work hard, in my own way. The skills I have are things that I've been practicing my whole life. I started writing stories when I was four. I think I first drew fanart even earlier. I've never paid for attention or begged for exposure for my work. I've never intentionally posted ragebait or blindly chased viral trends just to feel important. Hell, I haven't even whined about how entitled I feel in public until now.

But that's the thing - I do feel entitled!! I want to reblog every single one of my drawings with a big fat PAY ATTENTION TO ME in the caption. Look at me!! I am being excellent over here!! I've been on this bitch of an internet since I was in first grade, so where the hell are my flowers??

I don't feel pride and joy when my peers get their big break. I feel disgusted at myself for not being good enough to be in their place. And I have to spend hours, days, weeks, months, years burying that feeling so deep that no one would notice how sweatily I'm typing out a simple "Nice job, dude. Happy for you."

I have no excuse for this. It's villain shit. But it's the emotional reality I live, and I hate pretending like I'm more passive and friendly than I am. It's fucking exhausting sitting by, politely toiling in my dark corner and occasionally looking up to see everyone around me living their best lives in the sun. I'm done pretending like that doesn't make my blood boil.

And I hate that I feel that way. I know that's not how a friend feels about friends. Right? Like, I've been learning about being supportive and courteous since before I knew how to talk, and yet it has never come naturally to me. I'm a bad friend. A sweaty, slimy, envious worm pretending to be something that I'm not.

And saying that out loud is terrifying. Because friends, if you read this and I've let you down and now openly admit that I only feel superficial remorse, like.... What more is there to say? You don't need someone hot and cold and fake like that in your life. And I wouldn't blame you for walking away and never looking back.

But God, it'd tear me apart. I think that's the thing that people don't understand about narcissists. You only glimpse us acting cocky, suave, confident, and cool because there are people to admire us while we crowd surf. Once we're alone, all of that ego is gone. No matter how authentically we worked to get that admiration, none of that is intrinsically valuable to us.

Your attention is all I care about in my heart of hearts. Not you. Not me. Your eyeballs as they watch me.

I don't want to sugarcoat it. By pretending to be better, I'm straight up being two-faced. It's better to just own being a full-on villain than sneak into people's lives as a covert friend.

"Rocket, who cares? You have maybe five friends on a good day and a microscopic following compared to most lousy assholes on the internet. You're being verbose and grandiose and showing your entire ass on camera for what?"

Attention. Duh. Narcissist, remember?

Like I can't even deny that while I write this for my own sanity's sake and the disillusionment for my friends, on some level I want someone to come pat my shoulder and say, "It's okay, Rocket. You may be an energy vampire to your social circles, but we forgive you. Please don't slink away, we love you!"

Uuuuuuugh.

Don't let my pathological need to be liked and called a good girl soften your opinions. Fucking tell me if I'm being a flaky bitch and it's hurting your feelings. It'll ruin my day and fuck my ego up so bad, but push on! Grab your sword and hold it to my neck!! Because I'm a fucking villain and violence is the only answer!!!

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helenaheissner · 7 months ago

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Love During Robot Fighting Time: Chapter 22

Kate

I sat at the breakfast table the next morning with my parents, nursing a mug of black coffee alongside a bagel and lox, my mom reading a fashion magazine and my dad parsing the financial section of the Wall Street Journal whilst fiddling with his abacus. Many thoughts swam laps inside my mind, and chief among them was, ‘how the hell do I tell my parents I’m in a polycule?’

“Have you got the details for your next fight yet, Kate?” Mom said, looking up from her magazine while reaching for the coffee pot balanced on an oven mitt on the table.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” I said. “I’m fighting Team Forest Fire on Friday.”

“Oooh, that’s exciting,” Mom said. “Try not to get distracted by the man-candy though.”

I giggled. “Moooommmm.”

“Just saying, I probably wouldn’t be able to focus that well going up against a bunch of former firefighters,” Mom said.

“Do I have something to be concerned about?” Dad said wryly, grinning without looking up from what he was doing.

“Never, darling. You’re the only one for me,” Mom said.

“Good to hear,” Dad said. “Same to you.”

I gulped.

“Everything alright, Katie?” Mom asked.

“I, well,” I said. Hoooo boy this was difficult. I hadn’t had to come out to them as trans, they’d done all the work for me, but this…

Okay, let’s take a step back, I told myself. Mom and Dad have thus far demonstrated themselves to be completely reasonable, understanding people who will love me no matter what. Maybe I should just rip off the bandage and hope for the best.

“How are things between you and your young man?” Dad asked. He seemed to like referring to Zeke as that- Dad was so inexplicably old-fashioned in the weirdest ways. He used an abacus, a flip-phone, and got a physical newspaper delivered every day. It was occasionally shocking to me how forward-thinking he was when he had such a fixation on the aesthetics of the past.

Then again, was Mom really any different? Most of the dresses she designed harkened back to some previous decade of women’s fashion. I swear she would dress like a fifties housewife every day if it were remotely practical.

They were the picture of an old fashioned marriage: they’d met in college and gotten engaged their senior year, used the graduation money they’d been gifted to start a small business, and then had me almost right away. Then again, they’d met through their college’s anime club, the small business they owned catered to all the weirdos and hipsters that came in, and their darling child was… Me.

“Things are good with Zeke and I, but, uh, there’s something you should know,” I said.

Dad finally put down his newspaper and shoved his abacus aside. He removed his reading glasses and stared deep into my soul in that way only fathers seem capable of. “Does he have any venereal diseases?”

“What?! No, no, nothing like that,” I said.

“You’re sure? You have confirmation of that? Because I understand that you’re young and eager to explore certain long-neglected aspects of yourself-”

“AAAAHHHHH,” I screamed, closing my eyes and putting my hands over my face.

“David, you’re scaring her,” Mom said. Through parted fingers I saw her raise an eyebrow. “Though it is important to make sure-”

“He doesn’t have any STDs!” I said, throwing my hands into the air with exasperation. “He told me so- verbatim!”

“Oh, good,” Dad said. “So then what’s the issue? He seems like a nice young man.”

I drew a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, trying to push cloying particles of exhaustion out of my lungs. “I’m not just dating Zeke. I’m also dating Faith.”

“They’re… Sharing you?” Mom said, squinting and tilting her head.

“No, they’re dating each other as well,” I said.

“So all three of you are dating each other?” Dad said. “All at the same time?”

“Yes, basically.”

“How long has this been happening?” Dad said.

I looked at the clock on the microwave. “Uh… About eleven hours?”

“I see,” Dad said.

“How exactly did this happen?” Mom asked.

“Well, Zeke and I started dating.”

“Yes, we know that part,” Dad said.

“But he and Faith had liked each other for a while, but neither of them knew that the other liked them back until I came around and… Uh… Forced the issue, I guess.”

“Okay, but when did Faith start liking you?” Mom asked.

“Honestly, I’m still a little confused by that part myself, but I think it was when I started hanging out with her as a friend and encouraging her to tell Zeke how she felt-”

“Wait, what?” Dad asked.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“Evidently so,” Dad said.

“When did you start liking her?” Mom asked.

“I think I always liked her on some level,” I said, looking down and shifting in my seat. “She always seemed so cool and calm and even-keeled, and she’s such a great engineer, I just wanted to impress her, so I kept… Making an ass of myself, trying to get her to notice me. And then I got to know her more, and she turned out to be just as big of a dork as I am, not to mention a ton of fun to be around… And I wanted her to be happy. And when she said what would make her happiest was getting to be with both of us… Well, that made me really happy. It feels… It feels really good, being with both of them.”

Mom and Dad exchanged a Look, one of those mutual expressions of understanding they’d shared intermittently for as long as I could remember. Normally, they infuriated me- some sort of social understanding through nonverbal communication I didn’t think I’d ever truly be able to comprehend, because I’d always thought… I’d always thought I’d be alone forever. But now… I think I understood it then. They were confused, and they were concerned, but�� They weren’t mad.

At least, I didn’t think they were.

… Okay, I was seventy percent sure they weren’t mad. Best to confirm it. “Are you guys mad at me?”

Mom released a gentle sigh and put a hand on my shoulder. She never said anything when she did things like that, she always just went right for it. I wondered… Did I get that from her? “Of course we’re not mad. Well, I’m not- your inscrutable, stoic, marble statue of a father will need to clarify that for himself-”

Dad scoffed, rolled his eyes, and said, “I’m not mad either. I’m… Perplexed by all this, is what I am.”

“Which is also true of me,” Mom said. “You’ve… Never been what I would call a social butterfly, and now you have two partners. And if you’re happy, and you trust both of them, then I’m happy, and I trust both of them. But please, please, PLEASE be careful. Your father and I… We don’t really know much about this kind of thing. You being trans… Well, we saw that coming and had plenty of time to prepare. This is kinda taking us by surprise. We weren’t even sure… What kind of person you liked, never even considered you might like all kinds.”

I gulped, and I nodded. Finally, I cracked a smile. “Thank you, Mom. Thank you, Dad.”

“Of course,” Mom smiled back.

“Any time,” Dad said.

I gave a weak laugh. “If you don’t mind my asking… When you guys first started suspecting I might be trans-”

“‘Suspecting’ implies that we ever had any doubt after finding the evidence,” Dad said.

“Be nice, dear,” Mom chastised him.

“-How did you… You know, react?” I finished.

They exchanged another Look. Finally, after about thirty seconds, Mom said, “We were… Confused, at first, by what it all meant. Surprised. But after we started thinking about it, and doing research… The more sense it started to make. There were a lot of signs.”

“There were?” I asked, brow furrowing. “Like what?”

“You used to throw tantrums whenever we made you get a haircut,” Dad said.

“You always played as girl-characters in video games,” Mom said.

“You would get extremely annoyed at anyone who called you ‘young man’ or ‘sir’ or ‘boy,’” Dad said. “Heck, you barely seemed to hear it whenever anyone called you by your old name.”

“Your favorite character in every Gundam you’ve ever watched is any girl who gets into a robot,” Mom said. “Seriously, I don’t think there’s a bigger Sayla Mass fan in the Western Hemisphere.”

“When you were a little kid, a very small one, you used to offer to model your mother’s dresses for you,” Dad said. “And after she started taking you up on the offer, you got very excited whenever she had you do it again.”

“Wait, seriously?” I laughed, rubbing the freshly-shorn back of my neck. “I don’t remember that.”

“We have pictures,” Mom said.

“You took pictures?” I asked, flabbergasted.

“You insisted we take pictures,” Dad said, pulling out the flip phone he’d owned for as long as I could remember and pulling up pictures of what did in fact resemble a much younger me modeling my mother’s dresses.

“Huh,” I said.

“Yeah, plus all those longing glances you gave to the dresses we have up in the store,” Mom said. “Once we found the underwear, it all kinda clicked into place.”

“Alright, yeah, it’s kinda hard to argue with all that,” I said. “Have I mentioned that I love you guys, and that you’re the best parents ever?”

“Yes, but we can always stand to hear it a little more,” Mom smirked.

I poured myself a little more coffee, and basked in the warmth of my loving home. It felt good.

I felt good.

***

After an absolute behemoth of an opening shift, families pouring in at the height of beach season desperately looking for swimwear for hours and hours, I spent a few hours wrenching on Polyphemus in my garage, re-installing the katana. I’d seen Team Forest Fire work their ax, and I didn’t want to try to beat them at their own game. Instead, I focused on making modifications to maximize speed and mobility. If I could stay out of their range, out-drive them, cripple their wheels, I’d have a fighting chance.

It was all riding on this. If I wanted into the playoffs, I NEEDED this win.

After that I showered, shaved my legs, blow-dried my hair, and did my makeup. Faith was coming over to help me practice my voice, and it would be the first time I’d seen her since… Well, she and I had started dating. My heart raced backwards at the idea that my girlfriend was coming to see me, to help me be the girl I wanted to be. I put on my favorite dress, the first one I’d worn. Zeke had seen me in it, but Faith hadn’t yet. I did a twirl, then another, then another, reveling in the giddy sensation of gender euphoria as I dove further and further into femininity. Faith wanted to help me cultivate that, and all I wanted to do in return was support her and Zeke both. To be the warmth and light they both needed, just like they were for me.

An idea struck me then, about what kind of woman I wanted to be, and about what kind of image I wanted to work towards in the tournament.

I was so busy walking on air I barely noticed Faith was late. First by a half hour, then an hour, then an hour and a half. I texted her, called her, did the same with Zeke, all to no avail. Concern germinated inside me, threatening to choke out reason and serenity, so I hopped into my truck and braved the drive over to their place.

I knocked on their door, and waited, and waited, and waited, until finally, I heard some signs of life dragging their feet over the floor and lumbering towards the door.

Zeke opened the door and loomed over me, hair a bed-headed mess, sans shirt (ABS), lipstick marks covering his face and neck. And he smelled like… Well, he smelled like Faith’s perfume.

Zeke seemed to take a moment to register that I was standing there, but when he did, his eyes bulged wide and he let out a squeak. “Kate!”

“That would be me, yes,” I said, mustering up a wry grin, trying to ignore the green flames of envy smoldering inside my heart. This was okay, this was fine, I’d signed off on this, I had no right to be jealous, none whatsoever-

“Kate?!” Faith’s voice reached out from the interior of the apartment, echoing across the hall and hitting me. It rang a quarter-octave lower than I was accustomed to at this point. Not quite what she’d sounded like last season, but a little closer…

I wondered what my facial expression looked like at that moment? Honestly, I had no clue- I’d never been terribly aware of what my face was doing at a given moment, not unless I was concentrating on it very, very hard.

Of course, given Zeke’s rather mortified look, I could probably hazard an educated guess that I didn’t look terribly pleased.

Crap.

Faith stumbled across a living room that was a mess of strewn about clothes and disarrayed furniture, hair even more frazzled then Zeke’s was, clad in Zeke’s IGPX t-shirt (it was practically a ballroom dancing gown on her, it was so big). “This isn’t what it looks like.”

I cocked an eyebrow.

Faith looked like she was suppressing a chuckle.

I squinted and tilted my head to the side.

Faith blanched and went stone-faced instantly.

“Please come in, I’m begging you not to make us have this conversation in the hallway,” Zeke said, exasperation so heavy it made his shoulders slump.

This is fine, this is fine, I agreed to it, this is fine, I repeated in my head like a steady drumbeat as I nodded and entered the apartment.

I sat down on the couch, and Zeke brought me a glass of ice-water. I took a long, cold sip, released an audible ‘ahhh’, and set it down on the table without a coaster. They really ought to get some coasters for this place.

“So,” I said.

“So,” Zeke said.

“So,” Faith said.

“You guys-”

“Yes,” they both said sheepishly, standing in front of me, nothing between us but the coffee table.

“All night?” I asked.

“Yes,” they said again.

“And into the morning and early afternoon?”

“I guess,” Faith said. “What time is it now?”

“It’s two-thirty in the afternoon.”

“Oh wow,” she said. “I guess we lost track of time.”

“The battery ran out on my phone,” Zeke said weakly.

“I don’t know why you two look so guilty,” I said, forcing a smile onto my face. “I said this was okay. So it’s okay. Okay?”

“Your smile isn’t reaching your eyes, babe,” Zeke said, shuffling his foot across the floor awkwardly.

“Huh? What does that mean?”

“It, uh… It means you’re not being totally honest.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Your facial expression.”

“Well what does it look like?” I said, leaning forward.

“... You mean you don’t know?”

“I very rarely do. What does it look like?”

“Uh, well…,” Zeke said.

“Like this,” Faith said, scrunching up her brow and conjuring the world’s tiniest smile. It looked like a thin sheet of glass balancing on an edge, about to fall over and shatter at the slightest nudge.

“Oh,” I said, looking down. Dammit. Dammit dammit dammit this is fine, I should be fine with this, if they’re happy then I should be happy so why don’t I feel happy?!

Faith glided over to me and sat down on my left side, and she beckoned Zeke over with her fingers and sat him on my right. “Let it out. Let it all out.”

“There’s nothing… Nothing to… To let out. I’m fine.”

“Kate,” Faith said. “Like I said before: you taught me a really valuable lesson about being honest with your own emotions and having the courage to vocalize them. So please be honest with us now. Are you upset?”

“I…,” I started, but the words stopped there and then. I closed my eyes and I nodded vigorously instead.

“Are you jealous?” Faith asked.

I nodded again, with equivalent ferocity.

“Alright. That’s completely understandable. We should have talked to you before we did this-”

“You did talk to me, though,” I said, slowly opening my eyes. “I just didn’t think you’d get down to business right away. It… It feels…”

“It feels dishonest,” Zeke said, staring directly ahead, pupils dilated, fingers pressed against his temple while his elbow was propped on the armrest. “Like Faith and I are sneaking around, waited for you to not be there to…”

“Zeke, no!” I said, leaning on him, putting my arm around his arm, rubbing his shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong! You shouldn’t feel ashamed.”

“I’m not-”

I glared at him, and if I had to guess, Faith was doing the same.

“Okay, I do feel a little ashamed,” he grumbled.

“You shouldn’t!” I said.

“And you shouldn’t be comforting me right now when I’m the one who upset you by not being able to keep it in my pants!”

“Hey, c’mon, we should be sharing the blame for this,” Faith said.

“No, there shouldn’t be any blame at all!” I said, running my hands through my hair. “Neither of you did anything wrong. I shouldn’t be feeling upset or jealous at all- I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to this!”

“Yeah, but knowing it intellectually and knowing it emotionally are two different things,” Faith said. “You’re new to dating, and Zeke and I are new to this, so it’s completely reasonable that we won’t always be able to predict how we’ll feel about certain things. Because relationships are full of weird, irrational emotions that you can’t plan for and can’t always articulate. But being honest about having them, and talking them through with your partner-”

“Or partners,” Zeke added.

“-That’s what keeps a relationship alive,” Faith said. She grabbed my hand and kissed my knuckles, then rested her head on my shoulder. “So how do you feel right now?”

“I feel,” I said, trying to breathe into what was going through my head, “I feel overwhelmed. Shocked. Flabbergasted. I guess I didn’t… I didn’t really consider everything about this before. I didn’t think that you guys were already at a place where you’d be having sex. I honestly thought… You’d wanna wait a while. But that was me projecting, because I’m a dumb virgin-”

“No talking bad about yourself!” Faith and Zeke said simultaneously, one in each ear.

“Okay,” I whimpered.

“Good,” Zeke said. “That’s our girlfriend you’re talking about- remember that!”

An emotion I recognized shot through me: I was flustered. “Mmmmm,” I intoned.

Zeke chuckled. “What does that mean?”

“Oh, just that I feel better now that I admitted how I was feeling,” I said. “And that I’m grateful you were both willing to talk this out with me.”

“Of course, Katie,” Faith said, leaning forward. “You’re our girlfriend, remember?”

I went warm and gooey again as Faith kissed me on one cheek, and Zeke, as if on cue, kissed my other one. I wiggled in my seat and squealed, then kissed them both on the mouth.

“Okay, so, one thing I should actually apologize for, though,” Faith said. “I completely spaced and forgot I was supposed to help you with voice practice today.”

“Yeahh, that’s kinda why I came over,” Kate said. “Honestly, in some way I’m relieved- you two are both okay, you just got distracted by each other. Which makes sense- you’re both super hot!”

“No, you’re super hot!” Faith said.

I stood up and planted my hands on my hips. “No! YOU’RE super hot.”

Faith stood up and mimicked my posture. “No! You’re super hot!”

I leaned in and kissed her, slipped in some tongue, her soft lips and delicate mannerisms an instant balm on any emotional wounds I might’ve still possessed.

Zeke’s baritone laughter turned raucous. “You’re BOTH super hot!”

Faith and I stopped kissing and turned to him, then did a double-take and looked at each other, then back to him. “No, you!” we said in unison.

Then we both jumped on him and started kissing him all over his face.

We three collapsed into a cuddle-puddle after that, interrupted by occasional makeout sessions, before finally, Faith said, “So, do you still wanna do your training today?”

“I know I should, but I don’t know if I still have the energy after all this.”

“Pfft, you’ve only been here for ten minutes, you dweeb,” Faith said, poking my cheek.

I poked hers back. “That’s my move.”

“Well I’m stealing it,” Faith said. “Seriously, though, if you want to skip it today, we can. We can go somewhere or hang out instead.”

“Ehhh… I’m torn,” I said, resting on Zeke’s chest, feeling his strong arms around me while mine wrapped around Faith. “I know I should, and I should also be trying to prepare for my match Friday.”

“Oh yeah, we have our last one too,” Faith said. “We’re up against Jolly Roger.”

“Oh, no,” I said, recalling their undefeated record and brutally decisive victories in each battle this year.

“Yeahhh,” Faith moaned.

“Hmm,” Zeke said, the sounds vibrating into me through his chest, accompanying the rise and fall of his breath and the steady beating of his heart. “That gives me an idea.”

He shimmied out from under me, causing me to fall flat on the couch with Faith nestled safely in my arms shielded from impact. “You two do your vocal exercises- I need to go run an errand. I’ll pick us up some food on the way back, and then I’ll set up my surprise. Is Thai Dishes good?”

“Thai is great,” I said. “Pineapple fried rice, please.”

“Shrimp pad thai for me,” Faith.

“Awesome,” he leaned over and gave me a kiss on the lips, his beard tickling me and making me giggle as we smooched, then he did the same to Faith before heading into his room and putting on some people-clothes. I got a quality view of him taking off his pants and standing there in his underwear a moment while it happened, Faith wolf-whistling as she straddled my chest. Once Zeke had pulled on a shirt and jeans, he said, “I’ll be back in a couple hours. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do while I’m gone.”

Faith looked at me with a naughty expression as she said, “I think we’ll manage, darling.”

I just laughed before sitting up. “C’mon, horndog, let’s get started.”

After a few more minutes of smooching, I convinced Faith it was time for vocal exercises, and we got to work. It took up about an hour, after which point we wound up going into her room so she could show me her massive… Comic book collection.

No, that’s not a euphemism. She really just had a massive collection of American comics and manga. Mostly Stargirl, JSA, Captain America, and other Golden Age themed titles on the American front, and a ton of magical girl and shoujo stuff on the manga front.

“I’ll be honest, I haven’t really read a ton of comics,” I said.

“What, you haven’t?!” Faith said,

“I don’t really read much,” I laughed awkwardly.

“Sit,” Faith said.

“I-”

“Sit,” Faith repeated, pointing at the bed.

I felt my face go flush, a warm and lovely desire to trust her on this running down my spine. She pulled a Stargirl comic off the shelf and then hopped onto the bed with me, pulling me down onto my back and putting her arm around me while opening the comic with her free hand. “Let me know when to turn the page.”

“Okay,” I said, melting into her arms and letting myself get lost in the story.

We got halfway through the thick tome before the front door came unlocked and Zeke stepped back inside the humble abode. “Honeys, I’m home!” he called out.

Faith closed the book and said, “First one there gets to kiss Zeke first!” She hopped off the bed and ran off.

“Hey no fair!” I said, chasing after her. Fortunately, my legs were longer and I caught up and overtook her pretty quickly. “Hahaha!” I said, sticking my tongue out at her then burying it in Zeke’s mouth. “Hi,” I smiled.

“Hi,” Zeke said. Then Faith caught up, grabbed his lapel, and pulled him into a kiss. “Also, hi. You two ladies keep entertained while I was gone?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Faith said, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Oh, hush,” I said, boldness bubbling up inside me. “A lady shouldn’t kiss and tell.”

“No, please tell, I’m begging you,” Zeke said.

“Maybe. If you’re good,” I said, tousling his hair. I noticed the six paper bags he was carrying then. “What’ve you got there, hot stuff?”

“Oh, a few things. I stopped by a few stores and got us a projector, and then burned a few discs.”

“What for?” I asked.

“We all need to go over some film for our upcoming fights,” Zeke said. “Figure we could do something fun and make a movie night of it. I also bought a tarp, so we can watch them on the roof once the sun finishes going down.”

“That sounds amazing,” I said.

“Agreed,” Faith said. “But first, dinner!”

“Dinner!” I said, pumping my fists.

“Dinner,” Zeke nodded, holding up another bag, deliciously salty scents emanating from it.

We ate while listening to Faith ramble about comics, and I diligently took mental notes on her lecture. Once we were done, the dark had finished falling for the evening, and we made our way up onto the flat roof of the building while Zeke set up the tarp and projector and loaded the DVD into the slot. The night was cool and clear, with a gentle breeze tossing about the air.

First was Jolly Roger. Captained by Nia Westfield, a five-foot-nine wall of muscle with a short-cropped head of natural hair framing her dark face, a golden-stud nose ring, and legs for days (and days. And days. And days-), she cut an imposing figure with her crewmates- all of whom were her former subordinates from when they’d served aboard the same ship during their tour in the Navy. Faith growled when they came on screen, and when they played the Navy song as their walkup music.

“Interservice rivalry flaring up?” Zeke asked.

“Little bit,” Faith said, sitting cross-legged on the blanket she’d draped over the cement surface of the roof. “Just flashing back to my brother’s college football career- Annapolis played Westpoint every year and they always freaking won!”

“Well, think of this as an opportunity to avenge your brother,” I said.

“I still can’t believe I just learned about him like a week ago,” Zeke said.

“I should write him a letter,” Faith said, errantly scratching her chin.

Jolly Roger looked like a wooden ship driving on four wheels, though the sails were strictly ornamental and the wood was more of an exoskeleton than anything else- beneath it was solid steel on four wheels, and in place of its mast was a drill. Only one, but it was much bigger than even the biggest ones I’d seen on DG. The film of JR’s fight with Flipper played; Flipper flipped the enemy bot a half dozen times in the first minute and shattered its wooden shielding entirely. But the good ship simply wouldn’t sink- that was its greatest strength. It was nearly impossible to KO because of the sheer amount of armor it had.

“What do you guys think will happen if drill meets drill?” I asked.

“Probably the drills shatter and the fight turns into a shoving match,” Faith, drumming her fingers on her knee.

“Hm,” I said, running my hands through my hair. “What if it doesn’t have to, though?”

“I mean, they have a bigger drill than us, so I suppose it’s entirely possible that only DG gets crippled in that scenario,” Faith said.

“Hold on, I think I see what she’s getting at,” Zeke said, leaning forward. “Jolly Roger is heavier than Dai Gurren, and it doesn’t have any obvious weak points like Pendulum does. But it’s every bit as slow, and its weapon isn’t nearly as strong or as well protected as Pendulum’s. We disable that drill-”

“-And it’s still denser than us and can shove us into the screws pretty easily,” Faith said.

“Not if we stay mobile, it can’t,” Zeke said.

“He’s right, at that point it’s a driving contest,” I said.

“Okay, but let’s look at the driver in question,” Faith said, hitting fast-forward on the film then pausing on an image of a five-flat east Asian woman with long black hair worn in a regulation bun. “Lenora Li. She pilots that thing like it’s a damn aircraft carrier, and in her hands, it may as well be. She’s no Gregson, sure, but most people aren’t. She can dodge a staggering amount of blows- more than should even be possible given the relative speeds of Jolly Roger.”

“How many opponents with multi-bots have they gone up against?” I asked.

“Not many- there aren’t that many of those,” Faith said. “I don’t even really think of ours as a multi-bot. We hardly ever use Gurren.”

“Yeah, but I think our last bout made a good case for using the little guy more often,” Zeke said.

“Fair point,” Faith acquiesced.

“Very fair,” I said. “You guys should use it in this match. Anything for an edge.”

“This gives me an idea,” Zeke said. “What if we attach a new face plate, and install all of our drills at once? The three big ones and the five small ones? Give us maximum firepower, so we can disable Jolly Roger’s primary weapon with a direct assault and still have more to work with?”

“I like it,” Faith said, “But where are we gonna get a new face at such short notice?”

“Gaines,” I offered immediately. “He has one exactly like that. You can use my employee discount; should be well within your budget at that point.”

“A-are you serious?” Faith balked.

“‘Course I’m serious,” I smiled, giving Faith a peck on the lips, holding her chin between my fingers. “Anything for my woman. And my man. And especially both of them at once.”

“Hmmm,” Faith sighed dreamily. “Okay.”

We watched a bit more fight footage for Jolly Roger, just to get all of our bases covered, but the plan remained intact.

After that, we switched discs and started on Forest Fire. It had a relatively simplistic design, a rectangular body with a chopping ax that came down from overhead. But that simplicity made it dangerous- the ax was double-bladed and worked just as well as a ramming weapon as it did a chopping one, and the lack of frills belied a focus on speed and maneuverability. It ran circles around Ultimate Frisbee in the footage we watched, dodging each attempt at ramming and getting the fragile spinner to crash into the sides of the box. And at one point, under the screws. Then, as soon as the spinning function was disabled, FF buried its ax in the circular bot and reduced it to scrap metal in three blows.

“You said you were going with the katana on this one, right Katie?” Zeke asked.

“That’s the plan. My ax-work just won’t cut it compared to theirs-” “Boooo,” Faith said.

I gave her face a playful shove and continued, “Screw you, puns are awesome. Also, I’m thinking of ditching the flamethrowers for this fight.”

“Are you sure about that?” Faith said. “There’d be a certain delicious irony to beating the firemen with flamethrowers.”

“Oh, trust me, I appreciate that,” I said. “But FF is way too fast for me to get a clean shot at it. I have to out-pilot these guys if I want to win.”

“What if their ax shatters your sword?” Zeke said.

I paused. “That… That is a good question. I didn’t think about that.”

“What about a side-knife?” Faith offered. “I can help you install it- we have one on DG. It’s pretty simple. If you’re not using the flamethrowers, you can install a secondary weapon pretty easily without slowing yourself down.”

“Faith!” I said, cupping her face. She blushed, which was probably the single most adorable thing I’d ever seen. “You beautiful genius! Thank you!”

She kissed me. “Well, I don’t know about all that. Genius, sure, but beautiful-”

“Oh shut your mouth, you’re gorgeous,” I said, leaning closer to her face and planting another kiss on her.

Zeke leaned in and pulled her face towards him, giving her a kiss as well. “I’m inclined to agree.”

“W-w-what? Me, gorgeous?” Faith stammered. “That’s absurd- I’m not even cute, let alone gorgeous.”

I smirked. “Yeah, but there’s literally nothing cuter than a cute girl insisting she’s not cute.”

“I am not cute!” Faith pouted, putting her hands on her hips.

“Case in point,” Zeke said.

“Your honor, the defense rests,” I said.

“Stahp!” she whined, collapsing backwards onto the blanket.

Zeke and I nodded at each other, and then we both laid down next to her and started cuddling her and kissing her cheeks. “It seems we’ll have to convince her, Mr. Underhill. Are you up for the task?”

“I’m more than happy to undertake this righteous cause, Ms. Calloway,” Zeke said.

Faith, for her part, wouldn’t stop squealing.

We wound up not watching much more film after that- we got distracted taking turns making out with each other.

***

“I should probably go home,” I said, looking at my phone and noting the approach of midnight.

“Awww, do you have to?” Faith groaned as she helped Zeke take down the tarp.

“I got work in the morning, and another photoshoot in the afternoon,” I said, turning off the projector and putting the discs into their respective sleeves in the CD binder.

“Sounds so glamorous when you say it like that,” Faith said as we all headed out the access door and went back downstairs. We stopped in front of the door to their apartment.

“It’s really not,” I said. “It’s just what I’ve got to do right now. I don’t think it’ll be forever.”

“As long as it’s working right now, that’s the important part,” Zeke said, giving me a kiss.

“Amen,” Faith said, giving me one as well.

“Exactly,” I said, hugging the both of them. “I had a good time today-”

“Hurt feelings notwithstanding?” Zeke asked.

“All is forgiven,” I said, pulling out of the hug. “You two get some sleep. And remember- you’re allowed to bang. I don’t mind.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they both said as they opened the door and went inside.

Elation saturated every fiber of my being as I left their building and made their way to my car. We could do this, the three of us. We all cared about each other, and we were all willing to be honest with each other about how we felt. And we were able to help each other in our robot fighting careers as well!

Still, though. An errant, terrifying thought couldn’t help but dance through my mind. We were all helping each other get to the tournament, but… If both our teams made it, what would happen if we had to fight each other again?

I searched for the answer my entire drive back home, and to my dismay, my chagrin, my abject horror, I couldn’t find one.

***

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#serial fiction #original fiction #web novel #trans woman #trans protagonist #wlw #comedy #romance #romcom #romance novel #romance novel blogging #indie author #enemies to lovers #polycule #bisexual

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himynameisjackie · 3 years ago

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i don’t even like rent but can i just say it makes me a little uncomfortable how people get so worked up about jonathan larson ~exploiting~ or ~appropriating~ queer stories for his own benefit

because 1) a lot of his work is done in collaboration and in community with queer people

and 2) a man who dated women and aggressively identified as a queer ally and then died at age 35 certainly could be straight but i also wonder if he might’ve been bisexual and he died so young we just do not know

like obviously there are artsy straight people who love having queer friends, but also the Vocal Ally to Queer-Identified Person Pipeline is a real thing

again i do not like rent but I am intrigued by the way Larson represents bisexuality in it as sexy, alluring, desirable – perhaps that’s fetishism but also perhaps he is drawn to bisexuality because of his own bisexual desires. And the bisexual character is also seen as unfaithful by both her male and female partners; the character gets all the character foibles that stereotypically come with bisexuality. Larson is aware of the way bisexual people are seen, and it’s not a particularly positive perception.

I dunno I in general find there to be something so insecure at the heart of most of this man’s work – he so desperately wants to belong in these “bohemian” spaces where he so obviously doesn’t. most of the time i write this off as a class thing – i think it is personal for me, as someone who comes from generational wealth and wants to be an artist; i don’t have the career i want yet, and so i feel in some ways like a “struggling artist” but I also feel like i need to be mindful of not romanticizing that term because my struggle is shallow – it is easier for me to become an artist than it is for my friends who do not have parents who own their homes, it is easier for me to become an artist than it is for my friends whose families would materially benefit if they worked in advertising instead of theater. i don’t want to flatten their struggle, i don’t want to claim that experience when it is not mine to claim. mark can squat in a shitty apartment, and “jonathan” can sing about how the shower’s in the kitchen and his floors are full of holes, but at the end of the day he’s Emma Stone in La La Land, right, the worst case scenario is he goes back to his parents in White Plains, who we know would welcome him home because they’re constantly leaving him loving, worried, occasionally cloying voicemails.

but i sometimes wonder if there is another layer to that: maybe it’s not just a yearning for the struggle of bohemia as a social class; maybe it’s also a yearning for the struggle of bohemia as a proxy for queer identity/queer struggle. i don’t know, i’m not trying to, like, headcanon a dead man’s sexuality, it’s so normal for straight people with queer friends to be like “i wish i was gay!” and it’s like “oh yeah it must be so hard for you to feel a little different from your friends because your relationships are consistently structurally and socially affirmed!” But also he’s very aware of aids, he’s afraid of aids, he’s losing friends to aids, i don’t know that someone who died in 1996, right after the peak of aids deaths in the US, would’ve necessarily felt totally free and empowered to explore his sexuality freely. and he wrote a lot about queer people, with a yearning insecurity, with an outside-looking-in melancholy... i just don’t know how much to read into the fact that he only had sex with women while he was alive. i am not confident his queer stories were not his to tell.

that said i think rent sucks for other reasons and i find his romanticization of poverty to be pretty abhorent so

feel free to criticize the man, there are so many good reasons even if his straightness isn’t one! i just wanted to write this out because i keep seeing tweets that make me feel a lil queasy

#jonathan larson #tick tick boom #rent

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littlemisslol-fic · 4 years ago

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Summary: Eugene was raised in a world of fire and blood. He barely remembers a time before the lights went out, the Blackout, that plunged humanity into a chaotic realm of violence and desperation. It’s been ten years since the end of the world, the birth of a graveyard that wasn’t kind to those too weak to take care of themselves- and it is there that Eugene finds a kid, abandoned to the wasteland and desperately trying to return home. Varian’s unassuming, easy prey in the hard-knock world Eugene’s come to call home, so it’s with begrudging acceptance he agrees to help the kid out. Not everything is as simple as he’d believe, however, and Varian hosts a few secrets of his own. In order to survive, they’ll have to learn to trust one another- though trust is a rare commodity in a world like theirs. No one man is an island after all.

Chapter Notes: Victory is so close, and yet so far. They aren't out of the woods yet!

SMALL WARNING for blood and injury in this chapter! It's nothing overly graphic, probably about Star Wars level graphic, but be warned!

Eugene dreams of fire.

It’s not an unusual type of dream for him, the flashes of horrific memories of the year following the blackout. The chaos that followed the lights shutting off for the final time is familiar, but it’s not exactly pleasant either. All he can do is let it run its course, deal with it as it comes, but the flashes are just as violent as he’s learned to expect.

It’s all he can do to choke the panic down.

Eugene dreams of fire and blood. Chaos and agony. A nameless woman screaming over the corpse of her child. A man with his head cracked in two by falling debris after an explosion. Blood painting city streets red after turf wars had reached the breaking point. Cracking gunshots that deafened, the whisper of a final breath as life left a broken, battered body.

He sees his mother’s tear-soaked face.

His father, vanishing into a crowd of frantic, fearful people, struggling to hold onto Eugene’s hand only to fail. His family, torn from him, lost to the all-encompassing flames. The darkness pulling him down, down, down, drowning him in an endless black.

But there’s something different, a new addition.

Varian, scared and pale, being pulled away just as Eugene’s parents were. Lost to the chaos, torn from him just as everyone else had been. Dragged, kicking and screaming, into the dark by a figure that reminds Eugene of Andrew. The panic that takes Eugene is cloying, thick and wild in a way that makes him near feral, unable to think as he runs in an endless agony to find the kid-

Eugene wakes up with a horrible gasp, wrenching aching air into his lungs. He pants for a second, shaking himself as he thinks, unable to comprehend where he is. The darkness absorbs his vision, Eugene unable to see beyond it. The world spins, the weak breaths unable to keep his mind from losing control. His chest stutters, shaking and unable to force air into pea-sized lugns. He can’t fucking breathe-

“Eugene?”

The world snaps into focus.

The farmhouse. Wood under his back, the hearth in front of him burnt out and cold in front of him. Sunlight, pale but strong filtering through ragged curtains. The quiet of an early morning. Birdsong, off in the distance and the gentle whisper of winds, the world waking up after a long night in the rain. The soft silence of a new day.

And Varian, eyes full of concern, sitting on his ankles with his hand on Eugene’s shoulder, having shaken awake.

“Eugene?” The kid asks again. His head tilts, face awash with worry. “Are you okay? You were talking in your sleep.”

“Fine.” He grunts. He sits up, shoving at Varian’s hand. The kid backs off quickly, giving him space. “Fine, just a bad dream.”

He licks his lip, and tastes the salt of tears on his cheeks.

“A nightmare.” It’s not a question. Varian looks somber, but nervous. “Do you… wanna talk about it? Rapunzel says that talking about them makes you feel better-”

“No.”

Varian flinches at the bluntness, but doesn’t back off. “Because it’s okay, you know? If you need to talk about it. Bottling things up won’t help.”

“Kid, I said it’s fine.”

“But-”

“Varian.”

It’s harsher than Eugene should be, especially with the kid. The way Varian shrinks into himself is more than enough proof of that. Eugene can’t find it within himself to feel bad, however, with the smell of smoke still clogging his lungs. He pushes himself up to his feet, staggering slightly and wavering as the last of the nightmare finally falls away like a shroud. Varian stays sitting, hands curled tightly to his chest as Eugene stalks out of the room.

He makes it to the front door before the guilt starts to set in.

The brunet pauses at the threshold to the house, sighing and rubbing at his face with his hands. Way to go, he thinks, just when I got the kid to relax. The front doorway’s still wide open, they hadn’t found anything to block it for the night and thus had taken their chances, but Eugene still pauses at the threshold.

There’s no noise from the living room, but Eugene knows better than to think Varian’s dropped the topic entirely. The kid had been open with Eugene about the Saporians, but this… his past was a lot. It was a near constant flux of misery and tough survival, not something he wanted to bog Varian down with. Even in their current world, it’s obvious that Varian’s childhood had been much gentler than Eugene’s, which is a good thing- and all the more reason to keep the misery where it belonged. In the past, buried by time and corpses.

He rubs at his face once more, groaning.

He’s getting too close to the kid. It was one thing to keep the little shit alive, it’s another to feel this weird protective thing about him. Eugene’s never wanted kids, never really given it much thought between keeping himself alive and dodging around human contact like it would burn him. He doesn’t see Varian as a son, god no, but more like a little sibling. Someone who Eugene isn’t entirely in charge of, but he’s still responsible for. Eugene isn’t one to teach the hard life lessons, that’s a father’s place, but more in the idea of keeping the kid in once piece and picking up the pieces when he fell.

But it’s still too close.

Even the brotherly feelings were too much. Varian’s a meal ticket. He’s a means to an end. Not a brother, not a friend, barely even an acquaintance. There’s no room for softness in the wastes, no matter how much Eugene’s stupid, mushy heart feels. He’s getting too invested, too protective.

Too much.

They’re only two days out from Corona. Two days out from dropping Varian and continuing on just like Eugene had planned. He has to remember that, to know that this isn’t permanent. Soon enough he’ll be back on the road, and all of this will just be a memory. Varian goes home, and Eugene disappears back into the wasteland to scrounge until he finally dies. It’s for the best, even if the thought of isolation leaves him with a knot in his stomach.

With a scowl, Eugene leaves the farmhouse.

>>>><<<<

After the disastrous morning, they walk in relative silence.

It’s not so much awkward, as it is just pensive. Varian’s had a thoughtful look on his face since Eugene had snapped at him, which does nothing to settle the man’s nerves. Despite that, it’s nice to know that Varian isn’t upset. Neither of them bring it up again, letting the awkwardness fade away as the afternoon draws closer.

They’re following the cracked remains of what used to be a freeway. It’s a nice, flat terrain that allows them to move quicker than the woods had allowed, which is a gift within itself. Tall pillars of metal occasionally cross their path, holding the rusted remnants of what used to be signs high above their heads. The asphalt is hot under their feet, cracked and weathered but still holding strong even as plant life eats away at it.

Varian had long since hopped up on the concrete divider and was trying to balance on the thin edge. His arms splay outward in an attempt to maintain balance, the kid wobbling every once and a while. Eugene would tell him to get down, lest the kid topple over and crack his head open, but it’s more worth it to see Varian acting like an actual kid for once.

“Did you know that in an entire lifetime, the average person walks the equivalent of five times around the world?” Varian asks, on one of his tangents, “Though, that statistic was recorded before the blackout, back when people had cars. I bet the distance has doubled, maybe even tripled for people like you!”

“Like me?” Eugene’s tone is light. His pace is slow and leisurely, allowing Varian too keep pace without falling. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Varian sticks his tongue out. Eugene swipes playfully at the kid’s feet, causing Varian to laugh as he’s forced to stand on one leg to avoid it.

“I mean people who go from town to town, the ones who don’t stay in the settlements.”

The sun’s high in the sky, bright and shiny as if to contrast the rain of the day before. The heat thankfully has toned down a bit, broken in the wake of the storm. With the humidity calmed down it’s a lot less of a pain to walk in the open, which is why Eugene’s willing to bring them out onto the highway. Varian certainly seems to appreciate leaving the woods for a bit, happy to not have to dodge around stumps and other obstacles.

“Fair.” Eugene shrugs. The kid wobbles, but his foot ends up settling back on the concrete divider without much hassle, so Eugene lets it go. “But just know that I probably walked at least twice as much as the rest, I’m a well seasoned traveller, don’t you know?”

Varian snickers again. There’s a gap in the concrete, he hops it without pause. “You could always stay with us, mister well seasoned,” he says. It’s casual, like he isn’t even thinking about what he’s offering Eugene. The man pauses, stopping to look up as Varian keeps walking with his arms out to either side.

“Ha, good one kid.” Deflection’s the name of the game-

“No, I’m serious.” Varian stops too, twisting on his perch to look down at Eugene. “If you wanted to stay, Rapunzel would welcome you. We’d love to have you stick around- if you, uh, wanted, that is.”

Eugene can’t help but consider it. He’s always been a man of the wasteland, full of rough edges and rougher personality, but the idea of being able to stop it all- stop running, stop avoiding, stop being so scared- is tempting. The idea of finally being able to rest, after so long running from his past, to put it all down and let it sleep…

It’s a wonderful idea.

But not a realistic one.

Eugene’s tried living in settlements before. He’s not a team player, per se, he’s used to the freedom that the vagabond lifestyle gives him, the ability to chart his own path, find his own future. It’s something he’s cherished, after watching settlement after settlement crumble to dust from the difficulty of survival. Keeping himself and only himself alive was easy, but involving other people in the mix only served to complicate things. Other people were dangerous, either as a liability or as a threat.

Varian cocks his head to the side, looking to Eugene and waiting for an answer. The man sighs, turning to the side and restarting his pace, faster this time.

“Gunna have to pass, thanks,” he says. Eugene deliberately ignores Varian’s disappointed face. He’d only break under those sad eyes. He focuses down the road instead, listening intently as the sound of tiny boots follows him. “Besides, goggles, I don’t think your big sister would like a ruffian like me in her town. I’m a little more rough-and-tumble than she’s used to, I’m sure.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Varian argues. “I once watched her knock three people out with a frying pan. If anything, you’d be keeping up with her.”

Huh. That sounds kind of hot- no, no, bad.

“Still.” Eugene shrugs it off like it’s not a big deal. “Settlements aren’t really my deal, capiche?”

Varian’s quiet for a second more. Eugene can practically imagine the puzzled expression on the kid’s face, but he doesn’t turn around until he hears Varian suddenly gasp. The noise sparks a feeling of concern- was it the Saporians? Another threat?- but when Eugene turns around Varian’s got a big grin on his face.

“I recognize this place!” He crows, jumping off the divider. The kid fumbles the landing for a second; Eugene’s hand snaps out before he can think, grabbing the kid by the back of the hoodie to pull him to his feet before the teenager can eat concrete. Varian doesn’t seem to care scrambling as Eugene hoists him up with one hand, the boy nearly dangling in that too-big hoodie. Once he’s got his feet under him, Varian’s off again. Eugene only just lets go of the kid’s hood before Varian can choke himself on it, but follows at a slower pace as the kid runs past a series of burnt out cars.

“Rapunzel and I come out here sometimes!” He says, “She used to let me come and pick apart the cars for parts, and she would paint on the signs since they’re so high up!”

Sure enough, when Eugene finally picks his way around the cars, he can see where some of the ones closer to Corona have been systematically picked clean. Varian weaves around them in practiced motions, obviously knowing the layout well. The kid stops short of where the cars end, gesturing up towards a metal sign. Eugene follows the gesture, stopping at what he sees.

It’s a painting, one done in a cartoony, colourful style. It’s beautiful, to be honest. It’s a massive depiction of the Corona sun, the same symbol on the boon Varian carries around in his pocket, but within it is a series of portraits and images, all combined into a collage. Eugene can pick out a woman with long, blond hair being hugged by two adults who look somewhat like her in the very center. Probably Rapunzel herself, if Eugene is to hazard a guess. There’s a few larger portraits as well. Eugene catches sight of a middle-aged man with a square jaw and black hair greased back, just a hint of grey coming from the temples. A woman with short, wavy black hair and olive-green eyes, her face stern but confident. And just below them all, smiling as brightly as the sun itself-

Varian.

It’s like looking at a totally different kid. The Varian in the painting is bright, cheerful. He’s got a tanned complexion and his freckles stand out against the skin, his hair clean and fluffy. The Varian in the painting looks well rested, not a bruise to be found under those eyes, with a healthy pink to his cheeks. The look on his face is bright, cheerful, in a way that smushes those baby cheeks and only accents how young the kid really is.

The Varian Eugene knows is like a shadow of this one, dulled and quiet from his time with the Saporians and only accented by the trip through the waste. It hits something in Eugene’s heart, this stark contrast between the kid in the portrait and the kid in front of him. Something miserable in him bleeds for Varian, left lost and hurting in a world that doesn’t give a shit about anyone, abandoned to the wastes.

Varian follows Eugene’s look, and frowns, looking up at his own face.

“That’s new.” He says quietly. “Or, new to me.”

“It’s nice.” Eugene says, and it is. “Very… colourful.”

Varian snorts, still looking up at it. “Yeah, Rapunzel’s all about the colours.”

There’s a pause between them, both of them obviously unsure as to what to say. It’s a long quiet, drawn out and odd between them; something strange and unspoken as they reflect. It’s just this side of awkward when Eugene speaks again.

“So we’re close, then.” He says. Varian nods, happy for the change of topic.

“About another day.” The kid smiles. “Maybe less if we make good time.”

“That’s all, huh?”

“Should be, unless we get into some other zany antics.”

Eugene grimaces, playing up the dramatics as he starts to walk again. “I think I’ve had my fill of zany antics, thanks anyways.” He says. Varian laughs, running the few steps to walk next to Eugene with a grin. The sign passes overhead, left behind.

Only another day, Eugene thinks. It hits with a pang of melancholy. As much as he likes to gripe about the kid, he’s decently sure he’s going to miss Varian once they part ways. But it’ll be worth it, to see Varian home to the arms of his family. Eugene turns the grit of his teeth into a small smile; even if Eugene’s not in the picture, if Varian can get back to the smiling, happy kid from the portrait, then all of this will be worth it. The kid’s too bright to let something like the wasteland snuff it out, and Eugene is, unfortunately, a by-product of that wasteland. It hurts to admit, of course it does, but the kid had to come first.

No, it would be best for Eugene to get the kid home and move on. Even if they were getting close, in a friendly, brotherly sort of way, the depressive energy that follows Eugene like a shroud would do nothing but smother Varian’s light. Even if it hits with a pang of melancholy, Eugene isn’t a good influence on the kid- hell, in the week they’d been working together he’d already given the kid a knife- and it would be better for that to be removed before it could taint the kid even worse than he already had.

But it’s okay. If it means Varian has the chance to grow up with his sense of hope and joy intact, then Eugene would do it. He wouldn’t ruin Varian’s chances at changing the world with his own bullshit, and in time, Varian would come to appreciate that.

The kid looks up to Eugene with a wide smile, pointing out different paintings that his sister had done, a few cars he’d torn apart as a kid for fun. Varian’s grin is huge, the suddenly very real prospect of getting home taking shape in the lights behind those eyes.

Eugene contents himself with basking in the glow for a while longer, even as the threat of looming darkness closes in behind him. Leaving the kid behind would be painful, but worth it on Varian’s part. It’s like ripping off a band aid, painful and sharp in the moment, but after the initial hurt, things would heal to be better than they are.

All it would take is time.

>>>><<<<

The pressing dark of evening is an old friend by now.

Eugene sighs, shuddering in the chilly air. Varian sits next to him, shivering as well; they’d been unable to start a fire, the highway too open an area. It’s too much of a risk, even for the light and warmth that was sorely missed as the night drew in and surrounded them.

Varian shivers in his too-thin hoodie, but the kid seems to be trying for a brave face. Eugene rolls his eyes but decides to let the kid cling onto his pride for a while longer. If history is to be remembered Varian will be leeching off Eugene’s body heat by the end of the hour. Their dinner is long since over, so they’re mostly just shooting the shit until one of them- probably Varian- falls asleep. It’s nice. Calm. Simple, in a way that makes Eugene feel at peace.

“So other than your sister, who’s in Corona?” Eugene asks. He’s fiddling with a twig, drawing small designs into the dirt. So far he’s got the start of a face, unconsciously drawing someone even if he’s not sure who it is yet.

Varian looks up from where he’d been using his knife to sharpen a stick, tilting his head in thought.

“My dad.” He says after a brief silence. “And my friend, Cassandra. She’s the dark-haired woman from the mural.” Ah, the angry looking one. “And a few other friends; our blacksmith was going to take me on as an apprentice at the start of the summer but… well, you see how that turned out.”

“I don’t know how I feel about all your friends being my age.” Eugene pokes at him with the stick in jest.

Varian shrugs, laughing a bit. “There’s not a lot of kids around,” He says. “And any that are don’t really, uh, get what I’m up to a lot of the time. Dad says that I would be called gifted in the time before the blackout, but sometimes being into science and math-”

“Being a nerd.”

“Ha. Yeah. Being a nerd makes it hard to make a lot of friends, so I’m not exactly mister popular. But that’s okay.” And the kid really seems to be alright, from the way he smiles. “I’ve got my sister, and a few good friends. And Ruddiger!”

“Ruddi-what?”

“My pet. He’s a raccoon.”

“How… how the hell did you tame a raccoon?”

Varian snorts, leaning back against a pole. “He kind of tamed himself.” The kid shrugs. His knife makes a little shwick noise as it cuts cleanly through the wood of the stick. “I fed him once or twice, and after that he just kept coming back. Dad didn’t like it at first, but he’s a good boy.”

“Sounds like it.” Eugene shrugs. Sure, pet raccoons. Why not?

The kid peeks down at Eugene’s drawing, tilting his head as the man begins to scratch a pair of eyes into the dirt.

“Who’s she?” The kid asks, tilting his head the other way. Eugene looks down and grimaces, locking eyes with the image of his mother he’d been unconsciously drawing. There’s a beat of silence, Eugene taking a breath.

“Someone from before.” He finally says. Varian bites at his lip, but inevitably the kid’s starting to pick up on where the boundaries are, as he just nods. Varian looks like he’s struggling not to say something, so Eugene takes pity on the kid and nudges him with his elbow. The kid laughs, shoving lightly back, but eventually spits out his question.

“I can’t remember it.” The kid says. “The before, I mean. I was only four, so I don’t really know… well anything, really.”

“It wasn’t pleasant.” It’s not bitter, but it’s a fact. Varian picks at his gloves, but still pushes forwards.

“Dad won’t ever talk about it.” Squishy cheeks scrunch as Varian pauses in thought. “We, uh, we lost my mom. Dad says she was on a plane when the blackout happened.”

Eugene sighs. Looks down at the drawing.

“I don’t know what happened to my parents,” he says. Varian winces, but Eugene smiles. It’s bitter. “It was a long time ago. One minute she and my dad were there and the next… poof.”

Varian looks stricken at the idea. “You got lost?” He whispers, eyes wide.

“We all did. You don’t remember the blackout. That’s good. Let’s leave it that way.”

Varian looks like he wants to keep prying, but doesn’t do so. Eugene can’t help but feel grateful for it. He’s not really into the idea of dumping his issues on a literal child, no matter how smart the kid might be. He smudges the drawing with his foot, erasing the visage of his mother with one quick stroke.

The stars steadily begin to climb. There’s no moon out; everything around them is bathed in a blanket of shadows and ink. The cold rolls up quickly without humidity to keep it out. It’s a dry cold, the worst type. It’s the kind that digs deep into the skin when you’re not looking and latches tight. Varian shivers again, looking to Eugene with big eyes.

“Fine.” The man grunts, holding an arm out. The boy smiles, quickly sheathing the knife and tossing it. He shuffles closer, hesitant, but not without excitement at the promise of warmth.

“Cold again?” Varian chirps, even as he pushes into Eugene��s space to chase the warmth.

“Yep.” Eugene’s not going to back down, but Varian only laughs. It’s a good sound.

They settle for a while longer, content to lull off to sleep. Eugene blinks slowly, leaning heavily against the pole to his back. Varian quickly dozes off beside him, lightly snoring against Eugene’s arm. Eugene feels the peaceful feeling he’d had at the farmhouse creep back in, swaddling him like a blanket. He sighs, briefly tightening his grip on the kid as a particularly heavy breeze picks up.

But that grip loosens in shock at the smell of propane lacing the air. The last time he’d smelled it was a few days ago, when-

“Shit. Kid, we’ve got to move.”

Varian snorts awake, pushing off Eugene. His hairs sticking up on one side, the kid looking bleary.

“Whazzit?” He asks, blinking slowly as Eugene bolts to his feet and starts to gather their supplies. The kid blinks again, a little faster, before his eyes narrow. “Eugene?”

“Propane.” The man replies. He scoops up his sword, Varian’s knife, anything else he can grab. The sheathed knife gets tossed to the kid, who almost fumbles. When Varian looks back, it’s with concern.

“Propane?” He asks, “Who would have propane all the way out here?”

“I have an idea.” Eugene grunts. “Last time we saw your old friend Andrew, I could smell it.”

The kid goes pale, staggering to his feet. “Andrew had me make a hot air balloon.” Varian mutters, his hands coming up to grab at his hair. “I never finished it, but if they found the blueprints and managed to put it together- Eugene it would run off burning propane.”

“And it’s much better than walking, I will say.”

Speak of the devil.

Varian shuffles back towards Eugene as Andrew steps up from behind a busted car. The man gracefully steps on top of a rusted car frame, looming over them. The moonless backdrop of the sky barely makes him visible, a dark shadow on an inkblot sky. His smile, sharp and cruel, stands out against the black, as do glinting, grey-green eyes.

“Evening, gentlemen,” he says. Andrew settles his weight on the roof of the car, a hip cocked as he looks down on the two of them. One of Varian’s hands flies out to grab at Eugene’s jacket sleeve, just higher than his wrist. Eugene holds his sword at the ready, glaring up at Andrew with something closer to contempt that he had last time.

This isn’t just some asshole anymore- this is the guy who had hurt Varian, ripped the kid away from his family and abused his talents and inventions for personal gain. The one who had looked at the bright kid Eugene had seen in the portrait and only saw profit. So no, oh no, Eugene is not about to let this slide.

This is personal.

“Andrew.” Eugene says. He waves his free arm, the one Varian’s clinging to like a vice, behind him. It’s a simple message, one Varian picks up quickly as he shuffles behind Eugene and out of Andrew’s line of vision. With that squared away, Eugene focuses back on the threat. “Back again, I see. Missed my beautiful face that much?”

“Ah, no.” Andrew says. He doesn’t move off the car roof, but his sword makes a metallic ting every time the tip of it hits the rusted metal. “I’m just here to reclaim some lost property.”

Eugene’s hackles raise higher, as if that were even possible. “The kid’s not going anywhere with you.” He spits. Eugene can nearly taste the venom he injects the words with, but Andrew only laughs in the face of it.

“Right, still playing bodyguard Fitzherbert?” The Saporian asks, smirking when Eugene tenses. “Oh, yeah, we did a little research. Found out all kinds of fun things about you. Were you ever going to tell the kid about your time with the Baron? Or about your time as the great Flynn Rider?”

Varian makes a small noise, looking to Eugene like he’s seeing a whole new person. “You worked for the Baron?” The kid asks, looking nearly shocked. Eugene winces, cursing his spotty past. He flounders, trying to find something to say.

“It was a long time ago- shit kid we don’t have time-“

“Oh, yeah, you definitely don’t have time.” Andrew pipes up. Eugene whips back around just in time to see two more people emerge from either side of the broken car, a large man and a woman with an intricate braid down her back. They wear twin grins, full of smug malice.

“Juniper, Kai,” Andrew’s voice carries on the quiet air. “Grab our lost pet, would you? Fitzherbert and I have some business to attend to.”

For just a second, the world stops. Everything freezes in that perfect, terrible moment- Andrew’s smug grin, the two Saporians on the ground moving towards them. The subtle ache in Eugene’s hand from where Andrew had cut it.

And the feeling of Varian’s presence at his back.

The world kicks back into motion with the sound of small boots turning on the asphalt. Before Eugene can stop him, Varian’s turning and sprinting away, disappearing into the black of night. Eugene panics- a rare thing, but the pulse of fear is familiar enough- and spins, running after the kid.

The bag on his back is heavy, thumping painfully against his spine. Eugene can hear the hurried footsteps of the Saporians, hears Andrew’s mocking voice grow louder as they give chase, and it spurs him faster. It doesn’t take long for him to catch up with Varian. The kid’s fast, but still small enough that he’d be hard pressed to outrun a grown adult.

Eugene snags him by the hood with a hand, quickly dragging him behind a car. Varian shouts in fear at the rough treatment, but once he realizes it’s Eugene the cry cuts off. The kid looks at him like he’s insane, probably questioning why they’re stopping, but Eugene only answers with a finger to his lips, shushing the teenager.

Eugene ducks them against rusted metal as the Saporians sprint past their hiding place. He hears one of them stop- from the lighter footsteps Eugene has to assume it’s either Andrew or the woman, Juniper. He hears the other two catch up, breathing fast.

“Where’d they go?” The large man says. Eugene’s fairly sure he’s named Kai, but it’s not exactly an important detail at the moment. Varian’s posture stiffens next to him, the kid flinching at the sound of their voices.

“Must have gone into the woods.” Andrew spits. “Shit. We’re too close to Corona. If the kid gets to the city then we can kiss our advantages goodbye.”

Varian shudders, a full body shake that seems to rattle him to the very bone. Eugene reaches out without thinking, gently taking one of Varian’s gloved hands in his own. The kid grabs tightly with shaking fingers, the grip strong enough to cut off circulation. Eugene doesn’t even notice, too caught up in listening to the Saporians moving behind them.

“Keep looking.” Andrew finally spits, “They couldn’t have gone far. Kai, take the woods. Juniper, keep following the road. The kid’s quick but Fitzherbert seemed slower, they’ll have to stop eventually.”

There’s a shuffling of feet. Eugene holds his breath as the Saporians split off. Kai goes lumbering past their hiding place, the two of them well in view. Varian flinches when the man comes close, but Eugene settles him quickly. Kai keeps moving, breaking into a run and not looking back. The kid relaxes once he realizes they haven’t been seen; Eugene can see the hyperventilating chest begin to slowly breath again. Silence slowly takes over, the quiet of the evening dripping in now that the threat was moving on.

“We’re so screwed.” Varian hisses. “If they really did make the balloon, there’s no way we’ll outrun them to Corona- it’s the fastest thing I’ve ever built, and that’s saying something! The only thing that can outrun the balloon would be a horse, and last time I checked we don’t have one of those!”

“We’ll just have to be smart.” Eugene says. He doesn’t even sound confident to himself. “Okay. Yeah. It’s bad odds, but what else can we do?”

“I- I don’t know, I didn’t think they’d catch up with us after the bridge. I thought we’d be safe-“

“I thought so too.” Eugene admits. “But we’ve got to deal with this. You know the area, what’s close to here?”

Varian pales. “I’m not sure,” He says, “Rapunzel and I never strayed too far from the road, we never had a reason to.” His eyes widen. “But I’m pretty sure there’s an old truck stop south from here…”

“Then we go north.” Eugene nods. “They’ll be looking for places we might hole up in, our best bet is to keep moving.”

“But the balloon-”

“We’ll have to risk it. If we stick to the woods, we might luck out.”

Varian looks like he wants to keep arguing, but Eugene nips it in the bud. “We can’t keep sitting here.” He presses. “We’ve wasted enough time as-is.”

The kid takes a breath, finally nodding. “Okay.” He says.

Eugene nods. He pauses and listens to the world around them, finding only the gentle chirps of crickets and the occasional blow of the wind. “Do you have your knife?” He asks, grinning when Varian nods. “Okay, good. If any of them show up, you don’t ask questions, okay? You use it, don’t give them a chance to attack you. If we get separated-”

“Run fast and run far?” Varian’s voice is shaky, but there’s an underlying humour at them being in this scenario again. Eugene grins, nodding.

“Got it in one, goggles. Now let’s go.”

They stand together, move out back onto the street. Eugene goes first, crouching lower to the ground in an attempt to keep covered by the cars. Kai had gone south, towards the supposed house- the building would hopefully be enough of a distraction for them to head north and loop back towards Corona in a day or so, break through their defenses.

“C’mon kid,” He says in a low voice. Varian shuffles along behind him, ready to break into a sprint at any moment. They carefully pick through the cars together, moving forwards. The treeline is close, tantalizingly close; Eugene can basically smell the pine-

A schwing-

An explosion of burning agony in his left calf.

Eugene shouts in pain as he drops to the concrete. His shoulder hits the ground in another burst of fire in his veins, both his hands flying down to his leg in an instinctual urge to grab at whatever had hit him. Varian shouts his name, Eugene can see the kid run forwards and drop to his knees next to his leg. Varian goes pale, covering his mouth with his hands- the kid looks ready to pass out, honestly.

Eugene chances a look down, gritting his teeth at what he sees.

Embedded in the meat of his calf, maybe three inches in, is an arrow. Eugene sucks a breath in through his teeth, biting hard against the pain that pulses in time with his heart. Varian makes a choked, panicked noise, his gloved hands flying back and forth from his own mouth to hovering over the wound.

“Oh, oh shit!” The kid babbles, “Oh shit, okay, don’t touch it- you’re not supposed to touch it, it might be in an artery- oh god if it’s in an artery we’re in so much trouble, oh shit-”

Eugene grunts. He rolls a little bit, keeping Varian in his sights. Eugene manages to sit up a little, gritting his teeth against the wet burn of pain in his leg. He’s done, he knows it. The decision of what to do next is clear.

“Kid, you’ve gotta move.” Eugene says. Varian stops dead in the middle of a tangent, head snapping to look at the man in shock.

“What?! No!” He exclaims, “No, that’s- what if the Saporians come back? They’ll kill you!”

“Varian.” Eugene’s tone is tense. “You’ve got to go now-”

He sees sudden movement behind the kid, a figure dropping to the ground from a nearby sign tower. Varian doesn’t notice, still rambling about no man left behind or some stupid, saccharine bullshit that his family probably taught him. Eugene freezes for just a second, seeing the figure stalk closer and swing their crossbow up onto their shoulder. Varian finally follows Eugene’s gaze, spinning on his knees and gasping in pure, unadulterated fear as Andrew walks forwards with a grin.

“Oof,” the Saporian says, “That looks like it hurts, Fitzherbert. How’re you feeling?”

“Been better.” Eugene grumbles. Varian falls back in an attempt to put distance between himself and Andrew, but the kid eventually hits Eugene’s torso prompting a small oomph from the man. The boy grimaces, looking back to Eugene before turning to look at Andrew with wide eyes. Eugene can’t help but feel like a rat caught in a trap, and from the hitching of Varian’s chest the kid seems to feel the same.

Andrew cocks a hip, stopping about two meters from the pair of them. He swings his crossbow down, casually pulling an arrow from a quiver on his back.

“So, boys.” The Saporian says. “Here’s how it’s going to play out. Fitzherbert, it’s been nice knowing you, but you’re not walking away from this one.”

Eugene can’t see Varian’s face, but he sees the way the kid’s spine tenses.

“And you, Varian. You are in for a world of hurt when we get back. We found the vent you crawled out of you little shit. Clever, I will admit, but not something you’ll get away with twice.”

While Andrew says this, he finishes loading the crossbow before bringing it up to be level with Varian’s face.

“Out of the way.” He threatens.

Eugene manages to sit up at long last, keeping Andrew in his sights. “Kid, you’ve gotta run.” He whispers. The slight tilt of Varian’s head means he’s heard, good. Eugene slowly moves his hand towards his sword- all it would take is a second of Andrew being distracted. The Saporian’s finger tightens on the trigger of the crossbow, lined up perfectly with Eugene’s face.

“Varian-” Eugene’s voice is strained. The kid isn’t moving, why isn’t he moving? Eugene’s dead in the water, but in the time it would take Andrew to reload the crossbow, Varian could potentially get enough distance where he’d be able to reach the woods and have half a chance at getting away. Eugene winces as he hears the trigger start to click, waiting for the inevitable pain of the shot-

“Andrew, wait!”

Varian- shit.

“Move, kid.” Andrew’s voice is like ice. Eugene cracks an eye open, gets a look at what’s happened. Varian’s shifted, moving between Eugene and the arrow aimed for his face- what the hell is he doing?!

“No, no, okay listen!” Varian’s still between the two men, using himself to shield Eugene. If he weren’t so close to passing out, he’d stop the kid, reach for him, but at this stage it’s all Eugene can do to stay awake. “Listen!” Varian shouts with a frantic edge as Andrew aims the crossbow higher.

Andrew pauses, before inclining his head. Varian takes the chance, slowly getting to his feet. Eugene tries to reach for the kid, but his hand ends up falling when he can’t hold it up. His whole body rocks in agony, slumping back down towards the concrete. Varian doesn’t even look back, facing Andrew with a sense of resignation.

“If you kill him, you know I-I’ll just keep trying to break out again.” Varian says. His voice shakes. “You know I can do it, given enough time. And you’ll have to keep forcing me into making your weapons for you.”

Oh, oh shit, Eugene knows where this is going. “Kid stop-” He gasps with pained breath, barely a whisper.

“But if you leave him alone, I’ll go with you. Willingly.” Bloody hell, Varian- “No more tricks, no more escapes.”

“You’re a little rat.” Andrew laughs. “There’s no way you’re telling the truth.”

“And if I’m not?” Varian’s voice gets stronger as he goes. “Then at least you get me back in that little box without me putting up a fight, right?”

Andrew’s considering it. It’s plain on his face. The crossbow shifts a bit.

Footsteps.

“You found them?” It’s the other two Saporians, brought back by the noise. Eugene takes the distraction to smack Varian’s ankle with a weak hand. The kid startles, looking to Eugene with a frown.

“Run.” Eugene hisses, looking to where the Saporians are distracted. “Kid, don’t do this, it’s not worth it.”

Varian smiles, something resigned, and crouches next to Eugene. “Sometimes we make sacrifices to see another day.” He says, voice shaking.

Eugene’s heart sinks when the kid repeats his words back to him. He feels the cold weight of a golden boon being shoved into his hands. Varian suddenly looks older, almost adult, as he stands up and looks down at Eugene.

“So do that. Keep yourself alive.”

Varian shakes himself free from Eugene’s lax grip and walks towards the Saporians. “Do we have a deal?” The kid asks. His voice is steady, even as his hands shake. Juniper and Kai look to their leader with questions in their eyes, but Andrew only smiles.

“Sure, buddy,” the man says. Eugene feels bile rise up in his throat. “We have a deal.”

He steps forwards, turning to his companions and throwing a casual arm over Varian’s shoulders. “Good news!” He chirps, “Varian’s decided to come home quietly, isn’t that wonderful?”

Varian flinches at the contact. Eugene grits his teeth the sight; it’s infuriating how useless he feels, how Varian taking the fall feels like pulling teeth. The stinging prick of failure deep in his heart that makes his whole chest ache.

But Andrew, it seems, isn’t done.

Using the grip on the kid, Andrew roughly shoves Varian forwards. The kid stumbles, nearly tripping over his own feet as he falls into Kai. The large man uses the second to grab the kid by the arms and spin him, keeping him pinned.

“What- what are you doing?!” Varian’s voice goes shrill as Andrew adjusts his grip on his crossbow, making sure the arrow’s still loaded.

“C’mon buddy.” Andrew grins, “You don’t think I’m that stupid, do you? Leaving behind a loose end isn’t going to end well for me, you know that.”

Varian goes pale. Those blue eyes widen in horror as the implications settle in. “No!” He screams, “No, no, Andrew you said-”

“Yeah. I know what I said.” The Saporian takes aim at Eugene again. “And you know as well as I do that I was lying. Really now, Varian, you’re supposed to be smart!”

The kid fights, a swing of flailing arms and legs mixed in with screams of Andrew’s name, demands to be let go, a frantic swell of panicked tears-

But Eugene only stares as Andrew brings the crossbow up, focusing on his target with a grin. A sudden feeling of helplessness takes over- he can’t run, can’t hide, can’t escape.

Can’t protect the kid.

“Sorry Fitzherbert.” Andrew says with a smug tone. “It’s nothing personal. Just business.”

Eugene’s eyes flick to Varian’s. The kid looks terrified, tears streaming down those freckled, baby cheeks. Eugene shoots him a wry smile, shrugging, before turning to face his death.

“Get fucked.” He says calmly, looking Andrew dead in the eye.

The Saporian frowns. His finger tenses. Eugene’s eyes slip closed, waiting. He lets his mind drift, content to ignore the panicked shouting and let himself remember better things. By the time Andrew takes the shot, the only image in Eugene’s mind is Varian’s smiling face the day they’d sparred. He can’t quite tune out the twang of a crossbow shot, but when the pain hits, he’s almost at peace. His world narrows to the agony of impact, to the feeling of his back hitting concrete, the sound of Varian sobbing-

And Eugene, unable to go on any longer, lets the darkness swallow him whole.

#varian #tangled the series #tts #team awesome #fic #alone we have no future #womp womp #tw: blood

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marysfoxmask · 4 years ago

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the secret garden (1949) - why it’s my favorite adaptation

hello @renee-mariposa! thank you so much for the ask! while i believe i have answered a question like this before, i don’t think i’ve elaborated as much as i’d like to. so allow me to wax poetic on my favorite adaptation, the secret garden (1949)!

intro

this adaptation really stands out, i think, because of the the era it was made in; i don’t think you could get an adaptation aimed towards kids that is such a sentimental, gothic-lite melodrama with these days, at least without aggressively telegraphing its more emotional moments a la pixar/disney; it’s amusingly blunt and straightforward in that regard, much like the children at its center. there’s not much syrupiness at all. the child actors (margaret o’brien as mary and dean stockwell as colin) are fast-talking as any actor of that era, but in my opinion, the film’s clearly scripted dialogue just makes all the kids seem amusingly precocious.

actors

margaret o’brien as mary is great. i love her stridency, her snobbishness. unlike other adaptations, which downplay mary’s contrariness to the point where her character arc comes across as too subtle by half, the movie upgrades it. not only is 1949 mary contrary, her sullenness has been replaced by a shrillness, snobbery, and the tendency to run to emotional extremes (not to mention a healthy helping of classism). she alienates herself from the other children on the ship to england purposefully, finding them inferior to herself, then attempts to physically fight another passenger when the child calls archibald a hunchback. while this characterization isn’t book-accurate (book mary is a mix of fiery and sullen that none of the films capture accurately imo), i prefer this characterization of her to the closed-off sullenness of the 1993 version or the palatably traumatized 2020 version. 1949 mary isn’t given an obvious freudian excuse for her issues; her parents are just as neglectful, but the film puts the onus on mary for being contrary, which is weirdly refreshing and more attuned to the novel’s perspective. (that isn’t to say that mary’s traumatic early childhood didn’t inform her character in any meaningful way, or that the adults around mary aren’t responsible for how she turned out--but imo the films tend to take an un-nuanced view of the situation in order to make her a more palatable, sympathetic character, which is vastly less interesting than a complicated, flawed one no matter if the character is a child or not). when mary’s character develops and she becomes sweeter, it’s much more impactful as a result of this earlier narrative choice.

brian roper, who was 20 at the time (crazy, right?), plays dickon, and he plays him with a sweet affability that’s hard not to enjoy. he’s a little mischievous, laughing at mary when she accidentally speaks yorkshire (i’ll talk about that in a bit), and has, in a nice touch that i’ve strangely only seen in in the 1994 straight-to-dvd animated film, just as much of a passionate interest in the secret garden as mary does. dickon isn’t treated as mystically as other adaptations, save for the tendency to disappear strangely quickly just when mary happens to turn around (which is a nice nod to his quasi-magical aspects without being distracting, and also adds to mary’s sense of displacement/confusion on the mysterious misselthwaite grounds). he also gets a surprising amount to do in this adaptation, which i love, as someone who strongly believes his character has been under-served in all the film adaptations thus far. in this film, he gets to even enter misselthwaite manor by climbing up ivy into colin’s room in the middle of a storm (albeit offscreen), which is just the kind of adventurous, dramatic touch i enjoy. he also gets probably more dialogue than any of the other dickons (whoo!), as he makes a couple minor declarations--nothing super ham-fisted and melodramatic, as i said the screenplay is rather straightforward and devoid of a lot of corniness you might expect from a children’s film made in the ‘40s, especially with this kind of source material--that are heartfelt without being cloying (one of the benefits of having an older actor playing this kind of role).

colin, played by dean stockwell, is a weaker element to me. he does a good job alternating between screaming (and this movie contains a lot of screaming) and being sweet when the movie calls for it, but i don’t think he was the best choice for colin. while i think it’s awful to criticize a teen actor (stockwell was 13 at the time) for being baby-faced, the fact that he looks significantly younger than o’brien (who was 12) means that his tantrums come off as less a result of arrested development than they should. while he speaks as stiltedly as 2020 colin (who i personally think was one of the best elements of that film), it’s unclear whether that’s the result of the ‘40s fashion of expressing dialogue or a characteristic choice (i’m guessing the former). he can’t help but pale compared to o’brien’s mary, though he is perfectly adequate. he just didn’t stand out for me.

i summed up my feelings of elsa lanchester as martha in my previous, brief review of the movie back in june: “the one major flaw, i think, is actually martha, played by elsa lanchester; her portrayal is odd, feels definitely tone-deaf. her constant shrieking laughter feels very forced and unconvincing. in her few scenes, she jars everything to a halt in terms of believability.” she was significantly older than brian roper, being in her ‘40s playing a character heavily implied to be in her mid-teens to early twenties, and as a result feels out of her depth. her establishing scene is probably the worst, although i’ve warmed to her other scenes as time’s gone by.

tone/atmosphere

in general, i think the ‘49 film does a wonderful job expressing the gothic implications of the original book, even emphasizing them by casting misselthwaite manor largely in shadow and having mary and mrs. medlock first arrive in a carriage pulled by black horses on a dark, stormy night. it makes the bright outdoor scenery seem that much more inviting in comparison. burnett’s robin is also replaced by a raven, who also takes on aspects of dickon’s crow soot, as he is friends with dickon and hops on his shoulder occasionally. while it divulges from burnett’s book, i think a raven makes a little more sense in this adaptation, which amps up the eeriness of the original story; it gives mary’s journey a little more of a fairytale aspect, i think, and is overall an understandable and palatable change.

plot

the big plot development that divulges from the novel is the presence of a subplot where, due to a misunderstanding of an axe and a tree in the titular garden, mary and dickon fall under the impression that archibald killed lilias. now, this is a pretty bizarre plot, don’t get me wrong, but it doesn’t take up much of the film; it’s charming in its strangeness, and fits well with the idea of innocent children struggling to understand the complicated adult world—which is itself a theme original to the story that i’m kind of a sucker for, in general. it also serves as a bonding point for dickon and mary, whose friendship largely feels passed over in film adaptations.

and, of course, there’s the big plot-breaking point near the end, where archibald goes to tell colin that he’s selling misselthwaite and going to move to europe with him. an obvious plot point that conflicts with this scene is that colin, in the book, has no relationship with his father. again, it’s an odd adaptational choice meant to amp up the stakes, but it doesn’t impede my enjoyment of the film as a whole. the presence of two doctors—one, a hapless neville craven figure named dr. griddlestone, and the other is obviously inspired from the book’s “doctor from london,” who insisted all colin needed was fresh air, food, and exercise—gives the film some psychological weight. despite the disappointing element of all of colin’s neuroses being blatantly the result of his father’s emotional ailments, which i think is a lazy way of reading the original novel’s portrayal of colin’s illness, i think the way this development was executed in the film was tolerable—and i’m a sucker for children’s films that don’t think anything of including long conversations between adults about psychological issues. like, you can’t help but respect a film like that!

the garden

something i also love about this adaptation is that the garden isn’t a huge part of it; it represents more of a place where mary and dickon and colin can foster ideas and grow rather than a place of orgasmic beauty. there’s not a surplus of lavish panning shots, really, like in the ‘93 film, and it lacks the magical realism of the 2020 film. the garden itself is more transparently a plot device, which i actually like—it gives more room for the children to center themselves.

individual scenes

and the pacing of the film is actually really nice, i think—probably the best out of all the films. i love the ‘93 film with all my heart, and it’s definitely gorgeous in its own right, but i think it gets a little sluggish; this film is paced beautifully. there’s no fat, really.

there’s a scene i really love that shows the passage of time from winter to spring in a super succinct, stupidly obvious way that nonetheless works because of the innocent sweetness of o’brien’s delivery. like, it’s very old-fashioned and sentimental, but gah, it gets me every time.

youtube

it’s time to talk about the scream scene!

youtube

this film stole my heart the minute mary screamed wholeheartedly at colin that she hopes he dies. there’s a dark comedy to this whole scene; these two maladjusted, spoiled children trying to out-scream one another while tearing down curtains and knocking down tables full of food higgledy-piggledy?? you just can’t get better than that!

if you’re adapting the secret garden, i strongly feel you can’t soften the children’s meanness, their sharpness and ugliness. their tantrums must be harsh and grating and horrible! they have to really let loose! the rawness of the children’s emotional dysfunction contrasted against the buttoned-up stiffness of edwardian england is one of the fascinating aspects of the novel i love to think about, and you just can’t get that contrast if you don’t have the children be genuine terrors! i think this scene puts that nicely, more nicely than any of the other films, which pussyfoot around colin’s intense tantrum too much to be nearly as effective. i get giddy whenever this scene comes on; it’s brilliant.

there are so many little details from the book that i love: that the children speak yorkshire to one another, mary singing her ayah’s song to colin,

youtube

dickon’s “i will cum bak” note (here written as “i will kum back”), the mention of dickon’s mother sending them bread to eat to make them strong. it’s all so nicely implemented, and reminds me of the joy of reading the book for the first time.

but the scene i love most is one entirely made up for the film. in it, mary tells colin about the garden, but wraps it up in fiction wherein it’s a sort of child’s eden, only accessible for children like themselves. that gets to the heart of why i love the book moreso than any other adaptation i can think of. it’s a children’s paradise where the innocent, inherent goodness of children reigns. it makes me tear up almost every time, despite the scene’s brevity.

youtube

miscellaneous

there are some little details that i love about this film: the fact that mrs. sowerby is spotted in one scene where we see dickon at his home, feeding a lamb (and the implication that mary was so darn excited about finding the key to the garden that she ran all the way to the sowerbys’ cottage, five miles away from misselthwaite, to show dickon), mary’s clearly false story to colin about being surrounded by tigers and elephants in india, mary threatening to tear people’s gizzards out, mary telling dickon she hates him because he (gasp) dared to know about colin so she couldn’t reveal his existence to him...there’s a lot to enjoy about this film. it definitely isn’t the most accurate to the book, but it’s one of those films that i could watch over and over again.

aside from some superfluous subplots, it’s a lean adaptation that still captures all the essential elements of the book to at least to a degree. i can easily imagine some very indignant little girls in 1949 insisting that no, the raven was a robin in the book, and there was no implications of murder, either, but i love it in all its simplicity. i think you need a little old-fashioned sentiment to make a film adaptation of the secret garden successful.

#the secret garden #frances hodgson burnett #the secret garden 1949 #mary lennox #dickon sowerby #colin craven #margaret o'brien #dean stockwell #brian roper #elsa lanchester

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mel-at-dusk · 4 years ago

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HOW THE MARASCHINO CHERRY BECAME A COMFORTINGLY TRASHY AMERICAN ICON

Just when did the syrupy, lipstick-red lynchpin of ice cream sundaes, 1970s fruit salads and throwback cocktails conquer the world (and your grandparents’ home bar)?

The cocktail cherry may be small, but it looms like a fiery red planet over the modern history of eating and drinking. Look, there it is, bobbing around in the rust-brown murk of a Manhattan; and, hey, there it is again nestled in the snowy peak of an ice cream sundae, lurking in the syrup-soaked folds of an upended can of fruit salad, or in your parent’s drinking cabinet, languishing in a sticky jar first opened at the dawn of the Clinton administration.

For more than 100 years it’s been the Zelig of the culinary world, beaming out from multiple places it probably shouldn’t be, inviting you to spear one with a cocktail stick, bite down and let your mouth flood with the unmistakable taste of… well, what exactly?

Not actual, fresh cherries, that’s for certain. No, the taste of a cocktail, glacé or ersatz maraschino cherry has nothing to do with the luscious, grape-like subtlety of real stone-fruit. Its impact on the palate — almonds and preservatives and a great, hallucinatory wash of artificial sweetness — is the flavor profile of a cherry as described by a drunken child. Something that, even way back in 1911, was railed against in a New York Times editorial as “a tasteless, indigestible thing, originally, to be sure, a fruit of the cherry tree, but toughened and reduced to the semblance of a formless, gummy lump by long imprisonment in a bottle filled with so-called maraschino.”

And yet, even though this resistance to the gloopy, synthesized commercialism those little red globules represent is at least a century old, the cocktail cherry abides as a cultural artifact. Not just in the post-Mad Men context of master mixologists hoarding artisanal Luxardo cherries or producing their own housemade varieties, but in studiedly kitsch, revivalist dessert parlors like New York’s Morgenstern’s Finest Ice Cream; and even, scattered throughout Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon A Time… in Hollywood, garnishing the industrial-strength whiskey sours of one Rick “Fucking” Dalton.

“When you see a bright red one now, it’s like a bartender with a waxed moustache and sleeve garters,” notes Jared Brown, drinks historian and master distiller with venerated British gin brand Sipsmith. “It’s no longer just itself. It’s nostalgia and irony and humor.”

So how does something so ridiculous and occasionally reviled come to have such durable appeal? How the hell are they even made? And what, exactly, do bitter food standardization wars, embalming fluids and carcinogenic food dyes have to do with it?

Well, pour yourself a stiff Mai Tai, crown it with what may be your final ever cocktail cherry, and let’s chart the turbulent life, near-death and eventual resurrection of a near-indestructible American icon.

As with most convenience foods, the cocktail cherry story starts out innocently enough. Cherries stretch back to the prehistory of Europe and West Asia, and pretty much since that time, they’ve been notorious as the frail divas of the produce aisle — difficult to transport, susceptible to bruising and known to liquefy without refrigeration. And so, innovative orchard owners in the early 1800s — most notably the Croatian-born, Italian-based Luxardo family — started preserving at-their-peak cherries, both as an alcoholic liqueur and steeped in a boozy brine made up of mulched cherries, pits and sugar.

This was the Big Bang that gave us the maraschino, named for the sour, Marasca cherry variety that Luxardo made their own. It wasn’t long until these pickled fruits were infiltrating the U.S. as part of the wider mania for cocktails in the mid-to-late 19th century. (The original 1888 recipe for the martini, as Brown notes, called for a “cherry rather than an olive.”) But soon, that original, burgundy-hued Luxardo maraschino was joined by a whole Rothko color wheel of lurid U.S.-made knock-offs, soaked in cheaper preserving syrups.

One reason for this was pure cosmetics. “The first taste is with the eye, and in the days before social media, the maraschino cherry offered a huge visual bounce,” notes Brown. “Think of it resting in the brown tone of a Manhattan — it’s like a bright red beacon in the drink. [And so,] there was a need to get it as brightly colored as possible.”

Yet it’s also notable that the maraschino cherry’s turn-of-the-century ascendancy also coincided with the wider vogue for lab-made dyes, flavorings and additives that flourished in the pre-FDA era. (Relevant: This was also a time when, at the behest of nervous dairy farmers, margarine had to literally be dyed pink in some states to broadcast the fact it wasn’t butter.) “For many years, I’ve asked audiences at tasting events what maraschino cherries, grenadine and sloe gin have in common,” says Brown. “And the answer, of course, is nothing. Nothing! And yet, go back to my childhood and they were all the same color and flavor because they came from the same lab.”

Throw in the arrival of Prohibition in 1920, and the fact it meant fruit could no longer be preserved in alcohol, and other brining methods needed to be found. It was a team of Oregon-based scientists who, after more than five years of experimentation, realized that calcium salts could preserve the Northwest’s seasonal glut of fresh cherries, and also help them retain their firmness. What’s more, in the 1930s, this same team realized that if you bleached the cherries and then dyed them red (or green, or even, occasionally, electric blue) the vivid pop of color would be even more pronounced. At this point, the American “maraschino” — leached of its natural color, embalmed in synthetic preservative and flavored with almond-derived benzaldehyde — had mutated into something only tenuously related to its European forbearer.

The original maraschino farmers in Italy were — if you can believe this — not crazy about American producers using their name to hawk cloying, cherry-shaped candies the color of antifreeze. But by 1940, they had lost a long-stewing food standardization battle, when the FDA decreed that the name “maraschino” had now evolved beyond its original meaning and, to most Americans, meant the artificially flavored neon red scourge of the Luxardo family.

And so, in the wake of World War II, the cocktail cherry’s cultural dominance truly began; slotting into an additive-laced mid-century food landscape, they gleamed from Betty Crocker cake recipes, adorned every other drink at a newly established 1950s Tiki bar chain called Trader Vic’s, and even, come 1978, gave their name to a hardcore adult film called Maraschino Cherry. “I remember adoring them,” says Brown, recalling his 1970s childhood in upstate New York. “There was nothing better, when we were out at a restaurant, than getting a cherry on a little plastic cocktail sword.”

If anything they were even more adored in the U.K., where a collective, post-rationing proclivity for all things sweet only added to their appeal. Eccentric TV chef Fanny Cradock would place them on the top of troublingly phallic “banana candle” party concoctions, and in Only Fools and Horses — a beloved, long-running BBC One sitcom about a family of luckless grifters living in South London — it became synonymous with main character Del Boy and his fondness for gaudy drinks that represented a tacky sort of sophistication. Even when I was growing up in 1990s London, my parents — first-generation Nigerians who rarely drank — would always have a glowing container of what we knew as glacé cherries beside a long-opened bottle of brandy.

“You can’t underestimate the power of a good garnish,” laughs Alice Lascelles, drinks writer and author of Ten Cocktails: The Art of Convivial Drinking. “That Day-Glo cherry is something I associate very strongly with childhood and the idea of a grown-up drink, a celebratory drink.” This mixture of childishness — of innocence — and a more adult glamor seems to be at the heart of the cocktail cherry’s appeal throughout this period toward the end of the last century; they’re fruit with all the subtlety and unpredictability chemically extracted, an unapologetic hit of trashiness that appeals to both Chuck E. Cheese birthday party attendees and the kind of chain-smoking bar flies we all sat two stools from long before social-distancing measures required it.

But, of course, the cocktail cherry party came to an abrupt halt later in the 1980s. Partly, this may have been lingering scares over the occasional use of Red Dye Number 4 — a chemical colorant with some links to cancer in animal trials — in some preserved cherries, permitted because they were deemed to be “decorative” rather than a foodstuff. Also: There were unfounded rumors about formaldehyde being used as a preservative which, perhaps fittingly, just wouldn’t die.

Mostly, though, their waning was linked to the demise of the movement that first popularized them in the U.S. “The maraschino cherry collapsed precipitously along with the collapse of cocktails,” says Brown. “Suddenly, you weren’t finding anyone over the age of 10 lunging toward maraschino cherries, and what happened was people discovered wine, which eventually went into craft beer.”

At that point, in terms of the popular consciousness, cocktail cherries were mostly glimpsed at the fringes of culture, or within insalubrious bars with “C” hygiene ratings tacked to their windows. Then, inevitably, as the cocktail revival of the mid-2000s began in coastal cities, sailor-tattooed mixologists started looking into what preceded the neon cocktail cherries of their youth, and eventually rediscovered Luxardo’s original, burgundy-colored and naturally sweetened maraschinos.

“I remember I’d race [Milk & Honey founder and bartender] Sasha Petrosky and Audrey Saunders [of the Pegu Club] to a place called Dean & Deluca because it was the only place you could buy Luxardo maraschino cherries in New York,” recalls Brown about the frenzy during the craft cocktail boom. “It didn’t matter which one of us got there first; we would end up [dividing] them out until the next shipment.” Now, Brown reports, Luxardo is sending “palette-loads a week over” for import and he himself preserves around 200 jars of maraschino-style cherries a year to sell from his home in the English countryside. In 2017, Luxardo planted 2,000 new Marasca cherry trees in Northern Italy — taking their total to 30,000 — just to keep pace with demand.

The pendulum, after all those years of traffic light-red candied cherries, has swung back to something purer again. Yet, interestingly, the unnatural cocktail varieties haven’t disappeared. They’ve had their own rebirth, whether crowning old school cocktails at acclaimed, 1960s-inspired Detroit bar Hammer and Nail, or clogging social media feeds as part of author Anna Pallai’s Twitter account-turned-campy-coffee-table-hit 70s Dinner Party. “There’s a definite trend for kitsch that’s brought them back,” says Lascelles. “Instagram has helped as well, because they really pop in a picture.”

It makes sense that the current, extremely online moment — where almost everything can be both completely sincere and larded in multiple confusing layers of irony — would be the time when both these diametrically opposed approaches to cherry preservation would find room to flourish. They are, as Brown notes, “jubilant and ebullient at a time when humor and fun is something we are all desperate for.” It seems as plain as the unearthly red glow, beaming from the bottom of a filled coupe glass in the corner. Like that opened jar in your parents’ home bar, the cocktail cherry isn’t going anywhere.

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lonelypond · 5 years ago

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Moonlight Becomes You: Apocalypse Midnight Dance Party, Ch. 18

NozoEli, NicoMaki, Love Live/Love Live Sunshine, 1.7K, 18/?

Summary: Dates get arranged and Dia's quiet time gets interupted. Plus, roommate talk.

Chapter 18: Dating Prep

Nico arrived at her house, still muttering about how her morning with Maki had ended. Which was not productive. Or helping Nico get into a place where she could show up bright and Nico for the afternoon audition her agent had scheduled. Not enough time to cook her way out of this mood so Nico decided on her other option, and started cleaning. But there wasn’t much to deal with. She’d left all the dishes at Maki’s. Maki probably didn’t know how to run a dishwasher. Oh right, they probably had a housekeeper. How had Nico managed to land in the social circle of LA’s queer social elites, close enough to have Maki and Ohara Mari fighting over her pasta? And how had Maki managed to stay so pure? Maki’s angry-hurt, almost tearful, expression before she stormed toward the house kept digging into Nico’s feelings. Nico sighed and reached for her phone.

N: Hey, Gorgeous. Take a nap and Nico will take you out for a dinner DATE after work (✿ ♥‿♥)

No immediate response.

N: Maybe I can convince you this was a bad dream v(*'-^*)ｂ

M: Maybe ┐(ﾟ～ﾟ)┌

M: You’d have to be SUPER convincing.

N: So, dinner? You and me. Us?

Lots of typing bubble...then a real response.

M: (^^)b

Nico could work with that. Now for a shower.

###

Eli glanced at her phone. A text from Nozomi.

N: Should I bring the chocolate cake to your house? (*｀▽´)_旦

E: Only if you bring enough for Nico. She likes deconstructing recipes.

Eli’s phone pinged. She reached for it.

Nozomi sounded amused, “So, you have a roommate on the premises. Are you still in the mood for LA’s best chocolate cake?”

“Uh yeah.” Nozomi obviously didn’t know Eli well enough yet as that was all Eli would be thinking about until she got a taste.

Eli knew there was no way she could feel Nozomi breathing in her ear, but it warmed up as Nozomi spoke. “You sound eager. So shall I pick you up in an hour? Or are you busy?”

“Not busy, had a brunch with Kanan instead of rehearsal. She told me lots of stories about your friend Yoshiko. And she brought Ponchiki left over from …

Eli paused. Nozomi didn’t know about CRAAVI. Hanamaru had told her Yoshiko had a cryptid related reading group.

“Their last reading group.”

Eli could almost hear the winking disbelief in Nozomi’s tone, “It’s an underground speakeasy, isn’t it?”

Eli blinked. If Nozomi were actually going to press her on…

“Never mind. I’ll keep grilling Hanamaru for information. I have other plans for you.”

“Oh really?”

So much confidence from Nozomi; Eli liked that. “Besides, after you eat this cake, you’ll tell me everything about you.”

Eli sighed. “Probably. But only if you promise not to freak.”

No hesitation on the other phone, “Sure.”

Eli wondered if she should just blurt it out, well, say it calmly. Hey, I have really bad hair issues once a month. Hey, lately I seem to be more angry and bitey than usual. Hey, sometimes, I fetch. Hey, you smell REALLY good. Hey, my werewolf grandmother told me never to tell anyone until after we were married in the church and had children. How many do you want?

How do you start that conversation? Eli didn’t. “Give me two hours. I need to do a few things.”

“Whatever the pretty lady needs. See you then.”

“Whatever the pretty lady needs.” Well, Eli decided, the best chocolate cake in LA wasn’t a bad place to start.

### Dia was curled up in a blanket on the balcony, turned sideways in her chair, watching the ocean curl and uncurl. Tea was steaming next to her and everything was quiet for just a few moments. You was wrapped up in a hoodie, napping on a sofa. Mama was getting ready to meet Mom for dinner and maybe get the life Dia remembered back on track. Her grandmother was also sleeping after a night shift at the hospital. And Dia was missing her sister. She hadn’t talked to Ruby in days. Being here in back-then Malibu, alone but surrounded by family that didn’t recognize and familiar places that weren’t the same was enough of a disconnect to keep her head aching. Maybe she should have stayed for the CAT scan. Dia picked up her tea. Lukewarm. Of course. Nothing was exactly the right place, person, or temperature. Dia chugged the now cloying mint medley and considered flinging the cup as far as she could. Instead Dia dropped it when a soft voice startled her.

“Hey.” You was leaning against the house, fair hair sleep and wind tossed, bright blue eyes friendly.

“Good afternoon.”

“Yeah, that too.” You leaned over the balcony, seeing where the cup had landed. “Hope that wasn’t a family heirloom. Didn’t bounce.”

Dia gritted her teeth. “It would have been fine if you hadn’t arrived unannounced.”

You ducked her head slightly, eyes now burning with mischief, “Should I wear a bell?”

“Are you a cat?” Dia took a minute to look You up and down. No whiskers or ears. Could probably leap pretty far with those legs. Seemed like the lands on her feet type. “And even if you were, I’m sure that would just turn into an even bigger distraction when you bounced all around the place and broke things.”

You dropped into the chair Dia had vacated, yawn stretching herself fully awake. “I’m probably more schnauzer than Siamese.”

Dia glared, then stepped to the railing, pointed straight down, and hissed, “Then fetch.”

You doubled over with laughter, Dia leaned back, crossed her arms, and rolled her eyes.

And then Maki crashed the party, looking tall and put together in loose gray plaid trousers, with an off the shoulder pink rose appliqued gray knit sweater. She had a black jacket swung over her arm. “How are you feeling, Dia?”

“Fine. Not much of a headache.”

“Remember anything about why you’re in LA, yet?” Maki’s question was gentle.

Dia shook her head, for fear of what she might say if she attempted to answer.

Maki sounded hesitant, “Nico wants me to have dinner with her, but…”

Dia smiled, “It’s okay. I don’t want to be a burden, Nishikino-san. You’re being very generous.” Dia’s chest constricted as she continued, her voice wavering, “You don’t even know me.”

“I’ll take Dia down to the precinct I work with, after your Mom says it’s okay for her to drive around, and see if we can find out anything from fingerprints or facial recognition.” You offered.

Maki’s amethyst eyes, kind, held Dia’s, “If that’s what Dia wants to do.”

Dia jumped at the opportunity to get away from the beach house snowglobe, chunks of memories settling down around her after Yoshiko’s shaking, “That sounds like a really good idea. Maybe somebody will have found my passport. We can talk to the embassy.”

Maki quirked an eyebrow, “That sounds very efficient for post head injury behavior.”

Dia shrugged, “Habit.”

Maki chuckled, “All right, well call me if you need anything. Mama will give you the keycode for the front door.”

“Thank you, Nishikino-san.” Every time Dia bit back a Mama, this surreal fever dream got darker.

“Call me, Maki.”

“Thank you, Ma...ki.”

You saluted, “I’ll take good care of her, ma’am.”

Maki just nodded before she stepped back inside. You immediately pulled on Dia’s borrowed sleeve, “ She gives us the door code and she doesn’t even like me. Are your parents always that trusting?”

Dia collapsed into the seat next to You, “Mama is.”

“Rich people privilege.”

Dia shook her head, “Sadly no. Most rich people I know trust no one.” You was gifted with a gentle smile. “It’s that rare quality, true kindness. My sister has it too. They believe in people. It’s amazing.”

“What about you? And Nico?”

“We believe in them.” And ruin anyone who hurts them, Dia added to herself.

###

Eli, in a marled blue and white cowl knit sweater dress, was on her way out the door as Nico was on her way in.

“Hey, Roomie!” Eli grinned, leaning against the kitchen island. “Your house tonight, if you want to stay in. All you can eat ice cream.”

Nico, with an adventurous glint Eli had never seen before, shook her head, “Nah, Nico has a dinner date.”

“With the feral DJ?” Eli didn’t snarl. Progress.

“Her name is Maki.” Nico preened, “and Nico is going to treat her to the second tastiest pasta sauce in the world.”

Eli, her mood bubbly, scream faced, hands on her cheeks. “You’re going to take her to Gianellis’?. Weren’t you at her mega million dollar mansion just last night? You think Gianellis is going to impress her? Our neighborhood pizza place?”

Not daunted, Nico threw off a grand bow. “Nico will impress her.” An easy shrug as Nico adjusted the collar of her checked, flared shirt dress. Eli occasionally envied Nico’s confidence. “Pretty dress. Good choice, Eli. You off to rehearsal?”

Eli curtsied at the compliment. “Nozomi’s taking me for ‘LA’s best chocolate cake.’” To impress me, Eli added to herself.

“Chocolate, huh. Let me know when you want me to best woman for you.”

“It isn’t a date.” Eli said it too fast, too loud.

Nico’s eyebrow zoomed upright as Eli’s lie deflated between them and nervous and chatty Eli took over, “Okay, I don’t know what it is. I might want it to be a date, but then what do I do about...and how do I tell her...how do you start that talk...and I just can’t have three kids appear.”

Nico’s expressions swirled until confused took over, “Huh?”

“Nothing.” Eli shook herself, “Just some stuff my grandmother always said. I’ve been giving myself pep talks all day and,” Eli bopped her temple, “It’s confusing up here.”

Nico put her hands on Eli’s shoulders, pulling the taller woman closer, “Just go with your gut, Eli. If you trust Nozomi, TRUST her.”

“But…” Eli’s eyes had the look they had when the power started blinking during a midnight thunderstorm.

“You trusted Nico.”

“I trusted Nico.” Eli unclenched one pinkie’s worth of tension.

Nico nodded, encouragingly, like Eli was a small child repeating her abc’s. “Now trust Eli.”

Eli exhaled, “Okay.”

“Good.” Nico pulled Eli in for a hug, “Now get out there, Ayase. We’re too good looking to have been single this long.”

“Title of your sex tape.” Eli laughed and centered her skirt as Nico released her.

Nico winced, “Don’t tell jokes. Just look pretty. And sanitize any toys.”

“NICO!” Eli shoved Nico back, but Nico was braced for that reaction and danced back, hands at her temple, wickedly grinning.

“Don’t forget to Nico Nico Ni when…”

Eli bolted, slamming the door behind her.

A/N: May has seemed like a decade. How are you?

#NozoEli #NicoMaki #Nishikino Maki #Yazawa Nico #Ayase Eli #Tojo Nozomi #Kurosawa Dia #Watanabe You #werewolf #Apocalypse Midnight Dance

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makeste · 6 years ago

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BnHA fic recs (a.k.a. Bakugou angst extravaganza)

okay! so first of all, please understand that this rec list is going to be highly biased toward my personal preferences, which are as follows!

has Bakugou in it - yes good. pretty sure he’s featured in all of these. especially since the majority of this is stuff I initially read while I was slogging through the Basement Arc and he was MIA from canon for ages and I missed him a lot. I will eventually expand my fandom horizons to include fic that Potentially Does Not Have Bakugou In It! but in the meantime I am being true to myself okay

gen - I read plenty of slash and het too, but gen is my favorite always. plot and fluff and friendship yes good

angst - that said, angst of all kinds is Good

hurt/comfort/whump - also Very Good. the Best

so the majority of stuff I rec is going to be along these lines. Bakuangst gen, with the occasional pairing thrown in which is usually gonna be BakuDeku. and this is by no means a complete list, and my personal bookmarks are a hot mess at the moment, so this is in no particular order and is kind of just a shortish list of stuff I’ve probably read at least twice and really enjoyed.

anyways enough disclaimers lol

(eta: also adding a link to my follow-up fic Bakuwhump fic rec post here, just for convenience.)

Your Hands Protect the Flames by anonymous

For as long as Bakugou can remember people have been telling him to 'swallow his pride.' But no one's ever told him how he's supposed to sew his throat back up after the fact.

After an assault leaves Bakugou and his classmates reeling, they all have to figure out how to pick up the pieces and move on.

this is super fucking dark -- make sure you read the tags and the warnings; it’s a rape recovery fic so yeah, potential triggers galore -- but so goddamn good. painfully good. painful, period, but it does get better and has an optimistic ending, and the character development is just phenomenal and just, fuck. obviously it’s a touchy subject, so I wouldn’t have put it on this list if I didn’t think it was phenomenally written. but it’s that good that I couldn’t just leave it off. so I figured I might as well start with the darkest fic on my list just to get that out of the way.

perfect by eggstasy

They bring Katsuki over with his little feet still stained a bit black with ink, fists clenched and thrusting out as he shouts his indignation. Mitsuki later blames it on the hormones but she bursts into tears and cradles him to her chest for as long as they let her.

Katsuki as a lil babby. he’s super fucking cute and his family is perfect and he’s such a little troublemaker and they love the shit out of him and it’s amazing and super fluffy but not at all cloying. so great.

mama’s strong little boy by eggstasy

Bakugou is five years old the morning he comes inside from playing with red-raw and bloodied hands.

probably the best portrayal of Bakugou Mitsuki I’ve read. and what makes it even more impressive is that this fic was apparently written before Bakugou’s parents were actually revealed in canon. it was written before the Kamino arc even ended in fact, and yet there are so many details the author managed to predict that it’s just uncanny. both Bakugou and his mom are portrayed so well, and their dynamic is so realistic and it just feels right. you can feel the frustration and overwhelming love she has for her brilliant son who has an attitude up to here and is angry and frustrated all the time and doesn’t know how to handle his emotions at all but he’s trying, and they’re not perfect but goddamn this fic pretty much is though.

(and just in general pretty much anything by eggstasy is good. I’d also recommend A Heart Swelled to Bursting which is KiriBaku and is already on a ton of other rec lists, but hell, it’s good.)

Wonders Never Ceased by ViolentlyRed

Two calamitous days.

He gets the call from Tsukauchi sometime around nine in the morning.

Or, everything is awful, Bakugou is not okay, Aizawa's heart aches and they somehow get through it.

actually the tags for this one do a better job of summing it up than I could:

aftermath of Hideout Raid / Im talking the morning after our trashkid was found / and his trashbuds took him to the police / and Tsukauchi's like "yo Aizawa we found one of your sons" / and aizawa's like "stfu i dont have kids i hate them" / "but shit im omw"

Dadzawa and an emotionally and physically exhausted Bakugou in the immediate aftermath of the most intense arc of the series thus far. hell yes this is one of my favorites. I’ve probably read it like 5 or 6 times ngl. this is like My Genre right here. whump but still IC yessssss.

Tristeza by ViolentlyRed

"Through the lenses of three AM, Bakugou looks a lot smaller in the streetlight of a hospital parking lot."

Or, Aizawa comes to a few conclusions in the span and the aftermath of one long, stressful night.

(Bakugou is hurt and sick and Aizawa is robbed of his sleep and his sanity, yet again)

yes and this is the other Dadzawa and Bakugou Whump fic by the same author which I’ve also read approximately ten billion times because I love anything where Bakugou suffers and people care, and especially anything where Aizawa Cares and is A Good Dad. and also he’s so goddamn tired omg.

Back Home by Arisprite

Katsuki was dropped off by the police and instructed to stay inside and wait for news. The Bakugou family was left reeling with Katsuki's abrupt kidnapping and then return to safety. Even though he was home now, it felt like things had changed for all of them.

out of all of the “Bakugou deals with nightmares and shit in the aftermath of the kidnapping” fics (and there are a lot of them, actually), this is my favorite. Bakugou’s emotions are so well-portrayed, and he’s angsty and hurting but still completely in character. but what I absolutely love the most about this fic is the portrayal of Masaru. his relationship with Katsuki is my favorite thing ever. like, there’s a scene in the opening chapter where it’s just the two of them, and his dad heats up some curry and he asks Katsuki how it is, and Katsuki’s all, “it’s crap. absolute shit,” while eating his heart out because of course it’s fucking delicious, and his dad is chuckling and tries to take the bowl back out of his hands, and Katsuki is leaning away to hold onto it and still eating and grinning, and it’s just the cutest, purest thing ever and probably one of my favorite scenes in any fanfiction ever. it feels so real and relaxed and I just adore it.

anyways, so the family relationships are handled incredibly well, and the depiction of PTSD and trauma is damn good also. Kirishima eventually shows up, and the story is tagged as eventual KiriBaku, but so far it’s pretty much just gen. it hasn’t been updated for like half a year, so just a heads up. but it’s one of the few cases where I’ll rec a potentially abandoned fic because I love it that much, and even if it never gets completed I know I’m gonna keep coming back to reread what there is.

god I wrote so much about this one lol. anyways.

a near-perfect miss by deplore

Bakugou and Midoriya climb a mountain, both literal and metaphorical.

this one is pretty short but very good. it’s basically a character study, with Izuku pondering Bakugou and the weird relationship between the two of them as they do a sunrise hike up a mountain. it’s good. I like it

Once More Unto the Breach by nivo

When life gives you lemons, remind it that you have nitroglycerin. Poor fucker never stood a chance.

Katsuki loses an arm on a mission and it sucks but he deals with it and moves on. this one is exceptionally in character and there are some remarkably insightful bits. it’s written in third person limited from Katsuki’s perspective, and the author uses this grumpy, bitter, matter-of-fact tone that’s just perfect, because you can see how Katsuki does his best to kind of distance himself from the shittiness of the situation, but at the same time it’s easy to read between the lines and see how much it’s really bothering him. and the other characters are great in this too, especially Ochako and Aizawa.

okaeri by shoot-style (dorkaruney)

The word okaeri or okaerinasai お帰りなさい comes from the verb kaeru 帰る, which means "to go home."

- “I’ll be the mom!” declared Katsuki, hands planted on his hips.

okay to be honest I don’t even remember what the rest of this fic is about. pretty sure it’s domestic BakuDeku fluff, and I remember it being pretty cute, but I couldn’t give you any details.

but anyway, the reason it’s on this list is because the opening flashback sequence, with Kacchan and Izuku and their little gang playing house, is in fact the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever read in my life.

Lions in Our Hearts by yabakuboi

Midoriya Izuku never expected to get his Hogwarts letter, no matter how much he wished for it. Looking up to Bakugou Katsuki, a magical prodigy that everyone says is a true Gryffindor through and through, destined for greatness, and growing up in his shadow, all Izuku wants to do is to stand by his best friend’s side. But, without a trace of magical ability, he knows it's a hopeless dream, and he watches Katsuki grow further and further away from him. Katsuki will go to Hogwarts and get to do everything Izuku has always wanted to do, all without him. Resigned, Izuku gives up.

Until one sunny morning, on Izuku's eleventh birthday, when he's awoken by an incessant tapping on his bedroom window.

okay so I actually have Very Strong Opinions on Hogwarts AUs because I get extremely worked up over which houses my favorite characters should be in, and my opinions don’t always line up with the majority of fandom’s. for instance, I firmly believe that despite possessing some classic Slytherin traits, Katsuki would still ultimately be sorted into Gryffindor (because while he might lack chivalry -- although he arguably still possesses his own form of that, looking at his fight with Ochako for instance -- there’s no denying he’s brave as fuck, and has “daring” and “nerve” for days. but more importantly, he goes to Gryffindor because that would have been All Might’s house, and the whole “sorting hat takes your choice into account” thing means he would have insisted on Gryffindor and wouldn’t have taken no for an answer). so I was initially :| at this fic, because the premise is that all of the Bakugous have been Gryffindors for ages and then Katsuki ends up being sorted to Slytherin. but damned if this isn’t just extremely well done, and all of the little ways the BnHA story is adapted to fit the HP canon are just perfect.

this is slow-burn BakuDeku, just an FYI. Izuku is thought to be a squib until he gets his Hogwarts acceptance letter. it’s just perfect.

The Way You Used to Do by edema_ruh

"We're really sorry", his father says, in that teary-eyed, wobbly way Katsuki most certainly didn't inherit from him, thank fuck. "But your friend, Izuku, he's...", he hesitates for a moment, as if trying to find the right words for that situation. "He's gone, son", he concludes, giving Katsuki's hand a squeeze. Behind him, his mother stands, face almost as impassive as ever.

Katsuki can do nothing but blink up at them for moments that feel like an eternity, eyes darting between both his parents in obvious confusion, disbelief, and, more than anything, indignation.

"What the fuck are you two talking about?", he asks, not as aggressively as he would have liked to. "The damn nerd is standing right beside you!"

During a battle, Midoriya gets hit by a villain whose quirk detaches his soul from his body. Stuck in a ghost-like state, the boy enters a race against time in order to save himself from permanently dying. Much to his luck - or lack of it -, the only person who can see and talk to him in his state is no one other than Kacchan.

I’m fucking obsessed with this fic. it’s still ongoing, but it’s already 150k words long so there’s plenty to read. and the author is good about updating at least once every couple weeks. this is one of those fics where I stop and go “oh my god how is it so good” multiple times per chapter. it’s so IC and the insights into Izuku and Katsuki’s relationship are spot on, and they’re both so bad at figuring out their shit, Katsuki especially, but they’re basically forced to due to the situation. and meanwhile the plot slowly unfolds in the background, with the mystery of exactly what happened to Izuku slowly being unveiled. I love this fic so much. I basically drop everything to read it whenever it updates. it’s like crack oh my god.

(ETA: so weird as it may be to do an ETA on a fic rec, this fic just updated with chapter 14, and I had to update my rec post to inform you all that this is now officially a Must Read. this shit has gotten straight up epic. I’m not exaggerating when I say that the final scene in this latest chapter is something I will vividly remember for most likely years to come. do you like emotions?? then come on down.)

Mercy in the Snow by Nevermorelanore

A series of short drabbles detailing Katsuki and Izuku's relation with the snow.

just a bunch of short drabbles about Izuku and Katsuki as they grow up over the years. so pretty and so much fluff. there’s something so pure and so peaceful about this fic.

Lady Explosion Murder by Pop_Rocks (v_love)

“What’s its name gonna be?”

“Lady Explosion Murder,”

Midoriya sighed, so he was serious about that name. “Can you just tell the woman you’re gonna name her Lady? I don’t want them to think we’re insane.”

----

In which Midoriya and Bakugou adopt a cat.

they actually get two cats. this is established BakuDeku in which they’re like married and stuff and they adopt some cats. it’s just fluff. it’s my favorite thing ever.

Lazy Days by novocaine_sea

Uraraka enjoys the soft side of Bakugou in the span of a few hours.

more domestic fluff, Kacchako this time. they’re just hanging out at home and being romantic in their own way. it’s shit like this that made Kacchako suddenly like my second favorite pairing out of nowhere.

3 (+ 1) Months by Butterfree

“I wanted to let you know, Young Bakugou, that I am really proud of you. Not just of Young Midoriya but you as well. I never doubt that you will become the best hero.”

“Th-Then watch me do it.” Katsuki let out, allowing his thoughts to run against logic and ask for the impossible for this one moment when no one could see. “Watch all of us damn well conquer everyone and laugh.”

“I will.” All Might chuckled. “Even if you can’t see me, I’m here.”

It was cheesy, it made no sense, but Katsuki found himself believing it. In the midst of the foreboding sense of finality, the man who gave the world his everything made one selfish request.

“Take care of Izuku.”

It's the last time they talk alone before All Might passes away.

this fic kept repeatedly punching me in the gut and like a fool I just stood there and took it. there are some grammatical errors and such in this fic, but the emotions are real, and boy are they devastating. I really wish there was more gen stuff out there with All Might and Bakugou. but I’ll take what I can get.

The Importance of Communication by low_commotion

In which Midoriya Izuku worries about everything, distrusts most things, and makes some things more awkward than they really need to be.

Bakugou Katsuki thinks this is weird, but whatever. He's still gonna kiss him.

let me tell you about this fic:

Katsuki decides he wants to kiss Deku and informs him of this very bluntly.

Deku panics and goes on a Wikipedia binge looking up animal mating habits.

Todoroki is really annoyed by this whole relationship development in general and plays the role of Deku’s long-suffering and occasionally petty friend, and does so incredibly well.

many other things happen, but it can perhaps most succinctly be summed up with the phrase “Izuku regrets himself,” which is a real and actual sentence used to magnificent effect within the context of this amazing story.

follow the moon by kylieno

Katsuki had told him not to come. Deku didn't listen, following him through the warp gate and straight into the heart of the League. Now, trapped and surrounded by dangerous criminals, Katsuki must find a way to protect both himself and his injured childhood friend.

It’s too bad everyone in the room wants him dead.

basically a what-if of if Deku’s mindless “let me just jump after Kacchan with two broken arms” plan had actually succeeded. this is BakuDeku, and it ticks off quite a few of my “I really want to read a fic about this” boxes, including more Kamino angst, and the all-too-rare “Kacchan gets OFA” twist, though it’s only temporary.

House Rules by Yuu_chi

“You absolute fuckface,” Katsuki says, with all the love and adoration that makes a long lasting marriage, “you’ve bought us a fucking haunted house."

established TodoBaku, and basically the plot is exactly what the summary says. Bakugou and Todoroki accidentally buy a haunted house and have to deal with poltergeist bullshit like the furniture moving around and threatening messages being written in blood on the walls and the like. mostly they’re just exasperated by it, and eventually it becomes “us vs the house” because Katsuki’s not going to lose to a stupid fucking ghost goddammit.

okay so that’s probably enough for now, right? lol. I don’t know why doing fanfic recs is somehow more nerve-wracking than posting my own stuff. but anyways here you go!

#bnha #boku no hero academia #makeste reads bnha #fic recs #bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #todoroki shouto #uraraka ochako #aizawa shouta #all might #bakugou mitsuki #bakugou masaru #bakudeku #anon asks

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navpike · 6 years ago

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it’s that time of year yet again folks! time for me to round up the lot of everything i wrote this year and throw it at you all like a proud parent! this year i managed to publish 217,613 words across 22 fics, with an untold number more unpublished (some of which belong to an original novel i started at the beginning of the year, and an autobiography i dipped my toes into as well!) let’s dive in!

(a ** denotes some personal favorites!)

DC FICS:

Time And Again (28303 words) [batfam, bg dickwally, jayroy, superbat]:

Dick Grayson comes to live with Bruce Wayne on a Tuesday afternoon when he’s nine years old. It’s a Tuesday like any other, so Bruce settles the boy in and leaves him in Alfred’s capable hands after dinner and heads out for patrol. Gotham’s underworld does not take a day off, and therefore Batman cannot either. Dick awakes in the middle of the night and Bruce isn’t there. Alfred calms Dick down and sits with him and assures him that Bruce would have been there if he could and Dick believes him. Alfred's words can only maintain that belief for so long. Or, the one where Bruce doesn't tell Dick that he's Batman at first and things spiral out of control until people start communicating like adults.

Gold-Plated (1279 words) [batfam]:

It starts like this. Dick follows Jason into the cave, shouting at his brother’s back, while Jason roughly tugs at the release for his helmet. “I mean, I know you’re not going to stop dealing with all of your problems by shooting at them, but could you at least have the decency to not do that while I’m around? Could you at least pretend you still follow some sort of-” “Shut up!” Jason roars, whipping around to hurl his helmet at Dick’s head.

**Every Fiber of My Being (21376 words) [dickwally, batfam, bg timkon]:

As much as Dick and his siblings have argued, Bruce has never budged on his "Keeping Secrets Policy". There's not a person alive outside of the family that knows the secret identity of any of the Bats. Not even Dick's boyfriend. Dick understands the need for some secrets, knows that keeping their identities safe keeps them and their loved ones safe, but when he takes up the cowl, team dynamics aren't the only things that begin to change.

Tremble, Tremor, Shake (2118 words) [batfam]:

Tim doesn’t answer. He lurches like he’s going to go for the toilet again, but he doesn’t quite make it, instead dry heaving once, twice and then slumping against the wall again. Dick thinks that’s the end of it. He’s wrong. Tim slumps against the wall and immediately starts seizing.

**My Brain Occasionally Malfunctions (2243 words) [batfam]:

Dick was shot in the head. Such a serious injury is not without consequence. In which Dick's gunshot wound causes him to develop epilepsy and Jason has some thoughts on the fact that Dick tried to hide it from them.

Teenagers (1280 words) [dickwally]:

Dick and Wally have just found out that their twins have abilities and Damian's been training the twins behind their backs. Looks like everyone's revealing a secret tonight.

**Sign Your Life Away (23927 words)[timkon, batfam, bg dickwally, batcat, clois]:

The Wayne family is a good one, well known, well off, charitable, likable, politically unaffiliated. So when a treaty with Krypton is hinging on an arranged marriage, the Wayne boys are some of the first they approach. Tim is very, very aware that the name right underneath 'Wayne' on the UN's list is 'Luthor'. He can't allow some poor stranger to be forcibly bound to Luthor for the rest of their lives. So when they ask him, he says yes, before he can stop to think if this is actually a good idea.

MARVEL FICS:

**Project: Light (54526 words) [stucky]:

When Steve and Sam finally track down the Winter Soldier, the last thing they’re expecting is to find Bucky with a girl who’s calling him ‘Dad’. Steve doesn’t quite know how to handle that. The others know how to handle it only marginally better. Or, how to win over children and influence monsters: how Bucky’s surprise daughter helps the Avengers help Bucky find himself again, and how he finds Steve again along the way.

Always So Certain You're Fine (2252 words) [gen]:

They're grieving, sure, but they have a war to win, still, and by some miracle, they do it. Or, the Infinity War fix-it that no one asked for.

Suffer in Silence (6416 words) [thundershield]:

Five times Steve Rogers was in pain, and one time he finally wasn't.

**A Hero, Like Spiderman and Better Hawkeye (4286 words) [gen]:

If pressed to answer how he’d gotten to the top of the Avengers’ list of preferred babysitters/dog watchers, Peter’s not too sure he’d know what to say. In which MJ, Ned and Kate Bishop get roped into helping Peter babysit/dog watch, and things spiral wildly out of hand in a Starbucks.

Unexpecting (1893 words) [thruce, valsif]:

When they find themselves largely alone on Earth, tasked with preserving Asgard’s history and her people and working with Earth’s governments to settle political issues, and it seems like battle in another form, Thor and Brunnhilde find themselves seeking comfort in each other. It is harmless, (mostly) innocent fun, until they find themselves staring down at a little indicator, telling them that Brunnhilde is pregnant. In which Thor, Brunnhilde, Bruce and Sif raise a child together, and grow a little themselves in the process.

**What the Desert Will Let Him (5471 words) [samsteve]:

There’s an itch at the back of Sam's mind, that tells him to stay in DC and he thinks maybe this has something to do with The Voice and why he was thrown ass over tea kettle back into this world when he desperately didn't want to come back. In which Sam dies with his wing-man, but something sends him back to live out the rest of his life, because he's not done. There are people who need him, even if he doesn't know it yet.

**Wake Up Calls (4379 words) [gen, bg stucky]:

Bucky Barnes wakes up in Wakanda, the first time, and the second, and the third and fourth and twenty-eighth and sixty-first... Shuri starts out as an ally, and becomes a friend, and then might as well be his kid sister. Bucky and Shuri's relationship told through a few wake-up calls.

Dead Men Walking (16629 words) [gen]:

They don't always show it, but they've each got their own demons to battle. Peter keeps happening upon these battles. OR a bunch of times that Peter was there for the Avengers in a moment of need, and one time they were all there for him.

LGBTQIA(vengers) (3656 words) [stucky, natpepper]:

Steve Rogers comes out on a Tuesday afternoon. By Wednesday morning, it's hit every major news outlet. Twitter has some opinions, and Pepper Potts is taking no prisoners.

**Impact (6087 words) [winterhawk]:

Clint Barton is not born with wings. He is not a mutant, though he doubts that would have helped his case. He is an ordinary boy, until he, one day, is very suddenly not. Or: the wingfic nobody asked for, in which Clint's wings have brought him nothing but trouble until one day, they suddenly don't.

Perfect Men and Other Crimes (2069 words) [stucky]:

Bucky Barnes knows that he is lucky. He still cannot help but feel decidedly unlucky when he hears the New York Police Department’s new policy on partnering regular cops with enhanced ones. Bucky doesn’t have anything against enhanced individuals. He really doesn’t. But he is still profoundly uncomfortable around people who could snap him like a twig. Detective Steven Grant Rogers is exactly that.

Same Monster (2610 words) [gen, bg thruce]:

After returning to Earth, Bruce goes to visit his cousin when a case brings her to New York City. It doesn't go as planned. Or, the one where Jennifer Walters becomes She-Hulk, Bruce feels guilty, and Thor is a good boyfriend.

HAWAII FIVE-0 FICS

Can't Help DNA (5146 words) [mcdanno]:

The first time that Steve McGarrett and Danny Williams meet, Danny Williams is not holding a weapon. He has his hands in fists and Steve’s skin is singing in that way it does whenever he’s around someone else with the SuperGene. Steve, for his part, is pointing a gun at Danny’s chest and screaming at him which probably isn’t helping the situation, but he’s not going to admit that. He’s shouting, and then Williams is shouting and they eventually get their IDs out without Steve shooting anyone and without Danny’s Gene flaring up. It’s a win in Steve’s book.

Situational Awareness (6461 words) [mcdanno]:

Steve McGarrett has a soulmark from the moment he’s born. He has a mark that his dad covers up when he’s a baby, an ugly black thing in the shape of knuckles splayed across his cheekbone. Danny Williams gets his mark a few months after he’s born. There’s a black smear across the back of his hand and down two fingers and Danny dreams of the day his soulmate will touch him for the first time and set the mark alight with color. Steve McGarrett grows up hating his soulmark, Danny Williams dreams of the day he'll meet his soulmate. Somehow, against all odds, they find each other.

Things Unseen (15206 words) [mcdanno, bg konocat]:

Steve's known almost his whole life that his anchor was going to be one of the Kelly-Kalakaua family, the only ones strong enough to tie him to the Seen when he needed to talk to a spirit. What he did not know was how important a cop from Jersey who doesn't believe in ghosts would end up being. In which Steve and Kono are peak mlm/wlw solidarity, Danny is a wreck, Chin is tired and there are some ghosts.

#fic roundup #marvel #dc #hawaii five 0 #fic #mine

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ethereousdelirious · 6 years ago

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Fandom: DDADDS Characters: R.obert & D.amien (S.mallmarch established relationship) Tropes: vomiting, fever, fainting, nausea from anxiety, mild humiliation, trying to hide an illness, C.hristmas, hospitals Summary: Spending the holidays with Damien’s family is harder on Robert’s anxiety than either of them expected. Unfortunately for Robert, his symptoms match up perfectly with the stomach bug that’s been going around as well. Note: There are some headcanons coming into play here, namely that R.obert has social anxiety and was abused by his family members in the past, causing him to have worsened anxiety around other people’s family members

It was too loud in here. Too loud and too bright, and starting to get too warm. Robert tugged at his sleeves, but they were already rolled up to the forearm and disinclined to go much higher. At least Damien’s family hadn’t been able to talk him into wearing an absurdly thick vintage Christmas sweater like the ones they were all wearing. Even Damien had abandoned his usual neo-Victorian aesthetic in favor of a dark green cowl neck Christmas sweater with reindeer dancing circles around the chest area.

Robert found himself staring at it more and more as the night went on. Damien was seated all the way across the table and seemed to be enjoying a conversation with his grandparents, a concept which was largely foreign to Robert. He had never enjoyed the company of his own family, nor had be ever anticipated sitting down for Christmas dinner with them.

But Damien’s family all seemed to like each other, and everyone appeared to be having a good time eating and talking together.

Everyone except for Robert, who was sitting there awkwardly, sweating under his long-sleeved shirt and taking occasional sips of his sparkling cider, which was starting to give him a headache. He wished he’d gotten himself a glass of water before they all sat down, but it seemed rude to get up now.

“Robert, dear.” Damien’s mom looked at him from several seats down. “Have some more ham! Damien mentioned it’s one of your favorites.”

“Oh, uh.” Robert smiled awkwardly, acutely aware of his shirt sticking to his back. “Thank you, ma’am.” He accepted the serving tray as it was passed down the line and took several slices. It would have been rude to refuse, but at the same time… He was going to have to eat all of this, not just the ham, but also everything else that had been pressed on him earlier in the evening, rolls and turkey and roasted vegetables. Not to mention dessert.

Robert’s stomach turned and he took another cloying swallow of cider, which seemed to turn to syrup in his mouth. His head pounded. It had been several days since he’d been anywhere even remotely near his comfort zone, as he was stuffed in Damien’s parents’ house surrounded by Damien’s relatives with very little privacy. He hadn’t even been able to catch Damien alone since they’d come here 4 days ago. Even now, he was too far away to hold a conversation with him without shouting, and there were so many people seated between them that anything he said would become an announcement.

Dinner passed agonizingly slowly. Robert managed to eat everything on his plate, which was then cleared away along with everything else on the table to make room for dessert. His stomach clenched at the thought of spending yet more time trapped in this folding chair, awkwardly trying to avoid eye contact with anyone lest they try to strike up a conversation with him.

He reached for his glass only to realize his cider was gone, replaced with a whole pint of eggnog. Alright. The glass was cool in his hand, which was a relief at least. The collection of bodies all in one place had his face and chest burning with heat.

“So Robert.” One of Damien’s… uncles? grandparents? looked at him. Robert took a quick swallow of his eggnog. His stomach tied itself into a hangman’s knot. “Damien tells me you whittle?”

“Yes.” His voice came out hoarse, so he cleared his throat. “Just little things, nothing impressive.”

“That’s not true!” Damien spoke up. Robert noticed a gentle pink flush over his cheeks and couldn’t help but smile at his obviously tipsy boyfriend. “Robert’s made some really cool stuff!”

“I like to make chains,” Robert said. Suddenly all the eyes at the table were on him. He swallowed hard against a wave of nausea that lapped urgently at the back of his throat before receding to something a little more manageable. “I think maybe--” he turned awkwardly, trying to get at his jacket, which was hanging from the back of the flimsy folding chair he was currently occupying. “Well.” He fished an unfinished chain out of one of the inner pockets and displayed it. “This sort of thing.”

Damien’s relative (had to be an uncle-- he was too young to be a grandfather) acknowledged this with a nod. “I’m working on whittling a chess set.”

Someone else at the table (Damien’s cousin, going by context clues) rolled her eyes. “Ugh, dad. You’ve been working on that chess set for like a year and a half now.”

Robert put his chain away. The conversation turned by degrees until he was fully out of it. He slumped back in his chair.

Damien’s mom brought out pie and pudding and fancy chocolates and suddenly Robert’s pulse was racing. He’d spent the whole day, the whole trip, really, sick with nerves, but Christmas dinner had pushed him over the edge. The heat vanished from his body in an instant as a cold shiver crawled up his back.

As calmly as he could manage, Robert stood up and walked to the bathroom. Saliva was already filling his mouth, but he couldn’t-- If this whole room knew he was about to be sick, he would die. The anxiety would eat him alive. So he walked. Slowly. Nerves jumping the whole way there.

Then he was safe behind the closed, locked door. He got to his knees in front of the toilet. Someone had left the lid up, so he leaned in. For a moment, nothing happened and he had a moment of panic thinking he’d be stuck in here all night and then everyone would know and feel sorry for him and--

His stomach clenched, the pressure coming to a painful head, and he dry heaved a couple times before finally vomiting. He sat back shakily, aware of the tears in his eyes and the string of saliva pooling onto his shirt, but unable to move. He had to go back out there and soon, or people were going to start to wonder.

Alright. Robert flushed the toilet, cleaned himself up, and resumed his seat. No one acknowledged he had been gone, which was a relief. But now there was a slice of peanut butter pie on his plate and oh god he had to eat that, too.

At least the nausea was gone, but it had been replaced by a feeling of empty heaviness , like he’d been punched in the gut so many times his nerves weren’t working.

Damien caught his eye across the table and winked at him. Robert smiled back.

He took a bite of pie.

It was good, really good, but he couldn’t enjoy it. Eating in this state was extremely unpleasant, verging on painful but never quite crossing the line. The nausea didn’t resurface until he was almost done eating, but it came back with a vengeance, slamming him with a wave of painful stomach cramps. Robert grit his teeth and tried not to curl in on himself. It was just nerves. Just a whole lot of family anxiety and repressed trauma making his stomach go sour and his blood run cold. That was it.

When dinner was over and everyone had gone to bed, Robert was finally able to curl in on himself on the couch (his bed for the duration). His stomach hurt. Gone was the mere discomfort from earlier in the day. The cramps were near-constant, occasionally stepping off center stage to let nausea have a moment in the spotlight. He hadn’t vomited again, but he could sense it coming.

He moaned quietly and wrapped his arms around himself.

“Babe?” Damien hesitated near the armrest, concern painted on his face.

“Hey.” Robert looked up and smiled, happy for this stolen moment even if he currently felt like his abdominal muscles were trying to tear themselves apart. He patted the couch.

Damien sat down, still looking a little unsure. “Are you okay?”

“I’m great now,” Robert said. The living room was dark, illuminated only by the yellow lights that decorated the Christmas tree and windowsills. Robert was internally grateful for this. There was no way in hell he didn’t look like shit, and he didn’t need Damien worrying after him.

“You were really quiet at dinner, and i just wanted to be sure…”

Robert shook his head. “Nah, you know how I am with… You know, families. It was just weird that nobody got drunk and started yelling at me, you know.”

In the dim light, Damien’s expression shifted to one of horror. He pulled Robert into a hug. “You're safe here.”

Robert allowed himself a moment or vulnerability in Damien's arms, deciding not to mention how being all this familial love had him anxious to the point of nausea. “Thanks. I… You're the best.”

Damien let go of him and leaned back. “I know it's silly because you're right here, but I miss you.”

“I've been missing you, too. It's hard not having any alone time.”

Damien smiled mischievously. “We're alone now.”

Robert leaned back and raised his eyebrows suggestively, ignoring the stab of pain in his middle. “On your parents’ couch? You dirty dog.”

Damien's cheeks went darker pink and he laughed a little. “I'd better get to bed before I make any…” his gaze lingered on Robert, “questionable decisions.”

“On your parents’ couch.”

“Stop saying that!” Damien smiled. He leaned in and kissed Robert on the cheek. “Good night.”

“Night, babe.”

Damien left. Robert counted to 60 before rushing to the bathroom to pray to the porcelain god for the second time that evening. Then the third and fourth.

He fell back from the toilet, groaning. His stomach clenched as though it knew it was empty and was now trying to turn itself inside out. Robert coughed and sank to the floor. His sweat-soaked hair fell into his eyes and he brushed it to the side with a shaking hand. The possibility that this was more than just nerves loomed large in his mind, but he forced it away. He was not sick in a house full of strangers. He wasn't. He couldn't be.

Most of Robert's night was spent in the bathroom, either curled up on the floor trying to sleep or hunched over the toilet praying for death. In the early hours, he forced himself to go back to the couch. It had been a long while since he'd done anything but dry heave and he didn’t want to be caught in here when people started to wake up.

On the couch, he managed to drift off into a light, fitful sleep before Damien's family members woke up and started to clatter around in the kitchen.

Sick of lying there on a couch too short for him under a quantity of blankets that seemed both too much and too little simultaneously, Robert went to join them.

Damien was still asleep. Robert didn't care. He bid Damien's parents good morning, accepted a cup of juice from Damien's father, and parked himself at the table.

“Did you sleep okay?” Damien's mom asked. “You look a little tired.”

“Oh, um,” Robert rasped. He took a drink of orange juice. “Yeah, I had a little insomnia last night.”

“Eat a little too much?” Damien's dad winked. “Me too.”

Robert laughed awkwardly and took another sip of juice.

“I know you're not one for breakfast, but I'll set aside some pancakes for you in case you change your mind.” Damien's mother came around to the table and set a cup of coffee in front of Robert. “A few of us were planning on going to the mall after breakfast. Damien thought you might want to join us?”

Robert was silent for a moment, his head fuzzy and slow. “Yeah, sounds great,” he said after a moment's silence. God, he was so tired. He finished off his juice, then took his mug outside for a smoke. He was still wearing his clothes from yesterday and the cold breeze bit right through his shirt. He shivered and lit up a cigarette.

He had planned to hide outside for a while, savoring his coffee and smoking in the driveway, but he was way too cold. He downed his coffee so fast he blistered the roof of his mouth, put out his cigarette, and retreated back inside to the couch still clutching his empty mug.

There he sat, shivering compulsively until someone took notice of him and he was forced to act like he wasn't dying until their attention faded again.

Damien came in after a while and Robert scurried off to the bathroom to try to clean himself up. If he looked half as crusty as he felt, it was a wonder that Damien's mom hadn't thrown him out onto the street.

The bathroom, at least, was clean and quiet and gave no indication that Robert had been up all night puking.

He took a quick shower, brushed his teeth twice, and came out sweating under the shower water that still dripped down his neck.

“Morning, babe!” Damien smelled the cigarette smoke on his breath and opted to kiss Robert on the cheek instead of the mouth.

“Mornin’.” Robert sat down beside Damien at the table, pleased to find that someone had refilled his mug with more coffee and set it down right next to Damien.

In the light of day, with a little caffeine in his system, Robert found that he was feeling better. The headache that had kicked up in his head around midnight had faded from gut-wrenching to a mere annoying pulse every so often. The nausea in his belly had gone completely, replaced with a sort of leaden numbness. He didn’t feel great but at least he could function.

Robert was dying.

Robert was dying in a shopping mall.

It was lunchtime and their party (Robert, Damien, Damien's mom, Damien's aunt, and 2 of Damien's cousins) had stopped by the food court.

The assorted smells hit Robert like a punch to the stomach. He staggered, nearly tripping over a wayward chair.

“I'll get us a table,” he said, taking the bags from Damien.

He wandered over to the first empty table he saw that would be big enough for all of them and collapsed into a chair. His vision blurred and his head spun, sparking a wave of nausea so vicious as to be painful.

Robert gasped for breath, his knuckles white on the edge of the table. He sat there and tried to collect himself and just couldn't. It was all he could do to not hunch over and start gagging, though he doubted anything major would come up. He hadn't eaten since last night, and it was afternoon now.

Damien's voice pierced the haze in his head but Robert couldn't make sense of the words. “Babe, do you have change for-- Hey. Are you okay? Robert!”

Robert looked up. Damien. Damien wanted something.

He half-rose and the world tilted sideways. He couldn’t feel his fingers or hear the din of the mall over the roar in his ears or see anything but Damien's face as his vision tunneled.

He blinked to clear away the black spots but they only multiplied in number until his whole vision was nothing but black.

It was over. Robert had made it back home to his bed, lying comfortably on his stomach with his face pressed into hard, unforgiving tile.

Wait. That didn't track.

He was on the floor somewhere. The mall. His eyes flew open. The sounds and smells of the food court hit him in the back like a sneaker wave and he couldn't help but gag, his muscles rending, pulling his knees in toward his chest.

“Robert!” Just from his voice, Robert could tell that Damien was near hysterics. “What the hell happened? Are you okay?”

Much as he wanted to answer, Robert just couldn't. The stomach cramps that had plagued him throughout the night were back with a vengeance and it was all he could do to not cry out in pain. He closed his eyes.

Dimly, he was aware of Damien talking, but not to him. No god no god no. He had made a spectacle of himself and was drawing a crowd. This was so much worse than simply admitting he was sick to Damien's whole family. Fuck.

He tried to sit up but his whole abdomen cried out in protest. He let out a harsh exhale.

“We're calling an ambulance, okay?” Damien said to him. “It's gonna be okay. It's okay.” He brushed Robert's hair out of his face.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Damien was crying and Robert was face down on the dirty tile floor of a shopping mall surrounded by onlookers and Damien was crying and Robert's head was so fuzzy and his whole body was hot and Damien was crying and he couldn't move a muscle or do a damn thing but curl up against the pain that laced from his stomach to his chest, up his neck to his head.

“M’okay,” he rasped. “Help me sit up?”

He pushed himself up onto one arm and Damien hauled him into a sitting position with some difficulty.

“Babe, I'm fine.”

Damien looked at him in disbelief. “You can't even sit up on your own.” He sniffled and wiped his eyes.

“Hey, Dames?”

“What?”

“I don't feel good.”

“I know.” Damien sat down and let Robert's head fall onto his shoulder. “You're burning up!”

“Yeah,” Robert agreed. He closed his eyes.

“Why didn't you say anything?!”

Robert ignored the question. “This is the first time I've been in a bed for a whole work week. Don't ruin this for me.” He scratched at the tape holding his IV line in place, then held it out to Damien. “Think I'm allergic to this stuff.”

Damien dropped his arms helplessly to his sides. “What's wrong with you?”

“Um, some sort of virus, I think the doctor said. Weren't you listening?” When Damien just stared at him, Robert scooted over and patted the empty space on his hospital bed. “Got you to stop crying,” he said with an uncharacteristically gentle smile.

Damien laughed in disbelief and sat down beside Robert. “But seriously. Why didn't you say anything?”

Robert shifted uncomfortably. “I was anxious. I thought maybe it was all in my head, you know? Like stage fright, except the audience is your boyfriend's whole-ass family.”

“You can't anxious yourself into a fever of 101,” Damien said. He wrapped his arm around Robert's shoulders. “I was so worried about you. I wish you would have said something.”

Robert swallowed, confident this time that it was truly just nerves making his stomach thrash. “I… Dames. I'm sorry.” Despite himself, Robert yawned. He blinked, trying to keep his eyes open.

Damien noticed this and hopped off the bed. “Get some sleep, babe. I'll be right here when you wake up.”

Robert smiled and closed his eyes.

#illness kink #ethereous writes

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