#it's shameless self projection onto jonathan

[assholemurphy]

The Poets Are Just Kids Who Didn’t Make It

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Stranger Things

Steve/Jonathan

Summary: Steve Harrington is an out of work actor who's just starting out and has agreed to let one of Nancy's friends photograph him for extra cash. Jonathan Byers is a broody, asocial photographer that just wants to finish he project. Steve isn't used to photo shoots and Jonathan isn't really used to people like Steve. But, Steve is hard to dislike, and Jonathan opens up to him about his reasons for his art and why he has to make it mean something. Steve thinks he's a little pretentious, but he's cute and honest, and really? Steve's a sucker for anyone that calls him beautiful.

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 7045

Warnings: Referenced Child Abuse, Reference Drug Use

Steve sat in the cab toying with his phone, double checking the address to make sure he had the right place. He did. He was over thirty minutes late and he didn’t think Jonathan would be pleased, but he wasn’t sure he was even going in. He knew nothing about the man waiting for him inside except his name and that he was a photographer and Steve was being paid a hundred bucks to let him photograph him for some project. He needed the money, sure, being an out of work actor wasn’t going to pay his bills. Rent was due in two days and the money from his last job was running thin, so he needed this, but staring up at the decaying building where Jonathan’s studio was made him feel a little bit nervous. What if he was some creep who was just trying to get him naked and then take advantage of him?

Granted, he had gotten a reference from his ex, who had apparently gotten her start modeling for this guy, so he doubted he was too much of a creep. ‘A bit asocial and shy, but otherwise nice’ had been the way Nancy had described him. So, he probably wasn’t some predator, and Steve had dealt with worse people who hadn’t come so highly recommended.

“You getting out? I’ve got other places to be, kid,” The cabbie spoke, gruff and tired, shaking Steve from his anxious thoughts. He was going in. He had to.

“Yeah, sorry.” Steve handed over a few bills and exited the cab, stretching as he looked up at the high rise. It looked like it had been built a couple centuries ago, but this district wasn’t that old, so it wasn’t ancient, just decrepit and crumbling. Not at all what he’d expected when Nancy had told him about the photographer that had launched her career. Apparently, he had connections and was somebody important here in LA, but if that was the case, why couldn’t he afford a better part of the city?

He took a deep breath and walked up to the front doors looked over the list of names above the speaker. There, fifth on the list, scrawled in fading felt pen, the label peeling ever so slightly from age, read ‘Jonathan Byers.’ That was the guy. He pressed the button and waited.

“Yeah?” A tired voice came from the speaker, crackling with static and slightly distorted.

“Uh, I’m Steve Harrington? I have an appointment with Jonathan Byers?” Steve answered.

There was no reply, but the door unlocked, so Steve assumed that meant he was supposed to go in. He took hold of the door’s handle and pulled, half afraid it would break off in his hand. It didn’t, and he entered the building. It was just as old and worn down on the inside as it was on the outside. The décor was dated at best and tacky at worst. The mailboxes looked antique and could have been considered pretty, in some odd way, but the metal was tarnished and two of the doors hung open on broken hinges. This was not the type of place Steve was used to going. Hell, he hadn’t even known places like this existed in LA. Even his apartment wasn’t this crappy, and it was the cheapest place he could find. Not that he was judging, okay, yeah, he was judging, but could he be blamed? This place was a wreck.

He shook his head as he passed the elevator, not really trusting it to carry him up four flights of stairs. He’d rather walk, even if it meant being a few minutes later than he already was. Aside from a newspaper and a few crumpled flyers, the stairs looked to be solid. It only took him a few minutes to climb them, and another two to find the right door. He let out a sigh and knocked, promising himself that if it looked shady, he’d make up an excuse to leave, even if it meant not getting paid.

“You’re late,” Jonathan greeted him as the door swung open. He stepped out of the way and ushered Steve through the doorway and into a room that didn’t quite fit the rest of the building. The walls were clean and white and covered with photographs and magazine articles that Steve assumed were about exhibits Jonathan had done. The room smelled of smoke and lavender incense, which was a nice change from the musty hallway. Camera equipment was scattered on top of a wooden table next to a half empty mug of coffee with a happy looking rainbow on it and a pack of cigarettes, lighter balanced on top. In one corner of the room there was a back drop, grey, plain, with a darker grey chair in front of it and a few lights positioned around it with a camera on a tripod in the middle. The room wasn’t very organized, but Steve figured it was more of an organized chaos than general messiness. Two over-stuffed, faded blue chairs were next to the table, but that was the only color in the room besides the mug. It wasn’t homey, but it was better than he had expected.

“Yeah, sorry. Traffic was a bitch.” Steve winced at how cliché that sounded. It wasn’t even a good lie. The truth was that he’d needed the full half hour to work himself up into even hailing a cab in the first place.

Jonathan only hummed in response and Steve doubted he cared enough to call him on the obvious lie.

Steve took a moment to take in the man before him. He was shorter than Steve, and his hair was fairly long and messy, but it framed his angular face quite nicely. Steve watched as he took a drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke out. He was attractive, Steve guessed, not what he’d expected, either. He wore a long sleeved black sweater, which Steve found odd, considering LA’s heat, but it fit his frame well. Dark wash jeans hung loosely around his waist, not purposefully loose, but more like they just didn’t quite fit right anymore. Steve frowned, wondering exactly how he could get away with dressing like that when the second Steve so much as forgot to wash his hair, somebody had a comment for him. It took him a second to realize he wasn’t the only one staring, but unlike his gaze, Jonathan’s was much more intense, looking at him like he wasn’t quite a person, but more a painting and he was deciding whether he’d look better above the mantel or in the hallway. It was a little unnerving, Steve was used to being looked at like he was an object, it came with the territory, but it didn’t feel like Jonathan meant to be rude, more like he just didn’t know how else to view him.

“Uh, so-”

“You can undress here or in the bathroom, whichever you’d prefer,” Jonathan told him, taking another drag.

Steve nodded and the nervousness was back. He wasn’t used to undressing in front of strangers. But, he’d agreed, and now he had to make good on that. “I’ll just- Uh, here’s fine, I guess.”

Jonathan looked him over once more before putting out his cigarette in an ash tray and starting towards his camera. He paid no attention to Steve as he began to fiddle with it. Steve figured that was his way of trying to give Steve some semblance of privacy.

Steve bit his lip, deciding once and for all that he was going to do this, and pulled his shirt over his head. He wasn’t sure where to put it, so he threw it over the arm of one of the chairs and kicked off his shoes, tucking his socks inside and unbuttoning his pants. He pulled them off and laid them with his shirt. He hesitated a second before ridding himself of his boxers, deciding that, well, Jonathan probably saw a lot of naked people, so he most likely wasn’t going to be a creep about it, nor was he likely to judge him too harshly, not as harshly as some of his lovers in high school had, anyway, so there was no point in being shy about it.

He was thankful that the room wasn’t cold like the last one was when he’d filmed his last unclothed scene. That had been quite uncomfortable and he’d been sure the whole time that he was going to catch a cold.

“Where do you, uh, where should I stand?” Steve asked, absentmindedly rubbing his arm. Shy, no, but still nervous. It wasn’t everyday he stood completely naked in front of an attractive man, especially one who was so focused on anything but him.

Jonathan looked up from the camera and suddenly Steve found himself on the receiving end of one of the most intense looks he’d ever gotten. Jonathan wasn’t appraising him this time, no, this time he was flat out staring. Well, Steve could work with that. Just a deep breath and turn on the charm, that always worked.

Steve smirked, “I know, I look good, right?”

“Don’t. Nancy said you’d do that. Don’t,” Jonathan stopped him in his tracks.

“Do what?” Had he done something wrong? He didn’t think so, but maybe Byers had a different opinion.

“That thing where you get nervous and act cocky because of it. You don’t have to impress me. I’m not here for your personality.”

“You just like me for my body,” Steve teased, not dropping the act. It was what he did when he got nervous, it was his way of controlling the situation.

Jonathan pursed his lips and looked like he was about to say something but thought better of it and simply pointed to the gray chair. “Sit.”

Steve wondered if he’d done something to piss Jonathan off, and before he could think better of it, he asked, “You mad at me or something?”

“I just don’t like fake people,” Jonathan shrugged.

Steve scoffed, offended, “I’m anything but fake.” He made his way over to the chair and dropped down into it, drawing up in on himself. He didn’t know what Byers’s problem was, but he could get over himself and his hashtag deep nonsense.

“You’re putting on a front because you feel like you aren’t in control of the situation. It’s fake confidence and it’s annoying. I didn’t ask you here because I wanted you to force yourself to flirt with me. And if it helps, you are in control of the situation. You tell me to stop, I stop. You want it to be over, it’s over. I’m not going to do anything you aren’t okay with, alright? I don’t know what Nancy has told you about me, but that’s not how I work,” Jonathan told him, frowning. He didn’t mind nervous, everyone seemed to get nervous when they were naked, but it just bugged him that Steve was pretending to flirt with him. He didn’t need that. Yes, Steve was pretty, and not just from an artistic standpoint, but he didn’t like the idea of Steve putting on an act for him. It wasn’t necessary, and, frankly, it was annoying.

“Alright.” Steve had to admit, it did make him feel better knowing that he was more in control of the situation than he’d thought. “And I’m not pretending.”

“You’re pretending to be some cocky little-”

“Well, yeah, but I’m not pretending to flirt with you.” As soon as he said it, he regretted it. Did he really just come on to Jonathan? After all his worry that Jonathan would come on to him? Way to be a hypocrite. That being said, of course, that was before he’d met him when he was still imagining a forty-year-old blading guy in sweatpants.

Jonathan wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but he felt his cheeks get hot. Well, that wasn’t what he’d expected from this encounter. He was pleasantly surprised, but it was a distraction and he didn’t have time for that. “Whatever, just, don’t sit like that.”

“How do you want me to sit?” Steve asked, not really sure how else to sit that wouldn’t put the spotlight on the fact that he was, well, naked.

“Normally. Just relax, okay.”

Steve shifted, trying to ignore the fact that he was naked and just sit like usual. It didn’t work and he sighed in frustration before trying again, knowing that no matter how he sat, he was still on display. Or maybe he should work with that. He was naked, that wasn’t going to change, but maybe he should stop trying to pretend he wasn’t and just-

“For fuck’s sake, it’s not a porn shoot, Harrington!” Jonathan snapped, frustrated.

“Well, what do you want me to do?”

“Sit naturally, like you would at home.”

“Oh, yeah, because I sit around my house naked all the time,” Steve snarked. This was awkward enough without Jonathan’s help.

Jonathan pinched the bridge of his noise, annoyed. This was usually easier. Usually, he had people who had already done a few photoshoots who knew what the fuck to do, but no, he couldn’t go with someone with experience, he just had to do what Nancy asked and help her friend. Her really hot friend who was obviously clueless about everything. “Here, just let me- I’ll show you, okay?”

“Fine.”

Jonathan made his way over to Steve before stopping and looking a little pained, “I’m going to touch you, okay? Is that alright?”

“Go for it.” Under normal circumstances, having a cute guy touch him while he was naked would be cause for celebration, but Jonathan looked so awkward about it that Steve doubted it would be much fun for either of them.

Jonathan nodded before placing his hand on Steve’s shoulder and gently shoving him back into the chair. “Turn so your back is against the arm of the chair.”

Steve did as instructed, letting Jonathan move him into place.

“Good. Now put you leg up. No, the other one. Yeah, like that. And your hand here.” Jonathan moved Steve’s hand to his lap and let it drop, not wanting to be inappropriate. “The point is to show the human body as a work of art, you know? But nobody’s gonna want to look at it artistically if all they see is your dick.”

“Fair enough,” Steve accepted it and covered himself as instructed. “Now what?”

“Now don’t look directly at the camera,” Jonathan instructed, walking back over to his place behind the camera.

“Where do I look?”

“Just anywhere but directly at the camera,” Jonathan told him with a shrug.

“Can I look at you?”

“Am I behind the camera?”

“Yeah?”

“Then no.”

Steve rolled his eyes but scanned the room, looking for anything interesting enough to stare at. He finally settled on a few pictures on the wall across from him. He couldn’t quite make out what they were, but they looked like buildings. Well, at least he knew Jonathan took photos of more than just naked people.

The camera clicked a few times before Jonathan came back to help him adjust his position once more before taking a few other photos. It felt like it took forever to Steve, who was doing his best to keep still and the effort clearly showed on his face.

“You can move, you know. You’re not a statue and I’m not going to yell at you if you move a bit. Just don’t start flailing about and you’ll be fine. The world won’t end if you move your arm a few inches,” Jonathan chuckled.

Steve smiled. He liked Jonathan’s laugh. It was honest and quiet. It struck him that, while Nancy had seemingly told Jonathan all about him, he knew very little about Jonathan. “So, uh, why’d you get into photography?”

“Hm?” Jonathan looked up and shrugged. “There’s so many moments that should be preserved. Life moves on and forgets them seconds after they happen. Sometimes things are worth immortalizing.”

“Like naked people.”

“No, like buildings falling down or broken things that look so surreal, so imperfect for just a moment until someone fixes them and the world goes back to turning without even noticing it was ever anything less than perfect. Those things.”

“So, broken things and collapsed buildings.”

“Chaos and ruin, society’s biggest flaws laid bare for any that care to look hard enough.”

“That’s deep,” Steve snorted.

“Shut up.”

“So, you like ruin.”

“I do.”

“Is that why you chose this building? Because in all honestly, it should probably be condemned,” Steve said, letting Jonathan adjust him once more.

“Probably. And yeah, it was a good place to shoot when I don’t feel like going anywhere, there’s plenty of things to photograph here. Like the water stains on the sixth floor, or the broken mailboxes, or the broken window in the lobby that should have been fixed months ago but somehow isn’t in the budget.”

“So, flaws.”

“Yeah, flaws. I like them. People think they’re inherently bad, but they’re not. They’re what make things different, special. I find meaning in things like that. Some kind of proof that things aren’t as perfect as we want to pretend they are.”

“You could find meaning in a crack in the sidewalk.”

“I actually have several photos of various cracks in the sidewalk,” Jonathan told him. “Alright, on last one and then we’re done.”

“Of course you do,” Steve laughed. He didn’t know much about him, but that seemed very true to character. “So, I take it you like photographing people because of their flaws?”

“Yeah. Especially ones they try to hide, features they don’t like, scars they wish they had better stories for, things like that.”

“Things people don’t like. Like scars. And freckles?” Steve asked, looing up at Jonathan, slightly vulnerable. He’d gotten used to having them, they were easily hid beneath his clothing, but when he was younger he refused to even go swimming without a shirt. They’d been something different, something to be teased about, so he’d learned to hide them. Now, he didn’t really care. They were there, he didn’t like them, but they were there and he’d almost embraced them. There was no way to remove them without extensive treatment, anyway. But if Jonathan thought they were worth photographing, maybe they weren’t so bad.

“I like your freckles,” Jonathan smiled at him, raising a hand and tracing a path between a couple of them on Steve’s shoulder. “Makes you special, unique. Anything but perfect.”

Steve’s mouth went dry. He’d never felt so complemented by being called imperfect. And Jonathan’s hands were so gentle, so steady, and they had been the whole time. Every time he touched him Steve was struck by that, and every time he touched him, Steve wanted to tell him to never stop. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful,” Jonathan said, his voice low. He let his hand trail across Steve’s skin to his neck. This wasn’t the first time he’d been attracted to one of his muses, but it was the first time he’d ever acted on it. Swallowing hard, Jonathan asked, “Can I?”

Steve wasn’t too sure what he was asking, but in that moment he would have let Jonathan do anything he wanted. “Yeah.”

Jonathan leaned down, cupping Steve’s face in his hand, and pressed his lips against Steve’s for a moment before pulling back and straightening up. Steve stood with him, fully aware that Jonathan would have to adjust him again, but dammit, that was not enough.

He let out a small laugh, “That’s not how you kiss someone, Byers.”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow at him, but smiled when he felt Steve’s hand on the back of his neck, pulling him in for another, much longer kiss. Steve’s lips moved against his and Jonathan found himself kissing back with just as much force, his free hand finding Steve’s waist and pulling him close. Steve bit at Jonathan’s lower lip and Jonathan obliged. Steve licked into his mouth, his hand tangling in Jonathan’s hair and pulling gently. Jonathan finally broke the kiss after a few moments, pulling back and taking a deep breath.

“That’s a kiss,” Steve informed him, smirking at him. This time the confidence wasn’t fake. He felt completely comfortable with Jonathan, despite his state of undress, and given the opportunity, he’d do his best to get Jonathan unclothed, as well.

Jonathan just smiled at him for a moment before gently shoving him back down into the chair. “Sit. One more, then we’re done.”

“And then what?”

“You could leave? Or we could, I don’t know? What do you want?” Jonathan wasn’t used to people staying, he wasn’t sure what he could offer Steve, but whatever he asked for, Jonathan was willing to provide it. Well, almost. “I’m not going to fuck you, though. I like to keep my professional life and my private life separate.”

“That’s disappointing.” But fair. “Any chance I could be part of that private life?”

Jonathan was taken aback. He hadn’t expected Steve to allow him to kiss him, let alone want anything more to do with him. He was pleased, though, as Steve was everything Nancy had said he was. He was a little concerned about dating one of her exes, especially when he, himself, was one of her exes, but somehow he doubted that would be a problem for them.

“I have no objection to it,” he shrugged, stepping back into place behind the camera. “This time you can look at me, if you want. It’d be better for the shot.”

Steve did as he was told, looking up at Jonathan and asking, “Can I still stay, though?”

“Sure?” Why would he want that? “What would we do?”

“You could show me your photos and tell me about them. They look interesting. And, if I’m going to be part of your private life, I should probably get to know you, right?”

“Right, sure.” Whatever you want. “Now, shut up so I can take your picture, alright?”

Steve snorted but did as instructed, waiting until Jonathan looked up from the camera to speak again, “So, why photography? Why do you do it, aside from because you like taking pretty pictures of broken things? What do you get out of it?”

“Why acting? What do you get out of it?” Jonathan countered, removing the SD card from the camera and pocketing it. “We’re done.”

“That was fun. And I chose acting because I like to pretend I’m someone else.” Someone better, someone more confident, cooler, smarter, just better. He’d been a very self-conscious kid, but the second he’d stepped on stage for his second grade school play, he’d felt like he could do anything. It was like coming home. Like he’d finally found a place where he could fit, and if it ever stopped fitting, he could just become someone else. Sports were nice, too, his father had pushed him into those, but theatre had been where his heart was. He’d never forget the fight he’d had with his old man when he found out he was doing theatre. Their relationship had been failing for years, but that had been what really broke it. “It just felt right. On stage, I wasn’t me. I was whatever the script said I was, I didn’t have to worry about my problems or my shitty parents or the fact that I was failing English. It was just an escape, I guess, and I got addicted to the feeling of being someone other than myself for a few minutes.”

“Escapism. Understandable.”

“Your turn,” Steve told him, heading towards his clothes.

“I do it because I need an outlet. I need something to make sense of things. I find flaws and I highlight them and I make them look beautiful, and I guess, in doing that, I figure that if those flaws are beautiful, maybe my own are. And I mean, it gives purpose to the pain, so, there’s that.” Jonathan wasn’t used to talking about his reasons for doing what he did. Sure, he had them, but to put them into words that didn’t sound cheesy or overly emo was a feat. He did it because he needed to. He needed to make art to make himself happy, to keep himself sane. If he didn’t, then he had no purpose, and therefore, neither did all the pain he’d gone through to get where he was today.

Jonathan went towards the kitchenette, hidden behind the back drop to retrieve some of his work. If it wasn’t on the walls, it was in an album or a box, but he figured Steve had had enough nakedness for one day, so he went with the box instead of his current project. Maybe he’d show the full finished project to Steve after he got his photos printed. If he stuck around that long, but Jonathan hoped he would. “These are just random shots that don’t have a particular project attached to them, but you’re welcome to look through them. I’m not sure what all of them are, I just printed them and tossed them in here, so my apologies if you find something horrible.”

Steve, fully dressed and sitting down in the chair, reached up for the box, happily taking it and setting it on the table in front of him. “And you took all of these?”

“Every one of them,” Jonathan nodded, taking a seat. “Some are from abandoned projects, some were just opportunistic, I think there might even be a few family photos in there from the last time I went home, too, but those are boring.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t have any family photos. I left them all at home when I left. Not that there’s any particular sentimental attachment to any of them, they’re just stiff posed photos where we pretended to like each other long enough for the photographer to snap a photo.” Steve was well past caring about his family. He’d learned a long time ago that trying to make sense of what went wrong would only end up hurting him more. It wasn’t his fault, but that didn’t make it sting any less.

“That sucks.” Jonathan wasn’t sure what else to say. He knew what it was like to have a shitty relationship with a parent, but he had his mother, at least, he couldn’t imagine what it would have been like without her.

Steve just shrugged and picked up a photo. A black and white image of a broken clock, the glass cracked and scuffed like it had fallen on the ground. “You weren’t kidding about liking broken things.”

“Broken things are interesting, especially when they still function. It’s like a testament to what we can withstand and still pull through. We might not work the way we should, but we work, and really, that’s all that can be asked of us.”

“You’re really into this deep, emo artist thing, aren’t you?” Steve asked, teasing. He found Jonathan to be a little pretentious, but not in a bad way. He didn’t seem to be saying the things he said because he thought he was somehow better for thinking them, but rather because he truly believed them. He was open, honest, even at the risk of being mocked. It was like he didn’t really care what Steve thought, didn’t care if he judged him. He was at peace with himself, knew who he was and wasn’t ashamed of it, and Steve was a little envious.

Jonathan snorted and shook his head, “If that’s what you want to call it.”

“It is what I want to call it. Oh, my god, I’m dating an emo kid,” Steve laughed at the thought. It was like high school all over again. He was getting flashbacks of self-dyed black hair and way too much eyeliner. He could just imagine Jonathan wearing all black and listening to My Chemical Romance on repeat whilst writing angsty poetry.

“Dating? You’re dating me?” Jonathan raised an eyebrow, not objecting to the thought. He hadn’t really thought about it, but he wasn’t adverse to the idea. Dating Steve might be fun. He was certainly unique, not just physically, but personality-wise. Jonathan couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such an honest and revealing conversation with a total stranger, but Steve made him feel comfortable, like he wasn’t going to judge him for anything. Steve was certainly odd, but Jonathan liked that.

“Well, I mean-” Steve blushed and rubbed the back of his neck, “If you’ll have me?”

Jonathan smiled at him, “Sure. Who wouldn’t want you?”

“You’d be surprised,” Steve told him.

Jonathan shook his head, Steve seemed to have some self-worth issues, but that was alright. Jonathan wasn’t exactly the most confident person, either. “I took that one my senior year of college. Someone threw a rock through the cafeteria window and instead of shattering, it broke in this spiral of cracks, like safety glass but sharper.”

“What? Oh,” Steve looked down at the photo in his hand. “Is everything you take in black and white?”

“I use color when the occasion calls for it, but I find most things look better in grayscale. It highlights the lines, the abstract beauty of it.”

“You really are an artist, aren’t you?” Steve didn’t meet too many artists outside of actors, but he had to admit, he liked their viewpoints.

“Art is everything to me. Without it I probably wouldn’t be here right now,” Jonathan admitted. “It sounds cliché, I know, but it’s true. Without an outlet, without a way to make sense of all the suffering, I don’t think I would have made it through college, let alone this far.”

“And the suffering has to make sense, right? It’s got to have a purpose?” Steve asked. Obviously, Jonathan had been through some shit. Steve understood that. He couldn’t say he had the easiest of times getting to where he was right now. He couldn’t imagine who he’d have become without theatre giving him a way to express himself. He probably would have ended up like his dad. Working a job he hated, married to a woman he didn’t love because she ended up pregnant with a son he didn’t want. No, Steve couldn’t live like that.

“That’s what art is. Giving purpose to the suffering. What’s the point of it if it doesn’t make us better? Better people, better artists,” Jonathan told him, feeling more open and vulnerable than he had in years. This was why he was on the other side of the camera. He didn’t like to be splayed out and picked apart like someone was trying to make sense of him.

“Maybe it doesn’t have a purpose, though. Maybe it just hurts,” Steve shrugged, picking up another photo and looking at it like he was trying to find some hidden meaning in it. Really he just wanted an excuse to pry into Jonathan a little bit more. He wanted to ask him about his past, but he figured that was best left to another time, after they’d gotten to know some of the smaller stuff first. You couldn’t just dive first into childhood trauma, you had to learn things like how they took their coffee and what radio station they liked best first.

Jonathan was quiet for a moment before responding, “If it doesn’t have a purpose, then it’s just pain. Pointless, senseless pain. Like the universe just decided one day that ‘Hey, I’m going to fuck up this person forever for no apparent reason.’ How do you heal from that?”

“And that’s supposed to help you heal? That’s what this is?” He asked, raising his eyebrows. If this was Jonathan healing, he’d hate to have seen him before. He didn’t exactly scream mentally stable or put together now. Not that that was a problem, Steve couldn’t judge. He didn’t have the healthiest of coping mechanisms, himself.

Jonathan nodded. He’d tried a lot of things to make himself feel better. Drinking, drugs, running away. None of it had worked quite like this did. It was his way of making sense of a senseless thing. It helped. It didn’t make his past go away, it didn’t change all the shitty life choices he’d made, but it made them bearable. “This is me giving purpose to the pain, giving it an outlet. This is me healing, slowly, sure, but healing.”

“That makes sense,” Steve said, looking at another photograph. He wasn’t sure what this one was supposed to be. It looked like a bunch of bruises, but it was so close up he couldn’t tell. It was one of the few that were in color, though, so it caught his attention when he’d seen it.

“That one’s from a fight I got into about three years ago with Lonnie. He showed up at my mom’s house and wanted a second chance. It didn’t take long to see he hadn’t changed, and when he started in on Will for dating a boy, I lost it. Took Hopper and two other cops to separate us. Wasn’t a good night, honestly.” It had been the last time he’d seen Lonnie. As far as he knew, he hadn’t come around much after that. Jonathan didn’t like to fight, but after years of having to defend himself against Lonnie, he’d gotten pretty good at it. He knew it would have been easy to give into the anger that burned underneath everything, but he didn’t want to turn out like his father, so he avoided violence as best he could.

“Looks painful,” was all Steve could think to say.

Jonathan just shrugged. He wasn’t trying to be a tough guy, but after fourteen years of living with Lonnie, pain had kind of lost its edge. He reached over to rifle through the photos, looking for a couple he knew were in there. “But that’s the past. I think there are a few happier ones in there. Some stuff from a shoot I did back home. It’s a small town, but it’s got this aesthetic, like it’s stuck in a time loop and it’s forever the eighties. It’s quaint.”

Steve watched as Jonathan pulled a photo from the box and handed it to him. “That’s Will, my brother, and Mike, his husband on their first anniversary last year. They’re in front of the town’s theatre. I swear, it’s never shown anything more recent than Grease.”

Steve smiled at the photo. The couple looked happy and the town charming, if not a bit strange. “So, you can take happy photos.”

“Yeah, sometimes. It might not seem like it, but this does make me happy. It’s easy to get all brooding and dark about it, and the eighth grader in me loves to do just that, but I am happy. Most of the time.” He’d spent a good chunk of his life thinking it would never get any better, that he’d be stuck in a life he hated with no way out and that no matter what he did, he’d never feel that way, but he’d been wrong. It had taken a long time to get where he was, but once he’d finally made it, he wasn’t about to give it up for anything.

“Acting does that for me. I might not get a lot of work right now, but when I do, I’ve never felt so at home in the world. My dad wanted me to be a business man, and I was going to do that, up until my second year of college when I took intro to theatre and realized that I was about to waste my life doing something I never wanted just to please someone who was never going to be proud of me, anyway. So, I changed my major and didn’t look back and-” And while he wasn’t quite as happy as Jonathan seemed, he was getting there. It would take some time to stop living in the shadow of who he was expected to be, but eventually he’d learn to stop hating himself for what he wasn’t. “But, anyway.”

“You should try talking to Benny. He got me my first exhibit here. If he thinks you’re worth it, he’ll help you get where you want to be. I’ll give his number, call him, tell him I recommended you. He’s got a new project he’s working on and he needs a few actors for it. I don’t know how talented you are, but if he likes you, then he’ll probably hire you. I know a lot of people that got their real start through Benny.” Benny had saved Jonathan’s life, quite literally, when he’d showed up to his agency drugged out and on his way to burning out, fast. He’d stuck with him, got him cleaned up, gave him a chance to actually do something with his art. If anyone could help Steve get ahead, it was Benny.

“Let me just-” Steve dug in his pocket for his phone, handing it over to Jonathan. “Here.”

Jonathan took the phone and unlocked it, it didn’t take him too long to figure it out enough to add Benny’s number to it. He paused, “Do you, uh, do you want mine, too?”

Steve smiled and nodded, “That’d be nice, yeah. I can text you terrible lines from the scripts I’m reading. Film students are comedy gold, if they’d just learn not to take themselves so damn seriously.”

“Sounds good. I could use more comedy.” Jonathan entered his number and handed his phone back to him. “You’ve got a few messages, by the way. I wasn’t snooping, but they looked pretty frantic, but it’s like, half emojis, so I can’t tell.”

Steve snorted, “That’s probably Dustin. He writes in hieroglyphics and calls it self expression.” Steve took a moment to look at the messages, noting that, yes, Dustin did seem frantic, and that the photo of their stove on fire was probably a bad thing, but it was the photo of the fire truck outside their apartment that had the most impact, it was dated ten minutes ago. “Shit. I’ve got to go. Dustin tried to burn down our apartment again. He’s a great cook, but it doesn’t take much to distract him.

“That sounds daunting.” Jonathan stood as Steve did, unsure what to do now that he was leaving. They’d spent at least four hours together, with the shoot and talking, but Jonathan didn’t regret it like he usually did after spending a long time with people. He hadn’t felt this comfortable with someone since Nancy and it was nice to open up to someone who wasn’t going to judge him. He really hoped their relationship went somewhere, because Steve felt safe, and it had been a long time since Jonathan had felt safe with anyone.

“It happens like, once a week, honestly. I’ve just got to go, my name’s on the lease, so I’ve got to be the one to explain it to the landlord. I’ll uh, see you soon?” Steve asked, hesitantly.

“Yeah. Text me. We’ll meet up, get dinner or something. Actually, there’s a theatre not too far from here that shows a bunch of classics, maybe we could go? If you’re into that, you know.” Great Byers, you don’t flinch when seeing him naked, but now you get nervous? Way to go, champ, this is why you don’t have friends.

“That sounds great, actually. Maybe like, Sunday? Get lunch and then catch a movie?”

“Yeah. I generally spend Sundays walking around town and taking photographs, but I mean, I guess I could just photograph you?” Was that the best attempt at flirting he had? It was pathetic. Honestly, it was no wonder he hadn’t had a real date in seven months. Picking up random people at his exhibits didn’t count, because they were already interested in him, but it was rare he was actually interested in someone back.

“Don’t you have enough photos of me?” Steve asked, walking towards the door.

“No, not really. Most of them are of the same shot, just from different angles, and they’re all staged.” Jonathan shrugged, “I don’t know, maybe you could be my next muse.”

“Your muse? High praise,” Steve smirked, opening the door. “Does it come with perks?”

“Not really. It just means that I’ll be taking too many pictures and writing sappy poetry about you. Nothing too fantastic.”

“You write?” Well, looks like he’d been right about the angsty poetry bit.

“A little bit. I’m not like, good at it, but I do sometimes.”

“You’ll have to show me sometime. I’d like to read it.”

“I’m serious, it sucks, but, sure.” Jonathan didn’t generally show his writing to anyone. Nancy, Benny, and Will were the only ones he ever really shared it with.

Steve just smiled and stared down at Jonathan for a moment, waiting for him to make a move. But after a few seconds it became painfully obvious that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. He seemed to be a little socially inept, but Steve thought it was cute. “This is the part where you kiss me goodbye, Byers.”

Jonathan swallowed hard, “Right. Of course. Sorry, it’s been a while.”

“I can tell,” Steve laughed, not mocking him. He placed a hand on Jonathan’s chin and tilted his face up to him, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. He felt Jonathan smile into it. The kiss only lasted a few seconds but Jonathan’s cheeks were burning by the time it was over. “You’re pretty when you blush.”

“Shut up,” Jonathan mumbled, shooing Steve out the door. He heard Steve laugh as he closed it, resting his back against it and trying to no avail to stop the blush from spreading. He wasn’t used to attractive people liking him back. He wasn’t used to anyone liking him back. Nancy had been right, he did like this one. He was going to do his best to keep him as long as possible. He’d have to buy her flowers or something as a thank you for sending Steve his way.

[hush-falls-the-evening]

Affliction

Characters: Jonathan Crane, Edward Nygma (scriddler)

Rating: G Words: 2252

Misc Info: Fluff/comfort, old men in love, domestic fluff, perpetual bantering

You can find author’s notes on AO3

Not everything had to be explained between them, but sometimes acknowledgement alone wasn't enough, and some efforts from both parties are required.

Edward has his rights to be worried. The first time it occurred in his presence, Jonathan Crane woke with a start. His breath caught in a dying gasp, and his hands a shaking mess clawing at the sheets.

Their buzzing schedules only allowed them a few shared hours of sleep every so often. Edward knew for a fact that the old psychiatrist wasn’t prone to night terrors. Ironically, if anything, he would hastily scribble down the visions in a small leather-bound logbook, the same way one would write in a dream journal for further analysis. 

Curiosity has always given the Riddler a fantastical nose for hidden secrets, as well as... unfortunate predicaments, from time to time. However, after the first few times of carefully deciphering the spidery notes, he quickly came to the realization that they were, frankly, a pale imitation when compared to Jon’s nocturnal’s activities. Concepts, keywords, the likes. If anything, his sinister partner didn’t seemed to “dream” often. 

Jonathan’s ragged gasps were particularly alarming this time, and within the quietude of the bedroom, it had stirred Edward fully awake. 

Now, to wake Edward unnecessarily was a particularly risky venture, as he tended to be in an astoundingly foul mood as a result of irregular sleep patterns and a regal enjoyment of the act itself. However, cautious concern made the brilliant man reach a hand through the sheets, resting over the doctor’s heaving chest. 

It was surprising sometimes, how gaunt his shape felt to the touch. No costume, simply clothed as a mean to retain any warmth. How was there still space left for lungs and a beating heart under these bones, the stretch of skin, and somehow enough muscles to roam over the rooftops of Gotham? Now that was an eluding riddle. Not a fun one, but still one bemusing mystery. 

Edward made light of his discontentment by brushing his nails inauspiciously over the exposed skin, where the smoothness of his fingertips met the occasional scarred flesh below.

It took a moment before Jonathan’s cold hands covered Edward’s, his unusually damp palms almost grasping over his. He pressed it to his chest as his lungs shuddered back to normalcy. It took longer still before his state seemed to settle. 

There was an inquiry at the tip of Edward’s tongue. Forcefully willing the crankiness of its tone a mile away, he made an attempt to ask the right words.

They never made it past the silent spell between them. At least, not before he felt motion next to him, thin lips ghosting through Edward’s rustled hair, the next instant vanishing toward the edge of the bed. Creaking, rattling, and creeping back to wherever he busied himself when he had projects to attend to.

From the look he wore the next morning-… Afternoon, the tall man must had found some solace in the comfort of his austere reading chair. Which was to say, he looked stiff and worse for wear, nursing a hot beverage with a look that rivaled Edward’s own scowl when the restlessness of a project kept him awake for days. If anything, it was even more chilling with Jonathan’s ghastly glare.

“Have you found any sleep in that curiosity display of yours? Or was the quality of the couch too much for you to bear?”

From his tone alone, Jonathan could easily see through the boldly veiled concerns, noting its familiar snark. Against all odds, it did pull at the edge of his lips. He hid the reaction behind the cooling coffee in his hands..

“Early crow gets the worm,” he quoted in a deadpan tone, fixing his gaze on something ahead. “Beside, the decoration of my study is up to my tastes, I reckon.”

There was a spark of satisfaction in Edward’s eyes. The flare so evident it caught Crane’s attention as he looked back at him. Some tension seemed to leave his face, although most of it mellowed down to guarded introspection. 

A short-lived victory it was, leaving the Riddler but with a sour taste. It was particularly irritating as he was attempting to rouse a conversation out of him. Just.. Really any signs that everything was alright, or as close to that as possible.

Edward huffed, pouring a decadent mug of coffee for himself. The fact that Jonathan wasn’t rolling his eyes at the sight was almost worrisome. 

“I must admit, it’s utterly puzzling how you can fall asleep in a room filled with various pieces of pickled body parts and empty eye sockets…” There was no answer from Jon, not even at the cheesy pun. They had both acknowledged long before how their tastes differed. No hard feelings. Well. Some hard feelings, when it was Jon commenting on His tastes. 

Edward took great pride in his interior design.

Hell, he could had even made a jab at them finding sleep next to one another to begin with but there he was, ruminating.

Seconds stretched and Edward grew more anxious, itching for a response. He called over his shoulder with some genuine curiosity. “Actually, where did you get them?”

The words seemed to take a moment to click into place, before Jonathan spoke absently. “Oh, they used to be mine. I just tracked them and took them back when you offered a room for my books.”

“Took. Them?” Nygma repeated, smiling ironically with the mandatory quotation marks. Silence again. So it was going to be this way, then.

It was clear from his behavior that he wasn’t going to talk about it. Never mind that, if their positions were reversed, Jonathan would use every trick in his book to meticulously pry out answers out of him, regardless of kicks and hisses. Of course, Edward coveted the ravenous curiosity when he was the object of it, so the aloofness was….. irritating.

If anything, his distance felt… unusual. He thought out a long string of elaborate cusses, growing nervous. At last, his lips pressed with stubborn resolved as he moved to stand directly in his line of vision, claiming long awaited attention. “Well?”

Crane went still and slowly leveled his eyes at him. His annoyance laced with a curious edge that was always there when he looked at him. For a second, the genius wondered if the doctor would lose his temper at him. He briefly considered what would be worse between it and being ignored.

After all, Jon rarely lashed out in anger, at least not out of his raggedy costume. At least a reaction would give him something to work with.

Crane moved deliberately, finally picking on whatever hints were waved in his face. Honing his glance as he took Ed’s mug away from his hands and broke contact only long enough to lower it onto the nearby coffee table. 

“You want me to talk about what woke me up last night,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“Who, me? Oh, here I though you had a clear stance on psychoanalyses and the meaning of dreams, perhaps you could look into my wistful thinking?”

Jon was about to continue before whatever he had been about to propose died on his lips, and had him snap his mouth shut mid-word. He furrowed his eyebrows with his index pointing at his partner. “Don’t insult me, Edward. My dream journal is solely for inspiration...” 

The familiarity in the looming threat felt like an unexpected relief. The dark-haired man stopped short as he saw Edward cracking a victorious smile.

They both knew the extent of Jonathan’s distaste for Freud, and if anything could get a rise out of him, it might just be it.

The tall man closed his eyes, rubbing a tired smirk behind his callous hand, willing away the extensive rant he had been about to delve into. Edward stood there with his arms crossed and smug satisfaction painted all over himself. 

Taking pity on his weary partner, Edward pressed a hand to the back of the couch as he leaned down toward him, propping up his chin so as to make him gaze upon him. 

The Riddler could understand why Jon was so fond of that gesture. It was something he enjoyed as well, particularly when he had the upper hand over his foolish foes. Towering above them so they would look at him and only him…. And only him.

Jon realized the reversal of their usual game. Disgruntled at first, he seemed to give in a lot quicker than Edward expected, the visible exhaustion around his eyes mellowing into mild amusement. Not entirely pleased at this situation, but not turning away from him either. His piercing stare locked on him with eloquent irony.

Edward ran a thumb along his prickling jaw, smiling fondly at the self-proclaimed God of Fear, who looked up at him with weary amusement.

He would even say with adoration, but he had things to address first before revelling in the light of that gaze.

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me, you know..” The words were careful as Edward hushed them. There were also familiar, as things Jon had told him as well in the past. He waited for signs of stiffness at the prying, as Jon would do when he was the subject of prodding. “Or if you want me to leave you alone-..”

Edward was delighted as he witnessed the slightest shift at last, seeing Jon kicked back into a semblance of life. Cautiously, always. Precise and cautious. The Riddler swore he saw the old psychiatrist roll his eyes at his shameless ogling, shushing Edward’s dazzling smile with a look. Before any taunting remark crossed his lips, Edward felt a wiry hand at the base of his neck, pulling him down for a kiss.

It wasn’t anything big, nor passionate. It felt closer to an confession. An apology, if that word was part of their regular vocabulary. Or an acknowledgement. Careful, almost soft, which Jonathan knew made his heart skip a beat, regardless of the years.

Not one to be diverted, Edward was still expecting an answer. And so he settled more comfortably over his partner, straddling Jon who winced briefly at the transfer of weight. He rose a glance as Edward grinned down at him, one imperious brow rose at Crane when they fell in a warmer silence. 

Edward’s hands framing the outline of his collarbone in a soothing way.

There was again that reluctance back on his face, but he figured it was closer to a begrudged defeat. “You’re very proud of yourself, aren’t you?” Jon asked. Glaring at green eyes, almost devilish from sheer smugness. Did he even need to point it out?

Jon exhaled softly, and then once more. “…I can’t answer you, because I-..” he started, glaring at his mug. A brief hollow look flickering in his eyes until he spoke again. “I have no idea what happened. I don’t think any dreams had ever left me like this…” His words ran dry, leaving him speechless for a moment. Nygma realized Jon was now staring at his right palm, facing up. Flexing the muscles reflectively.

“Dreams? Or was it a nightmare?”

“Hmm.” Crane snapped into focus again, eyes no more cast downward. His wiry hand going to rest on the small of his back, reassuring. “I don’t think it was a dream, but it wasn’t a nightmare either. Unlikely to be repressed memories. But… I’m not sure. It would need further analysis.” 

Again that displeased expression. Nearly the same face he had after that time he accidentally drank three-days-old coffee. 

“Well at least it wasn’t a stroke. I wouldn’t even be surprised at your age.”

“… I’d suggest you be careful with where this is going. I have better endurance than you do.”

“Oh throwing a few uninvited guests out the window every other day isn’t really working out.”

“Well. I wouldn’t need to ‘work out’ every other day if said uninvited guests weren’t given full permission to step inside, by the front door might I add, and wait to surprise me in my library.”

“Well it’s cold and I’m tired of our windows being rendered useless in the middle of winter. It’s damaging both for my techs and your books”

Jon quickly revised how much he valued his collection. “…….. Fair enough. Although I’d be glad if you’d let them in only once a week.”

“Them or Them?”

“I am not playing charades with you, Edward.”

“This is anything BUT a charade, Jonathan.” he retorted, resting an offended hand over his chest. “Beside, they keep you entertained”, he added with a wink.

“Like hell they do, it took me a whole day to fix my library last time they payed me visit.”

“Fine then, they keep you in shape.”

“I’d say you’re the one keeping me in shape, but I digress,” Jon muttered, rolling his eyes. He didn’t miss the way Edward smiled at his remark, how radiant he looked as he drew him back on his lips, nor how Jonathan pulled him all the more closer in the embrace.

For now, this would suffice. This was warm and familiar. 

Small chats broke the soft glow a few times before they both went back to their separate businesses. Hours and days went by and soon the episode was left behind. Not quite forgotten but in a way, metaphorically left to pickle in one of Jon’s curiosity jars. 

Maybe this will never happen again anyway.

[anyofthem]

A Year in Reading: My Favourite Books Published in 2017

Mathias Enard, Compass (New Directions/Fitzcarraldo, 2017). Trans. Charlotte Mandell.

The insomniac thoughts and memories of Franz Ritter, an ethnomusicologist who specializes in how western classical music has been influenced by music of the east. Over the course of one night, he reflects on his life and work, particularly as it related to a woman he loved, another orientalist scholar whom he continuously encountered on field work throughout the Middle East. A fascinating meditation on the interpenetration of self and other, as well as a requiem for the places and cultures recently destroyed by civil war and the continued aftereffects of colonialism. Easily my favourite book of the year. I read it in French originally when it appeared in 2015, and Charlotte Mandell’s translation was excellent -- I rarely enjoy a translation of a book I’ve already read as much as I did this one.

Jenny Erpenbeck, Go, Went, Gone (New Directions/Portobello, 2017). Trans. Susan Bernofsky.

A recently retired classics professor becomes more and more involved in the plight and lives of recent migrants to Berlin. He also thinks back on his own life and history as an East German. The way the protagonist's experiences -- the whole swath of his East German historical tapestry -- were wax-printed onto his observations of the refugees made it global in a way that European novels rarely achieve, so often caught up in themselves, and only themselves. With this, Erpenbeck managed to conjure a way into the world that connected the twentieth century history of Europe with something more contemporary: its present, which is no longer only the purchase of Europeans.

Paul La Farge, The Night Ocean (Penguin, 2017).

A man goes missing not long after realizing that he had been conned into believing a manuscript detailing H. P. Lovecraft’s sex life with a younger man was authentic but then continues on a quixotic quest for the truth. I’m not even a Lovecraft fan, but this novel -- with its mise-en-abyme stories within stories within grifts within stories -- was unputdownable. It is as much about reading and fandom as it is about Lovecraft. About the way stories attempt to form our world into something more than a night ocean.

Ottessa Moshfegh, Homesick for Another World (Jonathan Cape, 2017).

A collection of stories by the author of Eileen. Drifters, failures, fuckups. Her prose is such a pleasure to read, its forensic exactitude.

Camilla Gurdova, The Doll’s Alphabet (Coach House/Coffee House/Fitzcarraldo, 2017).

I loved these strange parables. The ways she took her stories and sentences were continually unexpected. This book about transformations, women, and animals is so sui generis that it begs comparisons -- Sheila Heti, Marie Darrieussecq, Angela Carter, Marie de France, David Garnett -- if only to prove that none of them quite hold.

Vivek Shanbhag, Ghachar Gholchar (Faber, 2017). Trans. Srinath Perur.

A man recounting the story of his marriage over one evening after he discovers something unspeakable. The novel -- novella? -- is extremely short. But every piece of the story is exactly where it needs to be. In a way, its form reminds me of the best longer stories by Henry James.

Katie Kitamura, A Separation (Riverhead, 2017).

A woman goes to Greece to look for her estranged husband who has gone missing. Once there, she finds herself with more of a problem than she originally thought. I read this when it was released, and more than many other novels from the beginning of the year, its images have remained. I’ve heard it described as being somewhat like Javier Marias. I don’t think so. It’s doing something quite different. Although the narrator does have a penchant for observation, its style of storytelling is more controlled. Kitamura is also excellent with images, like those of a slightly aloof poet, whose images of a hot and arid Greek landscape have stayed with me.

Patrick Modiano, Souvenirs Dormants (Gallimard, 2017).

Thematically and stylistically, Modiano has nothing to prove, so this novel continues where his previous ones left off. A story about the way people from your past can reappear unexpectedly. It’s his first since winning the Nobel. Modiano is doing what Modiano is good at. That said, I would put it above Pour que tu ne te perds pas dans le quartier, for example. It’s not as good as Dans le cafe de la jeunese perdue or La place d’etoile, but it’s that’s not saying much. It’s still good. It also happens to be partially set a block away from my current apartment...

Naben Ruthnum, Curry: Eating, Reading, Race (Coach House, 2017).

The topic at heart of Curry is language -- how words are used, how they designate, market, and identify. The book attempts to address the ways in which writers of colour, in this case brown writers, relate to the signifiers associated with their so-called culture of origin. Ruthnum manages to address such complicated ideas about race and culture all the while coining a term to indicate a kind of book that white people seem to love seeing brown writers publish: currybooks. Ruthnum addresses the problems head on, considering his own Journey prize-winning story “Cinema Rex,” the first and only time he delved into his Mauritian heritage, as well as providing a literary assessment of South Asian diasporic writing, the pitfalls of an industry that seems to pigeonhole brown writers in a specific genre of literary novel. (Full disclosure: I’ve known Naben since he was three. Throughout the writing of Curry, I kept jokingly pestering him via email to include me in the book because I cook his mom’s dahl recipe weekly.)

J M Coetzee, Late Essays: 2006-2017 (Harvill Secker, 2017).

His three essays on Beckett are more than worth the price of admission alone. Of interest to me also were the essays on German literature -- those on Kleist, Walser, and Goethe. At his best, he is one of my favourite living writers, as both a novelist and critic; at their best, these essays did not disappoint.

Colin Browne, Entering Time: The Fungus Man Platters of Charles Edenshaw (Talon, 2016*).

Poet, filmmaker and critic Colin Browne’s essay Entering Time (about the “Fungus man” platters of nineteenth century Haida artist Charles Edenshaw) attempts wrestle with some of the tensions inherent within Canadian culture: the far too unspoken imbalance between its settler-colonial population with its indigenous one. The essay grapples with the dynamic of a white person engaging with the art of the North West coast without losing focus on its subject: the aesthetic marvels and legacy that are the work of Charles Edenshaw. It then proceeds to offer an incredibly convincing interpretation of these masterworks of Haida art. 

*The colophon says 2016, but I don’t think it was available in Canadian bookstores until Jan. 2017.

Kate Briggs, This Little Art (Fitzcarraldo, 2017).

A meditation on Briggs’s translation of Roland Barthes, This Little Art becomes an essay on the art of translation, on the relationship between translators and authors, specifically women translators, as well as being about the late work of Roland Barthes. I remember reading Briggs’s translation of Barthes’s In Preparation of the Novel years ago when it was published, and it was such a pleasure to read this extended essay. Until this point, my favourite book on translation has been Rosemary Waldrop’s A Lavish Absence: Recalling and Rereading Edmund Jabés (Waldrop’s excellent memoir about translating, reading, and knowing the great poet). But I think This Little Art now takes the throne as my favourite book by a translator about the art of translating. 

Norman Podhortez, Making It (New York Review of Books Classics, 2017).

I never thought I’d like something by one of the architects of the neocon movement, but so it goes. A friend gave this book to me after we discussed something that I was working on. Said she thought I’d enjoy it, and I did. It is a frank and bitter depiction of the New York intellectual scene that surrounded the Partisan Review. A fascinating document in twentieth century intellectual history. It’s also a compelling memoir in its own right. A must read for anyone interested in that generation of New York critics, but especially if you’re interested (as I am) in Clement Greenberg...

Andrew Durbin, MacCarthur Park (Nightwood, 2017).

A novel about a young writer who is writing a novel about the weather. Or so he says. It also is the novel that we, as readers, are reading. Upstate utopian colonies, artists, gay New York club life, hurricane Sandy, the Tom of Finland Foundation, failed attempts at transcendental meditation, the ebb and flow of romantic relationships, all fit into the story of a young man in New York. It’s a portrait of a place, and it’s also, I think, quite a perceptive meditation on names -- how meaning is projected onto something via its name. In that way, as well as in its form, it’s a very Proustian novel.

Elizabeth Hardwick, The Collected Essays of Elizabeth Hardwick (New York Review of Books Classics, 2017)

Although I’m not finished this, I’ve been savouring each essay. All 600 pages worth of them.

Special mention (aka shameless promotion)

Pierre Mac Orlan, Mademoiselle Bambù (Wakefield, 2017). Trans. Chris Clarke.

I can’t properly include this book because (a) it’s not released until December and (more importantly -- full disclosure -- b) I wrote the afterword for it (on the French illustrator Gus Bofa whose illustrations accompany Mac Orlan’s tale). Otherwise I would be calling it one of the great finds of the year. It still is. (But with that caveat of full disclosure.) A tale of early twentieth century espionage. Mac Orlan was once condescendingly referred to as “le Proust des pauvres,” which I think is a compliment in so many unintended ways. A writer who straddles the line between avant-garde modernism and various kinds of genre fiction (in the case of this novel, mystery and espionage), Mac Orlan deserves a far greater readership. Check it out: http://wakefieldpress.com/mac_orlan_bambu.html