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downwiththeficness · 3 years ago

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A Thing Most Desired-Chapter 6

Summary: Rosalind was eight years old when she knew she had a soulmate. At eighteen, she vowed never to find him. To protect her family, Rose makes the decision to tempt fate and she finds that walking away is easier said than done. Kandomere/Bright!FemOC AU

Word Count: ~4,700

Warnings: None

A/N: This story contains references to child murder and kidnapping. It is rated E for explicit sexual content, blood, gore, death, and mature themes. Please heed these warnings, if you’re going to read or interact with this fic.

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Montana weather didn’t lend itself to summer clothes as well as the nearly always sunny California. The winters were frigid and the summers not long enough. Rose had packed as many of her summer dresses as she owned before hopping onto the flight, happy to wear the shorter hemlines and lighter fabric far longer into the year than she would have back home.

Standing in the hallway mirror, she turned from side to side, wondering if wearing a sundress and sandals would come off as presumptuous. And then she decided that it didn’t matter. He’d asked to talk with her over lunch, this was definitely not anywhere near date territory. Her sartorial choices probably wouldn’t earn more than a passing glance.

Getting to the little cafe was pretty straight forward. They didn’t have a thriving transit system in Montana, but navigating an Uber took little to no effort. She arrived a few minutes late, having forgotten about the standard issue traffic, but Rose figured tardiness was worth being able to have a few extra seconds to gather herself when she spotted him.

Rose liked to think that she was not the kind of person to fawn over a person’s looks, but Kandomere was proving that it just wasn’t true. Dressed in a deep blue suit, he’d forgone a tie, his white shirt open at the collar. Sitting in one of the chairs, he looked as relaxed as she’d ever seen him, which wasn’t saying much. The tension in his shoulders might be gone, but his eyes were focused and alert as he swiped over his phone.

Rose, for her part, was once again forcibly reminded that her soulmate was gorgeous. As she approached, all she could think about was how she wanted to press her thumb into the dimple of his chin, how she wanted to nibble at his lower lip.

Distracted as he was by his phone, Rose got within about ten feet before he looked up. She had to focus on her next steps so that she didn’t stumble under the intensity of his gaze. He studied her like he had that first night, taking in every detail with brutal efficiency that left her catching her breath.

Sitting carefully, Rose hung her purse on the chair behind her, and crossed her legs, “You know, I went to school about ten blocks that way. This place wasn’t here at the time, but I bet we would have skipped class if we thought we could get…” She looked at the menu briefly, “a peanut butter smoothie with chocolate crumbles.”

Mouth lifting in a smile, he leaned back a little in his chair, “Did you skip class a lot?”

“Oh, no,” Rose said emphatically, “Ivy wouldn’t have that. She’s the kind of person to take off work for a week and follow me from class to class just to teach me a lesson. You could say that she was very invested in my education.”

Much the same way Alma had been. It was not the only similarity between the two women.

Kandomere’s gaze softened, “You seem very close with them.”

She nodded, “I used to think, growing up, that Alma—my grandma—would be the only family I would ever have. I’m glad that I was wrong about that.”

The separation from them when she’d been so young had been one of the worst experiences of her life. Keeping in touch through phone, text, and the occasional family trip wasn’t quite enough to assuage the loneliness she routinely felt deep in her chest. Although she had initially intended for this trip to include exactly zero interaction with them, Rose was gratefully to spend some time with Ivy and Ulysses.

The wait staff came to take their orders, reading off the specials with practiced ease. Writing quickly, they gave a winning smile and let them know that the food would be out shortly.

“Are you close with your family?” she asked, the question almost reflexive.

“I am,” he replied, tucking his hair behind his ear.

All of the things about him that were different—the flash of his eyes, the sharp edge of his teeth—and it was the gracefully curved points of his ear gave her a little shock. She covered it by looking down at her hands, rubbing one thumb over the other.

“My older sister played hookey all the time,” he continued, and Rose was surprised by the additional information. “My mother took it out on me, I think. The one time I was late for class, she called a meeting with the counselor to ‘deal with it’.”

Eyes wide, Rose felt no small amount of second hand embarrassment for him, “That sounds harsh.”

His head tilted to the side, his expression both nostalgic and amused, “It was. It was also effective. I wasn’t late for class again, not even in college.”

Rose hadn’t gone to college, hadn’t really wanted to. She had everything she needed on the farm, and the thought of going into debt for something she just wasn’t passionate about didn’t make sense.

“Is this what you went to school for? To work at the MTF?”

Kandomere hesitated before answering, “I majored in business and communication, intending to go into the family practice. By the time I finished, I was so tired of it that I applied for the Bureau. I think it took my mother by surprise, but by then she’d learned that I could be as stubborn as she is, so she let it go. Since then, I haven’t looked back.”

She wondered what it was like to be that driven, to go against the life that had been set up for you and do whatever you wanted. She also wondered what it was like to just know what it was that he wanted to do and then do that thing with a singular focus.

“So, what’s the family business that you didn’t want to do?”

“Law.”

“Ah,” she said, as if she knew the burden of a life lived in a courtroom.

Their food was brought on white ceramic plates. His salmon and fresh greens looked out of place next to her little personal pizza and the aforementioned peanut butter smoothie. Kandomere eyed it with subdued laughter in his gaze, and Rose felt like he must think she was a child. This visit, as difficult as it had been, was being counted as a vacation. And, vacations meant that indulgence was not only acceptable, but expected.

“How is it?” Kandomere asked as she took the first pull through the straw.

She thought about it, rolling the cold ice cream over her tongue, “Its good.”

It wasn’t until near the end of the meal that Kandomere began to tense up again, the cant of his shoulders rising. Until that moment, they’d been able to engage in small talk, chatting about nothing as they ate. She tore at the crust of her pizza, trying to think of something to say that would make him feel more at ease.

“There’s something that we need to discuss,” he said, finally, “And there is no graceful way to bring it up.”

Her hands paused over her plate, “Okay.”

He picked up his napkin from his lap, folding it in half, and then in half again, “This would normally be handled by proxies, but as you are human, some considerations must be made.”

Rose blinked at him, frowning, “Why would I need a proxy?”

“To negotiate on your behalf,” he said, his tone indicating that the answer should be obvious.

“What would I have to negotiate?”

“The contract.”

“What contract?”

He sighed, look angry when he had no right to be, “You are...my…” and then he said a word that had Rose recalling her high school language classes in an attempt to translate.

“Your container?” she asked, brows coming together as her confusion grew.

Kandomere’s expression relaxed in surprise, “You speak—.”

“No,” she cut in, shaking her head hard, “I took a few classes, for the foreign language credit I needed to graduate.”

That was sort of the truth. Rose did need the foreign language credit to get her high school diploma, but she had more than a few languages to choose from. The fact that she chose Övüsi wasn’t particularly out of the ordinary. Rose would only admit it to herself that she picked the notoriously difficult class because of him, and she would never say it out loud.

Looking down at his hands, he clarified, “The word is typically translated as, ‘vessel’.”

“What does that mean? I’m a vessel?”

Rose had been a lot of things in her life, but this was new territory for her. If she were honest with herself, she was beginning to get tired of walking in new territory. It made her miss the farm, even made her miss working at the gas station day in and day out.

He gave an elegant shrug, “The origins of the words are a subject of debate among scholars, but the most common understanding has to do with pregnancy.”

“Excuse me.”

Two fingers of his right hand lifted, a silent request for her to let him continue, “You know that the elves reproduce at low numbers. The fact that I have a sibling is remarkable in and of itself. Vessels aren’t...rare, per se, but we only get one. Just one, for a whole lifetime.”

She stared at him for far longer than would have been socially acceptable in any other situation. Clearing her throat, she reasoned out loud, “So, a vessel is someone who can get pregnant—have baby elves.”

“Essentially.”

“By, like, anyone?”

His lips pulled back from his teeth, “By just one elf—me, in your case.”

Rose’s mouth pursed, “You’re sure about this.”

“Absolutely.”

“Really?”

“Without a doubt.”

“And, you know this how?”

Rose knew she was the biggest hypocrite for asking this particular question, for casting doubt on something in which he placed so much confidence. She knew it, but couldn’t help the little bit of suspicion that colored her tone, her expression.

“I just know,” he pronounced, shoulders lifting and falling as he spoke.

Looking out to the street, Rose drew in a short breath, intending to say something and unable to find the words. She thought that maybe she should tell him about the mirror, about having known his face since she was a teenager. But, there was something so surreal in actually saying the words. The sheer vulnerability he was giving her could not be an easy thing to do, and Rose was discovering that she could not meet him halfway.

Of course the Elves would have a similar archetype in their culture as humans did in theirs—a vessel instead of a soulmate. She almost shook her head at the way it made too much sense. It did complicate things, though. Whereas Rose could have kept the image in the mirror to herself, that Kandomere had a similar experience would make their eventual separation that much more difficult.

“There is a blood test that will confirm it, if you like.”

His words brought her focus back to the conversation. Rose realized that he was taking her silence as mistrust, and she supposed that he had every right to feel that way. She certainly wasn’t giving any ground as to her feelings in that moment. Still, the assurance would come with one major drawback.

She cut a look at him, “I can’t go to a doctor.”

“I know,” he replied easily, “There are over the counter tests at most pharmacies. I have one in my car, if that will satisfy you.”

Smiling, she joked, “You were a boy scout, weren’t you?”

Mouth parting in apprehension, he said, “No. Why?”

“Always prepared,” she intoned with seriousness.

He nodded in understanding, the severity of his expression unchanging. Setting the napkin aside with an entreating look, Kandomere asked, “Would taking the blood test prove what I’m saying to you is true?”

It wouldn’t matter to Rose what the blood test said, it barely mattered at all what significance being a vessel would amount to. What mattered to her is that she already knew that he was her soulmate and that was more than enough. Whatever happened from here could be endured in light of that fact.

“Okay.”

Standing quickly, the motion so fluid that he was already rounding the table by the time she realized that he’d left the chair, Kandomere held out his hand to her. She took it, letting him pull her to standing. As it had when last they touched, her magic rose up to greet him. Rose pushed it back down. Now was not the time. Kandomere dropped a few bills on the table and guided her down the street to where he was parked.

As they walked, he kept hold of her hand, grip loose enough that she could break it if she wanted. She didn’t. Rose enjoyed the warmth of his skin, with a giddy kind of excitement that she tamped down along with the power simmering beneath her skin. His stride was longer than hers, and he was walking with a determined pace that had her working to keep up. By the time they got to his car, she was making an effort to control her breathing and thinking that she definitely needed to start working out more.

Kandomere opened the door for her, guiding her into the passenger’s seat with both hands, as if he was afraid she’d change her mind. She settled in and watched him walk around the front of the car with both grace and speed. In the few seconds she was alone, Rose wondered again what this felt like from his perspective.

Clearly, he was eager to prove the veracity of his statement, but underneath that eagerness was an unmovable certainty that was, quite frankly, thrilling. Rose had often had a conversation with herself, trying to figure out the best way to tell him (hypothetically) that she’d known for a very long time that they were soulmates. It never went well enough, even in her own mind, for Rose to think that she would convince him.

And, here she was, watching him reach for a plastic bag out of the backseat before sliding in next to her. He’d just revealed that he already knew they were made for one another, leaving her with no need to convince him. Relieved of that barrier, Rose was a bit unsure of what to do next.

Kandomere looked at the bag in his hands, and then looked at her, assessing her expression, “You’re right. This isn’t the best place for this.”

Taken aback, Rose said, “I didn’t say anything.”

Letting out a breath, Kandomere gripped the wheel, fingers flexing around its circumference, “You know, I never understood why they used proxies for this sort of thing. I get it now.”

She blinked, “You lost me.”

Head tilting back, he closed his eyes briefly. After a few seconds, he looked at her, “There’s a chemical change, something to do with hormones that I honestly didn’t think I needed to know before I met you. Its cumulative. The more time I spend with you, the more it progresses.”

Rose had no words for that, it had never come up with any of her furtive attempts to dig into Elven cultural differences. And, she was more than a little thrown by the abrupt change in subject.

“I’m just,” he waved one hand dismissively, “trying to adjust.”

“Am I,” she paused, “making it worse? Should I leave?”

“No,” he said quickly, hand already on her arm, as if to stop her.

“Okay. So, where should we do…this?”

His eyes looked to the middle distance for about three or four seconds before he focused again on her face, “Elf Town is not far from here. My apartment, we can do the test there.”

Although Rose had never been there, barely knew her way around the city as it was, Kandomere was right in that Elf Town was not far from the cafe. They moved through the checkpoint pretty quickly, the tags on his car scanned remotely and the guards waving them through. His apartment was six floors up in a posh building that reminded her a little too much of the event hall where they’d officially met for the first time. If he hadn’t been guiding her with a hand at the small of her back, if he hadn’t been clearly telegraphing that she was his guest, she knew that she would have never been let through the doors.

She didn’t know why she was surprised by the extensive security system, both the elevator and the door to his apartment needing a thumbprint followed by a six digit code. What didn’t surprise her was the décor of the living room. From the couch, to the coffee table, to the soft look of the rug on the floor, the mirror hadn’t been wrong. On the far wall hung a television, flanked on both sides by decorative mirrors. That had to be how the link had been made.

It baffled her that so much had happened in three days, that so many changes had taken place in so little time. Rose was used to a pretty stagnant life, the only major change being a new beer or liquor to be catalogued and sold at the station—or, perhaps, a group of teens forming a new band to play at the bar.

“Please sit,” he said, gesturing at the couch.

Rose eased down into the cushion, crossing her legs as she waited. It didn’t escape her attention that he chose a seat near her, but not next to her. Unbuttoning his jacket, Kandomere pulled a small box from the bag.

Setting the plastic aside, he held the box out to her, “These are pretty standard, and this is the most accurate brand on the shelves.”

Smiling, Rose folded her hand in her lap, “I really wouldn’t know the difference. This isn’t my area of expertise.”

Giving a curt nod, Kandomere opened the box and set out the contents. There was a long piece of white plastic, blue plastic inserts on either end, two small circular tubes with blue caps, and a thin tube with several strips of paper in it. All in all, it looked like the blood testing meter that her boss used to check his sugar.

“These are the needle pens. You twist here,” he tapped the blue end, “to prime them. And then you put this end to your skin and press the button. Drop the blood onto the paper and insert it into the meter—yours on one end, mine on the other.”

She looked over the materials as she listened, “Seems pretty straightforward.”

“That’s purposeful. This process can be difficult. It benefits almost everyone to get a clear, concise answer as easily as possible.”

Rose’s brows drew together, “Are they ever wrong?”

Kandomere’s hands paused in the middle of tearing off the security sticker, “It is integral to Elven culture that these tests are accurate.”

There was weight beneath that explanation that snagged Rose’s attention. She realized in the space of half a second that, whatever she thought she knew about elves, there was much more hidden from public view. ‘Vessels’ had never been mentioned, not ever. Something so critical to ‘Elven culture’ had been so efficiently suppressed that no one had ever heard about it.

“Why is that?”

He fixed her with a serious look, “Because people die if they are wrong.”

To say that Rose was shocked would be an understatement. Her voice, when she found it, was high pitched and reed thin, “What the hell does that mean?”

Sitting back a little bit, he took a breath, letting it out slowly. Rose would almost characterize it as a calming breath, except that he didn’t appear to be agitated. It was just a deep inhale and a slow, measured exhale.

“I spoke earlier about the chemical imbalance this causes. If its not rectified, it will eventually stop my heart.”

Aghast, Rose literally leaned back, and she could feel the blood drain from her face, “That’s...horrible.”

His shrug was nonchalant, “It is normal for my race.”

“Does it happen a lot? Not...rectifying it?”

Kandomere shook his head, “Almost never.”

She didn’t, in that moment, stop to think about why is ‘almost never’ happened. There was too much going on in the moment to be distracted by the ‘why’ of it.

“That’s good,” Rose murmured, somewhat mollified.

“Of course,” he continued as he opened the test strips, “Most vessels are Elvish. I understand that interspecies couples have more difficulty.”

Rose repeated the last word in question, taking the automatic needle from him and holding it between both hands.

Humming in affirmation, he looked up at her for the first time since he’d mentioned that people could die from this, “There are...cultural norms that you will have to learn. My people are steeped in ancient rules and laws that won’t make any sense to you if you aren’t raised in it.”

“Such as?”

He handed her a test strip, “The contract, to start. My family will draw up a contract to which we will both be bound. Its there to protect both parties, and I’m sure you will want certain assurances once we are married.”

Rose’s mind stumbled over the word, ‘married’, in such as way that she had to physically shake her head to clear it. Kandomere placed the automatic needle against his thumb, pressing down the firing mechanism. As he pulled away the device, a drop of blood welled up on his skin. With care, he soaked up the drop with the test strip and pushed the thick paper into the body of the tester.

“Do you need help?” he asked, opening a bandage and wrapping it around his thumb.

Rose looked down at the needle in her hands, “No, I got it.”

Focused on her hands, Kandomere watched her depress the needle, forefinger pressing in to the pad of her thumb to encourage the blood flow. She tapped the test strip to the crimson drop and slipped it into the other end of the tester.

“How long does it take?”

His mouth pursed, “Not long. A few minutes, I think.”

“Okay,” she said. Then, because she was intensely curious, “What assurances would I want?”

Kandomere smiled softly, “Protection for yourself and your family would generally be expected.”

Her brows drew together, thinking that protection was an odd way to go for what she thought basically amounted to a prenup.

“Protection from who? I don’t have any enemies—I mean, other than the oozing shadow monster, but we’re dealing with that. And, why would I want to contract for that, or anything for that matter?”

He fixed her with a look of bemusement, “You really don’t understand the power you have, do you?”

Looking down at her hands, Rose simply said, “Obviously. Besides, relationships are supposed to be about being, I don’t know, partners. Bartering for more power seems kind of backwards. I don’t like the idea of contracting for how our life is going to be.”

Rose had been living in a world of such strict rules that she’d set for herself, or that had been set for her by someone else that making more rules sounded exhausting. The prospect of living the rest of her life bound to a contract that felt arbitrary, at best, was not appealing.

She wondered when she’d made the decision that she wasn’t going to walk away from this. All along, up until maybe the moment he’d asked her to come with him, Rose had thought she’d just walk away. Go back to Montana. Live her life knowing what she knew. Sitting on the couch in his living room, her thoughts on the subject had definitely changed course.

“Can we just not do that?”

His jaw dropped a little, the motion the result of the muscles in his entire face going slack, “You don’t want—on principle—you don’t want to complete the contract.”

She hesitated, “...Yes?”

Moving from the armchair to the seat next to her, Kandomere took her hands, head dipping down to catch and hold her gaze, “Listen to me. For your own protection, you need to negotiate for a full and complete, binding, marriage. You also need to extend any familial support from my family to yours—for their home, your farm, and any children we have. Do you understand?”

Rose was barely breathing, stunned by the intensity of his voice, of his directives, “Okay.”

“Good,” he breathed, his voice barely audible.

For one exhilarating second, Rose had the wild thought that he might lean forward and kiss her. He didn’t, and for that she was disappointed. She watched him rise from the couch, take a deliberate step back, and then sit in the armchair.

Gesturing to the test sitting innocuously on the coffee table, she asked, “How will we know its done?”

“It’ll give us a reading, a percentage.”

Rose leaned forward a bit, peering down at it. She noted that there was something on the tiny screen, but couldn’t quite read it at this angle, “It says something.”

Quick like, Kandomere snatched up the test and frowned down at it. Rose couldn’t tell what he was thinking as his eyes narrowed.

“What does it say?” she edged.

He took a breath, and she realized that he’d been holding it, “Eighty four percent.”

“Is that good?”

“Its,” he drawled, the word lingering in his mouth, “Above average.”

Rose smiled, her voice light as she said, “We scored a B. That’s pretty good.”

His eyes rose to her face, taking on none of the lighthearted humor that she was trying to inject into the situation.

“Oh, come on,” she cajoled with a little pout, “That was funny.”

Kandomere took out his phone, snapping a picture. When he saw her confused expression, he explained, “My family will want confirmation.”

“Ah,” she replied, wondering just how involved his family was in his personal life.

Standing, he pulled the two strips from the test, throwing them into a bowl that sat empty on the coffee table. Then, he opened one of the little pots next to it and dug out a box of matches. With a flick of his wrist, he lit one, dropping it onto the test strips.

“Back before magic was regulated,” he said as he blew out the match, “people would use blood to bind and enthrall others. Now, we take precautions to ensure that doesn’t happen.”

Rose watched them burn, smoke wafting from the bowl. The sight was so familiar, a remnant of sitting next to Alma as she taught her how much her magic could do.

“What?”

She hummed in question, lifting her gaze to his inquisitive face.

“What is that expression?”

Rose shook her head, huffing a soft laugh, “I was just thinking about how Alma would have dealt with someone who would try to use my blood against me.”

“Your grandmother?”

She nodded, “Alma didn’t…,” Rose had to take a deep breath to continue, unused to talking about Alma so openly, “she wouldn’t accept that people could use magic that way. That isn’t what magic is for. You don’t treat people that way.”

He stared at her, gaze soft, for a long moment, absorbing what she was saying. Then, he pressed both hands into his knees and stood, “We should go. I’ll need to talk with Ulysses about the contract.”

Standing, Rose followed him to the door, “Why do we need to discuss this with him?”

Looking back at her as he led her out into the hall, he answered, “He is the head of your household. Or, close enough.”

She scoffed, “I think I’m the head of my own household.”

The elevator dinged, the doors opening, and Kandomere ushered her inside the carriage, “Not by our laws. The eldest immediate member of your line is usually the preferred proxy—as you are adopted, and human, it would be Ulysses.”

Rose laughed, one hand pressed to her chest. She laughed all the way down to the lobby, only just managing to subdue to giggles long enough for Kandomere to guide her out to the street. As they approached his car, he fixed her with a look that said she was going to have to share the object of her amusement.

“I’m sorry,” she said, breathing hard, “Its just...Ulysses isn’t the eldest member. Ivy’s got him beat by about three months.” Her giggles returned as Kandomere lifted a brow at her, “You’ll have to discuss it with her.”

#A Thing Most Desired #Kandomere #Bright #Magic #soulmate AU #edgar ramirez

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hlupdate · 4 years ago

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The relationship between A-list muse and lauded designer is nothing new. But few have been as serendipitous that of Harry Styles and Alessandro Michele: the pop star’s solo career coincided neatly with the designer hitting his stride as the game-changing creative director of Gucci. Theirs is a mutually beneficial partnership that has elevated the former to new echelons of style, while the latter has become something of an icon to an unexpected fandom.

Unlike the large-scale productions of recent show seasons, Michele first presented his vision for Gucci with a quietly confident collection on 19 January 2015 — reportedly pulled together in just five turbo-charged days. The collection had all the signifiers of the retro-inspired aesthetic that has since become Michele’s beat, introducing the fur-lined loafers, pussy-bow blouses and florals that still form the backbone of his work today. A 20-year-old Harry, meanwhile, was still a long-haired One Direction member set to embark on the band’s biggest ever — and as it turned out last— tour. Just as One Direction’s days were winding down, Michele was picking up speed. Gucci reported a five per cent rise in sales in the last three months of 2015, amounting to 1.1 billion Euro in the final quarter.

Stylist Harry Lambert, who had been working with Harry for a few years by then, decided it was time for the boy-bander to try something new. A floral suit – that floral suit – from Michele’s spring/summer 2016 collection would be just the ’fit for the American Music Awards in November 2015, they decided.

Looking back it was a “very bold move,” Lambert admits. Styles was the first to take one of Michele’s full menswear looks from the Gucci catwalk and wear it on the red carpet. “It was very exciting to see everyone’s responses, but also how great he looked in it,’’ Lambert told Miss Vogueof what he still views as a turning point in his client’s fashion journey. This winning suit encouraged Styles and Lambert to pull more Gucci, and Harry gave his final performance as a member of One Direction wearing a suit in the retro petal print that defined Michele’s early collections.

In fact, Gucci was just about the only thing that the 1D alum carried over to his solo career. Even his shoulder-length curls were shorn. The music videos that accompanied Styles’s eponymous number one album, released in April 2017, all incorporated Gucci, as did his appearances on the promo trail. A navy tailored coat floats through the sky in the video for “Sign Of The Times”, and he wears floral tailoring in the clip for “Kiwi”. When the time came for Harry to take his record on the road, he wore countless bespoke Gucci suits on stage. Most were floral brocade with flared trousers, and paired with pussy-bow shirting.

By June 2018, the relationship had been formalised. Styles was revealed – in a series of photos taken by Glen Luchford in the suitably English setting of a chip shop – as the face of Gucci’s tailoring campaign. Two more campaigns followed, in which Styles models the most exuberant of Michele’s creations without ever sacrificing his schoolboy cheekiness, not even with a lamb slung around his shoulders. The campaigns, two by Luchford, a third by Harmony Karine, helped to usher in a new dawn in menswear advertising.

A year later Harry was unveiled as part of a diverse line-up in the campaign for Gucci’s Mèmoire D’une Odeur — the near century-old house’s first gender-neutral scent. Yes, he was the main event, but Styles shared the spotlight with other creatives in what became an unavoidable campaign, covering buildings, beauty counters, column inches and iPhone wallpapers across the globe. Styles has since quipped that he wears it to bed,making a bottle a necessary purchase for even half-dedicated Harry fans.

That Harry’s work with Gucci has proved so popular with his dedicated fanbase is a key component in the success of their collaborations. Though — and again, this is likely owing to Harry’s own allegiances — his followers do tend to have a keen interest in fashion compared to other fandoms, it’s down to their idol that Harries know the artistic director by his first name alone. “It is really exciting for us fans to see another facet of Harry as a creative individual, and his Gucci partnership cultivates that and gives us an even more in-depth perspective of who he is,” Nadhila, a 26-year-old fan in Indonesia told Miss Vogue.

Nadhila, who has been a part of the team behind the Twitter account @HSNewsUpdate since 2011, believes that the fluid nature of Michele’s vision has contributed to the interest in Harry’s Gucci looks. “There are no boundaries on what he might come up with, so fans are always excited to see what look [Harry] might step out in next,” she says. Styles’s efforts to be a fan-focused, ethical pop star – his motto is “treat people with kindness” – are relevant, too. “He has inspired us to be bold, unique and unafraid to experiment when it comes to fashion,” she adds. “He has shown us that there is no such thing as too feminine or too masculine, we can be both and we can be ourselves.”

Another of Harry’s biggest fan accounts, @TheHarryNews, is run by four women in their mid-twenties: Annie, Océane, Lena and Rachel. “You can really see the confidence he’s gotten from working with Gucci,” they share collectively over email. “[He’s] taking more risks and letting more of himself show… In a lot of ways we’ve seen Harry really come into his own. I think that really resonates with people, especially his fans, who get tiny pieces of [who he really is] through fashion.”

Two fans who have an almost encyclopedic knowledge of this fashion partnership are the transatlantic duo behind @HSFashionArchive. Since April 2016, London-based Lu and Washington DC-based Alex have documented every look worn by Harry in meticulous detail, all to act as “a resource for fans”. Its posts lets his followers know how they might go about procuring these items, but also sheds light on key house codes – thus enabling fans to quickly identify which of Harry’s looks are Gucci, and which aren’t. “We have noticed that fans buy the Gucci pieces that Harry has worn,” 29-year-old Alex explained. “Though some pieces are pricey, we’ve seen people buy the loafers, boots, and bags that Harry has sported over the years. Lots of our followers bought the £34 Gucci lipsticks he wore in Beauty Papers.”

The pair believes that the relationship works because Gucci is able to offer Harry such a broad spectrum of looks to choose from. “Gucci’s looks range from wearable to outrageous, so Harry’s continued partnership with Gucci guarantees both attainable style and flashy moments. There’s nothing like seeing him in a wild new outfit that we couldn’t have anticipated.” And though one might assume the scene-stealing suits are most popular with fans, according to Nadhila, they like his low-key looks best, given that “they show a more casual and intimate look into who he is as a ‘normal’ person”.

Of course, there is a notable exception: the 2019 Met Gala. For the opening evening of the “Camp: Notes On Fashion” exhibition Michele and Harry acted as co-hosts, and arrived on the pink carpet together. “After such a colourful tour wardrobe it was nice to do something a little unexpected,” Lambert told Miss Vogue of the black blouse Styles wore. “[It was about] taking traditionally feminine elements like the frills, heeled boots, sheer fabric and the pearl earring, but then rephrasing them as masculine pieces set against the high-waisted tailored trousers and his tattoos. Camp, but still Harry.” Lambert explained at the time: “We met up earlier this year to share mood boards with the Gucci team. We had pages of printed references all on the table from Alessandro, myself and Harry, then we edited them down.” Today, the @HSFashionArchive duo agree the night “was a massive deal amongst fans”.

There was the now pearl earring-wearing fashion darling of the music world, standing alongside the closest thing to a rockstar the fashion industry has at present. “I love dressing up and he loves dressing up,” Michele told The Face in 2019. “The moment I met him, I immediately understood there was something strong around him. I realised he was much more than a young singer. He was a young man, dressed in a thoughtful way, with uncombed hair and a beautiful voice. I thought he gathered within himself the feminine and the masculine.”

Since the Met, the relationship has continued to go from strength to strength. Styles wore a custom look on the cover of his second record, Fine Line, shot by Tim Walker, and Michele and Styles collaborated on a T-shirt to coincide with it, with a percentage of the sales going to the Global Fund For Women. Gucci’s high-waisted trousers, cropped blazers and dazzling shirting now takes up even more space in Styles’s wardrobe, and bring as much attention to the star as his sophomore record’s commercial and critical success.

Sightings of Styles in Gucci have become a source of comfort for fans in a turbulent 2020. From his Mary-Janes at the Brits to his oversized turquoise blazer and crochet gloves in the “Golden” video, by way of outré sunglasses and floral sunglasses in the clip for “Watermelon Sugar”, Harry’s recent sartorial choices have managed to be pleasingly familiar, while simultaneously keeping his followers on their toes.

A bit like the chicken and the egg conundrum, the question remains: is Harry very Gucci, or is Gucci very Harry? The verdict is out. But without each other, both might be missing a little something.

#harry styles #articles #111120

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missmyloko · 4 years ago

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What’s In a Book? Part 35

Moving on to our third new book, this one’s a bit of a read but well worth the effort!

Book’s cover courtesy of Amazon. Kimono: Kyoto To Catwalk Edited by Anna Jackson (ISBN 9-781851-779925) Date of Publication: 2020 Language: English Format: Hardcover Availability: Can Be Purchased New Price: $50 Errors: 0 First off, this book is MASSIVE! Like, it is “heckin’ thicc” as the kids would call it, which performs two tasks really well; first, it’s jam packed full of beautiful images of kimono and garments that the kimono inspired (there’s over 250). Second, it really brings to light the history of the kimono as we know it, where it’s at now, and where it’s headed into the future. So, let’s take a look at the various sections of the book to highlight some of its strong points: Introduction Kimono: Kyoto to Catwalk is the all around intro to the book and kimono itself. It’s a great start to a great book with the basic history of kimono. This section is written by Anna Jackson. Kimono In Japan Status, Style and Seduction seeks to educate on the ways in which kimono were both made during the Edo Period and how the first style guides showed women the latest ways to wear their kimono and hair. This section is written by Anna Jackson. Creation and Commerce looks at how kimono were produced by taking a look at books of kimono drawings and follows how different styles, such as yuzen, came to be the must have fashions of their day. This section is written by Anna Jackson and Iwao Nagasaki. Clothed in Splendor: Bridal Kimono from the Edo Period to the Present Day goes over the changing fashions of bridal kimono, from the extravagant uchikake to the kurofurisode of the Taisho Period to the new uchikake of today along with the various reasons for these changes. This section is written by Masami Yamada. Picturing Fashion in Edo-Period Japan takes a look at woodblock prints and how kimono was portrayed to the public. This section was written by Masami Yamada. Fashion For The Foreign A Taste For The Exotic: Foreign Textiles and Japanese Dress shows how even the limited trade with other countries during the Edo Period influenced patterns and materials found in kimono and everyday products. This section is written by Anna Jackson. The “Nippon Kimono” Voyages To Europe takes a look at the first trade between Dutch sailors and the Japanese and how kimono first arrived in Europe. This section is written by Yuzuruha Oyama. Interwoven Gowns: A Tale of Global Trade continues on the themes begun in the previous section but adds in the addition of foreign fabrics made into export kimono. This section is written by Ariane Fennetaux. Geographically Confused but Familiarly Exotic: The Influence of Kimono in Seventeenth-Century England explores, just as the title states, how the kimono came to influence fashion in England in the seventeenth century, including paintings for the first time. This section is written by Susan North. Shifting Styles Fashioning Modernity in Japan takes a look at how Japan’s reopening during the Meiji Period changed the colors, patterns, and production of kimono and how it continued to evolve until the end of World War II. This section is written by Anna Jackson. The “Kimono Craze”: From Exoticism to Fashionability looks at the craze for all things Japanese in Europe in the late 18th century and early 19th century. This section is written by Elizabeth Kramer and Akiko Savas. Picturing Kimono in Britain, Europe, and America takes a look at the array of art created at the time of the Kimono Craze and how it came to be a fashionable object of women everywhere in the West. This section is written by Elizabeth Kramer. Radical Restructure: The Impact of Kimono looks at how the kimono influenced popular fashion in both its structure and shape. This section is written by Akiko Fukai. Kimono as Costume Kimono Codified: Uniform For The Nation examines how kimono became codified through kimono schools after World War II in an effort to standardize the wear and movement of the garment. This section is written by Josephine Rout. Geisha: Perpetuating the Kimono Mystique gives a basic background of geisha and how geisha became synonymous with kimono in the West. This section is written by Lesley Downer. Kimono Rental, Tourism, and Sartorial Expression looks at the growing industry and kimono rentals that allow tourists, both Japanese and foreigners alike, the chance to experience the garment. This section is written by Elizabeth Kramer. Behind the Screen: Kimono as Costume looks at the ways that popular culture, especially in the West, has taken the traditional garment and adapted it for film and stage use. This section is written by Josephine Rout. Kimono Reinvention Kimono Reborn looks at the new way that Japanese artists have chosen to express themselves through kimono by bringing back old techniques and making them new again along with new influences in their patterns and styles. This section is written by Rupert Faulkner. Moriguchi Kunihiko examines the artist of the same name and how his production of fine kimono as brought kimono into modernity. This section was written by Anna Jackson. Kikuchi Nobuko: Stylish Rebellion looks at the collection of Kikuchi Nobuko and her way of mixing tradition with modernity. This section is written by Kohka Yoshimura. Kimono Transformation Kimono Dreams explores how kimono have influenced high fashion for decades with the most prolific designers all turning to the iconic garment for inspiration. This section is written by Claire Wilcox. Statement Piece: The Kimono Jacket Trend looks at the recent trend of Western women wearing “kimono” jackets as a new statement piece. This section is written by Elizabeth Kramer. Kimono Revolution focuses on how kimono is being made today in an effort to attract new people, both in Japan and abroad, into wearing the garment, including new ways of production and incorporating a variety of new motifs never before seen on the garment. This section is written by Sheila Cliff. Jōtarō Saitō explores the work of the titular kimono designer and his impact on the future of fashion. This section is written by Anna Jackson. From Edo to Instagram: Kimono Fashion finally looks at how kimono is being worn as street fashion once again. This section is written by Josephine Rout. With the exception of Rupert Faulkner, this entire book is written and produced by women! The only real drawback that I could find to this book is that some sections are a bit dryer than others, but those sections were usually shorter than some of the others and were easy enough to get through. Overall it’s a wonderful examination of the kimono both throughout history and into the present, which is a book that’s needed to be written for quite a while now! Rating: ✪✪✪✪✪ (out of 5)

#kimono #book review #kyoto to catwalk #anna jackson #victoria and albert museum #geisha #fashion #history

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lakelewisia · 5 years ago

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Mostly Real

or, How the Liminality Hunter First Came to Lewisia

a Lake Lewisia expanded story

Happy #500!

~~~

Vivian stood on a little rise of tumbled boulders and thick mud studded with the shattered remnants of trees, hand braced on the tread of one of the earth movers brought in by the rescue crews. By the light of a battery-powered headlamp, she looked across what had once been a familiar trailhead. The last time she had been there so early, she and Jackson and their other outdoorsy friends had snuck in before the park's normal dawn opening time to see New Year's first light from one of the more accessible peaks. They had all been younger and a bit more reckless then, and she wouldn't have risked a climb in the dark under normal circumstances.

The rescue crews--recovery crews, she corrected herself with a sneer--would arrive at dawn, though, and she needed to get up on the mountain before anyone could try to talk her out of this.

The first step down toward the trail had her wobbling over loose rocks. Her legs felt like jelly under her. Her arms windmilled for balance. Her head spun, brain seeming to slosh in a pool of medication. Snot slowly oozed toward her upper lip again.

"Baby, are you sure you don't want me to stay home?" Jackson had asked her, peering down into the nest of blankets she had accumulated for herself. She honked loudly at him and tossed aside yet another wad of tissues, which probably should have been the answer. Instead, like an idiot, she had said,

"'m fine. You need your mountain time." Vivian had managed to make it through the week without missing work, because she never considered calling in sick an option. Spending the weekend hiking, however, was definitely optional for her. She flapped a fresh tissue at Jackson. "Go. Say hi to everybody for me."

"It's true," Jackson agreed, though she could hear the reluctance in his voice. "My manliness will fade if I don't get out there at least once a week."

The snort that greeted that was only partly due to Vivian's clogged sinuses. "Pretty sure that's what the testosterone in the medicine cabinet is for, but okay."

"Nah, the boy juice is just to keep my beard looking full and lustrous," he said, stroking his cheeks and the neatly trimmed hair there. "The mountain is where true manliness comes from."

"You're a nut," she diagnosed, then rolled over so she was sandwiched between the heating pad and the beam of sunshine streaming in their bedroom window. It was May, and unseasonably warm at that, but she couldn't seem to get warm. "Go, leave me to die in peace."

Jackson gave her a crooked smile and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. She leaned into the touch. The flu sucked. He asked again, "You're super sure you'll be okay?" and she agreed.

That was the last time they spoke. Five days ago.

Vivian scrubbed a gloved hand across her nose and the yet-unshed tears both. She didn't have time to be sick or sad or anything, anything but moving. The flood-altered footing would have been a challenge in full light, and a dark hike would test her abilities at her best. Waiting wasn't an option though. She used the headlamp beam to pick out the first clear path between uprooted trees and displaced rocks and headed up toward the first peak. Jackson had gone that way, so she would as well, flu symptoms and caution tape be damned.

Under her boots, the mud had already started to dry into ridges and ruts. She put her head down and focused on placing one foot in front of the other. Again and again, like any other hike when she hit the wall of her own exhaustion and had to push through. Looking only at the couple of feet illuminated by the headlamp, the trail didn't even seem that different. The last five days had all been clear and sunny and normal. The storm had blown through almost as fast as it had come up.

Almost. The news reporters had said that so many times. No warning. No reason for the storm, for thunder and lightning like a warzone being bombed. Unseasonable. Weather models showed nothing before or after.

"How's the weather report looking for Saturday?" Jackson asked, draping himself over her shoulder to see the screen of her laptop as well. He regretted it a moment later when Vivian sneezed explosively and he took a shoulder to the chest.

"Clear, low wind," she reported between sniffles. "Kinda warm, so you might need to ditch the flannel."

"Never," Jackson said. "That's the third time you've sneezed in, like, thirty minutes. You okay?"

"Prolly just allergies," she told him. She had told Dana-at-the-next-desk, her nearest neighbor at the office, the same thing after Vivian caught Dana giving her yet another faintly alarmed look while not-so-subtly leaning farther away from Vivian's workstation. "Do we have any cans of soup?"

The first peak, when she got up there, left her standing just above a sea of cloud. She hadn't even realized she was passing through the fog as she climbed, so focused just on making it up the ghost of a trail she had once known as well as the street she lived on. The sun wasn't even real yet, only the faintest hint of indigo along the horizon suggesting that light might be invented sometime soon. The fog filling the valley below her roiled in the dark like disturbed water.

Vivian braced her hands on her thighs and breathed, hard and rattling with mucus. Over her breathing, she heard a sound like the buzzing of power lines. She had always associated that sound with foggy mornings, and now her hazy head seemed to conjure the sense memory like a spirit in this place beyond the reach of power lines and cell phone signals.

The valley below had been scoured out by the flood. She could only see part of the damage between the edges of the dark and the fog. The slopes had been scraped clean of their trees, the tracery of runoff channels like veins left behind. The worst mudslide in fifty years, they said. Death toll. Cost of structural damage. Places wiped right off the map. She let her head drop forward again in exhaustion, seeing only the ground beneath her feet.

The deputy held his hat in his hands. He had on a yellow rain jacket, like the rest of the emergency responders. It was like a sartorial tic; there hadn't been another drop of rain after that single apocalyptic hour. "At this point, we're considering this a recovery effort. I'm sorry."

Vivian stood in the middle of the tent where the rescue efforts had been staging. Rescue. Because Jackson, along with who knew how many other people, still hadn't been found. She stood there, feeling stupid and childish, because all she could say was, "But his friends--you said you found--"

Her face ached from not crying. Still sick, it felt like she too was trying to breathe through mud, but at least she wouldn't cry. Crying was for people who had lost something.

"None of them survived. We don't expect--" She shook her head. She had already heard this. Their friends had been found, crushed and drowned in the flooding. That was bad enough.

"He was supposed to be with them. If he wasn't, maybe--" If they would just listen to her, they would understand. They couldn't stop looking for Jackson. He was out there. Someone had to bring him home.

"I'm sorry," the deputy told her again. He looked over her shoulder, to one of the grief counselors waiting in the wings to collect her. To make her move on to the next stage, to gently explain to her how to give up hope.

Vivian straightened up. "Where are you?" She would walk along the ridge line, she decided, and look for signs of anyone passing through. Maybe by the time she had finished with that, the fog would burn off and she could scan the valley as well.

She still heard that buzzing. She pressed a knuckle against one ear. Maybe it just needed to pop and adjust to the change in elevation. She didn't want to think about developing an ear infection as well. The noise grated on her frayed nerves. She spent a long moment in the dark flexing her jaw and tugging on her ear and losing her temper.

When she turned to hike on, he was there. Still in flannel and boots and battered canvas pants as he had been when he walked away from her sickbed five days ago, Jackson stood just ahead of her on the ridge line. His expression looked vaguely shell shocked, but no other sign of damage or distress was obvious.

The milky, almost real light of approaching dawn filtered right through him like he had been made of stained glass.

***

Vivian shook her head. The movement sent her brain sloshing around again. "You're not a ghost." The shade of Jackson tilted his head like he had to strain to hear some distant sound. "I'm hallucinating from the cold medicine and exertion."

Jackson asked with a smile, "Where do you want to break for lunch?" He didn't have a pack, Vivian noted before she could stop herself. It didn't matter, because it was just a hallucination. She stepped around him to continue along the ridge.

She let her mind spread out, loosely aware of her surroundings but focused on nothing in particular. Jackson had always been better at this sort of thing, but she had learned to read natural signs well enough. If he had survived the floodwaters--

Since.

Since he had survived the floodwaters, he would be looking for shelter and a way to summon help. He wouldn't hide his movements; he would do everything he could to make someone notice him.

"Hey, I like hiking as much as the next person who isn't you," Vivian protested as she nursed her coffee in the passenger seat, reluctant to actually step outside. No one should be awake at this hour on a Saturday morning, and they definitely shouldn't be dressed to go wander around in the cold outdoors then either.

Jackson laughed as he rooted around in the trunk with his "surprise." He had promised he would make the early morning hike worth her while. And, well, she was the lunatic who had started dating some kind of secret lumberjack, so of course she was nuts enough to agree.

"You'll learn to love it," he said.

Vivian found her protests drying up in her throat. The two of them hadn't been dating long enough to say--well, to say a lot of things she found herself nonetheless starting to think. When Jackson came around to her door with a picnic basket clutched in both hands, clearly laden with an astonishing weight of food, Vivian could only smile helplessly, charmed beyond reason and acutely aware of the emotions putting down taproots in her heart.

Every time Vivian thought she saw some sign of Jackson's movements, it turned out to be an ordinary rock or bit of peeling bark. Everything looked promising when she wanted it beyond reason, and she knew it. Worse, every time she turned back to search the next stretch of ridge line, the shape of Jackson lingered in the corner of her eye. Her heart gave a brutal kick again, just the latest of a dozen such moments since she started her search. She stumbled, exhaustion and illness and worry all wearing her down. The sight of Jackson reaching for her made her flinch and stagger onward, though.

Maybe this had been a bad idea, if she was this delirious. He looked more solid now, as real as she was. More so, actually, because she didn't feel real herself anymore. She felt cold and confused and desperate. The mountain around her in the weak light felt like a dream.

"Viv, can you hear me?"

God, his voice sounded so real and so close. She wanted to start screaming his name in the hopes of hearing some far-off reply. It would be the sort of half-heard call for rescue she expected. Not this close, conversational tone from a ghost she didn't believe in.

"Please, Jax, you gotta be out here somewhere. Just show me--" She scrubbed at her eyes as the tears began to fall at last. She had put them off this whole time, but now she couldn't seem to hold them off any longer. She wasn't allowed to grieve him when he wasn't gone. Couldn't be gone.

"Show me how to find you," she begged, voice coming out as a choked whisper no one would ever hear. Her feet stumbled forward automatically even though she wouldn't be able to search for anything with eyes full of tears.

"Viv, I'm right--Viv!" The instinct to turn toward his voice, toward that urgent tone, overrode any conscious thought.

It happened so fast. She hadn't even noticed the loose footing under her boots as it gave way before she spun to face Jackson. The pain of seeing him there, where she knew he couldn't possibly be, warred with the animal terror of balance lost. The sensation of falling toward nothingness swamped everything else in her mind. Nothing could compete with it.

No rational ideas about hallucinations. About the existence of ghosts. About grief and delusions and wishful thinking. Nothing could match the need to reach out to him as she felt the margins of the ridge sliding away and threatening to take her with it.

She threw her hands toward him. He grabbed them with both of his, planted his feet while hers scrambled against a collapsing hillside, and jerked her back upright and onto solid ground. They staggered away from the edge's danger and into each other. She collapsed against his chest--solid and real and alive.

***

For a moment, all either of them could do was breathe and be in each other's space. Vivian's hands had ended up fisted in Jackson's shirt, and she found them rhythmically clenching there. Her hard gasps verged on wheezing. Jackson's chest flexed with his own rough panting where she pressed against him.

"Holy shit. I wasn't sure that would work," he said eventually, mouth pressed into her hair.

"You're not a ghost," she said again, this time not only with hope but with knowledge. He wasn't a ghost. She pushed back to look at him, hands still holding tight. "What happened?"

A strange look passed over his face, distant and confused. "I remember thunder," he said, as though that explained anything.

"Are you hurt at all?" Vivian managed to loosen her hands enough to start patting him down, looking for any sign of injury. The layers of clothing padded out his shape, but he didn't flinch and no blood came away on her hands. He wasn't even muddy, while she had dirt smeared up her shins from fighting for her footing as the ridge gave way.

She took him by the hand and began leading him back the way she had come. This time there was no meandering, searching path; she had single-minded focus. "Come on. We're going home."

She suddenly wanted off the mountain immediately. The weirdness, the mist and the strange sounds, all seemed suddenly more threatening than it had when she thought herself alone. Once on a hike, they had been stalked by a mountain lion for some distance. That sensation of invisible threat, of being somewhere you didn't belong, of trespassing in somewhere huge and unknowable and hungry, had felt like this.

"What happened to Dave and Julie?" Jackson asked. She didn't look back, but she tightened her grip on his hand and felt his answering squeeze.

"The sheriff said--they found the bodies down on the basin trail." They both fell silent for a long moment. Their friends had been experienced hikers too, and the four of them had gone on trips plenty of times together. "Weren't they with you?"

As they wove between the trees on little more than a deer path, he said, "I couldn't find a signal where we had stopped, so I told them I would meet them up by the fork, you know? I thought I might get through if I got up higher."

"You never use your phone on hikes. You barely even remember to take it with you."

Jackson huffed. "Yeah, but you're not normally at home, dying of flu. I was worried. Wanted to check in."

She bit back her normal protests that she could look after herself. Getting to higher ground might have been the only thing that kept him alive. Random chance and freak accidents. A shive shook across her shoulders.

"I heard something weird. And something--" Jackson slowed down, dragging at her hand. She didn't want to slow down. They were only a few minutes from the level of the parking lot. They could go home.

In a halting, unsure voice, he said, "Something was weird about the phone." She tugged at him and he started walking again. Even so, she could see he wasn't really looking at where they were. "There was this crackling sound. Not--maybe it was just lightning, but--"

They stepped out of the tree line and onto what remained of the main path where many smaller trails had once converged. Vivian could see the hood of her car just ahead over the uneven terrain and the canvas of the staging tent. Then she saw the sheriff's hat moving around.

It didn't matter, she thought. Let the man fuss about her not being authorized. She had a moment of smug satisfaction--see, I told you he was alive, I found him when you couldn't--before the sheriff turned toward them.

Jackson's hand evaporated, floated away between her fingers, before the sheriff even said a word. The sheriff never looked at anyone but her, as though there had never been anyone but her on that mountain. As though nothing had changed. When Vivian looked back, even she saw no one standing behind her. Just the mountain with sunlight streaming between the tops of trees and reflecting off the CAUTION tape strung up across the trailhead.

When the lecture about safety and proper authorities had ended, when the sheriff assured her they were doing everything they could to give all the families closure, when Vivian had retreated to her car and driven just far enough away that she could have privacy--

When she had dutifully done the things she was supposed to do to keep her grief tidy and convenient, she sat on the shoulder of the road and screamed. Screamed until her sore throat was too raw to make any more sound, her face a mess of tears and snot. She hunched over the steering column, beating her fists against the dashboard until she couldn't move. Then she slumped there, panting and swallowing against the searing pain in her throat.

When she opened her eyes again, she was staring down at her feet. Mud had dried her jeans into stiff folds and flaked onto the floor mats from her boots. She could feel the faint sting where the rough ground had scraped her legs as she tried to get ahead of the sliding slope. The sheriff had told her how unstable the whole mountain would be after the mudslides. How she could fall at any time. Then they would be trying to rescue her as well.

She would have been just another flood victim, a few days late to the party, if Jackson hadn't pulled her to solid ground again.

She put her hand down and touched the mud. It chipped away when she picked at it, leaving brown stains on the denim underneath. She had started to fall. Jackson had pulled her to safety.

Vivian sat up and swiped at her face to clear her eyes and nose. Jackson had been there. He was alive and at least mostly real. He wasn't a ghost, even if something had definitely happened to him. Changed him.

And if Vivian could find him once, she would do it again.

***

Four AM on a Monday was no time for anyone to be grocery shopping, but that was what Vivian got for spending her whole weekend up a damn mountain, trying to make contact with Jackson. She got home, sweaty and exhausted, with nothing to show for her efforts but a few new blisters. Then she realized she had let her supply of food run dry. In that addled state, she hadn't been able to think of any way to turn a jar of mayo and two stale tortillas into lunches for the work week. Equally unable to bear the thought of shopping that night, she set her alarm for ungodly early the next morning.

The wheels of the shopping cart rattled, uncomfortably loud in the nearly deserted grocery store, the only one in the area actually open for business at that hour. The seemingly lone employee glared at her--or perhaps he was just squinting against the fluorescent overhead lights--then lowered his head to resume morosely mopping an isolated corner of the floor near the bakery area. Vivian hurried on before either of them had to interact with each other directly.

The last two had given her a lot of practice at avoiding people who wanted to avoid her just as badly. It had been a brutal time, if not for the reason everyone around her assumed. She had taken a week off work initially, just so she could stop getting pitying looks and cooing sympathy from her coworkers. No one had found a body, but all the authorities agreed that anyone not found yet was lost for good. So they expected Vivian to grieve.

Vivian kept expecting it too, if she was being honest. Even after the third return trip to the mountain gave her another few hours with a definitely real Jackson, she only mostly believed. She still expected to see something on the news or to get a phone call, telling her they had recovered a body or other evidence of his death.

She still expected some agent of unyielding reality to inform her she had been crazy all along.

Vivian stared at her scribbled shopping list with blank incomprehension. What had she imagined she would want to eat? Soup. Okay. Yes. Soup could be done. She leaned heavily on the cart, the muscles of her legs sore from hiking a mountain no longer tamed by trails, as she turned down an aisle. She tried to decide which section of nearly identical cans to pull from. The lights overhead made her eyes hurt, and she glared up at them. No wonder the person working up front looked so unhappy. Out in the parking lot, a car swung its lights along the length of the store windows, adding a barely perceptible glow to the endcaps.

By the time she had hemmed and hawed over soup cans, the cold of the store had begun to worm its ways through her clothing and down into her bones. It felt like she had already been shopping for hours. As she turned down the frozen food aisle in search of burritos, she thought she had definitely only been there a few minutes though. Two aisles couldn't take more than a few minutes, could they?

"Do we have any frozen vegetables at home?" Jackson's voice said, abruptly just to the right of her. She jerked sideways in surprise, the freezer door swinging around like a shield at the motion.

Jackson still looked slightly faded, like she was looking at him through the frosted glass door even after it had swung closed again. That seemed to be part of the pattern. His gaze slid over her and the two rows of glass doors full of brightly colored boxes, not quite aware of his surroundings. That too seemed part of the new normal.

"Vegetables?" Vivian repeated, feeling foolish but too surprised to manage anything better. Jackson's eyes refocused on her and that last degree of realness filled in his outline. He was there with her, in the frozen food aisle at the crack of dawn, dressed in his hiking clothes like always.

"Oh. Hey." The smile that bloomed across his face made her stomach flutter. He looked so entirely happy to see her. He looked like he loved her, and it hurt so much to see, the same way it hurt when the blood flowed back into a numb limb. "Did you say something about vegetables?"

"You brought it up first," she countered.

"Did I? Sorry, I don't remember. Feel like I just woke up from a dream." He looked around the store once more, aware this time of what he was seeing. "Huh. Why here?"

They had debated at length, last time on the mountain, what the rules might be of his situation. If Jackson could appear--manifest--teleport--whatever--someplace other than the mountain where he disappeared originally, it threw all their current (admittedly meager) theories out the window.

"Who cares," Vivian said, abandoning her shopping cart to grab his hands. "Let's go home. Right now. There's no reason you can't now, right?" She hated how much hope tightened her throat, made her sound young and desperate and so damn naive. She just wanted to take him home one more time.

And Jackson had never even tried to deny her something she asked for, when she could bring herself to ask for anything at all. So he went where she led. They made it to the end of the aisle and through the abandoned checkout line. They made it almost to the doors.

She wanted to beat the damn kid with his mop, because it had to be his fault. He was the only person around, and he still just swiped the mop around the same patch of floor in a desultory manner. The moment Vivian caught sight of him, she felt Jackson's hand fading from hers. Reality came crashing back down on her, hard as floodwaters.

She went home, and called in sick, and ate nothing all day. She hoped the kid hated reshelving more than mopping, and she refused to feel bad about abandoning her cart for him to deal with. Lying in bed for a few hours, she didn't even bother to think about how she could bring Jackson home. And that was all she ever really thought about these days. No, for a few hours, she just cried and thought of nothing but how sorry she felt for herself.

***

Vivian jogged up to the time clock, worming her way between people headed to their offices and workstations. Dana-at-the-next-desk rolled her eyes as Vivian's time stamp processed, showing mere seconds before she would be considered late. Again.

"Seriously, you've been almost late every day this week. Did you lose your alarm clock?" Dana followed Vivian into the locker area, apparently in no rush to get to work herself. Vivian tried not to breathe too hard and give away just how hard she had to hustle to avoid being actually, properly late. She tossed an apple into her locker, once again the full extent of lunch she had managed to organize.

"I had errands to run. Grocery shopping." Dana eyed the apple still rolling sadly around the back of the locker. "It's fine. I've just been busy."

Dana put on the Officially Sympathetic Expression Vivian still sometimes had to look at since Jackson's "death," when people didn't just avoid her entirely. Dana even popped the otherwise permanently affixed earbud out of its position, which was the sign for Really Listening Now with her younger coworkers. "How are you holding up?"

Vivian resisted the urge to groan. "Fine," she snapped. After an awkward beat, alone in the hallway now that everyone else had already gotten to work, she added, "Thanks."

"Right. Anyway." There was no getting away from the conversation, because everywhere Vivian had to go, her office neighbor had to go as well. Vivian made a show of getting down to business, rifling through paperwork and pulling up multiple windows of data on her computer screen, in the hopes of ending it. It even might have worked, but then Dana added in an offhand way, "Anyway, you couldn't pay me to go grocery shopping that early in the morning. It's, like, haunting central."

Vivian paused halfway through her signature, the ink wavering off into gibberish. "What?" He's not a ghost, she chanted in her head. The mantra had gotten her through darker moments than this, but she hadn't been braced against the flood of panic that hit her just then.

Dana looked up from her own work, no doubt confused by Vivian's suddenly intense tone. "You know. Liminal spaces or, or, regional gothic. That sort of thing." At Vivian's uncomprehending expression, Dana said in a slightly embarrassed tone, "It's just a thing people talk about. Abandoned theme parks and train stations in the middle of the night," she rattled off. Vivian resisted the urge to flip the paperwork over and start taking notes. "Stuff like that. Places that are sort of creepy and seem like they'd be haunted or portals to another world. It's, like, modern fairytales."

In a careful tone that tried to be casual and failed rather spectacularly, Vivian asked, "What are these called again?"

She ended up clocking back from lunch late, phone screen nearly touching her face as she researched, apple sitting on the table in front of her with one bite taken out of it. The tabs maxed out on the phone's browser as Vivian tumbled down a rabbit hole of posts about liminal spaces and abandoned buildings and ghost stories and UFO sightings.

Some animal part of Vivian's brain, geared to survival, registered shoes in her peripheral vision. She just barely managed to avoid crashing into someone coming the other way toward the breakroom. The annoyed expression on Vivian's face made the other person recoil physically before Vivian remember to get it under control.

"Oh. Hi. Boss." Vivian instinctively locked the phone screen, but she couldn't quite bring herself to put it in her pocket. That ended up the awkward pose she struck while facing down Carol, her supervisor: half hiding the evidence of her slacking off and half trying to go back to reading about a currently abandoned hospital facility up the coast.

"Vivian," Carol said, and the name came out as an exasperated sigh. "I think we need to have a talk in my office--"

"I need to take some more time off work," Vivian blurted. The words came out before she had known what she was going to say, but she couldn't bring herself to take it back. If she had, say, a week off, enough time to drive to a few different locations in succession and test the theory brewing in her head--

"I think that might be for the best," Carol agreed. They both pretended not to notice the way Vivian tuned out before they had even finished blocking time out on the calendar for it, before they had even made the walk to Carol's office, before the agreement had even been reached. Vivian had, in all the ways that mattered save one, already gone somewhere far off and strange.

***

Vivian slapped down a rubber band-bound stack of bills on one corner of the map and a coffee mug on the other. It had taken ages to track down a copy for sale online. The one at the library wasn't much use if they couldn't make marks on it or take it with them. On the other hand, the library copy had never been stored in a poster tube and so didn't have a deeply ingrained habit of rolling up if left unattended.

"Oh, yeah, this is going to be a blast to use in the car," she muttered.

No one answered--not as far as she could hear. Months of tracking down liminal spaces to spend time with Jackson and experimenting as best they could under such unpredictable conditions, and she still had no idea where he went when not with her or what he could hear. Maybe one day she would know for sure. Maybe some authority on the weird event that caused his condition would inform her he had never heard a word she said when invisible.

It still hurt less to pretend he was there, just in the next room maybe, out of her line of sight. Listening. With her. Not close enough to touch, but still close enough.

Vivian shivered with the memory of hands on her, soft folds of flannel brushing her arms as the crumbling brick of the hospital wall scraped along her back. She couldn't watch horror movies anymore or half the crime dramas on television, not without getting turned on and weirded out. Every haunted house or secret basement kill room looked too much like the places where she and Jackson stole moments together. Shaking her head, she bent over the map with a red pen in one hand and a magnifying glass in the other.

"I'm marking the train station down as a variable midnight," she announced as she drew a box around a block in an industrial area. She flipped open a journal and started writing another entry.

Multiple colors of ink and a system of symbols they had invented for themselves kept the entries more succinct. Even so, that journal had almost all the pages filled, and it would soon join the stack of other finished ones. The oldest of those had lost their cardstock covers and had their spiral binding bent and crushed from too many times getting crammed into backpacks and gloveboxes. The newest one had a removable leather folio for protection. Vivian went through too many to splurge on the notebooks themselves, but she had eventually admitted her lifestyle was pretty hard on paper goods and sprung for the carrying case.

"I think it's probably good for a few more visits, but not much more," she added, writing quickly in her cramped shorthand. "Too much routine carryover."

While those first feverish weeks of research had given her all sorts of terminology--about supernatural things she still didn't entirely believe in even when she had seen them first hand and about even higher weirdness she had so far only read about--it hadn't been systematic. It hadn't been what she needed to track the places where Jackson could appear, predict what places were good candidates for exploration, learn what broke the magic faster or helped it hold on longer. Her background in data analysis helped with all the things blogs and the New Age section of bookstores couldn't.

The irony wasn't lost on Vivian. If she had shown this kind of dedication at work, saved up her clever, middle of the night revelation about a data set for her day job, she could have been on her way to a promotion. At the very least, her coworkers might still talk to her--her friends might too, for that matter. Instead, she tapped out her PTO every time it built up enough to give her a long weekend for trips out to ruins, alone but hoping not to stay that way. If she let herself think about it, which she mostly didn't, she guessed she had about two months before Carol fired her.

She didn't have time to worry about that. They had travel to plan. Their radius of exhausted location kept expanding, which meant going farther afield to find liminality. She had reason to think some of the locations would recover--regrow--whatever it was they did when the strangeness came back. In the meantime, though, they had to plan on a minimum of three hours one-way to reach anything. Possibly they had a problem on their hands. Besides the obvious "partner no longer has regular access to physical form" problem.

"Okay, so, you said you saw a nature preserve on the road atlas, right?" She steamrolled on without waiting for a response she knew wasn't coming. Momentum was the key to creating the illusion of anything other than devastating loneliness. "Yeah, with no search results when we looked it up online. Should be right around here." Maybe one day, all her chatter would come filtering through to Jackson, a time-delayed flood of inclusion in what remained of their old life together. That would make the exercise in self-conscious rambling worth it.

The magnifying glass panned across the details of the map. It was the right area, based on the roads intersecting the highway, but nothing marked a nature preserve. Some of the streets around there didn't look familiar either, but maybe that was to be expected. The map predated the road atlas, deliberately so; perhaps streets had been renamed in the intervening years. There was a patch of green and some topographical markings indicating pretty substantial mountains nearby, but none of them had been marked further.

Absently, she took a gulp of coffee as she pondered it. The map started to roll up, and she grabbed at it with her other hand, only to bobble the red pen to the floor. "Would you please just find me another weight to put on this?"

A beat of silence.

Right. Forgot again.

"I'm getting the atlas from the car," she announced. "Maybe we're nuts and this isn't the same spot at all."

They weren't nuts--not about that, anyway. It turned out to be the same spot. Vivian checked the longitude and latitude markings, just to be sure. And it was more than just a nature preserve going unlabeled.

"Is this a hotel? That's the symbol for amenities like hotels. Nobody's going to have a hotel in the middle of a nature preserve there, are they? I mean, in a national park, maybe, but--

"Is there a secret national park no one's heard of?"

She traced a finger from their town, northward toward the mystery spot. The distance tallied up in her head, the hours logged driving, the logical stopping points to accommodate the physical requirements of the one human body between them. It would take the whole weekend just to travel there and back, whatever they found once they entered the vaguely defined zone where maps old and new ceased to match up.

"What do you think? Road trip?"

She didn't need to hear Jackson's voice to know what his answer would be.

***

It took two days to make the trip, and she had to stop to sleep along the way because Jackson wasn't there to help them drive in shifts. Tossing and turning on a hotel mattress that seemed scratchy no matter how many times she ran a hand across the seemingly normal sheets and blankets, she dreamt in fits and starts of Jackson trying to drive her somewhere. Each time, he faded out of existence behind the wheel, leaving her in the passenger seat of a now-driverless vehicle. Because they were dreams, she tried to steer by gripping the armrests extra hard. She woke up with aching knuckles and the half-memory of powerless frustration.

The donut shop down the street from the motel sold a lot of sugar and caffeine that morning to something that might have passed for a human under better circumstances.

She was still waiting for it to improve her energy two hours later, when Jackson manifested in the passenger seat. The breath in her lungs caught and stuck while she waited to see if he would hold. Since they had started this project, they had gotten better at finding spots that would let him manifest, but it was still no guarantee. Sometimes, he only flickered into view for a moment before the magic burst like a soap bubble. This time, he seemed to come back to himself like he had merely dozed off with his head against the window--hazy in his confusion for a moment before he oriented himself.

"Funny," he murmured as he gazed over at her with sleepy eyes. She smiled, even though she had no idea what might be funny, if anything. The first things he said sometimes resembled drunken rambling, sometimes the free associating of light head trauma, sometimes the random blurting of the abruptly awakened. "Isn't the car a bit too familiar?"

It was hard to make a familiar location weird enough to hold liminality. Not without doing something dreadful to the place, like burning it down to the framework or otherwise rendering it shattered and lonely. That was why she had to keep hunting, chasing her prey from one breeding ground to the next, hoping the ones she left behind would eventually respawn their stock of weirdness.

"Highway, maybe?" Vivian suggested. "I don't remember if this stretch has any special history."

"How far out are we?"

"Maybe an hour? Two? Depends on how wrong the maps were." She tried to sound casual, like she wasn't counting the seconds in her head. It might have been romantic if she could stop that ticking clock now that Jackson had appeared. She couldn't pretend he was the only reason she checked and rechecked the estimated travel times, or the reason she kept a running tally in her head of how much time she shaved off those estimates. Monday morning chased her down even as she hunted.

"Everything okay? What have I missed?"

She must have hesitated, though she didn't mean to. Her old life--she couldn't bring herself to call it "real" life--shouldn't be able to intrude here. Monday and the office were for obligations and rational choices and compromises, not here. Not here, where the heat was turned just a little too low to be comfortable and the sunlight slanted down into the windows at a blinding angle no matter how she turned her head or adjusted the visor. Not here, where Jackson's hand rested hot and real on her thigh, sweat beginning to spring up between them.

"Everything's fine," she said at last. It barely even counted as a lie when it was that transparent. In the corner of her eye, she saw Jackson turn to look out the window. Sunlight picked out the blue in his black hair.

"I need you to tell me," he said to the window. "I can't find out any other way. I don't have--You're all I get of the world, now. You and whatever you tell me. So I need you to tell me, okay? Even if it's bad."

He wouldn't look at her, but he hadn't taken his hand away from her leg either.

"I'm going to lose my job," she admitted.

"More time off?" Carol asked, staring at the computer screen and the intranet system that handled scheduling so she wouldn't have to look at Vivian. More and more, her coworkers wouldn't quite look at her. It wasn't anything so dramatic or juvenile as the room going silent whenever she walked in. It was more like the subtly widening distance people put between themselves and someone who had coughed just a few too many times.

No one, rationally, thought tragedy and grief were catching conditions. Didn't change how they reacted to the mounting evidence that Vivian had not, might never, recover from the loss of her partner. Didn't change the way they all eased themselves away from her, careful and guilty but still persistent about it.

Vivian sat quietly, apart from one foot that kept bouncing. She wanted the conversation to be over, so she could go back to stealthily checking historical records about the next round of abandoned buildings. Her boss's eyes flicked toward the movement, and she sighed.

"Maybe you should consider something less...demanding." Vivian stilled the fidgeting with an effort of will, spine going just a bit straighter at the implied threat. "You're obviously going through a hard time. Maybe this isn't the right position for someone in your--position," Carol finished awkwardly.

Jackson turned back to face her again. Behind him, trees along the edge of the highway blurred into the illusion of a full forest, rather than just a few holdouts not yet overwhelmed by the forces of development. She couldn't decide what sort of face he was making. He asked, "What are we going to do?"

And just like that, she remembered it was still the two of them. Always the two of them. She had walked off the edge of the map, off the edge of the world, to be with him. Compared to that, needing to find a new job soon didn't seem like such a hurdle.

"We'll figure something out. Try out gigs for a while if I have to. How bad can it be?" The face Jackson made at that didn't require any interpretation. "Yeah, well. You only live once, right?"

He grinned, one crooked tooth showing at the edge of that mischievous smile. "That's debatable," he said, gesturing with one hand to indicate his everything.

Surprised, she let out a bark of laughter. "Even better." So busy enjoying the moment, she nearly missed the sign. It was easy to miss, nearly obscured by tree branches, the wood overgrown with moss. Still, she saw it and read out its instruction:

"Lewisia Lakeside access, next right."

***

Most park areas had a dawn to dusk access policy. Vivian had chosen to bind her life to someone who felt most alive when hiking at dawn. So she could say from experience that Lake Lewisia's visitor parking area and the shoreline just visible when she parked in the closest space looked perfectly normal for a park area in the early morning. A couple other cars--older models, lightly muddy about the wheel wells, standard park fare--had been parked and left behind by other early morning nature enthusiasts. The normal arrangement of battered wooden information boards and heavily weathered fencing separated the parking area from the lakeshore proper.

Ahead of them, light glinted off the water's surface, the kind of blinding white light that had probably driven sailors mad in ages past and now made Vivian wish for a set of sunglasses. Thick stands of pine encircled the area, bristling up hillsides on their way to remarkably close mountain peaks. There, a few fat clouds snagged and drifted free in turns. All very normal, which would have made it no surprise if she had looked over to find Jackson once again disappeared.

Jackson, when she did look over, remained resolutely physically present. As did the lake, which absolutely should not have been there.

"Who put it here?" was the first question uttered in the car. Vivian felt vaguely pleased she wasn't the one who said it, because it meant she wasn't, say, hallucinating. It was also, she resisted pointing out, a pretty silly question--no one puts a lake anywhere--and she didn't want to be responsible for saying that either. Still, it had to be said. None of the maps had shown a lake. And this was a proper lake, not some glorified pond that got a bit overconfident after a wet winter. It just had no business being where it was. And yet.

They got out of the car slowly, like people held at gunpoint, and didn't move any closer to the water. At the margins of the north side, Vivian could just make out something moving between the trees. It looked, mostly, like a deer. It was definitely not a deer. Vivian had a faint awareness she had started holding her breath and wasn't sure she could remember how to release it again.

Jackson came around to her side of the car and slipped his hand into hers. Only like that could either of them take the first steps onto the gravel path that led down a gentle slope toward the dock area. A dark figure came into view, legs dangling off the end of the dock. Since it was the only person they could see around, they headed that way. It wasn't easy: months of hunting liminal spaces had taught them both to avoid people at all costs if Jackson wanted to stick around.

This, Vivian realized with a little thrill, might be more than just another spot to add to the rotation. More than another stopgap against separation. This was a kind of high weirdness she had only ever read about before. This--and her stomach squirmed with a mix of excitement and fear and the shame that came with wanting something more than was considered dignified in anyone over the age of eight--might be a place that had answers for them.

The dark figure at the end of the dock had a fishing pole made out of a branch and some string, propped between their knees. A hooded sweatshirt of some sort hid the details of their face and body in bulk and shadow; only their dark-skinned hands, steadying the pole, could be seen. They did not look up or turn when the combined footfalls of Vivian and Jackson echoed down the dock toward them. Rather, they ran one finger along the string, not pulling but just testing along it, until Vivian saw the moment when something tugged back.

When they reeled in the line, the hook emerged from the water with a sparrow perched on it. Tiny clawed feet clung tightly and the dark wings fluttered to shake off water as soon as it hit the air. The dark figure held the line steady, just waiting as the bird fluffed itself out. After a moment, it cocked one eye up toward the sky. The little tail bobbed. Then it took off, flitting toward the trees.

The feel of Jackson's fingers between hers still felt strong and real, so Vivian made herself speak. He would stay with her or he wouldn't, but either way, this place had to have answers for them. She couldn't hold back from asking questions just because she didn't want to risk him evaporating like usual.

"Good morning," she tried, and it came out as a question. The figure, rather like the birds, tilted their head slightly in consideration of her. She cleared her throat and said, "We were wondering if there was a visitors center or someplace we could learn more about--" She tried to remember what the sign had said the name of the lake was. Was there anything else around here?

The figure lowered the line into the water again. "You'll want to find a library, I think. Always a good place to start." Their voice had a serene sort of confidence to it. The water rippled.

"Oh. Okay. Do you--can you give us directions at all? GPS doesn't really." She paused, considering how to put it. "Believe in this place." Jackson squeezed her hand, perhaps in reprimand or perhaps in amusement, she couldn't tell.

The figure's shoulders hunched up like they were silently laughing in any case. "Oh, there's always an accidental library or two being looked after at any hour you like here or there. Try the one under the bridge at Elm Street. That one has some local guides fluttering about, if memory serves."

So there was a town, after all. That was something. She focused on that to resist the urge to ask what an accidental library was. "Right, okay, but--"

"Take the Mill Street exit when you see it. The rest will take care of itself."

That sounded like a dismissal. Jackson hadn't disappeared, which made it the only successful encounter they'd ever had with another person. And they had their next goal, so Vivian considered the whole thing a win. As she turned to walk back up the dock, though, Jackson hesitated.

"How do they get down there?" Jackson asked as another songbird broke the surface with a chirp and a ruffling of damp feathers.

"Swimming in water isn't so different from flying through air, when you think about it," the figure answered. Vivian's breath hitched again. They hadn't been sure anyone would be able to see or hear Jackson, even if he could stay present around them. If the figure found anything odd about him, though, they didn't show it. They just went on saying, "Some of the hatchlings get confused and end up lost down there instead. First flight out of the nest, straight into the water, the silly things."

The songbird let out a few piping notes and made no move to leave the hook. "Of course, penguins liked it so much, they decided to stay forever," they added as an aside. The figure tolerated the bird's lingering for a moment, then moved a finger toward it until it gave in and took flight. "But I like to remind them of the options. Just because you ended up doing something doesn't mean you have to keep at it forever."

They walked back to the car, past informational placards about historical events they had never heard of and ecological webs with impossible linchpins. They leaned side by side against the hood, looking out across the lake glowing silver and gold in the light. After a moment, Jackson gave a little chuckle that soon turned into near-unhinged laughter.

"So," he said between gasps, "that blows the haunting in San Francisco right out of the running for weirdest encounter ever."

Vivian ran a hand across her face as her own helpless giggling set in. "Ghosts are the least of our issues at this point," she agreed.

Overhead, something soared past them. Tall clouds blocked it from view, but it cast a shadow that swept across them with a wingspan that shouldn't have been possible no matter what illusions could be created by angles of light and distance. Something in the air seemed to crackle in Vivian's hair. Jackson went still beside her, his laughter dying away as suddenly as it had started.

"I remember this," he whispered. "I can't--I can't remember, but I remember." His eyes fixed on the avian shadow above. The contradiction shouldn't have made sense, but Jackson's memory had become as strange as the rest of him since the flood. More than that, Vivian remembered buzzing and the strangeness of the mountain after the flood, things she had attributed to her illness at the time and had not questioned much since. But she remembered something too.

"Come on," she said, pushing away from the car hood. "Let's find out whatever an accidental library is."

***

They made it as far as the diner before Jackson blipped out of existence again--the longest he had been able to manifest in any of the places they had tried. He had managed to stick around through finding the accidental library under the bridge. Mitzi, who served as some kind of caretaker for the living books that flapped and clustered overhead of their own free will, had been entirely able to see and talk to him.

Vivian could still feel the soft, dusty sensations of pages fluttering under her fingers as she took notes on the contents of one of the tamer books of local history. She made a note to stock up on more empty journals before her next visit. So much to learn, so many secrets to record.

Even driving the main drag of the downtown area didn't dispel Jackson, and it had been full of people. By then, it had hit the lunch hour. People stood outside the bakery with sandwiches wrapped in paper or sat on the grass of the park with takeout containers. The occasional glimpse of someone with what looked like wings or a shapeless blob of darkness on the end of a leash for a walk didn't feel as strange as they probably should have. The real weirdness, Vivian pointed out as they waited their turn at a four-way stop, was how nice everything was.

"When's the last time you saw all-metal playground equipment that didn't look like it could give you tetanus at twenty paces?" Children took turns on a tall slide; an older kid went down it upright in his socks to the cheers of the others.

Murals decorated the walls on either side of Mulaney's All-Night Diner, bright, beautiful ones that made everything around them look a bit more cheerful. The moment she stepped up to the door, she could hear and smell bacon frying and coffee brewing. It was that burst of normalcy that broke the liminal zone at last, she supposed. Diners could hold liminality, but midday with clear weather wasn't a likely time for it. And nothing quite said "everything is just as it should be and just as it always has been" like diner smells.

Looking over as she opened the door to the diner to find Jackson gone hurt, but it was an old familiar hurt by now. She didn't even break stride until a waitress behind the counter asked her,

"Will your companion be taking form again, or would you like a spot for one?"

"Oh. Um. No, probably not. Just one, thanks." A few people looked up from their food at her entrance and the waitress's words, but no one looked surprised by the idea of an invisible lunch date.

"How's the counter sound?" The waitress patted her hand on the counter in front of an empty stool, and Vivian slid onto it.

It took until coffee refill number two, when Vivian had gotten through half a turkey club that, while tasty, didn't seem to have a single weird element to it, before she asked the waitress what had been on Vivian's mind through the whole meal.

"Is this place still going to be here if I leave? I mean, will I be able to find it again?"

The waitress could have been in any diner in America if not for the tattoo flowers that slowly bloomed, wilted, went to seed, and grew again on each of her forearms while Vivian watched. She smiled and patted Vivian's hand. "It's always like that when people first find their way here." The town wasn't, from what she had seen, so small that Vivian expected everyone to know everyone. But picking Vivian out as a newcomer probably wasn't tough. "It's not a ghost town or a fae illusion," the waitress agreed.

"That's good," Vivian said, tension she hadn't been aware of easing out of her shoulders.

"It's pretty rare for the town to expel anyone after they've been allowed to find it," the waitress went on while she refilled a glass sugar container and then a napkin dispenser.

The fries Vivian had just popped in her mouth went down the wrong way, and she swallowed thickly against them. She hadn't considered the possibility of rules and expulsion. "Is that a police thing, or the town council or something?"

"No," the waitress answered with a faintly confused smile. "Don't worry too much about it. If the town let you find it, you're probably allowed to come and go as you please now." It was a comfort, and it was what Vivian had wanted to know. At the same time, she found herself wondering why anyone would want to leave if they didn't have to.

Lost in thought, she almost missed when the waitress asked her, "Do you need a place to stay for the night?"

"No," Vivian admitted, "I can't stay." That, she realized, was going to become a problem.

***

It wasn't until Vivian had parked at the main branch library for a bit of solo research that the regret hit. She shoved her cell phone back into her bag, missing on the first two attempts. That was when she also realized she was shaking. Rain poured in Lewisia that day, and she sat in her car and shook and wondered what she had done.

"I just think it's playing with fire," Jackson said, casting another furtive look back at the tarnished lump of silver sitting on the backseat. "I realize our lives are completely absurd now, but this is what we've got. And if we live in a world where curses and ghosts and who knows what else are real, salvaging mysterious metal objects, no matter how profitable, from abandoned buildings is probably--"

Vivian didn't get to find out what he thought her salvaging probably was. Jackson blipped out of existence faster than she'd ever seen. She actually swerved out of her lane for a moment in surprise, eliciting an angry horn honk from another driver. When she righted her course, she realized her phone had begun to ring.

"Who is this?" Vivian demanded when she finally succeeded in getting the phone within reach to stab the speaker button. Considering at least one other driver was probably wishing for her death as it was, she wasn't interested in taking her eyes off the road again. A hiss of open air gave way to a somewhat confused voice.

"Vivian? This is Carol. I'm calling to talk about your vacation request for next month. Requests," her boss corrected after a rather pointed pause.

"You know, this isn't really a good time to discuss work matters," Vivian said. Snarled, really, and some part of her mind could sense her boss recoiling through the phone line. Even so, she didn't back down. A cell phone. Of course that would disrupt liminality. She almost resented herself more than her boss, for not thinking to shut the phone down before starting a drive she knew might include Jackson. Almost.

"I did ask you to stop by my desk before going home," Carol said, her own tone going snippy.

"I had a prior commitment and couldn't stay any later," Vivian countered. A turnoff for some other, normal street went by. She checked the odometer and ran a quick calculation in her head. The exit for Lewisia would be coming up in a few miles--none of the regular highway signs referenced it, but she had memorized the distances between it and all the markers along the way.

She didn't know what would happen if she tried to turn off for the town while on the phone with someone outside. Maybe nothing. It might not matter. She wasn't going to test the theory today. Or possibly ever. She readied a finger to disconnect the call. She'd claim a bad connection on Monday.

While the rain drummed down on the roof of the car, Vivian shoved her hands into her hair and banged her head several times against the headrest. That's what she should have done. Just hung up. Almost anything would have been better than what she actually did, but that would have been best.

"Jax, I quit my job," she said into her hands.

After a second, she said, "I decided to find a new job." That tasted like a lie.

"I'm going to need a new job." Well, that was true enough, anyway. She gave a little shriek of frustration. Now Jackson would worry, whenever she got another chance to tell him. She had just been so angry--at the interruption, at the denial of her time-off request, at having to bow to the demands of a job that only seemed to keep her away from Jackson.

Of course, that job had been supplying gas money to go to the sort of places where she could see Jackson. She groaned. Then she snatched up her bag and burst out of the car into the rain before she could give in to any more impulses toward theatrics. It was an adventure, just like they always said. They would figure it out.

The sprint across the parking lot left her hair drenched, wet patches along her shoulders, and splashes up the backs of her legs. Under the awning at the front doors, she shook herself off like a dog. It was in the midst of that less than dignified display that the most elegant woman Vivian had ever seen popped open one half of the doors and leaned out to look at her. The look was not what Vivian would have classified as one of approval.

"Ms. Ackerman?" Vivian blinked water out of her eyes, but the woman's appearance didn't change. She wore a top hat and tails, fitted perfectly to her shape, not a thread out of place.

The woman took a step back, heels and silver-headed cane tapping on the tile floor. "I've been waiting for you," she informed Vivian, formal without being polite in the slightest.

Vivian stepped in after her, letting the door swing shut on the storm outside. "Since when--nineteen-twenty?" Vivian asked as she took another look at the outfit now that it wasn't half obscured by the door. In another context, it might have been considered understated in its elegance, not relying on a lot of flash to make it look good. Standing in the lobby of the library, where the heat had been turned on to keep comfortable anyone who needed to come in from the street for a moment or for the night, understated was never going to describe the look.

With an expression of faint but unsurprised disgust, as though Vivian had entirely lived down to her low expectations, the woman said, "I was sent by my employer to discuss the possibility of a commission."

Maybe it was the vaguely mafia-esque reference to her employer, or maybe it was the implied resources and intention behind preserving that outfit in perfect condition, or maybe it was just the same set of instincts that kept Vivian from putting a foot down on the wrong rotten floorboard or loose masonry, but Vivian got a bad feeling. She started to edge toward the inner set of doors. If she could get into the sacred space of the library proper, this person would have to stop talking to her. No one messed with the vibes in the library.

"I don't know what you think I do," Vivian began.

Expression unchanged, the woman said, "You hunt liminality," and Vivian froze.

Never once had she uttered those words aloud to anyone but Jackson. It was the title she had given to herself, to what the two of them did together. All the notebooks tracking setup and collapse triggers for liminal spaces, the habitats most likely to support that strange space where nothing seemed quite the same and so much more became possible, the things living or dead or inanimate or other that could be found in the spaces during or outside of liminality--

She was a liminality hunter, and absolutely no one else was supposed to know that.

"Who the hell do you work for?"

Something in the woman's stance changed: she stood just a bit taller, exuded just a bit more confidence in her superiority, became almost magnanimous in her condescension. "The Historical Society."

***

"You know," Jackson said with a grunt as he lowered himself through the shattered remnants of the first floor and down the climbing ropes, "I'm almost certain you can buy lamps in shops these days."

Vivian, already down on the shifting footing of broken floorboards and cracked ceiling tiles under the hole, huffed a laugh. She pulled the ropes free from her climbing rig and stepped back to make room for Jackson. "I don't think an IKEA catalog is going to satisfy the Society."

Jackson snorted at the idea but went on undeterred. "Heck, Quartz Hardware can probably build one custom, if you're feeling fancy about it." He dropped down the last few inches, boots sliding on debris until Vivian steadied him. It wasn't clear, given the low light, if this damage was pre-existing or if it had happened when the access tunnel she and Jackson used collapsed behind them. She kept her face averted so as not to blind Jackson with the headlamp she had on, but she gave his arm a squeeze before letting go. While he freed himself from the ropes in turn, she picked her way down to solid footing.

"Oh, they're feeling very fancy indeed," she said as she shone the light back the way she had come so he could find his way down as well. "You would not believe the instructions I got on how this damn lamp needs to be protected during transport. Why do you think it took me two more hours than expected to get from the Society house to the campground that day?"

Jackson grumbled into his beard some familiar complaints about the Society's methods. Vivian tipped her head back to look up at what remained of the ceiling through the rest of the lower level. It wasn't actually the basement, because what they had entered through wasn't actually the first floor. Something that looked like popcorn ceiling treatment flaked down around them, disturbed by the vibrations of their movements. The house was too old to have popcorn ceiling, though, considering it had already been partially swallowed by a sinkhole back in the twenties. Vivian decided not to think about that too hard.

According to the records in Idaho Falls, the sinkhole had entirely destroyed the house, then home to a nearly-destitute stained glass artist who had always just missed the timing on any and all style movements in his lifetime. The site had been reclaimed by the earth, which saved the humans the trouble of having to condemn and destroy it themselves after the freak accident. The whole incident made little more than a footnote in the microfiche records about the goings on of the next-next town over.

According to the records in Upper Bridgestone, the nearest Lewisia sister city in the area, the sinkhole swallowed the house largely unharmed. The artist, who apparently made Frank Lloyd Wright look like a child's paint by numbers kit and had ties to Prohibition-era smugglers, disappeared at the same time to parts unknown. He left behind a number of unfilled commissions, unpaid gambling debts, and it was rumored, unreleased pieces. It had been one of the great scandals of the art world at the time. If you knew the right people.

The house had remained largely unpilfered, despite the many years of abandonment, because no access point could be found to the house post-sinking. Rumor said at least one secret entrance existed, courtesy of those rum-runner ties, but no one seemed on know where or how to access it.

One thing Vivian could say about the Historical Society: they always seemed to know what no one else did.

Finding the workshop proved significantly less trouble than finding the house had been. In a few spots, torrents of loose dirt had tumbled in where windows burst under the pressure of the initial sinking and now slowed the two of them. The workshop had been built as an inner room, though, without windows or exterior-facing walls. It was, once they reached it and Vivian pushed open the door, in nearly pristine condition.

Finding the lamp itself was the easy part. It still waited on the artist's workbench, as though he had just stepped away for a moment. If she had found a still-hot cup of coffee nearby, it wouldn't have surprised her in the slightest. She looked at the lamp, of course. All this fuss about it, she had imagined a work of stunning beauty, of visionary creativity.

The patterns had the geometric look that made people compare it to Wright, sure. Vivian felt confident that none of Wright's pieces did actual harm to the viewer, though. The windows of the Robie House never made anyone's eyes bleed, for a start. After a split second, she had to look away, eyes filled with what she really hoped were only tears, vision wavering.

Vivian pulled a boxy, hard shell case out of her backpack and opened it on the workbench. She could feel Jackson peering over her shoulder, trying to get a look at what she was doing. "What is that?"

"Transportation. The lamp can't be exposed to sunlight." In the corner of her eye, Vivian saw Jackson rubbing at his forehead. She couldn't spare much concentration for his distress, though, as she focused on packing the lamp into the foam-padded case.

"Uh-huh. And what happens if it sees the light of day?"

Vivian ducked her head to hide the somewhat sheepish grin that bloomed there. Also, looking at the base of the lamp seemed safe enough, so keeping her head down meant the shade wasn't in her field of view while she packaged it up.

"Funny thing--they didn't mention that part." She snapped the latches shut on the case while Jackson growled. "Come on," she wheedled. "You only live once."

For a second, she thought he wouldn't answer. When she tipped the headlight beam in his direction, though, she could see him smiling despite himself, lips curling up even as he tried to purse them into an expression of disapproval. "That's up for debate," he finally agreed.

She pushed the case down into her backpack before swinging it back on, double-checking the straps and clips and tugging to make sure it couldn't move. "Even better." Now they just had to find a way back out past the collapsed tunnel. Back to the surface and back to Lewisia with a moderately volatile artifact with mind-bending qualities. Back to the second half of her commission money for the retrieval work.

Easy money. Time and space for Jackson to exist. Always another hunt to go on. Gas in the tank. Not bad for two people who were only mostly real these days.

#fiction #magical realism #liminal spaces #relationships #adventures #Lake Lewisia #The Liminality Hunter #bonus story

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nomanwalksalone · 5 years ago

Photo

BOOK REVIEW: THE MAN WHO WAS BRIONI

by Réginald-Jérôme de Mans

Spare a thought for the poor tailor, one of the real artisans often ill done by in today’s supposed vogue for all things artisanal, which usually privileges the marketer over the maker. A case in point is the enormous new book Gaetano Savini: The Man Who Was Brioni, a lavishly photographed and illustrated hagiography of one of the two founders of the Roman luxury brand Brioni, Mr. Savini himself. Amazingly, this 208-page coffee-table-size Assouline tome appears to omit all mention of the other Brioni founder, the tailor Nazareno Fonticoli, the man credited in Brioni’s own earlier vanity history as the “inventive tailor” who created the many, many arrestingly ostentatious clothes that made Brioni’s international renown. Savini, the story used to go, was the “brilliant businessman,” the salesman who helped Brioni gain its foothold in stores all over the world.

This book is his story, and his story alone. Poor Fonticoli gets treated like the Bill Finger to Savini’s Bob Kane. Rather, The Man Who Was Brioni focuses on the pedigree of Savini, his desire to reinvent men’s fashion after World War II, and his globetrotting endeavors on behalf of his shop on the via Barberini in Rome to establish his brand in the luxury department stores and men’s boutiques of the world. Savini, as frontman of the Brioni brand, began to call himself “Mr. Brioni” so that customers and menswear buyers would recognize the name – even though Fonticoli and he had chosen the name Brioni for their new brand because it was an elegant resort area off the Adriatic Sea, not a family name. The writing of The Man Who Was Brioni is dry as dust and clumsy where it is not clearly erroneous, likely reflecting both bad translation and bad analysis in the original. Howlers include the book’s description of a young Savini marveling at prewar catalog pictures of Brooks Brothers suits with “stuffed shoulders.” Brooks Brothers was historically famous for minimally padded natural shoulders, rather than shoulders that could in any way be described as “stuffed,” which is not a term used in English to describe shoulder construction or styling. And, as can be expected, this book makes the usual false contrast between “staid” Savile Row English styling and what Brioni was trying to do, along with the puzzling assertion that the English fabric merchants had financed the “worldwide distribution” of the Savile Row tailors – an impossibility given that custom suits aren’t wholesaled and distributed since they aren’t available for immediate purchase and wear.

On the other hand, Brioni apparently was able to make itself available off the rack, and the text - if the purchaser persists in reading rather than marveling at its pictures - is a history of Savini’s efforts as a salesman in getting placement, beginning with the fortuitous assistance of Giovanni Battista Giorgini, he who launched the first fashion shows at Palazzo Pitti in Florence, the ancestor of what is now the sartorial Sodom known as Pitti Uomo. True custom tailoring, creating individually fitted and personalized garments, is not scalable. For Brioni to attain its fame, for it to get its retail footholds in the exclusive specialty stores of the United States (the export market on which the book chiefly focuses), it had to achieve larger-scale production and sell its clothes ready-to-wear. Thus, the book explains that Savini began licensing the Brioni name to a Swedish factory (!!!) before finding subcontractors back in Penne, Italy to make the Brioni clothes sold around the world. It doesn’t mention that Fonticoli, himself from Penne, was essential in forging those links and training those tailors. Thanks to them, Brioni gained the volume to penetrate worldwide markets. Savini’s eye, apparently, helped give Brioni clothes their trademark flashiness, the basis of their reputation. As Brioni’s earlier vanity history reminds us, by 1959 it was known as “the Americans’ tailor,” surely an epithet that cuts both ways. To be known as the Roman shop that clothed Americans meant that it was creating clothes of an opulent tastelessness suited to the swagger of the newly confirmed greatest power on Earth.

In fact, the book’ pictures are the reason to buy it, if only to marvel at the awesome, awful tastelessness of those 1950s to 1970s designs. Timeless they are not. The Man Who Was Brioni quotes an old Esquire article calling Brioni the tailor that was “waging a war against the white shirt,” that fundamentally discreet element of the wardrobe. Instead, we have a veritable panoply of the plumage of the midcentury fashion victim, epitomized in a picture of that lost soul Peter Sellers simpering at us in a Brioni astrakhan fur coat. You can’t buy cool. Even then, he knew that.

The other key to the Brioni look, in addition to its ornate excess, was its columnar “Roman” cut, supposedly inspired by the ruins of classical architecture. This made for slim, close-fitting jackets that admitted men had bodies and sensuality, even before Sex Panthering 1970s louche became the vogue. The 1970s, in fact, are where The Man Who Was Brioni tapers off, as Savini played less of a role in the house’s designs after that decade. One of its, and his, last hurrahs is the infamous Brioni travel jacket that has been used many times in magazines over the years to show the house’s ingenuity, recognizable for its multitude of pockets holding things one generally doesn’t, or can’t, fly with anymore (a cigar in tube, a ticket jacket (remember those?) emblazoned with the logo of the defunct “TWA” (where I drank my first Zinfandel), a 35mm camera). And, of course, after the 1970s, men’s tailored clothing designs in general became far more conservative. Attempts to spice up suits and sportcoats with various gimmicks suddenly looked very dated. A few publicity photos of Pierce Brosnan dressed in 1990s Brioni as James Bond seem out of place – Savini certainly had nothing to do with the design (what was then considered unbelievably retro, the three-piece suit, in classic patterns, with a roomy cut that seems to run counter to everything the rest of the book tells us about Brioni’s close-fitting, columnar shape and styling). Brioni, too, had had to follow the times, and at the bottom of the 1990s when it began clothing Bond, the suit, like Bond, seemed like something out of an older era (not designs to try to overtly modernize), which might explain those patterns and design.

A picture, the old saw goes, is worth a thousand words. In #menswear, most of those words are meaningless, if not outright fraudulent. Still, The Man Who Was Brioni is a fascinating visual aid to the hubristic excesses of a fashion superpower. Look upon its works and marvel, and spare a thought for the forgotten hands that helped forge its hegemony.

Quality content, like quality clothing, ages well. This article first appeared on the No Man blog in May 2016.

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mikauzoran · 5 years ago

Text

Adrienette Drabble Fifteen: Judge

Gabriel snapped something about sartorial trends in Italian that Adrien didn’t quite understand. He had heard his father rant heatedly about fashion in Italian often enough to the point where Adrien himself was able to thoroughly insult designers, models, lighting specialists, the sound people, the critics reviewing a show, and the owner of the venue, but the comment Gabriel had just made was more subtle; thus, it went completely over Adrien’s head.

“Maybe I should learn how to say something useful in Italian like, ‘Where is the train station?’ or ‘Does this have meat in it?’,” Adrien thought as he watched the Seine fly by outside the car window.

Gabriel put his line back on mute and sighed, “This call is a waste of time. The idiot has no conception of the direction current trends are pointing for next season. Why, just the other day, I was speaking with a few of our new interns, and Ma—aa…”

Gabriel stopped dead, slowly turning to scrutinize the damage he had done.

Adrien smiled sadly. “Go on. What did Marinette say?”

Gabriel gulped. “…Neoclassicism is making another comeback. And she’s absolutely right.”

Gabriel cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. Are you okay? Are you going to be okay going to school today? Are you going to be okay seeing her? Am I pushing you too hard? We don’t have to do this.”

Adrien chewed on his lip thoughtfully. “I don’t know. There’s only one period left today, so…I’m sure I can tough it out for one period. As for Marinette…”

He covered his face with his hands. “God, I want to see her. I want to see her more than anything. Is that masochistic?”

Plagg sighed, poking his head out of Adrien’s shirt collar. “A little bit, Kid.”

Adrien blew out a long sigh, his hand trailing down his face to rub at his neck.

“I’m pathetic, aren’t I?” Adrien mumbled.

“Not pathetic,” Gabriel assured. “Just pitiable.”

“I can live with ‘pitiable’,” Adrien decided, distractedly tracing the bruises with a finger.

Gabriel’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “It won’t be like this for much longer. Things are going to get better.”

“I hope so,” Adrien mumbled, leaning his head to rest against the windowpane.

“Did Nathalie tell you we were able to schedule you to see a counselor at six this evening?” Gabriel inquired.

Adrien’s head whipped around, and he stared incredulously at his father. “What? Really? So soon? I thought we’d have to sit around on a waiting list for a few months or something.”

Gabriel shook his head gravely. “We didn’t really have time to be waitlisted. Measures might have been taken to circumvent the waiting list.”

Adrien’s expression slowly morphed into a frown. “What did you do? Do I want to know?”

“Let’s just say,” Gabriel sighed. “They’ll soon begin construction on the Emilie Agreste Memorial Mental Health Wing thanks to our generous donation.”

Adrien pursed his lips. “Part of me feels bad for cutting in line, but there’s also a part of me that reasons that they’ll be able to help more people with a new, updated wing.”

Gabriel shrugged. “I’m not concerned with being a good person. I’m concerned with being your father.”

“Mother would be pleased to have something named after her.” Adrien smiled nostalgically and began to giggle. “She would probably make some snide remark about giving her name to a psych ward.”

Gabriel began to laugh even as his heart throbbed. “Yes, she would, wouldn’t she? Emilie always had something snarky and irreverent to say.”

“…Dad?”

“Hm?” Gabriel was still getting used to the new moniker.

Adrien smiled with green eyes full of gratitude. “Thank you so much. You’ve been so great the past two and a half weeks, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. I’d be absolutely lost right now without your support…. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you said things were going to change.”

Gabriel reached out to run a hand through Adrien’s hair. “I’d given you no reason to believe me.”

“Thank you for today,” Adrien whispered. “I know you think psychologists are quacks, so it means a lot to me that you’ve gone to so much trouble.”

“I am willing to do anything you think we need to do to get you better, Adrien, regardless of my personal beliefs. At this point, I hope that I’ve been wrong this whole time and she’s actually able to help you,” Gabriel confessed.

Adrien nodded. “Yeah. Me too…but still. Thank you, Dad.”

Gabriel shrugged. “All I did was throw money at the problem like usual. This was a team effort. Nathalie spent all day finding a doctor and making the phone calls, and Plagg covered Nathalie’s desk while she was doing that, so…”

Adrien awkwardly tried to look down his shirt at the kwami. “Really, Plagg?”

Plagg floated out to shrug, landing on Gabriel’s shoulder. “I mean, you were out cold, so it’s not like you needed strict supervision. It wasn’t so hard to answer the phone and play around on the computer between poking my head in to check on you.” Plagg cleared his throat and recited, “‘Gabriel Enterprises. You’ve reached the desk of Nathalie Sancoeur. This is her assistant Plagg. How may I help you?’ And then you just have to tell them what day you need what where. Nathalie made me a cheat sheet. It wasn’t too hard since Nathalie has everything so organized.”

“Wow, Plagg,” Adrien snickered. “I didn’t think you had it in you to be useful.”

“I surprised myself,” Plagg admitted.

“He’s actually a very skilled resource manager,” Gabriel praised. “He reworked our invoice system.”

Adrien’s eyes widened in surprise.

Plagg shrugged. “I had a kitten who was an accountant for a law firm back in the late eighteen-hundreds. The principles are the same. I just had to learn how to work the computer, but I’ve seen you do that plenty of times, Kid.”

Adrien nodded dumbly as they pulled up to the school and the car stopped.

Gabriel looked at the building and then at Adrien with a dubious expression. “You’re sure you’re okay to do this?”

Adrien shrugged. “I’m at least going to try. I’ve got this. I mean, I get pummeled by akuma thrice a week, so how bad can this be?”

Gabriel winced, thinking, “Not anymore, you don’t.”

Gabriel leaned in to press a kiss to Adrien’s forehead. “Have a good day…. I’m proud of you.”

With a genuine smile, Adrien stepped out of the car and made his way into the school.

He snuck into Madame Mendeleiev’s Calculus class through the back door, hoping to escape notice by sitting at the back of the room, but Mendeleiev herself foiled his plan.

“Monsieur Agreste, so nice of you to join us,” she remarked sarcastically.

Nearly the whole class turned to stare at him.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Madame,” Adrien replied, head down, refusing to look at anyone so as not to witness their reactions to seeing him.

Apparently, the akumatization sensitivity training the teachers had to take had not made an impression on Madame Mendeleiev.

Adrien could feel his cheeks burning as he buried his eyes in the textbook and tried not to fuss with the scarf covering up the marks on his neck.

His classmates started whispering, and as much as Adrien actively tried not to hear, Chat Noir’s heightened senses affected him residually even outside of the mask.

“Wow. He looks like crap.” Juleka.

“Did you see the pictures online of him crying at the park Saturday?” Max.

“Look at that scarf. No points for guessing what that’s covering up.” Alix.

“Someone saw some action. Maybe he was so bad she broke up with him.” Kim.

“Serves him right for the way he’s been treating Marinette.” Mylène.

“Has your brother said anything yet?” Rose.

“How is he? How does he look? Does he look okay?” Marinette. Marinette obviously unable to look at him herself and asking Alya to do reconnaissance.

Adrien heard Alya draw in a sharp breath. “He’s…fine,” Alya lied.

Marinette sighed. He could almost see her rolling her eyes. “Alya?”

Alya blew out a weary breath. “Honestly? I think you wrecked him. If anyone was ever being held together by rubber bands, it would be him.”

“Oh,” Marinette replied in a barely-there whisper. “G-Great. Thanks.”

God, he hoped she didn’t look at him. He hadn’t thought he’d looked that bad, but, apparently, the situation was dire, and he didn’t want her to see him like that.

Tomorrow he’d put on more makeup. He would smile so hard and look everyone in the eye and stand up straight and be the Adrien Agreste that everyone saw on billboards. Tomorrow he would fake it so well that no one would suspect a thing.

But in that moment, he felt like a wounded seal watching the sharks circling round. He was not the Adrien Agreste on the perfume bottle. He was just that dorky loser Adrien whose life was currently rimming the drain.

He sank lower in his seat, hunching his shoulders to hide his face. He kept his head down until Madame Mendeleiev called for order and resumed the lesson.

He considered sneaking back out of class and heading to the nurse’s office until all the other students had left for the day. He’d been wrong. Battling akuma might be physically challenging and painful, but that was nothing compared to the mental anguish of sitting in that classroom, feeling like a freak show and having everyone whisper about him.

“Don’t stop breathing on me, Kid,” Plagg whispered. “Come on. In and out.”

Adrien took a shallow inhale. It was all his lungs could handle.

“Hey. No hyperventilating,” Plagg chided, concern softening his voice. “Kid, this was a bad idea. Let’s go home,” he suggested.

But Adrien couldn’t move. He was too afraid to get up and leave, knowing it would draw even more attention to himself. He was afraid to run away and show them how scared he was of them and what they would think and what they would whisper behind his back. He was too terrified to move, to flee and let them know they had beaten him.

He was afraid of what Marinette would think. He had to convince her he was emotionally stable. He had to prove that he was the kind of guy that she would want to get involved with. Running out of class crying would not accomplish those goals, so Adrien stayed and focused on not letting anyone see what a disaster he was.

After a few minutes, he tentatively peeked up at Marinette. Or, at least, the back of her head. Her hair was up in a bun, and she was wearing a black lace choker she had made out of some of the fabric scraps he had once given her.

Adrien lightly touched the bruises she’d left on his neck and thought that it was nice that she had a gift from him around her neck too.

The bell had barely rung when Adrien bolted from his seat, hoping to get to his locker and get out before anyone could look at him or say anything.

His plan failed.

He couldn’t remember his locker combination. The information was just gone. He tried several strings of numbers that seemed to have some potential, but none of them worked. It could have been the fact that his hands were shaking so badly, he wasn’t certain he’d entered the numbers he was intending to in the first place.

“Breathe, Kid,” Plagg reminded, phasing down Adrien’s arm and through the locker to pop the door open.

“Thank you,” Adrien mumbled meekly, feeling the edge come off his panic.

Until someone yanked his scarf off from behind.

“Hey, Agreste.”

Adrien spun to find Kim looming over him with a predatory smirk. “Wow! It looks like someone really mauled you. What happened?”

“Kim, could you please give me my scarf back?” Adrien reached for it, but Kim pulled it away, balling it up and holding it over Adrien’s head.

Adrien was five-nine in shoes while Kim had reached six foot three, and those few inches made all the difference.

“Make me,” Kim snickered.

Adrien stood on his tiptoes to no avail. “Please, Kim?”

“Nope,” Kim rejected the request gleefully. “You know, I don’t know what Marie ever saw in you. She’s so over you, by the way,” Kim added savagely.

“W-What?” Adrien blinked stupidly, hands dropping to his sides. “Marinette…is…?”

Kim shoved Adrien back into his locker door.

Adrien caught himself on one of the shelves inside the open locker and looked up wide-eyed at Kim as the other boy growled, “You bastard! Marie! Marie, that girl that you dated. Marie who was head over heels in love with you, you self-absorbed prick! You should be shot,” Kim spat, looking down at Adrien in disgust. “Guys like you should be taken out back and shot. I hope whoever gave you that hickey makes you suffer. I hope she toys with your heart like you did Marie’s.”

Adrien didn’t even have the presence of mind to flinch when Kim drew back his foot to kick Adrien.

Thankfully, the blow never landed.

“Back the hell off, Kim,” Marinette snapped, charging Kim like a rhino and shoving him away from Adrien while Kim was off balance.

“The hell, Marinette?!” Kim snapped.

Marinette stomped her foot, putting herself between Kim and Adrien. “You heard me: Back off,” she repeated, an eerie calm in her voice that spoke of someone who was master of the situation. “You mess with him, you deal with me.”

Kim shifted uncomfortably under Marinette’s intense glare. Upon brief consideration, Kim put his hands up, unwilling to go up against Marinette. He tossed the scarf at Adrien’s feet as he walked away, muttering under his breath.

The rest of the locker room went back about its business once the show had ended, but Marinette and Adrien remained motionless. He stared as she took a deep breath and forced her muscles, her jaw, her fists to unclench.

She didn’t turn to face him, and he was glad of it because he was positive that he looked pathetic. That he was pathetic. And she was just so cool and brave and wonderful.

Had she hurt him? Yes. Would he let her hurt him again? Gladly. Over and over and over if only that pain could be interspersed with happiness like she had made him feel when she’d smiled at him, called him Chaton, returned one of his puns with a pun of her own, kissed him…

She had told him not to speak to her. He wondered how strictly she’d enforce that rule.

“Thank you,” he ventured in a small, timid voice.

She visibly deflated.

He almost apologized, but she spoke first, “I will always have your back. No matter what.”

Without another word or a glance behind, she walked away.

But her words, that simple promise, meant the world to him. He shut the locker door and fled before anything else could happen to kill the hope inside of him.

#Adrienette #Miraculous Ladybug #Miraculous Ladybug Fanfiction #Marinette Dupain-Cheng/Adrien Agreste #Adrien Agreste #Gabriel Agreste #Plagg #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #Mikau's Writings #There's a Daisy

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oppvenuz7 · 3 months ago

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Mouni Roy: The Multifaceted Bollywood Star and Fashion Icon

Mouni Roy has firmly established herself as a standout figure in the Indian entertainment industry. From her impactful roles as an Indian television actress to her celebrated presence as a Bollywood star, Mouni has continually captivated audiences. Beyond her acting career, she is also recognized as a fashion icon and a cultural figure committed to social causes. This article explores Mouni Roy’s journey, her influence in fashion, and her contributions to society.

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Mouni Roy: A Journey from Television to Bollywood Stardom

Mouni Roy’s career began with a bang in Indian television, where she became a household name through her roles in popular shows like Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi and Naagin. Her performances in these shows were marked by depth and relatability, earning her a devoted fan base and critical acclaim. As one of the most prominent Indian television actresses, Mouni’s ability to bring characters to life set her apart in the highly competitive world of TV serials.

Her transition to Bollywood was a natural progression, marked by her debut in the film Gold. Her performance in the film was widely praised, paving the way for her continued success in the film industry. Mouni Roy has since taken on a variety of roles, showcasing her versatility and solidifying her status as a Bollywood star.

Mouni Roy: The Fashion Icon

Mouni Roy’s impact extends beyond her acting career; she is also celebrated as a fashion icon. Known for her impeccable style, Mouni has become a trendsetter in the fashion world. Her ability to blend traditional elegance with contemporary trends has made her a favorite among fashion enthusiasts.

From red carpet events to casual outings, Mouni Roy’s fashion choices are always noteworthy. Her wardrobe features a diverse range of styles, from classic sarees to modern gowns, reflecting her versatility and keen sense of fashion. As a fashion icon, Mouni continues to inspire her followers with her bold and elegant sartorial choices.

Mouni Roy: A Cultural Icon and Advocate for Social Causes

Mouni Roy’s influence goes beyond entertainment and fashion; she is also a respected cultural icon who actively supports various social causes. Her commitment to making a positive impact is evident in her involvement with initiatives focused on [mention specific causes if applicable, e.g., "women’s rights, education, and environmental sustainability"].

Her role as a cultural icon is further emphasized by her efforts to use her platform to raise awareness and drive change. Mouni’s dedication to social causes highlights her belief in using her influence for the greater good, setting an example for others in the industry.

Looking Ahead: Mouni Roy’s Future Endeavors

As Mouni Roy continues to evolve as an artist and public figure, her future in both Bollywood and fashion looks incredibly promising. With several new projects in the pipeline and ongoing involvement in social causes, Mouni is poised to further expand her influence. Her ability to captivate audiences, set fashion trends, and advocate for important issues ensures that she remains a prominent and influential figure.

Conclusion

Mouni Roy’s journey from television to Bollywood, combined with her status as a fashion icon and cultural advocate, showcases her multifaceted talents and impact. As an Indian actress who has made significant strides in her career, a trendsetter in the fashion world, and a dedicated supporter of social causes, Mouni Roy exemplifies the qualities of a true trailblazer. Her ongoing contributions continue to inspire and resonate with audiences across India and beyond.

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arthurhwalker · 6 years ago

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2019, Buying Guidance

Buying a computer, a smartphone, or tablet in 2019 is different than it has been in years past. Usually, I'm lurking in anticipation of my "next", and have a lot of ready recommendations for friends and family. That isn't to say there aren't a lot of great options, they just seem to be more arcane.

My current technology arc consists of incrementally shedding Apple, Google, Microsoft, and any hardware, or digital service, that doesn't provide me with a great deal of value. Also, I'm looking for those services and products that have a community around them, and with whom one can have some kind of relationship.

I look at everyone; Apple, Asus, Dell, Google, HP, Huawei, LG, Microsoft, MSI, Samsung, Vaio, before I make a purchase. I look at their products, support documentation, warranty, social media presence, how transparent they are with consumers, and whether or not they understand how to engage in basic marketing and commerce.

So, what's good? The plucky upstarts and potential market disruptors first.

Pine64

From the FAQ on their site:

"What is Pine A64? The Pine A64 is an index card sized 64-bit single board computer. It can perform like your desktop or portable PC with browsing the Internet, playing games, watching video, and execute programs like spreadsheets and word-processing. The Pine A64 board can also play ultra high definition 4Kx2K video."

I waited in the queue for almost a year to be able to buy this $99 laptop. They sell them at zero or little profit so people can tinker with them, learn, and make stuff. They're working on a tablet, more powerful "Pro" version of their laptop, and a phone. It can run 64 bit Ubuntu, Debian based Linux things, and Android 5.1.

I cannot wait to get my PineBook next month and start monkey'ing around with it. Also, it comes in completely unadorned white, AKA Stickertown! I need to start gathering my adhesive sartorial accoutrements now.

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Pop!_OS, and System76

I've been using their Pop!_OS with my Lenovo Thinkpads for a couple of months, and really like it. With Canonical focusing Ubuntu away somewhat from the desktop user, going to a curated version, like Pop!_OS, tends to deliver a better experience. System76 has a live Pop!_OS Chat where I've gotten help and guidance along the way.

I resisted installing Pop!_OS for a while, because it looked kind of cool. I know, right? Linux isn't supposed to be "cool". So I was wary, haha.

Pop!_OS is, basically, set up the way I would set up vanilla Ubuntu after some tinkering. It has AMD or Nvidia Drivers and GPU switching baked in, power management options, and the only thing I had to install with the terminal was GIMP. Everything else I know and love was in the Pop!_Shop. Pop!_OS 18.10 get regular updates, and they're always adding keen new things to their offerings.

Where vanilla Ubuntu is kind of squeaky, garish, and clunky, Pop! is quiet, nocturnal, and polished. It encrypts your install by default, full disk, out of the box with minimal effort. "Out of the box, with minimal effort" is something I say a lot with Pop!. It's just really (really) nice. I'm a fan, bought the t-shirt, put the stickers on my laptop, all the things.

I haven't tried their hardware, and while I'll be sticking with a Thinkpad for mobile computing, their mini "Meerkat" and Thelio Desktops are very compelling options. System76 isn't very transparent about the types of displays offered with their desktops, or their laptops, but have responded swiftly to my queries by email, and via social media.

They are very transparent about their internal components, and have an array of options, including AMD on their Thelio line, for folks looking to distance themselves from Intel. The Thelio desktops look very nice, with the only flaw being no IO up front. Everything else is custom, with open source daughter boards, and other keen aesthetic features.

I worry more about which configuration of Thelio I would get, than what I'd actually use it for. I just want one.

Recently, Pop!_OS got featured on the Linus Tech Tips YouTube Channel, as a gaming platform. A. Linux. Gaming. Platform. Yes, you heard that correctly.

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ReMarkable

This continues to be a good value, for a product that receives frequent quality of life updates. For minimalists looking to replace all the paper in their lives, this device delivers. I really like that they don't stop making it better, simply because the makers believe in the form factor and use case.

ReMarkable has a lot of competition in the hardware space, but I haven't seen much in the software space that is half as good. The ability to nest notes and documents in folders and organize your work is an incredibly attractive feature. The Linux-based operating system is incredibly stable, and reliable.

The ReMarkable tablet isn't fast, or cutting edge, but it feels really nice to use. It's easy on my eyes, and the hand taking notes and reading documents. It really is just like paper, only better, and taking up way less space in my bag.

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Light Phone 2

I love E Ink devices, particularly when they aren't being used simply to read ebooks. Marketed as "a simple 4G phone with e-ink, messaging & other essential tools—a phone that actually respects you," the Light Phone 2's marketing is compelling. The promotional video hits all the right notes and feels for anyone that is in a love/hate relationship with their smartphone.

This is definitely me, and I ordered the couples package for my wife and I. From the two surveys I've received, and the updates they've posted, this is something I've only grown more excited for. The very simple and elegant aesthetics of the device are interesting to me, and I can't wait to have one in hand. It's gotten bad enough that I lurk on Ebay, looking for a deal or steal on their first Light Phone. Ugh, haha.

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On to my favorite services.

Discord

I pay the monthly for their upgraded service. I'm not entirely sure what I get for my subscription, but I don't care, the service is that good, and I want to support it. For chatting with my friends, playing games, communicating, community curation, and similar, Discord is doing it right. Their user experience is good, even if the user interface is a little confusing at first.

The confusion comes with being used to Skype, or Face Time, and a distinctly limited feature set. With Discord I keep figuring things out, and saying "oh, it can do this? And, also, this? Cool". Discord also works pretty much everywhere, on everything, with no service interruptions (that I've been aware of). I can use with a Linux machine with a dedicated app, in a browser tab, or on my smartphone, whatever I want.

I can use it to communicate text, images, video, audio, broadcast my desktop, all the things. Keen.

ProtonMail

End-to-end, client side encrypted, with servers located in Switzerland outside of US and EU jurisdictions, and available in English, Spanish, German, French, Italian, Japanese, Dutch, Polish, Portuguese, Romanian, Russian, Turkish, Ukrainian. I am getting a paid account soon, and their Linux bridge is in beta.

Obvious privacy advantages aside, I really like the service, the options they provide, and their pricing structure. They have a really nice web client, and dedicated iOS and Android apps. It feels like email done right, as a product that you pay for, as opposed to you being the product, or part of some other service you're passively subsidizing.

Feels good. Definitely considering a paid version.

Lutris and Steam For Linux

Linux Gaming used to be an oxymoron. It just wasn't that great, but with Steam Play + Proton I can play Skyrim, with a controller, on my Linux machine. I click a box, hit play, it downloads some things, and boom, I'm good to go. I haven't explored all the different games compatible with this new service, but it looks to be expanding every day.

Lutris is a newer service, and was recently added to the Pop Shop on Pop!_OS. From Wikipedia:

"Lutris is a FOSS game manager for Linux-based operating systems. Lutris has one-click installation available for hundreds of games on its website, and also integrates with the Steam website. Installer scripts are available for some difficult to install WINE games including League of Legends."

The day when I can play Fallout 76 without maintaining a Windows partition is on the horizon. *Cherubs blow heavenly horns of glory* I'd really like this to take off, and take a small, but painful bite out of Microsoft's market share. I don't hate Microsoft, but I'd like them to hurt bad enough they work a little harder to make Windows not suck so hard.

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Among the big manufacturers, there are a few that are doing it right, in my humble opinion.

Lenovo

I recommend them, particularly if you need a machine for getting work done, and running Linux. I've been part of their INsiders Customer Advocacy Program since late 2015, and have gotten a candid look at their company culture. Previous to that, I had been using their products since late 2011, mostly for game and web development, digital art, and publishing my novels.

A Thinkpad running Linux is my weapon of choice. The Yoga Book, more recently the C930, continues to be a singular companion device, with little else competing with it in the marketplace. Lenovo warranty, support, and customer service is still five stars. No one, absolutely no one, is more transparent about the hardware you're buying, down to the tiniest detail, I can look it up easily.

In the consumer range, they make a pretty good gaming rig, that I wouldn't be embarrassed to carry around. In fact, the look, IO, and cooling system on the new Legion series gaming laptops is better than many Thinkpads, excluding the P-Series of course. I want to try a new Legion with Linux, now that Lutris, Gamehub, and Steam are making gaming on Linux easier than ever.

On the horizon, Lenovo has some additions to their Yoga line that fall into a totally new zone. In my "lurking" browser tab are the Yoga S940 Laptop, and Yoga A940 Desktop. These devices are in the "Smart" category, packed with features. For the professional that wants style, as opposed to the tuxedo and dress shoes Thinkpad, these are just nice looking machines. I could see people in sales, design, marketing, and other fields that deal heavily in aesthetics, wanting devices like these.

Lenovo A940 Yoga Review

Why do I have a lurking tab in my browser full of Lenovo things? Because they regularly run sales. For the consummate lurker, one can get a new device from Lenovo for 30-45% off retail with patience, and a keen eye for clickable coupons. Lenovo understands how to commerce.

If someone told me they were going to get an LG Gram (any model) I'd understand the desire, even though I haven't owned one myself. The reviews are all pretty positive, some are MIL-STD 810G, good value for the money, and they have a keen aesthetic about them. Also, you can get a couple of the models in white, AKA Stickertown!

Because LG is trying to break into the laptop market, they seem to making a pretty good product, or trying very hard. I'd look at the warranty and support options, warily, just because they're a little new to the game.

Their Gram 2-in-1 comes with a full size Wacom AES 2.0 Stylus Pen, with tilt, and 4096 levels of pressure sensitivity. There's no screwing around with bundles or paying an extra Benjamin for the pen, they just include it with the product, like everyone ought to. Also, they're very transparent about their displays, internals, and specs, so you know what you're buying.

I've read in a couple of places that they are supposed to get better Linux support by the next Kernel, but that there are some issues at the moment. If you're looking for something to run Windows, give them a look, but for Linux maybe hold off, or just get a Thinkpad.

Motorola

A lot of how Lenovo does business has bled over into Motorola. I've owned a couple Motorola Phones, both from before they joined Lenovo. I have friends and family that own the more current models, and are very satisfied. I'll probably own a Motorola in the future, as I'm probably on my last Apple iPhone.

They make a keen, and modular product. Smartphones have always struck me as an opportunity to stack accessories and components to produce value for different use cases. Motorola Mods let one do exactly that, swapping a battery pack, for a game controller, for example.

Samsung

For core computing, and the aspiring digital artist, Samsung makes a nice thing. I've owned their Notebook 9 Pro, Windows Phone, and a Galaxy Book 12. Where Samsung does really well is in aesthetics, making a device that is both nice to look at, and nice to use. They are very transparent about what you get, market their devices well, and offer pretty good value for the money.

When I bought my Notebook 9 Pro, the only thing extra I had to buy was the Staedtler Pen Stylus, because, hey, it was cool. With the Galaxy Book 12, it came with everything, keyboard accessory, S Pen, a nice charger, and even a 128GB microSD card to expand the storage. There was none of the Apple/Microsoft nonsense where you're paying hundreds of dollars extra for things that should just be included.

Even Samsung's new el-cheapo laptop, the Samsung Notebook Flash, is pretty great. Aesthetically, it's compelling. It looks to have a decent 1920x1080 display, lots of ports, a microSD slot for expandability, and you can get it in white, AKA Stickertown! It has eMMc Memory, that is slower for read and write speed, but tends to be very reliable.

Conclusion

What are you using? Have a keen service or computing product that has served you well? Drop me a line, I’d like to know all the things.

#tech #buying guide #lenovo #samsung #system76 #Pine64 #Discord #ProtonMail #Lutris #Steam #Linux #Ubuntu #remarkable tablet #Microsoft Go #LG Gram #Light Phone #Light Phone 2

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