#i really want to go to their concert here so bad n apollo n i were fine w gen ad but

[inthiseverymoment]

silhouettes emerging: chapter iii

“Ever-Soaring Melodies on Unstable Chords”

having theatre-kid-ed her way into this mess, isabelle realizes she needs to theatre-kid her way out. or, as the case may be, theatre-kid her way in even deeper.

iwtv oc x armand, this chapter ~2.8k

this one takes place entirely in flashback and prose for Melodramatic Anne Rice Reasons. don't worry, we'll get daniel's thoughts (spoiler alert: our boy is Less Than Convinced) and some good good analysis in the next chapter

...currently realizing that, if last chapter was "y/n gets noticed at a concert", this chapter is the fight song by rachel platten moment. but, again, IT'S IWTV SO IT'S DEEPER THAN THAT

ok it is three forty eight am enjoy

chapter ii fic masterlist chapter iv

“I’m not sure why he insisted on keeping her in here. It’s not like she’s different from any other once-fresh meat.”

“Did you hear what they were saying before we caught her? She wanted a job.”

“A job! Here! Mon Dieu, the humans are getting bolder and bolder these days.”

Liquid voices were beginning to work their way into Isabelle’s consciousness as she awoke, her eyes eventually opening to reveal a few members of the last night’s cast and crew.

Last night?

Last week?

Last hour?

She didn’t know.

Suddenly feeling as if she hadn’t breathed in too long, she gasped in a lungful of air and was overwhelmed by a tantalizing smell combining rust, hair gel, potpourri, and…night itself, if that could even be said to have a smell.

Backstage.

Despite being in grave danger, just knowing she was in a dressing room environment sent a shiver of comfort through her that she tried to ignore.

Isabelle’s breath alerted the others to her presence, and as her vision gained focus, she began to recognize them one by one as they looked over her. Given her condition, all she could do was string the occasional tired word together.

“So. I take it…you are…real.”

A moment’s silence, and the vampires burst into debatably-natured laughter.

“That’s a new one,” tittered a slim woman with dark, perfectly rolled curls.

“And I realized that, and now you’re going to kill me? That’s how it is?”

“She’s a quick young thing,” a woman with hair like her own said between drags of her cigarette. “Almost wish we didn’t have to drain her.”

“I mean, you really don’t-”

“I’m afraid we do,” came a familiar drawl, and Santiago seemed to dramatically part his Red Sea of castmates. “Our Great Laws state that no vampire can allow a mortal to live who has had the vampire’s true nature revealed to them. Being that you now know the true nature of the entire Théâtre des Vampires…ah, well. The Laws must be followed. Too bad, my sweet, really. It’s what they say: so full of artless jealousy is guilt-”

“It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.”

However much terror was running through her veins at the thought of imminent death, the second half of her favorite Hamlet quote had come through her lips low, calm, and controlled. She breathed in something like relief; here was one thing to hold onto. Santiago, who’d clearly been expecting to continue grandstanding, regarded her with something like a challenge flashing through his cold eyes.

“Stars, hide your fires-”

“Let not light see my black and deep desires.”

“Anger’s my meat: I sup upon myself-”

“And so shall starve with feeding.”

Her adrenaline turning from fear to the high of competition, she would have stood to face Santiago if it were not for her realization that she was tied to her chair. He was advancing on her, an attempt at intimidation, but she matched him play for play and quote for quote; these words were her comfort, her lifeline, her blood.

“Run when you will. The story shall be changed:”

“Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase.”

“Or if I live, is it not very like-”

“-the horrible conceit of death and night-”

“-together with the terror of the place,” they finished in unison before Santiago started up again-

“No, sure, my lord-”

“My mother cried,” they said together, reaching the crest of their increase in volume to the point where they were both shouting-

“But then there was a star danced,” she concluded on her own,  more conviction in her voice than she had ever felt before, “and under that was I born.”

A long, long, long silence seemed to pass as the other cast members stared at them both with endless amusement. Eventually, Santiago allowed himself the smallest of chuckles.

“Yes, we’ll have to fog this one’s mind quite a bit for the next performance. Otherwise, she’ll get the audience on her side, and we can’t have that.”

…What?

No.

Nononononononono-

Eventually, she realized she was saying this repetition out loud-

“Someone get Armand,” she cried out. “You can’t do that to me. He wouldn’t allow it-at least I thought-what happened to the sympathy you had for me? That speech, to that girl? She was always entirely an act-I didn’t know all of you were-I-Armand!-please, please don’t-merde, I’m begging now-I’m saying-”

“Do not take her mind,” a measured yet half-flippant voice came from the staircase, and she turned to see him there.

Was he watching this whole exchange?

An ember of shame threatened to burn within her for wielding power through words that weren’t truly hers and then, at the threat of losing what she valued most, crumbling and calling out desperately to someone she’d met only hours ago; but it was soon swallowed up by more pressing matters-namely, the fate of her agency and life.

“People come to the Théâtre to be entertained,” Armand was saying as he descended the staircase. “It is not often that one of our victims puts up a true intellectual fight, and our audience will appreciate the chance to see it.”

“Maître, it won’t work otherwise, she wouldn’t fall for the-”

“Not too fast, Santiago,” came the interruption, and the maître in question silenced his leading man with only the lift of a hand. “We don’t want to spoil the surprise for her.”

“I-”

A blush painting her wearied face, she had to search for words for a moment as the vampires turned their piercing eyes to her. It took quite a bit of willpower to regain her composure, but regain it she did.

“I was there for the last performance. It will not be a surprise. You-you read their minds, I suppose, point out their flaws, and make them wish for the death you provide. Is that it?”

A beat, and then an outburst-

“Fog! Her! Mind!” Santiago said in the verbal equivalent of an exasperated eyeroll.

“I will not,” Armand held firm, “and neither shall any of you.”

He stepped behind Isabelle’s chair and touched two fingers to her temple, and an odd wave of something seemed to wash over her as the rest of the cast dispersed to their coffins, whispering all the way.

“That is a protection,” came Armand’s whisper to her. “I’ve stopped them from getting into your thoughts-”

“What, so that you can turn around and do it yourself?”

She ripped herself away from him as much as she could in her current position, her breath finally falling into tears, and he somehow seemed genuinely wounded.

“You do not trust me, then.”

“Why on earth,” she choked out a laugh, “would I trust you? It was your voice in my head last night, you who took me where I could see the bloodstain, you with so much power-apparently both hierarchical and supernatural-over everyone else here.”

“My promise regarding the audience was simply so that they would spare you. I have a plan, Isabelle-”

“And, whether that’s true or not, I suppose you could make me believe it somehow? How-”

Isabelle broke off, trying to keep from heaving a sob. The sudden longing for her tiny apartment with dripping ceilings and creaking tables overwhelmed her, if only for a return to when she was hers, when she was safe.

“How can I trust anything about you?”

After a moment, he swallowed hard but silently, then looked her in the eye for the first time since their last night’s conversation.

How she ever could have seen those eyes for even a moment and not realized that this man was something more than human was quite a mystery now. The deciphering of him that Isabelle had delighted in as an audience member with a crush had turned into a full-throated attempt to read his every flicker of the eyebrow, with her life now on the line. And all this time, the man in question had been silent.

“I’ll prove it,” he said simply.

Finding nothing more that he could do, Armand turned and retreated, going back up the staircase with every quiet footstep ringing.

He’d saved her last night. He’d claimed to have saved her now. And he was apparently planning to save her tomorrow from the death that his cast-his coven-hoped to carry out.

She was left alone with many questions, above them all being:

Why?

~

Isabelle’s day on the chair as the vampires slept had been spent half in silent contemplation, half in fruitless attempts to escape from her surely-supernaturally-assisted bonds. There was, needless to say, a lot to grapple with, but one thought nearly as alarming as losing her memories was the knowledge that-

If these people-people?-weren’t trying to kill or otherwise disarm me, I’d…

I’d adore them.

She’d never felt anything like this before. Immersive theatre that delved into grief and every facet of humanity, both beautifully artistic and unapologetically messy, was an idea she could only dream of for most of her life. The thrill of finding herself a little bit infatuated with half the cast throughout each play, then seeing all of those same bright eyes turned towards her; the offbeat adrenaline rush of a Shakespeare-off; the fact that she was no longer the most dramatic one in the room, not by a mile; so much about this group was intoxicating.

And the short conversation she’d had with Armand before everything fell open, as well as the restless dreams she’d had of him that she was sure he’d somehow placed there, still took the forefront of her musings.

Why is it that the first time I have genuine reason to feel wanted, it’s under…

Her leftover makeup had started to flake, and the rope was near biting into her wrists after the hours it had spent there.

…these circumstances?

Last night, she’d thought that a performance gig here would be her last chance, and this now seemed to be true in a whole new fashion. It took quite a lot of figuring, hoping, and crying to come to terms with the extremely high likelihood that there were only two ways that this night would finish:

Either Isabelle de la Rue, once Bella Ditell, would be killed…

…or she would be embraced.

It was clear that, for a few fleeting moments, in even the slightest way, these vampires respected her a little bit. They clearly thought she was dangerous enough to necessitate intervention, that she had enough presence of mind and will to live to stop her from falling for Santiago’s beckon to death. They now knew, too, that she was clearly a performer by trade and by passion. Armand had mentioned her possibly being of entertainment value, and that had sparked something of an idea; as little as she wanted to be valued only for that, if this was the only way to survive, she would show them that they wanted to keep her around.

The audition of a lifetime.

~

Hours later, she was behind the very same curtain that she’d been on the other side of only a day before. In any other circumstance, this would be a dream-to see a show at a theatre company one night and be part of said company the next.

Apparently, manifestations need to be more specific.

The redheaded woman who’d expressed not wanting to kill her held one of Isabelle’s arms, and the other was taken by a pretty-boy type who had played a woodcutter in an earlier skit. They both seemed surprised at her silence, but didn’t address it.

Probably makes it easier for them. It’s simpler not to see their victims as people, and all that.

But when they dragged her onstage after a very long monologue for Santiago-as-Death, Isabelle did not stay silent, and she also did not scream.

She sang.

It was an aria of a mythical queen awaiting her death, one that she’d known for years. She felt an odd sensation of multiple telepathic attempts to shut her mouth being ricocheted away by whatever spell Armand had placed, and with the knowledge that this might be the last aria of her life, she poured her entire being into it. Santiago played along in character, partly amused and partly furious, and the sound of his half-chaotic French made her head spin even further, and everything whirled around at once-

All of a sudden, Isabelle was a capella no longer.

She glanced into the wings and made eye contact with the pianist, who grinned at her.

I won’t let myself imagine that anything comes out of real sympathy, that’s too dangerous-they’re playing with their food, is all.

Still…

What a moment!

Roughly half the audience was laughing in disbelief, but the other half seemed genuinely tuned in to what she was doing. She reached out to them, to her fellow humans, every trace of desperation and brazen hope sparking up in her eyes. She even managed to find and share a moment with the girl she’d met the previous night, who had seemed greatly worried upon recognizing her but now smiled at her and leaned forward to take her hands-

-until Santiago grabbed hold of her waist from behind and dragged her upstage.

A few audience members gasped, but Isabelle continued singing, looking between them and her reaper with more fire than she had ever trusted herself to possess.

Unable to stop her voice by supernatural means, Santiago skipped to the end of his usual blocking, straight to the part where he held the victim by the throat. This nearly choked her, and the tears that had started during her frenzied aria threatened to break loose.

A cold shiver ran through her every bone.

This is it.

It didn’t work.

She tried to turn her head, intending for her friend in the front row-her first friend-to be the last face she’d see.

If I go out, I’ll go out singing.

Santiago’s grip tightened, and-

“Arrêt!”

Out of pure surprise, the bony grip around her neck released, and she looked over Santiago’s shoulder to find the source of the voice she already knew.

Armand, now in full makeshift costume, was holding a very real prop sword to his leading man’s throat.

He began to speak in French, with every dramatic inflection of the rest of his coven, but broadcasted a more earnestly spoken translation to her as he did so:

You will not harm her.

Apparently greatly enjoying the improvisatory nature of how tonight was shaping up, the offstage orchestra struck up a soaring, string-soaked theme.

As Orpheus meant to save Eurydice, I mean to claim my love from the hands of Death. Only I, I will not falter. I will not doubt.

He now lowered his sword and looked straight to her, directly, intently.

I will give her reason to trust.

Whether it was the torrent of Purcell-assisted emotion and the promise of certain death that preceded this, her go-with-the-moment theatrical training, the single curl falling in front of Armand’s face, or some overwhelming combination of all three, Isabelle slowly moved to take his hand, deeply affected by the way he seemed to have genuinely expected her not to.

He kissed her birthmark again, and she started to cry.

Never one to miss a chance at upstaging a scene, Santiago swooped in once more, but was repelled. By the way each vampire looked at the other, she knew this was a battle being fought with eyes and telepathy alone, one which the maître would undoubtedly win.

Mighty Reaper, Armand’s speech and translation continued, cliché as it may seem, my love-my lark-is too strong in her soul and in her love to fall to you this early. With the two of us fighting against you, life will…

These words seemed almost to stick in his throat; understandable, she thought, after years-possibly centuries-of existing by the opposite mantra.

This time, life will prevail.

She shook her head, looking to Armand in total bewilderment. Why was he doing this? Why was he saying all of this?

Why me?

This he heard, and this he answered.

She of the ever-winding, ever-sparking mind, she of the soaring and unafraid voice-both of which you, Death, wish to silence-is the only one I ever wish to hear.

What followed was a kiss so tentative, then so tender, then so deep, that the sound of the violins seemed to be circling around the pair in swooping whirls that caught in each contour of their breath.

For the first time in her life, Bella Ditell allowed her guard to fall.

The audience, caught off guard by something resembling a ‘happy ending’ and having quite a lot of fun with the dramatics of it all, roared their appreciation. Above every sound was the delighted, encouraging wolf whistle of the young woman in the front row.

Perhaps it was wrong. Perhaps it was horrid. Perhaps it was everything she’d feared wrapped up in everything she’d hoped, or perhaps it was the opposite.

But now, at least, at last, Isabelle had the chance to find that out for herself.

[noxtivagus]

the 1975 hdlfkahdfklasdd

[osakaso5]

IDOLiSH7 4th Anniversary Special Story: Best Wishes...

Chapter 1: A Job And An Idea

Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

Ryo Tsukumo: Happy anniversary!

Pop!

ŹOOĻ: .........

Toma Inumaru: ...That startled me...

Haruka Isumi: ...What anniversary..?

Minami Natsume: I wonder...

Torao Mido: The contents of his party cracker got in my hair...

Ryo Tsumugi: Come on! You're too lethargic! Do it over!

Toma Inumaru: And you're weirdly excited..?

Ryo Tsukumo: Happy anniversary! Yaaay..!

ŹOOĻ: Y-yaaay...

Ryo Tsukumo: WHOOO! Louder!

ŹOOĻ: Yaaay!

Ryo Tsukumo: Hey... Why are you so excited, when you don't even know what we're celebrating?

Ryo Tsukumo: If you get too carried away, you'll find yourselves buying magic beans before you know it. Are you sure you want that?

Torao Mido: Magic beans, eh. That sounds pretty interesting. So, what's this all about? Is it your birthday, Ryo-san?

Haruka Isumi: Ah, is it? How old are you now?

Ryo Tsukumo: 25 years old.

Minami Natsume: Lying about your age... Perhaps there is a human side to you, after all.

Toma Inumaru: Huh? But wouldn't he be saying "happy birthday", if it was his  birthday? What's this anniversary stuff  all about?

Ryo Tsukumo: You know that large shopping center, Sky Blue Mall, right?

Haruka Isumi: Yeah. The one they built in the city a few years back...

Ryo Tsukumo: That's the one. It was built in hopes of attracting people, but never boomed the way it was intended to.

Ryo Tsukumo: They're renovating the place just in time for its 4th anniversary.

Torao Mido: Renovating after only four years? That's a little early, don't you think?

Minami Natsume: It's most likely due to their poor performance. They're trying to reform their image with a quick makeover.

Ryo Tsukumo: Exactly. Their plan is to shamble from the dead with one last elixir, so they won't have to suffer a slow death.

Toma Inumaru: You didn't have to put it like that...

Ryo Tsukumo: It seems they're planning to put plenty of vigor and  budget into their 4th anniversary re-opening.

Ryo Tsukumo: They're advertising Sky Blue Mall quite a lot, whether rebuilding is going to help them or not.

Ryo Tsukumo: They were looking  for talents that could fit their four year theme, so I snatched this job for ŹOOĻ.

Haruka Isumi: But it's four years, right? We've only just debuted.

Ryo Tsukumo: It's not about your debut. This marks the fourth year since the four of you first met.

ŹOOĻ: Ah...

ŹOOĻ: .........

ŹOOĻ: Huh..?

Haruka Isumi: No, that doesn't add up at all.

Toma Inumaru: Four years ago? Literally none of us had met each other.

Ryo Tsukumo: What do you mean? Try to remember that time carefully. Torao, you were a high schooler four years ago, yes? What did you do back then?

Torao Mido: I was the student council president.

Toma, Haruka, & Minami: No way!

Torao Mido: It's true!

Toma Inumaru: Hey, stop playing along with Ryo-san's bullcrap. You're just digging your own grave.

Torao Mido: Maybe I should dig your grave. I was an honor student. Can't you tell?

Ryo Tsukumo: Alright, Torao was the student council president at a prestigious academy...

Torao Mido: What are you writing down?

Ryo Tsukumo: Nope, I'm not showing you. What about you, Haruka? What were you doing four years ago?

Haruka Isumi: Me? Four years ago, I sang in the choir of the neighborhood church...

Toma, Minami, & Torao: No way!

Torao Mido: You were such a good kid.

Minami Natsume: How adorable.

Toma Inumaru: I wanna see you in that choir uniform. You got pictures?

Haruka Isumi: No. It wasn't anything that special, really... A lot of kids from the neighborhood went there.

Ryo Tsukumo: Haruka sang in a church choir... What about you, Minami?

Minami Natsume: Four years ago, I would have been filming The Cursed Serpent's Mirror.

Toma Inumaru: Ah! That horror blockbuster..!!!

Torao Mido: I was too scared to go see that one...

Haruka Isumi: I had to close my eyes every time they showed commercials for it...

Minami Natsume: Here is a picture from back then.

Toma, Haruka, & Torao: Gyah..!

Toma Inumaru: Creepy..! That's you, Mina!? Is this special effects make up!?

Torao Mido: Normal humans can't make that kind of face...

Minami Natsume: Fufu. You flatter me. This movie is famous for its final scene. Would you like to see it?

Haruka Isumi: No!!! That's enough... I'm not gonna be able to go to the toilet tonight...

Ryo Tsukumo: I know what you mean. Horror makes even bathing scarier. You start imagining all kinds of stuff in the shower.

Ryo Tsukumo: Like deathly pale women in the mirror, or children's faces staring up at you from the floor, or dark shadows behind the frosted glass...

Haruka Isumi: Don't start describing things that'll make me more scared! You're horrible..!!!

Ryo Tsukumo: Oh? Haruka, behind you...

Haruka Isumi: Stop!!!

Ryo Tsukumo: Hehe. OK, OK. Minami was filming a movie. And you, Toma?

Toma Inumaru: I was still a part of NO_MAD. But I also went to school properly, so I was kinda like Haru is now.

Haruka Isumi: Ugh...

Toma Inumaru: Don't "ugh" me. Your school years are in important time, when you get to have lots of fun.

Ryo Tsukumo: Huh? And what about people who didn't have fun?

Toma Inumaru: That's... Well...

Torao Mido: I don't think there's anybody who didn't have fun. If you live normally, you'll get a girlfriend and excel in your club activities, doing something productive every day.

Haruka Isumi: Not everyone's a normie student council prez like you.

Minami Natsume: I didn't experience that, either. I could rarely go to school due to my work, so I have few proper memories to speak of.

Torao Mido: Really?

Minami Natsume: Yes. On the rare occasion that I went back to school, I'd have so many Valentine's Day chocolates piled up that I'd feel bad.

Haruka Isumi: You're just a normie, too!

Toma Inumaru: Haru, Haru! I got chocolates, too! Since I was an idol!

Haruka Isumi: Shut up! Even I've gotten chocolates before!

Toma, Torao, & Minami: From who?

Haruka Isumi: ........ It's a secret.

Toma, Torao, & Minami: Oh dear...

Ryo Tsukumo: Well then, next Valentine's Day, I'll have to use my own handmade chocolates to turn the holiday into a traumatic event for you all...

Toma Inumaru: Why are you always so quick to say creepy stuff...

Ryo Tsukumo: A student council president, a choirboy, an actor, and an idol. Despite living in completely different worlds, the four of you met by chance four years ago.

Ryo Tsukumo: Torao, do you remember your vice president?

Torao Mido: Vice president? There were two of them...

Ryo Tsukumo: The taller one.

Torao Mido: Yeah, I remember 'em.

Ryo Tsukumo: The park you took her out on a date once was actually being used as a filming location for The Cursed Serpent's Mirror at the time.

Torao Mido: Huh..?

Minami Natsume: Is that so? You were there at the same time as me?

Torao Mido: No, the vice prez was a guy. I wouldn't have taken him out on a date.

Ryo Tsukumo: Tsk...

Minami Natsume: Ryo-san... What are you trying to accomplish by fabricating stories?

Ryo Tsukumo: Wait, next. Haruka!

Ryo Tsukumo: As a choirboy who admired idols, you once went to a NO_MAD concert.

Toma Inumaru: Really!? You should've told me! I'm so happy to hear that!

Haruka Isumi: N-no, I never did that...

Toma Inumaru: Huh? W-what the hell. I got really excited there for a sec.

Toma Inumaru: Ryo-san, stop making shit up. None of us met four years ago.

Ryo Tsukumo: That's true.

Haruka Isumi: See!?

Minami Natsume: None of us thought otherwise.

Torao Mido: Oh. Too bad, it would've felt nice and fateful if we actually had met.

Minami Natsume: You're such a romantic, Mido-san.

Torao Mido: You don't believe in fate, despite being a fortune teller?

Minami Natsume: I do, but I have to wonder whether it applies to us.

Ryo Tsukumo: If not, then we have to make something up, since I accepted this 4th anniversary job.

Toma Inumaru: Don't make anything up! If we're caught lying, the people of Sky Bue Mall will be disappointed, too. It's their anniversary and everything.

Ryo Tsukumo: This world is full of fabrications. Edison didn't actually invent electricity, and Apollo 11 didn't actually land on the Moon.

Haruka Isumi: Really!?

Minami Natsume: Don't listen to him.

Ryo Tsukumo: If we turn the job down now, there'll be chaos. It's nicer if we  force some kind of connection between you guys. Don't you have any material?

Torao Mido: Even if you ask that...

Haruka Isumi: A student council president, a choirboy, an actor, and an idol...

Toma Inumaru: Hmm, how about this? You guys used to be my fans, and...

Haruka, Torao, & Minami: Objection.

Toma Inumaru: Why!? Isn't it nice and simple!?

Haruka Isumi: It's not fair if only you get to show off!

Minami Natsume: I don't want people to say that my music was influenced by NO_MAD. Their styles are completely different.

Torao Mido: How do you think I'll feel if all my future interviews will be   about how I used to be your fan?

Toma Inumaru: Hmm... Then what should we go with?

Haruka Isumi: What if we just met by chance? We could say we shared a table at a restaurant or something.

Toma Inumaru: That's a great idea! We ran into each other at a fast food joint!

Torao Mido: I don't go to fast food places.

Minami Natsume: I rarely visit them, as well.

Toma Inumaru: ........ Then, maybe we met at a trendy café...

Haruka Isumi: Cafés charge over 300 yen for a glass of juice! Do you really think a middle schooler's gonna go there?

Toma Inumaru: You've got a point... Now that we think about it, there's not many ways we could've ran into each other.

Haruka Isumi: I guess not...

Minami Natsume: I suppose...

Torao Mido: Right...

Ryo Tsukumo: That you met at all was a miracle... You should be grateful to the person who made it happen. That would be me.

Ryo Tsukumo: Hmm, I'm all out of good ideas. Let's just come up with something random. Like a school feud.

Torao Mido: A school feud!?

Ryo Tsukumo: Toma was a gang leader who challenged rival schools to duels.

Toma Inumaru: Isn't that something from over forty years ago, rather than four!?

Ryo Tsukumo: Haruka was the younger brother of Toma's girlfriend.

Haruka Isumi: Huh!? Don't just make up a sister for me!

Ryo Tsukumo: Torao was the student council president of a rival school. He was secretly a yanki gang leader.

Torao Mido: Sounds good. I can do that.

Ryo Tsukumo: Minami was a sukeban from a rival school. He called everyone "y'all" (1).

Minami Natsume: Ryo-san. What is a sukeban?

Ryo Tsukumo: Alright, it's decided!

Toma Inumaru: Seriously!? We're gonna go with that one!?

Haruka Isumi: I don't even have a sister!

Ryo Tsukumo: Sure, you do. I've met her.

Haruka Isumi: Huh..!?

Torao Mido: Stop lying to children.

Haruka Isumi: Oh, it was a lie. It was a lie, right?

Minami Natsume: Ryo-san. What do you mean by me referring to eveyone as y'all?

Ryo Tsukumo: Well then, now that we've got your origin story in order, I'm counting on you to do the job. 

To be continued...

Translator’s notes..? 

1) a sukeban is the leader of a (school)girl gang. also, ryo originally mentions minami using the first person pronoun “atai”, which is very informal and feminine, but since english only has one first person pronoun, i changed it up a bit to make more sense

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

Turnabout Tree

Bullshit Defense AU. Miles finally learns, in the most complicated, roundabout way possible, something that Phoenix has been hiding about Trucy’s family.

[more Bullshit Defense AU fics] 

-

Even when everything is over, Miles still takes a while to be able to breathe again. Franziska and Simon have seen the phantom off under the tightest guard to the most secure prison; Aura and Starbuck are out of jail; and while Metis and Clay are still in the hospital, the prognosis is good for them both. It -- everything that it is, this past week and two bombings, and seven long long years -- is over. And still -- still it’s hard to breathe.

He’s still thinking about Franziska, who could have been in so much danger working on the Phantom case with Simon. He’s still thinking about Raymond, in the exploding courtroom; and Athena, forced to relive the worst moments of her life, forced to see a blade and a crime scene covered in her mother’s blood. Trucy isn’t home, is with Athena, like Pearls and Juniper are, and all of them at Simon’s. (Given the choice between two Blackquills to look after her, Athena will go to Simon, every time, no matter that Aura is her stepmother.) And then, Apollo, in the exploding courtroom, and attacked again in the ruins of it. Of everyone, all the coworkers to his family -- Trucy calls them all a family too, even Apollo, and the Blackquill-Cykeses -- Apollo is the one who Miles knows is alone. He doesn’t have anyone local. Maya had asked about him when she called, saying he had family who was asking after him; and she is in Khura’in. Apollo’s family, whatever he has, a brother Maya mentioned, is on the other side of the world, and he is here, and his friend in the hospital.

Miles is far from the person who should be checking in on Apollo. They haven’t ever spoken much -- they had a conversation in the hospital the other day and that’s probably more than Miles has ever said to him all other occasions. And Apollo isn’t on good terms with Phoenix, for justified reasons. Should he send Trucy after him tomorrow, once she gets home? Ask Raymond to -- to what, exactly? Raymond will be keeping an eye on him, of course, but -- still. Poor kid. He and Athena have taken the brunt of the pain these past days.

The couch is starting to swallow Miles up entirely, not feeling any less suffocating, when there is a knock on the door.

Which doesn’t make any sense, because it’s nearly 9 pm, and everyone they know would either call first or fling open the door without knocking.

But the knock comes again and it forces him up and out of his thoughts and his anxiety, all his fears of what could have been if they weren’t all lucky, so he gets up and opens the door. A woman stands on the other side, a woman with light brown hair in two low braids. Her face seems vaguely familiar, distantly, but her eyes - something about her eyes, Miles would swear he knows them like he knows his family. “You must be Miles,” she says. “I’m so sorry to bother you. Is Phoenix home?”

“I -- yes. He’s in the shower.” His head has started spinning but he thinks he has placed her face, at least, and figured out why he had so much difficulty: because what she wore, he never really could get a good look at her face. “You’re... Lam-orir?”

She smiles, a thin, tight-lipped smile, but it goes right up to her eyes. They’re still familiar. He doesn’t know why. “Lamiroir, yes” she says. “And is Trucy home, by chance?” She cranes her neck to look past him over his shoulder, into the apartment.

“N-no -- she’s at friend’s apartment. Why--” Even while he’s trying to ask her what is going on, he’s stepping aside a little to allow her in the doorway. He doesn’t know why she’s here, what this is about, but Apollo and Trucy met her personally during the concert investigation last summer, as did Raymond, and she was on the jury last October. Maybe she and Phoenix kept in touch? Maybe--?

She cups her hands around her mouth and screams, “Phoenix Wright!” And it isn’t really a scream, more of a bellow, something more befitting Apollo, not this slight, graceful woman, even if she is a singer, even if she must have powerful lungs as a singer.

Miles shuts the door behind her. The water from the bathroom stops and a moment later, the lock on it clicks open, and Phoenix calls down, “Aw fuck -- five minutes!” Miles can hear him wincing, knows that tone of voice, the one where he’s expecting someone to chew him out, be it Franziska or Maya or Miles himself.

Lamiroir tilts her head toward Miles and raises her eyebrows. “So is he bad at answering phone calls and text messages from everyone, or is it just me?” Her voice, melodic even while she is simply speaking, has a trace of an accent but less than Miles expected.

“Everyone,” Miles answers. He knows he sounds awkward, bad at small talk as he is -- but this isn’t even small talk, either, is something with depth, and only Lamiroir knows how deep it is. How well does she know Phoenix? Well enough to have his number, well enough to have been calling --

Because of the courthouse bombing, perhaps?

“Most people just go through me,” he adds, and that sounds even worse, like some kind of indictment of Thalassa, that she doesn’t know to or just doesn’t, and who is she to Phoenix, anyway? There’s an answer he knows is the simplest answer, but it would be the simplest answer for someone else, not Phoenix, who when he keeps secrets doesn’t and wouldn’t keep this kind of secret. Lamiroir hums something like acknowledgement. “He mentions that you are the one who keeps his head taped on straight,” she says.

Miles has no idea what to make of this, that Phoenix has told her of him, and that the reverse isn’t true.

The bathroom door squeaks when it opens and Phoenix’s footsteps are a scramble until he is within sight, still pulling on his shirt. His hair is dripping wet and there is still shampoo in it. “Listen,” he says, already on the defensive, his hands up in front of him, palms out. “Listen, Thal, I--”

“How many times did I call you, Phoenix Wright?” she snaps. “How many messages did you not answer?”

“Uh…” Phoenix rubs the back of his neck. “My phone died two days ago and I’ve just been using Miles’--”

Lamiroir (what did Phoenix call her? Thal? What is that? A real name, a Borginian word, a -- a Boriginian pet name?) reaches beneath her shawl and produces from somewhere a phone which she thrusts at Phoenix. “Look,” she says, an imperious command, and he silently accepts the phone and starts tapping the screen.

“I -- oh,” he says. “I -- that is a lot of texts, yeah.”

“Surely one or two of those arrived before you abandoned your point of contact!” Lamiroir says, snatching her phone back from Phoenix’s hands. “Surely!”

“It did, and I was preoccupied with other things, so I thought I’d text you back when things calmed down--”

“And you did not!”

“Because things didn’t calm down!” Phoenix cries. He’s still standing withdrawn, defensively, and Lamiroir is on the offensive, her hands on her hips, her face contracted into a glare. “It just kept escalating!”

“And you did not once think that I would like to know--”

“I’m sorry!”

Their argument is shaped the way Phoenix argues with Franziska, the way she berates him. It doesn’t feel like a lovers’ spat. Miles doesn’t know what is happening, but they both seem to have forgotten he is there.

“Trucy’s fine,” Phoenix says. “She wasn’t anywhere near any of this -- not even close. Her friend Athena was, though, had a really rough week, Trucy’s with her tonight.” Lamiroir’s frown has started to relent. “Apollo -- Apollo had it rough too, got bruised up in the bombing and then -- he’s fine, he’s fine.” Like Franziska, Lamiroir is shorter than Phoenix, but has the fury to cow him, and it is written on her face even deeper and angrier than before.

“Define bruised up,” Lamiroir says, her voice dangerously low. “And tell me, ‘and then’ what?”

Phoenix winces. “He was in the hospital,” he says. “Twice. Got hit with some rubble -- nothing broken, nothing broken!” His hands are up again, ready to intercept an attack. “And then concussed when a suspect attacked him to stop him investigating--”

“And you did not tell me!” Lamiroir throws her hands in the air. Phoenix steps back.

Why Trucy and Apollo does she ask about? How did Phoenix know they are who she wanted to know about? Did she say it in the messages she showed him; was it because they were the two who defended Machi Tobaye?

“Again, there was a lot happening,” he says. “And he’s fine, I swear! I promise--”

“He was in the hospital twice! What about that is ‘fine’?”

“The part where he’s out of the hospital?” Phoenix offers. Lamiroir doesn’t even answer, just makes a growling, exasperated sort of sound. She hasn’t asked Phoenix how he is, and while he’s visibly intact, that is still strange.

He clears his throat and they both flinch. “Ah…” There’s Phoenix’s sheepish grin again. “We should probably -- explain what’s going on. Introduce you.” He waves at Lamiroir.

“I think I can guess,” Miles says. Weird as this all is, there’s only that answer.

But Lamiroir snorts and Phoenix actually laughs. “No,” he says. “Miles, I promise you, you’ve got no idea where this is going.”

“I’m surprised you hadn’t told him,” Lamiroir says.

“You didn’t want to tell anyone,” Phoenix replies. Tell what? This still sounds like -- like it should be obvious what this is. But--

“Yes, but I had prepared to accept that you might make him the exception without running it by me,” Lamiroir says. “Given how everything you have said makes me presume that you two are attached at the hip.”

“We’re not--” Phoenix glances at Miles and then visibly slumps, giving up whatever further protest he was going to make. “But I didn’t tell him, so you wanna introduce yourself or should I?”

“I suppose you do know of me,” Lamiroir says, turning to Miles, and he can barely focus on what she’s saying, thinking back to Phoenix’s laugh, you’ve got no idea where this is going. He knows Phoenix, he knows Phoenix can surprise him, but how exactly is this not what it seems? “Of course you do. I… had amnesia, as you may or may not remember from… that case.” She frowns again, her forehead creasing heavily. “But I do remember now, and my name -- my real name -- is Thalassa Gramarye.”

Thal. And then it hits him, a bullet, that name, what the second part of it means to this, and that he has heard the first before as a woman already dead -- “You’re Trucy’s mother,” Miles says.

She nods.

“How?” he asks. “How did--” And Phoenix, standing there, correct, of course, that Miles couldn’t guess what was going on, but -- “Phoenix, how long have you known?”

“Since last summer,” Phoenix says. “That case. I knew before she knew -- I’d hoped the Jurist System case would jog her memory, and I was right, and then--”

“You’ve known for over a year,” Miles says. Phoenix nods. And it would be easy to ask why didn’t you tell me even though he knows, because even though Lamiroir -- Thalassa -- said it, Phoenix didn’t tell him. But that is nothing, comparatively. “Why haven’t you told Trucy? Why haven’t you introduced yourself to her? She would want to know, she would love to see you.” To know you, because she was so young that she doesn’t remember.

Thalassa and Phoenix exchange a glance, and there’s so much in just their eyebrows, so much more, and Miles locked out of the loop for over a year. “Her life is as stable as I could dream it to be,” Thalassa says softly. “I have no wish to intrude on the lives you have built and to upend her world further.”

“You wouldn’t be,” Miles says. “I know you wouldn’t be.”

She smiles sadly. “I am glad you say that,” she says. “But there is also something else to it that she and -- others -- must be told and I… I do not know if that would be so welcome to them.”

She lifts her right hand, pulling back her shawl from her wrist to show a golden bangle bracelet. “I don’t suppose you would know him well enough to recognize this,” she says, “but this is a Gramarye family heirloom.” Her eyes blink closed slowly, finally open again, and when she looks at him he knows why he thought there was something familiar about her. She has Trucy’s eyes. “I had two bracelets such as these. One I lost with my son.”

Miles shakes his head slowly. “You remember,” Phoenix asks, “that I told you what Zak told me about the Gramarye perception ability?”

“Why we can’t lie to Trucy,” Miles says. “And why you brought her with you to play poker.”

“You’re not still giving me shit for -- of course you are.” Phoenix sighs. “Yes, that. The bracelets are not quite magic--”

“Not at all,” Thalassa interrupts.

“It seems like it,” Phoenix says across her. “But they’d help Trucy focus her ability if she had one. And, do you also remember, after the Kitaki case, her talking about teaching someone to perceive witnesses’ tics on the stand? Him and his bracelet, I’m not sure you would have noticed that he has that.”

Miles blinks. “She worked that case with Apollo,” he says, “but he’s…” The answer is staring him in the face -- it wasn’t like Phoenix was being particularly cryptic right now -- but it makes no sense. “He does have a bracelet like…”

They’re both just staring at him, waiting. A Gramarye heirloom. Her son. Of course, but -- “Apollo is Trucy’s brother,” Miles says. It’s not a question. There’s no sense in the answer but it’s not a question.

“Half-brother,” Thalassa says. “Yes.”

There are a thousand things he could ask but he looks at Phoenix and says, “And how long have you known this?”

“Since the night Zak died,” Phoenix says. Died is a bit of a misleading statement. “He showed me a picture of Thalassa with those bracelets and I remembered -- some loud kid in Gavin’s office with a bracelet like that.”

“And you haven’t told them?” Miles asks. Didn’t he just ask, why haven’t you told her? Didn’t he just ask this.

“Consider my position with Apollo,” Phoenix says. “Not sure he’d believe me, and then he and Trucy started becoming friends and I figured, better not throw a wrench in the sibling bonding making it awkward dropping that on them -- then Thalassa showed up, and I wanted her to remember.”

“And I wonder if I am welcome,” Thalassa says. “If they would welcome knowing -- if Apollo would welcome this -- intrusion, to whatever stable life he must have built. I…” She closes her eyes. “And I was -- am -- afraid, I suppose. That they will reject me -- that other parts of their families will reject me -- or that I will lose them again, having lost them both once.”

“You never explained to me exactly what happened with Apollo,” Phoenix says. “That you -- er, y’know, we can probably sit down now…” He’s the first to move, over to the couch, and Miles sits on the other side of it, and Thalassa in the armchair.

“His father and I were traveling with him,” Thalassa begins. She is blinking furiously for a few seconds but she composes herself quickly, her head held high, her entire body tense and poised, a performer still, even here. “Jove was -- a wandering minstrel, I suppose you could say.” She laughs softly. “And I happy to wander with him. And then -- in one country, we stayed in the capital, Jove told me that he could take Apollo for the evening, give me a break, time to breathe, and--” Shaking her head, she still with her chin almost level with the floor turns her head away from them. “The government was unstable, contention within the royal family for the throne. There was an overthrow. They were right in the middle of it and I -- I never found out what happened to either of them. In the following days the entire country seemed to be on fire. There was no one to help a poor American girl searching for her baby and her husband. I was told to leave before it got worse. And it did and -- and I did, too.”

She doesn’t look very old, not much more than he and Phoenix. Apollo is in his early twenties, and either she just looks very young, or she is young. And either way, there is no age when that would be anything easy to bear, when that would be anything short of ruinous. (Miles tries to imagine if, eight years ago, when he was that much younger, losing Phoenix and Trucy at once. And not just losing, but the not knowing, the lack of closure. The guilt, to leave without knowing, to leave wondering if they were still alive. Miles can’t imagine, and ruinous can’t describe it.)

“I thought Apollo was dead,” she finishes. “I knew that Jove must have been, if he did not find his way home to me, but I assumed, Apollo must have died too.”

“You did a decent job of hiding how surprised you must’ve been once you remembered,” Phoenix says.

Thalassa snorts. The hair on her forehead flutters with her breath. “I suppose,” she says. “I still barely believe it, that Apollo survived, that I should ever find him again -- that he should come back to me.”

And Trucy’s family situation has always been unorthodox enough that she should have no trouble accepting her mother back into her life. A brother? Probably not, either. But Apollo’s family situation -- what is it? A brother, that’s all Miles knows, and that’s something he just barely learned, almost by accident, from Maya. A brother in -- “The country that this happened in,” Miles says. “That wouldn’t happen to be Khura’in…?”

Thalassa blinks again, this time in surprise. “It was,” she says. “How? How did you know? Did Apollo say--?”

Miles shakes his head. “My stepsister has been staying in Khura’in the past year. She called me the other day -- after hearing of the bombing she’d tried calling all of our family and only finally got through to me -- and she told me she’d met someone there in Khura’in who had a brother in Los Angeles, a lawyer, and he was worried if he was all right. And she asked me if I knew him, that his name was Apollo Justice.”

Her mouth falls open and stays open for several seconds, searching for words that don’t exist. “A brother,” she says softly. “Apollo has… a brother.” She slumps, sinks back in the armchair, finally looks more human than statue. “Someone -- some family -- must have found him -- adopted him. Someone Jove must have met, if they knew Apollo’s name that he is still -- still has his father’s name. Still is my Apollo.” Both her hands are shaking as she touches her bracelet. “Do you know his brother’s name?”

Miles shakes his head. “I can ask Maya. Why?”

“Just to know.” Her voice briefly comes out as a croak. “Just to know something of the other family my son has.”

They sit in silence for several minutes, Miles still trying to absorb everything that has happened, Thalassa staring at her own trembling hands twined tightly together. Trucy has a brother. Trucy has a brother and it’s someone they know, someone she is friends with. Trucy has a brother and Phoenix has known this for nearly two years. Apollo is a Gramarye. Apollo stood in court on a case that tried so integrally back to his own family and didn’t know that it was his. And he and Trucy met their mother and not one of the three knew it.

“Trucy’s got a bunch of pictures taped up in her room,” Phoenix says at last. “If you want to get some of an idea of who her friends are -- maybe put some faces to the names I’ve mentioned.”

Thalassa nods. “I would like that very much.”

Trucy’s room is a mess that Phoenix and Thalassa step through without a second’s hesitation, while Miles starts clearing a path through across floor. Is that something she got from her family or did she just learn disorganization from Phoenix? Behind him, Phoenix is pointing to people, a jumble of names followed by descriptors followed by more names. “Raymond, Miles’ uncle, he’s a defense attorney and Apollo works for him now” -- “Athena, that’s the friend she’s with now, and Pearls, she’s -- I have no idea how she’s related to us honestly but she’s family” -- “Franziska, Miles’ sister” -- “Jinxie, she’s a friend from school” -- “Apollo you know, obviously--”

Thalassa laughs softly. “And Prosecutor Gavin, too,” she says. Miles finally straightens up to look over their shoulders at Trucy’s collage wall. Thalassa’s fingertips are touching the picture, a selfie of Trucy and Apollo and Gavin, Trucy in the front and grinning widely, Gavin behind them with his chin nearly on Apollo’s head, laughing, and Apollo looking rather disgruntled at being squished by the two of them. “I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised,” she adds. “He’s quite friendly.”

“Yeah, our social circles started bleeding over into the Prosecutors Office at some point,” Phoenix says. “All the legal world, a magician, and some spirit mediums.”

Maybe they’ve been over that before -- enough that Thalassa doesn’t have to question what it means. “Unrelatedly,” Phoenix adds, “I don’t know where you’re living now but if you want to stay here tonight that’s cool. I can grab some blankets for the couch.”

“Thank you,” she says, almost absently, her fingers drifting to another photo of Trucy and Apollo, with Mr Hat looming almost ominously in the background. Phoenix nudges Miles in the arm and then jerks his head at the door. They leave her standing there, staring at the faces of the two children she barely had the chance to get to know.

“Sorry,” Phoenix says quietly. “She -- she didn’t want anyone else to know. She was worried about it getting out through the grapevine before she was mentally ready for it.”

Miles doesn’t know what to say to that, anything he can add to that, so he just nods. Standing in the kitchen, they’re both quiet for a few moments. “You didn’t think, before we explained, that she was my secret girlfriend or something?” Phoenix adds.

“Tell me what else you would expect anyone to think when a woman shows up at the door asking for you.”

Phoenix raises his eyebrows. “Okay, but you know me, Miles,” he says. “And you know I’m not going to be secretly dating anyone -- I would make sure you and Franziska and other people met them, so that if they murdered me, you’d know who to suspect.” He laughs, but it’s not really a joke, Miles knows; it’s a very real fear, based in very real experience. It’s why he knows Phoenix hasn’t ever dated since Dahlia. When he’d said that he was swearing off women after her, it seemed like joking as a coping mechanism, but Miles is pretty sure now he was serious. Dahlia didn’t manage to kill him, but she’d broken something in him. “Besides,” he adds, his voice even lighter but in the forced way that means another dark joke is coming, “Thal might be beautiful and have a gorgeous voice, but you could not pay me enough” -- his voice drops even lower and quieter -- “to marry into the goddamn Gramaryes, even if Magnifi, may he rot in hell, has been dead for eight years.”

Miles has no idea what to say to that either.

“And,” Phoenix continues, Miles having no idea how he’s manage to come up with a third objection, “she’s had two husbands murdered, so I��m not trying my luck at ‘third time’s the charm’, either.”

Miles nods. There really isn’t anything to say to that. The floorboards in the hall creak and Thalassa reappears, looking at the two of them with their heads together. “I think we should tell them,” Phoenix says smoothly, taking one step away from Miles and towards her. It all gives the impression that was what they were discussing, her children, their relation, instead of Phoenix cursing her father before implying that she herself is cursed.

Thalassa says nothing. “Trucy will be thrilled,” Phoenix says. “And Apollo -- he should know. He already knows so much about your family that -- he should be allowed to know. And he’s a good kid; I don’t think he’d just turn you away.”

Her face stays blank, carefully, deliberately so. “You’d be able to talk to them directly instead of fighting to get anything out of me,” he adds, drawing a laugh out of her. Miles finds that a convincing point. “And after all this shit that you’ve been worried about them, wouldn’t it be nice to get to spend Christmas with your kids?”

“You are frustratingly good at arguing,” Thalassa says at last.

“I’d hope,” Phoenix says. “I was a lawyer, after all. Is that a yes? Are we telling them?”

She closes her eyes and inhales a shaky breath. “Yes,” she says. “We will tell them. I -- I do want to see them,” she adds, as though either Phoenix or Miles didn’t think she did. “My son was in the hospital twice and I knew nothing.” Those words could easily be damning to Phoenix, but they don’t seem to be. “I want to see them. I just--” Her breath comes out in the same shudder.

“It’ll be fine,” Phoenix says. “I promise, there’s no reason to worry about mine and Miles’ family at large. There’s always been new people coming in, and everyone gets a warm welcome.” Even Lana, once she got out of prison. Even Simon, when their introduction to him was him stubbornly, staunchly, maintaining his own guilt. Even Gavin.

“I believe you,” she says. “And -- Miles.” He jumps a little in surprise at his name and she touches him on the arm. “I meant to thank you earlier. But thank you for everything you have done to be a father to my daughter.”

“I--” He wishes she had forgotten to say this entirely. “I’m really -- it’s really Phoenix who’s--”

She shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips. “Certainly not from what Phoenix himself has told me,” she says. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but thank you. My daughter could not have found a better family, I am sure.”

“I think you’re part of it now,” Miles says. He’s never been the one to say that; he still sometimes feels lost in his own family, trying to figure out who is part of it, who all the others have claimed over the years. But this one seems obvious. Surprising, impossible almost, but still: obvious.

[notmyassistant]

@agrippaspoleto and @captainviolet tagged me in two separate music memes, so here goes... nine albums I love and ten songs I´ve been listening to recently. These are going to be very different because I´m discovering lots of new music right now - blame Marie Meimberg and Martif Fischer for introducing me to new artists. They do this wonderful YouTube show called Bongo Boulevard, which is pretty much the best thing to ever happen to music.

Going to go with albums first:

David Bowie - Heathen My favourite David Bowie album. Also, Everyone Says Hi is wonderful for testing headphones. It just sounds extraordinary on good equipment.

The Tragically Hip - In Violet Light Beautiful. Just dark and beautiful. Listen to The Dark Canuck. Then the entire album. Just do it.

Public Service Broadcasting - The Race For Space Public Service Broadcasting is a very weird band, using spoken word samples from old public information films to tell stories instead of having a singer. This is their concept album about the space race in the sixties. It´s all a lot more emotional than this description makes it sound. I get goosebumps when Apollo Eight is on the dark side of the moon in The Other Side.

Duran Duran - Medazzaland Because Warren Cuccurullo was a brilliant guitarist for Duran Duran, took their music in a really cool new direction, and because I didn´t go to the trouble of getting this CD through a personal shopper in Japan just to keep quiet about it.

R.E.M. - New Adventures In Hi-Fi Possibly the best album ever made by any musician ever. There´s just not a single bad song on it. Patti Smith is singing on E-Bow The Letter.

Scissor Sisters - Night Work Just so much fun. The only reason why learning to dance might be worth it at some point. Any Which Way has a brilliant bass line.

Shout out Louds - Our Ill Wills Another album without any bad songs. The whole thing sounds incredible. Hard Rain and Impossible are the best ones though. Bebban´s singing on Blue Headlights is something special too.

Morrissey - Southpaw Grammar The most problematic fave to ever be problematic. I mean, he´s a huge asshole and if anyone else had said half the things he´s said I´d want to send that person to the moon without an oxygen tank. I have no idea why people let Morrissey get away with it as long as he makes good music, but they do. I do. And he knows that and takes advantage of it. At least he actually makes good music. This album is very good, even though a complete moron made it. Reader Meet Author is a nice song.

Spiritualized - Ladies And Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space This is called Ladies And Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space, and it actually feels like you´re floating in space. It feels incredible. I can´t recommend one song. Just listen to the entire thing. It´s an experience.

And ten songs:

Nichts - Faber (You can´t tell me you love yourself if you´ve never been to a Faber concert. The best thing to come out of Switzerland since chocolate, cheese, and that sense of inferiority you get when you realize that no matter what you do, Swiss railways will always be better than your own one.)

Why? - Bronski Beat (The Way he sings “never feel guilty, never give in” gets me. Also, the second reason why learning to dance might be worth it.)

Two Paths - Death By Chocolate (Like Faber, Mine, and Tristan Brusch, I discovered them through Bongo Boulevard. I love “so much money he would never spend, sometimes he didn´t pay his rent, so he would know how it feels”)

Hinterher - Mine (Beautiful harmonies. Beautiful bass line. Beautiful singing. Just beautiful.)

Bleib Doch Einfach Hier - Tristan Brusch (Go become Tristan Brusch fans so you can say you´ve been fans before he became a huge deal. Because he will. He´s that good.)

Bitch - Von Wegen Lisbeth (Great lyrics. I´ve been listening to this band over and over for the last few days.)

I Wish You Lonely - Morrissey (Not going to go into the whole “can you seperate the artwork from the artist” thing again. He´s an arsehole and everyone knows. Still a good song is you can ignore that. Thing is, I don´t know how I´m actually able to ignore that...)

Los Ageless - St Vincent (St Vincent is a very unusual guitar hero. I love her. I´d learn to play guitar just to be able to play her signature guitar if I had the money, because that´s how much I love her.)

Was Machst Du Dann - Die Höchste Eisenbahn (”wenn dich alle lieben, bei dir einziehen woll´n, wenn du Menschen hasst und deine Hütte ist voll...” Faber and Die Höchste Eisenbahn sing about similar things, except Faber´s angry and Die Höchste Eisenbahn has already gone to accepance and melancholy.)

Paint It Black - Ramin Djawadi (The moment I fell in love with Westworld. Several days before actually watching a single episode. Possibly my favourite peace of music from a TV soundtrack)

That ended up being a bit long, but there you go. I always end up tagging the same five people in these things, so I´m just gonna skip that this time.