#five hundred furious goddamn years old

[flowerflamestars]

Timeloop au snippet

Smaller human, Nesta had to tip back her chin to the point of lurid invitation, to make contact, nose brushing the notch of his collar bone.   “Spring,” she muttered, making a face, “Roses.”  Curled in his shirt, Nesta’s sure grip pressed to Lucien’s ribs. An ease. Not a push. What could or could not be a request, all for Lucien to decide.   He backed up. Tugged her along with him, until Lucien spilled backwards onto that wide bed he’d grown to hate, russet colors brightened by Nesta sliding close without pause. Her head on his pillow, her searing eyes close, Nesta let out a long breath.   “We,” she announced, nose brushing Lucien’s as he scooted closer, “Have a problem.”   Lucien had a problem- he’d never kissed her human mouth. Breathed in the scent of warm skin instead, under the sear of those heated grey eyes. “A problem that made you cross the wall in twenty minutes. Are you”-  “Five days,” Nesta interrupted, words hissed across his face.   Time stretched, Lucien stared. It wasn’t possible. Shouldn’t have been. Even operating under the undeniable truth that impossible things found Nesta like moth to flame, curses did not alter. Shift. The specificity required for that far a reach of magic was-   “Fucking ridiculous,” Nesta picked right up, like she could hear his very thoughts.

“You’re alright?”   “I’m fine.” A near, fond thing, the roll of her eyes. Nesta sighed. “I’m also more sure than ever I did not start these fucking loops. There is no version of myself that wished to go back to the first time Rhysand foisted Cassian on me.”   The first time- Lucien’s heart seemed to clench. “Nesta.”   “I’m fine.” Softer, a promise, cool fingertips brushing his jaw. “He just”-

“He just what,” Lucien asked, nearly soundless.   Nesta curled forward, boots brushing his calves, moving into Lucien’s body until she was breathing against him, with him. “He was exactly the same. I’m not. He tried to- well, as it turns out, even at mortal strength, a knife through the eye is enough to kill an Illyrian.”   Horrible and wonderful and- Lucien laughed, the sound relief, brightening her face into those wicked lines he knew so well now.   “Bribed a kelpie to carry me over the wall,” Nesta admitted, flat teeth flashing in a distinctly inhuman way. “You’re going to have to help me with the rest of the body, Vanserra.”

[lesetoilesfous]

caning, forced to watch for kanders?

Fuuuuuuuuck this one killed me and was also very fun to write, thank you for the prompt!

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Dragon Age 2

Prompt: Caning, Forced to Watch

Pairing: Kanders

Characters: Karl Thekla, Anders, Knight-Commander Greagoir

Warnings: Corporal Punishment, Child Abuse, Implied Sexual Abuse, Public Humiliation, Systematic Abuse, Graphic Depicition of Injury

Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, there's some comfort here but I can never write a happy ending when they're still in the goddamn Circle, the Circles are awful.

Word Count: 3,759

It isn’t personal. Karl knows this isn’t about him. He knows, with a very specific kind of agony, that Greagoir has no idea that any of the apprentices currently gathering to sit on the shabby wooden seats assembled in a semi-circle in their dormitory would take this personally. He, like most of the templars in Kinloch, has long since fallen under the impression that no one in this blighted tower likes the young man tied with rough hemp rope to a wooden step ladder in the middle of the circle of chairs any more than they do. And Karl knows that isn’t true: not only because he loves the thin, bruised, frightened looking teenager trying to pull a brave face so much that he thinks he might risk tranquility just to get him out of here. He also knows it isn’t true because one of the six year olds looks like she’s about to burst into tears: the one Anders would climb into bed with and read stories to until she fell asleep without waking up to screaming nightmares. Karl knows it isn’t true because Angelique looks like she’s seriously considering giving up all the Orlesian courtesies she was governed in before she found her magic and setting Greagoir on fire. Karl knows it isn’t true, because little Surana looks like they’re contemplating blood magic.

But the templars have been good at understanding their wards.

A few of the apprentices, of course, giggle. There are red cheeks and flushed faces as elves and human children try to decide whether they’re supposed to avert their eyes. A wooden stepladder (borrowed from the tranquil’s storage closet, if Karl had to guess) is set up in the middle of about a hundred wooden chairs. One for every apprentice in this dormitory. Anders’ hands are tied to either side of the top of the ladder. The apprentices are giggling because his robes have been lifted and tucked into his belt, exposing his long, skinny legs (with a scattering of small round bruises in sets of five on his thighs that Karl doesn’t want to look at.) All of them are staring at the old grey smalls covering Anders’ arse, or trying to look away from them. So the teenagers are giggling, because they’ve never seen anything like this. The older kids and young adults look as if they’re about to attend a hanging. So do the younger apprentices. The pretty ones.

Anders’ jaw is tense, and he’s staring rigidly at the dull, grey, distant wall. Karl can tell how frightened he is because of how still he is. Anders is the kind of boy who never sits still: who’s always gesticulating when he speaks, or wriggling to sit in ever more improbable ways in his chair. Now, every part of him is motionless, his bound wrists frozen beneath fingers that are half curled over the old, paint-stained wood of the stepladder.

Knight-Commander Greagoir stands up, and the giggling stops like a head cut off by a meat cleaver. In the Knight-Commander’s hands is a long, thin wooden cane. Karl is having a hard time breathing.

He’d chosen not to sit at the front. He can’t decide if it was pragmatism or cowardice. He doesn’t want to watch this. He doesn’t want anyone to watch this. He doesn’t want it to be happening at all. But Karl knows that one of the few things worse than this is the templars finding out exactly how much he and Anders have begun to mean to each other: so much so that sometimes when they’re drawn together they flinch away on instinct, too frightened of what the scope of their feelings means for the remainder of their short lives in captivity. Karl can’t let any of the twenty or so templars in attendance, standing at regular intervals behind the gathered seats, know exactly how personally he’s about to take this. So he takes a seat in the middle of the crowd, and sits with his hands folded in his lap, and forces his gaze away from Anders and the purple bruise squashing his left eye shut.

“Apprentices.” Greagoir doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. It carries anyway, bouncing against the high stone walls and through the wide empty space. Karl hates him. He hates that he’s doing this here, where they sleep. He hates that when he goes to bed, when he dresses, when he needs a piss, he’s going to have to walk over this patch of floor and remember this. He hates that the smaller kids are going to have to walk over the stone that appears again and again in their dreams and nightmares. He hates that this will likely not be the worst thing he sees done, here.

“It has come to my attention that some of you believe there are no consequences for your actions.” Greagoir punctuates his sentence by slapping the cane in his hand lightly against his metal gauntlet. Several of the apprentices flinch. Karl feels his own shiver ripple through his shoulders and tenses so hard it hurts. Anders’ mouth pinches shut, so tightly his lips bleed white. “You think that you live in a land of extremes: that my men and I will either do nothing, or kill you. I would like to disabuse you of this notion.” Greagoir steps forward, towards the innermost ring of chairs around the ladder, and the apprentices who’d been unhappily forced into those seats when they found all the others filled lean back so fast their chairs creak. Greagoir’s expression doesn’t change.

“It is not our job to kill you. It is our job to protect you. From outside forces, yes. From demons, yes. But also from yourselves. You are not safe in the outside world, and the outside world can never be safe from you. We keep you here for your own good. We clothe you, feed you, educate you. We provide you with more luxury than most peasants could imagine in a lifetime.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Karl sees Samael frowning. The boy had been brought in from a family of twe in Amaranthine. He was, by all accounts, a boy from a life of deep poverty. But he rarely agrees with the templars when they weaponise it against him.

Greagoir gets closer to Anders, and Karl’s mind fills with a vivid, sudden vision of climbing onto his chair and running forward, through the crowd of apprentices, tackling the Knight-Commander to the ground and punching him until his face is bloody. But he doesn’t do that.

“In return, we ask only that you behave yourselves.” Greagoir points at Anders, so suddenly and so violently that several of the apprentices flinch again. Anders, for his part, noisily puffs a strand of hair out his face, and Karl nearly wants to cry. Greagoir’s mouth tightens in a thin, sour smile. “Anders thinks that misbehaving makes him interesting. He thinks it makes him brave, or heroic. He thinks that we are terrible villains, and he is a noble mage, and that he can make fools of myself and my men. But this is not the case. Anders, like all of you, is a child.” Greagoir gestures with the cane, and a Dalish girl who still hasn’t told them her name flinches back so fast her chair tips backward.

“He is a naughty, stupid, little boy. Not only is he a naughty, stupid, little boy - he’s a dangerous naughty, stupid, little boy. Like all of you, like all mages. He needs to be protected from himself. So I want all of you to watch this, and I want all of you to know that this is what happens to naughty children. It is not brave. It is not interesting. It is not heroic. It is foolish, and painful, and humiliating. And I will beat as many of you as I need to, to protect you and all of Fereldan from the far greater danger of mages, like Anders, who will do anything to be 'free'.”

Satisfied, Greagoir steps back and raises the cane. Karl is squeezing the wooden sides of his chair so hard he imagines he can feel it splintering. Tears prickle hotly at the backs of his eyes. Greagoir's hand falls in a swift slash of air and lands with a crack on Anders’ arse. Anders huffs a breath, but doesn’t make a sound. The cane rises again. No one is laughing now. Out of the corners of his eyes, Karl can see the way that every apprentice has become tense and still. His vision distorts like thick glass in a fishbowl. The children around him feel both very close and very far away. He feels as if he’s so close to Greagoir and Anders that he could breathe and touch them.

On the third strike, Anders makes a soft sound of pain, a bitten off grunt that they wouldn’t have heard if it wasn’t for the deathly silence that has fallen over every child in the eastern dormitory. On the fifth strike, Anders yelps - a sound so high and loud it’s almost like an animal. Karl forces himself to look at his face, then, and sees that it’s washed a furious, burning red, all the way to the tips of his ears. And Karl hates it and hates the Circle and hates Greagoir, for turning the gentle, intimate pinkness of Anders’ blush into something humiliating and awful. Karl can feel his magic roiling somewhere between his mind and the Fade like a building wave. Around him, he can feel the tension of the other apprentices' magic, too, as they try to control their fear and anger and embarrassment. It prickles over his skin like static electricity, pulling at the back of his neck.

When Greagoir strikes Anders a seventh time, Anders starts to cry. It’s a terrible, soft, huffing sound dragged from between his lips like a pulled tooth. Greagoir pants, his own cheeks beginning to flush red with exertion, and hits Anders three more times in quick succession. Anders writhes against the stepladder, and Karl notices for the first time that his ankles are tied to the base, too, with the same rough thick hemp rope, which has already begun to rub his skin red and raw. Karl drags his eyes up Anders’ bare, bruised legs and swallows hot, sour bile in the back of his throat when he notices the lines of red that are beginning to spot through the fabric of Anders’ smalls.

Greagoir hits Anders a tenth time, and Anders keens, tossing his head, his nose running, snot mixing with a mess of tears on his red cheeks. Anders' legs and arms are shaking, now, and every time Greagoir hits him he cries out, trying to flinch away from the blow. The stepladder shakes, creaking with the force of Anders’ struggling against the ropes. One of the younger children, Matthias, starts to wail. One row behind him, Karl can sees Angelique crying, silently, her face a mask of polite neutrality.

Greagoir gives Anders fifteen strikes, and by the time he’s done blood is running in droplets down his legs like a monthly bleed. Anders hangs his head, hair falling forward mercifully to cover his face, and shakes, sobbing against the ladder. Greagoir holds the cane between his hands, the wood red with Anders’ blood. “Let this be a lesson to you all.”

Then he turns, and leaves. All of the apprentices remain frozen in their chairs, unsure of whether they can move. But one of the templars - Drass, steps forward and unties Anders brusquely from the ladder. Anders slumps, crumpling to the ground and making a soft sound of pain when he lands on his arse. Drass looks up at the assembled crowd, looping the ropes neatly around his gauntlets. “I’ll need a volunteer to take this ladder back to Owain, and another to take him to the clinic.”

Angelique gets to her feet. “I’ll take the ladder. Karl, do you mind taking him to the clinic?”

Karl nearly passes out with relief. As it is, he makes a mental note to ask Anders to kiss Angelique for him, later, and stumbles forward on numb, clumsy feet to where the love of his life is curled up, bleeding on the floor. Because he couldn’t volunteer, couldn’t find the neutrality to say anything without giving himself away. But Angelique had done it for him. Karl crouches, and gently slips his hands under Anders’ arms, lifting him easily (too easily, it’s always too easy to lift him, a boy this tall shouldn’t be this light.) Anders blinks up at him, eyes red and puffy, lip bitten through, swelling and bloody for it, hair clinging haphazardly to his cheeks and chin.

“Thekla?”

Karl wants to hold him. He wants to hold him, and kiss him, and tell him nothing like this is ever going to happen again. But he can feel Drass’ eyes on him, so doesn’t do any of those things. He waits until Anders drags his feet under him, and slings his arm over his shoulders, and tugs his robes loose of his belt to cover his legs with a wave of relief so strong it nearly incapacitates him. Anders shudders as he’s fully clothed again, and Karl wants to stop, and apologise, but instead he gently tugs him towards the door. Anders limps with every step.

*

Wynne doesn’t heal him. She explains, curtly, that she’d been instructed by Greagoir not to erase a painful lesson with magical healing. Karl had explained, loudly, that Anders could hardly learn the lesson if he died of infection or blood loss. At that, Wynne had given him a pot of ointment and gauze and told him to leave. Karl had, face burning with the force of anger. Anders hadn’t said anything throughout, which was making Karl’s hurt do worried somersaults. Slowly, limping, they’d walked back downstairs towards one of the apprentice bathrooms. Hadley was on duty, at least, and gave them both an apologetic, embarrassed smile, averting his gaze to the side of the bathtub as Karl helped Anders undress and get inside. Anders had said nothing throughout, his brown eyes unfocused and his breathing shallow.

He’d only come back into himself when Karl had picked up a rag with one arm under Anders’ almost concave belly to support him, Anders’ ribs sticking sharply into his forearm. Karl had stared at the series of haphazard, angular weals and welts cut into Anders skin in deep, angry purple and red lines. His skin was more bruise than anything else, painted yellow and green, covered in dried lines of blood. Karl had suddenly found that he couldn’t move, kneeling beside the iron bathtub, rag in hand. That was when Anders had come back, hand squeezing his forearm. Karl had looked up, and realised that his chin and the stubble that kept growing there no matter how often he shaved, was damp with tears. Anders hadn’t touched his face - couldn’t, with Hadley watching, no matter how nice he was. His eyes were hollow and dark with anger and a terrible, wounded sort of fear. But his long fingers had dug deeply into Karl’s forearm, squeezing it hard.

“It’s alright.”

Karl nods. He doesn’t say, it’s not alright. He doesn’t say, it’s never going to be alright. Instead, he dips his hand in the bathwater, coaxing heat into it with his magic, and gently begins dabbing at the dried blood. Anders’ breath hitches every time he touches the cuts, and by the time Karl’s finished the water’s pink and Anders is crying almost silently in soft, coughing hiccoughs. Hadley’s mouth is turned down in an unhappy frown, but he stands ramrod straight against the wall in front of the bathtubs, watching them. Gently, Karl helps Anders get out of the bathtub, drying him off and helping him get dressed before walking him back towards his bunk bed.

Jowan is gone - probably off trailing after Surana like a lost puppy. Karl doesn’t really care, he’s just grateful there isn’t someone immediately above them to watch as helps Anders lie on his front. The apprentices in the beds nearby skitter away from them like frightened sparrows as soon as they get close, and Karl can’t find the energy to apologise to them for it. Anders’ bed smells like soap and old rags and ink, and his pillow is stained with decades of other apprentices. He lies down on the thin mattress, and Karl kneels on the stone beside the bed, gesturing to the robes over Anders’ legs.

“I need to put on the ointment.” He says, and wishes he was better with words.

Anders huffs, turning to look at him with one brown eye that’s almost yellow in the shadow of the bunk bed. “You don’t need to ask. It’s not as if everyone hasn’t seen it, anyway.”

Karl freezes, breath hitching in his throat. “Anders -”

Anders buries his head in his arms, and his voice is muffled when he speaks. “Just do it.”

Karl’s stomach flips. But he gently lifts the robe above Anders’ legs and pulls down his smalls, his mind loud with uncomfortable recollections of more precious moments - like the first time he’d undressed him, like this, and the way they’d both blushed, and the sound of Anders’ sighs when...Karl swallows, and his fingers touch the scattering of bruises dug into Anders’ thighs. He doesn’t say anything, though he looks up at the back of Anders’ head and the tangled hair there. Anders doesn’t move, and doesn’t say anything, so Karl grimaces and unscrews the lid of the ointment. The salve inside is thick and white and sticky. It smells bitter and astringent, and when Karl dips his fingers inside it tingles against his skin like peppermint. He pauses, pulling the blanket in a tent over Anders’ arse and legs in an awkward attempt at preserving his dignity.

“This might hurt a bit.”

Anders grunts, fingers crushing the thin pillow beneath his head, face still buried in his arms. “I’ll live.”

Karl nods, and gently begins to dab the ointment against the deeper cuts. Some of them are so deep that the skin around them is peeling back, pulling them wider open. The ointment fills the deep red wounds, shiny against the purple and blackening skin. Occasionally, Anders flinches, and every time he does Karl stops until Anders nods, quietly murmuring, “Ok”, with a hoarse voice. When he’s done, Karl feels like he’s run a marathon, wiping his fingers clean with a rag and pulling Anders’ smalls back up and his robes down over his legs before covering him with the blanket.

The mage lights in the dormitory are darkening, heralding curfew, and a queue of some twenty or so apprentices is waiting outside the western bathrooms. Everyone is paired up. You learned quickly not to bathe on your own, no matter how nice the templar in the bathing area was. Karl knew Anders, at least, had learned that the hard away. The dormitory is full of apprentices yawning and talking quietly - a few sitting up beside candles squinting at their parchment as they try to finish their homework. But the dormitory is also strangely hushed, utterly devoid of the occasional laughter that usually peppered the evenings as everyone came back from classes. No one has forgotten Greagoir’s lesson, yet, and Karl doubts they will for a while.

He knows he only has twenty minutes or so before the apprentices in the beds around Anders’ get back from bathing. He doesn’t care. He adjusts himself on the floor, and leans as close to Anders as he dares - watching the templars that line the distant walls like living statues, or gargoyles. “I want to kill him.”

Anders startles, sitting up with a wince and looking around at the templars himself before staring at Karl with wide, red-rimmed eyes. “You can’t say that!”

Karl meets Anders’ eyes, and lets him see all the anger he’s been trying to keep hidden. “I would. I’d do it in a second. I don’t care if they make me tranquil. Send me to Aeonar, even.” Karl lifts his chin, and tries to ignore the shivering fear in his chest as he says the words. “I’d do it.”

On the bed above him, Anders' pinched, narrow features soften. “I’d never forgive you.”

Karl blinks, and isn’t sure why that makes him want to cry, suddenly. “How d’you think I feel?”

Anders slumps, pursing his lips as his brows draw up, glancing furtively to either side before moving his hand under his blankets to squeeze Karl’s fingers at the edge of the mattress. Karl shifts closer, moving so his body is hiding their joined hands. “M’sorry. Must have been shit, to watch that.”

Karl chokes. “It must have been shit to experience.”

Anders’ fingers tighten reflexively around his, and he’s quiet for a moment. “I can’t imagine, watching them do that to you. I think I’d have set this whole blighted place on fire.”

“I wanted to.” Karl admits, leaning heavily against the thin wooden frame of Anders’ bed. There’s all sorts of graffiti on it - mostly templars and mages in ever more crude positions. And initials. Something in Tevene, Nolite te bastardes carbonodorum. Karl swipes his thumb over the back of Anders’ hand, stroking it softly. “I can stay here, tonight, if you want me to.”

Anders’ mouth trembles. “No, you can’t.”

Karl swallows against the thick lump in his throat, watching the queue of apprentices dwindle by the bathing area. One of the templars at the other end of the dormitory has already begun bedtime checks - lifting open apprentice’s clothing crates for perfunctory searches and ushering students still working to bed. “I want to.”

Anders’ expression softens, and his fingers flex in Karl’s hand. “I know.” He glances at the templars - still forty feet away - and leans forward to press a quick, clumsy kiss to Karl’s temple, before letting go of his hand like he’s been burned. “Go to bed, Thekla. I’ll be fine.”

For several seconds, Karl sits there, skin burning where Anders had kissed him, hand numb with the ghost of him. Anders gives him a small, shy smile and Karl returns it despite the way his heart is trying to tear itself into pieces. He gets up, and stretches his cramped legs, and starts walking the long way back to his bed in the middle of the dormitory. He doesn’t say anything.

The words sit heavily on his tongue, anyway, unspoken. No, you won’t.

[spritewrites]

inhibitions (or, high five)

Fandom: The Umbrella Academy

Characters: Vanya & Five

Word Count: 2062

Warnings: drug use, mentions of alcohol abuse

“Ahem.”

Slam. “Ow.”

“What are you doing?” Vanya asked, peering around the cabinet door to where Five was cursing and rubbing his head.

“Nothing.”

Vanya raised her eyebrows. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Yeah, well, it’s nothing, okay?” Five snapped, sticking his sore head back in the cabinet.

Well, that’s bullshit. “You sure?”

Five huffed. “Let me assure you, I am one hundred percent certain that I am doing absolutely nothing of interest to you right now.”

He briefly pulled his head out (carefully avoiding the top) to see Vanya giving him one of her soft smiles. “Rooting around in the back of a cabinet is pretty interesting to me.”

A long, low exhale. He was eyeing her carefully, the same way he did the first day he came home. Like he didn’t know who to trust. “Fine. Do you happen to know where dear old Dad kept the alcohol?”

The crease between Vanya’s eyes deepened. “We have a whole bar, Five.”

“Yes, yes, I know, but we’re… uh, out. Did the old man have any backup storage?”

“I think he got rid of it all when Klaus started drinking.” She put a gentle hand on Five’s shoulder, startling him. Instantly, the hand was back at her side. Right. The touch thing. “Are you okay?”

He sighed, running his small hand through his hair. “Yep. Fine. Great. Just… need to take the edge off.”

Everything went still.

“Five.”

“What,” he snapped. “Are you going to lecture me about the long-term effects of alcohol on my goddamn pre-teen body like everyone else? Because trust me, I’ve calculated exactly the blood alcohol content that –”

“No, I – no. I was just going to say…” She swallowed hard, then met his gaze, her kind eyes and his blazing ones. The corner of her lip tugged upward. “I’ve got something that might help.”

*

Honestly, Vanya never thought that her birthday gift from Klaus would ever be anything more than a joke. “So you don’t blow up the moon again,” he’d said with a wink, “now that you’re off your pills and everything.” But now, sitting on the floor of her childhood bedroom ripping open a package of laced gummies with her 58-year-old brother, she was so, so glad she had it.

The circles under Five’s eyes had gotten worse over the past few weeks, and even though she knew he’d never say anything, it was clear that putting down the staggering weight of the apocalypse after forty-five years of carrying it was proving difficult for her brother. She saw the way he startled at his reflection, the way his fingers flexed absent-mindedly toward his hip, right where a holster might be, the way he counted the people in the room, the way he would talk too quietly or too loudly, or left out details in stories, as if he couldn’t gauge how much of a given conversation was supposed to happen in his head.

He’d taken to drinking, of course – he’d been drinking since he got back. But now he seemed to rarely be without a glass in his hand. And Vanya saw the way his shoulders relaxed when he took a sip, the way his tapping foot and twitching eyelid settled.

Vanya was used to watching. She knew how to see things.

She’d been saving the candy especially for him, for when he needed it. Tomorrow she’d go to the liquor store for him; she knew better than to recommend he go cold-turkey. Five was smart. With the right support, he’d slow down on his own, when he was ready. That was her job, being the right support.

Therapy would probably be good too.

“I don’t like sweets,” he reminded her, and for a second her heart lurched for the thirteen-year-old boy who was once caught with a half-empty can of cake frosting under his bed.

“These’ll help. Just trust me?” It was a request, an olive branch. Slowly, he nodded.

“Okay.”

*

“—It wasn’t even the most dangerous situation I’d been in that week! Dolores was furious at me for days, of course, but at least I got some wine out of it,” Five said, tipping his head back to stare at the popcorn ceiling. Vanya was giggling at his story, watching the faint smile dance over her brother’s face at the memory.

“I thought the apocalypse would be, just like… shitty forever.”

Five sighed. “It was. But you know. You can’t be unhappy for 45 years straight, your body doesn’t work that way. There were good times.”

Vanya giggled again. She couldn’t seem to stop doing that. “I can’t do anything straight.”

For a beat, Five studied her, his expression unreadable. Then he broke into a surprisingly bright smile.

“That was a joke.” It wasn’t a question.

Vanya gave her brother a light shove. The way a sister might to a brother. “Of course it was, idiot.”

He shoved her back, smiling wider than Vanya had seen in a long time. “Don’t call me an idiot. Idiot.” The twitch in his eyebrow was gone. Vanya suddenly went quiet, the light feeling in her core spreading throughout her chest at this realization.

“Five?”

“Hm?”

“I love you a lot.”

Five was quiet too, then, but not unusually so; Five was always quiet, when he wasn’t yelling. His eyes traced patterns in the ridges and dips of the ceiling plaster.

“I love you too.” He turned to look at her. “I missed you.”

“I know, Five,” she replied, because she did. “I missed you too.” Because she does. Did. Does.

His face split again, into that same bright, open smile. “You know what I would think about? Out in the apocalypse?”

“What?”

“When we would stay up all night sometimes talking. Remember that? Jesus, we must’ve been… ten? Eleven? And we’d be up for hours… I don’t even remember what we talked about. Math, probably.” Five shrugged. “I had conversations like that with Dolores, after. Or sometimes you.”

“Me?”

He smoothed out the fabric of his shorts. “Yeah, you were there in the apocalypse with me. I had your book, remember? Closest I could get to someone talking to me.”

Vanya tried to meet his eyes, but he was gone somewhere. A gentle hand found his arm. He flinched a little, but didn’t pull away. “I’m here now.”

He nodded, and when he spoke, it sounded strangled somehow. “Thanks.”

A passing truck honked its horn. Vanya thunked her head back on a bedpost, sinking into the floaty feeling that had settled right around her sternum. She got why Klaus did this. It felt like she could say anything, or do anything, and everything would be okay.

Five made a kind of whining noise in the back of his throat. “I want donuts.”

Vanya closed her eyes, smiling. “Shit, donuts sound great right now.”

“The jelly-filled ones from Griddy’s.”

“Yeah, when you get there at like eight p.m. and they’ve just finished the last batch of the day so they’re, like, fresh and shit.”

“Fuck,” Five sighed, pulling the back of his blazer over his head and slouching. “I want donuts.”

Despite herself, Vanya started giggling again. “You look ridiculous.”

“Excuse you,” Five replied, wrinkling his nose. “I am a trained assassin of the Commission, licensed to travel space and time with an assault rifle. I never look ridiculous.”

“You look like a Founding Father.”

The look that Five shot Vanya sent chills running down her spine. But like, in a fun way.

“Take that back.”

“No.”

“You asshole, take it –”

“No, you look like Benjamin goddamn Frank – hey!” Before she could so much as blink, Five had pounced, swatting at her arms when she laughingly brought them up to protect herself. “Go away, you know I’m right!”

Five was grinning too, slipping his fingers past her weak defenses to mess up her hair and poke at her cheeks until she had to hold her stomach in laughter. “Take it back, I said!” he crowed, sounding like he was on the edge of laughter himself. He managed a lucky strike when blunt fingernails skated over the crease of her neck, and she scrunched her shoulder with a squeal.

“No – no, fuck, Five –”

Vanya’s flailing hands struggled to gain any sort of advantage against Five’s skilled assassin reflexes, to no avail. She was horribly ticklish at the best of times, but now the ruthless pokes that were attacking her nerves overwhelmed her, and she curled up into a ball of giggles on the floor.

Through wet lashes she could see Five’s grin as he methodically took her apart, relentlessly tickling all the places he knew were torture – ears down to collarbone, and then jumping down to squeeze at her sides, making her shriek. His skinny teenage fingers were unfortunately perfect for tickling at her ribs and sneaking their way into the crease of her neck.

Vanya was laughing the hardest she’d laughed in a long time, maybe ever. Nobody in recent memory had known her like this, known her well enough to completely eviscerate her the way that Five always, always could. Damn him. This was definitely cheating.

Her laughter hit a fever pitch when Five got a hold of one of her kicking feet. Shit.

“Please, I – fuck! Okay, okay, I take it back, mercy!”

Five stopped, smirking. “Assassins don’t show mercy, except to ticklish sisters.”

A few residual giggles escaped through Vanya’s nose. “Shut up.”

“Me, shut up? Me? Excuse you, you called me a fucking Founding Father –”

“I didn’t say you were a Founding Father, I said you looked –”

“Vanya, I don’t think you understand that I am still holding on to your ankle, and strategically – hey!”

Swiftly, Vanya scooped up his own ankle and held it in her lap, a mischievous smirk on her face. She had completely forgotten about Five’s thing with unanticipated touch, but his eyes were just as bright as hers. “Oh yeah?”

Five’s smirk didn’t waver. “Nice try, I’m not ticklish.”

“Is that so?” She tugged on his leg, tucking it under her arm and hovering her fingertips over his knee. Five nearly choked.

“Wait –”

A squeeze was all it took for Five to collapse into hysterical laughter, squirming and flailing, but more squeezes couldn’t hurt. Vanya was grinning, digging in mercilessly. Served him right for attacking her, he wasn’t not the only one who remembers ticklish spots. It occurred to her that she was maybe being a little cruel, going right for his weakness immediately, but the loud, bright cackles pouring out of her brother’s mouth were worth every kick that he landed.

Five pounded a fist on the floor, mouthing something resembling words, but he couldn’t manage anything coherent through his helpless laughter. All right then, mercy it is. She graciously released his leg, which shot up into his body as he curled in on himself.

“F-fuck you,” he panted.

Vanya chuckled. “Oh come on, surely assassins are familiar with the concept of revenge?”

He said nothing, but his smile, weak from tickles, widened. She wrinkled her brow. “What’s that for?”

“S’nothing. Hic.”

“Are you… are those hiccups?”

“No.” Hic. “…Fuck off.”

Vanya burst into another fit of laughter, earning her a light shove. Five tried to school his face into an angry expression, but he was laughing too.

“I take back everything I said, I didn’t miss you, I don’t love you, you’re an asshole –”

She giggled and shoved him back. “You’re an asshole, but we love you anyway.”

The faux-anger melted away. “I know.”

For a long moment, a comfortable silence fell over the siblings, the kind that they used to fall into around four in the morning when they had both squeezed onto Five’s bed for the night to talk about training and music and math and family.

Five yawned despite himself. “M’fuckin’ sleepy,” he grumbled.

Vanya smiled. “You sound like a kid.”

“I look like one, too,” he said, and at first Vanya thought he might be angry. He usually was when he talked about his body. But then he smiled again. He kept doing that. His eyes were shining. “I’m sorry it took me so long. The calculation took years.”

Vanya shifted to face him. “Talk to me about it.”

Five’s smile grew, and Vanya knew, somewhere in her chest, that they would be okay.

[pendragonsandbuckleys]

Oh it felt so easy then.

My @malexsanta​ fic for @manesguerin​​, Merry Christmas Sarah!! ✨

This is the first time I’ve ever been given a prompt so I really hope I’ve done it justice. I’ve gone with the prompt ‘lost decade’ and as you may notice by the length of it, it kind of got away from me… but I really hope you like it!

[Also on AO3]

Summary: Ten years of letters filed away with such love and care into a decade old shoebox and what was it all for? 

A look at the lost decade through Michael’s eyes.

Word Count: 21,499

❄️👽🎄💌

Ten years was a long time.

Five hundred and twenty-one weeks to be filled with laughter and tears, friends and family, old secrets and new opportunities. 

Three thousand, six hundred and fifty days to get over a stupid high school crush that was never going to last.

Michael closed the door behind him, furious at the sudden emotions raging inside him. He hadn’t heard from Alex in a long time, hadn’t see him in even longer. So why was his heart racing at the mere sight of the man he once loved.

Glancing at the many whiteboards and notepads filled with scientific scribble and spaceship blueprints reminded Michael that there was so much more than just the thin wall of the airstream keeping them apart. They’d been kidding themselves to even try to make it work. They were two different people with two different lives.

His eyes wandered to the other end of the trailer. He should have thrown out the box long ago, burnt it even.

He had been so proud of the fact that he hadn’t looked inside in months, hadn’t given in to the temptation to see Alex’s delicate penmanship and carefully chosen words. He had most of the letters committed to memory, but re-reading them after a difficult day used to help calm the chaos in his mind.

It had been a long time since he’d forced himself to forget about the box and all it contained but one look at Alex and all the feelings he’d spent months suppressing had come flooding back. The feelings of hope and happiness. Of love.

He slowly walked towards the closet and crouched down to rummage through his belongings. There were a few things piled inside but right at the bottom was what he wanted.

A simple shoebox. The writing on the front was long worn away and the lid was practically falling apart but the box itself wasn’t important. He lifted the lid and a stale scent of roses immediately filled the air. His hand brushed the dried petals to the side before hesitating above the first envelope. 

Ten years of letters filed away with such love and care into a decade old shoebox and what was it all for?

September 2008

It started with the hubcaps.

Well, really, it all started seventy years ago when one innocent eyeliner wearing, music loving boy’s ancestors began a lifelong mission to destroy Michael’s family.

But those goddamn hubcaps. I mean, if he was going to steal anything from Kyle Valenti’s car it could have been something useful. His truck needed a new battery after all.

The thrill of the theft hadn’t quite overpowered the pain in his heart and a night in a cell, alone with his thoughts, definitely hadn’t helped the way he thought it would.

Ever since Alex had told him that he was enlisting, Michael had been acting weird around him. Getting into more and more fights, drinking and smoking and doing all he could to cause trouble, regardless of how much he could see it was hurting Alex.

And every time Alex begged him to get it together, Michael was reminded of the fact that the only person he had ever had feelings for would soon be leaving him. That Alex was choosing to leave him to follow in his father’s footsteps.

So he pushed Alex away. He got himself arrested all for the sake of self preservation which should have felt like a win but really all he had done was waste the last day he could have had with Alex.

It had been a few weeks since Alex had left for Texas for Basic Training and Michael hadn’t heard a single thing from him. Though he couldn’t blame him. Michael had made it very clear that their short lived relationship was over.

And maybe that’s really all it was meant to be. Maybe it was just some summer fling that meant nothing in the long run. Simply a way for two broken people to just breathe for five seconds.

And maybe it was stupid for him to believe it could have been anything more.

As he stared up at the starry night sky from the back of his truck he felt his phone vibrate inside his trouser pocket.

Another text from Isobel no doubt.

She had been trying to get in touch with him all evening. All week in fact. And he couldn’t be bothered to deal with it today.

After graduation she had been adamant that Michael wasn’t going to drift away from them. Not seeing each other just because they were no longer forced to share a classroom was not an option.

So she had taken to texting him. A lot. Mainly mundane things, little updates about her life like a job interview she’d managed to secure or a new boy she was possibly seeing. She’d always try to ask about what he was up to or encourage him to come over for dinner, but that was usually his cue to stop replying. A dead battery or no credit was his go to excuse but there’s no way she really believed him.

He just couldn’t face seeing her or Max, not yet. The horror of Rosa, Kate and Jasmine’s deaths and their decision to cover it up was still so fresh in his mind and any opportunity to not remember it was preferable. 

It was strange, thinking about it. That night was one of the worst nights of his life for two wildly different reasons.

A very personal, homophobic attack that left his hand crushed beyond repair and a triple murder that no one would ever know the real truth about. Not even the person responsible.

And while he just wanted to take his mind off the people involved in one of these for a little while, he never wanted to forget the person involved in the other.

He had no idea if he would ever see Alex again, but just hoped that he was okay. That he was happy. That he was safe. 

And that would have to be good enough for now.

November 2008

Michael’s truck jolted to a stop in the Wild Pony parking lot. 

It was earlier than he’d usually be here but the day drinking was a new thing he was trying. 

He’d been having regrets lately about not taking up the UNM scholarship. He was fully aware that he was more than smart enough to continue with his studies and yeah maybe the courses would be far more mundane than he’d like, but at least he could do something worthy with this life. But then every time he considered re-thinking his decision, his hopes were brought crashing back down to earth with the reminder of why he didn’t go to university in the first place.

He had slowly begun letting Max and Isobel back into his life, a coffee date here and a shopping trip there, but sometimes all the friendly conversations in the world couldn’t stop his desire to just be numb every now and then.

The excessive alcohol consumption was a recent development, but hey, a town drunk has to start at some point, right?

There was a clerk at a gas station a few miles away that had no problems turning a blind eye to his clean shaven baby face and he’d managed to get a fake ID for the more difficult purchases. Such as the Wild Pony. A typical Roswell bar without the added green alien decor. Every local knew the Wild Pony and unfortunately the Wild Pony knew him - or more importantly, his age.

Maybe he’d get lucky today and it would be a new bar tender but if not, then he’d just slip some acetone into a soft drink. That would have to do the trick for now.

It was mid afternoon so there was a decent amount of people inside, but no sign of the rowdy drunks that tended to emerge after dark. The only person working behind the bar was currently wiping down the surfaces as a pair of customers walked away with their drinks.

Michael swaggered confidently past the men at the pool table and the group of girls in the booth that he vaguely recognised from school and perched on one of the stools at the bar. “I’ll have whatever’s cheapest.”

“You got ID?” The bar tender gave him a look that just screamed I don’t have time for your bullshit, but Michael was nothing if not persistent. She walked over, arms folded neatly across her chest, cloth still gripped in one hand, and came to a stop in front of him.

The badge pinned to her denim jacket spelled out her name in thick capital letters but Michael didn’t need to read it. Everyone knew who Maria Deluca was. With her beautiful curls and disarming smile, she was a friend to almost everyone at New Roswell High.

And though she was one of Alex’s oldest friends, Michael had barely said two words to her during their many years walking the same school halls but right now she was his best chance at scoring a drink.

“C’mon Deluca, we don’t have to bother with all that.” He mustered up as much charm as he could manage as he leant forward on the bar but Maria wasn’t swayed, her face set in a clear display of annoyance.

“I told you last time, I’m not getting fired just to help fuel these little angsty life choices you’ve been making recently.”

“Your mom’s not gonna fire you for helping a friend.”

“Oh wow,” Her eyes widened, feigning surprise, “Sorry I wasn’t aware we’d become friends.”

“Well,” Michael shrugged, “Every time I come in, it’s like you’re here waiting for me, so I just thought…” 

“I’m stuck this side of the bar Guerin. I have no choice but to put up with whatever you think is going on right now.”

Michael sniggered as he raised an eyebrow. The chances of him getting drunk anytime soon were dwindling by the second but he was enjoying the banter nonetheless.

“One day. One day I’ll get you to admit how much you love seeing me.”

Maria rolled her eyes as she flipped the cloth over one shoulder. “I am glad you’re here actually.”

“Really?” 

“Yes. It means I don’t have to spend my time trying to track you down.” She rummaged through a bag sitting behind the bar before pulling out an envelope. “Someone clearly knows you well.”

Michael took it from her with a frown. One quick glance at the front confirmed that it was indeed labelled to him, only with the Wild Pony’s address neatly scripted underneath his name.

Who would be sending him a letter? Who even sent letters anymore?

He looked up to ask Maria when it had arrived but she’d already made her way over to the customers at the other end of the bar.

Without hesitation he carefully ripped it open and pulled out the piece of paper inside. Impatient as ever, his eyes immediately darted to the end of the page to see who it was from and he almost fell off the chair at the name signed at the bottom.

It had been four months since he’d seen Alex. Four month since he’d heard his beautiful voice or seen his perfect face. And yet here, in his hands, was a letter from the one person he honestly thought he’d never hear from again.

Someone on a nearby table cheered loudly and Michael was suddenly reminded of where he was. It didn’t feel right, reading Alex’s first words to him in months under the harsh neon lights of the bar so without sparing a second glance at Maria, he practically sprinted all the way to the parking lot, yanking the door open as soon as he reached his truck.

Taking a deep breath, he unfolded the paper and began reading.

Dear Michael,

I’ve debated writing this letter for a while now, mainly because of how we left things. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to keep in contact but I’ve been missing some people back in Roswell and I think I just needed to get a few things out of my head. I might not even send this letter, but if you’re reading this then I guess it means my sentimentality won out.

I’ve been thinking about how peaceful the desert is back home. How quiet it would be when we’d park the truck in the middle of nowhere and just lie under the sun for hours. It’s surprising the things you notice yourself missing when you haven’t been somewhere in a while.

There’s so many people here it feels like school all over again. I tried to distance myself from everyone in some last act of defiance, but I’ve ended up making a few friends. Honestly I think it would be impossible to get through this alone.

I’ve finished basic training now. It was harder than I thought it was going to be but I got through it and I’m onto the next phase. We get to choose the specialism ourselves so at least that’s a positive and who knows, maybe I’ll be quite good at it.

I’m going to be here for a least a few months to complete my training before I find out where I’m being assigned so I’ve included my address incase you want to write back.

Whatever it is that you decided to do with your life, I hope you’re okay.

From,

Alex.

P.S. I’m sorry for sending this to the Wild Pony, I hope Maria got it to you okay. I would have addressed it to ‘Michael Guerin’s Truck’, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t quite reach you.

Michael re-read the letter another three times before he could bear to take his eyes off the page.

Alex had written to him. Amongst all the training and hard work and confusion over how they’d parted, Alex had taken the time to sit down and write to him. 

It was brief and simple and Michael couldn’t stop smiling.

He fumbled trying to get his keys in the ignition before putting the truck in gear, already planning his reply, all desire to get drunk suddenly forgotten.

February 2009

“I don’t pay you to sit around doodling.” Sanders called over gruffly from under the hood of the car he was working on.

“I’ve already finished with Campbell’s jeep.” Michael replied distractedly as he continued to scribble in the notepad.

The repair had needed longer than he had expected so he was taking what he deemed as a well earned break. If the old man had a problem with it then he could go ahead and find a better mechanic. Michael didn’t earn nearly enough to put up with his attitude anyway.

Sitting under the barely put together shelter that Sanders had the audacity to call his workshop, Michael started to scrawl a reply to Alex. Letter number four had arrived just under a week ago and he had yet to come up with a response.

Again addressed to the Wild Pony, Alex had talked about the latest shenanigans of his fellow airmen and how he’d been missing his guitar lately. He never went into detail about the work he was doing but he always made sure to mention that it was going well. Michael could practically visualise him picking out the words very carefully to make sure it didn’t sound like he was boasting, but sometimes it made writing a reply hard.

He was so pleased for Alex. Every letter he received had a more and more happier tone to it and honestly, he was glad that Alex was finding his place in the Air Force. He will always hate that he signed up, but considering he was going to be a part of it for a long time, Michael was just relieved that he had settled in. 

It did mean, however, that his life felt very boring in comparison. What was he supposed to say? Hey Alex, I fixed another car today. I’ll probably be hanging out with Isobel later to spend hours listening to her moan about something before going to sleep in my truck and doing it all again tomorrow.

He was just about to jot something down when something small and hard bounced off his forehead.

“Ow! What the hell was that for?” Michael rubbed his head and glared at the man.

“Are you listening to me?” Sanders waved the wrench in his hand as he tried to punctuate his point.

“Obviously.”

“What did I say?”

“…words?” Michael replied innocently, throwing his hands up in defeat when Sanders looked ready to throw something else. “Alright, alright sorry, what did you want?”

“The Johnson's SUV needs its engine looking at and when you’re done with that you can change the brake pads on that pickup that came in this morning.”

“On it.” Michael gave a halfhearted salute as he grabbed the closest toolbox and headed out into the sun.

He wasn’t really in the mood to be working in the heat today but at least this way the vehicles were far enough away from Sanders that he wouldn’t have any distractions from his real task.

He’d been grabbing odd shifts at the junkyard since he was fourteen, but last month he’d finally persuaded Sanders to hire him properly. If he was to have any hope of moving out of his truck, he needed to start earning some proper money doing something he was half decent at.

He’d been trying to find a way to work this news into his letter but he couldn’t quite find the words. He didn’t want to admit to himself that it was because he was ashamed, but that’s exactly what it was. Alex was at the start of a prestigious career that would take him across the world, learning new skills and earning decent money.

Michael was a mechanic. Barely.

And he knew that Alex wouldn’t care about the difference in their jobs, he’d just be happy that Michael was a step above wasting his life. It was just so hard to fit everything he really wanted to say into one letter.

Maybe he was struggling so much with the words because he’d much rather say it in person. He hadn’t seen Alex in forever and he missed the simple act of just being with him. Of sitting in the back of the truck, shoulders touching and hands intertwined. The amount of serotonin a short handwritten note could produce was ridiculous but it in no way replaced the feel of having the real thing in front of him.

Though if Alex was feeling anything near the way he was, then maybe it didn’t matter what he wrote. The mere fact that he had replied would hopefully be enough.

April 2009

Isobel looked at him disapprovingly, switching her many bags from one hand to the other. “Really Michael? Just because you live in the desert doesn’t mean you need to actually start dressing like a cowboy.”

A shopping trip with Isobel wasn’t Michael’s first choice for a Saturday afternoon, but he’d had no good excuse to refuse as she practically dragged him to the mall.

For someone who liked to try on almost everything in a single store, Isobel had chosen what she wanted to buy pretty quickly. Now it was Michael’s turn but he honestly wasn’t sure what she expected of him. He’d been living in the same clothes for years now, he didn’t know how to do the whole shopping spree thing.

“You’re the one who wanted to buy me new clothes.”

“Yeah, because I wanted to make you look cool. Not like a nineteen year old version of the Lone Ranger.”

Michael looked in the mirror again. The black cowboy hat resting atop his head was working well with the rancher aesthetic he had going on. It hid his curls and made him look slightly older, giving him more of an edge than his baseball cap could usually muster. 

It just felt right. 

Growing up, he’d never had the chance to really figure out his own identity besides angry, rebellious orphan and going full-on cowboy felt like a good place to start. 

Besides, he looked damn good.

“You’ve already chosen the rest of my wardrobe for me Isobel. You can’t let me make one big boy decision for myself?” Michael gave her a pointed looked as he took the hat off and ran a hand through his hair.

“Fine. Just don’t show Max, he’s already started a godawful belt buckle collection, I don’t want him getting any ideas.” She happily snatched it out of his hand and strutted elegantly to the till.

He had missed these moments with Isobel. The familial feeling of her bossing him around.

No one ever talked about how easy it was to drift apart from people after high school, how the close bonds you thought you’d formed over the lunch table could so quickly disappear once you’re all thrown into the real world.

But the three of them were different. Michael, Max and Isobel, the three children found wandering the desert all those years ago. He hadn’t been able to rid himself of them then and turns out he still couldn’t now. Despite his best efforts to distance himself, they had managed to completely worm their way back into his life over the past few months and honestly he was better off for it.

Today wasn’t the first weekend outing he’d endured and it definitely wouldn’t be the last, but his heart felt a little lighter from having spent it in good company. With the bags heavy in their hands, they grabbed some food at a nearby burger place before calling it a day. He dropped Isobel home and drove to his usual night-time parking spot.

Climbing effortlessly onto the back of the truck, he looked inside the singular bag Isobel had gifted him. He’d come away with a new pair of boots, a few t-shirts and the cowboy hat. Nowhere near enough in Isobel’s opinion but after the reminder that he didn’t exactly have a closet right now she had conceded.

He shoved the bag into the corner and leant forward to pulled out the letter that had been burning a hole in his back pocket all day. He grimaced at the sight of it, with its crease down the middle and its crumpled edges. Isobel had ambushed him coming out of the Wild Pony before he’d had a chance to read it - or put it away - which meant it had been hidden in the only place available at the time.

As much as he loved her, he wasn’t quite ready to share it with her yet.

He unrolled his blanket and threw it around his shoulders, settling back against the truck before opening the envelope. He’d finally told Alex about the junkyard in his last letter and he’d been waiting to hear back for a few weeks now.

Dear Michael,

That’s amazing news about the job! You really are the best mechanic in the whole of Roswell so Sanders is lucky to have you.

You shouldn’t put yourself down though. You used to always be fixing things when I was back home (annoyingly effortlessly from what I remember) so to get paid for doing something you enjoy is kind of the dream, right?

Plus I’m sure the drivers of Roswell will be very grateful to have someone with two eyes checking their brakes are working correctly. I mean, should Sanders even be fixing cars anymore? I swear he can’t even see three inches in front of his face!

Speaking of work, I was thinking about the Emporium yesterday. Have you been inside recently? I wonder if they ever noticed the alien with its head on backwards. Still definitely your fault by the way.

I kind of miss that uniform too, even the visor. I have to wear my uniform all the time now and it’s nowhere near as comfortable. I feel like it’s becoming a part of me, like I’m never going to be able to go home after a long day and forget about everything for a while, it’s just always going to be there.

I’m sure I’ll get used it.

I think we’re being moved in a couple of weeks so I’ll give you my new address when that happens. But for now, I hope you’re okay.

Speak to you soon,

Alex.

Michael leant his head back and watched as the sun slowly began to set behind the trees.

Alex always knew how to make him feel a million different emotions at once. He felt an unfamiliar sense of pride at the praise Alex had offered but reading the boy’s words about his own work made Michael long to have him back with him, away from all the regimented days and looming risk of danger.

He couldn’t stop himself from grinning though, thinking back to the alien statue standing in the corner of the crop circle exhibit. That had been a good day. And yeah, it was definitely his fault.

He was about to put this latest letter away with the rest when an idea came to him. He grabbed the bag that Isobel had lovingly handed over and pulled out the shoebox that had been squeezed inside amongst the various clothes.

He ran his nail across the tape keeping the box sealed, breaking it easily in a single movement, and took off the lid.

He pulled out the new boots, followed by the scrunched up tissue paper intended to keep them somewhat preserved, until he was left with an empty box. It was a decent size, not too big that it would be a pain to store under the passenger seat and not too small that he would run out of space anytime soon.

He’d been keeping the letters in his glove compartment for now but it didn’t quite feel safe enough for something so precious. But this shoebox was perfect. 

He placed the letter inside before heading to the front of the truck and retrieving the rest, slotting them in neatly and closing the lid to keep them secure.

Tonight he’d sleep thinking about the last day he and Alex had shared in the UFO Emporium and as soon as the sun was up, he’d write his reply.

July 2009

Dear Alex,

You’ll never guess what happened today.

I’ve been working every shift Sanders will give me just to save up some cash and like some crazy act of luck an old airstream got dumped at the junkyard last week. It took some convincing but Sanders actually let me buy it off him!

It’s small and pretty run down but I figured it could be a fun project. I am very good with my hands, as you know.

It’s not as glamorous as a house or anything like that, but at least this way I can move out of my truck and into a place with an actual sink. Plus, I reckon I’m the smart one here. No rent to pay? Less space to clean? It’s perfect.

Do you think you’ll be able to visit Roswell soon? You’re probably working hard, getting your geek on and saving the world, but it’s been a while. A year actually, next month.

No pressure, but I look forward to the day I get to officially invite you inside my new place.

Stay safe out there.

Michael

Michael careful wrote his new address on the back, then sealed the envelope and left it by the door as a reminder to post the next time he was in town.

He hadn’t even started to unpack yet, his first priority being to share his big news. He figured that’s what he would have wanted to do if Alex was in Roswell anyway.

The airstream had been dumped a few days ago and though Michael wasn’t aware how much Sanders had paid the guy for it, he was pretty sure it must have cost more for Sanders than it had for Michael. Which was strange.

Since spending almost every day with Sanders, they had definitely worked up some form of workplace bond to some extent. Although some days, it was a wonder Michael could be bothered to engage in the conversations that were mainly a mix of complaints or disinterested grunts.

He must be rubbing off on the old man though because he had given away the airstream at a bargain.

As soon as he’d agreed it with Old Man Simmons that he could park it at Foster Ranch - along with the offer of earning his keep by working the land - he had brought all of his belongings inside and now the next task was to find a place for everything. There may not be much in the three boxes currently sitting on the bed, but they were his. They were the few things that he had been able to actually buy for himself over the past few years and really call his own.

And now that he had a home to put them in, he wanted to do it perfectly.

It felt bizarre to think about. His home. A place he could finally call his own. A place to cook and wash and sleep, safe from the cold and desert dust. The group homes and fosters parents of the past had never let him decorate his own space but now he had the opportunity to make everything his own.

And he knew exactly where to start. The clothes would go in the closet and the limited toiletries would be given their place in the bathroom. That was all obvious, another decision made for him.

But something he could choose for himself?

He picked up the shoebox and peaked inside. It had gained a few more letters since he had started filling it and they were all piled neatly in order.

Looking around, there were several places it could sit.

On the desk would make it the first thing he’d see coming home. But would therefore be the first thing Isobel and Max would go snooping through when they visited.

The drawers next to the closet would keep it safe but they were just too small for the box.

The closet itself felt too impersonal. Like he was hiding it away from himself as well as everyone else.

His eyes were drawn to the bed - his mind instantly jumping to the thought of him and Alex sharing it together - and then to the overhead compartment above it.

Lifting the latch, it popped open with a click and when Michael slid the box in, it fit perfectly. Safe, sealed and close to him where he would sleep.

Feeling happy about the very important decision, he closed the compartment.

Now, onto the rest.

November 2009

It had been a very quiet morning.

Sanders was away for a few days and he’d banned Michael from working in the junkyard without supervision after a recent accident that had pissed him off. He hadn’t meant for the hammer to hit the window of the Davis’ land rover, honest. He’d been aiming for the toolbox.

He’d get the old man to change his mind soon enough, but in the meantime what better place to spend the morning than in bed.

The recently bought sheets were soft against his bare chest as he stared up at the ceiling. The box was still tucked away in the cupboard above him, taken out frequently with every new visit from the mailman. It’s not like anyone else ever sent him post.

Alex had been getting very sappy in his letters recently, reminiscing about the previous summer. Though compared to the past year of writing, the days they had actually spent in each other’s company were few and far between.

It was practically the end of the school year when Michael had borrowed Alex’s guitar from the music room. A decision which he would never regret. And though they had barely spoken during their many years at the same school, when Alex had offered him shelter it hadn’t really mattered. They had clicked so instantly that the few months that they did manage to share felt like they spanned an eternity.

A lot of bad things happened that summer, but he’d do anything to go back just to relieve those good days again.

A knock at the door interrupted his daydream. He sat up, confused, and tried to peak through the newspaper taped to the window. He wasn’t expecting visitors and he couldn’t quite make out enough of the shape to work out who it was.

He rolled sleepily out of bed and grabbed yesterday’s pants, hopping the short distance to the door as he tried to yank them up.

Pushing the door open revealed a sight that had Michael’s breath catching in his throat.

The boy in front of him looked different. Gone was the dark eyeliner that used to frame his eyes and the nail varnish that would stand out against his skin. No more septum piercing or earring, and the chain that Michael would play with as they kissed was missing from his neck.

His hair was much shorter and so not him.

But he was here.

Alex was here. Standing in front of him. And Michael hadn’t said anything. Why wasn’t he saying anything? It was like his brain had short-circuited at the mere sight of the one person he’d been longing to see.

“Hi.” Alex nervously broke the silence, playing with the zip of his hoodie between his thumb and forefinger. “I hope you don’t mind me showing up like this.”

Mind? Did Alex really just ask that? He’d been dreaming of this moment for months now.

He also didn’t really know how to put that into words in his current state of shock, so he did the next best thing. He stepped down onto the dry ground and immediately pulled Alex into his arms. 

Alex took all of a second to reciprocate the hug as he melted against Michael’s chest.

It was cold outside, winter drawing to its peak and showing its first signs of snow, but being in Alex’s arms was the warmest he had felt in a while.

“You’re here.” Michael mumbled against Alex’s shoulder and he felt him chuckle.

“Well, I have a few days leave and I was promised an invite.” Alex replied softly.

Oh god. This was it, the official house warming personally tailored to Alex. And everything was a mess. Turns out getting a new place doesn’t stop old habits from taking hold and barely a week after he moved in there was paperwork all over the desk and clothes strewn across the bathroom floor. It hadn’t exactly gotten better since then.

Michael reluctantly broke the hug, bringing his hands down to gently link with Alex’s.

“It’s a bit of a mess.” He muttered playfully causing Alex to giggle, the enormity of the moment getting too much for him.

“I don’t mind.” 

Nodding to himself, Michael turned and led Alex into the airstream, waiting for the boy to close the door behind him before he spoke. “So, what do you think?”

“It’s…” Alex hesitated, glancing around at the cluttered desk and the half opened drawers and Michael felt so embarrassed. It looked so much worse than he remembered it being before he opened the door two minutes ago.

“I know it’s not much.” He offered grudgingly.

“No it’s…very you.” Alex said, smiling widely as he stepped closer. “I really like it.”

Really? Michael was going to ask. But it only took one look to get lost in Alex’s eyes and all words were suddenly forgotten.

Alex took another step to close the gap between them and slowly leant forward, his eyes not leaving Michael’s lips. Talking could come later, this is what they had really been missing.

It’s their smiles that touched first, excitement rushing through them making them giddy. But then as Michael’s lips parted and Alex leaned closer, it was as though time stood still. They had been waiting for this moment, longing for it for months.

Michael’s stomach fluttered at the familiar feeling of Alex’s hair under his fingertips, the soft lips against his own. He could practically feel Alex reflecting back at him every feeling of want and desperation that had occurred with every new letter and he had to half open his eyes to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

However long Alex was home for, Michael planned to make the most of every single second.

May 2010

Michael took another swig of beer as he watched the last rays of light disappear beyond the horizon. He had driven out into the desert hours ago with the strong desire to get so blackout drunk he wouldn’t be able to remember his own name.

He couldn’t do it at the Wild Pony with its many prying eyes and the airstream just felt too small tonight.  So instead, he had parked the truck at a spot that he and Alex used to frequent when they had wanted to be alone.

Alex had taken longer than usual to reply, but Michael understood - between the two of them, Alex’s duty to Uncle Sam would have to take precedence. It just made the warmth that each letter provided that much stronger.

But today’s letter was different and all the wrong feelings had taken root. Fear, sadness, loss. They were swirling around his mind and sitting on his chest and no amount of alcohol seemed to banish them.

Because for the first time since they had begun writing, the return address on the envelope had not read United States, but Afghanistan.

Michael had barely registered Alex’s words during the first read through with his imagination going into overdrive, but taking a deep breath he had sat on the bed and forced himself to focus.

I can’t really give you any details, Alex had said.

I’ll be okay, he was brave enough to promise.

But he couldn’t promise that. Not really. Michael had done his research over the past two years, frantically gathering every measly scrap of information that the search engine could offer. He had seen the number of deaths to come out of every combat zone, read the stories of those whose lives would never be the same again and had the nightmares of every worst possible outcome.

The Air Force doesn’t deploy as long as the Army, but every second that Alex was on war-torn soil increased the risk of him not making it home. It was going to happen at some point, Alex’s first overseas deployment. Michael had just really been hoping for Spain or Turkey. Not this.

He had convinced himself that he would be prepared. That he would be rational and calm and wouldn’t jump to conclusions or freak out. Clearly he was better at lying to himself than he realised.

He didn’t know why he was feeling so sorry for himself. He wasn’t the one being sent halfway across the world to dutifully serve his country. No, Michael was stuck at home, waiting for the outcome.

It was dark now, his mini camping lantern emitting the only glow of light, but he had plenty of beers to keep him going through the night. He’d reply tomorrow - or the day after once his head had cleared. But for now he just wanted to forget everything and let the world fall away.

And maybe if he was inebriated enough it would keep the nightmares at bay. 

August 2010

To anyone who asked, Michael was a stoic twenty year old who didn’t engage in something so pathetic as having emotions.

But to himself, he would reluctantly have to admit they often played a part in many of his life choices. 

Like the big choices that had been fuelled by pain and confusion, standing in the middle of the desert with his two remaining family members standing by. Or the smaller choices made in the dead of night encouraged by a sappy romantic notion he had witnessed in one of Isobel’s romcoms.

Small, but no less important.

Like the decision to fill a shoebox with dried petals to help rid it of the musty smell that often accompanied any container that had been closed for too long.

He dedicated an entire day to researching flowers, finding out how to preserve them and which ones gave off the best scent.

Hydrangeas were a strong contender. Their pastel hues of purple and blue would add a nice drop of colour to the box and they were one of the easiest flowers to preserve. But they would last less than a year and Michael didn’t want to run the risk of the petals flaking into a hundred pieces and ruining the box.

Chrysanthemums were next on the list. The drying method seemed simple enough and though the petals were fairly small, they came in a whole host of vibrant colours. They were also the official flower for mother’s day in Australia and though the country itself meant nothing to him, it would give the petals a bittersweet double meaning. A way of keeping two separate loves alive alongside each other. Everything about them seemed perfect and several nearby florists even had them in stock ready for him to collect that day but when he stumbled upon a website stating that they also symbolised death they were instantly scratched off the list.

Pansies or larkspurs or little cuttings of lavender were all possibilities but they just didn’t feel right.

He didn’t want to become a stereotypical old romantic but his mind kept wandering to the roses. The elegant petals would sit nicely atop the letters and the sweet, fresh scent would be a pleasant addition to the box. Their frequent association with all things love and romance fell alongside the lesser known connotation of secrecy and confidentiality, words that all seemed to sum up the box completely.

The drying process would take time but it would be time well spent. Not to mention the intricate symbolism linked with each soft colour would add an extra touch to the box.

Red was a given with its instant connection to love.

Pink meant grace and gratitude and though he most certainly lacked one, he was definitely filled with the other. Every letter that arrived at his door was further proof that Alex was still alive and as long as they kept coming he would be eternally grateful.

Oranges roses were the symbol of passion and enthusiasm and while you could definitely use both of those words in relation to the last time he had seen Alex, the letters felt more innocent than that.

That didn’t necessarily mean that white roses were the way to go though, with their implication of innocence and purity. Not even he could kid himself that much.

With his mind made up, he grabbed his hat and headed out to engage in a spot of criminal activity.

Was it technically a crime though to cut someone else’s flowers? I mean how could Mrs Wilson really own her rose bushes when they belonged to Mother Nature first.

He wouldn’t have even thought about taking someone else’s, but the internet had very clearly specified that home grown roses were much better than shop bought flowers and who was he to argue with that?

It was mid-morning on a Wednesday so no one was around to see him attack the hedge with some clippers. It would have been a lot easier to literally be a thief in the night, but roses were best picked before the midday sun had a chance to warm their delicate petals. Any later in the day and they would lose their fragrance, so daylight robbery was the way to go.

He snipped at the branches, grumbling as his fingers caught the sharp thorns protruding from the stems, and once he had retrieved the optimum amount of red and pink flowers he headed back to the airstream to begin the lengthy drying process.

It would take a few days but the outcome would be worth it.

February 2011

The sight of one man should not leave Michael freezing in his tracks. He was an alien for God's sake. A superior species with actual powers.

Who the hell was Jesse Manes compared to that? An old man with a limited wardrobe and receding hairline? A divorced father of four kids who hated him? A nameless soldier overshadowed by his peers?

No, Jesse Manes was a respected member of the community, known and loved by all. A loyal airman with several commendations under his belt. An intimidating man prepared to brutally disfigure the hand of a child and easily get away with it.

Why Alex would choose to follow in his footsteps he would never understand.

Michael hadn’t seen Alex’s father since the night in the toolshed. The night he ruined what, up until that point, had been a perfect day. And he destroyed so much more than Michael’s hand that night. He destroyed the memory of his and Alex’s first time together, the possibility of him using a guitar to quiet the world around him, the opportunity for a roof over his head.

He had destroyed the chance for Michael to heal and move on and gain some faith back in humanity.

And three years later, here he was across the street from Michael’s truck, sitting at the window of the Crashdown, keeping Michael frozen to his seat.

He was supposed to be meeting Max for lunch in ten minutes, but there was no way he could go inside now.

Maybe Alex’s father wouldn’t even remember him. He had only seen him one time, several years ago. He couldn’t possibly have committed Michael’s face to memory in the three minutes they had shared a space together. But then again, Michael couldn’t imagine he went around hitting kids with hammers all that often so maybe it had been a memorable night for him. 

Whether it had had impact on Jesse Manes or not, Michael still remembered it vividly.

The way the door slammed open and Alex flinched away from his touch. The quiver in Alex’s voice as Manes picked up the hammer. The sight of Alex whimpering as his father’s hand squeezed around his throat. The pain filled shout Michael could barely make out over the sound of his own bones cracking.

In shock and in agony, he vaguely recalls being thrown out of the shed and staggering to his truck, but admittedly that part was still blurry.

To this day though, he still didn’t know what happened to Alex once he’d gone. They had never really talked about that night, not properly at least. Alex had been very eager to check how his hand was healing or offer to take him to a doctor, but always reluctant to discuss what he’d endured.

In all honesty, Michael still didn’t know if Jesse had done anything to Alex but it was always his suspicion. He’d recognised the fury in the older man’s eyes to know that that anger needed an outlet and Michael’s hand probably hadn’t been enough.

His hand ached suddenly at the memory and he clenched it hard in a useless attempt to make it stop. It had been hurting a lot lately, seizing up and making it impossible to do anything.

Max had offered to heal it a number of times but he still refused. He’d tell himself that it was because of Alex. How would he explain a perfectly healed hand to the guy who had witnessed the brutality it had suffered?

But if he ever decided to admit the truth to himself, he’d accept that really it was all for self preservation. A constant reminder moulded under his skin of what humans were really like. A way of reminding him not to get too close to people, not to let them into his life.

Clearly, Alex was the exception to this rule and Michael honestly couldn’t explain why. Right from the start their connection had just been something else. Something unexplainable.

Feeling the panic starting to bubble in his chest, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He could text Max. The I’m held up at the junkyard excuse would keep him busy long enough for the police officer’s lunch break to end. He could dodge the bullet completely that way and just make it up to him tomorrow.

Or would that be like letting Jesse Manes win? What would he even be winning? There was no way that man remembered who Michael was.

Looking over to the window again, he watched as Alex’s father handed something to the waitress.

Was he really going to let his past trauma dictate where he could have lunch?

At the moment? Yes.

Sliding his phone out of his front pocket, he unlocked it quickly and opened the messenger app, his thumb hovering over Max’s name but then he had an idea.

He clicked on the little notepad icon and began to type.

Alex’s latest letter arrived last week and was still awaiting a reply and what better time to write one than when you’re freaking out slightly at the sight of a man who had once attacked you.

He barely noticed the autocorrect working hard to fix his many mistakes, he just needed to get the words out.

He didn’t mention Jesse, deciding to steer clear of the man entirely and focus on the positives instead. Alex was free from his father’s harsh rules and strict parenting for the time being so there was no point wasting his words on a man he most likely didn’t want to hear about.

It was overly sentimental and he’d probably edit it massively before writing it up, but for now he impulsively typed up everything he wanted to say. Everything he would say if Alex was sitting next to him right now.

 Dear Alex,

Glad to see that you’re stateside again, it stressed me out every day you were overseas.

I’m really happy that you’ve settled in with the work you’re doing and I’ve almost come to terms with the fact that your job is going to be dangerous at times, but that still doesn’t stop me worrying about it. And even after all this time you’ve been away, it’s still weird to not have you here. 

Everything has been reminding me of you recently, which is both beautiful and horrible because at least you’re here when you’re not here. But you’re not here and I really wish you were. Like when a song by that band you like comes on the radio, or if I walk past the Emporium, or I order a milkshake at the Crashdown or even just seeing Maria at the Wild Pony.

Max was telling me the other day about this kid who reported his guitar stolen and I couldn’t help but think back to when I stole yours. Well, I say stole, I promise I really was just borrowing it. I knew it was yours though and part of me definitely wanted you to find out that I had taken it, anything to get you to notice me. The offer of somewhere to sleep was completely unexpected though and proves just what a good person you are. I took your belongings and in return you gave me shelter and I don’t think I thanked you enough for that.

You’re in every corner of this town for me Alex and I know we didn’t have long but the time that we spent together before you left were some of the best days of my life.

I miss you.

Come back soon.

Michael

As he reached the last sentence, a knock on the passenger side window made him jump.

Max, in his uniform and hat, lifted his hand in a halfhearted wave and tilted his head towards the Crashdown as if to say are you coming?

A quick final glance through the window showed no sign of Jesse Manes and Michael slowly let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

September 2011

“This is a good look for you.” Michael whispered.

“What, naked?” Alex smiled softly, peering sleepily back at him. 

Michael began to lightly trail his hand down Alex’s chest, watching Alex close his eyes at the sensation. “Naked. In my bed.”

Alex had shown up at his doorstep late last night, this time with some warning in his latest letter, and they hadn’t wasted any time. So fuelled with longing and desire, Michael couldn’t remember a second of last night where their bodies hadn’t been touching.

Looking at Alex now, with his perfect bed head and sun kissed skin, Michael wasn’t sure he was going to be able to let him leave.

He did have something important to talk to Alex about though. Something they had never really discussed that had been leaving Michael feeling very confused lately. He was twenty-one years old having the awkward teenage thought of are we together or is this just a bit of fun? Is this guy my boyfriend? Can I even say the word boyfriend without freaking him out?

“There was something I meant to talk to you about last night-” He began, propping himself up on his elbow.

“Did we actually talk at all last night?”

“Are you complaining?”

“No.” Alex smiled, holding his lip between his teeth. “Go on, what did you want to say?”

“You know I do have a phone, right? An actual expensive one and everything thanks to Isobel buying it for me. So you can text me, instead of spending weeks waiting for a reply.”

Alex paused for a moment. How was it best to tell Michael without looking weak? How during Basic Training one nosy guy thought it would be fun to take his unlocked phone and look through his messages. How he was terrified of being outed that day and that fear had followed him through his few years of serving. How even though his letters are technically much easier to read, the lock on the box they were kept in is so thick you would need to have a bolt cutter handy to break it. Or the key, which was kept in a very secure location.

“There’s something more…personal, about writing a letter. ” He decided to go with. “Besides, phones can get hacked.” 

“Who the hell is gonna want to hack into your phone?”

Alex shrugged with a smirk, “I’m just saying, after learning what I have in training, hacking your phone right now would be a piece of cake.”

“Right, and these hackers would want to, what? Use all our discussions about broken alien statues and nights out in the desert against us.”

“There are some terrible people out there.” The fake sincerity in Alex’s eyes as he nodded his head made Michael chuckle.

Alex pushed himself up fully in the bed, letting the sheets pool around his naked hips. He leant forward and Michael didn’t need to be asked twice to drop the subject and meet him halfway. As much as he loved last night, their slow morning kisses were even better. Soft and all smiles, filled with the gratitude that they were still sharing this moment together.

“I’m sorry I was late last night, the move this week has been busier than I expected.” Alex whispered between pecks.

“It’s okay, I’m just glad you made it. Where are you based now?”

“Maryland. Probably just for a month or so though until I get more permanent orders.”

Leaning back, Michael could see the weariness in Alex’s eyes. He knew that being in the military was a hard job - even harder if you had been forced into it - and Michael hated just how much responsibility had been put on Alex’s young shoulders.

His eyes twinkled as he got an idea, a way of lightening Alex’s load for a few hours. “You fancy going out tonight?” 

Alex’s face dropped and Michael’s heart along with it. “Like, together?”

“No, I figured we’d go to different bars and get drunk separately.” Michael replied sarcastically. 

This is not what he had expected. Alex saying no to a night out? Fine, not a problem, wouldn’t have been that surprising of an answer. Maybe he doesn’t fancy a drink, maybe he’s just not into partying anymore.

But was Alex saying no to them going out together?

“Is it because of me?” Michael could hear the anger beginning to grow in his tone but he couldn’t help it. This conversation had flipped completely out of nowhere. “When I told you about the whole drunk cowboy reputation I’ve gained, it was meant to make you laugh. Not make you ashamed of me.”

“I’m not ashamed!” Alex defensively shook his head.

“Then what is it? Cos I like doing this Alex, but I need to know what it is that we’re actually doing, where we’re going with it. Are we going anywhere with it?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say Guerin! Things are complicated right now.”

I want you to say you want to be with me! I want you to tell me you love me as much as I love you! Michael hadn’t expected for this to turn into an argument, but he was prepared to cause one if it meant getting answers.

But as he took a breath, he looked at Alex. Like properly looked at him. He had grown up so much since they’d last seen each other. He’d changed so much. But for the first time he was the one who was looking unsure about what to say.

The defensive hunch of his shoulders, the nervous look in his eyes. It reminded Michael so much of when Alex had first told him he was leaving. And those goddamn hubcaps.

This was the second time he had caused that look in Alex’s eyes and if he never saw it again it would be too soon. He still had a few days before Alex was going to leave him again and he should be making the most of them instead of pushing him away.

If Alex was unsure of what they were doing then so be it. They would have to discuss it at some point this weekend, for Michael’s own sanity more than anything, but for now he would have to let it go if it meant keeping Alex happy.

January 2012

Earth wasn’t his home.

He knew that. He’s known that since he woke up in a glowing alien pod. But it’s only through life’s lessons over the years that he’s really learnt that.

He didn’t belong here, with an inferior species that enjoyed hurting others simply because of who they were. He’d seen it happen in shops and on the street. People targeted for being different. It was such a human response and he shuddered at the thought of what it meant for them if their secret ever came out.

And who was keeping him here? Max and Isobel? Alex?

Him and Isobel were close, but she had her own life. Parents that loved her, a boyfriend she was besotted with. She didn’t need Michael hanging around, bringing her down.

His feelings on Max were like a sliding scale of rage. The other man had been acting like his father for most of his life, telling him what to do and how to live. Max says they should cover up Rosa’s death. Max says they should keep what they are a secret. Max, with his fancy job and respected standing in society. Michael didn’t need his help anymore or his pity.

And then there was Alex. The boy who made him believe there was a place for him on Earth. But now, Michael wasn’t so sure.The last time he had seen Alex in person, things hadn’t ended that great and though they’ve still been writing to each other, something had definitely changed. They had changed.

Michael reminded himself of all this as he climbed down the stairs into the junkyard’s fallout shelter.

He had discovered the hidden bunker one day after slipping away from Sanders during work hours to hunt for some more copper wire. The opening had been covered by a beaten up truck that had been sitting in the junkyard for years, he wasn’t sure if the old man even knew it was down there.

From that day on he had claimed it as his own, making sure it was covered every time he left.

His collection had started off small. A few legit pieces of alien artefact that he had stolen from the Emporium and the odd dark web purchase, but after a few stealthy ventures to the UFO crash site he had begun to discover even more fragments. Considering the people of Roswell had been obsessing over the crash since 1947, Michael was honestly surprised that not every piece of the ship had been excavated already.

Luckily for him, his latest night time search in the desert had proven successful and he had made it back to the bunker with two small glowing pieces.

Building up the secret bunker’s workshop had taken time and a few stolen supplies, but now there were tools and shelves and bulbs in the mismatched lighting decor that had thankfully already been installed.

Littering the worktops were sketches and blueprints of the measurements and calculations he had spent months working on. There were spools of tubing and a portable generator sitting on the shelf. But his prized possession resting on one of the tables was his slowly forming alien spaceship. He was pretty sure what he was building was the console, but maybe one day it would turn into the entire spacecraft.

Covered in alien symbols and shimmering to the touch, it could be his way off of this stupid planet.

Michael gently took the pieces out of his pocket and held them close to the ship. One did nothing, staying stubbornly in his palm, but the other rose into the air and delicately travelled to one of the broken sides, a faint blue glistening the surface as the sharp edges knitted together like they had never been broken. 

Placing the remaining piece on the table, Michael sighed. One day he would find all the pieces and finish this. And when that day came, there would be nothing to keep him here.

October 2012

“You’re staying whether you like it or not.” Isobel gave him a pointed look as she rummaged through the crates of decorations piled on the table in front of her. 

“Yeah Michael, it’ll be fun.” Max said enthusiastically, holding a fist under his chin and batting his eyelids. A move they had both seen Isobel pull several times when mocking her mother. 

She smacked Max on the arm, furious that he would belittle all of her hard work, before shoving a large plastic box into his chest. “The crop circle exhibit needs more bats.”

Her brother took the box with an exaggerated sigh but obliged nevertheless. He had learnt long ago that when Isobel was running things you either got on with it or got the hell out of her way. 

With one brother now busy, she moved onto the next. “Right, there’s a few banners that need putting up and then you can go get changed.”

Her demand was met with silence which worried Isobel greatly and when she glanced up from her checklist, she didn’t appreciate the confused look in Michael’s eyes. “Please tell me you have a costume. It’s Halloween Michael!”

“I didn’t exactly plan on staying, Isobel!” he retaliated. He’d been asked to come and fix the glitchy projector in the knock-off Men In Black room, not spend all night with a bunch of people he didn’t know, surrounded by dumb gimmicky aliens. “Why did you choose to have it here anyway? Isn’t it a bit degrading to us as a species?” 

“I didn’t choose it. The Emporium wanted a Halloween event and I’m just part of the committee running it.” She ticked off another item on her list, not rising to his provocation. “Now, go help Max.”

Accepting an easy defeat, Michael took the closest pile of decorations and headed to the exhibit. There were several people milling around each room of the Emporium, all engaged in one task or another. A group of middle aged women were rigorously dusting the artefact cabinets and two guys he vaguely recognised from around town were fixing lighting rigs to the ceiling. 

His heart skipped a beat as he reached the UFO room, his eyes drawn immediately to the spot where he and Alex shared their first kiss. He had been so nervous that day, tentatively grabbing the other boy’s face before he could talk himself out of it, praying that Alex wouldn’t pull away.

Through the red fabric curtains at the back of the room was the crop circle exhibit. It was completely empty of people save for Max attempting to loop a small fuzzy bat around one of the hanging lights.

Taking pity on him, Michael willed the creature to float the extra few inches and fasten itself around the wire. It had been a while since he’d used his powers in a public setting and it gave him such a rush to get away with it unseen. It was quite embarrassing really. It’s not like he was committing a crime in the middle of a police station. Unless you were looking closely, the fact that some objects floated when he was nearby was actually surprisingly easy to miss.

Max’s head immediately whipped round, eyes wide with trepidation. “Dude, what if someone walks in?”

“Chill, Deputy. We’re safe.” Michael rolled his eyes as he began to stroll around the room. He hadn’t been in here since Alex’s last day and literally nothing had changed. I mean, fair enough, there hadn’t exactly been any more alien encounters since then to add to the exhibition. But they could have put some effort in and switched things up a bit.

As he turned to speak to Max his foot caught something, but without hesitation his telekinesis acted fast to catch the alien statue mid-fall. Settling it back on its two feet with his mind, Michael chuckled to himself as he realised exactly what it was that he had knocked over. Turns out the little guy did still have his head on backwards.

It had been four years since Alex’s last day working the ticket booth, when they had sneaked inside during his lunch break to passionately kiss in the dark corners of the museum. If Michael hadn’t been so distracted that day he would have caught the alien before it had a chance to decapitate itself and ruin his make out session.

They had frantically tried to re-attach it, getting their fingers covered in the glue. But alas, as an excitable eighteen year old, Michael had been too focused on the boy he was with to notice he was putting the head on backwards.

Four years and nobody had dealt with the owl impersonating alien. The Emporium really was going downhill.

“You know, if you don’t want to stay I’ll cover for you with her majesty.” Max interrupted his thoughts as he took a banner from the pile still bunched in Michael’s arms and surveyed the room to decide where best to hang it.

“Nah, it’s alright. Can’t leave you without a wingman, can I?” Michael playfully raised an eyebrow as he dumped the pile on the floor and grabbed the other end of the banner.

“I’m serious Michael. You don’t actually have to do as she says you know.” Max grinned at him, hooking his side onto one of the picture frames hanging on the wall and watching Michael do the same.

Michael looked over at his friend. When the day began he had planned to end it in the airstream, drunk on whiskey and in bed with a beautiful stranger. But standing in front of him was his chance to do something different for a change, to spend some time with the only family he had left and maybe even remember it all in the morning.

“I know. But maybe you’re right. It could be fun.”

March 2013

So it was letters like these that made Michael feel guilty about how he’d been spending his time. Or more specifically who he’d been spending his time with.

For the first time in years he could go entire weeks without thinking of Alex once and the odd drunken hookup definitely helped to keep his mind off the boy who barely wrote to him anymore.

It had become a recurring thing for him, much to the chagrin of Isobel who vehemently disapproved of his life choices. She couldn’t understand why Michael wouldn’t want to find someone special and settle down with them. But he wouldn’t expect any less from the girl who was so head over heels in love with her boyfriend.

Isobel had Noah, and Michael?

Michael had Vicky. Last night.

They met at the Pony, as these stories often started for him, and had enjoyed a very long, very sensual night together within the small confines of the airstream.

She made him coffee in the morning, engaged in an appropriate amount of small talk, then left. A perfect night by all accounts, so why couldn’t the rest of his day be perfect too?

When the mailman loudly interrupted his work on his latest batch of sketches he had been tempted not to answer. When he immediately recognised Alex’s handwriting on the front of the envelope he had been very tempted not to open it.

One day he would stop giving in to his feelings for Alex. Today was not that day.

Dear Michael,

I saw someone die today.

I feel kind of numb right now which doesn’t seem right to me, but it’s like I can’t tell what emotion I should be feeling, so I’m just hoping that getting the words onto paper might help get them out of my head.

I don’t know whether I’m supposed to have been prepared for it or not, I mean it’s an occupational hazard that I signed up for so I should be fine, right? I’ve been in Iraq for almost two months now, on my second deployment, and yet this is the first time I’ve actually seen someone get killed right in front of me. So does that make me lucky to have gone this long without it happening?

I could have saved him. If I had just been closer, if I had gotten there quicker, he probably wouldn’t have died. But then if I was closer I probably wouldn’t be writing this right now so I guess I am the lucky one.

I hadn’t known him long but he was a good kid, always hard at work, always looking out for everyone. He was younger than me.

The guys are so quiet. Nobody knows what to do with themselves and this bit I’m strangely used to. It’s not the first time someone I know has been killed and things can’t come to a stop while we’re out here no matter the circumstances. But for a short while after something like this happens it’s like the light inside of everyone just disappears. Like we’re reminded all over again of how quickly things can change here.

We’ll be okay though, we’ll pick each other up and move on. But we’ll never forget him.

They’ll never forget his service. And I’ll never forget what I saw.

I’m sorry, it’s selfish to burden you with this but I just really needed to tell someone.

Hope everything is okay in Roswell.

Stay safe,

Alex.

And just like that Michael was drawn back into the little Alex loving bubble he had been desperately trying to pop.

Stay safe. He writes an entire letter about seeing someone die and he tells Michael to stay safe. And if that didn’t sum up Alex he didn’t know what did. Always trying to look out for other people, even if it hurts him.

Michael re-read the line about being quicker, being closer and something tightens in his chest. He could still remember how guilty Alex had felt after the incident in the toolshed all those years ago, so Michael knew exactly how much Alex would be putting his colleague’s death on his shoulders right now. And if he had been close enough to help, Michael was well aware of how willingly he would have sacrificed himself to keep his teammates safe.

He didn’t even know that Alex was in Iraq. Their communication had slowed so much recently and this entire time Michael had chalked it up to him no longer wanting to keep in contact but maybe this was why he hadn’t been writing.

It reminded him yet again of how little he really knew about Alex’s job and the things he had to face. As much as he would love it, he could hardly expect constant letters with updates of every little part of Alex’s life.

But he could support him. From the safety of his airstream where there were no bullets flying and people dying around him, he could listen to what Alex had to say no matter how long it took to arrive.

His sleeping around had been a poor attempt of cleansing Alex and the war he was fighting from his mind, but Alex would never get that luxury. Not until he was out of the Air Force and back home at least.

The fear of Alex dying was at the forefront of his thoughts once more, but maybe it was a good thing - the kind of fear that propels you forward and gives you hope that things will change. Habits were hard to break but maybe he would take Isobel’s advice and wait for his someone special to make it home.

August 2013

Friday night at the Wild Pony brought out all manner of locals. Friends reuniting after being away for months, married couples taking the time to cool off after a long week at work, the happy drunks, the racist drunks, and already at the bar being served his first drink of the evening, the lonely cowboy.

Max’s shift didn’t end for another hour, but Michael figured there wouldn’t be any harm in getting to the Pony early. He had a higher tolerance than Max anyway so it was better to get a head start.

As he was lifting his first alcohol filled glass to his lips he heard the voice of someone he hadn’t seen in five years. He barely suppressed a groan as he sneaked a glimpse to his left.

“More tequila’s please, Maria.” The man’s voice dripped with confidence.

Michael watched as he placed a tray of empty shot glasses on the bar top before leaning forward, his forearms dropping heavily onto the wood.

Maria took the tray with a smile and got to work.

“Guerin. Still in Roswell, I see.” He said casually, turning to look at Michael. 

“Valenti. Still a dick, I see.” Michael replied, giving his best fake smile.

Kyle’s brow furrowed in surprise at the attitude being directed towards him. He must have remembered Michael’s reputation from school, but he clearly hadn’t expected to be on the receiving end of it half a decade later.

“How have you been?” He continued regardless, somewhat optimistic in the face of Michael’s pre-drunk demeanour. Maria unscrewed the bottle cap and Michael could see her watching them carefully as if they were the main feature of her Wild Pony nature documentary.

“Since when do you care?” Michael remarked tightly, smile still plastered on his face and when Kyle scoffed and looked away, Michael was almost disappointed. The guy from high school would have had him on his ass by now.

“Whatever.” Kyle muttered just as Maria filled the last glass. He slapped some money onto the bar, sliding it forward to meet Maria’s waiting hand and she took it gratefully, put it straight in the till.

“See you around.” He spoke to no-one in particular before leaving with the tray, though not fast enough in Michael’s opinion.

Maria rolled her eyes as she put the tequila bottle back on the shelf. “What did Kyle ever do to you?”

“Do you not remember him in high school?” Michael asked, glancing over his shoulder at where Kyle was handing out the shot glasses round the table. It wasn’t a surprise to see that he was still Mr Popular with the big group of friends.

“Oh no, I remember him. I just don’t remember you ever talking to him.”

“Didn’t have to talk to him to know he was an asshole.” Michael muttered as he downed the last of his drink.

He’d witness enough of his taunting to know exactly what kind of person Kyle Valenti was. He was the cliche jock surrounded by a constant posse of football players, using his popularity to get away with bullying innocent kids.

Nerdy kids whose fear of authority and eagerness to please everyone would be taken advantage of.

Poor kids whose worn down shoes and too small clothes would be an instant target on their backs.

Gay kids who did absolutely nothing to deserve the brunt of Kyle’s torment for so many years. Gay kids who could also pack a mean punch when it really came down to it. 

Kyle had made it his mission in high school to ruin Alex’s life and Michael would never forgive him for it. Simple as that.

“What is he even doing here anyway?”

Maria picked up the closest bottle of whiskey and refilled his glass. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or embarrassed at how well she knew his drinking habits.

“He’s been travelling to visit family but now he’s back for a few weeks to see some friends before his next year of med school starts.” Maria answered easily, letting out a huff of laughter as Michael narrowed his eyes in confusion. “When you’re this side of the bar, people tell you everything…like I’m sure you’ll be doing soon enough.”

Michael smirked as he took another swig of whiskey. It burned in his chest before settling uneasily in his stomach. “You love it Deluca, don’t try and deny it.”

Taking another look behind him, Michael watched as Kyle spoke, gesturing wildly with his arms as his words held the attention of everyone circled around him. He looked no different from high school, same dark quiff styled neatly with gel, same bulging muscles on show under his tight fitting top, same punchable face.

Watching Alex take a swing at Kyle during prom had been a very proud moment for Michael - and he had barely even known Alex by that point. If he hadn’t been worried that Alex would get hurt, Michael would have gladly watched him punch Kyle for the rest of the evening.

“I think he’s changed, you know.” Maria interrupted his thoughts as she wiped down the bar top in front of him. Her bracelets jangled noisily with every movement. “College has been good for him.”

Michael watched as she ran her necklace between her fingers and went about collecting the empty beer bottles sitting at the end of the bar. “Kyle Valenti will never change.” 

Deep down a tiny part of him would admit that Maria was right. Since leaving high school everyone he’s known has changed in some way or another - normally for the better as they grow out of their ignorant, childish ways. But he just couldn’t imagine golden boy Kyle Valenti turning his life around that much. And even though one day Alex, with his heart of gold, will probably end up forgiving Kyle, Michael never would.

June 2014

“I’m just saying, if Noah expects me to take it easy with this wedding organisation, he’s got another thing coming.” Isobel spoke animatedly as the three of them walked down the street. “I am practically the unofficial Roswell party planning committee after all.”

“Isn’t a committee normally a group of people?” Max quizzed, moving out of the way for a little boy on his bike that was riding towards them.

“Not what you’re supposed to be taking from this conversation, Max.” Isobel glared at him. “I got proposed to guys!”

“Yeah, we got that from the first fifty times you told us.” Michael remarked, righting the cowboy hat that had slipped down on his head.

“Well, I’m allowed to be excited!”

Max gave his sister a fond smile. “Of course you are. But I think any more wedding talk today will literally melt Michael’s brain.”

It had been over a week since Noah had gotten down on one knee and Max and Michael had heard every possible recounting of the evening along with every guest list suggestion, every wedding hairstyle idea, even every floral arrangement possibility. As a couple, they had barely had a chance to set a date, yet Isobel was now firmly stuck in wedding planner mode.

It was Max who had put forward that the three of them meet up. It was his first day off after a busy week of shifts and it was warm out, though the suggestion to make the most of the sun was also a ploy to force Isobel to take a break from her obsessing. But unfortunately the wedding seemed to have followed them.

It didn’t really bother them though as they strolled through town, soaking up the warmth of the rays and enjoying each other’s company. Isobel was happy and in love and it was exactly what she deserved.

As they neared the end of the road, they reached the Crashdown. The cafe was a hubbub of happy, smiling customers and servers in their uniforms and antennae, but it was hard to miss the derogatory, racist words spray painted across the windows. Michael didn’t envy the poor waiter who was desperately scrubbing at them with soapy water.

Every year on the anniversary of Rosa Ortecho’s death the Crashdown was vandalised and every year it hurt more and more to witness.

Arturo Ortecho didn’t deserve the hate he got because of what happened to his daughter. He didn’t deserve for his livelihood, his home to be wrecked every year because of a choice Isobel made. A choice they all made.

After the fateful night six years ago, they had sworn to each other they would not set foot in the Crashdown again, to separate themselves from the Ortecho’s completely. But over the years, whether it be from guilt or concern, they had never been able to keep that promise.

“Let’s go in,” Max said after a moment of staring inside.

“Max-” Michael warned. He was all for keeping up appearances but today of all days they ought to be keeping a low profile when it came to the Crashdown.

“We should show our support. It’s the least we can do.” Max turned to look at him pointedly. And as much as Michael hated it, he was right. They had managed to keep the events of that night a secret for so long now. Avoiding the place once a year wasn’t really going to have as big an impact as they liked to think it would.

And being the cause of Mr Ortecho’s suffering, it was the least they could do.

Entering with a smile, they found a booth in the corner and Michael was made designated ‘seat saver’ as Max and Isobel went up to the counter. They all knew each other’s orders off by heart, but neither sibling wanted to run the risk of potentially running into Arturo alone for fear of not knowing what to say.

Michael watched as the waiter outside finished with one window and moved onto the next.

He was lucky in a way. He could go months without thinking about what they chose to do to those three girls. How they covered up the murders and framed an innocent for it. He doubted Arturo ever had the pleasure of forgetting about the death of his eldest daughter.

And now, as he tried to forget once more about certain events of that night, his mind was drawn to the other life changing incident and his worry for Alex reignited all over again. He had been able to protect Alex from his father back then, but whilst they were on two separate continents, Michael was powerless.

Not that he thought Alex needed his protection. Michael knew just how strong he was, but the job of an airman was unpredictable.

In an attempt to calm his mind, he thought back to the letter he had received yesterday and tried to recall the words it contained.

Dear Michael,

I can’t believe you managed to find work on Mr Anderson’s ranch! Or more specifically, I can’t believe he willingly hired you after the amount of trouble you caused him. I’m guessing you didn’t tell him that it was you that drove straight through his crop field or let all those horses out when we were younger? Because you know as well as I do, that man holds a grudge.

I’m glad you’re finding all this work. I used to worry that you wouldn’t realise how skilled you were so it’s nice to hear that people are actually appreciating your hard work.

I’ve spent the past week updating security measures here and the all-nighters are reminding me of high school before a math test or something. I think I actually used to go days without sleeping sometimes if I was trying to cram in revision and I honestly don’t know how I managed it back then. Teenage me was obviously a lot stronger.

There’s rumours that we could be heading back to North Dakota next month, but I’m not getting my hopes up. Germany’s not too bad, the people have been great and the food is delicious. On our down days we’ve been going to this cafe just outside of base. They have this type of iced coffee that tastes amazing and I’ve definitely had it far too much judging by the amount of teasing I get from my team every time I order it.

As nice as it is here though, it would be good to be back on home soil. I feel like I’ve been away from America for so long.

I’ll let you know if we do end up moving bases and maybe I’ll visit Roswell again soon.

Hope you’re okay.

From,

Alex.

Michael was pulled out of his thoughts as Max and Isobel took their seats. They were bickering about something or other and the familiarity forced all his worries to the back of his mind.

Alex would be home soon and Michael would be able to hold him in his arms and everything would be alright. And for now, he would make the most of his time with the rest of his family.

October 2014

Michael was warming himself by the fire when a car pulled up by the airstream. He had managed to find the old burn barrel at the junkyard a few months ago along with some mismatched chairs and lighting the fire had become a calming night time occurrence for him.

He brought the beer bottle to his lips and took a sip, wordlessly watching as Alex stepped out of the car and wandered over to him. He wasn’t sure why Alex was even here. The letters had been getting infrequent again, the enthusiasm dwindling, and Michael had been starting to suspect that their hearts were just no longer in it.

Alex had informed him that he was on leave for a few days and Michael had been happy, excited even. But at some point between this morning - where he had been frantically trying to calm his nerves as he tided up the place - to this evening, something had changed. He’d managed to overthink everything he’d been wanting to say to Alex for a long time now.

“Hey.” Alex smiled politely as he came to a stop by the fire. If he thought it strange that Michael hadn’t greeted him he didn’t mention it, but he did pause, hands clasped behind his back, almost waiting for permission to take a seat.

Michael took another gulp of beer, watching Alex carefully. “You can sit down you know.”

Alex didn’t need to be told twice, dropping into the seat closest to him. He looked older, the years of service catching up on him, hardening him against all that he had seen. 

“How have you been?” He asked. His voice was calm but Michael could see the wariness in his eyes. So he had noticed Michael’s rather frosty welcoming.

“Same as always.” Michael muttered, looking off into the distance.

“Are you okay-”

“What are you doing here, Alex?” Michael blurted out before he lost the nerve.

Alex’s eyes widened at the outburst, “Sorry, I thought you said I could drop by when I got back.”

“Okay fine, what are we doing here?” Michael rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh, “I mean this thing we’re doing, is it real or just some hookup for when you come home?”

Alex recoiled at the accusation and Michael could feel the guilt creeping in once more at the hurt in Alex’s eyes. Okay so maybe that was a bit harsh, but there was no point dragging out this conversation for the next three days. Plus, he suspected his veins were filled more of alcohol than blood right now and when he was on a roll there was no stopping him.

“Last time you were here I tried to have this conversation with you and we got nowhere. That was years ago and we’re still dancing around it.”

“You know it’s not like that. The sex I mean. I don’t come here just to sleep with you, I come to see you.” The fire crackled loudly, the flames casting an orange glow over Alex as he spoke. “I’m sorry I haven’t been writing much lately. Your letters mean everything to me and I like doing this with you, but I just…”

“Just what?” Michael demanded. He could see Alex take a breath as he tried to word the next sentence correctly in his head.

“Anything could happen while I’m in the Air Force and I just don’t think you should pin your hopes on this.”

If Michael could stop with the tunnel vision for two seconds he would realise that Alex was trying to protect him, but all he heard was that Alex didn’t want to be with him, not properly at least. Not as his boyfriend, his partner, his other half.

Michael didn’t have an answer and Alex had no more to add.

They had barely spent five minutes in each other’s company after years apart and they’d already been rendered quiet. It isn’t how either of them had expected it to go. They sat in the uncomfortable silence, their gazes fixed on the fire but barely registering the flames licking the air. Neither wanted to make the first move.

The beautiful boy he had been in love with since they were seventeen had practically just told him that they would never be together and instead of feeling sad or desperate, Michael fell back to his default emotion. He was filled with so much anger he could practically feel it burning under his skin.

The moment he kissed Alex in the museum all those years ago he had seen the future they could have together, but now, in the cool autumn evening as he watched the tips of the flames reaching up to the sky, that dream was crumbling.

“Do you want me to go?” Alex asked faintly after a few minutes.

Yes! If you walk away now then I’ll have my final answer and it will make all of this so much easier.

“No.”

Alex had only just gotten there and as pissed off as Michael felt, the thought of him leaving again suddenly hurt like hell. “I miss you.” He whispered, struggling to make eye contact at the admission.

In his peripheral vision he could see Alex pause uneasily, almost waiting for another outburst, and when none came the airman replied with a wary smile. “Me too.”

May 2015

Another soda can went flying into the air and Max shot it down with trained precision. It almost hit Isobel on the way down who couldn’t hold back a squeal as she moved out of the way.

“I can’t believe you dragged me out here for this.” She huffed at the boys as she righted herself in the chair. Her plans for the weekend had involved shopping, TV and sleeping. It had been a long week and it was what she deserved. Instead, she was getting sand in her shoes and cans flung towards her face.

“You’re the one who said we should practice using our powers more.” Michael smirked, concentrating on the unopened can sitting on the desk inside the airstream. With barely any effort, he watched as it floated through the doorway and over towards Isobel.

“That was an excuse to get into Old Man Simmons’ head and you know it.” She narrowed his eyes at him but grabbed the can anyway. “Besides, isn’t there a more productive way to train?”

“What are you talking about? We used to do this all the time.” Max lifted the gun and signalled for Michael to throw the next can into the air.

“Yeah, when we were like seventeen. Don’t know if you noticed but we’re not kids anymore.”

“Tell me about it. Did you know Sheriff Valenti let me assist on another murder case last week. She said I’m showing potential.” 

“Bit of a morbid thing to brag about there, Deputy.” Michael grinned as he used his power to send the next can flying, trying to catch Max off guard with its speed. Max was too slow to hit it during its ascent, but before it touched the ground he had sent a bullet clean through it.

Michael whistled in amazement and clapped Max on the back. They may be adults now but hitting a target was just as exciting as when they were kids.

Isobel was less than impressed if the furrowed brow was anything to go by. She honestly couldn’t understand the desire to shoot things. “Great, you hit it. Can I go now?”

She made a point of checking the time on her phone with a sigh and Max gave Michael such a sibling look. The kind of look that clearly conveyed annoyance, irritation and the simple question of will she ever stop complaining.

“Will you lighten up Iz, it’s just a bit of fun.” Michael rolled his eyes dramatically. “Now hurry up and drink that, we’re gonna need it soon.”

He was about the throw another can when he noticed a white van driving up the path, recognising it immediately. He felt bad for the guy, having to come out to the middle of nowhere every month or so just to drop off a single letter.

He walked over to meet the mailman as he parked in front of them and gratefully took the letter passed to him through the open window.

“Who the hell is sending you mail?” Isobel leaned forward in her chair as the van drove off and Michael was worried for a second that she would get up and take it from him before he could stop her. She never did have good impulse control.

“It’s probably just junk.” He said dismissively, staring down at his name and address. He didn’t need to open it to know who it was from. He had literally never received a single letter from anyone else in his life.

He tried to plaster on his best nonchalant face as he jogged over to the airstream and prayed that the others wouldn’t ask questions. “It’s fine, I’ll check it later.”

Bypassing every surface entirely, knowing full well that if Isobel saw it on the desk she would open it, he opened the compartment above his bed. The cupboard had gotten more crowded over the years, but the shoebox still had its special little place inside. He looked down at the letter in his hand one more time, debating whether to just rip it open then and there, before sliding it on top of the box.

He’d read it later when he wasn’t busy.

September 2015

“Ahh Deluca. It’s been while.” Michael grinned as he took a seat at the bar. It was early evening on a Friday so the place was pretty packed, but luckily for him there was always a stool empty.

Maria grabbed a glass from the rack and the bottle of whiskey from behind her and began pouring. There were other servers behind the bar so she could afford to take her time conversing with this particular regular.

“Yes, surprisingly I did notice your absence from my bar recently and honestly I’m not sure who that looks worse for.”

“You. Definitely you.” Michael said dryly as he picked up the nearest coaster and began to twirl it between his fingers. “Besides if you were that desperate to see my ruggedly handsome face you wouldn’t have skipped your shift last Friday.”

“The fact that you know my shift pattern is not a good look for you Guerin.” Maria raised her eyebrows with a smirk. “Besides, I’m allowed a night off every now and then.”

“Oh yeah? To do what? Paint your nails? Have a nice little bubble bath? Some other girl related activity?”

“To see a friend actually. Because I have those.”

“You keep telling yourself that.” He muttered playfully and she moved forward to dramatically knock the coaster out of his hand.

“We had a lovely time, thank you for asking. He hasn’t been back home in ages so we decided to make a weekend of it.”

Michael froze at her words. There was really only one person she could be talking about but he asked the question anyway. “What friend is this?”

“Alex? Manes? He went to school with us. Former emo kid turned airman.” 

Michael’s mouth suddenly felt very dry and he couldn’t get his words out. He grabbed the drink that Maria had poured and took a large gulp. “Alex was here?”

“Yeah he had a few days leave so he came to see me. It was really sweet of him, I mean he’s worked hard for that time off and he could literally do anything with it but he chose to come here. I think he was missing home a bit actually.”

Michael bit his lip, almost enough to draw blood. He was suddenly filled with so much hurt he didn’t know what to do with it. “Was he okay?”

“Yeah. I think his work has been a bit tough recently but he seemed happy.” Maria smiled gently.

Seemed happy? Did that mean Alex was happy because he was home? Or because he was spending his time with someone other than Michael?

Michael was glad he was happy, of course he was glad. Alex’s happiness is all he’s ever wanted. And of course, he has a right to visit other friends, it was never Michael’s place to tell him not to. Even when he had stayed with Michael in the past, he had always made time to say hello to other friends before he had to leave again.

But this time he hadn’t even mentioned to Michael that he was coming home. Not a single word in any of the intermittent letters.

And maybe Michael was to blame. The last time they had seen each other hadn’t exactly been perfect. And recently he’d been putting off replying for weeks which Alex must have noticed. But he still always replied in the end! So that must have meant something, right? It must have proven to Alex that he still cared, that he would still want to spend time with him.

There was no way Alex could have known that he would find out. Michael had never properly mentioned the little love-hate friendship he had struck up with Maria over the years, so really Alex could never have predicted this. And that’s probably what he had wanted, to spend time in Roswell under the radar, away from Michael.

Should he be angry about this? Was he angry? Yes. He was probably being overdramatic but this seemed like the final nail in the coffin of their unspoken relationship.

Suddenly, he had the desperate urge to take his mind off everything he’d just heard so without thinking he turned to what he did best. Paying Maria half of what he owed for the drink, he locked eyes with a cute girl at the other end of the bar and eagerly slid off the stool, ready to make a night of it.

January 2016

Isobel grabbed his face and kissed him on the cheek before he could stop her. The fireworks exploding into a hundred sparks above their heads were loud, but the cheering from the mass of people crowded outside of the Pony seemed louder.

“Happy New Year!!” Isobel practically screamed in his ear before turning to plant an overly enthusiastic kiss on Noah’s lips. This was probably the most drunk he had ever seen Isobel and every second of it was brilliant.

Max clapped a hand on Michael’s back and they tapped glasses in a less enthusiastic celebration. When Michael had suggested that the four of them go to the Wild Pony for New Year’s he had expected to be shot down instantly, but now that they were here he was glad they had actually agreed.

It had been a good night. There was plenty of alcohol, loud music and he’d won several games of pool - all without using his powers! Even Deluca had seemed almost happy to see him but he put that down to the Christmas spirit she’d been radiating for the past week.

Watching the fireworks felt like such a cliche way to end it. It was perfect. The colours lit up the sky, the bright blues and pinks of the explosions reminding him of the alien console that was slowly coming together beneath the earth of the junkyard and the booms were so powerful he could practically feel them reverberating in his chest.

He had drunk far too much to be able to quite remember how he made it home, but closing the door behind him, he noticed how lonely the airstream felt after spending the evening in a crowd of people. 

He threw his hat onto the desk and his shoes into the nearest corner and dropped onto the bed with a sigh. He clenched his left fist a few times as the ache became noticeable again. Even after all these years, the cold weather still wreaked havoc with his injury, making it cramp or stiffen up at the worst times.

As he stared up at the ceiling he had an idea. A truly terrible idea. And if he was sober he would have realised that, but sensible Michael had taken a break for the night.

He rolled off the bed and stumbled the short distance to his desk. For a messy person, his supplies were surprisingly organised with the paper stacked in one draw and a few envelopes scattered in another. He grabbed the closest pen to him and tested it worked on a scrap design that he hadn’t had the heart to throw away yet.

His uneven lettering would probably give away his drunken state but he didn’t care. This was probably the most honest he would ever be with Alex so why not take advantage of that.

Dear Alex,

I guess I should wish you a happy new year.

You know we’ve never spent a new years together? I know you’re really busy in your super important job but it would have been nice for you to celebrate it at home one year. Or maybe you did and you just didn’t tell me.

I’ve been thinking about leaving Roswell. 2016 has officially begun and I’m stuck doing the same thing I’ve been doing my entire life, living in some tiny metal box and getting paid a measly amount at a job I only half show up to.

So maybe I should just leave. Get out of the town that’s filled with heaps of bad memories. Like all the shit that happened with Max and Isobel, all the stuff with your dad. Everywhere I look in this town has been tainted by bad people and bad choices.

So you know what they say, new year, new start.

I might go to Vegas and try my luck there. Or Texas. It’s not as far but at least I’d fit in. Or maybe I’ll just leave America completely! Europe sounds nice and I bet it isn’t just miles of sand.

I used to wish we could leave together. I’d save up enough money and as soon as you got out of the Air Force we’d just leave. It wouldn’t matter where, just anywhere away from this town. And we’d probably run out of money and it would be an absolute disaster but that would be okay because at least we’d be together.

I don’t think you want that though Alex, I think you’ve already moved on and that really hurts. So maybe I should just move on too.

Enjoy the new year with your boys.

Michael

Without reading it over, he folded the paper into an envelope and sealed it before he could second guess anything.

In the morning he wouldn’t remember what the letter said, but he’d post it anyway.

November 2016

Roswell always did go all out for Veterans Day. There were banners hung in every building, flags flying proudly from every window and it was as though every Roswell born member of the Armed Forces - past and present - had returned for the annual celebration. All except one.

The evening’s event was held at the drive in, organised by the one and only Isobel Evans-Bracken and that was the only reason Michael was there. To support Isobel and that’s it.

This day was hard most years. The constant reminders of Alex everywhere he’d go, the odd sighting of Jesse Manes being thanked for his service when that man was the entire reason for Alex’s absence.

He had always believed that he would get used to it the longer Alex was away. The town was very pro-military and there always seemed to be some parade or other so the constant reminders should have made him accustomed to the feelings it brought up.

But wishful thinking strikes again.

And this year seemed to be the worst of the lot.

He and Alex had hardly spoken all year and the letters he did receive sounded like Alex was just checking if he was still in Roswell more than anything else. He never quite worked out what gave the airman the impression that he would be leaving anytime soon.

To be fair though, all of his replies had been short and vague with a rather blunt tone that he couldn’t help. A small part of him knew that he was pushing Alex away and it was screaming at him, begging him to stop, but he didn’t listen. Unfortunately, when he was hurt his self preservation kicked in big time.

Grabbing another beer from the cooler, he took a seat next to Max on the back of the truck and watched as Master Sergeant Jesse Manes took to the stage to give a speech about duty and sacrifice and how those who had lost their lives had done so proudly in the service of their country.

It made him wonder if Alex would feel proud in his last moments. If the worst happened, would he be glad to die for his country or would he be afraid? Would he be filled with fear as he lay in the dirt, cold and bleeding, waiting for help that wasn’t going to arrive on time? Would he be with his team, surrounded by love and friendship and people begging him to be okay or would he be alone? 

Or maybe it would be quick. A swift bullet to the head or heart. A nice clean shot and a point to the enemy. There one minute and gone the next.

Would Alex even feel it?

Would Michael?

As the townsfolk and various uniformed men and women began clapping loudly around him, his mind was brought back to the present. Manes gave a wave to the crowd as he ended his speech and passed the microphone over to Isobel to announce the evening’s agenda.

As she listed the live music and entertainment that was in store, he closed his eyes and tried to focus on her words instead of the thoughts circling his head. He didn’t know why he still cared so much. Alex wasn’t Michael’s to protect or worry about. Not anymore.

Michael had moved on and maybe if he drunk enough tonight, his heart would finally believe that and his mind would stop reciting the latest letter that had arrived at his door.

Dear Michael,

We were shipped off to Baghdad two months ago.

I wasn’t going to tell you because I don’t want you to worry and it’s not fair for me to force this onto you when you’re off living your own life now. It’s just a lot has happened on this tour already and I’ve been getting this feeling that I should probably let you know that I’m here.

All things considered, I’m actually quite lucky that this is only my third deployment bearing in mind how many years I’ve been serving. I’ve heard stories about some people who are on tour after tour and I don’t think I’d be able to handle the never ending missions.

It turns out I must be quite good at my job though because the team I’m with requested me. They needed someone with my specialist skillset so I guess its rather flattering but it makes me think that this job is going to be harder than the others.

It’s crazy to think about how much I’ve accomplished since I first joined. Seventeen year old Alex would hate that I’m still here but I guess he didn’t know the world like I do now. I still think about him sometimes though, the rebellious kid who wore too much eyeliner.

I know I don’t say it much but I’m really grateful for the time we spent together back then. And since then. They’re some of my favourite memories.

But I’m glad you’ve found your own path in life. You have a job that you love, a place to live that you can call your own and friends and family that you can always turn to.

I hope everyone is okay back home. I hope you’re okay. 

And more than anything, I hope that you’re happy. It’s what you deserve and I’m sure one day you’ll find someone who sees that and makes you even happier.

From, 

Alex.

He hated that Alex was back there.

And he hated that the letter sounded like a goodbye.

February 2017

Dear Alex,

I know it’s taken me a while to reply. It’s not that I didn’t want to, I’ve just been thinking about everything that’s happened and I didn’t want to say something I would regret. You’d probably tell me that I was overthinking and I’d dramatically disagree of course. But you would be right.

I’ve been thinking a lot about where you are right now and all of the bad things that could happen. I’m not going to go into how many soldiers have died over there because I’m sure you know more about it than me, just make sure you’re not added to that list, okay? I haven’t acted like it recently but it worries me that you’re somewhere so dangerous, so please be careful.

I know we’ve drifted but I still care about you Alex so I need you to be okay. I’ve been distancing myself from you these past few years and I’m sorry for that. I thought you were pushing me away so I did all I could to push you away first. I know I can’t change that now but maybe it can be different going forward.

It’s been almost three years since I last saw you in person and in a weird way it feels like yesterday. Three years sounds like a long time but looking back, it’s flown past way too quickly. So much has changed since then. I see Sanders occasionally but I haven’t worked at the junkyard in years, Isobel is married, the Wild Pony has starting having open mic nights and the Crashdown has gained about ten new milkshakes.

But I suppose the one constant is that you haven’t been here. You’ve been off being an American hero and that’s such an incredible achievement. You’ve travelled to places that I will never go, accomplished things I will probably never understand and been involved in so much that I can never know about. 

I’m sure it hasn’t always been the positive experience that people make it out to be, but I’m so happy you’ve been able to make something of your life.

You’re probably on some super secret mission right now with your little carefully selected team, but if you’ve got a minute, let me know that you’re okay.

Michael

July 2017

Alex hadn't answered. Five months and four goddamn letters and Alex hadn't answered a single one. And Michael was pissed. 

Well, first he was terrified. He had made up all manner of excuses. Maybe the letters got lost in the post. Maybe Alex was too busy to reply. But the never ending weeks of radio silence soon left Michael thinking the worst.

He had scoured the news headlines for any reports of American deaths in Iraq, he checked the obituary lists for any updates and he kept an ear out for any locals discussing the untimely death of Alex Manes.

He didn’t want to find out but he needed to know the truth.

Maria hadn’t mentioned anything in the many nights he had spent drowning his sorrows at the bar, so he took that as a good sign but then again she could just be as in the dark as he was.

After a while though, when no bad news had surfaced, he accepted the sad fact that Alex had chosen not to reply.

That the man he once loved had read his letters and hadn’t cared enough to respond. That he’d read the carefully selected words that conveyed Michael’s love and gratitude and worry. That he’d held the paper in his hands, each letter more honest than the last, and had decided to leave Michael hanging.

And if it proved one thing, it’s that he was right to stop waiting for Alex. 

He had woken up that morning missing Alex desperately. Missing his face, his voice, his laugh, his words. But when, once again, no letter arrived, his anger tore through as he finally decided to face the cold hard truth that had been waiting in the back of his mind for weeks.

Their relationship had been going downhill for a long time and now the airman had clearly made the choice for the both of them. Alex had ended whatever it was they had going on and so now Michael would do the same.

That night he went to sleep, vowing to never think of Alex again, so painfully unaware that Alex, now with half a limb cruelly taken from him, had read the letters. In fact he'd read over every letter in his metal box, mourning the end of their relationship with each one. 

Waking up in the hospital bed five months ago he'd seen his future. The future filled with therapy, physio, phantom pains, decreased mobility, the constant awkwardness from other people. And he refused to burden Michael with that. His beautiful cowboy deserved so much better.

Soon the letters would stop completely and Alex would accept that because why would Michael keep trying when he was receiving nothing in return? And maybe they’ll never see each other again and maybe they’ll never reconcile, but that would be okay because at least this way, Michael would be free.

December 2017

It was two weeks until Christmas and Isobel was on his case about a present. Why do you have to make my life difficult, Michael? You’re the only person I haven’t bought for, Michael. Can you find some actual hobbies so that I know what to get you, Michael?

The queen of organisation was getting very stressed at the mere thought of having to do any last minute shopping but how would Michael tell her what he really wanted for Christmas when obtaining it was impossible?

And yeah, yeah, he said he was going to stop thinking about him. But let’s be real, that was never going to happen.

Instead he drank. A lot. And gambled and hooked up with pretty girls and committed enough petty crime to make Max consider a very early retirement.  

Anything to get his mind off Alex. But as blissful as the forgetting was in the night, it always came flooding back in the morning. Because every morning he woke up and stared at the compartment where the box was stored and every morning it reminded him of Alex. Well, no more.

Sitting on the edge of the bed as he tried to ignore the cold winter wind raging outside, he made the decision to move it. If he hid it away and promised himself that he would never look inside again then maybe, just maybe, he would finally move on.

Standing up was a choice he instantly regretted as the room spun slightly and the sun blaring in through the newspaper covered window immediately fuelled the hangover burning behind his eyes. But as soon as everything settled he wasted no time in opening the compartment and taking out the box.

His fingers were itching to lift up the lid and peek inside but that would only make it harder. Instead he clamped the sides tightly in his grip and headed straight for the closet.

It was ironic really, hiding Alex in the closet - a thought that only came to him as he was opening the door - but it was the only place in the tiny hamster cage of a home where it would be safe from prying eyes, Michael’s included. 

There were a pair of boots at the bottom alongside some old clothes Max had given him years ago and a cardboard box of blueprints, photos and spaceship pieces he had yet to take to the junkyard.

He lifted them out easily and dumped them unceremoniously on the floor next to where he was kneeling - they had been shoved in the bottom of a closet for god knows how long, they could manage a bit of manhandling.

With the space now empty, the shoebox went in first, being pushed as far into the corner as possible before he gave himself the chance to change his mind. The larger box went back in next, taking up the remaining floor space, then the boots and bag of clothes were thrown in afterwards. As long as they didn’t fall out, he didn’t care where they landed.

As he closed the door his phone rang and looking at the caller ID the timing couldn’t have been more perfect as he’d finally thought of an idea for what Isobel could buy him.

Because why spend your own money to fuel your drinking habit when someone else could do it for you.

March 2018

Michael was shocked awake by a loud thump. Sitting up too quickly, scrambling to get his brain in gear, he noticed Max standing on the other side of the cage with a large pile of files on the desk in front of him. That explains what caused the rude awakening then.

“Thanks.” He groaned, lying back down on the metal bench. His head was thumping and he was not in the mood for the conversation that was bound to follow.

“Is this gonna be a regular thing with you?” Max asked as he took a seat at the desk. The chair scraped horribly on the floor and it made Michael wince.

He stared up at the ceiling and took a few breaths before talking. He didn’t normally feel this bad after drinking but he’d forgotten to grab a bottle of acetone before heading to the Pony and it had been a long night.

“I thought you wanted to spend more time together.” He replied impudently after a moment. 

He heard Max sigh and could practically see him rolling his eyes.

“It’s not funny, Michael.”

“It’s a little funny.” He smirked, attempting to sit up again, groaning as it became clear how much his back hadn’t appreciated his drunk tank sleeping arrangements. Max didn’t even glance up at him from the file he was reading. “Right, are you gonna let me out or not?”

“Nope. Valenti’s just outside and she’ll know if I go easy on you.” 

Michael scoffed and debated just lifting the keys from the desk with his powers. Why did Max have to be such a rule-following little Deputy? It was as if Max was the mind reader of the trio though as he grabbed the keys without looking and put them straight into his pocket.

“I’m just trying to help you.” Max gave him a pointed look that Michael just wanted to punch right off his face sometimes.

“Like always…” Michael muttered under his breath.

“I’m surprised Maria hasn’t barred you yet. You cause her more trouble than it’s worth.”

“The fight wasn’t even that bad, everyone just overreacted. Besides, the other guy totally started it.”

Max shook his head as he got back to his work. Michael wasn’t lying, he hadn’t started the fight, he had just been rather eager to join in. Sometimes punching things felt good.

Max was clearly not letting him out anytime soon and it was well before noon so no-one was expecting him to be at work for a good couple of hours. He could try to negotiate his freedom but Max had this whole save Michael from himself agenda going on recently so it would probably just be a waste of breath.

Instead he could take the easy route and catch up with a bit more sleep.

June 2018

“Quick Alex, run and tell your daddy.”

Michael instantly regretted his words the second the door had closed behind him.

But he hadn’t seen Alex in four years, hadn’t heard from him in months. He had every right to be angry. Right?

Except he wasn’t angry, not really, that was just a façade he was forcing forward to help protect himself from the heartache threatening to break through. He never could stay angry at Alex for long.

Looking through the shoebox filled him with a cautious kind of hope. Just because Alex was back didn’t mean anything was going to change between them but Michael just couldn’t help it.

He sat on the floor for a while as he read over some of the letters, his legs getting cramped in the small gap between the bed and the closet. He had forgotten how happy the earlier letters were, the ones sent before Alex had had a chance to experience combat. They had both been so young back then, so unaware of how life would turn out.

Once he was finished, he left the shoebox on his desk, feeling too nostalgic to put it back in the closet but not yet ready to commit to the overhead compartment again. Thoughts of Alex followed him well into the afternoon of the next day and they didn’t seem to be leaving anytime soon. Twenty-four hours since Alex had been standing right in front of him and he had completely fallen for the airman all over again.

But that couldn’t happen. He couldn’t let Alex in again. Not if it was just going to end the same way.

So when Alex approached him at the reunion, suggesting that he had turned his trailer into a meth lab, Michael did all he could to put the wall back up again. He was sarcastic and aggrieved and did his best to rile Alex up. You trying to hold my hand, Private?

And when he shoved past Alex he pretended to himself that it felt good.

But the heart wants what the hearts wants and all evening his eyes kept being drawn back to Alex. He barely noticed the girl at his side as he watched Alex smile politely and engage in conversation with people they had both gone to school with and when Alex ducked into a side room, he couldn’t stop his feet from following.

Watching Alex check his prosthetic broke Michael’s heart. He wanted to ask a million questions, how did it happen? When did it happen? Does it hurt? Are you okay? Alex was walking on it, albeit with a crutch, so it must have been at least a year since he was injured and Michael had been oblivious to it all. Although an entire year of unanswered letters were suddenly provided with a devastating explanation.

To lose a limb must be unimaginable, but whatever had caused it, Michael was just so glad that it hadn’t taken all of him.

He leaned against the doorway as his eyes roamed over every part of the man in front of him, taking him in completely. His beautiful face that Michael was desperate to put a smile on, his soft hair that had grown since he had last been home, the checkered shirt that looked so much more Alex than the uniform, the way he glowed under the coloured lights.

They had both been through so much this past decade but Alex was back, potentially for good this time, and Michael was about to dive headfirst into the possibility of them rekindling whatever it was they once had.

“Nostalgia’s a bitch, huh?” He spoke up, hoping beyond anything that Alex wouldn’t walk away. He allowed a gentle smile and when Alex dropped his leg to the floor and faced him properly, he felt his heartbeat quicken.

Alex took a moment to reply and when he did his face gave no hints as to whether he was happy to see Michael or not. “I thought for sure when I got back from Iraq you would be long gone.” 

“Is that what you want?” Michael avoided eye contact, suddenly not wanting to witness the moment Alex turned him away but still, he walked closer.

“We’re not kids anymore.” Alex whispered, the words catching in his throat, and still Michael kept walking. “What I want doesn’t matter.”

They were so close to each other now, barely an arm’s length away from touching and the close proximity gave Michael all the courage he needed. He drew his longing gaze away from Alex’s eyes to his soft lips and he couldn’t hold back any longer.

One moment they were two separate people and the next they were crashing together like waves that had been parted for an eternity.

Michael’s entire body tingled, the feeling of Alex’s palm on his back, Alex’s lips against his own. He was hardly aware of what his hands were doing, cupping Alex’s face and pulling him closer, hungry and intense and desperate to reclaim what they had lost. He barely breathed as the rest of the world fell away until it was just them in their intimate, almost forbidden, moment.

His anger at Alex and his year long desire to banish any thought of him was long forgotten. He was back, he was here and Michael didn’t ever want to let go. 

As they parted, foreheads still touching, Michael couldn’t bear to take his eyes off the man in front of him, convinced that if he closed his eyes for even a second it would all disappear. The moment was so perfect, part of him felt like he was dreaming.

Their relationship over the past decade had been a complete rollercoaster but now, feeling Alex pressed against him, Michael was convinced that things would be different now.

And maybe, just maybe, there was hope.

The End.

Thank you for reading ❤️✨

[fiesta-freddie]

Faded Dreams| Paul x Reader

Request: Hi! If you’re okay with writing something a bit sad or angsty, can you write a Paulie fic where he is always calm and mentally stable but he and the reader break up and after that he feels empty and can’t do work properly, tries to do anything that may help him get over her but only makes it worse, and he starts reminiscing good old days with the reader ?😭🖤

Genre: Angst

Warnings: Literally just a lot of angst

His life had seemed perfect in every way imaginable ever since you had become a part of it. His lonely days no longer felt like they dragged on forever. His bed wasn’t cold at night anymore, thanks to your warmth occupying the other side. 

He recalled all the times you two had woken up intertwined in each other's arms after a long night of kissing and pleasurable moaning. The sheets were a mess and his shirt was wrapped around your perfect figure. Being able to wake up by your side, seeing you softly sleep as the morning light began to shine through the window was when it felt like the world was perfectly still and time stopped for just a brief moment. 

But he wasn’t the same anymore and he didn’t know why. You were the first one who made him feel so empty and alone now that you were gone. No matter what he did to try and forget he just couldn’t.

He didn’t have the same energy when it came to recording in the studio. All his songs had melancholy tunes to them, instead of the happy ones that he once used to write. The words were all about heartbreak. About you.

He hoped that you would hear them and that you would know how sorry he was. He hoped you would know how much he hated himself for his mistakes. How much he missed holding you in his arms and calling you his own.

If it hadn’t been for that stupid stupid mistake he had made, he would still be making more of those happy memories with you.

He mentally scolded himself every time the recurring memory of that night popped into his head. It made him cringe.

It made his heart break into a million pieces all over again again each time. It felt like two years of his life had just gone down the drain.

“Paul! You absolutely worthless man whore! I can’t believe you- you kissed her!” You cried out in between sobs.Your broken voice echoed throughout the dark alley behind the bar. You had stomped out as soon as you saw it happen. Paul followed you out, trying to stop you.

It broke him to see you this way. Of course the kiss was only a mistake, the result of one drink too many. That still didn’t make it any better. He knew no amount of apologizing would make the situation and better. He couldn’t fix it this time, no matter how much he wanted to.

“Y/N, love, please just calm down,” His words were slightly slurred, but he tried his best to maintain clear speech “let's not get too carried away with it. Okay, pumpkin?”

“No!” You retorted. You were absolutely furious with him and if he thought that calling you one of the many nicknames he had given you would make things better, he was sadly mistaken. “No! You do not get to call me ‘pumpkin’ anymore! Maybe you should give that name to the girl you were all over five minutes ago! I’m sure she’s just dying for you to-”

“Y/N stop it!” His voice cracked, he was on the verge of tears. It took everything in him to not break down right there on the spot “You're being irrational, don’t you think?! It was one kiss, I had no idea what I was doing, okay?”

“Bullshit Paul! I know for a fact that this isn’t the first time this has happened. John even told me so! You just can’t help yourself and your goddamn tendencies can you!? God!” 

You buried your face in your hands. Your face was warm, but not in a good way. Not in the way it would usually heat up every time Paul complimented you or touched your thigh under the table. No, this warmth was from the tears that streamed down your face out of pure anger. Frustration. Hatred even. How could somebody you love so much, somebody you gave everything to, someone you let you see at your most vulnerable state, fuck up this bad? You didn’t want to believe it, but deep down you knew something like this was inevitable. 

You heard sniffling. Without even looking up from behind the small barrier you had built, you knew Paul was crying. He had cracked. And as much as he didn’t want you to see this side of him, he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. 

“Y/N, please,” he pleaded. His voice was small, barley above a whisper. You wanted to give him another chance, but your heart just wouldn’t let you. This wasn’t the first time that something like this had happened with him and you knew if you let him try again, it probably wouldn't be the last.

Your voice was calmer now, but that didn’t mean your mind was. A million thoughts were racing through your head. You slowly walked over to him and stood in front of his figure. You couldn’t bring yourself to look him in the eye, but you knew what needed to be said.  “Paul,” you began to cry again, tears streaming down your face, “I-I don’t think...I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to hurt myself. And I know I sound crazy, but I think this is for the best. For both of us.” 

He was silent. He wanted to say something but he just couldn’t. It was like he was frozen.

“Who knows? Maybe fate will bring us back together someday.” You tried to lighten the moment, but it just felt like you were stabbing a million knives into your chest. All you really wanted was for him to wrap his arms around you and ask to start over, but you knew that would never happen. 

You waited for him to respond but he didn’t. There was nothing else you had to say. Nothing else he had to say. 

Barely audible, you whispered out the last words you would ever say to the man who had given you the best two years of your life you could have ever asked for. “Goodbye, Paul.” You lightly brushed his knuckles with your fingertips before turning the other way and walking into the street.

You kept your head down to hide the tears that endlessly streamed down your face. All the memories you had with him began to run through your mind at a hundred miles per hour.

The days you had spent with him in the studio, laughing every time he messed up while recording. The number of songs he had written with you by his side. The ones he had written about you. The countless dates you two had gone on together. Watching the stars with him until the early hours of the morning.

Your first kiss.

And your last.

You never wanted to imagine having to let him go. The love of your life. 

You were sure he was the one you’d get to grow old with. The one that you would raise your kids with and make more memories with. But now that all just seemed like a dream. A dream you had to wake up from, no matter how much you didn’t want to.

------

Taglist:  @beatlevmania @givemequeen @my-dumbshit @john-lemonade @ineedyoubygeorgeharrison @princesof-theuniverse @geostarr @katiekitty261 @killerqueenisthebest @yeehaw-city @asphalt-cocktail @chloe-on-cloud9 @harrimoon​ @lovemybrowneyedboy​ @johnlennonssucculant​

[whumpinggrounds]

Febuwhump Day 2: “I Can’t Take This Anymore”

these prompts really did work out sort of rather well for exposition purposes. anyway, Mara will be v important later on so forgive me for writing this more angsty than whumpy

CW: referenced violence, discussion of pet whump, discussion of trafficking, discussion of a lot of things but nothing explicit

“I can’t take this anymore.” Mara says it, with perfectly calmness, to the empty room. “I can’t. I won’t. I quit.” There’s no one around to hear her, but the words still have a final feeling to them, an ominous ring. If only there were someone around to hear them.

She’d been doing well for so long – she really thought she was making progress with Hank, and maybe even Travis. The former seemed to be wrestling with the ethics of pet ownership as a whole, while Travis hinted nervously that maybe WRU’s recruitment wasn’t as aboveboard as it seemed. This was why she’d applied for the job at WRU, why she’d gone through the intensive interview process and left all her friends and family to move to a new city. If she could flip just one handler, get some hard evidence of the kinds of abuse going on within these concrete walls…that could be more effective than a hundred individual rescues. It was the kind of thing lib workers dreamed about. And Mara could do it. If she got these handlers to trust her, she really thinks that she could do it.

But how long would something like that take? How long before Hank turns against the company he’s worked for a decade or longer? How long before Travis works up the nerve to take some covert cell phone footage? And how does Mara guide them in that direction without blowing her cover when she’s supposed to be the goddamn company therapist?

It’s not the timeline that’s really bothering her, either. Mara’s more than happy to wait these people out months or even a year while she and their consciences work to turn them. But the other handlers, the way she has to listen and empathize and help these people…

For some it’s pedestrian workplace drama, or the miserable stuff of everyday life. Half the facility can’t stand Jackson, and Jackson insists they all hate him because he works miracles with stubborn pets. Tracy’s father died this year, and she’s been having a rough go of it, now that both parents are gone. Dwayne can’t understand that it’s his own constant posturing that’s getting in the way of a long-awaited promotion. Stuff like that, Mara is more than equipped to handle.

But sometimes Jackson walks in her office bitching about how the other handlers must be fucking with his new trainee just to make him look bad, because the boy has started wetting his pants every time someone yells at him. Or Tracy complains that her new Romantic is supposed to act all virginal and the male handlers keep teaching him shit regardless. Days like those, Mara hates even Travis, who comes and sits on her couch and whines about how guilty he sometimes feels, leaving bruises on a teenager’s face. Mara wants to slap him.

Worst of all is always Arthur Collins, with his swagger and his sadism, throwing himself down on Mara’s couch to talk about his overactive aggressive streak. He was insufferable enough back before he respected her, with all his long sighs and rolled eyes, but one day he’d been complaining about a trainee and Mara had made one single offhand comment about a study done in the 60s, how depersonalization affected prisoners…

Collins had come into her office the next day singing her praises. “It worked! It worked! Doc, you’re a genius, it totally worked!”

“Sorry?”

“What you said yesterday! It worked!” Mara shook her head, still confused, and Collins lets out a fond kind of huff. “You said in session yesterday that in that old experiment, they stripped these people of everything that made them unique, yeah?”

Nodding slowly, Mara wondered with kindling dread where this was going. “Yes, I think I said something like that.”

“Well, it got me thinking. What does this brat kid still have that we haven’t taken from him, you know?”

“Okay…”

“His hair! It was long, doc, like, all the way down past his shoulders, and it was pretty, but I just had this feeling I could use it to break him, you know?”

There was a queasy feeling in Mara’s stomach. “You cut his hair.”

“I shaved his head! And when he saw himself, man, did he cry. He hasn’t cried like that a single time since he got here. I thought, you know, maybe it’s a fluke, because I worked him over pretty good that day, but in training today he was just…he’s been perfect. An absolute doll. All the fight gone right out of him.” Handler Collins shook his head, still grinning at the memory. “Something as small as hair. Good for you, doc! Didn’t even leave a mark.”

Mara’s smile looks more like a grimace. “Yes, well, I’m glad I could help.”

“You helped, all right. You helped me a lot.”

Since then, Handler Collins had sung Mara’s praises. Since then, handlers had started to come to her with questions about just how to break a stubborn trainee.

And Mara never answered right away. She always told them she needed to do some research, or maybe think about it for a while. Often, she told them that what she knew wouldn’t work on pets, because she was trained to work with people, and that flimsy excuse got them to leave her alone. But some of the handlers, especially Collins, just kept coming back. And eventually, Mara has to tell them something.

Management is thrilled with her work. Workplace satisfaction has gone up, now that employees have a dedicated professional to talk to, and it’s a selling point on Facility 7’s website. A brightly colored little blurb featured on the “About Our Staff” page now informs prospective buyers that their Box Boys and Babes are being trained by only the most competent and stable professionals. Not only that, but handlers can come to a professional therapist with questions about any unusual behavior from trainees! It isn’t what Mara was hired for, or something she’s studied in the slightest, but the Director is all too happy to advertise this new perk. Apparently, there’s been a little corresponding upswing in sales.

It’s making Mara furious. Counseling handlers is disgusting enough. She doesn’t want to make any of these monsters feel better about their job, far less make them any more effective at it. Mara came here to flip handlers to the lib cause, not to make them into better torturers. Her friends back home would be horrified, even more so than when she announced this stupid plan. Five times in her first month, Mara drafts an email announcing her resignation. Five times she deletes the thing, unsent.

It’s Hank and Travis she’s still stuck on. A strong therapeutic relationship, necessarily confidential, could be the thing that makes the difference. Mara knows she can do it, can use her training to make them see that what they’re doing is wrong. The only question is if she can stand the job long enough to finish it.

[aureumjeon]

while you’re at it (m) || pjm

pairing; poolboy!jimin x noona!reader.

genre; smut, fluff, tiny angst.

summary; After finalizing your divorce papers, there was still one thing that had to be taken care of. That stupid swimming pool. Over there course of a few days, you ended up harboring feelings for one of your pool boys. Will things go as planned? Or will everything be flushed down the drain? 

warnings; brief mentions of divorce, infidelity and toxic relationship, sub!jimin, dom!reader, barely there bondage, exhibitionism, female masturbation, voyeurism, oral sex (both receiving), body worship, tit fucking, noona kink, praise kink(its jimin ofc), mild degradation, impreg kink, its basically jimin being a whiny soft baby for noona, unprotected sex, multiple orgasm, creampies, cum eating

word count;  11K+ (this was supposed to be around 7-8K only, iduno what happened really)

a/n; ahhhhhh! three minutes late but who careeees. im done, i want to sleep. the smut feels so rushed butill fix it... eventually... lmao, unedited as hell, dont mind the errors... will fix someday.  bye

@m0chilattae @ruinedbyjin <33 

。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°  

Breaking away and cutting ties from your previous and definitely toxic marriage was the best decision you've made bar none. You could no longer stomach the abuse that your now ex-husband had put you through. It was a complete and utter living hell being bound to a man who wasn't who you initially thought he was. Having him crossed out of your life (legally, too) made it a million times easier. It has been exactly seven weeks since you chucked out all of his belongings through the front door. No regrets. And you still didn't want to take notice of the huge elephant in the room — or in the backyard per se. There it sat in the middle of the unkempt grassy area surrounded by leaves and trash, in all of its filthy, disgusting, bacteria and algae infested glory. Your dreaded swimming pool.

You had put-off cleaning it the first week after your separation, saying you're too busy doing this or too preoccupied taking care of that. When in all honesty, you just didn't want to deal with it. You had no goddamn idea how to maintain it. Heck, you didn't even know how to swim. Wonwoo was the main reason why the two of you bought a house that came with it after your wedding. He said he wanted to keep his hobby of swimming alive, understandable since that's where it all began. The two of you met at a university swim meet. You were the designated journalist for that event, assigned to interview all the winners after the competition for the school's paper. Wonwoo bagged the gold medal for the two hundred-meter freestyle, and you interviewed interviewed him and that's where it took off. Everything was running smoothly. One by one every item on your life's checklist got checked-off. After five years of dating, he proposed. A year later you got married and purchased a house together and planned on having children. You even put-off your job as a columnist writer for a high-end magazine company to play out the role of a perfect wife who'd soon take care of her children. You had the ideal life with the ideal husband in an ideal house that any married woman could wish for. You had everything, and in your own little world it was perfect. Until two years into your marriage, everything went into turmoil. Wonwoo suddenly grew cold and insensitive. He didn't answer your calls and text messages whenever he was away. He didn't make love to you the way he used to during your honeymoon phase. And sometimes he would just downright refuse, saying he's too tired and that he wants to sleep instead. You endured and tolerated his behavior for another year, giving him a chance to change his ways. But we all know what happens to second chances, they're wasted. One day, Jihyo sent you a picture of Wonwoo sucking faces with a female swim trainer at the city's public pool. You could not believe it at first, you refused to. Until she sent another image, this one clear as day. It was Wonwoo, positively Wonwoo. You called your older brother Yoongi and told him everything that had happened starting from the day your relationship spiraled into disaster. Like any brother would be; he was furious. He didn't kill the guy though, only gave him a black eye and a broken nose before you threw his belongings out on the pavement. To cut the story short, you found love beside a swimming pool and ultimately gotten your heart broken because of it. When people fall out of love, heart breaks are inevitable. All the more reason as to why you just shoved the idea of cleaning the pool under the rug like small particles of dust and dirt. You just wanted to forget about it, pretend like it didn't exist. If you could only haul that thing out of the ground and throw it out like you did to him, it'd be more painless for you. You took your phone out of your handbag and texted Namjoon. You asked if he still had the number to that all around cleaning service, to which he did, thank god. After saving the number, you called it immediately. Wanting no time to be wasted. "Hello, Good morning! This is Mr. Park of Mr. Park's Cleaning Service, how can we help you?" The bubbly old man chanted his spiel. "Ah, yes, um. This is Y/n Y/l/n, I was wondering if I can avail your services?" "Of course, ma'am!" He chimed, the sound of rustling papers can be heard in the background "What will we have the pleasure of cleaning for you, Ms. Y/l/n?" His tone never changed, still enthusiastic. "Well I have this pool..." You replied quite hesitantly, "And It's been sitting here uncleaned for almost two months." You let out a breathy laugh, fairly embarrassed at your confession. "No problem, Ms. Y/l/n! We've handled worse cases. Two months is nothing! Is it just the pool or would you like us to give your whole yard a fixer-upper?" You sighed in relief. "Y-yes, that would be great! My backyard could use the help, too." "Alrighty then! You don't need to worry about anything! Can I get your contact number and full address Ms. Y/l/n?" Mr. Park sounded like a charming old man, he never judged or asked unnecessary questions, only the ones that needed to be answered. "My number's xxx-xxx-xx and my full address is xxx street, corner xxx at xxx village. When can I expect you to visit, Mr. Park?" "I'll get the boys ready and will be there in about an hour or two to check on the conditions and come up with the most effective strategy. The duration of the process usually takes about three days to a week depending on the situation. It's always better to asses the area first. We'll do the best we can do, Ms. Y/l/n!" You can hear the smile in his voice, never have you encountered someone who's this passionate about his job as much as Mr. Park. "Great! That sounds excellent! Thank you so much Mr. Park! I'll see you later!" "Thank you, too, Ms. Y/l/n! Good bye!" The call ended and you checked the clock. It was a quarter to nine, still a lot of time left before they arrive. You decided to tidy up the place, picking up dirty laundry, washing the dishes, and anything that demanded to be put in its proper place. You accomplished everything in under an hour and decided to lounge around on your couch, still in your black silk nightwear dress that rested a good five inches above your knee. To be fair, you did wake up too early for your liking, and it made you thrice as sluggish than usual. 'Only ten minutes' you reminded yourself because you still needed to shower. Your eyelids felt heavy and the softness of the pillow you were resting your head on didn't help either. 'five more minutes, then it's time to shower, I swear.' Things didn't always go according to plan, of course. You fell asleep.

++

Your little nap was interrupted by the sound of your doorbell ringing multiple times, "Ms. Y/l/n?! Is anybody home? This is Mr.Park's Cleaning Service." The man on the other side of the door yelled. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. You scramble about you couch only to fall on the floor with a loud thud, "W-wait! Just a minute!" You squealed, heading out to the nearest bathroom to grab your bathrobe and wrap it around your frame. You chugged down and gargled a cup full of mouthwash before spitting it out. "Shit..." You hissed, taming out the fly-aways of your hair and tying it up in a loose bun. Your bangs rested messily on your forehead but you didn't have the pleasure of curling it. So you opted for just sweeping it to the side, making yourself more presentable. "I'm coming!" You yelped, treading to your front door and opening it. The three boys who stood at your doorstep gave you a courteous ninety degree bow. They were wearing those baggy grey work jumpsuits but the sleeveless kind. The boys looked fairly young, with glowing skin and youthful dispositions. They moved back to their upright position and the one in the center greeted, "Good day Ms.---" his eyes widened like saucers, he looked like he had encountered a ghost, and suddenly you were extremely conscious about your disheveled appearance, tucking in stray hairs that dangled around the frame of your face behind your ears. "Ms--" he knew what he wanted to say, it was waiting for its turn to spill out from his suddenly parched mouth. But he couldn't because he was too awe struck at the image of this lovely woman standing before him. They'd done this job a couple hundred times and it was all professional, but this was the first time his heart was completely enamored by a female client. His tongue was undoubtedly caught at the back of his throat and an elbow to his rib by his friend snapped him out of it and transferred him back to reality. "Y/l/n.." He continued, shades of pink trickling his face. "My name is Park Jimin..." "You're Mr. Park?" You giggled, the way your cheeks rounded when you smile matched with your cute dimple almost sent him into the ER due to a cardiac arrest, "You sounded older on the phone." "Uh.. That was my father. I'm just Jimin." He smiled, flustered like a little boy confessing his love for his crush. You beamed at him once more after discovering his name, eyes twinkling more that ever and he caught that. He freaking caught the way your eyes glimmered at him. "If you're just Jimin, then I'm just Y/n." What the hell was that?! You internally screamed at your choice of words, pulling out the non-existent life plug in your head because you wanted to shrivel up like a dehydrated grape desiring to be a raisin and just die. "O-okay, Ms. Y/n.." the way your name rolled so sweetly out of his lips made you shudder, a feeling you hadn't felt in a long, long time spark a flame in the deepest pit of your stomach. You shouldn't be experiencing this urgent sense of infatuation towards a person you only just met, not to mention to someone this young. You reckoned that he was likely five or six years your junior, probably even more. It was a weird sensation. You had no idea where it came from but you were kinda skeptical about the concept of it and where it might lead. Did you hate it? I mean, no, not at all. Were you confused? Most definitely. "This is Jungkook," he gestured to the lad on his left. Jet-black hair, doe eyes, piercings and tattoos, okaaay he's attractive "and this is Taehyung." Your gaze moved to the left, honey brown hair, sultry stare, sharp nose and a chiseled jaw, woah he's attractive too. No wonder Mr. Park's acquiring all the deals in town! His cleaning team is total eye candy. "My dad-- I mean Mr. Park's rheumatoid started acting up a little while ago, that's why he wasn't able to come with us. I hope that's alright with you, Ms. Y/n." There it is again, he said your name again but his voice a little softer this time. He was hoping his father's absence wouldn’t upset you too much. And didn't leave a bad first impression on you. Your name slipping past his lips sent another shock wave throughout your body, faintly stirring up your insides. It took you a good second to reply because you were too busy staring at the way his tongue prodded out of mouth to wet his pink and plump lips. Shit “I-it’s fine..” You gulped, drifting your gaze to your backyard assuming he didn’t see what you just did. “I hope your father feels well soon.” You stepped back a few feet letting the boys with their big tool kits in hand enter. “May we look at the pool, Ms. Y/l/n?” The black haired boy spoke, opening his box of tools and pulling out a smaller black container. “Taehyung and I will do the water testing and everything else while Jimin-hyung here will walk you through the whole process.” “The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll finish!” Taehyung beamed, boxy smile and all. They all did what they said they’d do. Jungkook and Taehyung were handling all sorts of gadgets and gizmo to test the pH balance, chlorine levels and whatever they need to test. Jimin explained everything in meticulous detail, from the tools that they were using to how they’d clean it. You tried listening intently. You really did! But the addictive saccharine tone of his voice had gotten you too worked up. “And that’s about it,” Jimin happily concluded. “We can start cleaning tomorrow if it’s okay with you,” “Y/n?” He asked reluctantly, watching you stare vacuously at him. “Ah-- Yes. You guys can start tomorrow.” You smiled, flustered and red on the face. He was worried for a moment, he thought you found everything he said was boring. Because all honestly, he knew it was. Jimin dropped out of college to support his father with their family business, being the sole son and successor. It was a gamble, most of his friends would say. "Why'd you give up having an education?" or "What if it goes bankrupt?". Those words were frequently thrown around, but he stuck to his gut. Jimin never wanted anything more than maintaining his father's legacy alive. The one that his father and late-mother created and grew from the ground up. "Great! Kook, Tae, how's everything going?" He hollered to his friends who were still tinkering with their devices at the edge of the pool. "Will be done soon! Give us a minute," Taehyung replied, signaling a thumbs-up to his hyung. "Ahhh! That reminds me," You teetered blithely straight to your equally neglected shed that Wonwoo kept all his tools in. "If you need any tools, feel free to--" You tried to pry the door handle open but it wouldn't budge. "Let me get that for you, Ms. Y/n." Jimin insisted, worrying you might hurt yourself. "I'm okay," You assured the boy, solidifying your grip on the handle, and giving one last firm pull that just might do the trick. Jimin was right. Because the moment you exerted more effort into opening the door, the slim strip of metal that was affixed on the wooden surface snapped off and sent you stumbling back a few steps. You shielded your eyes with your hand and just when you thought your sorry ass was about to hit the grass, you felt something or someone, cradle your fall. A small groan from behind startled you, "W-what?" You removed your hands from your face and saw Jimin lying beneath you, hold on to you by your waist."Oh shit!" You shrieked, promptly scooting away from his lap to check if he's hurt somewhere. "J-jimin! Are you okay?!" concern laced your voice. You scanned every inch of his body for any cuts or bruises. While your face unintentionally came too close to his, he felt your warm minty breath dancing on the tip of his cupid's bow, tickling his lips that were mere centimeters away from yours. And the way his left cheek was conveniently purchased in your hand made him feel the heat blossom under his skin, and presumably creep up to his ears too. Wide-eyed and totally red in the face, Jimin hurriedly stood up from where he was planted, not forgetting to help you as well stand up as well. “I’m fine, Ms. Y/n. You don’t have to worry about--” Before the boy could barely finish his sentence, you were already pulling him by the wrist and ushering him back inside the house. He was trying so hard to resist the blush that had been wanting to be set free. “Jungkook, Taehyung!” You waved, calling out their attention. “You can come inside if you’re finished. I’ll tend to Jimin and see if he has any injuries.” “Yes ma’am!” The two boys chuckled, giving Jimin a playful smirk. “Sit down. I’ll go get my first aid kit.” You spoke before scooting towards the direction of your bathroom. The moment you’ve found yourself looking in the mirror in what seems to be the safest place you could’ve been at this moment, you allow all the accumulated steam out. “F-fuck.” You breathe out a sigh of relief. Finally being able to inhale and exhale enough air with your lungs. Every single moment with Jimin feels like there’s something constricting your chest, blocking all possible airways and cutting off the oxygen in your body. “Get it together, Y/n” You scold yourself, looking at the reflection in the bathroom mirror “You are an adult. An adult who will not let a young man fracture the little sanity you have left.” 

On your tiptoes, you reached for the small plastic box on the shelf of your bathroom, taking one last determined look in the mirror and declaring, “You got this.”  With that, you step out of the enclosed space with your recovered confidence, not looking back. And there he is again, puppy dog eyes lighting up when he saw your figure reappear in his line of vision. “Ms. Y/n.” He smiled, and there you knew how truly fucked up you were. “God, give please give me the strength.”  You chanted in your head, “I got the first aid kit. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Was all that you could say. 

++

It has been exactly five days, eight hours and forty-five minutes since Jimin started working on your backyard. Why do you know that? Well, that boy with those galaxies induced eyes, impossible plump lips and unbelievable muscular body had been lurking and finding his way through the deep recesses of your mind, desperately searching for that imaginary finish line.

Every cell in your body was hyper-aware of your surroundings whenever he was near. You’d get chills when you feel his hot breath fanning against the skin of your nape when he’s behind you asking for some kind of permission. A jolt would run down your spine when he says your name like it’s the only name he’d known besides his. And the way an innocent stare from him would ignite a flame in your core, burning like coal inside a furnace during those cold winter nights. You know of his presence; you know how he makes you feel even when you don’t want it and that scares you.

And now you’re here with your overly eager friend who's  ready to lay down all her life savings and then some, just to see you finally get laid after that hideous tragedy.

“Gosh, what do I do?” You groaned, massaging your temples. The headache that you experienced the first time you encountered the boy only tripled in magnitude. It was like the soft tissues of your brain decided that it would be best to act like tectonic plates and tear each other apart. No matter how many pain killers you’ve ingested or how early you slept at night, it always comes back the next day, with a vengeance.

“Give in,” she shrugged, taking a sip from her warm cup of tea. “you’ve got nothing to lose.”

“The only thing I’m losing right now is my sanity.” You grovelled, wanting to pull out all of your hair from its follicles. “I–” You sighed, voice cracking and tear attempting to fall.“I honestly don’t know what to do.”

She offered you a sympathetic look, consoling you with a hand gently stroking your back. “I know, hun. Wonwoo was a douche bag and your divorce was the absolute worst. But… Look at the bright side,” She nudged you on the shoulder and points a finger westward.

“Now that he’s out of the picture, you’re a free woman now, y/n.” Your friend stated as-a-matter-of-fact, wriggling her perfectly done brows at you. She was right, though. There was nothing holding you back except yourself. The two of you looked beyond the glass sliding doors of your patio and watched the group of young men pull every bone and flex every inch of muscles in their bodies trying to make your backyard look like the way it was before.

“I don’t see anything wrong with flirting with your pool boy now that the ring on you finger is gone,” a small tug of her lips went unseen by you as your gaze was still attached to the blond haired boy whose dusting of sweat seemed to reflect and shimmer under the blazing sunlight like those vampire characters from that teen movie. God, how can someone look that ethereal while raking up the pile leaves in your backyard?

“While you’re at it, seeing that you’re too invested in watching him, play with piles of dead leaves,” your head snapped toward her direction as your cheeks turned pink from embarrassment, “might as well fuck him too.” she grins from ear to ear. 

++

Day eight came faster than you had imagined. The boiling of your insides has simmered down immensely since you've accepted all your feelings like the grown adult that you are. You didn't confess, though, there will be a time for that. Also, you can say you've gotten used to Jimin's presence in the short time you've spent with him. He was kind, sweet, caring and considerate to you 24/7 and you've considered every bit of it endearing. You friend was right. "Give in," she says, so you did and you hope everything will eventually fall into place at the right time. Like usual, jimin and his bunch were outside. They were eighty percent done with the pool and all that's left was the landscaping. One by one, bags of dirt, rocks, sand and all the likes were carried by unfamiliar faces to the back yard through your house. Trails of sand were left on the floor akin to a snail's. "We're really sorry for the mess, miss y/n. Don't worry, we'll clean it up." A new face stood beside Jimin. This one looked more mature than the three boys you're already acquainted with. This was your first time seeing him. Raven hair, brown eyes, a attractive face and shoulders broader than the horizon. Wow. Mr. Park's boys just keep getting hotter and hotter. But there's something oddly familiar about him. Maybe you've met him before? Casually crossed paths as strangers? You can't quite wrap a finger around it. "Y/n, this is Jin-hyung." The fair-haired boy stated. "He's Jungkook's older brother." You gasp, finally it connects "R-really?! No wonder you looked familiar!" You heard the boisterous laugh of the younger brother draw closer and then draped an arm around his brother's shoulder. You habitually thought Jungkook was the tallest in the bunch but now that you've seen his older brother and the way he stands a good two or three inches taller says otherwise. "Sooo, who's more good looking, Noona?" Jungkook asked cheerfully, arching his brows as if coaxing you to choose him. "Hmmm..." You hummed dramatically, crossing your arms with one hand cupping your chin. "I really can't say, Jungkook. Your hyung's pretty handsome." You teased. "Nooooona~!" The youngest whined, flailing his arms around like a child. If you hadn't known their ages, you'd assume that Jungkook's an eighteen year old boy with a baby's face attached to an adult man's body. +Flashback+ You learned that over the course of yesterday's dinner. That day marked the seventh day since the boys worked on you backyard. You decided to treat them to a special samgyupsal dinner since they had been working so hard all day and all afternoon. It was a quarter to five, and the boys were about to call it a day when you call them over enthusiastically. Gesturing them to come inside "Jimin, Taehyung and Jungkook!" Their mouths hung wide open when their eyes met with the dining table. A dazzling array of meats, soups, vegetables and side dishes were gloriously scattered on the surface. "Wow, Ms. Y/n!" Taehyung beamed, his boxy smile seemed like it was engraved on his face. "What's the occasion?” "Well, since you boys have been working so hard I decided to arrange a little party for you guys. It's the least I can do." You smile. Taehyung and Jungkook looked like they were about to combust. The fragrance of the food delighted their every senses. You hear a faint growl in the background. "Sorry. That was me." Jungkook confessed, his stomach was now hungrier than before. You all laugh. "What are you waiting for? Dig in!" It was like a gun was shot and the race to eat the most food began. You watched them eat heartily, wishing that you had done this sooner to express your gratitude for all the effort the exert. "Aren't you gonna eat, y/n?" You were startled by Jimin voice. You turn to him and receive the look of concern on his face. "I've had my fair share while cooking, if I eat more I feel like I'll throw up." You softly giggled, a shade of pink dusting your cheeks. "And this is all for you." For every little thing he does whether it was deliberately or not, Jimin feels like he's simply digging his own grave. The sound of metal rutting against soil, just a few more digs and he's sure he'll be six feet under. "Ms. Y/n, Ms. Y/n!" Jungkook called, outstretching his hand like a student asking for his teacher's attention. "Yes, Jungkook? Oh, and you can call me y/n, by the way. No need for 'miss'." Jungkook scratched the back of his neck before answering, "Uhm, I dont think I'm in the position to call you that, ms. Y/n " "What about noona?" Taehyung who sits across Jungkook suggested. "Ms. Y/n really been nice to us, like a big sister. Always making sure we're okay." Sister. You practically forgot about your age gap with these kids. With the five-year difference for Jimin and Taehyung, seven for Jungkook, you really felt like an older sister. It wasn't bad, it was lovely actually. Knowing they see you more than just an ordinary client pinched at your heart. And you perceive them as little brother's you never had. One of them, you wished went beyond that. "Yeah!" The black haired boy exclaimed,"Can we call you noona, ms. y/n???" Jungkook looked like a dog, with his eyes all round and tail raised and wagging about. It must feel so great to be young. "Of-- Of course! You can call me noona!" The two boys cheered in unison. The only one quiet was jimin who sat parallel to you. 

"Are you okay jimin?" You asked meekly. "I'm fine." He didn't sound like he was fine. "Is there something wrong?" "Ahh, I--" he was stuttering, "Is it okay if I call you y/n instead?" Your eyes widened, you haven't even drank anything alcohol but your face already feels hotter. "S-sure, Jimin." You tried to change the topic by standing up walking over to the refrigerator. "Since all of you are of legal age." You gradually push open metal door and pull out bottles of soju. "You're the best, noona!" The youngest howled, eager to get his hands on the alcoholic drink. "Just promise me you guys won't drink too much. You still have work tomorrow" Like twins, Jungkook and Taehyung held their hands over their heart and recited, "We promise, noona!" With the magic liquid, conversation started flowing more naturally. You promised not to drink but they insisted, nothing worse than your friends peer-pressuring you. "So, noona, where do you work?" Taehyung questioned. He probably noticed you were always at home. "I'm a writer for Seoul Life Magazine, but I do all my work here at home. I rarely have to go to the office." "Really???!!!" His eyes blew up, Taehyung told you he was a fashion design graduate. You expected this reaction from him so you felt pride in telling him where you work. "Wow, noona!" Jungkook said, "My dad said only those who were absolutely good got to work there." "Stop flattering me," You shyly dismiss his praise. "I was an intern there during my concluding year of college. I worked for about three or four years before I got married." Taehyung did a spit take, spraying water all over poor Jungkook who almost choked on a lettuce leaf. Jimin just sat there, watching you laugh at the two comical boys. He didn't know how to react, his hands suddenly went clammy and he couldn't stop shaking his leg under the table. "M-married?" Jungkook said, still not believing what he's hearing "w-where the h-husband?" He felt out of breath due to that damn piece of leaf. "Are you really married, noona?" Taehyung poked, looking at your ringless finger. "I was," Your smile grew weaker, talking about something it always felt weighty. But they deserved to know, they're helping you heal by dealing with something you'd rather not face. "We got divorced." The room went silent. The sound of the crickets outside and leaves swaying with the wind that were previous white noise behind your chattering and laughter seemed like the were obscenely amplified by huge bass speakers. "Can I ask why, noo--" "Jungkook!" Jimin scolded his junior, and this was the first time you've heard/seen him raise his voice to anyone. "Apologize." He stated sternly, not breaking eye contact with Jungkook. "I'm sorry, noona." His head hung low, hair covering his eyes. "J-jimin, I'm sure Jungkook didn't meant to." You reached out to to hold his hand that was resting on the table. "I'm not mad or upset." You looked over Jungkook's direction and continued, "It's okay, I promise." Jimin squeezed your hand tighter, comforting you. "You don't have to talk about it if it makes you uncomfortable, y/n." "Y-yeah, noona." Taehyung added, "You don't have to. It's none of our business." Jungkook sat still, eyes glassy and mouth pouty. He absolutely looked like a puppy that had been punished for chewing up its human's shoe. "It's alright," You giggle, extremely touched. "It's been months, I can talk about it." "We met during sophomore year. I was a journalist for the university paper and he was on the swim team." The three boys listened intently, like toddlers during story time. "After five years of dating, he proposed. We got married a year later and moved in here. That," you pointed to the pool outside "belongs to him." "It was his idea to get a house with one, I agreed of course. Only two years after getting married, I found out he was cheating on me." Jimin's features softened at your words. He knows it wasn't easy for anyone to talk about their past heartbreak and traumas. He made sure you weren't alone, he took his free hand and placed it over your hand that he was already holding with the other. He held it tight. "It broke my heart, I really thought he was the one, you know? Almost eight years together thrown in the garbage disposal and shredded to pieces." "He doesn't deserve you, noona." Jungkook finally spoke. "He was an asshole and he doesnt deserve you." "Yeah!" Taehyung agreed, "I kinda don't want to finish the work now." Out of nowhere, you burst out laughing. An invisible weight, sort of a thick blanket was lifted and the atmosphere brightened. "No, no, no!" You can't stop your laughter at this point, what Taehyung said tickled a funny bone. "I still plan on living here, Taehyung! Even if I dislike the pool, it's still part of this home. And the make over was sort of a therapy, you know. Out with the old, in with the new, right?" You ended it with a smile, lips curved beautifully. It was a smile Jimin has seen never seen before. It was light and airy, bright and transparent. There was no pain or distress, just carefreeness. He wished you would smile like this more often, and he also wished he'd someday be the reason for it.

++

"Just kidding, Jungkook! You're the most handsome." You assured the boy, patting his back. "Sorry, Jin. Your brother's grown on me." "Kook one, Jin zero." The youngest boast over to his brother. "Alright, alright!" Jin interrupted, "Unlike you, some of us need to work. How 'bout you and Taehyung get the transport van back to the office and let Jimin, Hoseok, Yugyeom and I get things done, yeah?" Jungkook clicked his tongue, "Whatever." Their sibling banter has got you missing your brother, mentally reminding yourself to call him later. "Hey, Yugs." You hear Jungkook faintly speak. Two more new faces stood beside Jin. "This is Hoseok and Yugyeom. We'll be responsible for landscaping." Another attractive guy with a million-dollar smile on his face and a tall man with the physique of a runway model. Curse, Mr. Park!! Where does he get all these boys?! "Thank you for having us!" The pair recited. "Oh, no! Thank you for helping out with the renovation." "Ms. Y/n, The boys and I will be outside. We'll be mapping out a plan for the design," Jin announced. "Oh, sure." You answer back, "Take all the time that you need." "Great! We'll report to you once we've finished the draft design. So you can the necessary make changes and adjustments." He beamed, walking towards the back yard. Jimin stood silently beside you, "You do landscaping?" You randomly asked, seeing that Jimin was the only one left from their bunch. Jungkook and Taehyung had long gone. "No," he chuckled, "I just need to watch over these guys. Make sure everything goes well." "That's nice, you're very involved with the work you do." His cheeks blossomed pink, he didn't expect a compliment since he was just doing his job. "I try." He shyly replied, bowing then heading for the glass door. "If you need me, I'll be outside." You waved him goodbye and went about your own business. There were still some articles in your workload that needed to be finished and those emails weren't gonna answer themselves. ++ By the time you were done, it was half past two in the afternoon. You noticed as the days progressed, so did the temperature. You check your phone, only to see that today is the hottest reading yet. Since everything has been taken care of, you decided to take a shower. Appreciating the cold refreshing water on you warm skin. After that, you put on your favorite robe and wrapped it around your damp body. As you were about to step out of the bathroom, you noticed Jimin leaning against one of the pillars of your patio, shirtless. Have your eyes been deceived? They say that seeing believes, but you didn't expect Jimin to be this fit. You offered yourself some slack, since the only part of Jimin body's you've oh so graciously seen are his muscular arms. It wasn't as big as those of a body builder, but the amount of muscle in them has already got you mouth watering. But being blessed with the site of his bare skin and taut abdominal muscles has got you feeling wetter than being in the shower. You couldn't keep your gaze off of him. It was an image that you want to engrave at the back of your head. Your eyes roamed his entire body. Face, neck, shoulders, chest and abs. You wanted to memorize every detail. Every mole, every freckle, every scar that adorned his ivory skin. Just as you were taking your time scanning his entire figure, you were startled when you saw him looking at you staring at him. Your heart began to race inside your chest and you almost forgot you were standing in the middle of your house with only a robe covering your very naked body. You scanned around the area of the yard and Jin and the others we're not in plain sight. You assumed they were working on the farthest side of the lot, where your small garden used to be before you abandoned it all together with the pool. You lock eyes with Jimin again, but this time there was something odd at the way he ogles at you. His gaze was lustful and burning with flames devouring your entirety. His were pupils blown out at the display of your skin. He looked pained, his teeth biting harshly at his bottom lip as if he wanted to draw blood. At that point it dawned on you. You know why he seemed so agitated, squirming in his seat. He wanted to see more, see more of you. A wave of unknown confidence washed over you. You didn't know where the hell it came from. Maybe it was from his deadly stare, maybe it was just you. Either way, you were so totally taking advantage of it. Without breaking eye contact, you found purchase at the same seat from which you watched the boys worked while having a chat with your friend. Sensually lifting the hem of your robe up your thighs and spreading your legs open for Jimin to see. "F-fuck," He groaned, hands balling into fists. He glimpsed over to the other men who were still occupied with what they were accomplishing. His attention was back on you, giving you a small nod. The fervor that coursed through your body was incomparable to anything you've experienced before. The Adrenaline was starting to kick in, and you felt hot-blooded. You temperature went up ten degrees higher and you felt delirious. You knew there was a possibility that you were gonna get caught, but screw it. You've never felt like this in your whole twenty-nine year of life. You're gonna enjoy it, basked in it. Jimin's eyes were plastered at your dripping core, lump in his throat and completely mesmerized at its beauty. Your juices sinfully coating you slit. He swore if there wasn't anybody else around, he would have ravished you pussy like an animal. Since you're out here giving him a show that he'll never forget, might as well savour it. He thought things couldn't get any better with you sex on display for him, you open up your legs even more in a whole new different angle. Putting all those gymnastics training to good use. He can virtually see your pink walls with the position your in. He couldn't stop imagining him burying his hard cock inside your tight cunt. Sucking him in when every thrust he made. You left hand slithered its way down to your soaked core, playfully stroking your folds. If Jimin was beside you, he could no doubt hear the way your cream coated skin squelched with every motion you made. Your idle hand managed to loosen the knot of your robe, allowing it fall from your shoulders exposing your round, supple breasts. Nipples instantly hardening at the sudden exposure to the air. Shit, he'd kill just to have his lips around those perky little nipples, sucking on then voraciously until you moan out his name. You could not take all this self-teasing anymore. Jimin's eyes gauges out of its socket as you dip a finger into your damp hole. Jimin thought the heat from the sun was bearable. He'd worked for long hours under it and never complain. But this, you fingering yourself with one hand while the other pulls and twists on your abused nipple was unbearable! The ache between his legs was excruciating he had to casually palm himself. Slightly shifting and bending this leg so that he wasn't noticeable. Another finger goes in, and he's cupping himself harder. He observed your face contort with pleasure at the way you're plunging and curling your two fingers inside of you. Your arousal spilling at the edge of you battered hole, streaming down and accumulating just above your puckered hole. That should be him, he mumbled to himself. Your slender fingers wouldn't be able to satisfy you, unlike his throbbing cock caged inside his boxers, wanting to be set free. Jimin's practically squeezing his dick at this point now, he just wants nothing but to release his ropes cum on you breast while you pleasure yourself. You felt your walls clench around your digits, signalling you that you were nearing climax. You gotta make this quick, Jin, Hoseok or Yugyeom can walk in on you anytime. Adding one last finger, hoping the stretch will help you jump over the edge, you pummeled your cunt with all the strength that you had left. A small moan left your lips and your release came squirting. Coating the marble floor beneath you. Jimim was just as wrecked as you were. His chest was heaving heavily up and down. The only difference was you reached climax, and he didn't, he couldn't. You were steadying you breathing just when you hear Jin yell, "Yo! Jimin! I need you to--" his voice was getting louder and closer. Wide-eyed, you look at Jimin. Mouthing him "Do something!" While you pull yourself together and grab a piece of tissue to wipe your juices off the floor. When you looked up, Jimim wasn't there anymore. He somehow managed to stop Jin from coming any closer to the house from how faintly you hear his voice outside. You sighed and went back to your room. “We’ve done everything we could do today, Ms. Y/n,” Jin happily announces, standing in front of you with his million dollar smile adorning his equally valued face. “We’ll continue everything tomorrow!” “G-great!’ You croaked, substantially tilting your head to see what’s going on behind the tall man’s back. Hoping to catch a glimpse of Jimin. “Ms. Y/n?” he waved his hand in your face, snapping you out of it. “Are you okay?” “Yeah.” You barely reply. Before he could turn his back on you, you managed to pull on his sleeve. “W-where’s Jimin by the way?” He looked surprised, pondering why you’re asking for the boy. “He went back first,” Jin witnessed your facial expression drop, “He said he wasn’t feeling too good.” “O-oh,” you frowned once more, your browns knitting together at the center of your forehead. “Please tell him to get well soon.” “Of course,” He bowed and bid farewell.

++

Tomorrow comes and Jimin was nowhere to be seen. Jin said Jimin was still feeling under the weather and took the whole day off from work. While that may seem plausible, it didn’t sit well in your gut. You felt like there was something off with Jimin. Never has he been absent since the first day he worked for you. What is that little stunt you pulled off yesterday, you thought to yourself. Were you really that repulsive to the point that it had gotten him sick? Did you ruin your chances of having something more than just a short time fling with the most charming boy you’ve ever met? What if he never wanted to see you anymore, what would you do then. Those kinds of thoughts were inevitable, of course. It was all you could think of the entire day. So that night, you decided to send him a text message, the first one too. From you: Hi Jimin. Jin told me that you fell ill. Try not to over work yourself next time. I hope you get well soon. -yn Jimin stared stupidly at the screen. Thinking of what to reply or if he should reply at all. Several words typed then deleted. He genuinely didn’t know what to say to you. He was ashamed of what he’s shown and with his lack of self-control. He felt appalled with himself.  How could he disrespect you like that? You were a client. A client and worker relationship weren’t prohibited, not at all. It was just his work ethics that wanted everything to be strictly professional, he knew how important your role is to their business. The last thing he wanted was to tarnish what his father built from the ground up with a scandal. So he decided to not let his personal life get involved with his work life. It just makes things complicated, like it is right now. The ‘can’t go to work, feeling sick’ wasn’t wholly a lie. The pain wasn’t physical, it was abstract. And no medicine can induce the pain go away, until he saw your following message. From you: Also, I wanted to talk to you about something. It doesn’t have to be right away, you should rest first and get your health back up. Just message me whenever. Goodnight, Jimin. 

There really was no way out, huh. The next day comes and still no Jimin. That was when you confirmed it. You’ve completely and utterly ruined everything. He did not reply to your messages and didn't even want to see your face. It felt like the ground underneath you cracked opened and devoured you whole. That was the very first time in your life that you’ve acted so venturesomely, look what is has cost you. You blame yourself because there was no one else you could point a finger at. Things wouldn't end up the way they are now if you just stayed in your fucking lane. All of this was your fault. You looked back at all the events that happened to you and realized, maybe it was inevitably your fault. Wonwoo wouldn’t have you left if he saw a reason not to. Jimin wouldn’t be ignoring you if he had a reason no to. The course of the entire day was spent with you cooped up inside your room, wallowing away in your own self-pity. You politely told Jin that you needed some time to be alone and he can decide whatever is best for the landscaping. It was around seven in the evening, Jin bid farewell and suggested that if you needed anything, you could call him up. That was extremely thoughtful of him, you think. Another hour passed and the doorbell rings. You weren't expecting anyone though, so you were quite puzzled as to who it might be. The front door open and you see Jimin. He was wearing a navy blue dress shirt that was folded up to his elbows, wow. Sleek black slacks for pants that cinched his slim waist and leather dress shoes to put everything together. What's the occasion, you thought. "Oh, Jimin" you hid the nervous of your voice by pulling him into a hug "I-its good to see you again, what brings you here? Are you feeling better?" "Ah, yes. I'm sorry for being absent these past few days." His head was hanging low and his eyes were looking elsewhere just to avoid yours. "I wanted to apologize." He finally looked at you with his brown orbs that were displaying sincerity. You ushered him to come inside and take a seat on your couch. "Apologize?" You asked, a little bit perplexed "For what exactly?" "For what I did," his voice grew feebler "I shouldn't have done what I did. I shouldn't have disrespected you like that. I shouldn't have taken advantage of you just because I felt the heat of that moment. I'm sorry, y/n. I swear I'm better than that." "Oh, Jimin." You smiled tenderly, cupping his plump cheeks with your hand. "I think it's the other way around. I should be the one apologizing. Back then, I couldn't control myself when I should have. After seeing you, all the emotions I've put aside unexpectedly erupted." With your unoccupied hand, you tightly held his. "The truth is, you really have grown on me in all the best way possible. Initially, I thought it was just the backlash of my divorce egging me. I thought maybe my mind was looking for a rebound to dull the ache. But..."  Your eyes started becoming glassy. You felt him clutch you hand tighten spurring you to continue "I think that's not it. I know it isn't. You've been nothing but a blessing to me, Jimin. An absolute angel. You're sweet, kind, caring, understanding, ugh--" You mocked frustratingly, letting out a small giggle. "You're perfect. I couldn't see anyone that wouldn't fall for you like I have." Jimin's face reflected what he felt at that moment, relief. This wasn't what he was expecting, hence why he averted the confrontation as best as he could. You were the one who was perfect and completely out of his league. You were a beautiful and capable independent woman that any man would kill for. Your ex-husband was beyond stupid to play with your feelings like he did, he knows. But if it wasn't for your ex's stupidity, he wouldn't be here facing the only woman he'd want to be with for the rest of his life. "I thought you wouldn't like me since I was older--." "Stop." He interrupted, stroking his fingers through your locks while gazing at your gorgeous features. The staring contest ended with the both of you smacking lips, eager to taste what has been endured for so long. Impatient longing was evident in every kiss, lick, bite and tug.  You kissed him so fervently that his back was digging against the backrest of the sofa. One of your legs seemed to have a mind of its own and positioned itself to straddle him. "Are you sure you want me?" You queried the boy beneath you, your tone much mischievous from before, it was like there was a flipped switch somewhere. The noticeable change in the atmosphere has got him simply nodding, excited to know there was this side of you that he has not witnessed before. He watched you as you steadily unravel your blouse's satin belt and started to gently caress his wrist. "Would you mind if I tie up these pretty hands of yours?" You hummed, pulling on his hand up to you face and sucking on his middle finger and ring finger. The sensation of your wet mouth around his digits caused his brain to send signals down there. He could already feel himself get rock hard inside his jeans, thinking about how tight your mouth would be if he shoved his dick down you throat. But he'll save that for another day because right now he just wants to let you do what you want to do with him. Right now, he is yours for the taking. You urged him to lean a little closer to you. His face now between the valley of your breast as you meticulously tie his hands behind his back. You pushed him back to his previous position and inquired, "Do you want me to cover your eyes as well?" He shook his head in protest and said, "N-no. I want to see you." There was a pause as he manages to catch his breath, "I-I wanna see you while you make me feel good." You nodded, brushing his hair out of his sweat slicked forehead. From his head, your hand slid lazily down to his neck, to his chest, to his stomach and finally to the growing bulge inside his pants. You palm him unhurriedly, taking your time. Tracing your fingertips over the curve of his caged penis. "Y-y/n.." Jimin griped, observing your hand press against his erection. Somehow enduring the excruciating pain, your teasing had sown. "Can I ask you one last favor?" You purred, peppering his neck with kisses and sucking purple bruises here and there. "W-what is it?" he managed to reply, reveling in the way your teeth nipped against his delicate skin. "Call me noona," Jimin was silent, somewhat waiting for an explanation. When you told him the first time, he met you that he can call you by your first made him feel special because only he could do that. The other workers call you 'Miss' and Jungkook and Taehyung declared you as 'our noona'. "N-noona-" Jimin whined, bucking his hips harder against you hand. He saw your pupils dilate as the word escaped your lips, inflaming something inside you. "Jimin," you growled, squeezing his around his girth ferociously. Buttons were unfastened one after the other, exposing his refined chest and taut muscles. Out of nowhere, you felt raunchy. The tips of your fingernail slowly dragged themselves across his torso, leaving streaks of red in its track. He flung his head back, enjoying the sting that danced on his skin. Jimin squirmed as he felt your weight suddenly leave his lap. His neck snapped back to your direction and damn, what a sight to see. You tucked between his legs and unzipping his pants exposing his angry red-tipped cock oozing out beads of pre-cum. He smirked as he saw you involuntary lick your lips. "You like what you see, noona?" "God, yes." You exhaled, wrapping both your hands around his shaft not because you wanted to, but because it was necessary. Your tiny, little hand could barely encompass his circumference. "Noona's gonna me you feel good, baby." You felt Jimin's dick twitch by the given pet name. "Noona," he groaned, thrusting his member in your grip just to feel any sort of friction. Sensually, you undid your bloused and hurled it somewhere on the floor followed by your bra, exposing your bare chest to the boy. Jimin jerked in his seat, wanting to grab and knead you breast with his own hands. It looked even better up close. The skin smooth and flawless, nipples pert and hard due to the frosty air. "Fuck" he hissed through his teeth, if he could get his mouth on those buds he'd suck them dry and pull it between his teeth making you cry out. "Behave." You scolded him, eyes staring daggers. He stayed in place once again, not wanting to vex you in any way. 

You ran the flat of you tongue on the underside of his length, feeling his skin pulse at contact. Salaciously making your way to its head, you began circling his narrow slit with the tip of your tongue. Feeble moans were the only things escaping his pretty mouth. You seized this moment to swallow him whole down to the hilt, fighting your gag reflex. Your mouth has never felt this stuffed as you moan in satisfaction. Jimin felt the vibration of your throat around his cock, tightening around it. You languidly started bobbing your head up and down, bottoming out with every stroke. With a lewd pop, you tried pulling your mouth off his cock. Strings of saliva dribbled from your lips connecting to his tip. You push yourself up slight and proceeded painting your nipples with the concoction of you saliva and his pre-cum that was coating the tip of his penis. "How does this feel?" You cooed, sandwiching his hard member between your two breasts, erotically pumping the tender flesh up and down his length. "So so gooood, noona" Jimin wheezed blissfully. The sensation of his cock wholly enveloped by your soft mounds is inclining him over the edge. "Noona," he wailed shutting his eyes, the urgency of wanting to release washing over him. By the look of things, you guess he's close. You quicken the pace, feeling the skin of you breast chafe due to friction but you don't care. You clamped your hand on your boobs harder to tighten its hold around his cock and pump faster and faster and faster until he's cumming on you tits. "Shit, noona," Jimin stressed, his breaths labored. You watched as his chest heaved up and down, supplying him with the oxygen he needs after such an intense climax. "Oh no. Look at the mess you made, Jimin." You shook your head, pointing to your breast painted with his milky liquid. "I don't like messes," You sing-song, pushing yourself back up to straddle him once more. You clasped your finger under his chin and commanded, "clean it." His heart stammered in his chest. This is it. This is what he desired. Your perky nipples snug between his lips while your back arches in euphoria. He aggressively lapped up his juices from the skin of your chest with his tongue, leaving no trace of the substance behind. Up and down, left and right, there was no area left untouched by his wet greedy muscles. If he could only see the contorted position he put himself in just to taste you. He doesn't give a shit anymore, he'll gladly eat his cum out of you asshole if you asked. He obscenely sucked you left nipple first, earning the tiniest moan from you. Alternating between light nips and starved slurps, abusing your bud. He then moves to your right nipple, the more sensitive one that has you immediately grinding your clothed core against his semi-hard on. "Let me make you feel good, noona." He desperately whined, concealing his face in the nook of your neck inhaling your fragrant scent. You quirked a brow and asked while weaving you digits through his sweat-damped hair. "What does my baby have in mind?" "Let me.." he croaked. "Louder. I can't hear you." "Let me eat you out, noona. Let me make you feel good." He begged with pleading eyes , fidgeting his hands that were behind his back, trying to untie the belt that was restraining him. "I can make you--" "If you take those off I am kicking you out." You threateningly glared at him, voice deadly like venom. Jimin was scared shitless. He could do nothing but sit silently and obey. "I-I'm sorry, noona. I didn't mean to make you mad." This boy. It may seem like you're the one in control but it is you who are actually wrapped around his little finger. Giving in to what he wants. "It's okay, baby." you massaged his tensed shoulders, soothing him down. "I'll still let you eat me out if you promise not to take off your restraint." You sounded so sweet, the exact opposite of what you were minutes ago. Not wanting to piss you off more, Jimin nodded. You helped him lay down the sofa, propping his head underneath a throw pillow. You stepped to the side and shimmied your pants off. His eyes trailed the article of clothing peeling off your body. When the pair of jeans were long gone, his gaze was attached to your still clothed core. A small wet patch sticking to your folds in the middle was visible. You prop a leg over him, climbing on top of his chest, finding purchase when his face is below your pussy. He could smell the scent of you arousal. Filling up his nostrils and intoxicating his entire nervous system like it's some kind of poison. This by far was the best angle he's seen you in. Seeing it up close, he wished he could at least touch you… You moved into a considerably better position, if you buck your hips the slightest bit, if will directly collide with his mouth. "This what you want baby boy?" You teased, lowering you center on the tip of his nose. Overpowering him even more. "Yes, yes, yes!" He cries out, "I want nothing but your pussy, noona!" You snickered at how desperate he has become, "Who knew you were such a little bitch, Jimin. Loving the way you hands are tied up and thirsting over my pussy." "Yes! I want to taste you, noona. I want to make you feel good until you're squirting all over my face like you did before on the floor. Then I'll eat you up so good, so clean." "Good boy." You thrummed, ultimately taking off your underwear. Letting him marvel at the sight of your woman hood. Clean Shaven, baby smooth, and tulip pink. Without warning, you hastily maneuver yourself, grinding your core against his face. "Put your filthy mouth to good use and make me cum." The sounds he was making were borderline pornographic as hell. His slurps and moans blessing your ears, making your insides rut. He'd occasionally prod his muscles inside your hole then flick on your clit relentlessly. The tensed coil finally snapped and you chase you high by grinding against his face. He's devouring you out like a man starved, sucking out and drinking all the juice your pussy was providing him. Wanting nothing but to be selfish, and have you for himself. He licked you clean, not wasting a single drop of your delicious cum. "I didn't know you were such a disgusting slut for pussy, Jimin." "I, I only want your pussy noona… no one else's." He confessed. "On your knees." You demand. "H-huh?" "I said on you knees. You slut." Jimin dropped down on the floor waiting for your next command like the slut he is. "Tell me how much you want to fuck me." "I-I.." He stuttered with his words, and it made you infuriated. "I said. Tell me how much you want to fuck this tight pussy of mine."  You bellowed, your words bouncing off the walls of your living you. "I want to fuck you so much, noona! I want to bury my cock so deep inside your pussy until I reach your cervix then I'll fuck you some more. I want nothing but to fill you up with my seed and put a baby in you, noona! I'll fuck you so good that you'll want to you pussy filled by me every day!" He cried, plunging his head on the floor in a begging for your life bow. "Please, please, please!" Jimin was hysterical at this point, screaming and begging you to let him fuck you. "Noona, please. I'll fuck you so good that you'll forget about all your problems." You shiver at his submission and once again, he's got you eating at the palm of his hands. You freed his wrist and he lunges at you, hustling you up against the wall. "Noona," he breathed in the smell of your shampoo, steadying his hands on your hips fingers digging into your skin. "You don't know how much I wanted to put my hands on you. I can't take it anymore, noona."  he pressed his erection against your slick folds "I need to be inside you." "Then show noona what that dirty cock can do." you smirked, challenging the boy. He gripped both of your thighs and carried you to the dinner table. Laying you down before spreading your legs open for him. He aligned his cock to your entrance, pushing gradually, inch by inch until he bottomed out. The stretch was incredible, you were already dripping wet but there was still the sting that lingered from his size. Your walls were trying resisting the force, convulsing around his length spontaneously. "You're tighter than I've imagined, noona." You did kegels around him, eliciting a sharp groan from the boy. "Fuck, Noona. You were made for my cock." You hummed in agreement, relishing the sensation of him pushing in and out of your tight hole. "Baby.." You moaned wantonly, elevating you butt so that he could have a better angle while penetrating you ruthlessly. "Your thick long cock is the best I've ever had. Better than my ex-husband's pathetic excuse for a dick." His ego doubled at your praise, pride blooming in his chest. "More, noona.. please tell me how great my cock is for you.." "Ahhh-- ahh. Jimin!" You bit your lip, clenching around him. "You're taking remarkably good care of noona. Fucking your noona so good. I love your cock so much. I want you to fill me up with you cum. Yeah? Hmmmm. Make your noona the happiest by cumming inside my pussy." There was the push he needed, he was plunging further into you. He felt the barrier of your cervix and broken through it before spilling all his seed into your womb. You quickly followed when you felt the warmth of his juices flowing into you. Your velvet walls convulsed around his cock, milking him for all his worth. Silence fell on the both of you, only the south of your panting and harsh breath resonated. You supported yourself up with you elbows as Jimin pull out his now flaccid penis. You felt the trickle of both of your releases slobber out of your sore hole. "Baby, do noona a favor and clean up the mess you've made with your mouth." Jimin without hesitation obeyed and dove right in. Making sure to get every last drop of yours and his cum with his tongue. He lifted his head, mouth glistening from your juices. You pulled him closer to pet his held. "You were such a good boy for noona. Bring me to bed." He obliged, carrying you bridal style to your room. His muscles rippling under your stripped body. "Noona?" He questioned while his face was still cuddling your tummy. "Hmm?" "Did I make you feel good?" You lifted up his face and said, "You made me feel so good, baby." You assured, loving the way his eyes turn into crescent moons endearing when he smiles. "Can we do that again? But this time I want the blindfolds." He flashed a cheeky grin. You smirked at his innocence, placing a kiss on his temple. "Of course, baby. We have all the time in the world." ++ The sound of knocking on your front door wakes you up, seems like this is will be a regular thing now. You managed to put on an oversized shirt and underwear on before heading to the source of the noise. You opened the doors at was bet by Jungkook and Taehyung. "Good morning, boys." You yawned, gesturing them to come in. "Uhm. Good morning, noona" Jungkook croaked, pushing his senior to speak on his behalf. "See, we haven't heard from Jimin since last night so uh-- it's just jungkook and I that'll be finishing up work today." Taehyung stated. "About that…." 

You heard the door of your room creak open and out comes Jimin with nothing but this boxers on and hickeys all over his neck and chest. The two boys looked at each other dumbfoundedly and once they've put two and two together, huge grins were plastered on their faces. End

tell me what u think pls 

[eirabach]

Interregnum

1 : the time during which a throne is vacant between two successive reigns or regimes. 2 : a period during which the normal functions of government or control are suspended.

This one is for @gumnut-logic‘s final(?) Sensory Sunday challenge “Sixth Sense” AND it’s canon to Savages (a missing scene between chapters five and six, so, chapter 5.5). I’d say you don’t have to know what’s going on to enjoy, but it would probably help? Otherwise just have at some sad kids being starcrossed in a liminal space. Love you all.

The thing about is knowing, is that it’s an art.

Not like music or painting, not a portrait of a lady or a soft serenade, no, nothing so simple nor so easy as that. 

A man can be taught to draw, a child trained to sing, a woman can write ream after ream of nonsense, fill pages with dreams and desires until her fingers bleed and her heart falls into the page an empty husk, her life's work a thing to cast out on the wind. 

Knowing is different. 

Knowing is being four years old, and a man coming to your door in the dead of night.

It had been the door of the manor, not the door to her room, but it was her door even then. Her mother had been long gone, her father already hardly more than a ghost, and she, the Lady of the house, had tucked herself away on the grand staircase, watching as the dirty faced man in the torn jacket had spluttered in a language she didn't understand, a sack of tools at his feet, a crowbar held tight in his grubby fists. The stranger hadn't seen the narrowing of round blue eyes as he'd concentrated on the lock to her father's study. 

He hadn't known, but she had.

She'd known her father would come, known the butler would drag the stranger from her sight, and Nanny would carry her away. 

She'd already known what would happen when her father called her down that morning, that he’d tell her, "This is Parker, he's a friend."

The man had smiled at her then through newly broken teeth, and Penelope had nodded, sure and certain, because she is, was, will always be, because knowing is something you're born with. It's a prickle up your spine. The skipped beat. A hum that no one else hears, and Penelope has always known. Good or evil, friend or foe, love or hate. Always. It’s what makes her so very good at her job, so perfect a hostess, so subtle an interrogator. That well honed ability to look a man in the eye, just once, and be utterly and entirely certain of the content of his soul, and it has never failed her, not once.

Until now.

Now the only thing she knows is that she absolutely cannot be seen to cry. Far too unseemly. Weak. Pathetic. The paparazzi smother her as she leaves the hotel, buzzing like mosquitoes as Parker opens the door and she offers them a media smile -- sweet, coquettish, slight -- that she has no idea if she actually achieves.

"Lady Penelope! Lady Penelope do you have any comment on Jeff Tracy's return? Do you --"

The door slams closed, a sign of Parker's wavering restraint, and cuts the reporter off.

Does she have any comment? Not one fit for publication in a family paper that's for sure.

Family, and just the thought sticks in her throat, makes her chest ache and her eyes burn, because God, but she’d thought she’d known that at least. Pitiful, silly girl. 

"Milady?" Parker's gentle, because he knows her, and she must look frightful all flustered and wet eyed because when he looks in the mirror she sees the way his brows draw low in concern. "Where to?"

And she doesn't know that, either. Doesn't have a clue, only, "Anywhere, Parker. Anywhere but here."

---

Gordon loves his father.

Loves him with a fierceness that pounds through his veins, that thunders his name in time with the rhythmic smack of the duffle against his spine, the thud of feet against asphalt.

Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad.

He loves him so much that he hates him.

He hates the way he's so sure, so certain of every damn thing all the goddamn time, and hadn't Gordon been sure? Hadn't Gordon been certain? And then he'd died and then he hadn't --

Two hundred yards ahead of him FAB One merges into New York City traffic, just a pink blur lit by camera flashes with a pull on his heart so hard he feels like it might be torn in two.

Might.

Two just seems kinda restrained, kinda delicate, compared to the crushing, sickening feeling behind his breastbone. Seems like something that might be fixed, somehow, stitched back together when all Gordon's doing is falling apart.

Falling apart and catching the damn car.

Scott's the runner in the family, old skinny legs can eat up the miles like Alan gobbles brownies, but Gordon's no slowcoach. The traffic's on his side, keeping Parker at a crawl, but the pack of salivating paparazzi aren't. They crowd between him and his goal, dark shades and darker grins sharp as shark teeth as he struggles his way through.

"Is that --?"

"Yeah! The one with the rocket?"

"Nah man, the other one, the swimmer."

"What the hell is he --"

He doesn't hang about for the end of that one -- wouldn't know the answer if he did -- instead he barrels through the chattering crowd and launches himself at the back of the car.

He realises, half a second too late, that Parker has ways of dealing with people who are stupid enough to stay on FAB One's tail.

"Aw shit."

---

“What in the blazes?”

She has her compact open, drafting the letter that she absolutely must send to Colonel Casey but has no idea how to write, and the jolt as something slams into the rear of the car sends it skittering to the ground at her feet, the screen cracking as it bounces off the console.

“Parker?”

“Already on it, Milady,” her erstwhile Chauffeur states grimly, his hand moving toward FAB One’s defences as she twists her body round to try and get a better look at whoever has been foolish enough to ram them.

“Oh my -- Parker don’t!”

But it’s too late. She catches a last glimpse of tow-headed blond as thick, dark oil arcs out, and then she’s launching herself at the door of the still-moving car, Parker’s squarks of displeasure blending into the furious clattering of two dozen paparazzos all throwing their cameras up at once.

Gordon lies amongst them, just two huge brown eyes in the pool of filth she’s left in her wake, and, lord above, if that isn’t a thought she doesn’t want to examine too closely.

“Gentlemen,” she says it like she was taught to, like she means it, like she wants all those cameras to turn on her and this time, only this time, she actually does. “Please, do excuse us. Darling?”

It’s a considered choice, the pet name. Chosen because she knows the ways their minds work, can already see the cogs turn into credits in their eyes, already read her name in the headlines, not his. Gordon blinks up at her, perfectly forgotten, and she lets her next smile reach her eyes. 

“Get in.”

---

She feels Parker’s shudder, FAB One shaking under the force of it as Gordon slips and squelches his way into the backseat. He leaves perfect dark hand prints on the cream leatherwork and drips, morosely, onto the merino wool carpets.

“Milady --” 

She cuts him off with a sharp tsk, her own hands coming away hopelessly filthy as she wipes her thumbs across too-damp cheeks where oil and something else have mixed into a horrid black paste. Gordon says nothing, only leans into her touch before backing away, skittish, at Parker’s groan.

“Ignore him,” she assures him, “It’s entirely his own fault.”

Parker makes another, ruder, sound, but neither of them pay much mind. Gordon’s breathing heavily, heavier than he ought to be after such a short sprint, and she finds herself patting at his shoulders, his sides, worried eyes scanning for whatever injury must have spurred him after her.

“Penny?” He’s holding his own hands up, surrender style. “Pen -- you’re getting -- Penelope, stop it!”

“You’re hurt?” It’s a question that isn’t, not really, because Penelope is good at knowing, and she knows that twist to those lips, the shadow in those eyes, knows them as well as she knows her own name. “Let me see.”

Gordon huffs, something that might have been a laugh, once, but now sounds half a beat from a sob. “Nah.”

She rolls her eyes, and makes nimble work of his shirt buttons. He snatches at the edges, head swivelling toward the windows, and hisses a scandalised, “Hey!”

“Oh do relax,” she mutters, slapping at his wrists until he lets her pull the sodden material away from his shoulders. “This is New York, sweetheart. This is nothing.”

“So you say!” But he lets her continue, shifting his weight and kicking his own jeans off, until he’s sat in nothing but his boxers, body streaked with sweat, hair black, surrounded by discarded rags and wearing a smile that makes her heart seize.

“See?” he flings his arms out as far as he can in the confined space. “I'm fine.”

It's an invitation, an opening she doesn't take, and the silence lingers a moment too long -- long enough for him to shiver, to reach for the duffle he'd dragged in after him and pluck something soft from its depths. Long enough to wonder.

"What 'appened?"

They both move to answer, both their jaws snapping shut as they realise, and Gordon pulls a marl hoody over his head, taking his time to work his arms into the sleeves as Parker's eyes narrow in the rear view mirror.

"A misunderstanding," Penelope says breezily, far too breezily. "That's all."

One bushy eyebrow rises out of his reflection.

"Is that so, Master Gordon?"

The hoody is too long, too tight in the shoulders. The sleeves hang over his hands and the hem sits around his mid thigh. He’d clearly left in a hurry, although she should have guessed that by how quickly he caught up to them, and he refuses to meet either of their eyes as he rummages deeper into the bag muttering invectives about stupid lanky brothers.

“Gordon?”

He pauses, his hand leaving marks on the waistband of a pair of NASA sweats. "Yeah -- no. I don't know."

"You didn't 'arf run." Parker says it conversationally, an observation. Penelope only hears the pauses in Gordon’s answer.

"Yeah. Well."

"In fact seems as if we're all running, Milady."

She balks at that, offence at the very notion ingrained into her bones. "Nonsense. I don't run."

Her broken compact has come to rest beneath the duffle, and as he tosses he bag to one side to work the too-long sweats up over his knees Gordon spots it, leaning down to pick it up as he wriggles his backside into them. “Oh Lady Penelope,” he says with something of his usual humour. “Brains is gonna be cross!” 

She snatches it, or tries to, but her hand slips and the cracked screen lights up, reveals immediately what she’d been doing -- what she’d been trying to do -- in the moments before Gordon had thrown himself bodily into her vehicle. 

Colonel Casey,

Despite all my efforts it would appear Mr Tracy has taken against my advice and plans to move TI further in the direction we have previously discussed. I am sorry that I have been unable to convince him of the folly of such choices, and as such I am forced to resign as --

"So this isn't running?" He runs a hand across his face and lets it lie there, covering his eyes. "Jesus, Pen. What's happening to us?"

Carefully, terribly carefully, she peels his fingers away until she can twist her own between them and bring their joined hands to rest in her lap. Her business suit is ruined, but it isn’t as though she hasn’t half a dozen others. There’s only one boy -- one boy with callouses on his palms and oil under his fingernails. One boy that she absolutely cannot keep but oh -- oh --

She doesn’t look at him. Can’t. Because she knows herself, knows the streak of absolute selfish want that runs right through the very core of her, and it’s all she can do to keep her voice steady. 

"Your father will no doubt be arranging further investor meetings, we can drop you at Heathrow. By the time they get back you'll --"

"Whoa, hang on -- I'm not going back!"

"Don't be ridiculous! What are you going to do instead?"

He stares at her.

"I thought -- you and me --"

He thought, but god, she wants.

And wanting makes her mean. Makes her scoff when all she really wants to do is say yes, yes of course.

“You’re going to sit in my house and watch your family save the world? Don’t be obtuse. You’ll go mad.” Then, quieter. Truer. “You’ll hate me.”

“Never.” The vehemence surprises her, though it shouldn’t, not really. She’s never seen Gordon do anything that wasn’t with his whole heart, has she? “I will never regret choosing you.”

“Over everything?”

“Anything.”

At that moment, and only for a moment, she lets herself imagine it. The two of them, and nothing, no-one else. The two of them and their own choices, their own dreams, and she knows -- she knows it will never happen. Can never happen. Gordon covers the hand holding the compact with his other, lifts it and drops a kiss to her knuckles that cracks her heart right down the centre.

"No. No, Gordon. Don't let him be right." Her voice cracks right along with it. “If he thinks I’m trying to steal you away --”

"What, like some kind of pedigree puppy? Forget it, what am I gonna do, let him get away with speaking to you like that? No chance. Never. Not happening okay, so don’t even bother."

"Your brothers --"

There's hesitation there, just as she knew there would be, but it doesn't last, doesn't work the way she'd thought it would.

"Are big enough and ugly enough to cope without me. I'm just the pool boy nowadays anyway it's not like I can do anything useful."

"That's not true."

"It's completely true, and you know it. He wants me to, what? Choose between you and brunch meetings in a penguin suit?" He grimaces. “It’s not you or the job, Penelope. It’s you and the job, or it’s him.”

“We’re on the same side, Gordon,” she says quietly. “We all only want what’s best.”

“Do we?” He shakes his head. “I dunno, Pen. I don’t know anything anymore. Dad’s --” he takes a deep breath. “He’s not the same.”

Parker scoffs at that, breaking the spell that seems to have befallen the two of them before gesturing rudely to a fellow motorist with poor lane discipline. “I’ll say. He’s spent eight years alone in outer space, young Master Gordon. If he was the same man, he’d be a blummin’ mirage.”

“I know that,” Gordon insists. “I do, I get it. But -- people will die? People are dying and we -- my dad, he’d have helped them. He’d have let us help them. I just -- I don’t even know him anymore. I don’t even know if I ever did.”

And Penelope may have lost a little faith, somewhere between Tracy Industries and the oil-slicked backseat of her car, but she hasn’t yet lost her tact.

She knows, still, just enough. Enough to recognise fear in a man’s eyes. Ambition. Dread. Lust. Courage. So she doesn’t tell him, doesn’t dare, that when she looks into his father’s eyes she sees nothing. Nothing at all. Instead she tightens her grip on his hand, on the broken compact, and says;

“Take us home, Parker.”

---

(Gordon loves his father.

He does.

His father is a dead man.)

[aveaugvstus]

❛ You made a mistake. Everybody makes them. Even me. I’ve made many. It’s only fair that you made one. ❜

it’s strange how the passage of time warps and bends around the shape of the people in your life, the silhouettes they carve from the liminal space of your soul — it’s like that thing about stars and how when you’re looking up at the night sky, you’re actually looking at stars that could be already be dead a hundred years ago, their fading requiem only just now reaching earth’s stratosphere, a thousand light years away. 

this is what it feels like to see vladimir standing in the door frame of his childhood bedroom looking like the ghost of fuck-ups past.  (  he has no lock now, which is mildly insulting and excruciatingly patronising; he’s an addict, not bloody suicidal, but to his family the distinction might as well be non-existent.  )  he looks different, and also like nothing has changed at all in a way that august can’t quite pinpoint. it’s as if he’s lost his ability to translate him; the myriad tiny, insignificant nuances and habits he used to obsessively decrypt with his very own rosetta stone, a whole stele for the vladimir yamatov script, forgotten like a dead language. or maybe he no longer cares to. he doesn’t know if that should make him feel nostalgic, or furious, or bittersweet. feeling particularly strongly about anything these days is a herculean task in and of itself. which, he supposes, was the original sin that instigated everything to begin with.

he thinks he can remember asking vladimir to come home.

he thinks he can almost remember begging, knees in the dirt and gravel scraping his flesh raw, over voicemail like a needy fling who had accidentally gone and done the thing you and every other idiot knows you’re not supposed to do, and fallen. 

he thinks he might have begged for absolution. 

but that could have also been the sixth line of blow cut with ketamine and procaine and only god and the devil knows what else  (  he’d been desperate, it was three a.m. in camden  )  and he’s composed text messages nay, goddamn fucking letters, ad nauseam, ad infinitum, like he’s on the receiving end of some dear john bullshit, and he’s never been sure which of them actually made it to the send button. he’s smashed, or lost, or misplaced, half a dozen phones, for all the futile effort to replace them. collateral damage in the dawning realisation that vladimir wasn’t replying because he was mercilessly leaving him on read, but because he wasn’t receiving them at all, and judging by his infrequent instagram updates, was doing absolutely fine / fuck him, happy / having the time of his fucking life on his primitive anti-tech detox.

for a moment, he entertains the fleeting, whimsical distraction that this could be yet another delusion. after all, he’s conjured vladimir enough times that this wouldn’t be unusual.  (  why, sometimes i’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.  )  he has imagined vladimir heartsick, wretchedly beside himself with guilt. he has painted him alabastrine, cold and immovable, patron saint raphael of the lost and the meek indifferent to august’s self-inflicted torment. he has envisioned him lit with madness, seized in catastrophic rage, gripping him by the jaw and rattling his bones till he might see reason. there were other imaginings, too, steeped in the unspeakable, tauntings of an uninhibited mind free to conceptualise the reality of its most ludicrous desire. in the worst dream, the most terrible, most fantastical one, vladimir comes home because of him. for him. it plays out like the final scene of a cult romantic comedy, or the odyssey, maybe, much-enduring odysseus returning home to penelope at last. two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk, their hands meeting as light spills in a flood, the sky pouring out the sun. and he would take his other-soul’s face in his hands and kiss him and say the words this lifetime’s vladimir would never say.

there is, of course, a singular difference in this one. this vladimir. the vladimir he filled his dreams with never looked at him like this. with this curious amalgamation of horror and — most tellingly so; am i not what you expected, vladimir? how did you imagine you would find me? beatific? flourishing? — disgust. 

august knows what he looks like. five shades too pale and ashen, like the vivacity has been drained right out of him. a layer of grease shines in his hair, the fade he alway maintains with meticulous care and precision grown out into his natural, unruly curls. he’s not quite skeletal, his frame was always too lean and muscular for that, but he seems perilously thin for his height. it shows in his face, he knows even though he’s been avoiding mirrors and isn’t allowed one anyway, because a) addicts use those to cut their coke, and b) suicidal ones might be inclined to break them, he knows because of the way his mum looks at him when she comes into his room to bring him his meals three times a day like a convict. it hurts him a little, more than the physical pain of looking at vladimir, of hearing his voice, that he sees him like this. he had not been informed in advance that vladimir would come calling. if he had, he would’ve — he doesn’t know what he would’ve done  (  attempted an escape, maybe; broken his twelve-day sobriety, maybe  )  but he might’ve. cleaned up a little. tried to look less like a shell of himself. augustus has always been vain, has always been a gilded, preening thing who took great pride in being pretty and well-loved for it. it pains him. not to be even that anymore. he is rusted. tarnished.

if he had known, maybe he would have told vladimir not to come. 

now that he is here, he is split in two, cleaved in half by the urge to tell him to go and the more pressing compulsion to make him stay to never go never leave again never go anywhere that is out of his sight out of his life out of him. 

his ambivalence makes him poor company and a poorer conversationalist. not that this is entirely his fault — what are they supposed to do? chat about the weather and trade perfunctory banter just to fill the air? he’d rather do a line right here in front of vladimir. 

your hair is longer, august had said. the only thing other than what are you doing here, which had come out of his mouth, part-shock and part-petulance, when his mother had opened the door and presented vladimir like some screwed-up surprise gift for reaching a whopping week and a half of not being a fucking disappointment to everyone around him. so, now he can disappoint the person that matters most fundamentally, tortuously, to him in the world, too. how delightful.

vladimir’s hair being longer is the only thing he can think to say that doesn’t make him want to give in to the pulverising sensation in his head, in his bones, in his chest, screaming for a deus ex machina reprieve. if this is what they have come to — the two of them, who had spent their entire lives talking about nothing and everything till they could anticipate exactly what the other’s response would be — augustus is glad he didn’t come home sooner. he looks handsome, which feels like another slight against august’s pride. rugged and sun-soaked like a male model cum travel influencer, but one that actually does something meaningful with his life. time, and sunlight, and the kind of hard labour that builds muscle definition and character, has certainly been kinder to him than it has been to august. he doesn’t say you look good because that would sound like he has any remotely positive feelings towards this interaction, and, indeed, the cause of vladimir’s looking like a golden, newly-anointed demi-god. it seems they have traded places. or maybe vladimir is exactly who he was always supposed to be. and august is, too.

august supposes it’s the silence, and the reality that vladimir cannot abide it either, that prompts him to say what he does.

what happened?

he doesn’t say anything for a long moment, he drifts in the absence of an answer because he is allowed to, because he is technically, partially an invalid now, and people who are sick are allowed to be not altogether there. 

(  sick. malaised. he likes this word for it. he likes that there is a scientific explanation for what he is. a brain disease. a diagnosable mental illness. see, vladimir, he almost wants to say, a little deranged part of him finally gleeful at not having a pedestal to stand on anymore, you aren’t special. i’m fucked up now, too.  )

well, vladimir. it’s a very long story that i don’t care to repeat as i’ve recounted the tales to you so many times through missives you were never inclined to respond to. there was angel, and bennie, there was emmy, and good old molly. ah, and charlie, my favourite of the lot. ours was a whirldwind love affair. but it turns out i loved him more than he loved me. seems like i have a nasty little habit of doing that. it’s one i haven’t learned to kick yet.

god — august...

it’s the look of wrenching disgust, again. the thing that twists and snakes across vladimir’s face and awakes something snarling and animal shackled to august’s throat, something that slams into him chest-first and doesn’t stop until it’s gone right through him, left him raw, all bloodied edge and teeth.

what happened? what happened? what’s the point of asking now when it’s all been said and done. how long am i supposed to carry this black mark? until everyone around me deigns to let me bury it? i’m not a fucking child.

it’s not an explanation, which is what vladimir is after. he would know, however, if he had bothered to answer august any of those times. he would know, he would have known, if he hadn’t left august in their bed that morning at the warwickshire summer palace and run from everything they’d ever touched. they’d had the world world in their hands in that bed, in that room, in that place of stolen summer outside of time, outside of life itself. they could have had — everything. everything august had to give. and he gave it, and vladimir looked him in the eye and decided it was not for him.

you made a mistake. everybody makes them. even me. i’ve made many. it’s only fair that you made one.

he feels each word grate right through him, each syllable catching on his skin like little knives, the thin strand keeping him tethered to the present grinding down into dust and bone. he doesn’t blame vladimir for what happened to him. he blames him for leaving. but it’s a mistake that vladimir won’t — can’t acknowledge because to do that, he would have to admit to the thing he doesn’t want to say, or can’t say, and august can’t make him say it. that’s what made him do it, the first night at that grimy, filthy club in the berlin underground. that’s what made him want to trade his soul for just a night of rapture so euphoric he wouldn’t have to remember how fucking miserable it was to be unloved by the one person you thought you were meant for. but then, it’s never just one night is it? it couldn’t have been. you don’t get over something like that with one goddamn night.

(  if august were honest, and his heart not surrendered, he would say it was this, too: that vladimir could walk away from them, has always been able to walk away, and think nothing of it. him. that vladimir had found purpose and higher meaning in something other than themselves and the stupid, foolish, boyish dreams they used to talk about like they might someday happen. that august had disappointed him somehow by, what, not being enough? not living up to the unearned greatness that vladimir saw in him and was supposedly the only person in the world who could? that vladimir would forge a path for himself in life that diverged from august and not feel his soul rending itself in half to be half a world away from him, and survive it. — it was enough to ruin him then, it still ruins him now.  )

“if you’ve come all this way just to lecture to me, you can sod the fuck off back to phuket or hanoi or fucking antarctica if that’s what you want. maybe there’s some disease-riddled penguins out there that you can save to sate your saviour complex. saint francis of assisi. a non-shitty mother teresa. malala.”

he’s exhausted before the first word leaves his mouth, strung out just with the effort of starting, but he can’t stop them now any more than he can stop the hunger and thirst clawing at his head howling for a drop of blood, a pound of flesh, any part of him that it can cannibalise in retribution for starving. it’s easier to be cruel than to be wounded, better to be the conqueror than the fallen — but right now it just feels like he is going through his twelfth or two hundredth day of withdrawal and the boy he loves has come back but not the way august wanted and not the way he wants to be wanted. it hurts just to look at him, it hurts to have him looking back. every part of his body aches with dependence, codependence. they’re the definition of it. see what happens to me when you are not in my life?

alexander lay on hephaestion’s bed for three days. but you are not him. you are just a spoiled, arrogant, silver-spooned nothing who will never amount to greatness, glory, or anything at all. it is no wonder he would not have you.

his rage breaks, like sea foam crashing against cliffs; it rends and shatters down the fault line mapped throughout his body, the one that winds from his throat to his sternum, down to his thighs and feet, and aches forever mostly at his heel. helpless to the unbidden trembling of his hands as he curls them around the sheets of his bed, unmoored. he looks small and disarmed, more lost than he’s ever been with vladimir by his side. it doesn’t mean the same thing anymore, does it? not if he cannot make vladimir stay. whatever they had between them — is it damaged, now. they could rebuild it, but the foundations would still bear the memory of where the cracks lie. he would still remember this look on vladimir’s face.

he has looked at him a thousand times, and there has always been an echo reverberating between them. the wavelength of an elegy he knows the words to like they are writ upon heartbeat, upon headstone. there have been other faces, but vladimir’s eyes have always been the same. fathomless as distant stars in an entire universe light years away and yet close enough to touch if he dared to. if it is fate, or circumstance, or a reiteration of the immortality that stands between them and their freedom, then he already knows how this ends. vladimir knows it, too. it doesn’t make him want it any less. it doesn’t make him suffer for it any less. this ache he has spent an eternity chasing after, this feeling of being so incandescently alive that even death cannot keep them apart, this is what vladimir ran from. augustus cannot blame him. if he was not the one who always outlived him, he’d do the same.

“is this why you came back? because you think you can save me, too?”

[dbhilluminate]

DBH: Illuminate- “Coffee Break: Broken Nose”

(Chapter art by Optcldrift)

Characters: Detective Gavin Reed, Cameron James, Special Agent Vivienne Lenore Word Count: 3,975

What drives a man to hate the world so much that he would close himself off to it?

Previous Chapter

• Chapter Index • Characters •

-------------

January 2nd, 2020- 7PM

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Gavin stared at the far wall at the other end of his hospital bed and fingered the class ring around his middle finger- not his, but a friend’s, once belonging to someone more important to him than the shitty people that dare called themselves his family. Yeah, that’s right, once. That is until about two days ago.

Cameron was the only person who’d ever truly understood him, and probably the only real friend he ever had. Gavin had just turned seven when they’d met in elementary school, in the fall of 2009. Cam’s dad had just been arrested for the third time that year on domestic dispute charges, and some of their asshole classmates had decided to pick at him for having a deadbeat dad while he was still very raw; but that day he just couldn’t take it anymore, and he lashed out like a cornered animal. That was the first time Reed had really seen him as more than just the wallflower everyone seemed to ignore. Because even while pinned to the ground and outnumbered, Cam fought tooth and nail, through snarling lips and furious eyes that screamed about how even though he was just eight years old at the time, he had already run out of shits to give. And that day, so had Gavin. He’d pulled one of the boys off him and thrown him to the ground, kicked him in the stomach, then dropped to his knees and punched him until his teeth chipped and his lip bled and he cried for teacher’s help because the kid was too chickenshit to finish what he’d started. And it felt good, because that day he’d found his twisted soul mate- one that was every bit the raging bull ready to gore the first jackass to wave a red fucking cape in his face, and one he would have taken on the whole goddamn world with if meant he had a friend to ride or die for by his side. Truth was, deep down, Cam was just as broken, and angry, and fucked up as himself; but, and he came to learn, he was also hopeful, gentle, and courageous, everything he never thought himself to be. And that was why he’d liked him so much.

Cam had been given nothing in his entire life, until he meet Gavin Reed- and as far as he was concerned, from the moment he’d squinted over at him with that toothless, ear-to-ear grin while they sat outside the principal’s office that day awaiting their punishment, he was his white fucking knight. When he realized he rarely ate, Gavin gave him his lunch because he could tough out a little hunger, because he knew he could at least eat later. When he needed money, Reed would hand him his allowance without even asking what it was for. And when the bullies came knocking, he stood by him back to back, better or worse, no matter the cost. Cam didn’t feel he deserved a friend like Reed, but neither did Reed think he deserved a friend like Cam- because no one had ever before loved either of them like a brother, and because no one had ever told them they were worthy of being loved as such.

See, Cam came from a broken home- he was an only child, but his mother was an alcoholic, and his father an abusive asshole who’d been in and out of prison since he was five years old. Cam had gotten his first split lip for mouthing off to him when he was nine, got his first job when he was thirteen just to put food on the table so he wouldn’t starve. He’d wound up in juvenile hall for stealing a car when he was seventeen, because he needed it to get to and from work but couldn’t afford to get his dead one fixed. Even still, in spite of all that he’d spit the blood out of his mouth, look hardship in the eye, give it a big old shit eating grin and say “fuck you, not today.” Cam was a survivor, scrappy and resourceful- never did enough to get into real trouble, but always just enough to keep his head above water.

Reed on the other hand had been born into a family of prodigies, raised by a nanny in the shadows of Fortune 500 parents and siblings whose coattails had always been just too far out of reach. They’d found their true callings before they’d even hit puberty (one now a nationally sought-after defense attorney, the other a Cyberlife engineer), while he was left behind, isolated and aimless: a gifted jock with a bad attitude that couldn’t play nice, that no coach in their right mind would have wanted on their team if not for his talent. Because of it, his relationship with his parents had always been strained, and they’d eventually grown so sick of it they’d threatened to cut him off from their money if he didn’t make something of himself. But Gavin didn’t care, because he wasn’t like them. He didn’t measure success as digits in a bank account or his picture on the cover of TIME magazine- his idea of success was pulling himself up out of the mud after being knocked down time and time again. It was bloody knuckles and black eyes and being able to throw up a strong middle finger in the face of those who claimed he wouldn’t amount to anything. Because his idea of success had been molded in the image of the one person who had always accepted him as he was and stood by his side... Until now. And he had no one to blame but himself.

They’d had a plan to grab everything they could throw into the back of his Chevy Nova and get the hell out of Detroit while the rest of the world celebrated the new year, before their families could even notice they were gone. It was supposed to be their fresh start, their chance at a better life, to escape the abuse and the toxic expectations that they were supposed to be anyone other than who they were: black sheep, troubled kids, the ones “with issues running so deep” adults had labeled them hopeless. The coroner’s report said he’d died on impact, but unfortunately for him Gavin knew that wasn’t true. What had really happened would haunt him for the rest of his life, and he’d take it to his grave to protect Cam’s mother from the truth. It had only taken seconds for their lives to change, but when he realized what was about to happen, Cam had closed his eyes and gripped his hand strong as a vice, and braced for impact. The sedan hit them nearly head-on on the passenger side at eighty-seven miles per hour and pushed the car two hundred feet before they were struck from behind by a truck, which hit them so hard it rolled them twice before the Nova settled onto its side in the middle of the road. When Gavin opened his eyes, he was pinned between the seat and the steel frame of the car, forced to watch as the light faded from Cam’s green eyes as he bled out. In his final moments, as the blood gurgled from between his lips and streamed down his forehead, Cam had cracked a concerned smile and forced out one last sentiment before he passed.

You can still be happy.

Anger bubbled up inside of him, and eighteen-year-old Reed balled his still-good hand into a quivering, white-knuckled fist, twisted his face into a despondent grimace, and choked on his grief. Why would he have said that? How could he have possibly thought that, of all things, that would be what he needed to hear? Not “I forgive you”, not “This isn’t your fault”. He had to have known he was going to blame himself, he had to have known he was going to need his forgiveness. So why that? This absolute load of bullshit… He couldn’t imagine a future where he could be, because no matter where he went, no matter what he did, Cam had always been a part of it. So how the hell was he supposed to move on and be happy without him?

Gavin grimaced as he moved the casted arm off his lap and laid it on the bed beside him. The surgeon who had pieced it back together said it had been crushed by the weight of the vehicle when it had rolled, one of the worst comminuted fractures he’d ever seen: twelve pins and a two plates. He’d be in therapy for the next six months, but “at least he’d gotten away with his life”. Apparently he was “lucky”, at least that was the word they kept throwing around. That’s what they’d said about the gash in his broken nose when they’d pried his head from between a folded-over support beam that had nearly crushed his skull like an overripe watermelon. First responders said he should have been dead, and in all honesty? He wished he was, because at least then he wouldn’t have to live with the guilt of knowing Cam’s death was on his hands because he couldn’t get out of the way fast enough, or his mother crying at his bedside, hysterical, reminding him of how much he’d meant to her son. If he hadn’t lived through the crash, he wouldn’t have had to grin and bear his parents blaming the accident on their attempted runaway, and not the jackass driving on the wrong side of the road. If he were dead he wouldn’t have to continue living without the only person he’d ever been bothered to give a shit about.

Gavin glanced out the window into the night but scowled when he instead saw his sorry reflection staring back at him- his head bandaged, left eye wrapped up beneath an eyepatch, the stitches on his nose still stained with iodine under a wad of gauze. With a scar like that, it was going to be impossible to put this behind him and move on, because he’d be reminded of it every time he looked in the goddamn mirror. He roared out an angry scream into the empty room and flung the dinner tray at the wall with all his residual strength, and wept quietly as the medical staff went about their business outside the glass doors of his room in the intensive care unit. Again he was alone in the world, and he wasn’t at all ready for it.

Following the accident, his parents forced him to get a job and start paying his expenses, in addition to applying to a University and “planning for his future”- a fucking slap in the face if he’d ever been. But because he was out of options he’d done everything they asked so he wouldn’t have to hear their bitching, and kept his cards close to his chest. Gavin took the money they’d given him and paid his tuition in full, separating his self-earned assets until he was fully self-sufficient, and bode his time until he could break out from under their ironclad grip of control. It took longer than he’d wanted, but eight years later, after he’d graduated with his Master’s Degree in Criminal Justice, Gavin severed the ties that had been hanging by a thread for so long. The ensuing blowout was explosive and violent, but he was prepared. For the first time that he remembered his father struck him, but he’d just spit out the blood and laughed in his face- because if he was trying to motivate him to stay, all he had done was drive him further in the opposite direction, as he had done all his life; and if he was trying to scare him, well, Gavin had been through so much worse. He’d threatened to take back everything they’d given him, but Gavin just reminded him the money was already spent. When he threatened to take away his car and stop paying his rent, Reed informed them that his neither of their name were on the pink slip for his car or the lease on his apartment, because he’d already been paying all his expenses for four years. And when he’d finally run out of leverage, Gavin had flipped him a strong middle finger, left them with three strong parting words he’d been waiting all his life to say, and never looked back.

Three weeks later he’d already breezed through a rigorous first week in DCPD’s Police Academy, and shot up to the top of his class without breaking a sweat. During his college years he’d learned just enough about communication to get by in the academy, but friends were another story. There had been a few, but they hadn’t stuck around long once they realized just how much baggage he was dragging. Being stuck in the academy with a bunch of straight-and-narrow Johnny-law types only served to reinforce his desire to remain in complete isolation, with no friends or lovers. Gavin had tried putting himself out there now and again, only to have it backfire in his face after a few weeks (or in some cases, a few days), which had caught him a lot of flack from the hyper-masculine would-be cops in training alongside him, but he just shrugged it off. “What’s the matter, Reed? You gay?” was one they threw around a lot thinking it would get a rise out of him, but were disappointed when they were instead met with apathy and eyes rolled all the way back as far as they could go. Maybe a little, but that wasn’t the reason he’d broken off every relationship he’d had before it had time to mature. Truth was, every time someone found out his family name they were real quick to turn up the charm, and nothing pissed him off quicker than some fake fuck who just wanted to use his father’s name to boost their social status. The Reed name meant jack shit to the family reject, he wasn’t special and he knew it. That’s why he’d done all this -not for the approval of distant, dissatisfied parents, not for the fame, not for the fortune- for himself and for the promise he’d made to uphold Cam’s wish for him, even if he hadn’t understood it at the time. Gavin had followed his own self-made path, just like they’d planned, and he’d done it by keeping fame-chasing, two-dimensional, “background characters” out of his life. But he hadn’t just chased them off because they were shallow as shit (because hell, even the ones that hadn’t cared about where he came from eventually came to grate on his nerves like sandpaper on glass), it was because they couldn’t see the world from his point of view, because none of them had truly understood him- not like Cam. No one ever had. Well, except for Cam.

For the first few months of his career Reed walked to and from work, just daring the city to take a swing, to throw him something - a robbery, a break in, a drunk dude trying to take advantage of a woman outside a bar - anything to scratch the itch of a good fight; but, like many things in life, it didn’t quite turn out how he’d hoped. Gavin never really had been one for religion or sentimentalism, but that night after nearly twenty-seven years of his miserable existence, he found himself believing that wayward souls could return to take care of unfinished business. Any other day Reed wouldn’t have given a second glance to a stray dog snarling at him as he passed, but it wasn’t snarling at him. It had something cornered. It took him all of five seconds to realize that something was a six-month-old kitten -hissing and clawing, furious and frantic- and as he trembled in recognition, instinct set in. A short sprint and one hard swing kicked hard across the dog’s rib cage sent it yelping and whimpering down the alley as he scooped up the animal and cradled it in his arms. To his surprise, tortoiseshell kitten didn’t struggle to escape his embrace, just squinted up at him and slumped into the crook of his arm with a tired sigh as if to say “Finally, I’ve found you”. And for just one night, as he stared into the grateful green eyes of the soul he already knew so well, Gavin believed in life beyond death. Cam had come back to him. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve such a gift, but he didn’t care, because with Cam back in the picture, everything became more tolerable. Coming home to his best friend at the end of a long day and being met with excited meows and a running leap up into his arms made all the bullshit worth it. As the years passed he thought about the accident less and less. With the help of an impressive rate of closure on his cases, Reed continued to climb the ranks at his job and traded the title of Officer for Detective with the minimum experience necessary for the position. It had taken him eighteen years to make good on Cam’s wish for him, and while life wasn’t perfect, he was at least on his way to being happy, and that was all that mattered. For a while.

November 13th, 2038- 10:30AM

Morning came hard after a restless night on the couch, and he ripped open his eyes with a sharp breath to the sound of purring and a prickly weight on his chest. The ginger and brown tortoiseshell cat stretched and contracted his toes as he kneaded at the detective’s neck and drooled into his shirt. Gavin let out a tired sigh and laid his arm over his eyes and clammy forehead to rest his mind for a minute, then reached to scratch the cat’s neck behind its ears. The old boy hunkered down with a happy, fluttery chirp, and he closed his eyes and listened to the soothing vibration. It had been a while since he’d dreamt of the crash- maybe a few months, maybe half a year, he wasn’t entirely sure. The way the days had blurred one into the next over the last five years since he’d become a detective, didn’t lend much help to his awareness of the passage of time. It had been eighteen years now since Cam’s death, and even though it had gotten easier to live without him, it still stung like hell every time he thought about it.

Reed traced his fingertips over the scar across his nose for a moment of deep thought, but cleared it from his mind as he rubbed the hurt from his raccoon-eyes with the heel of the hand on his still-good arm and stretched his legs out long. Cam shifted with a quiet meow and crawled up higher onto his shoulder to nuzzle under his jawline. Gavin let out a painful chuckle as the ten-pound cat crawled over the sling and sputtered a gentle “fuck” under his breath as the pain resurfaced and shot through his shoulder like tearing muscle. He was lucky the reconstructed AR’s the deviants were using only fired nine millimeter rounds and not the standard five-five-six. Smaller bullets meant his shoulder wasn’t nearly as torn up as it could have been, but even with the treatment he’d received to speed up the healing process (stem cells, 3-d printed right in to fill the wound), the pain was still pretty bad. Throbbing when it wasn’t stabbing, aching when it wasn’t burning- until the stem cells fused with the muscle, it was going to be an annoying recovery process.

The morning silence didn’t last long- almost as if he had woken up just to take the call, Viv’s name lit up the screen and triggered the ring.

Get up, get up, get a move on. Get up, get up, what’s takin’ so looooo~ng? Get up, get up, get a move on. Stop stallin’, I’m callin’-

Gavin groaned as he reached for the screaming cell phone in his pocket and lifted it to his ear with a, “Wha’dya want, Viv?” Couldn’t even have ten minutes to himself before getting back to the bullshit. “Oh, good, you’re awake,” she replied with a relieved breath. “How are you feeling today?” Before he answered, he tried lifting his right arm up to the shoulder, but yipped and groaned in her ear before shaking his head with an angry scrunch of his lips. “Not great,” his voice cracked in annoyed reply, at which she sighed and paused before asking. “You sober, at least?” “I’ve been sleepin’ since Connor dropped me off last night,” he assured as he tried to nudge the cat away from brushing its face with the stubble on his chin. “Well, we still have work to do, are you gonna make it today?” she asked as he sat up and pushed the cat off his stomach, ignoring the low growl from the old boy, then fumbled with the lid of the rattling bottle of pills with a shaking hand. “I’ll be fine,” he fibbed, dumping out a pill into the lid as it finally popped off. “I can still shoot straight with my left hand.” He could hear Vivienne chuckling and imagined her shaking her head at his stubbornness. “Well, get up and get dressed. I’ll be over in half an hour to pick you up,” she informed. “Don’ bother, I’ve got a bike,” he mumbled as he balanced the pill on his tongue and reached for the glass of water on the coffee table. “Do you have a death wish, or are you really just as stupid as you look!?” In spite of how indelicately she’d phrased it, the shrill panic still carried in her tone, and he grinned to himself, appreciative of her concern. No one had ever really given him shit for taking unnecessary risks, because nobody would have missed him if he was gone. “No, you stay put. You get on that death trap with your arm in a sling and I swear to God, Reed, I will arrest you.” “Alright, ma. I’ll sit tight,” he quipped back and ended the call with a “See ya,” before she could protest with her angry huffs. The phone dropped onto the sofa beside him and he dragged his hand down his face as he took in a slow, deep breath, then peered between his fingers over at the cat, who was sitting next to him with a judgmental squint.

“Don’t look at me like that Cam, she ain’t so bad,” he explained as if the cat could actually understand what he was saying. When the animal rose and climbed back into his lap, Gavin’s hand reached instinctively to scratch at the back of his neck with a small sigh. She really wasn’t, in fact he’d really grown to like Viv more than he thought he would. Even though their partnership had started off rough, she’d still cared more for his well-being than even his own mother ever had. It was strange to have that kind of support for once, but he’d already noticed how much he’d benefited from her presence in his life. Maybe it was possible to find the family he’d always wished he had... maybe even find love. Reed sputtered our a laugh at the absurdity of the notion in self-defense, but deep down in the scarcely touched recesses of his dark heart he hoped. It wasn’t like he wanted to be a miserable asshole, it was just what the world had forced him to become.

[hayffiebird]

Taste of Strawberries, chap. 18

Hayffie Post-Mockingjay Multi-chapter, Rated M

Chapter 18

Trouble in paradise

And another year was coming to a close. The surrounding woods of District 12 stood covered in white. Merciless storms whined around the houses and shops and it snowed sometimes all day and all night.

The roads were a constant trouble but Sae’s granddaughter Nella’s family, the one who owned horses, put Blaze and Misty to good use so the people of Twelve could still go about their business. Katniss, Peeta and Posy built a colossal snow lantern in Haymitch’s back garden and Buttercup refused to set so much as a paw outside.

Twelve’s mentor always got surlier in winter. Just like the cat he spent most of his days cooped up in the house, a bottle of spirits in one hand and his knife in the other. Effie made him put it away in a kitchen drawer during her visits. Said she wasn’t keen on getting stabbed in the middle of the night. But since she hadn’t been around in almost two weeks now it had resumed its old purpose. He needed something to hold on to in the night.

With an array of bottles at arm’s reach Haymitch stared sullenly at the phone, his head against one of Effie’s fancy sofa cushions. Less fancy after he spilled on it. The house without Effie was like a garden without a gardener. Sooner or later it went back to its original state. He just couldn’t find a good enough reason to clean up his mess when she wasn’t around.

She tried to get some school trip to a district approved and the Board was giving her a hard time. That’s why she had to cancel but would it kill her to give him a call now and again?

He lifted the bottle to his lips and grunted when he swallowed the last drops. Why was it, that no matter how many seals he snapped he was always sucking the dregs out of it? He grabbed another and let the empty one roll onto the floor where it clinked against the rest of them.

He turned and shifted on the couch. It was exactly 13 days since he saw her and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this uncomfortable. Even in just his pyjama pants the fabric strained against his business. Hell, you could camp under there.

He knew alcohol withdrawal. Was there anything such as sex withdrawal? Because he was horny pretty much all day long. Phone sex just wasn’t the same and Effie hadn’t had much time or peace for that lately either.

 I won’t call her, he thought. What little pride he had left he liked to keep.

 That’s what annoyed him most about all this. If anyone, Effie was the one supposed to be pining, not him! They’d been together for less than three months and already he’d grown dependent on her!

And it wasn’t just the sex. He was better with her. The nights were never easy but he wondered if Effie knew how hard it was to go solo again after he got used to having her arms and legs wrapped around him. Her kisses distracted him and calmed him down faster than a bottle even.

“This is bullshit,” he told the ceiling. Real good thinking. Getting hooked on someone who lived 24 hours away. ”Bloody woman,” he muttered and slipped his hand inside his pyjama pants. ”All weird clothes and… s-silly accent.” He groaned and screwed his eyes shut.

Lost in his own dirty imagination he never heard the door when it opened and closed.

“Haymitch? You awake? Oh! God, I didn’t need to see that.”

Peeta. Great. Exactly what he needed. Disgruntled, Haymitch pulled his hand out of his pants and saw the boy stand there with a loaf of bread and his hand over his eyes.

Meddlesome kids.

He tossed a threadbare, old blanket over his groin and sat up.

“Since when did you get so squeamish?” he muttered. “Wotcha expect when you walk into a man’s house?”

Peeta peered through his fingers and when he saw his mentor was decent he handed over the loaf, wrapped in a towel. Haymitch muttered out thanks and poured himself a glass of wine. He carved off an uneven slice of the still warm bread that he offered the boy.

“No, thanks, I already ate,” Peeta said and watched his old mentor dunk it in his wine. “You know, Haymitch,” he said and walked over to the hearth to build up the fire. “If you miss her so much just take the train. Before you get completely chafed.”

”Good one,” Haymitch muttered. He looked at the boy with a pair of blood-shot eyes. “What day is today?”

“Saturday,” Peeta replied. “December 1th. And I spoke with Annie”, he added. “We’ll go there on the 11th instead. Theresa works all through the holidays.”

Haymitch nodded to show he heard. Ever since Tessa moved to the fishing district, her relationship with her daughter had shrunk to a call or two. Mostly just birthdays and Christmas. But she had reached out to the girl this year, or so he heard.

Too little, too late, he thought but kept to himself. He wasn’t going to butt in. He left that to the boy. Besides, even if he could come up with something helpful, Peeta would say it anyways and say it a hundred times better.

“Sarah and Cassia will mind the bakery,” Peeta went on. “And Annie said if you and Effie want to join, there’s plenty of room.”

A flame danced up from the coals and so Peeta left his mentor to his own devices. Now was his chance to lock the door and pick up where he left off. He considered it a moment but fuck it, he wasn’t in the mood and soon it was going to be dark. Those damn winter nights that went on forever.

 He drowned another piece of bread in his glass. He should just drink himself into a stupor and have this day be over and done with. Yeah, he liked the sound of that.

 xXx

*ring ring* Hello, this is Effie Trinket’s answer phone. I can’t pick up at the moment but do leave a message and I will call you back. Until then: have a very very nice day! *peep*

*ring ring* Hello, this is Effie Trinket’s answer phone. I can’t pick up at the moment but do leave a message and I…

Yes, hello? Effie Trinket.

Hey, Effs. Remember me?

Oh, hi Haymitch. How are you?

Bored. Bit hammered.

Well, of course. Did you eat at least?

When you comin’ over, Eff? You never said.

…

Hello?

Yes, I’m here. But Haymitch, I’m afraid I won’t make it to District 12 this week. Half the parents are already furious with me and the Board…

So to hell with it. We’ll go to Four. Annie says…

It’s not for me. It’s for the girls. And this trip will happen, I’ll make it happen!

You didn’t come last week either.

I know.

I …*sighs* I can come over.

Haymitch.

What?

It’s not a good idea. I really need to focus on this 100% and you are…

A big, fat distraction.

Exactly! No, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… I won’t be home a lot and it would be no fun for you in the Capitol if…

*snorts* Yeah, cause I normally have a blast in the big C. But fine, whatever. Just forget it.

Oh, Haymitch. Don’t be like that. I promise I will make it up to you.

*mutters and takes a mouthful of something*

I’ll call you tomorrow night, OK?

*mutters continues*

Haymitch…

Alright. Alright. I’m not angry. Not even a little. *drinks another mouthful* I can do without you kickboxing me in bed anyways.

Goodnight, Haymitch. We’ll talk tomorrow. And please don’t drink too much.

Night, Eff.

*toot toot*

xXx

If Haymitch believed he couldn’t be further from Effie’s thoughts he was wrong. She missed him dearly.

I should tell him so properly, she thought as she poured herself a glass of water and made a mental note to call him again during her lunch hour.

It snowed in District 12 but here the lamp posts reflected themselves in rain puddles on her street. But the Captiol would let the first snow fall any day now and it might very well be the last time too.

There were serious talk about de-funding the weather control altogether and use the money where it was more needed. It stirred a heated debate in the media. To here the negative voices say it, it would be the final nail in the Capitol’s coffin.

As for Effie she found the whole circus rather annoying, especially since she knew something else in much greater need of raised awareness.

With one last critically look in the mirror she reached for her purse on the bed. She knew what Haymitch would say about the bandana but showing up with her natural hair wouldn’t win her any points with the school board.

She turned for the door.

And jumped back.

“Haymitch!” she gasped, hand over her heart. “W-what on Earth…?” Because leaned against the doorframe, face puffy and red, stood the man she hadn’t laid eyes on in two weeks.

”Thought I’d surprise you,” he said. “Believe it or not but I missed you, sweetheart.”

He pushed himself off the frame and wrapped his arms around her.

Haymitch, you’re hard! Did you drink?”

“Not a drop.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said, voice muffled by his lips. ”I told you… I told you, now is not a good time. Haymitch!” she groaned in frustration when he nuzzled her neck. ”I don’t have time for this. My cab will be here at any moment.”

“Five minutes,” he mumbled and pecked and licked the tender skin just below her earlobe where he knew she liked to be kissed and Effie groaned again. A different kind of groan this time. “Come to bed, sweetheart.”

“Haymitch,” she sighed, torn between lust and aggravation. She wrapped her arms around his neck. ”You are totally ruining my schedule.”

They sunk down onto the bed. Effie’s carefully painted lipstick smeared out on both their face, their kisses stressed and eager. She fumbled with his belt and Haymitch trembled in every limb when she pulled down his pants, his underpants. Their lips clashed together again and she grinded her thigh against him.

“No! Ohh!” Haymitch got out and before he could even try to rein himself back in he climaxed. All over Effie’s skirt.

“Haymitch!” She pushed him off of her and stared at his mess. “I don’t believe you!” she hissed and hurled herself out of bed. “This is exactly why I never should give in to you and your goddamn hands, Abernathy!” A car honked outside. “And there’s my cab. Brilliant! Just brilliant!”

She locked herself in the bathroom and Haymitch sat on the bed, rather foolish and with lipstick all over his mouth. He heard the sound of water running and soon she returned, flushed and half dressed, hopping about on one leg to try and get out of her silk stockings. He grinned at how sexy and ridiculous she looked.

Big mistake.

“You think this is funny!?” Effie spat. “How would you feel if I shot my bodily fluids on you!?”

That only invited bad jokes but he knew he was one wrong word away from being thrown out so he just pulled up his pants and got out of bed.

“Sorry, Eff,” he said and tried to pull her into one of his bear hugs. But he could just as well save his breath.

“Careful,” she said and pushed him away. “Before you to blow all your fuses. I have to go.”

And she closed herself in the walk-in closet and didn’t come out again until dressed in an identical outfit as before, only turquoise this time. “I’ll see you tonight,” she said when she brushed by him.

He listened to the fading clatter of her high heels and the cab when it drove off a moment later.

This spur of a moment trip didn’t go at all the way he pictured it.

He wiped the lipstick with the back of his hand.  Last time he showed up unannounced they kissed on her doorstep and he got both her and coffee.

This was something else.

And to come on her leg like a teenager. Course, he wasn’t famous for his stamina but he should really be past that point at least.

He sighed and stripped the mattress. Normally he never bothered to make the bed. Effie complained about it all the time. But he’d have a hard time getting back into her good graces as it was so couldn’t hurt.

Not that he wasn’t used to pissed Effie. He’d spent half his life fighting with that woman. Only reason they hadn’t these past few months was because they were both breaking their balls to try and impress each other. Was only a matter of time, really, before they were back to their bickering, old selves. And in a way it was a relief. Familiar ground.

Half an hour later he poured himself a glass of orange juice that he brought with him into the living room.

It would be a long day. He should have brought a book or something. But they spent next to no time here so he never bothered to leave his own stuff around the place like she did in Twelve. Besides, with a butt naked Effs Trinket, who cared about reading?

The glass clattered against his teeth when he drank. He didn’t lie when he told Effie he was sober. One positive thing about her job was that he could drink himself blind when she wasn’t around and thereby stay sober enough once she was.

Chaff would laugh if he knew his old friend rationed his liquor for a woman but really it made life a hell of a lot easier.

Dawn broke into full morning. He wanted to get some shut-eye while he waited for her but between the shakes and the painful sunshine he wasn’t getting much rest.

He rubbed his temples. It was the same each time. The tremors, the headaches. Nausea was next.

And those goddamn mirrors! How many did one person need? He struggled with the blinds, pulled the curtains together but the light was still too bright.

I’m not gonna drink. Not yet. Later. After we’ve made up and she’s asleep.

But Haymitch Abernathy’s perseverance had never been strong. Not when it came to alcohol. He soildered on, for an hour, two. But before long he stumbled through her apartment in search for his bag.

He looked in all the usual places. The hallway, her bedroom, the living room, even the wardrobes in case Effie found it and put it away. Cushions flew through the air as he searched the couch, he tore at the curtains despite the evil sun, checked all the window sills, twice.

Nothing.

And then he realized it and headache or no headache he slammed his palm against the wall.

He forgot the damn thing on the train! He’d been so occupied with thoughts of what he was going to do to Effie when he saw her he went and left it on the seat!

Spewing profanities over himself, he stalked off to Effie’s drinking cabinet but his indignation just flared up all the hotter at the sight of the empty shelves. Since when had he given her a reason to hide her liquor? Not lately! And it wasn’t like Effie had gone and boozed through her entire supply all of a sudden.

He wondered how she would like to see him go cold turkey. Katniss and Peeta could tell her how fun that was.

And all at once, his anger turned to despair. He sunk down onto the couch, his aching head in his hand. An ache for which there was only one cure.

xXx

Maybe I was too hard on him.

Effie climbed out of the cab, umbrella folded in hand. It was dark when she left home and it was dark now. Her breath stood like a cloud in the cold air.

He came all this way.

The apartment was also dark and she turned the lights on with a double clap. A soft clap just in case he was asleep, but she doubed it. He seldom slept this late in the day.

“Haymitch?”

When she didn’t found him on the couch she went from room to room, even the gym and library.

Once back in the living room Effie’s eyebrows were furrowed together. Did he go back to District 12? No, surely not.

The sofa cushions were all in the wrong places and distractedly she put them back where they belonged.

He must have gone out, she thought. Maybe to walk her home from the Academy and they missed each other. Or perhaps even get her something to make up for this morning.

Yes, he’d show up eventually and she’d already decided not to mention what had happened. She didn’t want to spend their night fighting too.

She took a magazine from the rack just as the first few raindrops fell outside. Before long it poured in such relentless sheets you could hardly see across the road even and if Effie thought reading would take her mind off things she was sorely mistaken.

As the hours passed it was impossible not to think about Haymitch trapped out there in the wet and cold. All she could hope for was that he found refuge somewhere. Maybe a coffee house. Yes, Haymitch probably enjoyed a cup right at this moment. No reason to worry.

But Effie was a worrier and worry she did. She sat on the couch, magazine long forgotten and stared out the window.

What if he got lost? Or hurt? Yes, she could see it so clearly. How he crossed the street, soaked and freezing and just desperate to come home to her again. How stupid of me, he’d think, to leave Effie’s nice and warm and well-furnished apartment when I could be in her arms right now. I should listen to her more.

But then a car came and Haymitch got hit, of course he got hit! He never looked both ways properly. And now he lay there on the road while the rain washed his blood down the street and the world floated away and the last thing Effie ever did while he lived was to snap and yell, all because of a little ejaculation.

The vivid images had Effie on her feet. Pacing the floor she wrung her hands in distress.

5 minutes, she thought. I’ll give him 5 more minutes and…

That’s when a pair of head lights sailed across the wall. Effie whipped around and even before the knock she was at the door.

“Evening, ma’am. This man says he lives here.”

On her welcome mat stood two police officers. The rain splashed off their uniforms and propped up between them was Haymitch.

He barely noticed what was going on. His head hung low, hair in wet tangles over his face. You could smell the whiskey on him a mile away. Effie watched the man she shared beds with and knew she was an idiot. A complete idiot, even after all these years. Because she never learned, never truly accepted this was how Haymitch ended up. How he always ended up.

“Ma’am?” the officer repeated and snapped her back to reality.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, that’s just about right.”

They helped Haymitch inside and filled her in on what had happened. Apparently he’d gone to the pub on Heaven’s Square. When the bartender finally told him he’d had enough, things got loud, he wouldn’t leave and finally she had to call the police to come and get him.

“I’ll manage it from here,” Effie said when Haymitch leaned heavily on her, swaying from side to side. “Thanks for your help.”

The two men nodded. When they walked back to their car, one of them turned to the other and said,

“That was Haymitch Abernathy, right?”

“Yes, I think so. He hasn’t changed much, has he?”

And they both chuckled.

“Oh, Haymitch,” Effie said as she half-led, half-carried him through the apartment. “I was so worried about you.”

“Wanted to see you,” he slurred and Effie grimaced at the smell of his breath. It could light a flame. “Better with you, Effie. Better. Oh, ” he groaned. “I don’t feel so good.”

”OK, OK, come here,” said Effie. She struggled to open the bathroom door, her hands full with Haymitch until she managed to get them both inside. Haymitch reached blindly for the toilet and for the next half hour Effie held his hair as he puked.

His shirt and trousers were damp from the rain and once she got him on to the bed she stripped him down to his undergarments. She went to get a blanket but changed her mind mid-way and headed for the broom closet first.

Which was good thinking because she had no sooner re-appeared with the bucket before Haymitch groaned again and she stuck it under his face just in the nick of time.

xXx

“Wha… what’re…?”

The pounding that had woken him only grew worse as Haymitch slowly came to his senses.

“What’re you doing?” he murmured.

“What does it look like?” Dressed in a fresh teacher’s outfit, navy this time, Effie walked back and forth across the room, getting her last minute things. Each step of her high heels sent a jolt of pain through his skull.

Very slowly Haymitch pulled himself to sitting. He winced when she snapped her purse shut. A gunshot couldn’t have made a greater sound. He rubbed his bare chest and watched her lift a water carafe off the vanity table.

“Oh, thanks, sweetheart,” he croaked. His throat felt like someone had dragged it along the asphalt.

Effie eyed him coolly.

”This is for me,” she said. “Unless you want to get me pregnant on top of everything else.” She swallowed the pill. “Not that I am going to sex you up anytime soon.”

Haymitch rubbed his eyes, wished nothing more than to go back to sleep. No, most of all he wanted a drink but he fought the nausea and forced himself to stand.

”What do you want?” she asked when she had his hands on her shoulders. “If you’re thirsty, then…”

”Don’t shout, sweetheart,” Haymitch murmured. ”’m sorry ’bout yesterday.”

”Do you even remember yesterday?”

He tried to pull her into a hug but Effie resisted, squirmed like she sat on an anthill.

”I have to go.”

“It’s early.”

“To you maybe. No.” She pressed her palms against his chest and made him take the empty glass. “Drink water if you need it. Breakfast is on the table.”

And he was alone again.

He felt his way to the bathroom like a boat in full storm and spent some quality time with his best friend the toilet.

This was his reality every time he had a withdrawal. Afterwards he always drank more than he could take. He soaked it up like a dry rag.

And later when he sat in one of Effie’s armchairs, wrapped in a robe and his hands around a mug of coffee, he tried to piece together exactly what had happened yesterday.

 He went out to get his bag. That much he remembered. But he never got that far because… he took the route through Heaven’s Square. Yeah, to have a drink at the pub first. And one drink became two and two became three until he was an absolute wreck for Effie to take care of.

In other words, same old same old.

He slurped his coffee.

I should find some way to make it up to her.

xXx

*ring ring* Hello, this is Effie Trinket’s answer phone. I can’t pick up at the moment but do leave a message and I will call you back. Until then: have a very very nice day! *peep*

Haymitch, it’s me. I’m running a little late because I bumped into Octavia. She’s very upset because her boyfriend just broke up with her. She needs a friend right now so I promised I’d stay with her for a while. But I should be home by eight. You can make your own dinner, right?

“Great,” Haymitch muttered. “Just great.”

But then he had to caugh again and he whisked the smoke that billowed up from the roast pan.

He’d never win an award as “Chef of the year” (Neither would Effie for that matter) but he cooked when he was a kid! How out of practice could one person get?

 He eyed the dish to try and assess the damage. It was supposed to be roast beef with potatoes and vegetables but it didn’t look right. Not like the recipe. But maybe if he just cut away the burned parts and jumbled it up a little perhaps she wouldn’t notice?

Man, why didn’t he just order catering and pretend he made it? A romantic dinner. Fuck, what a bright idea.

The bottles of red wine had stood untouched in their paper bag all night but now he seized one of them. Just a glass. Just to shut his damn body up.

He found the corkscrew, his breaths more rapid at the mere prospect and he sighed with relief when the red liquid wet his tongue.

It was amazing how much easier everything got after that one drink. The tremors disappeared and so did most of his worries. It would still be great. It looked great, at least it would once on the table.

Ten to eight he spread the beige table cloth (champagne coloured, Effie would say) in the dining room that they hardly ever used. He set the table, dug out some candles and the fancy plates.

Last of all he dropped a handful of lemon slices into the water carafe and paused only to pour himself some more wine. He admired his work – the food, the folded napkins, the candle light in the pretty glasses rimmed with gold.

He saluted his reflection and drank.

xXx

By the time Effie pushed inside the apartment it was past midnight. Her head throbbed from having to console Octavia for the past hours and she couldn’t stop a moan when she finally got out of her high heels.

All she wanted was to sleep but her hands shook from low blood sugar so she limped off to make herself a sandwich.  She opened the kitchen door.

And stopped short. For a full minute she just stared at the scene before her, like she couldn’t take it in. Unwashed coppers and pans balanced precariously on top of each other. Used plates, silverware and kitchen tools filled the sink. The counters and the floor were covered with carrot and potato peels, smushed tomatoes, withered lettuce and pools of vinegar. The butter was left to melt, the fridge door not even closed. And the smell of burnt meat she hadn’t noticed through the door filled her nostrils.

It was the paper bag, the empty paper bag, that finally brought life back into her numb limbs.

“Haymitch!”

It wasn’t hard to find him. She needed only follow his snores. She pushed inside the dining room and there he was. Face down on the table, surrounded by empties.

I should just leave him like this. Go to bed and leave him like this!

“Wake up,” she said and shook him.

Haymitch mumbled something and his snores resumed.

”Wake up!” She shook him harder and just when she seriously considered Katniss’s cold water method he cracked opened an eye.

“Where you been?” he slurred and slowly lifted his head from the table.

“With Octavia. I told you so over the phone. Haymitch, how could you!”

“There’s dinner.” He gestured towards the cold food and would have knocked over a candle hadn’t she been there to straighten it up. “Made it so you wouldn’t be pissed no more.”

“Good thinking, Haymitch.”

“Just have to heat it up.” The chair slammed against the floor when he pulled himself up. “I’ll heat it up for you. I’ll do an’thing for you.”

“Come here now.” She tried to steer him away from the table. “Haymitch. Oh, don’t bother with the food!” she said when he grabbed the roast pan. To heavy for him in his state it tilted and potatoes, beef and root vegetables bombed the parquet floor. He staggered back a step when she tried to take it from him and the salad bowl smashed to pieces when he bumped in to the table.

"Careful!"

She tugged at his arm and tried to pull him away but his foot slid forward on a piece of tomato and Haymitch slumped down on his ass. He grunted, confused and crawled on all fours as he tried to find his footing.

“Watch out for the broken glass, Haymitch. Come, I’ll help you.” She put his arm around her shoulder, her own around his back and under his armpit. “Push with your feet,” she said and made a gigantic heave. He was like a sack of potatoes and the smell of wine was so overwhelming it would have brought her dinner up if she had any.

She’d gotten him half way up when Haymitch suddenly gasped and then he vomited all over the floor. A vile, red mixture that splattered Effie’s legs and skirt.

She didn’t know how she managed to get him back to her bed. But just like the night before he collapsed face down and she stripped him out of his clothes. Vomit dripped down his chin and nose and she wiped him off, rather roughly.

“Do you need to throw up again?” she asked and reached for the bucket. “Haymitch, do you feel sick?”

But he looked at her cross-eyed like he didn’t hear or understand.

She left him with the bucket nearby and went into the bathroom to get out of her soiled outfit.  But she hadn’t gotten even half-way before she had to steady herself against the wall. The lack of sleep combined with the fact she hadn’t eaten finally took its toll on her and tiny, black spots swam before her eyes. With no chair closeby she let herself slide down the wall until she sat on the floor, waiting for the dizziness to subside.

Through the ringing in her ears she heard Haymitch’s groan.

“Eff. Effs, I…”

And then there was only the splash of vomit when it hit the floor.

Effie closed her eyes.

xXx

 *ring ring*

Pallas’s Academy. This is Ruby.

 I need to talk to Effie. Can you get her to the phone, please? Effie Trinket.

May I ask who’s asking?

That’s… no one.

She’s got class.

Well, it’s important. Will only take a minute.

She’s got class.

Yeah, I heard you the first time. Tell her … tell her it’s Haymitch.

Haymitch … That Haymitch? As in Haymitch Abernathy?

So can you get her to the phone now?

I’m not supposed to interrupt unless there’s an emergency.

Well, it is.

It’s an emergency?

It’s an emergency. Now go get Effie.

Alright. Excuse me a moment Mr. Abernathy.

 …

Haymitch? Are you alright?

Yeah, I’m fine. Look Effs, about last night …

Why do you tell Ruby there’s an emergency if you’re fine?

Only way I could talk to you.

Haymitch, you interrupted me in the middle of class!

I just wanted to say…

I’m not interested in anything you have to say right now! I’ve barely slept in days, you’ve ruined two outfits for me and my girls are waiting!  Do you have any idea …

Oh, for God’s sake woman! Just let me tell you why I called and I’ll hang up!

No, I am hanging up! And don’t you ever call me at work again unless, of course, you’ve drunken yourself back into the hospital! Goodbye!

*toot toot*

xXx

The flat audio tone rung in his ear. Haymitch sighed and hung up. He slumped down on the couch and rubbed his forehead.

When he woke today, finding her long gone, he hoped against hope that he could at least clean up his own mess and felt a fresh pang of guilt and regret at the sight of the spotless kitchen and dining room with the strong fumes of cleaning fluids that badly masked the familiar odor underneath. Poor Effie.

How could he let everything reel so completely out of control? Must be some kind of a record.

Of course, it wasn’t the first time she’d taken care of him drunk but she was still just his colleague back then and when he was too much to handle she always had help from the Capitol attendants. To have to clean up his mess as his woman… It was a difference.

And then it was this last, brilliant move of his. To call and apologize. He bent over backwards to fix things and only made it worse.

Maybe I should just go home.

He didn’t want this trip to be just like when Annie, Finn and Johanna came over and he made a complete arse of himself. At least then he had some kind of a mitigating factor to his actions.

But he knew Effie. If he left she’d take that as an offence too.

He drew a deep sigh and with nothing better to do he grabbed her newspaper and opened it at a random page.

And as if fate had a hand in it, it happened to be a full spread add. Of a dance palace.

“Atlas Halls open for the Christmas season,” he read. The picture showed a bunch of weird looking couples twirling around a winter scene with fake trees in the background.

Atlas Halls? Sounded familiar but he was pretty sure he’d never set foot in the place. No, Effie mentioned it at some point. Yeah, she’d spent New Year’s there a couple of times.

Haymitch knew a few Capitol dances, believe it or not. He let Effie teach him years ago. Part of their whole charming sponsors away from their money act. Back when he still thought their district might have a shot in hell.

She’d be home in three hours. That gave him plenty of time.

Because if a night out dancing wouldn’t brighten Effie’s mood nothing could.

He shouldered out of his robe once inside the bathroom. He didn’t exactly smell like roses and he liked Effie’s shower. Felt like standing in a warm summer rain. Of course the products weren’t great. She had so many bottles and jars and tubes in here she could open her own beauty parlor. Half the stuff he didn’t know what it was for and even the supposedly ‘male’ scents she bought especially for him smelled weird as fuck.

Finally he poured something blue on his head and as he massaged it into his hair he made a mental note to bring his own stuff next time. That was to say if there would be a next time.

Back home he did nothing to his hair after he showered, just left it to sundry. But if desperate times called for desperate measures. He punched a few buttons on the panel and stepped onto the math so the currents could turn his wet, tangled hair into something he knew he’d hate. 

Baked and dried he went to have a look at himself and true enough. His hair had gone from familiar to Capitol. He hung a towel over the mirror so he didn’t have to see it.

 There was an electric razor on one of the shelves but he didn’t touch it. Effie would have to live with his stubble. He looked enough like a Peeta blonde little boy as it was. Instead he went to have a look in his closet. She always sneak bought him stuff. One of the habits she was unable to kick and well, it was her money.

 He dumped the garment bags on the bed. Damn, this would be an exhausting night. But he’d suffer through it, the looks and the whispers. He’d dance with Effie and afterward everything would be good again.

Which was why, an hour before Effie went off work, Haymitch sat on the couch dressed to the nines.

And as much as he hated to admit it he actually liked this outfit. The dark blue suit went well with the checkered waistcoat and the lilac dress shirt underneath. Even his pink and blue tie with the matching pocket square looked good. The collar was a little snug but he couldn’t afford to be whiny.

He should’ve thought about this days ago.

 But the hour went by and no Effie showed up. He tried to remember how far away her school was. Even if the Capitol was big (not like District 2 or Eleven but still) the public transportation was so advanced here, nothing lay far off. He could call a cab. Go and meet her. But with his luck Effie would be just around the corner the moment he left the house.

So he remained where he was.

The minutes passed at a snail’s pace. He tugged at his collar to get some air in. 

How many friends with boy trouble did she have? If she was running late again why didn’t she call?

One hour became two and still no Effie to go. Sweat trickled down his back and he squirmed and pulled at his pants and underpants that kept worming their way in between his butt cheeks.

And when she’d been gone three hours, Haymitch tore off his tie. Effie was never late like this! It was just her way of getting back at him for how he treated her.  He saw his reflection in the window, all those ridiculous curls and that decided things.

Screw this.

He grabbed the spray bottle, the one she used for her potted plants and he sprayed his hair until it lay flat and lifeless again. He had never changed for a woman before and he wasn’t going to start now! This was a joke. He was a joke! Dressing up like some damn Capitolian.

She’d been away all day already and she expected him to, what? Lay jigsaw puzzles until she had time for him? Because obviously she didn’t have time for him. She just spent it with everyone else.

His hair dripped on the newspaper when he scribbled down a note. He could just as well go restack his liquor supply for the journey home. He almost never got to drink those expensive brands. Effie refused to buy them for him. Said she wouldn’t “enable him”, like that made a difference what so ever.

By the time he reached the Heaven’s Square it had started to rain again.

The shops and stores lit up the icy drizzle and the stall owners who packed up for the day.

And cramped in between a music store and a shop which sold naughty underwear, was the pub. Like a jewel with its bright colors and promises.

But Haymitch never got that far. Because now he saw her.

By the window inside the coffee house sat Effie across from Katniss’s prep team.  Haymitch’s brow crinkled at the sight of their serious faces and Effie’s waving hands in the air to emphasize her words. None of them had noticed him yet, standing out here in the rain.

But now she looked up, startled at the sight of him and excused herself from the table.

”Haymitch?” The cold wind rustled her skirt when she appeared at the door. “You… dressed up?”

Haymitch looked from her to Octavia, Flavius and Venia who practically misted the window in their effort to see what happened.

“Having fun?” he said. “Do carry on. I was just leaving.”

“Haymitch, I … Haymitch?” But he had already stalked off. “Haymitch, wait!”

 He knew it was childish but he didn’t stop. He just couldn’t. He felt vomit at the back of his throat and it was the look on the prep’s faces. No doubt she had poured out all her heart’s bitterness over him to those three, telling them what a good-for-nothing drunk he was.

He kicked off his shoes in the hallway.

Haymitch!” Effie called when she entered a moment later, flustered and with rain in her hair. “Why did you run off like that?”

“Sorry if I messed up the image, princess”, he said and shouldered out of his jacket. “I know how much you care about your looks. Must be important when you have little else.”

“Why are you like this?” Effie cried. “We just had a coffee!”

 “Yeah, sure. What’s another three hours when I’ve already waited all fucking day, Effie!”

“Well, I told you not to come this week, remember? I told you I was busy!”

“At work,” he threw back at her. “Not out on the town. Bet you had a great trash-talk.”

“We didn’t talk about you! Not at all! But perhaps I didn’t want to come home, ever thought of that? You haven’t exactly been a lot of fun lately.”

“What do you want from me? I was gonna take you out dancing.”

“That doesn’t make up for the horrible way you’ve acted!” Effie yelled. “Ever since you got here, Haymitch, I’ve been nothing but worried, disappointed and exhausted. Taking care of you drunk is not my job anymore! It never was!”

It got very quiet after Effie finished.

“Eff,” Haymitch finally said, his face hard and closed off. “I know you shouldn’t have had to deal with all that. But it’s not like it was some big mystery to you that I drink. I’m tired of this argument, alright. This is who I am. If you can’t deal with it then…”

“Well, maybe I can’t!” Effie cried.

She never meant to say it but now the words were out.

The truth was out.

Haymitch stared at her in the silence that followed those words and all the things she implied. Effie’s eyes were filled with tears now and when he didn’t speak she only got out of her painful shoes and said,

“You can have the bedroom. I can’t sleep with that smell anyway.”

Author’s note: Extra long chapter to make up for the long wait and it was an absolute pain to edit lol! I hope you liked it. Leave a review if you wanna make my day and I’ll see you in the next chapter!

[urfavmurtad]

Here it is… my masterpiece of procrastination… the long-awaited sequel to The Quraysh Were Good Actually: 2 Ghazwa 2 Furious, per anon’s request. I actually couldn’t get it all in one post anon, sorry, bc it’s goddamn 10,000 words long jfc but I got it into two, which is much better than the five I had @quranreadalong!!!

This is all about military expeditions in Mohammed’s time. It sounds dry but I promise it’s fire. Jews getting massacred! Temples getting burned down!! Swarms of bees sent to punish the disbelievers!!! Extreme feudalism!!!! All this and more during the spread of The True Religion. I took mercy upon all y’all app users by not putting the whole thing as one post and making u scroll 5 minutes to get to the end of it.

This is an almost-complete rundown of military expeditions in Mohammed’s era, starting in Medina (622 AD) and leading up to the expedition to Tabouk (630 AD). It all started with our dudes the Quraysh in Mecca and their allies.

Mohammed’s followers had been raiding trade caravans headed to and from Mecca for a while. The first attempted attack on a caravan was only a few months after Mohammed moved to Medina with his followers, and more raids were carried out once every couple months after that. The motive was simply to get whatever the caravan was carrying. The early historian Ibn Ishaq quotes Mohammed as sending his men out with the command:

Go forth against this caravan; it may be that Allah will grant you plunder

Ambushes like this were pretty par for the course; there were always brigands laying in wait to attack caravans and steal their shit. So while this was annoying, it was not really unprecedented for a center of trade like Mecca, and the men traveling with each caravan were used to dealing with the situation and escaping from attempted raids. Mohammed’s people were simply one of many nuisances at this point, and their raids did not actually accomplish much until late 623 AD. This was the Nakhla raid.

Here’s the deal. In both the Islamic calendar and the polytheistic Arabian calendar that preceded it, there are four “sacred” months during which you’re not supposed to shed blood. One of those months is Rajab, the seventh month. Both Muslims and polytheists agreed that no one should be killed in this month, but Mohammed sent out a raiding party towards the end of the month anyway, headed by one of his idiot extended family members, Abdallah ibn Jahsh. Unbeknownst to anyone at the time, Abdallah had a penchant for Yeezys, and the Meccan caravan happened to be carrying some.

This expedition proceeded until they reached Nakhlah where they found ‘Amr ibn al-Hadrami leading a trade caravan for the Quraysh. That day was the last day of the sacred month. The Muslims were divided in their opinion. Some of them said: 'We know for certain that today belongs to the sacred month, we are of the view that you should not violate it because of greed’. The opinion of those who desired the stuff of this world gained the upper hand; they attacked Ibn al-Hadrami, killed him and seized his camels. Ibn al-Hadrami was the first person to be killed in a fight between the Muslims and the disbelievers. The disbelievers of the Quraysh heard about the incident and sent a delegation to the Prophet, Allah bless him and give him peace. They said to him: 'Do you allow fighting in the sacred month?’ As a response, Allah, exalted is He, revealed this verse (They question thee (O Muhammad) with regard to warfare in the sacred month…)

So even though it was a truce month and the raiders themselves knew it, they attacked the caravan, killed a trader, and stole the Yeezys anyway. The Quraysh were very upset and demanded answers from Mohammed, at which point “Allah” revealed that the raid was okay because the Quraysh were big meanies and disbelievers.

Now convinced that Mohammed’s followers were murderous lunatics, the Quraysh decided to prepare an army to send out to defend their next caravan if necessary. When Mohammed moved to attack a caravan returning from Syria to Mecca, the army set out to defend the caravan. The two armies met at a water source between Mecca and Medina called Badr, and that battle went well for the Muslims, with a few dozen Meccans dying and more being taken captive. (The caravan got past them, though.)

After Badr, many non-Muslims in Medina were furious at their new neighbors for instigating such a conflict. The Muslims were viewed by their non-Muslim neighbors not only as the aggressors, but also as a real threat to Medina’s relations with Mecca and their allied merchants in the area. One such person was a woman named Asma, a poet. In one of her poems she expressed rage at Mohammed and his people attacking the Meccans (many had friends or family in Mecca and the two cities were generally friendly with one another prior to Mohammed’s arrival) and wished for Mohammed’s death:

Do you expect good from him after the killing of your chiefs / Like a hungry man waiting for a cook’s broth? / Is there no man of pride who would attack him by surprise / And cut off the hopes of those who expect aught from him?

Mohammed was not happy upon hearing this. Ibn Ishaq’s biography continues:

When the apostle heard what she had said he said, “Who will rid me of Marwan’s daughter [Asma]?” Umayr b. Adiy al-Khatmi who was with him heard him, and that very night he went to her house and killed her. In the morning he came to the apostle and told him what he had done and he [Muhammad] said, “You have helped God and His apostle, O Umayr!” When he asked if he would have to bear any evil consequences the apostle said, “Two goats won’t butt their heads about her”, so Umayr went back to his people.

As far as I recall, Asma is the first recorded unarmed murder victim among the polytheists of Medina. She would not be the last Medinan poet to be killed that year; Mohammed also ordered the death of an old Jewish man for similar reasons that same year (and later ordered the death of another Jew who committed the same offense). The murder of those who dared speak against him was part a campaign of stamping out dissent and solidifying control of the area.

Mohammed believed that one community in particular stood in his way.

The first of three conflicts between Mohammed and the Jewish tribes of Medina began not long after Badr. As I’ve said before, Mohammed didn’t really interact with Jews en masse until his Medina days, and he seems to have been genuinely appalled that they not only didn’t believe he was a prophet, but believed that he was a bullshitter who distorted the Torah’s stories and their belief system. Relations between Muslims and Jews in Medina were not ideal for this reason, especially because the Jews were a prosperous and influential minority group that held power in the city, but from 622-624, there wasn’t really outright conflict. But the Jews’ persistent refusal to “embrace Islam” was noted and deeply resented.

That changed after Badr. Mohammed was feeling like a widow who just buried her third husband and was sick of having to deal with the Jews’ shit when he was basically running the place. Ibn Ishaq:

When God smote Quraysh at Badr, the apostle assembled the Jews in the market of the B. Qaynuqa’ (one of the three Jewish tribes, mostly smiths and jewelers) when he came to Medina and called on them to accept Islam before God should treat them as he had treated Quraysh.

And so he announced:

O assembly of Jews! Surrender to Allah (embrace Islam) and you will be safe!

Those who did not convert were told in no uncertain terms what Mohammed was preparing:

You should know that the earth belongs to Allah and His Apostle, and I want to expel you from this land.

From here on out, relations between Muslims and Jews were quite understandably tense. He saw the Jews as an obstacle to full control of the city and he wanted them gone from Medina. And before long, he would accomplish that goal.

The first of the three tribes to displease him was the Banu Qaynuqa. Neither Ibn Ishaq nor al-Tabari (nor any sahih source) gives the specific trigger for this incident, though more... colorful historians did invent an excuse it that is genuinely laughable. According to these accounts, the incident that prompted their eventual doom involved a jeweler belonging to the clan interacting with a Muslim woman and taking off her veil by pinning it down to a counter without her noticing (other histories say he “stripped her naked”–quite a strong pin!). A Muslim man observed this and beat the jeweler to death, prompting nearby Jews to try to pull him off the guy and subsequently kill him, and so on.

Whatever happened, Mohammed made good on his earlier threat to the Jews.

He sent his men to besiege the Banu Qaynuqa in their quarters for two weeks. It was evidently a bloodless siege as the Banu Qaynuqa do not seem to have fought back, and were perhaps unable to do so. They offered an unconditional surrender. The question then was what to do with them. One of the leaders of Medina forcefully pleaded for their lives. Al-Tabari:

Abd Allah b. Ubbay b. Salul rose up when God had put them in his power, and said, “Muhammad, treat my mawali [friends of tribe] well”; for they were the confederates of al-Khazraj [Abdallah’s tribe]. The Prophet delayed his answer, so ‘Abd Allah repeated, “Muhammad, treat my mawali well.” The Prophet turned away from him, and he put his hand into (The Messenger’s) collar. The Messenger of God said, “Let me go!” – he was so angry that they could see shadows in his face (that is, his face coloured). Then he said, “Damn you, let me go!” [Abdallah] replied, “No, by God, I will not let you go until you treat my mawali well. Four hundred man without armour and three hundred with coats of mail, who defended me from the Arab and non-Arab alike, and you would mow them in a single morning? By God, I do not feel safe and am afraid of what the future may have in store.” So the Messenger of God said, “They are yours.“

(This is the same guy labeled one of the munafiqun/fake Muslims in the Quran; there is no doubt that his kindness to the Jews of Medina was part of the reason for the suspicion towards him.)

The Jews of the Banu Qaynuqa were all kicked out, male and female alike, except for those few who wanted to stay and “converted” to Islam. The rest made their miserable way north. Mohammed confiscated their property and divided it among his followers and family members according to “Allah’s rules”. By pure coincidence, the Banu Qaynuqa had been prosperous smiths and jewelers who operated Medina’s market. Which was now up for grabs. Hrm...

That took care of the first Jewish tribe. They were the lucky ones.

The first recorded Medinan Muslim deaths outside of combat occurred about a month after this. Two farmers, at least one of whom was Muslim, were killed when a group of Meccan soldiers, seeking to avenge their comrades at Badr, torched a field a few miles away from Medina, where the two people were killed. This was, of course, the fault of The Jewz. Ibn Saad’s sira states:

They knocked at the door of Huyayy ibn Akhtab to gather information about the Apostle of Allah and his companions. He refused to open the door. They knocked at the door of Sallam Ibn Mishkam who opened the door, feasted them, offered them drink and supplied information about the Apostle of Allah.

Huyayy was the leader of the Banu Nadir tribe of Medinan Jews. Sallam here was a rabbi who deeply disliked Mohammed and thought he was a charlatan and, after his Badr and caravan expeditions, a dangerous cult leader. He exposed Mohammed’s lack of Biblical knowledge on multiple occasions, and Mohammed loathed him in return. We have absolutely no idea if Sallam’s involvement here is true or not due to the weak chain of transmission. It seems rather unlikely; the Meccans seem to have just been intent on quickly causing trouble and then leaving rather than staying to plan any larger attack or gathering information. When Mohammed decided to turn his wrath on the Banu Nadir, this supposed incident would not be the trigger, or even mentioned as an excuse.

Meanwhile, Mohammed can’t stop, won’t stop the raiding business. But his raids this time didn’t accomplish much–the Muslims captured some pack animals and goods at best, and walked away empty-handed at worst. Ibn Ishaq blandly lists the raids that occurred in 624 AD following Badr (no motivations are given for any of them). One involved Mohammed’s fighters trying to find some men of the Banu Sulaym tribe to raid, but they couldn’t locate them. There was another raid on the Quraysh, though this one doesn’t seem to have worked.  Finally, we’re told that “he raided Najd, making for Ghatafan” shortly after the burnt-field incident mentioned above. Najd is the region to the east of the Hijaz, and the Ghatafan tribe was a large confederation of mostly-Bedouin clans that lived there. We will be seeing them again later, and we will discover that they didn’t enjoy Mohammed’s antics much.

Ibn Saad’s sira adds some color to this last raid, and gives some details to flesh out the story: two Ghatafan clans, we are told, were amassing themselves… in the middle of the Najd… to attack Medina. Of course. (Ibn Saad’s sira does this over and over again, it’s kind of funny. He probably got this tendency from his inventive teacher, al-Waqidi.) Mysteriously, when Mohammed’s army approached this spot, the evildoers… fled in terror and didn’t even try to engage them! The Muslims were able to capture a guy, who told them:

They will never confront you. If they learn of your march they will flee to the peaks of the mountains.

Some sources say that this poor dude was then put to death, or, as one book nicely puts it, “met his fate ordained from pre-eternity”.

So much for that whole threatening-Medina thing.

Finally, there was another caravan raid in this time period, also in the Najd region. Ibn Ishaq states:

The Quraysh were afraid to follow their usual route to Syria after what had happened at Badr, so they went by the Iraq route. Some of their merchants went out, among whom was Abu Sufyan, carrying a great deal of silver which formed the larger part of their merchandise. … The Apostle duly sent Zayd, and he met them by that watering place and captured the caravan and its contents, but the men got away. He brought the spoil to the Apostle.

The evil Meccans specifically took a different route to avoid the Muslims, but the Muslims wanted that sweet, sweet cash and attacked the caravan anyway. They took a shitload of silver straight to Mohammed.

It is at this point that the Meccans said “you know what? fuck this shit”, prompting the Battle of Uhud, which is a mountain near Medina. Uhud did not go very well for the Muslim army; Mohammed’s troops were poorly disciplined and left themselves open to cavalry attacks from the Quraysh. About as many Muslims died at Uhud as Meccans had died at Badr. So the Quraysh went back to Mecca, feeling confident that they’d taught Mohammed a lesson, rather than pursue his people into Medina.

Mohammed’s pride was badly wounded by the whole incident, and he needed to raise his army’s morale. So the day immediately following the battle, he ordered his some of his men to chase down the Meccans as they were headed home. The two armies seem to have tried to play psychological games with one another without actually engaging each other, but nothing came of it--the Quraysh made their way back to Mecca and Mohammed’s men went back to Medina. A couple of weaker sources say that Mohammed’s guys were able to capture a small number of Meccan soldiers and kill them, though Ibn Ishaq doesn’t say this. Regardless, the whole incident appears to have just been Mohammed letting his men release some frustration after losing a battle, similar to the Meccans attacking the field after Badr back in the last section.

With the Quraysh victorious and out of reach for the moment, Mohammed turned his wrath on smaller enemies, namely regional Bedouin (desert nomadic people) clans who refused to embrace Islam. This period contains a lot of “Mohammed ‘learns’ that some small clan somewhere is planning on attacking Medina and has to go attack them first, clan flees in terror, Mohammed steals their shit” incidents in Ibn Saad’s sira, though the motives usually go unstated in Ibn Ishaq’s. The victims of Mohammed’s fuckery this time were the Banu Asad bin Khuzayma in Najd (east of Hijaz, central modern-day Saudi Arabia). Upon arriving at the site, all the Muslims found were three shepherds with their flocks. The poor unlucky souls were taken captive and their animals were taken as “war booty”.

This happened yet again with another clan from the Najd area, the Banu Lahyan. This time, though, Ibn Hishsm says that Mohammed sent an assassin instead of an army and had him shank the chief of the clan. Abdullah ibn Unais was the assassin in question; the chief lost his head, which was brought back to Mohammed as a trophy.

Unfortunately the Banu Lahyan did not react very well to the murder of their chief and the desecration of his corpse. They bribed two guys, who went to Mohammed and pretended to be Muslims, asking him to send some of his own men to their clan to teach them all about Islam. Mohammed didn’t believe them and sent ten spies with them disguised as missionaries. Naturally, they were ambushed along the way by the Banu Lahyan, who wanted to take them captive in order to get money for the life of their chief. The Muslims refused to be taken alive.

Allah’s Messenger (ﷺ) sent a Sariya [detachment] of ten men as spies under the leadership of `Asim bin Thabit … About two-hundred men, who were all archers, hurried to follow their tracks … When `Asim and his companions saw their pursuers, they went up a high place and the infidels circled them. The infidels said to them, “Come down and surrender, and we promise and guarantee you that we will not kill any one of you” `Asim bin Thabit; the leader of the Sariya said, “By Allah! I will not come down to be under the protection of infidels.

Of the ten, eight died in the fighting there. The remaining two were traded for money in Mecca… unfortunately to people whose family members they had killed at Badr, and they also died. (The whole hadith above is worth reading… it involves shaving pubes, magic grapes, and Allah sending bees. Everything in the hadith that occurs in Mecca is obviously made up, as all of these people died and no one but the dead would know these details, but it seems like the incident itself did happen.)

After this was a more serious incident that was very similar to the one above. The second one is called “the incident at Bir Maona” and follows the same pattern: a guy says he wants Mohammed to send missionaries to his clan to teach them about Islam, Mohammed sends some people (the numbers are uncertain; some say 40, another source says “70” but that number just means, basically, “dozens”), they get ambushed along the way, the ambushers promise not to harm them, a fight ensues, and all but two get killed, again. The perpetrators had various reasons for loathing Mohammed; some clans had been attacked by his followers, others were allied with people who had been attacked. They did not go easy on them.

But while he was reporting the message of the Prophet, they beckoned to one of their men who stabbed him to death. My maternal uncle said, "Allah is Greater! By the Lord of the Kaaba, I am successful.” After that they attacked the rest of the party and killed them all except a lame man who went up to the top of the mountain. (Hammam, a sub-narrator said, “I think another man was saved along with him).”

Mohammed was very unhappy.

For thirty days Allah’s Messenger (ﷺ) invoked Allah to curse those who had killed the companions of Bir-Mauna; he invoked evil upon the tribes of Ral, Dhakwan, and Usaiya who disobeyed Allah and His Apostle. There was revealed about those who were killed at Bir-Mauna a Qur'anic Verse we used to recite, but it was cancelled later on. The verse was: “Inform our people that we have met our Lord. He is pleased with us and He has made us pleased.”

This verse is no longer in the Quran. It was “cancelled”. Don’t ask me why. I think it was because the phrasing made it sound like the dead people were talking instead of Allah, so Mohammed changed it, possibly to 3:169.

Anyway, the two incidents above are so similar that I have to wonder if the details of them sort of blended together (or were heavily embellished). But the Bedouins’ overall resistance to the True Religion was noted and Mohammed filed that knowledge away to deal with it later.

Remember the Banu Nadir Jews, involved in the field incident? Well, besides killing that one poet after Badr, Mohammed held off on dealing with them for a while. But after the above, he was pissed off and needed someone to take his anger out on. This brings us to our second of three incidents with The Jewz. Like the Banu Qaynuqa, the triggering incident (the whole thing with Sallam helping the Meccans is not mentioned here, which also leads me to think it was bullshit) described by the histories is extremely petty.

Here’s the rundown from Ibn Ishaq. One of Mohammed’s followers, Amr bin Umayya, promises two dudes from the Banu Kilab clan that he won’t hurt them and then kills them while they’re sleeping, ostensibly because he thinks they were involved in Bir Maona (the guys were in fact unrelated to the incident and were given orders of protection from Mohammed himself).

To keep the clan from hating him, Mohammed promises the victims’ families that he’ll pay them for the murders. Despite the fact that the dude has plenty of money at this point (see the raids from the last section), he goes to the Banu Nadir and asks them to pay the money, because they’re close to the Banu Kilab. The Banu Nadir agree to this, presumably because they saw what happened to their Jewish brethren when they even mildly upset Mohammed.

None of this really has anything to do with the reason why the Banu Nadir got kicked out of Medina. Rather, what happened is that while Mohammed was at the Banu Nadir’s place outside the city discussing this matter, “Allah” told him that one of the Jews was going to assassinate him by dropping a rock on his head. So Mohammed left and returned to Medina’s city limits. …Yes, really. This is seriously what happened, according to Ibn Ishaq.

When Mohammed’s baffled followers found him again, he informed them of what “Allah” told him, then instructed them to get an army together.

he told them of the treachery which the Jews mediated against him. The apostle ordered them to prepare for war and to march against them. Then he went off with the men until he came upon them.

The Banu Nadir at this point are completely fucked because they have no way of defending themselves against Mohammed’s baseless allegations, as “it was a revelation from Allah” functions as a trump card for Mohammed’s followers. Like the Banu Qaynuqa, the Banu Nadir had absolutely zero hope of winning any fight. A siege lasting between one and two weeks followed, with the Muslim besiegers destroying the date palm trees that shielded the Banu Nadir’s quarters, and the Banu Nadir surrendered unconditionally with no loss of life recorded on either side. Also like the Banu Qaynuqa, the Banu Nadir Jews were allowed to either convert or leave. Their property and any possessions left behind were taken by Mohammed for himself and his family.

The properties abandoned by Banu Nadir were the ones which Allah bestowed upon His Apostle for which no expedition was undertaken either with cavalry or camelry. These properties were particularly meant for the Prophet (ﷺ). He would meet the annual expenditure of his family from the income thereof, and would spend what remained for purchasing horses and weapons as preparation for Jihad.

This story is told all sorts of ways in early Islamic history books, with the same endpoint but differing descriptions of what, exactly, the dastardly Jews were planning on doing. The most likely explanation for these differing accounts is just that there was no obvious reason for their expulsion so people had to make up stories about it. Regardless, the Banu Nadir, rather than fleeing far to the north like most of their Banu Qaynuqa brethren, stayed relatively close by in a Jewish settlement called Khaybar. It would prove to be a mistake.

We haven’t talked about the Quraysh in Mecca for a while–most of Mohammed’s conflict in the last section involved Bedouin in the Najd and the Jews in Medina. But he did not forget the blow to his ego that was Uhud. Oh no. He remembered, and in 626 AD, he set out to prove his prophet credentials to his followers. He returned to the scene of his first and greatest glory, Badr.

After the previous battle, the leader of the Meccan army (Abu Sufyan) told his people that they would likely face the Muslims again the same time next year. But when this period actually came, he decided against it. Ibn Saad:

When the period came to a close, Abu Sufyan was reluctant to march. (In the meantime) Nu’aym Ibn Mas’ud al-Ashja’I arrived in Makkah, Abu Sufyan said to him: I made a promise to confront Muhammad and his companions at Badr. That time has come, but this is a year of drought while a year of plenitude and prosperity suits us.

Abu Sufyan told Nuam (a deeply sketchy character we’ll come across again later) to try to convince Mohammed not to fight by exaggerating the size of the Meccan forces, but Mohammed didn’t fall for it. He was rearing to fight and wasn’t gonna let the Meccans chicken out on him. So he marched his men out to Badr and waited. But the Meccans really did not want to fight and went straight back to Mecca without engaging with the Muslims. This reasonable action (there really was a drought) is naturally presented as a sign of the Meccans’ cowardice in Islamic texts. In reality, they probably should have gone through with the battle, because by not engaging in war, they allowed the Muslim army to look like they’d scared them off and established dominance. This shifted perceptions of Mohammed’s army in the region and made tribes consider aligning with him.

This was followed by a few more raids that followed an identical pattern, the most notable of which occurred very far to the north, in Dumat al-Jandal (the north of modern-day Saudi Arabia). Mohammed heard rumors that there were brigands of some kind making trouble there and laughably told his followers that they were going to attack Medina (they are hundreds miles of desert away from each other). The troops were gathered yet again and marched off to meet this clear and present danger and yet again never found their phantom enemy. It is very likely that this was Mohammed’s way of showing his strength to the Christians of northern Arabia in preparation of a wider Islamic conquest, which would begin a few years later. Mohammed was clearly feeling as though he had supplanted the Meccans as the dominant force in the region and wanted people to know it.

(Many years later, during the Tabouk expedition, Dumat al-Jandal would be one of the cities forced to pay jizya to the Muslims. And three years after that, during the conflict called the “Ridda Wars” that occurred immediately after Mohammed’s death–when unhappily converted people and those made to pay jizya turned against Abu Bakr and Islam in general–the city rebelled against their overlords and was crushed by the caliphate’s army.)

Mohammed’s raids got bolder around this time. The pattern (accuse people of conspiring against him, attack them, steal their shit) held, but sneak attacks began to be used to prevent the whole “flee in terror” middle step. Also in the year 626 AD was an attack upon a clan called Banu Mustaliq, living halfway between Medina and Mecca. The attack was sudden.

The Messenger of Allah (ﷺ) made a raid upon Banu Mustaliq while they were unaware and their cattle were having a drink at the water. He killed those who fought and imprisoned others.

Mohammed “married” the daughter of the chief of that clan after she was enslaved, and his men raped the other women (except for the ones related to Mohammed’s new wife, as raping the siblings and cousins of your beloved prophet’s wife is not a good look). This raid is mentioned in a hadith in which Mohammed discussed with his men whether using the pull-out method vs splooging in their sex slaves’ vaginas was preferable. Enjoy reading that if you want.

We are now entering the year 627 AD and shit gets increasingly real. 626 marked the beginning of Islam becoming a genuinely dominant force in the region, and in 627 those who had opposed Mohammed were either defeated or drastically reduced in power.

In January of this year, several of the people Mohammed had pissed off over the years attempted to finally deal with the situation in Medina. The Quraysh had the opportunity to do this all the way back at Uhud, recall, but no one had actually tried it until now. So the Meccans teamed up with the Banu Nadir, the remainders of the Banu Qaynuqa in the area, and some clans of the Ghatafan and asked them to help besiege Medina.

Mohammed knew they were coming and the Muslims dug a trench along the side of the city facing the direction that the Meccans were coming from in order to stop any advance on horseback (the other side of Medina faced mountainous terrain). This was possibly done on the advice of a Persian man living with them, who knew the tactic well from his homeland. The siege was, like the offensive sieges we’ve already seen, tedious and involved very few casualties. For a little over three weeks the besiegers tried to find an opening but couldn’t; occasionally someone would fire an arrow at the other side, but only five people were killed in total. Irritated, the Quraysh finally just asked Mohammed to send one of his fighters out to settle the battle in a traditional Arab one-on-one duel. He sent Ali, who won, and the besiegers began to suspect that this whole exercise was pointless. The two sides spent most of the rest of the siege yelling insults at one another like a Monty Python movie.

At this point the intrigue shifts to inside Mohammed’s camp. If you recall, there were three large Jewish tribes living near Medina when Mohammed got there. He expelled two of them, but the third was still around. This was the Banu Qurayza. The Banu Qurayza were fairly uninvolved in all of the above–they had assisted the Muslims in digging the trench, but they weren’t fighting on either side. But during the siege, Huyayy ibn Akhtab (the leader of the Banu Nadir) came to his co-religionists to talk to them. He was initially turned away, but later let in. Ibn Kathir:

[Qurayza leader] Ka`b said to him, “No, by Allah, this is the opportunity for humiliation. Woe to you, O Huyay, you are a bad omen. Leave us alone.”

News of the meeting between Huyayy and the leader of the Banu Qurayza began to spread inside Medina, fueling rumors that terrified the population, convincing them that a surprise attack was coming while they were still besieged. Had this been true, it would have been a disaster, because the Qurayza lived on the other side of Medina–the undefended side, right against the mountain. They had weapons (they sold weapons as part of their trade) and men to use them. If they had attacked Medina on one side with the tribes distracting the Muslims on the other, it is entirely possible that Medina would have fallen.

But the Qurayza never made a move to attack Medina in any way; if they even sincerely thought of joining the siege, the thought clearly did not last long. Muslims sowed distrust between the Qurayza and the alliance of tribes besieging Medina, and the besiegers were already thinking of heading back home anyway. If the Qurayza didn’t make a move soon, the alliance said they’d just leave. Several sources recount a rather convenient story in which they swear the Qurayza did agree to attack Medina, but the planned attack fell on the sabbath day, so they didn’t actually do anything. Hmm.

When the siege ended and the Meccans and Ghatafan clans left, Huyayy remained with the Qurayza. Some history books say he had the opportunity to flee, but chose the honorable option of remaining with the Qurayza, knowing that their impending punishment was partially his fault.

The failure of the siege was a serious blow to the reputation of the Quraysh and another sign that Mohammed’s armies were becoming the supreme armed force in the area.

All that the Qurayza had done, as far as anyone could prove, was remain uninvolved in the siege and talk to Huyayy, who had been labeled a traitor by Mohammed’s enemies by the end of the siege. They had not marched on Medina. They had not killed a single Muslim. In fact the siege as a whole was virtually bloodless, and it was kept that way by the Qurayza refusing to fight alongside the Meccans. (This is explained in some Islamic history books by stating that the Qurayza were going to fight, but the chosen day of their sneak attack fell on the Sabbath, so they told the Quraysh they couldn’t do it. Convenient!)

But the lack of blood didn’t matter. What mattered was that the Qurayza had possibly entertained the thought, even for one moment, of going against Mohammed. The Qaynuqa and Nadir had been on the receiving end of the first Muslim expulsions of Jews. The Qurayza would be on the receiving end of the first Muslim massacre of Jews.

Immediately after the besiegers left, Mohammed informed his troops that Jibreel, the angel who talked to him on occasion (who no one else could see), had given him a command. Allah wanted the Qurayza dead.

Then Gabriel whose head was covered with dust, came to him saying, “You have put down your arms! By Allah, I have not put down my arms yet.” Allah’s Messenger (ﷺ) said, “Where (to go now)?” Gabriel said, “This way,” pointing towards the tribe of Bani Quraiza. So Allah’s Messenger (ﷺ) went out towards them.

And so another siege began, this time with the Muslims being the besiegers. It lasted about as long as the previous siege had, and like the other two sieges of Jewish quarters, ended with the unconditional surrender of the Jews. It is very likely that the Qurayza expected the same fate to befall them as befell their coreligionists, namely exile. But Allah was no longer in the mood to simply send Jews packing. Instead, by both “Allah’s will” and the suggestion of one of the leaders of the Medinan Muslim tribes, all the Qurayza men were to be put to death and their property, women, and children “distributed” to the Muslims. The only ones who would escape either death or slavery were those who converted to Islam on the spot. Boys were differentiated from men by having them drop their pants; those who had pubic hair were deemed “men” and executed.

Those whose pubic hair had grown were killed, and those whose pubic hair had not yet grown were let go.

The men of the Qurayza were brought into Medina’s center. Mohammed had ordered some shallow trenches dug into the ground there. Hundreds of men and boys, between 600 and 800 of them, were marched to the trenches. One by one they were beheaded. Huyayy was killed along with them.

Huyayy was brought out wearing a flowered robe in which he had made holes about the size of the finger-tips in every part so that it should not be taken from him as spoil, with his hands bound to his neck by a rope. When he saw the apostle he said, ‘By God, I do not blame myself for opposing you, but he who forsakes God will be forsaken.’ Then he went to the men and said, 'God’s command is right. A book and a decree, and massacre have been written against the Sons of Israel.’ Then he sat down and his head was struck off.

Huyayy’s people, the Banu Nadir, had fled to Khaybar, which was around 100 miles directly north of Medina. But the Banu Qurayza would meet their end in Medina. One woman died after going insane watching her relatives die, according to a hadith judged hasan (of good reputability).

No woman of Banu Qurayzah was killed except one. She was with me, talking and laughing on her back and belly (extremely), while the Messenger of Allah (ﷺ) was killing her people with the swords. … The man took her and beheaded her. She [Aisha] said: I will not forget that she was laughing extremely although she knew that she would be killed.

It was the complete and utter destruction of the Banu Qurayza. The tribe never existed again. Hundreds more people died on this one day than had died in all the conflicts between Muslims and their many enemies, combined, before this.

In case anyone missed the message that Mohammed was sending, a few years later he told all remaining Jews from other clans (who lived in Medina in small numbers) to get out of the city and never come back unless they wanted to convert.

He exiled all the Jews from Medina. They were the Jews of Bani Qainuqa’, the tribe of `Abdullah bin Salam and the Jews of Bani Haritha and all the other Jews of Medina.

Like the “pin” incident with the Qaynuqa and the rock incident with the Nadir, the Banu Qurayza’s main fault was being Jewish. Whatever they really discussed with the besiegers, the Qurayza never actually did anything to betray Mohammed; Medina was in fact saved by their lack of betrayal. It didn’t matter. The three large Jewish clans of Medina had been a thorn in Mohammed’s side for years and 627 AD was when he finally got rid of them for good. The only Jews remaining in the city were those who lived among the polytheistic clans and some small, politically insignificant clans that posed no threat to Mohammed’s power.

Those who lived outside Medina were safe, but only for the moment. They would be dealt with later in the year. Learn what happens in the thrilling conclusion!!!

[preservationandruin]

Oathbringer Liveblog, Part Five: Chapters 119-120

I know these are only covering a few chapters at a time, but listen. Its the end of a Sanderson book. Literally everything is happening all the time. 

Dalinar tells god to fuck off, Ultimate Unity Is Achieved (Temporarily), Radiants Do Cool Shit Constantly,  Adolin learns the name of an old friend, Amaram Vored A Rock And You Can Guess How That Went For Him, and--as always--FUCK YEAH, BRIDGE FOUR. 

The epigraphs change, to the postscript of The Way of Kings. The chapter is called Unity. 

“Dalinar? What is this?”  “You cannot have my pain.”  “Dalinar--”  Dalinar forced himself to his feet. “You. Cannot. Have. My. Pain.”  “Be sensible.”  “I killed those children,” Dalinar said.  “No, it--”  “I burned the people of Rathalas.”  “I was there, influencing you--”  “YOU CANNOT HAVE MY PAIN!” Dalinar bellowed, stepping toward Odium. The god frowned. 

Dalinar is LITERALLY GIVING OFF GLORYSPREN. Amaram has to shield his SHITTY RED EYES from it. 

“I did kill the people of Rathalas,” Dalinar shouted. “You might have been there, but I made the choice. I decided!” He stilled. “I killed her. It hurts so much, but I did it. I accept that. You cannot have her. You cannot take her from me again.” 

YEAH! SHUT THE FUCK UP, RAYSE. YOU  DIDN’T KNOW DALINAR KHOLIN LIKE YOU THOUGHT YOU DID. 

“Journey before destination,” Dalinar said. “it cannot be a journey if it doesn’t have a beginning.”  A thunderclap sounded in his mind. Suddenly, awareness poured back into him. The Stormfather, distant, feeling frightened--but also surprised.  Dalinar?  “I will take responsibility for what I’ve done,” Dalinar whispered. “If I must fall, I will rise each time a better man.” 

I LOVE DALINAR SO MUCH. 

Renarin and Jasnah are sprinting through the ward, Renarin struggling to keep up. An entire stream of gloryspren flows by them. 

“I know what you are,” Jasnah said. “You’re my cousin. Family, Renarin. Hold my hand. Run with me.” 

And they head down, down to the glowing light. 

And with all the gloryspren glowing around him, Dalinar notices--Odium looks small. 

Syl looks over to the sea of beads. She pulls Kaladin tight. 

“Maybe you don’t have to save anyone, Kaladin. Maybe it’s time for someone to save you.” 

Dalinar reaches through the worlds. He reaches into the spiritual realm. And he hears Evi’s voice, forgiving him. Venli asks what he is. 

He says he’s Unity. 

And he fucking combines all three realms into one holy FUCK, Dalinar. 

OH MY GOD, HE OPENED HONOR’S PERPENDICULARITY. THAT’S WHAT IT IS. THAT--IT ALL MAKES SENSE. ONLY DALINAR HAS THE REMNANTS OF HONOR’S POWER. ONLY HE COULD DO THIS. 

UNITE THEM. PEOPLE, YES, BUT ALSO THE REALMS. FUCK!

Taln grips onto Ash’s hand. And he says her name. 

“How long?” He asked.  “Taln,” She gripped his hand in both of hers. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” 

He goes outside, and sees Thaylen City. The wall, the soldiers in breastplates and chain. 

And he thanks Ash. Because , in leaving him, they gave humanity four thousand years of progress. She begs him to hate her. He doesn’t. 

Teft gasps. His spren asks him--can he feel the words? He says he’s broken. And...he swears the second ideal, in the most heartwrenching form: 

“I will protect those I hate. Even...even if the one I hate most...is...myself.” 

Renarin and Jasnah reach the last level of the city. Renarin warns Jasnah about Amaram’s soldiers--and she runs straight towards them and wrecks them, soulcasting people and swiping with a Shardblade. Fuck yeah, Jasnah!

And then he looks up, and sees a column of light piercing the sky. 

Navani leans into the light,  laughing like a fool, gloryspren flying around her, brushing her hair. 

“No!” Odium screamed. He stepped forward. “No, we killed you. WE KILLED YOU.” 

And Kaladin, Shallan, and Adolin split out of the pillar of light, just as Amaram was about to fight Dalinar. The explosion of Stormlight from Dalinar also sated Nightblood, meaning Lift and Szeth are alright, although their skin is stained-grey from Nightblood’s hunger. 

Dalinar realizes--Elhokar is not coming through the column of light. He grieves, for a moment. He accepts that grief. And he stands up. And he does better. 

Kaladin Stormblessed stepped up beside Dalinar before the rubble of the wall, and Shallan Davar stood on the other side. Jasnah emerged from the city and surveyed the scene with a critical air, while Renarin popped out behind her, then cried out and ran for Adolin. He grabbed his older brother in an embrace, then gasped. Adolin was wounded?  Good lad, Dalinar thought as Renarin immediately set to healing his brother.  Two more people crossed the battlefield. Lift he had anticipated. But the assassin? Szeth scooped the silvery sheath off the sword and slammed his black shardblade into it, before stepping up to join Dalinar.  Skybreaker, Dalinar thought, counting them off. Edgedancer. That was seven.  He would have expected three more.  There, the Stormfather said. Behind your niece.  Two more people appeared in the shadow of the wall. A large, powerful man with an impressive physique, and a woman with long, dark hair. Their dark skin marked them as Makabaki, perhaps Azish, but their eyes were wrong. 

The heralds, the Radiants--Dalinar did unite them. Odium is gone, fled into nothing. Dalinar is thinking--you know, there should be one more--but oh well. Stormy notes that the last might not have been found yet. 

Oh no, Dalinar’s watch got broken! He starts sending out orders. Renarin, to the Oathgate--and to stop the thunderclast from destroying it, and opening the portal so reinforcements can come. 

Shallan needs to lightweave an army--the Thrill will make the men easier to distract. Jasnah is holding the giant fucking hold in the wall--THAT’S THE COVER OF THE BOOK--Kaladin is guarding Dalinar. And settling a score with Amaram. Lift and Szeth are getting that FUCKING RUBY--although Lift needs food. 

Dalinar heads toward the water, to try to deal with the Thrill. 

Kaladin, of course, shoots into the sky immediately. Of course, he can’t stop being down on himself, because he’s Kaladin. Still. he does get to fight Amaram. 

...who immediately falls to his knees. And just when I think this will be a very, very boring fight--Kaladin notices that Amaram is coughing. Like he’d just...swallowed...something....

Over to Adolin, who is completely healed. His first complaint, when Shallan asks how he’s doing, is that he really liked this jacket! 

...Oh. She made an illusory version of him that was a windrunner. Given his self-esteem issues and feeling inadequate compared to Kaladin, that...can’t be great. 

He summons his shardblade--braces for a scream, although there is none--says he’s sorry, thanks her, and goes into battle. 

Lift and Szeth head off to try to get that GODDAMN ruby, Nightblood humming all the way. And Amaram gets up and INSTANTLY makes me furious again: 

Those red eyes cast a crimson glow through the helm’s slit. “You should thank me, boy,” 

SOMEHOW Amaram has decided that he is the SOLE EVENT that FORGED KALADIN, that MADE HIM INTO THE MAN HE IS NOW. Bull fucking shit. That same self-important assholery that makes Amaram so hateable is coming through again. 

And he’s dual-wielding Shardblades, of course. because why not. Syl is just like “don’t worry, he’s only human!” and that’s when Yelig-nar’s smoke starts to envelop him. 

Dalinar is heading towards the Thrill. He says “hello, old friend,” and then he walks into it. 

Shallan pours out stormlight, creating every person she’s ever sketched. Pattern is humming, louder and louder. All of her drawings--everyone she’s Connected to, because that’s what her drawing is. Her father and mother step from the illusion, and Shallan freezes and starts to fail--

--and then Veil takes her left hand, and Radiant in garnet Shardplate takes her right. Others try to crawl up--but no. That’s enough. They retreat into Stormlight, and hundreds and hundreds more soldiers surge up from the light. 

Adolin sees Jasnah basically toss men around like toys and is like, alright, Jasnah doesn’t need help. He runs off to help Queen Fen and her husband. 

Jasnah, meanwhile,  is abusing the closeness of the three realms to make her Soulcasting much, much easier.

Lift swears as the Fused with the ruby takes it into the sky, and Nightblood wants her to teach him swear words. 

LET! NIGHTBLOOD! SAY! FUCK!

Szeth takes to the air and takes her down, grabbing the ruby--and then three more Fused head toward him. Whoops. 

Back over to Adolin, who’s met up with Navani! She asks about Elhokar--Adolin says he’s sorry, and holds her while she cries. 

Jasnah mends the entire breach in the wall with her Soulcasting. And then just dusts her hands off. Adolin starts working on putting a stable defense together. And Adolin heads off to help the soldiers fighting one of the thunderclasts. 

Back to the Kaladin vs Amaram duel! Amaram is fighting, dual-wielding swords--the one bought with the blood of Kaladin’s men, the other given as payment for Bridgeman lives. A crystal just fucking SPROUTED FROM HIS ELBOW. Kal’s also running interference for Dalinar from the other Fused, too. 

It’s actually really handy for the Radiants that the thunderclast tore the Gem Reserve asunder--because now there are all these infused Gemstones all over the battlefield. Nice. 

Oh, shit, Amaram has pulled out one of those Shardbows. 

Amaram stood near his horse, where he’d unhooked a massive Shardbow that used arrows as thick as a spear’s haft. Amaram raised it to loose again, and a line of crystals jutted out along his arm, cracking his Shardplate. Storms, what was happening to that man? 

He sold his soul for power, and now it’s taken his body, too. Kal dives Amaram, summoning Syl as a short spear--how appropriate--and charges Amaram. 

Dalinar is in the thrill, and it’s happy to see him. I guess Nergaoul, despite being “mindless,” apparently, can still recognize people. 

He had imagined it as some evil force, malignant and insidious, like Odium or Sadeas. 

ODIUM OR SADEAS. I love how those two are put on the same level here. 

Nergaoul remembers the times that the Thrill receded from Dalinar as times it was abandoned. Oh, Nergaoul. What was it, I wonder, before Odium grabbed it and twisted it? 

Jasnah, meanwhile, cuts through a Fused’s head without even turning to look at it. She says she’s gonna do her best to stop Shallan from getting herself killed, given the rate at which Shallan is eating through Stormlight. 

Lift and Szeth (and Nightblood) are just a great comic dynamic, especially now Lift can hear Nightblood. Lift has an idea for how to steal the ruby. 

Shallan is still holding onto Veil and Radiant, and she’s burning herself out. Somehow, she’s managed to make her illusions actually fight, a little. She thinks she might be using Soulcasting as well as Lightweaving. She’s getting drawn more and more into it--

And then someone--probably Lift--asks if she could, uh, stop hugging herself for a minute to help. 

Back to Kal v Amaram! Amaram is still talking like himself--this weird hybrid-monster kept the most monstrous part of Amaram, his mind. 

FUCK, whatever Amaram is now can change stone into liquid. He traps Kaladin’s feet and snaps both of his ankles--fuck. And then he starts gliding across the ground. 

is that...abrasion and friction? Does Yelig-nar mimic dustbringer powers? I don’t know. Kaladin chucks a rock at a Fused getting too close to Dalinar, and throws another rock at Amaram’s horse to get the Shardbow away, too. 

Well, he’s fought people in Shardplate before. Syl suggests he try stabbing Amaram in the face as well. 

And then Kal is up against a Fused and Amaram. Fuck. 

Back over to Adolin! He is looking up at the thunderclast,  summoning his Blade. 

He felt something. A stirring on the wind.  “You want to fight it, don’t you?” Adolin asked. “It reminds you of when you were alive.”  Something tickled his mind, very faint, like a sigh. A single word: Mayalaran. A...name?  “Right, Maya,” Adolin said. “Let’s bring that thing down.” 

SHE TOLD HIM HER NAME. AHHHHHHHHHH IM SO GLAD THAT THIS IS HAPPENING IM SO GLAD THAT ADOLIN’S KINDNESS HAS RESULTS IM SO GLAD THAT, EVEN IN A SMALL WAY, MAYALARAN GETS TO DO THINGS THAT SHE WANTS AND CONVEY HER EMOTIONS, I’M SO HAPPY

Adolin finds a small boy huddled in the house, and gets him out of there, trying to distract the thunderclast, jumping through windows and running. 

A hand in Shardplate reached out of a building nearby, grabbed Adolin, and pulled him inside. 

WHAT

Back to Dalinar. He talks to the thrill, accepting what he was. Thanking it for giving him strength, sometimes--and it makes a happy sound, it crowds closer to him. Nergaoul almost reminds me of an animal of some sort, reacting to someone being nice to it. Dalinar admits--he understands Nergaoul. 

Venli is creeping away, feeling sick, the rhythms going crazy in her, fighting. She manages to grab onto one. The Rhythm of the Lost. The only one of the old rhythms she heard. Timbre thrums to the same rhythm, vibrating through Venli. 

Lost. What had Venli lost?  Venli missed being someone who cared about something other than power. Knowledge, favoritism, forms, wealth--it was all the same to her. Where had she gone wrong?  Timbre pulsed. Venli dropped to her knees. Cold stone reflected lightning from above, red and garish. 

Her eyes aren’t red at all. And she starts. She starts swearing the words. She gets almost through them--to Journey--and then a Fused crashes into her. But Timbre isn’t in her pouch. 

Instead, she’s in her gemheart. She’s keeping the Voidspren in there captive. Venli storms into the cabin of the ship, grabs a sphere. Ruby, glowing. 

She finishes swearing the first Ideal. Odium, you thought you killed the problem sister. But by doing that, you made the other one a problem too. 

Fortunately, the dude who grabbed Adolin was one of the Thaylen Shardbearers. They are teaming up, now--Adolin can hit, while the man--Hrdalm--has Plate and can take hits. Unfortunately, the Fused pounce for Hrdalm. 

And Adolin throws his Shardblade to kill one of the fused. “Alright, Maya. We’ve practiced this.” 

Unfortunately, he’s cornered now with the thunderclast. He summons Maya back, hits again--but it flicks him against a wall, and he definitely broke a rib. He starts counting again. 

AND MAYA COMES ON SEVEN, BECAUSE HE NEEDS HER. AHHHH. 

Maya’s also started bugging him in his mind--he gets knocked through a roof and is picking himself up, and she’s brushing against his mind to do it faster. 

Fortunately, before Adolin does anything else stupid, Renarin runs up. He reminds Adolin that, uh, he can’t heal and HAS NO ARMOR and then charges the thunderclast. Renarin’s healing is so fast that, apparently, being crushed can’t slow him down for very long. 

Adolin gives Maya to Hrdalm so that he can use her, and Hrdalm’s response is great in respect to their various religions: 

“Great Honor in you, Prince Adolin,” he said. “Great Passion in me at this aid.” 

Szeth notes that the Fused don’t expect him to have trained, when learning to use the Honorblade, with all of the Surges. And he and Lift pull a switch--one pouch with a fake gemstone, the other with the real one. With the help of Shallan and an illusory rock, of course. 

I can’t believe the Fused thought they could out-steal Lift. 

Szeth notes that the closer he gets to Nergaoul/the mist, the louder the whispers in his head become. And Lift goes into the mist to help Dalinar. 

Amaram is screaming in pain. Kaladin’s fighting the other Fused and doing his level best not to let it distract him. 

Well, there are amethysts growing out of his face, I think that might be part of why he’s screaming. He’s leaving flaming tracks--that seems to support my claim about Yelig-nar imitating Dustbringers’ powers. Dalinar is in trouble--meanwhile, Amaram is hiking off to get his fucking bow. 

There’s something weirdly funny about this human-parshman hybrid screaming in pain, and then his opponent flies off and he’s just like. welp. gotta go get my bow. Oh well. 

Oh, shit, Amaram can superjump. Not sure what’s letting him do that, but I think a good bet would be “Yelig-nar, obviously.” 

Shit, he can do Lashings too. Clearly, paying attention to which surges he’s using isn’t going to do me much good. 

Also, for fuck’s sake, Amaram still is going on about honor: 

Amaram grinned. “Odium promised me something grand, and that promise has been kept. With honor.”  “You still pretend to speak of honor?”  “Everything I do is for honor.” Amaram swept with a single Blade, making Kaladin dodge. “It was honor that drove me to seek the return of the Heralds, of powers, and our god.”  “So you could join the other side?” 

Amaram admits that he hurt, after he killed Kaladin’s men--but then he realized, it wasn’t his fault,  was it? Nothing was his fault. 

Same as Moash. Same as he tried to do to Dalinar. Nothing’s your fault, give me your pain. And give me your responsibility, your morals too. 

“I made you, Kaladin!” Amaram’s red eyes lit the crystals that rimmed his face. “I gave you that granite will, that warrior’s poise. This, the person you’ve become, was my gift!”  “A gift at the expense of everyone I loved?”  “What do you care? It made you strong! Your men died in the name of battle, so that the strongest man would have the weapon. Anyone would have done what I did, even Dalinar himself.”  “Didn’t you tell me that you’d given up that grief?”  “Yes! I’m beyond guilt!”  “Then why do you still hurt?”  Amaram flinched. 

Eat shit, Amaram. 

Nice try, manipulating Kaladin, but you protested too much. You spent so much time spouting justifications. How long have you rehearsed those? Could you even convince yourself? 

Kaladin points it out--Odium will never, never give Amaram peace. There is no absolution to be found there. Just the illusion. 

The highprince’s entire chest had collapsed inward. There was no sign of ribs or internal organs. Instead, a large violet crystal pulsed inside his chest cavity, overgrown with dark veins. If he’d been wearing a uniform of padding beneath the armor, it had been consumed.  He turned toward Kaladin, heart and lungs replaced by a gemstone that glowed with Odium’s dark light. 

How does that power feel, Amaram? Kaladin keeps pointing it out--if you’re truly guiltless, if you truly believe the sanctimony you spit, why do you still  hurt? 

And Amaram is furious. 

And he makes a mistake--he jumps into the air. And if you’re fighting Kaladin? You never go into the air. He manages--he slams Syl, a spear, against the gemstone at the heart of whatever Amaram turned himself into. And it cracks. 

Kaladin floated downward toward him. “Ten spears go to battle,” he whispered, “and nine shatter. Did that war forge  the one that remained? No, Amaram. All the war did was identify the spear that would not break.” 

Amaram is howling, clutching his gemheart--which goes out. And the area goes down into darkness. 

Unfortunately, the Fused are still coming. 

Meanwhile, the thunderclast is collapsing. Renarin and the Thaylen Shardbearer have cut off its legs and one arm--that’s good. Glys is trying to give Renarin advice--- Light. You will make it go with light. 

He summons stormlight, and the thunderclast’s eyes fade and it settles, dying back down. Renarin’s still worried--he saw himself dying on this day. But he’s alive. 

Shallan, Veil, and Radiant are losing their army. But one figure doesn’t vanish like the others. Long black hair blown free of braids, she steps in between the trio of Shallans and the enemy. 

Jasnah Kholin has arrived. 

Also, at that moment, Shallan--the one who looked like Shallan-Shallan--was a fake, and Radiant was the real one, which alarms Jasnah for a moment. We’re cycling through names for Shallan with incredible speed. They finally, finally reach the top of the wall. 

Renarin is heading for the Oathgate. He notes that while his fits seem to have stopped, he still sees the world differently--in our terms, Stormlight doesn’t heal autism because why the fuck would it? It’s not an illness. 

Twelve Fused are hovering over the Oathgate. Renarin heads into the spanreed room, and reports that Urithiru has also been attacked. Strangely, the Kharbranth faction has fallen completely silent. Unsurprising. 

So he turns to go open it himself--and is startled and surprised when nobody tells him not to. Renarin gets new fits, now--ones where it looks like stained glass spreads around him, forming panels of images. What he sees...it makes him smile. 

“You’re wondering why I’m smiling,” Renarin said.  They didn’t respond.  “Don’t worry,” Renarin said. “You didn’t miss something funny. I...well, I doubt you’ll find it amusing.”  Light exploded from the Oathgate platform in a wave. 

I’m gonna take a wild shot in the dark, here, and say: FUCK YEAH, BRIDGE FOUR. 

YEP Bridge Four has come through, let by a Knight Radiant with a Shardspear. 

Teft. 

Shallan is still lost in all three of her, but she says that after she rests, she thinks she can settle down to being one. Rock starts nagging Renarin about getting his uniform ruined, Lyn rats out the fact that Rock got hurt when he tries to pretend it’s nothing. Fortunately, they’re near Kal--they’re getting stormlight again. 

“Kaladin is close,” Rock agreed. “Ha! I feed him. But here, today, he fed me. With light!”  Lyn eyed Rock. “Storming Horneater weighs as much as a chull...” She shook her head. “Kara will fight with the others--don’t tell anyone, but she’s been practicing with a spear since childhood, the little cheater.” 

I love all the little ways people--Renarin, Kara, Lyn herself, everyone really--violates gender norms. 

Rock hugs Renarin--Ren is a little uncomfortable, as this was not a time he was okay with just being...randomly grabbed for a hug (big mood, Renarin), but he’s so, so glad Bridge Four has arrived. 

Dalinar is drifting in the Thrill. And Lift comes in, pressing the ruby into his hand. Dalinar remembers what Taravangian said about luring in spren, trapping them. 

And, for the last time in his life, he embraces the Thrill. He embraces Nergaoul. He thanks it, and it is so, so happy to be praised. 

“Now, old friend, it is time to rest.” 

Kal is fighting like eight-on-one. He doesn’t have to win, though--he just has to survive. 

Meanwhile,  whatever Dalinar is doing, it’s making Nergaoul thrash and writhe, and the Fused are running. And then it implodes, and the Everstom grows still. 

AND GUESS WHO FUCKING ISN’T DEAD: 

A scraping sound came from nearby, and then a violet light flickered in the darkness. A shadow stumbled to its feet, dark purple light pulsing alive in its chest cavity, which was empty save for that gemstone.  Amaram’s glowing red eyes illuminated a distorted face: his jaw had broken as he’d fallen, and gemstones had pushed out of the sides of his face at awkward angles, making the jaw hang limp from his mouth, drool leaking out the side. He stumbled toward Kaladin, gemstone heart pulsing with light. A Shardblade formed in his hand. The one that had killed Kaladin’s friends so long ago. 

AND HE’S ABOUT TO STRIKE AMARAM DOWN, AND KALADIN SAYS “BRIDGE FOUR.”  AND AN ARROW SLAMS INTO AMARAM FROM BEHIND. 

AND ANOTHER SHOOTS HIM RIGHT THROUGH THE GEMHEART, AND ROCK IS GLOWING ON THE RUBBLE, WITH AMARAM’S SHARDBOW. 

Sometimes, Kaladin doesn’t have to save everyone. Sometimes, it’s time for them to save Kaladin. 

Dalinar is crying as he cradles the gemstone containing Nergaoul. It’s over. It’s over. 

[thorntonkrell-blog-blog]

END OF THE BOOK A

URGENT MIRRORS

    Hello friends. It’s nice to be back.     I’ve been stealing mirrors and seeing men about horses for the last 10 days. I subscribe to the Vonnegutian concept that a mirror is a leak to another, parallel universe. The image that we see when we look into a mirror is the image of ourselves in another realm which is momentarily in synch with our own. We just show up at the same time and take a gander at each other. Thus a mirror is a leak into another world.     So whenever someone says “I’ve got to take a leak” what they are literally saying according to Vonnegut is “I’ve got to steal a mirror”     I’ve stolen so many mirrors in the last ten days that even my image in the parallel universe is freaking out and looks very tired.     I don’t know exactly what’s causing the guy in the mirror to show up 50 or 60 times a day but “I” know why I’m there.     I’m stealing mirrors as an after effect of the radiation treatment that I have been receiving for the past sixteen days. I knew beforehand that one of the after effects of radiation is increased, urgent urination.  Still you never really know about an after effect until after it affects you after.

    I haven’t slept now in five days because of the “urgency”. I go to bed. I’m there for ten minutes then I have to steal a mirror. I come back to the bed and the urgency comes back with me. I tell the urgency “look I know you’re just some spasmic bladder because I just stole a mirror and there’s no way I need to steal another one so soon.” Then the urgency goes away for maybe 10 minutes at which time I try to catch a few winks because I know the urgency will be back and that will wake me up.     10 minutes later, the urgency is back.     10 minutes after that I’m stealing another mirror.     And then the whole thing starts all over again

    This goes on all day and all of the night.     I remember what it used to be like 20 days prior and what I took for granted.  

    A few times a day I’d get that urgency but the vast majority of the day and the night, the urgency disappeared. I thought nothing of it. We get used to normal until it disappears and then we crave it like we crave yesterday.     But yesterday’s gone.     The after effect flips the script. Instead of non urgency leading to a mirror steal seven or eight times a day now the urgency is continual with 60 or 70 mirror steals within every 24 hours.     Yesterday, my doctor prescribed some new medication. I won’t even tell you all the rare and catastrophic potential effects of the prescription, they are too humiliating and horrifying to even think about.

My pharmacist tells me that they have to put those warnings on the label if it comes to their knowledge that any one at any time had ever come up with the particular after effect. If someone has, then it must be included on the label. This is supposed to be comforting information.   Don’t worry about the after effects because they are rare but if you start getting one or more contact your doctor immediately etc.

    The new medicine is supposed to reduce the urgency and thus reduce the mirror stealing. However, for some people it has a paradoxical effect which not only reduces the urgency but also makes urination impossible. If that’s the case, contact your doctor immediately becasuse you will need to be catheterized

    I really don’t want that.     As of this instant, the urgency has lessened.     That is why I can stop back here and say hello.     But now I’m kinda worried about my flow.     I want no more after effects, that, my friends is for goddamn sure     Not cured from what I’m suffering with but suffering from the cure.

THE ART OF GLOVE

    A guy named Arthur Gregor walked out of the classroom, apparently on his way to the john. The boy on the way to the john, Arthur Gregor Junior, almost always suspected that he had a sex problem.

    The reason Arthur Gregor suspected he had a sex problem was because his father, Arthur Gregor, suspected that he, the father, had a sex problem. Arthur Gregor Junior’s mother Sara knew that her husband had a sex problem but she didn’t know exactly what it was nor how to describe it which led Arthur Gregor Senior to have even greater suspicion about the sex problems of his son etc.         So one day when Junior was eight, his parents took him to a psychiatrist named Dr. Schinetzki. Schinetzki suspected that he himself might have an undefined sex problem, that is why he specialized in detecting sex problems in others.

    When Junior walked into Schinetzki’s office, he had no suspicion that he might have a problem with sex. He was eight years old. He didn’t have any idea what sex was. So Schinetski started showing Junior some pictures and asked him to identify the pictures. The pictures were very concrete; an apple, a desk, a lamp, a shirt, a dog and then a bra.

    Junior nailed the first five and then the trouble began.

    Junior hesitated when he saw the bra. He knew what the name of the item was but he didn’t want Dr. Schinetski to know that he knew what it was for fear that Schnitetski would tell his parents that their child knew what a bra was which of course he would have and that would have been considered normal and that might have eased the suspicion that Senior had about Junior which might have eased the suspicion that Senior had about himself which may or may not have dented the wall of certainty that Sara had constructed about her husband and hence her son.

    Tragically, Junior chose to overthink the situation. He figured that no “normal” kid his age should know what a bra is or where it goes or what it does.  

    Junior decided that he either had to continue in silence as he contemplated the picture which he figured would be suspicious or he could mis-identify the picture. Junior chose option two.     “Well, Arthur, can you name this picture?” asked the good Doctor with an edge of impatience in his voice.     “ Oh yes, Doctor. That’s a glove”     “Very good young man” said the doctor and moved on to a picture of a goat, and then a telephone and then a piggy bank all of which Arthur identified. From that day on, the suspicion of Arthur Senior about Arthur Junior began to grow and then one day that suspicion appeared within Arthur Junior and it started to grow.     That day was a Sunday in January  

    The next day, the day after sexual suspicion started within his son, Senior uncomfortably explained the birds and the bees to his boy and Arthur began to believe that bees were having sex with birds and if he got stung by a bee, he could get pregnant.     When Senior got the report from Schinetzki, which indeed cast suspicion upon the sexual inclinations of his son, he did what any other father who is suspected of unusual sexual inclinations by his wife would do. He over-reacted. Senior figured that if he could ease his suspicion about his son which would enable him to ease his suspicion about himself which would lessen the infuriating certainty of his wife which somehow had become the deciding vote in every domestic disagreement.     Senior bought Junior a pair of gloves. When he gave Junior the gloves, he said “these are gloves, son . Do you understand me? These are gloves. They keep your hands warm. They protect your hands".     This was the beginning of Arthur Junior’s compulsive, lifelong search for definition and overstanding.     And gloves

    It was May. Junior’s hands were already warm. Still, his father insisted that Junior put on the gloves immediately.When Junior put on the gloves he remembered his session with Schinetzki. The gloves made him feel guilty. Eventually that guilt would transform into suspicion of sexual abnormality. Every time Junior put on a glove of any variety, for the rest of his life, the whirlwind of self-doubt reared its furious head and reaped its own devastating harvest. The wearing of the glove would both cause and ease the internal whirlwind.     Senior insisted that Junior always have a supply of new gloves. Senior insisted that Junior concentrate on three sports, baseball, hockey and golf. All three sports required a glove.    The incidents with the baseball glove were particularly painful.     Senior bought Junior the most expensive ball glove that he could find which amounted to three hundred plus dollars. Junior wasn’t any good at baseball but he had the best glove so he made the major leagues in his local Little League. When the manager asked him what position he played Junior said “shortstop” Junior had no idea what a shortstop was or where on the field the shortstop played. He knew the word and he liked the word so that was the word he said when his manager, Otto Dingfeldt, while eyeing the expensive glove asked him what position he played.     At the first practice Dingfeldt said “ Okay Junior, You’re my shortstop.” Junior, overcoming the urge to ask his coach to “define shortstop”  instead asked Dingfeldt “where do I play”     Dingfeldt assumed that Junior was asking a subtle question about shading the hitter toward third or second depending upon whether or not the hitter could get around on the inside fastball.     “Shade over towards third” said Otto.     Junior walked on to the field and stood right next to the third baseman, a veteran eleven year old named Jake Genovese.     “What the hell are you doing here, kid” Genovese asked.     “The manager told me to shade towards third” said Junior. “Could you please define ‘shade’     “Well for Christ sake move halfway between third and second and that’s good enough but get the hell away from me before I kick your ass” replied Jake.     Arthur moved to the spot indicated. The first three batters hit rockets right at and through Junior. After the third rocket Arthur fell to the ground, faking an injury. When Dingfeldt came out to see ‘what the fuck* is wrong with the ‘fruit with the glove’. Arthur said “Mister Dingfeldt, I don’t like shortstop”. And with that, Junior was benched. He would remain benched for the rest of his Little League career which itself would end later that year.     Every moment that he sat on the bench while the others kids played the game, Arthur grew more suspicious of himself.     If you added up the price tags of all the gloves on Junior’s team, it’s likely the sum would be less than the one glove on Junior’s hand, uselss on the bench. Bobby Lowmeyer took Junior’s spot at shortstop. Bobby had perhaps the worst glove on the team. Bobby’s glove had been passed on to him by his older brother, Whitey, who gave up baseball while waiting for the bass player in his band to get an amp. Whitey got the glove as a hand me down from his Dad, Norbert who had gotten the glove from his Dad, Karl, whose favorite player wasn’t Babe Ruth but a nobody named named Chuck Klein. To Karl, baseball was the national pasttime.To Whitey,the few times that he thought about it while making noise in the garage, baseball was the national past its time.

   All of the other gloves on the team were either hand me downs or K mart ten dollar specials. Arthur and his glove stood out on this team like a sore thumb which everybody on the team had because of their lousy mitts except for Arthur who had the good mitt and the permanent seat on the pine.Arthur Senior told Arthur Junior to never loan out his glove. Senior came to the first few of Junior’s games but lost interest when he realized that Junior was not going to get into the game. Senior stopped showing up.     Before Senior stopped showing up, it became clear that the other players on the team hated Junior’s guts because of the glove disparity. Bob Lowmeyer particularly resented Arthur. Bobby had the quickness and coordination to handle the shortstop position but his crappy glove prevented him from cleanly fielding the grounders hit his way. With every error, his antipathy towards Arthur increased. He started calling Arthur “Glove” and pretty soon everybody on the team began to follow suit.     The nickname spread from the ball field to the neighborhood to the school. Before long, everywhere he went, Arthur was called Glove. In Arthur’s mind, they might as well have been calling him “Bra” which might as well have been “Oddball,” “Weirdo,” or “ “Dipshit”     One day Coach Dingfeldt approached Arthur and said “Glove, if you lend Bobby your mitt for the rest of the season, I’ll give you a new position”     Glove, a team player, was always eager to please.He also wanted to stay clear of the rocket shots smashed at the shortstop. Since it was clear that his Father had abandoned the team and wouldn’t know or care one way or the other, Glove decided to lend his mitt to Bobby. Coach Dingfeldt, true to his word, gave Junior his new position…..statstop. As statstop, Junior had the important job of keeping score during the games and then turning his scorecard into a stat sheet. Dingfeldt turned the job of teaching Junior how to keep score over to his assistant coach, an alcoholic named Clyde Starks.     Starks taught Junior the numbers for the positions; 1 for pitcher, 2 for catcher, 3 for fist base, 4 for second base, 5 for third base ,6 for shortstop, 7 for left field, 8 for center field and 9 for right field. Any time anyone in those positions touched the ball, it was to be recorded in the “official” scorebook by the team statstop. A ground out to the second baseman was recorded as a 4-3. A flyball caught by the center fielder was recorded as an 8. Et feakin cetera. Arthur caught on quickly. With Bobby at shortstop hoovering anything hit near him and with Arthur at statstop recording every play, the Pirates began a winning streak.     After one particularly unbelievable play, Bobby came back to the bench and when the rest of the team congratulated him, Bobby said, “it wasn’t me…it was Art.”     For a split second Junior felt like he was getting some credit for the success of the team. Then he realized that Bobby was giving credit not to Junior but to Junior’s glove which was now known as Art. The boy was now named after the glove and the glove was named after the boy. In the mind of the boy, the glove was getting the better deal.     With Bobby installed at shortstop with Art installed on his hand and with Glove installed on the bench with a scorecard and pencil in his hand, the Pirates began to win and win big.

    Kippy Fiore, the Timpani brothers Sal and Bob, Sandy Granada, Tony Giambrone and Bow Aqualina, despite their mediocre mitts could all field, run and hit. Nick Sellmer could pitch. The only weakness had been shortstop. Bobby and Art took care of that problem.     The Pirates reached the championship game. Arthur Junior never breathed a word about the teams success to his father for fear that his father would show up and demand that Arthur a) get his ass on the field and b) get his glove back from the zitface at shortstop. The night before the game, Arthur could imagine the whole house of cards collapsing. He, in fact, did visualize the entire humiliation and when he did so he fell asleep. He slept the sleep of the innocent who somehow suspect that they may not be innocent after all for reasons undetermined.     Arthur’s father didn’t show up for the game. The Pirates were playing the Braves. For years, the Braves had been the best team in the League. The guys on the Braves had real good gloves and their gloves were in proportion to their skills.  Still, Art, on the hand of Bobby was the best mitt on the field and both teams knew it. Art had become the talk of the league.     The pitcher for the Braves was a guy named Chico. Word had it that Chico was at least fifteen years old. Chico threw hard and seemed to enjoy hitting kids. Everybody was afraid of Chico. Nobody wanted to dig in at the plate. The game turned into a pitcher’s battle between Chico and Nick. After a short delay because of threatening weather, the game moved quickly until the sixth inning, with both teams scoreless.     In the last at bat of the season, the Pirates dug in.     Kippy singled. Sal doubled. Kippy scored. The Pirates took the lead. Sandy hit a fly ball over the barbed wire into the power plant in right field for a two run homer. Mr Jordan, the coach of the Braves argued that the ball was foul. The argument got ugly. Several parents got involved. The umpire held his ground. The parents headed back to their seats. Tony Giambrone struck out for out number two after Chico threw a couple of pitches behind him.     Bow, the next batter did exactly the same thing that Sandy did, smashing the ball to nearly the exact same spot over the exact same stretch of barbed wire for yet another debatable homerun.     Out came Jordan. Ten more minutes of screaming, finger pointing, , spitting, swearing name-calling and threatening ensued before peace was restored. The home run counted. The score was 4-0 Pirates.     Bobby struck out to end the inning.     The Pirates needed three more outs. It was nearly nine oclock when the Braves came up to the plate.     Darkness Falling     An inning is not supposed to start after 8:30. Even with the rain delay, the sixth inning of the Pirates versus Braves championship game began at 8:18. Glove kept meticulous track of such arcana. In this regard Glove was particularly superfluous. Ya don’t need a weatherman to tell you which way the wind blows and you don’t need a statstop to tell ya that it’s dark. By the time the top of the sixth ended; after the offensive outburst, after the two disputed home runs, after the the near riots that ensued after each home run, after the time spent after the riots clearing the field of debris and derelicts, the time was 8:50

    Nick Sellmer took the mound and began his warm-up pitches. Glove consulted his trusty scorebook. Glove noticed that Nick had pitched two innings in the must-win game prior to the championship game. The league had a rule that no pitcher could pitch more than seven inning within the space of a week.When Nick threw his first pitch of the sixth inning, his performance would be against league legislation. Glove figured that the penalty for breaking this rule would be forfeiture.     Coach Dingfeldt was not only aware of the rule but also aware of the fact that if he took Nick out of the game now, all the parents would be on his case for the rest of his life, not so much for taking Nick out tonight but for bringing him in a couple of nights before.     Coach Dingfeldt decided that he would leave Nick in the game and if the fit hit the shan, he could always blame the little twerp on the end of the bench, the “statstop” named Glove.     And if Glove approached him, the coach, he would pretend he was doing something else. Dingfeldt would determine Glove’s honesty by the urgencey of Glove’s interruption. Glove was polite. Glove hated to interrupt anyone, particularly figures of authority.     Glove didn’t know if Coach Dingfeldt knew what Glove knew. The inning which defined the entire season might depend upon Glove getting through to Coach.      The Pirates did have an alternative, a chinless boy named Steve Kaul who everybody called Froggy. Froggy threw the ball in a combinatin submarine/sidearm style that lost all of it idiosyncracy by the time it reached the plate. This imminently hittable pitch was called “the Swamp Ball”. As the othe Pirates took the field for the last time, Glove walked from the far end of the bench to where Coach Dingfeldt was speaking to Coach Starks. Glove cleared his throat “Ummm, Coach?”     Nick had already thrown the first of his allotted six warm-up pitches by the time Glove got to Dingfeldt.     “Coach, ummm, I’m afraid that if Nick throws one more pitch to one more batter…….”     POP. Warm-up pitch number two. Dingfeldt interrupted Glove.“Are you afraid, Glove ?” Dingfeldt asked as he turned his back to Glove and for the last time rearranged the bats in the bat rack. Looking at Dingfeldt’s back, Glove realized what a gigantic man his Coach was.     “Yes, Coach.  I am”      Dingfeldt turned and faced the boy. Looking at his front instead of his back, Glove realized what a determined man his coach was. SMACK. Warm up pitch number three exploded into the catcher’s mitt on the darkened field. At this stage of the night, the pitches were more audible than visible.     “Do you know what courage is Glove?”     “Courage is facing your fears, Coach”      “Not bad, Glove” PMACK. Warm up pitch number four.     “Courage, son, is knowing what not to fear. Do you understand me? ”     “But, Coach……” SMAP. Warm up pitch number five.     “Listen, Arthur. Go back to the end of the bench. Take out your pencil. Keep a record of the action on the field. You be the statstop. I’ll be the coach. Aside from my advice about courage, forget the rest of this conversation. Know what to fear and what not to fear.Be courageous.  Is that clear, Glove. ”     “Yes, Coach”     For a split second Glove realized what he should do. He should run out to the mound and explain the situation to Nick. Nick could do whatever he wanted to do and at the same time bear witness that Glove had done the right thing. In the next split second, he visualized how absurd that scene would be, how inappropriate to the trappings of the game. The benchwarmer taking over as manager and advising the star pitcher what to do. Nick barely talked to him anyway. That wasn’t going to fly.     Glove took his place on the bench.     Nick fired his last warm up pitch.     The umpire, a Greek guy named Dee who ran a delicatessen in which there was a horrifying barrel of gherkins, yelled “batter up”.      By the time Nick threw the first pitch in the last inning, Glove realized there was only one way out. The Pirates, his team, had to lose. Glove started pulling for the Braves even as he felt his heart breaking with the abandonment of loyalty.     Meanwhwile in the dark on the bench between the top and the bottom of the sixth inning, Mr Jordan had a few ideas of his own. He hoped that Dingfeldt didn’t know that if Nick pitched one more pitch that action would be in violation of league rules and the outcome of the game would be, after the official protest was filed, either a forfeiture or a disqualification. Either way, the Pirates would be walking the plank. Jordan’s only fear was that someone would clue in the clueless Coach. When Jordan looked over at the bench and noticed some little kid with a too big uniform trying to get the attention of Otto, he thought that Froggy might be coming into the game and the protest win/win plan would be erased. Whatever the kid said to the coach and whatever the coach said to the kid before the little jerk walked back to his place on the bench, Nick had completed his warm up pitches.     Dee, the Greek umpire, trying to hurry the game along yelled “batter up”. Before the leadoff batter, Stash Malloy, walked to the plate, Mr Jordan took him aside and revealed idea number two.     “Do not take that bat off your shoulder, Stash. Take every pitch. Take, take all the way. Do not swing”     Stash nodded and headed for the plate. Jordan��s plan was this, he wasn’t going to protest until after the conclusion of the game.  The evening was growing too dark to play ball. The whitest balls in the ball bag were already parked in the power plant somewhere. Whatever balls that Nick pitched would be scuffed from a season of sandlot. They would add an extra level of difficulty not only to the batters but also to the fielders and the umpire. Nick threw hard but he didn’t have great control.     Dee’s delicatessen owed the Jordan Trucking Company (whose motto was “we deliver the goods”) a favor or two. The Brave’s fans were all up in arms about the two home runs that they thought were foul balls. Dee owed them a couple of calls as well. If the Braves managed to score five runs in their last at bat, the protest would be moot.     Jordan loved his chances.     Fourteen pitches later, the bases were loaded with Braves and there were no outs. None of the first three batters had swung at a single pitch. The only reason no runs had been scored was the rule that a run could not be scored as the result of a passed ball.     Chico was coming to the plate.     In its essence, baseball is a game of catch between two people. While the game of catch is proceeding, a series of other people try to interrupt that game of catch, one at a time, by swinging a piece of wood at the thrown ball and then running home before the game of catch can be resumed.     In professional baseball, the game of catch must be played perfectly. If the ball gets by the catcher, blame must be found and assigned. If the blame falls on the catcher,if  he should have caught the ball but failed to, the transgression is called a passed ball. If the blame is on the pitcher, if his throw was so errant as to  be un-catchable, that transgression is known as a wild pitch. In professional baseball, a penalty exists for passed balls and wild pitches. If, after a third strike, a passed ball occurs; the batter can try to run to first base before the catcher can retrieve the ball and either touch the batter or throw to first base. If humans are on base at the time of the wild pitch or the passed ball, the runners may advance to the next base or bases but they do so at their own risk.     Little League baseball is far from professional so some of these penalties are waived depending upon jurisdiction of the league. The East Side Little League, whose championship game was being decided by the Braves and the Pirates, allowed baserunners to advance after wild pitches or passed balls but forbade any runner on third from scoring a run in such a manner.     The reason this rule was instituted in the first place was the location of the backstop at the main field. The backstop was only fifteen feet from home plate which meant that a pitched ball could get past the catcher, hit the backstop and bounce right back into play. This factor made the backstop too much “in play”. Several injuries had occurred when the ball bounced off the backstop so randomly that a collision at the plate involved not only the catcher and the runner but also the pitcher, the umpire and the batter who still carried his stick in his hand. So the rule was waived.     That’s why, in the bottom of the sixth, the bases were loaded with Braves. Nobody was swinging and there was no base eligible for any runner to advance even though wild pitches/passed balls had been occurring on nearly every pitch.     As Chico strode to the plate, the situation was this and had been thus for awhile:the batter couldn’t see the pitch to hit it, the umpire couldn’t glimpse the pitch to call it and the catcher couldn’t track the pitch to catch it. And it was getting darker by the minute.     Dingfeldt, like most men, had two matters foremost in his mind….victory and justification. The fact that the kid had confronted him about Nick’s eligibility to pitch the ninth inning irritated his justification module. The fact that the Braves had the bases loaded with nobody out and the best player in the league coming to the plate, threatened his victory module.     Otto had to come up with something quick. He decided to take a walk out to the mound. On the way to the mound, Dingfeldt realized that only two of the pitches thrown in the inning had been cleanly caught. Both of those pitches were called strikes by Dee, the delicatessen umpire. Hmmmm. Dee couldn’t see the pitches either. Dee was assuming that if the catcher caught it, it had to be a strike and if it got by the catcher, the pitch must have been out of the strike zone in the first place which resulted in a call of “ball”     As fast as he was, Nick was not the easiest pitcher to catch. To make matters worse, the catcher, Skip Mancuso was not the first string catcher on the team. The best catcher on the team happened to be the best player on the team who happened to be the best pitcher on the team who happened to be the guy on the mound that Dingfeldt was heading towards.     By the time he got to the mound, Dingfeldt had his mind made up. He was going to make a change. His change was not going to be so much a change of pitchers as it was a change of catchers. “Skip, go on out to right field and bring Frog in from the swamp. Nick, you’re gonna catch the rest of the game. You pitched a helluva game, now I need you to catch one helluva inning.” Frog came in from right field, replaced by Skip. Nick put on the catcher’s gear. Otto gave the ball to Frog with the age old advice “Just throw this godamned thing over the plate. Throw it to Nick” And with the changes made, Dingfeldt headed back to the bench. And it got darker

   Six hours earlier Aristotle Legeer had just slapped down his last buck for a scratch off card at Dee’s Delicatessen. Ari had bought the card with four quarters so he chose the Scratch Off called Loose Change. Loose Change is a scratch off card that shows six coins. If you scratch all six coins and they total more than a dollar, then the scratcher wins whatever prize is on the card which  must be scratched to be revealed.     Ari scratched the first five coins…..96 cents. Then he scratched the prize amount figuring with his luck it would be a buck or two. The prize was $500. Ari felt good about the next scratch. He had certainly lost enough to justify the winning. He took a minute before scratching  and then scratched…….     A penny.     A stinken Lincoln     One hundredth of a dollar.    One gazillionth of a phantom five hundred dollars.    Several bottles of ouzo disappeared from Ari’s brainpan, along with a dozen roses for his patient, long suffering wife Diana and a trip to the Casino to feed Cleopatra’s slot fifteen lines of nickels at a time as the Queen of the Nile whispers  "Explore your fantasy. Enjoy your rewards". A rent payment and a tank full of gas also vanished.     What appeared was the usual, rage, self-pity and persecution complex. Also appearing was the reality that Ari had no gas in his car, no pay check for two days, no beer in the fridge and maxed out plastic in the wallet.     “I just lost five hundred bucks Dee”     “How could you lose five hundred bucks on a one dollar scratch off card?” Ari told Dee the whole story. Dee understood, sort of.     “When will I ever learn, Dee?”     “My friend, what we have to learn to do, we learn by doing” answered the owner of the deli.      “Can you lend me twenty bucks for two days?” asked the erstwhile coin scratcher.     “I can do better than that” said Dee. “I can pay you twenty five bucks right now if you’ll do a job for me tonight. I need an umpire for a Little league game over at the field”     “I wouldn’t call the pitches at that nuthouse for fifty bucks, even as busted as I am” declared Legeer.     “I’ll be the one working the plate. I need somebody to ump the bases. You want the job? I’ll even throw in a forty ounce Bud and gyros after the game” Dee’s offer was too good for the desperate, deflated Legeer to refuse.     “Why not ?” asked Legeer.      Dee reached into the cash register. He grabbed two tens and a five. He slipped the three bills over the counter. The old friends shook hands. They both grabbed gherkins.

    Six hundred thirty minutes later, as Dingfeldt was bringing Frog into the game, Mr. Jordan wasn’t exactly whistlin’ Dixie while waiting for the bus. Jordan had ideas of his own, equal and opposite.    Jordan was no longer concerned with victory, he had that in the bag. Jordan was concerned with style, a notion that appeals to most men only after victory and justification have been insured.. Jordan knew he had the game wrapped up if he wanted to go the paper tiger forfeit route. He also knew that if he told the rest of the batters (like he had instructed the three already on base) to “take all the way” and never move the bat from their shoulders, the inevitable parade of free passes in the dark would spell passive-aggressive victory. Passive victory was not the style of the Braves. The Braves were not paper tigers. The Braves were a championship team who won the old fashioned way. They ran. They threw. They fielded their positions. They hit. They hit with power. They executed the fundamentals. They sacrificed. They played as a team. They took advantage of opportunities.     They had great mitts.     They swung their bats.     In Jordan’s mind, Little League was, above and beyond anything else, an opportunity for a series of life lessons. If the Braves were going to win and they were going to win, it was important that they won in a fashion that would stay with the young boys for the rest of their lives and help them to become better men.     Nobility so often hinges upon guaranteed triumph.     Jordan went to every baserunner, all three of them. “On the first pitch that Frog throws, I want you to take off to the next base  You got that? As soon as he goes into his windup, you run like hell”     The runner at first, Glenn French asked “What if he throws over to first base Coach. I don’ want to get picked off”     “Throw to first, Glenn? He can barely see first base and the first basemen can barely see him. Do what you’re told. Run your ass off” With the hit and run in place, Jordan coached Chico.     “Chico, You’re gonna swing at the first pitch. It’s gonna be over the plate somewhere. It’s not gonna get any lighter. If we’re gonna swing, we gotta swing now. We’re gonna swing. You’re gonna swing. You’re gonna tie up this ballgame with a grand salami. You got me, son? First pitch. Take a rip. You’re the best hitter in this league. We gotta shine the light where the money is”     “Gotcha, Coach” said Chico as he stepped to the plate.     Frog toed the rubber.     Chico dug in and tapped his bat on the outside corner.     Nick got in his crouch behind the plate.He didn’t bother to send a signal to the mound. The signal would have been invisible anyway. Everybody knew what was coming. The Swampball.     With the bases loaded, Frog went into his full wind up as there was no need to use the stretch. As he reached back and down to load some nasty swamp shit on his swamp ball, all the runners took off.     Five minutes earlier, when Dingfeldt was leaving the mound after replacing Nick with Frog and Skip with Nick, Otto realized he still had a dog in the forfeiture fight and his dog might have some bite if it came to red tape. Since Nick had walked the first three men that he faced in the sixth inning, which means he didn’t get anybody out, he would only be credited with pitching five innings according to the official scoring rules of baseball. Furthermore, the runners on base had all walked and according to the scoring rules of baseball a walk does not count as an offical at bat. In other words the current situation was based on the statistical abnormality of the bases being loaded with three hitters none of whom had officially been at bat who got on base because of the free passes issued to them by a pitcher who had not statistically pitched in the inning.     Nick couldn’t lose the game. If the Pirates won, Nick would get the win not because of his pitching in the sixth,  he officially had not appeared in that inning, but rather because he had pitched the fifth and was the pitcher of record when the Pirates went ahead in their half of the inning. If the Pirates lost the game, the loss would be charged to Frog because the three runners on the base would be charged to Nick if they scored. Chico was the tying run and he was Frog’s responsibility.     Otto had found his justification. If Jordan wanted to argue this one out, Dingfeldt thought to himself, let’s have at it.  In some ways, the statstop, the weird little Glove, had got through to the Coach. As he returned to the bench, Dingfeldt fired an appreciative vibe down the bench to Glove, who immersed in loyalty abandonment, contemplation of courage and the difference between resignation and faith, missed the vibe entirely.     Glove was occupied in hoping that Chico would come through for the Braves like he always did. Glove had played a whole season for the Pirates and hadn’t made a single friend. The only time that he might have contributed to the team, he was ignored by the Coach who Arthur knew that he would blame for the loss.    Arthur had never prayed before, never learned how, but this was getting close. He was trying to make a bargain with somebody or something somewhere. If the Braves won, he would never again play on a team that didn’t respect him or love anyone that didn’t love him or back down from a boss who was cheating.     Dingfeldt looked out at the field as Frog delivered the first pitch to Chico. As the pitch left Frog’s hand, Dingfedlt yelled  "Courage" to his Pirates who couldn’t see him but could damn well hear him.     Nick held out a target that he knew Frog couldn’t see.     Bobby at shortstop heard someone yell “Courage”.     Aristotle Legeer, the umpire, stood motionless in shallow left field five steps behind Bobby.     The runners; Coin Gedman at third, Tony Joy at second and Glenn French at first were all off and running with the invisible pitch. Chico swung. He could feel by the sensation in his hands at contact that if he hadn’t got all of the pitch, he sure got a big chunk of it. He knew what a four bagger felt like. He’d been there before but never in the dark, never in the last inning of the championship game with the bases loaded with Braves. Never on the threshold of neighborhood legend. When the shortstop sensed Joy breaking towards third, Bobby instinctively broke towards second. That’s when he heard the sound of aluminum smashing into cowhide. Then he felt a stinging in his left hand. The ball had found Art. The ball was in Art. All Bobby had to do was hold on to the ball and the moment and the legend.     Legeer saw the line drive disappear into the shortstop’s glove. Legeer saw that the kid held on to the ball.     One out. As Bobby pocketed the rocket, Tony Joy going from second to third was passing right in front of him. Bobby touched Tony with Art. The touch was so light and so fast that Tony kept right on running, right past Jordan who was coaching third and screaming for Tony to keep on running for home.     Legeer saw the touch. Two outs. Double play.     French going from first to second had no idea where the ball was so he did the prudent thing. He slid into second base. Glenn’s slide was a thing of beauty although it was beheld only by Legeer and Bobby. Bobby slapped Art on the shoulder of French. Legeer saw the slap. Three outs. Triple play. Unassisted. Game over. Championship for the Pirates.     There was no doubt in Ari’s mind. He had clearly seen the whole play. Dee got to Ari before Jordan did. Ari explained his ruling to Dee. Dee said that from his place behind the plate he hadn’t seen anything other than hearing Chico hit the pitch.     Ari assured Dee that he had seen it all.     The game was over, regardless of what Jordan might say, think or do..     Dee yelled out “Thank God for Aristotle”     Bobby was the second person within fifteen feet to realize that an unassisted triple play had ended the game.     Bobby was the first person to realize that aside from tagging the two runners, he had very little to do with the play. Chico’s line smash had simply gone into his glove. Bobby never saw the drive. He barely felt it when the shot smacked into his pocket just below the webbing. Even before the rest of the team knew what had happened, Bobby was already jumping up and down and yelling  "Art, Art, Art.“     The leaping and the crying of ” ART ART ART" had worked its way through the infield half of the Pirates by the time Dee made it official by yelling “Triple Play, Game Over” and started heading for his car next to the power plant. At this point, the whole team started running around the infield screaming ARTARTARTARTARTART.     In the midst of this sudden outbreak of Art. Mr Jordan got in the face of Ari Legeer. Legeer told Jordan exactly what he had seen. On the bench, Glove, formerly Art had received the news that the game was over. He didn’t know how to record the play in his scorebook whether it was 6 which means the ball was hit to the shortstop and he caught it or whether it was 6 6 6 which meant the ball was hit to the shop and he caught it and he tagged two runners.     While wrestling with this administrivia, Art realized that the Pirates the team that from which  he had abandoned loyalty only a few minutes earlier were all chanting his name.     Except they weren’t.     They were chanting the name of his glove.     He wrote a six into the scorebook.     And then Bobby understood that they wouldn’t be chanting ARTARTART and they wouldn’t be champions and he himself wouldn’t be on the threshold between legend and myth if the statstop hadn’t lent him the glove in the first place.     As the whole team reached the bench, Bobby started yelling GLOVE GLOVE GLOVE GLOVE. The rest of the guys followed suit…even Dingfeldt. They hoisted the statstop on their shoulders and began carrying him around the infield screaming GLOVE GLOVE GLOVE.    The scorebook fell to the ground.       On their shoulders in the dark, the boy who kept score, the momentary traitor to his own team, felt tears of shame and joy pouring down his face as they took him from base to base. Every time he heard them yell Glove…..he understood that word to mean traitor loser pinerider Nimrod who don’t know a bra from a glove.     The Pirates didn’t know the kid on their shoulders was bawling. They were champs and so was he. They couldn’t have done it without Art and that means they couldn’t have won it without Glove. ARTGLOVEARTGLOVEARTGLOVE Good thing it was dark. A passerby would have seen a bunch of boys yelling about art and love in the dark with one small boy on their shoulders. That passerby would have misunderstood. Especially if the passerby was Glove’s father.

WOW INDEED

    Thirty years later.

    Aaron was our rightfielder. Aaron was a dead ringer for Daniel Day Lewis in the Last of the Mohicans. Tall, lanky, long dark hair, all around attractive hippie, carpenter type guy but not much of a baseball player. Plus on this day, he was on acid.

    Aaron had a magnificent German shepherd dog, named Jeremiah who went out to rightfield with Aaron when our team took the field. As you might imagine, this league was pretty damned low key with far more ale than anxiety.

Somewhere in the middle innings, the word got around that Aaron was tripping on acid. This information added to the appreciation of the game that Aaron was playing in the outfield. Let’s face it, most of the time in baseball is spent just standing around and nobody spends more time standing around than a rightfielder in a slow pitch softball game where almost everything is hit to the left side and nobody stands around better than a guy on acid whose got control of his trip and is with his loyal dog in a field of flowers.

    As the inning began, Aaron was sitting on his haunches whispering to Jeremiah, seemingly about the dandelions that were growing around them in rightfield. Nobody was paying too much attention, when a left handed batter, the only lefty on the opposing team, smashed a line shot into right.This is when the change began for everyone. Aaron’s hallucination had become so vivid that it started to spread like wildfire and in the spreading convert itself into observable reality.

    Time slowed down.

    Space altered.

     Aaron physically and visually shared his trip with everyone who was paying attention. He was still on his haunches when the ball was struck. The people in the know started laughing and saying…that’s a home run….Aaron’s on acid.

That’s when everything slipped into slow motion.

    Aaron rose to his feet.

    The ball seemingly over his head.

    He started moving back, back, back….

It didn’t look like running….it looked more like flying or pathfinding or deerslaying. Aaron had big feet to begin with but as he flew back…back…back…his size 11 sandals looked like they had become size eighteen. Jeremiah was nipping at Aaron’s fluttering bell bottoms.

    The ball which had rocketed over his head, seemed to hesitate as Aaron began to glide, covering more ground with each step than humanly possible. Everybody on the bench suddenly realized that we were seeing things through the altered consciousness of Aaron.

    After seven or eight giant steps with the ball still past him, Aaron reached out his now giant sized glove. The ball had seemingly stopped and as the giant glove stretched out a few more inches on is own, the ball gently fell into the seemingly elastic glove.

    Aaron caught the ball and went into a slow motion forward roll with Jeremiah who had been at his heels during the whole pursuit, virtually rolling with him in a six legged, barking blur. In the midst of the barking and the blurring,  Aaron held on to the ball and waved it in the air.

    Everything seemed absolutely right with the planet.

    Time regained its composure as Aaron made his way to our bench.

    When he got to the bench after making the greatest catch in the history of baseball, Aaron said “Wow”.

    Wow indeed

TO SLEEP PERCHANCE TO SNORE

    To begin with, I spend more time thinking about sleeping than I spend time thinking about any other subject. Some people might call that process insomnia.I call it another skirmish in the war between the sexes.

Snoring is the battle line. The only person who doesn’t snore is the person who’s awake. I am that person, awake and listening to my wife snore.The secret is to be the second one to sleep.

    My wife Julia doesn’t think that she snores.

    I didn’t think that I snored until my wife mentioned it to me.

    Over time, the mentions grew more frequent and less gentle. Eventually, the mentions turned into motions and the motions turned into pokes and jabs.

Ya know what really sucks? Being fast asleep….getting jabbed into wakefulness and upon awakening hearing this:

    “Stop snoring Ovid, God damn it.”

Apparently I start to snore when I’m first falling asleep so when rudely interrupted my defense usually goes like this: “How could I be snoring, I wasn’t even asleep” Even as I’m saying this, I’m coming to the realization that I must have been asleep because the poke woke me up.

    “Well, you must have been asleep because you’re snoring your ass off. Stop the goddamned snoring!.”

    “Hey, I know the difference between being awake and being asleep. If I were asleep now, this would be a nightmare but because I’m awake, it’s just a pain in the ass.”

     “Yeah, well the next time you snore and wake me up, you’re going out to the couch.” For some reason, the reward of sleeping comfortably on the couch seems like some kind of punishment that must be resisted. So I try to fall back asleep and realize that I can’t sleep. Furthermore, I must really be not sleeping because nobody is telling me to stop snoring.

    Meanwhile, in this embryonic, insomniatic state…..Julia falls asleep and starts to snore. Her snoring is a good sign because that means she’s actually asleep and it is now safe for me to go to sleep and not have to worry about snoring.

    So I go through my usual thinking about sleeping and trying to figure out how to bring it on.  Most of those methods are unclear to me now because instead of trying to fall asleep, I’m currently trying to stay awake but here are a couple of techniques that I think I use. 1) I recite and re-recite the Presidents of the United States in chronological order and then in reverse order. Madison always surprises me with how quickly he shows up chronologically and Rutherford B. Hayes surprises me with how clearly he arrives at all.2) I try to think of people who I know who couldn’t possibly have been thinking of me during this day. Then I think of the people that I always think of and try to estimate how many times I thought about them during the day. I’ve been told that we have 8 or 80 or 800 billion brain cells. I can’t remember what the figure is (8 billion or 800 billion…what’s the diff?) That’s plenty of room to think about people.

    I’m talking about brain cells popping off in nano seconds. I would guess that I think of my daughter Mary about 20,000 times a day, my distant daughter Amanda about 5000. All the way down to the guy who was sitting on the sidewalk in Charlotte a couple of days ago….playing his guitar real good for free. I thought of him maybe 5 times today and pretty soon he will be in the memory cemetery only to be exhumed for a thousandth of a second some night when I’m unable to sleep and am absolutely sure that he has not thought of me which, I’m pretty sure is and always will be the case.

     If I’m still awake, I start thinking about stories that I might write. This very story is a story I was thinking about writing last night shortly after I finished thinking about a guy who punched me in the mouth fifty years ago.

By this time, it’s usually about four in the morning. I’ve changed my position in bed at least five times and I’m starting to forget about the pain in my shoulder and then I start to catch a dream and run with it and lose it and re-catch it until I reluctantly wake up in an empty bed. Julia always gets up, a couple hours before me almost exactly at the moment that I start to get control of whatever dream I’m enjoying at the moment.

    Usually, I “sleep” for maybe four hours a night.

    I come to the kitchen as the daily routine begins and ask Julia how she slept last night.

    She says “Fine. How bout you. You didn’t snore.”

A BIG DEAL OUT OF NOTHING

    Many years ago, in a far less enlightened time, I was nearing the end of my incarnation as a single Iron John kinda guy. I attended a lecture by Thornton Krell addressing itself to the status of masculinity under the emerging onslaught/influence of feminism.

    Krell addressed the feminist perception of masculinity as “immaturity” and predicted an increase in the use of that characterization as feminism continued to take root. Men, in response, should be prepared to hear the descriptor “immature” regularly attached to their behavior, at least as interpreted through the eyes of the female interpreter.

    The masculine reaction to this accusation, according to the speaker, is to confront it with the articulation, dignity and courageous immediacy used in response to any racist, sexist comment.

    Krell provided this dialogue as an example.

    She:  Sometimes I feel as if I’m raising another child around here.

    He:  Excuse me!?

    She: You heard me. I said that I’m tired of your immaturity.

    He:  Are you calling me immature?

    She: Yes I am.

     He: Aha. Well I recognize and reject your faulty characterization as an attempt to exercise sexist, feminine intimidation. (disengage from conversation and walk away).

    “Damn”, I thought, “Krell nailed it.”

    Forewarned, I looked ahead to the next time that a woman dropped the “I” word on me.  I didn’t have to wait long.I was making a big deal out of nothing one day when a female colleague observed:

    “You guys, always making a big deal out of nothing. It’s so immature.”

     BAM. I was ready. The Venus flytrap was prepared for the fly.

I followed the Krell script word for word, tude for tude until (walk away)

Before I could get one small step for a man away from the return fire, she dismissed me with these two little withering words……

    “Grow up.”

    Then SHE turned her pretty head and walked away.

    Apparently, the theory of male immaturity as a sexist prefabrication was in itself, an “immature” theory probably peddled by some lecturer somewhere trying to make a big deal out of nothing. As a result of subsequent, enlightening conversations with several female experts on male behavior, I have decided to articulate further and more closely scrutinize the behavior of married men of which I am now one.

    Unmarried men, that is men living outside the realm of legalized marital microscopy, are obviously immature to begin with so it becomes a question of superfluosity to concern ourselves with sexist prefabrication on their behalf.

Married men, according to a recently convened blue ribbon panel of married women, are not immature when compared to single men. Married men according to the panel can be best characterized as either annoying or aggravating.

    What is the difference between immature, annoying and aggravating other than the presence of a wedding band and a recital of vows? According to our panel, at least the married men were mature enough to make a decision but having made that decision they almost immediately descended into a perpetual state of “annoying” and upon too frequent occasion, push the edge of the envelope of annoyance into “aggravation”. In mathematical terms, annoyance is a constant, aggravation a variable. Aggravation is a more active, more masculine version of annoyance.

    Let me illustrate.

    A husband returns home from work, kisses his wife and lies down on the couch. He turns on the teevee and relaxes after another soul draining day of back breaking number crunching amidst soul crushing office politics. The hunter is home. The gatherer has gathered.

    The wife is too familiar with her husband’s inner visual so EVERYTHING about the example above is annoying except for the kiss and sometimes even the kiss if delivered too perfunctorily is also annoying.

    Now, if the woman comes into the living room with her husband and the husband is checking the scores on his fantasy team or doing a crossword puzzle or drinking a beer or watching some sport shit on teevee, well any of those activities move the husband into the arena of “aggravation”. Notice, that in each of these areas, the man is actually DOING something….gambling, crosswording, drinking, remote controlling. The fantasy teams, the puzzle, the beer, the remote are all variables that add up to ANNOYING.

This is in the first minute of coming home to the castle.

    Many wives at this juncture, always vigilant and reluctant to enable escapism/isolation, will take the opportunity to articulately point out the variables of aggravation currently on exhibit in the husband’s behavior. This articulation, depending upon the variable, can and does often result in the “broken record” which transmogrifies into an escalation into an examination of past trespasses, usually including the old reliable “It’s all about you, isn’t it?”

    The mate can respond defensively, which is aggravating and a guarantee of escalation or passivity which is annoying which keeps the broken record groovin’. Men being the gentlemen that we, er they are, will generally opt for annoying over aggravating so we, er they, will put our heads down on the couch and zone out in the annoying dormant stage recognized by women as a “pout.”

    When men are in the dormant stage, pouting on the couch, we are in our own way extending an olive branch to our mates. We are saying, in effect. “I know that you find me annoying honey but I love you so much and need you so desperately that I don’t want to aggravate you, so I’ll just lie here in the mud with a bird on my head while you go about your, purposeful, productive, perky, pretty little life.”     Please forget the three four 'p’ words in the last alliteration if you’re a woman reading this foolishness because I imagine you will find them aggravating in a typical mansplaining, patronizing, sexist way way so, sorry..sorry, really sorry. Whoops, I forgot, you’re annoyed by apologies. Well whaddya want me to say? Why don’t you write it out and I’ll say it for God sake. Whoops, I’m getting aggravating again.     At this point men usually leap into action.     “Uh, honey, I’m going into the garage and put some water in the radiator or one of the tasks that have been sanctioned as legitimate but if repeated too often become annoying and if performed with the slightest bit of attitude may become aggravating enough for an escalation.     I hope in this rant, I have more articulately descibed the conundrum of masculinity as percieved through the intuitive, sensitive, down to earth, intelligent, lovely even without makeup feminine point of view.     What’s that?     Too many adjectives at the end?     Stop dicking around on the computer?     Okay, Okay     Sorry     etc.

FULL OF POISON

    I’m about as full of poison as I’m going to get. I’m twenty five blasts in with three to go. Lethargic guilt is such a pitiful condition. I’m reminded of a conversation I had with a friend of mine a few months before I got diagnosed.

My lifelong pal John Crown had been clobbered by heart attack, heart surgery, cancer, colostomy and blinding cataracts.

    On his most recent trip to the hospital, Dr. Somebody asked Crown if he was depressed. Crown knew that the doctor was very aware of how many health concerns he had on his plate.

    "Of course I’m depressed, Doctor. Wouldn’t you be if you were I?”

    The doctor shrugged as if to say “uhyayuh”

    The doctor asked Crown if he wanted something for the depression.

    Crown said “No thank you. My depression is the only thing I give a shit about”

    That’s how I was feeling all day today. The only thing that interested me was my lack of interest and the guilt that came with not giving a shit which is even more interesting and paralyzing than the lethargy itself. At the radiation center, they warned me that 95% of the people having the treatment that I’m having experience fatigue.

    I wondered if they had a reason for that amazing percentage. They said it’s our bodies reaction to the poison that is introduced into our systems with poison being another word for radiation.

    I had been operating under a false impression. I thought that every day when I get zapped by the rays I was equating the rays with a ray gun which fired at my cancerous cells for about five minutes. Then after the volley, the smoke cleared.

    Not really

    Radiation is more like pouring poison in to a container until the container is full and then letting the poison invade the environment in which the deadly cells are trying to multiply.The battle goes on for more than a volley of five minutes. The battle is continuous 24/7

    In other words, every day my container gets filled with more poison. It’s gonna linger in the neighborhood for a month and when it starts to dissipate, we’ll look at the environment again and see what damage has been done to the invading cells.

    So that’s why I’m worn out and going to the bathroom 3 times an hour.

    And the whole thing is becoming routine.

    Routine tends to normalize even the most extraordinary circumstances.

    It’s comforting to know that all of this is normal and there’s no reason to feel guilty. A reduction in guilt takes the edge off the lethargy.

    So I’m gonna feel good about all the time I spend rotting on the couch.

    My body earns it every day.

    Soon I’ll be as full of poison as I’m gonna get and from that point on, I’m gonna get better.

The Carcass of Martha

Andy and his brother Pete heard the word through telegraph, a modern marvel in 1898.

    The final flock of carrier pigeons, 250,000 of them were approaching.Andy, who knew a lot more but said a lot less than younger brother Pete, had already witnessed and assisted in one major devastation. He had already spent an entire September day among the dead, the dying and the mangled; picking up perforated pigeons and heaping them into piles. Andy had watched eagles, hawks and vultures arrive to share in the spoil of pigeon piles. Only a comparative few of those scavengers were shot for their carrion on but the pigeon corpses were everywhere.

    Andy gathered and stashed five lifetime’s worth of pigeon feathers, bones and birdmeat and drove a horse drawn carriage full of dead passengers home to his hogs.     At one time, a single flock of passenger pigeons contained more than 2 billion birds. As the most common bird in America, many flocks and colonies existed. The passenger population appeared not only inexhaustible and invulnerable but also territorially threatening. One flocking colony, known in Wisconsin as Endeavor, spread over 750 square miles.     Endeavor could and did obscure the sun.     People of Wisconsin, future Cheeseheads, were not about to surrender that much tundra neither frozen nor thawed. Andy and Pete were riflemen in the gaggle of hunter/soldier/patriots about to converge on that flocking colony from below.     As the targets approached, Andy could feel a surprising current of air. He heard a sound that reminded him of a tempest at sea. The passengers were overhead. The sky was dark. The brothers and the gang of hunters opened fire, reloaded and opened fire again and again and again and again.     The not clay pigeons dropped from the sky like bleeding, bleating hailstones. Children on the ground, fortified with poles and clubs were waiting. Andy was in such a frenzy that he didn’t hear the cursing and thudding that surrounded him. Andy barely noticed the dozen passengers that fell on or near him while he was pulling and reloading. He didn’t hear the thousands of gun reports coming from each side. Each unheard report bore mute witness to a load of scatter shot that could and did take down as many as ten passengers per blast.     A certain amount of time passed although the exact amount of minutes/hours is unclear. Some have speculated that it took a bit longer than did the massacre at Little Big Horn with each blast the equivalent of ten arrows.     And then the flock passed.     And then there was silence.    Andy, with gun barrel still smoking, turned to Pete and said “that telegraph’s a pretty damn good idea.”    Ten thousand of a quarter million passengers flew away.    Twenty years later only ONE passenger pigeon, a bird named Martha, remained alive.     When Martha finally died, her body was suspended in a tank of water then freeze framed into a three hundred pound block of ice and sent to the Smithsonian Institute. Martha’s carcass.     Martha’s carcass is still around.     Andy and Pete are long gone now but their great, great grandsons hold season tickets on the frozen tundra of Lambeau Field. They wear cheeseheads and feathers as they back the Pack.     Right before the kickoff of the opening game at Lambeau Field, a tremendous roar emerges from the crowd. Dozens of people in the crowd, including all those related to Andy or Pete always turn to each other and remark that the roar sounds like “a thunderstorm of bloody passengers”. Great, great, grandson Andrew didn’t have a clue where that odd expression originated only that it had been in his family for more than a century.

ATTEMPTING TO TAKE A KNEE

   Okay, I got this. It took awhile but I got it.    Last Sunday I left the teevee off while the national anthem was playing. I went into the kitchen and began by locking my arms together in unity with the NFL, myself, Tom Brady and I guess Trump. Normally when I fold my arms, I have my right hand on my left bicep and my left hand under my right bicep. Today in honor of awkwardness and OCD awareness, I reversed that position. Now I knew how the other folks lived.     Next I dropped to one knee, in honor of Kaepernick and everything that he was protesting and in recognition of Tim Tebow and the values that he projected. Then I dropped to two knees in remembrance of my altar boy days in gratitude that I don’t have any of those sexual abuse experiences that I can remember. While on both knees, I said a quick Our Father in honor of the patriarchy that is the NFL. I threw in a Hail Mary just in case the Bills needed one. I bowed my head made a sign of the cross and whispered “offense. defense. special teams, coaching”. I raised my head and said aloud “Go Bills”. Then I went to stand up and realized there was no way that I could get up: an homage to being overweight, out of shape with bad knees, shattered sense of balance, bad hipped Baby Boomer.     I dropped to all fours in honor of dogs everywhere and did a reverse evolutionary crawl as I headed Towards and into the water instead of out of  and away from it. I reached the base of the kitchen sink. I threw one arm up towards the granite countertop. With my arm upraised, I made a fist in honor of black power and then I gave a peace sign in honor of John Lennon. Then I put my other hand up making at one and the same time the gesture for “touchdown” and the “I am powerless sign” in recognition of everybody suffering from an addiction.     I grasped the counter top and pulled myself up in tribute to the concept that “we will rise” as well as the Horatio Alger vision of “pluck not luck”. I stood on my own two feet in homage to the Revolutionary War.     I tapped a glass of water from the kitchen sink and poured it over my head as a form of baptism as well as a reminder of whatever we were pouring water over our heads for a few years past.     I dried my hair in reminiscence of the “wethead is dead” commercials that were prevalent during NFL telecasts before erectile dysfunction took over. I grabbed an ice cold Coors.I went into the great room/living room/living great room with our vaulted ceiling and open concept. I said a quick “welcome home” to our veterans of foreign war     I hit the remote. I opened the beer from Golden Colorado.

    Thank God the anthem was over.     The game was on.

Prodigious Piles of Penguin Poop

    Is this a change? Yes, yes it is. This IS a change if you don’t believe in recurring cycles.This is the first time I’ve put a title on a essay before writing the essay. In the past I have put hundreds of titles on hundred of “posts” and called them “essays” or “stories” or “opinions” or “obscure art” or “poems”. That recurring cycle is known as “writing”. So the fact that this “essay” is title driven is not so much a change as it is a cyclical recurrence and a tabooo shattering use of alliteration in a title. 

    I am currently interested in another little know cyclical recurrence, namely, that every dozen years or so, way up North and in New Zealand, unexpected piles of penguin poop suddenly appear. The piles are concentrated in a circular area and they have been puzzling poopoligists for a while now since they have not yet been identified as part of a cycle rather than a random series of evacuations. My conjecture is that every dozen years for the past few centuries, what with the global warming and all, penguins have realized that they need to fly because pretty soon the ice will be gone and things will get might awkward or heaven forbid even might become aukward like the extinction of the once great auk.

    So every dozen years, the penguins gather around in a circle and try like hell to start flying. They just stand there and strain their minds to imagine themselves flying and the strain mimics the strain of bowel movement which produces the prodigious piles as the penguins will stand in one spot for a couple of days, straining, imagining, willing, and pooping.To the objective observer, (of which there aren’t any as this effort is always made in secret and in fact will not even be attempted unless complete absolute privacy is assured) it would appear that the penguins are just standing there pooping but my conjecture is that much more is happening. 

    Penguins, through imagination, are attempting to speed up the evolutionary process.  Whenever a non-flying organism is trying to will itself into flight, that organism typically has the appearance of just standing there or just sitting there in a private lotus position; Mike Love for example before Beach Boy concerts in the seventies. Unfortunately for Love, however, his concentration and privacy were regularly interrupted pre-flight by the sudden, cursing, drunken appearance of band mate Dennis Wilson who seemed to take delight in the act of vomiting on the head of Love when Love was at the height of astral concentration. This violation left Love as earthbound as a pooping penguin.

    After about a week or so of straining, the penguins give up and banish the thought of flying from their minds entirely and focus on the hope of being captured and taken to zoos where they are in great demand simply because they are the rare birds that can not fly away and escape. Eventually, penguins must learn to fly or become extinct. Thus is the nature of cycles and the constant need for change.

    It is possible to change without improving but impossible to improve without changing. Like the change in the appearance of this essay what with the title and all. But it’s not just the appearance of the title that marks the change.

    Usually when I write, the title is the last thing that I come up with as it is a way of pretending that I had a controlling concept to begin the piece rather than just a flow of ideas that when completed I need to read to grasp and when read suggests a “concept” which can be fortified by taking a few words from the discovered “concept” and putting those words at the top of the piece and calling those words a “title”.     In this case, the title, an actual controlling thought, came first and everything else has strainlessly evolved from that thought and will lead to the precise, alliterative, feathery ending which will be missed by some readers because they shook their heads and stopped reading a few paragraphs back but not by you the truly intelligent, patient and charming few who have read this far and only have thirty four words to go.

    Thank you for getting this far with this essay or whatever and I hope that these paragraphs have been worth your attention and are not merely prodigious piles of penguin poop.

 LIPSTICK LAND ?!?

    We don't know where we came from. We don't know where we're going to. But in between, we think we know where we are and "we" try like hell to hold on to the mortal interlude, to enjoy it, to understand “it”. Two of the three are impossible. Although sometimes "enjoyable", the incomprehendible interlude, the mortal coil, will always slip away.

    So we have a question mark at the beginning of our lives and a question mark at the end but in the middle we have an exclamation point. Some of us, I suppose have an additional asterisk in the middle...see Roger Maris. Some of us, I suppose have an additional dollar sign in the middle....see the Donald Trump. Some of us have an additional + in the middle.....see Meryl Streep o Wilt Chamberlain but all of us have the ! point in the middle and the question marks that surround the ! Because we don't know where we come from and we don't know where we're going to.

    Some of us know and love the “parents” that we come from but where did they come from etc and where did all those people go..long time passing. Were they ever here? 

    One of the rules of a dream is that within the dream, you can not remember how you got into the “dream”. A dream always occurs "in media res", in the middle of things. Things, in this case being question marks. Middle in this case being exclamation points. Therefore in the middle of the dream of question marks is the dream of exclamation marks.

    A dream within a dream.

    The guy I Invented named Poe was right, almost.

    He forgot about the airquotes. In lipstick land "everything" needs an airquote. " ? ! ? " is a dream within a dream within a dream. " ? ! ? " is everything that you've just read and everything that you will ever read. " ? ! ? " is “Thornton Krell”. And “I” am he as “you” are me and we are all together.

    It' has frequently been argued that there are too many "air quotes" at work in written renditions of "lipstick land".

    "Lipstick land" is, of course, "shorthand" for the "realization" that the box in space created by "our" collective and individual "minds" is nothing more than a mass "hallucination" in which "mass" refers not to many more than one but rather "one" subdivided infinite times.

    The "inhabitants" of lipstick land are those who have come to "embrace" the fragmentary, figmentary, fictitous essence of "their" own "existence" and who in their everlasting "introspection" continually ask themselves "what's wrong with 'me'" only to be answered with the wordless, soundless refrain "What's wrong with you is none of your goddamned business".

    To these inhabitants, "everything" is surrounded by "air quotes" so whenever paragraphs are composed with "words" to describe lipstick land, tremendous "restraint" must be used in order that every single "word" not contain air quotes or rather be "contained" by air quotes.

    This form of "punctuation" is needed to "convey" the essential "authenticity" of lipstick land but since its practice runs against the "norm" of the aforementioned hallucination, the air quote "punctuation" method is minimized almost to the point of non-existence in traditional "everyday" non-lipstick land "writing".

    Every so often in that non-existant realm, a "comedian" will use "air quotes" and usually get a lot of "laughs" because the audience "perceives" a secret glimpse into lipstick land which makes their actual non-existence seem somehow "funny". Of course all of "this" is "superfluous" and could be summed up by the all inclusive expression "?!?" which is as "succinct" and "truthful" a description of all "things"as "possible".

    I and we all are the “artists” formerly and currently known known as ?!?.

TOP DRAWER

    The old wallet died characteristically as a hero.

    Ice had walked the four rows down from his VIP seats at Citi-field in order to snap a shot of Aaron Judge. Taking a great photo is all about figuring out where to stand or in this case kneel. As soon as Ice got into perfect position, not a moment sooner or later, Judge unleashed a ferocious swing. The sound of collision between bat and ball was startling. Ice, startled, snapped. The slight movement caused by the startling sound and the ferocity of the swing would cause a bit of a blur for sure.

    The ball landed 450 feet later in the left field stands.

   Ice dropped the camera to take a look. The stadium roared in awe as fans realized where the shot had landed. Ice recovered in time to get a picture of Judge getting ready to touch home plate. Aaron pointed to the heavens in gratitude as the fans pointed towards left field and released a collective “Holy Shit”.

    Ice retreated from the position that he had held for maybe twelve seconds.As he returned to his seat, he whispered “I got it”. Then automatically he reached for his wallet and realized “I don’t have it” The wallet was missing. In near panic, Ice sorted through the camera equipment that was now in his seat. He had gotten up in a hurry. He looked through the equipment and couldn’t see the wallet.

    He looked behind the seat and there it was....covered in beer. The covering was the result of a fan jumping up and dropping his beer on the wallet. Beer combined with 30 plus years of service had put an end to the wallet as a functioning billfold.

    Ice was relieved to find the damp thing. Everything in it was soaked.

    Ice carried the wounded wallet for the next two days but realized it was time to throw in the towel.

    When he got home. He took everything out of the drowned billfold. He retrieved the replacement from where it had been waiting for thirty years in the top drawer to get into the game. The replacement wallet was a Christmas gift from his mother-in-law.  He left the pictures of Allan Ladd and Virginia Mayo in the new/old wallet. He added his driver’s license, his library card and his Dylan ticket.

    Everything else remained in the old wallet. Ice placed the old wallet in the top drawer underneath a framed picture/poem that his parents had given him mny years ago.

The writing on the picture said;

“To Our First Born

    We’ve always loved you best because you were our first miracle. You were the genesis of our marriage and the fulfillment of young love. You sustained us through the hamburger years, the first apartment (furnished in Early Poverty) and our first mode of transportation (1946 feet) and the seven inch TV set that we paid on for 36 months. You were new, had unused grandparents and enough clothes for triplets. You were the original model for a Mom and Dad who were trying to work the bugs out. You got the strained lamb, the open safety pins and the three hour naps. You were the beginning.”

Underneath the writing was Ice in his white dinner jacket and bow tie smiling for this senior portrait. Next to the senior picture was a smaller picture of the family dog, a mutt named Lassie who could not have looked less like the Lassie on teevee.

Above the mutt

Love Always

Mom and Dad.

This is the stuff that was in Ice's wallet on the wallet’s last day. All of them stories. Some of the stories written others to be written.

Some of this stuff was not gonna make the transfer.

His library card.

a photo id card for radiology treatment

a photo id card from second year year at college

a current New York state drivers license

An AARP id card

a funeral card for his father-in-law

a guest pass for Artisan Works

a ticket stub from Bob Dylan concert at RIT

A funeral card for his mother

A laminated Buffalo Bills schedule from 2015

a laminated country club membership card

A ticket stub for Chuvalo banquet.

​A medicare registration Card

A business card for Tasty Parker

A business card for Mike the Clown

a $2 win ticket on Secretariat from Belmont Park

An amusement park photo machine photo of him and Lynn on their first date.

    The last thing Ice noticed as he shut the drawer was that somehow the ticket for Bob Dylan at RIT had broken loose from the sacred discards.

DYLAN AT RIT

    Dylan failed last night to resolve one of my longest standing differences of opinion with my wife Lynn. Lynn is from the “Dylan is an icon of the sixties who writes great lyrics but who has a lousy voice and arrogant personality” point of view.

    I’m from the “authentic cultural spokesperson whose unique voice and enigmatic personality are as inseparable from his lyrics as the lyrics are inseparable  from the music and the message” point of view.

    I resist “the icon from the sixties” point of view because it turns Dylan’s timeless compositions into nostalgia acts. I agree with the “great lyrics” observation but always feel like Lynn is setting up the polite quid pro quo of devastating criticism with faint praise followed by the real message…“his voice sucks and he’s an a-hole“, which she unfailingly does.

    I had seen Dylan perform live four times ( including the amazing Rolling Thunder Review)before Lynn agreed to go with me to see him about ten years ago at the Finger Lakes Performance Center. That night, Dylan seemed angry at the audience and infuriated with his own songs, so his performance was brusque and furious. Lynn who believes that an entertainers first job is to entertain, (which means as the song goes to smile when they are low )was put off by the moody seemingly indulgent performance which fueled her original biases especially the A-Hole part.

    “He never even talked to the audience. He never connected. Why didn’t he at least tell a joke or something,” Lynn wondered and would continue to wonder until last night.

    I said “the guys not a comedian and he’s not a lets all get together by the campfire and sing cumbaya type of guy. He is what he’s always been which is exactly  what he is at any particular moment and what he was that night was pissed off for whatever reason and that’s good enough for me” and it was until last night.

    Last night we took the tie-breaker with us, our thirteen year old daughter Mary. Point of reference, Mary attended her first concert of her young life a week before, Green Day at the Blue Cross Arena. She loved it. Mary plays guitar herself and blew us all away last week when she brought home the self-portrait in pencil she had been working on in her advanced art class. 

    Dylan played at a much smaller venue, one of my several alma maters, the Rochester Institute of Technology. The choice of venue in itself is interesting. Is Dylan playing to smaller houses because he seeks the intimacy of smaller crowds having exhausted himself on the stadium circuit or does he no longer have the drawing power to book larger spaces ?

    The main reason we got the tickets in the first place was to expose Mary to Dylan as well as to RIT. We tried to get two tickets for just me and the Mare but since we had to buy a group of three minimum, Lynn went along for the ride.

    Whatever, twenty minutes after the scheduled starting time of 8:00 at 8:22 to be precise the sound system crackled to life with a rapid fire minimalist introduction apparently pre-recorded by an invisible emcee featuring garbled clauses like “The poet laureate of rock music and his generation……..thought to be washed up in the eighties……. His last two albums are two of the most critically acclaimed albums of his career thus the history of American recordings….the author of a currently best selling auto -biography…..Bob Dylan and his band”.

    Dylan came out in his black outfit with black Stetson. The members of his band, two guitarists a bass player and a drummer were also dressed in black, two of the four in cowboy hats kinda like Dylan’s. Dylan went to the piano on the left side of the stage and the group broke into “Maggie’s Farm”.

Blistering.

Bitter

Pertinent

    All of the elements of working on “Maggie’s Farm” intact and primal. Lyrics mostly clear and decipherable. Off to a raucous start. Mary applauded. So did Lynn. I felt not only renewed but also partially redeemed.

    Just before Dylan hit the stage, a friend of mine came over and told me that he had researched the set list. There were fourteen songs plus an encore of two. This would be a sixteen round contest. Round one was a winner.

    My favorite fighters were guys like the Sugars Rays Robinson and Leonard, Alexis Arguello, Jerry Quarry, George Chuvalo and of course Muhammad Ali. As these guys got older, I used to count of each off their rounds one by one hoping that somehow they’d win each round but with equal fervor that they would at least survive the round. Then I get into the minutes per round, hoping that somehow they could win ninety five seconds of each round and keeping score in my mind as they neared the magic number of eight which would win them a decision if they didn’t get knocked out. I found myself using the same accounting system with Zimmerman on this night.

    Round two was “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue”. Dylanologists remember this song as the response Dylan used so many years ago when he was booed off the stage at the Newport Folk festival for committing the unforgivable sin of going electric. Since then, it’s always been one of my favorites. An anthem I use to chart my own changes and willingness to leave behind whatever is/was no longer needed.Dylan remained to the side and guitar less as the first words hit the air.

“You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last. But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast“

Unfortunately it sounded more like this

Ulleeenowuneeulas, whatchoo wishookeegrafaaaaaaaa.

    Dylan hunched over the mike, growling, confronting the mike like a gambler keeping his cards close to his vest because he’s got such a bluff goin’ that if anybody sees the pasteboards he’s screwed for the whole ante. I could see Lynn frowning and Mary following suit I could not give Dylan round two even though I wanted to.

   Round three was another of my favorite songs, the haunting and magically melancholic Visions of Johanna whose first line is:

    “Ain’t it just like the night to play tricks when you’re tryin’ to be so quiet?”

    The only word I could make out was night. Through the entire song, the only words I could understand were “Visions of Johanna” and I knew the song well.

    For any of you like Mary and Lynn who don’t know the actual words, let me quote the first verse  as Dylan wrote and published . Read them and weep because last night they disappeared completely into incomprehensibility.

“Ain’t it just like the night to play tricks when you’re tryin’ to be so quiet? We sit here stranded, though we’re all doin’ our best to deny it And Louise holds a handful of rain, temptin’ you to defy it Lights flicker from the opposite loft In this room the heat pipes just cough The country music station plays soft But there’s nothing, really nothing to turn off Just Louise and her lover so entwined And these visions of Johanna that conquer my mind”

    Whoops, I made a mistake. I forgot that between “Baby Blue” and “Johanna”, Dylan sang “Lonesome Day Blues”. The fact that I forgot about it, tells me all I want to know about the effort.

    Next came a song I won’t forget for a long time, no matter how hard I try. “Dignity”, another one of my favorites. If Dignity is clarity than this rendering was particularly undignified. If Dignity is plunging into a compost pile and emerging as if from a Halloween hayride with the ghost of Aunt Helen then the effort had some saving grace. Once again Dylan’s verbal articulation was puddle muddy and he continued to hover by the keyboard still not strapped in to his axe. I got the feeling that he might not be strumming’ at all on this evening. Still when he gave his howling a break and hurled his oxygen into his harp, some of the magic returned. The band, minus one geetar was carrying the weight of this concert as if it  had just pulled into Nazareth which seemed allright with everybody especially the integrationists amongst us who knew deep inside that there could be no segregation of lyrics and voice from music. The music in spite of the singer continued to soar even as the lyrics because of the poet continued to disappear.

    At this point thirteen year old Mary turned to Lynn and commented “everything sounds the same” . Lynn nodded in ‘I told ya so’ acquiescence. The show went on as it must.

    I recognized “Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee” immediately which nudged it/them towards the win column even as it/they lurched and lumbered fitfully amidst the graceful thundering wonder of the musicians.

    I grabbed Mary by the hand and with the approval of Lynn, we headed to the floor for a closer look. One of my weird aptitudes is my ability to wade through a crowd. When Dylan had played with Petty and the Dead at then Rich Stadium before a crowd thirty times this large, I had managed to work my way to the edge of the stage. The secret of getting through a crowd is knowing how to dance with it rather than shove against it. When ya dance the crowd dance, openings appear.

    Of course, I was so much younger than I’m older than that now.

    The closest we could get was about fifteen rows back as this crowd was much less fluid, hardly any dancing or even movement to make advancing through it amenable. A calm brick wall.

    It was from here that we heard and saw Dylan sing three slower numbers in which he had more control of the lyrics as if he actually knew the words and was going to sing them. “Po’ Boy”, “High Water (For Charley Patton)” and “Girl Of The North Country”. I could see Zimmy pretty well but Mary was being blocked by taller folks in front of her. I lifted my little girl up as high as I could for as long as I could so she might get a glimpse of the great man. With the way she’s growing and the way I’m deteriorating physically, maybe that was the last time I’d lift her up like this. Made me kind of sad but kind of proud as well.

    I started to believe that maybe the reason we couldn’t hear Dylan clearly for the first half-dozen songs was the fact that we couldn’t see him. Ya know, that weird reflex that confronts us when we feel the need to shout at a blind man.

    By the time Liddy and I got back to Beatrice , we were already learning the illusion behind that reflexive truth. I’m no longer a thin man but there was definitely something going on here and I didn’t know what it was. I started wondering if Dylan did.

    The last five songs of the show , “Stuck Inside Of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again”, “Ballad Of Hollis Brown”, “Honest With Me”, “Standing In The Doorway” and “Summer Days” proved to be a split decision. Three of the songs I was relatively unfamiliar with so I couldn’t very well be disappointed with them. As a matter of fact one of the songs that I never heard before, Standing In The Doorway, sounded more familiar than most of the songs that I knew by heart based on the rate of decipherable words per lyric.

    One of my favorite songs, “Stuck Inside Of Mobile With The Memphis Blues” Again was even more deconstructed then any of the previous numbers. I even resorted to whispering the chorus lyric into Mary’s ear in the hopes of convincing her that these songs actually had words which meant I kept repeating “Oh Mama can this really be the end” over and over which I think is exactly what Mary was thinking when she was looking at Lynn and wishing she were somewhere else,  wondering when the growling would cease. Of the final songs, “Summer Days” was by far the best. It sounded world class and indicated a rally in progress.

    The band left the stage and I wondered if they would bother with an encore.I also wondered whether there was going to be enough applause to merit a return that could be anything more than hypocritical. Amazingly enough, the crowd didn’t move and began to applaud some even igniting about two dozen of the traditional lighters. Sho nuff, it worked. The band re-appeared.

    The encore consisted of “Like A Rolling Stone” and “All Along The Watchtower.” These two turned out to be the best efforts of the evening. I later found out that the band had been encoring with these numbers through the entirety of the tour. It sounded like they had played them before and everybody knew the words and the music.

    In the past when I’ve heard Dylan howl the anthemic “Like A Rolling Stone” he would stretch out the line “how does it feeeeeeel” and the audience would sing along with him. This time all but the required two e’s were missing as was the audience participation. More stenography. Between the two numbers Dylan, as if sensing the tension between me and Lynn, did the unthinkable. He told a joke. The joke went like this, as he introduced one of the band members Dylan said . “He comes from Louisiana so he stretches rattlesnakes across the front of his car. Calls ‘em windhsield vipers”

    He introduced another band member by saying the guy was “so tough he shaves with a chain saw”. Then a magnificent version of “All Along the Watchtower” prologued by what sounded like an electirc version of Exodus turned everything over, under and upside down. Like all champs Zimmy came through in the end.

    A little before the encore, I realized that I had been listening to the music through the ears of Mary and watching the performance through the eyes of Lynn. During Watchtower I watched and listened for myself and what I saw and heard was exactly what I wanted to see and hear other than the fact that Dylan never touched a guitar.

    The concert reminded me of the Ali-Bonavena fight in which Ali looked listless and distracted throughout the fight until he finished off his clumsy, lumbering foe with a sudden knockout in the final round which removed from the judges the task of ruling in favor of the clearly inferior fighter.

    That’s the task that the last song removed frrom my critique. I didn’t have to rip Dylan any further. The final song of the encore gave me everything I could have wanted.

    On the way back to the car Mary said, “I expected more” which pretty much sums up most people’s feeling about Dylan even as we forget how much we already have.

    Lynn said to Mary “ I want you to keep this ticket stub because someday, you’ll be telling someone that you saw Dylan and they’re going to want proof”. From Beatrice, that’s high praise. I guess the joke worked and there are many here among us along the watch tower who think that life itself is but a joke.

    As for me, well it had been ten years since the last time I was in the same room with Dylan. Ten years from now he’ll be 73. I’ll go again but I won’t expect to get real close to the stage even though the crowd will be less than half a thousand. I suspect Mary will be amongst them. She might even be holding me up next time. Lynn and I will still be arguing.

    Some times I’m a tick or two slow on the uptake. Sometimes I forget where  I am and with whom I’m with wherever I am.

    We in Rochester are fortunate to have the National Technical Institute for the Deaf as part of our Rochester Institute of Technology. RIT is where Bob Dylan played in the concert that I have just reviewed. When Dylan was leaving after completing his first fourteen songs, he paused in the middle of the stage raised his hands to chest level , palms out, fingers extended as if he were signaling “ten” while simultaneously wiping an invisible windshield using both hands.

    From my distant seat, the gesture looked oddly quaint.

    From where I sit now, I begin to understand. Dylan was using the universally accepted gesture of silent applause used by deaf folks, waving ten fingers. I bet the people in front of Dylan, part of the under whelming audible applause, were returning his gesture. The crowd on the floor nearest the stage and the performer were silently validating one another. A conversation was happening. Thus the non-hypocritical encore that followed.

    Because we have so many deaf folks in Rochester, particularly in Henrietta; the community where RIT is located, I have become accustomed to interpreters speaking sign language at most large gatherings. At the time, I didn’t think it was unusual that to the left of Dylan, off stage, a woman was interpreting the concert. As I’ve mentioned in this review, up until the moment that Dylan silently applauded, he positioned himself to the far left of the stage. In fact, Dylan was as close to the interpreter on his left as he was to the lead guitar player on his right. If you count the interpreter as a member of the band, then there was Zimmy right smack dab in the middle of things. I make a practice whenever an interpreter is present to observe the sign language she is providing. I’m amazed at how quickly they can take complex ideas and instantaneously turn those into a lovely, commanding body language just beyond the reach of my intellect.

    Now before me, I was watching a woman trying to signal lyrics like “You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last. But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast“ which as I mentioned in my review sounded more like this“Ulleeenowuneeulas, whatchoo wishookeegrafaaaaaaaa“.

    Ulleeenowuneeulas, whatchoo wishookeegrafaaaaaaaa“.

    Imagine the problem of trying to turn THAT into sign and body language.

    But by God, she was doing it. Maybe she had the written lyrics in front of her or maybe she was doing the best with what she thought she heard or maybe because she was so much closer to Zimmy she actually heard what none of the rest of the audience sitting in the seats could hear. Her interpretation sort of resembled a hula set to rock music. It was thing of beauty to observe, very sensual, very seductive.

    I’ve heard it said that hula is all about the stories being told by the hands of the dancer and that some times the stories are so risqué that at the end of the dance, the dancer has to go and wash her hands out with soap. None of Dylan’s lyrics needed that kind of sanitization unless she was hearing something different than I was which she most assuredly was.

    Later, Lynn commented  that this was the first and only time that she ever wished that she were deaf and understood sign language. “I would have been spared Dylan’s ghastly croaking and would have been able to understand the words.”

Ouch.

    I ,of course took it one step further in defense of Dylan. Is it possible that Dylan was actually singing in deaf speak. If you’ve ever listened to a deaf person speak, it has it’s own unique sound and actually doesn’t sound a whole lot different from

   “Ulleeenowuneeulas, whatchoo wishookeegrafaaaaaaaa“.

   Could Dylan possibly be this aware and sensitive?Something had in fact happened there and until now I didn’t know what, had Dylan known all along?

    Why not. He’s Dylan, I’m Rivers. There’s a difference. Big difference.

   I ran these ideas past Lynn who assured me that I was getting a little carried away.From Lynn, that’s high praise.

    Lynn had one further idea. Rochester is the home of Mitch Miller, the originator of the famous sing along with Mitch concept of fifties teevee. Mitch and his crew would sing a song and invite viewers to sing along by following a bouncing ball that danced over lyrics to the song which appeared at the bottom of the teevee screen. When Dylan performed at RIT he played in front of a backdrop upon which were projected different images during the show. Beatrice suggested that next time, the words of his lyrics should be projected on the screen with the bouncing ball so that everyone, not just the deaf could understand the words and sing along.

    I think she’s got something. I can see it now. Network teevee. Right After Desperate Housewives. Sing along with Bob Dylan. Might catch on.

You read it here first.

I took the advice that Lynn had given Mary. I put the ticket stub in my wallet and carried it to the end.

Water Brigade Parade

    When we re-learn how to sleep, the difference between night and day becomes negligible as the water brigade parade activates.

    Here's how it works.

    I'm peeing about every seventy minutes 24/7. That's an improvement from once every fifty minutes a couple of days ago, once every fifteen minutes two weeks ago. I've passed so much water, it's as if I've walked half way around Lake Ontario which means there's still a lot of water to pass.

    Five minutes after every water pass, the urgency to pass, diminishes. Herein lies my opportunity to sleep. I've got to catch the winks when I can and I'm getting better at it. I hit a snooze button which I have just invented.  Sometimes I drop off within 10 mintes. About one in three drop offs will result in a dream. I like that because I know I must be sleeping if I'm dreaming. Then after about a half hour I am urgently awake. I rest in the bed for 10-12 minutes and then I steal myself another mirror.

    Repeat ad absurdium All day and all of the night with two breaks in between.

    First break in the "morning" when I have my toast and my Ensure.  I usually think about writing at this time but decide against it and go back to bed.

    Repeat brigade all "afternoon" until "national news time". I get up. Fix something to eat. Find out what kind of outrage Trump is manifesting. Turn on a Yankee game. Sit in my chair. Watch the game. Stay awake. Think about writing. Pass water. Sit back down. Watch. Think. Pass.

    The game ends about "midnight".

    Head back into the eternal bedroom. Back to the same book. Urgency. Walk around Ontario. Back to the book. Pass out Sometimes talk to "someone" about "something" in my sleep. Wake up at the sound of my own voice.Realize I'm talking, pretty sure I was sleep talking because there's nobody else in the room. Once, I remember asking a phantom DeNiro " why do you make so many shitty movies?" Of course there was no response.And the beat goes on.The re-learning continues. The battle is joined. I think we're winning. I'm getting my eight hours of sleep. sixteen half hours at a time. Good for us Repeat etc.

    Fatigue is the enemy of both urgency and connectivity.

    Urgency and connectivity are essential elements of writing. We have an idea, we've got to capture it and we've got to capture it NOW. We know how ideas appear and disappear like butterflies. They are eager to flutter by and demand immediate attention. Attention requires energy. Energy is gored by fatigue just as fatigue is bored by energy. The idea flutters away and fatigue assures us that it will be back someday..just not today. Don' worry bout it. It's cool. Lie down. Who cares? You think you got people out there who care if you captured that idea or not. They don't. They wouldn't appreciate it even if you had caught it and attempted to connect with it. Definitely would misunderstand it, if you captured it correctly.

    You wanna know what you need to connect with? You need to connect with your dreams. Just rest. Go to sleep. So what if you don't remember your dreams. Your dreams are just another set of butterflies that are not meant to be captured and lepodoptorized. Don't tell anybody about your dreams except maybe your shrink who has made a living listening to non-sense and reflecting it back to no-one except you. There is no  one except you so if you can connect with yourself that's pretty goddamned good and what you should be spending all your time doing and you've got plenty of time when you're sleeping. No need to rush until you've got to get up and pee.

    That urge to urinate is the only urgency you need to worry about. It is the only alarm clock. And if you are lucky and quick enough to connect that urge with consciousness  and the nearest water closet, then you've realized all the urgency and connectivity that you'll need for this afternoon.

    Mission accomplished.

    Time for a nap.

Krell Loses His Wallet

    Last month, my granddaughter Eva saw a woman right after the lady had been struck by a hit and run driver while  jogging on Washington Street in Duxbury. Soon, other people began to crowd around this traumatizing sight.

   The woman had been killed, her crumpled body on full display.

    Soon it was discovered that the woman didn’t have her wallet with her when she started her fatal run so for several hours after the body had been removed, nobody had any idea who the victim was. She had no identity. A broken Jane Doe carted off in an ambulance.

   This brings me to one of my greatest, secret fears; losing my wallet.

   I am so afraid of losing my wallet that I never carry more than 20 bucks in my wallet at one time. I don’t carry an ATM card or any credit cards because I’m scared to death of losing them. Whatever beer money I have, I carry in my pocket.

    So, two nights ago, I lost my wallet.

     I was staying with the Peets, Ovid and Julia. Everything was going perfectly. We were on our way to Birkdale Village for some music and ice cream. I got out of the shower and reached in my dresser to grab my wallet, fully expecting it to be there, it wasn’t there.

    Next began the too familiar, furious search around their  house to find my wallet. We had been all around Huntersville that day. We ate at a Lake Norman restaurant. We walked through the campus of Davidson University. We had a beer at our local Bistro, a place named Harvey’s. I changed my clothes at least three times always feeling good about my wallet.

    We checked all of those places too no avail. “Did anyone turn in a wallet today to lost and found.” At the pool someone had in fact found a wallet and it was in lost and found. The lifeguard took me to it. It wasn’t mine.

    Mine was still gone.

    My great fear had come true. I was in a state of panic. Everyone was concerned, not so much about the wallet…which had nothing in it….but rather my propensity to brood and throw a black cloud over the rest of the visit.

    I sat in the guest bedroom hyperventilating, two clicks away from a full fledged panic attack. I took many deep breaths and made up my mind that the lost wallet wasn’t going to ruin the rest of the evening. To my amazement, I found that metaphysiction compartment and we proceeded to Birkdale. The compartment was my usual escape, comparing singers and bands. Elvis or Sinatra etc

    We arrived in the village. We listened to some music and had some ice cream. While we were people watching in the village, it occurred to me that every single person that we saw had THEIR wallet. I was the only man without a wallet.

   I had no identity.  I was nobody. You know who else doesn’t have a wallet.        Broken joggers

    Victims of serial killers

    Kids under the age of 12.

    Those whose pockets have been picked.

    Jane and John Doe

    A bad crowd to be in for a “responsible” man.The overwhelming humiliation of irresponsibility was calling and all I had to do was pick up the phone to ruin the night. I didn’t pick up but the phone kept ringing.

    Moody Blues or Pink Floyd.

    Jim or Van Morrison

    Johnny or Edgar Winters      

     If somehow a cop or a store owner asked me if I had my “license”, I would have to say that I didn’t. If they asked me why, I’d have to say that I had lost my wallet. We are so connected to our wallets that when we don’t have them we begin to question our entire existence ,at least that’s what the ringing phone was calling me to do.

    Somehow the conversation drifted over to a discussion of the Sopranos. I got a visual of Tony and asked myself “in this visual” does Tony have a wallet. Of course Tony has his wallet. He’s Tony Soprano. He ALWAYS has his wallet. What kid of MAN, doesn’t have his wallet.     

    RING, RING, RING went my unanswered inner phone.     We got through the night.     I congratulated myself, whoever I was, which I wouldn’t be able to prove if anybody asked me, on my composure based on the way that I was handling an overwhelming secret fear. My secret fear is that I am an irresponsible, immature, unfocused airhead, literally a loser.     We all have our secrets.     Now you know mine.     Without my wallet, I’m not Thornton Krell.     I’m John Doe     I don’t exist.

John Doe Walking

John Lennon/Paul McCartney 

James Brown/Bob Marley

Tom Petty/George Harrison

Heart/Pretenders

The Band/Led Zep

Roy Buchanan/Stevie Ray

Eagles/Credence

John Coltraine/Miles Davis

Rascals/Lovin’Spoonful

    It was the fourth of July and it was so hot that the lizards were not only crawling on front porches but they were turning colors as they scampered.

    Thornton Krell was in another new town preparing for another mini-brewery performance. As he walked up the hill on Serenity Street, he passed by a house displaying the stars and stripes. He said “Happy Holiday” to the scowling woman standing beneath the flag.

    The woman responded by asking “where do you live”. 

    Her background music sounded like the music playing when someone is so suspicious that they are ready to call the cops. Background music that suggested a fear of strangers. Background music that hinted “what’s a person like You doing on a street like THIS walking in the sun on such a fucking hot day in MY neighborhood.     Krell answered, “I’m from Centerville. It’s a real nice place.” and he continued his stroll.     Zappa/Beefhart     Harrison/Petty     Krell was a walker. He had become a walker during his time in Viet Nam. He kept the habit upon returning home. If his destination was in walking distance, he left his car and bike behind. Walking distance was ten miles….five miles out and five miles back. As he walked, Krell was in the habit of mentally comparing two random musical groups. If he had tickets for both and they were playing at the same time which one would he choose to see?     Animals/Byrds     Paul Revere and Raiders/Jay and the Americans     Jerry Lee Lewis/Fats Domino     Little Richard/Chuck Berry     Krell walked a lot even before Nam. He was one of those kids who didn’t take the bus and did walked a mile and a half to school every day as well as a mile and a half back from school. Exactly halfway through his walk there was a four way stop, patrolled by Mrs. Johnson who said hello and goodbye to Krell at least four times a day.     Johnny Rivers/Rick Nelson     James Gang/New Riders     Jefferson Airplane/Buffalo Springfield     Kinks/Hollies     At the stop was a corner grocery store owned by a guy named Red Burns who had run the store when Krell’s father was a kid. Everybody who stopped at the store called him “Red” or “Burnsie”. Krell was too polite for such casual language with an elder. Krell always called him Mr. Burns. Red appreciated that pleasantry and usually gave Krell an extra piece of bubble gum for being a “good kid”.     Cars/Doors     King Crimson/Yes

   Streissand/ Fitzgerald 

    Grace Slick/St. Vincent

    U2/Metallica     Blood Sweat and Tears/Chicago     Krell learned that good manners have rewards. Also outside of Burnsie’s, Krell would run into Wilson. Wilson was beloved in the neighborhood. Nowadays, Wilson would probably be described as “special”. He was a tall guy who wore an Elmer Fudd hat regardless of the weather. Krell only knew Wilson to speak two words. Those two words were these: “Hey Boy

    Johnny Cash/Willie Nelson

    Stevie Wonder/Ray Charles     ABBA/Fleetwood Mac     Dionne Warwick/Dianna Ross     Diana Krall/Norah Jones     And Wilson didn’t say those words to everybody but he said them to Krell every time that they met at the for corner cross walk. Wilson “helped” Mrs. Johnson and it was rumored that Wilson was her cousin who had been shell shocked in WW2.     Everybody called Wilson Wilson except Krell.     Whenever Wilson said “hey boy” to Krell, Krell would respond…”Hey Mr. Wilson” And Wilson would laugh, his too loud laugh. Krell never knew if Wilson was his first name or his last name. It took Krell a few months to realize that Wilson disappeared. Upon the realization, Krell asked Mrs Johnson “where’s Wilson” to which Mrs. Johnson simply said “he lives somewhere else now.”     This was good enough for Krell.     Billy Joel/Elton John     Steve Miller/Bob Segar     Allman Brothers/CSNY     REM/Police     Michael Jackson/Bruce Springsteen     Hollies/Kinks

    Blasters/X     Buddy Holly/Kurt Cobain     Dave Clark 5/Monkees     Glen Campbell/James Taylor     Pat Benatar/Joan Jett     Joni Mitchell/Bonnie Raitt       Lost in thought, heat and reminiscence, Krell never saw, heard or felt it coming as he walked through a red light on speed trap corner, twenty yards from the burned out shell of what once was a coven.

The Final Factoid

    My name is Jem Masters. 

    Here’s some things you should know about me before you decide upon my reliability as a narrator or as a hero or as witness or life saver. I’m the final factoid.      I’m Caucasian but my skin tone is more like a paper bag than a peeled potato. I take my glasses off with one hand rather than two. As a result, my glasses are either tilted or down too far on my nose. I’ve recently learned that long time spectacle wearers, who use both hands to remove their glasses, regard both the tilt and the nose drop with rage and judgment.     I have a large head according to my last visit to the optometrist who after taking one look at me suggested that “larger” men often need a special kind of frame to fit the special frame of their body. My glasses were “way” too small. I took his advice and went to the larger size. This remedy only further accentuated both the tilt and the nose drop but lessened the likelihood of having to purchase new frames every year as the larger size would naturally relieve the pressure that my gigantic head was putting on the vulnerable hinging.     Another thing that you should know about me is that I have achieved perfect buoyancy in a swimming pool. I can lie on my back and just float all afternoon without moving a muscle. I love that especially down here in North Carolina where between tropical storms and hurricanes, it’s usually around 100 degrees. I spend a lot of time in my pool, looking up at the famous Carolina blue sky and the surreal clouding……perfect for optimism. Also if anybody’s drowning and I’m floating by, I make a great inner tube…all ya gotta do is grab and hold on until help arrives.     I’ve come to understand that almost every man who is buoyant is also portly. I’ve recently become portly which is great because it makes it that much easier to buy a suit.     I hadn’t bought a suit in 10 years. Last time I bought one, it was a struggle to stay afloat. Now, I float. I’m portly. And just in case you confront a man versus nature situation, remember; any portly in a storm.     Portly, big head, tilted glasses on my nose, optimistic and wearing the polyester suit that I recently bought on line from Kohl’s to go along with the xxx sweater vest and Escher tie that I decided to put on in order to introduce myself.     Yeah, that’s me now. I’m in the house and the aircon is on big time.     Four days ago, it was the 4th of July. Stars and Stripes and humidity and lizards on the porch.I had just come out of Slice of Life, our neighborhood pizza shop. The Slice of Life had survived a fire and had just reopened. The damage was relatively minor. Next door to the Slice at the Laughing Brook Spell Casting and Ancestral Arts, where the witch was always “in”, the damage was far more extensive. Laughing Brook was on the move anyways.The PERFECT location had presented itself the very same week the shop burnt the roof off the building that caged it, very large forces were acting directly upon the street corner.

    I had always felt good that we had a Spell Casting shop in the middle of our downtown. God knows we had a speed trap. Approaching that corner the speed limit dipped from 35 to 20 in about 100 yards and a cop was always sitting right there. This produced a lot of revenue for our town attorneys.

   After devouring two Slice of Life pizza slices, I was looking forward to a float in the pool when I saw this old guy approaching the corner. He was tall. He was tan. He was not from here nor from Impanema. He was pre-occupied. He didn’t look right almost as if he were under a self induced trance. I was gonna say hello but I was pretty sure he wasn’t gonna hear me unless I said it too loud which it was too hot to do and which I wouldn’t have done anyways as we portly, paper bag  guys don’t usually start up conversations with tall, tan, trance driven older guys.

    He started to enter the crosswalk and then he was on the ground.

    It was happening right NOW, right in front of me.

    I called 911 a split second after tall, tan guy hit the ground.

    911 called the speed trap cop who showed up immediately from a few yards away and started with the CPR.  

    The ambulance was there in a flash and the EMT’s took over from the cop. After a bit of shirt tearing and chestpounding and pincushioning, the ambulance took off with the tall guy inside and the cop alongside and the sirens blasting. Before he left, the cop took my name.“If this guy survives, you saved his life”, the cop named Officer Wilson, told me before he tore off to the hospital.

    I removed my glasses from my giant head and wiped them with my Panthers tee shirt.

    I still haven’t heard anything from the cop or the guy. If I had her number, I’d call the witch.

EARLY BOOMER, LATE BLOOMER

  I chose my Christmas gift 25 years before I was born. I chose wisely. On that day, Mary Keenan, who had just arrived bag and baggage in Rochester, New York from County Cork Ireland, gave birth to her first child…and named her Mary.

    I sent that child the twinkle in her Irish eyes.
Young Mary went on to celebrate another 91 Christmas birthdays. I was around for 67 of them as she was glad to see my father and her husband who saw my twinkle when he returned from the Philipines at the end of WW2 which made me part of a significant demographic excess known as the Baby Boom. When my father was in the Phillipines and during his entire time in the service, my mother wrote him a letter every day.

  
I am an early Boomer and a late bloomer.
When she was child, she raised her brother and two sisters as her father died suddenly when she was in high school. She lived to be near the bedside of all of ‘em when they passed. Same with my father, she comforted him till he died in her arms. 
I was the oldest of her three children.
She loved me and supported us, every day of our lives.

  
I never bothered to ask her to thank me for choosing her above millions of candidates to be my mother while I was in my first infinity before my vacation before my next and final infinity.
And I know I’ll see her again.


  The stars twinkle.

   
Mary’s granddaughter is our youngest child.
Of course we named her Mary.
Yes, Mary Dear. Your twinkle brought your Mom and I together thirty years ago.
Thank you for that.


   There is a theory which states that if ever anybody discovers exactly what the universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable.


   Yes, there’s ANOTHER theory that this has already happened.
I have a theory that it happens over 300 millions times every day in the United States alone. 
The initial discovery is called death and the something even more bizarre and wonderful is called birth. The vacation in between is called life or some say “lipstick land.”
All of us on earth at this moment share a common state of inexplicability which we project as the “universe” or “reality”. We create this reality as we go along living our lives in a state of mass hypnosis, love and wonder. Eventually we straighten things out, kick the bucket and re-awaken with only a vague memory of what we knew before.
This vague memory is called our subconscious.
With each awakening we discover a brand new universal puzzle to contemplate along with a brand new set of people also contemplating the same puzzle with slightly different kaleidoscopes. The most immediate, influential people we call our parents.


  And you, dear Mary, call me Dad.
The tools that worked best the last time, even though we don’t remember them, are called aptitudes.
When we discover them, we use them to explain the universe to ourselves and others particularly our children.
I get the feeling I’ve written this before.
I get the feeling this is what all writers are writing about all the time.
All singers singing about all the time etc.
I get the feeling you’ve read this before, Mary.
Of course it’s all just a theory.
I am still alive, honey. 
Aren’t I ?


MIDNIGHT MARY

    Today is the first day in Rochester that we can all wear shorts. Thank God.

    Today is also the 25th birthday of my youngest daughter Mary.

    Mary was born at midnight so it's always hard for me to figure out which day that was as midnight I can go either way so I celebrate for two days and even that is nowhere near enough. The celebration should be continuous.

   The hospital listed her birth at 11:58 but I noticed that the clock in the delivery room was a few seconds past midnight when the antenna emerged. I joked to the delivery doctor that we just made it for the extra day in the hospital. About an hour later, I discovered that they had declared her birth at 11:58. Around here, you get two days in the hospital for a birth. Because they listed the birth at 11:58, they counted that whole day as a birth day which meant in reality we got one day and two minutes of hospital service.

    Bastards

    Health Care

    Two minutes which weren't legitimate in the first place. I know she was born at midnight. I have video to prove it but didn't bother to fight the bureuacracy in the midst of such joy. So Midnight Mary came into being wearing an antenna on her head. The doctors were monitoring her heartbeat in the womb and had attached a heart beat monitor to her head which looked like an antenna when she emerged at Midnight.

    Yeah

    25 years ago.

    Now flash back four months ago right after the biopsy. I learned I had cancer and bone scans would determine how far it had spread. The interim of waiting for the bone scan results was the most "spirtitual" time of my life. I was ready to go if go I must but I prayed to be around to celebrate the birthday of Midnight Mary and to be wearing shorts while celebrating.

    I prayed for this day right here My prayers were sincere So pardon me while I celebrate And forget all sorrow Today is  worth the wait And so is tomorrow.

AVA’S  SHOWER

   When we moved to Tumbleweed, we had to enroll Mary in a brand new school. She was in third grade and had a broken leg. She arrived in time for school pictures. When the class pictures came out, I noticed this little girl with big glasses. Her name was Ava. I pointed her out to Mary and said “She looks like she’d be a good friend.” Sure enough, they became besties and remain so to this day almost 30 years later.

   
This is the story of Ava’s shower. 
I know this wasn’t a dream because when I dream I always try to snap in the dream the picture but the camera never works.
It was my first bridal  shower. My gender had always rendered me ineligible for such celebrations but this shower was co-ed. We were enjoying our drinks and conversation downstairs when I noticed that the main female stars were missing. 
Ava was trying on her wedding gown upstairs.

  I’m not sure who invited me but somehow through the grapevine I came too know that I would be welcome in this room and so would my camera.
This happens often in my dreams but in my dreams, the camera she don’t work.
I walked up the stairs and entered the room. I was the only male but everyone seemed to welcome me. 
Everyone was admiring Ava in her dress. Ava was radiating joy and reflecting the admiring glances that were coming her way. The dress was perfect. Everybody knew it.

    
I’ve been taking Ava’s picture ever since she was a little girl.  I wanted to get a great picture of Ava at this moment. All of my years of photography had led to this moment. It wasn’t gonna come again.
Ava noticed me. She looked into the camera. I snapped. The camera worked.
This was no dream.
 Mine wasn’t the only camera in the room. Ava seemingly picked up on all of the lenses by not concentrating on any of them but rather enjoying her moment of celebration.
A model of decorum.
I got my pictures. Everybody got their pictures. The cameras disappeared. I lingered with my lens.


   At that moment, at that second, in about the time it takes a car to swerve a deadly swerve, Ava’s expression changed. For an instant.. memory, vulnerability and sorrow flashed through her entire being in a collision of joy and pain.
I imagine she was thinking of her older sister who was not in the room.

   The older sister Abby who ended up on the deadly end of an unsignalled swerve on a dark Halloween night almost 10 years ago. A tragedy that changed everyone.
Suddenly Abby was in the room. 
I didn’t see Abby but I did see Ava seeing Abby as did my camera.
For one split second grief and recognition flashed across Ava’s glowing face. In that split second I had to make the decision whether or not to snap the picture and “capture” this exceedingly private, candid, personal and vulnerable moment.
I was almost certain that the camera was going to malfunction revealing the entire scene as one more dream forever undocumented.
I snapped.


The camera worked. 
Ava’s expression returned to joy.
A few weeks later, I told Ava about the picture. I told her this story. I told her I wanted to write about it but couldn’t do that unless she approved.
She said it would be an honor.
The wedding is this weekend.
This writing  is in honor of Ava
and of Abby.




HEADING FOR FRONTIER AT LAST


    Today’s the day. Last night was the night. I only had to steal one mirror last night so I got my first half way decent shuteye in months.
At this moment I am resisting the urge to hit the sack and indulge in fatigue.

   
I’m thinking about the original Invasion of the Body Snatchers and Nightmare on Elm Street. In both of those flicks, sleep was to be avoided unless you wanted Freddy to slash through your walls or wake up as a pod, a poisoned pod.


   Those movies always bothered me. 
I hate the feeling of falling asleep when I don’t want to fall asleep. This used to happen to me all the time, particularly on Wednesday nights when I was young.
 Because I was big fan of horror films, my parents used to let me stay up “late” to watch Shock Theater which played all of the Lugosi, Karloff and Chaney films. Frankenstein, Dracula, the Wolfman, the Raven, the Mummy, the Black Cat, The Invisible Ray,The Ghoul,The Werewolf of London etc. The show came on  came on past my bedtime so it was quite a privilege and quite a challenge.
 Plus, I was actually scared by the movies or at least I expected to be.


   I would take my position on the carpet in front of our timy teevee set. The movie would start and before too long, I would realize that I was falling asleep. I learned to recognize the feeling and the “oh no” that accompanied it. I would invariably choose to “rest my eyes” for just a minute during a commercial. I learned after awhile that once I started to rest my eyes, the rest periods would increase in frequency and duration until at last I was asleep on the floor and had to be carted of to bed all the time insisting “I’m awake, I’m awake”

   
The morning came and I awoke with a sense of failure and a determination to make it all the way through the next week. I realized that once I started to “rest my eyes”, it was all over. I would make a conscious effort to “resist the rest” but week after week I failed.
I wasn’t used to failure back in those days and it frightened me more than the movies did.

    I was learning about temptation and my inability to resist it.
This was my first previews of fatigue but I really didn’t know what fatigue was until a few months ago. There’s a difference between fatigue and being tired, passing out, blacking out, dozing off or being exhausted.
For the past few months, I’ve suffered fatigue and it’s a lot different from “resting my eyes” because in fatigue I’m not even interested in the “movie” that is my life. All I want to do is sleep, well not exactly sleep but more like escape but even in the escaping there is the over-riding sense of failure and guilt as days melt away and merge with nights.
Fatigue sucks.


   So as I write these words, I am resisting the urge to “rest my eyes” and to go downstairs to my cave/pit. The urge is strong but not as strong as yesterday and yesterday wasn’t as strong as the day before.
They told me after my last blast of radiation that sometimes the fatigue starts to go away after a week and a half but sometimes it can continue for three or four months or in some cases forever.


   Today is exactly a week and a half since my last blast. I’m gonna go the distance. I’m not goin’ downstairs. I’m not gonna turn into a pod person again today. No way. I’ve charged up my camera. I’m snapping flowers. I’ll be leaving for the ballpark in three hours. I’m gonna look good. This is the day I marked down on my calendar for the beginning of my comeback and I’m not gonna rest my eyes until I get back from Frontier Field.
My brother is my best friend and I haven’t seen him during this whole situation. I want to see him now. I want him to see me snapping pictures, keeping score, drinking a beer and rooting for the old home team.
Freddy Fatigue can’t get me at Frontier Field if I keep my eyes on the ball.





THE OLD BALLGAME


   One of my colleagues, a guy named Fred, got into as much trouble as I did for having classrooms that were not quiet.
Neither Fred nor I thought the criticism and penalization were justified but we did have “long hair” at the time and we were considered “popular” by the students.


    
Eventually, thank God,  the concept of beautiful noise in the classroom began to take hold. Beautiful noise means the kids were buzzing and working with each other and with the teacher. Nothing on earth sounds like productive buzzing. 
It was a far cry from the spray and pray method formerly preferred by the fearful badgers of the ruling realm and their supportive administrators.
Quiet in the classroom was no longer a guaranteed good thing.


    Suddenly, Fred and I were seen as “innovators”. People started imitating us and when they got good at it, they began to instruct us on how to do what we had been doing all along, since we had already moved on to the next thing which they were currently against but soon would be imitating and then instructing.
On and on and on and on etc.

  
Meanwhile, my classes were getting busier and buzzier so I was headed for trouble. Quiet is so much quieter when it’s surrounded by buzz. 
One day Fred and I and about fifty teachers were at a workshop run by a consultant who hadn’t taught a public school class in years but who was paid more than we were to look at our watches and tell us what time it was. The consultant was also on the lookout for new ideas which he could steal and profit from when he took his carnival on the road., always searching for a new parade to jump in front of and declare himself the leader etc.

   
So the consultant called on teachers to “share” new ideas that they had. Most of the “sharing” consisted of ideas that people like Fred and I had been criticized for by the same people who were now “experts” at whatever “technique” they were sharing.
The consultant gushed over every “insight” no matter how unremarkable.

   
Meanwhile, Fred was in the back of the room trying to stay serious.
Fred was a big, dark haired dark eyed handsome guy who wasn’t lacking in self confidence and didn’t need or want to be drawn into this festival of self congratulation.
Even though Fred hadn’t raised his hand to volunteer a response, the consultant decided to call on him.
“Do you have a technique, Fred, that you’d like to share?”, the consultant asked in an overly friendly way.


   Fred said “Well, I guess I could share what I call 'the old ball game’.


    The consultant perked up. "I’ve never heard of that technique, Fred. It sounds very interesting. How does it work?”


    Possibly a new parade was forming.


“Well” said Fred, “if I see a kid’s not paying attention, I throw a tennis ball at him/her. That usually gets their attention.”


   Fred was serious.
I looked at Fred’s face. Fred was looking at the consultant’s face. The consultant had no idea what to say.
Nobody ooohed or aaahed.
I burst out laughing which broke the silence.(I had used the same “technique” myself" on quite a few occasions except I didn’t use a tennis ball. I used a bunch of tinfoil that I had rolled up in a ball for my version of “the old ball game”. I called my tin foil ball “the egg of unexpected courage”. The kids called it THE EGG.)


   Back to the seminar……
Fred started laughing.
The consultant sorta smiled
Once again, Fred and I were operating on the same page even though we weren’t aware that we were until Fred answered the consultant. I had no idea that Fred  also used “the old ball game”.
This is one of my fondest moments because “the old ball game be it tennis or tinfoil” actually worked and probably still does today.
I am afraid, however, that a few months after this moment…..some consultant somewhere was instructing teachers on the effective use of what has become known as “the old ball game”.


   Beautiful.





CROSSWORDS


    Way back in another lifetime, when I was teaching kids how to write, my class used to do the New York Times crossword puzzle together every other Monday. The puzzle gets more cryptic, arcane and oblique as the week continues. Monday is fair game for high schoolers working in tandem. Tuesday’s puzzle maybe. Saturday’s forget about it. Maybe that’s why we don’t have school on Saturdays except for Breakfast Clubbers who are puzzled and puzzling enough with or without crosswords.

   
I always told my writing students that writers need to know something about everything and then need the vocabulary to articulate what they know by choosing the exact right word for the right place. Close is good but no cigar.

   Crossword puzzles serve as an exercise not only in vocabulary and exactitude but also in breadth of knowledge.
Crossword puzzles are to writers what shadow boxing is to boxers or what ping pong is to tennis players or driving ranges to golfers, a truncated version of a more pervasive obsession.

   Aside from their value as literary barbells, crosswords teach one of life’s most valuable lessons. If you have one wrong word or a right word in the wrong place, it screws up the rest of the puzzle. We can’t insist that a word is right if it is wrong. Will power only extends so far. It can’t be right simply because we want it to be right and we’re good people. That’s called willfullness. In the words of Johnny C, “if it don’t fit, you must acquit”.

   Somewhere in all puzzles, before we abandon original thinking or stick with our misconceptions, we confront wavering allegiance to a shady word choice. Since most of our lives are spent re-inforcing our own biases, wavering allegiance is a frightening flourish of vulnerability. In America, especially in politics, it’s all about being “right” first and then sticking with that righteousness in the face of hell or high water, fire and fury.
Wavering allegiance is a forerunner to change. All change includes loss and all loss requires mourning. Who wants to mourn? Who wants to admit a mistake?

   In politics, to flip is to flop.
So when we stick with wrong words in Crosswords, we never solve the puzzle or the problem contained within the puzzle, a problem that grows more pressing with every passing day. Usually national problems come in the form of dollars and cents, bread and butter, black and white , war and peace, red and blue.
Hey if we come to a cross roads where we should turn right and instead turn left, don’t worry if we drive completely around the world we’ll end up going the right, right way.
Once upon a time on my way to Iowa from South Dakota, I made a wrong turn and drove halfway through Minnesota.
With a crossword puzzle, we can just take out an eraser. With a war, with poverty, with racism, with recession, with division we need something more than rubber at the forgiveness end of a pointed stick of lead. Every day seems like a Saturday crossword.
 


ALI, FRAZIER, CHUVALO AND EVELYN


Slides.
Remember slides?
You’d throw your slides into a Kodak Carousel and voila…a light show up against the wall.
Needless to say I threw quite a few slides against quite a few walls over the years as I told my Ali stories.
I liked one of the slides in particular.

   
I made a nice 11 by 14 print from that slide .
Ali and Joe exchanging punches during their second fight at Madison Square Garden.


   We all got older as the years passed. It seemed like Ali and Joe got older faster than everybody else. What else could we have expected?

   
During this time of great decline, George Chuvalo added to the pugilistic tragedy. 
George Chuvalo
The Croatian Crusader.
The Heavyweight Champion of Canada.
The human punching bag and common opponent for the vastly more talented Ali and Frazier.
The man who could not be knocked down.
The man whose face had launched a thousand fists.
George Chuvalo had a face that had been sculpted by other fists into the face of a fist  
And then after George retired, life stepped in and continued the battering.
He lost his wife and sons to suicide. Heroin was very involved.
Still George refused to hit the canvas.
Word got through to his old opponents, Ali and Joe, that George was hurt and staggering but that he refused to go down.
A boxing organization in Rochester decided to throw a benefit dinner for George. Yeah it was a band aid on a shotgun wound but every little bit helps.


   Joe Frazier decided to attend and waive any fee.
So did another wounded warrior name of Muhammad Ali.
Ali was shaking from Parkinsons and Joe could barely see.
Joe and Ali didn’t usually appear together.
Bad blood existed.
People wondered why after all these years bad blood still existed between Ali and Frazier.
The answer is simple. These guys tried to kill each other three times in front of the whole world and they damned near succeeded.
He jest at scars who’s never felt a wound.

   
There was a lot of laughter that night but nobody was laughing at the scars.
I was there too.
The Chuvalo benefit cost a hundred bucks to attend. My ringside seat at Ali-Frazier fight also cost $100.
So much had changed.
One thing hadn’t changed.
The 11 by 14 photograph that I took at Ali Frazier 2 looked exactly the same. The two of them stalking each other in the middle of the ring, young and heallthy and with all the lights shining on them.
I brought the picture to the benefit.

   
I  had met Muhammad, Joe and George individually but I never thought that I’d see all three of them in the same room at the same time.
Yet, here we were for the common good of Chuvalo
In the lobby, I got a chance to visit with boxing expert Burt Sugar and HBO analyst Larry Merchant. They both reacted to me as if I had pissed myself while wearing a white suit.. Arrogant and a million miles away from Ali in terms of engagement and humility, these two celebrities brushed off my questions about the sweet science with an insolence worth mentioning here.
Vampires
I left those “famous guys”.
I was relieved to leave.
I entered the main room.

    Carmen Basilio was much more approachable. I had met Carmen a couple of times before. I didn’t want to ask him the same old questions that he’s been asked a million times about Sugar Ray Robinson. I asked him about one of his lessd famous victories. “Hey Champ, do you ever see Johnny Saxton anymore?”

   Carmen answered “No, he’s all fucked up.”

   “What got him Carmen”, I followed up,“ drugs, booze, women, gambling?”

    “No” said Carmen, “I fucked him up.”

     Carmen was a tough man.

     I found my table. My name was still not Sinatra nor for that matter Sugar or Merchant so my $100 dollar table resembled my “ringside” seat in terms of physical distance from the action.
And I wasn’t even at the same table as the Son of Sanford. 
I shared a “way in the back” table with another human who also had connection/complexion problems; a stunning middle aged African American woman named Evelyn. We had the only two seat table in the place.

   Evelyn and I chatted for awhile about the value of our $100 as compared to the $100 spent by the more connected, very Caucasian, very male attendees flaunting upfront and uptight.
We figured we were outsiders. We bonded.
I showed her my 11 by 14 photo. She liked it and said “be careful with that. It’s valuable”.

   
Evelyn had a mission of her own.
Evelyn told me that she knew Joe Frazier and the last time Joe was in town, she really got to know him and he got to know her. She planned on having a little chat with Joe later in the evening about his previous method of leaving town. She assured me that Joe would be paying attention.

   
All the stars were already seated miles away at the main table. All the stars that is except for Ali.
 It’s only fitting that the champ enters last.
All of the other guys had entered from the front of the venue.
When Ali and his entourage entered the room, they came in from the back. As soon as he entered the room, the whole environment changed for the better. He walked very, very slowly. Since he came in from the back, the first table he passed was the distant table for two.

    He stopped at our table. He looked right at me and although it seemed impossible, I got the distinct feeling that he remembered me from our morning at Deer Lake decades before. 
Evelyn noticed the look and asked me after Ali had passed us, “does he know you”. 
I told Evelyn that I had spent some time with him a long time ago.
Whether he recognized me or not, he once again gave me that wonderful feeling that I was cool with him and that our table was the best table in the house.
and that, once again, made me feel cool with myself
 although he couldn’t possibly have remembered.
I guess that’s what charisma is all about.

   
Like I said, I had met Sugar and Merchant, ten minutes before they took their upfront seats. I’m sure they had already forgotten about me and their vibe would have amplified that disregard.
Not with Ali.
I started feeling great.
 Important
The whole room turned back to see the old champ. I got the feeling that everybody in the room started feeling great for different reasons.
Uplifiting
Transcendent
. Eliciting smiles and cheers with every step, the Champ caned his way to the front. Everybody in the place was experiencing rampant, contact joy.
I don’t think that Frazier was feeling that joy although he probably remembered feeling a lot of contact. It was obvious that Joe was feeling pretty dang great before he even entered the place, if ya know what I mean.

   
Obviously, a lot of feelings fly around a room when Ali enters that room and walks toward a partying Joe Frazier.
 The dinner began.
Neither Ali nor Frazier addressed the audience; for different reasons.
Chuvalo expressed his gratitude towards both men for showing up and making his benefit such a success. Weirdly enough if a three man boxing match broke out, Chuvalo would probaly win even though both Joe and Ali had batterred him in the past.


    Merchant and Sugar blabbed some and sucked a bit of energy from the room although their wisdom has slipped beneath the radar screen of both my memory and contempt.
When the program concluded, the master of ceremonies, a born bullshitter named Jerry Flynn announced that for a half an hour the head table participants would be willing to sign autographs.


   Immediately the rush to the front began led by the people sitting in the front.


   From the way back table, we watched the crowd in front gain full advantage.
We only had a half hour and it looked as if there were two hours of people in front of us.
We did a little spontaneous human calculus.
Evelyn headed towards Joe. She had more than an autograph in mind.
She had a piece of her mind in mind and she was about to give that to Joe.

  
I headed for Ali, by far the longer of the two lines.
Somehow, my 11 by 14 print caught the eye of somone in Ali’s entourage. He asked me to identify the picture.
“Ringside, Madison Square Garden, Ali-Frazier II”
“Diju take dat picture?”
“Yes I did”
“Champ prolly like to see it. C'mon”


   He escorted me towards the front of the line, not the very front but a definite improvement on my table rank. Ali and I were in the same force field. I knew he’d have time for me even as the minutes ticked away. With about 10 minutes left in the opportunity, our chance came. I put my picture in front of the Champ. He considered it carefully. He was in no rush whatsoever. Then the familiar whisper that he either said or sent. I’ll never know which but the message was clear…“choo take this?”
“Yeah Champ I did’
Another whisper/send "it’s good”
Then the eye contact. Ali and me eyeball to eyeball again. Same eyeballs that had been eyeball to eyeball with Martin King, John Lennon, Sonny Liston, Elvis Presley, Nelson Mandella, Joe Louis, James Brown, Stallone, Duvall, Carson, Borgnine, Malcolm X, Ross, Chamberlain and infinite others were inviting me to come on in and stay a minute.
Make yourself comfortable
Join the crowd.
Maybe u been here before
He gave me his beautiful Parkinson’s signature. Very slow, very painful, looking up every few seconds directly in my eyes as if this were the first signature of his career given to his best friend. Ali had signed another piece for me at Deer Lake decades before. Like the man himself, Ali’s signature had changed dramatically over the years. His Parkinson’s signature took a good twenty seconds to make with five separate lookups and included only the fragments of four letters….. M…a…l….i. Ironically he made his mark over Joe Frazier’s image in the ring in my picture.
He hit me with the feint again although this feint was very faint yet still overwhelming.
I thanked the champ. Again the eyes. Again the illusion of recognition. Again the electricity.
So long champ.


   Still five minutes of the half hour remained.
Wow
Pause
Shift
Recalculate
I got a shot at Joe.
Where’s Evelyn.
There she be.
Evelyn chillin’ with Joe
“Hey Evelyn” from fity feet away with four minutes left.
“Hey Ice, c'mon up here and meet Joe.”
Once again the Red Sea miraculoulsy parted.
The Red Sea thought Evelyn was Joe’s wife and I was a friend of Joe’s family.
I got to the table with time to spare.
Evelyn said “Joe, this is my friend. Sign his picture”
I put my picture in front of Joe.
Joe looked at my picture.
“dijoo take this picture”

“Yeah I did, Champ”
“good picture”
Ironically, Joe signed over the image of Ali in the ring in the light at Madison Square Garden, young and beautiful.
Floating
Getting ready to sting forever.
Evelyn gave Joe a peck on the cheek.
Joe took a sip from his beer.
I gave Evelyn a peck on her cheek.
It was the last time that I ever saw any of them.
Time was up. Ring the bell.





FAMOUS MIKE CAN DRAW

   
Some stories are so lovely that I hesitate to write them. Some legends are so fragile and delicate that I’m reluctant to reveal them. Here’s a lovely story and a delicate legend all in one.

   
I’ll try to do them justice before the memories fade completely as the blur increases every day.
I remember his first day in class. He was fresh off the boat. I mean that literally. He was a boat person from Viet Nam. He was in my English class.
He didn’t speak a word of English.
I didn’t know what to do with him that first day so I somehow signalled/sent him to the main office to pick up an attendance sheet.


   The secretary at the main office was expecting a student from another class named Mike. When my student arrived, whatever his name was, it wasn’t Mike. Helen asked my new student if his name was Mike. He didn’t know what Helen was saying but he knew a question when he heard one.
He nodded his head up and down.
Helen said “Here, Mike”, and gave him the papers.
He returned to my classroom a few minutes later without the attendance sheet but with whatever administrivia Helen was supposed to give to “Mike”.

I took the paper from him. I said thanks and asked  him what his name was.

  He said “Mike”

  
I said “Hi, Mike”

   
That’s how Mike got his name.
Aside from the single word “Mike”, Mike spoke no English. We were a pair, Mike and I. 
Mike would come into class, take his seat and listen with great patience and attention to the academic tumult engulfing him. I knew something of the concept of linguistic immersion wherein a person learns a foreign language more quickly by surrounding himself with it. I believed this was happening with Mike although I didn’t know for certain. I did know that in this case English was the “foreign” language to Mike and he was surrounded.


   One day after a couple of weeks, I noticed that Mike was taking “notes” of what I was saying. I couldn’t imagine what Mike’s notes looked like so I casually made my way to his desk to sneak a peek. Mike’s “note” was a surreal and photographic drawing of a rose. As I looked at the rose, I was amazed as much by its sensitivity of  rendering as I was by its virtousity.
Near the drawing, I wrote the word “rose.”
Then I said the word “rose”
I spelled the word “R..O..S..E”

   
Mike smiled and said “rose”

   
I took a risk. I had a feeling the risk would be approved by Mike.
I announced to the class. “Check this out, everybody. Mike can draw.”
Everybody crowded around Mike’s desk.
Everybody look at the rose.
Everybody flipped out.


   Everybody started saying “Mike can draw”
Eventually Mike got the message.
He spoke his first English sentence in English class.
This is what he said.
“Mike can draw”
He smiled.
Time stood still.
I’m here to tell you, Mike could draw.
Many scholars praise the efficient linguistic style of Julius Caesar, how much he could say with how few words. All of France is divided into three parts. Has anyone ever said more with fewer words at the beginning of his story.
This is the beginning of Mike’s story.

  
Mike not only continued to draw but he also continued to listen with purpose and intention. Mike observed not only with his eyes but also with his heart and mind. Mike’s vocabulary began to grow as he listened and observed. Nouns first then verbs then adjectives.
Here’s the story of the first adjective I can remember.
One day, I walked over to Mike’s desk and noticed that he had been sketching a portrait of himself.
On his portrait, I wrote a bunch of nouns with arrows like “mike” and  "nose" and “eyes” and “ears"and "head” and “neck” and “body”.
I pointed to each word and said it. Mike repeated the word with me.
Then I added the adjective.
I wrote “famous”; drew an arrow to the picture of Mike and said the word.


    Mike hesitated a second and then asked “Mike famous?”

   
I said “Yes, Mike is famous”
Mike startled me with his reply.

   
“No, Mike not famous. You, Mr. Rivers…you famous.”


    I realized that Mike’s language skills were blossoming with as much beauty as his drawing skills.
From that day on, every time I saw Mike I would always say.
“Here’s the famous Mike.”
And Mike would always say, “Mike not famous. Mr. Rivers famous.”
We would laugh.
We were connected.
Sure enough, Mike WAS becoming famous, at least in my class.

   I was running the school newspaper at the time. I asked Mike, still using arrows, objects and printed words if he would draw a comic strip for the paper. He drew the strip. The school read Mike’s comic. His character was a lion, The school loved it. Mike’s fame grew. His audience expanded.
By this time, everybody in my class knew something rare was happening with Mike and his art, kids were always crowding around his desk to see what new drawings were coming alive

   .
About this time, I suspected that had Mike developed a crush on Kathy. 
I discovered this when Mike showed me a picture of Kathy that he had been drawing.
Mike was stylizing Kathy rather than photographing her with his rendering. I immediately recognized Kathy even with her stylized, over sized Disney girl eyes. I wrote “Kathy” on Mike’s paper and drew an arrow. Mike blushed and smiled.
I could tell Mike wanted another word  from me, an adjective perhaps so under Kathy, I wrote “beautiful” and drew another arrow.
Mike put the drawing away. His portrait of Kathy was not an image that he intended to show to the class. Not only were we connected; we had a secret.

   
A couple of weeks passed and Mike’s language skills kept growing.
One day, he took out the picture of Kathy and showed me something new that he had added. He showed me that he knew how to change and adjective into a noun.
Under my printing of “beautiful”, Mike had printed a word of his own.
This is the word that Mike had printed in painstaking calligraphy.


Beauty


Beauty is truth and truth is beautiful.
I was facing a beautiful truth in my professional life as well as a crossroads. I was given the opportunity to write a grant under the auspices of the Federal Career Education Incentive Act Grant Program, the purpose of which, as the name suggests, was to help secondary education become a better link to careers. 
I proposed my very first grant.
The proposal was funded for $500,000.
In my proposal I visualized the creation of an intern program. The idea was radical at the time. I was chosen to be the administrator for the project. I would have to leave the classroom.
Leaving the classroom was the crossroads and a difficult factor in the decision.
When the kids heard what I had done. They were proud of me.

Mike came to me and said “Mike not famous, Mr. Rivers famous.”


I left the classroom. 
I left Mike in the capable hands of the Art. Dept particularly Larry Pace. Larry had served his country as a Marine in  Viet Nam.

The day that I left, Mike showed me his private sketchbook.
In his sketchbook were dozens of drawing of Kathy.
 Underneath each sketch; a single printed word: Beauty. 


By the time I got the Intern Program running smoothly, moving it from dream to imagination to realization, Mike was back in my life.
Mike had made breathtaking progress in language and art and had begun to crystallize his dreams. Mike had grown to love classic Walt Disney cartoons and wanted to become an animator. 
I had heard that fantasy from other students before and I would hear it again but with Mike…well he had a dream, spectacular discipline and dedication. I had an intern program.
Uh, let’s put two and two together and see if it comes out four, twenty two or five.

   
I contacted the only artist in town who specialized in 16 millimeter matte animation, a guy by the name of Brian. I told Brian about Mike. I told Mike about Brian. I brought the two of them together at Brian’s downtown studio. With Brian’s  encouragement and equipment along with the ongoing help of the high school Art Dept, Mike created his first animated cartoon.
He had even learned to play the guitar well enough to supply his own music to the animation. In Mike’s cartoon one of the characters was a lion. Mike asked me, because I was “famous” to provide the voice for the lion.
Mike’s cartoon was eventually selected in an extremely competitive national cartoon contest to be shown on Nickelodeon.
Mike’s cartoon was one of the best student cartoons in the country. Little ol’ famous lion voice me was roaring on television sets across America.


   Mike was only a sophomore in high school but he was already thinking about college and colleges were thinking about him. 
Anything was possible including truth , beauty and fame.
Mike was most interested in beauty.
He had discovered that the Disney studios regularly hired interns from the California Institute of the Arts. Mike knew about internships. He had completed four of them in high school. 
In the meantime Mike had taken all the art courses at the school plus four more at Rochester Institute of Technology and had aced them all.
Mike spoke a lovely version of the English language, the direct, clear, soft and kind version rarely used by native speakers.
Mike could draw. 
Mike could talk.
Mike could write, words and music.
Mike could play the guitar.
Mike had a resume full of A’s, internships, art work, awards and a cartoon that had played nationally on Nickelodeon. Mike applied to the California Institute of the Arts. We were all happy but not surprised when Mike was accepted and scholarshipped.

   
Mike was ready for another journey.
I was on a bit of a journey myself. My first marriage was breaking up although I didn’t realize it or perhaps  was denying the realization.
Mike had never been to a rock concert in his life so at the end of the school year, the night after his graduation I invited Mike as our family guest to see the Moody Blues at the Canandaigua Performing Arts Center. Mike accepted the invitation.
You’ll hear more about THAT later.
After the concert, Mike left for California.

    I haven’t seen him since.
Here’s the last few things I heard about Mike.
In college, his skill and interest continued to blossom. As an undergraduate, he applied for and completed an internship at Disney Studios.
Upon graduation from college, Mike was hired as an animator by Disney. His first screen credit appeared at the end of the Little Mermaid, listing Mike as an animator of Ariel.

   Apparently Disney liked Mike because his next assignment was a substantial promotion. Mike would be one of the main designers for Beauty and the Beast
Mike was helping to create Belle. 
By now, everybody knows WHAT Belle looks like. Only a few of us know WHO Belle looks like.

    Beauty, if you will, looks exactly like the sketches of Kathy that Mike labored over so mightily, so beautifully, so passionately, so innocently and so truthfully during his junior high days.
Kathy is Belle.
Kathy is 
Beauty.


   Some stories are so lovely that I hesitate to write them. Some legends are so fragile and delicate that I am afraid to relate or reveal them.
 Remember?
Well, I tried.
As I tried, I kept flashing back to the writers who brought us the legends of the Old west, those scribes who turned big nosed, shiftless, violent, alcoholic William Hickock into the great Wild Bill, the  handsome hero who died, shot in the back while playing poker and holding the deadman’s hand…a pair of aces and a pair of eight .
A cardinal rule for those writers was, according to John Ford in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, “if  you come to a crossroads between truth and legend, write the legend.”

   
The legend of Mike and Kathy is the loveliest local legend, I’ve ever personally encountered. I’m part of it; a small part but yes I was there in the very beginning.
I can vouch for everything until Mike left for California. I can vouch for the similarities between Mike’s sketches of Kathy and the rendering of Beauty. 
Every once in awhile, when I reminisce about my teaching days, I like to think that I was the guy who had something to do with the inspiration for the creation of Beauty.
And ya know what? 
It’s a beautiful feeling.
 Maybe even true.
Next time somebody you know mentions truth, beauty or Beauty and the Beast tell 'em this story.
That’s how legends grow.





AFTERNOON ANGEL

   I know for sure it was a Tuesday afternoon. I don’t know if it was the first time I smoked weed, such moments are hard to pinpoint.

   Today is also a Tuesday afternoon. Today I found out that Ray Thomas, the flautist for the Moody Blues had passed away from prostate cancer. I know something about cancer.
The beauty of metaphysiction is its ability to go flash forward and backward at the same time while flirting with the eternal and the imaginary.


   The Tuesday afternoon that begins this story happened fifty years ago. I was shooting footage for a film that I was making in graduate school. My idea was to simply walk around and shoot whatever came into my lens on this Tuesday afternoon and call whatever came out “Tuesday Afternoon” It was during this activity that I might or might not have smoked a joint because I know the guy with me was a “weirdo” at the time who definitely smoked the rope. I had shot enough weird footage so I was confident that within the images, I could find 10 solid minutes that would represent what a Tuesday afternoon looked and sounded like and that it would probably be interesting to watch in say 50 years so that I could clearly remember what fifty years ago looked and sounded like.


  Yeah, maybe I was loaded as I recall that thought process.


  We were driving back to campus. We turned on an FM station. By this time I was an album guy and FM was the album station. I was trying to figure out what music I would use in the background of the film when on the radio came “Tuesday Afternoon”. I had never heard anything like it before. When the song was over, the announcer said “that was Tuesday Afternoon by the Moody Blues from their new album Days of Future Passed”


   Days of Future Passed might as well have been the name of my mind set on that Tuesday afternoon with Tuesday afternoon playing. I hoped that I would see the Moody Blues in the Future and at that time, remember the past which would naturally include the moment I was living. 
I knew the Moody Blues. I knew of their hit “Go Now” which I wasn’t crazy about. I didn’t know that the personnel of the band had changed and they had gone from THAT to THIS. Ray Thomas was in both versions, I learned later.
 Shocked, stoned and stunned by synchronicity, I became a Moody Blues fan. In other words, I too was a weirdo. At the time you had to be a little weird to like the Blues. They were hanging with LSD guru Timothy Leary and proud of it.
I couldn’t believe that “drug music” could be so beautiful or that a simple Tuesday afternoon could be so profound .


  I had the music for my film.
I found my film in the music.


  Now let’s fast forward 15 years.
My first marriage was breaking up although I didn’t realize it or perhaps was denying the realization. I know I felt like I had a ton of bricks on my back.
The “famous” Mike had never been to a concert before and he loved the Moody Blues. I invited Mike and a couple of friends to join my family at the Moody Blues concert at the Canandaigua Performing Arts Center.
Mike accepted my invitation.

   
The night of the Moody Blues arrived.
I had purchased a dozen tickets for the show. 
The day of the night of the Blues was very hot. I ran ten miles that afternoon trying to lighten my load.
My brother, my sister, my wife, a few of our friends, my son Beau, Mike and I made the short trip. We walked to the gates. I took out the tickets. I only had eleven tickets. Everybody was looking at me. I counted the tickets only eleven again. I was going to have to exclude someone from the concert. I looked around at the faces. I knew I would exclude myself.

    I looked at the tickets again. I counted the tickets. I looked at Mike. My marriage was falling apart. Mike was on his way to California. I had screwed up the tickets. I had ruined Mike’s first concert. I could feel the earth spinning. I said something incoherent to my brother. He looked at me with concern and said “whaaa?” I spoke again and once again sounded like Gregor Samsa after his metamorphosis. I started to stumble. The tickets fell out of my grasp. I looked directly into my son’s eyes as the weight on my shoulders flew off and I fell in slow motion towards the ground. As I looked into his eyes, I realized that I was watching a son watch the death of his father. I wondered how this would affect him him. I heard my wife scream “he didn’t go to his physical”

  
I hit the ground
I knew I was dead.
When I opened my eyes some time later to see what heaven was like I saw two faces. One face was of a beautiful, elderly woman. The other was Mike. This was Mike’s first minute at his first concert.
In the background Moody Blues music was playing.
The elderly woman whispered her phone number in my ear. It went right into my permanent memory She told me to call anytime and that the more I called, the more I would want to call. Eventually I wouldn’t even need a phone.
I still remember the number. I call it everyday.
The number is/was a prayer.
I called it before I started writing this, seeking help to get this right.
Phone? I don’t need no stinken phone.


   They wanted to call an ambulance.
I didn’t want that
I wanted to go where the music was, where the angel was.
Somebody picked up the tickets and found all twelve.
We went inside the Shell and heard the Blues.
The woman had disappeared once it became clear that I was going to live.
The last time I saw her, she was listening to the show. The Blues may or may not have been playing Tuesday afternoon when our eyes met.


   Flash forward
Today, Tuesday,  I learned that Ray Thomas had died. Ray was 76 years old. I’m 71.  How could all of those future days have passed.


I’m calling the number.
 The number is a prayer.


IN THE PACKAGE


   Mr. Baseball remained in his coma for months.
It was the bottom of the ninth and his team was behind by 100 runs and there were two out and two strikes on Mr. Baseball. One more strike and he was out.
Game over.
That was the situation the last time that I visited him at the Community hospital.


   Time passed. Mr. Baseball kept fouling off pitches, his faithful loving wife Rosie by his side.
Rosie figured that maybe things would improve if they moved Baseball to his home ball park. Still in his coma, Mr. Baseball was transported to his home.


   Home plate.


   His home plate was far away from my homeplate.
We didn’t visit in person, overwhelmed as were with our own ballgame.


  When he got home, minus a few tubes and some drugs that hadn’t worked, Mr Baseball out of nowhere, hit a homerun. He came out of the coma but remained bedridden.
We didn’t know about the rally, we had left the game a little early.
We knew that he was home and we had his phone number.

   One day, Lynn called the number and Rosie answered.
The rally was still going on. Therapists were pitching now and Mr. Baseball continued to swing away always bolstered by Rosie who was as encouraged as she was encouraging. She told Lynn that a speech therapist was pitching at the moment. She whispered to Mr. Baseball that Lynn was on the phone. He understood; another base hit.

   Rosie put the phone up to Mr. Baseball’s face.

   Lynn said “Hello, Mr. Baseball.”


    Lynn’s 'hello’ was like a hanging curve ball. Mr. Baseball took a mighty swing and said in a slow, soft, labored voice “Hi Lynn.”
Home run. Grand slam. 


   Rosie took the phone back and explained the progress Baseball had been making.
He was scoring on the coma. His therapists were amazed. 
He scored 200 runs and beat the stroke.

   
Meanwhile he had developed cancer.
It was the cancer, not the coma that finally ended the incredible rally.


   We went to the funeral. Mr. Baseball looked good almost as good as he looked the time he caught a foul ball barehanded at Frontier Field. In my dreams, he shows up at his funeral and he, Rosie, Lynn and I go off to dinner as if nuthin’ had happened. He even makes fun of me for imagining that everything wasn’t perfect.
We paid our condolences to Rosie. 


   A week later, we got a package in the mail with Mr. Baseball’s address as the return.

   
In the package was the fiber optic bear.
 



NON-FICTION IS THE NEW FACTION

   In my dreams, my camera is always broken at times like this.
 My camera was shattered.
That suggested, I might wake up so I decided to go with the dream a little further to see what would happen.
I went to my video camera. It seemed to be working.
Uh Oh.
This might not be a dream.


   Whatever it was, if I could tape it…it might help.
I turned on the camera. It worked. The semi had come to a stop about 150 yards in front of us. The driver was still in the cab. 
I pointed the camera in the other direction and noticed a person coming towards us.
I kept the camera aimed at his face so I got a closer up look than I would have without the camera.
I focused on his eyes.
His eyes told me that he thought he was looking at a couple of ghosts.
When he got within speaking distance, I put down the camera.
“I saw the whole thing. I thought you guys were goners? Are you okay?”

   
I wasn’t sure.
We walked around to the side of the van. Lynn was leaning up against it.
I kept the video running. 
The tape would later be seen at least three times on national teevee.
 Moments later, the police arrived.
Lynn explained the collision with astounding calm and clarity.
I was no longer taping.
They arranged for our totaled van to be removed from the median.
They gave us a ride to a nearby hotel.
They explained our situation to the folks at the front desk who set us up with a room although all of our belongings were still in the van.They lent us a room pro-bono. Everybody told us not to worry.

   
We found out that we were in La Grange, Indiana. 
All we had was the clothes on our backs.
And the aid of better angels.

   
I was teaching summer school.
I was a teacher all the way. I taught twelve months a year. No house painting for me.
I had been going twelve months a year for ten years with only one break in between. I didn’t teach in the summer of 87, the year that I met Lynn.
Lynn was a single Mom when we met. She was raising three daughters. I was a single Dad raising a son and a daughter. Her kids liked me and my kids liked her. We spent a lot of time together especially on the weekends when I had custody of my two.
Lynnn was working part time at First Federal Bank.
She was good with change. She balanced every day. She could find the errors when someone else failed to balance.
She didn’t stand for a lot of bullshit that’s why she was checking the boat when I suggested a road trip test.


   My prior experience as a road warrior had convinced me that you don’t really know a person  until you’ve been on the road with them. I had made the trip from ocean to ocean three times before I got married the first time. I regretted the fact that I hadn’t road tripped with my first wife before we got married. Although two children had to be born, we might have saved ourselves some nightmares. I had rushed into that first one and wasn’t gonna rush into this one.
Two years had already passed with Lynn and me….our bodies were at rest and would tend to stay at rest unless acted upon.
Times of indecision.
We had both already been married. We both carried the scars.


   We had met one enchanted evening when she walked up to me and asked me if I wanted to dance.
The first song we danced to was “Hurt so Good”….John Mellencamp.
The second was “Loving You” by Elvis.
The third was “It’s All in the Game” by Tommy Edwards. When Tommy was about to sing the words “then he’ll kiss your lips” I decided to take the chance.
I kissed her lips. She kissed me back. 
We had been together every day since and it was going on two years. Two wonderful years.

   Time to clarify.
 Lynn made a decision.
She said we should get married at the local justice of the peace.
She called it to question one afternoon when we were having lunch at Mario’s on East Avenue our favorite Italian restaurant.

   
Justice of the peace was no place for me or for us as far as I was concerned.
She took it as a rejection of her love which was the opposite of my intention. 
For the first time, we began to wonder about the future of the relationship.
Yet, we had booked a trailer for a weekend at Darien Lake. We decided to make the trip.
 We had a couple of our kids with us.
They were having a lot more fun than we were. They were outside the trailer when Lynn handed me a tiny article from the Democrat and Chronicle.
The article said “The Field of Dreams is a real place.”


   All of a sudden it was clear to me.
I am a person of intuition which means I have a tendency to say out loud exactly what is flashing through my mind at the exact time that it flashes.
The flash came on.
“ Hey Lynn, If we were ever to get married, it would have to be at the most beautiful place in America. Our love deserves it. If you’re willing to travel to Iowa and if we can find this place and if it’s real we could get married on the spot….right at home plate.”


   She made a face that I couldn’t decipher so I didn’t take it as a rejection.
Then she said “Great idea. I’ll call up Iowa and tell them we need a marriage license to get married at an imaginary place at an undetermined time.”

   
I found out later that she thought I was nuts and bullshitting her at the same time.
We had seen the movie together earlier in the year. we both thought it was great. In one scene, Kevin Costner (Ray Kinsella) asked his wife Amy Madigan “is this heaven or is this Iowa” as they relaxed one starry evening on the diamond that he had carved into his cornfield.
The location was so exquisite that I thought perhaps it was the most beautiful place I had ever seen.
This was the place for us.
Plus we would give the relationship the test….a test that I firmly believed had to be taken by any couple in the  tentative situation that we occupied.

   I enjoyed teaching summer school because I got a chance to pay attention to the kids who had been lost along the way during the regular school year. I was always amazed with the progress they made when given that second chance.
So the question lingered, if we were going to take a road trip when would it be. Lynn had her schedule at the bank and I had mine at the high school.

   During the regular school year, I taught twelfth grade English as well as Creative Writing. I also taught an elective called Cinematic Literacy. I created that one myself and it was a great success. I was approaching the peak of my teaching career.
I had ten days at the end of August, beginning of September.


   Lynn had a week of undefined vacation saved up.
We had  originally met on July eleventh 1987 or as we called it 7/11.

  On our two year anniversary, we went out to dinner at the very restaurant where Lynn had made her first proposal a month before. Midway through the meal she said “I sent away for a marriage license in Iowa. The field is located in Dyersville which is near Dubuque. We have a license waiting for us in Dubuque.”
Of course I was surprised but since I hadn’t been bullshitting her about the road trip idea, I said “that’s great. Good job.”

   
I didn’t know if she had actually procured a license or if she was reality testing
. I was mystified when she said “so if we break up this summer at least we can always say that at one time we had a marriage license in Iowa when we tell our story”.


    All through the month of August, we came up with reasons to take the trip and those reasons were roadblocked by objections, obstacles and realities. If Lynn wasn’t exactly rocking the boat during those weeks, she was damned sure checking for leaks.

     
One night, we watched Close Encounters of the Third Kind. We loved the flick and mixed it into our plan. If we headed west we would go as far as Devil’s Tower in Wyoming and if we hadn’t made up our mind to get married by that time, we would head back and know that we had tried goddamn it, we had tried and we had a Iowa Marriage license to prove it.


  It was also becoming clear that if we hadn’t made up our mind to try the road trip  before school started, it meant that we probably should wrap up the relationship as painlessly as possible.
On August 25th, I called  Lynn from my apartment and said “I was ready to go if she was”.


   She wasn’t ready and she hung up sorta pissed off.
This was the last possible day to make the trip and be back in time for school.
A couple hours later, I heard a knock on the door. It was Lynn.
She told me the van was in the parking lot, packed and ready to go if I was serious.
I ran into my house, packed a few things.
I climbed into the van.
“Let’s go”.

I said.
“I’ll drive”
I drove the first leg. We found rest area deep in Ohio.
We napped for a few hours. Then we went into the rest area and washed up. Lynn came out first and went behind the wheel. I started to climb into the van when an impulse struck me. As I was leaving the rest area, I saw a machine selling bio-rhythm cards. I decided what the hell…I went back and bought a card for that day.
It only took maybe an extra thirty seconds. I didn’t like what the card said so I threw it out.
That thirty seconds would be crucial as we were headed for a blind spot that we might have missed if not for the card.
 We managed to arrive at the blind spot exactly on time. Yeah, the whole crazy pilgrimage was my idea. I talked her into it, yet it was her van that was smashed to bits. 


   One way or another, the journey was over.
We were alone together in a motel in LaGrange, Indiana not far from Touchdown Jesus and the Golden Dome of Notre Dame. I was beginning to get a grip on death. As we traveled from the wreckage to the hotel, I asked what time it was. When we got to the hotel, it was a half hour before the time it was when we were on our way to the hotel.
Someone explained that we had crossed the line separating one time zone from another. We had left Eastern Daylight Savings Time. That’s when I began to realize what death is/was. This was eternity. When you’re dead, you’re in Indiana and you keep crossing between time zones and Touchdown Jesus forever.


   Time stabilized for awhile in the hotel. I was expecting hysterics, blame or disassociation from Lynn. Instead, I got calm, composed, courageous capability.She started working the phones.
She had a handle on what happened. She called her auto insurance company back in New York. She explained the situation…..car totaled, hotel in Indiana, etc. They wanted to know what her plan was.
To my astonishment, Lynn told them that she wanted to continue on with her journey. She outlined what she needed and what she expected to make that continuation possible.
Following that she called the American Automobile Association and got from them what we needed to continue the journey.
A few minutes later, a rental car appeared at the motel.
We drove around a bit, looking for a place to eat. We lost and gained two or three hours in that fifteen minute search. 


   After “lunch” we made our way to the junkyard to take a look at the van.
“Yep, it’s totaled”, the junkman asserted.
We gathered our belongings from the van and loaded them in the rental.
I could not have been more impressed by any companion.
Even though I wasn’t sure whether we were alive or not, it was clear that we were inhabiting the same realm. It was a realm, I wanted to remain in for the rest of my life/death.

   I got down on one knee in that junkyard and asked Lynn to marry me.
She accepted.
August 26, 1989.
What a day.
What an eternity.
And the pilgrimage was still on.
We didn’t know if we were dead or alive but we knew we were getting married. We didn’t know where. We had a marriage license in Iowa. We had been looking for the Field of Dreams which we heard was in Dyersville.

   We drove through that town. There’s a lot of farms in Dyersville and a lot of corn. We couldn’t find the farm that we were looking for. We were hungry, tired, not sure if we were alive and headed for a place that might not exist. We were in a rented van.

   
We saw the driveway to yet another farm and turned into it, past yet another corn field. When we got to the farm itself, it was most definitely not the Field of Dreams farm, it looked more like the Cujo farm. We got the hell out of there but not before some giant thing flew out of the corn, through my open window and onto my chest. I don’t know what the hell it was a bird, a locust, a demon grasshopper? I don’t know, I just grabbed whatever  it was and threw it out the window toward the cornfield or the hell from whence it came.


    When we reached the end of the driveway safe from Cujo and the flying thing, I pulled the van off the road. I realized that I had gone crazy. Here we were in the middle of Iowa for God sake. We were lost. We might be as totaled as was our original van. All my fault, all part of yet another crazy dream that I had dragged Lynn into.

   
We turned right at the end of the driveway. We drove about a hundred yards.

   And then…we saw a paper plate…..nailed to a tree….on the plate two words and an arrow…..Movie site….arrow pointed right.


   We took that right turn and a half mile down the road, there it was….The Field of Dreams. No doubt. Right exactly out of the film and out of my dreams.
Perfect.
We drove down that long driveway and met a man who was working in the yard. I asked him if he was the owner of the place.
He said that he wasn’t but that the owner was out in the cornfield on his tractor.
I saw the man on the tractor in the corn and walked towards him. He turned his tractor to meet me. 
When we were about ten feet apart, he shut off the tractor and focused his blue eyes on me.
“Can I help you?” asked the man on the tractor.

   
I said, “I believe you can. We’ve traveled from Rochester, New York. We had a terrible automobile accident yesterday. I’m not sure if we’re alive or dead so tell me, is this heaven or is this Iowa?”

   
He looked at me and realized that there was something going on here and he wasn’t sure what it was.
Then he answered in the most perplexing way possible.
“It’s whatever you want it to be.’


   I said, “whatever it is, it’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. I want it to be the place where we get married.”

  
He said “You can do that.”

  
I asked “Would Friday be all right.”

  
He said “that would be fine.”


  We shook hands.
On that Friday, he would be our best man. His name was Don Lansing.
I told Lynn the great news.
We got in our car and drove to Devil’s Tower. We had originally said that we would go as far West as Devil’s Tower and if we hadn’t made up our minds by then, well we’d head back home and take a break. Of course, we had already made up our minds thanks to the junkyard proposal.


   That night, we stopped in Sioux Falls. A year earlier Sioux Falls had been the site of a horrifying tragedy. A plane crashed and there were no survivors. The plane crashed in a cornfield. We trucked through the Black Hills and the Badlands of South Dakota.We stopped at Mt. Rushmore where, I almost lost my wallet. We made a late night stop in Deadwood. We wanted to check and see if we were really still alive. They dropped fluorescent eye drops into Lynn’s eyes and checked to see if hemorrhaging had occurred. I’ll never forget looking at Lynn in that darkened emergency room with her glowing, green fluorescent eyes. The eyes were by far the brightest objects in the room. They okayed us for further travel as if anything could have stopped us now.

We stayed the night in Spearfish after spending some afternoon time wading through a few crystal clear South Dakota cascades, getting our feet wet, so to speak.

   We returned to Iowa on Thursday night.
Don greeted us warmly and invited us into the house. Yeah, the house in the movie. Don wanted to know what we were going to wear. All we had left were our jeans. Don went to the phone and called the local tux shop. They had one tux left. Don asked if we wanted a cake. We said yeah. He got on the phone and called the local bakery. He asked Lynn how big the cake should be. She said big enough for fifty. I laughed out loud. We didn’t know a single person in Iowa aside from Don and the guy who originally greeted us, a guy named Butch who was a caretaker for the field and his wife Annie.


   Then he asked Lynn if she needed a wedding gown. He knew a dressmaker in town. He called Anne Steffen, the local dressmaker. He described our dream and asked Ann if she could help out. She said that she could.

   
That evening, we drove into town. The only tux in town fit me perfectly. Next we met Anne. She and Lynn got together and designed a wedding dress. That night we slept at Butch and Annie’s house and the rain poured down ending a drought.
The next day, we went back into town. The dress was made. Beautiful like in a dream. We drove to the town office to pick up our wedding license that Lynn had sent away  before we left on our pilgrimage. By the time we got to the office the word had already spread. We got our license. They told us that they had heard all about the plan and so had the local television station. The station wanted to interview us. 
We met the reporter and she seemed very interested in our story. She had a full camera crew with her.

   We told them that we had arranged for a magistrate to do the honors. We told them about the car crash.
The town barber had heard about all of this and volunteered to give me a haircut while Lynn tried on her dress. 
By that time it was getting late. We stopped at a restaurant to have our last meal as single people. We looked up at the teevee and there we were on the local news. We watched ourselves telling our story.


   We made it back to the house. By this time, a bunch of neighbors had gathered.
I went into the room where in the movie Ray’s daughter looks out the window and says “something’s gonna happen out there.”just before the ghost shows up.
I had the same view of the field and I knew that indeed something was gonna happen out there. We were gonna get married. The ghosts were gonna show up.

   
I made sure I had the wedding ring which we had bought at Wall Drugs in South Dakota. The rings were made from genuine Black Hills gold.
By this time about fifty people had gathered.
I left the house and walked into the corn in left field. I figured that since I still wasn’t sure that I was alive that I should come out of the corn like the ghosts did.
 I made my way to the pitchers mound where I met Don. I was on the mound for a few moments when the fifty people started to ooh and ahh as Lynn emerged from the house. Suddenly everything was in transcendent five dimension. I couldn’t have dreamed of a more beautiful bride.


   She made the long walk past the bleachers and crossed the magical first base line. She didn’t disappear. She met me on the mound and we walked together to home plate where the magistrate awaited. We took our vows with Don standing right behind us. The witnesses cheered.
After the ceremony, we went back to the porch. The towns folk had brought fixings. We ate the cake together. They all wanted pictures so we posed for awhile. We drank some champagne that somebody had provided. We bid them farewell.
The next day we were home. On the flight back, we told the  stewardess our story and she put us in first class. Sitting right next to us was Maury Wills, the ex-Dodger shortstop who had once stole a hundred bases in a season. She told Maury the story and he congratulated us.
We made it home in time for the Ring of Fire around Canadaigua Lake.
We’re going to be celebrating our thirtieth anniversary next week.
We’re still going the distance and easing each other’s pain.





[fhujami]

You promised to come back. Chapter 4 [Sam Drake/OC]

Pairings: Sam Drake x oc/reader

Warnings: Umm, Reference to sex, cursing, minor violence, maybe some NSFW? I don’t know. (I haven’t written so much to know all the practical things, sorry)

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Epilogue

Chapter 4 - The Rossi Estate part 2

I rushed to the bar, and ordered a whiskey and poured it straight down on my throat. It burned my gut and I waited for it to stop. I ordered another one and took my glass and looked at it. People around me were looking at me but I didn’t care. My head was messed up.

How the hell Sam was alive? And why the hell he is still searching that goddamn pirate treasure? I shook my head and poured the whiskey down my throat. I asked for another one and I took the glass and turned my way. I saw how Sam was talking to a waiter and Nate grabbed his back pocket a keycard. I started to walk to Sully and headed there at the same time as Nate and Sam. I glanced at Sam and noticed he had a tattoo on his neck. Nate opened the door and Sully gave us the earpieces so we could talk. Brothers disappeared from the door and Sully turned to me. "You alright?" I nodded to him. He offered his hand and I grabbed it and we started to walk to the hall. "Sorry kiddo, I thought Nate told you." He said to me. "It doesn't matter. Let's just get this cross. So I can go back home" I said when we stopped.

“This must be hard on you.” he said and I took a sip on my glass while he took a drag on his cigar.

“Well, yeah. I got over his death years ago. And now he is back. I’m so messed up.” I told before Sully winched and someone said behind us: “Hands in the air.” I got scared, did we get caught? We slowly turned our backs and a woman smiled at us and greeted.

“Hi Victor. Joanna?” She looked surprised to see me. I nodded to her.

“Hello, Nadine.” Sully said and chuckled. Nadine Ross. I knew her, we had catch up on the same gym years ago. I didn’t know how Sully knew her but listening to them talk, they probably didn’t have any pleasant meeting in the past.

“I was on my way to the bar. Can I get you something?” She asked and I raised my glass and she turned her eyes to Sully who told her to bring scotch, on the rocks.

Nadine started to walk to the bar. I looked at Sully and he had a really serious look on his face. He was calling for Nate and asked did he cathed that. I heard Nate saying something and teasing Sully about a lady buying him a drink. I looked around and looked the people in the hall.

“Yeah. Nadine Ross is buying me a drink.”

“Nadine Ross?” Nate sounded surprised, he had heard that name before. Then it hit him.

“Wait, doesn’t she own that army-for hire? What’s it called, Coastline?”

Before Sully didn’t manage to answer I answer instead.

“Shoreline.” Sully looked at me and looked surprised. I looked at him and slowly nodded to him made him know I knew her, Nathan and Sully continued their talk and I saw how people started to gather closer.

Soon Nadine came back with their drinks, and they started to catch up. I listened and gave little smile once in awhile. I heard how Nate was asking how everything was looking, but I couldn’t answer since Nadine was standing front of us. I started to get little nervous. Then I heard Sam saying about pants being just a little bit too tight. I was just about to take a sip on my whiskey and I almost choked on it. Thank god Sully and Nadine was just laughing and it looked like I was laughing with them. I wiped my chin on my hand.

I looked down at my glass, which was almost empty and wandered to go get another one. I didn’t want to get drunk but I surely needed another drink. I excused myself before I turned and walked away. I placed the glass on the table looking down on my heels and saw waiter coming towards me. I looked and saw he had a glass of wine on his tray and I asked him to stop. Then I realized it was Sam. He looked me deep into my eyes and lowered the tray to let me grab a glass from it. My heart started to beat harder. He winked at me and continued his way. I sighed quietly.

Then I turned to Sully and saw someone going towards to him. Wait, was that Rafe? I looked more specifically. I had met Rafe only twice fifteen years ago, but I still recognized him. Of course, that prick was here after Avery’s cross. I put the wine glass front of my mouth and whispered.

“Nate? Sam? Rafe is here.” Saying his name felt weird. I searched my eyes at Sam and saw him wince when he heard me telling Rafe was here. He looked at me and turned to look at Sully. He didn’t look as surprised to see Rafe there as I thought he’s gonna be.

I sighed and started to head to Sully. I saw how Nadine stepped next to Rafe and I wondered if she was his bodyguard or something. As I reached closer I heard Sully saying

“You are working for an American.” Okay, so she was working on Rafe. Great, that’s just great. I saw how Rafe turned to Nadine and noticed me coming further. He raised his eyebrows and looked me up and down. It felt disgusting. I just wanted to punch him.

“I see. Talk about a power couple.” Sully said to them and turned to me, as I grabbed my hand around his.

“Joanna.” Rafe smiled at me.

“Rafe.” I answered and looked at him with the cold eyes. He wasn’t surprised to see me, and I wonder why. But then auctioneer told that they're going to start bidding in a few moment.

“Well, I know when I’m a third wheel. And I actually had a company of my own.” As Sully nodded at me, and we started to turn away.

“You kids have fun tonight.” Sully told them before Rafe grabbed his elbow.

“Hold on Sully. How did you find out about it?” Rafe asked him and his voice got deeper and angrier.

“It?” Sully tried to herd surprised and to be like he had no idea what Rafe was talking about. “Now what ‘it’ is that, Rafe? Nadine, I think your partner here has had too many Bloody Marys.” Rafe knocked Sully drink out of his hand and I stepped back to avoid the liquid to spill on me.

“Cut the bullshit, old man.” No everyone was looking at us.

“Now I don’t know how you scammed your way in here. But if you think…”

Rafe sounded ruthless. I was ready to punch him in his face, but I looked at Nadine and thought that I would never win against her. Rafe, I could take down easily, but I knew what Nadine was capable of.

“Rafe!” Nadine cut Rafe off before he got too far by poking on Sully’s chest.

Rafe chuckled and tapped Sully on his shoulder.

“Well. You get my point.”

“Lovely seeing you both.” Sully said before we turned and left. I was still on Sully’s arm and my hand was shaking.

“You alright?” Sully asked me.

“Me? He was threatening you not me.” I said to him while I tried to calm myself as Sully tried to get contact to Nate. We hadn’t heard from him for a while.

The option started and we watched Rafe bidding against some old men on the corner. I was getting nervous, where the hell was Nate? I saw Sam walking around with the tray in his hand. I hoped he wouldn’t do anything hasty.

Then I heard something in my ear.        

“God dammit it, kid, where the hell’ve you been?” Sully asked when we finally heard Nate’s voice.

“I made it. Had a few close calls, but-“ Nathan said before Sully cut him:

“Yeah, well if you’re gonna cut the power. Now would be a good time.”

“All right, well, I’m gonna need a minute before I can reach the panel.”

“We don’t have a minute, Rafe’s about to walk out of here with your cross.” I said to Nate and he sounded shocked.

“Wait. What? Rafe? Rafe is here?”

“Yes, Rafe is here. And as of right now, he has the highest bid.” Sam told and I saw how he lowed the tray on the table in front of him.

“Well, outbid him.” Nate told us.

“With what? I don’t have that kind of scratch.” Sully asked and I turned to look at him when my heart popped up in my throat. This is not going well.

“Sully, we’re stealing it, remember?” Nate reminded us.

“What if he calls my bluff?” Sully asked and scratched his whiskers.

“He won’t.”

The auctioneer asked was there any more bids.

“Guys, if we do not get this cross, I am as good as dead.” Sam said and I looked at him and saw he was nervous and worried next to the table in a cross on it. Him saying he’s going to be dead made me realize that I had actually forgotten for the last twenty minutes that I had assumed he was already dead for the last fifteen years. And that I had actually no idea why he’s going to be dead if we won’t catch the cross. I needed answers. But first, we needed that cross.

“Going once…going twice.”

The auctioneer was almost hitting the mallet on the table and I closed my eyes and waiting for her to say Rafe had bought the cross.

“Screw it.” Sully spoke before lifting up the paddle and I opened my eyes.

“Bene! We have one hundred thousand euros in the room. Thank you. Do we have any other bids?” The auctioneer spoke and looked the crowd. I let a relieved sigh out of my lungs. I probably forgot to breathe. I saw Rafe looking at us before he lifted his paddle up.

“We now have one hundred ten thousand euros in the room.”

“In for a penny, in for a pound.” Sully looked at me before he raised his paddle again. I looked at Sam. He looked at me back and he had that serious look on his face.

“Don’t worry you’ll be out of there in no time.” Nate told us. Sully shook his head a little bit and said we better be.

I looked how Rafe and Sully were raising their paddles

“Alright guys I’m at the switch. You ready?” Nate finally asked. I tapped my wine glass with my fingers, I was so nervous.

“As I’ll ever be. Victor?” Sam asked. His voice calmed me a little.

“Just a sec.” Sully spoke and lifted his paddle. He had a funny grin on his face. I looked at Rafe and he looked furious.

“The gentleman’s bid: two hundred thousand euros.” The auctioneer informed.

“Five hundred thousand! Let’s get this show on the road here.” Rafe lifted his paddle and he was so furious. I wanted to get away from there as soon as possible.

“Uh… thank you. We have five hundred thousand euros in the room. Does the gentleman wish to bid again?” She asked as she looked over at us. Sully took a moment, turned to Rafe, and gestured him that he had won.

“Had me worried there for a minute, Victor. Thought I might have to kill you!” Rafe said and pointed us with his paddle, and the crowd started to laugh. We laughed too.

“Okay. Let’s ruin this asshole’s evening.” Sully said under his laugh. I looked at Rafe who looked pleased as he thought that this was going to be his evening. I was taking my heels off so I could get away more quietly.

Then the lights went off. I leaned to grab my heels and we rushed with Sully out from the door. We got out of the building just before we heard the door got locked and the guards yelling at each other. We got on Sully’s car without anybody noticing we get away.

I packed myself into the passenger side of Sully’s car and was seating my seatbelts, while Sully was catching up with the brothers and telling where to meet us. Then he looked at me and asked if I was ready. I nodded and he started the car. I took my earpiece out of my ear, I didn’t want to hear if something bad happens. In a moment Sully was talking to the guys again. I tried not to focus, but I heard outside gunshots and my heart stopped beating.

“Hang on!” Sully suddenly yelled at me before he speeded the car on his way through the hedge. I saw bullets flying buy and Sully pushed my head down. I placed my hands on my head and stayed down. I heard Sully hitting the horn and I kept my eyes closed.

“Oh shit oh shit oh shit.” I cursed.

I heard the bullets hitting on the side of the car and Sully yelled to hang on. I didn’t raise my head, but I assumed Sam and Nate were in the backseat. I hoped they were in a backseat. The ride was bumpy and when Sully finally slowed down, I raised my head up. I looked backseat and saw Drake brothers smiling and looking at Avery’s cross. Sam raised his head to look at me.

“You alright baby?”

My heart skipped a beat. It’s been over fifteen years when he last time called me baby. I shook my head and tried to push all the memories away, no, I was over by his death. No going back on this road. I had healed my scars and I won’t open them again.

“What kind of trouble are you?” I asked and looked at him. He looked at me, then looked at his brother before he sighed and started to tell what happened to him. I turned my head to look forward and listened his telling his story how he spent fifteen years in that Panamanian jail.

How he got hit by three pullets. How he fell down. How he was dying, but the guards patch him up and threw him into his cell. I felt my eyes started to pour of tears. It was painful to hear. Then he told about Hector Alcazar, how he helped him escape and now he needed to find the treasure to pay his debt.

He got finished just before we got to the hotel. I was tired. I wanted to go to the bed. I wanted to go to call Oscar and tell him that Sam was alive. Guys asked if I wanted to join them to see what’s inside of the cross, but I refused. I just wanted to go to in my room.

[fortey]

The King of the Wasps

There are some days in the heart of summer that seem to almost stop, stuck like a tire in mud, stalled out and sweltering while the world ceases its spinning, and everything just is.  The sun beats down and everything is still and quiet except for the insects in their frenzy to live their short lives. Even the shade is oppressive, and the breeze doesn’t dare to blow.

On a day like this, you could find the love of your life as you share a glance.  On a day like this you could walk a hundred miles and just lose yourself in your own thoughts.  On a day like this you could die screaming and not a soul will hear it.

Billy Baumgartner is a man who’s going places. True, he’s only seventeen, but he has plans.  Big plans. Plans you don’t even know, man.  Billy is saving up his money from his job stocking shelves at the Kroger.  He’s already got over one thousand dollars. And this time next summer, he’s going to be in Los Angeles.  Screw this town.  Screw this town and everyone in it with their boring lives that go nowhere and do nothing. How can 6,000 people agree to get together and just rot in place for the rest of their lives?  

Billy Baumgartneris not going to rot here with everyone else.  Once he’s done school, he’ll hit the west coast and start his band.  Everyone agrees he’s the best guitar player in town, and probably as good as anyone you hear on the radio.  It’s true, he’s been playing since he was six years old.  He could drop a riff right now and you’d swear Hendrix had just entered the room.  Billy Baumgartner is that good.  

For too long nothing has gone on in this town. A Wal Mart opening three towns over a decade ago was the biggest thing that happened here in Billy’s entire life. Yesterday, the front page of the local paper had a story about the library changing its hours, so it closed at six instead of seven. This town has been on life support since the first house was built.

It’s not that Billy hates this place and everyone in it, he just doesn’t get it.  Why is everyone just settling?  Maybe 100 years ago this made sense, but good God, doesn’t everyone have cable TV and the internet?  Can’t they see the world they’re missing?  It just doesn’t make sense.

Billy Baumgartner has argued with his parents about leaving about a million times.  They don’t understand why he’d want to leave.  It’s quiet and safe here.  It’s a great place to raise a family.  He has a job, and he has friends.  LA is big and dangerous and expensive.  What could possibly happen in LA that’s worth leaving.  Billy just shakes his head.  What couldn’t happen in LA?

Billy Baumgartner wipes the sweat from his brow. It’s got to be at least 110 degrees out here today.  Because he’s been saving so much money, Billy never bothered getting a car like his friends. The Kroger is literally a 20-minute walk from his house.  Why not get the exercise?  Better to be in good shape when he gets to LA anyway.  Lots of ladies to impress. Lots of beaches to hit. Lots of photoshoots to do.

The field past Welch street is like an outdoor sauna.  The tall grass and weeds are just standing still, crunching in Billy’s wake as he passes, swatting gnats and mosquitos and black flies away from his face.  He should have invested in some bug repellant.

Welch field is one of those spots the world forgot about. It's just empty land. Who owns it? The government? The bank? No one really knows. Overgrown for acres. That grass that scratches and cuts your bare legs if you brush against it the wrong way. The skeletal frames of rickety, gnarled old crab apple trees all abuzz with hungry insects eating the mealy fruit.

The sound of a lone cicada is all that dares break the silence here.  Not for the first time, Billy finds himself stopping to look around.  The world feels so damn big sometimes.  This vastness that just needs to be explored.  Why does everyone want to sit still all the time?

On a cloudless day the sky is a blank slate. But some days, when the clouds are just right, you get that depth and the sky looks so big. The world looks so goddamn big, it practically begs you to spread your wings and experience it. Why can't Billy Baumgartner be a part of that?

The cicada’s trilling dies off.  Silence rolls in like the tide. That crushing sense of nothing that has been the bane of Billy's existence for years. Across the field, the old Marsh barn catches his eye.  The rickety, faded red structure has been here much longer than Billy has. As far as he knows, the Marsh family have been gone for at least 20 years.  It’s just no one bothered to use the land for anything.  As a kid, he used to play in the old barn, until his parents found out and had a fit.  It’s dangerous, you know.  What if the roof caved in?  What if he got trapped and no one knew where he was?  What if what if what if.  

Billy Baumgartner thinks “screw it” and changes direction, heading through weeds that haven't seen a human in years.  The cans at work will survive without him for a half hour.  If he has to be stuck here on a day like today, may as well have some fun. The world is built on the promise of adventures. He needs this. A nostalgic trip to something almost dreamlike. Something from a time when he still felt hopeful and alive.

Thick grasses grip at his bare legs as he trudges across the uneven field.  That rough, sandpapery feel scraps against his shins and he curses to himself. Still, better than having all of this mowed under and turned into more housing for boring, do-nothing people to fester in.  In a weird way, this field of nothing was the most alive thing in town.

A tangle of roots snare his foot and Billy stumbles.  He swears out loud as his hands hit dry, rough earth and some flesh scrapes off. As he tries to regain his footing, a sudden pain under his palm causes him to pull away sharply.  The sting is like a tiny stab of fire, digging into his nerves.  He cradles his hand instinctively and lurches backwards as a wasp twists in a frenzy before righting itself and turning a circle on the ground.  

“Goddamn it,” Billy mutters, looking at the insect. It paces, facing him a moment, before testing out its wings, seemingly as annoyed with Billy as he is with it. The insect flies off, no worse for the wear after its run in with Billy Baumgartner.  As for Billy, he checks the fiery sting on his palm.  It throbs, and is already turning red.  He doesn’t think he’s allergic, but he also can barely remember the last time he was stung by a wasp. When was it? Doesn't matter.

Billy gets to his feet, dusts himself off.  He heads out again after a quick look around to make sure no one else saw his misfortune.  Just the grass and the bugs, and the barn.  No harm, no foul.

The old Marsh barn looks like it was made from driftwood that someone sent adrift about four or five times.  Planks aren’t flush, the little paint remaining is flaking, and the roof sags at the far end.  Inside, the support beams look like they’re made of solidified dust, and the loft has caved in.  There are small relics of a bygone era; a rake with no handle, some rusted chains, an old barrel, trash from years of kids making it their clubhouse, but not much else.  Billy and his friends used to hang out here and play, read comic books and eat candy. It seemed fun at the time.

In the corner is a flaccid and filthy mattress and some dusty bottles, the remnants of a party spot from some teens, or maybe a drifter who set up shop for a time. The heat in the barn is no different than the heat outside the barn.  The only difference is the air seems more stagnant.  The smell is like a guinea pig cage in need of cleaning. Dust and rotten hay, the smell of old earth and a hint of mold. It is the smell of a yesterday no one can remember anymore. A storybook kingdom that has lost its magic.

Billy Baumgartner enters with confidence. There are piles of refuse in the corners here and there.  On the far side, below the sagging roof, is an old tarp.  His face lights up when he sees it.  He and the guys had found a rundown old motorcycle in the field and brought it back here with plan to fix it up.  None of them had the first clue how to fix it, and it was missing any number of parts, but when you’re 10 you think anything is possible. They’d hidden it under the tarp.  There was no way it was still here.

Striding over o the mildew-encrusted and rotting tarp, another wasp makes a beeline for Billy’s face.  He feels the hard, little body hit like a pea shot from a straw, and latch onto his cheek. He swats it away, more panicked than he’d like to admit, and curses again.  In the dimness of the barn he can’t see where it went or where it came from.

The throb in his hand keeps him rooted in the moment. The last time he was stung by a wasp was when he was a boy. He had gone into the old shed at the back of their yard and seen what looked like a ball of paper stuck to the corner of the ceiling. A single wasp paced back and forth around a hole near the base of it and, being a stupid kid, he did what stupid kids do. He took a stick and broke it open.

There must have been a thousand wasps in that nest. They rushed I a swarm, furious at little Billy Baumgartner for destroying their home, for declaring war o the hive. The stings were like fire on his arms, his face, his neck. He ran screaming and they gave chase. How could he have forgotten that?

A quick circle on his heels in the barn, looking for his winged attacked, and Billy Baumgartner sees nothing.  The pain in his hand has lessened, but there’s a definite lump there now.  Last thing he needs is one of those on his face, people will think he has crazy acne.

Another wasp buzzes past his ear and Billy flinches, ducking dramatically.  He moves forward quickly, wary now, and grabs the tarp.  The old material feels crusty in his hand, flakes of ancient blue plastic come away in his grip.  He yanks quickly.  For the briefest of moments, he is unsure of how to react.  

The barn erupts. The buzzing is a chorus, a symphony of angry activity.  A thousand wasps, a thousand thousand, burst from the darkness beyond the tarp.  Billy screams and recoils.  The handleless rake catches his heel and he falls back.  The insects swarm and Billy tries to cover his face crawling backwards in a panic.  And as he tries to protect himself, as the swarm of insects detect their target and dive to attack, Billy Baumgartner sees it.  

In the center of the storm, writhing with the bodies of countless wasps, a massive thing. Black, hollow eyes regard Billy Baumgartner, wasps crawling in and out of the papery coating.  A slit below, lips made of mud-brown parchment, slowly expands, widens.  A mouth. It returns Billy’s scream and the wasps pour outward.  The sound, a buzzing, hollow roar of rage.

Billy Baumgartner screams as he has never screamed before.  As each wasp deposits its venom into his exposed flesh, a pinpoint of fire burns inside of him.  And it happens over and over, under the unflinching, hollow gaze of the hive king.

Paper flesh rustles.  The vague shape of a man pulls away from the wall of the barn. Flaky remnants like phyllo dough cling to the wood.  The wasps still pour from its face, even as Billy Baumgartner’s vain attempts to beat away the assault grow weaker. His screams are muffled by writhing little bodies as they fill his mouth, stinging his gums, his lips, his tongue.  In moments, he can no longer even hold his arms up to protect himself. He lays on the floor, his body seizing as his eyes roll back in his head, the toxin overloading his system, the pain engulfing him. His flesh swells and bloats, angry and red.

Billy Baumgartner does not even register the presence of the hive.  He does not see as it lowers itself to a crawl, straddling his body.  He does not feel the paper of its dry, dead lips on his own.  Does not feel the army of wasps as they crawl down his throat.  He senses nothing as they begin their work, mixing saliva and wood fibers, covering his body, entombing him and the hive man together. There is no life left in Billy Baumgartner as he joins the hive.