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sidespromptblog · 5 years ago

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Difficult to Love

Summary: Everything was running smoothly.

There was no stalling in Thomas’ own creative thoughts, no hesitations when it came to the knowledge that he needed to absorb for his newer video that he was working on, his anxiety was at a manageable level, and… he for all intents and purposes… he seemed happy.

Considering all of that, nothing seemed to be wrong. Everything was running smoothly, and there was no reason whatsoever to panic or kick up a fuss about anything.

And yet...

Word Count: 3700

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The mindspace was oddly quiet as Remus made his way through the lighter spaces, it was warmer that was for sure but there was a silence that clung to the place like a funeral shroud to a freshly dead body ready to be burned. He wished that he could say that it was a surprise to see it that way, to not hear the chattering downstairs as the other light sides talk amongst themselves and the breakfast that they’ve made. Breakfast that he and Deceit were never once privy to, not that he could blame them, what with Deceit’s eating habits and his own attitude towards the most important meal of the day. Nevertheless, it didn’t change the fact that everything was completely and utterly silent.

And yet…

Everything was running smoothly.

Considering all of that, nothing seemed to be wrong. Everything was running smoothly, and there was no reason whatsoever to panic or kick up a fuss about anything.

And ordinarily, Remus would have cared less about any of that. Content to sow endless chaos wherever he could until either Deceit or his brother told him to knock it off, at least until he went at them with one of his beloved creations. So… he shouldn’t have cared, he shouldn’t be worried, and he shouldn’t even be here in the light space that both he and Deceit had been banned from for years. Yet here he was, his boots trekking thick globs of mud up the stairs leaving a visible trail for just about anyone to find. Not that it bothered him any, right now… nobody would stop him, not today.

Because…

Because they all knew that he had heard, just as well as Deceit had yeard.

He had heard the yelling of their argument that rang all throughout the mindspace, infiltrating even the darkest reaches of Thomas’ mind so that every side known and unknown could hear it. He had heard the shouting until the other side’s voice had gone hoarse and cracked, it had rattled Remus’ bones for the first time in… well, a very very long time. And finally… he had heard the door slam as the argument had eventually ended, shaking the picture frames on the walls and even rocking the very walls themselves.

He had heard it all, and he had heard the door remain shut still not opening weeks later.

At first, he had been fine with the silence, but now...

“So,” Remus cheerily flopped onto the floor next to the door, eagerly leaning his entire body weight back against the door as he crossed his mud-caked feet. “You’ve been in there for a while,” He began as he rattled his knuckles against the painted door, “Which I entirely get! No judgment coming from me, here! Talking to the others is more boring than vanilla sex, I’d rather pluck my eyeballs out and use them as nunchucks.” The creative side hastily amended, holding his hands up in the universal sign of peace… not that the other side would even see it though. “But…”

Here a moment of silence stretched between him and the side hidden behind the door, who still hadn’t said a single word to interrupt him from his inane ramblings.

He wasn’t worried though, not a single bit.

“Feel free to pipe up any time though, I might talk so much that I accidentally bite through my tongue and bleed out!” He giggled, waiting for something… anything really from the other side of the door.

Some shuffling, a snore, even the sound of the other snacking… anything would have been preferable rather than just having to hear his own voice like nails on a chalkboard over and over again. But there was nothing, a void where noise should have been, a void that ate everything up and spit out only the grey bones of what once was and what should have been. Not only was it boring but… it was unnerving even for Remus to have to sift through. It only served to make him that much more aware of the shrieking and repetitive thoughts inside his own head, there should be noise… there should be lots of rambling noise coming from behind the door… coming from downstairs in the kitchen where he and Deceit had never been.

But there wasn’t.

Remus’ foot bounced against the carpet, spreading even more of the dried up mud all over the place the longer that he sat there. Even with that same repetitive task, it felt like he had sat there in silence for what must have been hours, even if it was only for at most just a minute or two.

“Do you wanna play a game?” He suddenly asked, desperate for anything to break the silence at this point. “It’s a real easy one I promise. I’m not too good at those smarty pants games like chess, but this one…” Within seconds a roll of parchment had appeared in Remus’ hands along with a pen small enough and thin enough to slip under the doorway. “The theme is a feeling, hard I know. But I know you can get it.”

Drawing a messy sketch of the gallows, Remus rolled onto his stomach pressing his cheek flat against the now filthy carpet before carelessly shoving the parchment and pen under the gap in the door. Had he been a dog, particularly, a pit bull his entire body would have been wagging eagerly waiting for some kind of response from the person on the other side of the door.

This must’ve been what having a pen pal must’ve felt like, as he waited his stormy eyes still peering under the doorway eager to catch a glimpse of some kind of movement that would tell him he wasn’t just wasting his breath talking to nobody.

And for a moment.. for a split second, there was a blur in the darkness, a movement.

And Remus’ heartfelt as if it would explode right out of his chest, until-

The scroll of paper shot back out from under the door, smacking the creative side rather harshly, right on the nose.

“Hey!” Remus yelped, scuttling back as he clasped a hand over his nose. It didn’t do anything more than sting for just a second, but even so, it was the action that spoke more than anything. “That wasn’t nice you know!” He scolded, feeling heat tickling the tops of his ears as a blush easily swept over his features coloring his face in a deep red hue that Remus would have killed someone over for inflicting onto him. Or would have, had it not been this kind of situation. “I was just trying to-”

Remus stopped dead, or as dead as a living creative side could get in this case.

This beating lump of flesh shuddered in his chest, and the warmth that had descended over his face that had previously been unwanted felt like a warm summer morning as he stared down at the parchment that now had a single letter scribbled onto the corner. He was absolutely certain that in his entirety of an existence, that nothing… nothing had ever allowed him to feel like this before. It was like his entire body was a well full of adrenaline, that instead of making him simply feel buzzed and energized… made him feel dizzy and breathless.

He didn’t know if there was a word for something like this, but even if there was...

He didn’t care.

Remus shimmied closer to the door, so that his back was practically flush against the wood. “Oooh,” He eagerly crooned as he scribbled a plain circle onto the gallows, excitement squirming inside of him like worms coming up after a heavy rainfall to breathe. This.. this felt like the first time he had truly breathed in such a long time. “Close, but now you’ve got head!”

And so their game continued, their stacks of paper growing with each game until hours had passed.

With each day that passed, Remus could honestly say that their games… it was the thing that he looked forward to most with the rise of each morning. It certainly wasn’t what ordinary people would call fun, given that he just chattered to a door without having a single word to answer him back, but he knew that the other side was there, he knew that he was at least listening and paying attention to the things that he wrote on their game papers. He knew based on the doodles that he’d find messily scribbled next to his own gorey ones, he knew based on the little gradings that he’d find that would never be too harsh, and he knew because… he just did.

“I hope you’re eating.” He said one morning as the smell of waffles wafted up from the kitchen downstairs, he had felt no need to join the others even after coming to the light space every day for a week now. He knew that he wouldn’t be welcome there anyway, “I know we technically don’t need to eat, I mean look at me, I eat deodorant to piss the others off. But… you’re important you know.. You need to eat and keep your strength up.” Again silence, although it wasn’t like he was expecting anything else. “I’d care if you keeled over and died from starvation.”

Talking to someone who would never answer back wasn’t exactly the way that he thought he’d spend hours of his days, but… oddly enough he wasn’t complaining.

“Everything is so boring,” He complained one evening.

The amber glow of the fake setting sun in the window cast a warm glow down the hallway, the exact shade of fallen leaves and nostalgic times for Remus. The glow of that golden crested glow that made Remus’ scrunched up body form a long ominous shadow down what remained of the hallway.

“Ever since you ducked out… there’s no spice. You get what I’m saying?” He rambled, thunking his head back against the door as if to reaffirm that someone was still listening. “Like… I’m not into humiliation, it’s nowhere on my kink list but… the others just ignore me without you. You.. you at least knew how to take me on, and take me down a peg or two. You…” Remus’ lips tugged downward in an almost sad smile that filled him with an almost suffocating sense of melancholy that even his fake and authentic cheer couldn’t chase away this time. “You make me feel like I’m really here…”

There wasn’t an answer.

But then again Remus didn’t really expect one.

So with a heavy sigh, he picked himself back up, cracking his sore stiff bones from the position he had been sitting in for hours.

He didn’t want to leave, and yet…

“Goodnight,” He gently murmured to the door, his forehead softly bumping against the wood, letting the other side know exactly what he was doing. “You’ll have sweet dreams tonight… I promise.”

And just like that he left, his boots thunking heavily down the steps as the papers of their previous game remained clutched tightly in his hands.

He didn’t hear it… but the moment Remus was out of earshot, the harsh muffled sound of tears echoed solemnly behind the door.

But even so, their daily games continued.

They both seemingly looked forward to the hours in which Remus would eagerly climb the stairs, stomping up and soiling Patton’s carpet with whatever fluids he happened to be trekking in that day. Sometimes it was mud, sometimes red, sometimes yellow, and sometimes it was green. But no matter the color, it all stained the carpet the very same way that it always did, and with it came Patton’s annoying lecture about taking his boots off. A lecture that was always answered with Remus’ shit-eating grin, and the shifting of floorboards on the other side of that door telling the creative side that his playmate was ready.

“Okay!” He excitedly wiggled setting down a heavy book and a stack of papers, “I know I said that I wasn’t all that good at all these smarter games, but I DO know for a fact that you like chess. And there’s only so many times we can play hangman and connect the dots before it gets suuuper boring. So I found this book, yeah? It says that its chess for dummies, and I figured that it’s perfect for me.” Remus eagerly chattered, “We’ll use a pencil today instead of a pen so we can erase and move the pieces around without having an actual chess board or pieces! Cool right?”

Having gotten used to not receiving an answer, Remus scribbled his name where the black pieces would be before sliding the paper under the door. And... for the first time in the weeks since they had started their games, the paper didn’t move. Remus could see the cover of the page still sticking out, not moving from where he had initially slid it to the other side for his turn to begin.

There was nothing.

Until…

“Thank you.”

The two words were no more than a whisper to Remus, the first words that the creative side had heard from him in the months since he had ducked out and refused to come out of his room. How long had he been there? Waiting for the other light sides to finish with their guilty pleading so that he could play his games never expecting to hear a peep from the other side of the door? How long had he given up hearing anything, content to just have fun and never press matters beyond that one day?

He honestly didn’t know.

“You’re welcome,” Remus whispered back just as softly, as if raising his voice above a mere whisper would shatter reality before his eyes. “It honestly wasn’t that hard at all, I just had to find the book.. reading was a bit more difficult, but… but it was worth it. I know that you enjoy this kind of thing, so.. so it was well worth whatever effort it took to get me here. I…” Remus swallowed leaning gingerly close to the door, as if the other side was just a hair’s breadth away from him. “I promise.”

Another sound.. another noise crept past the wood of the door.

This time though it took Remus a little bit longer to actually realize just what it was, and when he did… something in his chest split open and shattered all at once. He had never actually heard it before, at least coming from this side. Deceit had done it plenty of times, when it was just the two of them and nobody else. But for him…

To cry?

Panic almost immediately seized ahold of Remus’ throat in a vice-like grip refusing to let him breathe through its suffocating grasp, “I’m sorry!” He quickly blurted out, his palms spreading against the door as he pressed himself as close as he possibly could against the door, like a pathetic dog trying so very hard to get to its wounded master. He wanted to headbutt the door, to rip and tear it down, to scratch at it with his fingernails until he could see the other side. But.. but he couldn’t, even he knew that. “I.. I truly honestly didn’t mean to! I.. I-”

A muffled sob, like the sound of someone pressing their palm against their mouth, echoed from the other side.

The sound tore at Remus’ heart and lungs, practically liquefying them in the process.

It hurt, god did it hurt to hear such a sound coming from the side that had somehow wormed their way into his brain, that had slithered past all of his gorey defenses, and had still even without saying a word rendered him completely helpless right here and now. Why on earth did it have to hurt so much? Roman was the one that always said that things like love always felt so nice, that it was always worth singing about.

Did this mean that this feeling wasn’t love? If it wasn’t love then what was it? Did that mean he could carve it out of his chest so that he wouldn’t even feel this pain again? Was that even possible?

“No.. no!” The sniffling from the other side dragged Remus right on back to what was happening. “I just…” There was a shuffling sound, like the person on the other side was just as close to the door as Remus was. “They.. I was told that my interests… my ideas are too difficult. I… was used to it.. to that. I’m… a difficult person, even you must know that.”

The other’s voice sounded even closer than ever before, and it broke with every syllable.

Remus listened like a dying man in a desert who had finally found water.

“You… Your presence here… has been greatly appreciated, but you don’t have to do this. It’s better if I stay here… not talking. Not being… difficult for those around me. It’s… the least I can do.”

Something inside of Remus snapped, like a violin string that had been tightened and tightened to the point where the stress of the whole thing had been way too much.

“You…” Remus softly began trying not to sound as angry as he felt, this time with a lot more care than he was ever used to actually giving to another being that was still alive before his words abruptly failed him.

He was used to saying a lot of things in various different ways and styles, but nothing this soft and nothing ever this heartfelt for another person.

He swallowed thickly, “Are a gentle, loving person.” He quickly carried on before the other side could stop him. “Who has been told by too many people that you, that you are too difficult to love… and that..” A snarl tinged Remus’ words as his nails dug into the painted wood of the other’s door, “That is a fucking lie, Logan. You aren’t difficult to love, loving you..it takes effort. But so does loving anything in this hellscape of our life, you’re an effort that’s well worth it. That’s it.” Irritation ate at Remus’ insides, like a blazing wildfire that consumed everything in its path. “You’re worth knowing,” He snarled again like a furious hound tugging on the end of its collar, bumping his head even harder against the door, “And you’re worth loving. And nobody… none of them know that better than me!”

It took Remus a full few seconds to realize just what he had said, and in turn just what he had admitted to the logical side on the other side of the door. But even so, there was no taking it back now, Logan knew and just about everyone that there was to hear his angry rant knew it now too as well.

All that was left now was the rejection.

“I…” Logan paused for a long moment, that felt as if it stretched from the dawn of today to the very end of time as the logical side swallowed thickly. “I…”

Remus’ head thumped lifelessly against the door, as he prepared to get off of his aching knees and leave with his tail tucked between his legs. To never ever bother Logan again, and to leave him to his self imposed isolation. To perhaps go into his own isolation, and never ever leave for fear of continuing to bother the logical side even more of where he did not belong.

“I have a chessboard in my room,” Came the uncertain whisper from inside, “If you’d like to bring your book… we can play a game. If you’d really like to.”

And just like that, the icy numbness of terror thawed, replaced by hope as the gentle sounds of the lock clicking open finally registered to Remus’ ears. As quickly as he could, he stumbled back up to his feet as he seized the book that had been laying on the floor. In an instant, relief swept through the creative side’s body like a torrent of wind, rain, and hail as the door slowly swung open allowing him to see the other side’s face for the first time in months.

He saw it all.

The exhausted lines on the other’s face from the near-constant work he was having to do in order to keep Thomas going. The dark circles that spoke of many sleepless nights. The fresh tear tracks that were entirely Remus’ doing, although not from any amount of cruelty… but instead pure kindness and worry. And his tussled hair that rose and fell in chaotic messy waves due to the lack of gell keeping them back in place.

Remus wanted to kiss him, he wanted to kiss every single freckle that stood out on Logan’s pale face.

Instead, the book slid from his hands as he lunged forward. Seizing Logan in a bone-crushing hug as he held the other close to his chest, gingerly rocking him back and forth. He buried his face into the other’s neck, breathing heavily as his own set of tears spilled down his cheeks.

“I was so worried!” He openly gushed, uncaring about the tears that ruined his makeup. “I was so worried about you,” Remus repeated, stroking Logan’s back until he felt the other sinking back into the hug the logical side’s body shaking with his own tears. “I was so scared.”

A watery chuckle fell from Logan’s lips, “Are you sure that I’m worth it then?”

“Always,” There wasn’t a hint of doubt to Remus’ words. “You’re always worth the effort. I promise.”

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vannahfanfics · 4 years ago

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Before you read, here’s the previous chapter. New? Start from the beginning!

Daffodils Bloom After Winter

Ao3

Chapter 9: The Lowest of Lows

The window looked like a waterfall as the rain streamed down the glass. The light played across the water, painting ribbons of white over Shikadai’s face as he gazed out. He’d hoped after the small sprinkle the other day that the weather would improve, but it had only grown worse. Now, a torrent poured from the sky, and thunder rumbled in the thick gray clouds.

I don’t want to go home, but it’s getting late, Shikadai thought with a small groan and cast a glance at the clock hanging on the wall. The minute hand was inching closer and closer to six p.m. He certainly didn’t want to trudge home in the rain and the dark. However, whenever thunderstorms choked the sky, his father’s mood plummeted to all-time lows. He’d be despondent, irritable, and maybe even delusional. Shikadai had borne witness to more hallucination fits than he would’ve liked.

Ino would let him stay the night if he asked. He knew that by the way she was staring at him, pretending to lock down the register to finish closing up the shop. He’d done it more than once.

But… It would make Miss Ayumi happy if I worked on my relationship with him, Shikadai thought with a frown. He couldn’t avoid his father forever, and though there were good days and bad days, things were getting better overall. She would say that it’s important to be there for him in his hard times. He knew that, but still… The idea of going home to his father when he was probably in a near-manic state made him a bit nauseous.

His eyes wandered around the shop instead, never settling on the colorful blooms Ino so dutifully tended until he spotted one nestled between two large bouquets. He could just barely see it, a hint of bright yellow between deep green. He walked over to the shelf and pushed the larger pots aside to reveal a single potted daffodil. He picked it up, tilting his head as he inspected the strange-looking flower. Despite its funny, trumpet-like appearance, he rather liked it.

“Ah, found that one, did you?” he heard Ino hum in amusement over his shoulder, and he turned to see her standing beside him, dusting the last bit of soil from her apron before untying it. “A strange one, that little flower. Daffodils normally bloom in autumn, yet there’s this guy, flowering in summer.”

Shikadai looked back to the daffodil, then smiled. Going against the grain, trying to get a head start on life, huh? he fancied. “Would you like it?” Ino asked him suddenly, and he looked up at her again. “I probably won’t be able to sell it. It’s really quite small, and out of season, at that. You can have it if you want.”

“I don’t want it, but… Miss Ayumi loves plants. I bet she would like it.”

“I bet she would,” Ino smiled and patted the top of his head. He hugged the daffodil close to his body and took a deep breath; it felt like the strength of that flower to bloom also gave him the strength to face his father’s undoubtedly bad mood. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Ino pressed when he turned back towards the door, and he shook his head with a grateful smile.

“No. I know how Dad gets when it storms like this… The least I can do is be there for him.”

“You’re really growing up,” Ino sighed as if he were her own child. With as much time he’d spent here in the last year, he supposed that it was warranted. She played with his shirt, as if trying to bundle him up against the cold. “Ayumi would be proud to hear you say that.” He swelled with pride at her words, which made Ino’s smile soften. “I’m glad she’s there to support you. She’s a wonderful person.”

“Yeah, she really is,” he agreed with a look at the daffodil. “She’s helped me a lot… I hope she can help Dad, too.”

“She will,” she encouraged. “Your father just needs time. With the both of you supporting him, I think Shikamaru will finally be able to heal.” Shikadai sure hoped so because if Ayumi couldn’t fix him, he doubted that anything could.

Ino sent him off with one of Inojin’s rain jackets, though he insisted he was all right with just his umbrella. He ended up being grateful for it, for the wind whipped the rain up in splattering gales that not even his umbrella could protect him from. He sheltered the daffodil under the rubbery protection of his raincoat while he splashed quickly through the sodden streets, mud spattering up his legs despite his best attempts to avoid the deep puddles. He was a right soaking-wet mess by the time he arrived home, but he was delighted to see that his daffodil had escaped the worst of it, only dusted with a thin layer of dewdrop mist.

The wind rattled the front door, like an ominous omen that a beast prowled within. Shikadai stared at it for several moments, but when the wind howled furiously behind him, he forced himself to step inside lest he drown in the buckets of rain. Holding the daffodil to his chest like a lifeline, he cautiously edged through the gloom of the house toward the living room. He could hear his father’s feverish footsteps echoing in the shadows.

Shikadai found his father circling the couch, his face pale and sweaty. Round and round like a feral beast he paced the floor until the thunder rolled overhead, when he stopped and flinched down with a gasp. After a second of trembling and staring at a vision Shikadai couldn’t see, he would resume his endless commute. Mumbles tumbled from his lips, and amidst the inane babble, Shikdai heard his mother’s name more than once.

“Father?” he called in a gentle voice. He knew better than to startle Shikamaru when he was like this. Once, in his delirium, he’d mistaken his son as an enemy ninja and sprang on him. It took far too long for Shikadai’s screams and sobs to reach his ears. He’d had to wear turtlenecks for a week to hide the finger-shaped bruises on his neck, and even longer for Shikadai not to look at him in fear.

Shikadai didn’t fear his father anymore. He pitied him, and he missed him, missed the way he used to be and used to smile.

Shikamaru twitched, an action that made Shikadai reflexively take a few steps back. However, when Shikamaru looked at him, he didn’t see the feral flash of hatred, but the tired gaze of a begrieved man.

“You’re home,” he croaked, and Shikadai just nodded. “... I”m surprised,” he admitted while casting a gaze to the window, watching the rain beat against the glass. The wind rattled the pane, shaking it in the wall to fill the air with an ominous clattering.

Shikadai swallowed before replying, “I… I didn’t want you to be alone, Father.”

Shikamaru cast his gaze to the floor. His shadow was swallowed up by the gloom of the room— that is, until the lightning flashed fiercely outside, throwing light across the room. Shikamaru’s shadow cowered with him, and when the thunder finished rumbling, Shikamaru was pressing the heel of his hand into his eye with a grimace.

“You’re better off somewhere else, or at least out of my sight,” he grumbled. Shikadai knew that the words came from a place of worry, not of hatred, but he still cringed at them. “It’s not safe… when I’m like this.” As if to prove it, the sky rumbled furiously again; Shikamaru roared and whipped around, flinging a kunai knife through the window. Shikdai screamed as the glass shattered. The wind leaped in through the jagged hole in the glass, bringing the rain with it. They both just stared at the rapidly-growing puddle of water on the wood.

It was frightening. It always was, seeing his father struggle to hang on to his sanity as the thunderstorm raged overhead. Even so… Shikadai had to support him. That was what family was supposed to do— support one another through their lowest of lows.

“Father, I don’t want to run away anymore,” Shikadai insisted, squeezing the potted daffodil under his raincoat. “If we’re going to get through this, we have to be there for each other. I know that’s what Miss Ayumi is trying—”

“Ayumi isn’t a replacement for your mother, Shikadai!”

Shikamaru suddenly whipped around, and Shikadai’s strength was sucked from his body, bringing him to his knees in an instant. He had never seen such a look of ferocity in his eyes, even in his psychotic fits. Shikadai began to fiercely quake, every inch of his body shaking like he was suffering an awful chill— and he was, the cold pit of dread spreading from his belly to taint every nerve within him.

He was scared. He was so scared. He didn’t want his father to look like that. He was scared, and he had nobody to hold him, nobody to tell him why his father just wouldn’t listen, nobody to explain that Shikamaru was just as scared as he was.

Somehow, Shikadai managed to whisper, “I didn’t say that she was.”

Shikamaru blinked, and the fire in his eyes dwindled, settling back to those dead coals of despair. As if released by a spell, Shikadai lurched over, huddling over the daffodil with his belly roiling so much that he gagged a little, on the verge of retching. He managed to swallow the urge, though, and then the tears came. Bitter tears, frustrated tears, angry tears all in rapid succession— they puddled with the rainwater beneath him, swirling together into a salty mess. Just like his family, a mess.

“I just want you to get better,” he hissed through clenched teeth. He wasn’t even sure if Shikamaru could hear him, but he said it anyway. “I just want… I don’t want to see you suffer anymore.” He was yelling now, whipping up his head to shout through the tears and snot running rivers down his face. “I can’t live like this anymore, Dad! I won’t! I don’t care what it takes! I don’t care how many times you yell at me, or grab me, or shake me, or even choke me! I’m not goin’ anywhere, so stop trying to push me away!”

Shikamaru stared at him. His eyes were wide onyxes in his pale face, but he didn’t say anything— he just stared. Agonized, Shikadai clenched his fists against the wood.

“For better or for worse, all we have is each other,” he said, voice cracking with a sob. “That’s all we’ve got, and I’m not letting go of that. So you sit here and sulk all ya want, Dad. I’m going to my room.” He pushed himself to his feet, gathered up the daffodil, and stomped off down the hallway while furiously scrubbing the tears from his face. Yet like the rain outside, they kept pouring.

As soon as Shikadai slammed the door shut behind it, he collapsed back against it, sinking down to a sitting position. He hugged the daffodil to his chest as he cried, and his father’s words echoed in his head.

“Ayumi isn’t a replacement for your mother, Shikadai!”

Of course she wasn’t. Nothing could ever replace his bright, beautiful mom. But that didn’t mean that someone couldn’t fill the void, right? Isn’t that what she would want? For someone to take care of them, to love them as she would, to bring happiness and light back into this broken home?

He wanted to believe that. He wanted to believe so badly that’s what his mother wanted. He wanted to believe that she guided Ayumi to them because she couldn’t bear to see them suffer anymore, couldn’t bear to watch the family she loved so much torn apart by her overwhelming absence.

Sobs bordering on wails echoed through Shikadai’s room as he howled with the wind, thick globs of tears pouring down his face to splash down onto the daffodil’s yellow petals. And as he cracked his eyes open, looking at the colors of the daffodil kaleidoscoping in his watery vision, he was overwhelmed by a simple desire: Ayumi.

She couldn’t replace his mother, but she could hold him, she could comfort him, she could weather him through this terrible storm. And so he found himself wrenching open his window to climb out onto the muddied yard, mud splashing up his legs as he ran back out onto the street with the daffodil clutched to his chest. He squinted against the sheets of pounding rain and the water pouring down his forehead into his eyes. With the road beginning to flood, forming a swampy network of puddles, he didn’t see the rock sticking up from the muck until it was too late.

It collided with his toe and he fell right over it, flinging the pot several yards in front of him. He landed on his hands and knees, mud splashing up all over his front and into his face. He spit the disgusting stuff out of his mouth, coughing, and then looked up with a gasp. There in the middle of the street, the pot lay broken in two, and the torrential rain had washed all the soil away. Shikadai scrambled to get up, feet slipping and sliding in the mud for several seconds before the soles of his shoes finally gained traction. He plucked the daffodil just as it started to be swept away into a stream, and he cradled its limp form gently in his hands.

“No,” he whispered brokenly. Was he destined to be this daffodil, swept away in these never-ending storms of sadness? No, that couldn’t be, he wouldn’t let it be! All he needed was someone to pot him again, to tend to him and give him gentle love and care— and he knew where to find that. Holding the daffodil close, he took off running again.

The storm had reached its peak by the time Shikadai made it to Ayumi’s house. The sky was drenching the earth with a vendetta; the sheets of rain were so thick that Shikadai could hardly see two feet in front of him, and the howling gales buffeted him at every turn, making him unsteady on his feet. He half-ran, half-slid across Ayumi’s yard to stumble up onto his porch, where he collapsed into a heap, panting heavily.

The cold rain had drenched him down to his very cells, it felt like. He was shivering again, feeling like frost was growing in his bones. Still, he summoned up the strength to rap his knuckles against the door. Then that strength gave out, and he flopped down on his side. He curled up around the daffodil, sheltering it from the cold rain with his dwindling body heat. He stroked a finger over one of its dewy petals, watching the yellow blur with his fading vision until it was all just gray-white nothingness.

“I just want us to get better.”

Enjoy this story? Here’s the next chapter! Please consider perusing my Table of Contents.

#naruto #naruto shippuden #boruto #naruto next generations #nara shikamaru #nara shikadai #naruto oc

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darisu-chan · 5 years ago

Text

whatever our souls are made of (his and mine are the same), pt. 5

Hi!

Welcome back to another one-shot, sorri it’s so late.

Hope you guys like it and let me know what you think.

You can also read it here.

Enjoy!

(don’t) lie

Prompt: betrayal

Summary: Ichigo can’t keep pretending anymore, because ignoring his true feelings would be a betrayal to his own soul.

It starts simple enough.

One comment is all it takes to make him question everything.

Who knew something so innocent would make him want to lose his sanity?

“You don’t fight anymore, right Ichigo?” Keigo mentions one evening as the whole gang is out drinking beer.

Ichigo doesn’t know exactly how to respond to that.

If Keigo means he doesn’t pick up fights with random gang members, then he’s absolutely right.

He’s found that people in college are less likely to care about inane bullshit, such as his hair color. Ichigo’s seen people with hair of all colors, and questionable fashion sense out and about in his university. He guesses when one has to worry about due dates and exams, it feels idiotic to care about anything else. So, no. No one has picked up fights with him in campus. And since he’s busy with school work and his part time job, he rarely sees gangs messing around on the streets. Also, none of those guys made it into college anyway.

So, there’s that.

If Keigo means he hasn’t fought any baddies lately, then he’d also be right.

Without Yhwach making an appearance and with Aizen imprisoned for a thousand years, things in the Soul Society have been pretty peaceful during the last two years or so. As far as he knows, there hasn’t been any reason to worry. Although he still worries. Every day. That something might disturb this peace.

It is kinda unsettling.

But if Keigo means that he doesn’t train with his zanpakutō or that he doesn’t fight Hollows anymore… well…

He’s still considered a Substitute Shinigami for a reason.

And yet that’s not the comment which pisses him off.

“Of course not.” Inoue answers for him. “Kurosaki-kun doesn’t need to fight anymore, right, Kurosaki-kun?”

“We won the war, after all.” Chad mentions, nodding at Inoue’s previous words.

Ishida looks away, disagreeing with the other two but not being brave enough to outright say it so.

“Oh so I guess there’s no need for you to see Kuchiki anymore.” Tatsuki retorts and then she chuckles, prompting the others to share a laugh.

Keigo and Ishida, though, don’t laugh at all.

“What do you mean, Tatsuki?” Ichigo turns to his childhood friend, unsure of what she means.

“That if things are peaceful now, there’s no need for you and Kuchiki to meet so frequently.” That’s her reply.

And it…

Well

It pisses him off more than it should have.

“Why can’t I see Rukia?” He questions her and it is clearly from his tone of voice that he’s anything but happy.

All of his friends know that Rukia visits him often and, whenever she can’t, he goes to the Soul Society in his free time, as per their mutual agreement.

Ichigo never thought they would have an issue with that because, wasn’t Rukia their friend too?

Why is it so bad that he still wants Rukia to be part of his life?

Understandably, there’s a shift in the mood.

“I…” His tone is so biting that Tatsuki is at a loss for words.

“What Tatsuki-chan means is that you and Kuchiki-san don’t have business together anymore.” Inoue tries to explain, and when he doesn’t look convinced, she continues, “Because she and the Soul Society don’t need your help anymore, there’s no reason for her to come back.”

There’s something in the way she says these things that grates on Ichigo’s nerves.

Because it is true.

The Soul Society doesn’t need him anymore.

He went and fought and bled… and he’s not even sure he won.

(In your happiest moment, I will be back, Ichigo, and I will defeat you)

And since things have been calm, the only thing he’s been useful for is sending errant souls to the Soul Society and purifying Hollows.

But one thing is the Soul Society and another very different is Rukia.

Or at least, Ichigo had thought so before this conversation.

And he hates himself for it, yet there’s a tiny part of him which wonders if he’s still useful to Rukia.

If there’s any reason at all why she has kept contact with him.

So he doesn’t answer them.

He stops adding to the conversation, though. And the most he can muster is a few quips here and there. Thankfully Keigo can talk enough for the both of them, so he’s not missed.

At the end of the night, as he leaves the bar, it is Ishida who stops him.

“Don’t listen to them, Kurosaki. They don’t know what they’re talking about.” That’s all he says before leaving.

Who knew his former rival would get him more than his other friends?

Well, Ishida’s his cousin after all, and the two have lived through things the others can’t imagine. Not even the ones who had accompanied them in all of their adventures.

Even so, there’s a distressing feeling in the pit of his stomach that doesn’t go away.

Emotions and thoughts he had buried long ago, resurface with a vengeance.

And there’s an ugly voice inside his head questioning everything he knows.

Is he worthy?

Is he useful?

He’s not

That’s why Yhwach hadn’t been defeated.

Because he hadn’t been strong enough.

Can he even call himself a hero?

No wonder Rukia left him for seventeen months.

No wonder she barely had any contact with him for two years.

She probably came back because she pities him.

There’s just no way…

No way she─

And then, Rukia’s there.

Back in his life, smiling at him, asking him about his school life, his job, his friends, and for a whole weekend Ichigo forgets why he was so upset.

But when she leaves, there’s an endless void inside of him again.

He almost feels like a Hollow.

And Ichigo doesn’t understand why.

He trusts Rukia.

Trusts her more than he trusts himself.

He knows her.

Can read her like an open book.

He’s sure there’s no pity in her eyes when she looks at him, nor hatred or any other negative emotion.

She knows who he is.

She trusts him.

Then why is he so ruffled by what Tatsuki and Inoue implied?

It’s disconcerting.

He shouldn’t feel insecure, and yet, here he is, awake at three o’ clock in the morning, wondering why the thought of Rukia leaving him again is so upsetting.

Ichigo knows he can live without her.

The quality of his life, though, would be worse and he knows he’d be an empty shell walking for a long while. But knowing Rukia’s safe and happy would be enough to eventually move on.

He can live without her.

But he doesn’t want to.

And the why is the most troubling thing.

There are plenty of reasons and justifications he can come up with.

Rukia saved his life.

Rukia gave him the power to protect.

Rukia changed his world.

And yet none of them encompass what he feels.

Deep inside, he knows all this time he’s been lying to himself.

And when he sees her again, asking him if he’s alright, her eyes worried and her reiatsu reaching out to calm him down, he has his answer.

Ichigo can’t keep pretending anymore, because ignoring his true feelings would be a betrayal to his own soul.

He knows why Tatsuki and Inoue’s comments cut deep.

He realizes why he wants to become essential to her.

Because Rukia is essential in his life.

And from now on, he’s going to show her.

He’ll stop this charade once and for all.

No more lies.

No more betraying what he feels.

Ichigo will be honest.

Because Rukia…

She’s worth the whole universe.

#ichiruki #ichirukimonth #ichirukimonth2020 #pro ichiruki #ichiruki fanfiction #my fanfiction

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foxedthecards · 3 months ago

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Jonas just...continued to smile. Although the sides of his jaw were fucking aching at this point.

He let her rattle and ramble on, get her little self-satisfied potshots in about magic and magicians, yes yes blah blah, stuff for kids, dying art, everyone knows the tricks, naming off the three names that pretty much everyone knew...ok maybe mayyybe she did hit the nail on the head about the blood pressure spiking up with the mention of Criss Angel. Yeah he probably could have played it cooler with that one. Stupid douchebag...

Honestly with all her endless ENDLESS boring rambling it was sort of getting harder to focus on the conversation at all. Jonas found himself tuning out at several parts. Would she ever shut up? What even was she talking about anymore? He tuned in briefly for a moment. Yep, still going on about how great her murdercast was...ok good for you or something. Maybe while she was continuing to ramble on, he could think of some other little catty comments to snipe at her.

Then he heard her mention Arthur and his focus blinked back in almost against his will. Because at this point Jonas had started wondering, was Artair still outside where he'd asked him to wait? How long had this fucking conversation been going on? Felt like nearly a month now. Definitely a long time for someone to wait and if this woman had gotten so badly to him like this...

That...bothered him a lot. Thinking of Artair being by himself, upset. That bothered him a whole fucking lot. He'd gotten so caught up in this stupid and pointless little game of one-uppance...ugh. Alright time to wrap this shit up...wait...what had she said?

Surely he would have told you if you were close? People disappearing? Murder? Wait a minute. Wait just one fucking minute. What was this inane little snipe implying?

Was...was she trying to put a finger on Artair for fucking murder or some shit? Artair?

Something started buzzing violently in his head. Coldness as heavy and dense as lead settled in the pit of his stomach as he stared at Peyton, standing there with her hand over her heart, glowing with the smug satisfaction of thinking she was doing the world some kind of big fucking favor.

His smile became wider. Sharp as a razor.

" You're a goddamn vulture and a liar. "

The words were so soft, so cold that they didn't even feel like his own. It was like something was speaking in his ear and he was just repeating it. He was feeling something he'd honestly never really felt before and that was...hatred and fury that burned blue fire.

How dare she. How fucking dare she.

" You don't care about the living. That's obvious. You don't want to help the living at all. You crack open their chests to make them bleed out over and over again. You gladly pour that suffering blood down your throat and the throats of your idiotic followers because you don't thirst for justice or closure. You thirst for validation and attention. Like a spoiled child. You are right about one thing though, grasping the monetary gain from their suffering in your pretty manicured claws is just a pleasant benefit from picking apart the bones of the dead isn't it? You don't care about hurting people like Arthur. Just like the murderers you pretend to be exposing for the Greater Good or whatever little fantasy about yourself that you spin in your mind. Really you're just a glorified serial killer fangirl with access to the internet. "

He was taking out his phone as he talked, opened the camera app and held it up in front of Peyton's face.

" Go ahead. Tell the world who your favorite serial killer is!" he said in a sickly sweet voice, that cold smile still stretched across his face. He tapped the record button. He was so ready at this point to leave this odious conversation but if nothing else he had to get at least one last jab in.

God, the mention of Criss Angel nearly made him want to barf. As if his opinion of her wasn't low enough already...

His smile remained poker-steady though as did his gaze and he almost wanted...to laugh. Right in her face, even. Oh, he didn't miss those catty little jabs directed at him! Not at all.

But she might as well have been throwing peanut shells at him. He'd been raised under a self-absorbed woman who could eviscerate someone with a golden tongue and still have them come back begging for more. Did she think petty insults about personal fashion, size or job reputation would even make a dent in the amount of scar tissue around his shredded self-esteem? Hah. That shit had been layering up since he was in third grade.

" Oh bitch, pleaaaase you make me giggle with that naiveté it's sweet really. Vegas would eat you alive and not even bother spitting out the bones, " he tittered, fingers pressed playfully to his mouth, keeping his tone just light and teasing enough. " God, though I'd love to introduce you to Criss Angel sometime, you're exactly the sort of wide-eyed ingénue influencer he loves to stroke his ego. If you ever got him to notice you that is, you'd practically have to stalk him but I bet you're so good with that, you sly thing. He stays sooooo busy with all those planted volunteers and camera edit illusions. Still you have to admire how much he loves his own reputation, he tends to sort of draw in like-minded fans in that respect. Are you a little fan of his? That's so sweet? God I hope you're not gullible enough to actually think that's reputable magic though, I mean I can't tell looking at you but I'd hope you'd be a little smarter than to think he's the highest of the industry standards, the entire Nevada County Magicians' Guild would laugh you all the way out of Vegas and into Alaska. Oh honey don't ever come to Vegas and embarrass yourself like that I'd feel so bad for you. Ahah-hah-hah! " He did laugh in her face then and admittedly it felt pretty damn good.

Barely taking a minute to breathe or let her get a word in edgewise he rambled on because the urge to absolutely cut this unpleasant woman to pieces with backhanded compliments had all but possessed him. " Anyways, Patience, sorry wasn't paying attention to that last part you said you do a uh little podcast or something? Don't you have just the face for doing a podcast! I tease darling, I tease well it's nice you have a cute little hobby until something like real work comes in. Also oooooOOOooo dark secrets, you say? Oh that makes sense on why you cornered Arthur, trying to get him to confess to jaywalking or something. Get those suscriber numbers back up when the content starts getting stale, right? God I bet you're so clever with fattening up mundane 'true crimes' to entertain your followers too but please no tell me more, I'm soooo interested! "

#jonas copperhart #peyton #((easily the most THOROUGHLY unpleasant conversation Jonas has had to suffer through))#((he's ready to leave her ass here and get back to what's important making sure Artair's ok))#((also the power of ADHD really comes in handy just tune it right on out lol))

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mcnypieces · 5 years ago

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a stranger from afar ferried: Bet the big lug’s thinking about Lulu today

Brittle, taut silence. Disturbed by the sound of a falling pin, the prick of a needle the root of hairline fractures along a surface of glass. Panic was the shattering that followed floundering about over diction to find some excuse, some wretched words to forgive the reprehensible. No patience for babbling, no tolerance, burning warm as sun-baked concrete. Delay meant nothing to hazed rage. Red glint and atrocious intent, no faux placidness to wall up the collapse of listless demeanor. It wells not at entertained hysterics at the expense of personal flaws but something unrefined; the rawness of a nerve thought never exposed .

That warm sight. The graze of pale fingertips down coarse skin, growing pulse as it traces low, bold, against tensed muscle. What undying appreciation she had laced so elegantly into burning needs. That weight quivers before him, dampens the meat of a thigh nestled between splayed limbs. And her delicate voice splutters, tainted with the incoherence of saliva. How blessed the filthiest blood looked painted along the canvas of seraphic skin. Heavenly body, hellish appetite, some emptied mind in carnal purgatory. It sates the addled, soothes apathetic wrath into raved etching on a slab. Those pleading eyes who’s color rocks back and forth, trembling figure beneath his callous finger sculpting faint spade shapes into abdomen. That feverish begging to fit perfectly into the stone alcove scored by a violent hand arouses inexplicable things once believed non-existent. To kill for naught but the right to that sensual worship was too little, too worthless .

But the faceless would besmirch their holy name. Openly, without remorse, as if to defile the ground they walked upon with inane thought. There were none among the dregs with the right to suggest such sultry things. Their family was omnipotent. The very thought of empty words dragging reputations through grit and dirt is blasphemous, heinous, worthy only of endless suffering rotting consciously in the depths of a pit. One hunger replaced with another more familiar, a screech of leather friction as fingers curl tight into palm. Strangling force would break skin beneath the sheer strength of physicality. Something thin snaps acute as a whip against the back, contorting shells of bedrock at armor-clad ankles as vengeful golds lour down to contemptible presence .

How dare they assume. How dare they think so lowly, preach such ignorance of his complex thought. What right did they possess, detestable and foul, to pelt an angel with his stone? Those wings were his to disgrace, accepting body willing to be dragged down into the pleasing privacy of debris and ruin for sanctuary after vulnerable exposure. Passionate thought dies as soon as it’s birthed, an unwanted sacrifice to old, baleful habits. His voice cracks at an unfathomably high chord .

❝ How dare you speak her name . ❞

They’re not allowed. They’re not allowed . That suggestive vulgarity on the tongue is revolting in another person’s mouth .

❝ Bury you ── I’ll bury you alive . ❞

#❥ // * … won’t kill them ( answer. )#♠ // * ic ( pica. )#❥ // * masked from the sea ( anon. )#❥ // * drawing ever too close to the water ( suggestive. )#|| whoever sent this is worth ten whole goats.#unfortunately they're all dead.#but the monetary and sentimental value remains the same to me.#the lot of you really looking to delve into his repressed emotions huh #and I mean all of them.#there is... a lot to unpack.#he's... angry. very angry. ||

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charanteleclerc · 6 years ago

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breathe (i’m here beside you)

They didn’t talk about it, after Australia. They came home, they trained, and they talked. But they didn’t talk about it.

They did the same, after Bahrain. After he’s raged, and cried, and gone hoarse from all the vitriolic words he’s spat and screamed out, Pierre just holds him. Pierre talks about the most random, inane things that he could possibly think of, one thought leading onto another with seemingly no connection. And they still don’t talk about it.

And now they’re sat on a plane home, trying to blink away the memories of a poor race for both of them - and they’re still not talking about it.

He’s not going to say anything - now definitely wouldn’t be the time, with other drivers sat in the small (too small) plane - but Charles isn’t sure if he should bring it up at all, or wait for Pierre to approach him. The endless, trivial chatter had helped him in Bahrain. Maybe it was Pierre’s way of coping. Enough white noise to dull out the screaming thoughts.

The problem was, Charles didn’t think Pierre was talking about it with anyone. And bottling up that much emotion, it didn’t bode well. Something would end up cracking that protective wall Pierre had built up, and then it’d only be a matter of waiting until he did something reckless.

Charles just couldn’t let him be reckless. He couldn’t.

He watched Pierre the entire plane ride home, not really caring if he was being unapproachable to the others. A couple of them looked concerned, even Pierre did, but he didn’t care. He brushed them off with the excuse of tiredness, which they took unsaid that he meant ‘pissed off about the race’. They’d all been there, at one point or the other.

“You sure you’re okay?” Pierre asked, a small frown on his face. Charles nodded, sinking down into his chair.

“Just tired.” He said again. Pierre didn’t look fully convinced, but he thankfully didn’t argue. There were some things better left for private.

Charles finally fell asleep, listening to quiet conversations, trying to stop the feeling that he was doing something wrong, he just didn’t know what.

~*~

Charles woke up to a dull thud, thud, thud coming from the next room. He’d been home a couple of days, and in all honesty, he’d spent them hold up inside. He’d done his morning training, but the runs hadn’t helped to clear his head much. Too much rage, too many questions. And he still really needed to talk to Pierre. Aside from quick texts, Charles hadn’t heard from him. It wasn’t completely unusual, they didn’t actually live in each other’s pockets. Pierre was his closest friend, of course he was. They’d grown up together. Pierre had been there after his dad, he’d been there after Jules. They’d celebrated together, and cried together. But they were adults now, it probably wasn’t healthy to spend all their time together. They’d done that enough when they were younger, a little space could be good from time to time.

Thud, thud, thud.

Charles groaned. Whatever that noise was, it wasn’t stopping, and it was starting to piss him off. It was probably his neighbours doing… fuck know what’s they were doing, but he just wished they do it quieter.

He wandered into his living room, day seemingly off to a bad start, when he finds himself confronted by the sight of Pierre on his couch. Pierre, sitting on his couch, throwing and catching a tennis ball against the far wall.

“I have neighbours, you know?” He narrowed his eyes. “How did you get in?”

“Through the door, with a key. Like a normal person.” Pierre replied. “And maybe your neighbours will just assume you’re having really hot, athletic sex.” He leered slightly. Charles rolled his eyes, huffing.

“Maybe if you were prettier.” He replied. “Coffee?”

“I will take your free coffee, and pretend I didn’t hear the part about me not being pretty.” Pierre pulled himself off the sofa, following Charles to his kitchen. “I was beginning to think you’d never wake up.”

“Why are you here?” Charles asked, grabbing the mugs. It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy to see Pierre, far from it, but Pierre didn’t usually turn up at his apartment at 6.30 in the morning.

“Wanted to see if you’d come on a bike ride with me.” Pierre shrugged. “We haven’t seen much of each other these last few weeks, not just as us anyway. It’d be nice to just hang out.”

“That sounds good.” Charles nodded. “Up into the hills?”

“Sure.” Pierre grins, watching Charles pour the coffee. “I like mine…”

“Black, one sugar. I know.” Charles replied, handing Pierre his coffee. “I’ll go and get changed, do you have your bike with you?”

“In the hall.” Pierre replied, staring at his mug with an odd expression. Charles didn’t question it. He was going to have Pierre alone for a few hours at least, maybe they could finally have the conversation that they’d been avoiding.

~*~

Pierre was waiting for him at the top of the trail, laughing whilst trying to catch his breath. “Finally beat you!”

Charles skidded to a stop, blood pounding in his ears. “I’ll get you next time.” He tried to threaten, but it was hard to sound threatening when his breath was coming out in gasps. He put his bike down, collapsing onto the grass. Pierre sat beside him, watching the sun climb higher into the sky.

“I -” Pierre started, not taking his eyes off the sight of Monaco beneath them. “I’m scared Charles.”

“Why?” Charles asked, fully knowing the answer. He’d heard the rumours, and if he’d heard them then Pierre certainly had.

“I can’t get more out of the car.” Pierre said. “It’s not there. I don’t know how Max is doing it, but I definitely can’t replicate it. Fuck, I was doing better lap times in the Toro Rosso.”

“Have you talked to them?” Charles asked gently. “Have you talked to Christian?”

Pierre mad a noise, a kind of broken laugh. “I’ve tried. They don’t care. I wasn’t supposed to be in that seat yet. I was never a part of their big grand plan. Dan was supposed to stay, and I was supposed to stay at Toro Rosso.” He put his head in his hands, and Charles knew he was trying to stop the tears from coming. “Everyone can see it coming, and they’re talking about it like I’m an idiot who doesn’t know. Like it isn’t the only thing I’m thinking of all the time.”

Charles put a hand on the back of Pierre’s neck, giving it a light squeeze. “You deserve that seat. You’ll put in the results to keep that seat. You’ll prove it to them.”

“I think they may have already decided.” Pierre’s voice was small. “There’s always someone quicker, better.”

“Pierre.” Charles pulled Pierre towards him, until he was leaning on head on his shoulder. “You deserve that seat. If Red Bull can’t see that, then they don’t deserve you.”

“I can’t do what Daniil’s done” Pierre whispered. Charles could feel Pierre’s body shaking. How long had he been holding this in? Pierre had been there for him, without question or complaint. He should’ve been there for him sooner.

“You won’t.” Charles tried to sound as confident as possible. “You’re going to find more in that car. You’re going to talk to the team. And you can always talk to me.”

Pierre was sobbing now, clutching at Charles’s shirt in desperation. Charles held onto him, rocking him gently. He didn’t stop until Pierre’s sobs sounded like they were being being wrenched from him, his breath becoming shallow.

“Pierre, I need you to breathe. Breathe. In, and out.” He took a deep breath in, holding for a few seconds before exhaling. “Just like that, do it with me.” He breathed with Pierre, until he was breathing more easily. “You can’t keep holding everything in like that.”

“I know.” Pierre’s voice sounded hoarse. “I know, but there was never the time…”

“I’ll make the time.” Charles reassured him. “God, Pierre. You’re my best friend, I’ll make the time for you.”

“You can’t blow off Ferrari.”

“That is not important now. You are.” Charles said firmly. “You’re always more important.”

“What would your dad say?” Pierre started. “What would -”

“Jules would do the same thing I’m doing now. He’d be the first to tell Ferrari to fuck off. Pierre.” Charles leant back enough so he could see into the other man’s face. “You are far more important than any team.”

Pierre nodded, scrubbing at his face with a hand. “Sorry if I got your shirt damp.”

“Nothing I haven’t already done to you.” Charles smiled. “Do you want to stay up here for a while?”

Pierre nodded, looking back towards Monaco. “It’s peaceful.”

“It is.” Charles agreed. He reached for Pierre’s hand, giving it a quick squeeze. They sat in silence for a while, watching the sun rising higher in the sky. They didn’t move until they could hear noises on the trail behind them. They’d made an early start, now the rest of the world was beginning to wake.

“Thank you.” Pierre said quietly, picking up his bike.

“No need to thank me.” Charles replied. “Race to the bottom?”

“You’re going to lose again!” Pierre grinned, his usual happy personality already falling back into place.

“I’ll be waiting at the bottom!”

~*~

Charles jogged down the Paddock, trying to make for the Red Bull garage as quickly as possible. He’d finished on the podium today, but even better, Pierre had finished P4, outpacing Max all weekend. He had no idea where Pierre had found the extra pace, but his belief in him had been proven correct. And whilst it was still not a victory, he’d been faster than his team-mate, and he’d beaten a Mercedes too. There was no asking for a better weekend.

There was a lot of commotion around the Red Bull garage, and he encountered more than one hostile look. He waited safely on the pit wall. He couldn’t be told off for spying, all the way over here.

“Well, don’t you look suspicious.” He heard someone tease. Pierre was walking out from the garage, a large grin on his face. Charles laughed, patting the spare bit of wall next to him.

“If I were doing anything suspicious, I’d be a lot less obvious. And congratulations.”

“You’re the one who ended up on the podium.”

“True.” Charles shrugged. “But you definitely drove a better race than me today.”

“I was good today.” Pierre grinned. “Fuck, I beat Max! It felt so fucking good!”

“I bet his face was a picture.” Charles chuckled.

“He was furious.” Pierre laughed. “He’s been looking at both the cars for ages, trying to figure out if there’s a difference.”

Charles snorted. “I wish I could’ve seen that.”

“I’ll take a photo next time.” Pierre promised. He sounded so much happier than he had a couple of weekends ago. More at ease, more confident. More like the old Pierre. “A few others are going out tonight. You want to come?”

“Sure.” He hadn’t won today, but a podium was still a good reason to celebrate. And he missed catching up with the other drivers, he’d been kept so spectacularly busy by Ferrari in his first few races, with very little downtime allowed. “Just maybe not as wild as last time though?”

“It wasn’t my fault that Esteban got stuck up that tree!” Pierre protested.

“Sure, it had nothing to do with all those vodka shots you gave him.” Charles grinned. “Look, I’d better go before I’m missed too much. See you in a bit?”

“Pick me up from the hotel, I promise I won’t be late.” Pierre said, jumping down from the wall and walking back to his garage, to the intense relief of his mechanics. Charles shook his head, amused. What did they think he could do anyway? Amazingly, the drivers didn’t sit down and sit car specifications for fun.

He headed towards the motorhome, itching for a shower and a bit of peace and quiet, but it was unlikely to come. He was whisked straight into a debrief, which always took forever because Seb always had a list of things to discuss. It was great in the long run, and it was amazing how much he could figure out about a car just by staring at it. But it had been a long race, and with the promise of a night out on the horizon he suddenly felt caged, wanting to be able to shake all his tension off. He’d just have to deal with it, nod or shake his head in the right places. The one upside is that Seb would happily do the majority of the talking, without being asked.

~*~

It felt like an age later, but he was finally waiting in the lobby of Pierre’s hotel. He hadn’t been able to find shirt that wasn’t bright red in his suitcase, which had resulted in the quickest run to a shop ever. Thankfully a lot of businesses were still open, staying open late because of the extra tourism the race brought in.

“Looking hot.” A low voice sounded behind him, making him jump. Pierre was right behind him, predatory grin on his face. Charles rolled his eyes, swatting at him gently.

“Did you not look in a mirror?” Charles asked, raising an eyebrow. Pierre was dressed in tight black clothing, hair artfully done. He’d really taken ‘dress to impress’ to the next level, it was almost scandalous.

Pierre shrugged, slinging an arm over Charles’s shoulder. “Come on, the night is still young! Let’s have some fun!” He cried, ignoring the stares they were getting. “The others are already at the club, come on.”

Charles allowed himself to be led out to a waiting taxi, almost being pushed into it. He heaved a sigh of relief as they sat down, stretching his arms upward until his shoulders cracked. “I know I said not as mad as last time, but I really do need some shots.”

“Now you’re talking!” Crowed Pierre. “I was beginning to think that you were becoming an old man right in front of me.”

“I’m younger than you!”

“In body yes, but in soul no. That’s what really counts.”

“I act young!” Charles tries protesting, even as Pierre is shaking his head. “I do!”

“Okay, show me that tonight.” Pierre said, easy smirk on his face. “I dare you.”

“What do I get if I win?”

“What do you want?” Charles could hear the challenge in there, unsaid.

“You pick up my entire tab.” Charles said, getting louder as Pierre groaned. “What’s wrong with that!”

“Fine, fine. Deal. You’re not off to a good start though.” Pierre warned, glancing out of the window. “Ooh, we’re here!”

The others were waiting inside, having commandeering an entire booth, empty drink glasses already scattered. “We were beginning to think that you weren’t going to show!” Carlos said as they sat down.

“My fault, sorry!” Pierre held up his hands. “Couldn’t find anything to wear.”

“Trying to impress someone, Gasly?” Esteban appeared, carrying a tray of various shot glasses. Charles felt Pierre still a little next to him.

“You should always prepare to impress someone.” Was the easy reply, as if he hadn’t just reacted to that question. “You never know who you could meet, or who you could go home with.”

Wolf whistles and cheers went up from the others, but Charles’s mind was stuck on the last part of that sentence. Was that why Pierre was all dressed up, so he could find an easy fuck for the night?

Esteban was passing round the shots, and Charles didn’t even look at what drink he had, deciding to just down it. He slammed the glass down on the table with a little bit more force than necessary, gasping at the burn in his throat.

“Wow Charles, you’re not messing around.” Alex said, stunned. He could feel the others staring, and he just looked at Pierre, smirking.

“I’ve got a bet to win.”

~*~

He was so drunk. So, so drunk. He’d lost track of how much he’d drunk a while ago, but it was a lot. Especially vodka. So much vodka.

He needed more vodka.

He stumbled to his feet, making his way to the bar. “One vodka please.” He asked the bartender, grinning when the drink was put in front of him. “Merci mademoiselle. Merci beaucoup.” He threw his head back as he drunk, the burn barely noticeable now.

“Charles, Charles!” Pierre appeared out of nowhere, hugging him from behind. “Charles, you’re so warm.”

“You’re cuddly.” Charles said happily. “Pierre, it’s so crazy.”

“What is?”

“I don’t know.” He leant back against Pierre, laughing. “I don’t know, but it’s crazy.”

“Okay, it’s crazy.” Pierre nodded, patting at Charles’s stomach. Charles giggled, wriggling a little.

“That tickles.”

“What, this?” Pierre whispered in Charles’s ear, patting his stomach again. Charles snorted.

“Yes, that.”

Pierre hummed, swaying them gently. “I want to dance.” He said absently. Charles felt his heart beat a little quicker, and something in his stomach tightened. He must be falling sick. Or it was the alcohol. Must be the alcohol.

“There are lots of pretty girls to dance with.”

Pierre sighed, spinning Charles around. “Dance with me Charles.” He said, grabbing him by the hand and dragging him onto the dance floor. It was loud and crowded, so many bodies pressed up against him. “Being young tonight.” Pierre reminded him, pulling him close. “You need to learn how to dance.”

“I can dance.” Charles insisted, ignoring Pierre’s amused look. “I can totally dance, watch me.”

He moved in time with the beat, and something shifted in Pierre’s eyes. There was something hungry in them, and Charles could feel the tension in him. Charles slung his arms around Pierre’s neck, pulling him close. He heard him groan, he could feel hands on his waist.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Charles Leclerc.” Pierre whispered, his hands tightening on his waist. Charles looked up at him.

“Told you I could dance.”

Pierre groaned again, dropping his head to Charles’s shoulder. Charles grinned. Dancing with Pierre was amazing, why didn’t he dancing more? He should definitely dance more.

Pierre pulled back slightly, his eyes dark. Suddenly, Pierre was leaning in, and there were warm lips on his, and Charles’s brain was short-circuiting. Pierre was kissing, and it felt amazing.

Pierre pulled back, the shock loss made Charles try and follow. Pierre let go of him like he was burning, panic on his face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He repeated, pushing his way through the crowd. Charles was left standing on the dance floor, blinking and breathless, and suddenly feeling cold.

~*~

Charles didn’t see Pierre until the next day, sitting in his usual seat on the plane. Charles sat opposite him, giving him a soft smile, but Pierre just turned to look out of the window, putting his headphones on and turning his music up loud.

The flight was lonely, despite there being other people on board. He allowed himself to be pulled into conversations, and there were teasing remarks made about how much he drank last night. But he kept glancing back at Pierre, his heart sinking every time he saw that deliberately blank look on his face.

When they landed, Pierre was out of his seat and off before Charles could stop him. Barely a word to anyone and he was gone. Someone made a quick remark about his quick disappearance, that maybe he’d been rejected last night, but Charles didn’t know who said it, nor cared. His world had narrowed down to just one person, the rest of the world a daze to him.

He waited until he was home, pulling out his phone and sending a text, fingers flying over the keyboard.

Charles: Want to go for a bike ride? Or a run? 14:12

He lay down on his sofa, trying not to remember Pierre sitting in the exact same spot only a week ago, throwing that tennis ball at the wall. His mind was spinning. Pierre had always flirted with him, but that’s because he was Pierre. He flirted with everyone. But then there were the things he did himself. How he’d felt when he thought Pierre was trying to impress someone. How he knew what Pierre was thinking by just looking. He knew how he took his coffee.

Fuck.

He checked his phone, but no reply. He pulled himself up, heading to the bedroom and quickly changing his shirt. Then he changed it again, just in case. He might as well look good.

Pierre didn’t live far away, but the walk there seemed to take forever. He had enough self-awareness to make sure that he didn’t just wander out onto the road, but only just. As he reached Pierre’s building, someone was coming out, and he quickly ducked in through the door. Pierre would’ve been more likely to ignore him if he’d been standing on the street.

His heart was beating fast as he approached Pierre’s door, he could hear it pounding in his ears. He was not afraid of racing at insane speeds, of throwing himself round corners with such force it left him breathless. But this? This had him terrified to his core.

He knocked quickly on the door, hoping that Pierre didn’t think to check who it was first. The seconds crept by, and he couldn’t hear any movement inside. He knocked again, a little louder this time. Still nothing. He tried again, banging his fist against the door. “Pierre! Pierre, open up!” He said, voice raised. “I’m going to have this conversation with you, even if you’re not going to talk.” He waited for a few seconds, still hearing no noise. “Fine. Look, I understand you’re freaking out. I’m sorry if… I don’t know, if I gave you the wrong impression. That it was unwelcome, or anything. It wasn’t. Some things have only just clicked in my mind, and I’m sorry it’s taken this long. But if you don’t want anything to change, just say because that’s -”

“Are you okay?” A woman poked her head around her door, a confused look on her face.

“I’m sorry, madame. I’m trying to have a conversation, I’ll be quieter, I’m sorry.”

“That’s very sweet, but I don’t think he’s home yet.” The lady said. “But I can give you a key?”

~*~

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but he put it down to jet lag and crashing from the adrenaline high he’d be on. He’d been wandering around the apartment; then he’d been sitting, nervously bouncing his leg; then he was asleep. Damn, Pierre had one comfy sofa.

He awoke with a start as the door slammed. “Que...?”

Pierre was stood at the end of the sofa, arms crossed and that same blank look on his face. Charles blinking, groaning. “What time is it?”

“Five, I think.” Pierre shrugged. “I don’t care. What are you doing here?”

“Uhh..” Charles yawned. “I came to talk.”

“How did you get in?”

“Your next door neighbour.” Charles admitted, sitting up. “I was talking to your door for a while.”

Pierre didn’t respond, continuing to stare. Charles sighed, running a hand over his face. “If I talk, will you listen? Because it works better when you’re not ignoring me.”

Pierre rolled his eyes, dropping into a spare seat. “Fine.”

Charles took a deep breath. “Look. I know you’re upset, and you’re freaking out. I don’t know why, but you are. And I’m really sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.”

“Yeah, I get it. I’m sorry, I’ll keep my hands to myself.” Pierre muttered.

“What, no! I liked it!” Charles exclaimed. “I was worried that you’d changed your mind.”

Pierre was staring at him incredulously. “No! I thought that you weren’t interested, I’ve been flirting with you for ages. And you never noticed.”

“How long?”

“Years, Charles!” Pierre sounded broken. “Years.”

“I’m sorry I never noticed you.” Charles said quietly. “You’ve been the biggest part of my life, Pierre, you have been for years. We’ve literally live in each other’s pockets, I know how you take your coffee! And I want to know how you look waking up next to me. I want to know how you liked to be touched, I want to hear how you sound.”

Pierre grew steadily redder, shifting in his seat. “You want all of that? Because I don’t think I can take you saying it otherwise.”

“All of that.” Charles said seriously. “All of that and more.”

Pierre sat for a moment, and then suddenly he was in Charles’s lap, warm and there and so Pierre. Charles drank in the sight of him, both watching each other, and Charles wants. He leans forward, resting his head against Pierre’s. “I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on this.” Charles murmured.

“You’ve been so blind.” Pierre replied, leaning in, and Pierre was kissing him. Charles moaned, sliding his hands underneath Pierre’s t-shirt, feeling the muscles along his back. Pierre felt so good under his hands, and his kissing… it was electric. He was perfect, he was gentle and commanding and it was everything he didn’t know he needed. Charles groaned, pulling Pierre closer.

“You have to stay here forever.” Charles whispered, pulling back a little. Pierre smile, rubbing a small circle on Charles’s cheek with his thumb.

“Well, we could take this to the bed.” Pierre suggested, smirking.

“That, we can do that too.” Charles nodded, leaning in to kiss Pierre again, quick and messy. Pierre suddenly grinned, standing up, holding out his hand. Charles let himself be pulled up, and Pierre was up against him again, kissing him and pulling him towards the bedroom, one hand on his waist, the other still holding onto Charles’s hand tightly. They didn’t stop walking until the back of Charles’s legs hit Pierre’s bed. He pulled back from Pierre, sitting down on the bed and scrambling backwards. Pierre just stood there, watching. Charles grinned. “Not joining me?”

Pierre didn’t need telling twice, and he was hovering over Charles, running a hand through his hair. “What do you want?”

“I want you.” Charles replied hoarsely. “I need you now.” He leaned up, dragging Pierre down. He kissed him gently, and they stayed like that, sharing lazy kisses. They could stay like this forever, Charles thought. It was heaven.

Then Pierre sat up, pulling his t-shirt off and fuck, Charles wants. He wants to trail his hands, his mouth, across Pierre’s torso. More than wants, he needs. He needs to touch.

Pierre tugs at the hem of Charles’s shirt, pulling it over his head. Pierre was kissing down his neck, down his chest, his lips feather light and fingers ghosting down Charles’s sides. It wasn’t enough, but it was too much all at once. He felt Pierre give an involuntary groan against his stomach, and he couldn’t help it, he was trying to hold on, grasping at Pierre’s hair, and he was coming hard, gasping.

“Did you just come in your pants?”

“Uh, yeah.” Charles nodded. “Fuck, I just came in my pants like a teenager.”

“Can’t believe you were that horny for me.” Pierre grinned, sitting up. Charles smirked, working at the buttons on Pierre’s jeans. “What are -”

“Both of us don’t have to come in our pants.” Charles explained, pushing Pierre’s underwear out of the way. He put his hand around Pierre’s dick, giving it a couple of strokes. “You going to come for me?” Pierre nodded, biting and lip and groaning. Charles worked him through it, mesmerised by his face, his sounds.

He never wanted to forget this image.

Pierre slumped next to him, breathing hard. Charles rolled onto his side, watching him, watching his breathing return to normal. “Do I live up to fantasy Charles?”

“Better.” Pierre replied simply. They lay in silence for a few minutes, until Charles couldn’t take the stickiness any longer.

“Can I borrow some underwear?” He asked, heading towards the bathroom.

“Sure.”

Charles grabbed a pair from the drawer, going to clean himself off. He pulled off his jeans, changing his underwear before putting his jeans back on. Wearing Pierre’s clothes felt strange, but it was better than going without.

When he walked out, Pierre was still lying where Charles had left him, an indescribable look on his face. “You okay?” He asked, lying down next to him.

“Yeah.” Pierre said. “Just trying to remind myself this isn’t a dream.”

Charles reached up, turning Pierre’s face gently towards him. “I’m here. I’m real.”

“Are you going to stay here?” Pierre asked. Charles knew he didn’t mean now, or was he leaving this apartment. He wanted to know whether things would be going back to how they had been. It wasn’t something that Charles had actually thought about, since the kiss at the club. He’d only thought about having to see Pierre, he hadn’t thought about after. But the thought of walking out the front door, pretending that this never happened, trying to turn the clock back - that thought made him cold inside.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Charles promised. “Whatever you want, I’m yours.”

~*~

Charles walked down the Paddock, unable to keep the smile of his face. The last couple of weeks had been fantastic. He’d only gone home a handful of times, mostly for clean clothes. Being with Pierre was better than anything he could have imagined. They already knew each other so well, and everything new Charles learnt just made him fall even faster.

He’d snuck out of Pierre’s RV early this morning, after waking up with an arm slung across his waist and lazy kisses. He hadn’t wanted to leave, he wished he could just stay and enjoy the company, but they’d agreed not to let anyone know yet. He didn’t have far to go to get back to his RV, the perks of not using hotels for the European races, but he had bumped into Seb as he walked back. Seb had said nothing, only giving him a strange look. It wasn’t unusual to be up this early, many went out for a run at this time, but Charles was still in yesterday’s clothes, rather than his running gear. Thankfully Seb was a private man, and he generally afforded everyone the same luxury. Small miracles.

“You look cheerful.” Seb remarked conversationally, falling into step beside him. “Did the early morning walk do you good?”

Charles tried not to flush. “Helped to clear my head.”

Seb laughed. “Is that what they’re calling it these days? That’s definitely more polite than what I would’ve said.”

Charles frowned. “I - what?” He asked. “How did you -?”

“Charles, why do you think I’m such a private person?”

“Because… I don’t know, just because?”

Seb chuckled. “Well, yes. But it’s more than that. I’m private because it protects my partner. And believe me, it’s caused a few arguments.”

“Why?”

“Because they wanted to share with the world and I didn’t.” Seb said simply. “But I’ve been where you are, I was there for years. Maybe it would’ve been easier if we’d said, but…” He shrugged.

“Wait, are you saying your partner is another driver?” Charles asked, mouth falling open.

“Was. But Charles, I’m going to caution you. If you come out and tell the world, you can’t take it back. But, hiding it can be just as hard.” Seb said, giving a wry smile. “Believe me on that.”

“Why did you never say anything?” Charles asked.

“I don’t really know.” Seb replied. “Media pressure? I was scared? Lots of reasons, I suppose. But I made my choice.” Seb said pleasantly, as if he were discussing the weather. “Enjoy the early morning walks.” He gave a wink, before disappearing off towards the motorhome. Charles watched him go, stunned.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” Pierre wandered over, grinning. Charles stared at him, shaking his head.

“Just some surprising information.” Was all he said. Pierre gave him a pouty look, but Charles just shook his head, amused.

“No, you gossip. Later.”

“You promise?” Pierre asked, raising an eyebrow. Charles grinned, trying not to focus on how much he wanted to kiss Pierre right now.

“Promise.”

~*~

“Seb.”

“Yes.”

“As in, Seb Vettel.”

“Yes.”

“The Sebastian Vettel.”

“Yes.” Charles laughed at the dumbstruck look on his face. “Your surprised face is even worse than mine.”

Pierre made a wounded noise. “You said surprising! That’s not surprising, that’s a bombshell! That’s a bombshell piece of information!” Pierre protested, flopping backwards onto his bed. “You broke my brain.”

“Ah, so no loss then?” Charles teased, yelping when Pierre swatted at him. “Hey!”

“You called me dumb! You deserved that.”

“Okay, okay!” Charles laughed. “Your face was still funny though.”

Pierre made a face, kicking him lightly. “So, did he say anything else? Except the fact that his partner is a former driver?”

“He said that whatever we say to the media can’t be taken back, but that not saying anything has it’s problems too.” Charles shrugged. “Which we could’ve figured out ourselves, no? But he has been doing this media game longer than us.”

“I don’t want to share you. Not just yet.” Pierre said, watching him intently. “If you’re okay with that?”

Charles smiled, leaning down to give Pierre a quick kiss. “They don’t get to have you.” He murmured. “They don’t get to mess with us.”

Pierre hummed, giving Charles a return kiss. “Good. But sadly, they’re waiting.”

Charles groaned. “I can’t wait until we’re back in Monaco.” He complained, standing up. “Back in a proper bed, no distractions.”

“We’ll stay in bed all day.” Pierre promised, giving Charles a filthy smile. Damn, didn’t Pierre know what that did to him?

“I’ll keep you to that.” Charles warned, walking outside. He blinked at the sunlight, sliding his sunglasses on.

“Make sure you keep it down tonight, boys!” Charles heard a teasing voice. Pierre and he both froze, stricken, as Dan and Jev walked past, smirking.

“Err… what?” Pierre asked, voice too high. Dan laughed, ignoring Jev’s playful shove.

“You’ll learn.” Was all he said, grabbing Jev’s hand and pulling him along. Jev shot them an apologetic smile, and then they were gone. Charles shook himself, looking at Pierre who was still gawking at the now empty space.

“I think we might be the worst kept secret here.”

~*~

Blood was pounding through his ears, all he could feel was panic. The race had been red flagged, and all he knew was that Pierre had been involved, that he was in the hospital. It was taking all the self restraint he had to not take off, to try and listen to what his engineers were saying. The last thing he wanted to do was to get in the car right now, but what choice did he have? He wasn’t the one injured, his car wasn’t the one smashed to pieces.

Drivers and mechanics were giving him sympathetic looks. It was well known in the Paddock that they were close friends, regardless of their new relationship. And everyone around him was saying a hushed name, but no matter how quietly they said it, it sounded like they were screaming it at him. Jules, Jules, just like Jules…

“Come with me.” Seb said lowly, patting him on the shoulder. Charles gave a curt nod, clenching and unclenching his fists as he walked. Seb said nothing, and Charles was grateful. If he had to answer one more meaningless question, he might scream.

They walked into the motorhome, and Charles followed Seb to his room. Seb gestured, making no move to go in. “Go. Get your anger out. I’ll make sure no-one comes this way.”

Charles couldn’t open his mouth, but he hoped Seb could see the gratitude in his expression. He went into the room, shutting the door and sinking to his knees. “FUCK!” The scream ripped out from him. “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!”

He punched a wall, then again, and again. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it was bad for him, it hurt, how was he going to explain the grazing, but he just didn’t care. He was scared, and he was angry, and the last thing he wanted was to be treated like he was glass. He wasn’t going to break, but everyone treating him like one wrong word would make him shatter made him want to crawl out of his skin. He screamed until his throat was raw, and then he gave into the tears.

He didn’t notice Seb come in, until he was being told to breathe in, breathe out. It was the same advice he’d given Pierre on top of that hill, all those weeks ago. He wanted to go back to that moment, to hold on and never let go. “Better?” Seb asked quietly. Charles nodded, brushing away his tears.

“Thank you.”

“It’s okay.”

“What do I do Seb?” Charles asked, resting his head against the wall.

“You go out there and you race your hardest. There’s nothing you can do at the hospital, and if the positions were reversed, you’d want Pierre to race?” Seb asked. Charles bit his lip, giving a sharp nod. “Then you’ll do the same for him. Race for the both of you.”

There was a knock at the door, making them jump. “Race restart in fifteen.”

“Thank you.” Seb called, and they heard footsteps walk away. Seb stood up, helping Charles to his feet.

“Really, Seb, thank you.” Charles gave a weak smile. Seb clapped him on the shoulder, returning it.

“Anytime.”

~*~

It was hours before he saw Pierre again. He was in the middle of an interview, trying to be as patient and polite as possible, when he saw him walking through the Paddock. There was a scratch on his nose, and he looked shaken, but he was fine. Safe.

He apologised to the reporter, running towards Pierre, skidding to a stop in front of him. His hands twitched, he desperately wanted to touch, to cement in his mind that Pierre was okay, that he was unharmed, that he was safe, but he couldn’t. There were photographers everywhere, and Pierre’s words were stuck in his mind. I don’t want to share you. Not just yet.

Pierre’s lips twitched, and he raised an eyebrow. He could obviously see how much restraint he was using right now. Then Pierre’s eyes dropped to his mouth, and Charles heard his brain thinking oh, we’re doing this, and then Pierre was kissing them.

There was shouting, and lights flashing, and even a few wolf-whistles. And Charles didn’t care, because Pierre was here, Pierre was okay with this and Pierre was kissing him.

Pierre pulled back, and Charles nearly whined, he might’ve if they weren’t standing in a crowd of people, in the middle of the Paddock. Pierre hugged him tightly, and Charles buried his head into Pierre’s shoulder, letting out a sigh of relief. Here, okay, safe.

“We’re in this together.” Pierre whispered. “They can’t control us anyway. You’re all mine.”

Charles laughed into his shoulder. “I’ll tell them you take all the covers.”

“I’ll tell them you talk in your sleep.” Pierre countered.

“I’ll tell them I make you scream.” Charles tried, but Pierre just laughed.

“I dare you.”

Charles pulled back, giving Pierre a quick, soft kiss, ignoring the questions and the clicks of the cameras still going off. “Never stop coming back to me.”

“I won’t.” Pierre promised. “I won’t.”

~*~

#pierre gasly #charles leclerc #sebastian vettel #daniel ricciardo #jean-eric vergne #carlos sainz jr #esteban ocon #jules bianchi #self-esteem issues #smut #mentions of jules

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emospritelet · 6 years ago

Text

Homecoming - chapter 11

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9] [Part 10]

AO3 link

Five years earlier

The sound of light chatter and background music washed over him, and Ogilvy listened with half an ear, sipping at the glass of wine he had taken from a footman. He was tucked by a marble pillar, watching as the ladies and gentleman wandered past, laughing and chattering about the usual inanities. There would be dancing soon, and he was almost looking forward to being spared from conversation with the other guests. A multitude of lamps sent out a warm light, making diamonds sparkle and eyes gleam and reflecting off the facets of crystal glasses carried on trays by immaculate servants. Lady Ella Deville had always enjoyed parties, and her large London home made an excellent venue in which to host them.

He watched from the sidelines as she drifted past, tall and pale and slender, patting arms and stroking egos and entertaining her guests with wicked jokes and her surprisingly deep laugh. Lady Ella was an excellent hostess, and always made sure to invite him. Even if he was a terrible guest. He had scanned the crowd upon entering, as he always did, but the familiar feeling of disappointment had quickly settled on him like a dark cloud. The milling crowd was made up of ladies and gentlemen, artists and writers, thinkers and philosophers, with a few self-made industrialists such as himself, all gossiping and flirting and drinking too much. Belle was not among the guests.

In his heart he knew that he hadn't really expected her to be there, but Doc insisted that there was always hope, and so he tried to attend as many social occasions as he could, in case the Fates decided to smile on him for a change. The failure to find her was a cause of great anguish for both he and Doc, but it weighed heavier on him, haunting his dreams, stealing his rest with its heavy sense of loss, of hopelessness. He would turn fifty in a few days, with no sign of her, not even a hint of her whereabouts. They had searched in Britain and on the continent, and even journeyed to the Americas in the vain hope of finding her. He had paid eyes and ears in dozens of countries, all reporting back to him at the merest hint of a noblewoman with blue eyes and chestnut hair. All for nothing. It was as though she had fallen off the face of the earth, and after six lifetimes of searching, he was desperately afraid that they would never be reunited.

He tried to tell himself not to lose faith, but every passing year wove another layer into the heavy cloak of despair that wrapped around him. The arrival of Alice four years earlier had helped to lift his spirits, had given him something to concentrate on other than his own misery, but he was well aware that she would grow up and leave eventually. She would find her special someone, and while he wished her to be happy, he dreaded the day that she would go, leaving he and Doc to their too-quiet house and their endless grief.

“Darling, do stop glaring at the guests as though they owe you money.”

Lady Ella’s drawling voice pulled him out of the swamp of self-pity he was wallowing in, and she sashayed nearer, cream silk dress glittering with a multitude of tiny beads, feathery white plumes bobbing atop her perfectly-styled blonde hair. Ropes of diamonds glittered around her neck, and she snapped shut her silk fan and flapped a gloved hand at him.

“Go! Have fun! Talk to someone other than your dear old Professor for a change!”

“I’ll pass, thank you,” he said. “Besides, I’m - ah - enjoying the music.”

“No you’re not,” she said flatly.

“Fine, I’m not,” he grumbled. “Who tuned that cello anyway? It sounds as though he’s playing it with his feet.”

Ella pretended to look affronted, tossing her head a little.

“I have no idea why I bother inviting you to these things,” she huffed. “You always lurk in the corners as though you’d rather be somewhere else. Why do you even come?”

“One never knows when there’ll be someone new in town,” he said, taking a sip of his wine, and she rolled her eyes dramatically.

“Please tell me you’re finally on the lookout for a wife after all these years,” she said. “I can give you some recommendations, if you like. I hear all the gossip and probably know far more dark and delicious secrets than is good for me. I daresay one of my many acquaintances would suit you.”

“I doubt I have the requisite lineage,” he said dryly, and she sniffed, waving a hand.

“Oh, that’s overrated,” she said dismissively. “Take it from someone who married a lord and regrets it constantly.”

“You were already a lady, and your family was as old as your husband’s,” he said. “I have neither title nor family to sweeten the deal.”

“Money bridges many social divides, I find,” she said, with a grin. “And you have plenty of that, darling. There has to be more than one who’d be willing to take you, miserable as you are.”

“Well, thank you for that ringing endorsement, but I don’t need any help in finding a wife.”

“Think about it,” she pressed. “I’m sure young Alice would be pleased to have a mother figure in her life. There are things a father can’t teach a daughter, you know.”

“Perhaps,” he acknowledged. “But nothing that a governess can’t teach her.”

“Assuming you can find one that suits,” she said slyly, and he grunted.

“Yes, alright, so the last one was a bloody disaster,” he grumbled. “I’m well aware. No doubt I’ll find one that doesn’t try to crush her spirit and that Alice doesn’t hate. Eventually.”

“Oh, the one I took on a few months ago has been wonderful,” she said. “Far too young and pretty to be teaching, in my opinion. No doubt she’ll run off and get married at some point, but for the moment she seems happy enough with her books.”

“Really?” He took a sip of his wine. “What’s her name? Perhaps I can entice her to our house to teach Alice.”

She slapped his arm playfully with her fan.

“Don’t you dare try to poach my governess!” she scolded. “Besides, she’s safely tucked out of the way at Furton Grange. If you’re a good boy and socialise, I may bring her to town when Aurora comes out. You can have her then.”

“I’m sure she’ll be delighted,” he remarked dryly.

“And don’t think you can change the subject and that I’ll forget about getting you a wife!” she added, jabbing him with her fan and making him wince. “I won’t have one of my favourite guests moping around the place! Bad for the atmosphere.”

“I thank you for your concern, but I don’t need your help,” he said.

“I beg to differ.”

“No doubt, but I stand by it,” he said. “I assure you, when I see the right woman, I’ll know.”

“Oh, so you do like women, then?” she said, with a grin. “I was beginning to think you were a Decadent. And if you are, you can certainly tell me, you’re among friends in this house.”

He grinned at that.

“No, I’m just - very particular.”

“Well, if you change your mind, you have all my knowledge of polite society at your disposal,” she assured him. “Tales of scandalous impropriety and whispers of looming financial ruin are only a hastily-written letter away.”

His grin widened.

“Rest assured that if I ever decide to show an interest in the degeneracy of the upper classes, you would be the first person I’d ask.”

“Impertinent!”

She tapped his arm with her fan, smirking, and he chuckled. Ella let out a dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes.

“Very well,” she drawled. “I’ll leave you to your lurking. Do at least try to have a good time.”

"I promise."

She wandered off with a sway of her hips, calling out to another guest, and Ogilvy smiled as he watched her go, raising his glass to take a sip of wine. Ella slipped into the crowd, feathers bobbing as she went, and he let out a sigh, closing his eyes and letting the warmth of the room wash over him. Perhaps it was time to go home.

“A long time, since last we met.”

A woman’s accented voice made him start, eyes flicking open as he glanced around, and it was as though a cold hand clutched his heart and tugged at him, dragging him swiftly back through time, through countless centuries. With startling clarity, he remembered the fateful day when he had stood by the fire pit of a tribe that was not his own, and had made the choice that was to change his fate and lead him to this moment, bowed down with the weight of ceaseless searching and endless grief. The woman before him looked exactly as she had then, black eyes weighing and measuring, the light in them too old, too knowing for her smooth cheeks. She was taller then he, and slender, the red gown she wore bright against olive skin. Shining black hair was twisted up on her head, and long gold earrings hung from her lobes, tiny diamonds catching the light from the candles. Ogilvy felt his jaw tighten, and he nodded stiffly, in recognition.

“Seer.”

He was almost surprised that he had spoken, the word falling from his lips in barely more than a whisper, scattering in the air like dust. Her full mouth curved in a smile.

“You look older, Spinner.”

“Time tends to have that effect,” he said, his voice cool. “Except on you, it seems. Strange.”

Her smile widened.

“Time plays tricks.”

“Indeed,” he said quietly. “Cruel tricks.”

Her eyes scanned the room, as though searching for someone, and he wondered why she was there. He doubted it was for him. Not for the first time, he wondered what she was.

“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” he said, for the benefit of a passing gentleman, who eyed them briefly. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch the name, my Lady.”

Her lips curled upwards, white teeth gleaming, and she dipped a graceful curtsy.

“You may call me Persephone,” she said. Ogilvy’s eyebrows twitched.

“Really?” he said dryly, taking a sip of his drink. “And here I thought that in the winter months you walked a different plain to the rest of us mere mortals.”

“Is that what you are?” she asked, raising a slim brow. “A mere mortal? Somehow I doubt that.”

She spoke the words softly, enunciating the description he had used, r’s rolling off her tongue. It was almost as though she was mocking him, and his mouth flattened.

“Death leaves its mark on me as much as any man,” he said, and she pursed her lips.

“Yes,” she whispered, taking a step forward, and pressing a swift hand to his heart. “Here especially.”

Ogilvy flinched, stepping back from her, and she let her arms fall to her sides, a tiny, sad smile making her eyes gleam.

“Your bond was broken,” she said. “Not completely, but enough. I told the Scholar I could not change that. She wanted to remember you nonetheless. Knowing the pain it would cause. You chose well, Spinner.”

He felt his mouth drop open, his eyes widen.

“You saw her?” he whispered. “Where? When?”

Her mouth twisted, as though she was vexed at having mentioned it, and one hand flicked, a dismissive gesture, casting away something useless.

“Oh, in another life, another time,” she sighed, and he felt his body sag in disappointment.

“So, not this life,” he said wearily. “But - but she knew you? She knew - about us? How?”

“She had to,” said the Seer. “She needed the knowledge, to prepare her future self. To send a message through time, and save us all from the darkness to come.”

“What darkness?” he said sharply, and she smiled.

“A problem for a future life, I think.”

Ogilvy scowled, but let it go. Deal with the issue at hand, man.

“Then - she had the stone?” he asked. “No, no, that can’t be. She would need our stones too, mine and Doc’s. Hers alone would not work. How did she—”

“She needed the knowledge,” repeated the Seer. “And so I gave it to her.”

He took a step forward, his brows lowering as he caught her meaning.

“You - you restored her memories?” he said, his voice a low growl. “I know the pain that causes, the agony of knowing the other is out in the world and not being able to find them. You did that to her?”

“I gave her a choice,” she said sharply, dark eyes flashing. “Just as you did, aeons ago. She chose what little of you she could have. She will always choose you. Would you have her choose another?”

He shook his head, sighing, and gazed down at the rippling surface of his wine, as though it would give him comfort.

“I would have her be happy,” he whispered. “Six lifetimes I’ve searched for her, Seer, and all in vain. Six lives of pain and loss and misery. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, least of all the one I love most.”

The Seer huffed a little, fingers plucking at her skirts.

“It was necessary,” she said, more quietly. “I took no joy from the cruelty of it, I assure you.”

“No,” he said coolly. “I daresay emotion isn’t your strong point.”

“Emotion can be a powerful thing,” she said, ignoring the barb. “But it can also make one reckless. You may rest assured I have no intention of being so. There is too much at stake. You have your own challenges to face, but I must think of the fates of all.”

“Your schemes are no concern of mine,” he said, his voice stiff. “Is there a reason you sought me out, or is this a chance meeting?”

She smiled.

“For us, nothing happens by chance,” she said. “I sense your despair, your weariness. I wished to give you some comfort. What little there is of it.”

He took a step towards her, his heart thudding, hope and fear kindling in his chest.

“Tell me I will find her in this life,” he whispered, and she shook her head.

“She will find you.”

Hope flared, a burst of heat, making his heart pound.

“Truly?” he whispered. “She’ll find us? She’ll come home?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

She smiled briefly, but there was a hint of pity in her eyes that made his heart clench.

“I cannot say,” she admitted. “The board is set. The pieces are not yet in play.”

“A fitting analogy,” he said bitterly. “We are pawns, after all. Set up to be sacrificed as the gods see fit.”

“The gods do not control everything,” she said sharply. “And nor do I See everything. Your Scholar will find you. Take comfort in that, at least.”

“It could be twenty years from now,” he said, with some asperity.

“Perhaps.” She shrugged delicately. “Do you grow tired of waiting for her?”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said sharply. “When she’s back with us and in my arms I will thank the gods for it, but please tell me she’ll come home soon!”

“I cannot say,” she repeated. “But she will find you.”

She nodded to him, taking a step back and turning away.

“Wait!” he said urgently. “The stone! Will she have it?”

The Seer paused with her back to him, her shoulders stiff.

“She had the stone when last we met,” she said, her voice carefully neutral.

“And now?”

“I do not See her with the stone,” she said, after a pause. “But who can say?”

He sighed in frustration.

“Then do you know where it is?”

“No,” she said, and glanced back over her shoulder. “But you are tenacious, are you not? Perhaps you will find it. Good luck, Spinner.”

She glided away, skirts rustling as her hips swayed, and he threw back his wine, feeling it burn his throat as it went down. She'll come back to us. She'll come home. One way or another, she'll come home.

#fic: homecoming #ogilvelle fic #rumbelle fic #my fic #ogilvelle #rumbelle

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aadmelioraa · 6 years ago

Note

For the prompt thing - Bellarke + "is there a reason you're naked in my bed?" (I'm looking forward to seeing what you do with this one) 😉😙

Hehe this was fun, thanks Elly {read on ao3}

As far as academic conferences went this one had been extremely grueling, though not without its merits. It wasn’t exactly why Bellamy had gone into education, but if Kane wanted his favorite teachers to attend endless lectures on integrating technology into the classroom and the powers of student driven learning, he’d go along with it.

By the last panel Friday afternoon, Bellamy was just looking forward to taking a shower and collapsing in his own bed. He thought of little else from the time he boarded his flight, and when the airport shuttle finally pulled up outside his house he was so fixated that he didn’t notice the strange set of keys on the entryway table.

He dropped his bags in the living room and immediately headed for the shower. The hot steam cleansed his soul of the inane conversations he’d been forced to overhear on the plane ride home when his iPod had died. The apartment had been dark and still when he arrived, which meant Murphy was probably spending the night at Emori’s. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

Wrapping a towel around his waist and gathering his belongings from the living area, Bellamy dropped his bag inside the door of his room and turned on the light. Sleep could not come too soon.

The second the lights flicked on, he realized he wasn’t alone. The bed was unmade, like he’d left it. What he hadn’t been expecting was for it to be occupied.

Tousled blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and sheets grabbed in panic to her chest…he was face to face with an apparently naked Clarke Griffin.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? I live here, this is my bedroom…what are you doing here?”

Clarke flushed and clutched the sheets until her knuckles went white. “I…Murphy said you wouldn’t be back until Saturday night.”

“Do you always sleep in my bed when I go out of town, or just on special occasions?”

“I don’t…my place is being fumigated this weekend, and since you were going to be out of town I thought, Murphy said I could crash here until you got back. I was going to leave tomorrow morning, you’d never even know I was here.”

“That’s creepy.”

“I just mean,” Clarke rolled her eyes, “it wouldn’t have been an imposition.”

“Mhmmm. Well I guess that explains why you’re in my bed, though it doesn’t explain why you’re naked…”

“You’re one to talk!” Clarke shot back, giving his entire body a sweeping look. “That towel is…not doing a whole lot. And I’m not naked,” she pulled down the sheets to reveal the strap of a worn tank top.

Bellamy chuckled and adjusted his towel slightly. “Ok. Fine. Neither of us are technically naked.”

He took a seat at his desk without exposing himself, not an easy accomplishment, and noted with pleasure that Clarke was fighting to keep her gaze at a respectable height.

“So what are we going to do now?”

“I’ll go crash with Raven at Shaw’s, I guess…”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Well, we’re not going to share your twin bed, Bellamy. Seriously, what grown ass man sleeps in a bed this small? What do you do with overnight guests?”

“My ‘overnight guests’ aren’t usually as demanding as you, Clarke.”

Clarke rolled her eyes again. “Yeah, ok. Seriously, you need a real bed. This is barely big enough for one person.”

“It’s big enough for you. I’ll crash on the couch.”

“Now you’re being stupid. I can go sleep in Murphy’s room, I guess.”

“Murphy hasn’t washed his sheets in at least three months. Why do you think he’s always at Emori’s?”

Clarke wrinkled her nose. “Gross.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Bellamy said magnanimously, standing up and moving to his dresser. He rifled around for some comfortable clothes, feeling Clarke’s eyes on his back. He turned around. “You’re not going to fight me on that? You could at least pretend.”

Clarke shrugged. “I mean, I’m already here…”

He snorted. “Yeah, can’t argue with that.”

“You really don’t mind?”

“I mind a little.”

Clarke considered. “I guess I can live with that.”

Bellamy laughed and grabbed his phone charger out of his bag. “Have a good night, Clarke.”

Clarke smirked. “I will.”

—

Bellamy woke the next morning to the smell of strong coffee. Clarke was standing over the stove, holding a spatula.

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

Clarke turned, grinning. “I can’t. But I can toast bread and scramble eggs with moderate competency. Hungry?”

Bellamy sat up and stretched. “Starving.”

“Good. Breakfast’s almost ready. You still take your coffee black?”

“Mhmmm. Thanks.”

“So what I still don’t understand,” Clarke said over a bite of toast, “is why you arrived home a full day early.”

“I didn’t. Murphy got the days wrong, I guess.”

“Yeah, I guess…”

“You sound suspicious.”

“Of Murphy? Absolutely.”

“What possible ulterior motives could he have?”

“Just general fuckery,” Clarke shrugged. “Anyway, I’ll be out of your hair soon. I just got a text from our landlord, we can move back in this afternoon.”

“It’s nine a.m. What are you going to do until then?”

“I dunno. Murder Murphy, maybe.”

“He’s not worth it.“ Bellamy’s eyes darted from Clarke’s face to his plate and back, trying to deny the sudden nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach. “If you’re free, I could use help with something.”

Clarke narrowed her eyes. “Help with what?”

“I was thinking about buying a new bed. You know, now that you’ve ruined mine with your Clarkeness.”

“Moron. Most people would consider themselves lucky to find me naked in their beds.”

“You weren’t naked, remember?”

“Not that time.”

Bellamy almost choked on his coffee and Clarke dramatically patted him on the back.

“There, there. Are you really going to buy a new bed?”

“Yeah, I mean…you weren’t wrong. I’m twenty-five. It might be time.”

“It’s definitely time. Come on, if we hurry we can still make the best garage sales. You never know what kind of deals you’ll find. ”

“Ok, but we’re definitely buying a new mattress.”

“Obviously.” Clarke gathered her hair up into a ponytail, and headed back to his bedroom. “Frame first, then mattress.”

She emerged a moment later wearing jeans and an oversized tee.

“Is that my shirt?”

“Yeah, I figure if I ruin this you’ll let me take you clothes shopping too. Your wardrobe needs serious help, Bellamy.”

“I’m not made of money! And my wardrobe is fine.”

“You own the same two shirts in four colors. That’s it.”

“Whatever. I know what I like.”

“You like boring things.”

“Maybe. I also, for some reason, like annoying blondes who have way too many opinions on my personal life.”

Clarke paused by the front door. “Like…as friends?”

Bellamy hesitated too, biting his lip. “Not exactly. Wasn’t that obvious?”

She turned back slowly, a funny expression on her face. “I mean, I wasn’t sure…”

“Well, now you know…” He shoved his hands into his pockets and fixed his eyes on the floor. “If you don’t want to go shopping that’s fine, I can forage out on my own. Might be better, since I know you’ll be obnoxious about what styles and sizes are acceptable—“

Suddenly Clarke was right in front of him, and she was resting her hands on his chest, and then—

He was kissing her, and she was kissing him back, and they were leaving a trail of clothes on their way to his bedroom.

Clarke very thoughtfully refrained from critiquing his mattress until they’d finished fucking, and she was laying back in the crook of his arm while he played with her hair.

“We could get really good at this if you had a better set up here, I’m just saying.”

Bellamy snorted. “I think we did just fine.”

Clarke propped herself up on her elbow. “Fine, yes. Excellent even. I’m talking really mind blowing, acrobatic sex—”

“We had to be pretty acrobatic at one point…”

But the covers had fallen away from Clarke’s breasts and Bellamy found himself slightly too distracted to carry on a verbal conversation.

“Well,” she continued, after round two. “We missed most of the good yard sales. I say we try again next Saturday. We can find you a good deal, we just have to start looking early enough.”

“Ok.” Bellamy ran his thumb over her cheek. “Next Saturday morning. It’s a date.”

“We’re going to have sex at my place in the meantime. My entire left side is cramping. This bed is tiny, how do you live like this? How do you get laid like this?”

“It’s a daily struggle.”

“Yeah. Daily. Sure.”

“In my defense, we just had sex twice.”

“I remember. You still think I’m annoying?”

“Yeah, but I’m not gonna hold it against you. You still think I’m a moron?”

“Mmmm…I may have to reconsider.”

“Keep me posted on your decision.” Bellamy pressed a kiss to her cheek.

Somehow, despite the lack of room and lumpy mattress, Clarke managed to drift off to sleep a few minutes after Bellamy did. Murphy found them there when he arrived home that afternoon. If he did take a photo, it was only to prove to Raven that he’d won the bet.

#kat writes #bellarke fanfiction #amm celebration #sorry this took so long!! <3 #frecklessbellamy #yes Bellamy still uses #an iPod #you know it's old as fuck too #but it works

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cutepacabra · 6 years ago

Text

Understanding my own queerness, and my mestizaje in the South

I’m not really sure what this work is, it’s a bit of ramble from my stream of consciousness, a mea culpa for the people I’ve hurt and a coming out letter in some inane clusterfuck. Each subsection is headed with the title of an LP I’ve found particularly profound during that moment in my life.

My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy

Blacksburg Va, The Turn of the 10’s

I had made it. I’d shed the label of the new kid and was finally free to just be some kid people didn’t know, I’d found friends and developed a distance from my past 3 years in copy paster’s guide to neighborhoods. Most of all I had yet develop a real sense of self by that point. I had the luxury of my criollo (phenotypically and by wealth) existence shielding me from having to really wrestle with what it meant to be apart from the group, I got to indulge the luxury of white anonymity; no one asked me “what are you” until they saw my name and even then my response of “Mexican” or “Mexicano” was met with a “well prove it”. Looking back I’m more than a little shocked at the arrogance on display with such assertions, certainly warranting more than my tepid “no” or capitulation. Advancement into middle school of course came with all the requisite increases in outward displays of stupidity, cruelty and insensitivity that the white mindset brings with it (typically characterized as “no one has ever hurt me by talking about my whiteness so why would it hurt anyone else” in a naivete that too oft lasts until death), including but not limited too the whole arsenal of racial slurs that a group of 11 or 12 year olds can pull or cook up, made all too easy by our ready access to the internet. We would throw the hard r a.k.a. The Papa John around with reckless abandon; pouring endless more effort into research for new ways to degrade people of colour than we would our school work, even finding the esotericists the region brought along with it, finding nothing less than delight to find out that the term “moon cricket” or “fruit picker” could be used to degrade a group of people effectively invisible in such a preeminently white space. As with all 12 year old children we were not without our share of homophobia as well, a wide smile across some of their faces as they spoke about how they’d “beat the shit out of” and then “rape” any “faggot” that dared cross them. Of course this put me in a bit of a pickle, being that I myself was a budding young “faggot” and I now had to show my mettle as much as possible in order to avoid social flaying at a level of cruelty almost unique to that age. I had to up the ante, take on that mask and assume those traits that now had become linked with being masculine and fitting in: racism, homophobia, misogyny in addition to a generally callous misanthropy.

The ultimate manifestation of my closet persona can be summed up by all the memories conjured by a simple phrase “Do it or you’re not real” (depending on the particular boy this could be appended with a hard r or a “faggot”). I made myself a fool in boys clothing many a time at the utterance, almost like an activated manchurian candidate, from opening the emergency exit door on a bus moving at least 50 miles per hour down the highway and having to be pulled back in a Looney Toons esque fashion to the sexual harassment of women simply for the comedy of the reaction to the other boys (particularly the women the other boys realized I had a romantic interest in). I had become nothing less than a monster, caught up in the worst of reaction, white enough to be let in on the fun and games with nothing more than the occasional “border jumper” or “mexinigger” comment. Of course it’s difficult to camo hide the things that cannot be hidden and my descent into an internet supported madness borne of cognitive dissonance, memes, image boards, forums and more stimuli than you can shake a stick at, in short exactly who you think would be listening to ska punk in 2010, I would oft hear a phrase that has stuck with me. “You’re pretty weird”, the intonation would vary, sometimes being a derision laced with venom, sometimes a realization built on uncertainty and sometimes the soft smile from someone who found a compatriot in not fitting in somehow. It was undeniable that at some level me being off white or just off perturbed them. I had become a simulacra of whiteness, the dissonance between my hyper real whiteness and the true blue thing they’d known all their life was in that moment there and not; an oscillation that existed at the boundaries of the rigid modernist reality set forth by the racial framing ideology that ruled the way they thought about people. If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck and says the n word like a duck is it a duck? The answer here was simultaneously yes and no; I had through effort overcome my innate nature within the social structure but had only achieved a consciousness of whiteness (and heterosexuality) that allowed me to become that simulacra; a fake that was in some ways even more real than the real thing since I had to try and maintain that identity continually, this in particular was profoundly perturbing to some of my classmates. “If someone didn’t know you they’d think you were white” and comments in that ilk always carried that worry, that uneasiness that someone from an “out group” could slip “in”, nicknames like “the infiltrator” or “undercover” further cemented this feeling.

This dissonance started to create a toxic pit of self loathing and internalized pathologies aimed against all the things I knew all too well I was and towards all the things I so desperately wanted to be. I hated the rise in my chest a few of my male friends would provoke; I hated my late night google dives into crossdressing paraphernalia and picture sets, desperately framed as yet another “haha look at these weirdos” “joke”; I hated knowing I was on the outside no matter how hard I tried to fit in; I hated myself. The only hate from this era which has yet to set its sun, shining overhead to this day, blinding my path.

That’s not to say that this time didn’t have its share of counterframing towards equality and justice, I ended up adopting the typical reactionary white liberal view of the world but not without a fight put up by my mother’s strong views on human justice borne of her socially orphaned social democrat political views imported from Mexico. As well as the Priest of the local Roman Catholic Church Father Prinelli who was incredibly cool with my generalized disillusionment with organized religion and just asked me to kind to my fellow folk. It would be an unfortunately long time before I would heed their words.

Losing Streak

The North DFW ‘Burbs circa the early to mid 2010s

While my set of friends had not traveled back with me my dips into reaction followed my move back to the same North DFW suburb I had left before landing in the New River Valley. It was around this time that my reactionary mindset found a new target to bully and deny was a part of me: the trans community. While at some level I knew I felt uncomfortable in my gender expression I interpreted this as my failure to “man up” or fulfill my traditionally masculine roles in the face of a lot of decidedly non masculine interests (S/o to ZUN’s Touhou Project series for spurring my appreciation for frilly ridiculous clothing), leading me to decide that I would simply have to be even more “masculine” which at the time meant becoming even more overt of an asshole to gender non conforming folks. I was also stripped of the masculine identity I had built up through sheer rapport with what was actually a pretty large swatch of folks, leaving me to find a new place to cast my dark closeted arts.

I fell in with a roughly the same set of folks I hung out with during my time there in elementary school but the timbre of who I was became profoundly different. The culture and the social structure was markedly different and the survival strategies I had conceived no longer made the most sense. On top of all this was the piling on of teenage angst both normal and dysphoria fueled. I had met the natural end of my sins, supreme loneliness, alienated from everyone around me and even the only one I had in solitude. As I gradually clawed myself a place to exist in the localized social structure it would become more and more apparent that only by beginning to shed some of the malice in my heart would lead to a better outcome.

Better in this case was actually quite good for someone who in retrospect is wholly undeserving, I found myself with an incredibly tight knit group of about 6 people who were tempered by unexpected hardships rarely overcome by the group but almost always partially mitigated. Being as profoundly enthralled in reactionary ideology as I was it would take time for this realization that raw human kindness is what creates strong bonds. These people would layer by layer begin to peel parts of the callous shell I had built with what they had, motivating me to drop some of the most egregious of my beliefs such as homophobia, racism until I was an even stranger mix of self hatred with external crusades for what I have come to believe are the right things.

Bubbling beneath the surface for all this of course is the 3178 kilogramme elephant in the room of my gender identity. Being so alienated from what the “normal” male experience was I found myself not thinking that what I would come to realize were leaking feelings were anything out of the ordinary for kids my age. “Of course all guys want to be girls and think about it with regularity” “There’s nothing weird about always being an ambiguous creature or a girl in your dreams” By this point I just pinned these things down to my now personally accepted bisexuality never even having the mental framework to link these thoughts up with my transness.

Twin Fantasy

Caucasian Station, TX; Texas A&M University

Things kinda fell apart. I was a pretty lonely person for a hot second in my HS years but I at least had the luxury of speaking with someone every single day (whether or not the people I was conversing with or I wished to is another matter) but coming to uni was another level. During the first semester of my fish year I would spend weeks without saying more than a passing set of sentences, too scared, too alienated, too depressed to even leave my dorm for more than runs for sustenance outside. My sanity was barely kept intact by working with cavelier and roguish campus activism collective “TAMU Anti-Racism” as the tensions built on campus with the rising tide of white supremacy in the days before and after the Trump election. This meager sense of purpose I ascribed to being able to “do” anything managed to keep me attached to this mortal coil even if only in the loosest fashion.

Somehow I had become an impression left by my old husk self lying on the ground, a shadow forgotten by everything. The real inflections came in the wake of what was supposed to be a moment of triumph for me in college, my first hetero and homosexual experiences; instead I would find myself disgusted with myself, not for the acts in question but rather for my reaction to them. I kinda hated it. I started chalking this up to some sort of need for romance in my sexual relationships, this would also prove untrue. Simultaneously my “leaks” of transness were becoming more and more apparent, buying women's clothes on the internet and donning them in the dead of night in my dorm restroom only to become overwhelmed with self hate and guilt at the idea that I could be some kind of pervert because it felt right, because I wanted it. My own hate of my physical form also grew exponentially during this time although I would again simply attribute this to a pathology about being really overweight. On occasion I would even have fits of body hair dysphoria and shave all of my body hair in a panicked burst, hopping in the shower with the sole thought that it all had to go. With the answer to my feelings staring me in the face as the barrel of a gun stares in the face of someone executed in the field I still looked the sights down from the other side and said “I don’t see a gun”. Repression truly induces some incredibly wild states of mind. One of those even happened to be an entertaining of the end, through the purchase of a method before I escaped the malaise temporarily and came to my senses.

While this may sound like a recipe for academic success the truth is I ended up in a state of failure in two of my courses at the time (physics and calculus, both of which I had long since stopped attending regularly) and I knew I only had the chance to pass 1 of them when finals week came to tower over me. My premonition came to pass and I would get a big fat F in Calculus to accompany generally low grades overall, putting me on Academic probation. By this time I had at the least come to realize that the college of engineering did not house my future academic home although I was too chicken footed to leave the next semester. With the miasma of academic failure lifted from me I would spend the next two semesters attempting to find my place at the department of Sociology and within the same organizations that dominate my time at TAMU today.

I also have to give great thanks to these orgs for really helping me develop my sense of latinidad and latino identity when the bloom of the cactus upon my face was oft lost in the shuffle. I’ve become much more comfortable with my ethnic heritage and more understanding of my status and place within the mestizaje as a privileged individual for being white passing, even if it’s the source of a lot of my internal turmoil. I’ve managed to dedicate so much of my time and effort to the community and in turn the community has given me back my sense of self, my sense of purpose. I no longer feel like a chunk of gravel aimlessly being flung around a highway and I owe that to all the incredible role models and friends I’ve made and met working for the betterment of Latinos on campus and in the US writ large. A fairly obvious epiphany came to me sometime in the past year or so that having a reason to live really is pretty good.

My life would proceed without any major events until I would come face to face with the incongruity between myself and my body in an unexpected fashion the first semester of my sophomore year. During a trip to a nearby city for a conference I found myself at a dangerous level of inebriation, going quite a bit too hard. I stumbled my way into the restroom and felt the alcohol poisoning creep into my body; one by one my senses felt like they were leaving me, leaving my soul suspended in the ether. In that dissociated state I came to realization, I didn’t feel male during this brush with death, in fact I felt rather femme again refusing to believe what was in front of me I would spend hours in the next days attempting to find out if my reaction was simply a normal response to the irresponsible amount of drinks I had ingested that night.

A good talking to by a friend over the net that I was exhibiting quite a lot of gender non-conforming behavior finally pushed me over the edge and cracked my egg. It was still relatively early in the day when I came to point where my recession dam broke and the dysphoric waters came flooding in full force. Suddenly and violently I had context for feelings I had held for a long time and was now drowning in their full weight. Among these feelings I had pushed down and stamped upon during my early days was apparently anxiety because although I didn’t know it I was having a full blown panic attack at the time. I would come to realize what was happening only after boarding what felt like an exceedingly crowded Aggie Spirit bus, as my vision, chest and breathing further constricted. The world felt like it was collapsing in on me, my eyes went fish eyed like a sick 90s skate video, my breath grew more and more shallow. After getting off the bus and finding a solitary spot to shed some tears in I called the only people I knew I could rely on, my friends. Particularly 3 folks who I’ll leave anonymous for this letter (if i’m sending this to you, you probably know who you are) spurred me to action and to take the reigns of my life. Just before my 20th birthday in March I made an appointment with a clinic to seek hormone replacement therapy. After about 6 months in september I walked in 3 months after my blood exam with a script for estradiol and spironolactone.

To the people who’ve supported me I can’t thank you enough. To the people I’ve hurt I can never fully atone for my transgressions against you. To those on the outside looking in, I hope this shows that life isn’t a linear path, that things can take you in directions you never thought and that there’s always a way to get better.

Thanks and Gig em,

SRJP

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versatilepoetry · 5 years ago

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Blessedly Immortal

If you stretched the already magnanimously inflated balloon beyond a point; it would vindictively burst; perpetuating the incredibly celestial atmosphere with unrelentingly thunderous gasps and treacherously cacophonic moans, If you stretched the already fathomlessly roaring ocean beyond a point; it would ominously drown quintessentially breathing trajectories of civilization in mortuaries of salt and extravagant froth, If you stretched the already boundlessly sweltering desert beyond a point; they would acrimoniously scorch the fabric of compassionately moistened existence; into inanely threadbare ash, If you stretched the already mercilessly overworked body beyond a point; it would traumatically disintegrate into graveyards of treacherously evaporating nothingness, If you stretched the already fantastically discovering artist beyond a point; he would lamely surrender the unsurpassably endless creative energies of his brain to the doldrums of disparagingly lecherous commercialism, If you stretched the already vividly iridescent rainbow beyond a point; it would ludicrously distort into a pit of amorphously decrepit meaninglessness, If you stretched the already patriotically blazing soldier beyond a point; he would lugubriously collapse to blend with lackluster worthlessness; instead of peerlessly marching for his insurmountably sacrosanct mother soil, If you stretched the already magnanimously milking cow beyond a point; it would start to ooze torturously flagrant blood and worthless water; instead of diffusing into a cistern of inimitably unparalleled milk, If you stretched the already tirelessly ticking clock beyond a point; it would abruptly cease to function; miserably staggering in the hell of inexplicably maniacal insecurity, If you stretched the already ferociously roaring lion beyond a point; it would vituperatively vomit out the most scrumptiously tantalizing of its prey; in utterly unbearable frustration, If you stretched the already spellbindingly blossoming tree beyond a point; it would abhorrently diffuse the stench of bizarre rottenness; nonchalantly shedding its fruit by the dozen; instead of evolving into a heaven of glorious freshness, If you stretched the already wholesomely blackened night beyond a point; it would waft nothing else but a maelstrom of despairingly penalizing misery; in every symbiotically living organism alike, If you stretched the already rhapsodically mellifluous nightingale beyond a point; it would culminate into nothing else but dolorously beleaguered cacophony for an infinite more moments yet to unveil, If you stretched the already earnestly perspiring body beyond a point; it would resort to a plethora of shortcuts to thrive ensure its survival as the fittest; amongst the devilishly cannibalistic pack of wolves, If you stretched the already intransigently flaming candle beyond a point; it would insipidly melt into a pool of capriciously wanton wax; repulsively shirking away from even the most mercurial trace of light, If you stretched the already unfathomably embellished castle beyond a point; it would belligerently transform into a corpse of satanically monotonous boredom and inexorable hopelessness, If you stretched the already beautifully ripened mango beyond a point; it would raucously excoriate apart into a countless bits of meaningless pulp; tirelessly cursing the stupidly bizarre environment around, If you stretched the already smiling face beyond a point; it would luridly dissolve into livid prejudice; spreading nothing but preposterously castigating enmity around, It you stretched the already irrefutably righteous conscience beyond a point; it would inadvertently make way for a hurricane of hideously derogatory lies, But if you stretched the already handsomely breathing spirit of love beyond a point; it would altruistically envelop countless more in its compassionately Godly swirl; it would become a cascade of perennial enlightenment for every organism symbiotically existing; it would unconquerably metamorphose even the most evanescent iota of pain into a fountain of resplendently blessed happiness; it would forever and ever and ever become BLESSEDLY IMMORTAL.

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sarahburness · 6 years ago

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Create More, Consume Less: A Surefire Way to Feel More Excited About Life

“Creating means living.” ~Dejan Stojanovic

We live in a consumer culture. We love to eat, drink, and be merry—while binge watching whatever’s trending on Netflix and getting a dopamine hit for every item added to our cart on Amazon Prime.

We love to take it all in—information, entertainment, status updates, news reports, substances, and an endless array of stuff. There’s never a shortage of things we can consume, often to keep our minds distracted and our feelings silenced.

Now don’t get me wrong. I love a good meal, a Jim Beam or two, and an afternoon spent zoned out on my couch, Penn Badgley haunting me hour by hour as his stalking escalates from creepy to criminal.

And I’m all for staying educated and updated, on issues both important and inane. I’ve spent hours obsessively researching all things health-related, and I’m embarrassed to admit that my search history reveals more than a healthy number of celebrity websites, if such a number exists.

I also understand the instinct to shut down for a while. Our minds can get intolerably loud, and sometimes, external demands can be overwhelming. A little disengagement can be a good thing in a world that often requires us to be on.

But there needs to be some kind of balance. If we spend our whole lives ingesting information and scarfing down an assortment of stuff meant to soothe us, we’ll never have the time or space to connect with ourselves and create the things we want to create.

I’m not talking just about artistic expression, though I personally feel more alive when I’m bringing some type of creative vision to life. I’m talking about filling the void inside with our own curiosity, passion, and awe instead of constantly stuffing it with external pleasures.

It may not seem like it in the moment when our shows, social media, or shopping carts beckon, but often the greatest pleasure stems from actively working toward a life that excites us.

What are some things we can create?

1. A mission statement

Many of us go through our days without a sense of purpose. We have no idea what we value or what we stand for. We have no idea what we’re really doing with our lives, or why.

Nothing feels exciting when nothing is fueled by passion or intention.

In order to feel alive, we need to be connected to what matters to us most individually. I’m not talking about a specific career direction, though that could be a part of it. I’m talking about creating a blueprint for how you want to show up in the world so you can be the person you want to be and make decisions that feel right for you.

For example, my current mission statement is:

To live with wonder, courage, compassion, and integrity, prioritizing family, freedom, adventure, and creative expression.

Knowing what I value, I’m better able to decide which opportunities to pursue and accept and which ones to politely decline.

This doesn’t have to be set in stone. Mission statements change over time as we grow and evolve. So write, revisit, and revise, as often you deem necessary.

2. Art

This is the low-hanging fruit for this list. Yes, art is something you can create! Big shocker! But it clearly has a place here nonetheless.

Especially if you’re tempted to consume to avoid your feelings, why not channel them into a creative project instead? Creativity is not only calming and healing, it’s a journey back to the simplistic joy of childhood—when you had countless Lego castles, doodle-filled pages, and chalk street art masterpieces to show for your time. And the possibilities are endless.

You could color, sketch, paint, sculpt, sew, crochet, knit, make jewelry, build something, or write a poem, short story, or song. You could art journal, scrapbook, create a magazine collage, try origami, or make something with unconventional materials (duct tape, wine corks, doll parts from your childhood).

If you tune into your feelings and curiosity, you’ll find endless inspiration, and if you look around, you’ll find endless materials to use and recycle.

It’s worth noting that quite frequently, consumption fuels creation. I can’t tell you how many scripts I read and films I watched when preparing to write my first screenplay. Every movie helped me learn and sparked ideas for my own story and its execution.

Though it’s also wonderful to enjoy art for the sake of it, there’s something thrilling about consuming with a purpose. Not just to be entertained but also to be inspired—so you can create something personally meaningful to you that will hopefully move and inspire other people to live and a love a little louder.

Little feels more exciting than chiseling a piece of your heart into something beautiful that will endure, while simultaneously motivating other people wake up and live more fully.

3. A medium for self-expression

We live in an exciting time for self-expression. No longer do gatekeepers get to decide whose words deserve a platform. Anyone can start a blog, vlog, or podcast to share their thoughts and views with the world.

The beautiful thing is, it’s not too hard to get started. You don’t need a fancy site or special equipment to get going—though those things are nice to have, and they’re things you could always acquire in time, if you like the medium you choose and decide to see how far you can take it.

With a little googling you can easily find a way to get set up today, for free, so you can move out from the shadows and share what’s in your heart and on your mind.

Not only will you give yourself an opportunity to express your feelings and feel truly seen, you’ll likely also help other people through your honesty and vulnerability. Yes, you.

If you think your voice doesn’t matter, consider this: a blog can reach only one person, and yet be the one thing that saved or changed that person’s life. You never know who you’ll help or inspire by finding the courage to speak up.

4. Memories

At the end of it all, when we look back on our lives, we won’t take a mental inventory of the dollars we earned, followers we gained, or items we checked off our to-do list. What we’ll see is a mélange of moments—times when we loved, connected, got outside our comfort zone, and engaged with world with wonder and enthusiasm.

These moments generally don’t just fall into our laps. We have to actively create them. And sometimes that means stepping outside the realm of our routine and actually doing the type of things we daydream about.

There’s a scene in the movie Stepmom (spoiler alert!) where Susan Sarandon’s character, Jackie, knows her cancer is getting worse and her time with her family is limited. So she does something out of character and beautifully touching: She wakes her daughter Anna in the middle of the night and takes her horseback riding, in the snow.

Anna says she’ll never forget this moment, and how could she? She’s nestled close to her dying mother, on a horse, in nature—when the night’s at its most peaceful and she’s usually asleep and unable to see it. Together they feel completely present and alive in this magical moment of connection and awe.

We can all create these kinds of moments. We can create magic for ourselves, someone else, or both, if we’re willing to prioritize it and put in the effort.

5. Possibilities

I suspect a lot of us feel pretty discontent with our lives. Perhaps Thoreau conveyed it best when he wrote “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.”

Most of merely survive and think of thriving as a luxury unavailable to the majority. I’m not going to lie; it’s easier for some to thrive than others. Some of us are born into more ideal circumstances, and some get more advantages.

But perhaps the problem isn’t just that not everyone gets the same chances, but also that not everyone takes the same chances.

If we settle into a pit of discontentment and do the same things every day, nothing will ever change.

The only way to make our lives any better is find and seize opportunities instead of waiting for them to come to us.

Make the call. Send the email. Sign up for the course. If you can’t afford it, research scholarships or free or cheap alternatives. Do something to create a new possibility for your life, whether it pertains to your work, your hobbies, or your relationships.

Then the next purchase you make might be something you need for this exciting new path, not something you want because you’re miserably unhappy with the status quo of your unfulfilling life.

6. New connections

We live in an increasingly disconnected world. We spend more time holding devices than hands and look into more screens than eyes, as the Dulce Ruby quote suggests. This is such a lonely way to live. But it doesn’t have to be like this. Not if we prioritize forming and maintaining relationships.

Of course this isn’t easy. It can be challenging to pull ourselves away from our usual indulgences, get outside our little bubble of comfort, and get present in the world beyond our own door. But it’s oh so worth it.

One day last year I was a feeling a little down about my limited social circle where I live near LA. I’ve moved a lot, I travel a lot, and I work from home; and I haven’t done a great job prioritizing relationships where I live.

I was scrolling through my Facebook feed on this afternoon, trying to distract myself from the sadness in my heart, when I decided to do something different: I navigated to a group for Highly Sensitive People, that contributor Bryn Bamber had actually recommended in a post about sensitivity, and I introduced myself, asking if there was anyone near LA.

Several people responded, including one who’s become a great friend—someone I can relate to on a deep personal level. Someone who gets me, who I get back. And not only did I make a new soul connection, I also opened myself up to new possibilities: because of her, I began volunteering at a nearby community theater, where I hope to volunteer again in the future.

It can feel awkward to initiate conversation with someone new. Or at least it feels that way for me. But as Frank told Don in The Green Book, “The world is full of lonely people afraid to make the first movie.” Make the first move. You just might change two lives.

—

In the words of Ferris Bueller, life goes by pretty quickly. Friendships evolve or fade, jobs run their course, kids grow up—and before you know it, we’re looking back at our years, either feeling proud of everything we created or wondering how and why we squandered our time.

I don’t know about you, but I want to prioritize the things that truly matter to me and fill my hours with purposeful actions that fill my heart with peace, passion, and excitement.

I want to make beautiful things, share empowering ideas, and collect more moments of awe than there are grains of sand on the beach.

I also want balance.

I want abundant movie marathons, occasional retail therapy sessions, and Sunday morning mimosas.

I want trashy magazines in the tub, an endless rotation of used true crime books, and a full Netflix queue that seems to scream, “I know what you like, Lori, I get you.”

But I want to consume those things intentionally. Not to avoid or escape anything, but just because they’re fun.

I think that’s a reasonable goal for all of us. To be a little more intentional, a lot more engaged, and in the end, far more excited about the lives we’re living.

About Lori Deschene

Lori Deschene is the founder of Tiny Buddha. She’s also the author of Tiny Buddha’s Gratitude Journal and other books and co-founder of Recreate Your Life Story, an online course that helps you let go of the past and redefine yourself. An avid film lover, she recently finished writing her first feature screenplay and would appreciate advice from anyone in the industry to help get this made. You can reach her at email (at) tinybuddha.com.

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its-a-lark-blog · 7 years ago

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The Death of Curiosity

This is largely going to be about why I still read children's stories.

It's soul-crushing to recognise that there's a strange estrangement between what can be done, and then what is done.

And there's a good probability that you won't understand what I'm saying when I say that. A child would, naturally, that's a given. For the vast majority of those who're proudly grown-up, though, I feel there's almost a perverse enjoyment in awareness lost.

Consider: That which CAN be done, and that which IS done.

Children ask "Why?" and adults, in their infinite frustration, rattle out the preprogrammed response of "That's just how it is." which is rather morbid, don't you think? When did your curiosity die? I ask this because I was equally blessed and cursed with never having known this loss. How did yours die? Can you remember the year it happened, the transition between expressing curiosity to smiply accepting that things are the way they are?

And most do this. In fact, you likely do it as well. You'll never ask "Why?" even in a world of infinite possibilities, you'll only respond with "That's the way it's always been." No matter how diverse, varied, vivid, and magical those possibilities are.

Isn't that strange?

I see this in writing all the time. Now, a writer might be able to weave together a fantastic world, full of complexity, of truly endless wonder and infinite possibilities. They'll take such an impossible, beautiful, strange thing and what will they do with this marvellous, impossible creation? They'll set a bunch of humans down in it and task them with killing a dragon.

"Why are the heroes doing this?" "Heroes are good." "Why?" "That's just the way it is."

"How do we know that the dragon did this?" "Dragons are bad." "Why?" "That's just the way it is."

"But couldn't th--" "No, no they couldn't." "Why?" "THAT'S JUST THE WAY IT IS."

I mean, when I look at a painting of four people bursting into a dragon's lair, I don't see what you see because I'm more inclined to ask questions. What my mind concocts is a scene of home invasion, where these are bandits and hoodlums intent to steal someone's belongings and likely murder them in the process out of some insidiously racist intent.

Then we'd have to bring in the constabulary! A detective would arrive on the scene to investigate; Likely a gnome with a number of gadgets as magical as they are technological to seek out the truth of what happened in this poor dragon's home. Outisde, a griffin psychotherapist is quietly, gently consoling the dragon's parents and promising that the criminals will be brought to justice.

They've got their top men on the job, top men! Giant eagles grasping strange contraptions are canvassing the scene; The odd devices they hold in their claws being aetherial trackers, linked to the spiritual imprints left behind by the aforementioned criminal scum. They're attempting to find and follow their 'soul echoes,' in order to get some kind of idea of the direction that these sordid, sociopathic monsters went.

And what you see is a bunch of heroes killing a dragon; Simply because the heroes are good, the dragon is bad, and that's just the way it is. Why? That's just the way it is. That's sad. That's really bloody deepressing. I can't know what that's like.

I mean, I've met people who're like that. I can see the effects of it, after all. If a person shifts some historical events around in order to fashion anachronisms, they think of that as brilliantly creative. Not realising, of course, that the complexity they're utilising is that of a well understood history as opposed to anything they've fashioned. It's really not that clever at all. I was never inspired by alternate histories; Unless they're the alternate history of an already imagined world (those are fun!).

That's where familiarity comes into it, though, hmmm? Familiarity and the love thereof replaces the curiosity of the child. When one's inner-child dies, the curiosity leaves this giant, gaping void behind. Something has to fill it. Nature abhors a void, so what rushes in to fill the gap is what one knows to be 'true' and 'factual.'

Of course, 'factual' is subjective to an erudite mind. A smart scientist knows that there are no facts, only probabilities, and there is no scientific truth, only scientific proof. We can only assume we know something within a degree of probability through our observations of its behaviour, if we repeat an experiment a great multitude of times and the results never change then the probablistic factor of this being how something works within our reality is increased. That factor never reaches 100 per cent, however, as we can never rule out all other variables.

However, many adults whose curiosity has died will truly believe they know, factually, the nature of reality. This is what leads to very unfortunate cases of bad science. I could cite many examples, but I'd rather go with an obvious one that can't be denied. The desire to cure autism comes from the assumption that autism is a disorder, because that's what it is. Even though people with autism strongly disagree and would prefer to not be 'cured.' The scientist in question would still follow a cure out of their belief that autism is a disorder because, yes, 'that's what it is.' Is it? Why? Are you sure? As I've pointed out, there are many with this so-called disored who'd fervantly disagree.

Bad science, you guys. Bad science. I'm bloody old and I've seen more bad science than you could shake a stick at. It's gotten very tiresome, to say the least.

Still, my point is that hte death of curiosity leads to bad science -- and there's a lot of bad science out there. However, the brightest minds we've ever had are those whose inner-child hasn't died, instead of accepting that things are whichever way they assumably are, the mind in question asks why? Why are they this way? Or, more accuratley, why do we believe they're this way?

I've met so many people whose curiosity has died.

This is true in the creative arts as well, as I mentioned. You have these brilliantly fantastic worlds filled with possibility where truly wondrous things CAN happen, but they don't, as the writer is only focused upon what they know -- the familiar -- and they write purely about what IS, rather than what CAN be, because they've lost that spark. Their inner-child has died and they no longer possess the capacity to ask why.

You believe that things are this way in the world, why? You believe that things are this way in a fantasy world, why? Your answers will probably be oppressively depressing to me, but hopefully I'm stirring something within you that's been dead for far too long. A spark of curiosity, the will to ask why. Why did yours die?

Terry Pratchett is a great example of a writer who looked at a fantasy world and asked why. Why? Why this? Why that? Why are they behaving this way? Why are they doing that? Why aren't they taking advantage of these advances in magic/technology? Why aren't they putting to use these social structures they've developed? With all the possibilities, why is this world all about people in small wooden huts worshipping wizards in their towers? How preposterously dull! How morbidly inane! How comically nonsensical!

It shows that there's a lack of dreaming. No questions. No dreams. Simply that things are the way they are.

Bugger that.

There's a reason why PTerry was so irascible. He wasn't the friendly old man that people believed he was. Oh no. He was no smiling Santa. He was irascible, tired, fed up, and angry. He was also kind. As I approach his age, I begin to understand why as I face his challenges being a person who can ask why in a world that never, ever does.

I wouldn't be surprised if PTerry wrote Discworld out of catharsis to simply show everyone else what you could do in a world that did embrace what you CAN do with all of that potential, rather than simply writing a cloyingly familiar story about how it IS. So, so many writers fall into this pit-trap, whether fantasy or sci-fi, opting to present people with what they know instead of having the insurmountable gall needed to ask why.

And the readers, they're not as bad, they're worse! They reinforce this by clucking with offence should a writer even deign to dare to conceive the question. Yesterday it would've lead to a flurry fo angry letters, today it would result in aonther Twitter war. Why is it htis way? For most people, curiosity has died. Curiosity is only for children. Only a child is allowed to ask why.

I guess I'm a child, I suppose. I take pride in that. As much pride in the perverse pride people have in having offed their inner-child. What I can tell you is that it's lovely being able to dream, which is something that a person sans curiosity can never do. In a vividly colourful whirlwind of imaignation I can conceive worlds which aren't likely anything you've ever known or will.

Honestly, I think most people need to do DMT a few times in their lifetime. By law. Just to reawaken their curiosity and wonder.

So many problems today are caused by people being unable to ask why. And our entertainment industry is in a sorry state as it's staffed by people who never ask why fashioning the most drearily drab creations for audiences that anger at the very suggestion of why. Why did you let your curiosity die?

Curiosity isn't just for children, it's for everyone! It's a fact of life! How did this happen that we've been programmatically murdering inner-children to transmogrify our peoples from one of dreamers, philosophers, and imagineers to sleepwalking, drooling zombies who enjoy nothing more than modern day settings filled with zombies (that they can so easily relate to)?

Why? I'm asking why! Isn't that so very offensive of me? Why?

Why did you stop asking why?

This is why, for the most part, I still read tomes aimed at children over adults as they're written by people who can -- blessed be they -- ask why, for an audience which loves to ask why.

I'm currently reading the Farloft Chronicles and I'm finding it far, far more compelling than I ever did Game of Thrones. Is that insulting to you? Why?

Yes, there are adult examples out there that I could turn to but they're so rare that they're the exception that proves the rule. I've read everything by Terry Pratchett, I've recently enjoyed Out There: Chronicles (now that's a game that loves to ask why, it spent two episodes doing just that and I adored it) as well, but these are few and far between. For the most part it's all like Game of Thrones, Lord of the Rings, and other works so drowned in the ichorous juices of verisimilitude I simply can't stand to read them.

Adult fantasy and sci-fi, for the most part, no longer brings me joy. I'd rather watch Voltron. There are more scientific questions asked in Voltron than in any of the dryest sci-fi I've read. And I've read some fairly dry, dusty sci-fi in my time... Unfortunately.

Voltron asks: Aren't windows in space silly? Don't they add lots of extra weight for transparent materials? What purpose do they serve in space where there's so little to see? Wouldn't they just increase the vulnerability and structural weaknesses of a craft in such a potentially hostile environment?

And so the Voltron lions and the Castle of Lions don't have windows. Their ground speeders DO have windows, though, which shows me that someone actually thought to ask why. Whmever did? THANK YOU. I've been asking that question for years.

Seriously. Windows in space. Why?

"That's just the way it i--"

Well, the way it is is insufferably asinine! Bloody stupid!

You have much better tools available to you in sci-fi than windows, use them! You could have a factory on board that produces swarms of femtotech camerabots that surround the ship and provide a 360 degree view of everything around the pilot! If some of thsoe are knocked out? The on-board factory simply produces more. And so the pilot has a complete view of everything around them and can enjoy a holographic display of everything with extra scanning doodads and the ability to zoom in!

In fact, why do pilots still look so human? In the future, we'd have the capacity to modify our bodies. Surely there are forms which are much better suited to space than the human body, so why don't we use these genetic and technological sciences to provide ourselves with better bodies? I'd even go so far as to ask: In the future, where AI is prevalent, why don't we simply dump our brain into a ship body and work with AIs and other brains to run the ship?

Who needs bodies???

Your body could be the ship! You could perceive reality as you've never done before! It would be incredible! No? Why? Honestly, why the hell not???

How irredeemably dull to deny the possibilities! I see it as a crime to not even consider what could be done, it's a cardinal sin to not use your curiosity to question what might be done with such grand tools made available to us. And yet, most don't. It's just jet fighters in space because that's just hoooow it is.

Good grief I'm sick and tired of adults.

Consider the regressive nature of TV 'toons like Teen Titans Go, how they've gone back to the comedy and simplistic animations of the '80s instead of embracing the more complex themes and interesting questions of 'toons from the '90s and early '00s. Why? I think it comes from a point of adults believing that children are just as bereft of curiosity and imagination as they are.

A flawed perception, if you ask me.

I remember some cartoons that were actually brave enough to present children with questions, they're always my favourites.

Extreme Ghostbusters tackled some interesting questions about what life is like for a hispanic person who could never afford proper education, a disabled jock who's been confined to a wheelchair, a lady who's a part of the goth subculture (and the reasosn for it), and a middle-to-upper-class black fellah. It looked at the kinds of issues these people would face and how those issues may even intermingle.

There was one brilliant episode where it turned out that a few of the friends the jock had were accepting of his disability, though they were tremendously racist. This kind of nuance between prejudices hasn't been tackled by contemporary comedic cartoons, which makes me sad.

Those cartoons asked uncomfortable questions about why people are the way they are, so children could also wonder and perhaps make better, more informed choices.

Teen Titans Go supposedly has diverse characters but it never does anything with that beyond using their diversity as a joke. Which is... disappointing, to say the least, but also so very, very typical. That's just the way things are, eh? Sigh.

So moving forward in time doesn't always lead to the kind of progression I'd find desirable, sometimes we encounter regressions when people fall back even hard on 'that's how things are,' or even worse 'that's how things were.' And never ask why.

Adults are tiresome creatures.

I'm not sure how, despite my many years, I never really became one. I've too much imagination to become a sleepwalking zombie who loves shows about sleepwalking zombies, I suppose. And that's going to make me sound like a 'special snowflake.' Funny thing is? I absolutely am. I've had to come to accept that I am, indeed, quite unusual. The thing is, though? This is true of everyone out there who still possesses curiosity.

I find that if one doesn't experience the death of curiosity, then one invariably becomes quite eccentric. Eccentric people are different, and obviously less 'usual' than someone who isn't. And they aren't eccentric because they choose to be, but simply because their curiosity never died.

At this point, I've come to see the 'special snowflake' complaint as one rooted in jealousy of curiosity. It always comes from the mouth of a person who can no longer ask why, who can only accept what they believe are the way things are. They're tremendously hateful of anyone who isn't dead inside like they are.

It's not my fault, though. I don't understand. If your curiosity died and mine didn't, I don't know why. I don't know what to tell you. It's not like I have a choice about being a 'special snowflake,' I'm simply curious and therefore eccentric. That's just who I am. I'm sorry that that bothers you. And believe me, I've met plenty of people whom that bothers. Whenever I've written a review praising genuinely creative works I've come to love I've met these people.

Thing is, though? There's no shame in being a 'special snowflake.'

It's just shorthand for how you aren't dead inside, how you're still able to ask why, and to wonder, and dream. I don't think that's at all a bad thing, myself. Your mileage may vary, I suppose, but I value it, I love it, and I couldn't go on without it. It's as integral to me as breathing.

I could no sooner stop dreaming than breathing.

#farloft #out there chronicles #imagination #curiosity #rant

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