#but the brass band looked like they were very professional and i have only just started playing after six years off

[theteaisaddictive]

so. at what stage do i tell this composer that tenor sax is in b flat, and tenor horn (the instrument i play) is in e flat.

[gkt-tummyaches]

do u think any of the 9 would be into making music?

i can't remember if there are any canon instruments that the ppg can play outside of the generic instances that a band scene was involved - which i don't really count, since they're a given across cartoons. (and i agree, they're very cool.)

i don't think any of them have a very big interest in producing music in terms of albums, songs, or what have you in a professional sense. maybe brat, if she was looking for another source of income. those listed below play music more for the enjoyment of it, whether on a cathartic level or as just a way to pass the time.

i don't think all 9 have a magical talent for music creation, either. no bands being formed today unfortunately 💔

butch was really into a broad variety of instruments, but particularly bass guitar and drums. he lost an interest for a lot of them after he hits a certain point, but occassionally he'll still play his bass. only his room, only with the door shut. usually when he thinks nobody hears him.

i think in general composing music was a big part of butch's interest in story-telling and performative arts [hc]; ways for him to express himself without words were very impactful on his formative years.

boomer like most things in his life, picked up trumpet as a joke. then committed to the bit. ended up really enjoying it, got into a few other brass instruments: the obo, and the saxophone.

they're kind of hard to whip out as a party trick, but boomer does enjoy playing them when he knows brick is home. it was one of his brightest highlights of the day when he was still learning how to play them, but boomer's matured since then.

,,,he waits until brick thinks he's given up the gimmick before reminding him that he very much hasn't. gets brick every time.

brat keytar, and not just for fun or for the irony. we're talking she can play boss fight music tracks on it. see: [this video], it's sick !

it was recommended to her, as she used to play on an old synthesizer. it was a step in the right direction. genuinely loves playing it; usually just learns how to play pre-existing songs on it, but aspires to one day write her own pieces to play on it.

she's very interested in getting her hands on a theramin, and has a little experience with a stylophone. she has a lot of fun with digital music, samples, etc.

blossom plays the harp, stand-up bass, and violin. in general really enjoys string instruments, though feels that once you've learned one or two, you've kind of learned all of them. she understands she's probably wrong in that assumption, but there's little joy in doing the same thing over and over again; three is enough.

however, blossom was surprised to find a love for the electric violin. she plays it more than the other three instruments combined, never mind that there is little difference between a traditional violin and an electric violin in theory - there's a new sense of fun and energy with the latter that makes the experience somewhat addictive.

[nosferatyou]

If I Can Be So Bold: Chapter 2 (Jack White x OC)

Summary: The Girls first detroit show continues on with their headliner, the white stripes. And Lee gets to know our handsome stranger.

WC: 2.1k

Warnings: Nicotine use and mentions of alcohol.

Notes: I know this is shorter but that felt like the best place to stop the chapter. Keep you on your toes you know. More notes at the end.

Chapter Three

If you’ve ever been to a house show or a show in a small venue, you know its standing room only, which means limited views of the artists. Which means most people are pushing to the front to get as close as possible. And it is our first Detroit show we had to get as close as possible. 

Sure, I might have pushed a little too hard and made a small enemy, but it is always worth it for music. 

You will feel it in your chest, and you’re probably going to have the most fun upfront. The only exception is the mosh pit, but the chances are good that you’ll be thrown in by accident at one point or another. 

The girls and I had fully pushed and fought our way to the front; the only thing separating us from it was a group of assholes who didn’t understand what the sharp elbow jab meant.

The moment our newfound friends entered the stage, people lost their shit, and understandably so. They were Detroit’s little secret, so to say. Everybody loved them and thought they were the only ones to love them. Still, all the cheering was enough for us to get kicked for a noise complaint.

They both were wearing red and white, which I'd noticed earlier but had thought nothing about. It now seems to be their “thing.”

 I first saw meg, all smiles and adorning a kick-ass pair of coca-cola pants. Now Jack, what appeared to be a simple white shirt and bright red pair pants, was so striking. Maybe it was the bright lights, or perhaps he was just strikingly handsome, and I was using the clothes as an excuse. Either way, his face read that he was ready to do anything. Very sharp, very focused, and all the while looked prepared for anything. 

Harriet elbowed me and quietly said, “Quite the blues band they are.”

“Oh, hush up Harry, let them have their fun.”

Then played his guitar, no introduction words, no hello. He’s straight to the point.

While their whole look was one of grandeur, which was impressive for such a small band, what truly caught me off guard was their cover of “Moonage daydream” by none other than David Bowie. 

An already hard enough to cover song by any professional band. They somehow did it, and well too. They were keeping that Detroit garage sound and Bowie’s twang still in it. 

Said assholes from before had a tape recorder in their hand, already recording their set. 

Ezra spoke up.

“Sounds like a weirdo.”

“Not everyone is gifted with vocal chords as good as mine, Z.” Harriet said, wiggling her eyebrows.

“You guys need to learn show etiquette, lordy.”

They all eventually shut up, though, and started to get into it, Including me.

Throughout the energetic set, we started to realize how close our music was. Full of blues and heavy sound. The way they played with each other was just like how we did. They even had an overexcited frontman who ran the show. 

Two things were for sure. He was incredibly talented, as much as he was attractive. Maybe Harriet was right with the whole rebound thing.

By the second song, we all were dancing with the music. Jumping along to the sparse chords of “Screwdriver,” every time he played the three magic chords, we all hopped in unison. 

By “Let’s shake hands,” we all had been dragged into the mosh. All laughing our asses off and picking up any fallen comrades in the process. Harriet got a pretty gnarly bruise from that one. 

Long story short is that we all were having way too much fun.

There was this slow song, though, gave the two of them more room to look around and see the crowd. They both were both so invested in their playing that they’d hardly looked past the stage. 

Everyone in the crowd was just as enamored with watching them. 

I caught a particular man’s eye. Just as he had mine earlier. Every time he'd sing he'd look up at me. Eyes filled with something completely different. They weren’t pissed off. They weren’t dark and brooding. He was just watching me, and he seemed so invested in it too. Maybe it was narcissism, but they almost seemed lustful? As dumb and cliche as it sounds, I saw it. The way he looked at me was with genuine interest. I, of course, returned it. 

While I also had his gaze, I felt two more eyes on me. Which was, of course, was Harriet, noticing what was happening. Giving me the same dumb eyebrow wiggle as before. 

I returned my gaze to the stage. Sadly our exchange of glances had ended, hed turned his back to the crowd to grab another guitar that was just laying on the ground. On the back of his shirt was a crudely written setlist with song names like “Bob Coffee” and “Sugar good.” Which I can only assume (And hope) are abbreviations.

For the last song of the set, they played an incredibly upbeat slide song. Which I much appreciated, no one used a slide anymore. 

He gave an incredible performance and an even better solo(s) with the small piece of brass on his finger. 

Once they finished, they quickly made their way off the stage, and we did the same, bouncing through the sea of people to grab another beer from our shared van. 

“All I’m saying, Z. Is that if Timbuktu were real. Why have I never met anyone who's been?” said Harriet nursing her billionth beer.

“I swear to god you’re losing brain cells, Harry. Go check a fucking map.” Argued back Jo

“Josephine. That does not convince me of anything. It’s in all the stories! Take me to god damn Timbuktu, and i'll believe you.”

Jo groaned and threw her head into her hands. “Okay, firstly, my name isn’t even Josephine, it's Jolene, You know this. Secondly, you’re a lost cause.”

I grabbed my cigs, done listening to their dumb argument, And made my way to the back alley behind the venue. 

As I came upon it, I saw tonight's man of the hour. Leaning against the broken wall of the venue, cigarette already in hand. 

I had half a mind to turn around out of spite for Harriet’s sake, but was too far gone,

“Well, hey there, stranger.” I said jokingly, breaking the silence of the night.

He looked up, not startled by the noise. He didn’t seem bothered by the company either. 

“Well, hey yourself.”

I took a spot next to him and grabbed a cig out of the pack, tapping the top of the box on my hand before. Almost instinctively, he was ready with his lighter. Id leaned in and breathed it in, 

locking eyes with him in such close contact. Both of us Making the same eyes as before. 

“Quite the show you played tonight.” I said after taking a long drag from my cig, he repeated the 

action.

“Likewise,” he took another drag. “I'd have half a mind to think  you’re copying us.” He said with a wink.

“Likewise.” I mimicked, wink included. 

We both couldn’t seem to look at each other, eyes locked on the dark horizon. You know, that awkward stage of knowing somebody, but prolonged eye contact was just a no go.

“I haven’t seen you around here, and you have a face I wouldn’t forget. You passing through?” He asked

I gave a small laugh, “No, actually just moved here. Just me and the girls now. Taking over the southwest side.”

“No shit, huh? It seems we share a postal code.” He looked over to me with a small smile on his face.

“No shit. What street?” I asked, my excitement way too present.

“Ferdinand. Small shitty house, porch painted white and red. You can’t miss it.” He finished his cig, quickly grabbing another.

“Oh, I remember that! It was the first thing we noticed when we got here. But you’re a block over neighbor.” I bumped his arm, returning his small smile.

We went silent for a moment, just looking over the Detroit skyline, still in the stages of not knowing how to start conversations.

“So tell me, stranger. I want to get to the bottom of this mystery of our shared music. Who are your influences?” I asked, taking another drag and entirely putting my attention on him.

He laughed and put out his cig, stomping it into the ground. 

“Well, it’s the blues. You know Son House and muddy waters. That and Iggy Pop.” 

“Well, there’s the correlation. The same goes for me. Though I am more privy towards Taj Mahal and Howlin wolf Myself.” I stomped out my cig as well.

“You’re dad listen to them all the time?” He asked

“Oh, all the time.” I moved a little closer, not enough that he’d notice, but enough. “But country rules my house. It's law in Tennessee, you know.” I said, a small smirk falling on my face. 

“More the reason to go then.” 

 I very dramatically rolled my eyes. “Eh, more the reason to leave you mean.” 

He fake scoffed, covering his heart with his hand. “Are you telling me you don’t like country? Judging by your dad’s taste, it’s probably the good country you don’t like too.” 

“Overplayed and over appreciated is what I always say.”

He moved closer, just as I did, and his goofy smirk grew. “You’re telling me you don’t like johnny cash?” He asked.

“Not a bit.” I crossed my arms matter of factly. 

While we were in an “Argument,” I couldn’t stop thinking about Harriet’s words. Rebound. Plus his whole damn family wasn’t here to watch me shamelessly flirt.

“But I’m open to a certain handsome stranger changing my mind.”

He was unphased. In fact, it only made his smile grow.

“Well, I’ll just have to do that, Rosie.” 

“Hm. Rosie. I like that.” I said, moving even closer to him. Were less than a foot away from each other’s face, and Though I exchanged so little words with this man, I was ready to kiss the hell out of him. 

“Though I’m only going to let you call me that because you’re acting so nice. You know, lighting my cigs and all. Very gentleman like of you.” 

“I aim to please, Rosie.” He said simply. He drifted even closer.

I could feel his hot breath on my face. My heart was beating out of my chest. I couldn’t stop my actions if I tried.

I pushed forwards and met my lips with his. My already booming heart felt like it was about to explode. Why Was I so nervous? Guess I half expected him to pull away.

He didn’t, though, in fact, his hand came up and cradled my face, and his other made its way to my hip. Pressing me against the brick. 

Our bodies pressed together heatedly against the wall, us breathing heavily as our lips pressed together, heat radiating off the both of us. I could taste our shared breath, prominently cigarettes; I could feel the thud of our combined heartbeat as we fumbled to put our hands wherever we could. Both us acting like it was the one thing keeping us alive. 

Everything about him was dizzying, the way his hands gripped me like his life depended on it, how passionately he was kissing me despite how soft lips were. It made my stomach dance; it made warmth consume me.

I so desperately held onto him, my hands finally settling around his neck, nustling into his long unruly hair. It scared me how much I felt that I needed that. How addictive he felt.

From the van and out of sight, I could hear the girls asking where I was. I slowly broke away from our kiss, not wanting to be found out by the others. Not yet. I wasn’t ready for their incessant grade school teasing. 

We stayed close, still in each other’s arms. I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. Not wanting to let go. Still hungry for his touch.

“I think I have to get the drunk children home.” I said with a sigh.

“It’s the responsible thing to do.” He said with a goofy smile.

I kissed him again, this time just being a small peck. It was still just as good. 

I moved out of his grasp and went to grab a cig. He was ready with the lighter.

“Well, Rosie, if you ever want to..” His face tinted pink. “Jam. We will say jam. You know where I live.”

“I might just have to take you up on that offer.” 

“Well, See you around, stranger.” I said with a wink.

“See ya around, Rosie.” He leaned against the wall and repeated my actions. 

Turning around, I made my exit, cooly of course, but my whole body was buzzing.

Quick End notes: 

Firstly, ooh that smooch. This series is not what you guys think this will be. This is only the beginning. And i mean it really is just the beginning, but chapter two.

Secondly, If you didnt catch it this is set in 1998. And unfortunately while in my planning, I didnt catch that he had the worst fucking haircut ive ever seen that year. So Im just gonna pretend he looks 2000 era jack white. (see below for a visual of what is and what should have been)

What is

What should have been

[jupiter-rose]

Day 4

Whoops, I forgot to post this yesterday. also, this was one of my favorite days so far, so I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it!!

Fandom: Haikyuu!!

Pairing: Tsukishima/Yamaguchi

Word count: 1145 

Prompt used: Timeskip/retail 

Yamaguchi let out a big fat sigh. Man today was slow. Usually the store was filled with teenagers trying to become cool or abstract hipster types that wanted “to feel” the music. That's the kind of people that the music store he worked at tended to  attract. 

Yama liked working there. He did really love music, it's just a shame he couldn’t make a living off of it quiet yet. But this was the best day job he could ask for. 

It just so happened that today was a slow day. Which ment long periods of boredom. When the store actually had some people in it he could at least talk to them, or watch them from afar. But since he was the only one on shift and no one was in the store, he didn’t have much to entertain himself with.

He risked a moment snooping around in the back rooms trying to find something he could mess with. He was lucky enough to stumble upon a guitar.  

It was made out of dark oak wood, the shiny surface of the body plastered with stickers. The strings were colored gold, thick and sturdy for this model. He remembered Daichi telling him that he found it at a pawn shop and that they could take off the stickers and salvage it.

Yama didn’t like that idea. He adored the messy and childish look the guitar had. It showed personality that few instruments could replicate. 

He took it up front with him, sitting back down in his chair behind the counter. He picked up a pick from the table, strumming the strings a couple of times. He then played a few chords, tuning the guitar as he did so.

He hadn’t noticed the door open as he was too busy messing around on this guitar to care. He eventually got the hang of it, beginning to play a song he had memorized. It was one he had made with his band and it happened to be his favorite song out of the few they had made.

He hummed along with the lyrics he also had memorized, the occasional word escaping his lips in a gentle whisper.

Soon he was full blown singing, fingertips pressed so passionately against the strings that he could feel the light sting on his calloused hands. His head dipped down as he drawled a note, eyes almost fluttering closed as he felt himself continue to drift with the rhythm.

He leaned back, singing the last few notes of the song. That was, until he saw a blond man staring at him.

He lost his balance, falling backwards onto the ground. He groaned, taking a moment to sit up before getting on his feet. He examined the guitar, making sure it wasn’t damaged.

“You alright?” the same blond man asked, seeming to be recorerving from a laughing fit.

Asshole.

Though, Yama probably deserved that for goofing around when he should've been working.

Yamaguchi nodded his head sheepishly, his earrings bobbing with his movements.

The man in front of him was tall, slender, and somewhat nerdy looking. He had dark red glasses matched with a moss green sweater, a white dress shirt underneath, and dark, cuffed dress pants. He looked very pleasant, but Yama doubted that his personality matched.

“What can I get you Sir?”

The blond took a moment, “I was looking for a french horn”

“A french horn?” Yamaguchi repeated. They rarely got any request for those. Usually people went to the other store across the city to get expensive brass instruments like that. “I can go check in back but I’m not sure we have any”

He fished around for the cabinet keys before heading into the back rooms, making his way to the storage cabinets. He scanned the labels, trying to find what he needed. Surprisingly, he had found two french horns.

He placed them on the counter, unlocking the three safety locks on the side before opening both of them. One of the horns was silver, the other gold. They looked to be about the same size, but the gold one had a decent amount of tarnish on the valves and keys.

The customer examined both choices, eyes intense in thought. “Can I play them?”

“Uh sure, let me just wash out a mouthpiece for you.”

Yama shuffled around to find the cleaning wipes, taking one of the mouth pieces and cleaning it out as best he could. He awkwardly handed it to the blond. 

The taller man carefully pulled out the silver french horn, placing the mouthpiece in the instrument before sitting down on a nearby chair. He played around with the position of the horn, inching the bell up and down his thigh, adjusting his hand to stretch correctly on the trigger. Finally, after that was taken care of, he straightened his back, laid his feet flat on the floor, and took a large breath before placing the mouthpiece on his lips. 

The sound that came out of the horn was clear and mellow-ish, not buzzy and cloudy like an amateur player. He held his notes with grace, following up what Yama could guess was the C scale right after his warm up notes.

Yamaguchi was astounded. He hadn't heard such a good brass player in a long time. The last time someone came into the store for something other than a string instrument had been about a month ago, and that was for a clarinet player who wanted about fifty reeds.

“You're good,” Yama said.

“Thanks, you weren’t half bad on the guitar.”

Yama’s cheeks warmed at the mention of the guitar. “So are you a professional french horn player?”

The blond took a moment, “Yeah, though I have another job too”

Huh, another struggling music student maybe? 

“I already have a good horn, I was just trying to figure out if there was any better ones” the horn player fiddled with the keys, pressing them down experimentally.

“You should go to the other store across the city, they have-”

“Already did, I didn't like their models.”

That had shut Yama up, opting to just nod politely and wait for him to decide if he wanted to buy one. 

The man played both instruments a couple of times before officially choosing one. “I like these models, their well broken into”

Yamaguchi raised an eyebrow as he searched for the price of the silver horn. “Really? I would think a guy like you would like a brand new one”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing” Yama rushed, ignoring the glare he was getting.

Soon the transaction was over. The customer packing up the case and taking it into his hand. Yamaguchi watched the man leave with his new instrument, the case bouncing against his leg. 

He let out another sigh. Another three hours of boredom left.

[caffeinated-mendes]

The Band - Shawn Mendes

masterlist

previous work

synopsis: you’re a talented drummer, needed by many tour agencies, and you’ve just gotten another job. this time, you’re on tour with shawn mendes, and it’s one of the best tours you’ve been on. but before you’re close to finishing, you start feeling like you’re something more than a bandmate to shawn.

a/n: hey everyone! it’s been a while. i took a break from writing to focus on my priorities, and now i’m getting back into it. i might upload only once every month or two, but this way, i’ll probably be more consistent and my content will be better and longer. as always, thank you for reading. much love <3

word count: 14.7 k

warnings: swearing, implied/referenced nsfw content

*if you prefer, you can read this on ao3 here

“Are you the new drummer?” You perk your head up from your shaking knee, shifting in the plastic chair you’re sat in. A woman is standing in front of you, seeming to be in her late twenties, and she looked very professional. Black pencil skirt and a navy blue blouse, and bleached hair slicked back with a clipboard in her hand. 

You nod, “Yes, I was told to wait here.” You suddenly felt very underdressed next to her. She radiated confidence, and your distressed jeans and graphic tee were sub-par to say the least. Every audition you had you dressed up, but that was all you really dressed up for, save for parties. 

She grins a welcoming smile, “Perfect. You’ll fit right in. Come and follow me so you can meet the boys.” Grateful for the warmness in her voice, you pass the many hallways of the studio Shawn and his band had rented out. It was nice, and a little off the grid, which you didn’t mind. “I’m Missy, by the way. My real name’s Margaret, but everyone just calls me Missy.”

“It’s nice to meet you, then, Missy.” You politely reply, because you’re still unsure even if she was nice to you. It was hard to warm up to new people, but when you jammed out on the drums, it felt like everything around you fell away, and you didn’t worry about looking vulnerable. Missy’s heels click on the tile of the studio, which turns to thudding as you enter the carpeted room. Black sound absorption panels line the room, and a fluorescent light shines above, illuminating the otherwise dim room. 

Sat on an amp near a set of drums and a guitar rack was a short guy with dirty blonde hair gathered behind his neck. He wore athletic shorts and a muscle shirt, and gave off the vibe that he wouldn’t mind getting drunk with you any time you asked. He slapped on a shimmering black bass, and you were impressed at how well he played. You recognized a bassline from one of your favorite songs. “I love Flea,” you say, and he looks up, grinning an absolutely ridiculous smile. It didn’t match his appearance at all, and made him look dorky as ever. “It sounds great.” You gestured to his bass.

Missy turned to you, “This is Kit. He looks bulky but he won’t do you any harm, I promise.”

Kit sets his bass on the rack and walks up to you, taking your hand and kissing it, “M’lady.” His deep voice sets off a set of laughs between the two of you, “Pleased to meet your acquaintance. And yes, Flea is fucking amazing.”

You smile at his so eloquently-put sentence as another guy enters the room, this one much taller and leaner than Kit. “And this,” Missy turns to him, “Is Simon. He’s our guitarist-slash-vocal backup.” Simon grins, shaggy dark hair going into his eyes as he shakes your hand.

“I saw your audition video. You sound awesome,” He crosses his arms, “Let’s just hope Kit can keep up with you.”

“Shut up, dumbass,” Kit choruses from behind. 

Simon smirks, “Shawn should be here any minute. He ran to get us some coffee. I hope you’re okay with cream.” He turns to the soundboard, fidgeting with a track on the monitor. Missy leaves silently, rubbing your arm in comfort before she goes.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” You look around the room. In the middle of the studio is a microphone with headphones hanging on the stand holding it. Next to it is a beautiful guitar: it has three bronze and three brass strings and dark-stained wood. To the left of the stand are your drums for the time being. They’re glossy and black with shining cymbals, and two drumsticks placed on the bass drum. 

Kit picked up his bass again and revisited his spot on the amp, even when there was a perfectly good stool for him off the right of the microphone, “Go on,” He says to you, “Give it a go.” You inhaled and grabbed your set of drumsticks from your back pocket. They were special, a gift from your father, and you never wanted to be without them. They had little etchings at the bottom of each of the sticks, a little circle surrounding your initials. The stool underneath you creaked, and you moved the other pair of drumsticks to the ground. Simon smiles, watching you as you hit the pedal beneath you a few times, feeling the deep, booming sound resonate through your body. 

You start slow, picking a moderate tempo, and as the seconds pass, you increase the complexity and the speed, feeling a rhythm that explains how you feel yourself right now. Nervous, but excited. Excited for the new adventure, excited for a new chapter, but scared that you won’t find happiness on this tour. It never happens, but it’s still a doubt in your mind. This doubt booms out from the beat, and the cymbals mimic your strangled heartbeat, mimic your unsureness in yourself and your abilities. You begin to move your body with the momentum of the beat, your hair flicking wildly around you as you lean back and forth, bracelets rattling on your wrist and your sneaker hitting the pedal with such intensity that the ending feels like the end of a firework show: it’s sudden, and dramatic, and so adrenaline-filled you feel like you’re coming out of a trance. 

It’s silent for a moment, until you hear an unfamiliar cry going, “Yeah! Wooo!” and two other voices whooping and clapping. Looking up, you see someone standing against the closed door, grinning wildly. You exhale a breath of relief and get up from the stool, recognizing the figure. Shawn stood, his eyes glittering, his smile saying he was impressed. A set of coffees sat on the table next to him, dangerously close to the soundboard. 

“That was fucking awesome!” Kit comes up to you and whips you around in a circle, setting you down with a crazy look in his eye. Normally, you would’ve been weirded out by that much contact with someone you met five minutes ago, but it felt normal and comfortable. “We’re never gonna let you go,” Kit said. 

“Should I be scared?” You look and Shawn and Simon, pocketing your drumsticks again.

“I’m not sure, Kit gets attached,” Shawn replies, and walks up to you with his hand out, “I’m Shawn. I’m so glad we got you, I don’t know what I would’ve done without a drummer on this tour.” You shake his hand, and then put your hands in your pockets, rocking on your toes.

“I don’t know, but I’m glad I’m here too. I love traveling the world.” You look up at Shawn, his eyes not too far from yours. You were pleased to say you were taller than most people, but he still had a few inches over you. Shawn exhales softly, a small laugh, and you look at his curling brown hair falling onto his forehead, watching as he takes off his jacket and sets it on the desk chair in front of the soundboard.

Shawn hands you a cup of coffee and it warms your cold hands, a sign you were nervous. “Should we go through the setlist? We only have the studio for the rest of today.” Kit and Simon hum in agreement, and Shawn hands you a packet of sheet music. 

You refuse it, swallowing the sip of coffee you took, “Oh, don’t worry, I’m pretty sure I got all the songs memorized by now. I wouldn’t want to slip up in concert. I have my own at home, anyway.” 

He grins, “Perfect. Let’s start with Lost in Japan, yeah?” He directs the question to all of you as you both take your seats. From here, you can see all of them well. You knew you’d have to start to learn their mannerisms and they way the cued people in, Shawn especially, because you’d seen some guitar and drum solos in the setlist from the information they sent you. Simon moved to the keyboard off to the left of him, running through the melodic introduction to the song. You loved the intro, but loved it even more when the beat dropped and you came in with all your energy, feeling an amazing vibe from Kit’s bass, and every once in a while Shawn would look back at you to make sure you were alright, checking if you were feeling comfortable. You’d been with so many bands, but it never felt like this. Deep down, a tugging in your stomach told you that you had a feeling this was going to be one of the best years of your life.

The line for security was too long. It was the next morning, and you were stuck lugging your massive suitcase a few inches every few minutes because the Toronto airport didn’t know how to manage lines. It’s too early for this, you thought as you gazed out the huge windows lining the sleek airport. It was still dark, and your first stop was Dublin, so you had to leave before the crack of dawn to make your flight. You felt bad for the guys though, each of them having to carry an equally as large suitcase with their guitar cases. All of their cases looked the same: plastered with fragile stickers that were scratched and peeling at the edges. You scratched your head, feeling your loose ponytail. You may or may not have fallen asleep on the car ride there, resulting in your messy hair, and the boys may or may not have made a video of them scaring you awake once you arrived at the airport. 

You tugged on your hoodie, pulling the strings nervously, and once you realized you were tapping your foot and playing with the hair tie on your wrist, you took out your earbuds to distract you from the commotion of the line ahead of you. A relaxed melody floated into your head as you put them in, and Shawn shifted in front of you, getting ready to go through the scanner. He turned to face you and the boys, watching as his security guards inched closer to the four of you. You felt bad for him sometimes, because even not knowing him well, you knew that it was hard for him to go places and have normal experiences.

The music settled your nerves a bit, your hand tapping your thigh to the beat of the song. “What are you listening to?” Shawn asks quietly. You handed him an earbud, and he leaned close to you, connected by the cord. You felt your heartbeat quicken, but you didn’t know why. It must’ve been the song, because it was getting louder as it reached the bridge. “I’ve never heard this song,” Shawn says, and you hand him your phone so he can look at what it’s called. “I like it, I think I’ll download their album so I can listen on the plane.”

The sides of your lips turn in a smile, and he mirrors your expression back to you. “If you’re sitting next to me we can always share.” Shawn takes out the earbud, and hands it back to you as the song ends. 

“Okay, I think we will be because Kit and Simon like sitting next to each other. They say I snore.” Shawn nudges your shoulder, and you laugh, turning your gaze to the two of them behind you. They were messing with the sticker tags on their suitcases, unsure of how to straighten them out. 

“I’m sure you don’t,” You replied, and looked at him. He had his head close to yours, and from there you could smell his shampoo. It smelled like mint, and the scent drifted away as Shawn was called through the metal detector. You suddenly began to feel hot, even though it was March and freezing in the airport. Controlling your breathing, you put your cold hands on your face and started to gain some more control over your heartbeat. What was wrong with you? You had already built up your immunity from so many world tours, and knew you would only catch something once or twice during the tour. Were you already feeling sick?

Simon pushed you along through the tunnel, into the plane. He hated standing still like you, and now that the boys had left their guitars, he had wanted to board as quickly as possible. It was fun to learn all the guys’ quirks. You knew Kit the best so far, just because he never really stopped talking. He loved talking about his life and weird experiences he’d had, and honestly, it was fitting because you were such opposites. You knew how he hated cheese with a passion and once threw up four times in a row after chugging a gallon of milk in thirty seconds. He was very entertaining, to say the least.

You knew Simon had a little sister back at home, and he was from Chicago, which explained the way he said his As. He’d been playing guitar since he was nine years old, and you could relate to him in that way because you started on drums from a young age, too. You had met some of Shawn’s friends that traveled along and of course, his manager, and every other important person that came on tour with you all, but you stayed close to the band. After all, you had known them a day longer than anyone else.

Shawn hadn’t told you much, but he didn’t need to. His friends had already told you some embarrassing things about him, and you knew you would get to know each other better as the tour progressed. You didn’t want to pry.

You boarded the plane, and got into your assigned seat. There were only two seats together because you were flying first class, and you were glad to have the extra leg room and space. Looking out the window, you saw that it began to rain pretty hard, so you already anticipated some bad turbulence going into the sky. Luggage carriers zoomed around the plane, and you watched as the sun began to peek through the horizon. It streaked the sky a bright orange, and made the clouds pink. It gave you a warm feeling that you only got when you saw the sunrise. 

Shawn shuffled into the seat next you, snapping you out of your daydream. The lights shut off at that exact moment, making the inside of the plane glow blue at the ceiling, meaning passengers could sleep for a while before it got really bright. You could only see Shawn’s necklace sparkling as it escaped his hoodie, and some of his hair. Finally, your eyes began to adjust right as he got settled in. You pulled out your phone again and offered him an earbud. He took it with a smile. “What are we listening to?”

“My playlist. Prepared to be amazed at my exquisite music taste.” 

“Will do.” He put it in his ear, shuffling to the right side of his seat so he wouldn’t accidentally pull it out of your ear. At that moment you felt a bump in your back, ripping it out of your ear anyway.

“Sorry, Sticks!” Kit poked his head over your seat, and you looked up at him.

“Sticks?” You questioned.

“Y’know, you have your own special drumsticks. I gotta find some nickname to call you by.” He grins his dopey grin as he sits back down. 

“That’s a terrible nickname.” You call back.

He replies, “That’s why I’m keeping it, cause you don’t like it!” You could practically hear him smiling then. Shawn shakes his head, giggling with you. 

At that point the plane began to turn around, ready to go on the runway. You clenched your fists, tapping them on your legs as the plane got faster and faster, and finally, you were pushed back into your seat as it began its ascent. No matter how many times you flew on a plane, you hated getting in and out of the sky. Your mind went to the darkest situations, and you terrified yourself every time with the smallest possibility that you wouldn’t make it to the ground safe. 

You remembered your dad’s words to you when you were little. Whenever you would cry he would show you how to breathe. Holding onto your bracelets, you breathed in five seconds, held it, out five seconds. After your heart stopped racing, you looked out the window and completely ruined all the work you’d done. The plane was turning, but it looked like it was falling to you. Turbulence made it shake, quickening your heartbeat. You immediately shut your eyes.

A gentle tap went to your shoulder. You opened your eyes and looked at Shawn, who had concern plastered across his face, “Hey, are you okay?”

You gulped, “Yeah, I’m fine, I get a little panicky on planes. I’ll be fine once we’re above the clouds.” At that point, Shawn took your hand and squeezed it with both of his, warmth surging through. “What are you doing?”

“Pressure to the body helps people control anxiety, remind them that they’re there and okay, you know? Usually holding them works best because they’re soothing too, but-” he stopped himself, “Jeez, your hands are so cold.”

“Yeah, they get like that when I’m nervous.” You replied.

“Okay, just look at me. Don’t look at the windows.” His eyes met yours, and they never wavered. He began to breathe just like how your dad taught you, never letting go of your hand. He stopped after a minute or so. “There you go, now you’ll be okay. We’re above the clouds.”

“Thank you,” You said sympathetically. The music in your ears suddenly came back, and you realized you tuned it out before. Shawn began to rummage through his bag, taking out a case for glasses. He opened it, and put on the ugliest pair of glasses you had ever seen. They were big, orange tinted glasses that covered half his face. “What are those?” You asked, holding in laughter.

“What?” He looked at you like it was nothing out of the ordinary. “These? They help you sleep because of the orange lens.”

“You’re ridiculous.” 

Dublin came quicker than you expected. You must have fallen asleep on the flight, which was strange, since you never fell asleep on planes. You must’ve been mentally drained from take-off, you tell yourself. As expected, Shawn was fast asleep, adorning his orange glasses and your earbud still in his ear. 

Once you grabbed your bag from the overhead compartment, you sped your way through the plane and the tunnel, trying desperately to move your legs. You could feel the pins and needles in your legs and the humid air filling your lungs as you entered the airport. Kit and Simon walked with you, one on both sides, and Shawn lagging behind, talking to his friend Connor. He seemed nice when you had met that same morning, but you didn’t talk much after that.

Driving from the airport, you never got used to the feeling of being somewhere new. The sky was a pale blue with clouds streaked across it and driving along the weathered roads with the sun-baked buildings was another experience. The air smelled cleaner, at least cleaner than Toronto, and looking out the window of the car you and the boys were driving in, you could see shops open for business lining the street, selling bouquets of flowers, books, pastries, and so many other enchanting things. A double decker bus passed you, crowded with people snapping photos. Children ran along the sidewalk playing with kites and eating ice cream. It seemed like a wonderful place to live.

The hotel you stayed at wasn’t big, but a medium-sized building with a few floors. Since you were the only girl besides Alessia (and she was sharing a room with one of her family members) you would get your own room. Missy had stayed in Toronto, telling you that she’d be there for the Asian leg of the tour. You were content with being with Alessia and the guys, though, because you often found ways to entertain yourself. You didn’t doubt that Kit wouldn’t be entertaining nonetheless. 

Andrew, Shawn’s manager, handed all of you your keycards as you entered the lobby of the hotel. It looked nice; high ceilings, chandeliers, places to sit and a bar ready for anyone to sit at. All you wanted to do was sleep and the first concert wasn’t until tomorrow, so you took the first elevator and slipped out of the group as quietly as possible. When you unlocked your room, you were met with a queen bed, a bathroom, a small counter space, table with two chairs, a beautiful view from the window. White curtains blew from the wind that picked up in the room and your mouth watered at the smell of the bakery across the street. Setting your bag down, you began your mental hotel room checklist your mother ingrained into your head: check the mattress for bed bugs, take the top cover off because it’s never washed, put your suitcase in the closet, check inside and under all furniture for anything suspicious. 

You sometimes wondered how your mother and father even married each other, and stayed together at that. They were such opposites. She was a control freak, obsessed with keeping things orderly the way she wanted. He was relaxed, ready for anything that came his way. You wondered how people saw you as when they first met you. You cast the thought aside and closed and locked the window. You changed into leggings and a big t-shirt and crawled into bed, feeling the stress of the day fade away as you sank into the mattress. Within seconds, you fell asleep.

A harsh knocking woke you up from your sleep, and for a second you sat disoriented, not remembering where you were. The sun was setting outside, the horizon glowing. Events from the day came back to you, and knocking kept coming from your door. “Hey, you up?” Someone called on the other side. Yawning, you padded over to it, opening the door and rubbing your eyes.

It was Shawn, and he looked at you, hair a mess from turning in your sleep and the big t-shirt you wore going to your thighs. “Uh, sorry I didn’t mean to wake you up. I just wanted to know if you wanted to come get dinner with everyone?” He scratched the back of his neck, looking at you. He had changed into a green long sleeved sweater and black jeans, looking very put together. His hair had been tamed a little more, still curly but not sticking up in places. 

��Yeah, sure, and it’s no problem, I was tired. Are we having a rehearsal tonight?” You touched the bracelets on your wrist subconsciously, and took your hair out of its ponytail, releasing the tension from your scalp.

Shawn cleared his throat after looking at you strangely, “No, the hotel doesn’t have a drum set for you, so we can’t, but we’re gonna go down the street to a place Andrew reserved for us in about ten minutes.”

You nodded, “Alright, let me get dressed and I’ll be waiting in the lobby.” Shawn nodded, and turned to leave, but you caught his wrist. He looked back at you, hazel eyes boring into yours, “Hey, seriously though, thank you for helping me on the plane. I don’t like to tell people about that but it’s hard to hide it. Especially since you’re intuitive.”

“Thank you for the compliment, and hey, that’s what friends are for, right?” Shawn doesn’t take his wrist from your grasp, but you let it go.

“Well, technically, you’re my boss, so-”

“I don’t like that technicality. I want us to be friends. I want you to feel welcome with us, and I want to get to know you and the others to be your friends. So if that means helping you breathe every time we take off or have turbulence, I will gladly do that.” Shawn turns to leave again.

“You don’t even know yet if I work with you all on stage. How do you know I’ll get to stay?” You questioned.

He pressed the elevator button down the hall, to the right of you, “I have a feeling you will.” With that, he went inside the elevator and let the doors close on him.

You skipped and hopped along the cobbled streets of Dublin, laughing, looking up at the sky. As the breeze bit at your face and the moon looked back at you, you got a strange nostalgic feeling, a feeling that made you think you should remember this night forever. You and a few of Shawn’s friends had begun to walk away from the restaurant you had dinner at. Alessia, his special guest and opener, had begun to chat with you, and for a while you felt bad. Through all the commotion you didn’t even introduce yourself because you hadn’t even seen her, even though you knew all the drum parts to her songs. Her setlist was really fun to play.

Alessia ran along with you, a few of the others in tow. You had sparked some conversation about music, fashion, and new movies when you heard some folk music being played on the speakers at the bar across the road. Your feet moved in a rhythm, following a step pattern that you had been taught from folk dancers around the world. That was another thing you loved about touring: learning things from other cultures. “What are you doing?” Alessia asks, snickering as you dance along the pavement. Your sneakers tap the stone to the beat.

“Dancing. Folk dancing.” You turn to face her, dancing while moving backwards, “Come try.” Alessia smiles as you slow down the steps. She catches on fast, and soon enough you’re speeding it back to tempo. Suddenly your jacket isn’t needed as much, and you feel your face is flushed. Tying it around your waist, you see Alessia teaching Kit and Connor, and soon enough, all four of you are dancing, arms linked in a line. Andrew, Shawn, and the rest of the crew finally notice as they catch up to the four of you laughing, humming along to the song. Simon joins the line, asking, “What are we doing?”

“Having fun!” Kit screams back, whooping into the night sky. You see Shawn take a seat on one of the benches across from the five of you, him and everyone else clapping to the beat. He had a strange look on his face, and he wouldn’t break his gaze from you. Every time you laughed, you would sneak a look at him and see a tiny smile tug at his lips. It made you feel off-balance, in a way.

The song ends in no time, and you’re left with some energy spent, smoothing your messy hair down and tying a loose shoelace. A new song comes on, and you and Alessia begin twirling around the street, on your way back to the hotel. Shawn catches up to the two of you, face red from the cold. Alessia reaches out a hand, and her and Shawn begin to zoom in circles with locked arms, going fast with the momentum like a spinning top.

You remembered playing that game when you were little. You and your friends called it Twister. Alessia beckoned you over, and now the three of you became interlinked; Shawn’s cackling, leaning his head back in adrenaline as you scream to slow down. “I think that the rest of them think we’re acting like kids!” You grin, feeling your hair whip your face.

Shawn gasps out, nose and cheeks cherry red, “Who cares?”

“You’re on with Alessia in five,” a stage manager peeks into your’s and Alessia’s shared dressing room, and you nod at them, a mumble of okay in reply. You got nervous before going on stage, but it was more of the adrenaline making you unable to speak. The bright lights in the vanity in front of you shined, illuminating your face. You always did something fun with your makeup with each tour, and decided that this time, you’d do a bright color lining your eyes with some mascara. A bright blue lined your eyes this time, making them pop. Simple, but cool. The band usually had to wear darker clothes to emphasize Shawn and Alessia in front, which wasn’t a problem, so you sported some black sneakers, ripped jeans, denim jacket, and a gray tie-dyed shirt. 

You’re tapping your drumsticks against your thighs as you lightly jog down the bright hall, near the band. People are gathered around in a huddle. “There she is!” Kit says, watching as you walk to the group.

“What’re we doing?” You ask, joining the huddle. You felt like a football player.

“It’s tradition. We say a speech, and then go on stage.” Simon tells you, putting a hand on your back. Alessia’s to the right of you, and Shawn’s opposite from you, watching you. You feel strange again, only for a second. Was he watching you because he wanted to see if you wouldn’t do well tonight? That was impossible, given what he’d said to you last night.  

Alessia’s set left you feeling like you’d drank five coffees and then some more energy drinks, every nerve buzzing in your body. The crowd was wild; they knew all the words to her songs and she would occasionally run to you, singing her heart out while you returned the amazing feeling back, hearing your drums boom over the speakers. Sometimes you would see that the cameras panned on you, and you watched your flushed face, looking like you were completely in your element.

When she told the crowd to give it up for the band, Simon gave you a big thumbs up, reassurance that you were doing well. The first performance was always the hardest. The crowd’s screams roared through your ears, and they became deafening when Shawn appeared on stage, rising from the middle platform, smoke bathing him in the spotlights. You felt your stomach lurch in excitement, ready for the next two and a half hours, every single beat memorized in your fingertips. 

Shawn starts with Lost in Japan, singing beautifully. His voice sounds buttery and warm, and you wait for your queue as he pauses before the beat for dramatic effect. You come in right on time, everything syncing together, and your body’s pulsing, moving with the beat. You’re sweating, but it’s the best feeling you’ve ever felt in your entire life. A few songs pass, and Shawn begins one of his covers, walking over to Kit as they assemble back to back, shredding solos. As the interlude progresses, you see Shawn walking to you, and you swear his gaze is something you’ve never seen before. It’s euphoric, his hair and face glistening, the lights shining so bright that it makes him hard to see until he’s right in front of you, leaning over your cymbals. You flick the drumstick in a circle, catching it as you crash onto the symbols. Shawn’s looking at you, and you feel like all that exists is the two of you. It’s like you’re connected: you know that you’re both feeding each other the best kind of energy you’ve ever felt.

It wasn’t that way with Alessia. Sure, it felt awesome, but this, this guy, this guy who looks absolutely perfect in every way is putting you in a trance and suddenly you come back to your body, him giving you a wink as he makes his way back to center stage. You try to control your breathing with the beat, feeling lightheaded. Soon enough, you focus back on your drums and you pretend like nothing’s happened. But you know, deep down in your stomach, something in you has changed.

Four Months Later

“Goddamn it, I had two yellows left!” Alessia screams, huffing in frustration and flopping back onto the pillows of your bed. You laugh maniacally, falling down next to her, ignoring the scattering Uno cards all over your coverlet. “I can’t believe we’ve been on tour since March, and it’s already July,” She mutters quietly, looking up at the popcorn ceiling.

“I know. It feels like it’s been my entire life but somehow went by so fast I didn’t even notice,” You say back. The two of you just finished a show, exhausted but glad you got to rest for a bit before you left. All of you were taking the bus tonight and you know you wouldn’t sleep very much. Your sleeping habits on planes and buses had not improved one bit since March. 

“You wanna watch a movie tonight on the bus?” Alessia asks, sitting up to gather the cards. She picks one off your thigh, and you stretch your arms, your tank top making the Miami heat and humidity less miserable. Your hotel room still kept the moisture in, and if there was one thing you hated about Canada, it would be the humidity. It made you feel homesick, though, and you sigh as you feel your back stiffen.

“Yes, please, and Shawn asked if we could watch Far From Home,” You grinned at the thought of seeing MJ and Peter’s kiss on the Tower Bridge. You liked some romance if it involved Tom Holland.

Alessia groans, “How many times have you and Shawn watched Spiderman?” She snorts, “It feels endless. And you both can quote that movie word for word.”

“But you forget that we’ve watched the Andrew Garfield and Toby Maguire ones more. Now pick: confident and suave Spiderman, or cute, geeky, highschool Spiderman?”

“Cute geeky highschool Spiderman.” She responds, and all of a sudden there’s a knock at your door. Alessia gets up to answer it, but the door’s already swinging open, and Shawn struts in. He’s wearing a plain, black t-shirt and some gray sweatpants and his hair is wet from the shower. You feel a tugging in your stomach and ignore it.

He grins, “Did someone say Spiderman?” Alessia throws a pillow at him, and he falls back into the desk chair opposite the two of you, laughing.

“Unfortunately, and how did you even get in?”  She responds, sitting up on the headboard of your bed. 

“Kit stole your spare keycard so he could eat some of the German chocolate you have stashed in your backpack, and I caught him in the hallway before the show, so I came to return it now.” He gets up from the desk chair, and sits on the foot of the bed, handing it to you.

You grit your teeth, “I’m gonna kill him. I have been saving that for good reason, rationing it bit by bit. It’s not like you can get it back at home.” Alessia and Shawn respond in a chorus of giggles, looking at your angry face. “What? No one messes with my chocolate!”

It’s a few hours later, and you, Shawn and Alessia are crowded onto the long couch in the bus, letting the streetlamps and highways pass you by. Everyone else had left to go sleep, but you wanted to finish the movie and see the ending, even though you knew exactly what happened. You wore your warm, black sweatpants and the same tank top you had on before. Your hair tickled your back, but it felt good to release the tension from your scalp. You’d decided to put it up from the show tonight, an elegant, slicked back look. Shawn was off to the right of you, watching as Mysterio ‘saved’ the city from the ‘fire elemental.’ You hated him so much, feeling a little too attached to your Marvel characters. Alessia had begun to nod off, and finally was awoken when the bus hit a pothole. She groaned, “I need to sleep,” She pushed herself up off the couch, moving down the hallway into the bunks, “Goodnight, nerds.”

She always did that when you watched anything superhero-y. “Goodnight,” you and Shawn replied in unison. 

Opening your phone, you scrolled through your Instagram, seeing all your mentions of the band in concert. There was a picture of you and Kit hugging, Alessia and you running across the stage together, and you and Shawn playing through your solo. “You always do so well on that part,” Shawn says, leaning into you and looking at your phone. You felt your cheeks flare up and cursed yourself. He looked stunning in the photo, as per usual. Curly hair a mess, and his shirt stuck to his body with sweat. “I loved that outfit you wore, too, it was so cool.” He added. 

You looked at yourself and saw your lace, navy blue blouse, attached with interlacing straps, and flared black pants, paired with combat boots and your usual bracelets. Your slicked back ponytail was completed with the dangly earrings you wore. “Thanks,” you responded, “I try.” You can feel his shoulder touching yours, his knee brushing up against you. You scroll down a bit farther through the photos you’re tagged in, and see a picture of you and your dad. He posted it on your birthday. It was you and him backstage, a few years ago when you’d played your first tour. His hair and eyes were the same color as yours, and he always had a scruffy beard. You’re hugging him, and you remembered at that moment what he’d said to you. I love you, I’m so proud of the person you’ve become. Never stop doing what you love. Follow your heart, my love. 

You smiled to yourself and began to miss him so much. He was probably at home, watching his favorite show on TV, mom sitting next to him on the couch, reading a book. “Who’s that?” Shawn asked. He looked at you, and you turned your head, watching as his eyes studied you. 

“My dad. He’s the one who taught me to play the drums.” You fiddled with the bracelets on your wrist.

Shawn nods, “I’m guessing those bracelets you always wear are from him.” You looked down as he took your wrist, looking at three entangled together. 

“The first one, the one with the bird on it,” It was brown, the engraved bird, silver, “That was his. It was his good luck charm. The second he got me on my fifteenth birthday, the one that’s the silver chain.” That one had your birthstone on it in the middle, “And the last, that was given to me when I graduated high school.” It was a braided black cord, and on it a charm silvery-black that was your first initial. 

“They’re beautiful.” Shawn moves his fingers down from your arm, tracing your skin, and you shiver, “You’re beautiful.” His voice is soft, almost as if he’s scared for you to realize what he said, bottom lip quivering. His eyes never move away from you. It’s hard to see him, but the bus’s blue lights keep the room from being pitch black. You see his lips tug into a smile, and then he’s kissing you, and it’s like your body’s wired to respond to him. Kissing back, you move your fingers to the nape of his neck, twisting his hair into knots. You feel his hand settle on your waist, and he moves closer till you’re nearly on his lap. He smells like mint shampoo and his lips are soft. He teases you, licking your lip until you open your mouth, engulfing yourself in his touch.

You’re suddenly glad that you’re at the back of the bus, far from the driver and everyone sleeping. You pause for breath, looking at him. His eyes are sparkling, pupils blown out, and his lips and cheeks are flushed red. Your hair creates a curtain around your faces, and he plays with it, now that you’re settled on his lap. Feeling another wave of desire pulse through you, and you trace your fingers across his chest as he whines in response, but then you realize what’s happening, and your breath hitches, and you pull back, blood rushing to your face. “Wait, wait, we can’t do this. This isn’t right. I work with you.” You move off of him, getting up and standing.

Shawn grabs your hand, lightly. “What, no!” His voice is hushed, but still frantic, “It’s not like that. I’ve been feeling this for a while now, and every time I see you, it’s like I need you, I need you so-”

“-Shawn,” you say, and he stops, shutting his mouth and swallowing. He looks so good, and you feel your entire body wanting to go to him, but you knew it would end badly. You couldn’t have feelings. You shouldn’t. “This,” you waved your hands from you to Shawn, “We can’t do this.” 

All of a sudden, he takes your hand and puts it on his chest. “Tell me,” he says, and you feel his heart pounding, “Tell me you don’t feel anything when I do this. Tell me,” He pulls you in, putting his hand on your waist. The bus shakes, but he’s there, holding you, “You don’t feel anything when I do this.” He’s leaning over you now, mouth right next to your ear, “When you feel my hand running along your back,” you shiver, your entire body stiff, “Or when you hear me say that all I think about is you. And when you’re around me, all I want is to hold you like this, and feel your hands in my hair, and listen to your laugh, and lean on you when we watch movies, and play music with you, and-” 

You move his face from your side, and pull him in, kissing him again, and again, till you feel your lips swollen and your body pulsing, taking the feeling in one last time. Like that, it’s over, and you push away from him again, looking at his messy hair, curls strewn everywhere, and mutter, “I-I need to go to bed.” You can’t meet his eyes. His hands fall from your waist as you walk into the hallway, down to the bunks, every atom in your body protesting.

The next morning, you’re trying to busy your mind with anything you could possibly think of: memorizing the music for potential covers, reorganizing your suitcase; it was a flurry of meaningless tasks as you finally had to face soundcheck. Last night left you feeling lightheaded and warm inside, but when you thought about what was actually happening, that you had feelings for Shawn that he returned, your heart would pound and anxiety would creep into your chest. 

It wasn’t right. What if you decided to be together and then two weeks later you’ve argued and broken up and then the band doesn’t work? You’d ruin the entire tour. Or what if you felt that same pain you knew all too well?

You're tugging at the peeling skin on your lips, trying to delay soundcheck as much as possible as you round through the twisting hallways of the stadium. Humming helps you clear your head a bit, but the instant you see Shawn you know you’ll be tripping over yourself trying to get to your drums. As if heaven itself was descended upon you, Alessia and Simon are walking towards you, coming from the stage entrance. “They’re almost ready,” Simon said, his face calm.

Wondering if your face looked the same way your mind would’ve, you nodded, replying, “Alright, let’s go. Did you still want to do that solo with me, A?” You force yourself to tug a smile onto your lips. Simon patted your shoulder as he moved down the hallway, probably to get Kit to stop raiding the catering rooms for food.

Praying that the drums would muffle the world around you, Alessia replied, “Yeah, and I was thinking that maybe I could bring you to the front with me to hit the soundbox for an acoustic version, because Shawn said-”

“I kissed Shawn last night,” You blurted right before you walked through the stage door. You could see Connor, Geoff, and a few others crowding around some cameras, and your skull was pounding. Everything you felt that you questioned yourself about felt like a blow to the head. Alessia looked at you, her face unsettlingly calm. “Say something,” You pleaded.

“Was it good?”

“What? Ask me anything but that! Tell me I’m horrible, tell me this is wrong, that I’ll ruin this for everyone!” You grabbed Alessia’s arms, shaking her wildly. 

She began to smile. Smile. Why would she smile, of all things? “You guys are way more than friends, and you both know it,” Alessia assures. “You’re always teasing each other, you sit next to each other on planes and buses, and have you seen the way he looks at you on stage?” 

“What do you mean?” You asked. Alessia pulled you to the side of the doorway, Shawn walking down by Connor. 

“He looks back at you all the time on stage, and when he’s doing that solo with you, he’s facing only you on purpose. It’s like he doesn’t even remember anyone else is there.” She lovingly puts her hand on your arm, and you feel your stomach settling. “I’ve seen you on the plane, when you start to panic. He’s the only one who can calm you down, and you always make him feel better about being nervous up there.” She nods her head to the stage. “It’s only about what you want now.”

You groaned, turning your head to look at him. He was stiff all over, strumming his guitar as he sat on the edge of the stage. “I don’t know what I want. I have rules when it comes to tours. Relationships don’t end well.”

“Who’s relationship?” You jumped, turning to see Kit walk up, crumbs on his face.

You shrugged, “Oh, no one’s. I was just saying that usually band relationships don’t end well. I’ve seen one or two of ‘em.” You covered yourself, Alessia nodding. You didn’t actually know anyone who dated someone they worked with.

Kit scratches his chin, crumbs falling to the ground, “Well, my best friend’s mom ended up marrying the guy she was in a high school band with. They’re probably the happiest couple I’ve seen. Don’t ask me though,” He grinned, walking through the doorway and turning his head to face them, “I have commitment problems. See ya on stage, Sticks!”

You and Alessia rolled your eyes in unison. As he walked away from you, you looked at Shawn, who turned his head at the sound of your nickname. Alessia rubbed the small of your back, “I think he wants to talk to you,” she stated. You shook your head, ripping your eyes away from his stare. His eyes practically drowned you, his longing gaze making you feel dizzy. You were so fucked for him, and you didn’t have a clue what to do.

“Stay with me, A,” You practically whined like a five year old.

She shook her head, “I can’t do this for you,” She sounded like your mother, “If you tell him what you’re thinking, he’ll understand.”

You nodded and soon enough Alessia was gone, her laughing echoing through the arena. Shawn left his conversation, his friends’ eyes trailing after him as he approached you. He looked tired, devoid of sleep, and you felt guilt settle in the pit of your stomach. He lost sleep over you. It shouldn’t affect you, but you weren’t surprised by the same dark circles under your eyes this morning. He wore a plain white t-shirt, reasonable for the warm season, but now that you accepted your feelings for him, it was like you were seeing him differently this time. His eyes were prettier, body more graceful in the way he moved, and you could see every little detail that made him look perfect to you. “Hey,” was all he said.

His face seemed to be saying so much more, but you replied, “Hi.” God, you were so lame.

“We need to talk,” He said, fingers nearly touching yours where both your arms lay limp.

You nodded, watching his eyes shifting around your face as if he were trying to figure out a puzzle. “I know, it’s just that right now, I’m really confused, and I know that doesn’t make up for anything I did last night, but I just don’t know what I want.” You wanted to say you did, and everything in your heart that told you to kiss him right then and tell him you wanted him was chided at and locked away by your brain’s fears and doubts. You hadn’t realized that both your hands had met, and you were subconsciously running your thumb over the rings on his fingers.

Shawn was wordless, his mouth in a tight line. You watched as he inhaled, studying your intertwined hands, “I’ll wait for your answer,” He said it quietly, in the same way he had said that you were beautiful last night, unsure of what you were going to reply with. You began to open your mouth, but then someone cut you off. 

“Yo, Sticks! Where are you?” Kit called from the stage, “Where is she, man?” You could hear Simon mumble an ‘I don’t know.’

“I should probably go.” You didn’t dare to meet his eyes.

He let go of your hand, palm still outstretched. “Yeah, probably.”

The soundcheck had run by with few hiccups, Shawn asking you to adjust your amp a few times and approving of the acoustic version of one of Alessia’s songs. He all asked it politely, as if nothing happened in the last twenty-four hours. The same went for the concert: the crowd was amazing, as per usual, and that solo that you had always done with Shawn felt like nothing but pure tension. He looked at you in a way that showed he was trying to restrain himself and you doubted you looked any different.

“Did he say anything else to you after the show?” Alessia asked from your bed. You had finally gotten a hotel room together, and it was nice to have her there and to keep your mind off things. 

Wiping the pink eyeshadow and mascara lining your eyes, you muttered, “No, God, it’s like the worst feeling ever. It feels like he hates me, and he’s already so disconnected.” You threw your makeup wipe in the bathroom trash can, “He didn’t say a word, didn’t come to my dressing room like he always does. I feel like I’m losing him.” You glared at yourself in the mirror, steadying your body with two arms on the counter.

“Sweetheart, I’m sure he’s just as confused. Shawn needs some time to sort himself out, too.” You left the bathroom and joined her on the bed, groaning as you got under the covers.

“That’s the problem! He’s not confused. He knows what he wants and he told me he’d wait for my decision!” You aggressively turned to face her on your pillow.

Alessia turned herself to face you, the lamp behind her illuminating her outline, “What are you so scared of?” Her eyes were warm, and her hand ran up and down your arm.

“That I’ll ruin everything. What if we don’t work and then they’ll have to get a new band member because I messed it up?” Your eyes shifted from her to the threading of the covers.

Alessia sighed, “I know that can’t be all of it. What’re you hiding? Tell me.”

You knew the answer. It tugged at the back of your mind relentlessly. “I guess, I-I’m scared to love him. And for him to love me,” you replied, forcing yourself to accept it. You brought a hand up to your lip, tearing away at the skin. “I’ve been hurt before.”

Her mouth hinted at a smile, “Shawn would never hurt you. I know him, and I know that you’ve told me a little about your relationships, and you don’t need to tell me about them if you don’t want to.”

“I love you, A.” Your eyes began to flutter closed, the day’s exhaustion creeping up on you.

She shook you, making your eyes pop open, “I love you too. Now get out of my bed, you move around too much when you sleep.”

You had arrived home for two days, the tour coming to a stall for Shawn’s birthday. He had invited you to the party, and it had been the first time he’d spoken to you outside of a group for a few days. Now that you were safely home, you unsurely said that you would come, it being that you only lived twenty minutes away from him (you seriously wondered how you’d never played for him before). 

Arriving home felt strange. It was too quiet. When you’d set your keys down, everything was silent save for the storm raging outside. Toronto was refusing to be sunny for the time being. There weren’t any of Kit’s jokes causing everyone to laugh hysterically or scold him, none of Simon’s practicing sounding through the room, Alessia’s humming and drumming on any surface she could find, and especially none of Shawn’s laughter. Even when it was awkward between you two, you could always hear it, warm and broad coming from the back of the bus, or in a practice room. 

You had started to long for a pet, but you never wanted them to have to deal with your life of traveling. It might as well have belonged to your parents.

The first thing you did was raid the fridge for any food, and since you were gone for nearly five months, all you could see were bottles of ketchup and coffee creamer (which had definitely gone bad). Groaning, you pushed yourself away from the kitchen and grabbed your shoes from the front door, putting them on to walk down the block to your favorite pizza place. 

The healthiness of tour always gave you terrible cravings for junk food, and you basked in the glory of eating it twenty-five minutes later and laying on your couch in a food coma. A show you watched three times already played in the background, familiar voices and dialogue comforting you.

Your parents were enjoying their retirement, and were off exploring the Mediterranean, so no one familiar to your life before tour had been available. It was hard to make friends when you were gone for most of the year, but you still had a few, all of which were busy the same weekend you were home.

Everything felt terrible.

It was like you were crashing from a months-long high, unsettled by old surroundings and the quiet. So, you did what you always did when you felt lonely, tired, and overall miserable. Slowly, you got up from the couch and moved to your room, opening the drawer on the right side of your desk. You grabbed your notebook, a faded gray color with your first initial embroidered on the top right side. Taking a pen from your desk, you began to write incoherent sentences, different thoughts strung together in a way that didn’t make sense. It was strange to be back at your desk. Oftentimes, you wrote there whenever you were home from tours. It felt nostalgic to you. As your mind began to focus on one subject, you wrote pages and pages, completely unaware of time passing you.

The night in the bus kept replaying in your head, and Alessia’s words to you, and Shawn’s face looking at you onstage. It was like all you could think of was him. Every time you tried to change the subject you wrote about, it rooted back to him. Frustrated, you squinted your eyes and rubbed them. It was dark in your room. You hadn’t even noticed that three hours had passed. 

A forceful sigh left your lips. You got up from the chair, legs stiff and your head pounding. Moving to the bathroom connected to your room, you stepped into the shower, making the water scalding hot until it felt like your back was being burned. 

You sat and curled your knees to your body, crouching down to the floor of the shower, head hung in between your legs. Your hair blocked all light from entering, and it was like you were sucked into a trance of the endless beating of water on your back. All that was left was the steady rhythm of your breath. None of the day’s -correction- month’s stresses came to mind, and for once, your head was clear.

Shawn’s condo was really nice. It was spacious and open, with modern accents here and there in every room. You liked more of a cozy vibe, but each space still looked pleasing to the eye. There were too many people to count: some familiar faces and most unfamiliar. Bodies clashed together, music blasting, and some people chatted in corners with drinks in their hands. Not one for drinking all too much, you spotted a cooler that had soda in it near the door to the balcony. Popping the can open, you looked out the glass door. From there you could see the skyline, stars twinkling in the familiar pattern you had memorized long ago.

Your eyes scanned the room for Alessia. She didn’t text you yet, which means she was probably caught in traffic. Being completely honest with yourself, you questioned why you even came to the party in the first place. It wasn’t cool for Shawn to see your face and you to blow him off again. You knew you shouldn’t string him along, but something beckoned you in the back of your mind that told you you should stay.

It seemed like every two seconds you bumped into someone as you arrived at the edge of the balcony, a glass fence keeping you from tripping over the edge. There were laughs and screams and singing, and bass reverberated through the floor, rattling in your feet. Your stomach clenched as you drank the sweet soda; it did not agree with your already nervous stomach. Setting it down on the ground, you returned to looking at the skyline, not bothering to search for anyone you knew. 

“You made it.”

Looking at him just made your chest hurt even more. He was tipsy, you could tell from his blush and glazed-over eyes. Swallowing, you said softly, “Yeah.”

“Uh, d-you like the party?” His hair flopped in curls around his forehead as he gestured around himself. 

You nodded, “Mm, yeah. It’s great.” You cleared your throat, an awkward pause ensuing.

 “You know what? Okay, I’m just gonna tell you what’s on my mind because I’m a shitty person and a terrible bandmate and a whatever-other-adjective that connotes horrible friend,” Shawn stared at you, confused by your sudden flurry of words. “Continue?” You asked.

“Yeah, go ahead.” He gripped his drink in one hand and the other settled onto the ledge of the fence. 

“Alright. So, I shouldn’t have let you kiss me on the bus.” Shawn opened his mouth, then closed it as you stared him down, “That doesn’t mean I didn’t want to. Like, really bad. It’s just that I told myself after I dated a band member a long time ago that I would never do it again because it was the worst heartbreak of my life. And I can’t really talk about it right now.

“But then you were so nice to me and one of the best friends I’ve ever had and I hated ignoring you and avoiding you and doing all those things to keep myself from falling in love with you-” Your breath hitched as you realized what you just said. It didn’t imply you were falling in love with him, though. Shawn’s jaw clenched, but you further explained, “And you helped me on planes, and let me dump all my stresses onto you in the five months that we’ve known each other, and I feel like we can tell each other everything!

“And I’ve been writing songs! God, that’s one thing I’ve really done in my life. But it’s the only way to settle my thoughts and it keeps me from going insane. Because you, you make me go insane, Shawn.” You let out a deep breath, scared to see his face. 

He was smiling, and it felt like you were on that stage with him again, or in the bus with him, watching Spider-Man while everyone groaned that it was the tenth time you did, or listening to music on the plane, or sharing a chocolate chip cookie that you had snuck onto the bus without Kit seeing. It was like the five months you had shared together had been encapsulated into one look on his face.

Suddenly, Shawn grabbed your hand, “Come with me, right now.” He pulled you through crowds of people, and you wondered where he could possibly be taking you. A tug gripped your stomach, unwilling to stop, your blood pumping to your ears. You didn’t know where the hallways of his place led to. Finally, he went through the kitchen and to the hallway, down to the last door in the dark space. His hand was warm in your cold one, chapped knuckles being smoothed down by his touch. He smelled like alcohol and the outside but you didn’t mind. 

When he opened the door it was still dark, but as he shut it, he turned on the light inside, and you were mesmerized by his own tiny studio. A grand piano sat in the corner with mics hooked up next to it, and guitars lined the walls. A set of drums was close to you in the left corner. A desk on the right side held a computer and a soundboard. On a little wooden extension next to the desk lay a pile of notebooks, and Shawn led you to them, standing close to you as he handed you the second one under the pile of three. It was brown, with frayed edges and yellow pages on the inside. “Open to where the bookmark is,” He instructed. You pulled it out, it being the same color as the journal.

There, on the page was a messy script, cursive and so recognizable to you. You could read it, even through the rough erase marks and crossing outs on the page. Slowly, you started to read what the words said, formed into a song.

she’s here with me, and it’s like i can’t move

she’s next to me, and it’s like i can’t speak

she takes my hand, and i’ve awoken

but then when she leaves i feel broken

and i love the way she talks

and hate the way that she doesn’t want me to hear it

avoiding me and i have no idea why

because i just want to love her more than any other guy

drowning, drowning in everything she does

drowning, reaching just for her touch

and if she says one word

i’ll be breathing again

i’ll be breathing again

but without her, i question if i’ll feel this way about someone else again, and i know i can’t

“There’s a lot more,” Shawn said, and he was behind you now, watching you read his words from your shoulder. “You don’t have to read it all, though.”

You turned to him, inches away, his nose level with your eyes. “Why would you write this about me?” You set the book down on the table, looking back up from your shoes.

“Because,” He said, pushing a piece of your hair behind your ear, “I’m in love with you. We’re not even anything, and here I am, telling you that I can’t stop writing about you either because I’m in love with you, and I feel like I have since that first night of tour.” 

You were so close at this point, you could feel his breath when he sighed, moving his hands to your waist, unsure of his touch as they faltered along the hem of your jeans. It was like staring at him for eternity, looking into his amber eyes and feeling the hair on the nape of his neck. “Shawn, you’re not saying this all ‘cause you’ve drank, right?”

He laughed, surprised, “No, I’ve felt this forever. I think this was the catalyst, though,” He leaned his forehead against yours and shut his eyes. His eyelashes curled perfectly against his flushed face, dark brown on pink.

“Okay, good, because I think I want this.”

“You think?”

You nodded, “I know I do.” 

That was enough for him to tighten his hold around you, pulling you in for a sweet, slow kiss. He tasted bitter, beer on his lips, but all you were focused on was the fact that he was here with you. He was here with you, and a weight had been lifted off your shoulders, and suddenly you weren’t so afraid anymore. You weren’t scared that he would break your heart. Because if he did, it would be mutual, in the most sadistic way of thinking of it. But you didn’t concern yourself with those thoughts for any longer as he parted from you, lips swollen already.

“Shawn?” You said again.

“Yeah?” He repeated.

“Happy birthday.”

“Shawn!” You giggled as he pushed you into his hotel room, shutting the door behind him. His face was flushed, yours too as he kept one arm hooked around his waist, kissing a line up your neck to your lips, “Shawn, hey, we can’t do this right now, we have to go to dinner!” Another chorus of giggles followed as he began to kiss a spot that made you ticklish. You had gone back on the road and a few days had passed since Shawn’s birthday.

“Dinner can wait,” He said, his lips on your skin muffling his voice. He had changed into some sweats and a black hoodie quickly after the concert, but his hair still smelled salty from the show. You, on the other hand, hadn’t even changed. Your jacket and black boots were thrown on the floor, but you still wore the dark green tank top you had on and black flannel pants. 

Shawn began to pull your ponytail loose, letting your hair cascade around you, and he brought his eyes to yours, moving you to the wall. “When will we tell them?” You asked Shawn, his pupils blown so much you could barely see his irises. The pause let you push a curl back off his forehead, your hand settling on his neck.

“I dunno, when do you feel like it?” He asked, “Because I’m ready whenever you are.”

“Let’s not take it too fast. Maybe another week?” You questioned, and he settled his hand on your waist, another on the wall behind you.

Shawn sighed, moving his mouth to your ear, whispering, “So we’re gonna sneak around? It’ll be our secret?” His breath was hot on your neck. You shivered.

“If you want it to be.”

“How exciting,” You could practically hear him smirk as he settled his lips back onto yours hotly. He groaned and you pushed him closer to you, almost tearing at his curls. Your face was burning now, and you could feel him push up against you painfully. In protest, he moved his face away from yours.

Your senses came back to you, overstimulated, “I should shower.”

Shawn nodded, “Okay. Let’s go.” 

You rolled your eyes, moving your hand to his, “A little too eager, huh?”

He didn’t answer you and just wrapped his arm around the small of your back, bringing you to the wall adjacent to the bathroom, settling himself between your legs. You got lost in him, consumed by the salty scent and mint shampoo and the burning tongues and icy touches on your skin. 

You heard the lock on his door begin to beep, and you jumped, his hand covering your mouth. It would’ve been attractive to you if you hadn’t considered the situation. “Hey!” Kit called from outside. “Can I come in?” The door began to crack open, and Shawn stretched his other hand to it, shutting it while one stayed on your lips.

“Um, no, I-I’m naked!” He replied, and your eyes widened at what he just implied.

“Oh, um, sorry man, didn’t mean to interrupt your momen-”

Shawn shook his head, ears turning pink, “Not like that! I’m gonna go into the shower!” His words came out of his mouth all at once, panicked. 

Kit nervously laughed, “Ohh! Alright, well, we’re leaving for dinner in ten.”

“M’kay,” His hand moved off your mouth, and you pushed yourself off the wall, “I’ll be down soon.”

“Alright, I’ll go tell Sticks,” You could hear his footsteps sounding down the hall. 

Your eyes widened, and you frantically thought of how you were gonna get there in time. You’d just go up the stairs, but it had to be fast. Shawn turned to you, “We’re not done with this,” He grinned, “‘Kay?”

You nodded, “I’ll make it up to you, promise,” and you felt a smile tug at your lips as you pecked his lips, grabbing your jacket and boots off the floor. You heard him laugh as you ran out the door in your socks, close to the stairway. Before you opened the door to the stairway, you saw him peeking his head out of his room.

“Fuck off.” You chuckled.

“What? I like looking at your backside.”

You rolled your eyes, flipping him off as you started to run up the stairway.

“You and Shawn seem good,” Alessia called from above you. You were in your bunk below her, a sleeping Simon and Kit opposite you. Both of you didn’t sleep well on the bus and often ended up talking. Shawn was in the back in his room, probably waiting for him to text you.

You moved on your back so you could see her peeking head in the blue-lighted darkness. “Yeah, um, we’ve settled our feelings.” You weren’t sure if you should tell her, even though you knew she wouldn’t say a word to anyone else.

“‘Settled your feelings?’ Is that a codeword for something?” You could hear her shift on her side and watched as she propped her head up on her hand.

Your breath hitched, but you fought against the tension in your chest. Fear. “Keep it to yourself for the time being, A, but we’re yes, we’re together.” 

“Yes! Ooh, how sneaky, keeping it a secret!” She sounded exactly like Shawn.

“It’s not like that, we just don’t want to cause drama, but we’ll probably tell everyone soon. We wanted one week at least.” You put your arms behind your head, covering yourself with your blanket. 

“To not tell anyone?” She asked.

“Yeah.”

It was silent, but Alessia broke it, “I’ve never seen him happier. You’re good for him, and he’s good for you.” 

“How is he good for me?” You ask, curious. Your phone buzzed at that moment, and you grabbed it, reading the message. Can you come here please? It was from Shawn.

“You calm each other. You think the same way and know how to comfort whatever you’re stressing about, I mean, I saw it before you were together. I just got the feeling it was more than that now. And when you talk about anything creative it’s like no one’s around.” She responded. You began to smile, and tore the sheets off your bed. “Where are you going?” You could see her face now, her hair tied back and a big sweater covering her.

“I’ll be back,” you stated, and she just wiggled her eyebrows at you. “What?”

She laughed softly, “Don’t come back too soon.”

“Shut up.” You replied, unable to keep the grin off your face. Tiptoeing down the bus hallway, you made it to the back where Shawn was. His room wasn’t big, and mostly was just a bed with a tiny space to walk next to. Opening the door, you walked in, the room only illuminated by the passing streetlights. They flashed yellow, so you could occasionally see Shawn’s form laying in the bed, back to you.

Moving to him, you carefully edged your way to the side, scared to fall from the moving bus. “Hi,” You said, and he turned around, eyes opening. They looked worried, and continued to as he moved to the wall next to the bed, letting you crawl in beside him. 

You propped your head on the pillow, staring at his face, illuminated yellow every few seconds. His eyes and messy hair glittered with the lights, but soon you hit a stretch of darkness from your surroundings outside. “Hey,” He replied as you felt his leg wrap around yours.

“What’s wrong?” You asked. You moved your hand to the halo of curls around his head, smoothing them back. He shut his eyes, breathing softly out of his mouth.

“I’m scared,” He said, “I feel like a fraud sometimes. Like I’m not good enough to have the life I have, and I feel like I can’t breathe when I think about it too hard.” You could see his eyes watering and see the restraint he held when trying not to cry. 

You shook your head, “I’ve felt that way too many times to count. I believe that you’re here, on this earth, for a reason. If you weren’t good enough to have the life you have, you wouldn’t bring so much joy to the people who love you and look up to you,” You calmly moved your hand to his cheek, wiping the tear pooled at his eye, “Whenever you feel that anxiety come in, take a deep breath and say, ‘I’m here for a reason. I matter.’”

He repeated after you, “I’m here for a reason. I matter.” You nodded, pulling him close to you and letting his head lie in the crook of your neck. You ran circles along his back, feeling him clutch onto your waist. “Where did you learn how to do that?” He asked, voice muffled.

A tug came to your lips, “My dad said the same thing to me when I had my shows.”

“He sounds amazing,” He whispered, “I want to meet him. Your mom, too.”

You chuckled softly, “Give it a few more weeks, rock star.”

He kissed your shoulder, bodies intertwined. Eventually, his breathing slowed and became more even, and you heard Alessia’s voice in your head; You calm each other. Somehow you got the feeling that no matter what happened you would always be there for him, and he would always be there for you. With those thoughts, your mind settled and you felt the warmth of sleep take you in gently.

Two Months Later

Everyone on tour knew about you and Shawn now, and nobody ever protested it. They all were happy for you both. Life had become easier as you adjusted your already similar schedules: waking up next to him was a dream, though the two of you hadn’t taken things farther than that. It never came up now that you were moving across countries and continents each day, exhausted and sleeping as soon as you got in the hotel room. 

Alessia was gone, and it felt not completely whole on tour without her. You totally loved Dan and Shay, but the two of you created such a bond that you often found yourself turning to your side to tell her something or laugh with her when she wasn’t even there. Missy had come, making Shawn’s life much easier with her incredible organization skills.

Today was going to be a fantastic day, you thought to yourself as you stared at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. It was Halloween, and you didn’t think there was another better celebration than having a Halloween show in Melbourne. The fans in the Oceania part of the tour were like something out of a movie. The crowd felt unreal there.

Pulling the towel from your head, your hair fell down around your shoulders. Tonight everyone was going in costume, wearing 80s clothes, and you were delighted. The frantic colors and patterns were fun to wear, so you already began to change into your mom jeans, multi-colored striped top, and yellow bomber jacket. 

In less than twenty minutes, your hair was away from your face, in a crimped ponytail with a scrunchie and you wore yellow eyeshadow that rimmed your eyes with heavy mascara. Halloween was so exciting to you, and you honestly missed getting dressed up.

“You ready, love?” You could hear Shawn open the door to your room, and he walked into the bathroom, grinning when he saw your face. “I love it. You look totally rad! That’s what they said, right? Rad?”

You laughed, watching him at the door in the reflection of the mirror. He wore a multi-colored bomber jacket and some cargo pants with a neon headband, and he looked so happy. His lips were rosy, and you replied, “I’m pretty sure, don’t ask me though, I’m not that old.”

“You’re older than me.” He added.

You stuck your tongue out at him, “By one year.” You began to put your makeup brushes away, and paused, “Do you want to wear some eyeliner? It might look cool.” You held the black pen in front of your face.

“Sure, let’s try it,” He moved to the counter and stood in front of the sink, facing you. You held his chin in one palm while your steady hand brushed along the rim of his eye. “It feels weird,” he said in discomfort.

“You get used to it.” 

“You look so concentrated, it’s really cute.” He moved away from the eyeliner as you finished, setting it down on the counter. Snaking his arms around you, you settled your head against his sternum, feeling the solid-ness of him. “Let’s get going before Missy accuses us of ‘fooling around.’”

You felt a smile tug at your lips. “That woman talks like an old lady, I swear.”

He let go of you, “Don’t tell her that.”

Shawn’s leg kicks during Jesse’s Girl were absolutely adorable, you thought as the concert wrapped up. You, Kit, and Simon had thought up a dramatic introduction for him to come out of the stage on and it fit really well with the performance. 

Several hours later, you were on the plane, moving to the tour’s next location. Your flight anxiety was worse this time around, bad turbulence making you nauseous. Shawn had pressed your palms into his and rubbed your neck soothingly for what seemed like forever, and it wasn’t until the last two hours of the flight that he fell asleep. You felt bad for keeping him awake, but welcomed his sleepy head on your shoulder and the arm that fell across from you gladly. 

With your free arm (his arm kept your left one pinned down) you wrote some lyrics down in a notebook Alessia had given you on her last day of tour. It was a simple, black leather bound notebook, with yellow-ish lined pages. All you could write about were the same few themes: a feeling of falling, and then getting pulled back into someone’s grasp, or feeling so happy you were unsure it would last, lastly your main theme, of course; so many of the lyrics had been for the boy sleeping on you at the exact same time. Alessia told you to write down those feelings and keep them recorded so that one day you could look back on them, and smile at what you’d done and accomplished in your life.

Shawn had begun to stir from his sleep, mumbling incoherent words as he gripped the blanket on the both of you. You moved your hand, running it along his scalp calmly, “I love you,” you said, surprising yourself with what you just whispered to him. You had kept it in for so many months, terrified of coming to terms with it. Your lips trembled, scared to see his facial expression. 

His face was still unmoving with sleep, and you felt a breath come out of you. He didn’t hear you. But was that what you wanted? For him not to know how much you loved him?

December

Your apartment looked much less lonely now that Christmas decor had been almost bombarded on every surface; there were twinkly lights across your windows and on your kitchen counters, holiday pillows swapped for regular ones, and a white, red, and gold tree shining next to your couch. The cold time of year always made you the happiest, and you felt this elation course through your body almost every day.

A soft blanket and a mug of coffee kept you warm while you watched old cartoons on your tv, feeling nostalgic. Shawn was cooking in the kitchen while you rested. Lately, it seemed like the two of you barely spent a day apart, and it was hard for you to get anything done around him when all you wanted to do was be next to him. That’s what the holidays were for, you reminded yourself. It was easy to get swept up in a world of productivity. 

A smell of something savory wafted into the living area, and you turned your head away from the television to look at your boyfriend. He domestically had a rag on his shoulder while the sizzle of something sauteing in a pan and the chopping of a knife made you ask, “What’re you making?”

“It’s a secret,” You could see him grin as he moved to the fridge.

“You didn’t need to make anything,” You added.

He shrugged, turning his head to you, “I wanted to have a nice dinner with you tonight, and plus, you said we could watch Harry Potter, so this is my thank you.” You giggled, turning back to the screen to watch Charlie Brown having a snowball fight with his dog.

In a half-hour, plates were set on your seasonally-decorated dining table, and glasses of wine were filled for the two of you. Putting the utensils down next to each of your plates, Shawn sauntered up to the table and dramatically set down the serving plate, steaming with food. “Roasted chicken, sauteed with onions and vegetables,” Shawn grinned, looking at you expectantly as if he were on a cooking competition show. “Dessert is also a surprise.”

It tasted delicious; he really knew his way around the kitchen. Shawn blushed every single time you complemented the food, quite adorably, and soon enough the both of you had changed the subject to the Harry Potter movie you were going to watch.

“Okay, but the third is such a classic! It has the Marauders stuff happening and Lupin and it’s my favorite!” Shawn argued while the two of you gathered up your plates, walking to the sink. 

You shrugged, “Yes, but the fourth has the Triwizard Tournament, and we can’t forget about Cedric Diggory!”

Shawn snorted, “That’s because you have a weird obsession with Robert Pattinson, and you know it!” You laughed along with Shawn, unable to make a retort because you knew he was completely correct.

You gave in, opening the dishwasher, “Alright, alright, but we’re watching the fourth one soon.”

“M’kay, Bella Swan.”

You scoffed, slapping him with a dishrag, “How dare you compare me to her! She has the personality of a piece of paper!” He doesn’t reply, and just watches as you try to hide your giggles. There’s a strange silence and you can almost hear the ambience of the holidays in your ears.

Shaking his head, Shawn blurts, “I love you,” he said affectionately, almost as if he didn’t hear it, continuing to wash off the plates. He pauses, looking at you and coming to his senses, realizing what he said.

He hadn’t said it since his birthday. You hadn’t said it at all, save for that night on the plane, but he wasn’t even awake. But somehow you felt an overwhelming feeling come over you, and on instinct you replied, “I love you too.” 

Shawn takes his hands away from the sink. “You do?” His face looks vulnerable, and a hand reaches out to stabilize himself on the counter. All you can do is nod. “Yeah?” He questions again, and you set your rag down on the counter, taking his face in your palms and kissing him as passionately as you can.

The two of you part, “Yeah, I do. ‘Guess I was too scared to say it ‘till now.” You reply as his arms loop around your waist.

“Why would you be scared?” He brings your body closer to him.

“When I love people, I’m scared of losing them,” You mutter under your breath, but he heard you anyway. 

He pushes a piece of hair behind your ear, “You’re never going to lose me,” His eyes darken, almost looking pained as he brings his lips to yours again, and you get lost in the taste of him, the smell of him. You can feel his arms slide from your waist to your thighs, and he hikes you up onto the counter. Your fingers rake across his scalp, feeling the heat coming off of his neck, coursing through his body. “I promise.” He says, a pause between kissing you.

The smell of cinnamon and linen welcomes you as he carries you into your bedroom, the curtains shut and the city lights streaming through the bedroom. There’s a lamp on your bedside table, emanating a warm glow. You feel his frame crawl over you, and it’s like the two of you are in a movie. Perfect, cold-weathered lighting, the smell of Christmas, and the hot-and-cold prickly feeling that comes when you pull off your sweater. His face is flushed, rosy cheeks and lashes feathering his cheekbones. He looks at you carefully, almost lost in thought.

You bring your face to his, meticulously playing at the seams of his shirt, kissing him slowly and softly. You can hear a soft moan come from his lips, setting you on your back as he touches what seems like every nerve in your body. “I love you.” He repeats for what seems like forever, almost like he wants you to believe it absolutely. 

And you want him to believe it, too, trading the same three words over and over again until you fall asleep holding each other. Strangely, when sleep comes and you’re in your dreams, an old Greek myth that your father told you comes to mind. When pairs of people were one, they didn’t need any other person. They were attached to each other. But when Zeus, King of the Gods separated them, those people, the human race, spent their entire lives looking for their other half. They needed to be with each other so they could be complete. 

When you wake up for a moment, lost in the thought of the myth, you look up and see Shawn, curly hair messy and his head in the crook of your neck. You think of the pairs, needing each other to survive. He never lets go. 

[tortoisesshells]

Buying Time (2/6, probably, who knows, ~2,800 words, some salty language and more ways to not deal with grief)

Customs and Duties, but make it a modern!fake-dating AU with a severe lack of fake dating and more historical minutiae than any self-respecting modern AU should have; Part the Second, in which neither party has any luck with antique clocks, despite planned and unplanned meetings.

He never did see that coat again. Either someone had taken it, or maybe it had somehow found its way into the water that seemed omnipresent in that place – tidal creeks and ponds, the little river, the sea itself. One of life’s mysteries. There were others, from that day in January, but it was easier to think about the coat he’d lost.

Or why that particular shop: there was a bookstore nearby, and frankly that seemed a better place to finish sobering up before driving on to New York – where he would, in all likelihood, end up maudlin drunk on Andy Gillette’s couch, but at least get the thin satisfaction of someone worrying about him. At any road, he’d looked at the sign for S. J. Treat & E. C. Treat, Antiques – quaint, with a little hour-glass carved next to the names, and found himself inside – where he’d proceeded to make a complete ass of himself before the proprietor, who, contrary to what a sensible person would have done, sat him in a (modern) chair behind the counter and poured coffee from a thermos that might have actually have been an antique, listened to him ramble about Decatur and Barron because he’d been thinking that maybe his ancestors had been onto something, with their elaborate and ritualized pretenses for beating the shit out of each other over “honor” – and, after she was satisfied he was safe to drive, Mrs. Treat made sure he had  his keys, wallet, phone, and a water bottle before wishing him well. 

When he returned to Boston, he penned a note of thanks, knowing that it was wholly inadequate. Then, after his series of stilted emails with Elizabeth over the disposition of the apartment and everything in it, he’d had the idea.

*

Mrs. Treat politely insisted he pick the restaurant , since he was paying, and he insisted that she pick the restaurant, as she knew the area better than him. They probably would have stood there in the square batting courtesies back and forth like a deranged game of shuttlecock, before he made a tentative suggestion – which, contrary to her earlier assertions that she wasn’t picky – Mrs. Treat scoffed at as both too trendy and too loud, and steered them off in the direction of an unassuming shingle-sided tavern he hadn’t looked twice at on his initial and inebriated visit.

“It’ll be reasonably quiet,” she said, “And there’s a decent chance they’ve got the Franklin stove going.”

With that ringing endorsement, she ushered him into the bar, waved to the bartender, and pointed to a table that was, indeed, right next to an ancient woodstove – and sat in the chair closest to it.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Mrs. Treat said, by way of an apology, “I get cold easily.”

“Not at all,” he replied, looking around the low-ceilinged room. “The decoration is …”

“A little idiosyncratic?”

He nodded.

“It’s what the tourists expect, I think.”

“They expect harpoons?”

“They’re not used,” Mrs. Treat said, with an expression that was very nearly a smile, “You’d be able to tell if they were. There’s a lot to be said about common misconceptions regarding 18th and 19th century maritime activity in this neck of the woods – or the coast, as the case may be – but that’s not what we came here to talk about.”

James privately wondered how you went about telling how a harpoon had been used, but missed his chance to ask: Mrs. Treat briskly arranged the tablet, folders, and notepads on the table, pausing only for the waitress to take their lunch order. Mrs. Treat recommended the scallops, and a local brewery with atrociously punned names, but he noted she only ordered a sandwich for herself. He thought of reminding her that he had asked her to find a clock that might very well cost more than a car and he wasn’t going to begrudge her a pint, but just as quickly scrapped the idea as horrifyingly bad-mannered.  She might not drink, after all. Or hate seafood.

“I’ll start with the bad news: the sum total of it is, I haven’t found your Williams shelf clock.”

“I assumed so.”

“I would get in touch right away if I had, absolutely. But I haven’t.”

Watching her twist her wedding band, he cleared his throat and asked: “Any good news?”

Mrs. Treat stopped her fidgeting and laughed. “The good news is that I can probably teach a specialist course on clock manufacture to 1850? I found more information on the Boston concern that Williams tended to purchase his clock-faces from, the history of brass rolling mills in New England – mostly Connecticut, by the way, none of your Hub nonsense here – though I don’t know for sure if Williams bought from Abel Porter and Co. or imported from England. You said your clock was early 18-teens, which makes trade with Britain a tad unlikely. There’s more information on the mahogany trade in there, as well. Book review for a monograph creatively titled Mahogany, by a Dr. Anderson – I suppose that’s part of the commodities trend where every other book was titled Cod or Pepper or whatever have you – in case you’re interested. Oh, and did you know that Williams once rented shop-room that had previously been occupied by a silversmith named Zenas Fearing?” She pushed a full manila folder across the table to him.

“If you want it,” she said, quickly, “I have all this in scans and pdfs as well, I can just email it to you. But I prefer hard copies.”

He took the folder and leafed through the pages, her annotations in red standing out against the page. “At this rate, Mrs. Treat, I’ll be able to construct it myself.”

“You might consider it. Shelf clocks are more common by the Federal period, but they’re still rare. If you could find a good source for Honduran mahogany you’d be able to make a pretty close replica to an original. Or just 3D print it, I guess.”

She sat back in her chair and swirled the ice around her glass with an apologetic smile. “I want to be clear, Mr. Norrington. I do believe that David Williams likely made multiple clocks of the type you’re describing, and I do believe that several have survived the last two centuries, and will come up for sale if they’re not already – these things can get misidentified. My failure isn’t an indication that it doesn’t exist, only – hmm. I say this as a professional: I appreciate your business and the trust you’ve put in me, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t at least tell you to consider going through a specialist. I don’t know clocks as well as I do desks and highboys.”

When he said he had consulted a specialist, Mrs. Treat cocked her head, and frowned. “Well. That’s good.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that – she didn’t seem upset or offended, more puzzled than anything. He hadn’t meant it as an insult to her professional abilities; the dealers he had consulted spoke highly of her, tempered by the recent loss of her husband, who had been the founder of the business. Still, she looked at him cautiously – like she suspected something was afoot. “You care a great deal about this clock, I see.”

“One needs goals in life.”

“A lawyer’s answer,” she shot back. “But I understand, I think. And that really is all I have for you – there’s copies of correspondences with a few auction houses about Williams’ clocks – mostly tall clocks that have come up in the last half-century, some research from Newport Historical Society I called in a favor for – mostly about Williams and his contemporaries. Shockingly, most everyone wants to hear about William Claggett, so this is a bit thin – but if you ever get to Newport – the antiques show really is something! – you really should see the Claggett clock in the Redwood Library; it makes the to-do about him and his workshop seem very, very justified. There’s some auction results for the last few times one of his has come up, too. Just for comparison. Close to the back, yellow tab.”

Well. That was a number of zeroes.

“I appreciate your diligence,” he replied, closing the folder and pushing it to the side, to make way for the two plates the waitress was sweeping up with, and was very grateful for it, because he wasn’t sure what else there was for her or him to say. At least Mrs. Treat seemed to think one shouldn’t talk during the first few bites of a meal, efficiently clearing away half of her turkey club before setting the rest aside, and pushing her chips around her plate, which seemed an oblique signal that she’d welcome conversation, or still had something to say.

He didn’t say anything – a lawyer’s habit, maybe, though God knew it’d never helped him outside of the courtroom; or maybe he was still feeling a little foolish for letting the blind grief and very old scotch go to his head that day, and wasn’t entirely sure who Mrs. Treat was, even after doing some due diligence of his own: she seemed personable, dedicated, and honest – too honest for her own good, if she was encouraging him to look elsewhere. The glasses she wore on a chain gave her the air of a librarian, or slightly eccentric aunt – appropriate enough for her occupation. Still, it was rude to be too quiet for too long, and Mrs. Treat really had done an admirable job given the conditions.

“Will you permit a question, Mrs. Treat?”

“Of course.”

“You needn’t have given me all this information – or anything else that you’ve sent along. I would have been satisfied with an email that was some variant on ‘Not yet.’ Why all this?”

“It’s the slow season for me. Almost no foot traffic between the holidays and Memorial Day weekend – a spike around Valentine’s Day and St. Pat’s, because of the road race – but all in all, winter into early spring’s my designated vacation time. I liked the challenge – and I spent a lot of summers in Newport, when I was a teenager.” She paused, before looking at him curiously. “Will you permit a question?”

He nodded.

“I’ve been assuming you’re looking for a Williams clock because there was one passed down in your family – how did your family come to acquire the original? I’ve had to get very good at family genealogies over the years, but I wouldn’t have to have done so to know you’re not from a Newport family.”

“An antecedent married a woman from Newport; it came with her to the marriage.” If there had been an implicit question in why he did not have that original clock, he ignored it – better leave it as some question or quibbling over inheritance. Old families were fairly notorious for that. His cousins still weren’t speaking, even after fifteen years had passed, over the disposition some porringers. God alone knew what Hell would break loose when Grandmother passed away, and left the Burt silver tea service to one her descendants.

“Good provenance,” was all the reply that Mrs. Treat made on that score – all the reply she could make, because her phone began to ring and, apologetically, she checked the ID before blanching. “It’s my daughter’s school – if you’ll – just a moment – I’ll be right back!”

And she was – dashing back to the table looking like she was either about to break something or cry. “I am sorry, Mr. Norrington – I have to cut this short – my daughter’s been in a fight at school – she bit someone, actually – no blood, thank Christ – and, well –”

“I understand,” he said, rising to his feet belatedly, because he felt he ought to.

“Bless you! Do you want the folder with all the copies? Yes? Great. I’ll be in touch in June. Enjoy the spring up in Boston!”

Mrs. Treat rushed out the door, and he sat back down with the folder. If nothing else, it’d be more interesting that his current caseload.

*

In his inbox, not a few hours later, was a painstakingly polite email containing more than one apology and several thanks for understanding as he had:  Just in case (she wrote) I’ve set up a DropBox with all the info in the folder, find it at this link, I am profoundly sorry for my unprofessional behavior, Best Regards, Elinor Treat.

He replied immediately that there really was no need for her apologies: though personally unable to relate to the experience of managing children alone, his sister’s children were enough of a handful, and – came the sobering thought – they hadn’t just lost their father the year before.

Biting, though. He wanted to ask, but that would be rude.

And as May rolled through into June, Theo reminded him that it had been six months, and there was no time like summer to at least try to start dating again. This struck him as profoundly collegiate, and he said so, which led to a completely fruitless argument over whether or not either of them had dated in college, and why or why not, and how that at all had any bearing on the subject at hand – the only thing worse than arguing with a lawyer, he supposed, was being one yourself and doing it anyway. Like being an electrician and still sticking a fork in a wall socket.

He won a one-month moratorium on the topic, but that seemed pretty pyrrhic, all told. Weatherby Swann still couldn’t look him full in the face – and he didn’t anticipate that starting to date again would at all endear him the senior partner turned Gubenatorial hopeful. Or maybe it would? Swann could breathe a sigh of relief that it hadn’t been so serious as it seemed at first – no broken hearts, no resentment. Just two people who weren’t quite meant to make it.

He was out of his office before he knew it, saying something vague about getting lunch to Ned Jarsdel and he’d be back shortly, etc. etc. – and didn’t even notice he had a shadow until Theo Groves jumped into the elevator behind him with an obviously innocent expression.

“Someone’s got to make sure you eat your greens,” Theo said, airily.

“I’m not six years old,” James replied. He said it petulantly enough that it sounded like he was, and his junior snorted. Decades of incredibly expensive education, and that was the best he could do.

“You eat like you are.”

“And you know many first-graders who survive on scotch and bagels?”

“More in the sense of, ‘You can’t be trusted to eat a nutritionally balanced meal on your own account,’” Theo corrected, following him into the noisy lobby, “Honestly, it’s a marvel you haven’t developed scurvy by now.”

James tried to think of concrete proof he’d eaten something with vitamin C in the last week, but came up short, and settled for sniping that Theo had a job and caseload of his own – which, somehow, turned into another bout of unproductive bickering that lasted  up State Street, and James pretended he didn’t notice he was being herded towards Sweetgreen (or however it was spelled). With the vaguest glimmer of self-knowledge, he knew he was bristling from the shame of being seen to be incompetent; it didn’t stop him bristling, but at least he let himself be chivvied along through the crowds and the late-spring sunshine.

This was, of course, the moment he encountered Elinor Treat again.

“Mrs. Treat?”

She was standing on the edge of a group of children, clustered around a tricornered guide at the Old State House – and whirled around at being hailed with a puzzled look, until she spotted him and waved. With a word to another woman, she broke away and jogged over. “Mr. Norrington, hello! Forgive me – I’m here with my daughter’s class – end of year field trip, you know. I hope you’re well?”

Very aware that Theo was suddenly Interested in the proceedings, James was as dry as possible in introducing the two: Theodore Groves, a junior associate; Elinor Treat, antique dealer.

“Allegedly,” she said, with a sort of chagrinned cheerfulness, “I’m afraid I haven’t been very helpful yet.”

“Yet?”

Mrs. Treat looked at him rather than answering Theo’s question outright; he supposed he appreciated her discretion. “She’s investigating a family heirloom for me,” he replied, which was at least partially true.

“An interesting line of work,” said Theo.

“It has its moments. It does put a target on my back for chaperoning these kinds of trips, though – and we’ve still got to make to Charlestown.” She glanced over her shoulder at the school group, anxiously, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to get back. Responsibilities aside, my daughter’s a firecracker and even the Massacre won’t be enough to keep her occupied long. Goodbye! I’ll be in touch!”

Blessedly, Theo said nothing until after they’d gotten their lunches, and sat out in the sun. “So. She seems nice.”

“You have another two weeks before you’re allowed anything on the topic,” James replied, stabbing at his under-dressed spinach bad-temperedly.

[rhetoricalrogue]

1, 3, 5, 7, 9, 11, 13, 15, 17, 19, 21 + ZOE !!!! 🖤🖤🖤🖤

TY!

1. What's their name and how do they look?

Zoe Miranda Dawson. She’s 32, 5’10”, athletic, with jet black hair and dark blue eyes. Mostly all legs, but she does squats and deadlifts and is damn proud of the booty she worked hard to get, lifelong member of the itty bitty titty committee. Her hair is long, almost past her mid-back but not quite waist length and unless she uses a straight iron to tame it, is a mess of waves and curls. She normally wears it up in a ponytail or a bun at work.

3. How did they get the promotion to detective and what do they think about it?

She was brought into the Detective’s Office one day and told that she was going to be shadowing Detective Reele to take her place once she retired. She wasn’t given a choice or an option to decline and while she bristled at it at first, she gradually accepted it, even if she does miss her regular patrols.

5. How are they with people?

Professionally, she’s good at putting people at ease and at getting answers to her questions. Personally, she’s not so great, depending on her mood. She’s more open with friends, but when she wants to be left alone, she has a huge personal bubble that’s fenced in with barbed wire and a huge sign saying “fuck off” in neon lights.

7. Who is their Love Interest and why?

Mason. She thinks he’s hot, he thinks she’s hot, they have a mutual itch that they agree to scratch. Sex is just sex and as long as they’re both having a good time, it’s all good.

9. What do they think of the supernatural?

It was a shock at first, but she quickly wrapped her head around it. She’s cautious and wary around strangers by nature, but now that she knows the things that go bump in the night are real, she’s even cagier than usual.

11. Do they have any tattoos/ piercings?

Both ears at the lobe and upper lobe. She used to have an industrial piercing in her right ear, but let it heal over once she became an officer. She can’t make up her mind on what tattoo she wants, or else she probably would have gotten several.

13. What's their opinion of the Mayor?

He’s a boasting figurehead with an ego too big to fit inside a standard door. She doesn’t like him, and she hates small town politics, so she tries to be polite and professional whenever she’s forced to work with him, but will cuss him out under her breath once his back is turned and he’s out of earshot.

15. What do they think of Unit Bravo? How has that changed throughout the story?

She didn’t need her mother barging in with her team to take over her very first case as a detective. She hated Adam at first purely because he activated her teenaged rebel against authority buttons like nobody else, and tried to be nice with Nate since he was the only one who was actually coming to her to ask questions, but she still got her hackles up when her bullshit meter started to spike at some of his non-answers. Felix reminded her a lot of Tina when they first started and it was easier to be around him. Mason may have been a hot looking dude who was fun to look at, but he was an asshole who ignored no smoking signs and spoke in monosyllables.

This gradually changed once she found out the truth: she and Adam came to an understanding that eventually became the start of a pretty solid friendship, despite their differences, she and Nate always got along well, but now there’s not the “you’re lying I can see you’re lying, don’t be a dick” ping on her BS meter between them. Felix has pretty much been adopted as an honorary Police Cadet/sibling Zoe didn’t even know she needed. Mason is still a FWB, 1 am booty call, but somehow along the way, they both slipped and now there’s a side of “oh hell, I may have feelings.”

17. What are their hobbies?

Zoe likes building things. Her latest project is rebuilding a busted up motorcycle she bought at a police auction for a dollar. The body needs an overhaul, but she’s got the insides in good working order. It’s still definitely a work in progress, but she has an agreement with the local mechanic after doing a security inspection of his building and catching a lot of vulnerabilities to store it in an unused storage bay and work on it there with his tools whenever she gets a chance to.

She also plays guitar, but that’s mostly for her own enjoyment nowadays. When she was a teen, she and a handful of friends had a garage band where she played and did backup vocals. She has a nice singing voice, but doesn’t like to bring attention to herself.

19. What does their apartment look like?

Lots of dark paint on the walls: mostly deep brown in the living room, grey in the bathroom, and a navy blue in the bedroom. Tons of mid-century modern furniture in a dark wood finish and geometric metal lighting in copper and brass. She has a few framed prints hanging on the walls and a large statement lighting sculpture taking up space where her living room ends and the kitchen/dining area begins. It isn’t cluttered since it is a small space, but it also looks lived in and comfortable. The plants on her tiny balcony/fire escape are courtesy of Tina, as are the handful of potted plants inside the apartment.

21. Their favourite/comfort food?

Favorite food: Haley’s croissants, especially when they come right out of the oven. Haley usually texts her to let her know the ETA of a fresh batch.

Comfort food: one of the (many) nannies would often give her a cup of tea with a huge slice of homemade bread slathered with honey and butter when they knew she was having a bad day. Later, they taught her how to make her own bread and the the fact that she could work whatever frustrations or anger out while kneading the dough and that it was a task where she could let her mind wander helped a lot more later in life than she originally thought it would. Her dorm always smelled like fresh bread when she was in college and the small toaster oven sized loafs were popular with her dorm mates.

Detective Ask Game

[kin-kendry]

A Kiss in the Dark Part 1

AO3 (Part 2 included)

“You ready for our set?” Dutch asked her twin as she entered the dressing room.

“Yes, I’m ready, Yala,” Aneela answered.

“Don’t call me that in front of the girls… Anyway, thanks again for helping us out. Clara busted her prosthetic, so she’s out of commission until Alice is fixed.”

“It’s alright, it’s fun to play something different every once in a while,” Aneela said, looking at her sister through the mirror’s reflection. “How do I look?”

She finished her makeup and turned around, showing off her outfit to her twin. Dutch always found it a novelty when her sister put on her clothes. She picked out a pair of ripped black jeans, a tattered cropped top, heeled boots, and various accessories. The only thing that wasn’t different to what Aneela usually wore was her dark makeup.

“You look exactly like me. Funny that,” Dutch laughed. “You look great, now come on. We’re on in five.”

The twins headed over to the stage where the rest of Un-Ladylike Lucy were waiting. Pawter was warming up her voice, while Zeph was on stage double checking their equipment. Yoki was chatting to her girlfriend Clara, who was wearing just a regular prosthetic rather than Alice.

“Alright fuckers, we good to go?” Dutch asked.

“Yeah, we’re ready,” Zeph came back and gave a thumbs up.

Everyone headed on stage which earned cheering from the raucous crowd in the Royale. Un-Ladylike Lucy was popular in the queer punk scene, and they often had gigs in various queer friendly spaces. Dutch took her place front and centre, Pawter stood behind the mic off to stage left, Aneela took the right side with her bass, Zeph situated herself behind her keyboard, and Yoki took a seat at her drum kit.

“Hello all you beautiful freaks! I hope you’re having a fucking fantastic night so far. It’s about to get a hell of a lot better. One, two, three, four!” Dutch yelled into the mic, and the band jumped right into their first song of the night.

Every time Aneela played with the band, it always surprised the other members at how well she seemed to adapt to their style of music. Aneela was a fairly well known classically trained musician and singer, mostly playing the violin, piano, and a mix of woodwind and brass instruments. So, seeing her play in a punk rock band was very off brand. While she had no formal training on bass guitar, it wasn’t that hard for her to pick up. She actually enjoyed playing it whenever she had the chance to experiment.

Aneela was always enamoured by the energy of the crowds at these gigs, how unrestrained and free everyone became. She liked being a part of that, liked to shed her more elegant, professional persona in favour of letting loose a little. She appreciated her sister’s enthusiasm and passion for this type of music.

By the end of the set, the crowd was deafening, all cheering and chanting. They made their way off stage and Clara was waiting with a big smile.

“You guys killed it!”

“Thanks, babe,” Yoki said as she walked over and kissed her girlfriend. “Although I missed flirting with you on stage.”

“Get a room,” Pawter laughed.

“Planning on it,” Clara flipped her friend off.

“Good stuff out there, as usual,” Dutch smiled at her sister.

“Yeah, it’s kinda trippy that you play bass too,” Zeph remarked.

“Well, once you learn one instrument, it’s pretty easy to pick up others,” Aneela shrugged.

“Not all of us went to university to study music, you know?” Clara rolled her eyes and smiled.

“Shut it, yeah? Let’s grab a drink. On me,” Dutch announced and herded her girls to the bar.

They crowded around the bar where their friend Pree was working. Clara and Yoki lit up when they saw their girlfriend Olli waiting for them.

“You came!”

“Of course I did, wouldn’t miss it for the world. Dutch, your sister is pretty killer on bass. Mind if I poached her for my band every once in a while?” Olli grinned.

“While I’d love to, I really only do this for Ya- I mean, Dutch,” Aneela smiled.

“Shame. If you ever change your mind you should hit me up.”

“We’re literally right here, Olli.”

“I swear I’m not flirting!”

“Anyway, enough of your little lover’s quarrel. Let’s get fucked up!” Dutch said as she leaned over the bar to greet Pree.

Moments later they all had shots in front of them. Aneela didn’t partake, and instead opted for a glass of red wine. While she enjoyed the music and the atmosphere, Aneela wasn’t a huge fan of the whole partying aspect. While the band was getting shit-faced and making fools of themselves, Aneela kept herself confined to the bar. 

She watched Dutch dance with anyone willing to give her the time of day. Zeph had been cornered by a rather intimidating goth, dominatrix type woman who was very intent on kissing her. Clara, Yoki, and Olli had snagged a booth and were all over each other. Pawter had found her boyfriend Johnny and was more focused on kissing him than worrying about the people jostling them from all sides.

Pree kept Aneela entertained for the better part of an hour before a stunning woman in a gorgeous purple dress took a seat at the bar not too far away from her. Her hair was pinned up in an elegant bun, with a couple of tendrils framing her face. Aneela was instantly drawn. She looked so out of place among the rest of the people in the bar. Her eyes tracked down the woman’s body, following the curves of her body and down her legs. She really liked the stilettos she wore, she could probably kill someone with those.

“If you’re going to stare you might as well buy me a drink,” The woman spoke, her head tilted slightly towards Aneela.

Their eyes locked and Aneela swore she could get lost in them. The pretty woman raised a brow at her admirer. Aneela smirked.

“Pree, give this lovely lady whatever she wants, on me,” Aneela didn’t break eye contact even as she moved to the seat next to the woman. “So, what brings you to this fine establishment?”

“Fine is a bit of a stretch,” The woman laughed and took a sip of the wine she ordered. “My cousin dragged me here after a family dinner. He and his boyfriend are in one of the bands playing tonight. This isn’t exactly my scene.”

“And what is your scene?”

“Something a little less damaging on the ears, for a start. I prefer music with a little more… Sophistication.”

“You don’t think punk is a sophisticated genre?” Aneela offered her own raised brow.

“It’s just noise and people banging on their instruments. I’d hardly call that sophisticated. Shit, you were in one of the bands, weren’t you? With your twin, right? I probably shouldn’t shit-talk your kind of music.”

“Go right ahead. I’m not that invested in the genre. I really only help my sister out when she’s down a member.”

“Well, I can’t deny that you do look good in those clothes,” The woman let her eyes roam over Aneela’s body, much like Aneela had done to her previously. “So, if punk isn’t your usual style, what is?”

“Oh, I dabble in a bit of everything, I suppose. Classical and jazz are what I went to university for.”

“Seriously? You went to university to study music?”

“Why is that so surprising? Just because I play in my sister’s band and dress like this on occasion?”

“I suppose I shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but I’m not quite convinced,” The woman took another sip of her wine.

Oh, she is fun, Aneela thought.

“You don’t believe me?” She asked, leaning in closer to her companion. “Maybe I could show you.”

“Mm, that sounds like a very tempting offer but I’m not that easy, sweetheart,” The woman smirked.

Every second Aneela spent with this woman, the more intrigued she was by her. She desperately wanted to know her, to indulge in her, and worship her. It had been a while since she felt like this, but this woman wouldn’t just be another one night stand. No, there was so much more to her that Aneela wanted to uncover.

“Are you sure? I have a rather pretty name you could be moaning later tonight,” Aneela reached out and traced her fingertips along the woman’s forearm resting on the bar.

The woman’s eyes slipped closed for a moment, relishing in the teasing contact. She moved her fingers up higher and higher, ghosting over her shoulder and grazing her neck. The woman leaned into Aneela’s touch which only made her smirk. She traced her jawline before using her finger to tilt the woman’s head towards her.

“Delle,” The woman finally spoke once she opened her eyes again. “My name is Delle.”

“My, what a pretty name for such a pretty woman,” Aneela’s quiet words were barely audible over the pounding music coming from the stage. “I’m Aneela.”

“Aneela,” The way her name rolled off Delle’s tongue made it sound so exotic. 

The pull between them was irresistible. They inched closer and closer until their lips were mere millimetres apart. Red lips met with black in a slow exchange, a gentle give and take. It left both women breathless by the time they parted, gazing into each others eyes.

“I think I’d like to take you up on that offer now,” Delle whispered, the soft puffs of breath caressing Aneela’s lips.

“It would be my pleasure.”

[astridslocke-blog]

Hey hey, I’m Neeno! I’m twenty-five and use she or they pronouns (though I do usually prefer they/them when you can!). VETOHQ was my little creation. It was around back in 2014 (yikes) and this is its first revamp, although I wouldn’t really call it that since I’m the only person from the OG that’s here as far as I know! The plots also changed a whole lot! I honestly brought it back because I feel like Canada is super underrepresented here and also just... am sick of roleplays that cater mostly to muses who go to uni or idk... are rich? JKNFSKJFSN Anyway, I’ll stop rambling... Here’s my first muse.

i think ASTRID LOCKE is working at veto as a SERVER now. i believe SHE will do well, because they’re OUTGOING and BRAVE. that said, the 19 year old can also be pretty IMPULSIVE and HARSH, which might hinder their performance. they are working FULL-time and are from COMPTON, CALIFORNIA. — female / ester exposito.

PINTEREST BOARD IS HERE.

details.

d.o.b. — november 24th, 1999.

horoscope — sagittarius.

myer-briggs — enfj.

birthplace — compton, california.

places lived — compton, downtown los angeles & toronto.

sexual orientation — bisexual.

relationship status — open relationship.

level of education — high school dropout.

hobbies / likes — singing, hip hop, improv, tattoos, punk rock, rollerskating, the beach and horror movies.

place of residence — she lives in the annex like a block away from veto.

backstory.

astrid was born and raised in california to a single mother and an older half brother named stephen. 

her biological father was just a one night stand from the years her mother had spent as a groupie. he was in a toronto-based punk band called Hades, that is now retired.

though she had occasional infrequent contact with her father, the two didn’t keep in touch much. 

her environment was very free, always able to make her own mistakes without much parental guidance.

her brother acted as a sort of shield to the outside world and his biological father took astrid under his wing too, always taking her out to eat and whatnot. 

the two of them were her rock, to say the least. at fifteen, however, stephen’s father suffered a massive heart attack and died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. 

at seventeen, she moved out of her home. 

her mother would bring home boyfriends who were often not much short from evil and she’d had enough, moving in with stephen and a couple of his friends. 

the house was riddled in drugs, but it wasn’t something she wasn’t used to. her childhood home was very simular. 

then, just after her 18th birthday, stephen overdosed on the heroin they’d both been using and died while astrid waited for an ambulance to arrive. 

they all moved out of the house then and astrid made the drastic decision to get far far away. 

so she moved to toronto, to be closer to her biological father and to potentially get to know him.

she took on a job at veto, which was gruelling hours and not the best tips, but something at least. 

she managed to get mostly clean and moved so she lived in the apartment over from her father. 

she’s dating someone (totally looking for this connection), but they’re open because astrid can’t really commit. 

personality. 

very brass, not much filter. 

think like.... your worst nightmare on the bad girls club JKFSKJFNS

she gets in fights a lot. 

has a no bullshit policy when it comes to her working environment.

most people believe her to be older than she is, because that’s how she carries herself. 

she’s addicted to tattoos but all of hers are professional, yet stick and poke. she gets them done by artists she knows. 

doesn’t care much about fashion.

connections.

anything and everything! i’d love to have her present open relationship (any gender identity). other people she’s hooking up with / hooked up with. people who might be connected to her father somehow. good and bad influences. enemies. frenemies. party friends, mentors... give me it ALL.

[tmbgareok]

RIP Peter Tork.

Hey folks. John F. here. Woke up to the news that Peter Tork of the Monkees passing, and wanted to write down my thoughts. Hope this makes sense.

Like many people born in the 60s, the Monkees, along with Batman, James Bond and the Beatles loomed extremely large in my small but media-soaked brain. Of course the “controversy” that the Monkees (four actors on a tv show about a fictional band) didn’t really play the instruments on the accompanying records was a thorny issue with older kids, but for those of us under their spell we kinda couldn’t care less. The way we saw it, they did SING, the songs were great and they guys were funny too. Maybe it was because the records were hits it mattered more. But the singling out the Monkees as inauthentic seemed especially unfair as the Byrds, the Beach Boys, the Tijuana Brass and a host of other “bands” used the exact same LA session players on their recordings yet enjoyed professional legitimacy in the culture and music critics. This critical contradiction is most strongly illustrated by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, who to this day have fully shunned the Monkees (while celebrating countless acts with a fraction of the Monkees influence or genuine fame). For a generation of critics that celebrates its own media literacy dissecting theatrical personas from Bowie to Lady Gaga, it seems no critic knows how to “read” the Monkees.

Around the time of their 90s reunion, John Linnell and had the pleasure of spending a late evening with Peter Tork in London. His daughter was a fan of They Might Be Giants, and he used his famous face to get backstage to make an introduction). He struck me as a gracious man trapped in a bubble of perpetual, if marginal, celebrity. John recalls he told us we should address him as Mr. Thorkelson rather than Mr. Tork-an unexpected level of realness-but I suspect we landed on Peter soon enough. The evening culminated at the Columbia Hotel bar where touring rock bands would drink elbow to elbow. Spotting a performer at the Columbia was hardly an event. But this evening the bartender startled our party by asking him if he “used to be Peter Tork” with all the cheer of a guy looking to start a fight. Peter Tork just laughed it off as if the spirit of the comment was entirely innocent. 

He seemed, for lack of a less tired word, zen. Maybe he really was still just the original issue West Village folkie he was before his success. In conversation, he seemed to consciously avoid the inevitable “authenticity" hagiographies that revolve around the Monkees-the ones that tumble through so many performer's brains including mine. He was neither defensive or self-important, or a people-pleaser or in any visible way aggrieved. He seemed to understand he was the unlikely winner of some super-weird cultural lottery that would forever remain as slightly bitter as it was sweet, and he seemed very much at peace with it all. It was an honor to meet him if only for a night.

RIP Peter Tork.

[alex-vella-blog]

Musings of an Immigrant (4)

Imagine, much like broccoli arranged bouquet-style in a vase, this is the memory I carry from the last meal of my first around the world experience.

Once Around the Globe / October 26, 2018

The first time I circumnavigated the globe was on a 32-day trip in support of a theme I advanced for an American Express annual report…essentially to document through interviews and photography the global reach of the company.

The high was self-evident. Here I was 28-years old, visiting countries far and wide that I had never been to before, and in some cases since, while interviewing notable people in every facet of careers and professions. The low was a bit of a personal quirk, perhaps an emotional impetus that could have been put under better control: In short, I didn’t want to miss the first steps of my first born son, an event that was going to fall sometime during the month-long trip.

 The first stop was Paris, France, where the banking, travel, credit card, and travelers check divisions of the company were huge business. The photographer I retained to travel with me and document the events of the trip was Eva Rubinstein, daughter of Arthur Rubinstein, the celebrated pianist. It was fortuitous that on the night we arrived he was being honored with a reception complete with all the expected fanfare of the rich and famous. At the time I smoked cigars, a bad habit I got into as a result of being around the company boardroom with its complimentary supply. Rubenstein not only smoked them but had his own farm and fabrication facility in Cuba at the time. My meeting with him was not much more then ano introduction and his request that I take good care of his daughter during the long trip. He was also gracious enough to give me a box of his Cuban cigars, emblazoned with his personal cigar band. As much as I welcomed the gesture, I was aware that I had to finish smoking the full box prior to returning to the U.S. because the land-of-Castro product was considered contraband by the U.S. government. 

 To represent American Express International Banking relationships I focused on Claude Lelouch, the then very famous French film director, writer, cinematographer, actor and producer, with whose company the bank did business. At the time, Lelouch was known in America for his 1966 film drama “A Man and a Woman,” and “Live for Life” in 1967. Now that a lifetime has gone by, I am not in the least embarrassed to say that I was very impressed to be interviewing one of the most celebrated ‘fellow’ creatives (hope is eternal) in his palatial digs, sitting facing each other on wingback chairs, and taking in the mesmerizing Parisian landscape. 

 Next came Spain where I was scheduled to focus on the activity of American Express’ travel division. So, what better than Costa Del Sol. But first I stopped in Barcelona, so after the magic of this city, the beach scene was a bit of a letdown. Rather than a slice of the Spanish population this region was more a mixture of other European nationalities than Spanish. For a local fix I went into the hills to a town called Benalmádena where I very unexpectedly ended having a meal at a private house. Memory fails, but when asking where I should eat, a local denizen suggested knocking on a particular door and the lady of the house would take care of me. It was very much the case. The then seemingly older lady who answered the door was very accommodating. She asked what I liked to eat and within the half hour she was back from wherever she needed to go to procure local fish and accompaniments. Perhaps it was the unplanned event and local fair, but the memory of the meal makes me salivate to this day. 

 Yugoslavia, specifically Belgrade in Serbia, and Dubrovnik in Croatia, as guests of the General Director of Star Travel, the then-communist state’s travel monopoly, was my host. Two impressions: Belgrade — grey. Dubrovnik — haunting, a perfect little Venice, except in miniature and less tourists. But most impressing was the state’s largess showered on me and my photographer in the way of entertainment and first class travel…all at the people’s expense of course.

 When I arrived in Greece, the country was under the control of a Military Junta (1967–1974), headed by a group of 4 colonels of the Greek army and led by a man named George Papadopoulos. At one point I arranged to visit the Parthenon on the Athenian Acropolis. For a major tourist site, the place was fairly deserted on that day and provided the perfect setting for taking photos. As one would expect of a professional photographer, Rubinstein was shooting everything in sight. Suddenly, a convoy of sedans comes rushing in and a squad of military uniform-clad individuals step out. The photographer must have found the scene to be not only interesting but especially intriguing because she continued to shoot in their direction. This caused us some grief. We were quickly surrounded by security personnel fully equipped with nasty looking weaponry. In a nutshell, they took issue with the concept of us photographing military brass without permission…an act bordering on espionage. After some interrogation, and a period of heightened anxiety, they confiscated the film and we were let go.

 India of the early seventies was a different kettle of fish from the driving, capitalistic society it is today. The following two episodes encapsulates the country of that time.

 Once we deboarded and attempted to go through customs, literally in the middle of the night in ambient temperature that was well over a hundred degrees farenheit and no air-conditioning, we encountered Indian logic in its purest form. This event took place before the advent of digital photography, so the photographer was carrying hundreds of rolls of camera film, both exposed and unexposed. Now imagine a local customs officer speaking sternly in Indian English. Officer: “What is your visit’s purpose?” Me, and keep in mind that we did not have a work visa: “To see the sights.” Officer: “So why do you need so many rolls of photography film?” Me: “Because I work for American Express and might use some photos acquired on the trip in company publications.” Officer: “So, to be clear, you are not tourists but rather working on a photography assignment and you have no work visa to do so.”

 It had become clear over the ensuing six hours, during which the full inventory of film, both exposed and otherwise, having been placed in a walk-in vault that was hot enough to fry an egg on any metal surface within it, that most imported products were controlled under some sort of business monopoly system. Photography film was no different and whoever held the import license needed to collect their pound of flesh. As tourists, people could bring in a few rolls of film without any issue, but in the quantities that we were carrying to satisfy the needs of the whole trip, it qualified as illegal import. In the end, with the help of local American Express support team, and a monetary contribution that could feed a small village in that part of the world for many months, we were allowed to keep our contraband.

 The ordeal we had just experienced was quickly forgotten once we were being driven away from the airport towards our destination, Bombay, now Mumbai, because of yet another Indian oddity. The spectacle was seeing sections of large-diameter drainage conduit over many miles along the road, for sure intended for ground burial, but unintendedly, become domiciles for thousands of families. Life looked very normal at the front and back openings of each section of the pipes that was intended for a different purpose. People were going about doing their thing… cooking, bathing, living. If we hadn’t gone through the earlier experience at the airport it would have appeared as an alternate universe and more of a curiosity.

 At the time of this trip, Hong Kong was still a British Crown Colony, and since I was born in a country with similar British experience, my assumption was that Hong Kong spoke English to one degree or another. In fact, the island of Kowloon which is where the business hub was located at the time is very much the case, but on the mainland and the New Territories it was another story.

Tired of the business opulence that was being showered on me and Rubinstein by the hosts, which included being feted at The Sky Terrace and The Peak Tower, it necessitated that I take in some of the local color and taste the more local foods. So, I took off by foot to parts unknown to see the sights. When the time came, I stopped at a local restaurant to have something to eat. So, this is when I came face to face with the cultural roadblock. The menu was in Chinese and no English was spoken at all. Never fear, there’s always pantomime. Trying to help, the waiter clucked away and flapped his arms. “Chic, chic” was the recommendation to which, since I was in full comprehension mode, I promptly agreed to and ordered. In short order, with mouth-gapping, I was looking at an aluminum cooking pot heaping full of chicken feet arranged with the claws sticking up and leaning over and around the edge of the pot.

Imagine, much like broccoli arranged bouquet-style in a vase, this is the memory I carry from the last meal of my first around the world experience.

[imaginetonyandbucky]

In Search of Something

Prompt: imagine tony and bucky in steampunk au

A/N: Dear readers, I am conducting an experiment, so to speak, and I beg you will indulge me. After having this prompt in my queue for quite a while and not being able to come up with a story, I found myself, this weekend, unraveling the knot and coming up with what will probably end up being a 60 – 90,000 word piece of Steampunk/Noir style WinterIron fiction. That being said, I don’t know that there’s a lot of demand for a Steampunk Noir story. 

Consider this first chapter to be the pilot episode of a television show, so to speak. If there’s enough demand, I’ll write more. – tisfan

Chapter One:  For Want of Aether 

“That might well be the ugliest velocipede I’ve ever seen,” someone said. 

Tony Stark, genius, inventor, rake, philanthropist, nearly spat out a mouthful of coffee. He hadn’t heard anyone come into the shop, although that wasn’t surprising. He was often lost in his own headspace when working, and he’d completed the amplification process for his Amberola a few weeks ago, which made the musical cylinders in his workshop particularly loud. He’d been replaying the Tchaikovsky recording several times, testing with a diaphragm sensor to measure the volume of cannon fire, to see if it was actually replicable at anything remotely resembling the normal level of sound.

“Probably good it’s on commission then,” Tony said. He wiped his hands off on a rag and came around the side of the workbench to look at the interloper. “What brings you to my humble ‘shop?”

There wasn’t anything humble about Tony’s shop and he damn well knew it, but at the same time, he was expected to keep up the generic merchant pater. Too many customers walked away and people might start wondering if he was actually running a shop, and if he wasn’t, what was he, instead, doing?

Tony couldn’t afford some snotty government official poking into his business, so… playing the humble inventor.

“Lookin’ for the son of Maria Carbonell?”

Yeah, fantastic. Tony reached under the bench and pulled out one of his gauntlets, being as casual as possible in attaching the connections to the tubes in his sleeve rig.

He leaned against the side of his work bench, crossing his legs at the ankle and presenting an utterly relaxed front to the newcomer.

Dark, ragged hair tucked under a fisherman’s cap, the man dressed like he was carrying his entire wardrobe on his back; undershirt, two button downs over it, a vest, a jacket and an overcoat. Despite the layers, he wasn’t sweating as far as Tony could tell. The evenings were starting to get cool, it was early October after all, but the afternoons were still fine. Perhaps the so-called customer hadn’t heard of suitcases.

Tony smirked. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in a long, long time,” he said, thoughtfully. “Who’s been name-dropping?” The arc-reactor finished charging the gauntlet repulsor with a dull whump. It was an old password, compromised almost a year ago when SHIELD was disbanded. Tony had managed to stay out of the crossfire, had hidden and protected a number of SHIELD’s agents, but it had been a mess.

The man jerked, as if he’d heard the repulsor whine, but the sound was nearly impossible to detect under the music and banging that went on in Tony’s shop. Or should have been. But even if he had, so very few people knew what the repulsor’s signature sounded like, and those who did weren’t usually in a shape to report it.

“Word gets around,” the man said. He raised his chin enough to look at Tony through ragged cut hair. He had eyes as gray as storm clouds and the sort of luminescent beauty that belonged in a painting by the old masters. Tony was somewhat of an expert on beauty in both the male and female forms.

How had that man wandered the streets and not drawn abundant attention? Just the sort that Hydra would send after Tony, if they were going to send someone. Knowing what they did of Tony’s eye and appetites. Knowing what everyone knew about Tony’s rake-hell lifestyle.

“Does it.” That wasn’t even a question.

The man could be hiding any number of weapons under that coat. Blades or guns or even some of the smaller, delicate explosives. He licked his lips nervously, eyes flicking in Tony’s direction and then away. “I can pay you.”

“I’m sure you can,” Tony said. “The question remains -- who sent you, and what do you want?”

“No one sent me,” the man said. “I’m here because you might b’ the only person in the world who can help me who ain’t gonna stick me back in a cage.”

“Fascinating as undoubtedly your story is, and pitiful as your plight,” Tony said, raising a hand and letting the repulsor show, “I think you should leave. I… don’t usually have the patience to ask more than once.”

“Wait, wait! Please,” the man said, and raised his left hand hastily, as if he was going to a sleeve-clutch weapon or to defend himself. The motion was accompanied by the distinct sound of gears and plates clicking together. Tony blinked; the man didn’t look like one of Vanko or Doom’s automatons, but the sound, that sound…

Bugger it. Shoot first, ask questions later.

The repulsor screamed defiance and the shock wave pulsed across the shop, sending loose papers flying like dirigibles, throwing small parts to the floor. And knocking Tony’s unwelcomed guest to the floor.

“Well, fuck.” Tony stood over the unconscious man, staring down at him. “Now I gotta carry you somewhere.”

He sighed. “Dummy, get over here!” Tony went to the shop door, hung out his By Appointment Only sign and locked the gate.

(more below the cut)

Panic surged and Bucky almost puked when he roused and realized he was locked down. He was locked down and seated.

“No, no, no!” He jerked at the restraints, struggling, although he knew it never did him any good to struggle. Once he was in the lab, once he was in the chair…

Except he heard a distinct sound of creaking wood and he was… sitting upright, not pushed over on his back, staring up into the too-bright ceiling gaslamps. And he was screaming, shouting, his mouth was free, not locked with a bite-strap or muzzle and…

He managed to focus, tamp down the panic long enough to look around.

What he saw was nothing like those industrial gray walls, the bank of nixie tubes and punch cards, the white-coated scientists with their shining steel tools.

Instead what he saw was a brick-lined room, a dozen wall sconces giving the room light. Bits of unidentifiable machinery littered almost every surface and the quicky, sarcastic little inventor was sitting on one of the tables, just looking at him. At some point, the man had stripped down from his merchant’s coat and was wearing a thin, white undershirt, plain dungarees, and a pair of suspenders, one on and one off his muscular shoulders. A round, blue light shone underneath the shirt and tubes with glittering strands of the same light were held to his arms with leather bands. He had a set of welder’s goggles perched on top of his messy black hair and there were grease and soot smudges on his face.

He was, absolutely, the man Bucky was looking for. Anthony Stark. Bucky hadn’t been sure before; the few daguerreotypes that Bucky had seen of the man were blurred -- Tony Stark was not a man to stay still long enough to get a good tintype made. But there was no doubt, now. The few files Bucky had liberated spoke of the artificial heart, what it looked like. What it could do.

He opened his mouth to say so, but found himself giving voice to a more pressing question. “Why am I naked?”

Tony scoffed. “What did you expect? I was checking you for weapons and you’re carrying a god damn arsenal. Didn’t know what to do about that--” He jerked his chin at Bucky, or more specifically, at Bucky’s arm, a mess of copper plates and brass wiring. “But it doesn’t seem to be functioning right now anyway.”

Bucky nodded. “Out of aether,” he admitted.

“Well, that’s both impractical and primitive. What little I could figure out on a quick inspection showed me that the refueling pod is in the back, too. Difficult to reload yourself.”

“I ain’t s’posed to be working without a handler,” Bucky said.

“Which is why you came to me,” Tony said. As if that made perfect sense. Which it did, because it was true, god damnit.

“Which is why I came to you,” Bucky said. “You’re th’ only one who runs independent that might even be able to produce such a thing.”

“You know running an aether mill without a license is illegal,” Tony pointed out. “Not to mention such a radical body modification should only be attempted by biomechanical professionals.”

“Let’s just say there’s more’n a few laws I’m on th’ wrong side of,” Bucky said. “What’d you shoot me for?” He was fair certain what he’d been shot with. Raza wasn’t a member of the Hydra camps, but Ten Rings had a tentative alliance, and after the brass-and-balls mess that had been Gulmira was over and done with, some remaining members of Ten Rings had taken shelter in Hydra safehouses. Zola had gotten a full report, and, still assured of compliance, had left the file somewhere that Bucky had been able to read it.

“You’re not the first pretty person that’s been sent after me,” Tony said, easily. “If people can’t tell the difference between SHIELD and Hydra anymore, that may say more about SHIELD than anything.”

Bucky managed a croaking laugh. It was almost too easy to flirt with the man while he was naked. Tony expected vulnerability, fear, or anger. Teasing and tension might disarm him, figuratively speaking, a little bit. “You think I’m pretty?’

“Actually, I think you’re Hydra,” Tony said.

I am. I was. I will be, if you don’t help me. But that was putting too many cards on the table, too soon. “But still pretty.”

“I didn’t say that,” Tony spluttered. “What are you, a virgin planning your coming out ball?”

“Yeah, actually, you did say pretty,” Bucky said. He licked his lower lip, giving Tony his best bedroom eyes. It was scarcely a chore. Tony Stark was a good looking man, muscular, compact. Smart as a whip, from everything Bucky had heard. Rumor hadn’t mentioned how sarcastic and quick he was, but those were traits Bucky had found attractive. Once. When he was enough in his own mind to find someone attractive. “I heard you. No takebacks.”

“Yeah, well, poison comes in pretty bottles, pal.”

“Infiltration’s not my speciality,” Bucky told him.

“Yeah, what is?”

“I’m a sharpshooter,” Bucky said, bleak. “Aether long rifle. Mostly. But knives, if I have to.”

“As well as a whole variety of other little nasties I found in your coat. You’re well prepared.”

“Not really,” Bucky said. “Most of it runs on aether, and I been cannibalizing it so I can keep movin’ my arm for almost a year now.”

“No handler to call on?”

“Got away from my handlers durin’ the battle of the Potomack. Been on th’ run ever since.”

“So you are Hydra.”

“I was, yeah,” Bucky said, sliding his eyes left, not able to meet Tony’s gaze. “Not by choice.”

“You’re a serum-swiller?”

“Not by choice,” Bucky repeated. “Prisoner of war. Captured. Altered.”

“Who were you before you became Hydra?”

“James Barnes, 107th Infantry,” Bucky said. “Look, if you ain’t gonna shoot me, or fuck me, can I get a blanket or somethin’? It’s cold down here.” Which wasn’t quite true, but he was practically starving. It’d been days since he’d eaten and while his body could run for a long time without human needs -- food or sleep or comfort -- he got cold, ice cold, if he went too long without. Eventually, those needs would kill him, the same as any man, but he’d freeze to death, and if Hydra could find him, they’d bring him back from the dead. Again.

Tony climbed down off the table and uncovered a tattered blanket from a long sofa. “Dummy, wrap him up.”

The automaton wasn’t human-shaped, but Bucky recognized the type; wind-up probably. It seemed old, creaky. Clicked and hummed as it crossed the room, a single mechanical arm with a three-prong gripper on a wheeled platform. Dummy, which seemed to be the wind-up’s name, apparently had a babbage engine of some sort, able to follow simple directions.

“Amazing,” Bucky said, as the claw-arm draped the blanket over him, and tucked the ends around gently, as if it was used to doing such a thing. Bucky had an instant’s picture in his head of the wind-up covering its maker, if Tony fell asleep in his workshop. “You make him?”

Tony nodded, once. “Comes in handy,” he said. “He’s a helper clockwork. My first.” Dummy retreated to Tony’s side, and he ran a hand down the arm, as if petting it for a job well done.

“So… you ain’t gonna shoot me,” Bucky said, not bothering to mention the other thing. “What’s your plan?”

“I’ve only got about twelve percent of a plan,” Tony told him. “It’s a work in progress. All things considered, I think I’m doing pretty well.”

“Well, while you got twelve percent, do you think maybe I could trouble you for somethin’ to eat? I ain’t seen a meal in three days, I’m ‘bout to perish of thirst, and someplace I can fall on my face t’ sleep wouldn’t go amiss, neither.”

“You’re pushy, for a self-invited house guest.”

“Call me a prisoner if it makes you happy,” Bucky suggested. “But ‘less you wanna compare unfavorably to Hydra, y’ might want to feed me. Look, I ain’t gonna hurt you, that’s self-defeating. This damn thing don’t work right now and a child could knock me over. I jus’... I jus’ need some aether. I have money, I have--”

“I can’t make aether. I don’t have the facilities for it,” Tony told him. “So if that’s what you want, I’ll share dinner and you can move along. But you said you’re Hydra, and that doesn’t give you much trust to put a leash on someone who’s as obviously dangerous as you are. Weakened state or otherwise.”

Bucky sighed. Tony Stark was his last hope. Without him, without the arm… Bucky was going to get caught, he was going to end up back in Hydra hands. “Then I need you to kill me,” Bucky said. “I can’t fall back into their clutches. I can’t go back t’ killin’ on Zola’s word. And they will. They can make me, an’ there’s nothin’ I can do about it. I’d rather be dead. Consider it a mercy.”

“Zola, huh?” Tony scratched his chin. “You say that name like you have a lot of hatred for him.”

“Buddy, you don’t even know the half of it.”

“Well, I can’t make aether, but if we can come to some arrangements, I might be able to help you,” Tony said. “If you can be trusted. And we’ll have to see about that, I suppose.”

“How?”

Tony made a face, then pulled up the thin shirt, showing off a muscular chest and--

“It’s called an arc-reactor. It makes power. Power enough to run my heart, enough to run your arm. Enough to run… well, quite a number of things. That being said, it’s killing me. And Zola… well, your old friend Zola has the one thing I need. To make a new core, so that the thing that’s keeping me alive will stop killing me. If you want to help… well, I can think of a few ways we can help each other.” 

[symphonyinsea]

It’s been a while since I last posted here, and for good reason. Musical took up most of my free time over the last couple of months, and then we had four fantastic shows - so many people have told us it was the best show in years. That was two weeks ago now. I’m only just about coming out from the post-show blues - it was worst the week after when I still had some medicine to do, but now I’ve had a week off uni (plus a spontaneous adventure on a Scottish island), I’ve been able to process all that’s happened.

My last long post was after weekend away in February. Since then, the intensity ramped up significantly. As well as having all-day rehearsals every Sunday, we had more arranging to do (I had to learn how to write drum and guitar parts, as well as doing scene-change music), as well as band rehearsals starting on top of everything else. It was hectic and stressful for a while, but it was honestly so, so worth it. We managed to make a great show, and we definitely pulled off what we were trying to achieve.

One of the most special moments was collaborating on the overture with MD. We decided to use music from the film of our show rather than a classic overture which would spoil all our tunes. I wrote the first part, which was a ‘straighter’, more classical version, and MD wrote the second part which was a jazz version of the same themes. It was a lot of work, but incredibly satisfying when it came together. We’re both so proud of it - it was a true collaboration and each of us had creative input into the other’s work: he gave me advice about the style of my parts while I helped him with the strings and some harmonies in his part. I’ll always cherish that score, with both our names side by side as the composers/arrangers. 

MD and I got really close over the past few weeks. In the run-up to the show, we were seeing each other 3-4 times per week, and then every day in the last two weeks. We relied on each other, and we made such a brilliant team. I feel truly lucky to have worked with him. It’s rare that a creative partnership works so well - none of the previous MD teams in the time since we’ve been here has functioned quite as well as we did. Our strengths and weaknesses balance each other out, and we’re able to communicate so well, and give and receive constructive criticism and encouragement in a way the other person can hear. It’s been pretty special.

And, musically, we complemented each other so well. With him coming from a jazz background and me from a more classical one, we managed to get a great balance of tunes in the show: he was great at writing the jazzy tunes, and I made a decent effort at the more musical-y ones and the bits of film music we used for scene changes. We can confidently say that all instruments had their chance to shine and play interesting parts. Plus, with our contacts from both jazz and classical circles, we managed to assemble an epic set of people for our band. All our brass and rhythm played in the uni jazz band, and most of our string players played in the uni orchestras. We sounded so freaking good.

I know I mostly talk about music here (because that’s where I was involved), but I’ve got to give full credit to our directors, choreographers, writers, editors, stage managers, tech managers, producers, set design, and amazing cast for all their work. It was truly a team effort, and everyone brought their best to the project. I am so in awe of how talented my year is. Just the fact that we have so many strong singers - we had a great ensemble cast - blows my mind, and I don’t think there’s been a year while I’ve been here with so many great voices. Our script was also spot on and hilarious - our editors were ruthless, and it meant that each scene was paced right, and each joke landed. Our plot actually made sense. And, the dances were incredible. MD and I worked closest with the choreographers during rehearsals, and we saw how much effort they put into teaching and drilling chorus with their moves. But it looked so professional and fun by the end - hats off to them.

And now we have to return to real life. My next rotation is Urology. But we have a screening of the show next week to look forward to, at least. I think the thing I’ll miss most is regularly seeing all these wonderful people from my year, who I wouldn’t necessarily interact with otherwise. The musical really brought us all together.

As for MD and I, it’s been interesting, and I’m not quite sure what to think at this stage. We’ve built up a lot of mutual trust and respect over the past few weeks and months. He’s more open and vulnerable with me than he used to be, and I feel safe being myself with him. He encouraged and complimented my work regularly, and said how much he admired and appreciated me. I was able to be his rock and provide the support he needed over the last few weeks, picking up his slack and letting him do his thing. So, there’s definitely a deep friendship there and I hope that, at least, continues. 

Is there anything more? It’s so hard to tell. There are certain things he’s said and done which gave me hope, but still nothing is concrete - he hasn’t explicitly asked me out yet.

- We’ve had lots of coffee together, and often had lunch together during rehearsals. Sometimes he would ask me to join him, sometimes I would ask him. Sometimes he would pay for me when I didn’t have cash and sometimes I paid for him (although he was always a bit uncomfortable with that, and said he would pay me back).

- One time when we went to get lunch together, a friend invited himself along. He had bought food at a different place, and so when MD and I went to pay, when the cashier asked if it was together or separately and I said separately, the other friend said ‘Oooh, is this the first date or second date?’ jokingly - and MD said ‘more like 500′.

- He always checked my opinion about things, whether it was on his song arrangements, or his conducting, or how best to plan rehearsals. Even during the shows, he would sometimes look at me to confirm that we weren’t supposed to play that song yet, or if he was going too slow etc. During the intervals, he would ask me for my comments on how it was going, or if there was anything he could do better.

- On the second night, his parents were there, and his mum came up to me and told me well done for all my work - when he saw me talking to his mother, he introduced me to both his mum and dad, saying that I wrote more of the music than he did, and anything beautiful/technically difficult was written by me. 

- He started hugging me a lot. In all our time working together, the only time he hugged me was after he was on a high from his final jazz concert of the year. But, from the second show night onwards, he’s hugged me every time I saw him. Most of those were understandable in context - after our fabulous second show, after hugging his other (guy) friend to say goodbye when he was leaving, after the last show, after get-out when our time as an MD team had ended. But our final hug is what makes me feel like something changed - it was just after a casual lunch (I’ll elaborate later) and it was on a street corner where we had parted ways many times previously without hugging. Although maybe it was because we wouldn’t see each other for a couple weeks. But still - I had more hugs from him in the last week or so than in the entire previous year.

- One of my best friends (the only one who knows I like him) saw us interact together after the third show and texted me later ‘He definitely likes you! I can tell’.

- He always introduces me by my name and ‘position’, as in this is [symphony] who co-MD’d the musical. He’s never explicitly referred to me as just his ‘friend’. I think that’s a good thing?

- But perhaps the thing that gives me the most hope/is the most confusing is the gift he gave me on the last night. For context, my instrument case has slowly been falling apart over the last few months, but I didn’t have time to replace it. Now, at the final show, we were in a bit of a rush to get ready because we had a band meal beforehand. I went to get changed after warm-up and when I got back, my case had disappeared - one of the band members said MD had put it away backstage. Bit strange, because cases usually went in the cupboard under the seats in the auditorium, but I didn’t think too much of it. At the end of the final show, I had to put my instrument away. After saying bye to my family who had come, I went to find MD and asked where he had put my case. He said he would take me there. It took a while because we both kept being waylaid by cast/friends who wanted to say congratulations and how much they had enjoyed the show. All the while I was awkwardly holding my instrument, but praise is always nice and we were all on such a high so it was okay. Eventually MD and I reached the place where my case was. It was on some chairs, and I was about to grab it and put my instrument in, when he stopped me. Then, he reached under the chairs and pulled out a brand new case, much nicer than my old one. He told me, ‘someone as good as you shouldn’t have to carry that old thing’. I didn’t know how to react, and there was this odd look in his eyes. He was so serious, and it felt like a goodbye. I thought it was over at that point. I shoved down the feels for a while, and took the cases downstairs, but when I was putting my instrument away, I just had waves of emotion coming over me, thinking, ‘it’s over, it’s really over’. My feelings about the musical and MD were so intermingled, and I was overwhelmed. Some people from the cast/crew spotted me, and I told them that MD had just given me a new case. I don’t think they quite understood what it meant - they said he was very kind, but I deserved it after all the work I’d put in. But I was still processing it. I opened the case and it was so beautiful inside - I was still staring at it in a state of shock when MD returned. He asked if I liked it, and I said yeah, it was so much better than my old one. He could see the look on my face, and said ‘Come here...’ - I rather unceremoniously dumped the case on the ground and stood up, and he gave me a big hug. It just felt so final. From the way he was looking at me, he seemed to feel the same. I sat back down, slowly putting my instrument away, still overwhelmed, and he left me alone, to go talk to his family, and so I could gather myself. Later, I looked up the cost of the case, to see if I could get him a present (I hadn’t got him anything, to my embarrassment - it just didn’t cross my mind, with everything else going on). The case cost him £60, and this from a guy who chooses the cheaper lunch to save money. It is the most expensive present anyone who’s not family has ever given me. And, it was so thoughtful - it’s exactly what I needed, and so practical - he knows what I would appreciate. And now every time I play my violin it will remind me of him.

But, it did feel so final. It felt like a goodbye. Even at the afterparty, we didn’t spend much time talking one-on-one. There was sadness in his eyes when he looked at me, whenever we were on the brink of talking, but there were so many other people there, and music for dancing, and a mood of celebration with everyone else. Plus, his ex was there. And, one of the choreos who had a crush on him was always there when I was near him, so I didn’t get a chance to say much. But it did feel like he was more closed off than previously. I saw him glance at me a few times while I was dancing and he was talking to his best female friend (who’s good friends with his ex, so nothing can happen there). He looked kinda sad, and she was comforting him. But still, when I left the afterparty at 6am, it was with a heavy heart, feeling like it was over - both the musical, and my hopes with MD.

At get-out the next day, I tried to stay light. I was with my other friends - MD didn’t arrive until fairly late. When he did arrive, we finally got a chance to chat, briefly. We divided the scores - he had printed 2 copies of the overture we had collaborated on, then we each took the songs we had arranged. We had a little time to reflect on our time as the MD team, but his friends arrived too soon and it was over. He helped me put some of the lighting equipment into my car. There were a lot of emotions bubbling under the surface. But, his friends were there, so we couldn’t be as open as we had been. Finally, it was time to say goodbye. His best friend was standing by us at the time - we had a quick hug, and his friend commented that goodbyes were always a bit underwhelming. We were both feeling down and weary - I could see the sadness in his eyes again. But we were already a bit distant. I got into my car and left.

That evening, I had serious post-show blues, and I spent about an hour bed, crying. Emotional messages were flooding my phone from the production/rehearsal team and cast. I contributed one of my own. Eventually, I got up, and decided to give MD a proper thanks and goodbye, if only to give myself some closure. I sent him a very long message, saying how much I enjoyed working with him, how great a job we had done, how much fun I’d had, how great a team we were, and how much I’d miss it, and him specifically. He replied later that night, saying he agreed, and he didn’t know how to express how much he admired and appreciated me, commenting on my musicianship, commitment and enthusiasm. But it still felt weirdly formal. The one thing which kept a spark of hope for me was the last line - he said that we should make sure to keep in touch, beyond the screening and rehearsal team reunion dinner - he said we both liked coffee and talking about music so we should do that too. I still don’t quite know what to make of that. He clearly still wants to stay friends, at least, beyond the friendships formed with the other people on the team, which is something.

But he was about to leave to stay with his family, and then on a holiday abroad for a week, so I didn’t expect to see him for almost 3 weeks - a big shift from seeing each other almost every day previously. I was prepared to shut myself down again. Back at class with other people from the show, we all reminisced about how great it was, all processing together. When my friend asked ‘There wasn’t anything between you and MD, was there?’, I replied, ‘I don’t think so...’, and he said ‘...Just ‘cause you spent a lot of time together’. I think I was honest at the moment. There was what I was hoping, but also what I feared I was projecting. I’ve always been wrong about this sort of stuff in the past, so it’s safer for me to always assume there’s nothing there. But I couldn’t help but hold onto a tiny shred of hope. There was a photo of us as the MD team uploaded to Facebook, and it got more likes than any of the other photos of MD with other people, and it felt as though it validated who MD and I were with each other - someone commented ‘#dreamteam’. And that we certainly were. We always have that. And we’ll aways have those memories. Even if nothing more comes of it.

But.

But. On Friday, the last day before the holidays, MD put up a post saying that he was in the library for people to collect band shirts, if they were around. He had returned from his few days at home, and was in town just for the day before heading off on his holiday. Now, I happened to be on placement 5 minutes walk from the library, and it was on the way to my bus stop. We finished before lunch, and I found myself walking to the library. I needed an excuse to go in - then suddenly I remembered, of course, I need holiday reading! That’s something I had not done for a while because of musical - just reading books for fun. So I decided to grab some books, and it also gave me an excuse to go into the library. I gathered the courage (after 15 minutes of arguing with myself) to ask if he was still there, and he replied and said which floor he was on. So, I went and found him, and asked him if he wanted to come for lunch. I was weirdly nervous, and fumbled my words a bit, but he was gracious enough to let me recover my pride and explain my excuse for why I was in the library. Once we were outside, he asked where I wanted to go, and I realised I hadn’t thought that far ahead. But he was quick to suggest a place, and I let him take it from there. 

And the funny thing is, we were so chill. After the first couple minutes, I relaxed. Conversation flowed easily between us, and he spoke openly to me again. He spoke about the work he was doing, about his relaxing time back home, and about what he wanted to do musically in the future. We did indeed have that music chat. (Now all we need is coffee...). And we barely even spoke about the musical. It did inevitably come up, but I think both of us were still a bit raw. But it was a relief that we still had stuff to talk about even when we weren’t talking about the musical. We spent about 45 minutes together, and it was relaxed. It settled my heart again. We felt open with each other again, which was what I was most worried about - in the past, people have cut me off suddenly. I was worried that once we didn’t have musical in common, our friendship/whatever this is would dissolve. But now, it looks like it won’t have to. I guess we’ll see, and that lunch replenished my hope. I could feel the undercurrent of caring had returned - we are two people who’ve gone through a lot together and built something great, and that’s a bond that’s not easily broken, wherever this thing goes. And I could feel that had returned. Perhaps it was the time he had spent at home, or perhaps he had made a decision about where he wants us to go, but whatever it is, we felt more settled. The sadness in his eyes had gone.

So, when we parted for a final time before the holiday week, it was with a sense of hope and new beginnings. We wished each other a good break, and knew we would see each other in 2 weeks. It didn’t have the sense of finality and loss of our last departure. It was more ‘til we meet again. There was a moment when we looked at each other before parting, unsure whether to hug, but then he stepped closer and went for it. Seems like we’re huggers now. Which I’m fine with. I hug like I mean it. 

And then we parted.

And he looked back over his shoulder as he was walking away. He smiled at me, and I waved at him. It’s funny how the smallest of things keep the candle of hope burning. 

I’ll see if he follows through on that coffee.

I hope he does.

[trevoriirw639]

The Worst Videos of All Time About sandale piele

The first time I saw Heath Ledger, it absolutely was accidentally. My day and later on to-be partner, Nick, took me to determine ‘The Sixth Perception’, at last succumbing to look pressure to guess the large surprise ending. By now, ‘The Sixth Perception’ was off the major theater chain circuit and only screening in smaller suburban independent theaters, which led us to practical experience a type of now rare occasions: a double-attribute matinee. The main movie was ’10 Things I Loathe About You’.

Very well handed teen videos, even All those with Shakespearian-centered scripts, we shyly admitted to liking ten Matters. Wow, I really like the male guide, what was his identify? Hes Australian, you realize, replied Nick. And in standard Aussie-vogue, I was doubly amazed and now stupidly crammed with countrywide satisfaction. A further outstanding Australian up-and-comer to affix the speedily expanding queue to grace Hollywood screens.

Many years afterwards, I might often grab the DVD to fill a cheerless afternoon and locate myself viewing and rewinding exactly the same scene. Time and again and over again. My solution responsible pleasure. Heath sliding down the pole, microphone in hand, singing Youre just far too superior being genuine, cant just take my eyes off of you The brass band kicks in. Which charmingly defiant half-run, 50 %-prancing throughout The varsity methods. The scene is excellent. Its inexplicable. He just has that previous-fashioned it element.

Im not a star-struck supporter and was never ever a type of teens with Motion picture-star idol posters plastered around my Bed room walls, but this Youngsters bought talent.

After which came All those scene-stealing roles that thoroughly blew us absent. The Patriot. Monsters Ball. And at last top-person standing and an Academy Award nomination. By now, we were just utilized to owning One more popular Australian up there with the rest of the world’s good expertise churning out an unlimited array of numerous, still illustrious movie roles.

We experienced no idea. It was not limitless. It wasn't what we expected.

When individuals who Ive in no way fulfilled but significantly admire die, Im unhappy. But Ive by no means cried before. I have not right before felt that coronary heart wrenching overwhelming shock that lasted for days following I read the information. This time it absolutely was in some way additional private. The moment I read through the specific listing of the first report of his deathbed scene, I intuitively knew how he died.

10 days afterwards the ultimate professional medical examiners report confirmed my suspicions.

Hollywood is Xanax-city. Sensation down, pop a Xanax. Experience stressed, pop a Xanax. Should accomplish at your best possible, pop a Xanax. A-record stars really feel the strain to offer A-quality performances when engaged on multi-million greenback movies. There’s excessive revenue at stake. The extreme strain, the two inside and exterior, is immeasurable. The studios are jeopardizing billions, spending The celebs thousands and thousands, along with the actors are unnaturally subjected to more pressure than we mere mortals can imagine.

Heath Ledger, himself, admitted that after the around the world release of the Knights Tale with its instant paparazzi-bulb-flashing stardom, his strain stages improved 10-fold.

Xanax is definitely the trade name with the generic anti-anxiety/tranquillizer prescription drug, alprazolam, mentioned in Ledgers toxicity report. One other anti-stress and anxiety drug was diazepam, or more frequently referred to as Valium. These prescription drugs are from a class of frequently prescribed tranquilizers known as benzodiazepines or just often called benzos.

According to the most current National Wellbeing Study, around 10 million scripts of benzos are penned yearly in Australia alone with its meagre inhabitants of twenty million compared to three hundred million in the US.

Many Medical doctors will compose a script for benzos a lot quicker than a rushing bullet. But the actual Risk is always that a lot of of these don't know the very long-term outcomes these medications have with your technique, how to present their people the correct suggestions when administering or checking the dosages, and additional frighteningly – how to handle their clients benzo withdrawal method.

For starters, That is how benzos have an affect on The body or maybe more importantly your brain. Benzodiazepines improve, or somewhat, boost your brains primary neurotransmitter, generally referred to as GABA. Finally, and this can be as promptly as three to 4 months if using a each day dose, your Mind will end manufacturing its very own GABA and rely completely to the synthetic benzo.

GABA is An important neurotransmitter mainly because it influences nearly almost everything else. Primarily it boosts the brains other neurotransmitters like Serotonin and Dopamine. Every one of the brains neurotransmitters have essential features which include, voluntary motion in the muscles, wakefulness, slumber, memory perform, sensory transmission – Specifically discomfort, and much, a lot more.

The trouble is usually that from this level on your brain requires more benzo as tolerance begins the downward spiral, as well as Mind needs better and higher dosages to obtain exactly the same effect. In case the affected individual will not be supplied the right dosage or administration information, that insidious and infrequently-undiagnosed disorder called Benzo Withdrawal Syndrome (BWS) will start its unpleasant and most likely hazardous descent.

BWS is understood by industry experts in the field for its severity and prolonged character. It could get several years to fully withdraw from benzos, In spite of proper treatment and supervision. With out this knowledge, the unwitting affected person can put up with about 30 symptoms, the commonest remaining unrelenting sleeplessness, extreme ache and mood improvements. People who have been using benzos for a relatively small time can working experience withdrawal indicators even although getting the drug. Moreover, if you have been getting them for a prolonged time, then out of the blue halt, dire instances may possibly occur. Or, for the pretty minimum, extra suffering, more despair and unrelenting sleeplessness.

Once we now examine Heath Ledgers issues, does this audio acquainted? Anything points to Extraordinary Benzo Withdrawal, but no-one particular is exclaiming its potential risks. In reality, most GPs and in some cases medical center Medical doctors acknowledge they know hardly any about Benzo Withdrawal. Some even refer their sufferers to drug rehabilitation centers an absolute no-no In line with sandale rieker benzo counselors. Benzo withdrawal is the precise reverse to alcohol or Avenue drug dependency. You dont choose to abruptly eliminate the benzo from the physique, because they frequently do in drug rehabilitation. The Mind requires the benzo. A person must steadily withdraw the synthetic benzo until the brain can sooner or later raise its individual GABA. Unexpected cessation of benzos could potentially cause critical difficulties which include seizures and blackouts.

When in BWS, the counselors suggest towards taking any medication or medications in any respect. Paracetamol might be The one thing the body can cope with for agony aid. Almost nothing else. Even codeine is forbidden. Also, one particular must entirely refrain from alcohol, caffeine, and all stimulants. There exists a robust protocol to be followed and devoid of this expertise, the affected person is easily place at fantastic chance.

The Ashton Guide, the acknowledged benzodiazepine bible, warns:

Drug interactions: Benzodiazepines have additive consequences with other drugs with sedative steps such as other hypnotic’s, some antidepressant’s (e.g. amitriptyline [Elavil], doxepin [Adapin, Sinequan]), main tranquilizers or neuroleptics (e.g. prochlorperazine [Compazine], trifluoperazine [Stelazine]), anticonvulsant’s (e.g. phenobarbital, phenytoin [Dilantin], carbamazepine [Atretol, Tegretol]), sedative antihistamines (e.g. diphenhydramine [Benadryl], promethazine [Phenergan]), opiates (heroin, morphine, meperidine), and, importantly, alcohol. Sufferers using benzodiazepines ought to be warned of such interactions. If sedative medicine are taken in overdose, benzodiazepines might include to the potential risk of fatality.

The real difficulty is that there are incredibly several experts in managing BWS; they won't include your neighborhood health practitioner, healthcare facility, or drug clinic. Nevertheless, there are good BWS experts that can be extremely practical, but they are often located in specially funded tranquillizer Restoration clinics.

One need to ask, why dont Health professionals know relating to this? The situation is that they simply just dont. Is it their fault or maybe the pharmaceutical organizations that cash in on these addictions? There is little or no dissemination of knowledge in the Group, the medical fraternity or within the pharmaceutical companies about benzodiazepines. And, In line with BWS counselors Functioning in the sphere, There is certainly insufficient study or empirical scientific tests on the results of benzos and BWS management to assist them with their intense workload’s.

Why? Who's at fault? Who's answerable for remedying the specific situation? Why would be the people who generate the scripts uninformed with regard to the following-consequences and probable risks connected with benzodiazepines?

Can our beloved Heath Ledgers Demise be a minimum of a person catalyst that should attract this devastating travesty to the public’s interest to demand more info?

I hope so.

[ragmword]

Still Only A Nickel

Still Only A Nickel

The looks had changed but the location and function remained the same. It was a two pump service station then and a two pump service station now. Ethyl and Regular had been replaced by two state of the art electronic charging units. The new devices delivered electricity to batteries as opposed to gasoline filling a tank. The service station had become modern in every sense except one.

No one knew for sure when the Coke machine appeared in front of the station. The vintage and oral history suggested that it was some time no later than the 1920’s. Yet there it stood, watching history unfold.

According to the present owner, a truck would show up weekly, fill up the machine, pick up the empties and disappear. The profits would be credited to his bank account monthly. All very correct and professional. The bright red and white machine was always full and ready to dispense an ice cold ten ounce bottle of Coca-Cola.

Way back when, the bottles tended to have a green tint. Most of the time now they’re clear. The colour of the bottle however, in no way diminished the experience when the bottle touched your lips.

You take a hot, a mean a hot humid summer day, add an ice cold bottle of Coke and a swish sound and you have created the right formula for magic.  Or is it science? Maybe even something not of this world? It doesn’t really matter if you’re the man you are about to meet.

Allow me to introduce, Jefferson Roosevelt Nixon. Mr. Nixon was a product of the world he was born into and never once considered life would be any different. For him, it is and always will be, just as it is now. He was a snapshot in an album of pictures which included everyone else. From his electric car to his digital wallet, Nixon was typical of the age.

When asked if he was named after famous presidents, his response was, “not that I want to remember. The past is what it is and something that should stay that way.” So it was no surprise that what was about to unfold would happen to none other than Jefferson Nixon.

Scanning his digital wallet across a screen, a 5 cent coin was deposited into a holder which he then took and dropped into the coke machine. Pushing the silver handle down, an ice cold bottle of coke was dispensed at the lower opening. Grabbing the bottle, he placed the mouth in the opener and swish.

When the bottle touched his lips, Mr. Nixon was the catalyst needed for the secret formula to work it’s magic. In an instant, the gulping sound was overcome by the sound of brass bands horns, men talking, bells ringing and the squawk of a radio. The words blaring out over a loud speaker announced that President Grover Cleveland was on the podium and about to set the wheels in motion. Lowering the bottle of Coke from his lips and opening his eyes, Jefferson Nixon found himself in a different place and a different time.  

Turning himself around and around, looking at his surroundings, his brain tried to understand. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. Stopping abruptly he turned to the man at the end of arm.

“Hey buddy, you alright?.”

“What’s happening? Where am I?” the confused Nixon asked.

“Where are you? You’re at the 1893 World’s fair in Chicago.”

“But how? How did I get here?”

“Like everyone else I would guess. Thought the front entrance.”

“I have no memory of coming here. I was recharging my car, drinking a Coke and here I am.”

“Coke I know, recharging a car. Is that one of those horseless carriages things over at the science building?”

“I get it. It’s a hologram, right? I’m in a huge elaborate hologram. A way for the service centre to attract business.”

“Listen bud, I don’t know anything about any hologram. You’re on the midway at the World’s Fair, plain and simple. There’s a first aid spot up past the magician on the right. I suggest you pay them a visit.”

Once his head finally stopped spinning and Nixon could focus, he found himself seated in a brightly lit refreshment stand. Marble and glass adorned the counter and walls. The man behind the Tiffany lead glassed soda fountain taps was coaxing him to order.

“Listen mister, I don’t have all day. Order something or hit the road. This is a busy place.”

“What’s happened to me? Where am I? What is this place?”

“You a fruitcake or something? I know, you got into some bad liquor. There’s a lot of that going round. Why just the other day the coppers had to drag a guy away. He didn’t know his name from a hill of beans.”

“Please, just answer the question.” repeated Nixon.

“Well my good fellow, you’re at the 1893 World’s Fair in my beautiful city of Chicago. And this here place is where people come to refresh themselves with an ice cold glass of Mr. John S. Pemberton’s magic elixir. Coke. Only a nickel.”

“Coke?”

“It is, it is. Coke a Cola to be exact. Place your order or vamoose back to the midway you drunken clown.”

Nixon rose and left the refreshment booth. His rubbery legs made following the man’s directions difficult. Finally he collapsed in front of the magician’s booth where the Houdini brothers were performing.

When he awoke, he found himself in an archaic looking hospital bed unable to move and wearing only a hospital gown and a pair of socks. The overwhelming and distinctive smell of disinfectant permeated the room. A dingy white curtain surrounded the bed, closing him off from the strange world he had just woken up in.

His arms were strapped at his side, his legs secured to the bed in an undignified spread eagle position. The only cover in sight was on the a copy of Hospital Monthly magazine, laying on the side table, next to an enamel bedpan.

“Somebody, is there someone there? What’s happening? I’m feeling kinda cold, anyone?”

From the other side of the curtain, a woman’s voice could be heard, asking if he was decent. Unable to move and with nothing to cover himself, Jefferson Nixon had to acquiesce to the situation.  Movement of the curtain at the foot of the bed heightened the anxiety he was feeling. He closed his eyes for a moment and braced himself for the soon to come embarrassment.

“You’re awake. That’s good. How are you feeling? You gave us quite a scare.”

“What is this place?”

“This place, as you call it, is the County Hospital first aid post.”

“What’s happening to me? One moment I’m getting my car charged, then I was told that I was at a fair, the next thing I know, I’m in a hospital bed. Am I in a nut house?”

“Oh pshaw Mr. Jones, no one here thinks your nuts. Just a little confused.”

“My name is Jefferson Nixon, not Jones.”

“Well, when you were brought in, there was no identification in your belongings. Rather strange looking clothes I may add. We had to call you something.”

“My name is Nixon. Jefferson Roosevelt Nixon!”

“Relax Mr. Nixon, no one is calling you a liar.”

The young nurse left the room and returned with a man, who Nixon judged was a doctor. His white smock and stethoscope gave him away. Other than the cigarette hanging from his mouth, the man was just another face to the bewildered Jefferson Nixon.

Pulling a chair up beside the restrained man, the doctor flicked the ashes from his cigarette into a bed pan and returned it to his mouth.

“The nurse informed me that you say your name is Nixon. Is that correct?”

“Yes. Jefferson Nixon.”

“Well Mr. Nixon, if you agree to remain calm, we’ll remove the restraints. You were quite uncontrollable when they brought you in. It was only for your safety you understand.”

“I’ll give no trouble, I just need for this nightmare to go away.”

“Which nightmare are you referring to Mr. Nixon?”

“The one I’m in right now. Where I’m back in time. In an archaic looking hospital room strapped to a bed against my will.”

“Like I said, it was only out of safety. Nurse undo the restraints. I’d like to hear more about your nightmare Mr. Nixon.”

“From the beginning Doc?”

“Yes, from the beginning or from the middle. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

“Very well, it’s like this.”

Jefferson Nixon went on to explain that he was at the service centre charging his vehicle. He was thirsty and purchased a Coke from the old fashioned vending machine. Then he found himself in a Coke a Cola refreshment booth on the midway at the World’s Fair.   “That’s quite a yarn Mr. Nixon. Did anything else happen?”

“Just that I woke up here strapped to a bed.”

“Listen Mr. Nixon, I think you have suffered a bit of sun stroke. Get dressed. You can go. There’s a nice haberdashery just down the way. Perhaps you should think of purchasing a hat.”

Realizing that his present situation did seem ridiculous, Jefferson Nixon went along with his present circumstances, if only to assure his independence. An explanation for him being at the 1893 World’s Fair would not be found in a first aid station.

Having regained his composure, Nixon’s plan was to return to the place where the present nightmare started. The Coke a Cola refreshment both. This all started with a Coke, and the answer must be found with a Coke.

Inside the refreshment booth, Nixon took a seat at the counter and waited. Soon the same soda jerk came to serve him.

“You again? What’s the problem? Not enough to see? Why it’s one of the greatest shows on earth.”

“I need answers and I want them now.”

“Listen up friend, I only work here. You want answers, your going to have to talk to the guy in charge.”

“So where is the guy in charge? How do I meet him?”

“The guy you’re looking for is over at the science and technology exhibition. His name is Tesla.”

“You must be joking! Tesla here!”

“So you know of the guy. A right genius they say. As long as your name’s not Edison, that is.”

With directions provided by the soda jerk, Nixon headed to the science and technology exhibition to find Nicola Tesla.

To Nixon it was like walking into a museum. Jam packed with old fashioned junk. Nothing at all like the electronic digital world he knew. Asking about Tesla, Nixon was directed to a group of men standing inside a large metal cage. From just outside the entrance he called out Tesla’s name. The men turned around. Tesla knew at once that Nixon was literally not from around here. Dismissing his party, Tesla hurried over to Nixon and ushered him away to a private room. Making sure no one was in the room or listening, Tesla asked,”

“When and where?”

“What do you mean?” asked Nixon.

“From what time and place are you from?”

“2093, The Hegemony of Western America.”

It was unclear who was more relieved. Both men had something to prove. Tesla’s time travel experiments and Nixon’s sanity.

“Hegemony? Who and what pray tell?” inquired the inquisitive Tesla.

“The western continents.”

“And the rest of the planet?” asked Tesla.

“The World Electrospirit Empire.”

“What kind of world is that? Please explain”

“A world where the spirits of dead electric and electronic devices rule. Not a ghost in the machine. But where the electro and electronic machines actually becomes the ghosts. At first they were just disembodied electronic spirits. Some good, but most were bad. They evolved in a very short time into a life form and challenged for the planet. They filled the void left by the collapse of Europe and Asia. An armistice was brokered with the Hegemony There you have it, in a nut shell.”

Shocked, Tesla and Nixon returned to the refreshment booth. A large glass of ice cold Coca Cola was placed in front of Jefferson Roosevelt Nixon. Once again, touching the magic elixir to his lips, he instantly found himself back in front of the vintage coke machine with an empty bottle in his hand. What the brain in an instant had perceived as imagination, soon congealed into reality. The brochure from the 1893 World’s Fair was in his one other hand, and a broadcast over his digital wallet announcing that the World Electrospirit Empire had been extinguished. Somehow, somewhere, Nikola Tesla had changed the future.

ello.co@01021956bob

[papermoonloveslucy]

LUCY’S HOUSE GUEST, HARRY

S3;E20 ~ January 25, 1971

Directed by Charles Walters ~ Written by Fred S. Fox and Seaman Jacobs

Synopsis

Harry is having his house redecorated and needs a place to stay. Naturally, he imposes on Lucy, who is increasingly aggravated by her brother-in-law's obnoxious habits.  Rather than ask him to leave, she schemes with Kim to get him to leave on his own accord.

Regular Cast

Lucille Ball (Lucy Carter), Gale Gordon (Harrison Otis Carter), Lucie Arnaz (Kim Carter)

Desi Arnaz Jr. (Craig Carter) does not appear in this episode, but he does receive opening title credit and is mentioned in the dialogue.

Guest Cast

Herbie Faye (Poker Player #1) was a character whose first major acting role (at age 56) was Corporal Sam Fender in “The Phil Silvers Show” (1955). He also appeared with Silvers on Broadway in Top Banana (1951) and also did the film version (1954) with Silvers. He appeared in a 1968 episode of “The Lucy Show.”  This is the second of his four “Here’s Lucy” episodes.

Emile Autuori (Poker Player #2) makes the third of his six appearances on “Here’s Lucy.”  He passed away in early 2017.  He was the uncle of writer / director P.J. Castalleneta.

Autuori introduces the episode on the series DVD.  In the episode, he wears a cardigan sweater monogrammed G.R.

Robert Foulk (Poker Player #3, right) played the policeman on the Brooklyn subway platform in “Lucy and the Loving Cup” (ILL S6;E12) and a Los Angeles Detective in “Lucy Goes To A Hollywood Premiere” (TLS S4;E20).  This is the second of his six characters on “Here’s Lucy,” two which were policemen.

Frank J. Scannell (Poker Player #4, center) played the Burlesque Comic (“Slowly I turn...”) in “The Ballet” (ILL S1;E19).  He had done two films with Lucille Ball in 1945, including Lover Come Back. This is his only appearance on “Here's Lucy.”  

Vince Barnett (Cabbie #1) appeared with Lucille Ball in one of her first films, The Affairs of Cellini in 1934.  He also appeared with her in A Girl, A Guy, and a Gob in 1941. This is his only series appearance.

Sid Gould (Cabbie #2) made more than 45 appearances on “The Lucy Show,” and nearly as many on “Here’s Lucy.” Gould (born Sydney Greenfader) was Lucille Ball’s cousin by marriage to Gary Morton.

Eugene Molnar (Tuba Player) appeared on four episodes of the series. These are his only screen credits.

Molnar has no dialogue. The character is part of a 12-piece marching band that appears in full uniform. The band is uncredited.

Anthony and Cleopatra are Harry's pet parakeets.

Willy the Goat is the mascot of Kim's college.  

This episode was filmed on September 17, 1970. 

Charles Walters makes his series directing debut with this episode.  He directed Lucille Ball in five motion pictures between 1942 and 1945.  He was nominated for an Oscar in 1953 for directing Lili.  He will direct one more episode of “Here's Lucy” as well as the Lucille Ball television movies “Three for Two” (1975) and “What Now, Catherine Curtis” (1976), which was his final screen credit. He died in 1982 at the age of 70.

Sid Gould (Cabbie #2), Robert Foulk (Poker Player #3), and Emile Autuori (Poker Player #3) all appeared in the previous week's episode “Lucy and the Raffle” (S3;E19).  This is the second episode in a row in which Desi Arnaz Jr. does not appear.  Lucy says he is on vacation for two weeks.

This episode was filmed on September 17, 1970. “The Flip Wilson Show” (aka “Flip”) premiered that evening on NBC. Flip Wilson will play himself in the season 4 opener of “Here's Lucy.” In return, Lucy appears on “Flip.” Both shows ended their runs in early 1974.  

Harry balks at paying $40 a day for a hotel room in Los Angeles overlooking the park. “For $40 a day I should overlook Fort Knox!”  Both Harry and Mr. Mooney were fond of punchlines that featured Fort Knox, a Kentucky military installation that is the repository for most of the nation's gold reserves.  In today's money, considering inflation, $40 a day is the equivalent of spending $250 a day; not unreasonable in greater Los Angeles.

Trying to ingratiate himself to Lucy to get her to allow him to stay in her home while his house is being renovated, Harry greets her cheerfully, coyly asking about “dear Kim” and “little Craig.” Lucy says that 'little' Craig is 5'11” and shaves.  'Little Craig' is absent from this episode.

Moving in to Lucy's house, Harry brings his parakeets Anthony and Cleopatra. These are the names of real-life historical figures that also are featured in Shakespeare's play Anthony and Cleopatra. Lucy Carmichael played Cleopatra for the Danfield Community Theatre in 1963.  

Harry’s suitcases are packed with his John Philip Sousa records.  He calls them The Tijuana Brass of his generation.  John Philip Sousa (1854-1932) was a composer hailed as “The March King.”  His music was extensively used in “Lucy Goest to the Air Force Academy” Parts 1 and 2. The Tijuana Brass was a modern jazz group led by Herb Alpert.  They had numerous hit records from 1962 to 1969, when they disbanded. In “Lucy and the Bogie Affair” (S2;E13) in 1969, Kim has a photo of Herb Alpert posted inside her school locker!

Harry leads Lucy and Kim through morning exercises to “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” which was written by Sousa in 1897.  It is considered his most famous work and was declared the officially march of the United States of America in 1987.  The tempo is sped up a bit on the soundtrack to add to the comedy of the scene.

When Lucy bemoans Harry turning her home into a gambling joint with the arrival of Harry's poker pals, Kim says “Maybe we could sell out to Howard Hughes.” The real life millionaire aviator was mentioned on several previous episodes, including the very first “Lucy Visits Jack Benny” (S1;E1). In the 1960s Howard Hughes went on a spending spree and bought several Las Vegas casino hotels, including the Desert Inn and the Sands, the setting of a 1958 episode of “The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour.”  

In light of his poker game, Lucy calls Harry Nick the Greek. Nicholas Andrea Dandolos (1883 -1966), aka Nick the Greek, was a was a professional gambler and high roller from Rethymnon, Crete. He was inducted into the Poker Hall of Fame in 1979.  

Harry's decorator is named Poindexter.  On the telephone, Lucy mistakes him for a her.

Kim suggest checking Emily Post for a polite way to get rid of an unwanted house guest. Emily Post (1872-1960) was a writer who's name has become synonymous with proper etiquette and manners. More than half a century after her death, her name is still used in titles of etiquette books.

When the marching band startles awake Harry, Lucy is trying to look nonchalant by reading a magazine. It is Sunset, a monthly lifestyle magazine that focuses on homes, cooking, gardening, and travel, with a focus almost exclusively on the Western United States.  It was first published in 1898 and still is in circulation today.

Harry has fallen asleep reading Boating, a magazine for boat enthusiasts. It began publication in 1966 and is still in print today.  Harry is a boat enthusiast who decorates his home and office with model ships and paintings of vessels.

Harry is allergic to Willy the Goat – and all long-haired animals.  This is consistent with “Lucy and the Bogie Affair” (S2;E13, above) where we learn that Harry is allergic to dogs.  

As Harry is finally is finally about to leave, Lucy has a horrible thought: what if Harry is like Sheridan Whiteside in the play The Man Who Came to Dinner and falls on his way out and must stay with them even longer?  The play, by George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart, was a comedy that opened on Broadway in 1939.  It starred Lucille Ball's good friend (and “Here's Lucy” performer) Mary Wickes as Nurse Preen.  Wickes was one of several stage actors who recreated their roles in the 1942 film adaptation.

This episode is similar to “Lucy's Mystery Guest” (TLS S6;E10), where Lucy Carmichael's Aunt Agatha (Mary Wickes) turns up on her doorstep and turns her life upside down with exercise at dawn, a health food regimen, and wardrobe requirements.

Gale Gordon also put Lucy and a pal through their paces with vigorous exercise in “Lucy and the Countess Lose Weight” (TLS S3;E21) in which Mr. Mooney helps out at a fat farm to keep the bank from foreclosing and recruits Lucy and the Countess as members.

Party in the Kitchen! Harry's poker pals head into the kitchen for their game, despite the fact that Lucy has a green felt-lined card table in the living room!

Where the Ceiling Begins!  When Harry is leading the morning exercises, the camera pulls back for a long shot and the top of the living room set is visible on the right, with a loop of cable hanging down.  

Where the Floor Ends!  Later, when Kim leads in Willy the Goat, the camera pulls back revealing the edge of the sound stage floor.

This is classic (if not hysterical) situation comedy material. No guest stars, no music, just Lucille Ball and Gale Gordon in a battle of wit(ticism)s.