#i feel like neil addressed this at some point too but not from this pov

[gatsby-system-folks]

Yes the Bible Fanfiction take is hilarious but I don't think it's perfectly accurate. Because from either broad perspective of the Bible (myth or history) it doesn't quite add up.

From the myth perspective, well, writing stories about other mythologies isn't considered fanfiction (think Percy Jackson)

From the history perspective, the same issue (think Hamilton). Now yes, Aziraphale and Crowley are fictional characters (based on Biblical figures but still fictional) but this actually cements their originality imo. Because you can write a story about a guy (you made up) on the voyage to the Cape Of Good Hope for the first time and that's not fanfiction.

I.. don't expect anyone to do anything at all with this information. Nor do I think we should stop referring to Gomens as a Bible songfic.. I just figured the thought experiment was worth sharing lmao.

[theghostbunnie]

How do you see Max and Nikki’s relationship?

As siblings

I know that's like sometimes what ppl say when there's a straight pairing popular ship (makki) vs a gay popular one (maxneil) and they don't really mean it they just mean they have a uncomfortbilty or hatred towards one of the ships, but in my mind they're literally twins/hj

I have AUs where they're twins, half siblings, step siblings. I love them sm..There's even a line in one of the end credit rap songs that goes something like "we may not have the same color skin but imma treat em like my twin" and I'm like ah yes,,, something to feed into my delusions/j

((on a more srs note I feel like more ppl should look into the end credit lyrics alot of it seems specifically written to fit Max and might give people a better insight into his characterization))

But enough of my fannon delusions n self indulgence they're obviously not actually siblings they're best friends BUT they didn't start off that way no matter how sweet the "you now have three little bastards to deal with" line is bc in the first season, earlier episodes he's more of an asshole to her bc they're still getting to know each other.

He broke her instrument, quicker to basically tell her to shut up on multiple occasions, ect.

Back to the first episode, Max operates BIG on first impressions. Off the bat he's touching Neil's shoulder, he's impressed by his disrespect to authority, he wants to hotwire the bus with him. But Nikki? Hardly addressing her. Even says "why would you help us?" Bc despite biting him, she appeared to be just a 'little more violent, mini-David.' THAT was his first impression of her. Nikki didn't have his attention or respect technically until he learned her willingness to seek and cause chaos near the end of the episode. There's times at later points where she's clearly getting on his nerves.

I'm pretty sure I already wrote out a whole in depth thing about how Max has issues getting attached to people and will fight it off and deny it once it happens even at the cost of their feelings (points at camp corp episode) where as Nikki is a social person who has been denied a real friend til she came to camp campbell same as Neil, who is NOT a social person. They both start off clingy towards Max for this but Nikki works past it and makes 2 other friends while Neil doesn't.

So recap: Max builds a team of two other kids he can just share a common goal with at first, is a bit of a jerk to Nikki initially at times, but she grows on him and now he really values her as a friend n cares for her deeply.

But now onto NIKKI'S POV: She'd been bullied before, it was a traumatic experience for her yes but that's also the ONLY information we have on any past relationships she's had with peers, kids her own age. Any other time she's talking about someone she knew it's often just her mom. sometimes her dad (often not painting a good picture of him but through a childhood innocence lense) or an animal she knew.

So when she makes her first friend group in camp campbell her only prior experience with one is in the flower scouts. Nikki picked up bad habits from them bc she's a kid and doesn't have the emotional maturity to analyze her every behavior.

So when Max is being the type of person who was being quick to shut her down, who (in her own words) was micro managing her, and only ever seemed like he was having a good time when they were doing what HE planned to do, ofc she's gonna start harboring some complaints. Nikki isn't gonna sit down and talk about her feelings to him like an adult she's gonna do what the flower scouts taught her and you talk shit about the problem to OTHER friends.

This isn't to say she secretly hates him, no I firmly believe she deeply cares about him too but they're both flawed people so their friendship has flaws too that doesn't make it void of care for one another.

You can't unbiasedly hate on Nikki for that scene she's mocking him if you're not even taking into consideration WHAT her original issue was. Nikki shit talks, Max has control issues.

As episodes progress I think they really seem to work past it and become better people AND I THINK THAT'S RLLY SWEET I LOVE THEIR FRIENDSHIP ❣️❣️

The way they interact with each other throughout the series really shows that their differences might cause some clashing but they have FUN together and I think their differences and problems just make them more interesting characters

[a-complex-joke]

Zero to Mutant Chapter 2

MASTERLIST

Emily POV

Another day of helping mold the minds of young children. It’s not an easy job but somebody has to do it.

“Good morning Miss Emily,” Dana welcomed me 

“So who do you want me to hang out with today?”

“we’ll actually be having some child psychiatrists visiting our school over the next week or so, and I think you'd be the perfect person to show them the school and help them conduct some interviews between them and the students.

You’ll of course be continuing your duties but you will also answer any of their questions”

“Umm why me I think Grace, or Neil would be much better options for this, they have years of experience over my few months”

“Emily, I think you're perfect for the job because you're young and you speak your mind. You will give them honest answers. But if they ask about specific students make sure they're not one of the students on this list I made you”

She handed me the list. Good it’s short and sweet

“So you know what these people are like”

“Hope was way last minute, Bruce just E-mailed me about it yesterday, all I know is there are five of them,” Dana said aspirated.

“I'll give them the perfect War Hawk experience” I reassured her.

About half an hour later Brice called me over to the front.

“Emily, these are The child psychiatrists you were briefed on I'll leave you to it,” he said walking back to his office.

“Hi, I'm Emily, the kids call me Miss Emily, I'll be your best resource for this time,” I said shaking their hands.

“Hello dear, you can call me Rouge, this is Logan and Scott” the tall woman with gorgeous hair addressed me.

“Hi im Jubilee, I'm so excited to be here” the excitable girl close to my age hopped up and down

“Nice to meet you all, correct me if I'm wrong but wasn’t there supposed to be Five of you”

“Ahh yes our fifth companion might not be able to join us, he is a bit of a hermit, but he might join us in the future through”

“Ok then, let's start with a tour, and then I can figure out where it would be best to place you.”

*time skip*

Alright so Jublee I'll be putting you in the kinder garden, Scott you're with the 5th graders, and Rouge you can hang out with the fourth grade.

And logan you were a hard cookie to decide on so I put you with the group I know the least about first grade.”

They all nodded accepting their fates.

“So before we all separate do you have any more questions for me”

“Yeah, you ever notice any of the kids doing strange things they shouldn't be able to,” Logan asked earning glares from his friends

“Not that I know of, A lot of our kids here are at advanced levels of knowledge, and with how many tumbles they take I'd swear there indestructible” I joked, but it didn’t seem to land

Well if you need me I'll be hanging out with second and third grade or I'll be in Dana’s Office, I'll be checking up on you guys at some point too” I said walking away awkwardly

After doing about an hour in both classes I headed out to see how the Drs were coming along and it all seemed well but from the look on the older three’s faces, they weren’t on the same page as me.

I managed to catch them at lunch, and with them, they held a strange device.

“Hey guys what's with the gizmo?”

“oh, it’s nothing it's just something to keep track of our data,” Scott said quickly hiding it, before it started rapidly beeping.

“That means it uploaded everything thoroughly” Rouge explained

Well, that's some BS if I've ever heard it.

“So made you all want to be child psychologists?”

“Oh well, we were all bulled as kids for our ailments, Scott’s Eyes, Rouge's Skin condition, and all that stuff and we all translated that anger and resentment into helping kids like us” Jubilee Satteted.

“Yeah that's kinda how I feel when it comes to these kids, I see myself in these kids that no one has given a chance”

“Is that why you became a Para?”

“Umm no, well kinda. I needed a job and the daycares weren’t hiring me so this was the next best thing. I just go with the flow of things”

“Oh, that's my lunch break up I'll see you guys later” and that my friends are how you get out of an awkward conversation.

[palmett-hoes]

this was originally meant to be a response/follow-up to @i-did 's post about race in the aftg fandom (that you should read). i ran it by him first and asked permission to add, but then we decided it was too long so i should make it its own post

---

i want to talk about fandom's take on the twins' race because it's rather glaring in the fandom that andrew (and then aaron by necessity) are often portrayed as the only white characters on the team and i have to question why?

there's nothing in the backstories that would mean writing them as POC would fling them headlong into offensive stereotypes that the fandom hasn't bypassed over to make another fox a POC.

they have a history of addiction? but it's okay for matt and seth to be addicts and be brown.

they're violent? but it's okay for renee to be non-white and a former gang member.

they're blond and 'pale'¹? but allison can be a WOC and bleach her hair without saying it explicitly? renee can have white rainbow hair no matter the AU? neil can be a blue-eyed redhead and still be drawn darker skinned half the time?

'pale' in and of itself is a very vague word that's only brought up in the context of comparison to notably dark skinned nicky. it's completely relative, and multi-racial families where people look wildly different from each other exist (pretty commonly). or if you're prescriptivist how about the multiple ways a POC can still be a natural blond including but not limited to pigmentation conditions or being mixed race? similarly, i think less than a quarter of the FCs i've seen for andrew over the years have been natural blonds themselves.

so if our holdups aren't about racial stereotyping and they aren't about the incredibly vague character descriptions, then why are the twins always white when it's approached as a good thing that no one else is? when i've seen multiple different posts lauding the fandom for adding diversity where nora didn't write it, except for here?

.

to be completely, bluntly honest, it's because we as a majority-white fandom are uncomfortable when we are not the central characters. or maybe we are uncomfortable when people of color ARE the central characters. i don't think there's much of a difference.

we are comfortable writing and drawing nicky, the upperclassmen, then kevin (in that order) as poc because, simply, we use them as background characters. they are rarely the main characters of fics, or have their own storylines in them; it all revolves around andreil.

.

additionally, while i've used neil up to now as an example of the fandom being OKAY with writing POC, let's also admit that it's an,, imperfect representation, as he will often be racially ambiguous with no explicit ethnicity, he will be the lightest skinned of the foxes of color, and he will still have eurocentric features. also it's genuinely a toss up as to whether he's drawn brown or not, there are still plenty of white neils, much more than there are white dans and matts and renees (not an attack on anyone who draws white neils, simply a statement) and FCs and edits of him still tend to be white people.

he's a bit of a schrödinger's person of color, not really any one thing or another, very few people being willing to take a hard stance on him and do the work of taking that decision under consideration when writing and drawing him.

(quick shout-out here to @hi-raethia for making content about an explicitly chinese interpretation of neil).

(additionally, to be as clear about my intended message as possible, this isn't a statement on the politics of passing or undermining the ethnicities of lightskinned poc, this is about a lack of detail being put into making a character a character of color in any thoughtful, meaningful, or significant way)

.

so when i talk about the centralization of white people in fandom, neil gets to be included, perhaps with a footnote indicating that this is somewhat of a more complicated statement than it is with lily-white andrew minyard.

nevertheless, i feel comfortable saying that 75% of fandom content revolves around andrew and neil, major exceptions only being jerejean which are often stand-alone from the foxes, and the rising branch of kevaaron shippers. however both of those ships are actually subject to this exact same criticism, as ships between a a flat-out white character and a dubiously "non-white" character who can also be white sometimes. it varies.

conspicuously, content about the UPPERCLASSMEN tends to revolve around andrew and neil.

fics where the upperclassmen are the pov character are often outside-perspective fics on andreil.

HC posts about the upperclassmen, especially matt, will devote major portions to his time spent helping, hanging with, and thinking about andrew and/or neil.

secondary ships like danmatt or renison tend to be just that, secondary ships moving in the background of andreil-focused works. they get more of a,,, scenic shout-out than a storyline

it is only comfortable for us to write these characters as characters of color if they revolve entirely around white characters

.

.

.

so after all that? what should we do, as a white-majority fandom? what should YOU, specifically, as a white person, do?

i hate to talk about a problem without also talking about solutions, and i try not to carp on something i don't want to be an active part of fixing. public criticism without an action plan only leads to hurt feelings and guilt, and that's never my intention when bringing this up. my goal is to address a general problem, not anyone specific's personal failings.

in all honesty leaning completely into all of the foxes being people of color, though i think neat and i certainly support, is not the best solution, and would be more of a hollow action than anything else without addressing the underlying problems that lead to the development of this dynamic.

i think the best thing to do would be to 1. do some research on writing poc, usually by following some writing-specific blogs like @writingwithcolor or @pocinmymedia . look up the 'black best friend' trope and really spend some time tjinking about it. spend an hour seeking out a random assortment of blogs that interest you that are also run by people of color. checking through tags like drawingwhileblack or blacktober may be good kickoff points.

tumblr is great because with an hour of active work to find these blogs, you can then go months passively seeing content from them. try not to interact, actually, simply watch and listen and become familiar with general trends and concerns in different communities. remember that every blog is run by an individual person, not an elected representative of their race, and always keep this in mind.

you are teaching YOURSELF that people of color are individuals, they have interests and inner lives that don't revolve around whiteness, that don't revolve around YOU

at the same time, 2. challenge yourself as a creator to make more content about the upperclassmen, specifically. make art about them doing stuff as a group separate from neil and andrew's group. find a compilation of 'draw the squad' memes and draw/tag the upperclassmen only. make jokes where they talk to each other. write some meta about their character motivations. write a fic where andreil isn't even mentioned, it can be super short, you can even use a prompt generator.

as a reader, reread their backstories in the extra content. reread son nefes. use ao3's filtering system to read some fics about JUST the upperclassmen, few and far apart though they may be.

if we've decided that the upperclassmen are people of color then lean into that, and learn to CARE about them on their own merit, because they are the most underutilized characters in the fandom. we need to make content centralized around them to combat the fact that fandom centralizes whiteness

[captain-danwilds]

One Step Forward

Hi @avengerpercy! I realize I didn’t take Brazil’s timezone into account when posting this so I’m sorry this is technically late, but here’s your @aftgexchange gift.  I hope this is good enough for you Cristal.  This is my first time playing in the AFTG sandbox, so I wanted to live up to your expectations.  I ended up using your prompt “Andrew and Aaron talking and solving their problems”  for a little outsider POV Andreil fluff with a large helping of twinyards.   

A few quick notes. Betsy and the joint sessions set the backdrop for this fic even though I am not a therapist and also not trying to make some statement about therapy in general (Personally I’m a big fan, but also recognize that Aaron really doesn’t seem to be in we’re in his POV.) I’m not trying to demonize Aaron or Andrew here.  Aaron just fundamentally misunderstands Andrew.  Also Raven King/Drake Incident references.  

Ever since Aaron had found out Andrew existed, he’d felt unsteady.   It wasn't just the sudden knowledge of how different his life could have been if Tilda hadn't decided to come back to get him or even if she'd just taken the other baby.   It was the fact his brother was a mass of contradictions piled on top of each other and every aspect of their relationship was built on the idea of one step forward and two steps back.

Aaron wasn't an idiot.  When the officer at the stupid game had mentioned Andrew, Aaron didn't expect his long-lost brother to immediately love him.  This wasn't a television show.   He knew by now that blood only went so far, that it hadn't stopped his mother from raising her hand to him or Uncle Luthor from sending Nicky away only for his cousin to come back a shell of himself.  But he couldn't deny he wanted it to work desperately, for there to be another little boy out there whose life might be made better by having a brother in it.  

His first step forward a letter that had to be rewritten at least twice because everything sounded wrong.  His bedroom trash can overflowed with pieces of notebook paper crumpled in frustration or with ink smeared from tears he'd never admit to anyone he'd actually shed.  Aaron must have spent hours writing the letter, typing it up in stolen time at the school library and sneaking to the post office while Mom had been out of it.  

Hours completely wasted when the only reply was two words:  "Fuck Off."

That should have been the sign to leave things well enough alone.  

But instead, he'd taken the return address and written a second letter to "the guardians of Andrew Doe."  

And instead of an answer from his brother, Aaron had gotten a voicemail saying Andrew had gone to Juvie.  

Even the slightest hint of progress was met with resistance.    

Gaining a brother meant losing his mom and never being in control of his decisions anymore.  

Andrew lived by his own rules, an unspoken tally system of betrayals where Aaron would never be the one who measured up.  Andrew wouldn't say it, because Andrew didn't say anything now that he was off the drugs.  Aaron knew his brother only cared about him in context of proving that he'd never broken their deal.  Until he called the whole thing off for Josten.  

Josten, the idiot that would say things like "Andrew doesn't lie"  as if he actually believed him.  As if there truly was some magical code his brother followed that made sense.    

"If you really don't care about Andrew, why does Neil bother you so much?"   Dobson asked during their Wednesday session.

Aaron dug his fingers into the couch.  He hated this.  Hated that the only time he could get answers out of Andrew was when he was sitting in front of a shrink.   A shrink who was undoubtedly on his brother's side. And that in order to get answers he had to rip himself raw first.  

"I understand that therapy isn't for everyone,"  She'd said smiling gently during their first mandatory meeting freshman year.  "More than that, therapy with me might not be your answer,  so don't let today stop you from seeking help in the future if that's what you decide you want.  I can direct you to one of my colleagues who you might feel more comfortable with."  

They'd been meeting for almost a year now and Aaron still wasn't comfortable with her, no matter how many cups of hot chocolate she offered or how many smiles she gave.   They'd come a long way from the complete silence and blank expression of his first individual session or even the harsh words the first time he'd shown up to Andrew's session, but it wasn't comfortable by any means.  

The point was he wasn't about to pour his heart out to her even if Andrew wasn't in the room.  With Andrew there, Aaron had no good way to answer the question without giving too much of himself away again, of being hurt when everything went to hell. Still, Aaron couldn't help but let the multitude of answers flow over him.  

Because Josten waltzes in, every ounce of him screaming lie and danger, and this team bends over backwards for him. Because Aaron's seen enough to know Josten is dangerous.  Because he will kill him if Josten doesn't keep his big mouth from bring the mafia down on them again before Aaron graduates and he can't handle another murder trial.  Because Josten makes it so easy, throwing as many insults back as he gives.   Those are the easy answers, because Aaron's life doesn't revolve around Andrew. He can hate Josten because Josten is a piece of shit who makes every aspect of his life harder.  

But that's also not the whole truth.  Because he saw the way Andrew looked at him in Baltimore, the tender movements in his hands completely at odds with the angry spark in his eyes.  Because Andrew hates people touching him and yet he doesn't hesitate to wrap his hand around the back of Josten's neck.  Because there's something aggravating in the way that Andrew can look at Josten and see something precious when he never looks at Aaron like that.  

Aaron doesn't want to think his life revolves around Andrew, but his hatred of Josten certainly does.  It’s partially jealousy.  Why does this nobody get easy answers from Andrew?  What makes him so special?  

But the larger issue is that Aaron has seen Andrew broken.  As much as Aaron wants to wish Drake away, he can’t.  He’ll never be able to get Andrew’s face out of his head or the manic laugh left by the drugs. There are nights where he wakes up feeling like he still has the blood on his hands, that he’ll never be free of the feeling of Andrew knotting his fingers through his hair in worry when Andrew’s the one covered in bruises.  Seeing his brother like that once was enough to break him.  He doesn’t understand how Andrew can let Josten so close when Josten is a walking danger magnet.  He doesn’t know what he would do when Josten inevitably hurts Andrew, because that’s the type of danger Andrew can’t just stab with a knife.    

Betsy gave a small cough and Aaron knew he'd been quiet too long.  He avoided Betsy's gaze to look at the clock.  They were already a few minutes over their time.   He wouldn’t have answered at all, just turned back to glare at Betsy until she dismisses them both for the day except he saw Andrew.  

Andrew was still angled away from him on the opposite end of the couch.  His mouth was still turned in a slight frown, but Andrew’s gaze had sharpened.  Even months ago, Aaron might have missed it.  It was a sign of amusement, slight exasperation maybe, but also one of want.  Aaron had never seen that expression for any reason other than Josten, and now it’s directed at him.

“Josten isn’t safe.”  

Andrew gave a huff that might even be considered laughter.

“I’m serious. You’re giving him the power to hurt you.  Just because you don’t care about your own wellbeing, doesn’t mean I’m going to stand by and let him get away with it.”  

“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”  Andrew waved his hand dismissively.  “Which is good because you’re shit at picking the right battles.”  

Aaron groaned.  “And what do you mean by that?”  

“Neil won’t hurt me.”  He said it like it should be obvious, like he can’t believe Aaron missed something so fundamental.  

“But how can you know that?”  

“How do you know Kaitlyn won’t hurt you?”  The words were thrown like a weapon to end this conversation.  

But Aaron isn’t about to rise to the bait.  Andrew seemed to think that every girl was just going to be another Tilda, that Aaron would let them hurt him for the scraps of affection.  He knew Andrew didn’t decide Kaitlyn was safe out of the goodness of his heart, so his answer made no sense.  

“Why shouldn’t I be worried about Neil hurting you?”  Aaron repeated himself more directly, even calling the idiot by his first name as a sign of good will.  

Andrew looked down at his hands, his right-hand tracing seemingly random places around each of the knuckles on his left.  The gesture seemed both familiar and wrong.   Finally Andrew took a deep breath and looked directly at Aaron.  

“He listens when I say no.”

The words are simple, but Aaron can hear the depth of meaning there.  He gave a slight nod.

Andrew must still see that he doesn’t fully understand, because he continued softly, “He promised he’d stay” before nodding at Betsy and leaving the two of them alone in the room.  

Aaron doesn’t hear Betsy’s chipper goodbye or even comprehend most of practice afterwards. His mind is reeling and even though Andrew only gave him ten words, it feels like one hell of a step forward.  

It’s only later at one of the Fox movie nights that Aaron realized why Andrew’s fidgeting looked wrong.  He’d seen that gesture before.  Andrew’s right hand gently tracing the scars on Neil’s as they sit side by side in silence, barely acknowledging each other but still taking pleasure in each other’s presence.   It’s easy to miss the moment when Neil leans easily back into Andrew and Andrew only tugs their scarred hand closer.  

Aaron hated that it’s this little action is what finally makes him understand. Andrew’s words about Kaitlyn no longer felt like a dig.   It was his brother’s roundabout way of trying to phrase his relationship with Neil in a way Aaron would understand. When you love someone, the world seems safer with them in it.  Andrew might not have said the word love, but he didn’t have to. 

[welcome-to-raven-wood]

Officer Rainecloud v.s. Mafia Universo (how the rivalry began; final part)

       Flooring the gas pedal, taking some very risky sharp turns as well, I wasn’t doing a really good job at making sure I kept my promise of not crashing this tin can Brandon calls a car, but did that really matter? No, of course not! Thing was a piece of junk anyways but also, it’s lasted a while, I don’t think anything will mess it up at this point. Deep in thought I quickly slam on the brakes realizing the red light ahead, almost hitting someone. I sigh and glance over at Rob again, my anger still bubbling and boiling inside of me, it probably wouldn’t calm down for a while.  

The dark car seemed to attempt to calm my anger as I gripped the steering wheel, knuckles going white, it was silent except for the engine humming. The light finally changing after a while, what seemed like eternity before I floored it. Finally reaching the hospital I pull up around the back and quickly jump out of the car and rush over to the passenger side of the vehicle. Quickly swinging the door open and picking up Rob, rushing inside with the doors of the car open yet the key in my pocket...

...

An hour or two later, what felt like forever waiting to find out what was wrong, I finally got notified of what had happened. The doctor standing next to me;

“Fractured, in four different places.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes. Both of them”

I sigh a bit, my ears twitching slightly trying to think... great now I have to tell Skye he’s here in the hospital, office sure is going to be lonely...and silent-

“How long?”

“We’re not sure, give him a few weeks and we will check on the healing process as well and inform you.”

“Alright... can I see em?”

The answer I was met with was cold and brief;

“No.”

I once again sigh, standing up and looking at the doctor, his glare making me shift uncomfortably under it.

“Thank you for your time doctor, it’d be best I get going.”

I quickly shuffle off, stepping outside, the air was cold the moment it hit me, didn’t feel pleasant at all, I pull the keys out of my pocket before sliding into Brandon's car. The driver's seat felt more uncomfortable than usual, felt hard behind my back but that just had to be me, carefully starting up the car and driving off, one thing burned into my mind, that thing that caused this, that creature, monster, whatever you call it, had to be taken down once and for all... Otherwise Ravenwood would never be truly safe with him pulling the strings, I need to do something about it now.

I brake at the red light, just sitting there while no one else was driving, no one in their right mind was out at this hour anyways, impatiently waiting for it to turn green so I could drive to the station. Just needed to put my stuff away and lock the office so I could go home and sleep is all, needed rest after this nightmare of a day. The light finally changing after a moment of thinking as I quickly pull up to the station, hopping out of the car and rushing inside, forgot to close the damn door but oh well.  

The assistant chief’s light was still on in her office, pulling a rather late shift to file reports. Then again, she always seemed to do this, doubt she ever slept at this point. I quietly slip into my office and straighten my desk, turning off the lamp that was left on in the room before walking out and locking the door, cramming the keys in my pocket as I pass by the assistant chiefs office once more, peering inside seeing that she was sitting at her desk working on paperwork, as suspected.  

“Late night huh?”

I chuckle a bit as she looks up and smiles slightly.

“Yeah, there is too much work left for me to do in order to go home.”

We both share an awkward laugh before I go to depart,

“Hope ya are able to get some sleep tonight at least, see ya tomorrow then...”

I head out the doors of the station before sighing, hopping into the running car and shutting the door and backing up and out of the spot I was sitting in, still needed to drop this off back at Brandon’s place and give him the keys. My night wasn’t over yet, I could feel my eyes want to shut as I kept them open in order to see the road before me, definitely was going to ask if I could spend the night so I didn’t pass out walking home...

After several close calls of almost passing out while driving down the road I eventually pull up to his driveway, parking the car and climbing out, slamming the door shut as I trudge up the steps of the back and slip inside the bar, peering into the rather busy place trying to spot Brandon. Finally spotting him among a few of the customers talking to them, looking rather irritated as he spoke, the customers seemed to be arguing with him over something. I wave a bit to try and get his attention, succeeding first try as he glares at me for a split second before he comes over behind the bar and into the backroom.

“What is it? Rather busy right now.”

I hold up the keys and hand them to him.

“Wanted to return the car to ya, also I need to crash on your couch tonight, I won't make it home at this rate.”

He sighs and glances over his shoulder, muttering;

“Yeah sure, just crash on the loveseat not the chair please, last time I almost sat on you half asleep.”

I force a smile with what little energy I had at him.

“Thanks, I'll be sure not to sleep in the chair this time.”

He quickly rushes off to separate two people who he was talking to a moment ago as I slip outside though the backdoor. Carefully opening up the creaking door and stumbling a bit over to the loveseat, grabbing one of the small pillows and burying my face into it as I pass out, what a night...

Universo’s POV:

“You let them get away?”

Jason quivered like a leaf under my gaze, seemed too shook up to answer as I sigh and let the smoke trail up to the roof and into the grate of the air vent that was in the corner of the room, narrowing my eyes slightly feeling the corner of my lips curve down with it.

“Well? Are you going to answer my question Jason?”  

Jason lets out a small, rather annoying, whine of fear before hesitantly answering my question.

“We- well Boss, yo..you did-”

“Answer my question.”

He lets out a startled yelp before continuing;

“I...I did sir....”

“Good, I want them to believe they got away on their own. Now report to Charles, you still acted out of line and you know that it is not tolerated.”

Jason quickly nods before darting out of the room and carefully closing the door behind him, hearing his footsteps echo down the hall made it clear he was in no mood to stay another second longer. I huff silently as a file appears in my hand, carefully opening it up and scanning the papers inside, what it contained was the full name, address, occupation, birth information, age, height, abilities, and skills of the officer from earlier.  

“Miss Neil, a little kitten playing with a ball of yarn tied to plates thinking that there is a ball following it, such a shame it works to my liking and not yours.”

previous  

This is the end of this story, the overall plot still continues to move

[wulfrann]

Frost Bite (Andreil Jack Frost AU, part 2)

All for the Game

Rating: Teen and Up

Story Warnings: Swearing

Relationship: Andrew Minyard/Neil Josten, Andrew Minyard & Renee Walker, Andrew Minyard & Nicky Hemmick

Additional Tags: Neil is Jack Frost AU, writer!Andrew, winter spirit!Neil, Pining, Therapy with Betsy, Friendship, Andrew tries to cope with Neil being gone, German Folklore, Andrew Minyard POV

[Part 2 of the When the frost is in bloom series - 8200 words - Published 2019-11-28]

Summary:

A few months after Neil leaves for the second time, Andrew decides to break his first writing rule and starts working on a sequel to Der ausweichende Winter.

He made sure to give the story a definite, well-rounded ending, but for some reason the characters just won’t leave him alone.

Read on AO3

*

A few months after Neil leaves for the second time, Andrew decides to break his first writing rule and starts working on a sequel to Der ausweichende Winter.

He made sure to give the story a definite, well-rounded ending, but for some reason the characters just won’t leave him alone.

And if he catches himself replacing Isa Holle’s name with Neil’s more often than he cares to admit, well. No one has to know.

*

Wymack does a poor job of hiding his surprise. Still, given the book’s success, he can only encourage it. It appears Fuchsbau Verlag has been receiving a steady influx of kids’ letters asking for more of Isa Holle’s adventures ever since the book came out. Most of them are for Andrew, but a respectable number are addressed to the characters themselves.

It takes Andrew by surprise.

He’s received letters before - but never that many, and never have his readers (no matter how young and impressionable) written directly to his characters.

It’s flattering.

Wymack promises to have Renee deliver the letters the next time she’s in town - which, according to hers and Andrew’s latest call, should only take a few days. He knows Wymack will probably send Renee with instructions to figure out Andrew’s plans for the book as well, but he doesn’t object.

Let her try - he’ll reveal as much as he wants to, and nothing more.

*

Keeping Neil out of his mind is difficult. Andrew is reminded of him every time King saunters into the room and nuzzles against his ankles. Whenever he thinks about his book. While he writes. Every fucking evening as he steps outside to smoke.

Every time Andrew looks out the window, he can’t help but picture Neil opening the balcony door to drag snowflakes and white breaths inside with him.

It’s a nuisance.

It chips away at his concentration until he’s glancing at the cigarette pack lying next to his keys more often than he’s finishing a damn sentence.

By the point Renee finally comes back to Stuttgart, he’s about ready to throw his computer out the fucking window.

Needless to say it’s a welcome distraction.

*

Renee notices, of course, because she knows him better than anyone. But since she’s a good person, she has the decency to wait until after their sparring session to mention it - once Andrew’s sore and centered and lying on the ground, feeling more himself than he has since Spring took over.

Neil throws him off-kilter. Pulls him out of axis and into his own orbit with an ease that’s less of a surprise than it has any right being.

It’s dangerous. And it’s gotten worse.

The first time Neil left, Andrew had been fine. He’d thrown himself into his work with little more obsession than he always did, had drunk more coffee than he probably ought to, but he’d been fine. Spring and Summer and Fall hadn’t all sounded the same.

He wasn’t counting, wasn’t waiting - would not set himself up for disappointment.

But he had grown used to Neil the second time around.

He had let him worm his way into his life - slowly but surely, the shape of Neil huddled on the couch reading with King in his lap had become part of his routine.

There were other things too. Because of course there were.

There were quiet conversations in the night that smelled like smoke; there was a mug that was only ever filled with warm water; there was frost blooming on the window every morning -

There were mingled breaths clinging to bitten lips and a different kind of warmth curling all around them, slow and careful and heady, and yes’s that left him dizzy and hands that stopped at his command.

There was someone to make him coffee while he was working and hot cocoa when he was not.

Andrew had known it was dangerous, but he’d let it happen all the same. And he hates Neil for it. Hates himself most of all, for letting it get this far, for being unable to squash the weak and fragile hope that Winter cradles now in its arms - a snow-white, fleeting flake, as delicate as it is razor-sharp.

When Andrew’s breathing has finally settled, Renee holds out a hand for him to take. She pulls him to his feet, grasp slippery with sweat but steady all the same, then spins around and settles herself on the bench, uncapping her water bottle with a small tilt of her head. If he didn’t know better, Andrew would think it was choreographed - not a single movement out of place, not a breath lost or step unsure. In fighting as in life, Renee moves like a dancer.

A lethal one.

Andrew joins her on the bench and picks his own water bottle up.

“Wymack told me that you’re writing a sequel,” she says. Andrew shrugs and takes a generous swallow. The water feels good running down his throat. His body is wild, abuzz with endorphins - he envies Neil’s flying abilities for a split second. The fantasy is short-lived however, and he quickly brings the bottle back up to his lips. Still, thoughts of the void cause his stomach to squirm, so he taps the ground with the tip of his foot to make sure that it’s still holding steady, and briefly relishes in its safety. “I thought sequels were the mark of the Unimaginative?” Renee goes on, then gets up.

“Imagination isn’t lucrative,” Andrew deadpans. "Maybe capitalism finally got to me.”

Renee taps her chin with one finger and a smile. “That’d be unfortunate. But I don’t believe you.”

“Sounds like a you problem,” Andrew says, then follows her up so they can start to stretch. Renee takes the hint. They bend and twist their muscles so and so in silence, and in the wishful hopes that they won’t feel sore come morning - or not so much that they won’t be able to walk, at least, in Andrew’s case.

(Sure, he stays in shape. He has a yearly membership at the gym and makes good use of it. But that level of exercise is as good as a stroll in the park compared to a sparring session with a pro MMA fighter.

Which Renee still is, official retirement be damned.)

*

“I’m tired of surviving, Andrew,” she’d said. “There are better fights than those we lead for our own sake. Fights that give, instead of fights that take. And I’m finally ready to give back.”

Andrew had taken a drag of his cigarette, aiming for nonchalant. He’s not sure it’d worked. “I thought that’s what praying was for.”

She’d smiled, because she always did.

“Faith without following through is like a cup without water. Useless, unless you plan to hit someone with it.”

“You sound like a fortune cookie,” he’d said, because he’d been buzzed and his best friend (not that he’d admit it) was leaving - and because Andrew liked a good metaphor, too, and that just hadn’t been one.

She’d left the next day with the Peace Corps. One week later, Andrew had received a package: a glass jar, filled to the brim with hollow, ravioli-shaped biscuits as tasteless as the ‘wisdom’ within it.

He’d thrown out the cookies because they were awful. He’d kept the jar because it was practical. (In the bottom left cupboard, beneath the sink. He’s been using it to store Sir’s dry food ever since she’s learned to torn open the sturdy plastic bag it comes in.)

He’s never told her, about the jar - the cookies he’d taken a picture of after he’d thrown them in the trash, and had sent it with the caption: ‘It was an insult’.

(‘You shouldn’t waste food, Andrew.’)

(‘This isn’t food. At best it’s cardboard.’)

*

Nowadays however, Renee has been leaving less and less. She’s always divided her time between volunteering and earning actual money - whether it was from beating up an infinite amount of people in a ring or doing whatever it is Fuchsbau Verlag pays her to do hadn’t changed that - but the proportions seem to have been reversed as of late, if only slightly so. She doesn’t leave for a full year anymore, and when she does spend most of one away, she never fully breaks contact.

Andrew tells her that, in his own words, on the way back to his place. Renee hums. Andrew knows not to take that for an answer, so they walk in silence until Renee’s done turning her thoughts into words. (And this is another reason why Renee’s his best friend, Andrew thinks. She knows the weight of words. The importance of choice.)

It takes a few minutes, but her voice is clear and steady when she speaks. “When I left for the first time, I thought I was finally ready to be good - truly good. I wanted to find redemption, and I thought that was the way to go about it: throw myself out there fresh out of the ring, and let helping be my healing.”

She pauses. Looks at her hands, loosely curled into fists in front of her. The index finger on her right hand is crooked, bent to the left from a vicious fracture. Her eyes linger on it.

“And it worked, at first, or at least I thought it did. The ring didn’t call to me anymore, not in the way it used to. I didn’t need my fists to stay sane. But I still needed to fight.”

She looks up, and finds something in the clouds, and blinks.

“I told you that fighting for others was better than fighting for myself, and it was - but better isn’t good.” She shakes her head. “I told myself I was helping, but really it was just another ring. I wasn’t giving back - I wasn’t even healing. I was just trying to forget.”

She smiles, then, because of course she does. “Retiring helped, but not as much as I’d hoped it would. It just wasn’t right. I asked Wymack for a job and he gave it to me. And it did help.” Her eyes find his, gentle, open, sincere. “The thing with stories is... they can reach even the most hidden scars in ourselves and pick at it. And I hadn’t healed right, so I needed to bleed again.”

There’s another pause. Andrew surveys the clouds for chances of rain and decides that it’s not for today.

“If I can heal through stories, then I want to try and help others do the same.” She says it like an evidence. A relief. Andrew knows the kind.

He feels it too, sometimes. This sense of direction. This meaning. This there’s a purpose for me here. He’s not sure he has the right.

They reach a street corner that marks the limit of what Andrew has come to think of as his part of town. His neighborhood, as much as the word doesn’t suit him. (There is always an itch where home is. Nowhere can wholly be truly safe, or so Andrew has come to learn. But it’s not as bad as it used to be.)

“How are King and Sir?” Renee asks him with a voice that hints at something else, disturbing Andrew’s thoughts.

Stuttgart’s early spring sky is white today, like a thin sheet of ice. Andrew shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “Irritating.”

Renee hums, playing with the hint of a smirk on the edge of her lips. She doesn’t ask why he keeps them around, then, because she knows. Instead she moves on, as Andrew knew she would. “How’s Mia?”

Andrew throws one of his deadpan looks that’s really a glare her way, just to make a point. He knows Renee’s immune to them by now, but it’s the principle. He has to at least pretend to be difficult.

He lights up a cigarette because he wants to annoy her.

“She’s having nightmares.”

The smoke curls up, volatile and barely there, almost tangible for a second before it’s gone. Vanishing into thin air. Like you. Andrew makes a fist of his free hand. “It’s always the same nightmare,” he pushes on. “Always the same boy, asking for help. But it’s becoming clearer. And the boy is starting to explain.”

“Can I ask who he is, or is that classified?”

She’s teasing. Andrew taps the ash off his cigarette and takes another drag, because that kind of information shouldn’t be easy to ask for. Stories take time. Fortunately for her, Andrew never seems to be able to reach the bottom of Renee’s patience, and she just waits for him to speak.

“Alberich, Prince of Nightmares,” he exhales with the smoke. (And how fitting is it, for this fleeting little prince. Curling away in the breeze.) “It’s in the first chapter.”

Renee smiles, a knowing curve to it. “Where did you take him from?”

“Das Nibelungenlied and some old Dutch poem, Karel ende Elegast. Mostly,” Andrew answers, punctuating it with a vague gesture of his cigarette-holding hand and a scowl. “For now. I need more material.”

Renee nods. She’s still smiling. “Will Isa be back?”

Andrew takes a deep cancer-filled breath, making a point not to look at the wreaths of smoke. His gaze ends up drifting upwards anyway.

He hums a yes.

Renee hums back, pleased and appreciative. Andrew is honest enough to admit that her approval feels nice. “I liked him - and so did your readers, judging by the letters they sent. I brought them with me, as you asked.”

Andrew nods. They’ve reached his block; he can see his door, his windows. The balcony.

“He’s a good character,” Renee goes on while Andrew opens the door. “He and Mia make quite the pair.” Andrew closes the door behind them. “Their relationship is an interesting one.” They climb up the three sets of stairs. “I don’t think you’ve ever written a character quite like Isa, to be honest. It almost feels like he’s actually real.”

Andrew puts the key in and turns, opening the door to his apartment. A soft thump, and Sir’s meow greets them both at the door. His tail is a question mark, a welcome home, where have you been? that Andrew answers by letting her smell the outdoors upon him. She saunters over to Renee then, curious and friendly, the known scent rising up from the shallow depths of her feline memory.

King, on the other hand, goes straight for the shoes. It gets a surprised laugh out of Renee.

“You never did tell me how you got that one.”

Andrew shrugs, shucks his coat off and goes about making tea. He doesn’t have to ask - the only reason he even has any in his flat is because of Renee, though he’s not about to admit it.

“Found him on the balcony freezing his fur off.”

“And you kept him.”

Technically it’s a statement, so Andrew chooses to ignore the implicit question there.

Renee doesn’t pry. She gets her tea and makes a neat pile of the letters Andrew and his characters have received on the coffee table, next to the yet-unopened book on German mythology Andrew’s been meaning to get into. He’s already gone through the other books he has on the subject, has combed every entry on the seasons, on winter - everything white-hair, ice-eyes, cold-hands.

(Where should I take you? Where do you fit?)

The myths are old and paper-worn. Any kind of new ink wears out under their weight, their dust and their mazes. They are enigmas kept alive from mouth to mouth, hungry voices to hungry ears. Humans and their stories. Andrew spins old texts through the spindle of himself and weaves a role for those threads of him that he cards out.

(It’s not you, it’s me. All I ever write is me. Take this image of you, shred it with your too-cold fingers, let me twine your story within mine.

Would you mind if you knew?

I made yourself a piece of me.)

*

Most of the letters are about what he expected. Kids who identify with the characters, kids who wonder whether Isa Holle is real (Have you met him? Does he really make snow fall? Did he teach you to talk to the wind like he does? and the answers on the tip of his tongue sing yes yes and no), kids who share their own stories with him, memories about winter, about snow, how they’ve learned to appreciate the cold weather more. There are a few from parents, too, who read the book with their children and found themselves enjoying it, and even one from a grandmother.

And then there are the letters that were written to Mia, or to Isa, and all of those kids believe in his story, and there’s even a few of them who say they’ve seen him.

It’s a lot.

Andrew leaves the letters on his coffee table and gets out. He’s not sure he could stomach smoking on the balcony right now.

Here’s the thing: Andrew knows he’s never written anything better than this damn book. He knows. He poured his damn soul into the thing. And he hates that he did.

The story is simple: a lonely girl makes a friend, and together they save the day.

Except it’s a little more complicated than that. Mia, a teenage girl, starts looking for Winter, because it’s the one season she loves and it’s late. So she falls into a well that leads her above the clouds, where she meets Oma Holle - Bringer of Cold, Destroyer of Pillows, Retiree Extraordinaire, and grandmother to the current Winter: Isa Holle, white-haired runaway on a vacation across worlds. Of course, once Mia finds him, she quickly realises that he is not, in fact, on a vacation, but is being chased by a pack of Sunlit Wolves. Shenanigans ensue, and she’s somehow roped into helping him trap them somewhere, and in the middle of adversity a beautiful friendship is born.

Except that it’s not just that, is it? Because Isa’s mother never wanted him and left, and his father is the one trying to get him killed. Because Mia is adopted, and the disconnection she feels towards her loving family is what ultimately drives her to Isa. Because their friendship is founded in part in a strong, mutual understanding of what it feels to be alone.

*

Bee, of course, is thrilled. She loved the first book, and cannot wait to see how Andrew will continue the story. It would have been a shame to drop such well-rounded characters, after all, although she understands why Andrew is - partially - reluctant.

“Exposing ourselves is hard, and it’s something we both know you struggle with. I’m proud of you for being so vulnerable with your readers in this book, Andrew, even if it was unintentional,” she tells him from over the steaming edge of her cocoa cup. Her smile is as warm as her drink. “The fact that you are now able to lower your guard as you did, though it can be frightening at times, is ultimately a good thing. It shows real progress.”

“I’m not sure I can do it again.”

“And that’s okay. But you won’t know unless you try.”

Andrew has a feeling she already knows something else is keeping him from writing, except that something is gone and never was here in the first place, so he leaves it at that.

Except that he was here, wasn't he? He was there on the balcony and on his couch, at his table. Andrew can’t write it off this time, not now, not ever because this time they touched, because Neil had become more real than a dream and Andrew had made him that way, had brought him that much more into his world by just writing about him. And even though he didn’t want to believe that he did, because they’d tested it, and a whole plane of Andrew’s life doesn’t make sense anymore.

Writing is a mess. The fleeting line between fiction and reality, stupidity and sensibility, magic and logic - he can’t tell where it’s gone. He doesn’t know what he believes in anymore. Stories are supposed to be safe. They’re supposed to bring you somewhere else for a while, somewhere where you can learn and play and hope all in the safety of your own mind. You aren’t supposed to bring anything back. You cannot bring anything back, and definitely not someone, definitely not him, of all things. The savior of trapped strays, riding the wind and clearing up a path for all lost kids. Those kinds of things don’t exist.

(In his weaker moments, Andrew often wonders why he couldn’t have been one of those kids. Where had his escape route been when all he’d had were bruises to cover and fairy tales to cling to?)

Andrew never should have been allowed to write about kids. It would have only been fair. He’d never been allowed to be one, after all.

So why does he keep doing it?

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never save me.

But they had.

Hadn’t they?

*

Andrew writes.

Not as fast as he’d like to, not as right. But he writes anyway. He pushes through the quiet whirlwind freezing his inspiration over. It’s a slow process, and thankless besides; Andrew has to fight the urge to delete and rewrite every sentence he produces, which is already trying on its own, and whatever he does manage not to frustratingly erase just leaves his lower eyelids twitching in distaste.

He hasn’t felt this solidly blocked in a long time. Usually this is cause for pride - or at the very least, satisfaction - but right now it just means that he isn’t equipped to deal with his own mess, which aggravates him in just that special kind of way.

It just figures that his ever-so annoying cousin would choose precisely this Thursday to hold one of his Mandatory Family Dinners.

Andrew would skip, but then Nicky would never forgive him, and he can’t have that.

(This isn’t true. Nicky would forgive him in a heartbeat. But there would be a look in his eyes, an old carefulness in the way he would move when Andrew’d be around, and that particular mess would take months to undo.)

*

Nicky’s flat is in Stuttgart West, a little ways off from the center where Andrew lives, on the third floor of one of those older, modernised buildings tourists take pictures of. It takes about one second and a half after Andrew's ringed the bell for Nicky to open the door with a smile bigger than his own face. “Andrew! You made it. Can I hug you?”

“No.”

Nicky shrugs and moves aside to let Andrew step in, megawatt smile absolutely unmoved. “I hope you like carrot salad because Katelyn brought, like, ten kilos worth of it.”

Andrew makes a face. Nicky snorts at it.

“Don’t worry, you’ll have your Schwarzwälder. Erik spent the whole evening on it.”

“Good.”

Nicky rolls his eyes. They join the others in the living room, where Aaron is busy telling Erik everything about his latest hospital story. He’s interrupted once Erik notices Andrew and immediately rises from the couch to greet him.

“You’re just in time for dinner, Andrew! I hope you didn’t have too much trouble parking.”

“You’re late,” Aaron supplies.

Andrew lets go of Erik’s businessman grip and nods at Katelyn, who nods in return and smiles, deliberately saving Aaron for last. “I had trouble parking.”

“You could have taken the tram.”

“He’s here,” Katelyn chimes in with a pointed look towards Aaron. “That’s all that matters.”

She still has her American accent, but even Andrew has to admit that it's barely noticeable anymore. She'd barely known any German when she'd arrived in Berlin years ago on that cultural exchange program, a weakness Andrew had taken advantage of immediately. The fact that he can’t anymore is irritating, but impressive.

Nicky emerges from the kitchen then, steaming dish in hand, cutting both Andrew's thoughts and Aaron's retort short. “Meal’s ready and I’m starving, so you all children will have to bicker later!”

Aaron huffs, but gets up to sit at the dining table with Katelyn in tow and a big salad bowl. Andrew is distracted by a movement in the corner of his eye, and watches Erik take a detour on his way to the kitchen to plant a kiss on Nicky’s cheek. “I’ll get the wine.”

Andrew looks away to sit as Nicky lets out an aggravated sigh. “Yes please.”

Erik snorts and they part ways, Nicky’s smile back in place as he puts the dish down in the middle of the table.

“Tada! Braised chicken with asparagus and baby potatoes, a la Nicky Hemmick-Klose. You’re welcome.”

“It looks delicious Nicky,” Katelyn beams.

“Wait til you taste it!” Nicky grins, sitting down.

Erik soon reappears with a bottle of white that he pours into everyone’s glass before taking his seat, right between Andrew and Nicky, and the chicken starts making its way around the table for everyone to grab a serving. Katelyn’s carrot salad goes around, too, but Andrew passes it along fast enough that he almost knocks Erik’s glass down. Small talk creeps its way across the table as everyone starts to dig in, so Andrew falls silent.

Watching Aaron interact with Katelyn, watching Nicky interact with Erik, listening to them all talk about coworkers and house chores or whether they want kids, Andrew is content to retreat to the sidelines.

When Aaron first had told him about Katelyn over Skype (and hadn't that taken his brother a long time to do), Andrew had felt like destroying the world. They'd been damn lucky Bee had talked him out of using all of his money on a plane ticket across the country. (“He's allowed to make his own decisions, Andrew . You don't have to protect him the way you did before.”) When Aaron had finally brought her back over with him for Christmas, Andrew had had enough time to mull it over that he'd only wanted to choke the life out of Katelyn.

Erik… Erik was different. Erik had saved Nicky's life and thus, the twins'. He'd gone out of his way to make sure the three of them could come back and settle in Stuttgart. He'd given them space. Andrew had hated him for stealing his cousin away from him when Nicky had graduated from college, but he'd only had to glance at Nicky’s smile upon hearing the news to let it slide.

(The fact that Erik could bake had helped his case. Sweetened the deal, Nicky would say.)

At the end of the day, Erik and Katelyn are - distantly - family. But allowing them in has disturbed Andrew's balance, and he still isn't sure if he'll ever gain it back.

Andrew knows, of course, he knows, from countless sessions with Bee, that there are many ways to make a good life. To find balance. And Andrew does like his life, for the most part.

Still, there’s a voice he can’t quite shut up in his head, that likes to sing whenever they’re all gathered like this.

(They don’t need you, and you know that, the voice whispers. They’re all safe now. They’ve even found their happiness. So why haven’t you?)

Andrew opens the kitchen window and lights a cigarette. The smoke fills his shell with a strange kind of heat, one will-o’-the-wisp flickering in the wind.

Eventually Nicky joins him. The night is vast outside, dark and thick and starless, wool-clouds heavy like blankets high above. They watch the city in silence: lonely passing cars and straying pedestrians in the dark, orange electric lights, whispering trees, nocturnal birds. Andrew surveys it all and then Nicky, one shoulder pressed against the wall, his chest leaning in slightly and his neck arched, eyes wandering out the window. They’re crowding the space, the both of them. This rectangular kitchen with its square window and barely room enough there for two.

Still, they’re not touching. Nicky made sure of it.

(They’d had a conversation here, when Nicky and Erik had just moved in. They’d been standing just like this. Andrew had rapped a knuckle on the window sill and Nicky’s gaze had drifted back inside.

“Are you happy?” he’d asked.

Nicky’s eyes had widened for less than a second, then his expression had settled and he’d smiled, quietly. “Yes. I’m happy.”

Andrew had nodded. Nicky had looked at him with that face he still makes when he wants to pry but isn't sure he can. Andrew had taken a drag out of his cigarette and blown the smoke outside, eyes trailing after it.

“Aaron is too,” Nicky had finally ventured.

Andrew had let a few seconds of silence pass before he’d said, “Good.”

“Are you?” Nicky’d asked then. He’d still been looking at him, on his face a smaller, more careful kind of smile. Caring. Andrew had been tempted to leave.

In the end he’d opted for honesty and said, “I don’t know.”

Nicky had opened his mouth, then closed it when Andrew’d glared at him. Then he’d sighed and said “Okay.”

Andrew had finished his cigarette in silence after that, and they’d gone back to the living room and kicked Erik’s ass at Mario Kart. It had been, all in all, a not-so-terrible evening.)

Nicky is the first to break the silence this time. It’s about the book, of course.

“A little birdie told me you’re writing a sequel,” he says. He’s grinning, and looks way too pleased about it. Andrew throws him a glare.

“Who told you?”

“No one!” Nicky says, holding both hands up in defense. “I’ve just got amazing detective skills.”

“Renee told you.”

Nicky’s grin becomes brighter in the face of Andrew’s statement and he shrugs, looking entirely too unapologetic. “Okay, she did. We had coffee together a few days ago and she knew that you’d never tell me yourself.” Andrew frowns. Nicky dismisses it with an eyeroll and a huff. “I’m not going to tell everyone, Andrew. I can keep it secret if you want me to. Give me at least a little credit.”

Andrew raises his eyebrows. Nicky mock-glares at him.

“I raised you,” he says accusingly, pointing at Andrew with narrowed eyes. It quickly morphs into a pout, however, as he goes on. “Shouldn’t that make me one of the first people you tell big news like this?”

“You’ll be the first to know when I run for Chancellor.”

Nicky snorts, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. “Don’t try and pass this off as if it’s nothing, Andrew. You never write sequels.”

“I just did,” Andrew says, and blows smoke out the window.

Nicky rolls his eyes at him again. “Alright, be difficult. One day you’re gonna get out of your teenage rebellion phase.” Andrew looks at him with a blank face. Nicy sighs, mockingly aggravated. The effect is utterly lost when it all melts into a smile. “I’m glad you are, though, Andrew. Writing a sequel.”

“Thanks,” Andrew says ironically.

Nicky huffs. “Seriously,” he says, and holds Andrew’s eyes with a sincerity that makes him want to look away. He doesn’t, though, because Nicky deserves better. Because he does, too. “I’m proud of you, Andrew. You know that, right?”

Andrew breathes smoke in then out, and in again. “I know,” he says, the words spilling out with the fumes.

“And I’m glad you found characters worth sticking around for,” Nicky adds.

Andrew frowns, but doesn’t respond. He finishes his cigarette in silence while Nicky waits, gazing out the window with a smile.

Erik still sucks at Mario Kart. Katelyn has upped her game, though, and Andrew only takes first place by a hair’s breadth. It’s not the worse evening he could’ve had.

*

Eventually Spring goes by. Andrew spends most of the Summer holed up in his flat, either writing or researching obsessively.

Renee comes around a few times but she’s busy with her brand new girlfriend, a friend of Nicky’s from oversea with blond hair and a wallet that’s probably the size of the whole country. She looks happy, though, so Andrew’s mostly okay with it. He’s tempted to make sure Allison Reynolds (‘Allie’) isn’t a threat, but Renee’s more than capable of defending her own heart and he’s neck-deep into Der Albtraumprinz anyway.

There are a few check-ins with Wymack, obviously. A few texts from Aaron. Monthly sessions with Bee. Nicky blowing up his phone with pictures of his wedding anniversary trip. Kevin even manages to drag him to a museum once while he’s in town.

Before he knows it the first leaves are already starting to fall.

*

It’s right in the middle of October when Andrew decides to tell Bee.

He doesn’t tell her everything, obviously. Only the realistic parts.

That there’s… someone. That they met two winters ago. That he left, and then came back, and left again. And yes, Neil came back, once, but what’s to say that he’ll find his way here again?

“Why wouldn’t he?” asks Bee. Andrew has about a thousand answers to offer, but he knows those aren’t the ones she wants him to find. So he searches, beneath the layers over layers of deflection and defense. It takes a few minutes. But here it is.

“There’s nothing worth coming back for.”

Andrew speaks the words matter-of-factly, like it’s nothing. Bee takes it in stride.

“Is that what you believe, or what you think?”

“Both.”

Bee nods, understanding as ever. “Very well. What makes someone worth coming back for, then?”

Andrew is tempted to cut the session short. He’s done it before, and he knows Bee won’t hold him back. But in the end he stays, and forces himself to think about it. He picks the question up and turns it around, examining the responses it creates in his mind. There’s a common factor there, so that’s what he focuses on.

“Protection. Safety.”

Bee hums. “Is that why he came back the first time?”

Andrew shrugs.

“Alright. Let’s try to look at this differently then. Why do you want him to come back?”

Andrew frowns. Bee is smiling over the rim of her cup, a small, patient smile she always has when she’s waiting.

Andrew opens his mouth. “He’s... interesting.” Bee raises his eyebrows at him, encouraging him to expand. Andrew’s fingers itch for a cigarette. “Every time I think I’ve got him figured out, he does or say something surprising and I have to reset my expectations. It’s irritating.” Andrew huffs. It only makes Bee’s smile warmer. “He respects my boundaries,” Andrew adds, because that had surprised him perhaps more than anything else, and because Bee will know. “Doesn’t question them, doesn’t push.”

“Does that make you feel safe?” Bee asks.

“No.”

“Why?”

“He’s a liability.”

“Because you’re not sure he’s coming back,” Bee says. It’s not a question. Andrew nods, even though it’s more complicated than that. But Bee knows this too, and he’s too on edge to explain. “Does he make you feel safer than Roland?”

Andrew frowns. He was not expecting that name to come up. “He’s nothing like Roland.”

Bee hums. “How so?”

Roland wasn’t a dead winter spirit with flying powers, Andrew doesn’t say. He leans back instead, crossing his arms. “Roland was a means to an end. I couldn’t have cared less about him.”

There. He says it with defiance, daring Bee to remark on it. Andrew’s fingers are digging into his arms.

And it’s true. Roland had been an opportunity, useful while it’d lasted.

Neil, on the other hand, is a risk.

This isn’t what he said. Not really. But it is what Bee will understand anyway.

She lets a few seconds pass, waiting to see if Andrew has anything to add. When it’s clear he doesn’t, she leans slightly forward with her elbows braced on her knees. “There’s nothing that you can do that will make Neil come back. That is entirely up to him. What you can do, however, is focus on the fact that you want him to and why, and what it means.”

That’s exactly what I don’t want to think about, Andrew almost says. But he knows that’s exactly the point.

It’s the middle of October, and outside the leaves make a carpet of red and brown. The whole world will be white in two months.

*

Andrew finishes Der Albtraumprinz’s definitive draft at about the same time that the last dried leaf reaches the ground. As he’s walking to Fuchsbau Verlag with the whole thing printed out, Andrew notices a new sharpness to the cold air blowing South. It bites into his cheeks and the tip of his nose, turning his breaths into small, white-as-the-sky-above-him clouds.

A gust of wind howls into his ears, blowing past his coat to stick something between his ribs. Andrew grits his teeth and pushes on.

*

It’s the 14th of December and Stuttgart’s Weihnachtsmarkt is in full swing when Andrew finally caves. Nicky has been to harassing him into going with him to the Christmas Market for days, but the promise of Renee’s presence is the only reason why Andrew ends up agreeing to the “evening of Christmas magic and late night shopping” Nicky’s planned.

As Andrew suspected, it ends up involving a lot more gawking at Christmas carols and wandering around than any actual Christmas errands. Nicky always buys all his gifts in November anyway, so does Renee, and Andrew tends to order it all online. So really, there’s no practical reason why they’re here, other than Nicky’s love for the festivities and Erik’s cross-ocean business trip.

So they wander. Nicky bribes Andrew with his weight in sweets, Renee adds a few handmade trinkets to her collection, as well a some decorations for the Fuchsbau Verlag office, and Andrew ends up purchasing a tiny felt donkey he’ll add to Bee’s present.

(It’s a bee-themed teapot. Bee broke hers months ago and has been using a plastic kettle since. The lid has antennas and the whole thing is probably one of the kitchiest objects Andrew has ever seen, so he knows Bee’s going to love it.)

They’re busy buying Würstchen at a snack booth for dinner when Nicky gasps, then starts jumping up and down and pointing at the sky. Andrew follows his gaze absentmindedly, expecting some kind of light display, and feels his whole body become rigid all at once.

It’s not a light display. It’s not even fireworks.

“It’s snowing,” Nicky gushes next to him. “We’re at the Christmas market and it’s snowing!”

And he’s right. There’s no mistaking the fine powder fluttering down into the light from the starless sky above, powdering the pavement like icing sugar. Andrew watches as the first snowflakes touch the ground and instantly disappear, physically unable to tear his gaze away.

It’s like looking into the void.  Like vertigo. A part of Andrew desperately wants to look away, but the rest of him is determined to stare, unblinking, as the fear takes over in his guts.

Renee’s voice breaks Andrew out of his spell, making him flinch. “I guess Winter’s early this year.”

The cliff’s edge is gone. Renee stands close to Andrew, smiling softly with sparkling lights eyes and rosy cheeks. A snowflake has caught on her scarf and refuses to melt.

There’s something caught between Andrew’s ribs and it hurts.

*

Snow doesn’t make a sound as it falls.

They’d had melted snow several times since the end of November. Heavy drops of liquid ice that would beat the world into pulp and then vanish, as quickly as they’d arrived. Andrew would listen to them pound against the window with a warm cup of coffee or cocoa cradled in his hands and relish being inside, where it was dry and warm and comfortable.

Where the rain is a hit, however, the snow is a caress. It blankets the world in silence, covering everything with soft whiteness. It crunches harmlessly as you step on it.

But snow doesn’t come alone; ice and frost are never far behind, and those will cut and crush what the snow has mollified. And the wind will yowl, and the cold will burn, and children will laugh as they play in it all.

Andrew is shaking by the time he makes it back to his flat. He’s taken his gloves off to smoke and the tips of his fingers are frozen red, brighter than the flame he had to cup in his hand to light his cigarette. Brighter than the Christmas lights dangling in the air, too.

He doesn’t take his coat off once he makes it inside. Doesn’t even bother with his shoes, and won’t that seem stupid when he’ll have to clean up. He can hear Sir meow at him from the living room, but not the pat-pat-pat of her paws on the floor. There is no sign of King. The space between his ribs grows bigger.

Andrew makes himself walk into the living room.

His two cats are waiting for him there. They meow at him from his desk, walking to the edge but not crossing the distance, attention focused on something else entirely. It’s only after Andrew has made it close enough to pet each of their heads that he forces himself to look up.

Light spills from the streetlights into the room, casting strange shadows on the floor. Upon the window that lets the light in, something glitters.

As soon as Andrew has set his eyes on it the tiny snowflake blooms, tracing the outlines of flowers and stars, and strange geometrical shapes he doesn’t recognise. It’s beautiful. It covers the glass in a layer that’s thin enough that a feeble light can filter through, but it’s not nearly enough to keep Andrew from bumping into a chair on his way to the door.

As he opens the door, his ribcage starts to ache.

There, standing on the railing with his hair flying around his head like a wild crown made of snow, is Neil. His eyes flicker from the window to where Andrew stands and he smiles. It feels like falling.

Andrew focuses on the feeling of cold steel against his skin and clutches the handle tighter in his hand.

Neil says: “Hi,” and floats down onto the balcony. His smile widens again.

Andrew lets go of the handle and unclenches his teeth, willing the pain between his ribs to fuck off.

“You’re early.”

The smile on Neil’s face wilts a little. He shrugs, looking away, and there’s a lie there. “Climate’s changing. Everyone knows that.”

Andrew tilts his head. “Is that so.”

“Yes,” Neil says, and meets his gaze. Andrew almost swallows his own tongue. “But I also didn’t want to wait.”

Andrew takes a step closer, almost entering into Neil’s space. He watches as Neil takes in a sharp breath, eyes flickering down almost too quickly for Andrew to notice. But then Neil looks down again and this time he lingers, dragging his eyes up slowly enough that it’s obvious what he’s asking. Still, he speaks.

“Yes or no?”

Andrew’s answer is a final step forward and a hand to Neil’s neck, bringing him down.

Kissing Neil is like trying to lick lightning. The inside of his mouth is a storm and Andrew can feel every cell of his body rattling with electricity, buzzing with it from his lips down into his chest where it pools, melting the ice between his ribs like dew in the summer. Andrew chases it, this electricity, brings it from Neil’s mouth to his, holds it in the space between his palet and his tongue where it’s warm. He doesn’t care about the cold or the wind anymore - all he’s interested in, all he cares for is right here. Andrew wants to devour him.

Which is why he stops.

A deep breath through his nose and he exhales, lips still brushing against Neil’s. His hands are framing his face, holding him there, and he can feel his warmth seeping into Neil’s skin.

Neil’s eyes are closed. His lashes are white as snow and flutter open slowly, taking flight. A dazed smile grows upon his face as his eyes meet Andrew’s and hold them.

Andrew swallows. “Staring.”

Neil’s smile brightens. He looks breathless and flushed, and way, way too alive for someone who should have died five years ago.

“I wasn’t sure you’d wait.”

“This is my flat.”

Neil rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean,” Neil says, and holds a hand up slowly to his face, letting it hover near one of Andrew’s own, still holding Neil’s cheek. Andrew flicks his gaze back to Neil’s face without moving his hand, so Neil covers it with his. “This. I didn’t know if I could expect this, or even hope. I didn’t know if I was allowed to.”

There is… something in Neil’s eyes that unsettles him, as he says it. A vulnerability he had never noticed before. Andrew steps away from Neil like he’s been burned and shoves his hands into his pockets.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Neil asks, frowning now.

“I’m not your answer,” Andrew says, biting the words out.

“No. But you’re the one thing I’ve been looking forward to for nine months. So what does that make you?”

Neil’s fist is balled at his side, his right hand clinging tightly to his staff. They stay like this, glaring at each other, until Sir scratches at the balcony door to be let out and Andrew breaks it off.

Neil doesn’t follow inside after him, so Andrew turns around and arches an eyebrow at him until finally he steps inside, shutting the cold air out. King immediately starts rubbing against Neil’s legs, meowing at him to be picked up. Neil crouches down and gathers the ball of fur in his arms, softly smiling down in disbelief as King immediately starts to purr. Then Neil looks up and catches Andrew staring, so he makes his way to the kitchen.

He gets two small pots, fills one with milk and the other with water, and turns the stove on. As the pots heat, he goes to fetch two mugs, and drops three spoons of cocoa powder in his. Neil watches it all from where he’s standing in the middle of the living room, on smile on his as soon as he notices Andrew looking back. Only then, as if he’d been waiting for Andrew’s attention, does he start looking around. Neil takes it all in frantically, avidly, jumping from the carpet to the couch to the coffee table, but lingering upon the desk and the bookcases.

“Those are new,” he says, gesturing at one of the many plants Renee peppered around the apartment in honor of Andrew’s birthday. It’s a maidenhair fern, spilling over a bookshelf from its pot.

“Your sense of observation is noted,” Andrew deadpans.

Neil huffs, smiling still. Andrew distantly wonders what it would take to break it and looks away, letting Neil wander around without his supervision. The water is close to boiling anyway, so he pours it into Neil’s mug, doing the same with his when the milk follows suit. Then he walks up to Neil, who looks away from the bookshelf he was scanning to take the mug and thank him, wrapping both hands around the warmth with a sigh.

“I missed this,” he says, eyes trailing after King as he saunters off, then back up to Andrew’s. “I missed you.”

“It’s just water.” Neil snorts. Andrew takes a sip of his cocoa, mulling the words over in his mouth, and says: “I wrote another book.”

Neil blinks. “What?”

“I wrote a sequel to Der ausweichende Winter.”

Neil blinks again and then grins, a flutter of color brushing his cheeks. “Can I read it?”

Andrew sips at his cocoa again and then turns, walking to his desk where a small package sits, already opened. He takes the book, a test-copy, out, and holds it out for Neil to take. On the cover stands Isa, facing away from the reader, Mia right by his side with a sword in her hands. Isa has his staff, and on his left stands a figure cast in shadows. They’re holding hands.

Neil looks at the cover then at Andrew, then back at the cover when Andrew just stares at him.

“Der Albtraumprinz,” Neil reads out loud. “Mysterious. Is that supposed to be you?”

“I’m not a teenager,” Andrew says, throwing a blank stare at him.

“Neither am I.”

“Good to know.”

Neil huffs, rolling his eyes, but refrains from further comment. He turns the book over, reading the synopsis in silence, then flips it back and opens it. The first few pages he barely even glances at, skimming over the By the same author at Fuchsbau quickly - and then he stops.

Andrew doesn’t need to look over his shoulder to know why. His books rarely have a dedication page, but when they do it’s always on the seventh, right before the actual story starts.

“To the wind that blows the Winter to and fro,” Neil starts reading. “You better come back soon.”

[makki59]

The drive (my first attempt at writing FanFiction)

On a lonely road later at night,surround by trees there is a single car zooming down the road, clearly going above the speed limit with no destination in mind. The car is an old piece of shit that is ready to breakdown....well that is how Max would put it.

Max POV

"God dam it....fucking parents" I think to myself, as I push down the gas pedal to the floor of the car. "I'm fucking 17 now I can do what I want. They are pieces of shit any way....but I can't get their voices out of my head."

Useless...poor excuse of a son...we should have never had you...

"No matter how fast or far I drive it all just keeps echoing in my head, I don't even know how long and far I have been driving. If I just think about anything other than them........" I stare at the road in front of me and can see all the rain and water on the ground reflecting the light from my car. "Fuck where am I even going right now.....I'm surprised that this fucking car is still going I shouldn't have bought it from Neil's cousin" I say out loud to get my mind off of everything.

I open my flip phone to check the time 12:34am, David got this phone for me during camp one year and told me "I just wanted to make sure you can stay in touch with all your new friends and me if you ever need anything." Looking back now I should have asked for help right then and their. I haven't seen camp man for two years. He texts me every now and again, but we don't talk often. I guess I miss davi... "Fuck! What am I thinking he clearly doesn't care, he just got me the phone out of pity and for his morals not because he cares!" My knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel and I try to press down harder on the gas pedal.

"What the fuck!" I stare at a sign and couldn't believe my eyes. "Welcome to Camp Campbell!" Did I really drive all the way here with out realizing.....thank god no one will be here in the middle of winter. I keep driving towards camp but right when I am about to get there my car starts to slow down. I look and see that the car is now out of gas. "Shit! Of course that would happen, just my fucking luck" I can see the mess hall from my car but it is still pouring outside and I know the doors will be locked but the porch should be able to protect me.... I sigh and and unbuckle "I can't fucking stay in this car any longer, I will go insane"

I open the car door and run to the mess hall as fast as my legs can. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I know this is a bad idea but I don't fucking car anymore" I make it and sit down on a bench on the porch, and I am soaking wet. "That really was stupid...." I laugh lightly but I know it sounds void of all emotions. I look at my phone again and once again without my say so I start to call the one person I know who would be up right now. After a few rings they pick up.

"Hey Nik.."

"Hey Max! Have you ever wondered what owls sound like when they have sex?" She saids.

"What the fuck Nikki" I say while I laugh and smile slightly. She always has the weirdest things to say.

"I don't know. So what's up?"

"Oh nothing...hey you want to hang out right now...?" I ask not trying to sound to desperate.... even though you are....because you are a piece of shit. I hear my fathers voice in my head.

"Sure Max I can take my moms car out. Where are you?" Her voice snaps me out of it.

"Ah...well I am actually at camp..." I cringe at how awkward I sound.

"What the hell are you doing their for?" I hear some shuffling like she is getting up.

"I...I don't know I wasn't paying attention to where I was going and when I finally did I was here." I hope she doesn't look to far into this.

"What happened Max? Are you okay?" I have never heard her voice so full of concern before.

"Yes.... no... I don't know. I just needed to drive around to think" I look around and I fully realize that it is dead quiet and peaceful around me and I relax a little.

"Okay Max I will see you in a hour or so. Bye for now"

"Bye Nik." I hang up after she hangs up

I look around thinking about all the great times and horrible ones also I had here....but I would always prefer to be here than with my parents. I smile when I think about the time when me and Nikki had to raise an egg together and ours hatched....it is one of my favorite moments....even though the mother ate it a little after....I guess that is when my crush for Nikki began.....

"You know no one will ever care about you as long as you live" I shiver from hearing his voice and thinks about how scary he truly is when he is drunk....

Right before my thoughts could go any deeper I hear and see Nikki's moms car, of course it is a fancy mom van...totally doesn't fit Nikki's style. I see her get out with an umbrella and runs to where I am at.

"Hey Nik" I look up at and thankfully the porch has a motion light so we have some light.

"Hey Max....what happened to your face?!" She yells like she always does, but it's more concerned then usual. But my face? I touch my cheek I wince at how tender it is....oh yeah he hit me how could I forget.

I shrug and look down at my feet "nothing Nikki...don't worry about it.."

"Don't worry about?! How can I not Max?! You are my best friend of course I am worried. Please talk to me." I can hear how desperate she is for me to talk to her but I just can't....I don't know how to...

"I....I'm fine okay! I can handle myself! You wouldn't know about it" Honestly I don't know why I am getting worked up about this.

"You are not fine Max! It doesn't take a rocket scientist like Neil to know that! And I don't know because you won't tell me anything! Please let me help I want to help Max." I look up at her and I can see that she is hurt but also passionate about helping me

"I'm....you're right Nikki....I'm sorry I know I'm not the best with talking about myself..." I look down at my feet and sigh. "You know how I told you my parents don't care."

"Yeah...they never came to parents day.." she sits down next to me and looks at me. I of course look away blushing.

"Well it is more than that I guess...my dad gets drunk like a lot....my mom just sits and watches, while he...." I couldn't bring myself to say it so I just point to my bruised cheek. After a moment I hear a gasp

"Max...I..."

"It's fine Nik, it's my fault anyway I'm such a burden that it made my mom to stop caring and my dad to drink" I look any where but at Nikki because I can't stand to see pity from people.

"Max look at me" I don't know what makes me turn and look, maybe because it's her. "I know I'm usually the naive one that doesn't understand most things....but Max I know for a fact you aren't a burden, you aren't useless. What your parents have done to you it isn't okay, if I could I would send a whole wolf pack to tear them to bits. I may not know what do to about it. But I promise you Max, I will never leave your side. We are agents of chaos remember, I need you with me." I look at her and I see she is trying not to cry and I wipe my eyes to try to stop my own.

"Nikki I..." I realize at that moment the best way to say thank you isn't with my words, so I open my arms out. "Nik come here" she looks up and smiles slightly and hugs me tightly. At this point I can't stop myself from letting a few tears go.

"Max come on you are staying with me and my mom tonight." I knew I didn't have a choice but I don't mind. She stands up and grabs my hand and we walk to her car under her umbrella. And once we get in her car and start heading to her house she holds my hand again while driving.

"Nikki what the hel..."

"Max just please I need this" I feel my whole face heating up but I just nod and we keep holding hands, even when we get to her house we keep holding hands up until she heads to her room and I sleep on the couch

I slowly get up and I stretch out my arms. "Oh good morning Max" I turn around and I see Candy

"Oh morning Candy" right then Nikki comes sliding down the handrail and is smiling brightly like usual.

"Max! What should we do today!?" I smile to myself only Nikki can be so happy at a moments notice.

"You know Nikki....I got a plan for my dear parents"

"What do you mean Max?" Her voice isn't as happy as before, but I can tell she is happy that I am trying to fix this.

"Well I guess it all depends on what he saids" I stare at my phone and open it.

"Who?"

"Fucking camp man"

"Really...he should be able to help. I know for a fact he cares enough" I press call and put the phone to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Hey camp man"

"Max! Oh golly I need to get Gwen here. Gwen! Max is on the phone!. Max I'm putting you on speaker say hi."

"Hey Gwen. So you and David got together finally"

"Hey little shit. And shut up, have you and Nikki gotten together yet"

"What no!"

"Sure whatever, so what do you need from us little shit"

"Well....uh shit this is harder than I thought....I need help guys I know David offered years ago and I was hoping...the offer is still there."

"Of course Max! I am always here for you!"

"Good it involves my parents....it's probably best if we talk in person about this, I will send you Nikki's address"

"I knew it your parents are abusive aren't they Max...my degree came in handy for that" I can tell she is trying to lighten the mood, even though she is hurt

"Im so sorry Max I should have called CPS long ago.....I knew something was wrong"

"It's in the past David....just help me now and we are even.....you two always were like....real parents to me...and I wish I told you both sooner." I can hear him already crying and I roll my eyes. "Just get here soon David, I would like to be moved into the house by tonight...if you want that is."

"Of course Max! I would love nothing more then you to live with me and Gwen"

"Yeah you little shit, see you soon" they hang up and so do I and Nikki comes and sits next to me and hugs me.

"I'm so proud of you Maxie"

"Oh god not the nicknames.....but Nikki it's thanks to you...if you weren't in my life I wouldn't be doing this...I....fuck it...I love you Nikki" I hold her hand again and look at her and she starts giggling

"Silly Mad Max, I thought I was going to confess first...I love you too" she starts laughing "you know this all happened just because you went for a drive, I need to take a road trip with you, I will have you wrapped around my finger" I start laughing with her and I knew my life is finally turning and I wouldn't mind going on more drives with her.

[frankiepaigewrites]

Notes on craft: Point of View

Since last year’s PNWA conference, I’ve been doing everything in my power to delay writing up my notes. Moved house. Decided to hire an editor and substantially rewrite the manuscript. Sprained a thumb. (Playing tag with a five-year-old. Sheesh.) Decided to write submissions for three categories of this year’s PNWA contest. Got flu. Decided to sort out all of my husband’s childhood LEGO (and got diagnosed with “collection OCD” by the guys at my local used LEGO store). So, yeah... 

We still haven’t properly unpacked, but I’ve just found my 2016 notebook, so let’s take it from the top. First on the agenda, Point of View as explained by the award-winning writer and instructor, Scott Driscoll. 

Word of warning: this is not your usual POV approach, where the question is only Who Speaks? For Scott, the issue is much larger:

Three main POVs:

Flaneur

Objective Observation

Free Indirect Discourse

Four elements of POV:

Who Speaks?

To Whom?

On what Occasion?

From what Distance?

     Who Speaks?

Types of speaker (these are broken down differently by different people, but I find this one clear):

3rd person - closed - limited - omniscient

2nd person - “you” as “I” - “you” as “you”

1st person - singular (“I”) - plural (“we”)

(This is taken from https://theprintedglobe.wordpress.com/2009/09/29/welcome-back-writers/, where you'll also find good examples of each speaker. In that post, however, POV is equated with Who Speaks. One closer to the one attempted here is available from https://prezi.com/iwnzl_wgvhxy/point-of-view.)

Other things to consider when analysing the speaker are: is the speaker part of the story, outside of it but part of the universe, or entirely external?

    To Whom? Who’s listening?

Types of listener (not exhaustive):

contemporary, future, past

peer, superior, child etc.

internal or external (self and/or anyone interested - typical in flaneur POV)

There can be different listeners even within the scene, with a character listener pitted against the one the speaker is actually addressing (on the outside of the story world, or at a different time within the story, for example).

   On what Occasion?

The reader needs to know what's coming to have the patience for what leads to The Occasion. This needs to be established quickly, so the reader can see the purpose of listening to all the details of the world and the character's life. It gives the reader an inkling of how the events being described fit into the overall purpose of the story. (And it helps the writer decide what is not essential and can be taken out.)

  From what Distance?

Can be temporal, physical or psychic, and each of those can be set at different levels (near ↔ far). For example, something can be happening right now, but be retold with great detachment from the speaker, or might have happened a long time ago and far away, but still cause deep emotion.

-------------------

Flaneur, Observation, and Free Indirect Discourse are the three main narrative devices (POVs) that create contrast within the story. Contrast is necessary if the reader is to stay involved and have the patience to listen to all the details. It is established by moving between the three levels (views) in a way that creates pace, breathing space and context.

FLANEUR is the “highest” point of view. It is a floating, dispassionate consciousness. It offers commentary (through adverbs, metaphors) and conclusions, and usually uses words the character wouldn't use (longer, more insightful, with more complex syntax). Flaneur's listener is him/herself, the reader, and anyone interested. It can be used in any person (1st, 2nd, or 3rd). It often manifest as a discourse on a subject, and does not “tag back” to the designated character (speaker) while it's in use. It is not an omniscient narrator, because it does not offer ready values, meanings and does not pass judgement. It's more of an objective observer offering an insight that links the events of the story to broader human experience. It is necessary because it illuminates the character's values, and “every character who matters stands on a value.” Otherwise, the reader won't care for their experiences. Flaneur voice is best used after an observation, or else it feels forced by the author. It is also best left for after the reader’s already hooked and knows what’s coming, or they won’t have the patience for it.

(Metaphor, adverbs are commentary, they come from narrative distance, so use sparingly. They are useful when your character is really suffering and you want to create some breathing space for the reader.)

OBJECTIVE OBSERVATION is the workhorse of narration, it's the voice that gets the job done. (Those doors won't open themselves!) It accounts for about 70-80% of fiction content that's not scene or dialogue. In the objective observation POV, there's no character at all. This is the level of surface noticing, where the reader gets connected to the world. It is vital if the reader is to believe what the author offers on the other two POV levels.

(Try this: pull out something of yours that feels stale, and deliberately exaggerate surface noticing, detail.)

FREE INDIRECT DISCOURSE is the closest to the character. It's inside the head of the character (but not the voice in character's head). It's whatever voice you use for that character, but usually delivered in fragments, short bursts (snapshots) of internal experience. If carried on too long, it becomes stream of consciousness, and can quickly tire the reader due to its claustrophobic nature. Free indirect discourse, like flaneur, does not tag back to the character. (“He thought...” or “She wondered...” take the reader out of the character's head and into objective or subjective observation.)

Contrast is thus created by mixing up those three POVs, but this cannot be done chaotically. The two most common (natural-feeling to the reader) ways of doing this are:

pyramid scene structure: flaneur (wide POV) → objective observation (closer) → subjective observation (closer) → free indirect discourse (extremely narrow)

(Most common and transfers the reader naturally, with the contrast existing between scenes rather than within one scene.)

diamond scene structure: subjective observation (close) → objective observation (widening perspective) → flaneur (commentary, human experience) → free indirect discourse (back to narrow perspective)

(With this structure, the reader feels like they've stayed close all the time, but they get a 3D experience. The contrast between the scenes is not as obvious, with the transition feeling more seamless.)

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Some examples:

Flaneur

Death Comes for the Archbishop, by Willa Cather

(Setup: toward the end of the novel, the French priest who'd spent most of the story trying to wrestle New Mexico back for the pope from the rogue Mexican church, on returning back to Europe, contemplates the changes in his world and his place in it; the novel was recommended as arguably the best example of skilful use of POV; the fragment below is spoken from the flaneur POV, indicated by the sophisticated vocabulary and complicated syntax, not belonging to the relatively simple character.)

Beautiful surroundings, the society of learned men, the charm of noble women, the graces of art, could not make up to him for the loss of those light-hearted mornings of the desert, for that wind that made one a boy again. He had noticed that this peculiar quality in the air of new countries vanished after they were tamed by man and made to bear harvests. Parts of Texas and Kansas that he had first known as open range had since been made into rich farming districts, and the air had quite lost that lightness, that dry aromatic odour. The moisture of plowed land, the heaviness of labour and growth and grain-bearing, utterly destroyed it; one could breathe that only on the bright edges of the world, on the great grass plains or the sage-brush desert.

Objective Observation

Olive Kitteridge, by Elizabeth Strout

(Setup: the main character, Kevin, has just arrived in the town of his birth to commit suicide and nobody else knows about his arrival and intentions.)

The bay had small whitecaps and the tide was coming it, so the smaller rocks could be heard moving as if the water shifted them. Also there was the twanging sound of the cables hitting the masts of the sailboats moored. A few seagulls gave squawking cries as they dove down to pick up the fish heads and tails and shining insides that the boy was tossing from the dock as he cleaned the mackerel. All this Kevin saw as he sat in his car with the windows partly open. The car was parked on the grassy area, not far from the marina. Two trucks were parked farther over, on the gravel by the dock.

Jealousy, by Alain Robbe-Grillet

(Setup: the main character is stranded on an island with his openly cheating wife, and copes with the experience by focusing on nothing but the surfaces; an example of camera view narration, no insight, no subtext, nothing but objective observation all the way through – yikes!)

It would be better to pit the truck in the shed, since no one is to use it at the beginning of the afternoon. The thick glass of the window nicks the body of the truck with a deep, rounded scallop behind the front wheel. Somewhat farther down, isolated from the principal mass by a strip of gravel, a half-circle of painted metal is refracted more than a foot and a half from its real location. This aberrant piece can also be moved about as the observer pleases, changing its shape as well as its dimensions: it swells from right to left, shrinks in the opposite direction, becomes a crescent toward the bottom, a complete circle as it moves upward, or else acquires a fringe (but this is a very limited, almost instantaneous position) of two concentric aureoles. Finally, with larger shifts, it melts into the main surface or disappears, with a sudden contraction.

Free Indirect Discourse

The Ocean at the End of the Lane, by Neil Gaiman

(Setup: prologue of the novel, the character recalls a funeral he attended. I’ve crossed out the flaneur and put FID in bold. The rest is - mostly subjective - observation. FID has to be mixed up with other POVs or else it becomes an unbearable stream of consciousness.)

I wore a black suit and a white shirt, a black tie and black shoes, all polished and shiny: clothes that normally would make me feel uncomfortable, as if I were in a stolen uniform, or pretending to be an adult. Today they gave me comfort of a kind. I was wearing the right clothes for a hard day.

The Odd Woman, by Gail Godwin

(Again, FID in bold, flaneur crossed out, and the end is observation, some of it subjective.)

It was ten o’clock on the evening of the same day, and the permanent residents of the household on the mountain were restored to routines and sobriety. Jane, on the other hand, sat by herself in the kitchen, a glass of Scotch before her on the cleanly wiped table, going deeper and deeper into a mood she could recognize only as unfamiliar. She could not describe it; it was both frightening and satisfying.  It was like letting go and being taken somewhere.  She tried to trace it back.  When, exactly, had it started?