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blahblahwritings · 5 years ago

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Contracts and Captains. - IV

A/N: Remember how I posted something before one of my other fics saying that I had been consistently updating for weeks? Neither do I lmao who was she? Don’t know her anyway heres the fourth chapter of this black sails fic.

Words: 1823. Honestly I’ve been writing this since about 12pm I don’t know how its so short and its probably shit bc I haven’t written anything in months.

Warnings: Mentions of vomit as per the last chapter. Think thats it lmao. See you in three months.

As your eyes opened, there were a blissful couple of seconds where the previous night’s encounter didn’t exist in your memory. But, just like the sun flooding the room, unwanted flashes of vomit and slurred words rose like a tidal wave in your minds eye. You rolled over, burying your face and groaning into the pillow out of sheer embarrassment as a dull throbbing started in the depths of your skull.

Why did you keep drinking? You could’ve simply had one or two before retiring for the night and you wouldn’t have met that boatswain or thrown up on your own boots. What was his name again? Ben? Boyd? No, they weren’t quite right. Either way you made a mental note to apologise again whenever you next saw him.

Slowly, you tugged your still clothed limbs from the thin sheets, trying not to jostle your stomach too much for fear of whatever was left in there making an unwelcome appearance. Your pants were scuffed from where you took a tumble outside the tavern, your shirt was half undone, probably from a failed attempt to undress before not-so-gracefully falling into bed. A single boot was thrown on the floor alongside your coat, the other still stuck on your foot. What a mess.

A hot bath, that's what you needed, and a hearty breakfast if your insides don’t bring it back up. Pulling on the other boot, you made your way to one of the girls working downstairs, trading her coin to fill the tub in your room. You must’ve looked rough as you passed her to get to the man at the bar because when he turned to look at you, his brows shot up, disappearing behind his hair.

“You look like you could use a little hair of the dog, love.” He chuckled, eyes scanning your disheveled form. A grimace was your immediate response. “Some food then.” He offered, filling a bowl with something that you didn’t stop to look at as you practically inhaled it. The man watched you with a knowing smirk and had you not felt so terrible you’d have spat out a snarky comment. You chose to gulp down your water instead.

“Thank you.” You huffed with a small nod, tossing some money on the counter before you headed back upstairs. The state you were in just added to this morning's growing list of regrets but you weren’t quite sure if you cared how you looked to anyone else right now. All that was on your mind was a piercing headache and a good soak.

Stripping off, you stepped into the water, sinking down slowly as your body got used to the heat. Finally, with a heavy sigh, you rested your head on the back of the tub, your aching muscles beginning to relax. Scented oils and soaps were left on a stand by the bath. Working a generous amount between your palms, you massaged your limbs and torso getting rid of any tension and purging the memories of last night’s… festivities. In the quiet of your room, you took a moment to trace the small scars that littered your form, fingers landing at last on the freshly healed knife wound from only a few weeks ago. The soft pink flesh was still tender, and if you moved the wrong way it would ache. It was dangerous to be alone on this island, in this line of work. You needed friends, not just contacts. A crew, perhaps.

Letting your mind wander, you thought about your new found place among Flint’s men. You had to keep bringing in leads to be of any value to him, lest you risk being tossed aside and left in the dirt. He and his crew were among the most revered on the island, therefore cementing your part in that would bring security. It would ensure that other crews would leave you alone, as you were important to someone they feared and the consequences of harming you could be severe.

Then again, there was a little more than security on your list of perks as you thought more about the taller man from last night. He was kind to you, not that the others weren’t having bought your drinks and all, but, he made sure you were safe and fed. Billy Bones. You recalled. Replaying the meeting in your head, you winced at the slurred introduction and the puking soon after. Why did you care about how he saw you? Was it because he was the crew’s boatswain or because he was handsome and softer than most pirates you’d met.

Catching that last thought, you shook it from your head, refusing to let it take root in your brain. Attachments like that are a weakness here and you cannot afford to have those. You’d only met the guy once and he probably didn’t want anything to do with you anyway, especially after that drunken show you gave him. Cupping a handful of water, you splashed your face, scrubbing any further thoughts of the man from your head, instead, choosing to focus on finding a new lead for Flint.

They would be leaving to chase down the details you gave him yesterday in a couple of days, if not sooner, which meant you probably had around two weeks to find something of substance upon their return. You’d struggled last time but after sending out letters to old friends in neighbouring ports, you were hopeful something would turn up.

Padding your way to the dresser, you pulled out some fresh clothes and got ready, feeling much better than you did even an hour before. The food had settled your stomach and the water you guzzled seemed to bring some life back into your face as when you left to go hunt down some work, the barman from earlier spouted something along the lines of ‘A whole other woman’ when you walked by.

---

An uneventful morning led to an uneventful afternoon. There were no new letters or leads and the streets were pleasantly calm compared to usual. You certainly weren’t complaining, you had been feeling better since this morning but your body was still recovering. The easy day was probably just what you needed. You were sat on the beach, sipping some water and watching passersby as you sketched in the journal you kept.

It was something you’d taken to keeping since arriving in Nassau just over two years ago. A small leather book to help keep track of potential jobs and record anything interesting that happened. Really, though, you just loved to draw. You’d already filled a couple just like it with sketches of people, ships and landscapes that caught your eye, often accompanied by your messy scrawl. You were just about satisfied with your latest addition when Mr Gates clapped you on the shoulder making you jump and slam the journal closed. You’d never shown anyone the contents before.

“Sorry, Miss Devereux, didn’t mean to startle you.” He began, chuckling lightly at your reaction. “I heard you and the lads had quite the night..” He moved to stand by you as you got to your feet, dusting the sand from your pants. Tucking away the book, an amused smirk finds its way to your face as you look at him.

“Depends on who you ask.” You replied. “How were they this morning? Feeling sorry for themselves?” Your brows raised in question as you both started aimlessly wandering along the shore. A snort met your ears as his head fell forwards, looking at the ground then back at you. “I didn’t see the majority of them until at least noon and they were still in a sorry state, although I wonder how you must’ve been. I heard that you hurled your guts up right after meeting our boatswain.” Gates mused, eyes crinkling as he watched your entire face turn a lovely shade of red. You tried to keep your cool but your expression faltered into one of sheer embarrassment. Apparently, this was hilarious as Mr Gates exploded into a fit of hearty laughter, and as much as you told him to stop you couldn’t help but have a good chuckle yourself as you covered your face with a half-sandy palm at the thought.

When you both regain your composure, he gives you a reassuring pat on the back.

“Don’t worry, the only people who know are Billy and myself, the men still think you can hold your drink.” He winked. You made a move to argue that you could in fact hold your drink but he began talking about the plan to set sail the day after tomorrow. You listened intently and explained that you were awaiting correspondence from friends in other ports to supply more promising leads upon their return.

---

It had been four days since the crew left in search of another haul using your most recent information. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened, you’d made some money here and there through smaller jobs and pickpocketing but overall, there was nothing of real interest. You spent the days reading anything you could get your hands on or drawing and you’d even had your eye on some paints in one of the markets, but all you could do was wait. Checking for mail at the front desk of the inn you were staying at every morning had become a routine, desperate for any work or ships that you could relay to Flint. It was on the fifth day that you had gotten a response from someone in Port Royal.

As you read over the letter for the third time, you could feel your eyes widen in disbelief, your heart hammered in your chest and you released a breath you didn’t know you were holding. This was far too good to be true. Surely this was a myth. A prize of this magnitude was simply unheard of. Your eyes scanned over the paper again, barely able to focus on the words because your hands were trembling so violently. Calm down. You told yourself. It can’t be the truth. You thought as you stared at the other envelope that had arrived alongside it. At the bottom of the letter it read:

“P.S

Should you doubt my information, I sent you the correspondence shared between the dead man and the merchant with evidence pertaining to this gold. Best not ask how it came into my possession.

Your dear friend,

Josiah.”

You ran to shut the windows to your room and close the drapes. If anyone found out you had this information and the evidence to go with it, you would surely be killed for it. Tearing open the paper, you unfolded its contents. It was all here. The initials of the merchant, R.P., details alluding to the existence of this gold and the name of the dead man involved in plotting the course it would be on.

Vasquez.

#Black Sails #black sails imagine #Billy Bones #billy bones x reader #multi chapter #Captain Flint #mr gates

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ottelis · 5 years ago

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"I gave you my life, Eliott," Lucas's voice shatters, splinters.

Eliott replies softly, broken, hollow, "And I gave you mine."

"No," Lucas says, low and dark. "No, you didn't."

aka: eliott and lucas grow up together, but are separated when eliott is institutionalized in paris after a severe depressive episode. they reunite two years later when eliott is released, but everything has already changed before their eyes.

epigraph. i. ii. iii. iv.

04—charcoal

tw: uses of the q slur and mentions of death, suicide, and electroshock therapy

july 18th, 1968

12:58

caen, france

The days start blurring together again, but the colors are a little clearer, rarely mixing and mudding together. Eliott thinks Friday was mostly gray; Saturday was a pale, sky blue; Sunday was a rich, muted green; Monday was a peachy pink; Tuesday, was a pale, pale yellow; Wednesday was a faded white; and today, Thursday, is a pastel orange. But all Eliott could think about all week was Lucas.

I don't know what to do, Eliott.

I'm sure you understand that your loyalty isn't as precious to me now as it was when we were younger.

We can't be together anymore. I was wrong back then. I'm not a queer. I know now.

I don't think so, Eliott.

In that moment, I wanted to hurt you. And I knew that what I said would hurt you.

In your letter, you said that you just wanted to know if I would nurture your loyalty a little longer. I will. If you'll let me.

All these same words, swirling around in his mind until he's dizzy, until they burn behind his eyelids every time he closes his eyes. And he hears Lucas's voice through it all, every inflection of disappointment, fatigue, frustration, despondency, and hope, and Eliott feels the sting of it all over again.

But Eliott doesn't feel devastated. He still feels that lingering sense of acceptance, and it veils him in a thin cloud of depression. Thin enough to see through, but thick enough to darken his surroundings, to start draining the color from everything ever so slightly. It's like a pain, an ache that doesn't hurt too terribly, but it still lingers, constantly trying to keep making its presence known. He can't deny that it's there, and he can't push the pain away as easily. It's bothersome, and it's dark.

He just can't figure Lucas out. And he can't figure out why he let himself accept Lucas's apologies so easily. He should've fought back. He should've asked him more questions, challenged more of his recent actions. He should've let himself take control for once instead of following Lucas's lead, only reacting instead of acting. He should've done so many more things in that moment instead of being so passive, but he can't picture himself taking the initiative again and marching up to Lucas's door and demanding he answer. Perhaps, a small part somewhere in the maze of his mind surrendered that day where the grass ends, and it took over the other night. And maybe that little spec is strong enough to convince the rest of his mind, his body to simply give up. Let Lucas move on. Let him marry Chloé, let him go to Paris for medical school, let him live a new life. Maybe there really is a parallel universe where they won't be together forever, and Eliott just happens to have the crushing misfortune of living in it.

He wanted to tell his mother what happened that night. But then he would have to admit that he's hurt Lucas more than he already has, and that he's upset because he finally knows that Lucas didn't love him as much as he loves Lucas. He finally knows that Lucas probably never loved him like that at all. And he's not only upset, he's afraid. Afraid that he'll come to the same realization that Lucas has. Maybe they really were just two stupid boys who needed more love than they had, so they turned to each other. They fell into each other's arms and crashed into each other's lips because they had nowhere else to go, nowhere else they felt safe taking refuge in. Maybe it all really was some passing fancy, something convenient that they took advantage of the few moments they had it.

Maybe the love that has driven Eliott his whole life, the love that has shaped him and raised him up into the man he is now, was never truly real.

A part of him is happy this didn't destroy him as much as it could have, but a larger part hates that he's not as upset as he should be. He's practically lost Lucas, his best friend and, dare he say, the love of his life. He should be wailing and gnashing his teeth and pounding his fists into the earth and crying out in anger at God, at fate, at whatever thing has taken almost everything he loves away from him. He should be surging through every day with a hungry, raging flame of anger. Or he should be in such mourning that he fears his eyes will never be dry again. His whole body should heave with his sobs, his mouth should always taste of the bitter salt from his tears, he should feel the strain on his heart, wait in perfect patience for the moment it breaks and he'll finally be free from his pain. He'll forever be known as the boy who died of a broken heart, who died because he loved someone far, far too much. He has a right to feel angry, to be completely shattered. But he doesn't. He's just tired. And he doesn't know how to wait for Lucas to reach out to him and tell him that he's ready to talk. He doesn't know how much longer he can be in this depressed, almost apathetic state before it morphs into something worse, something he can't control. He just doesn't know.

Him and his mother are eating lunch as his mind is still running rampant, trying to hold back all the feelings of guilt and depression so she won't notice. It's trying to find a solution, too, though it isn't sure which problem it wants to fix. Eliott isn't sure, either. He isn't sure where to begin, or if any solution will actually work. His confusion, his desperation is growing, and he doesn't want it getting out of control. He doesn't want himself to get out of control. Not again. Every time he loses control, he—

"Eliott," his mother begins, her voice soft, a little sad. "I'm thinking about visiting Papa today. Do you want to come with me?"

Eliott looks up, blinking away his reverie. He takes a deep breath as he tries to think about her question. The last time he was there, his father's memory helped him more than he thought it could. And maybe he could tell his father everything that happened. He could tell him the truth about everything, all the truth he never got to tell him when he was still alive. Yes, he won't be able to answer, or give him a hug or tousle his hair, but maybe if Eliott just says the words out loud, he could start feeling better. Maybe.

He nods, giving her a small smile. "I'll come."

She smiles back at him. There's something shining in her eyes, and he can't tell if she's happy or if she's about to cry. "Good," she says, her voice wavering slightly. She clears her throat. "Is it okay if we go once we finish our lunch?"

He nods again. "That's okay."

"I know you've been feeling down again, honey," she continues, still quiet. "And I think this will help you."

Eliott bites his lip, but nods. "I think so, too."

"I love you," she says, reaching across the table and placing her hand on top of his. "You know that, right?"

"I know," he smiles. "I love you, too, Maman."

Eliott doesn't eat much of his lunch, but his mother smiles at him understandingly and offers to wrap it up and save it for later. He smiles back at her and accepts.

"I can make us some tea when we come home," she says as they walk out the front door. "Does that sound good?"

"Sounds good," Eliott agrees. "Thank you, Maman."

"You're welcome, honey," she smiles, kissing him on the cheek. "Ready?"

He nods, and the hum of the engine and the music on the radio is almost soothing as they make their way to the cemetery.

It's a beautiful day, but not quite as beautiful as the day his father died. The air is just a little too humid and stuffy, the wind is a little too harsh, the sun a little too dim. But his father always liked summer. He was rarely sick when it was warm, and he usually felt strong enough to go down to the beach with Eliott and splash around in the water with him. They would go down to the library and read books together, or just wander around the town. His father was so close to seeing another summer, but he was too sick, too weak to live another day. He wonders again if his father's half-open eyes saw one of the most beautiful days France had ever seen before he died. He hopes he did.

He blinks as he hears the engine and the music suddenly cut off. They're here. The cemetery doesn't look nearly as dreary in the broad daylight. Most of the markers are a light, weathered gray, and the grass is a much brighter, healthy green. The eerie silence of the place is interrupted by the soft rustling of leaves, branches in the wind. It's almost beautiful.

He hears his mother unbuckle her seat belt, so he does the same. He takes as many deep breaths as he can. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to the idea of only seeing his father in a cemetery, and only seeing his name, and only seeing the two little dates and knowing, in between them, how little time he spent with his father. It's a strange feeling. He always feels a ghost of a shiver running along his spine here, but yet he's filled with a catharsis, a kind of comfort.

He follows his mother to his father's grave, and he sees tears in her eyes. He puts his arm around her, and she rests her head on his shoulder.

They reach his grave, both releasing a heavy sigh. She doesn't weep like she used to. He can hear her sniffle, but he can't feel her trembling. Still, he holds her close, holds her up. He knows she still needs it.

They stand there for a moment, silently mourning. Not very many thoughts have run through Eliott's mind, and he hasn't yet cried a single tear. He only feels that lingering sadness he's felt the past few days, and the pain of it is dull, yet plunging. He hates how he barely feels anything right now.

"Maman," Eliott begins, speaking past the familiar lump in his throat. "Can I talk to Papa? Alone?"

She looks up at him, worry written all over her face. But she smiles. "Okay. I'll be in the car."

"Thank you," he smiles back, enveloping her in a tight hug.

She pulls away, kissing him on the cheek before walking away.

The cemetery is eerily, eerily quiet before Eliott finds the courage to speak.

"Papa," he begins shakily, taking what feels like his millionth deep breath. "I need to tell you something. I never got the chance to tell you this while you were alive, but," he pauses, trying to taste the words before they come out of his mouth. They taste strange, unfamiliar, but they're right. "I'm queer, Papa. I... I don't know if there's a better word to describe it, but I don't think my heart falls in love with just boys, or just girls, or just boys and girls. It just falls in love. It runs rampant and it drags me along and I can't help but listen to it and follow it. And, somewhere along the way, it fell in love with Lucas. I don't know when or why or how it happened, but it did. And, not long before you died, he told me he loved me, too. And then we kissed. And, suddenly, we were calling each other mon amour and finding little places where we could kiss again and fall even deeper in love," Eliott chuckles as a single tear rolls down his cheek. "I wonder if people saw me back then and wondered why I was so happy. And not the happy I am when I'm manic. Truly happy. I've never been so happy in my life, Papa, I swear it. I didn't even need to be around him to be so beyond happy. I just had to say his name, or picture him in my mind, and my heart would soar. I was in love, Papa, I am in love," His smiles, his laughs disappear. "But he's angry with me. Or, he was. I'm not sure. When I first came home he was. He was angry because of what I did before I had to go to the institution. And he didn't talk to me for weeks, and he started talking to me again the other day at his birthday party. But he doesn't want to talk about anything that happened before. I think he's hoping I'll just forgive him and then we'll never have to talk about any of that again. He... He feels so much but he refuses to let it show on his face. He refuses to let other people see it. He refuses to tell anyone about it. He's stubborn and he bottles everything up and then he lashes out and then he realizes how much he can hurt people and he hates being reminded of that, of how powerful his words are, how sharp his tongue is. And... I don't know how to help him. He's worse than he was when we were younger. And I know in the back of my mind that I'm probably the reason why he's gotten worse, but I don't know how to help him. He won't tell me how. I know every inch of him except for his mind. His skull might as well be empty for me. I can't figure him out anymore. And I think he's given up on figuring me out, too. And... he's engaged now, and he says he never loved me the way I loved him. And when he said that, I think it confirmed everything I was already thinking, and I was okay with it. I accepted it. Well, parts of it. I don't think I could ever forget how happy he made me. That's the part I can't seem to accept. If he didn't love me the way I loved him, why did that make me so happy? Why did I take his little crumbs of affection and let my smile spread and let my heart fall in love with him? I just... I'm afraid that this is really where we grow apart. I'm afraid that universe is branching off into other universes and we're on completely different paths. And, if we are, if that's what's happening, wouldn't it be my fault? I chose to try to take myself away from him, and now he's made his choice, too, I think. I don't know what to do, Papa."

He knows his father couldn't answer, but when the silence comes back, unsettling and snaking underneath his skin, it makes the lump in his throat break open in a strangled sob. He breathes, slowly, rubbing at his eyes. He breathes, breathes. He walks away, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head. He breathes again, as slowly as he can. He calms himself down, leaving himself with that lingering, prickly sadness that's been haunting him for days.

He hopes he doesn't look like he's been crying as much as he has been when he reaches the car and climbs into his seat.

"Are you okay, honey?" his mother asks almost immediately. "You look like you've been crying."

He nods, taking another deep breath. "I just miss Papa."

It's not a lie, but his father isn't the only person he misses so much he feels like he could burst.

"We'll get you home and I'll make you that tea I promised," she replies, placing her hand on his shoulder. "Would that make you feel better?"

Eliott nods again, smiling a little. "It would."

His mother doesn't try and talk to him as they drive home, which he appreciates, but it's still a little too quiet for his taste. He turns up the radio a bit, even though he isn't particularly fond of the song that's playing. The day is still beautiful, his sadness still haunts him, Lucas is still quiet and distant, his mother is still far kinder than he deserves, and his father is still dead. Everything has changed, but in this moment, nothing has.

They arrive home, and Eliott sits at the table as his mother makes tea. He looks out the window, towards the water, watching the waves lap and froth and imagining the music they must be making. He still hasn't gone swimming since he came home, but whenever he entertains the idea, something holds him back. Lucas can't come with him, and neither can his father. The last time he went swimming alone was when he tried to let the waves crash over him and sweep him away. He's not afraid of the water, not like Lucas is now, but he supposes he's at least wary of it now. Maybe, if Lucas really does want them to be friends again and tries to fix things between them, they can go swimming like they used to. They could wade out, little by little, so Lucas doesn't get too scared, and the chilly sting of the water will wash all of Eliott's bad memories away. Couldn't they?

The kettle boils, and the waves seem to calm.

He turns his gaze back towards his mother, who began to pour the water into their mugs. He smiles at her gratefully as she hands him his, chuckling when she reminds him that the tea will be hot.

"So," she begins, setting Eliott ever so slightly on edge. "What did you tell Papa about?"

Eliott sighs, bobbing his teabag above and below the water. He decides to tell the truth, at least a piece of it. "Lucas."

"Have you heard from him again at all?" she asks carefully, adding sugar to her tea.

Eliott shakes his head. "Not at all."

"You're sure you don't want me to talk to him or Madeleine?" she asks again.

Eliott nods. "He'll talk to me when he's ready."

"It's been almost a month since you came back, honey," she replies. "What's holding him back?"

"He has his own life now, Maman," he shrugs. "One that I probably need to stop intruding on. I don't think he wants me in it."

"Why wouldn't he want you there with him?" she asks, almost frustrated. "You two have spent almost your whole lives together. You go away for two years, and suddenly he doesn't want you around anymore? It doesn't make sense."

"I told you what he said," he sighs, putting his tea off to the side. He's still not angry. He's just still tired. "It wasn't the two years that I was gone. It's the reason why I was gone for two years. It's because I tried to kill myself."

The words fall from his mouth so quickly it makes him feel sick to his stomach. It makes the color drain from his mother's face. It makes a tense silence fall between them.

"I'm..." Eliott chokes out. "I'm sorry, Maman. It's just that I can't undo what I tried to do that night. I can't unwrite those letters I wrote, or unthink the thoughts that made me want to try in the first place. I can't unmake Lucas's anger. And I don't think I can unbreak our friendship. He'll patch a hole in it then move on and never look back like he always does if he decides to talk to me again."

"Honey," his mother starts, but the word dies in her throat and she doesn't say anything else.

He shakes his head, running his hands through his hair. "I wish he would just talk to me and tell me he just doesn't want to be friends anymore so I can stop hoping and wishing that things will go back to the way they were. No matter how much things keep changing right in front of me, a part of me still keeps imagining a world I remember, a world that's kind to me. I wish he would tell me if he's going to kill it or nurture it. It's tearing me apart. He's tearing me apart."

She doesn't know what to say. He can tell from the way she purses her lips and the way she can't quite look him in the eye.

"It's okay," he tells her. "I wouldn't know what to say to me, either."

She sighs, lightly tapping her fingers on the table. "Maybe you could write everything you're feeling? Or maybe draw?"

Eliott shrugs, but the idea flows easily into his mind and lifting his spirits, if only slightly.

"You haven't drawn in a while, haven't you?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "I gave Lucas a drawing for his birthday, but I don't think I've drawn anything like I used to since Papa died."

"Do you want to try it? We can go and buy some supplies," she proposes, hope in her eyes.

He nods. "I'll try it."

july 20th, 1968

01:11

caen, france

As much as Eliott believes drawing will help him, he's had to work up the courage to simply pick up the new charcoal pencils his mother bought him yesterday, let alone put them to paper. His mind is full, as always. Full of emotions, memories, ideas of what to draw, ideas of what he would say to Lucas whenever he's ready to talk. if he didn't know better, he would've thought he was in another mania based on his scattered mind alone. If he was in a mania, the thoughts would've pushed him, urged him forward as he followed every wit that crossed his mind. But his thoughts are suffocating him, backing him into a dark corner. His mind seems to be teetering on a fine line between mania and depression, and it reminds him of the day he tried to take his own life. And that terrifies him.

He remembers someone saying that when anniversaries of traumatic events arrive, people's emotions are heightened to a frightening degree. Anxiety, depression, fear, despair. Today marks two years since Lucas's drowning, and two days from now will be two years since Eliott's suicide attempt. He hates how close together two of the worst days of his life are, but things were so different back then. Eliott was frightened, desperate, traumatized. Lucas was dead for the longest, most frightening ten minutes Eliott could imagine. How could he ever forget that? How could he ever recover from knowing that beloved body was ever lifeless? How could he chase away the frightening possibility that Lucas's heart stopped before Eliott could cling to him and swim desperately to shore? How could he live knowing that Lucas's drowning was all his fault?

Last year, Eliott's mental state while he was at the institution was deteriorating rapidly, and the anniversary coincided with another failed medication trial. He spent the anniversary of Lucas's drowning with the bit in his mouth and the shocks ripping through his brain, and he spent the anniversary of his suicide attempt still reeling from the shocks, too weak and disoriented to spend too much time dwelling on remembering. He doesn't want to spend the anniversaries this year in that same situation, but his terror only grows at the thought of having to deal with it with a somewhat clear mind.

And how Lucas must have felt, must feel. All because of Eliott.

He shakes his head, shakes away the memories, the possibilities, the blame. He looks back down at his new sketchbook, feels the chalky charcoal rub smoothly against his fingertips. He takes a deep breath, letting his eyes slowly close.

Breathe. Create. Forget. Just for a minute or two.

He opens his eyes, and he touches the charcoal to the page, letting his mind control his hand. Whatever's on his mind, it'll speak in tones of dark black or faded gray. The picture will be black and white, but Eliott's heart will provide all the color.

may 27th, 1966

19:47

caen, france

The sun is setting, kissing the water and making it blush a fierce gold as Lucas kisses Eliott softly, gingerly on a rippling sea of wrinkled bedsheets. Their legs are tangled together, and their foreheads touch and their noses tickle against each other. Lucas weaves his hand through Eliott's hair, wrapping the occasional strand around his finger if he finds a small curl. Eliott can feel Lucas's eyes on him, but he's staring at the little mole on his neck, the dip of his collarbone, how his skin turns into something like honey in the light of the setting sun.

"He'll be okay, Ellie," Lucas finally says, still the softest, kindest thing that ever sang in Eliott's ear. "He'll get better."

"It's different this time," Eliott mumbles, fidgeting with the collar of Lucas's shirt. "He's never been this sick before. Never. I'm just waiting for Maman to call and tell me that he's dying, or that he's already dead. It could be any minute now."

"She won't," Lucas replies, kissing the tip of Eliott's nose. "He has some of the best doctors in the country looking after him. They'll make him good as new."

"My papa's been sick my whole life, Lu," Eliott shakes his head, tears filling his eyes. "Every time he gets really sick or he goes to the hospital, all I ever hear is that he'll get better. Someday they're bound to be wrong. Someday he'll be too sick and the doctors won't be able to save him."

"He's not too sick," Lucas reassures, but his voice is thin, almost breaking. "He's not too far gone."

"You keep saying that," Eliott says, finally looking up at Lucas. He sees something in Lucas's eyes he rarely sees; pity.

"How could I tell you that your papa might die?" Lucas sighs, closing his eyes. He shakes his head, opening his eyes again and gazing at Eliott with that same pity. "I know what it's like to lose a father, but not like this."

"You don't have to tell me," Eliott replies. "And you don't have to try and tell me things you don't believe."

Lucas is quiet, biting his lip and avoiding Eliott's gaze. Ever so quietly, he says, "I know."

"Lucas," Eliott begins, taking a deep breath. "Hold me. Please. Hold me until this is all over."

The corner of Lucas's mouth turns up into a sad, half-smile. "Okay."

Eliott manages to smile back as he cuddles closer to Lucas, resting his head on his chest. He feels Lucas's arms enfold him, holding him tightly yet softly. He feels Lucas kiss and whisper into his hair, feels his thumb gently caress his arm. He listens to Lucas's heartbeat, feels the soft cotton of his shirt brush against his cheek, smells his salt and his sleep, and he prays that somehow, Lucas is right.

Lucas's breaths start evening out, and his heartbeat slows. Eliott looks up and sees that his eyes are closed, and that his lips are parted ever so slightly. Lucas could always fall asleep so easily, and Eliott always envied him for it. But he smiles, kissing the tip of Lucas's nose, his forehead. He doesn't stir, and he snores quietly.

Eliott watches him for a moment, studies the way his long eyelashes fan against his cheek and are lengthened by their own shadows. He watches the small strands of hair falling over his forehead drift on the breeze from the open window, from Lucas's breathing. Lucas smiles, ever so slightly, in his sleep, and he sighs contentedly.

He's so beautiful, Eliott thinks. How did I ever deserve him?

Eliott carefully pulls himself away from Lucas's hold, finding his bag and pulling out his sketchbook and pencils. He climbs back onto the bed, still careful about waking Lucas. He starts drawing Lucas's head, etching out every sleepy line in his face, every messy strand of his hair. He draws the sloping line of his neck, the hills and valleys of his shoulders, the slightest curve at his waist. He draws his open hand resting by his face, his fingers slightly curled and his palms almost completely shadowed. He tries to draw all the little fibers he can see in Lucas's shirt, chasing the hems and trying to reign in every loose thread.

He stops drawing for a moment, wishing he had a colored pencil that matched the shade of Lucas's skin in this light, and what such a color could be called; pale honey, ambrosia, euphoria, tenderness. He tries to commit the color to memory, the perfect blend of oranges and yellows and dusty pinks. His grin widens at the thought that maybe, if the world is kind to them, Eliott will see this color over and over again. That he'll see the love of his life look so heavenly every day, and be reminded again and again that Lucas is his, and that he is Lucas's. That he'll fall deeper and deeper in love until he forgets what it's like to live in a world where his soul wanders aimless, alone. He offers up another prayer that, like they say, thoughts will become words, and words will become actions, and that actions will become habits. For Lucas is the most addicting and yet satisfying habit Eliott could ever have.

His heart sinks, just a little, as he studies his drawing. It's beautiful, but not as beautiful as Lucas truly is. His heart sinks, just a little further, as he imagines people thinking Lucas is one of the most beautiful people they've ever seen, without ever seeing him like Eliott does.

He leaves his sketchbook on Lucas's nightstand, carefully crawling back into his arms. But Lucas stirs, and his eyes slowly blink open. He smiles when he sees Eliott, tilting his head down to kiss him again. Eliott kisses him back, hoping Lucas can taste the love that fills his chest and presses against his seams, the love that only appears as long as Lucas lives, breathes, sings.

"Why'd you get out of bed?" Lucas asks, his voice deep and crackling.

"I drew you," Eliott replies. "While the sunlight was still shining on you."

"You did?" Lucas grins, tracing Eliott's cheekbone with his thumb gingerly.

Eliott nods, grinning back at him. "I did."

"You'll have to show me when I'm less sleepy," Lucas says, kissing Eliott again. It's soft, slow, smiling lips against smiling lips. "I love you so much."

Eliott feels his heart glowing, bursting. He kisses him a little deeper, a little harder, making the smallest moan rumble from Lucas's throat. Eliott slows then, breaking away for a moment before kissing him again, gently, patiently. Lucas melts into him. They stop for breath, almost chuckling at each other out of pure joy.

" I love you, too," Eliott says against Lucas's lips. "More than anything."

They become like the waves against the shore, their lungs harmonizing in slow, sweet sighs. They hold each other, their bodies fitting together and clinging as tightly as they can. They slowly fall back asleep, braving the darkness they're entering together. The wind flows through the window, gathering their secrets and vowing that they'll keep them, falling silent and dying in the sky's throat. The moon is still bright, her freckled face smiling sadly as she watches them, knowing all the threads of the universe and knowing how they all tie together. She whispers, sings, "All is well. There is a calm after the storm, a peace after the war, a warmth and a comfort when burning heat fades away. Brave through, my darlings. To be brave is to be alive, to be well. All I ask is that you remember, still, to be gentle all the while."

The Lallemants' phone rings.

july 20th, 1968

10:17

caen, france

Eliott wakes with a jolt from a dreamless sleep. The sun is well on its way through the sky, its rays almost completely lighting up his room. He sits up, fighting against his head and heart weighing him down to his bed. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and tries to ignore the throbbing pain in his skull. He looks down at the floor, where his small binder of drawings lies open. On the left hand side is the drawing he made of Lucas while he was sleeping, the last serious drawing he ever did before his father died. The pencil markings are weathered slightly, the page stained a pale, pale yellow. On the right hand side is the drawing he did a few hours ago, another of Lucas, but the way he looked the moment he opened the door and saw Eliott there. Eliott reaches down and picks it up, studying it more closely.

Lucas's mouth gapes open slightly, highlighting his cheekbones and his jawline, exposing his teeth. His eyebrows are raised, curtained behind stray locks of his hair falling over his forehead. His eyes are wide, sparkling with something like shock, despair, confusion, realization, recognition. Eliott still hasn't figured out what that something is, or what he can call it, but he thinks he'll never be able to forget it. It should've struck him to his core. It should've warned him that something was wrong, that something was different. But he didn't see it, then. He was too blinded by Lucas, by the future he thought they could have together, loving each other like they used to.

Eliott briefly entertains the idea of what could've happened if he had listened to that ghost in Lucas's eyes, if he had just walked away right then and there. He wonders which is worse: knowing Lucas is angry and knowing the distance that's growing between them is all his fault, or not knowing why Lucas is upset and letting their friendship fall apart, wither away naturally. Which is worse? Animosity, or ignorance?

He sighs deeply, putting the drawing back in his binder. He wants to reach out to Lucas today, somehow. He probably won't try and talk to him, not yet. Maybe a letter?

Eliott tears a blank sheet from his sketchbook and moves over to his desk. His hand hovers over the page as a thousand words flit across his mind, as he tries to catch the ones that feel right. He starts writing.

Lucas,

I've been thinking about you, and us, and everything that went wrong. And you were right. I was selfish. I was foolish. I was a boy. I was sick. I'm still sick. My sickness will never go away, no matter how many shocks they gave me, and no matter how many times I scream and pray for it to leave me alone. It hurts people and sometimes I can't stop it. It's hurt you so many times. I've hurt you so many times.

I was sick that day. A dizzy, euphoric sick. I was in love with you. And your name, your face mingled with my mania and it took me higher than I've ever been before. I couldn't imagine being away from you for even a second. So, I woke up at dawn and bounced around my room and thought about all the things we could do together as I got dressed. Then I went over to your window and woke you up, and we raced each other down the street until we couldn't breathe and our sides were aching. Do you remember us finding almost every alley and kissing until our lips started turning blue? Do you remember me dragging you to almost every shop and promising to buy you anything you wanted? Do you remember that whole morning, the beginning of that afternoon? To be honest, all of that is a little hazy for me. All I remember is you. Your smiles, your laughs, your breathing, the taste of your lips, the feeling of your skin. All I really remember is you.

But what I really remember is when we got to the beach. I'll remember that hour as long as I live. I'll remember those ten minutes as long as I live. But everything I felt then is nothing compared to what you went through. I'll never try to understand it, because I don't think I ever could. But what I do understand is that you never would've gone through what you did if it weren't for me. If I hadn't been sick, or if I had been able to control it, or if I wasn't so attached to you, or if I didn't love you as much as I did, you would've never known what death tastes like, or seen his dark, inky face, or felt his cool, welcoming embrace.

You told me the day I came home that you don't go near the water anymore because it reminds you of me. It doesn't remind you of dying. You're not afraid of drowning again. It reminds you of me. I took that away from you. I took all the memories of splashing in the water, and watching the waves breathe against the shore, and I tainted them, darkened them before your very eyes. I almost let the water take you. I almost let it take me, too. The water consumes, erodes, strangles. Just like I do.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I don't blame you for not being ready to talk. Take all the time you need, Lucas. Live your life a little more. See what it's like without me. See if you're happier. Because you deserve all the happiness in the world, Lucas. You deserve to breathe every particle of it, swim in every drop of it. And you deserve even more than that. You deserve love. Dizzying, breathless, heart-racing love. I don't know if I can give that to you. I think I've given you all the love I have. I want you to decide if it's enough, even though you deserve so, so much more. I've told you before that I'll be waiting for you, and I still will, but if you decide you need to walk away, I will, too. I'll stop waiting, and I'll let you find the happiness and love you deserve. I won't blame you. How could I? Maybe Chloé really is the love of your life, and maybe she can be the one to give you everything you deserve. I won't blame you for that either. How could I?

I feel that I'm full of hope, Lucas. A part of me hopes that I can learn how to control this sickness, figure out its warning signs, its weaknesses. Another part hopes that my touch and my heart will soften, and that my mind and tongue will calm. But there's a third, larger part that hopes for nothing short of the best for you. It hopes that no more of your tears will be shed unnecessarily, that your mind will never worry for another unnecessary second, and that your heart will glow as brightly as it can until it must dim and flicker out. And may your heart live as long as it can. May it bleed scarlet and passion and loyalty. May it sing with all its voice. May it guide you down any dark, winding path and carry you every step of the way. May it love so fiercely that it may burst, but it's not afraid to. And may you hold it, nurture it. May you live.

Yours,

Eliott

He sighs deeply as he sets his pen down, reading over his words again. He's exhausted, and his heart aches, but it feels right. He folds it and places it in an envelope carefully. His hands starts shaking again as he writes Lucas's name, and he hopes he'll recognize his handwriting. He seals the envelope, the lingering sadness he's felt for days dulling, numbing. He takes another deep, deep breath and leaves his room, walking down the stairs to deliver the letter to the Lallemants' mailbox.

"Where are you going, honey?" his mother asks from the kitchen, looking up from her bowl of cereal.

"I'm taking this to the Lallemants'," he replies, not waiting for her response. He tells her that he'll be right back as he closes the front door behind him.

The sun is still shining brightly, but he can see dark, looming clouds peeking over the horizon. The waves are loud today, crashing against the shore with a shout, a cry. It's hot, stuffy. He picks up his pace, almost jogging to the Lallemants' mailbox.

He opens the slightly rusted mailbox, its creaking grating against his ears. He winces, then shoves the letter inside. But the sadness starts to come back, slowly, just beneath his skin as he does. He shuts the mailbox and hurries back home, the sun shining brighter and the waves crashing louder and the heat becoming unbearable.

He stumbles as he walks up the porch steps, and he lets himself fall, exhausted. Tears are suddenly spilling out of his eyes, and there's a strong, familiar weight crushing his chest. He hugs himself, rocking back and forth as the tears become loud, choking sobs. His mother must've heard him, because he suddenly feels her arms wrap around him.

"What's wrong?" she asks through her tears. "My baby boy..."

He wails into her shoulder, feeling his heart shattering slowly, slowly into pieces as the acceptance becomes full, filling his chest and nearly stopping his breath.

#skam france #elu #eliott demaury #lucas lallemant #skamfr fic #elu fic #ttmc #hush bailey #my writing #im surprised i got this done so quickly lol but here's the new chapter!!#i hope all of you like it!

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drtanstravels · 6 years ago

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In my first post about our holiday in Sri Lanka we had avoided buying duty free white-goods at the airport, walked around parts of the capital city, Colombo, and then taken a train ride to the historic, seaside town of Galle that was interesting to say the least. Now for the second half of our journey:

Sunday, February 3, 2019 We had realised the previous night that, unlike Colombo, Galle is a great city for just wandering around, particularly the Galle Fort area where we were staying. A little background on Galle:

Galle is a major city in Sri Lanka, situated on the southwestern tip, 119 km from Colombo. Galle is the administrative capital of Southern Province, Sri Lanka and is the district capital of Galle District.

Galle was known as Gimhathiththa (although Ibn Batuta in the 14th century refers to it as Qali) before the arrival of the Portuguese in the 16th century, when it was the main port on the island. Galle reached the height of its development in the 18th century, during the Dutch colonial period. Galle is the best example of a fortified city built by the Portuguese in South and Southeast Asia, showing the interaction between Portuguese architectural styles and native traditions. The city was extensively fortified by the Dutch during the 17th century from 1649 onwards. The Galle fort is a world heritage site and is the largest remaining fortress in Asia built by European occupiers.

On 26 December 2004, the city was devastated by the massive tsunami caused by the 2004 Indian Ocean earthquake, which occurred off the coast of Indonesia a thousand miles away. Thousands were killed in the city alone.

Because of the time difference, combined with a relatively early night the previous evening, we were up and fresh at what seemed to be a sensible hour on Sunday morning so we had a coffee each at the hotel and it was time to hit the street. When you’re walking around this town, it’s hard to believe that it was ravaged by the 2004 tsunami — Sure, it may have been over 14 years ago, but the restoration efforts were incredible, because there are no obvious signs at all of any damage. Anyway, one of the first stores we checked out was right near our hotel, a place called Embark that sold anything and everything for dogs with all proceeds going to improving the wellbeing of street dogs. This shop was in an old house and was absolutely enormous, plus Anna likes to spoil Kermit so to say that we spent a fair bit of time in there would be underselling it a little. Once we were finished in Embark, as well as looking at some jewellery and homewares shops, we were both starting to get a little peckish so Anna found a place that looked quite good, the Lucky Fort Restaurant and Cooking Class. The only problem was that it didn’t open until 12:30pm so we walked back around the corner to kick back in a cafe for a bit and then returned for a lunch that consisted of a sample of 10 different curries with some rice and a couple of lassis each. Here’s how our day had looked thus far:

Inside our room at the Bungalow

Looking toward our bathroom

Out the back of the Bungalow

Walking toward town

Inside Embark

*Insert double-entendre here*

In another cool store

Our view from the cafe while we relaxed and waited

There are quite a few Morris Minors in this town

Sitting down for lunch

Anna and the meal we’d have to walk off

That was a good meal, but damn it was big so we were going to have to go for another walk, a good excuse to have a look around nearby parts of the Galle Fort:

Galle Fort, in the Bay of Galle on the southwest coast of Sri Lanka, was built first in 1588 by the Portuguese, then extensively fortified by the Dutch during the 17th century from 1649 onwards. It is a historical, archaeological and architectural heritage monument, which even after more than 423 years maintains a polished appearance, due to extensive reconstruction work done by Archaeological Department of Sri Lanka.

The fort has a colourful history, and today has a multi-ethnic and multi-religious population. The Sri Lankan government and many Dutch people who still own some of the properties inside the fort are looking at making this one of the modern wonders of the world. The heritage value of the fort has been recognised by the UNESCO and the site has been inscribed as a cultural heritage UNESCO World Heritage Site under criteria iv, for its unique exposition of “an urban ensemble which illustrates the interaction of European architecture and South Asian traditions from the 16th to the 19th centuries.”

There were a lot of tour groups around the area, but we managed to avoid them and just take in the natural coastal beauty of the area, walking along the wall and seeing the locals swimming in the bay while almost pale-blue British tourists were getting horrifically sunburnt. It started to rain a little as we made our way around to the lighthouse while kids played cricket on the beach and snake charmers went about their business. That’s right, snake charmers:

It really doesn’t look that deep

Which one is going to jump?

This guy, I guess. Definitely has bigger balls than me

That pasty dude is going to be in some serious pain later

Looking along the wall

Tormenting deadly reptiles is one way to make money

But it doesn’t seem to pay a whole lot

Looking back down the wall

Anna as the clouds started to come over

Another snake charmer

The lighthouse on the point

Token panoramic beach shot

I completely forgot until I got Anna to read through this post that this wasn’t the first time in my life that I had encountered a snake charmer. I had previously seen one in Goa, India back in late 2011 on a New Year’s Eve getaway, even paying ₹300 (US$4.20) to wear a cobra on my head in a basket! Apparently I wasn’t even sure snake charmers actually existed because I had only seen them before in cartoons, but then we stumbled upon one on the beach. He did his act and as he was putting the snake on my head he whispered in my ear that he wanted ₹1,000 (US$14.20) per photo. I told him we didn’t have that much cash on us so he settled for what we did have. Most people would tend to recall an event like that if it had happened to them, but I guess I’m not most people:

Money well spent

If I learnt anything that day back in India, it is that I now know for certain that tormenting an extremely venomous reptile, such as a cobra, just to make a bit of loose change off tourists and passersby really isn’t worth the risk. Still, here is a video of one of several snake charmers that we saw on the beach in Galle on this holiday, just doing his thing, including swiping at the cobra with his bare hand:

Once we were done with the beach, it occured to Anna that we were near the Old Dutch Hospital again, a perfect chance for her to look through some of the stores that she was interested in the previous night. A lot of the stores in there are ones that sell gem stones and jewellery and this must be the area where a lot of the Chinese tour groups go to purchase them, as Anna was quite surprised when in several of the stores, Sri Lankan shop assistants would approach her and begin chatting to her in perfect Mandarin, able to enunciate themselves better than even she can. Normally she’s kind of deterred by this type of thing, but these stores actually had decent products and prices, but she still ordered a couple of rings that would be available the next day from a store that treated her like a regular customer. There was also an outlet of Spa Ceylon, a tea store and spa where she had stocked up on more than enough tea in Colombo, as well as being the same franchise where she had earlier booked a massage nearer to our hotel for the next day, but this still didn’t stop her checking out this outlet just to make sure there wasn’t any tea or soap she might’ve missed that wasn’t available at their other stores. There wasn’t.

It was still only the middle of the afternoon and the plan for later in the day was for us to go back to our room and shower before meeting up with our Australian friends from Singapore, Tom Cargill and Leonie Brown, for dinner at 7:30, but it was too early and beginning to get a little wet to walk back so we grabbed a seat in a different bar in the Hospital and had a few mid-afternoon Sunday libations, as we tend to do while on holiday. After an hour or two it was time to make the short walk back to our hotel, but we knew we’d be back at the Old Dutch Hospital later again that night. Once back we showered, got changed, and had a few more beers at the Galle Fort hotel while we waited for a torrential downpour similar to what we experienced over New Year’s Eve in Bangkok, Thailand to let up so Tom and Leonie could walk down to our hotel. They arrived not long after the rain ceased and the four of us walked down to where Anna had made reservations for the night, the Amangalla. Dinner was another spectacular array of curries and chutneys and then we all headed back to the Old Dutch Hospital again to get some sneaky drinks in the same bar as the previous night before everything closed early, as tends to happen in this town. A few pictures to wrap up that day in Galle:

The Old Dutch Hospital on the right

In the Hospital’s courtyard

Not sure what this place is selling…

The creepy-looking spa guide for Spa Ceylon

We saw quite a few of these types of boats coming in while we were having drinks at the Hospital

The Galle Police Barracks

Waiting for the rain to stop at Galle Fort Hotel

Walking into town for dinner

The local post office

Anna, Leonie, Tom, and myself, whom Tom referred to as “grown up Tutankhamen” due to my eye

Don’t mind if I do…

I love this type of food, but I know it’s going to catch up with me at some stage

Monday, February 4, 2019 It was our final day in Galle and we would be being driven back to Colombo that evening, but we still had a few things to sort out while we were in town. Tom and Leonie invited us to join them for a cooking class they were taking at Lucky Fort, the restaurant where Anna and myself had had lunch the previous day, which helped answer a few questions; the cooking class began at 9:00am and wrapped up at 1:00pm, however, as we had found out on Sunday, the restaurant only opens for lunch at 12:30pm so it would be safe to say that the cooking class provides at least some of the food for the lunch menu.

We declined their offer, not just because it was theoretically more expensive to make your own lunch at Lucky Fort than to simply order it, but Anna was also booked in for a massage and had to collect the rings she had ordered as well. Furthermore, we had one other food item on our list that we wanted to try, kothu roti, otherwise just known as kottu. Anna went about her business, while I had a shower, brushed the bull ants off the toilet paper and went about mine, then had coffee while reading a book out the front of our hotel. At one point while sitting there I was confused as to whether a man was either begging or making a lame attempt at robbing me; he was standing on the road and kept mumbling something at me which I had to ask him to repeat several times. I eventually heard him ask, “how many rupees do you have?” I still couldn’t work out if he wanted to steal my cash, so I said “none” and gave him an intimidating look that highlighted my facial injuries from my seizure several days earlier. He stood and stared at me for a bit before he left, completely unaware that he probably would’ve been able to beat the shit out of me if he actually wanted to.

Our kottu

Soon Anna returned and it was time to go and get some kottu for lunch. When it comes to popularity, kottu is like getting a hamburger in Sri Lanka, but it is traditionally just made of leftovers — a mashup of shredded roti (flatbread), some vegetables, and leftover curry — but the store we went to had a few different varieties available so we got a large one with prawns to share (above, left), as well as some chili cuttlefish and rice. Pretty damn good!

We caught up with Tom and Leonie at the Old Dutch Hospital again after their cooking class to have a few relaxing afternoon beverages before we returned to Colombo, but Leonie just seemed a bit off for some reason, although nobody, including herself, could really put a finger on what it was. We pulled up a seat in the same bar as the previous night, but it turned out that they weren’t serving alcohol and we’d soon know why:

The Excise Department announced today that sale of liquor will entirely be banned countrywide for 19 selected days in this year including of every Poya day and during other special holidays.

The department had recognized 19 days as special holidays in the year 2017, which the sale of liquor in all forms be banned.

As a result all liquor shops, wine stores, restaurants, hotels, bar and taverns will ordered to be closed on all Poya days, the Independence Day on February 04, the day and the day before the Sinhala and Tamil New Year in April, the day after Wesak in May, Ramazan Day, World Alcohol Prevention Day and the Christmas Day on December 25.

Additionally, the liquor shops will have to close due to the short notice decision taken by the government following special other occasions.

That article may be for 2017, but those rules still apply; unlike most western countries where getting plastered is part of their National/Independence Day celebrations, in Sri Lanka the sale of alcohol was banned. This worked in Leonie’s favour, as her and Tom decided to go back to their hotel where she spent almost the entire afternoon sleeping, but Anna and I thought we’d try our luck at another bar in the precinct with an amusing level of success. When we asked a barman for beer, he said “no,” but gave us a nod and took us to an upstairs area where we were isolated from the rest of the customers, most of whom were local. After waiting for about 15 minutes I was wondering what was going on, you can’t really go downstairs and ask where your contraband drinks are, but he eventually returned with two cans of beer in an opaque plastic bag, as well as two teacups he insisted we drink them from so we could just say it was tea. He then filled our teacups with beer and threw the can over the edge, insisting that we hide the other can until it was finished. It was essentially like drinking in a speakeasy during the US prohibition and we felt bad for putting our server under so much stress so we figured we’d just finish those drinks, give him a big tip, and be on our way. As we were finishing up, an American couple was led upstairs to where we were sitting and they started talking to us about not being able to buy alcohol. We gave them an acknowledging look and said they’d be fine, but they didn’t seem to agree… until they were presented with some beers and teacups. It was then that they looked over at us, realised it wasn’t tea in our cups, and the four of us just pissed ourselves laughing. When our tab came we noticed it was predated so the establishment wouldn’t get in any trouble either. Was it worth the effort for a few illegal drinks? probably not, but it left us with a great story and our barman with a very large tip:

Anna and her “tea”

My “teacan” hidden out of sight behind a table leg

Yesterday’s date on our receipt, just for some Lion “tea” and sparkling water

It looked like it was going to be a fairly anti-climactic day if that was the national law so we opted to get our driver to take us back to Colombo a bit earlier in the vain hope that we might be able to find a bit more action there. We had previously agreed on a fee of Rs10,000 (US$55.00) for essentially an Uber ride and embarked on the 120km (75 mi) trek from Galle back to Colombo, taking about two and a half hours from the doorstep of The Bungalow, our hotel in Galle, to the entrance of our new home for the night in Colombo, the Paradise Road Tintagel. Don’t ask Anna anything about the trip though, she shut her eyes the second the car started moving and didn’t open them again until we had arrived. Our hotel was incredible, our three-room suite was immaculate and larger than our apartment back in Singapore, despite requiring us to take a back entrance near the restaurant’s kitchen, but the building itself has an interesting history, too:

Completed in 1930, Tintagel was intended as a residence for Dr. Lucien de Zilwa. In the mid 1940’s de Zilwa was given a week to vacate the property by the British Military to house one hundred soldiers. The military occupation saw the house wrecked and de Zilwa sold Tintagel to Sir Solomon Dias Bandaranaike for his son, Solomon West Ridgeway (S.W.R.D.). It is from this point in time that the house gained recognition as a structure of national importance.

It was here that Ceylon’s political history was decided. S.W.R.D. Bandaranaike became Prime Minister in 1956 and he was shot on the verandah of Tintagel in 1959 and subsequently died in hospital. In 1960, his widow, Sirimavo Bandaranaike, became the world’s first female Prime Minister. Mrs. Bandaranaike won several elections and was re-elected in 1970 and 1994, thereby becoming the longest serving Prime Minister of Sri Lanka. Mrs. Bandaranaike resided at Tintagel right up until her demise in 2000. In 1983, their only son, Anura Bandaranaike became leader of the Opposition, Speaker of the House of Parliament in 2000 and a Minister of several Ministries of Government. The younger daughter of S.W.R.D. and Sirimavo Bandaranaike, Chandrika Bandaranaike Kumaratunga progressively became a Chief Minister, Prime Minister and then Sri Lanka’s first female President in 1994.

In 2005, Tintagel, the family home of the Bandaranaike’s was leased to Udayshanth Fernando by the family to become Paradise Road Tintagel Colombo, a unique private hotel.

Once we had checked in we asked about the alcohol law and it turned out that a loophole allowed us to have it put in our room as part of the minibar so they took our order and soon it all arrived for us. It looks like we’ll be spending this one back in the room after dinner.

We showered and went out to find something to eat, soon stumbling upon a restaurant in our neighbourhood called The Lagoon inside the Cinnamon Grand Hotel, a restaurant that is just like going to a fish market where you pick what you want and how you want it cooked. Sri Lanka is famous for its crabs, which we hadn’t had yet so we ordered a crab curry, some oysters, a sashimi platter, and a bunch of other side dishes and gorged ourselves before returning to the Tintagel. Here’s a tour of our suite, as well as a look at our dinner:

Anna in the lobby of our hotel

In a living room part of our suite

The living room from another angle

The bathroom was enormous

A portion of the bedroom

The swimming pool at night

Me with just some of what we could choose from at The Lagoon

“One of each, please!”

About to get into some oysters

Some octopus and a few enormous prawns

Crab curry

Seafood soup

I think we cleaned up pretty well

We staggered home a little full after all of that food, receiving a message from Tom saying that Leonie was back to her normal self after about a five-hour nap, having maybe just overdone it on the curries over the previous couple of days. We returned to our suite to a fridge full of booze and something else which we hadn’t had access to at The Bungalow back in Galle; a television. There were only a handful of channels showing English, non-news related entertainment, one being a station where the film The Godfather: Part II, often considered one of the greatest films of all time, was just winding up. This seemed promising so we got ourselves a semi-legal drink each and prepared for what cinematic masterpiece was awaiting us. It’s hard to find many films that compare to The Godfather: Part II, however, The Perfect Storm, a nominee for ‘Most Intrusive Musical Score’ in The Stinkers Bad Movie Awards (2000), is far from being one them. We sat back and laughed at the lame dialogue, George Clooney’s awful acting, and moments when the writers forgot certain elements, such as when one of the boat’s crew had a large fishing hook go through his hand that had no repercussions whatsoever, or another crew-member having a large chunk bitten out of his leg by a shark and then completely never mentioned again. I didn’t realise at the time that I was beginning to bloat up and at one stage during The Perfect Storm, Anna slapped my stomach because she was laughing so hard, which made a hollow sound like a bass drum, resulting in an urgent trip to the toilet for me. It wouldn’t be the last such visit as it seemed that maybe three day’s worth of curry was starting to catch up with me, but we still managed to have a great night watching a terrible film.

Tuesday, February 5, 2019 Our last day was upon us as we wouldn’t be flying out until almost 2:00am. I still wasn’t feeling fantastic, but popped a Loperamil tablet and soldiered on, including even having more curry for breakfast. Probably not the smartest thing to do, but it was the house specialty at our hotel.

We were staying reasonably close to the Galle Face Hotel where we had spent Friday night, however, we were further inland in a slightly different district so our plan was to just wander around, looking at the sights, snacking, and making the most of our last day in Sri Lanka. Our hotel had a shop, the Paradise Road Gallery Café, which is listed as “within walking distance of the hotel,” yet we weren’t expecting it to take about half an hour to reach, especially when the weather app on my phone was telling it like this (right): When we finally arrived, the shop at the Gallery Café had two levels of pretty cool and unique stuff, from quirky gifts to bizarre items for the home, so Anna picked up a few things for friends and family, then we grabbed a coffee each and were off again. I mentioned earlier in this post that Colombo isn’t a great city for walking around; a lot of areas don’t have paths, or if they do, they are often blocked, plus the drivers don’t tend to have pedestrians in mind a whole lot so you really need to be on your guard all of the time, wary of cars flying out of driveways and around blind corners, and crossing roads is an absolute nightmare. Because of this, we decided to check out some of the parks nearby and this was where we ran into the last person who attempted to scam us on this trip. We were looking at a squirrel running up and down the branches of a tree when one of the older gardeners came over, thinking we must have some interest in botany. He began telling us some mildly interesting facts about the tree, including slicing part of a branch with his thumbnail so a milk-like liquid dripped out. He then insisted on giving us a private tour of the gardens, which were enormous, and it took a fair bit of time and effort to convince him we weren’t remotely interested, were doing something else in a different place, and that he should just get back to work. We didn’t actually have plans, we just walked around, but there wasn’t really a whole lot to do or see besides some of the colonial buildings. We ended up pulling up a seat in a cafe in a mall for a bit to avoid a storm, but in the end we just decided to go back to our hotel, finish the leftover room service drinks from the previous night, have some dinner at the hotel, followed by some more drinks before catching an early taxi to the airport. A look at our last day in Colombo, Sri Lanka:

Bloated out the front of the Paradise Road Tintagel

Anna and a bush

A cool mural for a cafe we passed while walking around

A Budda statue in a park

This spire is visible from almost anywhere in Colombo

Me in the upstairs garden of the Gallery Cafe

Anna and a wagon of metal pigs

A lamp made of an old water pump

The results can be amusing when people put the wrong detachable heads on traditional wooden dolls

One of the trees the gardiner thought we’d like to know much, much more about. For a fee, of course

State of the art police station

Hey, at least they have satellite TV

A carving on a wall outside a gated house

My guess is that whoever lives here is rather well off

We arrived at the airport and were soon on our way back to Singapore, arriving home early in the morning on about an hour’s sleep. I was tired and it would take more than a week before my stomach returned to normal, but it was a great trip and we had some excellent food. I’d happily return to Sri Lanka again any day, but I don’t think I’d bother with Colombo next time. Maybe somewhere else like Kandy, but we’ll make that decision when we come to it.

Chinese New Year in Sri Lanka, pt.2: From the Beach Back to the City In my first post about our holiday in Sri Lanka we had avoided buying duty free white-goods at the airport, walked around parts of the capital city, Colombo, and then taken a train ride to the historic, seaside town of Galle that was interesting to say the least.

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jonathanbelloblog · 7 years ago

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Still Dreaming: Car Connoisseur John Staluppi

PALM BEACH, Florida — “We’re very selective on the cars here. I don’t like any pieces of s***, excuse my language,” John Staluppi, a reasonable approximation of a sturdier Robert De Niro, says in his Brooklyn accent. “I’m not that much about history and all that stuff. I’m more about I want the car to look nice, drive nice.”

We’re walking through an enthusiast’s paradise that Staluppi, born in 1947, calls his Cars of Dreams, built into roughly half of a nondescript West Palm Beach, Florida, strip mall he purchased primarily to house his extensive collection of automobiles. A casual passerby has no idea of the four-wheeled treasures inside the roughly 60,000-square-foot space. With its Coney Island theme, accented by a Brooklyn Bridge and Manhattan skyline motif along the back wall, this isn’t just a place to gawk at old cars—there’s an entire town to explore.

Hit the boardwalk and play carnival games, or grab a bite to eat at a functioning Nathan’s hot dog stand. Stroll along the museum’s tree-lined streets, past the mock drive-in theater, prison, and fire station (complete with an actual LaFrance fire truck) and into the old-time Oldsmobile dealership, stocked with period-correct Olds models. A full-scale ’50s-style diner, named after Staluppi’s late dog, Dillinger, is open during the handful of charity events this place opens its doors for each year. This is his private wonderland, a world Staluppi has created to celebrate his love of cars and his childhood home.

Staluppi’s dream was born of necessity. When he moved into his West Palm Beach estate, he quickly found there was one part of the home that didn’t measure up. “I had a 10-car garage, but I said, ‘This is not working,’ and built an 18-car garage for my house,” Staluppi says. “I kept packing cars in, and every time I wanted to go for a ride in a car, I’d have to move five cars just to get to it.”

Once he moved his cars out of the garage and into the museum, he kept packing them in, eventually accumulating roughly 150 in all. But by the end of the week, just a handful will remain. Staluppi is selling nearly the entire shebang—145 cars—at the annual Barrett-Jackson Palm Beach auction. Today, the Barrett-Jackson crew is on hand to tag, prep, and ultimately move each car from this plush townscape to the local fairgrounds where the auction will occur. The smell of exhaust hangs in the air from cars starting and rolling out of the massive building onto waiting transport trailers. When it’s all said and done, Staluppi’s cars will generate $13.96 million at auction, including buyer’s premium, typically around 10 percent. Staluppi’s cut will be the hammer price, minus Barrett-Jackson’s listing fees and seller’s premium of 8 percent (if you do the math, that’s a little more than $1 million). He’s still left with a huge chunk of change, the kind of money Staluppi once only dreamed of earning.

“You look at cars today, it’s hard to tell if it’s an Audi or a Mercedes other than having the big badges. … If you look at these old cars, with the big bumpers and the chrome, they still have that sentimental value.”

In his teenage days, Staluppi worked 9-to-5 as a mechanic at a Brooklyn-based Chevrolet dealer, doing his share of drag racing on the side with cars he built himself. “When I was at Chevrolet, I worked on all the high-performance cars,” he recollects. “The 327 had just come out, then in ’65 the 396 and the 454s came out. So I really got into the muscle cars—that was really my era.”

With some financial help from his working-class parents, he went on to purchase a small gas station, then a Honda dealership back when the Japanese company’s only products were motorcycles. Staluppi began adding Honda dealers, filling his showrooms with little N600 micro sedans when Honda offered cars for U.S. sale. His timing couldn’t have been better. When the aftershocks of the 1973-74 OPEC oil embargo led to higher gas prices, Honda’s fuel-efficient cars and motorcycles started flying out of Staluppi’s showrooms. The windfall enabled him to expand into Oldsmobile and Nissan dealerships. Although his empire has shrunk since its peak at 40 dealerships, Staluppi says the family business (his son owns franchises in Las Vegas) still constitutes the third-largest private dealership group in the country.

This new collection is going to have hardtops and station wagons—I used to love the old Woodies.

Although sales of contemporary cars have long buttered Staluppi’s bread, they don’t do much for him. “Classic cars just have the look,” he insists. “You look at cars today, it’s hard to tell if it’s an Audi or a Mercedes other than having the big badges. There aren’t a lot of convertibles out there today; most cars are four doors. If you look at these old cars, with the big bumpers and the chrome, they still have that sentimental value.”

That is why, despite selling nearly every car from his collection with its focus on American convertibles primarily from the 1940s to 1960s, this space will no doubt be packed with cars again in the not too distant future. This is the second time Staluppi has sold an enormous grouping of vehicles to fixate on a new theme. Although the focus will remain on American iron, he plans some significant changes.

“I’m not a big foreign car guy,” he says. “Ferraris and all that, I had a couple of them. … They don’t do nothin’ for me. Maybe I would buy some old Rolls-Royces or the old Bentleys. I’ve got to find the right ones, with the tires on the fenders. This new collection is going to have hardtops and station wagons—I used to love the old Woodies. This time we’re going to do a lot more restomods. I like that they have fuel injection; carburetors are a pain in the ass. We have a few cars that weren’t started for a long time and the carburetors were all gummed up … oh my god.”

John Staluppi is an active Barrett-Jackson bidder and attends nearly every auction.

Even though he’s been here, done this before, Staluppi is still sentimental about selling the collection he spent several years building. As he wanders the rows of vehicles, checking in with Barrett-Jackson’s team on its progress, it’s apparent this is a big life event.

“I was really getting melancholy the other night,” Staluppi admits. “Some people sell their cars because they need the money. I just wanted to have a change. But as I’m going through it, I’m thinking, ‘What am I doing?’ If the place was bigger, I’d just go out and buy another 150 cars and have 300 cars. But I don’t want to just have 300 cars in a warehouse. I want it to look nice.”

After a lifetime of buying and selling for a living and a hobby, there is at least one car, his first Corvette, Staluppi refuses to part with. Or rather, he won’t sell it again.

“When I was still a mechanic at the Chevy dealer, they got this black ’62 Corvette in, and I was going crazy,” he says. “I went to my father and said, ‘I really want this car. You’ve gotta help me out.’ He took out a second mortgage on the house ’cause we didn’t have a lot of money. It was $3,100, and the house was only worth $18,000. I got the Corvette, and it was the first really new Corvette I had.” By the end of the ’60s, Staluppi sold the Corvette, but more recently, his then-99-year-old father told him, “Johnny, when your mother died, I was cleaning out some stuff, and I found the registration for your first Corvette.”

Corvettes loom large in John Staluppi’s legend. He sold 17 of them at this single auction and bought one more for charity.

“I said, ‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’ I tracked down the car in Michigan and bought it,” Staluppi says with an ear-to-ear grin.

These days, the collector has branched out from automotive ventures into commissioning some of the fastest luxury yachts in the world. One of those creations, a 140-foot boat named The World Is Not Enough (all of Staluppi’s boats are 007-themed), is capable of hitting some 80 mph on open water. But Staluppi isn’t finished tinkering with cars. His latest project is a 1958 Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz convertible he plans to modify.

“I decided I want to put four-wheel drive in the car and also a fuel-injection motor,” he says. “So I bought a used Escalade, and a guy is putting the car on the Escalade chassis. I’ve got a home in the mountains, and I want a car that I can drive there with four-wheel drive. It’ll be the only ’58 Cadillac with four-wheel drive!”

There will be plenty more cars to come and plenty more dreams worth chasing—and perhaps, eventually, yet another big auction when Staluppi once again feels a change is in order.

Best of Sale John Staluppi Cars of Dreams

Barrett-Jackson Palm Beach 2018, April 12-15

1970 Plymouth Superbird Sold for: $286,000

Lots of Superbirds were driven hard and put away wet when they were just “used cars,” but this example seems to have been spared that sort of misery. The original numbers-matching 440-cubic-inch six-barrel engine and 727 Torqueflite transmission are installed, and the nose cone, often replaced with an aftermarket one due to damage, is factory original.

1969 Pontiac GTO Judge Ram Air IV Sold for: $178,200

Subjected to a full frame-off restoration and powertrain rebuild, this documented, factory-produced Judge is one of just 549 built with the desirable Ram Air IV engine and Muncie M21 four-speed, short-ratio manual gearbox. Said to be factory-correct down to the little details—like GM-branded hoses—this surely must be one of the best available, hence the strong sale price.

1957 BMW Isetta 300 Sold for: $57,200

Isettas are probably best known in the U.S. thanks to their association with television character Steve Urkel from the ’90s sitcom “Family Matters,” but as classic microcars gain traction in the marketplace, their values are on the rise. An outlier in the American-centric Staluppi collection, this Isetta 300 seats two and has a rear-mounted 0.3-liter engine. This was fair market value for a nicely restored car.

1957 Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz Sold for: $170,500

Staluppi had a hard time parting with this one, and it is easy to see why. The original 365- cubic-inch V-8 sits underhood, and the rest of the car was treated to a cosmetic restoration including 24-karat-gold-plated emblems. With plenty of ownership history and documentation on the car, this one will undoubtedly be tough to replace. You couldn’t restore this Cadillac to this level for the price paid.

1915 Ford Model T Circus Wagon Sold for: $110,000

For the collector who has everything, may we suggest this very early circus wagon? Said to have appeared in Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey circus events, the wagon has been treated to a better-than-original restoration with gold-plated trim, solid brass cage bars, and Amish-made wooden spoke wheels. If you wanted one, here it was.

1962 Chevrolet Corvette Convertible (Not for sale)

You never forget your first Corvette, or at least John Staluppi didn’t. After making the mistake of selling the car once, the opportunity to buy it back presented itself. Staluppi took it and ran. This one won’t escape his possession again.

1969 Chevrolet Camaro Indy Pace Car Convertible Sold for: $110,000

1969 was a unique year in Camaro history, with sporty, restyled sheet metal that lasted for just this single model year. This Indy Pace Car edition (Z11 package) includes the rear spoiler, rally wheels, and a ducted hood. The car is also equipped with the RS package and a 396-cubic-inch V-8 with four-speed manual transmission. An investment-grade Camaro at a fair price.

The post Still Dreaming: Car Connoisseur John Staluppi appeared first on Automobile Magazine.

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eddiejpoplar · 7 years ago

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Still Dreaming: Car Connoisseur John Staluppi

This new collection is going to have hardtops and station wagons—I used to love the old Woodies.

John Staluppi is an active Barrett-Jackson bidder and attends nearly every auction.

After a lifetime of buying and selling for a living and a hobby, there is at least one car, his first Corvette, Staluppi refuses to part with. Or rather, he won’t sell it again.

Corvettes loom large in John Staluppi’s legend. He sold 17 of them at this single auction and bought one more for charity.

“I said, ‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’ I tracked down the car in Michigan and bought it,” Staluppi says with an ear-to-ear grin.

There will be plenty more cars to come and plenty more dreams worth chasing—and perhaps, eventually, yet another big auction when Staluppi once again feels a change is in order.

Best of Sale John Staluppi Cars of Dreams

Barrett-Jackson Palm Beach 2018, April 12-15

1970 Plymouth Superbird Sold for: $286,000

1969 Pontiac GTO Judge Ram Air IV Sold for: $178,200

1957 BMW Isetta 300 Sold for: $57,200

1957 Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz Sold for: $170,500

1915 Ford Model T Circus Wagon Sold for: $110,000

1962 Chevrolet Corvette Convertible (Not for sale)

1969 Chevrolet Camaro Indy Pace Car Convertible Sold for: $110,000

The post Still Dreaming: Car Connoisseur John Staluppi appeared first on Automobile Magazine.

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jonathanbelloblog · 7 years ago

Text

Still Dreaming: Car Connoisseur John Staluppi

This new collection is going to have hardtops and station wagons—I used to love the old Woodies.

John Staluppi is an active Barrett-Jackson bidder and attends nearly every auction.

After a lifetime of buying and selling for a living and a hobby, there is at least one car, his first Corvette, Staluppi refuses to part with. Or rather, he won’t sell it again.

Corvettes loom large in John Staluppi’s legend. He sold 17 of them at this single auction and bought one more for charity.

“I said, ‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’ I tracked down the car in Michigan and bought it,” Staluppi says with an ear-to-ear grin.

There will be plenty more cars to come and plenty more dreams worth chasing—and perhaps, eventually, yet another big auction when Staluppi once again feels a change is in order.

Best of Sale John Staluppi Cars of Dreams

Barrett-Jackson Palm Beach 2018, April 12-15

1970 Plymouth Superbird Sold for: $286,000

1969 Pontiac GTO Judge Ram Air IV Sold for: $178,200

1957 BMW Isetta 300 Sold for: $57,200

1957 Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz Sold for: $170,500

1915 Ford Model T Circus Wagon Sold for: $110,000

1962 Chevrolet Corvette Convertible (Not for sale)

1969 Chevrolet Camaro Indy Pace Car Convertible Sold for: $110,000

The post Still Dreaming: Car Connoisseur John Staluppi appeared first on Automobile Magazine.

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