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duckbeater · 4 years ago

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Courtship, pt. 2

Writing about happiness is very difficult and boring. The below are some small attempts I’ve made to write through my happiness. My small, important readership deserves an update, says my brother, whose sensibilities have only rarely steered me catastrophically wrong.

I AM BUYING CHAMPAGNE TO CELEBRATE MY LOVER

Today’s the last day of his job and he’s throwing himself a little party. In September he begins med school and in the next month he’ll put his affairs in order, readying for the big move. I have the sense that tonight begins our diminuendo, despite his staying over last night and spit-fucking me, and I’ll surely stay over tonight, after the many champagne toasts to his prosperous life ahead.

We’ve started sleeping as two spoons embracing chest to chest, with our faces tucked awkwardly in a neck or an armpit. Of course I wake up gasping, my mouth sucking after a less hot pocket of air, and turn, and enjoy that he pulls me tightly back to him. He’s a heavy sleeper and I’m a light sleeper, and our bedding situation resembles something like a rock in a tumbler with my rolling over and over and over again, arising too early, wildly underslept, shining with sweat, but ecstatic that we’ve touched all night long. I’m attending his celebration in a sleep deficit that I’ve covered with caffeine and a long, soulful run beside the lake. I’ve been thinking about us a lot.

He wouldn’t call himself my lover, I think, but I’m hoping the expensiveness of the champagne I’m bringing will convince friends in attendance that that’s what we are. I’m hoping my largesse goes noticed and commented on—that it’s interpreted as my being in love with him, and that his peers compel him, by either fretting over my largesse, or pitying me for it, or anyway finding it impressive or amusing or tender or charming—that they tell this young man I’m adoring him and I’m adoring him well. That my adoration seems steadfast and considered. And despite the riskiness of the circumstances (our differences in age, the widening gulf in distance, a sometimes depleting lack of shared cultural references), when we are together I feel comfort and joy. This must be obvious to him without the expensive champagne. I’m always saying it out loud, or anyway variants on the theme of “comfort and joy,” like a seasonal blessing, a profusion of blessings, needing remarked upon. I’m seriously afraid I mother him.

“Let us take in the scene,” I have said before, “let us only observe for the moment my sitting in your lap, your hands on my neck, my constant kisses. What joy!”

He’s done something to my sense of my proportion, and also my prose style. I can’t seem to describe our relationship without slipping into the sardonic, recursive, mildly-institutionalized voice of Robert Walser, a writer I find too cute by half. I’m finding my life too cute by half, I fear. If this is what happiness feels like, I don’t really want much more of it. It’s making me stupid. “People will think that pain has made you stupid,” wrote Walser, a statement that comes back to me when I can’t distinguish between the good times and bad times making me an idiot.

AFTER THE SPIT-FUCKING

We stayed up late talking about what it means to say goodbye to people who don’t know you’ve cared for them. I don’t pretend this conversation had subtext. For the last two years, he’s worked with profoundly disabled people, first as a case worker and then, after the pandemic closed the campus and made that job “nonessential,” as a nursing assistant on the same floor.

He spent months feeding, changing, bathing and bedding non-ambulatory children and adults. Most cannot speak, a few cannot see, and none can walk, of course. It is a world I’ve rarely thought about—indeed, a world many of us rarely consider, because in its theater of human need are scenes of unremitting hopelessness. It is a languageless suffering and it perdures. I can become very mystified, very shallow-breathed thinking about his care for these souls, however quick he’s been to dissuade me from romanticizing or elevating his ministrations. “One of my verbal residents tells me to fuck myself all the time,” he’s noted. Still, I would point out that birth defects and accidents account for a small percentage of his caseloads’ impairments, and that active neglect and abuse perpetrated intentionally by former guardians (or unwittingly by the American healthcare complex) have hobbled his charges for life. I don’t like hearing stories about choked babies and toddlers left so long in beds their soft bones grow slab-wise, so I’ve asked him, coward that I am, to please skip origins if he’s entering an otherwise benign workaday anecdote.

His most patient complaint: using his iPhone to FaceTime parents who want to see their son, then listening to one-sided conversations, burbling, giggles, tears, even story-time. His campus closed to all guardians—a devastating precaution. “Don’t send anything xrated today,” he’d text, and I’d know he was hosting a reunion. So I’d keep my clothes on. And he’d answer the phone from an immediately weeping seventy-year-old mother saying, to her forty-year-old son, “Why good evening, Max, good evening. This is your mother. Hi, baby. Hi. I love you. I am your mother. I will always be your mother. I am sorry I cannot touch you, I cannot hold you, I cannot be with you in this time, but you are my Max, and I am your mother. And I love you always. You can hear me and I’m gonna tell you all about my week, okay? And then I’m gonna ask Scotty here how you’ve spent your week, okay?” He said he usually cries on these calls and when I asked why, he said, “Because it seems polite?” And I pressed harder and he said, “Because I get to—I get to connect these people who have missed each other so much, and it’s so sad. They haven’t touched in months. They might not touch this year. My phone sometimes runs out of battery. It’s so weird.”

I’ve asked him whether families are happy to be rid of their incredible dependents and he said that by and large families are miserable to give over members to the institution: that age arbitrates the giving. “A mother and father have a baby at twenty-five. They can care for him well into their fifties—their twenty-five-year-old, their thirty-year-old son. But when these parents enter their sixties? Their seventies? They can’t lift an adult male. They can’t bathe him or change him. Even basic nutrition gets hard. Meal prep is tiring. It’s long. They start to lose track of medications, and they have medications themselves, you know? So the situation gets very difficult and if they want to live, and if they want him to live, they feel like they have to give him up.”

We’re at the point now where intimacy is a given. He doesn’t swallow, but brings me to orgasm, taking me in his mouth and then dribbles it, I guess, my cum, back onto my stomach, apologizing with a flushed red smirk. “I hate that,” he says, “I really hate it.”

“Go ahead, eat it,” I say, joking.

He gives me dark eyes and showily palms the wad into the black pillowcase behind my head.

“Holy Christ!” I yell. “The nerve! The pluck! The audacity!”

There must be a phase in relationships when extracting intimacies—not only of the “terrible things I did in high school”-vein, or the “times I cheated”-vein, or the “unwittingly right wing ideologies I support”-vein—that close couples endeavor. Where you’re always compulsively revelatory, to seem as interesting as you did in early courtship, as erotically forward and emotionally captivating. We’re in that moment and we surprise one another with small tributes as befits that level of affection.

One of the intimacies I proffered is that I’m going through a religious re-awakening, a need for ritual and sacraments. He finds this funny. (I find it embarrassing.) Yet one of his duties has been wheeling charges to his building’s Tuesday Mass, and then helping to administer the Eucharist. I don’t think he in fact touches the host (I don’t think many in his care can safely take of the host; “I’m mostly there in case anyone seizes,” he said), but he did slip a large wafer away for me and now it’s in my apartment, among my candles, possibly growing mold. He asks me when I’m going to eat it and I tell him around Christmas.

(That was a lie. I’ll eat it when our romance is over, to consecrate the time we had.)

“I eat it,” I say, and he glowers.

I TOLD HIM ABOUT A MYSTERY SURROUNDING MY FAVORITE AUTHOR

Norman Rush. For a decade and better I’ve wondered about the long dedication in Mating, whose last lines read, “...and to the memory of my father, and to my lost child, Liza.” The novel, set in Botswana and borrowing heavily from Rush’s time there as director in the Peace Corps, suggests that perhaps Liza died in Africa or was born still. She goes unmentioned in his Paris Review interview, in subsequent novels, short stories, and reviews. There’s no hint of Liza’s fate. (As I edit this, I recall a phrase in Mortals, the narrator’s idea that “children exposed you to hellmouth, which was the opening of the mouth of hell right in front of you.” Explaining further: “[I]t was the grandmother, the daughter, the granddaughter tumbling through the air, blown out of the airplane by a bomb, the three generations falling and seeing one another fall, down, down, onto the Argolid mountains. With children you created more thin places in the world for hellmouth to break through.” And then, in Subtle Bodies, Rush describes a wayward teen boy, whose angry and aggressive behavior corresponds exactly to Rush’s own troubled teen son. In fact, Subtle Bodies is about the decision to have children at all. Nina follows Ned to a funeral, to fuck him. So, Rush has indeed remarked on children and strife, as he has lived it. Anyhow—) Yet by accident I listened to an old Fresh Air interview where Rush is asked to comment on the aspect of family in his novels, and to clarify that inscription.

“I have a daughter who is now thirty,” he says, “who was born with diffuse brain atrophy and has been institutionalized for many years. Um. But I think the rest is pretty self-explanatory.”

“What was her condition?” presses his interlocutor.

“She is uh profoundly retarded,” pauses, “and will be so.”

“So you feel she is lost to you?”

“Yes. There is no recognition possible between her and us.”

I reproduced this exchange from notes on my phone. Scotty replied, “I don’t think that’s right, actually. Maybe between her and—who—who was it?”

“Norman Rush and his daughter Liza.”

He said, “Maybe between Liza and her dad—yeah, maybe she was so disabled she couldn’t recognize him. I take care of men like that. But I recognize them.”

We were talking about important books at all (I mean that semi-seriously) because his co-worker had gifted him three works, including a volume of Yeats’ complete poetry.

“Why did Paco give you Yeats?” I asked.

“He thinks I need more poetry,” said Scotty.

(Frankly I have felt and still feel sexual jealousy against Paco, who recently got brilliant red and black knee tattoos of spider webs. Like, Spider-Man spiderwebs, covering both kneecaps. Every few weeks he cooks a large meal for Scotty, and they talk about life until 4 A.M. drunk on bourbon, immobilized by edibles, full and warm and caring, and it makes me mad. It makes me mad, because I can’t really see the point of staying up until the uncomfortable small hours between 2 and 5 unless there is sex involved, but Paco is straight, a father, an excellent chef, a dedicated friend, and so my grousing is a kind of unwarranted possession that baffles me into silence on the matter.)

I didn’t have anything intelligent left to say about Norman Rush. I groped along a narrow thought, however, a thin ledge. “You know—a novelist, especially a novelist as concerned with language and comprehension as Norman Rush, would feel particularly devastated by the condition of his daughter. He would see it as ironic and then as punitive and again as senseless—supporting his comforting regime of a militant atheism.”

Although very sober, I recited the first stanza of The Second Coming, tripping over two lines (but the best lines), saying, “The worst lack all conviction, while the best/Are full of passionate intensity.”

“What?” said Scotty.

“I just—that was Yeats.”

“Who?”

“Go ahead and tell your boy Paco that your hot fuck gave you a teach on William. Butler. Yeats.”

“What?” said Scotty. He grinned at me. He got up and ate a yogurt.

#norman rush

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spikeisawesome456 · 4 years ago

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1. Spotify, SoundCloud, or Pandora? Uh… None, actually. I use YouTube and iTunes mostly. I have YouTube premium family (means that for $15, I get six accounts that can have YouTube Premium) so I don’t have to worry about ads and all that.

2. is your room messy or clean? Both? I only have a thin area of my room that can have movement, since it’s so small. The majority is taken up either of my bed or my dresser/end table/storage. So the room is full of stuff, but the main area is kept clean so I can move through it, ya know?

3. what color are your eyes? Green/blue, but mostly green. I also have brown in the center of my eyes. I guess you could call it hazel? I don’t really know what hazel eyes mean, honestly.

Here’s a close up I took a while ago. I’m looking at you!! Ha!

... I just realized I’ve not changed at all since I was a child. :-(

4. do you like your name? why? Yep! I like it. I have a long, more formal name (Katherine) but also a shorter, more informal nickname (Katie). I like this dynamic of my name. I also like how it sounds. Both of them. <3

5. what is your relationship status? Single, but okay with that. I’m starting to think I’m aro, as I don’t… ahh, like people? Much? It’ complicated.

6. describe your personality in 3 words or less Very, very, annoying.

7. what color hair do you have? I think you could call it golden?? I usually call it dirty strawberry blonde. It’s a coppery color, but also blonde. Not quite strawberry, not quite dirty. A mix?

This is a somewhat good example, but it is a bit more copper-toned than usual, due to the light next to my computer. The kids at work ask me sometimes if I dyed my hair, since it is almost completely orange on the badge my work printed for me, aha. But this shows the range of colors my hair goes through.

8. what kind of car do you drive? color? Ha! What, you think I’m a functioning adult? I don’t know how to drive.

9. where do you shop? Literally anywhere? I don’t care. I get my pants from Walmart, my shirts from wherever sells cute fandom shirts.

10. how would you describe your style? Ha!!! I answered this one in an ask, but I determined I have no style. I just prefer comfort to fashion.

11. favorite social media account Hm… I don’t tend to care much for social media accounts, personally at least. I just follow whatever is neat. I guess I like Game Grumps social media?? Eh.

12. what size bed do you have? Twin. It’s pressed up against the wall and I just sleep pressed into the corner like I’m trying to merge and become one with the wall. One day, sweet wall……..

13. any siblings? Sadly, yes. _._ An older brother. He’s actually fine, but still siblings...

14. if you can live anywhere in the world where would it be? why? Probably…. Hm. I liked New Zealand when I visited, but I don’t know if it would be the best place for me to live, since it’s just so different to how I live now. Same with Ireland, though both would be amazing for me. I think… honestly, where I currently live, since it has good weather and is familiar to me.

15. favorite snapchat filter? Don’t use snapchat! :-D

16. favorite makeup brand(s) Hm… I used to only use Bare Minerals, but they don’t have great coverage, I’ve found. I’ve been using Clinique now, but I think they make me break out, which is bad. I don’t like makeup and I always feel it on my skin, or else it makes me break out after usage. I have very sensitive skin, ya feel me?

17. how many times a week do you shower? Never! I hate showers. I don’t like the feel of being blind when the water gets into my eyes.

I take a bath twice a day, though. Once in the morning and once at night, where I wash my hair. I know I’m not supposed to wash my hair so often, but it’s a habit at this point and it helps me sleep now.

18. favorite tv show? Buffy the Vampire Slayer, mostly since it was so important to me growing up. I still love it, though! I just don’t tend to have favorites, ya know? But Buffy will always mean the most to me.

19. shoe size? I don’t… I don’t really know? Heels I’m a size 8, I think? But I wear size 9.5 for sneakers, since I like my shoes a bit big. I think??? I don’t really know.

20. how tall are you? Ehhhhhhhh I say I’m 5’4, but who knows. I think I’m 5’3 and a half. I just round up. According to my doctor’s records I shrank and am 5’2, so who even knows anymore. Height is a made-up concept to control the short. ;-)

21. sandals or sneakers? Sneakers, god. I wore sandals once for a fancy event and I got sand and dirt on my feet immediately. It was sad. :-(

22. do you go to the gym? HA!

23. describe your dream date I don’t really know. As I said, possibly aro. Maybe…… Uh…. Somewhere quiet. Private. I’m not good in groups or crowds. OR! Maybe a theme park, the absolute opposite of what I said. OR a fair. I love fairs! Anything, really. I’m not picky.

24. how much money do you have in your wallet at the moment? Oh! This one is a shock, because my dad just gave me a lot of money since I paid for dinner with my mom, since he was being an overly dramatic baby over me calling out his awful behavior and left us alone for dinner at Red Lobster, and he stubbornly paid me back. So I’ve got… let’s see… about $135, if you count the $30 I had in before.

25. what color socks are you wearing? Ha! Jokes on you! I’m not WEARING ANY SOCKS!!!! AHA!!!!!!!

26. how many pillows do you sleep with? One. Too many makes me feel weird.

27. do you have a job? what do you do? Well… I HAD job, because Covid. I was an after-school teacher, where I looked after kids, kind of daycare style, ya know? I loved it, and I love kids. Currently I’m “teaching” some of the kids I used to look after STEAM over Zoom. Apparently, the girls- sisters- missed doing my STEAM experiments each week and asked their mom to contact me to do the experiments with them over Zoom. I use “teaching” in quotes, since I mostly just do science activities with them, step by step, without much teaching involved. I used to explain why what we did was science, but I don’t want to make the kids do more work when they have so much with Covid going on. Also, I’m lazy, ha.

28. how many friends do you have? None! Seriously, but it’s okay. As I said earlier, I’m not the biggest fan of people so it’s kind of reliving to be on my own for the most part. I had been making a new friend before Covid, but we’ve not spoken much since. I did text her once and she seemed friendly still. Maybe we can meet up after this all is done with.

29. whats the worst thing you have ever done? Uh… I don’t really know? I used to get into fights online, mostly just fighting for what I believed in, but I never really attacked anyone, or I didn’t mean to. I’ve not done many bad things?? Not to make myself out to be a goodie-two shoes, but I don’t like hurting people or being “bad,” so I tend to avoid things like that. I’ve probably done things others consider “bad,” but that don’t register to me, so I don’t really know.

30. whats your favorite candle scent? Oh my god. I’m currently OBSESSED with this new candle from Bath and Body Works. It’s called Strawberry Pound Cake, but it smells like strawberry vanilla, and it’s AMAZING. I love it. I also have it in hand cream and hand sanitizer form and it’s THE BEST. It reminds me of those strawberry vanilla candy things from when I was a kid.

31. 3 favorite boy names Daniel, William, and… uh… I’m not sure. Alex, maybe? I know I like Daniel and William though.

32. 3 favorite girl names Emmaline, Clara, and… hmmm… Not sure, again.

33. favorite actor? Hm. Not sure. I don’t do favorites much. I guess Misha Collins? If this were about YouTube people, I’d say Dan Avidan in a heartbeat. Though… technically he is an actor… he did an actual YouTube show, with a plot and acting, so he’s technically an actor. So, then, him.

34. favorite actress? I’m even less sure about this one, honestly. I don’t pay attention to actors or actresses much, really. I know Misha since he does GISH, but otherwise I’m unsure about actors much.

35. who is your celebrity crush? Oh, Dan Avidan, clearly. He’s amazing. My profile pic on Tumblr has been the same for 4 years because I can’t get over the fact I met him. I used to change my profile pic every so often, with my artwork, but now I’m never changing my profile pic. Ever.

36. favorite movie? Uh…. Probably Phantom of the Opera, 2004. I love that film. Again, not super into favorite things, but if I had to pick one it would be PotO.

37. do you read a lot? whats your favorite book? Well, I DO read a lot. Mostly it’s fanfiction though, aha. And again, favorites aren’t really my thing. I used to say Island of the Blue Dolphins, but I reread that book a few years ago and didn’t like it as much. Still liked it but was more eh about it and never finished my read through. Maybe Stargirl, by Jerry Spinelli. I’ve not read it since I was a child, but I recall it being really good. My favorite book I’ve read recently would probably have to be Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier. I had a lot of problems with it, but ultimately, I loved that book.

38. money or brains? Brains, obviously. They taste better. :-)

Though to be honest, I do say brains. Money is good, don’t get me wrong, but with brains the person can actually think about doing what is right or wrong. Money corrupts and without thought, there’s so way around it.

39. do you have a nickname? what is it? Yep! Technically I only go by my nickname, since I go by Katie, but my full name is Katherine.

40. how many times have you been to the hospital? Ooooh, personally? Once, when I broke my arm when I was 4, almost 5. Well, many times for that, but one time overall. I’ve been in the hospital often for my mom and dad, though. My mom is disabled and is a bit of a hypochondriac, so we sometimes have to take her to the hospital whenever she has pain, just to be safe. She did once have kidney stones, though, so it was needed. My dad had a panic attack once and thought it was a heart attack, so we were there for that. I also went to the hospital once when my grandma was dying, to say goodbye with my dad. It wasn’t sad, which says a lot about my and my dad’s relationship with my grandma.

41. top 10 favorite songs HA! Can’t. Seriously, can’t. I love too many songs equally for this one.

42. do you take any medications daily? Yeah. I used to take Seroquel nightly, but that just made me gain 40 pounds and didn’t help with mood much. It only helped me sleep and that was replaced by over the counter melatonin and Benadryl. So I gained 40 pounds for nothing and I’m struggling getting the weight off. Yay!!!!!!

43. what is your skin type? (oily, dry, etc) Both, I think?

44. what is your biggest fear? Death.

45. how many kids do you want? I don’t know, one or two? I don’t know if I want to get married though, so… Single mom for the win? I also might want to adopt older kids, or foster them at least, give them a place to live. When I’m on my own and have a stable, good paying job of course.

46. whats your go to hair style? Whatever my hair naturally does, honestly. I just brush it out and it does its own thing. I have thin, wavy hair, though, so it’s mostly fine. It parts in the middle, and I don’t have bangs. It refuses to grow passed my boob level, no matter how long it goes between haircuts, so it hangs there. It always grows back to boob level, but never passed. No idea why.

47. what type of house do you live in? (big, small, etc) Very presumptuous, question thing, to assume I live in a house. I live in an apartment, with my mom, dad, and older brother. It’s fairly big, with two bedrooms and a converted den for my bedroom, but it’s small for 4 of us. Less then 1500 square feet. I think 1200?

48. who is your role model? Hm. This is gonna sound conceited, but myself. Or, the person I want to be. I have an idea of what I’d like to be in life, and that is what guides me. It’s not based off anyone I’ve met, but based on my own personal desires, a mis-mesh of ideals. The only person you can be is yourself. Trying to be like someone else will only hurt you. Even wanting to be like someone else can be hurtful. Not that I’m putting down anyone who has role models! But it just… never worked for me. Putting people on pedestals hurt me, so I just look forward to being the best version of me that I can be.

49. what was the last compliment you received? Hm… I get a lot of compliments on my Facebook page, people saying I’m doing a good job with that. So that, probably. 50. what was the last text you sent? It was too my dad, who, as previously mentioned, was being a bit of a butt and was mad at me for calling him on his rude behavior to me and my mom. I texted “alright,” to him telling me to not buy him a takeout dinner. I didn’t listen though, and he ate it when we got home after sulking a bit. He’s better now, but he’s yet to apologize. He never does. -.- 51. how old were you when you found out santa wasn’t real? Uh… Wait, Santa isn’t… real…?!?!?!

Aha. JK. I don’t know. Maybe 8?? I don’t remember. I just know I believed when I was 6-ish, when Polar Express came out, since I asked for Santa bells for Christmas. I think I also believed the next year, but I don’t remember much. I learned the difference between Judaism and Catholicism around then, and eventually decided to be Jewish when I was 12-ish, but who knows, man. Who knows?

52. what is your dream car? One that self-drives and doesn’t ever crash, so I don’t have to drive myself.

53. opinion on smoking?

Bad! Bad, bad, bad!!! No smoking!

Truthfully, honestly. My mom gets really sick around smokers, especially around pot and vape smokers. It makes her have an allergic reaction. 54. do you go to college? Yeah baby! I just finished and will be getting my (probably useless) degree in the mail soon! Summa Cum Laude, baby! (Highest honors, if you don’t know what that means). Now I just got to get into grad school so I can do something with my Psych BA! Aha. Haha. Ahahaha. Ha… 55. what is your dream job? School psychologist! I want to help children, but don’t have the temperament to be a teacher. I’m too lenient and would let them walk all over me. I kind of do as an after-school teacher. The kids respect me, though, and like me well enough. I don’t think I could be the only person responsible for them, though. I get frazzled, which I learned while doing my STEAM activities and the kids would NOT listen, sometimes. I could do it, though, if the whole school psych thing doesn’t pan out. Or school counselor, would be my second choice. Something to do with kids, though. 56. would you rather live in rural areas or the suburbs? Hm. I like city life, though I think I’d prefer suburbs. I live in a kind of suburb, though I live in a major city… We just don’t have skyscrapers near where I live, only downtown. We have over a million people in my city, and 3 million in the county. So, big. 57. do you take shampoo and conditioner bottles from hotels? Uhm yeah??? Why wouldn’t you? They’re free souvenirs! I went to a kid-themed hotel once, near Disneyland, for my parent’s anniversary, which had this neat bubblegum shampoo from their kid spa. I loved it so much I asked my dad to buy me a whole bottle of it as a body wash. It was… expensive, but I still have some left over, which I’ve kept for some reason. 58. do you have freckles? Some, yeah. Not many on my face, just some around my arms, scattered. I have a big one on my left palm, at the base of the meat of my thumb, if that makes sense. Otherwise they’re just scattered all around. 59. do you smile for pictures? Yep! Well… my version of smiling. I don’t ever smile with my teeth, since they’re small and my lips are so long, so it looks awkward when I smile with teeth. Instead I just smile with my lips. 60. how many pictures do you have on your phone? HA! I had to get myself a 164 GB phone to deal with the fact that I take lots of photos. Over 2,000, now. 61. have you ever peed in the woods? Ew? No? I hate the woods. Or, going into the woods. I like the idea of woods and I like being in them, guided, but staying in them? No. Scary. 62. do you still watch cartoons? Yep! I’m currently watching She-Ra! I like it! 63. do you prefer chicken nuggets from Wendy’s or McDonalds? Oh, no contest. Wendy’s. I do like McDonalds’ chicken nuggets, but Wendy’s are just *chef kiss* mwah! 64. Favorite dipping sauce? Ranch, but I especially like Wendy’s ranch. It’s creamy and nice. 65. what do you wear to bed? Pretty much what I wear during the day. I used to literally just go to bed in my day clothes, before I started taking a bath each night, about 6 years ago. Now I wear yoga pants (ones without pockets, since I finally found ones with pockets for day use!!) and an old faded T-shirt. 66. have you ever won a spelling bee? HA! HAHA! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! I can’t spell. I’ve liteally been spelling half my words wrong this entire time. Spell check is my best friend. Though! I did get to the finals of a class spelling bee once, since they gave me easy words (to me, at least) and my classmates harder ones. It was almost funny. 67. what are your hobbies? I like to draw, paint, write, do other crafty stuff… Things like that. I also read, fanfiction mostly. :-) 68. can you draw? Yep!!

Behold! My digital drawings!

This was my most recent traditional drawing, using charcoal for the first time. It was for GISH.

69. do you play an instrument? Nope! Ha, but I do wish I could, ya know? But I’m bad at doing different things with one hand vs. the other, which is why I can’t clap my hands and stomp my feet with alternating rhythm. I can only do one thing at once, ya know?

70. what was the last concert you saw? Ohh, hm. This is a good question… Hm… I think… It was at my county fair last year? A country dude with my parents. Trace Atkins, my dad said. I’ve not had the chance to see many concerts recently, sadly. :-(

71. tea or coffee? I like coffee better on the whole, but I’ve begun to like fruit teas, like raspberry or strawberry. I also like this nice orange/cinnamon tea.

72. Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts? Dunkin Donuts, is this supposed to be hard? We don’t have many where I live, though. I like their iced coffee from stores, though.

73. do you want to get married? Ehhhh…… I’ve talked about this before. I’m not sure, really. If I find someone I like who likes me, maybe. But I have a hard enough time making friends, so I doubt it.

74. what is your crush’s first and last initial? N.O.

(Stands for no one. :-) )

75. are you going to change your last name when you get married? IF I get married, probably not. I like my last name. It’s unique.

76. what color looks best on you? Hm. I don’t really know. Maybe red? I don’t have style so I don’t know. I like blue and purples, but who knows.

77. do you miss anyone right now? Eh, not really.

78. do you sleep with your door open or closed? Closed, but my “door” is a curtain, since I sleep in a converted den which has two open windows into the living room that are covered by curtains, and no door, which I also cover with a curtain on a shower rod. It was good when I was a sleepless teen, but now that I’m an adult trying to fix my sleep habits, it’s not so good, ya know.

79. do you believe in ghosts? Not… really. Not much more to say about this.

80. what is your biggest pet peeve? People being rude. Like… stop it.

81. last person you called` Hm. Prolly my dad? Or my brother. I don’t like calling people. Phone anxiety, ya feel me?

82. favorite ice cream flavor? Rainbow sherbet! Fun fact, when I was younger at camp, maybe 16 or 17, our camp counselor asked us this question and I replied with rainbow sherbet, saying it properly (sher-bet, not sher-bert) and my camp counselor went OFF, saying “Thank you!” for saying it properly. He was… something else.

83. regular oreos or golden oreos? Oooh, I like those cinnamon bun Oreos. You know the kind? They’re the BEST. I can’t buy them often or else… well. I’ve already gained 40 pounds the last couple years. No need for more, aha.

84. chocolate or rainbow sprinkles? Rainbow. Pretty!!

85. what shirt are you wearing? My “Scare to Care” shirt that I bought for charity a few years ago. It’s a charity that raises money for Camp Kesem, which helps children who have a relative undergoing cancer treatment have a nice, normal camp experience for free, I think.

86. what is your phone background? My lock screen is the picture of me and Dan, the background is the drawing I did of the Guardians of the Galaxy years ago.

87. are you outgoing or shy? Both! Aha. I’m friendly when talking to people, seemingly outgoing, but I don’t go up and talk to people. I fear I’m annoying them, ya know? And I’m awful in groups. I never know when to talk and when I do talk, I fear I’m annoying people. Actually… I always feel I’m annoying people. Aha. Ha…

88. do you like it when people play with your hair? Yep! People don’t do it often, though. Kids will, but you have to be careful when they do that. Sticky hands are not the best to be in your hair….

89. do you like your neighbors? I guess? I’ve not spoken to my neighbors since my next-door neighbors of 5 years moved out 5 years ago. They had kids my age, but we never really spoke. They were… not the brightest, or kindest. They once took in a stray puppy and locked it in their hot garage. My older brother and I freed it and kept it in our hallway outside our apartment, since we have emergency doors that we could close to keep him in, while we played with him. I’m allergic to dogs, though, and we have guinea pigs, so we couldn’t bring him inside our apartment. Luckily their parents got home after an hour or so and brought the dog to the shelter. They also had a different dog who kept escaping and my brother and I had to keep an eye on it often. It once got into our apartment and it was, ah. Fun. She didn’t hurt our pigs, though, so it was a plus!

90. do you wash your face? at night? in the morning? YES. Both morning and night. It has not helped my acne.

91. have you ever been high? Nope! Not even when I got my wisdom teeth out. I was fine the minute I woke. I felt ripped off. I was a bit over tired, but no more than if I’d not slept the whole night. Maybe I’m just always in a perpetual “high” state???

92. have you ever been drunk? Nope! I have a high tolerance, so one or two drinks does absolutely nothing for me. And I’ve never tried more than a coupe drinks. I’m almost afraid to see myself drunk, ya know? I’m so energetic usually, but keep a lot of thoughts inside, so who knows what I’d be like. I don’t like being out of control and I honestly think I’d hate it.

93. last thing you ate? Shrimp Scampi. From Red Lobster. ^-^

94. favorite lyrics right now Uh… Again, no real idea. I’m not good with favorite things.

95. summer or winter? Hm. Summer, I guess? It’s not much different where I live, though we get more rain during winter. I prefer heat to cold generally, though. So summer in general. I also like summer aesthetics, you know?

96. day or night? Hm. Day, though I do love night time. I just usually am inside during the night.

97. dark, milk, or white chocolate? Milk! I hate all other kinds of chocolate.

98. favorite month? Do people have favorite months?? February, I guess? Since I was born in February! And it’s a rebel. Only 28 days compared to the usual 30 or 31. And sometimes it has 29. Take that, months!

99. what is your zodiac sign Aquarius. :-D

100. who was the last person you cried in front of? Hm… that’s a… good question… I don’t like crying in front of people. Probably my mom or dad. I tend to head off on my own when I cry, though. I don’t like people seeing me sad, ya know?

Yay!! I’m done!! This took waaaayyyy too long. I’ve been doing this for probably over 2 hours. Hope y’all learned something. Prolly that I’m uninteresting, aha. ^-^ If you made it this far without skipping, I love you. <3 If you skipped… YOU’RE DEAD TO ME!

Ha, just kidding. ^-^

OR AM I?!?!

:-)

#My post #Personal #I don't know I did this other than I'm bored and I'm self-absorbed enough to want to answer questions about myself #I don't need you to ask me questions #I AM MY OWN WOMAN!!

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scifimagpie · 6 years ago

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Elegy for a Mistake: My Toxic Friendship

My usual post style and topics tend to encompass writing techniques, analytical bits and riffs on TV and movies, or even the odd podcast. Once in a while, I turn my attention inward and try to offer lessons by example from my own experience. Today, I find myself talking about a humbling and painful, yet freeing experience: the release of an unhealthy friendship.

Normally, I'm a peppy, jocund, and self-assured writer, with solutions ready at hand by the time an article is ready to go. In public and private, I am known for my likeable and kind personality - though I would privately describe myself as a haplessly bumbling, well-intentioned blowhard.

Let us presume that both cases are simultaneously true. This time, I have only an ouroboros of self-doubt and a cautionary tale. Bear that in mind: this essay lacks an easy or blithe answer to the questions I've posed and struggled with.

A word of warning

To protect this person's anonymity, I will call them "Micah." I have changed their gender pronouns for this article to enhance their privacy as well. I won't talk about their personal circumstances at much length, either, for the same reasons. Figuring out their identity from context clues in my personal life and my blog is possible, but ultimately, unimportant.

For the same reason, I will not be including screenshots or "proof" or other receipts. I don't want to roast Micah's books or sabotage their career. (For reasons I will outline below, they do a great job of that on their own.)

Another big issue with Micah was my long-term working relationship with them. No matter how much you like someone and trust them, never work for free. More precisely, never work for free. or for exposure, or work trades if you find yourself shouldering a very unequal load.

I did this. I knew better - but Micah (and my own affection for them) let me talk myself into it over and over. And that was far from all that went wrong.

"Everyone has dead people," insisted Rocket Raccoon in the first Guardians of the Galaxy movie. Everyone has their share of mistakes, ghosts, demons, and regrets. Perhaps Micah had more demons than most. But at the time, I saw them as a dammed fine writer and a tough person, a marvel of endurance.

That's still true, but their coping techniques to maintain that survival were another matter. Micah had ways of judging people and justifying their reactions to relatively small incidents that, over time, caused a lot more harm than I realised at first.

The warning signs I ignored

The thing is, Micah had a thin skin and a very sharp tongue. They were happy to nitpick and harangue anyone and everyone - usually in the safety of our private messages. This included people who thought of them as a friend and authority.

Everyone has gripes with friends from time to time, nitpicks about media, and qualms about significant industry names. Micah had all of those - and a long memory to boot. Eve their partner was far from exempt from critique and bewailing.

Yet I was, until the end of our friendship, the one person almost always exempt from these critiques. Not that I always got praise, but the mildest compliments were gold in the context of their otherwise unceasing criticism.

Surely this seems like an unflattering picture, but consider, reader, the burden of guilty pleasure that lies at my feet. I did not think I was complicit in their unhealthy patterns of criticism; I would sometimes softly defend people, but always in private.

On many occasions, I took the brunt of a fight to defend their honour - from a person who often had no idea Micah was offended. But I got to be the one good person in the world, who measured up - until I didn't.

But even before the change in tenor and tone, things were starting to go wrong. I was avoiding my favorite social media platform and my many friends there, because I dreaded the gloom and pain in Micah's messages. Our primary mode of communication was inevitably draining and depressing. Nobody has to be happy all the time, but unceasing misery is simply not okay.

The problem

While Micah and I do struggle with similar mental health issues, they had many severe physical issues to boot. I let this excuse their temper, their dark moods, and sometimes arbitrary coping mechanisms fat more than I should. They refused to deal with their mental health issues with medication or supervision - even though said issues were life-threatening.

And I, who normally would have spoken up about that, kept tolerating it.

Micah went to no small effort to convince me they knew best for themselves...even though the benefit of hindsight makes me question that deeply.

The problem is that Micah's depression was thick in their writing, and I think - I know - it sometimes negatively affected my own. Refusing to write happy or happier stories that were "not true to their experience, " they chased off potential fans and professional allies with endless cutting and overly specific arguments.

But I found their positions and their writing eminently defensible. They were very good at articulating arguments which I found persuasive.

When Micah excoriated me on a thread in public, in private, and on Twitter at various points, over a variety of issues, I began to question the state of our friendship. I think it's pretty fair to say that most of us know it's not good form to rip a buddy a new one "in public" or in private, as it were. Especially when, say, you actually agree on an issue, but have failed to state things in the exact way they require and prefer - and when that is an offense meriting a hard scoldin', it's a sign that something's awry.

Unfortunately, smart people can talk themselves into anything.

The fallout

I was unable to complete a dark and melancholy book for Micah, and they had a mental health crash - which was, by that point, indistinguishable from their usual state. They said they wanted to talk less to me because they were deeply hurt that I hadn't recognized the toll of their books on my own mental health - even though I told them as soon as I realised it was a problem, and had found a reasonable way to articulate it. (That took probably 36 hours, for the record. I was unable to criticize their books to myself before that point.)

They were deeply upset, and I blamed myself - for their mental health crash, just as they wanted me to. Realising that I could no longer work for free or be fast enough, I found myself questioning many things about their books - and even Micah themselves.

I even asked a celebrity (whom they'd caused me to pick a fight with by complaining at length about her "horribly offensive, ableist" perspective that writing books too fast and immediately publishing them does not result in good books) for her insight.

Jenny Trout was kind enough to hear me out, and even warn me that a friend like Micah may not be a real friend. That really made me think. Ms. Trout was so eminently reasonable, and I thought about how repetitive Micah's books had been lately, and I just couldn't disagree with her point.

When we continued discussing the topic, Micah had the temerity to refer to artistic writers (as opposed to commercial writers) as "blowhards". When I admitted that had offended me, they took the tack of insinuating that ghostwriting, editing, or enhancing are "not real" writing, or part of a shadowy underground industry, not deserving respect as part of the industry (even though ghostwriting and editing have been present in writing for as long as books have been made.)

Frustrated and upset beyond communication, I had to get my partner to write the message saying I needed a break from Micah.

I spent the next two weeks in agonizing tension, worrying about the future of our friendship. About twelve days into the proposed three-week hiatus, I messaged Micah to check in, hesitantly extending an olive branch.

They ripped into me, accusing my partner and myself of unhealthy and unsafe behaviour towards them - for sending a short, clipped message in the middle of a hard mental health crisis.

As I stared at the screen and skimmed through their messages, I had to face the facts: I would never be good enough for Micah.

I was bound to bump into their exacting rubric of communications and requirements eventually. It had finally happened.

But when I realised I needed to end things, I felt almost deliriously free. I spent a good week smiling and laughing more, and enjoying a generally great mood. But then I had to think about everyone I had blocked or critiqued or mocked with Micah, and the way they encoraged me to shred others. In all, it is almost a wonder that through my relationship with them, I kept the vast majority of my friends.

How does one proceed?

Having patience for friends with mental health issues and complex disabilities is vitally important. Learning to talk about people and vent in private, rather than picking fights or airing the pettiest of grievances, are both important. How do I use the best of what Micah taught me while critiquing their perspectives after the fact? Is hard to say what would be different if we had never become close, but there will be no escaping their impact on my music taste, writing, and memories.

There are no tidy answers or how-to charts to figure out whether a friend simply has complex needs, or is facilitating and enabling your bad habits. Unhealthy friendships can also involve a lot of mentorship, support, and intimacy. If they were straightforwardly awful, they wouldn't last.

but at present. I seem to be, for the first time in my life, unencumbered by any toxic relationships. I have more energy and time for my friends and chosen family, and even my partners (my original partner Andrey, and our queerplatonic housemate Kit).

All I can do is try to wrap my head around both how much and how little I really lost, and apply my lessons to improve my friendships with others, ensuring they feel heard and cared for. At the same time, I must remain safe and self-critical enough to avoid perpetrating the abusive cycle and behaviors all survivors must constantly guard against.

At the end of the day, they left me with conjecture,. and not much else. I thought we were the closest of friends....yet I never heard their voice, met them - or even knew their given name. And there is only so much you can love a friend who won't share their true self with you.

*** Michelle Browne is a sci fi/fantasy writer. She lives in Lethbridge, AB with her partner-in-crime, housemate, and their cat. Her days revolve around freelance editing, knitting, jewelry, and nightmares, as well as social justice issues. She is currently working on the next books in her series, other people's manuscripts, and drinking as much tea as humanly possible. Catch up with Michelle's news on the mailing list. Her books are available on Amazon, and she is also active on Medium, Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Tumblr, and the original blog.

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shababyj · 6 years ago

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Suicide…The act of ending one’s own life. Such a strange and selfish thing to do on one hand but on the other, who the fuck ever cared in the first place to even make you consider the alternative??? Such a dark and gray area for some people to go, yet some of us live in a constant state of dying alive every-single-day.

Most people often wonder what was going through their mind or what could have been so bad that they had to end it all? Did YOU bother to ask them how THEY were doing? Every time they seemed off or distant, did you ask them if they wanted to go somewhere and talk? Were You really paying attention?

It is never the world’s responsibility to bring you out of your dark black hole and save you. But it helps to have people in your circle have some understanding and knowledge of what mental illness looks like. It’s not always textbook with everyone or like it is in the movies. I think people are being misled by the media on what REALLY happens when you are hit with this disease.

There are so many mental illnesses that lead to suicidal thought and some end in death by suicide or even murder. I know right…scary huh? But it’s the truth! Most of the time people are so engulfed in their own pain that they don’t realize someone else’s pain. But for the most part, that is not the case. Many people are ignored and told to go to a doctor, get some medicine, have a drink, learn to relax, and the most famous of all, just deal with it. Kinda fucked up, ain’t it!

Some people, like myself, deal with people who claim to be victimized but it’s for pity. They find people who make them look better, make them look superior in a way, and then stomp all over their lives one small fraction at a time. It’s no illness but it is sick. They have several different types of a narcissist and most will play the victim card all the while they are abusing the shit out of you. It’s not treatable and it can be corrected only if the person themselves wanted to do so, but they love to cause pain, so they remain the pieces of shit they are. Be aware they claim the victim card all the while they themselves are indeed the abuser. (NOTE: They will only threaten suicide for attention and pity but would never kill themselves because they hold themselves above all other…only they matter)

Depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, anxiety, bipolar, postpartum depression, trauma, ADHD, schizophrenia, and many others are main causes of suicide. Today, there are many children and teens committing more suicides than adults. It breaks my heart to know that so many young kids decided not to fight another day. I wish I could have saved them all. 😦 Sometimes I wonder if I am ever going to be able to save myself but I keep pushing through all the hell and fire that gets thrown my way.

It seems every single time a celebrity commits suicide, the world notices the sickness that’s spreading. It’s as if it’s contagious in areas where people have more money and fame than they can ask for. But is it all worth it? Sometimes we only see what people want us to see and we forget to ask about the other half we don’t out of fear. The world has been so offended by every damn thing, that even people can’t ask each other if they’re okay without getting offended. You don’t need to know all the details but make sure people know you are there and make sure you damn-well mean it!

Mental pain is brutal, gut-wrenching, and soul-sucking, breaking you down little by little into a person you won’t even recognize. You become edgy and angry at times but other times sad and guilt-stricken. It plagues you with thoughts and emotions that tear away at you piece by piece. You become who the illness creates and feeds; no longer the human you once were.

The sharpness of the pain is suffocating, intoxicating, and makes it hard to breathe. At points in time, it overtakes every ounce of your thoughts and consumes even the greatest parts of your better days. You are manic from the suffering and trying to run away or paranoid with all the voices in your head and they are the only ones who stay. Maybe your eyes are swollen shut from all the pain that melted away only for new hurt to surround you and bring you down once more. Maybe you just can’t escape your own hell.

Suicide to a sick mind and broken soul is a way out for them. An escape to remove the burden they carry and all the baggage they drag around. Coming from personal experience, family and some of your closest friends are often the first to shut you up and turn you away when you need them most. It’s not a secret, but they claim to be tired of hearing about the same shit all the time. But have they ever put themselves in your shoes? Have you ever felt what I felt? Those are questions our people…OUR PEOPLE… need to ask themselves. How would you feel if the roles were reversed???

When no one else will listen to a sick person, they often isolate and disassociate with life and the things they used to enjoy. Happiness doesn’t come by all that often so solitude and disconnect is often the next step. Many times you will still see the laughter here and there but it won’t be the same as before. Hurt people tend to replace joy with other habits such as sleeping a lot, staying locked away from others, not going out with friends, drugs, smoking, and alcohol. Some even form an eating habit.

When all else fails and you have nothing left to pull you out of the darkness because all your cries for help faltered; you succumb to your own self-destruction. You might start cutting yourself (my specialty once) to relieve the emotional pain through physical drainage. It brings relief for a time and leaves a scar that tells your stories painful truth. You might even start to starve yourself thinking it will starve the pain, or feed it and binge feed every single ache and then some may even make themselves vomit. There are so many ways that people deal with pain and it only leads to other illnesses.

At last, no one hears your cries or bothered to help you in your time of need. Hell, maybe some didn’t even believe your pain was real. Some thought it was fake or made up and some thought you were strong enough to handle it. The fact is at some point, every single one of us breaks. We shatter like glass and we struggle like hell if we have to pick up all the pieces…especially alone. How overwhelming for a sick person, right? It becomes too much and they only see the shattered pieces and make a decision to end it all.

No one just decides they want to die just because. No one knows the pain of another but with some strong understanding of human life and the way the mind work, you can potentially save a life. These people are broken individuals that lack something and are tired of pain. Meanwhile, you are parading all the joy you have in your life in front their faces while they are just asking for your time and understanding. Now time is up and you were never there and they are devastated that they have to turn to the only thing that ends it all…the bullet, the knife, the razor blade, the rope, the pills…and most of the time those things are always available and always work correctly in their favor.

There is no coming back from the dead. Someone is suffering in your life and I promise you, even if you think you know them well, they have thought about ending themselves. It’s not uncommon for even the happiest person on a bad day to think about suicide. Sometimes there are no warning signs and we have to pay attention to our people, especially our children and teens. At some point and time, we will all have the blues but not everyone will fall victim to a serious mental illness.

Most men don’t express their feelings well and they are left behind when it comes to suicide prevention. We need to let the men in our lives know that they don’t always have to be the strong one, the tough guy and the rock for everyone. They can break down and cry and have moments of weakness whenever it may be. They are entitled to be an emotional wreck just like us women. It’s okay to be a man and be tough and still know that when it hurts, it hurts, and its okay to express it.

The big thing we fail women on is postpartum depression. I think more a lot of women, that’s where the illness began. We are shamed as fat, not losing enough weight after birth, not having enough energy, not keeping ourselves up, not being the once amazing lover, not having time to do work, not being the good enough mother and wife, and we are exhausted. Someone is always criticizing bottle feeding, breastfeeding, cloth diapers, disposable diapers, pacifiers, and co-sleeping and all that bullshit. Fuck what you and everybody else thinks. So what if your husband’s mother wants this or your mom wants that and his or her sisters thinks that’s not good enough….FUCK THEM ALL!!! You are the momma and that baby is you and your husbands…do it yall way!!!!

The intimidation is causing more women after childbirth to stay in this depression longer than the typical postpardum time. It’s ridiculous that people have to throw so much bullshit at a new mom or dad for that matter. It breaks you down when you need your strength the most. It continues a destructive path because of hormones imbalances and lack of sleep and major life changes. Mothers are ending their life when their children need them most and I believe it all started in this very personally important period. Selfish? Maybe but its all personal opinion.

Photo by NIKOLAY OSMACHKO on Pexels.com

I think we all should help each other in our most vulnerable moments. A hug or a simple talk would most likely help anyone. For the new mom or dad, a new coffee maker or a night out would help. For the person who is being bullied, don’t justify the bully and disable the victim (see narcissism). Always know that someone you run into every single day is tired of living and is waiting for someone to give them some kind of hope. Be paying close attention.

I am 36 years old and I suffer from ADD-ADHD combined type and OCD. I have been diagnosed with manic depression before, now called Bipolar depression, but I am better than I used to be. I have anxiety brought on by my ADHD but on medicine, it is a lot better and manageable. I have PTSD brought on by the trauma of my daughter’s heart defect diagnoses and the events to follow. The thought of facing losing your child is unbearable and seeing what she went through was very traumatic for me. The worst part of it was I was still in the postpartum period even when she had her open heart surgery, which was the most debilitating and painful place in my life I have ever been. I am the victim of narcissist abuse. My husband, myself and my daughter are all victims of these people’s selfishness and even once we are free, damage remains done. But they always lose because playing the victim as a bully for so long only gets you found out about. Keep on playing the games while I keep on laughing and moving forward with my family.

Suicide: Are You Dying Enough Yet? Suicide...The act of ending one's own life. Such a strange and selfish thing to do on one hand but on the other, who the fuck ever cared in the first place to even make you consider the alternative???

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panda-noosh · 7 years ago

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Action!{P5}{Lance x YouTuber!Reader}{AU}

Words: 6,945

Summary: Being a YouTube guru is hard enough without the added stress of living with Lance McClain, the man who insists on bombarding into every YouTube video you try to film. His viewers love him, and so do you.

Pairing: Lance McClain x YouTuber!Reader

Notes: p1 - p2 - p3 - p4 - p6 - p7 ; someone take my laptop away from me this hurt.

The vlogging camera felt oddly heavy in your hands as you held it above your head for the first time in nearly two weeks. The LA sun shone down on you, illuminating the fresh make up look you had applied for this night in particular – a smokey eye with dark brown lipstick, skin looking smooth and untouched, free of blotches that were hidden beneath a thin layer of foundation.

It made a difference, you had to admit. Your skin care routine had been abruptly neglected after you had left your apartment, meaning your acne prone skin had started breaking out all over again. It was nice to finally look at yourself and not see an emotional mess.

“Welcome to the vlog!” is the first thing you say, doing a small twirl at your hotel room window. You can hear Emma giggling in the background, watching you with fond eyes and a bright grin as she applies her fourteenth layer of mascara onto her already-perfect-length eyelashes.

You grin, looking out at the view of LA. Even though your body felt numb and you wanted nothing more than to take off the tight dress you had pulled on over your body, you could appreciate a good view, and you could appreciate a good day. Today was Emma's day, and you were determined to make it as drama-free as you possibly could.

“So, everyone, I am back vlogging,” you continue. “And what better way to restart this channel than with a vlog celebrating one of my bestest friends in the entire world finally making her dreams come true!”

You turn the camera around, pointing it at Emma who now stands up straight, revealing her entire outfit with her make up look finally complete. You have to look at her in awe – she wears a skin-tight, emerald green dress with a matching necklace that you and Samuel had bought for her for her 20th birthday. You had never seen it around her neck before, with her insisting that it was only to be worn on 'special occasions.'

Her make up was done up perfectly and her hair was styled in it's usual, bouncy do that took so much time to style, and yet Emma always seemed to wear it as if it was no big deal. It was perfect. She looked perfect, and for the first time in five days, you were able to finally smile a genuine smile, a swelling feeling of proudness erupting in the pit of your stomach.

“You're battery isn't gonna last long if you keep it recording like that,” Emma chuckles, and it is only then that you realise you had frozen in your spot with the camera still rolling.

You grumble incoherent words and shut the vlogging camera off, hoping that the editing can make the footage look less choppy and messy.

“I'm a little rusty,” you mumble. “Anyway, you look gorgeous, Emma. You're gonna make a perfect first impression.”

Emma grins. “I hope so. I've never been so nervous in my entire life.”

“You have no reason to be nervous. Everybodies gonna love the art work you have to show them, and you're gonna wow the crowd with your amazing personality.”

“I honestly think it's the necklace.”

You chuckle, taking the emerald in between your fingers and twirling it slightly. “No. This is all you.” You smile. “When are we meeting the boys?”

Emma sighs, pulling her phone out of her bag to look at the time. “In about ten minutes, but no doubt Samuel will already be there. He hates showing up late with the wheel chair.”

“Poor kid.”

“I'd show a little bit more sympathy if he stopped dragging my ass out of bed ten minutes early just so I can watch him do wheelies in the parking lot.”

You had never been to a professional art show.

Museums, the odd opening in your home town but never anything serious. Never anything that consisted of real, authentic art where the artists were walking around like nothing was a big deal. By the time you had walked from one end of the car park to the other, you had seen around 4 world-class artists who were here for the art show opening – the art show opening that your best friend was opening with her own art work.

You weren't sure why you were feeling nervous. Every emotion within your body had been swelling ten fold the past few days, but this was on a whole other level. You were only an on looker, and yet your hands were clamming up as if you were the one due to be making the speech. Emma didn't look half as nervous as you, her head held high and her shoulders pushed back as she chatted away to the curator like a real business women would.

You and Shiro walked behind her whilst Samuel was lazily pushed, him too busy fighting with an oversized brochure to bother pushing his own wheelchair.

“So apparently there's only two disabled ramps in the entire building,” Samuel says as you follow Emma and the curator into the building. “But if my calculations are correct, there's more than two sets of steps in this place. Which means I'm suddenly offended.”

Shiro rolls his eyes, shaking his head at your friends comments. “We'll find a way to get you up the stairs, mate, don't worry.”

“I know you will,” Samuel grunts. “I didn't give you an option there, mate. All I'm saying is, there should be more than two wheelchair ramps. It's an insult to me and I've already been through enough today.”

“That waitress didn't mean to-”

“She wanted to see if I could feel the fork land in my lap. I know she did, and you cannot persuade me otherwise.”

Shiro shakes his head again, looking at you with a raised eyebrow as if to ask if Samuel was always like this. You could only shrug in response, not entirely sure how to reply. The man had been one of your closest friends for nearly seven years now, but he hasn't always been such an easily-wound up bloke. Before the accident, he was grinning all the time, did cross-country and boxing and skiied whenever he could.

After the accident, every little thing bothered him. Every little glance sent his way set him off because he truly believed everybody just saw his wheelchair, and his dead legs and the way he sometimes winced in pain whenever there really was no pain to be feeling.

You and Emma had stayed by him, though. If there was anybody with a right to feel paranoid about people staring, it was Samuel.

The museum that the art show is held in is a big one. Halls made of marble with massive stone sculptures of Greek gods sat upright in the middle of it all. Signs were bedazzled with specs of gold that you run your fingers over loosely, admiring how cold the stones feel against your fingertips. Paintings are hung up on walls, special ones covered in a thick box of glass whilst some had simply been hung up by a nail and a frame.

The building was yet to fill up with people. You had to arrive early with Emma due to her having to go over her lines with the curator, but you could admire the empty scenery whilst it lasted. You weren't entirely sure how you were going to react whenever the place started to fill up with people. Perhaps you would hide in the back. Perhaps you would chatter amongst people, get their opinions on Emma's art work for later reference. You knew feedback would be something she'd appreciate.

It felt nice, you noticed. Standing in the middle of this massive, spacious, marble room with only the sound of the curators soft voice in the background. It was peaceful. Your mind wasn't working at one hundred miles an hour at the moment, and that was something you could appreciate.

A hand lands on your arm, startling you. You gasp, spinning around only to be met with the soft eyes of Shiro, who stands behind you with the smile he had been wearing all day still plastered on his features.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you,” he says, stuffing his hands in his blazer pockets.

He cleaned up well for somebody who worked part-time in a coffee shop. He wore a baby blue dress shirt underneath a thin, black blazer, the first couple of buttons undone to reveal a hint of what looked like a well-worked chest.

“It's okay,” you reply. “Is everything okay?”

Shiro blanks for a moment, opening his mouth to speak before abruptly deciding against it. Instead, he lets his eyes trail off to look over at Emma, who busies herself with the canvas she is currently messing with. Samuel is at the side of her, guiding her through what to do with rough yells of “Are you stupid? To the left!”

“They get along,” you say. “Samuel's just a bit-”

“No, I understand,” Shiro assures, turning back to look at you. “I'm having a good time. I'm glad you guys let me tag along.” “Don't act like you didn't have plans made before we invited you. You've gotten quite popular since high school, so I've heard.”

Shiro crinkles up his nose, a playful smile playing at his lips as you two are suddenly thrown back to the world of high school which you suffered through together for seven years. You had been far from popular back in your high school days, though you were happy to say that you weren't alone in that aspect. Shiro had his fair share of hard times during high school, and you vaguely remember him being the kid with the book. The kid who was never spotted without a 500 page novel in his hand, slumped against the lockets with it balancing on his knees, engulfed in the story that he was reading.

He had worn glasses back then and had been bullied for it quite a bit. You remember rushing to your next class, scared of being late, and overhearing the popular kids talk about Shiro like he was a joke for having bad eye sight.

Shiro was basically the scrawny kid – a large difference to what he was like now. His high school self had brought on awkward smiles and bad haircuts that consisted of choppy bands that barely reached his eyebrows. His eyes were constantly swollen from lack of sleep and his lips were always chewed up from hours upon hours of mindlessly ripping the skin off of them.

Now he had muscle. Now he wore contacts. Now he was an adult, and it takes this moment for you to realise just how much the two of you had changed and just how much of Shiro's growing process you had actually witnessed in your years of friendship with him.

“Did you expect things to go this way back whenever we were in high school?” you blurt out before you know why.

Shiro looks down at you, his smile fading in confusion. “What do you mean?” You sigh, pulling your hands around yourself. “Like, did you expect me to become a YouTuber? Did you expect me to look this way? Because I certainly didn't expect you to glow up in the way you have done.”

A blush creeps upon Shiro's cheeks which he fails at covering by itching at his face. “I mean, I knew you would be something big, I guess. Even though you were fairly quiet, I always saw the potential in you, the creativity you had. Maybe it was because I spent my days reading books in the hallway, but I can spot a good brain from a mile away, and you had it. Even if you didn't show it off like you should have.”

He was right. You had always been the creative type. Not in the way where you could pick up a paintbrush and make wonderful masterpieces like Emma. Not in the way Shiro could write out words like his life revolved around beautiful prose and pulling at heart strings – you had the skill of making things come to life on your own. All you ever needed was a camera, some make up and a good enough video idea and that would be you set for the rest of the week.

You smile at the thought. The memory of your 10 year old self setting up her first camera and talking to it like it was an old friend.

That ten year old certainly had no idea she would be where she is now – two million subscribers down the road, living her best life.

Stood in the middle of a marble room, her heart completely broken with a fake smile pulling at her features.

You push the intrusive thought out of your head and look back up at Shiro. “I think we've done well for ourselves, Mr Shirogane.”

Shiro chuckles, reaching an arm out, gesturing for you to loop your own through his. “I think we have done, Miss L/N.”

“People take these things seriously,” Shiro tells you as the two of you stroll through the slowly-crowding room you had been locked in for the past hour. People were beginning to arrive - people in suits. People who looked like they could retire at the age of 24 and still have money left to put in a will after they died.

“I can see that,” you mumble, referring to the way people formed such neat little circles around the art work. Back in your home town, whenever an art show was being hosted, all of the art work had to be specially guarded due to the amount of teenagers who made it their lifes goal to put their fingers on them. These people were being respectful, and it was odd to see.

“Have you ever been into art?” Shiro asks.

You shake your head almost immediately. “Not really. I never liked Art and Design at school-”

“I remember.”

“-but I’ve always appreciated it, I guess. I definitely appreciate it more now that I’m friends with Emma, because I really do love the art work she produces. It’s just - never really been a skill of mine.”

Shiro purses his lips, nodding as the two of you make your way over to one of the smaller crowds that had gathered around a painting of a sunset. It seemed so generic to you - a painting of a sunset. That was all it seemed to be, but the crowd that were gawking at it seemed to think otherwise, pointing out the tiniest of details and talking about how each blade of grass in the field painted corresponding with the orange glow of the sunset.

It made you think of Lance. This was the kind of thing he did. He took every little detail of everything and made a deal out of it, nothing forgotten. You couldn’t watch a movie without Lance coming up with fifty different conspiracy theories in the first ten minutes, because everything had a meaning to it when it came to him. Nothing could ever just be as is.

You bite down on your lip and turn back to Shiro. He’s gazing at the painting with his head tilted, a small frown playing at his lips. You had barely even realised your arm looped through his still, the feeling of his muscular arms pressed against yours becoming so familiar that it died down after a while into nothingness.

“Do you mind if I vlog this?”

Shiro doesn’t even hesitate. His eyes don’t leave the painting and his expression of confusion doesn’t waver as he nods at you - such a casual response to something that most people cringed at.

You stifle through your bag and pull the camera out of your bag. It’s only small, hidden easily by the palm of your hand if you managed to hold it just right, but you still look back ways before pressing record, and even then you keep the device at a low angle and speak to it in a hushed voice.

“We arrived at the art show, everyone,” you whisper, making Shiro choke on the laugh he is attempting to hold back. “There’s a - uh - sunset in front of me right now, and I’m trying to figure out what the fourth blade of grass on the second row means.”

Shiro nudges you gently, covering his mouth with his free hand in an attempt to fight off his bubbling giggles. You smile to yourself, darting your eyes around the room once again before looking back down at the camera.

“I’m with Takashi, by the way. You guys don’t know him, but he’s a good guy.”

Shiro smiles, waving numbly at the camera and you can’t help but giggle at how awkward he seems in front of the lens. And yet he makes no attempt to cover it like most people do. He simply smiles down at it, his tongue peaking out between his teeth as he plays along with the game of ‘hidden vlogging’ you had suddenly started up out of nowhere.

In all honesty, the only reason you turned the camera on was to fight back the thoughts which were threatening to break the surface. You were making it your goal for tonight to be a good night. Lance was in the past. You had had your moment of emotional breakdown with that subject, and you needed to move on. Needed to get a fresh start, and restarting up the business you had left behind in your emotional rollercoaster the past five days was the best way to start.

And so you and Shiro continue to waver through the museum, finally escaping the confines of the large, marble room and broadening your surroundings by going into the different rooms - the less crowded ones. One thing you and Shiro had in common was your lack of social skills.

Every painting was vlogged, you still keeping your voice down as you spoke into the camera about the most random of topics. Shiro kept his arm wound through yours, playing along with the game, keeping his own voice down on the rare occassion he actually spoke up.

You two played a game of Eye Spy before being told off by a curator for holding up the guests who actually wanted to gaze at the art. Shiro had patted the mans chest before you two ended up sprinting away from the scene as if you had just been caught for a crime you had commited.

You weren’t entirely sure why you were having a good time. The museum was quiet bar the soft murmerings of the on-lookers and the soft sound of music trickling quietly through the overhead speakers. You should have been acting mature, and if you felt any other way, you probably would have done so. But you felt numb. You had felt numb, meaning the idea of getting told off wasn’t that big of a deal to you at this moment.

By the time 7:00pm struck, you and Shiro were laughing as you stumbled out of yet another overcrowded room and into the hallways which conjoined said rooms. Shiro had looped his arm around your waist, leaning against you as he caught his breath from the laughing you two had not paused for the past ten minutes. Everything was suddenly funny. Everything was suddenly a distraction, and if there was one thing you learned from living with Lance McClain for three years, it was that distractions had to be humorour or else they weren’t doing their job right.

“God, we really are gonna get kicked out,” Shiro chuckles, pressing his forehead against your cheek.

You shake your head stiffly, hiccuping back to reality. “I nearly knocked over the damn sculpture of Julius Caesar.”

Shiro chokes, immediately being thrown back into a fit of laughter. You watch him as he pulls his head back as he laughs - a move Lance used to do.

No, Y/N. Not now.

You search for another distraction, soft giggles escaping your lips as you feel your disguise of happiness slowly melting off of you as the night draws on and the distractions become scarcer and the reminders of Lance become more and more prominent around you.

“I don’t think the sculpture was of Julias Caesar, Y/N,” Shiro continues. “I think it was your bloke from the underworld - Hade’s? Hates?”

“Heather. Big Heather from the underworld,” you say. Shiro laughs louder this time, wiping at his eyes.

“I’ve never remembered you being so hyper before, Y/N,” Shiro says. “See, life isn’t all that bad. I knew you could have a good time.”

You force a smile on your face, nodding at him slowly because it was better for him to believe that than to think otherwise. The last thing you wanted was for him to look at you and see that you were only keeping up this humourous act for your friends benefits - you had sworn to them that tonight would be a good night. A night to forget about troubles. A night to forget about the past five days. You didn’t travel all the way to LA to mope around and make everybody else upset with your own sadness.

“We should probably get to the next room,” Shiro says after a moment of calming himself down. “What time does Emma’s exhibit start?”

“8,” you reply.

“Plenty of time to look around a bit more. Maybe we can get something to eat at the food court?”

You nod, but you don’t move. Shiro takes a step forward, clearly expecting for him to follow you, but something catches your eye. You aren’t entirely sure what it is - it was merely a whisp of colour in your peripheral vision, darting past the marble barriers holding up the ceiling, but it was something that peaked your interest more than you could ignore.

Shiro reaches behind him and tugs at your hand. “Hey. Everything okay?”

You swallow thickly. “Yeah. Everything’s fine. I just need the rest room, I think. I’ll meet you at the food counter, yeah?”

Shiro seems unconvinced, and for a moment you’re almost certain he’s going to ask to accompany you to the rest room. But after a moment, he gives you a light smile, nods and walks off.

Immediately you whirl around, silently cursing yourself for getting trapped inside your own brain again. You assured yourself over and over again that it was normal for somebody to feel curiosity, that it was normal for somebody to be reminded of somebody they missed shortly after losing said person. But you knew, deep down, that you were just being paranoid. You knew that all the things you wanted to say to Lance were whirling around in your brain for a reason, and no amount of distractions and laughter and buddy buddy friendships would get rid of them.

You march down the marble hallways in the direction of the streak of colour you had seen. Because why not? Because if not now, then when?

Your heels click against the floor and sound out in echoes as the crowd slowly disappears the longer you walk. Your eyes dart through everyone, but they don’t need to linger for very long. These people were very different from the person you were looking for. These people held their heads high and they walked with such grace with frowns tugging at their lips as they inspected the art work which surrounded them.

You were looking for the bouncy, bubbly guy with the wide grin and loud voice.

You take a sharp turn whenever you’re finally on your own. The crowd had completely disappeared, leaving only you to wade through the halls on your own. You weren’t even sure if you were allowed this far into the museum without permission, but you didn’t stop yourself.

You took the turn and immediately came to a stop. As did everything else in the world, it seemed, because standing before you was exactly who you craved to see, but at the same time wanted to avoid at all costs.

You finally realise exactly what you had just done - you had just followed this man down these halls even though he had ripped your heart from your chest only days prior. You had trailed after him like a lost puppy, made yourself look more like a joke than the interview he had done did.

But you can’t move, because the questions and the anger and the confusion are bubbling at your system as you look at him now. Wearing a tight, black blazer, head ducked down, forearm resting on the wall in front of him as he takes deep breaths, back facing you.

He hasn’t seen you yet. You could easily walk away and leave him, don’t let him know that you had seen him at all, but your feet are rooted to the floor. Perhaps it’s the three years worth of memories that keep you there, looking at him in his very clearly distressed state. Perhaps it was the instinct to help him that you couldn’t exactly get rid of in the space of three days.

Whatever it was, it was activating now, because even though he had hurt you and even though you were furious with him, you couldn’t help but feel a tiny tinge in your gut at the sight of him now. Leaning his head against his forearm, clearly trying to catch his breath, perhaps willing himself not to cry. What he had to cry over, you were unsure about.

You take a step forward, your heel echoing off of the floor. Lance immediately stiffens up, his head snapping up before he whirls around.

His face falls, his shoulders going limp and his hands falling to his sides. He looked pale. He looked sick. His usually vibrant, tanned skin had been dulled to a pale ivory now, and the bags under his eyes were deep, purple rings that made no effort of making themselves subtle.

He swayed slightly on his feet and you were almost certain he would fall over at any given moment. Whether it be from shock or the sleep deprivation he was very clearly suffering from, you had no idea.

Neither of you speak for a number of seconds. You simply stare at each other, your hand clutching the material of your dress as if it was the last thing you would possibly hold onto. His eyes beam into yours, him never being one to shy away from eye contact.

And then he speaks, and the sound of his voice is so excrutiatingly painful that you nearly double over at the sound of it. He doesn’t sound like himself.

“Y/N.” It’s only your name. A simple word that used to come so naturally between the two of you suddenly sounds like poison, like he’s spitting acid at you instead of speaking.

His voice cracks. He sounds like he hasn’t used his voice in weeks.

You swallow thickly and nod. “L-Lance.”

He purses his lips, his own eyes fluttering closed as you speak. He sways on his feet once again, even stumbling a little as he does so. You step forward, ready to grab him but he raises his hands, stopping you.

You don’t understand why you stepped forward. You were meant to hate him. You were going to hate him. You had to. You had to stop having such a soft spot for him. You thought you were making progress. You thought you were-

“What are you doing here?” you finally ask.

Lance opens his eyes and lazily smiles. “I came here with the ticket Emma gave me. Thought I would - uh - support a friend.”

“She’s not your friend.”

Lance shrugs, your words skimming right over his head. “But it seems like somebody else took my space in the little group. Which sucks, to be honest. I thought I was quite unreplaceable.”

He’s slurring his words. Is he drunk?

You raise your brow, your gut telling you to move. To turn and leave him stranded here, leave him to deal with his own mess that he caused, but you continue to stare at him.

You want to say it has nothing to do with emotional attachment, that it’s just morals that are keeping you standing here. He’s clearly in no shape to get himself home, to be on his own. You may be hurting, but you’re a nice enough person to not leave somebody in need behind because of your own reasons.

At least, that’s what you assure yourself.

“How much have you drunk since you got here?” you ask. “The bar wasn’t free for guests as far as I know. I hope you left yourself money for the taxi.”

“Harsh,” Lance mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know what else is harsh? You flirting with Mr Tall Guy right in front of my face.”

Your breathing hitches. Anger spirals through you. You regret not walking away. You regret having started this conversation. You regret having followed him at all because you know that this conversation will bring nothing but pain for you that you will have to heal from all over again.

“I get it, you know,” Lance continues. He sways on his feet, catches himself on the wall. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m a piece of shit. But at least I’m not walking around flaunting my new relationship five days after I broke it off with somebody else. That’s just cold.”

“Are you being serious right now?” you seethe. “Lance, answer my question. How much did you have to drink?”

“Not enough, clearly,” Lance grumbles. “I’m still not blacked out. But maybe I did drink enough - I persuaded myself to actually come here. That must have taken plenty of alcohol.”

You grit your teeth, running your hands through your hair, ignoring the fact that it had taken nearly an hour to do. “I think you should go.”

“What? No!” he exclaims, and the volume of his voice takes you by surprise. He tries to move, tries to make his way towards you but his feet stumble and he has to crumble against the wall again to stop himself from falling over completely. “Y/N, no. Let me - I didn’t mean it. I know you wouldn’t date Shiro. You two barely know each other, and you wouldn’t do that to me. You wouldn’t - We love each other, right?”

Your heart aches. It feels like it’s being ripped out of your body through your rib cage, and there’s nothing that can stop it now. You want to reply with a snarky comment, but seeing him go from frustrated to desperate so quickly makes you shudder and no words come out.

All you can do is watch him as he clambers against the wall, trying to make his way towards you but his feet aren’t doing him any favours and you’re almost certain he will fall if he detaches himself from the grip he has on the wall.

“Say you do,” Lance continues, his voice taking on the edge of a plea by now. “I know I fucked up. I - I fucked up really badly and I destroyed what we had, but please tell me I meant enough to you that you haven’t thrown me away in the space of - how many days has it been? Five?”

You shake your head, biting your lip to fight back tears. Not today, Y/N. You promised.

“I just need you to get yourself home, Lance,” you choke out. “Or else you’ll end up getting kicked out and arrested for public intoxication.”

“You take me home,” Lance says. “I haven’t - I got an Uber here, but we can - we can walk. I don’t know where my hotel is, but-”

“I’m not leaving with you,” you say and you feel yourself physically break at the sight of his face falling. His swollen cheeks have turned red and bright, his nose rosy and his soft brown eyes flooding with unshed tears that you persuade yourself only the alcohol can induce upon him.

He’s too drunk to know what he’s saying. He won’t remember any of this in the morning.

“But why? We live together,” Lance slurs. “Not right now, obviously, but we still share an apartment, and you still have a home with me, right? Because - Because I don’t have a home if you’re not there with me. You know that, right? Tell me you know that.”

“Lance, please don’t make me call security to get you out of here. I don’t want this to be bigger than it needs to be.”

“If you didn’t still like me - love me - you wouldn’t even be here right now. I’m surprised you haven’t pushed me down a flight of stairs yet.”

“You’ll end up falling down the stairs if you don’t get yourself home,” you hiss. “Now please-”

“But I miss you,” Lance says, and his voice comes out as a whine, a desperate plea for you to just listen to him. “Keep this between us, but the only real reason I actually showed up to this bore-fest is because I knew you’d be here with the others. I needed to see you.”

You shake your head again. His words have an impact. They slam into your chest, winding you but he’s drunk, and you have to keep reminding yourself of that fact. You have to keep your head out of the gutter and keep yourself strong, because he means nothing he is saying and he will remember nothing at the end of the night.

“Please, Lance,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “Just get yourself home safely, alright? There’s - There’s nothing more for us. Nothing we can make out of what we had. Not now. The best thing for both of us to do is to just forget about one another.”

Lance gurgles, slumping forward. “You don’t mean that.”

You turn on your heel, using up all of your strength and everything in you to just get away from here. Leave on a decent note. You don’t need to yell at a drunken man - you don’t even need to associate yourself with him any further. Just go. Leave him.

“Y/N, don’t walk away. What are you doing?” Lance cries and you flinch at the volume of his voice but continue to walk. “Y/N L/N, get back here! Please! I miss you! I - I love you, for crying out loud! Y/N, are you listening? Can you even hear me? Y/N!”

He’s too drunk to run after you, and you’re too numb to turn back and look at him.

You reach up to your cheeks, expecting to wipe away tears, but all you feel is the dry foundation on your face.

You chuckle light heartedly, wrapping a loose arm around Emma’s shoulders as the two of you finally escape into the confines of the night.

The only light that illuminates the bright smile shining off of Emma’s face right now is the street lights that shine down on her like the spot light she deserves.

“You absolutely killed it!” Shiro cheers, wheeling Samuel, who had fallen asleep, down the disabled ramp of the museum. “God, they were all absolutely in love with you, Emma!”

Emma smiles brightly, wiping at her tired eyes. “It was fun. Easier than I thought.”

“You always had a way with words when it came to your art work,” you say, patting her arm and giving her a soft smile. You were proud of her. She had done her first night as an art show host and had absolutely blown everybody away with the art work she showed off. She had introduced a few world-famous paintings, but the paintings which stole the show were definitely her originals, which people pushed to get good views of.

Even after the events of the night, you found yourself feeling genuinely proud of her.

The side walk is crowded with people emerging from the art show, getting ready to go home after a long night of enjoying themselves, drinking fancy champagne and examining art. You smile at the odd person, arm still wrapped around Emma’s shoulders-

Until Shiro’s own arm winds around your waist, taking you by mild surprise. You hadn’t realised you were standing still on the sidewalk until you were being pulled out of Emma’s grip. Emma looked at you for a moment, smirked before she waded off to be next to Samuel who was slowly waking himself up due to the sudden burst of noise that the outdoors brought upon him.

“Did you enjoy yourself tonight?” Shiro asks once Emma is leaning safely against the wall of the museum, shooting glances up at you and Shiro before she is swarmed by a group of boys who want to ask her about her art work.

You raise a brow, pointing your eyes down at the hand he has wound around your waist. “I had a pretty decent time. What about you?”

“I loved it,” he replied. You can’t help but notice the slight gravel to his voice, a tinge to his tone that is either the work of lust, too much alcohol, or exhaustion. “I just wanted to thank you for being a good date.”

You splutter, eyes popping open. “Date?”

Shiro shrugs loosely. “I mean, the term is used loosely, of course. We’re just friends, but you kept me company in there. I don’t know how much of Samuel’s blabbering I can take, and Emma was far too busy with the art to actually talk to me. You made an effort.”

You blink hastily. “Right. Well, it was my pleasure, I guess.”

He nods. “What about that vlog you filmed? When will that be up?”

“Some time tomorrow, I’m hoping! I’m kind of filled with nervous energy at the moment, so I don’t see myself sleeping much.” Also known as, I have no idea if Lance got home safely and I hate myself for worrying so much but I can’t help it.

“Well, I’m excited to make my Y/N L/N Vlogs debut,” Shiro jokes, jostling your arm slightly. You rock against him, still taken slightly off guard by the way he loosely used the term ‘date’ as if it meant nothing.

Maybe it did mean nothing. Maybe you were just overthinking.

It’s Samuel’s voice, groggy and tired, that snaps you out of your daze. “Oh for the love of all that is holy, what is he doing here?”

Your eyes snap up, following Samuel’s gaze across the busy LA street you’re standing at. Almost immediately your stomach does knots, a sick feeling rising in your stomach as you see him - he had listened to you. He had left the museum, but he certainly hadn’t headed home.

He was stumbling around the corner, singing a song that you two used to sing together all the time as you cooked dinner - a Spanish song which you never understood the lyrics to, but you had heard it enough to know every single word.

“My God, he’s hammered,” Shiro breathes.

Lance stumbles around the corner, swinging his arms above his head before his eyes meet yours. You barely register it for a moment, the glare off of the street lamps making him seem a little more sober than he must have been. But one thing was for sure - as soon as his eyes met yours, his entire demeanour changed and suddenly, he looked angry.

You couldn’t be too sure, of course. It was very rare you actually saw Lance angry, but judging by the scowl which suddenly scattered his feautres and the way his gaze clamped down on Shiro’s hand which was wound around your waist, he was pissed.

You’re quick to step out of Shiro’s gaze, panic sweeping you. The streets were busy. Cars were zooming past at an unforgiving speed, and Lance was drunk and angry and on the other side of the road.

Nobody else sees it coming. Nobody but you. You step forward, wanting nothing more than to rush across the road and push him back from the curb, but nobody stops. No cars stop. Some drivers are even driving past on their cell phones at a speed which could knock down the side of a building.

But Lance doesn’t register that, and you see his eyes flicker the moment he yells out, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” to Shiro. Shiro’s eyes widen as you rush forward, shaking your hands in front of your body.

“Lance, don’t! Stay right there! Don’t even think of moving or-”

But your words don’t mean anything. Not right now. Not when Lance is blinded in a mad hot rage, consumed and fuelled by alcohol. You watch on in horror, a cry escaping your mouth as Lance steps off the curb, ready to fly head on at Shiro -

He doesn’t get that far. Not before a car has slammed into his side, knocking him to the left, blood spurting out of his nose before he’s even hit the concrete. You hear Emma yelling out for help, and you’re certain you hear yourself wailing but everything sounds dull, as if it’s being sounded through water.

Lance lands on the road with a thump, completely unconscious by the time he even hits the tarmac.

#voltron #voltron fics #Action!#Lance mcclain x youtuber!reader #Lance x reader #lance mcclain #lance voltron #takashi shirogane #shiro voltron #pidge gunderson #pidge voltron #hunk garrett #hunk voltron #keith kogane #keith voltron #voltron au #voltron scenarios #voltron headcanons

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up-among-the-stars · 7 years ago

Text

Cycle 307

The five times Kaizo forgets his birthday, and the one time he doesn’t.

Kaizo is sixteen when he first forgets.

Granted, he forgets a lot of things these days, but none of which he actually means to. He's taking his time with the mask, and while the side-effects aren't disabling, they're not exactly productive, either. It's annoying, how the memories he wants buried stay vividly clear, but Imus forbid he remember his own naming day.

So when his grandfather walks in the training room, a whole shift early and wondering why he hasn't started cleaning up, his first response is a very eloquent, "What?"

The general stares at him. "We're going to the plaza."

"...why?"

"It's your naming day," the man says with a slight frown, watching as Kaizo blinks in realization.

"Oh. Right."

"You forgot." It's not a question.

Kaizo hums, looking back at the sentinel he's pinning on the wall. He releases his hold and ends the simulation with a quick command, idly watching the bot sink back to the floor. He can still feel his grandfather watching him, but he honestly doesn't know what to say.

It was his choice to keep the mask, and the consequences were something he just had to live with.

He settles with a simple, "It's a work in progress."

Kaizo meets his grandfather's eyes, lets the other search his face for a few moments, and waits. His mouth quirks upward when he gets a small nod, knowing that the general has seen his resolve. Out of habit, he does a quick salute, before heading off to his room for a quick shower.

Training can wait; for now, he has a celebration to attend.

ii.

There are... things outside his room.

Kaizo is barely back from his latest mission when he spots the colorful mess in the hallway. He was gone for a couple of lunar cycles to patrol the Latsyrk quadrants, having picked up a couple of frequencies that belonged to powerspheres.

He'd managed to collect five of them before deciding to head home, which is how he finds himself in this current situation.

Frowning at the storage blocks scattered at his doorway, Kaizo wonders if someone dropped them, before pushing the thought away. Everyone in the East Wing knows where his room is, if only to avoid it. He's not the... kindest of people, especially after long-term missions. He blames Bora Ra for that one.

Upon closer inspection, he notices one that looks like Maya's. Bronze has always been the mechanic's color, so he picks that one up, half convinced that it's safe. If anything ever happens to him, he can always drop by her shop for an unannounced visit.

He's turning the cube over when he notices the storage date, then everything clicks.

Oh, Kaizo thinks. It was my naming day.

He hadn't really been paying attention to the date recently, but he supposed those close to him still did. Pressing the release button, Kaizo steps back just in time to catch a metallic blue slab, sleek sides tapered off to a handle.

He shifts to hold it properly and watches as it morphs around his arm to form an ion blaster.

Maya really doesn't hold back, Kaizo thinks, smirking at the possibilities for his next mission. The sword may be his preferred medium, but even he wouldn't refuse something with twice the power. He shuts it down before grabbing the other blocks still at his feet, wondering what the others got him as he finally enters his room.

iii

He's still bleeding.

Kaizo pants as he stares at the wound on his side. With a grunt, he lets his head thunk back on the tree behind him and tries to catch his breath, fairly content with being idle for the first time in two cycles. He knows Lahap enough to assume that the lieutenant has kept the data chip safe, so for now, he has only one problem.

He counts to ten before trying again.

"Xek'trs," Kaizo hisses, voice sharp in his mother tongue as he presses his activated sword against his side. It's one of the messier ways to deal with his injuries, but the wound has been bleeding enough to make him worried. He'll have to clean up better once they get out of the system.

It's after the fourth try that he finally manages to cauterize the cut successfully.

Damn Iaku and their traps, he thinks darkly, remembering how their target had worked with bounty hunters. It's not every day that they went to a mission with half the specs they needed, but this one happened to be more of a surprise than the captain was expecting.

Absentmindedly, he thinks how bad of a surprise it was.

He doesn't exactly remember the day.

iv.

There's a missed call, and from a direct line.

Kaizo narrows his eyes at the yellow triangle blinking on the screen. There are three options: either he's been found out, his planet is under attack, or it's a really important tip that he's been waiting for from the few contacts he has.

Whichever it is, he's going to have to call back.

Pulling up a few lines of code, Kaizo sets a frequency. The holographic display lights up a few moments later, and on it is -

"Aeron?"

From the screen, a guy visibly lights up as he signs a greeting. Kaizo offers a quick smile, before asking, "What's with the call?" He watches as the other signs, brows raising with the speed and every cut-off sentence as the man on the other line turns more sheepish.

"A," Kaizo interrupts after the fifth attempt is waved off, "As funny as this is, can you at least tell me if there's a problem?"

Aeron freezes mid-motion, before slowly signing, 'no.'

"Okay." Kaizo blinks. "Why'd you call, then?"

"He wanted to greet you, idiot."

Kaizo can't help the smirk that makes its way on his face at the reply. "Still ratting people out, greaser?" he asks, waving off Aeron's panic at Maya's sudden comment, "Same as always, I see." There's a snort, and Kaizo can practically hear the eyeroll in her reply.

"So are you. You would've forgotten your naming day if A hadn't called."

"Fair enough."

"Captain?"

"Yes?"

"Do you... think we could visit home?"

Kaizo looks up to see Fang staring at the ground, hands fiddling with his gloves. It's a little amusing how nervous his brother still gets around him, though it's not surprising, with all that he's done. He's not exactly the best sibling in the world.

Although -

"I don't see why not," he says, tilting his head at how the other seems to perk up at that. "Something important?"

Fang blinks at his question, before looking away and mumbling, "Sort of."

Interesting.

If he's going to be honest, the last thing Kaizo expected Fang to be worried about was his naming day celebration.

Their parents had been surprised, to say at least, but so was he when Fang pressed to have the trip in a cycle. Kaizo watches as his brother talks animatedly with their parents, telling them about adventures he had with his friends.

It's... nice, seeing them again.

Though it's not something I can always afford, Kaizo thinks.

He stares at his soup as he takes another sip.

(+ i.)

So, the kids know when his naming day is.

But did they really have to do this? Kaizo thinks, three parts amused as he stares down at the pile of... presents outside his ship's control room. The other fourth of him is feeling an odd sense of déjà vu, but that's mostly ignored for the shocked look on his lieutenant's face.

"Lahap," he says, startling the other to attention, "You start the ship."

The lieutenant makes a face. "Captain?"

"I'll deal with it," he replies, crouching to pick up the a-little-too-bright bundle. Color-coded, he assumes, eyes automatically finding his brother's gift, as well as Boboiboy's. There are three green packages, though, so he assumes that the twins were in this, too.

Really, what is it with people and naming days.

a bunch of important notes (read: headcanons) for those who are confused:

- i have this headcanon that kaizo’s grandfather is a general??? idk, it sounded pretty cool, and kaizo had to get his military background from someone

- another headcanon: kaizo’s mask is an incomplete weapon, kind of like a prototype, so sometimes it messes with his brain and makes him forget things

- birthdays are called naming days in their planet (as features in another fic of mine).

- edit because i forgot ajjsjahs: Imus is one of their planet’s three major deities

- when he’s not at home, kaizo stays in the garrison. his room is in the east wing.

- Latsyrk quadrants: a bunch of quadrants opposite from the one that has kaizo’s planet.

- Xek'trs: made up curse word because i want kaizo and fang to speak alien languages!!! or something, just let them have a mother language, please.

- Iaku: another made up thing, but now an alien race. they’re known for hunting, hence the traps.

- maya and aeron are my ocs!!! read more about them here.

- ps. i know very little about interstellar communication omg, im sorry sdjfhsdak

- the kids would totally give the captain gifts, if they found out about his birthday. they’d throw him a party, but they’re not close enough, and most of them can see that kaizo isn’t one for huge celebrations.

- gifts the kids probably gave: tea (from boboiboy, and yes, he asked fang to help), a cupcake (from yaya, bUT DON’T WORRY, THE OTHERS HELPED), a pin (from ying, and it definitely says ‘rebel’), a glass figurine (it’s kaizo’s sword, gopal didn’t know what to give but his friends kept bothering him, give him a break), new gloves (from fang, because kaizo actually goes through them pretty quickly), and alien tech (sai gave him the latest comm link in the market, and shielda gave him a holopad, also the latest in the market)

a/n: i feel very conflicted about this because i feel like i haven’t shown my view of kaizo as well as i wished??? but thats because too much of what i have are headcanons and i cant write well enough without making you guys confused??? anyway, this doesnt look like it fits the theme much either, but hear me out: the thing that makes it not-so-happy is that kaizo doesnt really care for his naming day. it - it would’ve made sense had i published my first entry for kaizo week, but then it would need more explaining and its 1 am and i need to sleep. bUT ANYWAY, i hope u guys at least enjoyed the fic skdjfhjksa

#IM LATE AS HECK BUT AT LEAST I FINALLY FINISHED IT ASKDGAKSHGL #((incoming a/n now that ive gotten sleep))#legendary space rebel #fanfics #boboiboy #boboiboy galaxy #kaizoweek2017 #hbdcaptainkaizo #((almost everyone is here tbh but kaizo's the main focus so im only tagging him))

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eccacia · 7 years ago

Text

wonderful you came by [part 15]

Summary: Caitlin’s a no-nonsense science major. Barry’s the quintessential charming star athlete. When they’re paired off and forced to interact in class, Caitlin’s determined to resist his charms, but Barry’s also pretty determined to get under her skin… It all boils down to a battle between head and heart, and Caitlin’s not one to give in to her heart so easily. [College AU]

Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, or read on ff.net

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Flash. The article that Barry cites here is called “What Is Nothing?” by Fraser Cain from phys.org.

One of the most important things that Caitlin’s father had taught her was the discipline of getting rid of a bad habit. He’d taught her that it wasn’t enough to drop the habit cold turkey: if change was to be sustainable and permanent, the old habit had to be dropped and be immediately replaced by a better habit. For instance, if she wanted to stop watching TV, she couldn’t just spend the rest of the hour avoiding the TV—she had to do something else, like read the encyclopedia.

It was with this logic that Caitlin resolved to excise Barry Allen from her mental life. It did not do to merely stop thinking about him, because it was impossible to stop thinking about him by sheer willpower; so instead, she filled her day with work—with outlining and practicing for the orals, with summarizing journal articles for her thesis, with drafting the next post-lab report—which successfully crowded her mind, so that there was no room for Barry Allen at all.

She had come to this course of action the next morning, after a good night’s rest and after the alcohol had been flushed out of her system. She hadn’t been in a state of mind to think things through the night before—she was too confused and distraught, and her mind was muddled with emotion—but in the light of day, with some distance from Barry, she was finally able to evaluate the recent events with startling clarity.

It seemed that her null hypothesis regarding Barry Allen—that he did not harbor romantic feelings for her—was disproven by that kiss, as a kiss was the pinnacle of romantic feeling. But upon reevaluation of her hypothesis, she realized that a fatal error had occurred in her reasoning. She realized that it didn’t matter if her hypothesis was proven or disproven, because the underlying rationale of her investigation was faulty. It was similar to testing a hypothesis like “There is a significant positive relationship between the width of one’s hand span and the age of one’s maternal grandmother.” The numbers could indeed show that those with wider hand spans also had older maternal grandmothers, but the study itself was irrelevant. Similarly, her hypothesis assumed that it was important to be considered Barry Allen’s object of affection, which implied that romance was a worthwhile endeavor, when, in fact, it was not.

And the reason why it wasn’t worthwhile was simple: Love was temporary insanity. That was by far the most logical explanation for why she—she who was logical, clear-headed, intolerant of frivolity, unseduced by narratives of romantic love—had suddenly fallen for Barry in a span of two weeks, and why she’d found herself doing things that she would never have done, such as spending three hours on the phone, or singing onstage, or dancing with abandon in the midst of a sweaty throng, or leaning in to kiss someone that she barely knew.

In line with that, she realized that Saturday night contained all the necessary conditions to short-circuit reasoning. The context of a party simultaneously created an atmosphere of wild abandon and disabled the tools for rational thought: one is unable to see clearly when one’s vision is assaulted by the bright, blinking lights; one can hardly hear oneself think above the aggressive beat of the music; and, once inebriated, one is unable to wield logic at all.

And, during the party, when Barry had called her onstage to sing with him, she was placed in a context in which it was impossible for her to say no without dire social consequences—rather than to step off the stage, be booed by the crowd, and be labelled a killjoy, she was inclined to take the path of least resistance, which was to simply join him. Their dancing together had also been a function of context: after the sing-off, people were pulling friends and significant others onto the dance floor, and they, conforming to the crowd, had also moved to the dance floor. It was part of the script of a party to dance; it was not part of the script of a party to have a clear-headed discussion on the implications of him naming her as his partner for the sing-off.

That kiss was similarly manufactured by the demands of context. The open balcony under the starry night sky was a favorite setting of the romantic imagination, and with good reason: she suspected that standing under the vast night sky made people feel small and insignificant, and, faced with the overwhelming threat of their insignificance, they naturally gravitated to others, fiercely wanting the other to affirm their significance, wanting to be loved and known in order to save themselves from the reality that they were adrift and alone, a speck of dust on a piece of rock suspended in empty space. In fact, two of her most ill-informed decisions—deciding that she liked Barry, and leaning in to kiss him—were made under the night sky. Had they been around people in the light of day, in a sober setting like the library, such things would never have happened.

In any case, she would allow no more of this nonsense in her life. It was absurd to believe that this new self, this Caitlin-with-Barry self that had been forged in a mere two weeks, could overshadow the self she’d been for over twenty years; it then followed that the new self was a falsehood that had to be discarded, and the self she’d always been—the logical, clear-headed, impervious-to-romance self—was her true self, the self she had to maintain and protect. And, in order to do that, she had to cut Barry Allen off. It was regrettable, but it was necessary. Sometimes, to halt the progress of a disease, it wasn’t enough to scrape away the infected flesh; sometimes, it was necessary to amputate the entire limb.

She resolved to stand by her decision until his persistence waned and until he realized, as she had, that his energies were better directed elsewhere. She, for one, could focus on her career, as she had always intended, and he could focus on his transition into Forensic Science.

It was the most logical decision, and one that would benefit them both. It was, she truly believed, for the best.

Monday, 7:07 PM

Hi Caitlin, it’s me again. I don’t want to sound like a stalker or anything by spamming you with voicemail, so… just tell me to stop if you really want me to stop, okay? I swear I will. But if you won’t say anything, I’m just going to assume that your silence means, Yes, Barry, you can be as annoying as you possibly can. —Why, Caitlin, it’s my pleasure to serve up my specialty. In fact, this is your first daily dose of annoyingness, served fresh from the kissable mouth of CCU Cutie Barry Allen—ah, crap, Wally just heard me saying that. Crap. Now he’s laughing his butt off. Can you hear him? Here, I’ll move closer. He laughs like a hyena. It’s hideous. I don’t think you’ve ever met him, but I hope you will sometime… Anywaaay, uh, I called to let you know that I’m sorry, and I’m not giving up. That’s all for now. I’m going to dig myself a hole if I keep going while Wally’s listening, so call me if you want to talk, I guess. Bye.

Swipe. Delete.

. . .

Tuesday, 10:51 AM

Hi Caitlin. So, uh, welcome to day two of being annoyed by your local cutie. Heh, I can already imagine you wrinkling your brow and trying not to smile but failing not to smile, so you end up biting your lip instead, and you’d say, “Who’re the idiots that put you on the CCU Cutie list”—I’m number eight out of fifty, in case you’re wondering, not to toot my own horn—okay, fine, totally tooting it—“and don’t those idiots know that they’re just ratcheting up your insufferability index?!” Do you remember saying that, insufferability index? I know I should be insulted, but I usually end up flattered instead, knowing that you tailor your insults to me. I like to think of it as you showing your love. Although I’d still prefer compliments... ahem, ahem. Anyway, um… wow, I’ve spent half of this voicemail talking about what you might say. It’s… not as fun talking to imaginary Caitlin than it is talking to real Caitlin. So… give me a call? Or leave a message. Whenever you’re ready. Bye.

Swipe. Delete.

Tuesday, 8:23 PM

Hey, so I just got your e-mail. I’m… kind of bummed that you wanna study separately for the orals, but… if that’s what you want, I guess. Don’t worry, I’ll do my part. It’ll be harder to study without you slave-driving me, but I won’t let you down. I can’t believe I miss you slave-driving me, heh. Anyway, um… what else… Oh yeah, I’m free next Saturday for the make-up class and the STAR Labs tour. It’s so cool that we’re having our make-up class at STAR Labs. I’m almost glad he cancelled class on Monday. Dr. Wells is the best, isn’t he? …Anyway, uh, look, I know I could’ve just e-mailed you back, but… I don’t know, e-mail’s just not our thing, you know? If that makes any sense. Yeah… that’s all for now. You know the drill. See you Thursday for the orals.

Swipe. Delete.

. . .

Wednesday, 1:34 PM

Happy third-day-sary of being annoyed by me! Er, I wasn’t sure if it’s a cause for celebration, but I guess I’m feeling pretty optimistic. I mean, at least you haven’t told me to stop talking yet, right? …Anyway, awhile ago, just for kicks, I typed “Is nothing really nothing?” in Google. Not sure if you remember, but you told me the last time we talked that whatever happened between us was nothing, and nothing is nothing so it’s smart of me to pin my hopes on it. So I thought, Is nothing really nothing? and I figured it’d be fun to ask Google. Anyway, Google has this to say about nothing: “There are physicists like Lawrence Krauss that argue the ‘universe from nothing’, really means ‘the universe from a potentiality’. Which comes down to if you add all the mass and energy in the universe, all the gravitational curvature, everything… it looks like it all sums up to zero. So it is possible that the universe really did come from nothing. And if that’s the case, then ‘nothing’ is everything we see around us, and ‘everything’ is nothing.” Neat, huh? Nothing is everything. I know you super disapprove of me typing the whole question into the search bar instead of just typing the keywords, but I swear I didn’t get it from Yahoo Answers. It’s from a site called phys.org, which sounds pretty legit to me. Anyway, see you tomorrow for orals. I studied like hell for it, and you study enough for the both of us, so we should do great. I… I’m actually looking forward to it. Not the orals, but seeing you. So… see you tomorrow. Bye.

Swipe. Delete.

“Cait? Cait.”

Caitlin startled when she felt a hand on her wrist, gently lifting it from the keyboard of her laptop. She turned to see Felicity giving her a worried look.

“You’ve been pressing the spacebar,” she said.

“Oh.” Caitlin glanced at her screen. She had begun the post-lab document at page 1. She was now on page 15, and all the pages in between were blank.

“Are you okay?” Felicity ventured. “Did something happen between you and Barry?”

“No.” She highlighted the blank pages and pressed delete.

Felicity sighed. “Cait, you haven’t been talking to us since Sunday, so something obviously happened on Saturday night. Did he hurt you? Because if he did, I swear I’ll—”

“No.” She reread the paragraph she’d written so far. “We’re fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Felicity pursed her lips. “Cait, please. Talk to me. You’re overworking, you haven’t been sleeping, and you have lapses like this, when you don’t even realize that you’re spacing out.”

“I’m fine.”

“Cait—”

“Felicity! God, stop!” she snapped. “I’m fine, okay? I just, I have a lot of deadlines coming up, alright?”

Felicity recoiled.

“Okay,” she said, with barely concealed hurt. “Okay. Fine. Whatever.”

She turned away and slinked back to her desk.

Caitlin concentrated on her screen, trying to ignore the pain in her chest.

The next day Caitlin woke with a start. She blinked a few times at the light streaming in through her windows, peeled away a piece of paper that had stuck to her cheek, and shot out of her chair to get ready for the orals.

Or, rather, she stumbled out of her chair, felt around for the reviewers on her desk, and shuffled around the room to gather her other things—towel, clothes, shoes, backpack—as if blind, hitting the corners of tables and countertops as she went. Despite her astounding stamina for studying, Caitlin was not immune to the effects of sleep deprivation, and after totaling only six hours of sleep for the past three days, her mind was foggy, her eyes were dry, and her stomach (also owing to an overdose of caffeine and a diet of crackers and instant noodles) roiled with acid. She felt like either wanting to vomit or wanting to die.

But she was fine. This was fine. This was familiar. At the very least, her physical unease consumed such a significant portion of her attention that she was unable to obsessively rehearse all the worst-case scenarios in her mind, as she usually did.

She took the long route to the science and engineering complex, which ensured that she would meet less people along the way, and silently recited reagent names and reaction mechanisms as she went. Benedict’s Test. Positive results: orange to brick red. Indicates the presence of sugar. Negative results: no change in color. Indicates the absence of sugar. She paused at a vendo machine for some coffee and downed it in one gulp, grimacing when it scalded her tongue. Molisch’s Test. Positive results: purple appearing at the junction of the two layers of liquids. Indicates the presence of carbohydrates. Negative results: no purple at the junction of the liquids. Indicates the absence of carbohydrates. She took the stairs to the fourth floor, and then turned to the row of rooms that professors used for consultations and oral exams. They were usually occupied towards the end of the semester, but right now there was only one occupied room with the light on and the door ajar.

Caitlin crushed her coffee cup, tossed it into a nearby trash bin, and took a deep breath. Fifteen minutes, she told herself. She only had to endure fifteen minutes of this—and of Barry Allen—and she was free. She could do this.

When she entered the room, she immediately recognized the outline of Barry’s back, seated in front of Dr. Wells’s wide wooden desk, and Dr. Wells himself sat across him with his arms folded. They seemed to be in the middle of a conversation, but when she slipped inside, Barry turned around quickly and shot her a grin.

She ignored him. She put on her deadpan mask and hoped that it wouldn’t crack.

Dr. Wells smiled at her. “Ms. Snow, nice of you to join us,” he said, as she took a seat across him and beside Barry. “Well, since you’re both here now, why don’t we start?”

“Ready when you are, Dr. Wells,” Barry said.

Caitlin merely nodded. Her anxiety was building now; her palms were beginning to sweat and her throat felt dry. She absolutely hated oral exams and anything that resembled it—presentations, panel interviews, defenses, anything at all that required her to speak, to be judged for each word she spoke, and to witness the judgment passed on her through the facial expressions (or lack thereof) of the professor or the panel even as she was still speaking. It was an absolute nightmare. The only time when she didn’t feel that way was when she was drunk—her drunk alter ego enjoyed being the center of attention, for reasons she didn’t want to contemplate—but she couldn’t very well show up drunk during an oral exam or a panel interview. Of course, she’d gotten better at hiding her fear as she went through college, but the beginning was still the worst part.

“Alright, let’s start with something easy,” Dr. Wells said. “Ms. Snow, enumerate the tests for carbohydrates and their indicators for positive results.”

This was easy. She knew this. She’d rehearsed for it just a few moments ago, and she also distinctly remembered summarizing the tests in table format for their post-laboratory report. She remembered inputting each entry and polishing the format of the table—bolding the headings, alternating the row colors, affixing the caption—and the memory remained so vivid in her mind that she could recite the answer as if she were reading directly from that table. She had this. She had this.

But when she opened her mouth to speak, no sound came. She was paralyzed. The table was still etched in her mind’s eye, but fear constricted her throat and scrambled the words she’d intended to say. Oh God, she thought, her hands fisting in the fabric of her jeans, not now not now not now—

A second passed. Then two. When three seconds crawled by, the silence became tense, and Caitlin felt all the more the crushing pressure of having to say something, if only to fill the silence; but anxiety and humiliation collapsed her airways, bound her mouth in a steel trap. She felt like she literally could not speak.

Beside her, Barry cleared his throat.

“Mind if I go first, Dr. Wells?” he said, careful not to look at her. He continued lightly, “I’d like to volunteer to answer all the easy questions before they run out.”

Dr. Wells shifted his piercing blue gaze from her to Barry, and he leaned back against his chair with a slight smile. “I can’t guarantee you any more ‘easy questions,’ Mr. Allen, but go ahead.”

Barry grinned and launched into his answer, completely at ease as he talked—so much so, in fact, that he even made a joke while he was at it. When he finished, he pretended to bow to an imaginary audience, and Dr. Wells was shaking his head in barely disguised amusement.

He paused to write something on a sheaf of stapled papers, and then looked up at Caitlin again.

“Ms. Snow?” he said expectantly. “Ready for the next question?”

Her breath caught in her throat. No, she wasn’t. She felt like fading away from the scene. It was one of her defense mechanisms—during stress, she shut down. She disengaged. She was there-not-there. Each passing second with her fear felt like a knife-tip grating down the notched bones of her spine—

She was so caught up in her internal struggle that she startled when she felt something warm cover her hand.

What the—

Her eyes flickered down, and she saw that Barry was holding her hand.

During an oral exam.

In front of Dr. Wells.

She was so livid that she couldn’t move. What was he thinking? Scratch that—was he even thinking? She was going to kill him—

But, no, wait—he wasn’t really holding her hand, per se—he was only running his fingers over her clenched fists, cautiously coaxing them to open. She hadn’t realized she’d been clenching them so tightly that the muscles were strained from the tension. When she finally unclenched them, he quickly withdrew his hand, and continued rambling to Dr. Wells—he’d been managing a conversation this whole time—as if nothing had happened.

She blinked and took a slow, deep breath. She felt like she was coming out of her stupor, as if unclenching her fists had also uncoiled the anxiety that had gripped her body.

“Mr. Allen,” she dimly registered Dr. Wells saying, “most people answer after they’ve been asked a question, not before.”

“Just wanna show off how much I studied,” Barry said, grinning.

Dr. Wells shook his head and turned to her. “I have to apologize for pairing you off with him, Ms. Snow.”

“Hey! I resent that,” Barry protested. “I’m a pretty decent lab partner.”

“Perhaps ‘highly distractible’ is more appropriate.”

“But I can’t help it, Dr. Wells,” he said. “It’s just how I am. I get really excited about anything science.”

“Ah, Mr. Allen,” Dr. Wells said, his eyes shifting briefly to her, “I don’t think science is the only thing you get excited about.”

Oh my God, does he mean—she didn’t even want to continue that train of thought, but when she saw that Barry, for once, had been struck speechless, she supposed the implication was clear. Oh, God. This was embarrassing. Had he seen Barry reach for her hand? But it was a wide, high desk—he couldn’t have seen it—and Barry had been so discreet that she hadn’t even seen him move—

“Dr. Wells,” she blurted out, just to end the humiliation, “I believe it’s my turn…”

“So it is.” His usually stern features softened into a reassuring look. “Don’t be nervous, Ms. Snow. This isn’t so different from reciting in class or conversing with the panel in open forums.”

Caitlin swallowed and nodded.

“Ms. Snow, can you tell me why Molisch’s test for carbohydrates yields a purple color? An explanation of the reaction mechanism will do.”

She took a discreet breath. She could do this. From the corner of her eye she could see Barry glancing at her out of concern, no doubt readying another excuse to answer for her if she blanked out, and somehow the thought that he had her back quelled the anxiety rising in her throat.

“Molisch’s test determines the presence of carbohydrates by dehydrating them in the presence of sulfuric acid,” she began. She spoke with some hesitance at first, but as she continued speaking, her confidence rose, and she forgot her fear.

When she finished, there was a faint smile on Dr. Wells’s face.

“Good,” he said. “Very thoroughly explained. Now, Mr. Allen, the third question…”

While he briefly consulted his notes, Barry turned to her and smiled with a mixture of pride and relief, but she quickly turned away. She turned away because guilt had crept into the void that anxiety had carved, and this guilt—the origin of which she could not yet name—made her unable to look at him for the rest of the exam.

. . .

The rest of the orals was a breeze. Caitlin told herself that she could have gotten over her fear without Barry’s help—she’d always managed (to her own surprise) to pull through those first few minutes—but there was another part of her that said that wasn’t exactly true. When before, anxiety seized her afresh each time a new question was asked, this time, right after that first question, she felt like she’d entered a state of flow, like the question-answer sequences had already been programmed in her mind and all she had to do was to produce the answer when prompted by the question. That thoughtful gesture of his had played no small part in helping her get over her fear.

She felt, then, that the situation obliged her to thank him—if not the situation, then common courtesy, at the very least, required her to reciprocate his act of kindness with gratitude. Yet, when he’d beamed at her after they’d stepped out of the room, she’d brushed past him as if he didn’t exist; and to add insult to injury, she’d even kept her eyes trained on a spot in the distance to avoid seeing the naked hurt on his face.

Caitlin knew, objectively, that a curt “thank you” would have been no big deal in any other scenario. But this scenario was not any other scenario, and in this case a “thank you” wouldn’t be a mere expression of gratitude: a “thank you” would also be the first crack in her silence, and if she allowed that crack, she would render herself helpless against his efforts to worm his way back into her affections. A “thank you” in this case was also thus an implicit “I’m sorry for ignoring you” and “I want to talk to you again”—both of which she could not allow herself to say, because if her campaign to dissuade Barry from ever speaking to her again her was to be successful, she could allow no exceptions.

But driving him away with silence wasn’t without its consequences—she felt guilty for repaying his kindness so coldly. Normally, one could assuage one’s guilt by approaching the wronged party to make amends, but she already established that she could not approach him, so she felt doubly worse—from being unable to thank him, and from being unable to apologize to him for not thanking him.

With this guilt, too, came shame at the person she had to be in order to reject him so completely. She’d been afraid of the person she was becoming when she was with him, but now she was appalled at who she was becoming in order to drive him away. It seemed that Barry’s kindness only magnified her heartlessness; his gentle persistence, her haste in cutting him off; his unwavering thoughtfulness, her ruthless excision of him from her mental life.

She sighed. Why did he have to be so nice, anyway? She would have welcomed his anger and his resentment, because those would have made sense; but instead he was kind, and she was completely disarmed by his kindness. It was a sincere, pure-hearted kindness at that, without any undercurrent of manipulating her into guilt. But then again, that wasn’t Barry’s style, and come to think of it, she couldn’t imagine him angry and resentful… If she were to become the cause such ugly, blistering emotions in someone as good-natured as he, she was going to feel like a monster.

The least she could hope for, she thought as she settled down in her next class, was for him to give up soon. That way she didn’t have to keep hurting him—or rather, she didn’t have to keep hurting them both.

. . .

Still, that night, as she lay alone in her dark room—Felicity had been avoiding her for the past few days, and she knew she deserved it but she was yet too ashamed to apologize—she placed her phone on her pillow, beside her head. As usual, he’d left a voicemail, half an hour after the orals.

She allowed it to play.

Hey. Are you okay? I knew you told me you didn’t like orals, but I didn’t know you were that terrified of them. I hope you’re okay now. Sorry for holding your hand, I know you’re still iffy with the whole touch thing, but I didn’t know how else to comfort you. I’m really glad you got over it, though. Actually, everything turned out great in the end, don’t you think? We made quite the pair, with me slaying all the easy questions and you slaying all the hard ones, heh. Well, anyway, that’s all for now, I have to meet up with Coach. He’s been really hard on all of us lately since tomorrow’s the finals. It’ll be great if you could come watch, or even if you could drop by to say hi. I really miss you. Call me or message me or something, you know the drill. Bye.

His voice dissolved into the silence.

Caitlin swiped left, and her finger hovered above the bright red Delete button. But, right before she pressed it, the memory of his hand over hers during the orals flitted through her mind, and she shut her eyes and took a shaky breath.

She was just… so tired of this. She was so tired of resisting him, of constructing all these elaborate denials and rationalizations and justifications. She knew that there were to be absolutely no exceptions, but…

She drew her phone close.

She played the voicemail again.

Hey. Are you okay? I knew you told me you didn’t like orals, but I didn’t know you were that terrified of them. I hope you’re okay now…

He lost by 0.91 seconds.

To make up for her momentary lapse in resolve the night before, she’d adamantly avoided his meet, but she might as well have been there with the way she obsessively refreshed her Twitter feed; and, when she saw the headline “KCU’s Hunter Zolomon Bags First Place, Dethrones CCU’s Reigning Champ Barry Allen” an hour or so after the meet, she could hardly believe it.

He lost, she repeated, the thought sinking in. She could only imagine what he was feeling right now. He’d told her, during one of their phone calls, that he wanted to finish this season strong before quitting. “My heart’s not in it anymore,” he’d said, “but my ego is. Does that make sense? I mean, everyone was so proud of me when I won my first national meet. It was unbelievable. My mom and dad couldn’t stop telling their friends about it. For the first time in decades the track team finally got support from the school. Stores wanted to sponsor us. People were flocking to our meets. My teammates were so psyched, and Coach hadn’t smiled so much since his wife gave birth. It was… a pretty great feeling, I guess.” “You just like the attention,” she’d said, and he’d laughed. “Not denying that. But it’s really nice, you know, having started all that, making people proud. It makes me feel like I matter.”

But, she wondered now, if winning made him feel like he mattered, what did losing make him feel?

Disturbed by her own question, she put her phone aside and stared at the articles open on her laptop, willing her focus to return, but she couldn’t bring herself to get back to work. Guilt nagged at her conscience even more insistently now. He’d held her hand when she’d frozen up in fear during the orals, and now that he was the one who needed comfort, she was refusing to be there for him.

She knew that she couldn’t afford to make any more exceptions, but…

She dug the heels of her hand into her eyes and sighed in frustration. Sure, she could ignore a happy, cheery Barry, the Barry who sent her all those chipper voicemails, but can she really just ignore a sad, hurting Barry…?

The thought of him like that had her rising from her desk. Vaguely, she cursed herself for making that first exception last night, because now she’d set herself on the slippery slope of exception-making; but that sentiment wasn’t strong enough to stop her from heading out her door. She didn’t even think to message him to ask him where he was—it seemed her feet moved on their own accord, following the invisible trail that led to him. She knew, without knowing how she knew, where he was going to be.

. . .

She did find him there, at the Observatory.

It was sunset, like the last time they were here, and the soft light cast a warm glow on his skin. He was sitting on the ground, leaning back on his hands, silent and unmoving as a statue.

She watched him from a distance. She watched the wind tug at his hair, watched him turn his face to the dying sun and stare blankly at the smattering of stores, at the specks of people moving mutely below.

Minutes passed. Still, she remained behind a copse of trees, standing on a patch of flat ground in the midst of gnarled roots, too afraid to approach. She didn’t know what to say. She’d never been good with words, and she’d never been good at filling silences, and she didn’t know what to offer as solace. Should she begin with the bland reassurance, as most people did, that everything was going to be okay? Should she ask him how he was feeling? Should she make him laugh, offer him a hug…?

Lost as she was in her thoughts, she only dimly registered the crunch of leaves underfoot. Barry looked to his right, and, more out of instinct than curiosity, she mimicked his movement and turned to look.

At first, Caitlin couldn’t make out the person’s features, as her profile was cast against the light; but as she neared, she caught sight of a head of blond hair and a flash of straight, white teeth.

“Hey,” she said. “Thought you’d be here.”

“Patty, hey,” Barry said, and Caitlin’s world stilled.

Patty. Patty, the girl with the dimpled smile who went to all his meets, the one everyone believed he was with. How did Patty know that he’d be here? Had he brought her here, too? But how could he bring her here? Wasn’t the Observatory their place—?

Wait—why did she even think of the Observatory as theirs? In the first place, there was no ‘they’ to speak of; they weren’t even together! And wasn’t this place Barry’s safe haven? Since he was the one who’d discovered it, didn’t he have the right to share it with whomever he chose?

Caitlin took a deep breath, trying to stamp down the unfamiliar burn of jealousy in her chest.

“Can I sit here?” Patty said.

He shrugged. “Sure.”

Patty folded into a sitting position, the movement supple and fluid. “So, how’re you feeling?”

The question echoed numbly in Caitlin’s mind. It was the same question she’d thought of asking him when she’d first seen the headline, the question she would have asked him had she approached him first.

“Pretty bummed, I guess,” Barry said after a lengthy pause. He exhaled. “I knew I was going to quit anyway, but I didn’t know how badly I wanted to quit a winner… Does that make sense?”

Caitlin swallowed the rising bitterness in her throat. Does that make sense—he’d always asked her that whenever he shared something serious and personal about himself, and it had always seemed an intimate phrase to Caitlin: in that question he was allowing himself to be vulnerable, to lay bare his need to be wholly understood. It had never occurred to her that he also used it while speaking to other people.

While speaking to Patty.

She felt doubly betrayed—Patty also knew about this place, and she was also privy to this more vulnerable side of him, as she was—but what, exactly, had been betrayed? Why was she the one who felt betrayed, when she’d cut him off first?

Patty nodded and touched his shoulder. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

Her eyes lingered on that touch. Another small intimacy.

Her fingers curled and scraped the bark of the tree, and she had the sudden, violent urge to tear it apart—and then she caught herself in horror. What was jealousy turning her into? She did not recognize herself in these feelings, these thoughts; jealousy was making her illogical, melodramatic, and it was extremely unlike her.

She closed her eyes and willed herself to calm down, and when she did she continued to watch them. She knew she shouldn’t be eavesdropping on this conversation—the second time it was happening, it seemed—but she found herself unable to leave. She just… had to know. She had to know what everyone else saw in them. She would leave, of course, when things became too private, and while she didn’t want to imagine how private things could get, a part of her also wanted to see whatever intimacy might unfold between them. It would hurt, of course, but at least the hurt would be allayed by the grim triumph of knowing that if he had such intimate moments with Patty, then he didn’t really like her, which rendered her decision to cut him off all the more justified.

“But you know,” Patty was saying, “I don’t think people will remember you as the guy who broke CCU’s winning streak. They’ll remember you for putting CCU on the map.”

He scoffed, but Patty insisted, “No, really. We’ve never been known for sports, but since you joined the track team, everyone’s suddenly crazy about track. School spirit’s the strongest during your meets. That’s really something to be proud of, you know?”

“…I guess.”

“Hey, cheer up,” she said, bumping shoulders with him. “Look, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but the whole block’s waiting for you at Jitters. We’re throwing you a party, and it’d be nice if you could show up, being the guest of honor and all.”

“I don’t know,” he said, reluctant. “I’m not really hungry.”

“No way. Is that really you, Mr. ‘I Never Say No to Food’ Allen?”

He cracked a smile, and she continued, “Come on. You can have a whole tray of lasagna to yourself.”

He was grinning now. “Are you bribing me to attend my own party, Spivot?”

“Bribing? Who said we were paying for your lasagna?”

He laughed, and Patty smiled and stood, mockingly offering him a hand after she did.

Caitlin felt faint. She couldn’t bear to watch this. It had been a mistake to assume that she would only be hurt by a dramatic show of intimacy, because watching them during those few ordinary moments hurt like hell, too. They just made so much sense together—they had the same sunny good-naturedness, and they carried themselves with the same ease around people. She could never be like that. She couldn’t have comforted him the way Patty had, and it would never have occurred to her that, for someone who loved people as much as he did, he would have been cheered by a party, by being with good friends…

She whirled around, hurt and confused and keen to leave; but she’d forgotten she was standing on the only patch of flat ground in the middle of thick, gnarled roots, so when her toe snagged under one, she tripped and fell with a barely contained yelp.

Barry and Patty fell silent.

“What was that?” Patty said.

“Don’t know,” Barry said. “Must’ve been the wind…”

Caitlin winced, hoping they wouldn’t see her. Great. Just great. Why did she have to be cursed with such terrible bodily coordination? And what was it with this bleeding tree root? Couldn’t it have at least allowed her to walk away with dignity? She knew it was wrong to take her frustration out on it, but she viciously tore it away from her foot anyway.

“No, really, I think there’s someone—”

Caitlin froze at how close their voices suddenly were. Shit, now she couldn’t move until they passed by. It was getting dark—she had that on her side, at least—and she just hoped to God that they wouldn’t look too closely between the trees.

“Nah,” Barry said, turning to face Patty, “no one else really knows about this pla—”

And then he froze, his gaze landing right on her.

Oh shit.

He quickly placed his hands on Patty’s shoulders, steering her so that her back was turned to Caitlin, and said, “Look, why don’t you go ahead to Jitters?”

“What? Why?” Patty said.

Caitlin quickly got to her feet—wincing slightly when she put weight on the foot that had caught in the root—and turned to the opposite direction. He’d already seen her, anyway, so it was best to get the hell out while he was still talking to Patty.

“…need a little more time alone before I face everyone…” he was saying, his voice growing faint. She moved as quietly as she could, like she did when she first made her way up, and she was thankful for the night breeze that rustled the leaves and disguised the sound of her footsteps.

She glanced back to assess her progress. She saw Patty heading down the more well-worn path, and Barry… heading right towards her.

She cursed inwardly, unable to believe her terrible luck. She had the urge to break into a run, but it was already dark and she didn’t want to trip again… And besides, if she broke into a run, he would, too, and he could catch up to her in no time.

Damn it. She was trapped.

“Cait,” he said, his voice a lot nearer now, “wait, don’t go—”

She exhaled and turned to face him. A maelstrom of emotions roiled inside her, more violently now that she’d come face to face with its cause; but she held them under tight rein, and she willed her face into a blank mask.

He slowed when she turned, looking windswept and bewildered. “It really is you,” he murmured. “What’re you doing here?”

For a brief moment, she considered telling a lie, but she knew how easily he would see through it; there was simply no other believable excuse for her being here. She had no choice, then, but to tell the truth, and an irrational resentment welled inside her at this choicelessness, one that flattened her tone and blunted her words.

“I saw the tweets,” she said. “I’m sorry you lost.”

“Oh,” he said. “Uh… thanks.”

“Look, I have to go—”

“What time did you get here?” he said. They had spoken at the same time, but he chose to ignore what she just said, looking determined to steer the conversation. “How long have you been standing there?”

Caitlin’s face burned with humiliation. So he’d realized that she was eavesdropping. Another lie waited on the tip of her tongue—Just now, actually—but she couldn’t bring herself to say it, not when he was looking at her like that. “Long enough,” she said. And then, before she could stop it: “I overheard some parts of your conversation. I’m sorry.”

She thought he would have been mad, or at the very least annoyed, but instead he softened and took a cautious step towards her.

“I never brought her here,” he said.

Her breath caught in her throat; the maelstrom inside her surged, strained from the leash of her composure. He wasn’t supposed to say that. He was supposed to be annoyed or angry; he was supposed to throw his hands up in frustration; he was supposed to give up and walk away. Those reactions she could deal with, could categorize. But this? This was leading her into unknown territory, and she was afraid that if she stepped into it, she would find no solid ground beneath.

He continued, “I did mention it to her, because she once asked what my favorite place in campus was, but I never—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, willing her voice to remain even. “You’re free to bring whomever you want.”

“I know,” he said softly. “That’s why I brought you.”

The leash snapped. A flood of emotions assaulted her—first relief and hope, so strong that she wanted to move towards him, touch him, hold him and be held by him; but, only moments later, panic overpowered that—panic that she was no longer in control of the situation, that she was no longer in control of even herself; panic that she was standing on the precipice, on the verge of hurtling into something she would later regret. She could not allow herself this, she could not allow any emotional excess; she should not feel, else she could not think.

“Look,” she told him, gathering the remaining threads of her frayed resolve, “it was a mistake for me to come—”

“No, Cait, don’t do that—don’t shut me out again.” He sidestepped just as she turned away, so that she came face-to-face with him again, but she stubbornly refused to meet his gaze. “Please, can we talk?”

“We just did.”

“You know what I mean.”

“And you already know what I have to say,” she gritted out. “I’ve already said everything that needs to be said.”

“Then,” he said, “why are you here?”

Her airways constricted. Even if he’d said it so gently, she felt like she’d been disarmed and trapped. Because that was the real question, wasn’t it? Why, after all her efforts to push him away, did she still seek him out? Why did the idea of him hurting sadden her? Why was she so compelled to cheer him up, to be there for him? She knew she’d had an answer to that, one that contained unthreatening truths, but she couldn’t summon it to mind now. Instead the answer that flashed into her mind—that flashed and then branded itself there, so searing that she couldn’t unthink it—was the truth she was too afraid to face, let alone say aloud.

So instead she lashed out.

“I don’t know, okay?” she snapped. “I. Don’t. Know. I feel like I’m always fumbling around in the dark when it comes to you—I don’t have answers ninety percent of the time, and the ten percent of answers I do have, I’m not completely convinced of. So, please. Don’t. Ask.”

His gaze softened, and he drew closer to her, but she remained rigid, her spine cast in steel. “Is that so bad?” he said. “Not having all the answers?”

“Of course it is,” she said vehemently. “Nothing is ever complicated for you, so of course you wouldn’t understand—”

“I wouldn’t understand?” he said, incredulous. “Cait, I don’t have all the answers either, but you don’t see me running away—”

“I’m not running away,” she said, hands balling into fists, “I’m solving the problem once and for all!”

“How?” he said, raking his hair in frustration. “By completely ignoring me?”

“Yes!” she seethed. “But you don’t seem to be taking the hint—”

“No, you’re right, that part I don’t understand,” he said, his voice rising, his features contorting in confusion and anguish. “Tell me, Cait, what exactly does that solve?”

She opened her mouth, but suddenly all words fled her, withered under the fire in his eyes.

“Well? Enlighten me,” he said, the word twisting his mouth in bitter irony, and it was such an unfamiliar expression on him that her gut wrenched in horror. Had she really been the one to put that expression on his face? She thought she’d be able to handle his anger, but it seemed that it only weighed her down with the guilt of being its cause. But couldn’t dwell on that now—not when she had to take control of the situation, not when she had a fight to win. “Maybe then we can be on the same page.”

“I’d be wasting my breath,” she said tightly. “You wouldn’t understand.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “Then make me,” he said, his voice strained. “Make me understand your problem, Cait! I’m not a mind-reader!”

“My problem?” she bristled at the accusation in his tone; the blood rushed to her face, and the confusion, jealousy, and barely-leashed longing that she’d bottled and sealed finally burst and boiled over. “My problem is you! My problem is that you came along and threw my entire life off-course!” All rationality had fled her now, and she was running on the adrenaline of her anger. “Like I said, you wouldn’t understand. You’ve had crushes and girlfriends since middle school. I haven’t. It’s just not who I am. And I was perfectly fine with that.” Barry looked as if he were about to interject, but she couldn’t stop talking; the words rushed out of her in a raging torrent. “Actually, I was grateful for it, because it meant my work would never suffer from the unnecessary angst of romantic entanglements. My life was uncomplicated. All my efforts revolved around school and internships and scholarship programs, anything that could bring me closer to becoming a bioengineer. And for the most part, I was in control of everything in that world.”

She took a shaky breath. “But then you come along,” she accused with renewed vehemence, “and suddenly I’m not in control of anything. Everything’s incomprehensible. Every time you talk to me, it’s like you’re speaking in code. Every time a conundrum is solved, ten new ones appear.” The words burned like acid on her tongue. “My own feelings are incomprehensible to me. I’ve always been able to analyze them to death, but this time, the more I analyze, the more confused I get, and the stronger they become.”

His lips parted in surprise. “What do you—”

“So, Barry, tell me,” she said bitterly, her throat closing. “Tell me, how is it possible that in a span of two weeks, I’ve gone from being single-mindedly focused on building a career in bioengineering, to thinking of you every single moment of the day? How is it possible that I’ve gone from not being attracted to anyone, to liking you so much that I feel I’m going out of my mind?”

He stared at her, stunned.

The instant that last sentence fell from her lips, the invigorating haze of her anger cleared and left in its wake a cold dread that coiled in her stomach. Fuck, what did she just say? And why the hell did she have to go out and say it? She felt like she had just torn down her own defenses, and now she was standing in front of him, stripped of all her armor. Fuck, she hated this. She hated feeling so vulnerable.

“You like me,” he said in disbelief. And then, his lips stretched into a slow smile. “You like me.”

“Oh my God,” she breathed, wanting nothing more than to find a hole in the ground to bury her head in. If she could, she would have already raced back in time to take back everything she said, but instead she had to suffer the humiliating crush of the present. “That’s not the point—”

“No, Cait, I think that’s exactly the point,” he said. “Everything else is beside it.”

“You can’t call everything I’ve just said beside the point—”

“Okay, okay, you’re right, they’re not,” he quickly amended, holding both hands out in surrender to appease her. “What I meant was, can we start from this point?” He took a step closer, his eyes luminescent with hope. “Can we start from the fact that we both like each other and then figure out what happens from here?”

“I’ll tell you what happens from here,” she said through gritted teeth, trying to hold on to the last shreds of control that had so rapidly slipped from her hands. “We’ll go out on a few dates. You’ll find out that we’re not suited for each other. I’m too serious and uptight, and you’re too sunny and carefree. Everything that occurred over the past two weeks was exciting because of the novelty, but once the novelty wears off you’ll lose interest—”

“I’ll lose interest?” he said, drawing back in hurt. “Do you really think so little of me?”

“—and you’ll move on to someone else more suited to your personality.”

There was a beat of silence, and then comprehension dawned on his features.

“Like Patty, you mean?” he said.

“I’m not implying—”

His tone turned teasing. “Is that jealousy I’m hearing, Caitlin?”

She glared at him. “I’m just making a realistic assessment of the situation,” she said.

“Well, let me give you my realistic assessment of the situation,” he said. He was looking at her now with such tenderness that the steel in her spine had begun to melt; and before she could move away, he took her hands in his, just like he had during the orals; and he ran his fingers over hers, his touch warm and light and reassuring.

That was it, she was a goner. The last drop of resistance drained from her body. Deep down she knew that she had already lost—and she knew, even deeper down, that just maybe, she was glad to lose.

He slowly threaded his fingers through hers, his eyes trained on her, bright in the moonlight. “You have nothing to be jealous about,” he said, bringing up her hand and pressing a quick kiss onto her knuckles. The gesture struck her as so sweet and innocent that, even if she still had half her mind about her, she didn’t protest or pull away. He tugged on their joined hands to pull her even closer, and again she let him. She would never admit it to him—she would hardly even admit it to herself—but she was relieved to be so close to him again, after trying so hard to push him away.

His lips now ghosted the shell of her ear. “No one,” he said, with quiet resolution, “comes close to you.” He leaned his forehead against hers, and he was gazing at her through half-lidded eyes; his breath was warm on her skin, and it seemed that her world had narrowed to just him, in this moment, in the moonlit forest. “Look, I don’t have all the answers either,” he said softly. “Two weeks is a crazy-short amount time, but I’m already so in love with you I can barely breathe. I can’t explain it; all I know is that it is.”

A blush crept up her face. Her eyes fluttered close, and she swallowed, unable to speak; an unfamiliar happiness thrummed through her body, about to burst from her skin. She had never been schmaltzy or sentimental, but right now, she supposed she could make this exception for him.

“We don’t have to think about what’ll happen to us in a few months, or even after a few dates,” he said. “We can take it one day at a time, one moment at a time. At whatever pace you’d like.”

A few dates… She bit her lip, feeling her old apprehension return. There was a reason she avoided him so assiduously, and she’d disguised that reason in so many other layers of peripheral truths that she’d almost lost sight of it; but now that he’d brought it up, it emerged from the debris of her logic, demanding to be noticed.

Caitlin took a deep breath. If anything was to happen between them, she had to tell him this.

“I think—”

“Oh, that can’t be good,” he teased.

She wrinkled her nose at him and continued slowly, “I think I need some time alone to let this all sink in. No, wait, let me finish.” She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze to ease his alarm. “Barry, I’m terrified. That was the problem—I’m completely terrified of this. Of going out with you and being with you.” She swallowed. “I was avoiding you because I like you enough to know you could hurt me, and I don’t want to get hurt. I figured that if I cut you off first, you wouldn’t be able to hurt me.”

His expression mellowed. “I wish I could say something like ‘I’ll never hurt you,’” he said, “but that’d be a lie. I think the more you let someone in, the more power you give them to hurt you. So I get what you’re saying.” His grip on her hand tightened. “But I think it’ll all be worth it in the end.”

“You don’t know that,” she said.

“But we never know anything for sure, anyway,” he said. “Even the most thoroughly researched predictions turn out wrong, and even the most improbable events come to happen, against all odds.” He flashed her a boyish smile. “As for me, I’m willing to take a chance on this”—he gestured between them—“improbable event.”

She shook her head and huffed a laugh. “For once, I don’t think I can argue with that logic.” He beamed, but she continued, “But I still need to let this all sink in. I just came to terms with everything, and it’s still extremely confusing…”

“Okay,” he said softly. “Okay. I understand. But promise me you won’t shut me out again,” he pleaded. “I don’t think I can bear any more of that. And besides, I’m running out of ideas for voicemails…”

She smiled, amused. “Alright,” she said. “I promise I won’t.”

“So… when’ll you talk to me again?” he grinned.

She pursed her lips. “Maybe after a week?”

“A week?!” he said, and then he cleared his throat and amended, “I mean, alright, sure, a week. I think I can do a week.”

She rolled her eyes fondly. “Thank you,” she said, and, on impulse, she tilted her head to press a kiss on his jaw.

He looked surprised, but he recovered quickly with a mischievous smile. “Can I have more of those to get me through the week?” he said. “Like, one for each day—”

“Don’t push your luck,” she said, and he laughed.

“I’m kidding,” he said. “Really, take your time. Just, you know, not too much time. Okay, to be honest, I can’t wait for next week to come…”

“You really have no patience, do you?”

“Absolutely none,” he chirped. “But when it comes to you, I guess I have a little bit more than my baseline patience.”

“How romantic,” she said dryly, and he grinned.

“Now that I have a ton of,” he said.

“Well, I don’t have a romantic bone in my body,” she said, with a teasing smile, “but when it comes to you, I guess I have a bit more than a scaphoid to spare.”

He laughed. “I’ll take it,” he said, brushing his lips on the inside of her wrist, right where her scaphoid was. When he looked up at her again, his eyes were shining with mirth. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?”

“Yes we are,” she said quietly. “We definitely are.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, surrounded by the soft rustling of leaves, the glow of streetlamps along the well-worn path, and the smell of the earth.

After a few moments, Caitlin ventured to speak.

“By the way, how’re you feeling?” she asked. “After that meet…”

“Oh… I’m still upset about it,” he said. “But it was partly my fault—Hunter was a new contender so I might’ve underestimated him—but you win some, you lose some, I guess.” He pulled away briefly to give her a pout. “I’m really hurt you didn’t come, though.”

“You’ll get over it,” she said dryly.

“The least you could do is kiss the hurt better,” he said, and she swatted his arm. “Ow, ow—fine, fine, I’ll stop soliciting kisses… But can I at least have a hug?”

He grinned, and she sighed.

“Fine. One second.”

“…Are you seriously giving me a hug time limit?”

“No such thing as free lunch, as they say.”

“But hugs are supposed to be free!”

“Not in my currency,” she returned.

“Well, how about two seconds?” he wheedled, giving her the smile that she couldn’t resist. “I mean, I was second place and all…”

She pretended to consider it. “I suppose that’s fair.”

“Yesss!” he cheered, disentangling his hands from hers to spread his arms open for the hug, but she pushed him back lightly at the shoulders.

“Wait, don’t you have a party to go to?”

“A par—oh, that. That can wait,” he said. “Not fair. You’re doing that on purpose.”

She tilted her head to the side innocently. “Doing what on purpose?”

“Cait, seriously, this is the worst time to make me wait,” he said, petulant. “I would really like to avail of my hug now, please.”

She smiled. Oh, she missed him. She really missed him. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he quickly pulled her flush against him, his arms strong around her waist. He let out a contented sigh and buried his face in the crook of her neck, and she closed her eyes and melted into his embrace.

They stayed like that for far longer than two seconds, but neither of them were counting.

#snowbarry #snowbarry fic #barry x caitlin #barry allen #caitlin snow #felicity smoak #harrison wells #patty spivot #wonderful you came by

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ashswritingplace · 4 years ago

Text

Perfect Harmony

This is another updated short story, this one about a man who explores his relationship with his siblings.

“Perfect Harmony”

Sunlight reaches across my face and scratches at my eyes, forcing them open. As I sit up to welcome a new day, silence whispers sweetly into my ears, my most intimate lover. It has always been a comfort to me, my closest friend, and I cannot imagine a day that does not start with it.

I was not born deaf. Childhood cancer stripped me of my hearing when I was young, and it forced my fight for many long years. I have been cancer-free for only two years, and all remnants of its grasp on my life are gone, save for my hearing.

I retained twenty percent of my hearing in my left ear and none of it in my right. That is what appears on my medical records, but in reality, my hearing is as temperamental as English weather. Sometimes, I seem to hear perfectly, while other days, I hear nothing at all. With the help of lipreading, sign language, and the hearing aids I rarely use, I easily pass as a hearing person.

The digital clock on my nightstand harshly illuminates the numbers 7:04. I pull the blankets from my body and groggily get up. I make my way to the bathroom down the hall.

My eyes give away how tired I am. For a moment, I debate going back to bed, but I doubt the sunlight would allow me to sleep easily now. I cast a hand across my jaw, wondering if I can get away with not shaving for another day. My hair reaches past my collar now; as a teenager, I preferred the lengthy curls to hide my hearing aids, and now, as an adult, I neglect my haircuts more out of habit than embarrassment.

When I finish in the bathroom, I return to my bedroom and pull on my clothes for the day. My hearing aids rest in the drawer of my nightstand, unnecessary until tonight. I comb my hair and apply my deodorant, all the while humming to myself. I cannot hear my song, but practicing my pitch is important for my work.

I have a concert tonight. It’s one I’ve been preparing for and looking forward to for a long time now. The sheet music dances in my head as I step in tune to a song no one can hear.

Growing up, I struggled to be taken seriously. A musician cannot improve if he cannot hear, I was told, time and time again. Adults laughed me out of piano recitals and music teachers made bad examples of me in class. It took years of trying for a teacher to believe in me. Mr. Tucker, a veteran and retired math teacher, was the only one to tell me I was a virtuoso, a prodigy, that I would make it far if I kept going. You have an advantage over the rest of us, Hunter, he would tell me. We learn to listen for what sounds right. You have to feel it. I don’t know that I ever believed him, but I do know, at twenty-two, I am the youngest bassist to ever play in the Giles Christian Orchestra. My bass, affectionately named Tucker, watches me from my room, waiting for another opportunity to prove to our audience that its namesake was right.

Ready to start my day, I make my bed and start to the kitchen for breakfast.

My sister’s bedroom is closest to mine, and as I walk past it, I notice her door is open. The night owl she is would never willingly be awake this early on a Saturday morning. I peer into her room to check that everything is okay.

Her fuchsia walls are made louder by the colorful posters that decorate them. Bethany is spelt out in glittering purple letters, an art project from middle school. Her clothes are thrown on every surface in her room, and I wonder how she manages to coordinate her outfits so well each day, how she can find anything to match. On her unmade bed is her rose gold laptop and a stuffed animal she has always denied sleeping with. My sister, however, is nowhere to be seen.

The bathroom door is open, ruling out that possibility. I continue down the hall, calling her name.

No sooner do I turn into the family room am I smacked by a blur of blonde. She seizes fistfuls of my shirt. Her small body is trembling, and she is trying to say something, but I can hear none of what she mutters into my chest. After a moment, she seems to realize this, and her pale eyes meet my gaze. Swollen tears trail down her cheeks, and there is a terror on her face like I have never seen before. She speaks too quickly for me to follow, then grabs for my hands. Hers, much smaller, are shaking. She searches my face, waiting for me to respond to whatever she is trying to tell me.

When I look up, I see my twin brother glaring at her. He is breathing heavily, and just as I am about to ask him what’s going on, my eye catches on his hand. He firmly grips his hunting knife, and only then do I see the hateful look in his eye.

Instinctively, I move between my siblings. “Harrison.” My voice, though silent to me, makes him look at me. I try to search his expression, find out what has happened. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

Harrison scoffs. “Don’t you play dumb with me,” he says. I watch his lips, snarling. He is yelling; I can hear the rage in his voice, though I can make out none of his syllables.

Bethany grabs me from behind, hugging my waist. She presses her head against my back, still quaking. She is all of seventeen, but at that moment, she seems no older than a child. My sister, always confident, now cowers behind me, terrified.

Harrison rolls his eyes at us. “You’re a disgrace, you know that?” he says. “Both of you.” He spits at Bethany. “Mum would be so ashamed.”

He is speaking too quickly; I struggle to keep up with his words. I do not know what he is accusing us of. “Harry, calm down,” I murmur. It is seven in the morning, but I dare to ask: “Have you been drinking?”

My question only angers him more. He slashes at me, an intentional miss that leaves my heart pounding. “I’m the only one thinking straight in this whole damn family!” He motions to Bethany with the tip of his knife. “What have you done? How far from God’s graces have you fallen?”

I realize then that talking with Harrison will get me nowhere. I half-turn towards Bethany and press gently against her shoulders until she is looking at me. “What is he talking about?” I demand, though I fear I already have an idea.

Bethany glances towards our brother briefly before dropping her gaze to the floor. She mumbles something and, irritated, I raise her chin and force her to speak to me. Her cheeks turn red and she smiles awkwardly, as if she had somehow forgotten about my disability. Then, she says, “He read my journal.”

I watch her for several moments, waiting for her to elaborate. She doesn’t, so I prompt, “And?”

“And he read it,” she continues, regaining her confidence. “That’s like the number one rule of having a sister. You don’t read her private writings. I don’t know why he would betray me like that.” Tears well at her eyes again, and as a sob shakes her body, I pull her close to me to comfort her. I cast a glance towards Harrison, as if begging him to give us a moment.

When Bethany can speak again, she continues with shaky breaths. “No one is supposed to read the things I put in there. It was private. I never thought anyone would get to it, I don’t even know how he found it, but… I wrote about us, Hunter. And now he thinks—”

She stops talking suddenly, and it takes me a moment to realize Harrison has interrupted her. I follow his words, guessing at what he’d said before I looked up. “...horrid and disgusting. He is your brother.” I watch the way his mouth holds his last word. He accompanies it with the sign language equivalent, ensuring I am reminded of this status. Harrison shakes his head, hard. “I’m not letting this continue,” he says, voice growing louder as if he wants me to hear it. I can only image how ear-splitting it is for Bethany, what the neighbors must be thinking.

I try to ignore the tone of my brother’s voice, the cold look in his eyes. “Beth?” I gently urge. “What did you write?”

“Read it for yourself!” Harrison’s voice is taunting. He hurls a book at me, and I fumble to catch it against my chest. I recognize the sparkly purple cover; Mum had asked my opinion of that birthday present ages ago. I had no idea she still wrote in it.

I look to Bethany, but she will not meet my eye. Uncharacteristically, she does not move to snatch the book out of my hands. I glance at her as I open it, leaf through the pages, and take her silent acceptance as permission.

The first page has big, swooping letters, Bethany’s handwriting from when she was younger. The date atop the page is from several years ago. I skim the book, her endless ramblings and elaborate doodles, until I reach the most recent entries. My eyes soar over the pages, taking in charged words, no offenses. She writes about her teachers, her friends, whatever has her bothered enough to bring her thoughts to pen. I see nothing damning until I turn the page and glance over an entry dated a couple weeks ago.

My attention is caught on my name, the whirlwind of words that follow it. I open my mouth to protest, but I do not know how. What I once skimmed I read now word for word, struggling to understand. I want to stop, to close this book and give it back to my sister, to never know that she’d write such things about me, but the sentences linger in my thoughts, taunting. After a long while I look to my sister. Her gaze is still on the floor, and she shifts awkwardly. Her face is red, and there are tears threatening to fall over her cheeks. I look up at my brother. He clenches his knife, waiting for me to explain myself. I almost understand his anger. Then, I look back to the book, and I wonder how on earth this could have ever happened.

~~~

On the day of Bethany’s seventeenth birthday, Harrison, Mum, and I baked her a cake. It wasn’t common for our family to throw big parties, so Bethany had made plans that night to celebrate with her friends after supper. Once our plates were cleaned, Mum cleared them away, and Harrison and I brought the cake to the dining room table.

The three of us had worked together on it. None of us were bakers, but we wanted Bethany’s birthday to be special. Mum had looked up how to make a tiered cake, and Harrison and I had decorated it in strips of strawberry icing and purple fondant. As we brought it to her, Bethany gasped.

“Did you make that?” she asked, looking at me.

“We all did,” I responded.

We set it in front of her, and Mum dug seventeen tiny candles into the top tier. Bethany glanced between us, joy painted on her face. “You really didn’t have to do this,” she said. “It’s so pretty.”

Mum lit the candles, and the three of us sang to her. She blew out her candles, and absently I wondered what my sister would wish for. Bethany cut through the dessert, and her eyes shone. “It’s marble too? You outdid yourselves.”

As we ate, Harrison got to talking. He was muttering something about his job at the pub, but his mouth was too full for me to make much sense of his exact words. I didn’t much mind, and from the looks of things, Mum and Bethany weren’t paying him much attention either. Growing up, I was always convinced my brother loved to hear himself talk, as if to make up for the fact that I couldn’t.

On the rare occasions the family ate together, I was often lost in my own world. However, I still noticed Bethany stealing glances at me. She would look away when I tried to meet her, and I noticed, unlike usual, she wasn’t chiming in to tell Harrison to shut up. She stabbed absently at her cake when I watched her. I noticed Mum looking at her too, and Bethany seemed to shrink under the attention. It felt as if a silent conversation were occurring between the women in my family, and I did not know what to make of it. Harrison did not even seem to notice.

When everyone had finished, Bethany went to her room to get ready for her outing. Harrison started back to his, likely to prepare for his shift that night. I helped Mum clear away the dishes, but afterwards I would need to get dressed and drive out to meet the orchestra.

In the kitchen, as I set the dishes by the sink, Mum suddenly spoke. She had the kind of voice I could somehow always hear, but she still signed with her words, ensuring I understood. She said my name, sternly, and at twenty-two I still cowered at the sound.

I hesitated. “Yes, Mum?”

She watched me for a moment. Her dark eyes pierced my soul, just as they always had when she was scolding me. She looked away, then asked her question: “What is going on between you and your sister?”

Something about her voice, quiet to my ears, steady, expectant, something about the way her hands punctuated her words, forcefully, clearly; her question unnerved me. I loved my mum, and I had no shortage of respect for her, but she always knew how to make me tremble.

I arched a brow. “I beg your pardon?”

Her words grew quicker, signs sloppier. “You think I’m so naive, don’t you? I’m not blind, Hunter.” She takes a moment to calm herself, begins scooping uneaten cake into a container. “Do you love Bethany?” she asks.

“What?” I turned my full attention to her, searched her face. Her lips were trembling, and though she was trying to hide it, her brows were furrowed. She looked as if she might hit me at any moment. I cleared my throat. “Of course I love her. She’s my sister. We’ve been close her whole life, you know that.”

My answer irritated her. She paused, and a piece of cake fell into the container, crumbling. “That’s not what I meant and you know it,” she bit. She turned to me, eyes a shrouded brown. “Don’t you think you’re too close?”

But I didn’t understand. “Why?” I asked. I took a subconscious step away from her. “What’s wrong with my relationship with my sister?”

“She fancies you, Hunter.” She is blunt, serious. A fear came over her eyes, one I had never seen before. “Don’t you see that?” She looked away. Her free hand shakily signed her silent words: “Do you feel that way about her too?”

I couldn’t believe what she was saying. I knew my mother had always been paranoid, but this was such a stretch, even for her. She was still, contemplating. What answer would she form in my silence? I had to say something, but how could I respond to that?

“No,” I say, the answer she needed to hear. I watched the sigh leave her body. “She’s my sister, Mum. We’re siblings. Beth and I are close, sure, but we’re not… No, that’s…” I couldn’t form the words to explain how I felt about it. I wasn’t sure I knew how to feel about it. I tried to speak more, but my mumbles turned nonsensical.

Mum signed, “Stop.” She glanced behind me, to where Bethany was standing in the doorway of the kitchen. I couldn’t tell if she’d caught any of our conversation. Mum returned to her task, a silent acceptance of the end of that conversation.

Bethany approached me with a cheery grin. She was wearing more makeup than usual, and the paint around her eyes brought out their crystalline blue. Her miniskirt was high on her thighs, and I sent a cautious glance to Mum, wondering if she would comment. Bethany twirled for me, then asked, “What do you think, Hunter?” She said something else, but her unsigned words were lost to me.

I smiled awkwardly, hoping whatever else she’d said wasn’t important. “You look cute,” I replied, but the words felt different now. Again I glanced at Mum, wondering whether my response was brotherly enough.

Bethany’s cheeks colored at my compliment. She curtsied daintily and smiled at me, eyes shining with satisfaction. “Thank you, sweet brother,” she sang. “Good luck at your concert! Sorry I can’t come today. Won’t you give me a private show later?”

I flinched at the unintentional innuendo. Mum was glaring holes into my back. I shifted awkwardly. Was Bethany acting differently from normal? Was she just being her sweet self, or did she really like me? Had I never noticed before? The suggestion terrified me.

She was waiting for an answer. “Oh, um,” I stammered, “Yeah. Have fun with your friends, Beth. Happy birthday, again.”

Her smile grew wider. She signed, “Thank you,” then stepped on the tips of her toes to hug me. She hesitated before doing the same to Mum, then grabbed her keys and headed out the door.

With Bethany gone, I cautiously turned towards Mum. She had moved to washing the dishes and said nothing. I stood before her awkwardly, then retreated to my room, praying Mum and my newfound doubts were wrong about this all.

I wear my hearing aids to all my concerts. With the whole orchestra and the audience relying on me to play properly, I cannot afford to not hear. That night, I did not need my aids to know I played poorly.

My focus was shattered. I had trouble following the music when my head was elsewhere. How many other signs had I missed? Did Bethany treat Harrison differently because she disliked him or because she liked me? How could my sister like me?

After the concert, one of our cellists approached me to ask if I was okay. I didn’t know how to answer her. How could I explain my situation? I just smiled at her, insisted I had to be home before long. She would never understand. I couldn’t even understand.

When I got home that night, I ripped off my hearing aids and threw them in my nightstand, drowning out the world.

Not even the familiar silence could comfort me then. A brother and a sister… Such a thing was unnatural, was wrong—wasn’t it? I didn’t feel that way about her, I was sure of that. And I couldn’t deny that, if these accusations were true, her feelings were valid, and she had every right to feel them, as disgusting and wrong as they were. ...Were they wrong? What made them wrong?

My internal war kept me awake far past when Harrison got home. I saw the light spill under my door, watched the shadows of his footsteps slink to his room. I then realized there was no use in trying to sleep anymore.

I sat up and turned on a lamp. Hoping reading would put me to sleep, I pulled my Kindle from the nightstand and opened my current book. I read slowly, painfully, and I was growing frustrated with how I had to reread each page to make sense of it. Somehow I made it through several chapters when, finally, thankfully, I could feel myself dozing off. I shut off my Kindle and moved to turn off the light, but I caught a glimpse of a shadow under my door.

The doorknob turned, and a blonde head peered into my room. It was far past her curfew. I noticed dark smudges tainting her skirt, and her makeup had run freely down her face. She had been crying.

“Beth?” Immediately I walked to her and wrapped her in a hug. “What happened?”

I led her to the bed, where she collapsed, shaking. I held her for several minutes, a million explanations running through my head. My eyes located my phone, and I mentally rehearsed the emergency call I might have had to make.

Bethany took a deep breath and met my eyes. “I’m sorry,” she signed. She continued her conversation verbally, her sign language not trained enough to keep up with her thoughts. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I just wanted…”

Her lips stopped. I shook my head. “You didn’t wake me,” I assured. I kept my voice at a whisper. Were Mum and Harrison awake? Should I have woken them?

Bethany whispered too, responding to what I had said. The small shapes her lips made were unreadable. She knew I couldn’t understand when people whispered.

Sighing, I pulled open my nightstand and put in my hearing aids. I waited a few moments, taking in the quiet hum of a cricket, the distant call of an owl. I then looked back at Bethany, urging her to continue.

She just stared at me. The shock was clear on her face. She looked at my ears. A question caught somewhere in her throat. “You don’t wear those for anyone,” she mumbled.

“This seems important.”

She turned away, a smile gracing her tear-stained face. “Thank you,” she said. Her voice was very small; even with the hearing aids, I struggled to hear her.

I ran my hands through her hair, trying to soothe her. “Now what’s happened?”

She turned back to me. There was an anger in her eyes. “My friends hate me,” she snarled. “I thought I could trust them, and now they hate me.”

“Why do you think your friends hate you?”

“Because they said so!” She realized she was raising her voice, and she looked to my bedroom door, waiting to hear someone stirring. She then looked back to me. “They’re jealous, I think.”

“What are they jealous of?”

Bethany remained silent. I could see she was debating telling me.

“You can trust me, Beth.” Even in the dark, I could make out the cuts on her exposed legs. Blood had dried on her knees, stained her skirt. Whatever fight my sister had had with her friends, I couldn’t forgive them for hurting her.

She pulled away from me then, and my hand fell to the bed. I watched her, her scared eyes, her shaking hands. “Us,” she answered.

My brows arched. As I was about to ask her what she meant, she slipped two fingers under my chin, and she pulled me closer to her. Her lips came over mine, nervous, lingering. When she moved away, a deep red splashed onto her cheeks. She was smiling.

I didn’t know how to react. Had that just happened? I inched away from her. Mum had been right. But Bethany was just my sister. My mouth hung agape, until I had enough sense to speak. I stammered for a few moments, looking for the right words to describe how I was feeling. How was I feeling? This was wrong, didn’t Bethany realize that? I had to say something, do something, I needed to be the big brother, the responsible adult in this situation, but what could I do…?

“Beth,” I started, but she put a soft finger to my lips to quiet me.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Her gaze fell to the floor, and her smile faded. “You don’t want me like that. I get it. It’s wrong, I know.” New tears bubbled at the corners of her eyes. “I tried so hard to deny this, Hunter. It’s so gross, and I feel gross, but I couldn’t. I can’t deny my feelings. But a brother and a sister, that’s disgusting, and I needed help. I went to my friends, I hoped they could give me some advice, but they didn’t, they hate me, they called me a sick freak, and they’re right. I’m sorry. I can’t help it. Hunter, I love you.”

The pain in her voice chilled me. I wanted to stop her, to beg her to stop speaking, to rip out my hearing aids and silence this nightmare. But her words were said. No one could take them back now.

I struggled to say something to help her. “It’s not that.”

She looked up suddenly, hope flashing in her eyes. “You love me too?”

I silently swore. “Of course, Beth, but as a sister. We’re not supposed to be more than that. It’s wrong.”

“No it isn’t.” She was using my hesitance to her advantage,and in the moment, I hated her for it. She reached for my chin again, and I did not stop her. Her lips lingered longer this time, and her tongue threatened forbidden territory.

Finally, I pulled away, firmly shaking my head. “Bethany, stop this.”

But her hand was already trailing down my side, dancing under my shirt.

I grabbed it and pinned it to the bed instead. “No, Beth, this isn’t right. We shouldn’t do this. You need to stop.”

But she was determined to not listen. She pushed me down and climbed on top of me, straddling me. Panicked, I wondered how this would look to Mum or Harrison, should they for whatever reason open my door. Bethany smiled, and her misplaced confidence scared me. “But I can,” she teased. “Come on, Hunter, don’t you want this too?”

Every part of me was saying no. This was inexcusable. Bethany was my sister, was only seventeen, still a child. With horror, I wondered if I had just been her first kiss. Yet some part of me, deep down, had to admit that I didn’t dislike the kiss. What was so wrong about this, anyway?

Bethany understood my silence as affirmation. She linked her fingers with mine and brought my hand to her mouth, kissed it. Her other hand wandered to my hip, inching downwards. Her touch was light, tantalizing. Was I liking this? I couldn’t have been liking this. I stifled my reactions, could not encourage her. I felt her fingers slip under the waistline of my shorts, and I sat up quickly, batting her hand away.

“I can’t,” I said, “I’m sorry.” There were too many thoughts fighting for my attention, and I knew this maelstrom could not be silenced. How long had all this been on her mind? How long had she suffered through these feelings?

“Hunter,” she sang, “don’t keep teasing your sissy like this.”

“No.” I pulled away from her, and my back hit my bed frame. “Don’t talk to me like that. Actually, I think you should go to bed.”

“But Hunter,” she whined. She was growing impatient. “Don’t you realize? I waited so fucking long for this. Finally this is within my grasp, and I can see you want it too. Stop denying yourself, Hunter. Stop denying me. Let us have this.” She crawled towards me. “We can keep it a secret. No one will ever have to know.”

“Bethany.” The sternness in my tone startled me. “Get out of my room.”

Her eyes widened, stung. She began to protest, but she stopped herself. Defeated, she picked herself off my bed and made her way back to her room, alone.

~~~

We never spoke about what happened. It took months, but I finally managed to force it from my mind, and I prayed Bethany did too.

Our mother died that year. She had been in a car accident that was no one’s fault. The three of us were orphans then, and though we were capable of taking care of ourselves, we deeply mourned the loss of our mother.

Well, Harrison and I did. Bethany’s coping mechanisms were more silent. She seemed unbothered by her death, and I did not know how to understand her grief. If anything, she seemed cheerier with Mum gone. I couldn’t imagine the pain she must have been bottling inside.

A couple months after Mum died, Bethany wandered into my room late at night. She sat on my bed and brushed the curls from my face. I awoke startled, and nearly threw her off the bed. She called to me, but her voice did not meet my ears.

“Beth?” I said, wiping the sleep from my eyes. “What’s wrong?”

Beth smiled. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. I could not hear her at all. “Now that Mum’s gone, we could… you know.”

I rubbed at my eyes again, hoping I was reading wrong. I glanced at my phone. 4:39 a.m. “What?” I sat up straighter, tried to gather my bearings. “What do you mean, now Mum’s gone? Mum’s dead, Bethany. She’s never coming back.”

“I know!” I heard the animation in her voice then. Her smile left me shivering. “So now there are no obstacles, right? We can be together.”

My voice hitched in my throat. Before I could reply, she kissed me, a long and passionate gesture that I did not stop. I had forgotten what her lips tasted like, and suddenly I was overwhelmed by them. I forced myself away from her, far later than I should have.

“What is the matter with you?” I wiped at my mouth, trying to remove the lingering lust there. “No, Beth, we can’t be together. Why can’t you understand that? It’s wrong.”

“Don’t say that.” She reached her fingers through my hair and massaged my scalp. Her nails scratched lightly against my skin. She was teasing me, and I had to stop it.

I grabbed her wrist. “Beth, come on. You should be going out with other people, finding a boyfriend like every other teenage girl.”

“You could be my boyfriend.” She looked at me sweetly. For the first time, I noticed how low her shirt was cut. She had planned this, all of this.

“No,” I stuttered. “No, Beth, you’re… We can’t, I can’t, stop.” I hated how weak I felt, how unsure my voice was. Why couldn’t I put my foot down?

“Why not?” She cocked her head to the side, and her blonde waves fell over her bare shoulder. “You don’t have a girlfriend, and you’re not gay, right?”

“Bethany, listen to me.” I drew in a long breath. “I’m your brother. I’m five years older than you. We shouldn’t be together. What would people think of me, screwing around with my baby sister?”

“No one will find out.” She pressed down on my chest, pushing me down to my bed. In the next moment, she was smacking her lips to mine again. I wriggled from under her.

“I think it’s time to go to bed.”

She opened her eyes and studied me. “Hunter?” Her features softened. The syllables were a whisper. I liked the way she smiled into my name. “You’re not convinced you don’t want this.”

I didn’t know how to admit to myself that she was right. I didn’t know if my reluctance stemmed from not wanting to hurt her or from wanting her. I couldn’t have wanted her—right? I shook my head. “Sometimes, our hearts chase those who can’t love us back,” I said. “All we can do is learn how to move on. It’s time for you to move on, Beth. I’m sorry. I can’t love you like that. I don’t want to. ...I’m sorry.”

~~~

I told myself I wouldn’t write anymore entries about this, but I can’t keep this inside. I didn’t know what to do. I had to tell someone, and I thought that they could help me. I tried to tell my friends about my feelings for Hunter. They didn’t take it well at all. Some were sure I was joking, but I told them I wasn’t, and then they got mad. They called me disgusting, and a freak, and then they started attacking me. I never thought my friends would turn on me like that. They pushed me to the ground and threw their drinks at me. I don’t know what I did to deserve that.

When I got home, I didn’t know what to do. I felt so humiliated and betrayed. I went to Hunter’s room, I guess I hoped that he would make it better, and he comforted me. He’s so kind to me. It’s got to be his fault that I’ve fallen in love with him. What girl wouldn’t? He’s really the perfect man, and we have a head start! He already loves me!

When we were in his room, I finally told him how I felt. He was just so kind and caring that I knew nothing would go wrong. He was shocked, and he wanted to deny his feelings, but there was something there. The way he looked at me. The way his fingers lingered on mine, even when he was trying to push me away… Maybe he feels the same way? He must feel the same way!

Since, I can’t stop thinking about us together. We could cuddle under some fluffy blankets as some film plays on TV, and I would whisper in his ear and I just know he’d hear it, and he would whisper back, and all night we would stay up trading sweet nothings, until he pulls me down and kisses me lovingly and passionately, and he would never pull away.

I know this can become reality. I just need Hunter to give us a chance.

~~~

The journal grows heavy in my hands. It contains the words of any teenage crush, of the fantasies and dreams of an adolescent in love. But it’s not just any teenage crush. This book contains the writings of my sister’s crush on me.

Bethany betrays her written word; she continues to write about it. The following entries detail her dirtiest dreams, and I flinch reading them. Finally, I can take no more. A nausea bubbles in the pit of my stomach, threatening release. I am horrified at her attention to detail, her ability to describe everything that has not happened. If anyone else were to read these entries, it would appear as if we have done all she has described.

The journal falls from my hands and lands on the floor. I turn sharply to my brother. “I never—” I begin, but I do not know where to start in defending myself.

“But Hunter!” Bethany yells. I turn to follow her lips. “Haven’t you dreamt of those things, too?”

“Shut up.” Harrison’s voice is loud, ringed with acid. He moves towards us, pointing his knife at Bethany still.

She cowers behind me, petrified.

“You,” Harrison snarls, turning his blade to me. “How dare you. You disgraceful whore. You sick bastard. She’s seventeen. And she’s your…” He looks to her again. “How dare you make a mockery of my mother’s death. You bitch. You fuck around like she isn’t vomiting in her grave. You deserve to die in her place.”

Harrison is growing angrier. I try to soothe him, keep my voice level, my expression neutral. “We didn’t do what she wrote,” I say. I watch the vein snake through my brother’s temple, dark and protruding. His fingers clutch the hilt of his knife firmly, though his hands are shaking. “Harrison, you have to listen to me. We haven’t done anything.”

“We kissed.” Bethany’s voice is a plea.

I turn sharply to her, willing her to not escalate this further. She does not meet my eye. I see determination on her face, a need to convince herself of her reality.

“There’s nothing wrong with a kiss, Harrison,” she continues. “Can’t two siblings share a kiss? Aren’t you just jealous? Jealous that I show your twin affection and not you.” Her voice gains confidence as she continues, while my legs begin to quake. “Hunter and I love each other very much, and you’re just lonely old Harrison. Now that Mum’s gone, you haven’t got anyone else.”

Something in Harrison snaps. Perhaps it’s the tension of this entire ordeal finally catching up to him. Perhaps it’s the thought of his sister daring to defend this incest. Perhaps it’s the silence of his own twin. Or, perhaps it is the mention of our mother, no longer the voice of authority.

I hear him scream, and that inhuman sound seems to clear my ears, for I hear the events that unfold next perfectly.

My brother lunges for me, pushing me against the wall and shoving me out of the way. His blade slices at my arm, leaving a trail of red beneath my sleeve. He goes for Bethany, who shrieks and tries to run, but Harrison is faster, and in the next second, he is plunging the knife into her chest. I hear the way her flesh gives way to metal, and it is a sound I will never forget.

There is no time to gather my bearings. I force myself up, biting through the pain in my back, and try to pry the knife from my deranged brother. Never in our lives have I seen him like this, so monster-like. My fear for my safety gives way to the need to defend my sister. Her screaming is all I can hear, the volume and clarity all I can focus on.

Somehow, I manage to grab the knife, and I wince as its blade cuts my fingers. Harrison, the bigger and stronger twin, wrestles it away from me. Helpless, I try to defend myself as he slashes as me. Blood flies between us, blurring my vision. I need to get away, but if he is focused on me, maybe Bethany can escape.

Soon, Harrison loses interest in me. He turns back to Bethany, small and terrified, huddled in a corner. He begins kicking at her, screaming insult after insult. I throw myself at him, trying to pull him away. He punches me square in the jaw, then again in the head, dazing me. I struggle to catch his blows, all the while trying to see Bethany.

She is still, and blood begins to pool around her. The sight of her fills me with a new willpower. As Harrison tries to punch me again, I summon all my strength, and I punch him across the face.

He is startled, but an eerie smile soon spills onto his lips. He wipes the blood now dripping from his nose. “In all our years, Hunter,” he says, “I’ve never once seen you fight back.” He gets ready to continue this fight.

Somehow, I find it in me to keep hitting him. I aim for his face, his throat, anywhere he leaves exposed. Each of my punches grows stronger. I don’t know if I’m trying to protect my sister anymore, or if I am trying to vent my feelings about this all.

~~~

I don’t know when the ambulance arrives, or who calls for it. I remember passing out shortly after Harrison did, and when I wake again, I am not in my mother’s house. My sunlight and silence do not greet this day. The harsh lamps blind me, and I can just make out the steady, muffled cry of an EKG.

I’m at the hospital. IVs trail up my arms and under my gown. Red-tinted bandages cover my hands and arms. The itchy fabric of the pale gown irritates the stitches on my abdomen.

A nurse walks in then, and when she sees that I am awake she smiles warmly. I ask her about my sister, but she swears she cannot disclose anything about her yet. I demand someone else; someone has to tell me how Bethany is.

It is only hours later that I learn about my siblings’ conditions from a different nurse. Harrison is suffering from a broken hand and wrist, a broken jaw and nose. Once he awakens, he will need to face the consequences of his actions. I am told I will have to do the same.

Bethany has been unconscious for hours. The wound in her chest was dangerously close to her heart, and she is suffering from a concussion. The doctors do not know when she will wake, whether she will wake. She will likely sustain brain damage, I am told, though no one can guess at the severity.

When the nurses let me, I visit Bethany. The EKG’s call is the only sign she is alive. I sit on her bed and run my hands through her hair, now tangled and unkempt. I brush my hands against her cheek, wince at its cold. I then hold her hand and sigh.

I feel her grasp weakly tighten. Her eyes flutter open, and recognition crosses her face. “Hunter,” she whispers. Her eyes droop, and I resent this dull image of this beautiful, vibrant girl.

“How are you feeling?”

She doesn’t seem well enough to answer me yet, so she responds with a shrug. She turns away, taking in her new surroundings.

We sit in silence for several minutes. She struggles to breathe, and when she tries to move, the pain washes over her body. Finally, she looks to me. “Thank you,” she says. “For saving me.”

I shake my head. “Don’t speak,” I say. “Save your energy.”

She grabs my hand. Her mouth forms the shapes I’ve seen many times. Perhaps I had always interpreted them wrong before now. “I love you.”

Cautiously, my eyes sweep the room. I peer behind the divider, look to the empty bed beside us, the hallway. Nurses scurry back and forth, too busy to care about us.

I move over Bethany and, delicately, I place a kiss on her lips.

Her eyes widen in surprise. She uses what little energy she has to kiss me back.

When we pull away, I see that smile I have come to love so much.

“I love you too,” I tell her.

She sighs, and with that, she closes her eyes and falls asleep.

#short stories #writeblr

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karenlier-blog · 7 years ago

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Women and the Double Standard of Ageing

The double standard about aging shows up most brutally in the conventions of sexual feehng, which presuppose a disparity between men and women that operates permanently to women's disadvantage.i

— Susan Sontag

I have always wanted to be old. Weird? Probably - and certainly neither cool nor fashionable; for that I would need to be a Grumpy Old Woman, whingeing because things aren't what they used to be, and confirming all the assumptions about old women as discontented, obsessed with trivia and generally off their trolleys. And I would need to engage in the 'fight against ageing' to make myself look twenty years younger. But I'm happy to look the age I am, happy to be the age I am. I want to enjoy it, strip-mine it for all it has to offer. I want to live and work with it, not fight it.

But we live in a society in denial about ageing; a denial fuelled by an obsession with image and style, with youth and physical beauty, and the illusion that we can keep making ourselves over to hold old age at bay. And although we are not all obsessed with the desire to stay young, resistance is frequently interpreted as deviance or failure. But there is nothing shameful about ageing; it comes to us all if we are lucky enough to be here to greet it and to deny our age is to pretend to be less than we are in much more than just years.

When I look in the mirror I can see my ageing in the lines, the sagging skin, the extra rolls of fat, the age spots. I can also feel it in my muscles and my joints, the effort of my breath at exercise, the loss of the ability to sit cross- legged, the faet that I have four pairs of glasses but frequently can't find any of them, and that I occasionally discover my misplaced wallet packed in the fridge with the shopping. I creak and puff, I droop and sag. I have given up shoes with heels and the effort to hold in my stomach, and I am working hard on not caring about how I appear to others (although the latter is still a work in progress).

But I can also feel it in my head and in my heart; in my joy in life, my greater appreciation of the world and particularly of my family and friends, my increasing satisfaction in small things, in my waning tolerance of the superficial rhetoric of politicians and the dominant culture of personality and celebrity, which has replaced the culture of character. I see it in disturbing flashes of my own mortality: a glimpse of myself dying alone or the prospect of a long and painful decline, a sharper fear of and greater fascination about the possibilities of an afterlife. I question whether simple aches and pains, lumps and bumps, foreshadow something more serious, even fatal. eel my age through my need to make the most of every moment and every day, love more and better, write more and better, learn more, read more. I value family and friends more and more thoughtfully, feel grief more sharply and outrage more passionately. And I relish my age in the pure wonder of having arrived here, two years from seventy, and to be living every day as a bonus and an adventure.

In 1972 the late Susan Sontag suggested that ageing is largely a trial of the imagination. She believed that the anxiety and depression many women experience about ageing is caused by 'the way this society limits how women feel free to imagine themselves'. ii In that same year Simone de Beauvoir described ageing as 'a class struggle, which, like race and gender, becomes a filter through which to see and understand differential life changes.'iii Both Sontag and de Beauvoir wrote of the 'double-standard of ageing' - the poisonous nexus of sexism and ageism that disempowers women as they age. We are most desirable as lovers, partners and mothers in our youth, and as that youth fades so too does our sexual value. 'For most women,' Sontag wrote, 'ageing means a gradual process of sexual disqualification.'iy

Even if, as ageing women, we don't give a damn about sexual disqualification at a personal level it still affects us in both overt and subtle ways. Despite the changes that emerged from the women's movement of the late sixties and seventies we still live in a world predominantly ordained by men, in which the male view of women dictates the visual and verbal wallpaper of our lives. And it's a particular type of male heterosexuality that defines the overbearing messages about women's value and where it lies. This is not an attack on men; not for one moment do I think that most men are aware of it or even give it a thought, and I know many who do find it as alienating as do many women. But sadly the old bog standard attitudes that defined women's value in terms of their appearance seems to be enjoying a resurgence in the twenty-first Century, and it infiltrates the lives of us older, disqualified, women as well as those of younger women and distressingly the lives of little girls.

Is there ever a time in a woman's life when it is okay to be and to look the age she is? Tiny tots are being trained with beauty pageants, pole dancing and Playboy Bunny outfits to mimic the appearance and the sexual appeal of adult women. Girls in their teens strive to appear older until sometime in their twenties, when relentless anti-ageing messages infiltrate their consciousness and they begin to look fearfuUy over their shoulders. By the thirties middle age is a threat, the fifties and beyond unthinkable. Sexism defines youthful beauty and sexual availability as what matters for women. And so advertisements for fashion, lingerie and cosmetics targeting women are all designed with words and images that play to men's fantasies about women to encourage us to spend in ways that will satisfy those fantasies, until the time we become irrelevant.

It is the end of fertility that marks us out as sexually unattractive and undesirable, and it brings with it the additional assumption that we are moody, depressed and emotionally unstable. But while some women do suffer severe physical and emotional difficulties at menopause, for most the effects are just mild and annoying, and some experience very few symptoms at all. Menopause is the culture's defining consciousness about older women and within it there are several narratives of the 'problem'. There is the medical- problem-medical-solutions story, which treats it as an illness and is accompanied with lists of enough grim physical and psychological symptoms as to make you slash your wrists. It is heavily weighted towards hormone replacement therapy and frequently has a critical edge that implies that while menopause is a clinical condition requiring medical intervention, the woman is selfish and pathetic for seeking help to manage her symptoms. There is the pull-yourself-together-so-you-don't-frighten-the-children-or-upset-the-men story, which counsels women not to bore and embarrass others with this life- changing experience - 'just grin and bear it, and keep taking the tablets'. And finally there is the I-did-it-my-way-with-the-help-of-the-goddess-and-a-few- archetypes; this version is dreamy and mystical and often involves herbs, visualisation and rituals with shells and candles.

All these narratives create the context for menopause as a major design fault that leads inevitability to diminishment, alienation and invisibility. The impact of hormonal change is physiologically and emotionally real, but it is not necessarily debilitating or disabling; even so, biological determinism - used to declare women mad, sad or bad as adolescents and in pregnancy - has a special bite in old age where it also erases us from public view. How can mature women begin to imagine themselves pre, during and after menopause without images of vibrant, content, energetic older women with their own very special beauty.

The imaginative freedom to enjoy ageing, to recognise its possibilities and rise to its challenges, depends to a considerable extent upon how we see it represented in the world around us. Writer and anthropologist Thomas De Zengotita suggests that seeing ourselves and our lives reflected in the products of popular culture is a pervasive and fundamental form of flattery: 'The flattered self is a mediated self,' he writes, 'and the alchemy of mediation is the osmotic process through which reality and representation fuse, and get carried to our psyches by the irresistible flattery that goes with being incessantly addressed.'y In other words when we can constantly see realistic representations of people like us in the media we feel we are being acknowledged, spoken to by the creators of those images, included as part of the audience and therefore part of the larger tribe.

But ageing and old women are rarely the central characters in the products of popular culture. They appear in minor stereotypicai and frequently negative roles: nosey neighbours, interfering mothers-in-law, dippy old aunts, scheming bitches or frail old burdens who impede the lives and the desires of the really important characters - men, younger women and children. Television, at the heart of most Australian homes, is the place where we should reasonably expect to experience the benefits of representational flattery, but for older women it is a representational void. For ageing women invisibility is both a feeling and reality, and the silence of not being addressed is deafening.

Realistic fictional representations are, I believe, even more powerful in terms of representational flattery than real-life examples of successful women. In the long history of efforts to raise the status of women the existence and visibOity of real-life female leaders as role models has always been inspirational, but famous, high-profile women can also seem remote from our own more ordinary lives. It is in fiction - in books and on the screen - that we can experience the inner lives of others, observe their challenges, learn how they deal with anger, grief and loss as well as success, joy, love and fulfilment. In fiction we are privy to the emotional rollercoaster of ordinary lives that reflect our own and in its multiple possibilities we see who we are and who we can become. It works to humanise and to bond us with those who are living with or have already passed through what we have yet to experience.

It was the absence of interesting and realistic older women as the central characters in Australian women's fiction that led me, ten years ago, to start writing novels that feature these characters. I had been searching the shelves of libraries and bookshops for novels that featured women of fifty plus; I wanted to read about women like me. I was in my late fifties then, and surrounded by friends and coUeagues of a similar age and older who were living dynamic, useful and rewarding lives. They were, and still are, starting new businesses, enroUing at university, playing the stock market, surfing the waves and the internet, travelling, retraining and falling in and out of love. I regularly interviewed ageing women who held powerful positions in government and business, who excelled in the sciences, the arts and in sport, who had raised money to fund women's scholarships, overseas orphanages, or support services for women and children in crisis. They were doing all this in spite of, as well as, and way beyond menopause. It seemed to me that these women's stories were just as worth telling in fiction and drama as the stories of young women setting out in pursuit of careers and Mr Right offered by chick-lit and rom-coms.

Quite a few people laughed when I spoke of writing novels about older women; quite a few more, parti cularly those in the media, sucked in their breath, shook their heads, and told me unequivocally that no one would want to read about older women. As women over forty-five buy more books than any other demographic this seemed a frankly stupid assumption and further illustrated the insidious effects of the double standard of ageing. Now, six best-selling novels later, I am delighted to have proved them wrong, but despite this demonstrated market, creators, producers, editors and publishers of popular culture still seem locked into the frantic pursuit of a youthful audience.

My argument is not with young people themselves, many of whom are concerned about and alienated by the sexualisation of marketing in so many areas, and by the pressure to conform to standards of physical beauty and sexual allure which they find unrealistic, undesirable and frequently offensive. Young women and men are profoundly affected by the absence of realistic, interesting and positive stories, images and messages about older people. When young people don't see realistic representations of the rich, diverse and satisfying lives of older people, they cannot see the future possibilities and choices open to them. In my conversations and correspondence with women of all ages and in a variety of contexts the invisibility of older women always rears its head. It's not surprising that many fear age and are drawn into the myth of some sort of battle against it when they cannot see the pleasures, rewards and opportunities that ageing can offer.

If you aren't aware of the double standard of ageing and feel that as a woman you haven't experienced it I urge you to think again, and to look beyond yourself. Wake up to the bigger picture, study the patterns on the wallpaper and listen for the tone of the background music.

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