#i do not want to have to go to the luthier again | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kadavernagh · 2 years ago

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TIMING: Saturday Morning, at around 11pm PARTIES: @faunandfl0ra @kadavernagh LOCATION: Downtown, Wicked’s Rest SUMMARY: Conor gets a good shock and ends up looking a little more goat-y than he likes. Regan is there to pull him aside and worry about his weird legs. CONTENT WARNINGS: Car crash tw

“I appreciate it man, you’re a lifesaver,” it had been a while since he last broke a string on his violin. With Mother’s day behind, and the amount of money it brought in, Conor had finally taken a trip to the local luthier, and gotten his bow rehaired as well. It would be nice to play again. He barely had time to do anything for himself this month, and his various encounters with other fae had left him in a state of anxiety that simply wouldn’t go away.

He had 4 hours before he opened the shop again this afternoon, which left him plenty of time to unwind, right?

The faun stopped for tea at the local coffee shop. He would head home soon, but it was a sunny day, and he liked walking around on such occasions. His cup in one hand, his violin case in the other, he let his stroll take him around the neighborhood. He had reached the seafront, and stopped to look at the crabs which for once were napping on the sand instead of being up to no good. Things were quiet at last. He could tell there was another fae approaching, but while he had already met four, he had gotten used to sensing them in the street. There were quite a lot of them around here, weren't there.

What he didn’t sense coming was the car turning a bit too fast around the curb, other drivers honking in protest. The tires screeched against the pavement, and Conor turned on his hooves, wide eyes staring at the vehicle headed his way. What was the expression again? A deer caught in the headlights? There were no headlights. He was a goat. It was still a pretty damn good expression in this instance anyway. What are you doing? With shock past him, he stumbled back, although it was the driver’s swerving at the last second that would save him. The faun tripped on something, probably his own foot, and sent the cup of tea flying. Call it a terrible sense of preservation, but his violin’s safety came first, and his glamour last.

Did falling down always hurt so bad?

It would have been appropriate to compare Regan’s life to a car crash in most respects. She often did. What happened less frequently was witnessing an actual one. She had been paying more attention than the man on the curb was – maybe it was that awful bubbling feeling in her throat as the car rounded the corner way too fast – but she was too far away to help. There was a honking of horns and whooshing of lungs and before Regan could will herself not to scream, don’t scream, bite your damn tongue off if you need to, it was over, no scream needed. And no one had died.

Her own cup of coffee had fallen out of her hands at some point and matched whatever discarded beverage was dropped from the almost-dead-man’s. Evidence that too much emotion still flowed through her during moments like this. Right. She had responsibilities here as a doctor, a first responder. As the car peeled away, she noted the license plate number. A vanity plate, of course. She’d make them regret driving away without checking up on who they almost hit.

Almost. But not quite. Her attention turned to the man, who seemed understandably shocked. He was clutching a heavy-looking case like it was keeping him alive.

“Are you–” Okay? That was what she wanted to ask. But her eyes caught on the pair of horns above the man’s head, and she traced them down to his skull, where they poked through his mop of wavy hair in a manner that looked all too real. Those weren’t there before. And his ears, too. She would have noticed. Horns appearing out of thin air? The prickling and tickling across her shoulders and arms as she got closer to him? And then – she looked down at his legs, or where regular legs should have been, and they looked bent in some grotesque configuration underneath his pants. Okay. She’d seen enough to make up her mind.

“With me.” Regan grabbed him by the shoulder, scrunching her face up at the intensifying buzz of her skin. She noticed a couple of pedestrians staring; initially they showed only concern, but they seemed to notice the same things Regan did and concern melted into confusion. “Can you walk? Your legs don’t look –” She offered her support to help him catch his balance. “They don’t look the steadiest.” Regan tried to shove him toward an alley in a manner that wasn’t as gentle as she would have preferred, but efficiency was to be prioritized. A fat rat flushed out of a fallen garbage can and scattered across the alley. “This is hardly a place to assess your injuries, but we may not have a choice. Considering your, uh… say, you didn’t just come from one of those ‘cosplay’ gatherings, did you? I was informed about those.”

Wide eyed, the faun clawed at his violin case like his life depended on it. His eyes fixated on the car as it drove off, as if nothing happened, as if they hadn’t nearly run him over. As much as the idea of living, when everyone he grew up with died or had already died, made him feel sick, realizing that he could have been gone right then brought a rushing, overwhelming sense of nothingness to his head.His nose wrinkled in what looked like anger, but his eyes were humid. He felt too much and he couldn’t even swear his heart out like he usually would.

He stared at the car until it vanished around the corner, the woman’s -no, the fae’s- voice reaching his ears. Conor was alright. He was… He looked down at his legs, who didn’t look… Well they looked normal to him, which was absolutely not how they were supposed to look. Oh fuck. He reached up to his head. Fuck, fucking crispy shit on a cracker, fuck. Focus. He’d learned how to do that in the days that followed his ‘growth spurt’ of sorts. He was 13 then. 57 years later, he still let it slip when he panicked. He needed to calm down. He just needed to focus on something calm.

“My legs are fine,” he replied. They were fine. He just had to make them look like so, and agree to follow her somewhere no one could see him like that, the sound of his hooves no longer muffled by a spell. “I’m a… what? Cost play?” Wasn’t that the name of a British band? He didn’t like their music, but he also didn’t see the connection with him here. “You…” He pressed his lips together. He wasn’t making sense and he needed to make sense right now. She was fae, she must have known things. “You and I… We’re both…” Brilliant. He was ready for the debate club. “Fae…Right?” He didn’t like it, that word, or associating himself with it, but what else was there to say to explain his legs, his horns and everything wrong with him? “I need to focus. They’ll go away if I focus,” he assured her. She didn’t have any on her head, so she must have understood that much, right? He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, cutting himself off from his surroundings for a second. For the most part, this meant pleading please please please please go away until it all came true.

“Well, your legs don’t look fine. They look like you’ve broken some bones. But…” Given the way he was walking, Regan doubted that was the case. Though his gait was terribly clumsy, just not strained. And there was a weird clopping noise accompanied by each step. Did she even want to know? She peered out of the alley, noting that the gawking bystanders hadn’t followed them, and heaved out a sigh.

The word fae wasn’t one she had wanted to hear, but it was a reasonable thing to ask under the circumstances. Interestingly, he seemed as uncomfortable saying it as Regan was hearing it. “Yes. I mean, no. Well, yes, but –” Regan froze. It was such a simple question, yet one of the most complicated ones in the world for her. She wasn’t like him, some antler-covered, floppy-eared bambi man. But she was more like him than the people who had been staring. “We have something in common. I prefer a different word, or none at all. I’m helping you because…” She searched herself, making sure this wasn’t a lie on a technical level. “Because I am a doctor. And you were nearly flattened by a car.” Some small part of her still wanted to think the antlers were part of a costume, but this was confirmation enough that they weren’t. “So they’re real, then?” She asked. There was that one patient she’d had at Saol Eile, a visitor from a neighboring community, who had possessed similar antlers and ears. Perhaps a relative.

When he mentioned needing to focus, Regan understood. “Oh! This is a glamour.” Something in her eyes brightened for a moment, before dying just as quickly. She had both seen and heard about glamours. Her grandmother tried desperately to force her to succeed in them, resorting to methods that marred her wings to this day. But Regan never could. She could never give over the last bit of her skepticism to believe it was possible, as much as she desired to hide herself from the world. She flicked the pendant on her necklace between her fingers, silently thanking it for existing, as much as she hated the thing for existing just the same. “Does this happen when you’re, um, frightened? You grow horns? Are you sure your legs are okay?”

“I don’t know a different word,” he pointed out. Conor didn’t know many things regarding who he was. His mother was clueless about those things, and his father wasn’t the most helpful, unsurprisingly. Now she was nearing the end of her life, and he didn’t even want to know where his old man was. “And I would rather fucking be normal but here we are,” he motioned to his legs, and then his face, as if to just highlight the obvious non-sense at stake here. Who the fuck looked like that? Not someone normal.

“You’re a doctor,” the faun repeated. So this was all she cared about then? Whether he was fine. “I am fine,” his stomach churned, as if to express discomfort in the face of a lie. He grimaced. Fucking hell. He needed to stop doing that, but somehow, saying I’m fine, that shouldn’t have counted as a lie, right? Everyone lied about that, not because they wanted to lie, but because they didn’t want people asking why. He should have just smiled. He didn’t smile much, but that was better than feeling sick, wasn’t it?

Fucksake.

She asked about his horns, and he sighed. This was all he hated. Talking about himself, and worst of all, the parts he hated about himself. “Unfortunately.” And that was it. He didn’t want to elaborate. Maybe she wouldn’t ask more questions, he hoped. How could he focus if she asked more questions? His heart was still racing from earlier, and he knew he was still in a bit of panic, but Conor also felt an urge to look normal again. That’s all he wanted : he wanted to look normal, to be normal, and go back to his place, with his violin, have a bit of quiet, a bit of peace. This was all he asked for.

He was a stubborn guy, and if he pleaded enough, focused enough on what he wanted… It would work. “My legs are fine. Faun.” The word was spat out, like an insult. “Means I’ve got legs like a goat, and this fucking bullshit growing on my head.” He finally looked at her again. “You’re not a faun, are you? You’re another sort of…” He didn’t say the word this once, and looked away as quickly as he had looked at her. They were alone here. At least, there was that.

There was venom in the man’s voice as he spoke about himself, which immediately cut into Regan’s composure. She never expected this. He wasn’t… proud? Perhaps not at a moment like this, when secrecy was at stake, but he didn’t like what he was, how he looked? That was slow to sink in. The others at Saol Eile were always crowing with pride, screaming with it, and she was used to competitive displays of wings, comparing and complimenting. She never wanted any of it, but she couldn’t escape it. She assumed all fae must have been the same way. All of the ones she’d had the displeasure of meeting were. But there was him, this one, and something was very wrong with him in a way that, honestly, seemed right.

“You don’t like being –” The notion still made her mind reel. When she spoke again it was a statement, not a question. “You don’t like this. You wish you were like everyone else.” Years ago, there might have been some giddiness in her voice, some rejoicing at finally finding kinship, but she couldn’t access it now. It felt more like a kick than anything. Those first couple of years she went from other to other like she was seeking table scraps, hoping to hear that she could have normal, that she could have the life she wanted and the life she left, but as her grandmother said numerous times, some desires could only be met with a knife. Regan had excised her hopes and wants out of herself, slowly, methodically, and the thing that remained did not – would not – waste time wanting what it couldn’t have. Now she was faced with someone who mirrored that young, ignorant doctor, except he hadn’t gone shed his old self. He was the most sensible fae she’d met, and, perhaps, the most terrible and hardest to face.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think you – I’ve never met one like you before. Not the, um, goat… thing. The other thing.” Regan took a step back, uncertain. She hadn’t considered that she might have been crowding him before. That probably didn’t help with his focus. Especially since he looked like he could barely stand on his own legs. She had questions about that, but now seemed like a bad time. Her uncertainty was uncomfortable, and she needed to discard it. Regan swallowed thickly, her eyes darting away from the man’s strange antlers and fixating on a particular brick that jutted out from the side of the building. Her fingers twitched, and she could almost feel the blade between them. Regan’s voice was hollow and flat when she spoke again. “Banshee. It means I don’t have a say in what I want. It means I gave up being a person when I gave up being human.”

If she looked taken aback by his attitude, Conor didn’t immediately see it. He wasn’t ever good at spotting those things, because he didn’t look at people’s faces often, and because right now, he was still in a state of limbo. The adrenaline wouldn’t come down, and he couldn’t help but think again of what just happened. What if the car hadn’t swerved. What then? He was about to step aside, to react, but… Her voice, thank God, brought him out, for a bit, of his trance. “I don’t like being the main attraction to a freakshow circus?” He heard it before. He had heard his dad tell him how proud he was to see that ‘his son’ (Conor regretted not being more violent back then) was a faun just like him. What a fucking nightmare. What a fucking bloody nightmare. Pride? How could you possibly be proud of being nothing like someone normal?

Then and now, all he wanted was to have a normal life.

“What other thing?” He fell silent for less than a second. He knew what she meant, even if it all was confusing now. “They’re all so fucking proud of being like that, heh?” There must have been a middle ground, somewhere being accepting who you are and feeling like the next best thing since easy-to-spread butter.

She stepped away, his eyes settled on her shoes, if only to make sure that she wasn’t going to leave him there now. Yet, he appreciated her giving him back his space. He nodded quietly, if only to vehiculate his thankfulness. Now all he needed to do was keep his breathing steady, and to focus on what he wanted to hide. His legs would remain the same, his horns would still curl on the sides of his skull, but soon they'd be gone.

With a feeling of control, of some sort of control, he crossed her gaze again. At last she'd see him in a way he didn't mind being seen.

"Banshee… I heard stories about you… back when I was a wee boy," he didn't quite smile, he didn't feel like it. Those stories always scared him back then. He wasn't sure how he felt now. "You too heh? It was nice, wasn't it. When things were simple ?"

The man was right – he did simply need to concentrate. Regan stayed quiet, letting him focus, knowing he probably hated having anyone see him like this. She wouldn’t bring up his appearance again. That would be easy to do, given how much she wanted to forget what she had seen. The horns dissolved away like they had never been there to begin with, nothing more than a figment of an overactive imagination. That didn’t make seeing the process any less disturbing. Regan averted her eyes, somehow more stunned to have the horns and crooked legs gone than there to begin with. She had seen stranger, experienced stranger, but it was unpalatable all the same. “You fixed it.” Regan said simply, though regretted her choice of words immediately after. But they were true.

That same, eager part of her kicked again. Her thoughts wanted to pour out of an overflowing dam. I tried to remove my wings, I wanted to disfigure my larynx, I screamed for hours when I saw myself, I hate it, I hate them. But those couldn’t be her thoughts anymore, could they? No, they belonged to someone else. Someone lacking in discipline, purpose, and dignity. Someone who hadn’t yet been broken and built themselves up anew. That mousy, awkward doctor who died along with her father. Regan bit her tongue, tasting blood and wishing for a metallic tinge that never came. “Not about me, personally, I assume. You’re the only one here who knows.” Her eyes flicked toward the alley entrance, as if someone could have snuck toward them while they had been talking, then back to the man’s. “I don’t know whether to say the stories are probably true, or probably false. Things… felt simple. But they never were. It was always lurking, a pathology in my family’s lineage.” She hesitated, and ultimately decided not to explain further. The banshees didn’t like others knowing how the young ones started out – weak, powerless, and stupid. Her loyalty was to them.

“That… aside, are you alright? Did your life flash before your eyes?” A cliche, but one with some truth. Regan had found that her biggest and worst regrets came digging themselves out of the grave as she was digging her way in. But she was always pulled back out, or pulled herself back out, and the regrets stayed buried.

You fixed it. Damn right. “I did, thank fucking God,” the faun brushed his hand against the grey fabric, smoothing out wrinkles his actual legs might have left in it, then ran his fingers through his hair, as if it would make everything better. It made him feel better, and perhaps was this all that counted right now. His shoulders dropped and he rubbed his hands against his face. This was fine, no one had followed them, which meant that no one knew what the fuck they’d just seen was very much real, which meant that he’d be okay, because she was like him.

It’s okay, he repeatedly told himself. It’s all okay. As long as he believed it to be true, it would be true.

His eyes fell on her. She was quiet now. There wasn’t much going on in head then, and he wondered what was happening in hers. The silence was welcome though, and he almost felt regret when she spoke again. “Not about you, no. Just… Stories about the woman who wails for the dead,” he read stories about fauns too, many, more than he could possibly count, but none of those helped him make sense of who he was. It was always about who he was supposed to be, and it felt like reading an horoscope written by someone who didn’t give a shit.

He glanced toward the entryway, “I won’t tell anyone about you, don’t worry.” His gaze dropped to the floor, which would be when it fell on his violin case. He hoped it managed to protect it… Squatting down to check on it, he looked up at her. “I found out when I was entering teenagehood, one day you’re perfectly fine, the next, you’re…” he didn’t have the heart to finish his sentence. What was there to say here? Pinching the strings on his instrument, he left out a sigh of relief as they rang out exactly like he wanted them. He did it a second time, if only to be sure, and with a shake of his head, answered her question quietly first. “I just froze. I think I thought of my mom, and my cat,” and the fact that he didn’t want to go just yet.

“I appreciate it.” Regan said, with no emotion. It didn’t matter whether or not she trusted him. He would stay true to his word, or he would not. And given their shared trauma, she wasn’t willing to attempt to bind him to his words. “I won’t tell anyone about you, either. I’ll pretend I never saw.” For a second, she tried to summon that mental image of the man’s legs, all bent in grotesque directions, but it wouldn’t come. It would be easy to repress. “A teenager, huh? Your entire life must have been uprooted.” It seemed young, but she had witnessed those much younger being forced into their nature. At Saol Eile, the standard age seemed to be around 4 or 5, though each family had their own customs and traditions. “I was twenty seven. I know I still look about that age. I’m not. There’s no going back. The only way is forward.” The fat rat scampered across the alley again. She wanted to blow it up.

“What do you have there?” Regan nodded toward the instrument in the man’s hands. It was clearly important to him, judging by how he clung to it when he was about to be struck by a car. More important than his beverage, at any rate. An alleyway hardly seemed to be an appropriate spot for something of such great importance to him. And now that his appearance was under control, they could depart. “Shall we? I need to replace my coffee.”

“I appreciate it,” Conor repeated with the same deadpan air she sported moments ago. What was there to say about her anyway? He hadn’t seen her do anything out of the ordinary. Just two people having a chat, in an alleyway.

“Yep, I was 13, nearing 14,” he sighed. He hadn’t told anyone about that. He supposed it made sense she knew something no one else knew of yet. “I left home around then,” the thought brought a smile to his face. Ironically, that had to be perhaps his saddest memory from childhood. Her words were an echo to his, except for the fact that he had kept aging ever since that day. “I’m not 13, obviously,” his expression had fallen back into the usual air of jadedness, as he told her of things that were simple. The truth was simple, memories weren’t so. “You’re right though, there really is no going back,” certainly no way back home for him. His family was aging normally, they’d be gone in a year, in a few decades for some others. And then it would just be him.

He glanced over at the rat, then back at the violin in his lap. Putting it back into its case, he slung it over his shoulder and nodded along. “And I need to replace my cup of tea.” He paused. “I’m Conor.”

Whatever the man’s story was, Regan was certain it was as pitiable as her own. Maybe more so, as the tethers between her past and present were ever-thinning. She felt sorry for her old self, and that was all. Regret was to be rejected and removed. He had gone through no such evolution, and she could see the sadness heavy around his eyes even as he tried to stuff it away. She had questions about his childhood, his family, and how he managed to get through each day, but she feared asking them. She was supposed to be bigger than her fear, but in this case, she knew addressing her emotions would only lead to so many more. And he deserved to move on, too.

Regan tilted her head at the introduction. Before, there was some anonymity. She had shown too much of herself to someone, but that someone had been a stranger. And she’d seen too much of him, but without a name, who could she tell?

Conor, apparently, trusted her.

“Dr. Kavan–”

Maybe she could extend a little bit back.

“Regan. I’m Regan.”

#writing #c conor #ty amelie for the header haha #car crash tw

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jazzandotherthings2 · 2 years ago

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I. Welcome To Chicago

You’re slow, Kathrine says, though she’s not really saying it, switching between the snare, the ride cymbal, and the toms faster than anyone else I’ve ever played with. I reply by speeding up, running down chromatic runs, landing on the flat seven, then the fifth, then the tonic as the form draws to its end. It’s like the adrenaline in my veins finally reaches my head as I find a resolution with the last measure. Damn, I love soloing.

When I glance over my shoulder, Kathrine offers me a smile from behind the drums. Sam, the bassist, tilts their head to the side for a moment. It means go again. I don’t really have time to prepare, but Alex, the pianist, covers me. He’s a great musician, but I can’t talk with him through music like Kathrine can. We go back and forth through the form again, responding to each other’s thoughts. It’s a conversation that transcends words. When we reach the top of the head, I am hearing Sam, pushing us along, ready to pick up a different song.

As Alex closes the song, Sam whispers to the stage, “Yardbird?”

I nod, ready to play it. ‘Yardbird Suite’ is one of my favorites. Charlie Parker, one of the most influential jazz musicians of all time wrote it. His nickname, Yardbird, or just Bird if you’re short on time, comes up again and again. Parker wrote a lot of my favorite bebop tunes. His songs are good for using chromatic lines over the changes. Coming in with the band is probably one of the most powerful feelings in the world.

Performing is probably one of the best things in the world. This is how I was meant to spend my life. It’s funny. While I usually have at least a vague idea for something before I start soloing, I can never remember what I did after. It’s probably the adrenaline.

When we’re on our mid-set break, about halfway through the night, Alex asks, “So what were you doing with that one on the last song?”

“What?” I ask. My eyes catch on Kathrine. “Hey-” She takes a swig of her drink before looking at me. “You changed your hair.”

She smirks. “Yeah.” It’s in cornrows, dyed blue at the end. “What else is new?”

Uhh, no clue. I look her up and down. Wait, she’s wearing heels. I will never understand how one works footpedals in heels. Well, it’s probably a learned skill, but, damn. Has she ever done this before? “You’re wearing heels?”

“Two for two,” she says. “Yet somehow you’re still single.”

“You’re, like, twelve, your insults mean nothing to me.” She’s twenty four, but same difference.

Kathrine laughs and finishes her drink. “I’ll still throw you for a loop tonight.” It’s a game we play. We try to find ways to get each other tripped up, just because it’s funny to try and recover.

The rest of the set goes well. Kathrine does not manage to trip me up.

After the set, Alex elbows me. “What are you doing after this?” He asks.

“I’m heading to Charlie’s,” I reply. “You?”

“I was going to go home and sleep,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “Like a normal person.”

I shrug. “Gotta pay rent.”

“When’s your next day off?”

“Wednesday, I think.”

“Do you want to meet up?”

“Sure,” I say, undoing the top button of my shirt. “Sam, is everything loaded?” They nod and flash a thumbs up.

“What, like you were going to help,” Kathrine scoffs.

“How’d that feel for you?” Sam asks, leaning against the passenger-side door of the car.

It’s pretty normal for our Monday night gig. We got there, we played, and then we left.

Wait, shit, it’s Tuesday. That means I’m teaching lessons this afternoon. Well, next afternoon. Tomorrow. Time is weird when you work nights.

Guitar and amp in hand, I catch the subway to Charlie’s Luthier Shop. It’s technically called Charlie’s Guitar Repair and Shop, but the stickers in the door just say Guitars. I walk right past that glass door, down the narrow alley beside it, and into the even narrower walkway to the workshop. The key clicks into the lock, and the familiar scent of wood and epoxy fills my nose. My guitar and amp go on the bench by the door, and I change out of nice clothes before clocking in. The first thing I do is sweep. I spend the full night doing odd tasks around the shop. That’s one good thing about working nights: I get to be left alone.

When I’m measuring wood for guitars, that’s the only thing in my mind. Time becomes a liquid, falling on the roof outside and catching in the gutters, pooling in puddles around my mind. When I’m too tired to use cutting tools, I switch to cleaning the shop. For a moment, I’m not an adult working late at night, I’m fourteen, mopping the shop floor over and over and over again.

“Evan?” Charlie’s deep voice comes from the door, and I jump, dropping the mop. “You’re here early. Or, well, late for you.”

Shit, what time is it? I check my phone: 6:30. Damn.

“What time did you get in last night?”

The restaurant we gigged at last night closed at 10:30, right? “Eleven I think.”

“And you’re teaching lessons today, yeah?” I nod. “Go get some sleep. I’ll see you later.”

“Thank you, sir.” I put away the cleaning supplies.

My phone buzzes at seven, as I walk the too-bright streets to the train station.

Good Morning, Alona Peshlakai says, and I’m already smiling. Are you awake?

One handed, guitar over my shoulder and amp in my other hand, I reply: Yeah.

Early Morning or late night?

Late night

Do you want coffee?

Yes. Always yes. When do I not want coffee? When do I not want her attention? It takes a moment to type a reply.

In case you’re wondering: the gig economy is absolutely fucked over. Working as a luthier and a lessons teacher is a little bit more stable, and, when I need to, I can always find work as a video editor online. That’s actually how I met Alona. She hired me to edit a video for her work.

Alona Peshlakai is probably the most fascinating person I’ve ever met. She has two PhDs and a master’s degree, she’s the best whittler I know, and she prefers candies to chocolate. (Her favorite is Sour Gummy Worms.)

I sit at a table by the window as I wait for her. By my position, I see her before she sees me. She’s wearing jeans and sneakers that squeak when she moves from the still-wet sidewalk to the concrete floor of the coffee shop.

“Hey,” she says, smiling and putting her backpack by the table.

“Hi!” The grin on my face is impossible to hide. “How are you?”

“I’m good, I’m good. I’m gonna order and then come right back.” She does, and I like the dimples that form in her cheeks as she smiles at me.

“What’s your day supposed to look like?”

“Well, I’m heading into the lab today, where I need to check in on some experiments, and help some PhD kids set up theirs. I have a meeting with the lab board after lunch, and then a few more meetings with some of the students I’m advising, but mostly after lunch.”

“You advise students?”

“Well, I’m going to start today.” She sips her coffee. “How long have you been up for?”

My phone reads 7:17. “Well, I woke up at about eleven yesterday, I had a gig at an office opening party, and then I went to the restaurant we gig at on Mondays, and then I went to the luthier shop and did work there until I came here to see you.”

“So it’s a twenty hour day for you?”

I hadn’t done that math. Another sip of warm coffee. “I’m fine. It’s a good day for this, too.”

“Did you hear much of the rain?” I nod. “Yeah, it turns out I left my window open last night.”

“So how long are you in town for?”

“Maybe a week? I don’t know. My sister wants me to get home soon. She’s having another baby and she wants me in town for it.” Alona lives in Arizona most of the time, with her family, about one thousand five hundred miles away, and a four hour flight to Phoenix followed by a four hour drive to the no-name town she lives in. “When do you need to get home?”

I shrug. “I have all the time in the world.”

Alona smiles. “So what’s in store for you today?”

“Well, I’m going to go home, sleep, and then teach lessons later, and then I’ve got a gig at a jazz club tonight, and then I’ve got the day off tomorrow, so-” I shrug again, trailing off.

“Nice.” Her smile is almost aggressively pleasant. “I hope it’s a good day, then.”

“Maybe I’ll see you.”

“I hope so.”

That night, during my gig, I’m playing with people who love jazz. The people I play with are complete strangers who don’t even know my name. Everyone in the room is eager for the next note, all the players anticipating me as I solo, me anticipating theirs. It’s loud here, but the music is meant to be heard here, too.

When I get home, I collapse into bed. As I lay there, pretending to sleep, I scroll through my phone. Tomorrow is my day off, and I was planning to meet up with Alex. And Alona. And I need to clean my stove. And I haven’t posted a video in months, I should do that. So much for a day off. When I breathe in, and my lungs expand, it makes my head feel better. At least I don’t need to set an alarm tomorrow.

#story #chapter 1 #writing #self publishing #jazz

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torturingpeople · 10 months ago

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Sinking Ship

Wordcount: 1.9k words Featuring: Edison Hollingsworth, Lionel L. Sotheby Other info: do they like or hate each other, there is Drama, little hints at what their relationship is actually like, set in Lionel’s string instrument store (because I need to make his luthier title relevant LOL)

LL Sotheby & Co.’s is always rather quiet. After all, it is no Nikolas Pawnbrokers or Dauncey’s. But Edison does not stand for silence and Lionel stands just about as much for his antics.

There was a high-pitched ding, followed by a few more subtle rings, fading into silence once Edison pushed the door open fully. The bell stilled, and the luthier behind the desk lifted his head from polishing a violin, beginning his customary greeting. Once Edison let the door go, the bell jingled again, mixing in with the door slam.

‘Welcome to LL Sotheby & Co., London’s finest lu—’

‘It is just me, Lionel, no need to commit to your store-clerk spiel,’ Edison waved his hand dismissively in the man’s direction, sauntering into the store with clicking steps.

Upon taking the man in properly, Lionel raised an eyebrow, then both, and eventually his expression settled into something erring on the side of concern. ‘It is… The choice you have made to come here is not… ideal, on account of my current reputation, but… it is no matter.’ He gave a disgruntled hum, and the volume of his speech lowered in turn. ‘I should pay a visit to the tomb-colonies, or the church, sooner or later, anyway. Whichever comes first.’ Lionel began to sheathe his violin into a plush, velvet case, drawing a cloth over its smooth, amber wood before closing the case and exchanging it for a viola to clean. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I told you, I am not a client.’ Edison placed his hands firmly on each hip, his countenance unimpressed.

Lionel did not lift his eyes from the viola, unbothered. ‘You are in a store; I am at work; ergo, you are a customer. I do not wish to behave unprofessionally at my workplace, if that is what you are implying, Mr. Hollingsworth.’

‘Can I not be in your company now, without it being inexplicably tied to — oh — the scandal, the humanity, the horror of being anywhere near me?’ Edison’s expression, for a fraction of a second, softened with disappointment, but did not hesitate to crystallise with bristling irritation. ‘Truly, is it so awful that I am in your presence?’

‘No, prince — if anything, it is pleasant — but I am merely experiencing a recent bout of scandal, and if we consider scandal to be… a boat, let us say,’ he flicked his gaze up, ‘you could capsize me by blinking, dear.’ Lionel clarified, shaking his head as he withdrew a block of rosin, drawing it gently over the bow hairs. He smiled calmly at the tiny hums they let off, taking caution in caring for the instrument meticulously.

Giving a small huff at the evidently misdirected, Edison began to wander around the small store, dipping into rooms and observing each string instrument curiously. Some were hung on hooks bolted to the teal green walls, whereas others were gently organised on stands. The most ornate and intricate instruments sat on display in the bay-windows, to hopefully entrance any passers-by into entering the store or purchasing one. Edison didn’t even want to think about the obscene prices they might harbour, instead returning to the front of the store and perching himself on the counter, a hooked finger tempting a pull of the bow strings.

Lionel did not hesitate to slap him away, giving him a stern look while pointing a finger at his chest. ‘No. Do not touch the instruments.’

‘Pay some mind to me, and perhaps I will keep my hands to myself,’ Edison retorted in a stroppy huff.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Lionel leaned against the counter. ‘Are you three years old?’

‘Thirty-three, as a matter of fact.’

‘You act instead as if you have just left primary school.’

‘You cannot even meet my eye,’ Edison’s tone shifted from annoyance to desperation. There was something unsaid lingering on his tongue, threatening to leap off, but he swallowed it down and kept his gaze somewhere to the floor. ‘Fine. If I depart now, will you at least leave me a kiss upon my lips?’

There was a long pause. Lionel placed down the wad of rosin, closed his eyes to breathe deeply, and pressed his forehead into his now empty palm. Frustration. Then processing time. He weighed up his options carefully — risk exile, or risk Edison traipsing off to God knows where to get his fill. The sensible choice became obvious rather quickly. ‘You can stay, but do not be a nuisance. I am working and we are in public. Heaven forfend anyone sees you in here… you are lucky Thursday tends to be quiet.’

Edison rolled his eyes, leaning over the desk and making gestures to the empty rooms inside of the store, and the empty street outside of the store. ‘Yes, because I am sure you are the Neath’s busiest shop to ever be in business. Just look at how many people are in here. There is a queue outside waiting for you already.’

Lionel almost gave into the urge to look up but caught onto Edison’s deadpan tone, instead giving a low, disgruntled hum. He pulled out a stool from under the desk, placed it opposite, then gestured toward it in an offering manner, for the man at his side. ‘Here. Sit.’ His voice hardened. ‘And stop acting like a three-year-old boy.’

Sauntering over to the stool, Edison placed himself onto it, swinging his legs around its legs and carefully leaning forward. There was a long and taut silence, only broken by the imperceptible hum of rosin being drawn along strings, the soft and discordant harmonies overshadowed by even the lightest chatter outside. And everything was rather calm in the store — almost like a sanctuary of sorts, despite the light, noxious hint of tension thickening the atmosphere with its subtle poison. Neither Lionel nor Edison were choking on it. Yet.

‘‘You have a nice store here,’ he mumbled, gazing around the mint walls furnished with lutes and harps and violins and the like. ‘Perhaps I will write a poem about it… “rows upon rows of violins and cellos”... what do you think, dear?’

‘Very nice, my prince,’ murmured Lionel in response, his attention more honed in on tending to the strings of the violin.

Raising an eyebrow, Edison folded his arms. ‘What was the line?’ He forced his inflection to rise with fabricated curiosity.

‘Have you forgotten already?’ Lionel even had the audacity to return the question in a sarcastic tone. However, upon actually looking up and seeing the man’s frankly rather deadpan stare, his eyes widened in a caught fashion. He began to twirl a strand of hair around his finger with a palpable guilt. ‘Ah.’

Edison’s arms looped around each other tighter. ‘It seems it is you who has forgotten already.’

‘Well, forgive me for being at work. Next time I shall schedule myself to conform to your exact whim and desire.’ Lionel riposted with a wry smile. He then placed the block of rosin in its container.

And then there was another long, witless pause. Neither gentleman spoke a word but the silence was by no means comfortable. They both had something resting on their lips, on their tongues, in their throats, waiting to come out. Something lovely or vile; something raw. But, chained to standard and politeness neither spoke. But the air was becoming more and more suffocating.

Edison suffered in the quiet. He had never been a man able to deal with long pauses. He had half a mind to speak into existence whatever was roaming on his tongue, desperate for some kind of mental stimulation, positive attention, negative attention, literally anything that might signify Lionel felt more than just annoyance. That was all he wanted. To be something other than annoying. So he was willing to be silent if it made him bearable to be around.

Lionel, however, was not willing to asphyxiate any longer. ‘Why are you acting like this?’

With a twitch of his eyebrows, Edison gave a huff. So much for staying quiet. If anything, he shouldn’t have gratified the question with a response. ‘Even when I am deathly silent, you—’

‘You know what I speak in reference to.’

Edison felt his face become hot beneath its surface. A pink tint was most definitely weaving itself into the peachier tones. His words, laying dormant in his cheeks, began to bundle up with the urge to come out, with no regard to coherence. But most of all, he felt caught. ‘Is it a crime that I want your attention?’

‘I am working.’ The word came out of Lionel’s mouth like a freshly-sharpened poniard. ‘You are bothering me while I am at work. I am trying to finish a task. And, as per usual,’ he gave a loose gesture to Edison, ‘you are being a nuisance.’

‘As per usual?’ Edison scoffed, holding himself in offence. ‘So that is all I am to you? A nuisance? A bother?’

‘It appears you can hear perfectly.’ Lionel dug around in the pocket of his waistcoat, pulling out a few rings and a pendant, dropping them onto the counter between them. ‘If I give you these, will you — for lack of a better description — get lost?’

Blinking in genuine and utter shock, Edison nearly reached forward for the jewels and gold, his hand clenching between himself and the desk. ‘Every time, I glean the inkling you may care about me.’

‘Then you are a fool.’ Lionel responded quickly.

‘No, Lord Sotheby, it is you who plays the fool. Because you cannot understand love, when it comes to visit you, or when it holds your hand, or when it asks you to dinner. All you do is shut me down, when all I want is to—’

‘I understand love perfectly well, Mr. Hollingsworth.’ Lionel interrupted and stood from the counter, placing the fresh violin into the rack, like a puzzle-piece settling to form a full image. He tilted his head back, a ripple in his deep black hair following. ‘Hence why you are the fool; I am not in love with you.’

‘How — how can you say that, when—’

‘These gifts mean nothing to me, if that is what you wish to be your evidence,’ Lionel returned to the counter, his finger pointing to the jewels still upon it. ‘It would do you well to take them. Pawn them off and spruce up the… hovel you live in.’ As if he had not just deeply wounded Edison, he gave a falsely sweet smile.

Edison took the jewellery, finally, in a tight grip. ‘Of course. You give me your stolen shit, as usual, because I am not worth anything more to you than pickpocketed goods.’

Lionel raised an eyebrow. ‘Precisely.’

A dejected shock washed over Edison. He might have been half-convinced Lionel was lying to get on his nerves. ‘You do not deserve my heart.’

‘By all means,’ Lionel managed a laugh, ‘take it out of my open hand, Mr. Hollingsworth. You dropped it into my palm and expected me to want it. That is not how love works — that is reckless desperation.’ He leaned over the counter, nearing Edison with something dangerous playing on his words. Something so painfully alluring, like the thorn of a rose. ‘So, remind me, who is the fool again?’

Edison shook his head and tried to form words as his jewellery-clutching hand slipped into his pocket, loosening the goods into it. He then thought, instead of answering his questions, about how many times Lionel had tried to shoo him off. And perhaps it was better for him to just leave, anyway. The jingle of the bell above the door signified his leave.

AUTHOR'S COMMENTS:

i am yet to find an accurate description for their relationship. maybe situationship? maybe odd threeway polyrelationship with the mc? just straight up Weird? we will never know. it’s too nuanced for me to not write 20 paragraphs about

#this was an ache to write #but i finally have it done #enjoy the drama #the sybaritic laureate #the prodigal luthier #writing #tposts #tprose #tp ocs

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samstree · 3 years ago

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my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight (2/4)

Geralt shows up in Oxenfurt as promised after Jaskier has a particularly rough night. Apologies are made.

(3k, rated teen, read on AO3)

Jaskier meets five more people who are like him.

The first week, he greets Marta with a nervous smile, sits amongst the rose bushes and simply listens. On the fifth week, he starts to speak. The sun is hanging low when he waves goodbye to each of his friends and leaves the florist’s garden with lighter steps. He passes the luthier’s shop, doubles back, and steps in.

The tender skin on his fingers no longer hurts as much, but he rubs them nervously when ordering a new lute.

The Sandpiper must look the part.

The ships sail from Oxenfurt’s coast to Cintra every other day, and it’s starting to look suspicious to stay in The Beekeeper well into the night if he isn’t buying any drinks. So, Jaskier begins performing.

Essi helps him stretch his fingers afterwards, showing him a few neat tricks here and there. They stand by the dock, talking about nothing and everything as the ships disappear into the night. It’s only when he completely loses sight of them can Jaskier let go of the tension in his shoulders.

A man tries to buy him a drink one night. He declines.

It happens again, and again.

Summer is near the end when the rejection wavers. It’s only a slight pause. Two days later, a woman drapes her hand on his elbow and tilts her head towards the bar, and Jaskier hesitates. He stares into her eyes for a moment, meeting the clear sign of lust and curiosity, and feels a yes by his lips.

Jaskier bolts right out of the door.

The lute bounces on his back when he hurries down Oxenfurt’s cobblestone street, his lungs burning and heart pounding. He feels bad for waking up Marta so late into the night, but the florist does not seem to mind. She makes a cup of mint tea while a shiver runs down Jaskier’s body despite the lingering summer heat.

He tells her of how he wants—has been wanting for weeks whenever an offer of ale is made to him, how he sometimes doubts at night if he can go back to the casual way of drinking before, how his skin buzzes when his friends pour each other a cup of mead at dinner.

She doesn’t interrupt. She never does.

“When will I stop wanting?” Jaskier asks, tired to the marrow of his bones. “When will it get easier?”

The sadness on her face is a palpable thing, one born from the same tiredness carried over from years ago. “It doesn’t,” she answers, “but we must go on.”

And he has to make peace with this reality, one where the battle never ends. Jaskier isn’t sure he can do that over one night. It feels like grief in a sense: acceptance is somewhere down the road. He just doesn't know how to get there yet.

In the end, Jaskier falls asleep on a settee in Marta’s living room with his lute by his feet. He wakes up even more tired, but relief washes all over him. He lets out a long sigh like he just escaped with his life—getting too close to drinking tends to have that effect.

That’s when he hears what woke him up in the first place:

A deep voice, conversing casually with Marta, rumbling faintly from the garden and reaching Jaskier in a murmur. There’s a laugh in it, reserved, lazy, kind.

Geralt.

Jaskier can’t help saying the name. It’s the same name his heart sings with every beat. He pads across the room and stops at the entrance, the thin blanket still wrapped around his shoulder, and here Geralt is—safe and relaxed and speaking softly with Marta with his back to the doorway, utterly oblivious of Jaskier’s presence. They are sitting at the small table set up right next to the lilac trees, where the seven of them gather on Sundays.

Seeing Geralt so at ease, Jaskier thinks very briefly that he might still be dreaming.

It’s Marta who notices Jaskier first, and Geralt follows her gaze. He stands immediately, his hands hanging awkwardly at his side.

“Jaskier.”

There’s so much joy in a simple whisper of his name.

“Hi,” he answers, feeling raw and exposed.

For a while, they just look at each other. Jaskier drinks in the sight of his witcher and wishes time could stop for him, so he can memorize everything that has changed in his absence, every new scar, every thin line by his eyes…

Marta clears her throat.

“We were just talking. Your witcher here is a curious one. He knows so much about my plants. I never knew a few of them also have medicinal effects, isn’t that a wonder?” She takes another look between them and tiptoes past Jaskier, her hand on his shoulder reassuringly. “Anyway, you have the garden until I have to open the shop.”

“Thank you, Marta,” Jaskier says absently, still looking into Geralt’s eyes. The sun is rising high in the sky, and the gold is nearly blinding.

“I was lucky.” Geralt is the one who breaks the tension. “Got here last night but couldn’t find you at the academy. The maid at The Beekeeper said you went this way, so I asked around.”

“You found me.”

“I found you.”

It occurs to Jaskier that last night was a long time ago. He cocks an eyebrow. “Did poor Marta find you sleeping outside her house like a lost puppy?”

The way Geralt looks away tells Jaskier all he needs to know. “Well, you invited me here,” he says.

“The fall is weeks away. I bet it was still hot sleeping outside.” Jaskier finds stubbornness suits him a lot better than yearning. “The leaves have not turned color yet. If you want to see Oxenfurt covered in gold, there’s going to be a wait.”

“I’ll have to stay, then.”

It comes so casually Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat.

“What about Ciri?” He takes a step closer and watches Geralt’s body gravitate towards him in return. “And Yennefer? I thought you were traveling elsewhere.”

Geralt practically melts at the mention of Ciri’s name.

“They are safe, Jaskier. Don’t worry. She’s learning so fast, and growing up so quickly. An old dreary witcher is not always what she needs. They are traveling south together. Yen was looking forward to it too.”

“Oh.” Jaskier is so happy for them. “That’s good, right? I’m glad.”

“It is.” Geralt takes another step until his hand rests at Jaskier’s elbow and slides down to catch him by the wrist. “I’m sure the leaves will be nice, but I also came here for something else.”

He holds up Jaskier’s palm and presses a small box into it.

“It’s a xenovox,” Geralt adds. “I have an identical one. If you talk to it, I can hear on the other end. Yen also made a charm for it, so I can open a portal whenever I need, linking their locations.”

Jaskier turns the small device over and observes the carved patterns on it. It’s a lovely thing, an even lovelier gesture, but some parts of him doubt it. Geralt, showing he cares? the darkest part of his mind whispers. Your ears deceive you.

“I talk to it, and what, you’ll come running?” Jaskier jokes, because if it’s a joke, it won’t hurt as much. “The White Wolf, at my beck and call?”

But Geralt’s eyes gleam with seriousness. “Yes, of course,” he answers unthinkingly. “If you need me, say the word and I’ll be there.”

Jaskier opens his mouth but finds no retort. He closes it with a snap to not look like a fool.

“Marta was also telling me how you ended up here.” Geralt pauses, watching Jaskier’s reaction, but all he does is wait for the blow to land. Nothing Marta knows is a secret to Geralt. Jaskier can’t feel any more shame than he already does the day he left Kaer Morhen.

He is ready for Geralt’s disappointment, however it may break his heart to pieces again.

But he isn’t ready for what Geralt ends up saying.

“She told me how strong you are, and how much progress you’ve made,” Geralt adds as Jaskier stares in surprise. “I know I don’t have any right to be—it’s all you and you alone—but I’m proud. Jaskier, I’m so proud of you.”

The sun is too bright. That must be the reason the world is blurring in front of Jaskier’s eyes.

“That’s not what you’re supposed to—” Jaskier trails off for the tears in his voice. “It’s not what you’re supposed to say.”

“Oh? What am I supposed to say?”

Geralt is giving him that look, like he’s only indulging Jaskier with his silly questions.

“You only say practical things, Geralt. You need my help; you want me to teach Ciri politics; you could use an extra pair of hands. You don’t—you never tell me you’d be there for me, and you never say you’re proud of me.”

“Don’t I?” Geralt hums. “I wanted to. Always. Just didn’t think I could.”

Jaskier chuckles tearfully. “Then why now?”

There’s a moment of silence. Geralt sucks in a deep breath and closes Jaskier’s fingers around the xenovox. He’s contemplating the answer, his brows furrowed adorably and Jaskier wants to smooth it away. Too bad Geralt is holding his hands.

“You are strong. I will never doubt the strength that hides under your gentleness again.” Geralt says finally. “But when you can’t be, you have me. I’m here today so you know I’m with you in this, all of this.” He gestures to Marta’s garden. “If one day you can’t stay strong all by yourself, just ask, and I’ll be there. I can’t fight this battle for you, but I can listen. Whatever you need to say, whatever you want to sing, I will listen, Jaskier. And I will find the strength for you.”

The xenovox hurts the scars on Jaskier’s fingers, but he pays no mind. He holds on to the small box and cradles it to his chest. Tears are streaming down freely when Geralt pulls him into an embrace, steady, patient, and lets Jaskier cry into his neck.

“Damn you, witcher,” Jaskier sniffles. “I miss the days when I was mad at you.”

“Hmm. I certainly don’t.”

Despite everything, Jaskier laughs, and snot and tears are staining Geralt’s shirt. He is such a mess, but Geralt is here. It’s the first step, he reckons. He remembers the awkward tension in the flower shop whenever Sonia visits, and he remembers watching it fade slowly, painstakingly, day by day and week by week.

It gives Jaskier hope, that they can heal too.

That night, Jaskier takes Geralt back to his room and offers him mint tea.

“You smell like it,” Geralt comments, taking a sip. “It’s nice.”

“Oh.” Jaskier scoops another spoonful of honey and mixes it in his cup. “Didn’t know you could notice.”

“I always notice.”

There are more meanings behind those words, and Jaskier realizes that Geralt has been eyeing at his fingers since the garden.

“Apparently not, if this took you so long.”

He means it as a tease, aiming at the easy banter they used to exchange over Geralt’s heightened senses and his smugness. Jaskier used to think the witcher should be taken down a peg, lest he thinks too highly of himself for his sharp eyes and noses. A humble human can only do so much.

But the comment has tensed up Geralt’s whole body, making the crestfallen expression return to his face. A pang of regret hits Jaskier, souring the honey in his mouth. For all he likes to compare Geralt to a puppy, he sure doesn’t enjoy kicking one.

“Never mind. It—I—” Jaskier ends up spluttering, his fingers curling around the cup, hiding from Geralt’s sight. “It’s nothing, just a scratch, really. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

“Will you show me?” Geralt asks, carefully.

Jaskier nods, sits next to Geralt and puts down his drink.

Geralt works efficiently, digging out salves and balms from his pack and flattening Jaskier’s right hand over his knee. His brows are pinched so tightly Jaskier wonders if he can crack a walnut there.

Jaskier hisses when the salve touches his scar.

“Sorry,” Geralt murmurs, his focus unwavering. His fingers work like magic despite the initial stinging, massaging the delicate skin there gently. He blows on it from time to time, the coolness making Jaskier flinch. “Don’t move.”

He catches Jaskier’s wrist and rubs small circles there, his sword calluses rough and sending a shiver down Jaskier’s spine.

“I think that’s enough,” Jaskier suggests—because he doesn’t want to embarrass himself.

“I’ll need to apply it twice a day. There shouldn’t be any pain in a few weeks, but the scarring is old, so it may not disappear fully.” There’s guilt on Geralt’s face again, and Jaskier gives him a stern look. “Don’t give me that look, Jask. I’m not one of your students.”

“I will look at you however I want. You were being mean.”

“I just traveled all the way here to see y—to see Oxenfurt, because you asked, and I’m being mean?”

“To yourself.” Jaskier tugs at Geralt’s hand to get his point across. “Also, you need to apply it twice a day? Can’t just leave the jar with me?”

Geralt freezes like a child caught reaching for the cookie jar. The lighting in Jaskier’s quarters isn’t good, but there's no mistaking the dust of pink that slowly appears on the witcher’s cheeks. Oh, Lambert and Coën are going to love this if Jaskier ever tells them. Shame he won’t; this moment will belong only to him.

“It’s your dominant hand, um,” Geralt clears his throat. “It won’t be convenient.”

“Dominant hand?” This man is too ridiculous when he’s trying to be sweet. Jaskier’s eyebrows shoot up in amusement. “Alright. My thanks.”

Geralt’s eyes drop to where their hands link, his lashes obscuring his emotions. Jaskier’s pulse thrums under his fingertips, fluttering nervously.

“I shouldn’t have,” Geralt starts, his head dropping low. “That day in the kitchen. I shouldn’t have tried to kiss you.”

Jaskier’s heart quickens in his throat. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Geralt shakes his head, letting out a sigh. “You were hurting, and I didn’t even know. I thought we were alright. You came back to me, after all, and you always come back to me.”

“That’s the crux of it, isn’t it?” Jaskier smiles sadly. “I always do.”

“It’s what friends do, you said. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of it.”

There’s a sinking feeling in Jaskier’s stomach. “Are you saying you regret it?” He swallows. “Do you regret asking for more of me? Of us?”

Jaskier isn’t sure if he will ever recover if Geralt’s answer is yes. Luckily, he doesn’t need to find out.

“Never.” Geralt cradles Jaskier’s hand in front of his chest. He presses a kiss to his knuckles. “If there’s one thing in life I can never regret, Jaskier, it would be you. I just learned that, for now, it’s time for me to be a friend in return.”

“I see the word is sticking with you,” Jaskier teases.

“Well, it's got a nice ring.”

Geralt watches him, earnest and patient, and Jaskier lets out a relieved exhale.

“It’s all I ever want, Geralt. I just never dared to hope.”

“Please do, if you still could,” Geralt says softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The next morning, they wake up in Jaskier’s too-narrow bed together. The morning light paints the room serene and quiet.

Jaskier has fallen asleep on Geralt’s arm, but the witcher greets him with the softest look, even though his arm must have lost all feelings. He always looks soft now. There is a tiny smile on his face whenever he sees Jaskier.

And Jaskier may have tested it a few times while they are getting dressed, popping up in front of Geralt to see his eyes crinkle at the sight of him each time.

“Come on, we have a city to see.” Jaskier gestures at the door, offering an arm for Geralt to take, which he does eagerly.

They walk down Oxenfurt’s busiest market with their arms hooked together, and Jaskier insists on buying the hairbands that Geralt won’t stop looking at but refuses to admit he likes. The silver embroidery against the dark material suits him too well. Jaskier has to look away before his face gets too warm at how dashing his witcher looks.

Marta greets them at the shop, and gives Geralt a very gentle talking-to about the perils of sleeping on the street. They leave with a small bundle of forget-me-nots, and Jaskier tucks one under Geralt’s hairband.

To Jaskier’s delighted surprise, Geralt offers to sit at his lectures.

“Aren’t you tired of hearing my voice all day?” Jaskier realizes the mistake as soon as the question leaves his mouth.

“Now who’s being mean?”

Geralt’s eyes narrow in the dangerous way that makes Jaskier’s breaths come out hard, and the danger morphs into mischief. Oh no, he’s planning something.

“Geralt,” Jaskier warns but it falls on empty ears. Geralt catches him by the forearms and a tickle fight descends upon him in full force, drawing out a surprised yelp. “No, Geralt!”

They laugh, stumbling into each other, and by the time Jaskier arrives at the nearly packed lecture hall—decidedly late—there are still tears in his eyes and a grin on his face. He refuses to look at the corner where Geralt sits, but finds himself failing at the end of the class.

The forget-me-not is still in Geralt's hair, bringing a speck of blue to the moonlight silver. It's a bit crooked, so Geralt has to right it with his fingers once in a while to keep it in place.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #alcoholism #sobriety #alcoholic jaskier #hurt/comfort #geralt apologizes #and geralt tries to do better

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horseshoehate · 2 years ago

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Gandalf Follows Evil Trey on Phish Tour

a/n: This is part 2 of my Lord of the Rings/Harry Potter/Phish fanfiction series. I hope you all enjoy very much.

===============================================

In the days that passed after the epic Phish concert and battle with Voldemort, and Gandalf continued to follow the band on their tour, hoping to keep an eye on Evil Trey. He saw that Evil Trey was struggling with the darkness that had possessed him during the concert, and he felt responsible for what had happened. He swore right there that he would do whatever it took to help his friend return from this darkness that had taken his heart.

One night, after a concert, Gandalf found Evil Trey sitting alone outside his tour bus, writing the lyrics to his newest song, "Evil Farmhouse." Gandalf approached him cautiously, unsure of how he would react.

"Hello, Evil Trey," Gandalf said, sitting down next to him. "How are you?"

"I'm doing okay," Evil Trey replied, taking a beat. "It's been a weird few days, you know?"

"It does not surprise me to hear that," Gandalf said sternly. "I have growing concern for your wellbeing. I fear that Voldemort's spell may have done more damage than you are letting on to your friends."

Evil Trey shrugged. "I don't know about that. I feel like I've been playing better than I have in ages."

"And you feel that this is worth doing at the cost of your mind?" Gandalf asked pressingly. "You were possessed by a dark magic beyond your control and it has poisoned your mind far worse than I had feared. Not to mention the fact that last night's Reba was a flub fest with a mid-tier jam ta boot!"

Evil Trey looked at Gandalf skeptically. "How can you you say that to me? You're just a jaded 1.0er who's mad that its not the 90s anymore!"

"Friend, I've seen this happen before," Gandalf said. "Time and time again, I've seen people delve into the darkest of powers and reach their lowest points. But I want to offer you support, Evil Trey."

For the first time since the concert, Evil Trey smiled. "You know what Gandalf? You're wrong!"

Evil Trey pulled out his new Languedoc, still hot off the line. It hummed with energy and was inlayed with the Black Speech of Mordor.

"I've turned a new leaf and I'm not ready to go back. I call this Evil Mar Mar, and I'm gonna do some fuckin wicked shit with it!" Trey explained, cackling in evil laughter.

"You know not of what you speak, Evil Trey! Dark magic resides in this instrument. Dark, ancient magic, the likes of which no mere luthier of man possesses the ability to place into a guitar!" Gandalf said, studying the axe.

"Oh Gandalf, you didn't think I was the only one turned evil by Lord Voldemort, did you? He got to Paul Languedoc soon after you cast him from the concert, and Paul set to work right away crafting me the most vile and elegant weapon ever to be possessed by a mortal! But he knew that he could not do it himself and so he searched for the only one powerful enough to help." Trey said, holding the guitar under the light so he could admire the details of it. "It was forged in the fires of Mt. Doom under the watchful eye of Sauron himself! I'm going to bust this bad boy out tonight, we'll see how evil 'Evil Phish' can get when I play my new evil songs on this thing!"

Gandalf knew that there was no way this would end well and he began backing away from Evil Trey. Though he knew it not, Evil Trey possessed a magical artifact most powerful. Gandalf knew that Evil Trey at least did not know its true potential, though to use a guitar made partially by the hands of Sauron showed the depths of his foolhardy naivety.

"Evil Trey, surely you must know that none but the hands of Sauron will this instrument answer to. There is not a being alive that can wield this." Gandalf warned, still backing away.

Evil Trey simply slung the guitar onto his shoulder and shrugged before playing a few licks. Though the guitar was not plugged in, it was as though he had cranked a stack of Marshalls to 10. The sound blew Gandalf's hat off of his head. The sounds of uncompressed rage eminated from the instrument. Evil Trey simply cackled as he saw the old man fall backwards in fright as he scrambled away.

================================================

After that day, Gandalf stopped attending Phish shows. He knew it was a fool's errand to listen to the evil, twisted Phish songs that Evil Trey spewed from his guitar night after night, turning the crowd slowly into more evil and twisted versions of themselves.

The lot scenes became outright dangerous as the last of the fans' humanity drained. The rest of the band seemed not to care that their bandmate had turned evil. Gandalf theorized that they had perhaps recieved a lower dose of the evil-turning spells. Or that they lived in fear of what would happen if they got in Evil Trey's way. Gandalf shuddered to think it. Regardless, the band played on.

By now Gandalf knew that his bag of wizarding weed would be the least of his troubles. Things were now in motion that could not be undone. Sauron had launched a successful attack on the mind of the most influential musician in Middle Earth, and this was surely only the beginning.

Gandalf knew he had but one thing left to do. He must seek out the only man he knew to have more knowledge of the subject than himself. Someone who knew how to drive out this madness from his friend Trey.

Gandalf sought the council of Elrond in the east.

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pt 3: https://www.tumblr.com/horseshoehate/713646407445282816/in-the-house-of-elrond-gandalf-goes?source=share

#phish #fanfiction #fan fiction #lord of the rings #gandalf #trey #trey anastasio #evil phish #lotr

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caffeinatedunimess · 3 years ago

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12-14/08/2022 Weekend

This weekend I didn't have much time to study but here are some things that happened:

Friday:

Uni classes: Statistics and Biochem

Dentist's appointment

It rained! :D

Saturday:

Picking up cello from the Luthier (I'm loving how it sounds now <3)

Installing programs for Data Science class

Reviewing this week's topics

Sunday

Running some errands and having coffee in Mc'donalds??

Doing and submitting statistics homework

Going outside and taking pics of plants (while it rained again because it doesn't happen often and I love it)

I don't remember much lol, anyone wants to see the plants?

#studyblr #val studies #university #study notes #torito #<- my cello

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orcelito · 3 years ago

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Listen I don't need to play fire emblem fates Again. Those games sure are... something... unfortunately they also contain some of my Favorite characters from the franchise

I miss Takumi and Laslow and Soleil and Kaden 🥺

#speculation nation #of course i could have laslow as inigo in awakening but that's even less replayable than fates #bc at least fates has different storylines (i say as i only want to go the neutral path bc i dont want to have to kill any siblings again)#(oh boy conquest fucked me Up. speaking as a takumi fan lol)#but i also miss henry and ricken and gaius #but ALSO. i miss kliff and luthier and leon from echoes #combined with felix being my fav from three houses and there's a bit of a pattern showing up in my favs lmfao #my fav fire emblem characters r almost always the 'tortured souls' / emo and/or gay.#OR. characters that make my heart feel like budding flowers like my daughter soleil & her papa laslow #YES im absolutely in love with laslow and soleil makes me wanna cry i love her so much #whyyyy do they have to be in fates. why do i have to play That game to see them again #why cant i just have a fire emblem game of all my favs just together #yes i know heroes exists i played it for years. that is still NOT what i mean.#the characters dont Do Shit there they just exist as gacha pulls and nice lil tokens to move around and puppet into saying things #Not The Same as actual active participation in a story #i still have so much else of three houses to play i shouldnt go back to older games. but i am suffering.

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19thsentry-blog · 3 years ago

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In The Shadows

Miraculous Ladybug Fanfic (Lukanette Endgame)

Chapters

Prelude | Chp 1 | Chp 2 | Chp 3 | Chp 4 | Chp 5 | Chp 6 | Chp 7 | Chp 8 | Chp 9 | Chp 10 | Chp 11 | Chp 12 | Chp 13 | Chp 14 | Chp 15 | Chp 16 | Chp 17 | Chp 18 | Chp 19 | Epilogue | Worlds Not Our Own | Timeline

Chapter Ten: It’s a Small World (AO3 Link)

Chapter Snapshot

Marinette bit her glossy bottom lip for a second. "I was wondering if you wanted to come with me tonight. My friend's having a birthday party and some of my friends don't think you're real."

She said it so matter-of-factly he had to laugh. "Well, I'd like to go." He remembered then that tonight he was meeting Ladybug again; it didn't seem like the thing he should miss out on. "I do have something else going on tonight, but when is it?"

"Oh, me too, so we won't be out too late," she rushed the words out quickly like they were bees she was desperate to escape from. "It starts at 6 tonight, and her dad will be there!"

Luka blinked. "Er…that's good, I think?"

She slapped a hand to her face and then swiveled around, not so stealthily checking for people around them. Marinette's hand grabbed the sleeve of his hoodie and pulled his ear to her mouth, a sudden thrill ran through him at her breath tickling his ear. "Her dad is Jagged Stone," she whispered, before quickly pulling away and whipping her head left and right as if people were waiting in the wings to pounce on her.

Malo was the kind of guy that needed a lot to do, and he ran his store in a way that would ensure he would never run out of new, fun stuff to mess around with. Luka found that his new boss wasn't just a good businessman, he was a fantastic musician and luthier. He only made guitars on commission, or when there wasn't much going on he would design and make them just to sell in the shop as one-of-a-kind models. For the most part, their bread and butter were in repairs. After two days of testing and pushing, Malo had found Luka to be willing, able, and qualified to do just about anything. Last hour, it was substituting for the guitar lesson that the normal teacher hadn't been able to make. Earlier, it had been helping Malo apply the bracing to the guitar he was working on in the back. Currently, he was making his services available to whatever crowd was in the store.

Luka weaved his way through the store, answering questions for a couple buying a piano for their son, an old man who seemed to stroll in on accident but stayed for the conversation, and a very excitable young girl looking to buy her first guitar and sign up for lessons. When he finally had a chance to look up, he could see Marinette. She was just a head of black hair occasionally bobbing in and out of view from the corner of the front window; she was eventually pushed into full view by a girl with red and chestnut-colored braids. Luka leaned on the counter and watched with a bemused smile on his lips as Marinette and her friend bickered by the window, Marinette's emotive face and wide gestures making his heart soft. Finally, her friend pointed at the window in his direction, and Marinette's eyes followed the finger, yipping when she saw him. He waggled his fingers at her, a grin spreading further on his face.

Marinette shoved her friend back out of view of the window and then rounded the corner once more with a resolved look on her face. She pushed open the door and marched up to the front counter, stopping in front of him. Luka waited a moment for her to speak, but she just stood there with her fists clenched, looking frozen.

"How you doing?" He asked, waiting for her to thaw out.

"Fine," she said back quickly. Marinette looked behind her out the window again; her friend had reappeared and was waving. She scowled at her and flipped back around.

"Your friend can come inside, you know," Luka said.

Marinette's eyes grew as wide as saucers. "Oh no, um, she's not here to--I had a…um…I had a question." She was interrupted by a customer behind her who wanted to pay for some guitar strings, so she moved off to the side and fiddled with her hands until Luka had finished.

"What's your question?" he asked, turning back towards her.

Marinette bit her glossy bottom lip for a second. "I was wondering if you wanted to come with me tonight. My friend's having a birthday party and some of my friends don't think you're real."

"Oh, me too, so we won't be out too late," she rushed the words out quickly like they were bees she was desperate to escape from. "It starts at 6 tonight, and her dad will be there!"

Luka blinked. "Er…that's good, I think?"

"Oh--I didn't know he had a kid. Guess that's a rock star for you. But yeah, I can head over after closing here at 7. Do you want me to pick you up?"

Marinette flushed pink. "Oh, no no, that's fine, I'll already be there to help set up. I can text you where it is, though."

His lip quirked up in a smile--she continued to look the right amount of interested but not too interested in getting his number. Luka shook his head and grabbed a yellow post-it note from under the counter. He wrote his number down and then stuck it on her shirt. "I'm still not sure why you're so hung up on having it," he said, watching her grab it from her shirt and hold it with a satisfied smile on her face.

"And I'm not sure why you're so averse to texting like a normal person," she said back, nose in the air.

"Seeing you in person is far more gratifying." He tapped the end of his pen on her nose, feeling light as air as she babbled back at him, blushing up to her ears.

"I'll see you tonight, then," Marinette said. She tripped over her feet in an attempt to escape, nearly bowling over a customer in the process.

Right around 6, he got a text (the only text he'd ever gotten) on his phone, listing the address and how to get there because it was on a houseboat. Marinette hadn't said it was her, probably out of excitement or nerves. Luka smiled at the text, then shoved it back in his pocket and helped Malo with the last few customers before leaving at closing. Marinette had given him very thorough directions, and his feet walked the path to the letter. He'd really have to get a bike or something soon when he could afford it.

The boat was a monster of steel and color, every surface screaming individuality. A large smiling face with braces was painted on the front, with stacks of boxes and bins on deck for hair. A large structure was erected behind that; decorated with black and purple flags with skulls on them. Part of the long deck was covered with glass to form a classy, atmospheric room, a small tree coming out of the sunroom's roof. He walked down the length of the riverwalk towards the gangplank. As he made his way aboard, he was hailed by a loud voice coming from the deck.

"Ahoy there!" the woman shouted. Her shining gray hair was done in a long, thick braid, and she was outfitted like a pirate that had made it to shore in the 60s and got so high they forgot to sail away again. With chunky jewelry and jewel-tone colors, Anarka Couffaine made it a point to stand out in a sea of normalcy.

"Ahoy," he said back, returning her wave.

Marinette popped out from the glass-covered sitting room at the sound of his voice, "Luka! You found it alright!" Marinette scrambled over, tripping on a stray amp cord. "Anarka, this is my, uh, friend," she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him further on deck.

"Ohh, I see," she said, a knowing glint in her eyes. She addressed him, "Luka. A good name. What's your last?"

Luka watched her covertly from several feet away, feet dangling over the edge of the river. He traced the line of her nose (Jules Couffaine, born in 1928), and the shape of her eyes (Christopher Couffaine, born in 1904, enlisted in the Navy in '22, married a Scotswoman in '26 just like his father had so long ago), the curve of her jaw (Aurélien Couffaine, who was born the same year Luka got to England, to the same man Luka had been sent to find).

They were there, either in her shape or in her blood, and all those people twisted between Luka and this girl, like a vine winding around a great tree. There were others, brothers and sisters who married out or passed away, either killed in World War I or who had simply become untraceable in the Panic of 1873 or the economic downturn that lasted from then to the War. So many lives had been lived in the space of his one, and now she was here.

His mouth went dry--last name--? Shit. "Sallow," he said, and in the back of his mind Wes let out a cry of indignation at the identity theft. If anyone noticed the brief pause or the way Luka had said it just a bit too quickly, no one said anything. Instead, Marinette pulled him along to introduce him to her friends. There were too many to have any hope of remembering their names, he focused instead on memorizing their faces and the way they carried themselves and hoped that would be enough of a foundation for later.

There were some names his brain easily burned into memory. Alya, Marinette's friend that he had seen pushing her along outside the music store. She was sharp, and she spoke with him like he was a friend but behind the veil of her eyes was clearly watching him carefully. Rose, Juleka's girlfriend. A girl with a fey face and tiny frame, she flit from place to place like a butterfly clothed in pink and white (he remembered her now, from that day at Rough Trade). Max and Markov, whom outside of his attachment to the others he met, had to be objectively the coolest--because you just can't beat a tall, attractive guy who had the intelligence to build a flying AI robot. Alix had also been easy to remember, her long coltish limbs stuck out every which way just like her red hair, and she'd bitten her lollipop in half saying, "Oh, fuck, he is real," when they'd been introduced.

And in the center of the hive was Juleka, a dark flower with bewitching beauty and a model's stance. She smiled at him, a bit reserved, and let Marinette introduce the two of them. Of course, she didn't recognize him at all, and this time he was introduced as Luka.

"Happy birthday," he said after Marinette had finished speaking. "Are those all yours?" he asked, looking back at the haphazard assemblage of instruments on the stage covered in the purple and black hanging flags.

"Mostly Mom's. I can't play them all," she replied, husky voice slightly embarrassed. "I like the bass. You play?"

"I do," he said. "Partial to the electric guitar."

Marinette jumped in, "He works at Paradis des Cordes, the shop across the way from the bakery!"

A soft smile of approval worked its way onto her face, and she stalked past him. "C'mon, you should play some," Juleka said, stepping onto the stage. "We're music junkies."

Luka looked down at Marinette for a moment, who had laid claim to his arm since he'd walked aboard. She seemed to remember that she'd been voraciously attached, because she quickly let go and giggled nervously, the strawberry flush he loved to see under the freckles on her nose working its way onto her face. "You should go play! I want to listen," she said, and as if she were a koala in need of something to grab onto, she latched herself to Alya instead.

Luka eagerly followed Juleka towards the huddle of instruments and took the purple Gibson electric she held out to him. Luka tested the strings and felt the knobs up to tune them ever so slightly. Anarka watched him, her own Pelham blue in her lap, arm draped over the guitar. A flutter of nerves flew up from his stomach, but he tamped them back down and positioned his fingers on the fretboard, working out what he wanted to play.

In 1984, Anarka Couffaine was 15. Just a kid who laughed too loud, yelled too much, and cursed with the nonchalance and ease of someone who'd come out of the womb screaming lyrics to the Sex Pistols. Lime green hair dye had faded dusty, and dark roots gave away the black head of hair beneath. Thick round glasses took up most of her face, with a wide smile that could turn to an angry grimace in a second taking up the rest of the real estate.

She sat on the bank of the Seine, fingers blitzing out Gang of Four's Natural's Not In It, fingers stuttering with occasional mistakes. She kept moving them back, forcing them right on the fretboard and trying again.

Anarka's eyes lit up as the familiar opening notes washed over the deck, and her fingers found the chords easily and began to work alongside him eagerly. The rough clipped notes flowed from guitar to guitar, going a minute or two until she paused. "What else ya got?" She hollered at him.

He thought for a moment. "Buzzcocks, Autonomy?"

"Aye, that'll play!" Anarka stood up and walked onto the stage. She reached down for a cord, plugging in her guitar to an amp. "Check by your feet, son," she said. "If you're gonna play, play loud--that's the Couffaine way."

Luka almost tripped over his own two feet when he backed up to grab the cord off the ground, his fingers stumbling slightly as he plugged it into the cord. Then he looked over at Anarka, and she was nodding, and then their feet began tapping out to the same drumbeat in their head. Their fingers took off in the same heartbeat, electric guitar blasting through the amps behind them, a rough and tumble wail of noise and energy. It had been too long since he'd played with someone else, it made his blood sing--his heart pumped to the beat of the sound, and it felt good, it felt right. Anarka yowled out the lyrics like Karen O, more for herself than for anyone else, and that felt right too.

They finished and tore through Good Grief because Juleka wanted to play and someone else wanted to play the drums. Anarka's face was one of feral joy, and Luka knew this was her down to her bones and DNA, this manic abandon to get completely lost in the sound--because it was in him, too. He wondered if the other Couffaine's felt this tug, this explosive need for musical release, the drive that was too sweet to call a curse.

Luka hadn't been expecting anything more than being Marinette's plus one (a worthy use of his time in any regard) what he had gotten was far better. And, of course, by the time they finished a few more songs, one lone police siren was howling by the gangplank.

Luka thought about talking to her, seeing if he could strike up a conversation, even for just a few minutes. It felt…wrong. Luka knew the connection, of course. He had spent months looking into it, just to have the answer as to what had actually happened to the man he'd been trying to find all those years ago. Who was he? What would his life have been like if they'd actually found each other? He tried not to fixate on it often, but after a hundred years some questions just kept begging to be answered.

A younger red-headed boy had toddled up to Anarka, a petulant frown on pale white skin, red hair combed back neatly. "You're gonna cause a disturbance, you know."

She snarled, not looking up from her finger placement as she started from the top. "Good. Bite my ass."

"I'll tell you on you."

"Leave me alone you little parasite, or I'll shove you in the Seine."

"You can't do that!"

"Oh yeah? Wanna bet? Come here, you little toady!"

Luka let them bicker, setting aside his wistful imaginings to lean back on his palms as he looked across the Seine. He let his mind and his thoughts drift along the river, the sound of water and people and play floating in one ear and out the other.

History had a funny way of repeating itself; and Luka knew that even when people were capable of great change, some patterns were too easy to fall back into if you ever moved out of them at all. And that was how on Juleka's 19th birthday, Officer Roger almost had a guitar broken over his head.

The sky was turning delicate tones of orange, purple, and a deep, kind blue. Stars gently began to dot the sky, their reflections meeting them in the placid water of the Seine. Marinette was deeply content; she focused on every sensation and feeling, trying to bookmark it in her brain for later. Alya caught her staring from the top deck where she'd gone to get extra chairs and ran up to meet her.

"Hey, get lost for a minute there?" she teased, taking one of the folding chairs from her.

Marinette shook her head, the easy smile not falling from her lips. "No, I was just…he fits, doesn't he?" Her eyes were glued to the whole scene below. After Officer Roger had been placated and Jagged Stone had finished his extravagant entrance, things had calmed. All her friends were together in one place, smiling and laughing, and in the middle of it was Luka, either exchanging easy banter with Alix or playing scraps of songs with Juleka and her parents. His fingers were practically surgically attached to the guitar Juleka had loaned him.

"He does. I can almost forgive him for not texting you for like a month." Alya's full lips tilted into a smirk.

Marinette huffed. "He managed to worm his way off the hook for that." Not that it had been hard; one look at the longing on his face and the way his lips found hers had been all she needed, loath as she was to admit it.

Alya leaned a hip up against the stair railing, looking up at her friend with careful eyes. "So, does this mean you've moved on from you-know-who?"

You-know-who wasn't here at the moment, but Marinette's eyes scanned the crowd for him, old reflexes still working hard against her. "I want to be, I think," she answered softly. "This is…whatever it is, it's not anything like how I felt about him."

Her heart was still tender towards Adrien, but that love had all the trappings of innocent first love. Adrien tied her tongue, made her loopy and stupid, and was the perfect dream husband for her perfect dream life. Luka (who also made her tongue-tied and made her loopy and stupid) was…different. Ever since their first kiss, when she thought about Luka she didn't think about a perfect dream future where there was a chaste happily ever after, she thought about very present needs that warranted handling with his very nice fingers and very warm lips, after which there would hopefully be many repeats. Adrien was a pink bubble gum dream; Luka was a deep red need right now. And another point in his favor, Luka seemed to want her just as much as she wanted him.

"You aren't going to do anything stupid, are you?"

"Me? Stupid? No!" Marinette squeaked, suddenly brought out of her non-PG13 thoughts.

Alya shook her head, stepping up the last stair to be on the same level as her friend. Her long ponytail of braids shifted over her shoulder and onto her back, and the bright yellow of her dress seemed to glow as the night grew darker. "Look, I'm just here to be a little angel over your shoulder--I'm not saying don't go get some," she said, a salacious smirk growing before her gaze softened. "Just be careful. You have a big heart and a tendency to get real attached real fast."

Marinette sighed softly. It wasn't that Alya was wrong, but her "big heart" very rarely gave her a choice in the matter. Before she had a chance to respond, Alya's hand gripped over her wrist, alert wrought in her eyes. "Uh oh. Speak of the devil."

Marinette frowned, following Alya's line of sight. Her stomach sank--she'd know that car anywhere. Just as easily as she'd know the head of hair that emerged out of it. Adrien. She never had the chance to tell Luka about her very widely known crush--what if someone said something weird? Or if he could tell that she acted weird around Adrien, and felt like she'd been lying to him and wanted nothing to do with her afterward? But maybe this was an opportunity, to prove to herself and to everyone else that she'd moved on, just as she had claimed she had.

Catastrophic levels of panic were hit when Marinette realized, to her horror, that she had completely missed the second blond head that had already boarded the ship. If there was anyone in this world who would delight in ruining something she had going for her, it would be Félix (after Chloé. Or Lila. Or Hawk Moth--okay, the list was longer than she'd like). Marinette practically fell down the stairs in her haste to get down them, because Luka was the exact person Félix had made a beeline for. She could see a quick wave of confusion pass over Luka's face when he heard Félix say something to him, but he covered it quickly at Marinette's clumsy entrance.

"I brought extra chairs!" she exclaimed, pushing through Félix to set up her folding chair next to Luka. She promptly sat in it, smiling sweetly (staring daggers) at Félix, daring him to say something while she was sitting there. "I didn't realize you would be joining us, Félix," Marinette said.

Something dark lurked in the depths of his green eyes, but he pulled back. Félix returned the faux smile. "I'm not. I was dropping Adrien off on my way elsewhere. I noticed a face I hadn't seen before, so I thought I'd say hello. Any friend of Adrien's, you know."

Is a friend of yours? Doubt it, Marinette grumbled in her mind.

Adrien had stopped to talk with Nino, but the two came up to the group now, Adrien weaving through to extract his cousin from whatever mess he'd made. "Juleka, happy birthday! Sorry I'm late," he said, handing her a bouquet of black roses and white daisies. Juleka smiled, although she did raise her eyebrows, a quiet signal that had come to mean What Is Félix Up to Now, Blink Twice If You Need Help.

Adrien grimaced a bit before turning to the rest of the group, eyes lighting on the one person he didn't know. Adrien's face turned to Marinette's, begging for an introduction. Her tongue did the thing where it turned to mush, and she couldn't trust it to weave a single intelligent word. She heard Alix snigger a bit but still couldn't make syllables come out of her stupid mouth. The closest she'd gotten was putting a hand on Luka's shoulder, a dumb "D'uh…" coming out.

"Luka, Marinette's friend," Luka said for her, an easy smile on his lips.

Adrien smiled back, Marinette feeling utterly helpless in the face of it all. "Totally over it", yeah, what a lie that had been. She was just as lost as she always was.

"Adrien, also Marinette's friend. Nice to meet you." He said it as if he really meant it. Marinette could see Alya behind Nino, biting a nail--which she rarely did--things must be bad, but she couldn't figure out why.

Somehow, Félix was the one who saved her. "I ought to be on my way," he said, throwing one last glance at her and turning on his heel. "The car will be yours later tonight, Adrien." Félix's exit took most of the tension with it, and Jagged and Anarka stole the spotlight back after that, falling into some argument that they took below deck to scream out. It wasn’t the victory she had been wanting, but Félix hadn't made an absolute disaster of things, so that had to count for something.

Adrien went to grab a suitable box to sit on and placed it across from her, nearly completing their semi-circle. Alya pushed Nino down next to Adrien on what space was left on the box and sat down to his left, fingers tapping on her jean-clad thigh. Silence stole over their little group again, and Alix’s eyes began to rove across the group from the spot she had claimed from Jagged.

“Sooo,” Alix said, unwrapping another lollipop that she’d filched from the bowl of candy to her side, “You ever been to Paris before?”

Luka started slightly, realizing she was talking to him. “A few times. It’s been a while.”

“How do you know Marinette?” Adrien asked.

“We met in New York,” Marinette said. Her mouth was finally working, for better or for worse.

“Oh.” Adrien was looking like he hadn’t expected that answer, although what he had been expecting she didn’t know. “So, how long are you staying then?”

Luka’s eyes drifted to hers, making magic in her chest where her heart started going triple the speed. “I don’t have plans on leaving anytime soon.”

Alix’s cracked her lollipop with another crunch, a few pieces of candy flying off on deck. “Uh, oops,” she muttered, kicking the pieces beneath her chair. Something passed between Alix and Alya, and Alix cleared her throat. “Travel a lot then?” Apparently, her best friend had given up on Marinette's ability to keep the conversation going in her current state and was relying on someone else to do the job.

Luka nodded, fingers drawing back to the guitar in his lap. “A lot, actually. I’ve been through most of Europe, China, and Australia, although I’ve spent most of my time recently in the States.”

Rose perked up from her place on Juleka’s lap. “Oh, have you ever been to Achu? I’ve always wanted to see it in person!”

“It’s been a while, but I swung through there. It’s nice—really hot though.”

“I wish I could travel more,” Marinette sighed, leaning back in her chair. “I’ve been to China once and to London to see my aunt, but that’s it. And it’s always for short trips, never long enough to actually do or see anything.”

Luka tilted his head, fingers plucking unconsciously at the strings of the guitar. “No? London’s pretty close though, enough for a day trip. We should go some time. I’ll show you around.”

Alya saved her the indignity of having to blabber out a response between fantasies of her and Luka going on romantic strolls through Regent’s Park or Camden market by kicking Nino’s foot.

He leapt to a very clumsy rescue. “You’re a music dude, right?”

The conversation quickly turned from anything she could intelligently comment on, and that was just fine with her. There were way fewer chances to embarrass herself if she didn’t say anything (who was she kidding, maybe that had been Alya’s plan the whole time). Another hour slipped by without her noticing, easy banter flowing around them. Adrien hadn’t said much since he had first arrived, although it probably didn’t help that anytime he asked Luka a question or said something, someone else would dive in with something that dovetailed the conversation away from it.

“So, what do you think?” Nino asked, nervously adjusting his hat on his head while Luka listened to the song he’d mixed.

Luka nodded appreciatively, handing back over Nino’s headphones. “Cool sound—very Endtroducing. I dig it.”

Nino’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Yes! Exactly what I was going for!” He turned to Adrien, slapping him excitedly on the shoulder. “See dude, I told you someone would get it.” Nino scrolled through his homemade soundtrack on his phone. “You gotta listen to this one next, I made it for Alix, it’s totally her vibe and I really need someone who doesn’t know her to give me feedback on it—”

“You also DJ?” Adrien asked Luka.

Luka smiled, lips tugging to the left in a way that made him devilishly handsome (or so Marinette thought, anyway). “No, that’s not for me. I just like to keep up to date on music trends. DJ Shadow really blew people away in ’96, guess you can’t call that recent anymore.”

“It’s a bummer we never got another album like that one, but I get what he said, I wouldn’t want to be stuck doing the same thing forever either. Hey, have you ever listened to Ulver?”

Alya clamped a hand on her boyfriend’s shoulder. “Sorry, boys, but it’s past nine. Luka and Marinette have places to be. You can nerd out about your tunes later.”

"Oh, crap!" Marinette shot out of her chair, checking her phone for the time as if that would magically make the earth rotate backward. "I'm sorry, I let us get distracted," she looked down at Luka with a wince. Marinette had gotten so comfortable she hadn't even realized it was past nine—Viperion was probably already waiting for her.

"I think this one’s on me,” he said with a laugh, ducking his head beneath the guitar strap.

"Aw man, c'mon, the night's barely over, you’re leaving?” Jagged’s fingers roughed out a spastic guitar riff like an irritable child when he watched them get up from their circle, Anarka following behind him from their screaming match beneath deck. “There's so much more jammin' to do!"

Luka carefully set his borrowed guitar back on its stand on stage. "Thanks for letting me play," he said, smiling wistfully at Juleka. Jagged held him up awhile longer, and Marinette found Adrien's attention focused on her before she could go untangle Luka.

"You guys are leaving?" he asked.

Marinette blushed slightly despite herself. "We have other plans tonight. It was nice seeing you. I haven't gotten a chance to say thanks in person."

He blinked, confused, before remembering what she had to thank him for. "Oh, that was nothing--like I said, you did all the hard work. He was really impressed by your portfolio. You're an amazing designer," Adrien smiled at her, boyish charm seemingly kicked into overdrive. "So, where are you and Luka going?"

Luka untangled himself on his own, walking up to her with an expectant smile. "Ready?"

She wanted to answer Adrien's question (not with the truth, of course, they weren't really going anywhere together per se, but she couldn't tell him about her business as Ladybug, so she would have had to come up with some kind of lie), but Nino called Adrien back over, and she used that as an excuse to say goodbye to everyone with a big wave. Luka held out the crook of his arm for her and she took it. They walked across the gangplank and along the Seine, lingering more the further they got from the boat. They finally stopped beneath a bridge, the slow-moving water of the Seine rumbled by, hidden from the lamp light.

Luka turned to her, gently putting his free hand to her face, palm cupping her cheek. This thumb grazed her skin featherlight, arcing from her cheek to her lips and she felt every nerve in her body start singing, ready to come apart just from touch. "I don’t want to freak you out," he said, humor and a bit of reserve in his tone, "But I haven't been able to get you out of my head since the day we met."

Something in the back of her brain launched fireworks, and she heard herself babble, "Well, you know, kind of like the Small World song, I guess, there whether you want it to or not--"

Luka laughed, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead, lips whispering on her skin. "Your melody is much sweeter than It's a Small World." He pulled back, eyes intense and full of, God, is that what love looked like? Adoration? Is this what it felt like to be on the other end of it? Because she was totally lost in it, consumed in the burning build-up in her body, the blue glow in his eyes. "But I'm glad it's a small world because I got to meet you in it."

Marinette hoped he'd forgive her for not having anything to say; her brain was in overdrive, nerve endings buzzing, and she couldn't quite put into words just how glad she was, too. She nodded instead, blush growing. "Thanks for coming tonight. It meant a lot and…it made me really happy." Although something had been bugging her, something she wanted to address but she wasn't quite sure how. "I uh…I like you, um--more than a friend would, although I don't know your friends so I guess I don't know how they feel. Just, when I introduced you to--I panicked because I wasn't sure what…" Marinette stopped and bit her lip, hoping that would be enough to convey what she'd been wanting to say.

Luka shook his head, fondness still on his lips, dark blue hair shifting over his forehead. "I'm whatever you want me to be, for however long you want me to be."

If a human could become a complete puddle, she was ready to liquefy and float away on the Seine. He was a dreadful liar about being bad with words. "I want you," she said quickly, then frowned. "Uh, although--I'm definitely late by now."

Luka grimaced himself. "Yeah, same here." Then he shrugged. "But what's one more minute going to hurt?" he said. Luka's hand shifted to lift her chin up, stooping down to kiss her. Her first kiss had been one for the books, but the second was just as good. What started as something soft ended hungry, his teeth gently grazing her bottom lip as they pulled away. "I'll see you soon, right?" Luka's voice was thick, and if she had to nail an emotion, it would be desperate.

"Definitely," Marinette gasped back, still finding her breath. It didn't make it any easier that she'd just spent 3 and a half hours on The Liberty, and whenever she was finally off the constantly shifting boat it always felt like she was the one moving back and forth for at least an hour after.

Luka left, leaving her to try and put herself back together. Marinette realized after who knows how long that her phone was persistently ringing, and she opened her purse to find a very cross Tikki, who had been putting up with it for a while. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," she said, grabbing the phone and answering it without looking at who it was.

"Do you have any idea what's going on?" Alya screamed in a whisper, voice slightly tinny over the phone.

Alix pipped up from somewhere, further from the phone. “Suffocating! Absolutely—” Alya shushed her to give Marinette time to answer.

Marinette blinked. "Uh. No, definitely not." That was for once a very simple truth she could tell in her current addled state. Which way was the sky again? Left? Right? Up?

"I didn't think you did--are you alone yet? I've called like three times."

"I'm alone, now, sorry about that I was uh…"

"Were you getting some?"

Marinette curled her toes in her flats, "No!"

Alix sniggered in the background and Alya's tone pitched to a squeal, "Oh my god you were--okay, no, not important, but still related. Listen, I know you couldn't tell because your brain goes into Lala land, but you do realize Adrien was seething with jealousy, right?"

She didn’t think anything could snap her back to reality, but that did the trick. "What? Alya, you're crazy--wait, where even are you two?"

"In the bathroom," she said with a huffy sigh. "But I'm not crazy. Even Nino noticed, and he's Nino! Why do you think he kept interrupting the conversation?"

Marinette ran through the night again, trying to remember any hint of negativity from Adrien, but he looked like he always had to her. Polite, princely, kind--nothing seemed off.

"I'm not calling you to be like 'hey, Adrien seems interested now, you should go for it', because as far as I'm concerned—”

“It would be a dick move,” Alix interrupted.

“It would be kind of a dick move to be all politely disinterested in you or whatever until the second you might not be available, I just wanted to warn you. Because if we noticed, there's no way Luka didn't. Did he seem weird at all? Anything off?"

"Uh…" her brain raced, thinking about the walk home, the kiss, the talking, "I don't…I don't think so…?"

She heard a smacking sound on the other end of the line, possibly Alya facepalming. "Alright, tomorrow we are getting together for a deep dive of the night's events--I've gotta go."

Marinette checked the time again, her gut clenching when she realized she was now a whopping 30 minutes late, and she still wasn't even making her way there yet. If Viperion had been waiting for her this whole time, there was no way he wouldn't be majorly pissed. She hung up with Alya, rushing to find a place to transform. Her life could never just be quiet, could it?

#in the shadows mlb #alternate universe #lukanette #luka couffaine #alya cesaire #marinette dupain cheng #anarka couffaine #alix kubdel #juleka couffaine #roger raincomprix #felix graham de vanily #adrien agreste #rose lavillant #nino lahiffe #jagged stone #Nat's Monster In The Box

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