#he also put dirty dishes in with the clean ones despite my little magnet i made to indicate the dishes are clean

[busylilbee]

I just found something under the toaster oven that I wish I could Forget

[smallerthanzer0]

the closet is a metaphor

(read on ao3)

TAZ Gift Exchange 2018 for @artsytrickster! Thanks to @kravalicious for organizing, and apologies to both of you for the lateness. Happy Holidays - hope you enjoy, and I wish you the best in the coming year!

Summary: When Angus moved into the freshly minted Casa de Taakitz as the new ward of the most fashionable Bird and his shiny new boyfriend, Taako was expecting to learn some new shit about the kid. Of all the weird and terrifying possibilities, he wasn’t expecting Angus McDonald to own approximately four pairs of clothing. 

When Angus moved into the freshly minted Casa de Taakitz as the new ward of the most fashionable Bird and his shiny new boyfriend, Taako was expecting to learn some new shit about the kid.

Maybe he was allergic to sunflower oil (Davenport, nearly a cause of death in Cycle 41). Or he cracked his toes obnoxiously when he got frustrated (Magnus, a habit that still hadn’t faded). Maybe he even cleaned those coke-bottle glasses of his with his tongue (Merle, once, and gross). Cha’boy had been dealing with weird roommates for over a century. He could handle anything.

Of all the weird and terrifying possibilities, he wasn’t expecting Angus McDonald to own approximately four pairs of clothing.

It was fancypants clothing, sure, folded neatly to avoid being crushed by the books that filled up the rest of the kid’s solitary suitcase, but still. Two neat little jackets, four crisply ironed shirts, and three pairs of knee-length shorts. And underwear and stuff, duh. Kid wasn’t a savage.

“Uh, little dude? Where’s the rest of your duds?”

Angus blinked up at him. “That’s it, sir! They’re pretty new, too, so they should last a while!”

Taako peered into the depths of the suitcase like it held the answers he was too cagey to ask for. “Three little detective outfits, huh? Cool, cool… how, uh, how’s that style rut working out for you?”

Angus had yet to take anything out of his suitcase, perching next to it on his bed and drumming his pristine loafers against the side. “Pretty well, I think. Most of the time I’m doing detective work – or reading cool stories and research, which is kind of like preparation for detective work! – so it’s less of a rut and more of a lifestyle choice. Like your hat!”

“My – okay, hotshot, I believe in your fancy detective language that’s called a false equivalence? Because my hat is in my – okay, it’s somewhere in the house, and you’re wearing your detective outfit right now, like you always do. It’s a signature piece versus only piece kind of deal, you dig?”

Angus was looking a little uncertain. “Oh, uh – if it’s not okay I can go get some more clothes, of course-”

“Well, I’m not judging or anything,” Taako said, backpedaling a little at the look in those big brown eyes. “I just – just some thoughts cruising around in the ol’ brain pan-” He sighed. “Look, Ango, Lup and I had a bigger variety of clothing when we were kids, and our bar for a good childhood was five feet under the fuckin’ ground. Do you sleep in those?”

The kid’s eyes were saucer-wide. “I do, but – it’s not like that, sir! I can buy all the clothes I want!”

“Then why?” Taako gestured helplessly at the suitcase, billowy sleeves flopping. “Are they comfy? Is that it?”

“It’s what I’m used to, sir.” The words were careful – a little too careful – and Taako abruptly dropped his arms.

“Okay, Ango. At least you’ve got good taste in suspenders. Maybe you can teach Krav a thing or two, yeah?” He ruffled Angus’ curly hair and got a wobbly smile in return. Right, first day in a new house. Bad time to push.

Was it also a bad time to sweep the kid into his arms and promise him that everything would be okay? Signs pointed to yes.

Instead, he beckoned Angus out into the hallway. “I completely forgot, unpacking on an empty stomach sucks. Let me show you round the kitchen first, natch? I think there’s some cookies tucked in a corner somewhere.”

Three batches, in fact. He hadn’t been sure which kind Angus would like best.

Angus followed him down the stairs, loafers pattering against the wooden flooring, and Taako firmly decided to do the smart thing and let the clothes go.

~~~

“I mean – he’s only eleven, obviously his sense of style hasn’t solidified yet, but that makes it even weirder to have three of the exact same outfit – Krav, what do kids even like to wear these days?”

Kravitz chuckled, snuggling closer against Taako’s hip. Taako could feel his nose pressing into his ribcage, but it wasn’t cold thanks to judicious application of a fuzzy sweater. See, clothes were important! “I think I’m the one person who would know even less about that than you, dearest.”

He groaned and flopped backwards onto the mattress. “I don’t get it. He has money. He has a closet that currently has about twelve items of clothing in it. Even you don’t wear dress shirts to bed.”

“I would have, if you hadn’t taught me better.”

“He’s had skin for more than three months, hon.” He huddled grumpily in Kravitz’s arms, resisting the urge to purr as his boyfriend played with one of his ears. “You think his parents made him wear that shit all the time?”

“I think he lives with us now and he can wear whatever he wants. Maybe he needs some options.” Kravitz hesitated. “Dearest, would you mind if I gave him one of those pajama shirts you bought for me? I think he might like them.”

Taako rolled over to plant a firm kiss on the first part of his boyfriend’s face he could reach – in this case, one of his jutting cheekbones. “You know how I feel about sharing clothes, there’s basically a portal between Lup’s closet and mine. Go wild.”

The next night, Angus was gently coaxed into sleeping in a Kravitz-sized flannel that fit him like a nightshirt. Taako and Kravitz each rolled up one of the overlong sleeves and sent him off to bed with an awkward hug.

Angus came downstairs the next morning with mussed hair and sleeves flopping around like tentacles, a soft smile on his face. “It’s so comfy!”

Taako’s heart had never exploded before – ooh, wait, it had. Cycle 83. This was a much better feeling.

~~~

Magnus came over the next week to finish installing the floor-to-ceiling shelving in Angus’ room – enough to hold all the books he currently owned, and room for the hardcover editions that the kid seemed to attract like they were magnets. He loped into the kitchen with confusion written all over his honest features. “Hey, Taako?”

“Mags! Here, hold this.” Taako shoved a plate of Magnus’ favorite dumplings at his face. Grinning, the fighter pulled up a stool to the kitchen island (of course there was an island, Taako was rich and this was his dream kitchen) and stuffed a dumpling into either cheek. “Where’s Ango?”

Magnus’ first reply came out garbled through layers of meat filling. He swallowed and tried again. “Reorganizing his books by color. He’s going to put ‘em back in alphabetical order though, says it’s the most efficient way to find information.” After a couple more bites, the confused expression was back. “Hey, after we finished the shelves I opened up Ango’s closet to see if the rolling ladder I installed in there needed any adjustments, and there’s like three of the same outfit and a flannel shirt in there? What’s going on?” His voice lowered to a loud whisper. “Is Ango McDango a nudist?”

Taako stared at him for a moment, and then they were both laughing so hard that Magnus almost cracked his beautiful island under one pounding fist. Served him right if he did, he was the one who’d carpentered it into being in the first place. “No, oh my god, no,” Taako wheezed. He wiped his eyes, weirdly glad that someone else thought this was an issue. “That’s just… all the shit he brought with him? We gave him the flannel, even, he was sleeping in those fancy little dress shirts! We’re working on it.”

Magnus mulled that over for a bit as he took another bite of dumpling. “Huh… you don’t think he, like, threw out all his clothes so we wouldn’t make fun of him or something, right? Like he has to look fancy around us all the time?”

“I don’t think that’s it; he loves the shit out of that shirt Krav and I gave him, even though we bought him more that actually fit.” Taako extinguished the stove burners, sending all the dirty dishes to the sink with a quick spell, and hopped up on the counter. “I couldn’t get out of him exactly what’s going on, so I guess we’re just going to buy him more stuff and see what sticks. Don’t give him a hard time about it, capiche?”

Magnus saluted with his unused fork, stuffing more food into his mouth with his free hand. “Got it,” he mumbled enthusiastically. “I asked Ango if he wanted to come over and play with the dogs sometime, and he said yes. I’ll make sure I have some T-shirts and shorts or something lying around when he shows up, kay? The pups’ll chew on his suspenders.”

“And tell him to bring the clothes back with him,” Takko said imperiously. “I’ll wash them. God knows what kind of detergent you have in that zoo of yours.”

He was pretty sure Magnus caught the fond smile that clung to his face despite the harsh tone. “Don’t worry,” Magnus reassured, grinning warmly. “We’ll fill out his closet in no time.”

~~~

Word must have spread, because four days later Merle was knocking at his door with his two kids in tow. Mavis and Angus waved shyly at one another while Mookie attempted to eat the decorative macarons engraved in the vestibule wall. Merle was holding a box that he shoved in Angus’ general direction as he ambled in.

Angus caught the box, eyes wide. “Is this for me, sir?”

“Course it is, kid.” He gestured at Taako. “I’ve given this one enough gifts to last a lifetime already.”

“Quality over quantity, old man,” Taako scoffed, shaking Mavis’ hand and complimenting her obviously homemade headband. “Well, Ango? Open it and we’ll see if it’s trash or compost material.”

Angus lifted the lid off and tilted his head. “Uh… are they shoes?”

Taako peeked over his shoulder. “Merle, are these made out of plastic? Bright yellow plastic?”

Merle snickered. “They’re fantasy Crocs! Good for gardening, strolling on the beach, and adventuring! I figured you’d need more than just loafers now that you’re not. You know. Living on the moon.”

“Thank you, sir,” Angus said dubiously. Merle waved it off, scooping up Mookie and heading into the backyard – no doubt to criticize Taako’s herb garden. Mavis held out another box to Angus before moving to follow them.

“Sorry, that was-” she winced. “Well, not a joke, he really does wear them a lot, but we got these for you too!” Angus opened this box, struggling to hold both boxes in his small arms, and stared uncomprehendingly at a thick-soled boot and sneaker combination with flowers patterned neatly up the sides. “It’s a really good brand, me ‘n Mookie use them a lot and they’re waterproof and all, but they only make them with flowers ‘cause it’s a dwarf brand – is that okay?”

Angus hugged the box tightly to his chest, eyes shining behind his glasses. “They’re perfect! Thank you!”

Mavis smiled and hurried off to find her dad. Taako patted him on the shoulder. “Good for detective work, maybe?”

Angus frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe.”

The next day, Davenport messaged Taako on his Stone of Farspeech with a recommendation for cargo pants that offered “sufficient mobility” and “ingenuitive storage solutions”. After looking them up and grumpily considering the unflattering design, Taako bought Angus a pair on fantasy Amazon. Not everyone could pull off adventuring in a sandproof skirt.

~~~

 Lup and Barry came to visit too, of course, Barry toting a stack of books that he handed over to Angus’ eager grabby arms and Lup sporting a backpack stuffed with messily folded hoodies and scarves and, for some reason, a kilt. While Barry, Kravitz, and Angus settled into a debate on the accuracy of one of the books (a necromancy text? Taako was going to have a chat with his brother-in-law), Lup dragged Taako into a hug and buried her face in his shirt. “Ooh, velvet! I love velvet, Ko.”

“I know, Lulu.” Four months into having a body again, Lup was still extremely prone to touching sprees -shirts, hair, the works. Taako couldn’t even begin to mind it. Her hands dragged over his back, reveling in the soft material, and Taako jumped as her fingers dug ticklishly into the edges of his ribs. “Hey!”

“Deal with it,” Lup teased, pulling back a little to look up at him. “We bought Ango some stuff. Think he’ll like it?”

“He’ll take it. We’ll figure out the liking part later.” Taako ran his hands through Lup’s undercut, fluffing up the ends. “How’s reaper biz?”

“Your husband’s a dork, but so is mine, so overall it’s pretty sick. We’ve stopped three separate cults from doing the same wildly incorrect necromancy spell, and I think the Raven Queen’s gunning to adopt us all.” She rummaged in her pocket. “Hey, Angus, got you one last gift!”

Angus ran over, Barry and Kravitz trailing in his wake. “Thank you, Aunt Lup!”

“This one’s not from us, actually.” Taako froze at her next words. “It’s from Lucretia.”

It was a glasses case, plain and unmarked. Ango flipped it open and made a little excited sound as he tugged out a pair of silver-rimmed glasses. “Oh, they’re so cool – wait, they have my name engraved in Caleb Cleveland’s signature code!” Kravitz bent down to look at the neatly patterned lines and dots etched into the temples, smiling at Angus’ enthusiasm. Taako couldn’t move.

“They’ve got some spells on them too,” Barry added. “Better vision in low light, magnification options, stuff like that. There’s a note in the case that should explain it all.” He nudged Taako’s stiff arm, continuing in a softer tone. “I know, buddy. I checked all her spellwork over last night, and so did Lup. Even did an insight check to see if there’s anything she wasn’t telling us.” He paused. “It’s pretty good work, actually. I might ask her how to do the low light part.”

Slowly, slowly, Taako gulped in a breath. “They’re safe? You’re sure?”

Lup slid in next to him, taking his hand. “It’s okay, Ko. You said Angus needed new glasses anyway, right?”

“I could have made him some.”

She leaned in closer, resting her chin on his shoulder. “I know. But Creesh wants to spoil him too. She misses him.”

“She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t get to miss anything that’s – that’s mine.”

“Ko,” Lup said, mildly warning. She didn’t have to say anything else. Taako kept breathing, trying to relax as he watched Angus and Kravitz laugh over some detail of the Caleb Cleveland books.

He and Lup had agreed, way back when. They were going to get rich and have fancy clothes and stuff that was theirs, but you couldn’t own people, except for each other. Other people left. They died. They needed more than two gung-ho elves in their lives.

Angus looked back at him, grinning, and Taako abruptly realized that the kid owned a piece of him by now. A big, heart-size chunk. He’d do anything for him.

Maybe Lucretia felt the same way.

He could live with that. Probably. The kid needed as many adults as he could get.

Lup reached into her backpack one more time. “You know what else is good for a growing kid to have? Some nice sturdy pants, denim, maybe, in a cool neutral color that goes with a lot of shit-”

“Get out of my house.”

~~~

Sometimes kids did little, concerning things like not having enough clothing, and sometimes they did things like getting lit on fuckin’ fire because their detecting led them to a death cult.

Krav had portaled in, set a still-smoking Angus down on the couch as gently as his bony arms could, and promised to return in a couple hours after all the charging and paperwork were taken care of (“it’ll be fast, love, I promise, all three of us came for him. Don’t worry.”) Taako sat there on their living room floor, watching Angus pick charred dirt off a half-gone sleeve, and felt something in his brain tick just over this side of sanity. “Guess you’re down to two fancy shirts now, huh?”

Angus didn’t even look up. There were tear stains on his cracked glasses, probably from the pain of nearly getting torched. “I’ll write a letter to the shop in Neverwinter. They’ll send me a new one.”

“Uh huh. Got a system in place, right? You’re just going to buy the exact same thing again?” The kid fiddled with the cuff of his remaining sleeve and pulled out what looked like half of a lockpicking kit.

“Yes, sir.”

He set the tools neatly on the table – hooked strands of metal, a flat screwdriver – and Taako wanted to cry. Kids shouldn’t have that kind of stuff hidden up their sleeves. He and Lup shouldn’t have had to, back when they were his age. And Taako’s tried to do right by him, buying the kid shit with fun patterns and comfy fabrics that make him look like he’s not supposed to have a day job, but it wasn’t working. Angus didn’t feel safe, and he certainly didn’t look safe with half his shirt gone up in smoke.

Taako fought to keep his voice neutral. “How’d you say they found you again? Your shoes slipped on some rock? That bright white shirt of yours get spotted in their death cave?” Oops, no, there went the hysteria. “Have you ever considered not wearing those stupid clothes when you’re sneaking around? You have boots, Ango! You have a fuckin’ camo shirt! I know you’re smart, why can’t you – did you even think about bringing any of your new shit with you?”

Angus was staring at him: big brown eyes, big fat tears rolling down his cheeks. “I’m sorry, sir,” he whispered.

Yep, Taako Taaco was the shittiest person in the entire planar system, nay, the multiverse, and he’d just made the kid cry. “Ango-”

“I’m so sorry. They don’t fit.”

Wait, what? “They don’t – am I buying you the wrong size? Ango, what-”

Angus cried even harder. “They don’t fit! I keep buying detective clothes because I’m a detective, that’s all I am, I can’t be a normal kid like you want me to be!” Taako opened his mouth, more in shock than anything else, but Angus just kept on going “I can’t be normal, and wearing the clothes you and Mr. Kravitz get me just feels like p-pretending, and they don’t fit! And – and-” He was full on bawling now, the words barely making it out of his mouth. “And they won’t all fit in my suitcase, so I can’t take them with me when – when I have to leave-”

Taako scooted over to him on his knees – he would fuckin’ crabwalk if it would get him closer to his kid – and tugged Angus off the couch and into his arms. “Oh. Oh, kid, c’mere.” He could feel his heartbeat, fast and frightened, and he rubbed his hand soothingly over the kid’s back to try and chase some of that raw terror out. “No one’s leaving. It’s okay.” He kept murmuring nonsense reassurances, telling Angus that he was the best detective and that his suspenders looked really cool and promising to buy him three more suitcases to put all his shit in and teach him how to Levitate them all until Angus gasped one last hiccupping sob into his damp shirt and went very, very, quiet.

Taako sighed wetly – oh, he was crying too now. Great. He patted Angus gently on the head and cleared his throat. “You still with us, buddy?”

Angus snuffled sadly and shook his head. Yeah, Taako got that. He hated crying in front of other people.

“Oookay. Well, when the old McDonald brain comes back online, can you pass a message on for cha’boy?”

This time, a slow nod.

“Cool.” Arms tightening a little around Angus’ crumpled frame, he rocked a little and thought. “You know Krav and I didn’t take you in cause we wanted a normal kid, right? Or because we wanted a master detective to figure out where all my left socks go off to every time I put a pair for washing. We wanted you, Ango. You and anything and everything that you want to be. This clothing shit? It’s nothing. I’m literally just trying to make sure you don’t wake up tangled in a pair of suspenders.”

Angus shook a little in his arms. He was pretty sure that was a giggle. “We’re not expecting anything from you when we give you stuff. Do whatever you want with it – hell, sell it! You know I love turning a profit.” Another giggle. “And another thing – that closet’s yours until the end of time. So is the room – keep anything you want in it. Don’t ever worry about fitting all your shit in a suitcase. You’re here for good, Ango.”

Angus looked up at him, finally, and promptly burst into tears again.

Taako didn’t do emotions, but he was also pretty sure that his kid was surgically attached to him at this point. He rolled backwards onto the carpet, Angus snuggled firmly into his chest, and told the kid about all the cool shit he was going to cook and/or buy for him until Kravitz finally portaled in again and shuttled their entirely exhausted family off to bed.

~~~

Candlenights came, cold and wet, and his family was mostly over the clothing gifts by now. Angus got a new little crossbow and enough books to last him for… a month, probably. Kid read like a speed demon.

Taako made them all sweaters – uniquely patterned, uniquely sized, but all with a little bird in IPRE colors perched upon the breast.

Kravitz took one look at the raven nestled in a knitted gray ribcage and scooped Taako into a twirling embrace. Taako tried not to look too pleased with himself, which was hard when Magnus and Lup wouldn’t stop hooting at them.

Angus stared unblinkingly down at his. It was patterned back to front in the outline of a frilly dress shirt, suspenders knit in with neat cables from shoulder to waist. Even a little breast pocket with a handkerchief embroidered in to complete the design.

And unobtrusively, stitched onto the pocket, a little rainbow bird. He was one of them.

Taako poked him in the back. “Well? You think it’ll fit?”

Angus’ voice barely made it through his small but genuine smile, hands fisted in the neat knitting. “Yeah. It fits perfectly.”

[dilrajwilhide1995]

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[darknessontheedgeoftowndyke]

Cats and Scarves: A Short Story

It’s always cold first thing in the morning, so Eleanor is sure to bundle up with her scarf and sweater, as she downs her coffee and struggles with the key to lock the door. Her car takes a while to wake up, and she curses under her breath, checking the time on her phone. 8:47. She’s trying to get to the new pet shelter, to volunteer- it’s not really a job, but it’s a start, and working in movie theatres isn’t going to work out forever. She backs her car out of her driveway, checking the road for ice, then deeming it safe as she slides a CD into the player. She’d better not be late.

The shelter is warm, is the first thing Zaire registers as she steps inside, pulling her coat out of the way so it doesn’t jam in the door. There are a couple of people already there, silently looking at their phones. So much for Zaire’s hope to make friends. It stinks less than she expected, and the walls in the office are adorned with photos of dogs and cats. Zaire smiles. She’d love a dog, she’s always been a dog person. Suddenly the door opens with a suction-like noise, as wind desperately tries to overwhelm the office, and someone else comes through. They’re almost smothered in a huge scarf and sweater, and Zaire can tell they’ve now noticed the temperature, because the scarf is hesitantly pulled off and stuffed in a bag. Then the new arrival sinks down onto a waiting chair, picking at their nails. Without the scarf, Zaire can see that the newcomer has long, dirty blonde hair, messy but beautiful. Maybe this would be more interesting than Zaire thought.

A tall vet with hair cut in a blunt bob enters through a door at the back, immediately capturing everyone’s attention. Including Eleanor, there are four people, and the vet stands in front of them, gaze sweeping over them. Eleanor feels self conscious and resists the urge to pull back her hair. “I’m Amy Pinnock,” the vet announces, her voice firm but kind, “Are you all here for the volunteer positions?” Eleanor nods along with everyone else, and Amy looks satisfied. “Alright then,” she says. “Follow me.”

The first day is more introductory than anything, though Dave is asked to clean out a litterbox, which he does so somewhat resentfully. Zaire feels a surge of annoyance. It’s not a nice job, but he knew what he was signing up for, didn’t he? The other two volunteers are introduced as Daisy and Eleanor, who is the one with the beautiful, messy hair that Zaire can’t stop staring at. Her own hair has been pulled into a messy bun, which she usually does so she doesn’t have to deal with it. She has the kind of hair that is always tangling, no matter how much hair conditioner she uses. Eleanor smells of grapefruit and lemon, and it makes Zaire feel a little dizzy. She can’t afford to get distracted, especially on the first day, but it’s hard to ignore someone with the kind of presence Eleanor has. Inescapable.

After a week on the job, Eleanor gets used to the smell, the constant threat of having your eye scratched out by Penny, a tabby cat who had been rescued recently, and even getting up early. She starts getting friendly with the other volunteers, learning that Daisy wants to become a full time veterinarian, and Dave has never had a pet due to his parents having allergies. The one person she doesn’t know much about is Zaire, a girl with eyes the colour of grass, and hair that is always pulled up and out of her face. She isn’t secretive, but she doesn’t exactly volunteer information, she’s friendly enough but always seems to escape under Eleanor’s gaze. She feels drawn to Zaire, more than she’s ever felt anything before, and the need to know her properly is starting to eat away at her. Finally on Friday, the end of the second week, Eleanor and Zaire end up working late, cleaning cat dishes. At first they keep up a mild chatter of small talk, then eventually it fades and they work in a silence that feels magnetic- anything but wrong. There’s a pull between them, and eventually Zaire pulls out her phone to check the time, and her wallpaper catches Eleanor’s eye. “Shrek?” She asks, a smile tugging at her lips. Zaire looks over, and Eleanor expects her to shrug and go silent, but she smiles, too, pocketing the phone. “I have this weird thing for the Shrek movies,” she admits, and Eleanor feels excited for this bit of information. She doesn’t want it to end, so she asks, “What movie is your favourite?” Zaire smiles again, and it lights up her eyes. “I don’t know. I think Shrek offers more on self acceptance and friendship, while Shrek 2 is more about love and the risks you’ll take to save it. And, well, Shrek’s 3 and 4. Not that newsworthy, in my opinion. I guess both the first and second have different things to offer, and are great in different ways. Do… you like Shrek?” Her voice goes a bit quieter when she says this, as if she’s scared of the answer. “Absolutely,” Eleanor replies. “You know, I’d never really analysed it before, like you did. It was interesting.” Zaire smiles, scrubbing a bowl. “What’s your favourite movie?” Eleanor doesn’t have to think long. “Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. Aside from being bloody hilarious, it really opens a new door in the series.” She feels confident admitting her Potter obsession, not only because Zaire is a self-admitted Shrek follower, but because the air around them feels peaceful. She’s surprised when Zaire admits, “I’ve never seen Harry Potter.”

“What? No way! You must’ve at least seen the first one?” “Nope. My mum thought it was too dark when I was a kid, and then I just never felt compelled to check it out. I tried reading one of the books, but it didn’t make much sense. I think it was the Order Of the Phoenix?”

“Of course it didn’t make sense, it’s right in the middle of the series!” Eleanor laughs. “You need to read it in order!”

When she stops speaking, it all feels quieter than before.

“Maybe I will then,” Zaire smiles, reaching for a hand towel, at the same time as Eleanor. Their fingers brush, and Eleanor nearly jumps. Is this normal to Zaire? She doesn’t know if the tension and chemistry is one sided. When they’re finished with the last of the dishes, Zaire wishes Eleanor a good night, and leaves to catch the late bus. Eleanor makes her way to her car, and sits in the seat for a moment, going over everything that just happened. She smiles to herself, shakes her head, and turns the keys to get the engine started.

It’s two days before Zaire gets to see Eleanor again, and she passes the time listening to poppy, bright music and checking facebook, where she and Eleanor have recently added each other as friends. When Monday finally rolls around, you wouldn’t have known anything had happened on Friday, save for Eleanor and Zaire’s private smiles. By the end of Zaire’s shift with Daisy, Daisy starts talking about a party she’s hosting, and invites Zaire along. She adds that all the volunteers are invited, which puts a new batch of butterflies in Zaire’s stomach.

The week leading up to Daisy’s party is relatively calm, and Eleanor feels a tingle in her chest when she hears Zaire saying she’ll be at the party. On Saturday night, she goes through her drawers and wardrobe, eventually settling on a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. The volunteers are supposed to change into hospital scrubs during shifts, and she’s hoping to come across as gay as she could. Which is how she dresses generally. At six thirty, she went into the kitchen and grabs a six pack of muffins, then gets in the car and makes her way to the address Daisy had sent.

Zaire is early to the party, and despite Daisy insisting it’s fine, she feels awkward. She’s wearing a green dress, nothing fancy, but nice enough. She’s also brought a bottle of sparkling grape juice, as she isn’t a huge drinker, and the bottle sits alone on the table. Daisy has gone off into the kitchen, leaving Zaire alone, also. She wants to help Daisy set up, but she’s already told her she’s fine with her just waiting. Maybe she just doesn’t want to make conversation with Zaire. Regardless, she is stuck sitting on a lavender coloured couch, with her phone.

When Eleanor gets to Daisy’s house, people have already started drinking, even though it’s only 7 at night, and Zaire is seated in between Dave and a giggly brunette. She doesn’t look unhappy, exactly, just out of place. Eleanor wipes her hands on her jeans, seeing Zaire’s dress. She looks beautiful. Eleanor walks over to the couch, ignoring the nervous feeing that arises, that always arises around large groups of people. It’s not what you could call a small party. “Hey,” she says, trying to sound casual.

“Hey,” Zaire replies, a small smile appearing on her face.

“Um,” Eleanor says, and Zaire frowns a little. “Are you okay?” “I’m- I just-“

Zaire gets up and shows Eleanor to the back door. No one is out there yet, so they have the cool and quiet night to themselves.

“Hey,” Zaire says, in a tone that Eleanor has never heard her use.

Concern.

“What’s up?” She scans Eleanor’s face, and Eleanor is surprised to feel a tingly feeling in her chest, despite her anxiety. And then, oh god. Zaire is seeing her freak out. She turns away, embarrassed, and Zaire takes her arm, gently. “Hey. It’s okay. You’re okay,” she says softly, and Eleanor forces herself to look back at her, and tries to breathe normally.

“Hey. Hey. Just take, take one breath in, and hold it in for three seconds.” Eleanor complies.

“Okay, now let it out slowly, for three seconds.”

She does, her heart already beating a little more normally.

“Now do a little kind of sigh, to push it out more, but gently.”

After a few more breaths, Eleanor’s head feels dizzy, and she looks for somewhere to sit. Zaire sits next to her on the grass, and Eleanor suddenly remembers, somewhere in her mind, that it’s winter, and Zaire just took her into the freezing cold air, stayed out there, despite only wearing a dress, and helped her. The realisation is still sinking in when she sees Zaire shivering slightly. She wants to kick herself, why didn’t she bring a jacket? She could have offered it to her. Instead, Zaire lies back and looks up at the sky. Eleanor follows, her head softly hitting the damp grass. The sky is going dark, as it does around winter, and stars are starting to appear- just a few, so excited that they can’t wait for the sky to go completely dark. Too excited to shine.

It's quiet, but comfortably so, and Eleanor can hear every breath Zaire takes, every move she makes. She rolls her head on her side so she can look at her. Her voice comes out unexpectedly.

“Why do you always tie your hair up?”

Zaire looks surprised at the question, but replies. “It’s just easier to deal with, I guess. It’s a bit… wild.”

“I wanna see.” Eleanor wasn’t planning on saying those words, but the second they’re out she realises it’s true. She does want to see it. Zaire rolls onto her stomach to look at Eleanor. “Really?”

Eleanor nods.

“You’re sure?”

“God, how bad is it?” Eleanor asks, and Zaire laughs. Then she sits up, straightens her back, and starts to pull the tie from her hair. Eleanor is in awe as the dark locks tumble down around her shoulders, lively and, as Zaire said, wild.

“So, what’s the verdict?” Zaire asks, finally looking up at Eleanor. “Too wild?” A shy smile, bright eyes, and that wild hair.

“I.” Eleanor wants to say something, anything, but words are failing. She’s overcome by Zaire’s beauty. All she wants is to reach over, pull her in, and meet her lips with her own. She shakes her head. Not worth the risk. She swallows and replies, “It’s lovely.”

 After the volunteers’ first month at the shelter, Zaire sends Eleanor a message. It’s late, or early, depending on your view, and she can’t sleep.

“Hey.”

Her phone makes a buzzing noise.

“Hey. What’s up?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“Me neither… you wanna talk?” “Sure.” “Can you believe it’s been a month since we started volunteering?”

“I know, it feels like forever. Especially when I’m cleaning up cat pee.”

“How come you’re volunteering if you hate it so much?”

“I don’t hate it. And I don’t know. I wanted to meet more people, I guess.”

“And what do you think of the people you’ve met?”

Is that flirting?

“You’re cool. I feel like I’ve known you a long time. Daisy’s cool, but I don’t think she likes me much.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know, she just seems to act weird around me. I don’t know, maybe she’s just like that.”

“Did you know she has a thing for Dav?”

“*Dave.”

“Really?” “Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“What about you?” “Not my type.”

“I mean, are you seeing anyone?” “No. How about you?”

Zaire’s heart beats hard as she awaits Eleanor’s answer.

“No. I was talking to this girl a while ago, but it didn’t work out.”

“Oh.”

“I have to go to sleep now, but it was great talking to you J see you tomorrow.”

 It’s on Wednesday that Eleanor finally says something.

“Hey, Zaire,” she calls, trying to be quiet so she doesn’t scare the cats. Not that Penny got scared of anything.

“Yeah?” Zaire comes over to where Eleanor is crouching, feeding the cats.

“I was wondering. If sometime, you wanted to, I don’t know, get a coffee or something? Or just hang out? Um, yeah,” she finishes pathetically.

Zaire is smiling when Eleanor finally looks up.

“I’d like that. Yeah.”

 ONE YEAR LATER

Zaire’s phone goes off, the opening lines of All Star. She checks it, and sees a text. “Nearly there! :)” Zaire smiles and puts the phone down as Penny nips at her toe. She and Eleanor have adopted a few cats, including bad-tempered Penny, who, as it turns out, just needed some love. She didn’t think she was a cat person, but she’d fallen in love with them.

The door is suddenly pulled open, as Eleanor rushes in, her scarf making her almost unrecognizable, like the first time Zaire saw her. Zaire smiles at the memory, and Eleanor dumps shopping bags on the floor, and meets Zaire for a kiss. Zaire closes her eyes, smiling into it, her arms around Eleanor’s back, holding her. Around them, she hears a cat meow and feels another rub up against her leg, and she’s never felt so content.

 The End.

[firstjustgoin]

Good Advice, Deaf Ears

5. Start with a good piece of advice no one in the rest of the story will ever follow.

My mother was a useless woman, always one lost hairpin or burnt dish of cornbread away from unraveling. I loved her only out of necessity because when you are eight years old you would love a piece of driftwood if someone told you that you were supposed to. Come to think of it, there was nothing much different between my mother and a piece of driftwood –– the woman could tread water for years longer than anyone thought she should, but damned if anyone could track her direction.

My grandmother, on the other hand, was a woman of substance. She loved the weight of words and she held onto them with fervor in moments that no one else in her life could withstand her grasp. Her house stood as a testament to the weight of words, layered like newspaper papier-mâché on every surface.

A wooden sign nailed to the wall next to the front door read, Do what makes you happy. Be with those who make you smile. Laugh as much as you breathe. Love as long as you live.

A crocheted throw pillow that slept next to her for sixty-five years reminded her to Live where your feet are.

A framed photo lived next to her cutting board that I saw every Thanksgiving told her to Do small things with great love.

The words did not just live plastered to her house but within her person. Every weekend I could get up to her house, I sat with grandma on her tattered patchwork couch sipping lukewarm earl grey as she doled out the advice as heartily as she doled out her homemade brownies. Neither could I keep in my system for longer than a few days, but she loved to give it anyways.

“Remember, Fran, life’s going to give you dozens of reasons to trust nobody, to think that your love is a burden. But don’t believe it. Never be too proud to love somebody, to ask for the things you need from the people you love.”

“I won’t, Grandma, I promise.” She reached her hands to cover mine –– every time the movement a little shakier, every time the grasp a little lighter.

I promised Grandma a lot of things, all the way up until the day she died. I wanted to live up to the advice she proffered, to become something more than just the useless offspring of a useless procreator. But maybe, as the embroidered magnet that stuck to Grandma’s refrigerator said, Only He can judge.

I went through a lot of bad living situations after I moved away from grandma: old, drafty houses with seven roommates and spiders that scuttled through the rooms as soon as the lights were turned off; cramped walk-ups with two people to a room and strange clumps of hair stuck to every drain and every cushion; tiny studio apartments with vindictive girlfriends and cruel boyfriends who always would stumble upon perfect excuses to leave me and take our shared goldfish or gerbil with them to their next live-in love affair; suburban split-levels with laminated posters in every common space that whined dirty a dish, clean a dish, for a happier home we wish. I snuck out of apartments and leases in the middle of the night sometimes to escape whatever toxic living environment I had found myself in at that time, only to land somewhere else disturbingly familiar.

Jean was my first roommate after Shiobhan ran out on me (and took my bunny Calvin) and I loved her for it. We lived together in a third floor apartment squeezed between two towering glass developments, with a tiny kitchen really only good for cooking quesadillas and a window seat that looked out on the intersection between the two busiest streets in town. Though the constant honking seeped through the cracks in the windows and floorboards, that space always felt sacred, ignited by something even calmer than a meditation room.

Jean worked in bakery back then, waking up before dawn to knead sourdoughs and thread pie crusts and coming home mid-afternoon, as the sun would begin to set, covered in flour and oil and blackberry jam. She was always baker-slash whatever creative whirlwind was visiting her in her dreams that month.

She was an acrylic painter –– when she would stay up late into the night sipping merlots, staining the floors with red wine and dark, muted paints, painting my portrait again and again but with light bulbs for eyes or salamanders crawling along in the background.

She was a henna artist –– when she would invite friends of friends of friends over to the apartment and decorate their arms and ankles and necks in long black snakes after I had scrubbed off the ink and been painted again one too many times.

She was a spoken word poet –– a weary period where she would drag me to whatever hip neighborhood bar or coffee shop was putting on that week’s open mic night. I never told her was I really thought of most spoken word artists –– how I hated the way the timbre of their voices rose and fell dramatically to convey mundane points, the way they paused for so many excruciating seconds to pull in an audience only to disappoint them with a string of gobbledygook. Lucky for me, she hung up her ironic scarf and poetry passions after just a couple months.

The glass blowing phase was my favorite, after she slept with a guy who owned a studio in the town over. Glass blowing made Jean feel calm and powerful, like she could dominate any element with a precision that yielded such beauty. After a few weeks, her creations grew from palm-sized glass beads with pockets of air burping on the edges to mosaic circles and kaleidoscopic pinwheels. I arranged the bowls and vases on every windowsill so when the sun peaked through the windows, the whole room would dance in blues, oranges, and pinks.

Then there were times when Jean was not visited by any colorful dreams, no spirit pushing her to make, make, make. Those were seasons when I would find the browning apple cores and half-empty bottles of gin growing on the kitchen counter and know that Jean was alone in a place that only I could reach her.

Despite the gray quiet that settled over the apartment during those times, it was then that I found my greatest sense of peace. While I loved Jean and all of her frenetic bursts of creation, I also feared I would never be taken by such a manic energy, never whispered so deep in my unconscious to be anything more than I already was.

“Shut up,” Jean would say, pushing me against the shoulder, “You’re mad brilliant. Something’s gonna come up and it’s gonna hit you like bam, you’re not even gonna know where it’s come from, it’s just be there and you’ll feel it and then you’ll know, ya know?”

I smiled and nodded and said, “I know, I know,” but I didn’t know and I still don’t whether or not anything brilliant is ever going to come from me.

But those hushed moments in our apartment were the only times when I felt like fully myself, no longer giving parts of myself away to whatever brilliance possessed her at the moment. I could float from room to room with my shoulders pushed back, a sense of urgency to my steps. At the grocery store, I looked each passerby square in the eyes and smiled slightly, the smile of a woman who knew that she was needed and she was loved and wanted everyone in the world to know it.

I conjured up my grandmother in these moments, with her unremitting well of advice. I sopped up her warm solemnity, the slight squint of her eyes, the light nod of her chin. This was thirty years of training by being her granddaughter, the one who always listened, never the daughter who couldn’t keep her feet on the same ground long enough to try.

I would knock on Jean’s door and push it open to find her curled up against the wall, her fingers fluttering along the bedspread needing to be put to work.

“Hey,” I would whisper, just loudly enough for her head to jerk in my direction. “I’m here if you need me.” Without waiting for her response, I would lie down beside her, wrapping my arms around her thinning middle and squeeze; this was a long-held maternal inheritance in my family –– the pressuring, the centering, the gut-quieting –– even my mother, in her few moments of presence, knew that this was the only way to pull me back into the world again when I felt so far away.

“It’s going to come back, Jean, I know it will. I know it doesn’t feel like it now and that’s all normal, that’s good, save some brilliance for the rest of us, okay?” I would chuckle a bit and wait for her cheeks to pink up to show that life was still kicking around in her. “The real brilliance is in the struggle anyways, right? Beauty through pain, that’s what makes real art.”

Beauty through pain, that was our mantra in those days. She would tell me that my beauty came from being from having to be my own mom so much of the time and I would remind her in these moments when I could try to be her mom too.

These riven moments always passed, they had to; Jean’s creative force was too tsunamic to be kept at bay for long, the wind always broke through whatever shutters she had built up. And when she did spring back to life, I would slink back into the shadows, sliding sluggishly through the hallway, averting eye contact as I hunted down discounted noodles and red sauce.