#even if it means boiled cabbage

[ladykailitha]

Paper Hearts Part 4

I finished it!! It will have 8 chapters. I'm excited for you guys to see where this goes! I'm still working on Sweet Home Indiana and will be focusing on that until ITS done. Then we'll be back our regularly schedule WIPs.

We have Eddie's big plan and Steve gets his flirt on.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

****

Steve slipped into the kitchen and there in his mother’s neat handwriting was a note telling him that there were leftovers in the fridge and that they would be home again next Friday.

He sighed and opened the fridge. He immediately closed it when he saw what the leftovers were.

Boiled cabbage with chopped bacon and carrots. It wasn’t bad if it was made correctly, but his mother boiled any flavor and nutrients out of the poor vegetables and then tossed in cooked bacon to hide its sins.

He opened the cupboard and pulled out a small can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup and made that. He was craving the sodium. Eddie’s beef was good to get his body to stop shaking, but he had sweat so much he needed to replenish the salt he’d lost.

Once Steve had eaten and drank another glass of water he went to go get a shower and get ready for bed. It was no use trying to get back to his homework now. He had managed to blow up his whole evening by getting lost.

He had no idea how he got to Forest Hills or even why his feet carried him there in the first place. He could feel the weariness seeping into his bones from running for so long.

He undressed and got under the scorching water, letting the heat carry away his pains. His mind ran through all the things that Munson had done for him. The guy had no reason to be nice to him, but he had been more than gracious.

Then it hit him. Munson had called him Stevie, and without thinking Steve had called him Eds.

Eds.

Where the fuck did that come from? They weren’t friends, they could barely be considered acquaintances. Was his brain reaching out to the guy subconsciously? Is that why he ended up at the trailer park? Everyone knew that’s where Munson lived. Who knew how many times the guy had been called trailer trash, but the older teen seemed to rise above the insult.

Steve shook his head, spraying water everywhere. Just because Munson picked up lost sheep, didn’t mean he’d be willing to taken in an injured wolf. Because that’s what he was, reformed or not, Steve would never be a sheep. He would always be a wolf. A predator.

But at least as a wolf he could protect those kids with everything he had. And he would, even if it killed him.

The water had long since turned cold by the time Steve stepped out of the shower. He completed his after shower routine mostly on autopilot as he kept going over his interactions with both Munson men. He didn’t really have good interactions with dads or in this case uncles. But Munson’s uncle Wayne treated him with kindness and he could see where the older boy got it from.

He dressed into his pajamas and slid under the covers. He rolled over on his back and tucked one arm under his pillow, staring up at the ceiling.

Steve thought back to the apology. One Munson really didn’t have to give but did anyway. He thought about the other jocks that bragged about hurting his hand. He held it up and looked at the fading bruise. It wasn’t as though he was even basketball anymore. Hurting his hand wouldn’t do anything but make it hard to do his homework and all he had to do is show his teachers his hurt hand and he’d get extensions for that. Like he had for his concussion last November.

But then again Tommy H. never had reasons for the people he hurt either. He just liked the power he got seeing the person helpless.

He placed his hand over his heart and let himself drift off the sleep, brown eyes and dark curls haunting his dreams.

****

Eddie had originally bought the red heart for himself like he had told the two juniors. But staring at it now, he had a better plan for it. Because that last wall, that last bastion of defense crumbled to ashes when he realized that despite the fancy car, the big house, and the expensive clothes, Steve Harrington was more like Eddie than he thought possible.

Wayne’s approval of the boy cemented that for him. Because if he could take one look at Steve and decide he was worth saving, then Eddie raring to go full steam ahead for a rescue mission.

Eddie could tell that the hearts were made from simple construction paper, like the kind found just about anywhere. He knew it would be technically cheating to just simply make more instead of buying them, but he had no intention of contributing to a dance he was never going to go to because one, it wasn’t his year; two, the whole gay thing; and three, the one person he would want to go with if the gay thing wouldn’t get him hate crimed, wouldn’t give him the time of day.

Well, all right, that might have changed with the whole rescuing him from wandering alone in the dark thing.

He forgave Eddie about being a dumbass, so maybe there was hope for, at the very least, a vast decrease in hostility. And he was willing to take what he could get.

He decided to wait until tomorrow after school to get the construction paper and hope that the high school hadn’t bought up the town’s supply.

On his way out the next morning, Wayne stopped him.

“You don’t have to tell me, son,” he said gently, “but you got feelings for that boy?”

Eddie froze and turned slowly to face his uncle. “What gave you that idea?”

Wayne chuckled and shook his head fondly. “Boy, when you’d go on rants about the Harrington boy, you’d describe his floppy hair, his hazel eyes and how unfairly good looking the kid was. I didn’t say anything because it did sound like he’d been a bit of an ass. Only after last night I got to thinking and was wondering is all.”

Eddie closed his eyes and opened them slowly. He let out a long shuddering breath, his bottom lip quivering.

“I–I don’t...” he closed his eyes again. This wasn’t Al. He wasn’t going to get beat for admitting it, but still it was so hard to say. So he just nodded.

Wayne came up and wrapped his arms around his nephew. “It’s a hell of a lot tougher batting for the other team, but I trust your judgment. Just promise me that if he shows signs of liking you back, you take the chance to tell him how you feel because...”

“You miss one hundred percent of the chances you don’t take,” they said together.

Eddie dropped his bag to the floor and hugged him back. “I know, old man. But I promise if there is a chance, I’ll be brave enough to take it.”

“Get going,” Wayne said, voicing cracking with emotion.

He pulled back and nodded. He reshouldered his backpack and got in his van.

He had a lot to think about and that really wasn’t conducive to paying attention in class or to his friends as they talked about their upcoming D&D session.

Gareth kicked his shin causing him to yelp.

“What the fuck, dude?” Eddie hissed.

“What the fuck is up with you?” Gareth hissed back. “You’ve been going on and on about the mind flayer for weeks and now that it’s literally this weekend, and you’re off in some other realm.”

Eddie blinked at him for a moment before his brain came back on. He shook his head to clear it.

“Yeah, sorry, man,” he said around a pretzel. “Weird night last night.”

“What happened?” Jeff asked, tilting his head to the side.

So Eddie told them. “He was like a ghost, guys. If Wayne hadn’t seen him too, I would have thought I was hitting Mary Jane a little too hard, you know?”

“I didn’t realize he was getting bullied,” Brian said, frowning. “I would have thought with Hargrove giving the dude a wide berth, that everyone else would have too.”

“Untouchable,” Jeff agreed. “The fact that jocks are now splintering into factions tells you what kind of control Steve actually had on them.”

Eddie rubbed his chin. “I don’t know how true this is, but if Harrington wasn’t lying, he’s a real sweetheart, too.”

Then he leaned forward and explained about the pink heart scheme.

“So,” Gareth said, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on them, “you’re telling us is that we have been seriously remiss in our duties in collecting lost sheep.”

The older teen sighed and shook his head. “I’d like to collect him, but I’m afraid the wolves might decide to rip him apart before we got him to safety if we tried.”

Jeff winced. He knew what Eddie was talking about. Steve Harrington wasn’t the usual lost sheep. He might be bullied now, but as King, Harrington had run far too long with the wolves to think that they could protect him one hundred percent of the time.

“So what are we going to do?” Brian asked. “Because if we let this slide, we’re throwing our lot in with the bullies and that’s something I refuse to do.”

A grin spread out over Eddie’s face, closed lips and dimples entrenched into his cheeks. “We’re going to make the school think that he’s just as popular as he ever was.”

The other three boys looked at each other in confusion.

“So what have you got?” Gareth asked, his own grin starting to take over his face.

****

Eddie made sure to get to class early so he could see where Steve was going to sit. He tried to tell himself it was about the dude’s hand, but it wasn’t working. He wanted to see if the former Hawkins royalty would chose to sit with his old friends or by him again.

He didn’t have long to wait. Steve walked in not long after he did, just as the bell rang. He didn’t even look at his old desk near the front and beelined it for the chair he had sat in on Friday.

The teacher picked up on the change immediately and wrinkled her nose. “I am to suppose that you are taking up permanent residence in the back with Mr. Munson, Mr. Harrington?”

Steve half shrugged as he began to pull out his things for class. “I got more work done, Mrs. Dixon and I really want to graduate on time.”

Mrs. Dixon nodded. “Agreed and as long as you continue the level of attention from last week, you are permitted to stay there.”

About half way through class while Mrs. Dixon was grading papers, Tommy H. turned around and kicked Steve’s chair. “Suck up,” he hissed.

Steve puckered his lips and wagged his eyebrows. “Why? Do you want to be next?”

Tommy turned back around, his face bright red.

Eddie raised an eyebrow and cocked his head to the side as he considered everything about that interaction.

A little blossom of hope sprouted in his chest and he fought to keep it down. Steve had insinuated that other people were gay for years, but to Eddie’s highly trained gay ears, that sounded like Steve was offering to suck Tommy H.’s dick and that Tommy didn’t exactly turn him down.

Curiouser and curiouser, he thought tapping his lips thoughtfully. More research would have to be done.

He pulled out a different notebook, the one he used for campaign notes and song lyrics.

He wrote girls over one column and boys over the other and began tallying what he knew about the former King of Hawkins.

A shit ton went into the Steve liking girls column, but there was surprisingly more in the liking boys column then he would have thought possible. He looked up to catch Steve smirking at him.

Eddie quickly covered his notebook and stuck his tongue out at Steve.

The other boy shook his head and went back to doing the assignment. Eddie was more careful about what he left out in the open because he didn’t want Steve teased for it nor did he want him to see that Eddie was trying to figure him out.

The bell rang and the notebook was suddenly whisked off his desk.

“Hey!” Eddie cried, looking up to see Steve dancing away with the notebook teasingly. “Stevie!” He grabbed his bag and chased after the other boy. But the other boy was a jock and Eddie was wheezing for breath by the time he caught up with him at his locker.

“Give that back,” he huffed.

Steve gave him a bright smile and handed it back. “I just made a minor addition.”

Eddie frowned as he flipped through the pages but didn’t see anything. Steve took it back and turned to the correct page and leaned close so that only Eddie could hear.

“I trust you’ll keep my secret,” he whispered and then dropped to one knee to start getting into his locker.

Eddie gulped at the sight and turned to the paper to avoid saying something stupid. There in bold capital letters under his girls/guys columns was the word BOTH.

He looked up at Steve who had stood up. Steve winked at him and then walked away, leaving a shocked Eddie behind.

****

Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

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[phoward89]

Banner by me, dividers by @saradika-graphics

Summary: Coriolanus felt that you were out too long on your date with Sejanus. He decides to go find his innocent little dove and bring her home. Even if that means abruptly ending your romantic evening.

Warnings: Coriolanus Snow is a warning himself! Cussing, possessiveness, Dark!Coriolanus Snow, thoughts of murder to solve problems, Deciding to plan a murder, stalking, manipulation

Chapter 2

Coryo was in his bedroom, perched on his windowsill. He was studiously looking down below at the Corso, waiting for your return.

You went out with Sejanus over an hour ago for your dinner date. You should be home by now. Why weren't you back.

Was he corrupting you?

Damnit!

Fuck!

No!

That disgusting district flea-bitten dog better not be corrupting you.

You're an innocent little dove that needs your Coryo to protect you. You can't get corrupted.

At least by anyone that isn't him. If anyone's going to corrupt you it's him. But it wouldn't actually be corrupting, it'd just be teaching you how to please him.

Coriolanus let out an aggravated sigh as the lone candle lighting up his room dimly flickered. He didn't care if it burnt out or not. He was too worried about you and where you were.

Most importantly who you were with.

Coriolanus knew that he should've snuck out and followed the Plinth boy's car when you got into it. But no…he had to stay home and eat watery cabbage soup and congealed potatoes for dinner with Tigris and Grandma'am.

Fucking hell, where were you?

Okay.

That's it.

He's done.

Coriolanus decided that he needed to put on some black clothes (so he wouldn't be seen sneaking around) and go find you. Enough was enough and he had to make sure that you weren't being tricked into getting on your knees, or worse, for that district 2 scumbag, Sejanus Plinth in some alleyway somewhere.

He has to find you; protect you too.

You're his little dove; he can't have you fluttering away on your own, only to get hurt.

Nope.

So, he's going to find you and make sure that you get home in one piece.

Coriolanus weaved in and out of the dark alleyways, on a mission to find you. His dark hoodie and hat paired with his black slacks and shoes shielded him; made him blend into the dark perfectly.

Infact, he became one with the darkness as he used the back alleys of the Capitol as his personal labyrinth. His personal map in getting to where you might be.

He truly had no idea where you could be, but by using the dark alleyways as cover he could look out onto the streets, glowing with the light of oil street lamps, and survey the area as long as needed.

He could look for you without the risk of being caught.

When he finally spotted you, it was across from one of the many alleys that he hid in. You were at a park, sitting on a park bench with that dirty district boy, Sejanus.

You were sitting with him at the park that he always took you to. The park that was your special spot. How dare that district dog trick you into bringing him there.

Coriolanus felt his blood boil with rage at how close he was sitting next to you. You were so innocent, his little dove, that he knows you most likely weren't aware that Sejanus' shoulder was brushing against yours on purpose.

Sejanus, that District 2 scum, was touching you on purpose. Trying to taint and corrupt you.

You needed him, your Coryo, to protect you. To keep you innocent until he deemed the time for your innocence to be taken away.

And the only one that would be taking your innocence was him. You were his little dove, after all.

You've been his since you were 5 years old and you'll be his until the day you die.

Or he dies.

Or whoever dies first.

But the point is, you belonged to Coriolanus Snow; you were his and the only thing in this world that could part you was the Grim Reaper himself.

Coriolanus slowly lurched in the night, careful not to let the glow from the street lamps cast a light on him, as he made his way over to where you were with your boyfriend. Ugh, how he hated referring to the Plinth boy as that.

Your boyfriend.

It made his skin crawl. Made him want to claw at his face; rip his platinum curls straight from the roots.

Sejanus Plinth was undeserving of that title. Of being your boyfriend. He was nothing, but the district filth that he, your Coryo, let come around you. He let that district boy come around only because he needed to make him think that all of you were friends because he needed him to whisper his name, the name of Coriolanus Snow, into his father’s ear so that he could win the coveted Plinth prize and give everyone he loves the life they deserve.

Grandma’am deserves to eat chocolates everyday while Tigris deserves to have her very own fashion house, instead of slaving away for a designer that treated her like a damn maid.

And you, his little dove, deserves the world. You deserve all the riches, jewels, finery, and delicacies that the world has to offer.

And Coryo was going to deliver it all to you on a silver platter.

He just needed to win the Plinth prize first. But, if you were being pursued and twisted up by the Plinth boy, then what good would the prize be?

He needed to get rid of that district dog before he took things too far with you.

Coriolanus’ ears perked up as he heard you tell Sejanus, “You know, I come here a lot with Coriolanus.” he inched closer and closer, all while listening to you sing him praises. “We sneak out at night sometimes on weekends and just sit here, talk and look at the city lights.” You smiled, “He says that when he becomes president he's going to let me redecorate the presidential palace; he'll make a big garden for his Grandma’am's roses too.”

Coriolanus was hiding by a tree, his tall, lithe body flush against the trunk, as he watched you on the bench with Sejanus. Hearing your words of praise and endearment about him sent pride straight to his dark, obsessive, heart.

Here you were, on a date with Sejanus Plinth and he was on your mind. Your Coryo was on your mind, not the District 2 fool by your side.

Oh, if only you knew he was right behind you. Would you abandon your boyfriend and run to his side?

Eh, probably not since you were such a good girl. You'd endure a date with a man while needing another because ditching somebody wasn't proper.

But don't worry, little innocent dove, your Coryo plans on getting rid of Sejanus for you.

Forever.

Coriolanus just needs to figure out a way that wouldn't implement him. He couldn't get caught for murdering the Plinth boy. That would ruin everything.

He had to be smart about this, bid his time and come up with a fool proof plan. He couldn't be rash about it, or else he might jeopardize your future.

He had to make you his First Lady after all and he couldn't do that from jail or from a penal colony on the outskirts of the districts.

Coriolanus frowned deeply as Sejanus told you, “That’s a nice dream that he has, honey, but it’ll never come true.”

That district bastard! How dare he say that to you; make your shoulders slump in sadness as you ask, “Why not? He's smart and driven.”

Sejanus knew more about the inner workings of the Capitol then he let on. It was because his father, Strabo Plinth, was the main munitions manufacturer for the Capitol; was very close to President Ravenstill. And it was that knowledge that made him answer you with, “Because presidential elections are a formality, Y/N. They have to be held, but it's a farce. Felix will automatically become president because his father's president.”

“Oh…” You sadly sighed, feeling your heart break for your best friend's shattered dreams. You wanted Coryo to fulfill his dreams and make his family proud, but now you knew it was impossible.

You weren't going to be the one to break the bad news to him tho. No, you'd be by your best friend's side and support him no matter what. Because that's what Coryo would do for you.

“You know, back in 2, the stars twinkle so brightly in the night sky. The moon also shines brightly, making the mountains and canyons look beautiful.”

“You remember how it looks in District 2? But you haven't been there since you were little.”

Okay, now Coriolanus has to shut down this little date. It was getting too deep for his liking. He couldn't have you feeling sorry for Sejanus because of his misplaced nostalgia for his home district.

Deciding to make the excuse that he was out for a walk to clear his head, Coriolanus pulled his hood back and took off his hat, stuffing it into his pocket, and left his spot camouflaged in the tree.

His large feet in their too small shoes crunched loudly against the sticks and fall leaves, causing you and your boyfriend to turn around.

Your eyes twinkled and a beaming smile, that was reserved only for him, appeared on your face as you say him. Sejanus on the other hand didn't look too happy to see Coriolanus.

No, he had an apprehensive look in his brown eyes. “Coryo, uh, come to be the third wheel on our date?” Sejanus half joked, his voice a bit flat.

You lightly smacked your boyfriend, only to tell him, “Coriolanus comes here a lot with me. He was probably just out for a walk; taking a break from studying.” Looking over at Coryo, you asked, “Right, Coryo?”

Coming right up to you, he nodded, “That's right, my little dove.”

Sejanus leerily looked between you and the curly haired blonde. He was starting to wonder exactly how deep your friendship with Coriolanus ran. Yes, he liked you and thought you were cute; wants to be your boyfriend, but he didn't know if he could handle his girlfriend being doted on by his friend.

It was kinda…well…weird?

Yea, weird.

As Coriolanus rounded the bench and took a seat right between you and Sejanus, the brunette man told him, “Well, we're on a date, stargazing, so maybe you should've taken a walk in another direction once you spotted us.”

Giving the district boy a hard look, Coriolanus responded with the veiled barb of, “The Capitol isn't a place for stargazing, Sej. It's full of city buildings and street lights, unlike the mountains and prairie canyons of District 2.” Looking up at the sky and then to you, he suggested, “It's getting late, Y/N. I should bring you home.”

“My car's at the park entrance, My driver can bring you both home.” Sejanus offered before you had the chance of accepting Coriolanus’ order that was presented as a suggestion.

“I'll take her home, Sejanus. The walk’ll give her the chance to tell me all about your date.”

Looking between your new boyfriend and your longtime best friend, you simply said, “I'm going to walk home with Coryo.”

The light briefly dulled in Sejanus' eyes, but he didn't let his disappointment show. Instead, he forced a smile and told you. “I'll see you tomorrow, Y/N.” He stood up, only to press a sweet kiss to your cheek.

You thought it was so cute and blushed a deep pinkish-red.

Coriolanus on the other hand saw red like a raging bull. He wanted to cut Sejanus' lips off for kissing you. He also wanted to scrub your cheek raw until the brand of those dirty district lips was cleansed from your skin.

Now Coryo knew, without a doubt, that Sejanus has to die.

Nobody kissed his girl, his innocent little dove, and got to live.

Tags: @kuroosbby001, @purriteen, @poppyflower-22, @meetmeatyourworst, @whipwhoops, @bxtchopolis, @readingthingsonhere,@savagenctzen, @ryswritingrecord, @erikasurfer, @tulips2715, @universal-s1ut, @thesmutconnoisseur, @squidscottjeans, @sudek4l, @wearemadeofstardust0, @mashiromochi, @gracieroxzy, @belcalis9503, @shari-berri, @aoi-targaryen, @whiteoakoak @spear-bearing-bi-witch, @gisellesprettylies @loverandqueenofdragons, @qoopeeya, @mfnqueen1

[sirenjose]

Analysis of the Food/Diet of the Lower Class in the Victorian era

(It was a bit tricky for me to find sufficiently detailed answers about the time and group I was looking for, as I wanted a bit more than the basics. Apologies for any mistakes)

Bread was a staple of the lower-class diet, such as wholemeal, rye bread, unleavened bread (like oatcakes), etc.. For the poor, it was often made of cheap-quality flour and likely denser than modern bread.

These could be supplemented with whatever vegetables that were cheapest as well as locally available at that time of year. Onions were among the cheapest (half penny for a dozen, cheaper if they were bruised) and available all year. They were more expensive in late spring, at which point they could be substituted by leeks. Watercress was another cheap staple (halfpenny for 4 bunches from April to January/February) and were regularly eaten at breakfast. Cabbage was cheap and easily available, along with broccoli, with lettuce and radishes available in summer. Carrots and turnips were inexpensive staples, especially in winter, and they along with cabbage were often used in stews and soups.

As for fruit, apples were the cheapest and most commonly available (from August to May). Cherries were also fairly cheap (from May to July). Pears, blackberries, and plums were available throughout autumn. Then there were gooseberries, plums and greengages (in late September), raspberries, and strawberries. Not all fruits were affordable, like oranges, which were imported from Spain in winter but were expensive and often given as gifts, and pineapples, which were a sign of wealth.

Potatoes were another staple and were prepared in various ways, including boiled, mashed, roasted, or fried. They grew well in Britain’s mild weather, making them easy to produce and sell, meaning they were cheap and thus became a frequent meal.

In terms of meat, the lower class ate it infrequently, maybe once a week, with the worst off even less often. Pork was 1 of the most common types of meat, when it could be afforded.

As a result, the poor made the most of it (using and eating every part of it). For example, a cook would boil a piece of beef or mutton with vegetables one day (probably Sunday, the only day many people had off from work), then return to the boiling pot the next day and skim the fat off from the top to be used for frying or pie crusts. Then he or she could set the liquid back to boiling, adding a stingy amount of oatmeal (one recipe recommends a tablespoon of oatmeal for every pint of liquid) to produce another nourishing meal from the broth. Recipes call it a pot liquor soup; we’d more likely call it gruel.

Gruel, made by boiling grains, like oats, rice, or barley, in water or milk, was a common food option for the poor as it required minimal ingredients and was easy to prepare. It often served as a breakfast or basic meal.

Porridge refers to a thicker and more substantial version of cooked grains, usually oats, in water or milk. It was typically cooked for a longer amount of time, resulting in a creamier and heartier consistency. It was also a popular breakfast choice due to it being nutritious and filling.

They tended to buy cuts and trimmings of meat no one else wanted, which were referred to as “block ornaments”. Examples included sheep’s organs, shanks, gristly bits, and heads. Most of these cuts were tough or didn’t have much meat on them, but they could produce a filling broth. Tripe (lining of stomach of animals like cattle, sheep, and pig), liver, meat on the bone (shin or cheek), and offal (aka organ meats like brains, hearts, sweetbreads, liver, kidneys, lungs, and intestines) were also cheap.

Chicken was rare, as the birds were kept for eggs, and usually not eaten unless the bird stopped laying eggs.

Later in the Victorian era, bacon became a popular choice at breakfast (alongside kippers aka a type of fish made from herring, eggs, and porridge).

Drippings was another common part of the lower class diet. Drippings refer to the fat that is collected as a result of cooking meat. When meat, such as beef, pork, or poultry, is roasted or grilled, the fat present in the meat melts and drips down into the pan or tray. This fat is then collected and saved, typically in a container or jar, for later use. They add flavor and richness to dishes and are commonly used for making gravies, sauces, or to enhance the flavor of roasted vegetables, as a few examples.

Since meat was a luxury, the lower class tended to go for cheaper proteins, like eggs and legumes.

Many East End homes kept hens in their backyards, with a couple hens able to produce up to a dozen eggs per home per week. Hard cheeses like cheddar was produced countrywide and so available all year round, meaning it was able to enter the diet of the lower class. It was a good protein, kept well, and even stale it could be eaten toasted with bread.

Regarding legumes (ex: beans, peas, peanuts, lentils, etc…), they were a cost-effective source of protein, fiber, and nutrients. Dried legumes were more affordable and available all year round. Beans (good from July to September) were a staple for many lower class, often cooked in stews, soups, or baked dishes. Peas (affordable from June to July) and lentils were also commonly consumed.

In terms of drinks, tea was very common. It became more affordable with the help of increased trade, improved transportation, and advancements in production methods. The poor drank tea that tended to be weaker, as they reused the tea leaves several times before disposing of them. Black tea was common, the most popular being those imported from countries like China and India.

Milk was widely consumed but not usually in large quantities, due to cost and adulteration fears (aka fear of contamination). Beer was also common (made with low alcohol content so you didn’t get drunk), even for women and older children, as water wasn’t safe to drink back them (easily contaminated, but the brewing process killed off the germs). Coffee was another option, but it tended to be more expensive than tea, beer, or milk.

Sugar became cheaper at least after 1874, but still tended to be relatively expensive, especially for those on lower incomes. Thus it remained more of a luxury item and consumed in mostly smaller quantities or for special occasions.

Butter, like sugar, would’ve also been considered a relatively expensive item, and thus not as widely consumed. Instead, they used cheaper options of fat, like lard and dripping.

Nuts were another slightly more expensive item. But there were some options if a poorer individual could afford them. Chestnuts were the most common (favorite street snack in chestnut season, running from September to January). There were also filberts and hazelnuts (available from October to May) and walnuts (seasonal). Imported almonds and brazil nuts were more expensive, but commonly consumed around Christmas as a “treat”.

Even if they could afford things like sugar, butter, or nuts, the lower class likely would’ve typically used their income on more basic necessities and things they needed for their job or life.

Individuals were paid on Saturday, and that plus the absence of refrigeration affected the weekly menu. It’s possible the lower class at least may have possessed basic cooking utensils, like a skillet, pot, or kettle. The ‘best’ and relatively most expensive meals were taken on Saturday evening and Sunday, though the poorest would often buy food at the end of Saturday trading, at the cheapest possible prices. Menu choices became cheaper through the week: purchases of food would diminish in quantity as the food budget shrank, and meat would often only be purchased once a week, though vegetables and fruit were usually purchased and consumed on a daily basis.

The very poor might purchase cheaper older fruits, vegetables, and meat on the verge of edibility, though this didn’t really diminish the nutrients in them much.

The lack of refrigeration facilities meant that meats eaten hot on any one day were almost inevitably consumed (cold) on the second day. Any more leftovers were, due to incipient spoilage, curried or hashed on the third day. Spices and the higher heat involved in frying the hash would disguise any taint to the meat and lessen the chances of food poisoning.

Men worked on average 9–10 hours per day for 5.5-6 days a week, giving a range from 50–60 hours of physical activity per week. Factoring in the walk to and from work increases the range of total hours of work-related physical activity up to 55–70 hours per week. They likely required around 5000 calories a day.

The daily wage for poor miners back then may have been around 3-4 shillings, with the weekly wage then around 18-24 shillings. In dollars, 3-4 shillings was likely around $1. In today’s money, 3-4 shillings a day may be around £4 to £5 or $5 to $6.

[lilsnifferman]

Summer heat gas chamber

Actually in my country there's a hot summer time. And speaking of hot summer times, I mean the temperatures outside 35 and more Celsius degree during the day. Using AC in households here is still not that common like in US for example, so most of us keep struggling with stuffy rooms. In the middle of the day, when the sun is burning, opening windows only makes thing worse, so we prefer to keep them closed and lowered blinds to block the sun. It helps a bit, but still the air in the room over time when you have to stay in there becomes stuffy and kinda thick.

Beside the high temperatures insides, it has some negative consequences. Especially when my stomach for some unexplained reason is feeling not well. Just like everything I eat was boiling and rotting inside on my tummy. It not only makes it hurting, but also produces some borderline sulphuric, literally sewage like farts. ☠️ 💨

A fact that they don't come out often doesn't help, because I don't feel relieved in a way that farting normally makes me. Moreover you could tell that it's better for me (and others people that live with me) that I don't fart this often in this stuffy place, because at least I won't turn it into pure gas chamber. But nope, you're wrong! When this concentrated, hot, gut burning, rotten fart finally decides to leave my body and fill my bedroom, the stench stays in there for like hours! 🤯

Also the fact I had meat filled dumplings with roasted onion and sweet steamed cabbage for lunch only made things worse 😭

Don't get me wrong, normally I love the smell of my farts, even when they're this bad and it makes me even proud that my body is able to produce such potent aroma. But probably not during summer heats! 🙄 Anybody send help! Anyone?! 🤢

[assortedseaglass]

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Eleven

Tom Bennett x OFC

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Language, era typical fatphobia (blink and you’ll miss it) World on Fire spoilers.

Word Count: 4.7K

Note: Hi my loves! I’m sorry for the angst in the last chapter! I’ve had a dip in confidence recently with writing, so thank you for the support that’s been shown towards me, it’s meant such a lot. Despite the distance between them, we’re gonna start exploring what’s going on with Tom and Bess. By the way...the letters are back 💌

April 1940

“Hello you!” Cora hugged her sister and stepped aside to allow her into the house. “Leave the door open, bloody boiling in the kitchen.” She bustled away.

“Good to see I’m not the only one in a uniform!” Albie brought Bess into a one-armed hug and kissed the top of her head. “Alright, duck?”

“Speaking of uniforms,” Fergal descended the stairs. “Could you let the waist out on my trousers? They’re a bit tight.”

“You need to stop eating so much,” Dot chimed in.

“Evening, Bess.” Roger smiled from where he sat at the table.

Bess looked around at her family. Albie was home for a brief spell of respite before heading to France. Cora and Roger were as in love as ever, and Bess fully expected Roger to kneel down every time she saw him. Dot finally seemed to have gripped the seriousness of the war and was stepping into her role around the home and at the factory, though her joy of life had miraculously remained. Dear old Dadda was working as a warden, helping the war effort at home, and lonely Bess had left the factory and begun training as a nurse at the Royal Infirmary. Tom was right, she was good at it.

Bess shook off her coat and jumped into helping Cora lay out the food. Roast chicken and potatoes, cabbage and gravy. Despite the rationing in place, Cora was determined to give Albie a good meal before he went back. His cheeks were gaunt, the orbits of his eyes were purple, and the shoulders of his jumper were sloping down his arm. No matter how bright his dark eyes were, the sisters could see the realities of war slowly embalming him.

A few children ran past the house. Easter had come and gone, and spring was settling into Manchester. The sun was warm, the wind was cold, and everyone was enjoying the blooms and weeds that peeked through the pavement. After a winter in war, spring was a welcome change. The family settled at the table, Fergal and Albie sat together, followed by Dot, Roger, Cora and Bess.

“Grab mam off the mantel, Dot.” Cora said to her sister. Dot leaned across, picked up the photograph of Etta and kissed it, before placing it next to Fergal and Albie. As soon as Etta was placed on the table, the men lunged for the food and the meal began.

“I’m starving,” Dot said through a mouthful of potato. As Albie laughed at her, Cora leant towards Bess.

“How’s training going?”

“Um,” Bess paused. She was trying, my God she was trying, to be better at talking. “It’s not so much training as learning on the job.” Cora chuckled. “I don’t think we really have the time to be trained. They need nurses and they need them now.” The sisters fell silent as they ate.

“It must be hard for you, Bess.” Roger said as he indicated for the salt.

“How do you mean?”

“I was at the infirmary visiting a friend last week. It’s overwhelming.”

Bess thought carefully of what she was to say next. The moment Albie and Fergal engaged in conversation, she spoke lowly to Cora and Roger. “Already, they’re coming back with such horrific injuries. And that’s just physically. I still think what a miracle it is that we all sit here, considering Dadda made it out alive.” She looked at her plate and pushed the food around. “I’m terrified, Cora. For Albie.”

Underneath the table, Cora squeezed her hand.

“And for you, Roger.” He smiled at her gently, and Bess’ affection for him grew. She wanted to ask him to marry Cora then and there on her behalf.

“Roger!” It was Albie, from the end of the table, trying to rope the other young man in to convince Fergal of something or other. He turned away, and Cora whispered in Bess’ ear.

“And Tom?”

Immediately, Bess regretted speaking. Her body tightened in her seat and she avoided her sister’s gaze. “What about him?”

“You must be worried-”

“Of course I am, I have a heart, Cora.” Bess snapped under her breath. Cora held up her knife and fork, indicating that she meant no offence.

“Have you heard from him?”

“Not for a while,” Bess was intentionally haughty.

Cora nodded. “And have you written to him?”

“Not for a while,” Cora made to speak but Bess stopped her. “Please Cora, I’ve come home to say goodbye to Albie, I don’t want to think about Tom bloody Bennett.”

After Bess and Tom’s argument in January, Cora found Bess in the bathroom, the bath water cold as she sat curled up, puffy eyed and shaking. Cora had always known, told Bess she had always known. She knew that Tom snuck in at night, she noticed their stolen glances. She even made Bess laugh when she told her that she saw them kissing in the window. When she missed Tom’s train, it was Cora that Bess ran to.

The truth was, Bess didn’t want to think about Tom because she spent every last second doing just that. Each day at work, when a young man with blue eyes looked at her as she administered treatment, she saw Tom’s gleaming at her from behind cigarette smoke. When she got the bus home from the hospital and saw teenage boys on the way home, she remembers Tom at that age, pulling Lois’ hair and sneaking Bess looks. At night, as she waits for sleep, she looks at the photograph of him propped against the lamp, and cries.

Cora didn’t mention him again. When Dot had cleared the plates, the tablecloth was pushed to one side for dominoes and cards. Fergal retrieved his bottle of whisky from the cabinet by the stairs and poured a glass for himself, Albie, Roger and Bess. Cora and Dot drank sherry, placing a cup by Etta’s photograph. Miraculously, Fergal kept to one glass. Dot partook in multiple sherries and, as was her way, began to cry.

“Play something for me, Bess.” Albie said softly from his chair. His eyes were gentle, and Bess felt the string that tethered their hearts together pull. Of course Dot and Cora would miss him, but sometimes Bess felt that there was a deep set sadness to her and Albie that they could never understand. Maybe that’s middle children for you. Bess just wished she could have some of his joy. She stood and lifted the lid of the piano. Imagining Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, she played Cheek to Cheek and Cora sang along. Albie swept Dot into her arms and spun her around, her tears of sadness turning to tears of mirth. Cora sang at Roger as they swayed together, and Fergal clutched the photo of Etta to his chest. Bess continued to play, fingers remembering their path over the keys. She didn’t have anyone to dance with.

The evening wore on. A few of Mrs Mason’s children poked theirs heads round the door at the sound of the family’s singing, and for a little while they joined in the dancing. Fergal requested a few ballads, Black is the Colour being his favourite, and everyone stilled as he sang solemnly to Bess’ playing. Come nine o’clock, Dot’s tears had returned and Cora was stifling her own. It was time for Bess to head back into the city.

Bess hugged her sisters goodbye, kissed her father’s head and did the same to Roger’s cheek.

“I’ll be back in a week or two, keep an eye on them for me,” she whispered to him.

“Will do, captain.” Roger smiled.

“And don’t leave it too long.”

“I don’t know what you mean-”

“I think you do, Rog.” Bess winked and put on her coat. Albie was waiting outside the front door with a cigarette in his mouth. “What time’s your train tomorrow?”

“Eleven-thirty.” He said.

“I’ll come down and meet you, it’s only round the corner.”

“Ta-ra,” he watched as she retreated to the end of the road, and out of sight.

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

Mrs Russo was coming down the stairs when Bess arrived at her tiny flat in Manchester. A large brick building that once housed mill workers, Carver Mills was now home to nurses, one to each cramped room.

“If you’ve got any washing, love, leave it outside your door and I’ll do it in the morning.” Mrs Russo said as she squeezed past Bess in the narrow corridor. “How’s your family, pet?”

“You know families.” Bess said with a sad smile.

“Aye, I do.” Mrs Russo was a portly woman of about fifty, plum faced and feisty. A nurse too, she had married young and lost her husband in the Great War. When her two girls were grown, she became the matron of this boarding house for trainees. She was turning into her room on the ground floor when she called back to Bess, now halfway up the first set of stairs. “Some post came for you today, by the way. Left it on the table-”

Bess didn’t hear the end of the sentence. She raced up the next two floors and grappled with her keys, bursting through the door and lighting the lamp.

“Shit,” she ran to the window and pulled across her blackouts.

The letter was propped against her vase of flowers. It was from him. That was his writing. She ripped open the letter.

Dear Bess,

Cheers for the last letter. I hope you all had a good Easter? Ours was dreadful, but when have I ever worried what the Lord thinks?

How is training? A few of our lads got a little hurt during a training exercise in dock. Let me tell you, they’d have much preferred you to the sister we had in France. Looked like someone was trying to overstuff a pillowcase. We’ve mostly been trundling around the coast on supply runs. I can’t tell you much, obviously, but things are hotting up here. It’ll be back to the battles for us. A few Lancasters flew over the ship the other day and I told my mates that you made the wings.

We had a little shore leave recently, though I can’t say where. There was a market selling some fabrics. If I had the money, and I knew I could send it, I would have bought you some. There was a dark green sort of thing, that soft fabric you like? I don’t know the name. And a pink linen. I know you think pink clashes with your hair, but it reminded me of your cheeks when you get flushed.

The weather is a lot better where we are than I imagine it is in Manchester, but I miss home. There’s nothing quite like a trip to Belle Vue or a walk round Alexandra Gardens at this time of year.

I don’t know when I’ll next be home, but I hope you’ll save an afternoon for me. You’re always on my mind.

Tom.

The flat was silent. Bess re-read the letter, then moved to the bedroom adjoining the kitchen. Sitting on the bed, she removed her shoes and hair pins. She opened the draw by her bed and placed Tom’s letters with the pile of others she had accumulated since the war began. Tom watched her as she did, from the photograph by the lamp. Bess eyes drifted from the letters to the photograph, and her body convulsed with sobs. This had become the evening routine for Bess. Come back from the hospital, eat with alone or with the other girls, wash, reread her letters from Tom, and cry. How long she sat in the blackout darkness of her room, she did not know, but no sooner had she looked at the photograph was she waking to her morning alarm.

The uniform she still wore was a little creased but relatively clean. Changing her underwear, Bess washed with a cloth and began her morning. A breakfast of bran and a cup of tea downed in ten minutes. She looked to the clock. Half past nine. She had time before she was to meet Albie at the station, and her shift was not until the afternoon. The letter in her bedside table seemed to be humming, like some sacred talisman alerting her to its presence. No matter how hard she tried, Bess could not stop thinking about it.

Since their argument, their letters had been infrequent and terse. Little detail, rarely more than a page. Tom had written first, though was yet to address any of the offences Bess had accused him of in January. Bess wasn’t blind. She could see his attempts at tenderness, but it just wasn’t good enough. In return, Bess was haughty and stubborn. If Tom Bennett could not bring himself to say sorry, then Bess would not tell him how much she craved him. Imagined the press of his body on hers or the warmth of his kisses. How she thought everyday of his face as she ran alongside the train. How, until the day she dropped, she would regret not saying goodbye to him. Every time she opened the newspaper or turned on the wireless, watched the newsreel at the picturehouse, she feared seeing Tom’s face among the soldiers lined along the ground. But she wouldn’t tell him, couldn’t. Instead, she picked up her pen and paper, and wrote the following.

Tom,

We had a good Easter, Albie is home. After I write this, I’m going to the station to see him off. He’s going back to France tomorrow.

He looks dreadful. Cora’s been trying to fatten him up while he’s been back, but nothing seems to stick. I’m terrified. A stiff wind could knock him over. Still, he puts on a brave face for us, and he and Dot together are a whirlwind.

Training is going well, though as I told Cora, it’s not really training but learning as we go. I don’t need to tell you what sort of horrible things we see, you already know. What I can say is that our matron is terribly strict and the other girls are lovely. Mrs Russo, who runs the boarding house I’m staying at, takes good care of us but you’d hate it. Curfew of ten o’clock and no gentlemen visitors.

I must say, it’s a relief not to be at the factory. Now, I have my own money that it doesn’t go into the family pot, and I don’t stink of grease. Besides, blood stains are easier to get out. The girls here too are much more mature. You have to be, with what we see and living away from home. None of that incessant gossiping and giggling to put up with.

Keep yourself safe,

Bess.

She put the letter in a stamped envelope and shoved it into her bag. A part of her hated the terseness. No matter how hard she was trying in real life to speak, the reverse had happened in letters. I need you, I miss you, come home became keep safe, good Easter andthinly veiled digs at Queenie Warren.

With nothing else to do or, more accurately, to warrant her interest, Bess made her way to Manchester London Road.

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

Albie was waiting by the entrance to the station when Bess arrived. He suited the uniform, and with Bess’ tailoring, was the best looking of the bunch. She watched him for a moment before she approached, memorising what he looked like when he thought no-one was looking. There’s a gentleness to people when they are alone. Once removed from self-consciousness, they enter their own world. One of little smiles, murmurings and inner lives being lived out. Bess loved watching them.

She whistled as she crossed the street, causing Albie to look up. “Alright, duck?” He kissed her and the cheek then wrapped her into a hug. “Got time for a cuppa?” He led her into the station and took her to one of the waiting rooms. Returning with a pot of tea, he shook off his jacket and placed his hat on the table. An elderly gentleman passed, shook his hand, and Bess watched as he muttered a “good luck” to her brother. She thought of Tom.

“You boys really do get the special treatment in these uniforms, don’t you?”

“Tell them that in France, Germans might stop shooting at us.” Albie grinned as he sipped his tea.

“Here I am making planes and patching you up, all I get is rationing and a smack on the arse from one of the doctors.”

Albie grimaced as he finished his cup of tea. “Are you managing alright with it all?”

Bess slammed her own cup back in its saucer. “What is going on? First Cora, now you-”

“You just haven’t been yourself lately. You seem,” Albie looked upwards, as though the word he was searching for might magically appear there. “Nervous.”

“Nervous?”

“You know, you were always so sure of yourself, feet firmly planted and head held high. Now, and please don’t take this the wrong way Bess, you seem like you did as a kid. Not looking at people, keeping yourself busy to avoid everyone-” he trailed off, letting Bess take the space. She thought for a moment.

“This war,” her words were careful, for fear of revealing too much. “It’s shown me what my failings are. And what really makes people ‘good’. I don’t know, everything I once thought was true isn’t. How do carry on when the whole world is as ugly as this one?”

Albie took his sister’s hand. “People are good, Bess.”

“I don’t know if I am,” her voice was barely above a whisper. She thought of Walter’s bullying, Tom’s lies and the way she was keeping him at a distance. If she couldn’t allow herself to let any light in, maybe she deserved it. This sadness.

“Hush.” Albie’s voice was firm and his eyes hard. Despite her sorrow, Bess smiled. Through the window of Albie’s eyes, their mother was looking down at her. He held out his hand. “Time to go.”

A few other families were waving off their loved ones, and as Albie loaded his kit bag onto the train, Bess looked around. Her eyes fell on a young soldier and the woman clinging onto his shoulders. Her head was buried in the crook of his neck, and when she looked up at him, Bess saw tear tracks making their way through her makeup. The solider stroked her face with the back of his hand and tenderly took hold of her chin, bringing her in for a kiss. Bess’ heart stung and she turned away. How many times had she written the last time she was here to look exactly like that? Tom gently caressing her face as he promised to come home.

Albie jumped from the train. “I’m off.” Bess gave him a glance over, adjusting his coat and straightening his hat. He smiled as she fussed. Satisfied with her work, Bess cupped his face and looked into the eyes that mirrored hers, bringing forth every ounce of encouragement and hope that she could muster. Albie’s eyes began to glaze with tears, and Bess wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she whispered. “Write, and come home soon.” He nodded into her shoulder.

“And you look after yourself, no more of this moping around.” She slapped his back and he laughed. The whistle blew and people began hurriedly boarding the train. Not again, don’t mess this up again.

“Albie, I love you. So much.”

Albie watched his sister a moment. There was no doubt of Bess’ capacity to love. It was in the clothes she made, the whispered affirmations, her willingness to defend. But he also knew how much it took for her to say it.

“I know, I love you too.” He kissed her on the cheek and boarded the train.

She didn’t wait at the station long. Once the train had left the platform, so too did Bess. It was very quickly becoming her least favourite place. She checked her watch. Quarter to twelve. Her shift began in half an hour. As Bess ran towards the bus stop, she passed by a postbox. Stopping, she retrieved the now slightly crumpled letter from her bag and, despite herself, kissed it good luck.

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

An hour until he needed to be back on the boat. He’d seen an alleyway on the way to the bar, perhaps they could sneak in there. The raucous laughter of other sailors and the clinking of glasses drowned out the barely audible band. Occasionally the choice words of an Englishman caught his ears amongst the French he didn’t understand. Focus, Tom Bennett. He’d had the odd occasion where his mind wasn’t in it, but it had never happened when he couldn’t engage elsewhere. Come on.

He ran a hand along the stranger’s leg, continuing to nuzzle at her neck. Fucking touch me. Tom took one of the hands that was lazily placed against his chest and brought it to his neck. She could sense that he was eager.

“Combien du temps allez vous rester?”

“I don’t know what you’re saying, love.” He moved to silence her with impatient kisses and she sighed.

“C’est toujours pareil,” Tom brushed his tongue along the woman’s mouth, and she let him deepen the kiss. He was good-looking, a little cocky but these English sailors often were. And who knows when she’d see a young man again? She moved her body closer to his and raked a hand through his blond hair. Tom groaned into her mouth.

“Bess,”

The woman pulled away. “Pardon?”

“Ssh,” Tom moved to kiss her again. “S’nothing,” The stranger placed a hand on his chest and prevented him from coming closer.

“Qui est Bess?”

“Sorry,” Tom’s hand moved from the woman’s waist to cup her face. “Camille-”

“Corinne!” She shoved him away and stood from the booth they had hidden in. “T’es vraiment qu’un pauvre connard.”

Tom watched as she stormed from the bar. He didn’t have the energy to be annoyed, simply leant back against the seat, rubbed a hand over his face and grabbed his cap.

“I’m off, see you on ship.” Norman unstuck himself from some other French nurse and watched Tom storm away.

“You alright mate?” Tom waved his cap in reply and left.

The night was cold and, in the far distance, the sound of war boomed. He jogged to the ship, lit up in the harbour. Back to the floating, metal prison. A few men had already returned, and from the Captain’s mess he could hear laughing. At least they’d had a good night. He arrived at the bunk he shared with Norman and hauled himself into the top bed. From the pocket of his trousers he withdrew the last letter Bess wrote; it had been burning a hole there all evening. He read over the letter for the hundredth time since it arrived with the auxiliaries that morning. Not one of his questions was answered, excluding about Easter, and Queenie Warren’s name was left hanging in the air like a bad smell. He knew what she was doing. He’d known Bess long enough to see. She was haughty and quiet and used it to work people into the palm of her hand. But Tom saw right through her. From the netted store above the bunk, he took out a sheaf of paper. Lying on his front, he leant against his copy of Knots and Ropework and from beneath his pillow retrieved Bess’ portrait.

Dear Bess,

I’m not going to lie and tell you that your Albie will be fine. We’ve both seen too much now to know I’d be lying, but I’m sure Cora’s cooking will see him right. Tell her I want one of those roast dinners when I’m back.

I would say thank you for your letter, but it was a load of shit and you know it. I could easily understand if you never wanted to talk to me again, but this? These horrible half-given accounts of your day with no substance? I want to know you, Bess. You’ll be reading this and scoffing, I can see you now with that frown on your face, so I’m going to try and explain why I did what I did.

I got a letter from Lois before she went off to ENSA catching me up on how you all were. Of course, she didn’t know that you and I were writing and sent me lots of details. Told me about your factory work and that you’d been spending time with dad. Told me more about you than anyone else – got a feeling she knew before we did. She also told me that Queenie had started going with Frank Smith, and was struggling with missing him and a lot of us being away. And I know you’ll be annoyed by this point, but I stick by what I said before. You girls are intimidating and Queenie Warren doesn’t deserve your cruelty just because she likes the company of men. Anyway, Lois asked if I would write to her because I get more rest time than the army lads and she’d always been fond of me. So I did. Nothing more. One letter to say hello and reassure her about Frank. Please believe me. She asked me about the battle at the dance and it really was just one letter. I didn’t know she’d say it was more than one. And she didn’t know about us either so she couldn’t have been bragging to hurt your feelings, just to maintain her reputation.

Speaking of reputations, I know that the real reason I hurt you was because I asked you to keep us quiet. The truth of it is that you were right, I am a coward. I’m a criminal, a down and out and a nuisance. But somehow, you saw something different in me, and I was still getting used to that version of myself, one that I actually liked. Not knowing who I am terrified me, but I loved seeing myself through your eyes. And I thought that maybe, if I kept it a secret, it couldn’t be touched. If it was something between just you and me, then it would stay special. Does that even make sense? I don’t know. And if anything happened to me out here, I thought it would be easier for you if no-one knew. I wouldn’t ruin your reputation and you wouldn’t have people pitying you for a being with a dead fella. I know you hate to be pitied.

Just know that I miss you, and I’m sorry, and I’ll understand if things will never be the same.

Your friend,

Tom.

A knock came at the door and the second officer put his head into the bunk. “Any post? Auxiliaries are off.”

“Just the one,” Tom said, placing the letter in the envelope and, despite himself, gave it a kiss good luck.

Note: Norman’s back! No idea if he died or survived in WoF, but I’m keeping he and Tom together. These next few chapters are going to be shorter, as I’m anticipating dumping one bigger chapter on you (probably chapter thirteen). Bear with me, we’re in the slow burn again but it’ll get juicy very soon. Those who have seen the series know what’s coming! I promise, the end will all be worth it, thanks for sticking around 😊 Work on the next chapter begins, we're getting to some heavy/exciting stuff soon!

Tags: @aemonds-wifey @multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234 @babyblue711 @anditsmywholeheart @allthefandomtherapy @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol @beiigegalx @skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools @aquakaris @its-actually-minicika @whoknows333 @arcielee @honeymaltgelato @girlwith-thepearlearring

[wiphur]

Culture

Fandom: ITSV

Pairing: Pavitr Prabhakar x Slavic! Spider-person! GN! reader

Pronouns: they/them

Warnings: google-translated language (translations are at the end)

Word Count: 888

A/N: re-Posted from my old account. This was originally a request from someone on my old acc.

A grin erupted on their face as the wind blew past their ears. Swinging through the city of Mumbattan was always their favorite thing to do, especially after not being here in a week. Their appearance was sure to stir up some talk amongst the locals, but at this point, they didn’t really care. They had more important places to be.

With a final web shooting from their wrist, they landed on a light fixture, directly in front of their boyfriend’s window. With a slightly upbeat rhythm on the glass, the window opened, revealing the beautiful smile of Pavitr. 

“You’re here early.” He said with a grin, welcoming them into his bedroom.

They pouted jokingly, “Am I not allowed to be early to see my favorite person?” 

“Of course not, mera pyaar.” He laughed. “Only teasing.” He stared at them for a moment before turning back to his desk. “Hold on, just one minute. I have to finish this essay. I was supposed to be done by now.”

They hummed, walking closer and propping their head up with their fist, “What’s it about?”

He groaned, “We were tasked to choose a country from the Middle-East and write about its customs and culture. I chose Poland.”

Their eyes lit up, “And you didn’t ask me for help, what the hell, dude!” They exclaimed, playfully hitting his shoulder.

Pavitr frowned, “What do you mean?”

“My family is from Poland, dingus.” His mouth formed an ‘o’ shape as he took in this information. “I can help you, if you want!” They thought for a second before grinning widely, “We can turn it into a game, and we can both learn each other’s culture while doing so!” 

Pavitr thought about it before nodding excitedly, “Yeah! That sounds so much fun.”

Within minutes, paper and pens were scattered on the floor and Pavitr and his partner sat across from one another. The game that had been settled on was, quite lamely, just 20 questions (In all honesty, neither of them could think of another game to incorporate facts about their culture).

The pair were both excited. “Can I go first?” Pavitr asked, holding up a piece of paper where he wrote down a bunch of questions for his partner. They nodded, smiling widely. “Alright. What are the national dishes of the Slavic culture?”

They shook their head slightly, indicating the question was half-right. “Well, Polish foods can include pierogi, which are kind-of like dumplings where dough is wrapped around a savory or sweet filling before being boiled, and zurek, which is a rye soup containing smoked meats, typically sausages.” I grinned, “But, for Slavic culture as a whole, there’s sarma, which is a cabbage roll stuffed with meats like veal or ground pork.” Their eyes lit up again, “Also, there’s zhurek! Zhurek is a kind of soup, I guess? It’s made of oats and dark bread. It sits for three days before its boiled with meat and vegetables. My Mama makes it when it's cold outside!” 

Pavitr nodded, practically clinging to each word they said. “So Slavic isn’t just Poland?”

“O Boże, no. There’s Slovenia, Belarus, Bulgaria, Ukraine, Serbia, Slovakia, Finland, and others!” They chuckled. “Each is considered Slavic, but they also have their own subculture within them.” They leaned forward, supporting their weight by their palms hitting the ground. “Now, my turn!” They paused, thinking of a good question. “Okay, I’m just going to steal your question.”

He pouted, “What, no! Make up your own.”

“Ugh, fine…” A moment later, they thought of it. “What kind of traditional outfits are there?”

His pout left, leaving behind a faint smile. “Oh, well, there’s a lot. There’s Sherwanis, or kurta pajamas, or even Achkan; as well as Sari, Angarkha, and Phiran.” They nodded along, planning to look up what they look like later in the evening. “Okay, do you have any traditional instruments?”

“Well, there’s the lira korbowa, which is more commonly known as the Hurdy-Gurdy nowadays.” They said, thinking about the topics their babcia taught them. While other places may not celebrate their heritage and culture very much, it was very important in their family. “My favorite is the kozioł biały! It’s like a bagpipe.” 

The night went on, questions were asked on both sides. Eventually, it passed the original 20 questions they had settled on. They were both interested in learning about the other’s culture. It was interesting and the eagerness they both had was endearing. Eventually, the sun was dropping below the horizon, and it was about time for Y/N to return to their own dimension.

“It was fun doing this, priya.” Pavitr said as the goodbyes started. “Your culture is so amazing, I didn’t expect this out of today.”

They nodded in agreement, “I think so too! I never expected your culture to be so beautiful.” They smiled dreamily. “I hope we can do this again. It was so… refreshing.” They leaned over and hugged their boyfriend for a moment. “I’ll see you soon, kochanie.”

“I’ll miss you-” He said, in a sing-song voice. They laughed, shoving him away playfully.

“It’ll be like a few days, stop that! If you wanted to come sooner, you could always just come visit me first.” They grinned before slipping their mask on and preparing to jump out the window. “Do widzenia!”

Translations, as provided by both the requester and by Google Translate!

Mera pyaar = my love

kozioł biały = white goat (instrument)

Priya = dear (aff.)

Kochanie = honey (aff.)

Do widzenia = goodbye/bye/any form of bye

[spikybanana]

@wolfstarmicrofic - prompt: dark/key - hello folks happy chinese new year. which means they're chinese today :) [cw: talk of food]

Harry pushes open his godfathers' front door to the sound of Remus shouting up the stairs.

"Sirius! Sirius? Oh, hello there Harry" Remus waves at Harry with a rolling pin in his flour-covered hand, and chuckles. "Didn't even hear you come in. I really thought we aren't old enough to be deaf yet."

"Alright Moony?" Harry finds his lips twitching up, accepting a flour-less pat on the back.

Remus gestures vaguely at he roof. "Want to see what your dogfather is up to up there?"

"I thought he'd gone out."

"Well no, there's his key on the wall right there."

"Ah, he must have forgotten it then. I bumped into him at the store." Harry says, dropping the bagfuls of fruits on the kitchen counter, "He was determined to get the right kind of vinegar for the dumplings."

Remus snorts. "He likes to pretend he can tell the difference. You know, I think Tesco's plastic bottle works just fine. Did he take the bike, then?"

"Ye. I saw it parked outside the shops."

"You never see him forgetting his bike keys." Remus shakes his head, and Harry laughs. "More likely he's not even locking it anymore. I keep saying, nobody here would bother stealing it. The moment anyone sees someone other than a crazy old man on that thing, they'd know something's off."

As they speak, the living room window slides open, and Sirius pokes in his head before he proceeds to climb through the window. "Now who are you calling a crazy old man?"

"Oh my dear lord." Remus mutters, though his voice is fond. He shoves the rolling pin at Harry, hurries to take the bags off Sirius and helps him through. "Don't remember the door bell?"

"What's that? Never heard of it." Sirius grins, blowing a strand of silver hair from where it fell out of what Remus has dubbed the drunk McGonagall bun.

"You're not a day past seventeen in your head."

"Have patience, we're a few years off from seventy yet— oh hello Harry, pass me the rolling pin?" Sirius says as he weaves fluidly through the room, "besides, Moony-dear— the man who refuses to retire has nothing to say about ageing gracefully."

"Oh, maybe next year." Remus waves a hand dismissively, and Sirius and Harry snorts at the same time because he's been saying the same thing for a decade.

Then, they get to task, descending upon the pile of half-rolled out dough and dumpling filling on the living room table. They've been doing this for two and a half decades, every Chinese New Year's Eve, ever since the end of the war. If you asked Remus or Sirius, they'd no longer agree about why this started. Sirius says that Remus missed hope, and Remus says Sirius wanted to replace what he hated about his family. But Harry remembers that first year, how they barged into Harry's miserable apartment and chased him out of bed, shoved a cabbage into his hands claiming they've dug out Remus' mother's recipe. It had been such a mess, none of them quite knew what to do and Hope's instructions said little more than "proved dough, no yeast; pork filling; boil". It took them all day. In the end, all the dumplings came out precariously shaped and half of them disintegrated in the pot. But as they packaged some of the less malformed dumplings to Ron and Hermione's families, Harry thought— that was the most any of them had laughed, since the war.

After that, it just kept happening, year after year. Harry would bring along his friends and then his kids, and they banter through the afternoon into the night, while making an amount of food that could give Molly Weasley a run for her money. Every year, they tell the story of how Hope once taught James' whole family how to fold dumplings, and they laugh about how Sirius would religiously stick to Hope's preferred brands of seasoning. Every year, they try to put up the state-run celebration programme, only until Sirius inevitably turns it off in anger. They've never made it to the New Year's countdown.

"Merlin's bloody balls. How do I always forget what narrow-minded bigots they all are." Sirius would say, throwing down the remote that may or may not be vaguely smoking.

"Not all of them," Remus would reply lightly, "Ma had loved the traditional operas, back in the day."

And now, after all of Harry's kids have grown out of the firecrackers, it's quiet again. But they're still here, the three of them.

"It's not yet dark out. The days are getting longer." Remus says, as he starts kneading the second batch of dough.

Sirius hums, leaning back and watching Remus' forearms appreciatively. "Weather's beautiful out there. 'S bloody cold, though, I miss when I could stave through a winter with the leather jacket. At least the night will be clear."

Remus snorts, shares a side glance with Harry. "See what I mean, Harry? Old man still thinks he's a teenager."

"We balance out perfectly. Not all of us have been old men since we were a teenager."

"To be fair, Remus, he's right. You've dressed like this for as long as I've known you."

"Oh no darling. Moony's been dressing like this for as long as I've known him."

Remus calmly flicks pieces of dough at Sirius, who's laughing roaringly. And Harry thinks only about how it means more than the world, that these two men, after their whole lives, could have this easy warmth and happiness with each other. He thinks, no, he wouldn't give this up for the world. He'd be right here year after year, helping them through the frankly ridiculous amount of dumplings they still insist on making and mailing out. And after he leaves for the night, Harry just knows that they'd be out in the garden, arm in arm under nothing but stars. Remus will pretend he can recognise anything beside Sirius' namesake, and Sirius will pretend he's looking at the stars at all, and the new moon is kind, as will be the year they begin at each other's side.

[fandommothlady]

What if future Michelangelo accidentally sends his soul back in time as he disintegrates? But he can't exist without a physical body so he latches onto Mikey? So now Mikey has an angry old man in his head that he really doesn't want to tell his brothers about because they're all still recovering from the Trauma Extravaganza of 2022 (Extended Edition)?

Like there's so much we can do with this. Mikey now has a teacher to help him with his mystic powers. Said teacher also doubles as an emotional support grandpa that refuses to allow his newly-adopted grandson/sweet-tiny-childhood-version-of-himself take any shit whatsoever. Dr. Delicate Touch, but fully grown and no longer hiding under the veneer of a "persona." Plus three overprotective older brothers, one equally-overprotective-but-refuses-to-admit-it older sister, and two trying-to-be-better-and-kind-of-succeeding-at-it dads, all of whom have no idea what the fuck is going on.

Mikey can float now. When did that happen? Didn't they specifically tell him not to use his mystic powers until they know more? Where is all this new stuff coming from? And so on and so forth, and when they confront him about it, they come off as overly controlling and aggressive (because they're worried), and future Michelangelo snaps back (because fuck you, mini-me could pound you into the dirt you overgrown cabbages), and Mikey eventually blows up himself (because he's stuck between these idiots), but that just worries his family even more, and- and-

And it's a mess.

And Michelangelo can talk to Mikey about things. About how he doesn't need to hide his anger for the fear of being hated for it. About how he shouldn't have to put on a mask to be taken seriously. Dr. Feelings and Dr. Rude, and Delicate Touch and Positive, and any other character he comes up with, those are all valid parts of himself that he should embrace with pride, not cling to in fear.

And it all sounds nice and flowery and all the good things, except future Michelangelo is a cranky old man who stopped giving a shit about three decades ago, so in practice it's more like:

"Tell him to go fuck himself."

"Ignore him! Tell him he can take his opinion and shove it up his sweaty asshole!"

"This is such bullshit - Mikey. Mikey, tell him it's bullshit. Tell him! No don't passive-aggressively boil his soda; you need to talk about these things- goddammit- Mikey!!!!"

AND. Angst. Like so much angst. Future Michelangelo is literally in Mikey's head now, which means all his memories are too. Dreams about the not-future could easily turn into nightmares - Mikey getting visions about the horrible things Michelangelo witnessed in his own timeline, and Michelangelo feeling so guilty about it. Here he is trying to help this kid and instead he's hurting him even more. It sucks.

When future Michelangelo looks at Mikey, he doesn't just see a younger, alternate version of himself - he sees what he used to be, what he couldn't have. He feels angry, and it's a selfish kind of anger. He wanted better for himself - wants better for himself. He wants his family and his home and a happy childhood and respect that wasn't earned through bloodshed. So he looks at Mikey and he feels protective - that kind of cagey, snappy, volatile protectiveness over one's self that comes from being hurt one too many times. Like a wounded animal in a cage.

When these younger versions of his brothers - children - question Mikey's abilities, his wellbeing, his resilience, his mindfulness... They're not just questioning Mikey. They're questioning Michelangelo. Michelangelo's abilities. Michelangelo's mindfulness and resilience. It feels like an insult - like they can't acknowledge just how fucking strong he is and how strong he's always been.

It wasn't just the war. It wasn't just the violence and the pain and all the horrible things he had to do to survive. Those things toughened him the hell up, sure - taught him a lot about himself, absolutely - but Michelangelo has always been strong. Michelangelo can be strong without being monstrous. And he's going to fucking prove it.

And that's why he's so immediately defensive of Mikey - there's a hefty amount of self-projection going on (which, to be fair, makes sense given that it's literally him), and helping his younger self is therapeutic to him. (But even with that, they do eventually form a bond that's more than just self-projection on Michelangelo's part and a need to prove himself on Mikey's.)

Also, something worth reiterating: Mikey is angry too. Like he has so much internalized anger that it's actually concerning and Michelangelo knows that - both because he's been there and because he can literally feel it given his current position. So it's not future Michelangelo encouraging Mikey to be pissed off; it's future Michelangelo encouraging Mikey to be openly pissed off. To express more of himself than just the parts that are palatable to other people.

And yeah. Something about old, been-through-it-and-learned-from-it Michelangelo teaching life lessons to child Mikey, and doing so in his gruff, cranky, old-man way, just feeds my soul.

[thejoyofseax]

An Early Irish Feast for Drachenwald's Spring Crown, AS LVIII

Spring Crown this year was hosted by Dun in Mara in the territory of Glen Rathlin. As with almost all SCA projects, this feast didn't quite hit all the things I intended. In particular, I'd been thinking of having documentation available alongside it, and of a few more dishes that didn't make it in the end. A fermented porridge was high on that list. Next time!

Before I start talking about food, though, let me thank my kitchen crew: THL Órlaith Caomhánach, Lady Gabrielle of Dun in Mara, Noble Mallymkun Rauði, Lady Erin Volya and Cassian of Allyshia. There were a few other folk in and out of the kitchen too (THL Yda Van Boulogne did excellent work on the various flavoured butters), but these five did the bulk of the work. Lady Erin also provided lunch; cooking at Crown for 80 people as her first event cookery is notable.

The main idea here was to lean heavily on seafood, which isn't often done in SCA feasts in my experience, and represents the food of Ireland well. I also wanted to include pork as a main meat, emphasise oats and barley, and use plain vegetables presented well. There were to be condiments on the table, hence Yda's butters: plain, honey, mackerel and garlic-and-chive, as well as green sauce (largely Órlaith's work, with Cass finishing it out). Condiments and the number of them available were an important aspect of Irish medieval hospitality.

I also wanted to nod to the usual progress of early Irish feasts, which started with formal services and frequently ended up so raucous and drunken that the nobility woke up the following morning on the hall floor along with everyone else. So we served to the tables to begin, and then had a less and less orderly buffet.

The first "course" was a set of pottages. The main one was pork, cabbage, onion, carrots, turnips, and barley, which had been slowly cooked down over a number of hours. There was also a version with lamb, for those who couldn't eat pork, and this doubled as the gluten-free version, having no barley. And there was a vegetarian one, including barley, but substituting mushrooms for the meat. These were served with flatbreads, risen yeast dough having been a tough proposition in the Irish climate (and still is, really; that's why the most Irish of breads is soda bread).

As that was consumed, we stocked the buffet with: sides of salmon (steamed then baked), mussels (boiled), monkfish and mackerel (also steamed and baked), chicken pieces (baked), hard-boiled eggs, turnips with butter, carrots with honey, samphire (new to many, most enthused about it), caramelised onions, creamed leeks, buttered cabbage with and without bacon bits, and a broth-based porridge, accompanied by a variety of flatbreads and oat pancakes. And as that all cleared, we put out fruit, some cheese, some oaten biscuits, and a "cheesecake", of sorts.

Everything was plausibly pre-Norman Irish, with the exception of the oaten biscuits and the cheesecake base, which were egregiously modern - although I could argue for something very like them. Simple cooking techniques mean that those are broadly plausible as well - steaming may seem incongruous, but I'll have more to say on that again.

It all seemed to go down well. A number of people said they weren't sure about fish, and then followed with "… but that was great!", and the green sauce, the samphire and the cheesecake were particular hits. The technique of doing a wide variety of simple things usually does well, I find; even the pickiest of eaters can usually have a few things, and the adventurous can pile their plates with a wide variety.

And I had energy enough left to wander around the party hall later offering plates of fruit, cheese and biscuits, which is one of my favourite things to do.

[iluvaobesegaki4694]

FINAL FANTASY 7 FOOD HEADCANONS

for reference I will be making head canons on my favourite characters, none of this is official, and if you don't like it. DONT READ IT.

Starting off with our traumatised boy,

Cloud

Even though I know that cloud does eat meat in game, I feel like at school, he often ate alone, and would be sad since the all the other kids shared their packed lunch and wouldn't try his. which just led to him often eating food alone. Which led to him as a trooper also eating by himself, due to false sense of comfort

(though Zack would always try his food)

-Favourite food <Sautéed cabbage>

next up...

Zack

Zack is defo, a foodie and loves tasting anything and everything, even he doesn't like the food that much, he will still eat it. Zack loves salty and spicy food, I feel like he isn't a fan of basic or bland sauce and have gotten screamed at by genesis for putting hot sauce in his spam sandwich.

-Favourite food <Skillet Chicken Thighs>

Angeal

Love Oriental food, specifically Taiwanese food, I don't think this guy can handle most spicy food, beyond mild but i feel like he would sit through it and pretend like he isn't dying.

-Favourite food <Golden kimchi>

The menace

The legend

SEPHIROTH

Can i just say??

HE LOVES SEAFOOD

Salmon, cod Lobster? he doesn't care, just tell him to go to red lobster and hes already in the car waiting. I dont geel as if he has much of a preference in terms of what to eat for sea food, though i feel as if he hates smoked/raw food since its, 'too fishy' (whatever that means?) but he is a die heart fan of anything fried/roasted, not a fan of boiled, but will still eat it.

-Favourite food <seafood boil>

[mariacallous]

What is haluski? The answer, like with many dishes, depends on who you’re asking. 

Different varieties pop up across Eastern Europe, including Slovakia, Romania, Poland and Ukraine, where it’s the national dish. The variations likely stem from the fact that haluski simply means “dumplings.” Just as there are many ways to make a kugel, there are many ways to make a dumpling dish. 

In general, the dumplings are made from a dough of flour and potatoes. Depending on the consistency of your dough, you might roll it out and cut it up before dropping it into boiling water, not unlike a gnocchi. With a wet dough, you’d simply drop small pieces of the batter one by one into boiling water. There’s even a haluski-specific strainer for the task.

The dumplings are commonly accompanied by cabbage, eggs, and/or cheese. The Slovakian version, for instance, called bryndzové halušky, uses fried cabbage and a sheep’s milk cheese (that’s the bryndzové), but no eggs.

When the dish made its ways to the States, likely in the early 20th century, the potato dumplings were ditched in favor of egg noodles. The reason isn’t entirely clear. What’s clearer, though, is that the dish — also known more plainly as cabbage and noodles — at some point found its way into the Hungarian Jewish community. 

Haluski follows the same logic of any classic dish that’s stood the test of time: It’s quick and easy, filling, has few ingredients, and can be served as a side dish or as the main course. 

I found it while exchanging emails with a cousin, Sandy Mott, in search of heritage recipes to better understand what my ancestors were eating.

“My grandmother was a phenomenal cook,” Sandy wrote. “She used to make a dish called haluski, which was basically sautéed cabbage and onions with wide egg noodles mixed in.”

This recipe comes from Sandy by way of her grandmother, Helen Greenfield, whom likely got it from her husband, Mr. Louis Darnell Sterns. Louis came to the United States from a 19th century shtetl of the Austro-Hungarian empire outside of modern-day Bardejov, Slovakia where Sandy and I trace our shared ancestry. Now that shared heritage lives on in this smoky dish of haluski.

[lestappenforever]

Ok, you are from Norway, do you have a favorite national dish? I don't know much about Norwegian food 🙈 but it's interesting! What kind of food do you like? 🥨🧀

Norway is a country that is absolutely packed with food from so many different countries, so traditional Norwegian dishes haven’t been a big part of my diet for years, with the exception of during Christmas. A lot of traditional Norwegian dishes also contain lamb and fish, neither of which I personally don't particularly like.

Norway is actually the country that eats the most Mexican food per citizen in the world, only beaten by Mexico!

But, there are two really traditional Norwegian dishes I've grown up eating and still love today:

1. Homemade Norwegian meatballs ("kjøttkaker" – not the tiny Swedish IKEA ones you might be thinking of when hearing that word, as the traditional Norwegian ones are much bigger), served with boiled potatoes, cabbage stew, and brown sauce.

2. Homemade lobscouse ("lapskaus"), which is a really thick stew made with meat, potatoes, carrots, turnip, parsley root, and leeks.

In terms of Christmas food, it tends to be more about tradition than your actual taste preference. I'm from the west coast, where stick meat ("pinnekjøtt") is the most common Christmas Eve dinner. And given how the stick meat is lamb, which the I don't really like, taste in and of itself isn’t the best to me. But it’s what we've always eaten on Christmas Eve, and it reminds me of home and Christmas, so it's still my favorite Christmas dish. (Even if I prefer the taste of the side dishes than the taste of the actual stick meat.) I don't eat it for the rest of the year, though, only during Christmas, and typically no more than twice.

The other huge Christmas meal here is roast pork belly ("juleribbe" or just "ribbe"), which is more common on the east coast. My mother-in-law is from the east coast, so my boyfriend and his family (though he was born and raised on the south coast, where his father is from) always eat this on Christmas Eve, which means I eat it every other year on Christmas Eve. It's delicious, and I much prefer the taste to stick meat, but I would still pick stick meat over the roast pork belly for Christmas Eve if I had to choose, simply because it feels like home to me. My boyfriend is also a magnificent cook, and the Christmas roast pork belly is one of his specialties, so we eat it several times in December, even if we're not spending Christmas with his family that year.

As for what kind of food I like more in general: I'm a sucker for Italian, Thai, Japanese, Chinese, and – in true Norwegian fashion — Mexican food.

[diamond-dangeresque]

Day 5 — Love

1336AE, New Kaineng City—Downtown Wajjun

"When are you heading home?" is the first serious question out of Zhou Yao's mouth once the ingredients have been fully delivered and the waiter leaves their table. They and Chihiro begin grabbing some ingredients to shovel into their boiling hotpot stock. The smells of bone broth and spices waft in the air, vegetables and mushrooms adding further to their fragrance when they're slipped into the boiling liquid. The sound of others' conversations blend into background noise. All that feels to be here is these two, one dressed in their nicest casualwear and the other casual but still half-armored with a blade sheathed at his hip. Even amidst the noise of the noonday lunch crowd, the question feels like it carries its own echo.

Chihiro looks quizzical at how to approach this question before deciding bluntness might be the best approach here: "Not sure I want to, really."

Yao looks up, stopping their getting-ready to dunk some rice noodles into the soup. "I don't understand."

"Hm? What's not to understand?"

"I mean..." They put their chopsticks down and lace their fingers together, resting their chin atop it. "Your merc company–"

"The Mistblade company," Chihiro answers, "what about it?" He takes a sip of water from his glass.

"Well...don't you have that 'selfmade business' to go back to?"

"It kind of runs itself at this point." The Revenant shrugs. The waiter returns with a long flat plate full of meat cuts, laying it at an empty part of the table and leaving again. "Dragon's Watch as a guild is as good as dissolved—our whole reason to exist got fulfilled, I guess—but people will always need a sellsword for something, and between Briar and Surt and Fossa they have the whole thing covered. I'm just a figurehead bringing in the occasional paycheck now." And, of course, all the Whisper agents who use 'being a sellsword' as a cover for their own jobs. "A faaar cry from back when I was its head and only employee."

"And your...niece, was it? You'd leave her behind?"

Matsu. Fuck. That topic was far more sensitive. But it had to be dealt with if Chihiro wanted whatever exactly was between him and Yao to work out. Holding secrets ends badly with folks like them. "Matsu's been...honestly, she's been fine without me for a few years now."

"That's a pretty cold way to talk about family..." Yao grabs a slice of pork and begins to dip it into the broth, swirling it amongst the mushrooms and vegetables before fishing it all out into a small bowl and beginning to eat.

Chihiro sighs. "It's not like I hate her and I'm doing this on purpose; it's just..." Chihiro does the same, continuing his chain of thought: "You separate for a few years due to duty and your only family left being put under protection and then you just get used to only occasional family meetings."

"Protection???" Yao repeats, mouth half-full of cabbage/radish/pork. They swallow, forcing all that down with a tall drink from their own glass of water.

"Yeeeeeah. I made some very scary enemies back in the day. They liked trying to fuck with my family since they knew fucking with me was useless." A pause. He shoves the cooked pork down his gullet alongside some sliced shiitake, lotus root, and sweet potato wrapped in a leafy chard piece. "I...I already lost a grandmother and two nephews to this crazy bitch years and years ago. She would have killed Matsu too if Matsu didn't decide to wander off and look for me. And when I learned said crazy bitch wanted to finish what she started with me personally..."

The color drains from Yao's face. "Oh gods. I'm so sorry." And here they were comfortable believing this sort of thing was reserved for either the worst of the gang wars in the Echovald or a really bad day from the Purists. They knew some bad stuff went down in Tyria a number of years ago, but...

"It's...it's alright. It's all history at this point, and the context is good for you to know."

"Is." Yao slips some potato slices into the broth alongside some cauliflower. The conversation got awkward-feeling fast, but backing out would only make this all the weirder. "Is she okay?"

Chihiro's response is an involuntary chuckle, and then adding to that, "She's been trying to get permission from her mentor to head to Cantha for months now. The second she learned I ended up here she decided she was gonna try and beat my head in for—her words, not mine—'heading somewhere amazing and ditching her like old socks'. I think she's fine."

"Not that," Yao sighs half-amused, "though that is good to hear. I mean...is she okay? Because if I remember my math right, she was pretty young when all that went down. Even coming from me, that's a lot for a kid to go through."

Oh. The memories come back to him again, clearer this time, fresher. Old wounds began to stir and sting again. "Honestly...I think she was more okay than I was. She was pretty motivated; I...I just slumped for a while. Kinda only kept moving 'cause of her and 'cause of work."

"I don't know. You're pretty motivated when you want to be. Which is often, from my own observations."

"Times were much worse back then, and I hide things very well." Ah, there was that mask again, slipping back on in the face of sorrow.

"Maybe around others. But you're terrible at hiding from me~." Yao smiles a bit more. Chihiro reciprocates. But the smile fades as the engineer's expression sobers a bit. "Sorry if all this opened up some bad memories. Wasn't my intention. It just all seemed...I don't know how to word this. Odd?"

"Like I said, it's all history at this point," he responds, opting to grab some more meat and soak it into the broth alongside some sweet potato chunks. "And you help a lot with me coming to terms with all this. You've been a big help, actually."

"Don't be ridiculous," Yao says, waving off the Revenant's compliment and trying their best to mask a small blush. "I make good conversation, that's all."

"No, really! You..." Without the blindfold, Chihiro looks straight on at Yao, with Yao returning the eye contact. "You're wonderful to be around. Most people I've been with, they're pretty content to be with the front I put up: the charming, handsome warrior of Divinity's Reach; the enigmatic Pact Commander, leader of whole armies with the world on his shoulders; the roguish godslayer, the willing apostate. But you, Yao?" He breaks that eye contact for a bit, is looking away with those big blue eyes that everyone else says are so scary and pointed when the blindfold is off, but right now to Yao they're eyes seeking answers to a question Yao thinks Chihiro has been asking himself for a very long time. And those eyes look back, lock back on, to them. "You're the first person who's been okay with me. Just me. No titles. Flaws and all."

"The things you think are flaws," Yao responds, tone softened and kept to a half-whisper, "are what in fact makes you so charming. Not that you don't have things to work on, but you also like to beat yourself up for things you really shouldn't."

"Please." The Revenant finishes off his half of the meat platter, moving on to dunking some noodles into the broth. "You don't have to flatter me."

"I'm serious! There's this scrappy charm to you. Your sense of justice, your willingness to see things done right when it matters, and even your brash personality, it all comes off as endearing."

"Not when you first met me," the Revenant chuckles as he scoops his noodles into a bowl with his chopsticks.

"Because I didn't know you then the way I know you now, obviously," is Yao's retort, "but now I have context. You're not just some loudmouth foreigner who brags about being a hero and uses your name as a bludgeon to get your way like others say you are and do." Yao takes their own noodles, thinner and clear unlike their partner's choice of thicker buckwheat, and soaks it in the diminishing broth. Their voice softens. "You're a sweet man. Gentle in spite of your strength. You care deeply about others, more than you let on. You worry about the consequences of your own actions more than your own actions itself at times. And you're actually pretty smart, in your own way."

Chihiro has to hold back a larger chuckle while eating his noodles. When he does finish, he responds, "Uh huh. Yao, I can hardly work a jadetech toaster, let alone half the things in this city. My jade bot still tries to slap me. By all accounts, I must be a moron in your eyes."

"Yet you can run circles around this country's best fighters and their strategists. And your dungeoneering is second to none, else the Royal Archivist Soviety wouldn't have gotten half as far into Northern Kaineng as they did. Intelligence isn't just about knowing how to troubleshoot tech or being able to understand how guns work. Even if Rama teases you on that."

What was left of the mask Chihiro made for himself to wear for Yao has long since slipped off. He doesn't know what to say to this. He doesn't know if Yao is just trying to soothe his well-bruised ego or if they're genuine about their words. But on thinking of their time together, on thinking of his feelings towards the Engineer and all they've said to each other and done together, a sensation in his mind and heart smother the doubt. Compared to most others, Yao seemed genuine, truly in belief, of their words to Chihiro.

Only Belinda ever felt this genuine. And even she, gods rest her weary soul, still bought some of that façade.

Maybe these past few months together weren't just a fling of convenience or fun.

The waiter passes by and Chihiro flags him down while maintaining eye contact with Yao. He finishes his thoughts as best as he can, keeping his voice steady, "Like I said before: Dragon's Watch is done since all the dragons save for Aurene are dead, the Pact has nothing to do now with all the international threats done and over with, and my company thrives and lives without me at its wheel. With nothing to do, usually, I wander." His gaze almost wanders away, just a moment, to the open sky above them. "I get restless. I leave everyone I know because I don't know how to stay still. So committing to things, committing to people, I find it hard. Really hard. I don't..." He pauses, gathering his thoughts as he also hands the waiter a coinbag for the lunch payment. "I never felt at home in Kryta with the Seraph or as a mercenary. I never felt at home in Ascalon, temping with the Adamantine or bashing Separatist heads in. I almost felt at home with the pirates—" —but Mai Trin burned all that to the ground years and years ago. "—but that wasn't really enough either. Home for me is where I feel I can finally stop. Where I can rest. I've been looking for years. And, well, now I feel at home with you."

The words seemed a lot more flowery for Chihiro than he normally uses, or so Yao tells themself. But once the words finally process in their mind, their eyes widen. If this is what they think it is... "I... Chihiro, don't be ridiculous, what are you sa—"

Oh for fucks sakes. "Yao, I love you."

There's a silence that grows heavy between the two, masked only barely by the clammer of the other restaurant patrons chattering away about whatever. Yao remains stunned, mouth drying by the second. Chihiro can hear his heart practically trying to drill itself out of his ribcage. It was now or never, the Revenant told himself. If he could hear the echoes and spirits over the sounds of the crowd plus his own heartbeat, they'd probably be rolling over with laughter. He never felt so un-suave and dopey in his life until now, trying to wax poetic and just barreling through a thesaurus instead. Was it the lack of alcohol? Was it because this wasn't an act, there isn't a guardrail he can hold onto, no comfortable excuse to press a button and self-eject out of a scene with? Is it because the thing he feels for this Engineer goes deeper than any of his previous flings?

(Or was it because the last two people he was truly serious with died? The Revenant dreads the day in which lover's plot #3 calls for Zhou Yao...)

"Wow. Oh wow. This is..."

"Yeeeah, I figured this wasn't going to work," Chihiro half-mumbles as he scoots his own seat back to get up, trying with desperation to grab the last pieces of his broken coolguy mask, "sorry for wasting your time, I'll grab my things and—"

"Stop right there," Yao tells him, themself standing up before their (friend? friend-with-benefits? lover?? beloved??? uhhhhh) can dash into the night like he's said he's done before. "I'm trying to process all these thoughts, you are not running from this until I do." Chihiro feels his feet freeze in place. They walk over to the Revenant with the warmest smile he's seen yet from them. "Gods, you absolute dummy."

Chihiro's ears tingle. He looks back, then Yao does, at the restaurant. It seems their talk has drawn some attention to them, what with people staring and whispering to each other about that noisy couple and making a scene out of their spat.

"Hm." The Engineer hums, threading their arm around Chihiro's. "Maybe we can continue this talk at my apartment. Privately."

"Uhh." Yao leads Chihiro to walking from the restaurant.

"For the record: I love you, too. You just gotta find a way to not draw so much attention when you do these things~."

[yourgamemasterthewhiterabbit]

Any further tips/advice for freezing veggies? Or any kinds of dish that are good for frozen veg that loose their usual texture (like celery, potatoes etc)?

Basically, cut and clean them to the size you will want in the final dish, since they'll be a bitch to try to cut once freezing makes them soft. For anything juicy, spread it out to freeze first so it doesn't all stick together in one chunk, or portion it into the servings you want to take it out in.

[When I get a camera cord, remind me to photograph my freezer stash, I have mixed potatoes, cabbage, celery and some other things in there now waiting on doing a duck roast,]

And honestly I haven't noticed much loss of texture after cooking. Unless you are used to very lightly steamed celery, the difference in texture there, as example, isn't notable. I don't use celery in stir fry, for example, because I don't eat stir-fry, but I use it in sauces and soups or in tiny bits in stuffing for poultry, so there's no difference there.

If it's the kind of thing that browns you can try tossing it in vinegar or lemon juice but honestly I don't care much about the look of my potatoes or whatever oxidizing slightly.

Pasta sauce and soups, or sauce put put on rice, curry etc.. is a good use for bits of frozen veg.

Really any dish where they normally get cooked a lot in with other things or fluids of any kind. Even tossed into meat pies I haven't notice a difference. It seems scary when they're raw because they seem weirdly soft like if they went bad, but it's because the water in their cells has burst out, much like it would with cooking anyway.

You can puree onion and garlic or herbs instead of having to cut it and make ice-cubes with it, and toss them in a bag, or even pre-caramelize all the onions and then make ice cubes of them to take out one at a time.

And potatoes, potatoes you don't freeze after cooking into a dish, you freeze them pre cut into either chunks for boiling, fries, wedges or shreds, freeze them, and when they come out you put them in whatever you would normally, like boiling them to make mashed potatoes, or mixing them into hash or latkes... It's like how you can get bags of frozen french fries and they bake or deep fry like fresh. I would not pre-make mashed potatoes necessarily because the other ingredients might separate oddly, unless I was making perogis to freeze for later or something. But freezing can even help get out extra water so they're easy to drain and dry or squeeze out for frying or adding to batter.

The goal isn't to necessarily find something to batch cook, it's to just get them cut up in a usable state and in the freezer with as little work as possible before they spoil. Deal with actual meal planning later as a whole separate process.

Pre-shredding carrots can mean having shred carrot to add to things easily, like cakes, tomato sauces, meat or vegetable pies, soups potato hash, ect, but it might help to freeze it spread out on a tray so it all doesn't stick together in a lump, or ice cube tray it, and then bag it, or -alternately- dehydrate carrots in a dehydrator in thin slices for soups. Dehydrated carrot is shelf stable a long time but if you freeze it dehydrated they last indefinitely, which can help make use of those huge bags of big cheap carrots that go on.

I'm not big on eating vegetables raw or half raw due to digestive sensitivities, and boiling or baking them makes them way softer than freezing does anyway. It isn't going to give you something lightly roasted or steamed, but it's better than throwing them out.

If you want to get clever about it keep track of how you cut up various veg for various meals and settle on 1-2 sized you are okay with them being in a variety of things and go with that.

The main thing is to predict to some degree what you'll want to make, but the benefit is being able to just reach into the freezer and grab pre cut veg. I like to grab out a pinch of frozen onion slices one meal at a time, rather than having an onion to work through in the fridge.

And if you are really into soups, you can actually puree tomatoes, cucumber and even lettuce that's about to go off, just clean it up and blend it, and then add it to soup stocks and stews and sauces, where it won't add much to the texture, but it'll add in those nutrients you would have missed from throwing them out instead. Most veggies that turn to utter mush when frozen can be blended and used for soups and sauces so long as you are at peace with them not adding any texture, and looking like goop or a block of coloured ice coming out of the bag.

Just make sure you clean and cut them like you would for meal prep first. You will NOT be able to clean and cut them properly -after- freezing, so you can't just shove them in there thinking you'll deal with any of the prep later, you have to do it first.

Personally, I batch prepare veggies this way into freezer bags before winter and stock up my box freezers with them, that way I have veggies all winter that are nearly fresh. I can just reach in and grab pre-cut peppers, onions and mushrooms to toss into a meal.

It's kind of easier to batch process like 10+ bell peppers at once and not worry about any other meal prep and then just have them for later, as example, and you can buy the bulk packages of stuff that's on sale because it's about to go off. It ends up saving money, sure but also means you are eating a more well rounded diet because you end up with this selection of veggies to just grab and toss in to anything on a whim... That aren't going bad.

You can buy enough corn on the cob to feed a big family, when it's cheap or on sale, and then just defrost one or two at a time for yourself.

Frozen ginger gets soft enough that you can squeeze out all the juice with a garlic press and leave behind the stringy bits, so if you cut it into 1/2-1inch chunks it can be good for that, and then you can take the crushed bit and brew it in a cup of tea, or soup stock... just rinse the ginger off before freezing it.

I also buy huge cuts of meat when they are on cheap, portion them myself and freeze them for later, so basically any meal just becomes taking out your pre-portioned ingredients and doing the actual cooking part with about 0 food waste. I also take the bones and fat off of meat I am cooking and freeze that separately for soup later, or frying or baking etc. Bones are a mash of bits by the time I am throwing out the remains.

Have leftovers you don't want to eat immediately in the following day? Frozen for later! next time you are hungry and don't want to cook you just toss that boy in a baking dish, bam! No food waste.

And when a whole bunch of something is about to go off, you don't have to stand there trying to figure out what you want to cook in the next 3 days that's going to use up 20 potatoes, you just cut them up and put the pause button on them.

If you don't have a box freezer, they are typically sold for 100$ second hand on facebook or kijiji and are a good one time investment when a tax cheque comes in.

Just make sure you are actually using the frozen food. You can't be thinking of it as less good than fresh or harder to make use of, because if you avoid using it and just keep buying more, you are going to run out of space and end up with freezers full of food you aren't eating. Get comfortable reaching for portions of frozen vegetables to add into things, and shop your freezers when you are getting ready to cook meals. [Pinch of bell peppers? Don't mind if I do! It's like a spice rack of vegetable add-ins now! Peruse.]

The last tip I have is to not buy a bunch of stuff to do this with all at once thinking you will have the spoons to do a week of meal prep with it all. Space it out. Buy the big bag of onions one trip, and get most of them frozen before you worry about grabbing a big bag of apples or potatoes, buy cabbage and celery the next trip and cut up most of those to freeze when you get home, or in the following days. Whatever is about to go bad, if it comes to that, just clean it up cut it and freeze it. or prep the whole things when you get to the meal you bought some of it for, depending on what it is, and freeze what you don't use.

Before long you'll have a stash of basically everything you use on hand. Then you can get pickier about waiting to buy things until they are on sale when you can. Like I buy butter on sale only and keep it frozen, but I also buy raw cranberries once a year at Christmas for 2$ or less a bag and just rinse and freeze the whole bags [they have holes int he bags for air flow]. I buy pumpkins for sale -after- halloween and cut them into quarters, bake the quarters so they are squishy, fold them flat into freezer bags, and then have a quarter pumpkin to use in pies or whatever I want. You get pumpkins for like a dollar, so you get each bag of frozen pumpkin for 25 cents [I have known people who do this -after- carving them for Halloween, if they aren't outside, just rinse bake and freeze them for food]. They have a sale rack sometimes of food that's about to go off that's all been bagged up together and discounted, and that is your friend if you are taking home one thing at a time and actually using it.

Frozen apple wedges, btw, do fine in an apple pie. And apple dehydrates nicely at home too. Same logic applies as carrots, if you dehydrate and then also freeze them, they don't stick together and you can have them indefinitely, and they take up a lot less space. But really I just freeze apple slices and then make pie filling with them [or add them to stuffing].

I will eventually formalize and share actual recipes, but so much of the cooking I do is measuring with my feelings that I need the spoons to go through making each dish and documenting what has it come out the best. There's some batch cooking things I do like pre-roasting chickpea flour to coat dumplings and rolls in so they don't stick together in the freezer. I make about 50+ spring rolls at once from frozen bean sprouts and etc, and then freeze those to eat 2-3 at a time.

I just can't stand having food go bad in the fridge if I don't have the energy to cook, and I hate the idea of simply not eating vegetables because of it. I'm trying to save money and also eat well and my response to problems tends to be a little "smash it all with one simple elegant solution". If you have any specific questions please let me know <3

[lisutarid-a]

[Gakuen K] Totsuka Tatara Route Translation

Hotpot boss

LIST OF CHAPTERS

[Translation under the cut]

Kusanagi: Yaaah, only a few hours left in this year, huh? Yata-chan, last spurt of cleaning. I'm counting on you.

Yata: Yup! Kamamoto, how are you doing?

Kamamoto: Everything is going well! Oh, Totsuka-san and the others are walking towards us from the other side of the street.

Yata: Ah, what's he carrying? Oi, no way!

Saya: Hello, everyone.

Totsuka: Yaaah, looks like you're busy cleaning up.

Kusanagi: The two of you are shopping together, huh? I'm glad you guys get along so well.

Totsuka: Right? I've got "that stuff". The rehersal was also perfect, so stay tuned.

Kusanagi: As for me, I'd like to ask you to go easy on me…. Well, sit wherever you don't get in the way of the cleaning.

Saya: What do you mean by "that stuff"?

Totsuka: It's a hot-pot set. Didn't we buy the ingredients earlier?

Saya: …But Kusanagi-san looked displeased about it.

Totsuka: Is that so? It looked like a big smile to me.

Totsuka: He told to sit, but there's still time before night. Maybe I'll also help with cleaning.

Saya: Me too then. I'll go sweep the entrance.

Saya: Ah, Yata-kun and Kamamoto-kun.

Kamamoto: Yata-san, tonight we're gonna have hotpot, hotpot! I'm looking forward to it.

Yata: Is that so? I'm not really.

Kamamoto: Eh, you don't like hotpot?

Yata: That's not the case, I eat it just fine. …But, it's New year's Eve hotpot, right?

Kamamoto: It is?

Yata: That's why it's complicated. Aaah-uuh…

Saya: (Complicated. What does it mean…?)

Totsuka: Attention! The 52nd National High School HotPot Championship is going to be held now!

Saya: Hotpot Championship…?

Kusanagi: It's finally started…

Totsuka: New year's Eve Hotpot…This is the perfect meal to end the year. The heart, culture and art of Japan…

Totsuka: This pot is filled with all kinds of blessings. It is no exaggeration to call it a microcosm!

Kusanagi: That's a huge exaggeration. If you're going to praise it that much, the pot would feel uncomfortable too.

Mikoto: Let's eat.

Totsuka: We can't, King. It's not boiled yet.

Totsuka: I'll manage this microcosm myself even though I'm not very good at it. I'll bring you the best taste, so just follow my instructions properly.

Yata: Here it comes, The Hotpot Boss….!

Saya: Hotpot boss…you mean, Totsuka-senpai?

Kamamoto: That's right. Totsuka-san has a terrible obsession with pots.

Kusanagi: I'm not going anywhere near it…Oh, Mikoto was about to attack.

Totsuka: King, it's not ready yet.

Mikoto: I'm hungry.

Totsuka: If you're starving, eat a salad.

Mikoto: …I think it's ready to eat now.

Totsuka: One minute left. I'm not giving up on this one.

Mikoto: …

Saya: (He talked down Suoh-senpai…!)

Yata: The Invincible Hotpot Boss…

Kusanagi: I think it's about time, Totsuka.

Totsuka: I guess so. Everyone, give me the plates.

Mikoto: What a pain.

Totsuka: King! I'll get it for you, wait!

Mikoto: If I leave it to you, idiot, it'll be full of vegetables.

Totsuka: If I let King do what he wants, he just gonna take only the meat.

Totsuka: Meat is a public property. Since it's required by antitrust law, I have to divide it fairly.

Totsuka: So just wait quietly, King.

Mikoto: …Tsk. I can't helped it.

Saya: (So the reason why everyone seemed to hate it, was because of this…)

Totsuka: Okay, this is for Yata.

Yata: What the hell if this! There is only chinese cabbage here!

Totsuka: It's not true. There is also a little peace of meat too.

Yata: Oh, for real! It's so small! Smaller than an eraser!

Totsuka: First, warm up your stomach with vegetables. The main course will be afterwards.

Totsuka: Fufu. Enjoy your last dinner of the year, everyone!

[Prev chapter][Next chapter]

[purefandomonium]

Connection Part 15-To Dream

“Hey, I forgot, but a while ago you asked me what dreaming was like.” She stopped working on her book report to glance at the GameBoy sitting beside her on the desk. After more pestering from her mother, she’d finally gotten around to cleaning up her room. She had to admit it was nice to be able to find stuff again.

RED: I did.

“Did you still want to know?” If he wanted her to talk about the history of cabbage, she would. Anything that got her out of writing a report on ‘The Great Gatsby’ was welcome.

RED: …Yeah.

Leann hummed. “I guess a good way to start is for you to tell me what you know and then we can go from there.”

Red had to do some thinking to piece together what little knowledge he had on the subject. Aside from knowing they occurred when people fell asleep, he didn’t have much info. 

He relayed as such.

“Well, ok,” Leann started, tapping a finger on the desk. “So, dreams can be a lot of things. They can be good, bad, scary… For the most part, people don’t usually remember though. Unless they’re really vivid, of course...” Dreaming was a difficult concept to grasp for those who experienced it—how was she supposed to explain it to someone who didn’t?

The rest of her fingers joined in the absent-minded tapping.

RED: People tend to fall asleep only when they’re tired, yeah?

“Yeah, it’s how we recharge. And dreams are just like… Well, they just sort of happen. They’re so wildly different and modern science doesn’t even have it figured out. Let me try this: Say someone is really stressed about their job. They might have a dream about something frustrating at work. It might make zero sense, but it still involves your coworkers and stuff. Or maybe they’re excited for something. Then all they can dream about is the thing? I’m… not qualified to describe this.” She glanced at the window as her tapping became something akin to a rhythm.

RED: You’re good. I think I get it.

“Do you?” So far all she’d done was confuse herself. And she wasn’t even the one who asked!

RED: It makes sense. So dreams are basically extensions of people’s emotions and memories?

How interesting. Red was fascinated at that, though he couldn’t quite pin down why.

Leann blinked. That was… easy. “Yeah, that’s kind of it. They aren’t always that cut and dry though. Sometimes they’re really just random nonsense with no meaning. But that’s the gist of it anyway.” So much for having a distraction from her report.

RED: Do you have bad dreams about the bullying?

Red heard the sudden silence like a gunshot, if that was even possible. He didn’t like to stick his neck out like this, but he wanted to know. Leann always downplayed it like it was nothing, but he just knew it bothered her more than she let on. He simply had to hear it from her.

“Like I said,” she began, moving to pick up the book and reread the chapter she was referencing, “sometimes they really are just random nonsense.”

RED: Having nightmares about your tormentors isn’t “random nonsense” and you know it.

RED: I can tell when you’re lying.

“Red, it’s not a big deal even if I was. Which I’m not.”

RED: You always say that about the bullying. That it’s not a big deal.

RED: Do you really think so little of yourself?

Why continue to let them get away with it? If she was unable to do something, why not have someone else settle it? Leann wasn’t like him. She wasn’t just some meaningless puppet that wasn’t supposed to think. She had every bit of freedom he could ever hope for and acted like she was nothing special.

Leann stared at the device, emotions boiling. Once again, he was reading her better than she could read the literal open book before her. She considered him a friend, someone she could trust, and yet…

“Do you ever have dreams, Red? You ever relive the glitches? Do you wanna talk about it?” The words were out before she could stop them.

He knew by the faint warble in her voice that she was upset. He could practically see the way it faltered, wanting to backpedal but unable to overcome the force of the distress that had propelled it forward. The way her breathing shuddered told him she regretted it immensely.

How he wished she could hear his voice if only to know how sympathetic he was.

RED: It’s going to take more than that to upset me.

RED: I’m sorry, Leann. I shouldn’t have pried.

Text boxes did a poor job of conveying true meaning. The answer was obvious anyway.

RED: Do you… ever have dreams about getting back at them?

Leann considered that. As much as she said she’d like to, she’d never actually dreamed about revenge. Maybe it was because she never really thought about what she could do to even things out. There just didn’t seem to be anything worth doing. She had other stuff to worry about and wasting time on a bunch of idiots didn’t feel worthwhile.

She sighed. “I don’t. Not that I can remember.” She gave a small hum at the ‘ok’ that appeared. “I’m sorry for what I said. That was just cold.”

RED: I know you didn’t mean it.

“That doesn’t make it okay. I’m sorry.”

RED: ………

RED: I’ve never had dreams before. I mean, I’ve imagined what the real world is like, but I’ve never dreamed it.

RED: Even when the game’s been off for a while, I don’t dream. It’s like I just don’t… exist.

RED: I don’t think I’d dream of anything interesting even if I could. I’ve never really seen anything other than this stupid game.

“Do you want to go outside?”

RED: …What?

“Outside. I can take the GameBoy in the backyard. Or I can carry you to a nearby park. It’s getting late so there shouldn’t be too many people left there. I know you can’t really… do anything other than hear the sounds, but it might be nice.” The room felt heavy, as though the air was weighing her down. If she didn’t get out now, she feared she might start crying.

She wasn’t particularly sad, there were just a lot of… emotions… right now.

RED: Sure. I’d like that.

Part 14: here

Part 16: here