#london prodigal

[uwmspeccoll]

Shakespeare Weekend

This weekend we are wrapping up Nicholas Rowe’s (1674-1718) The Work of Mr. William Shakespear; in Six Volumes. Published in London in 1709 by Jacob Tonson (1655–1736), this second edition holds an important place within Shakespearean publication history. The Work of Mr. William Shakespear; in Six Volumes is recognized as the first octavo edition, the first illustrated edition, the first critically edited edition, and the first to present a biography of the poet. 

Volume six is a collection of Shakespeare’s tragedies and comedies including several plays that are a part of the Shakespeare apocrypha that bear Shakespeare’s name, but do not appear in the First Folio and of which there is question about his role in writing them. Apocrypha in the sixth volume include Pericles Prince of Tyre, London Prodigal, Thomas Lord Cromwell, Sir John Oldcastle, The Puritan, A Yorkshire Tragedy, and Locrine. Volume six also includes confirmed Shakespearean plays Antony and Cleopatra and Cymbeline. 

A full-page engraving by the French Baroque artist and book illustrator François Boitard (1670-1715) and engraved by English engraver Elisha Kirkall (c.1682–1742) precedes each play. Boitard’s illustrations often place readers at the pinnacle of the plays depicting high drama in his classic Baroque style. 

In addition to Rowe’s editorial decisions to divide the plays into scenes and include notes on the entrances and exits of the players, he also normalised the spelling of names and included a dramatis personae preceding each play. The only chronicled critique of Rowe’s momentous editorial endeavor is his choice in basing his text on the corrupt Fourth Folio. 

View more volumes of The Works of Mr. William Shakespear; in Six Volumes here. 

View more Shakespeare Weekend posts. 

-Jenna, Special Collections Graduate Intern 

[gwydpolls]

Shakespeare Genre Battle: Comedies 2

I'm doing all of them. Don't worry if yours isn't in this poll.

I am including some things with disputed authorship, collaboration, or apocrypha just because.

[tenacquity]

Strong arms encircled Ryunosuke's waist from behind, squeezing gently as Kazuma drew his back flush against his frame. The simple gesture was all it took for his ever-flawless posture to relax. Soothed into complacency beyond what he'd allow anyone else to see by the other man's mere presence. "Hello, partner," he murmured, lips caressing Ryunosuke's cheek with every syllable. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting for so long." ((IT'S FINALLY TIME 👀👀👀😭❤️))

@howthesleeplesswander || here they go╰(▔∀▔)╯

Some would argue Ryunosuke Naruhodo had the tendency to be appallingly absentminded at times. And, indeed, those "some" would be correct.

It was through that impressive inattentiveness that he long lost track of just how much time had passed since calling upon Kazuma, politely informed by the young prosecutor himself that he'd be "a few moments" that quickly dragged out. In the meantime, Ryunosuke took to exploring the seemingly endless rows of caskets wine barrels along one wall of the office. Like any of them looked at all different from each other. Like he'd be able to see through the wood to the wine within that'd somehow make a difference in discerning what was so massively special about each—

But a pair of arms twined around his waist. Familiar or otherwise, without the warning—and lost in his own thoughts (or was it a lack thereof?)—Ryunosuke had no hope quelling a small squeak.

"Kazuma—!" he blurted in a rush of breath. "Gracious, would it be too much to ask you to make a bit of noise when you walk...?" He was smiling, however. As a pair of lips pranced along the height of his cheek, Ryunosuke turned his head into the touch, caught Kazuma out of his peripheral. "Were you long? Truthfully, I hadn't noticed."

Shifting in his partner's hold, he managed to angle himself enough to face him. His fingers fiddled with the front of Kazuma's coat and mindlessly traced the prominent buttons. "So you're all set to leave, then? If you've more work to do, I wouldn't want to drag you away from it."

He was lying. He absolutely would.

[astralari]

Astronomer? How did he become an astronomer? I need to know more?

OHOHO SO. that comes from when he lived on the surface! mark lived in scotland, where he was a natural philosopher and astronomer studying under the contemporaries and successors of john nichol at the university of glasgow. he was a pretty good student, but the more time he spent at the observatory, the more inspired he became to write poetry, particularly about the at-the-time new nebular hypothesis. he eventually abandoned his work as a junior scientist, opting to go all-in on his writing -- an indication of his future as a correspondent. he then moved to vienna, joining the fledgling art nouveau movement, which he had also participated in at the university of glasgow. he studied painting, sculpting, poetry, and music, and a lot of opium.

eventually, his money started running dry, and he heard about a ludicrous trade opportunity that he just so happened to have some experience in -- sunlight smuggling down to fallen london. while he didn't develop mirrorcatch boxes, he did improve upon them, and became an integral part of smuggling operations.

mark visited the neath fairly regularly as part of the operation, but he usually only went as far as the cumean canal. unfortunately, he's also curious to the point of madness, so he would take extremely risky trips from the canal to london, all while laden with stolen sunlight. of course, any sort of smuggling comes with inherent risk, and on one of his neathy trips, the constabulary was waiting. he got caught, thrown into new newgate, and became a member of fallen london society, where he still writes poetry for the celestials.

as for the "prodigal" part of his name, well. his heart's desire is to walk the surface beneath the sun again. he will go back. provided his curiosity doesn't lead him to a bad end instead.

[chalagoat]

💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

via jackremmington on IG

( Nov 30, 2023 London )

[deconstructthesoup]

Thinking about how if Jenny did come to London with the others, and if Monty does manage to turn back into a human and ends up joining the agency... there's seven members of the agency. Which means that there's one that matches up with each member of the Endless.

Edwin---well, that one's obvious, isn't it? He's come face to face with Despair, walked in her domain, stared her in the eyes as she quietly declared that they were friends now. He is, at his core, deeply and profoundly sad, and there's no denying that. Until Edwin allows himself to be happy, Despair will always have her hooks in his heart, and even when he's free of them, she will always linger in the faintest parts of his ghostly aura, will always be there whenever he travels through a mirror.

Charles... oh, Charles. We all know which of the Endless he would be the most affected by, don't we? He claims that he can't say he's in love with Edwin back, but the minute those words left his mouth, Desire was up there in their domain, cackling at how fucking idiotic this boy is. If we get a season 2, we will absolutely see them taunting Charles, purring into his ear that they know how much he's been ignoring his own desires and wouldn't it be nice to just acknowledge it, darling? Edwin was able to tell you, why can't you just say it back?

Crystal already feels as if she's losing her mind half the time, and doubly so now that she's fully warring with two very separate sides of herself. Would it really be a stretch for her to try to help a lonely-looking girl with wild red hair one night, only to touch her and immediately get pulled into a world that is a riot of color and confusion and things that don't and shouldn't exist? Delirium would probably be kind to her---her default state tends to be kind, even if not everyone sees it that way---but I doubt Crystal would have a good time there, even as Delirium compliments her on her name and proudly proclaims that she's a shiny rock and a pretty building and a football team and a flying machine all in one.

Niko's lost somewhere right now, and we all know she has a long journey home. I don't think it would be unlikely for her journey to eventually lead her to a palace with a roof made of stars, or a library full of every book that has ever been written---and every book that never has. And Dream might see this girl who doesn't belong in his world, but who can't take his sister's hand, and show her the way back to her friends. After all, she's lost so much and is still full of so much hope, and how could Dream not admire someone like that?

Monty... well, he spends all his time looking up at the stars, and not just because they sparkle and shine and all of his crow instincts say that they're treasures meant to be plucked from the sky. He wants to know the future, his future, to find out whether or not he can be something other than just a witch's pet. And maybe, some of his wanderings will one day lead him into a labyrinth, and he'll come out the other side in the garden of Destiny. Will Destiny let Monty read from his book? Probably not, but I think being there might be comfort enough.

There's a slim chance of Jenny ever meeting Destruction, but they are more similar than you may think. Jenny, like him, is a prodigal who left her post, whose life always seems to fall apart, who struggles with a whirlwind of emotions that she can barely comprehend. And while he's off in a secluded land, finding new ways to channel creation rather than the purpose he was made for, she's rebuilding her life, as crazy as it may be.

And, well... we all know who the Night Nurse works for.

[aziraphales-library]

Hi! I was wondering if you could recommend some fics where Crowley and/or Aziraphale are detectives. I would prefer if they were rated M or E. Thank you :)

Hey. Here are some M/E detective fics...

All's Fair In Love And Serial Killing by WyvernQuill (M)

Detective Inspector Crowley is 99.999 percent sure that Aziraphale Fell is a serial killer. The trouble is only that the remaining 0.001 percent are deeply in love with the man… --- In which there is A Murder - rather a lot of them, actually - A Marriage Proposal - just the one - and True Love - whose course runs less not-smooth than it takes a sharp left turn, loops a couple times, and doubles back on itself, before crashing straight into a wall. (Don't mind the metaphor. It still ends well. Promise.)

yours in black lace by okapi (E)

Hardboiled, hell-fried private investigator Anthony J. Crowley is just trying to survive a hot, boring August, but a new case and a series of anonymous naughty letters signed only 'yours in black lace' are about to make things interesting. Chapters 1-3 are case fic. Chapter 4 is smut. For the 2020 DW Unconventional Courtship challenge based on a summary of the Mills & Boon novel Yours in Black Lace by Mia Zachary.

Snow Angel by Lurlur (E)

Detective Constable Crowley has been working the "Snow Angel" case for almost a year. It's Christmas Eve and finally, his luck seems to have come in. Arresting Aziraphale Fell, big-time drug dealer, is the easy part. Questioning him is the hard part. It's a police procedural that goes sideways. I'd say it still manages to have a more coherent plot than any episode of Prodigal Son, but that's not saying much.

Tadfield's Finest by angelsnuffbox (E)

The sleepy town of Tadfield is thoroughly shaken by the arrival of DI Crowley. Where barely anything ever happened before, there is now a bustle of low grade criminal activity, and everyone knows where to point the blame. Gabriel thinks he's a bad omen for the town, many others are quick to agree. Meanwhile, Aziraphale from SOCO just thinks he's hot. Ridiculously so.

It's A Hard Life by Krisdaughter_of_Athena (M)

“Crawly” was the best delivery man in the whole city of London, and everyone knew it. Whether it be books and flowers, or narcotics and guns, Crawly was the one for the job. Easy enough for Crawly to slip in and out of tight spaces, and easy enough to keep his real name off the police radar. Detective Constable Aziraphale Pritchard is used to being told he is not very good at his job. He is as surprised as everyone else when he is the officer to catch Crawly, the Devil’s infamous delivery driver, in the act. He is the only officer to figure out Crawly’s real name. But no one else knows that, otherwise they’d also know that the DC tends to get drunk with this particular member of the notorious Demons every other Thursday, and would also know of the fragile Arrangement between the two. Aziraphale knew it couldn’t last. However, what are the two to do when Crowley is given an extra special delivery, one which places the two unlikely allies alongside each other for the long haul? How will they keep the delicate balance of their arrangement from their respective sides? And how will they keep one boy from bringing destruction to the entirety of London?

The Currents by indigo (M)

Post-End-of-the-World-that-Wasn't, a bored demon sets up a Detective Agency and obviously drags his angel counterpart in to help out. They are tasked with preventing a murder before it happens and set off to the Highlands of Scotland - where, of course, nothing works out quite the way they imagine...

- Mod D

[chic-a-gigot]

The Delineator, no. 4, Vol. XLVIII. Autumn Number. October 1896. Published by the Butterick Publishing Co. London & New York. Colored Plate 22. Figures D45 & 46. Reception Dresses. Internet Archive, uploaded by Albert R. Mann Library

Figure D 45. — LADIES’ DINNER DRESS.

Figure D 45. — This illustrates a Ladies’ Princess dress. The pattern, which is No. 8621 and costs 1s. 6d. or 35 cents, is in thirteen sizes for ladies from twenty-eight to forty-six inches, bust measure, and may be seen again on page 428 of this magazine.

This is one of the handsomest and newest styles in Princess gowns and shows a charming method of combining rich materials for ceremonious wear. In this instance Nile-green brocaded silk is united with black velvet and chiffon in a most effective manner, and spangled passementerie, plaited chiffon and ribbon contribute the decoration. The adjustment is made with great precision by side-front seams reaching to the shoulders, under-arm and side-back gores and a curving center seam and the closing may be made at the center of the back or along the left shoulder and under-arm seams, as preferred. The dress flares broadly at the foot in front and falls in deep flutes at the sides and back. The neck is square in front and in V shape at the back and a puff ornament of chiffon gathered at the ends and under a jewelled buckle at the center crosses the neck in front; a Bertha frill of plaited chiffon outlines the neck and passes under velvet revers on the front and back. The short puff sleeves flare handsomely and are completed with a band of spangled passementerie. A band of similar trimming covers each side-front seam of the dress to the top of a flounce of plaited chiffon that is arranged in festoon style with ribbon bows above bands of spangled passementerie at the foot.

Contrast, which is so powerful an element in good dressing, may be brought into play in this handsome mode. Judicious yet unpretentious colors and materials may be chosen without a too prodigal outlay. Becoming shades of silk, chiffon over silk, or the richer faille silks with delicate foliage or floral designs are liked for the most dressy occasions, while for ordinary wear broadcloth, canvas, wool crépon and the new novelty goods are commended. Colored embroideries, jet and spangled passementeries, chiffon and lace are all available for decoration.

Figure No. D 46. — MISSES’ PARTY DRESS.

Figure D 46. — This illustrates a Misses’ dress. The pattern, which is No. 8654 and costs 1s. 3d. or 30 cents, is in seven size for misses from ten to sixteen years of age, and may be seen in three views on page 454 of this number of The Delineator.

A most attractive combination of embroidered chiffon over taffeta silk and velvet overlaid with lace net is here pictured in the dress, and flowers, lace edging and ribbon provide the dainty decoration. A well-fitted lining closed at the back renders the surplice waist trim and comfortable. A Y facing of the velvet overlaid with lace net is seen on the lining between the surplice fronts, which have pretty fulness drawn in gathers at the shoulders and lower edges and cross in regular surplice fashion, a floral spray following the front edge of the overlapping front. The back is smooth across the shoulders and has gathered fulness at the bottom, and under-arm gores separate it from the fronts. A ribbon belt surrounds the waist and terminates in a bow at the left side of the front. Bretelles of velvet overlaid with lace net and bordered with a frill of lace edging droop over the short puff sleeves and a ribbon stock bowed stylishly at the back completes the neck.

The seven-gored skirt is gathered at the back and ripples gracefully below the hips and at the back, its shaping causing it to flare prettily at the bottom in front. A ruffle of the chiffon follows the lower edge of the skirt and a pretty effect is given by the floral decoration consisting of three sprays, each of which starts from under a ribbon bow and crosses the front-gore of the skirt diagonally.

There are a host of diaphanous fabrics from which to choose when making evening dresses for young girls. Plain varieties are quite as dainty as the embroidered and printed tissues. Lovely party dresses of silk, chiffon, dotted Swiss or nainsook may also be made up in this style in such colors as are known to be becoming. Flowers, ribbon, lace edging, spangled or jewelled passementerie and velvet are available for ornamentation.

[neathyingenue]

What’s been going on with Silvia?

An update ft. sticky note doodles

After hearing that her dear friend the Six-Finger’d Scrimshander was living somewhere that wasn’t a house, Silvia has installed it in the guest room of her Side-Streets flat, where they’ve been getting along swimmingly.

Her professional life is going great! Ever since she and Lord Oswald J. Emerson struck a bargain—he writes silly plays, Silvia writes silly reviews, they create public beef that sells tickets and papers—the Prodigal Plebian has practically been printing itself.

Silvia’s also made a new friend, one Youthful Naturalist! She’s been lending him a hand where she can—trying to convince him to move out of his rookery, and keeping her kitchen stocked with jellied eels should he come over, and taking him wherever he wants to go in her zee-clipper.

In the meantime, she’s been growing frustrated with her lack of progress regarding her research on the Third City. If you’ve been with Silvia for a while, you’ll recall that she has been learning Yucatec Maya and chasing leads to discover if there are any pockets of Third City inhabitants untouched by colonialism where she could convince her remaining dad to move with her. (Hm? Inherently contradictory logic? What inherently contradictory logic?)

Enter the Sixth Coil and the freed captives. Several of them are from the original Third City. Silvia follows them to Venderbight, uses her broken Yucatec Maya to explain what she’s after—

They tell her: There’s no such place as you’re describing. We hang around in Venderbight, but even now, there’s nowhere untouched by the Masters, by London.

Silvia presses them—No, there has to be, maybe you just don’t want me there? Why not? Why won’t you let me in?? I promise I’m trustworthy, I won’t tell—

And she finally realizes that she sounds like a fucking conquistador.

Welp! No better cure for a crumbling belief system and self-perception than to zail as far away from your problems as possible! She and the Youthful Naturalist fuck off for a while and that’s when the Delight gets wind of them.

Speaking of wind. The Wax-Wind catches up with Silvia’s ship. Silvia gets a bad burn across the right side of her neck and shoulders.

Not to just rehash everything that happens ever in Evolution, but, uh, shit hits the fan, Silvia gets pretty traumatized. But secretly she’d glad that she’s helping the Youthful Naturalist, proud of both of them. Her search for precolonial Atlantis failed. But here’s another basket to put some eggs in. If they crack the secret to life and death, well, no one else will have to die like Silvia’s other dad, they can have all the time in the world to create their own utopia.

And the other basket of eggs is the Marvellous. She’s been so busy she’s scarcely had time to think of it [I’ve been on the lodging grind for 3+ months ;_;]. But can’t she just win and make the Masters let go of everything, set everyone free, end imperialism, or whatever? That’s how it works, right?

Oh, by the way, no one knows she’s been doing this shit. Not her father-ish figures, not her flatmate, not her partner, not her best friend, not her newspaper employees. Just her crew, and they are pretty pissed at her right now, so she’s been avoiding them.

Around this time, Silvia gets a letter from Shaw (one such father-ish figure) explaining about Nemesis and saying he might not make it back from his final revenge quest.

ALSO around this time (or maybe right after) Silvia gets what really sounds like a last will and testament from Jones (other father-ish figure).

And ALSO also around this time, Brett (Silvia’s best friend) is recovering from learning of the death of his partner.

Then Silvia forgets to be careful, and Caoimhe (her partner) sees her burns and asks what’s going on. She doesn’t buy Silvia’s story about a cooking accident she forgot to tell Caoimhe about (Silvia never cooks), and she really doesn’t appreciate that Silvia tried to lie. Caoimhe gives Silvia the chance to come clean.

So it all comes out. The Marvellous. The scientific voyages. The experimental surgeries. The multiple supernatural enemies. Caoimhe is appalled that Silvia would be taking all these risks without saying a single word—she thought the most dangerous shit Silvia was involved with was printing ill-advised articles about powerful people. Caoimhe’s extraordinarily patient and supportive, but Silvia didn’t even tell her!

The breach of trust frays at their relationship and drags Silvia further into guilt and despair, especially because Silvia’s support network is spread rather thin at the moment!

So… here we are. Silvia’s standing in the crumbling ruins of her relationships and ideals. She needs to help this 20-year-old cheat death, and then she needs to beat a bat at cards, and she’s so, so sad about everything.

This is it folks! We've hit rock bottom! Even I'm not sure how she's getting out of this one :) :) If you made it this far, thanks for reading <3

[The Six-Finger'd Scrimshander - @T6FS; Lord Oswald J. Emerson - @lord-emerson; August Shaw - @zeebreezin; Robin Jones - @viric-dreams; Brett Heroux - @thedandy-detective; Caoimhe Coledoc - @the-insouciant-scientist]

[astroboots]

RED FLAGS ║ PART 10

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector (x hints of Jake Lockley)

Summary: You and Steven try to get used to your new life together without Marc. Or alternatively: Marc is playing (the not ridiculous and totally mature version of) Hide and Seek.

Content: mild angst, implied mentions of child abuse (blink and miss it), reminiscing about fish death, otherwise quite tame for me.

Word Count: 10,000 words

Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[PREVIOUS] - [NEXT]

You

Steven and I were at a bookstore today and I saw a very grumpy pug that reminded me of you. 

Steven wants a dog now. If you don’t want that you need to come back because I’m not gonna stop him.

Weeks have passed since Steven’s prodigal return.

It’s almost been a return to how things were before, with Steven picking you up from work, occasional romantic dinners out, and evenings cuddled up in bed reading together or watching documentaries on the sofa. 

It’s almost perfect. 

It ought to be perfect. 

The only thing missing from your previous routine is waking up to the quiet noise of clutter in the kitchen and the smell of breakfast filling the room, to Marc.

Your intuition had been correct: Marc is avoiding you. Despite the fact that you’ve practically moved into Steven’s flat, you’ve not seen him once.

According to Steven, Marc still fronts in the middle of the night sometimes, but to do what, you don’t know. It’s one more thing Steven “can’t tell you right now” because it’s Marc’s business. And as frustrating as that is, you don’t push—at least, not with Steven. 

Instead, you’ve focused your energy on attempting to lure Marc out. Texting him at random times of the day. Cluttering up the space, leaving yours and Steven’s clothes in random spaces, putting the dishes away in the wrong order—things you know will drive him mad.

You’ve even tried staying up all night in hopes of catching Marc in the act, but the only thing you caught was sleep deprivation. It’s left you exhausted and cranky in the morning, mistake-prone at work and ready to bite everyone’s head off. 

Recognizing the futility of continuing to bash your head against the wall of Marc’s stubbornness, you’ve reluctantly settled into the new status quo while you consider what to do. 

Tonight you and Steven are staying in. The rain is pouring down outside, making London wet and miserable, but you’re safely ensconced in the warmth of Steven’s flat, propped up in bed while he sits nearby in his worn leather armchair, reading glasses perched adorably on his nose as he peruses a thick tome. 

But for once, his studies don’t seem to be capable of holding his attention, and you keep glancing up to find him staring off into space, brow furrowed, the book abandoned in his lap. 

The first time you followed his gaze to the fish tank, you’d felt a stab of worry that you’d find Gus II floating belly-up in the water, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary that you can see. 

The orange goldfish is swimming across the length of the tank, happily oblivious to his predecessor’s fate and the fact that he’s being observed.  The journey continues until his little fishy head bumps up against the glass panel, and he turns around, repeating the process in reverse, only to do the same thing on the other side. 

It’s hardly a riveting sight, but Steven seems entirely engrossed. He looks a million miles away, lost in his thoughts. 

“Do you think,” he says eventually, “that goldfish ever get lonely?”

“Oh, um…” You blink at him, a bit startled by the soft question, though you’re not sure why. It’s hardly the first time Steven has expressed concern about the wellbeing of an animal—he’s a vegan after all—and you’ve seen him beside himself while watching a killer whale hunt down baby seals on an arctic beach on Animal Planet. 

This feels different somehow.

“I’m not sure actually,” you hedge, wracking your brain for a proper answer, “I know guinea pigs get lonely and are meant to be kept in pairs, but I don’t really know if the same is true of fish.” 

Steven nods solemnly, and turns back to the fishtank, eyes wide and melancholy, an unhappy slump to his shoulders. 

Watching him watch Gus II’s lonely, pointless vigil back and forth, you wonder if it’s Marc that Steven’s thinking about now. 

If he feels lonely, having effectively lost his newly revealed other half again so soon after discovering the truth. 

If he misses Marc the way you–

You shake the thought away, taking a deep breath before you hold up your phone to catch his attention.

“Shall I google it?”

Steven immediately brightens up. Quickly marking his place in the book, he sets it aside and makes his way over to join you on the bed so you can google it together.

‘Do goldfish get lonely?’

Unfortunately, no matter how many pages of results you scroll though, there doesn’t seem to be any strong consensus. 

Several websites are adamant that goldfish do not feel loneliness and can live a long and happy and fulfilling life alone. But there seem to be just as many saying the opposite. An article from the Telegraph strongly admonishes its readers that goldfish should be kept in pairs at least when in captivity.

Eventually, your hour-long Google bender finally ends with you two reaching the unsatisfactory conclusion of: ‘nobody knows for sure.’

You put away your phone on the nightstand and glance at Steven. He’s staring up at the fishtank again, wringing his hands in a way that makes your chest tighten. Somehow he seems even more unsettled than before.

“You know,” you point out hopefully, “nothing we found says that having a companion would make a goldfish unhappy as long as they have enough space. And your tank is certainly large enough for two.”

When Steven doesn’t reply, you prod gently, “Would you maybe like to get Gus the Second a friend?”

At that, the tension Steven is holding finally seems to thaw, his shoulders relaxing as he turns to you.

“That’s a nice thought, isn’t it?” he says, face alight with a small, soft smile.

You

FYI we did not get robbed yesterday. Steven tried to make dinner. He’s going to try again tonight. I know you hate messes so you might want to come back to stop him. 

For two men who share half of their lives with each other, there’s a distinct lack of physical evidence of Marc in Steven’s flat.

Of the hundreds of books crammed into every nook and cranny of the wooden shelves sprawled across the flat, not a single one belongs to him. The messy closet filled only with Steven’s garish patterns and oversized items. In fact, Steven's personality and interests are writ large within this space—in the half-scribbled notes left on the desk, the postcards tacked on all random surfaces, the organised chaos that seems to reign. It’s obvious that this is Steven’s home.

But is it Marc’s?  

You’ve yet to identify a single item in the entire flat that belongs to him. No proof of address. Nothing.

Now that you no longer wake up to him standing in the kitchen most mornings, pottering around in that quiet calm way of his, it’s almost like he never existed in the first place. 

You hate it.

You look down at the handful of mismatched flatware you’ve just put back in the drawer then back up at Steven where he stands at the sink next to you, elbow deep in lukewarm dishwater.

Even the dishes are Steven’s.

“Does Marc have another flat?” you ask, unsettled by the idea that Marc might have another home that you know nothing about.

“Don’t think so,” Steven says, glancing up from the plate he’s scrubbing, “Why?”

“He doesn’t seem to have any belongings here. I was wondering if he kept his things somewhere else.”

“He’s got a storage unit. I’ve been there once. Marc had a sad little cot setup there. Not much in the way of belongings there either. I don’t think he owns much,” he says, rinsing the plate clean.

You stare down at the tea towel, twisting it in your hands, and your stomach twists with it.

A storage unit. 

With a cot. 

That’s even worse, isn't it? To think that Marc might not have a home anywhere at all.

And now he’s retreating farther than ever. Ceding the daytime hours, and even most nights to Steven. Keeping nothing for himself. Your lives wiped clean of traces of Marc, the same way the flat has been. 

You feel sick at the thought.

Steven doesn’t say anything more, and you don’t either. The two of you work in silence, as he washes the dishes and hands them off to you to dry and then put away in the cupboards—a bowl, another plate, a sharp knife, and then a large plain ceramic mug.

Marc’s mug.

As Steven hands it to you, you have a flash of Marc taking it from your hands, full to the brim of the coffee you made for him. The memory of his quiet “thanks” makes your heart hurt.

Christ, get it together. You’re getting soppy over a bloody tea cup, for God’s sake.

It doesn’t even really qualify as Marc’s, despite being the only one amongst Steven’s collection of mugs without a quirky motif. Marc never claimed ownership of it in any way. 

Shaking your head, you walk to the cabinet and tuck the mug back up into its usual spot. As you lower your arm, the old coffee maker in the corner of the counter catches your eye, gleaming in the light of the kitchen. 

It looks... remarkably clean, which, for anything in Steven's flat, is an oddity in itself. You haven’t made coffee in weeks—not since before Marc disappeared—but the glass practically shines. Reaching out, you swipe a fingertip against the top surface and frown as it comes away dust-free. 

“Steven, have you been using the coffee maker lately?” 

“Hmm?” He turns around, arms sudsed with dishwater up to his elbow. “No, not for years. Had to stop drinking coffee ‘cause it made me jittery—or, well, worse than I am already. Why do you ask?”

“The coffee maker’s clean. There's no dust on it at all.” 

Steven hums in reply, looking like he's deep in thought. 

“That’s probably Marc’s doing. He drinks coffee sometimes when he’s up running around in the middle of the night, I think.” 

You nod in response, your finger lingering over the button panel. 

Does this old coffee maker qualify as something of Marc’s? Perhaps there is one thing that belongs to him in the flat after all.

It’s pretty banged up. The paint is chipped, and the control panel scratched up to the point that the labels are mostly worn away. It hadn’t mattered before, as all you’d needed to know was to push the first button—the ‘ON’ button, you suppose, though the lettering has long since worn away—to start the coffee brewing, but now you stare at the thing, trying to decipher the rest of the labels. 

“What does this button do?” you ask, pointing to the second button. It reads 'lay b ew' which makes no bloody sense. 

Steven turns off the running tap, putting down the wet plate in his hand, and comes to stand behind you where he can peek over your shoulder at the button you’ve indicated. 

“That must be the delay timer button so you can set the coffee pot at night for the morning.”

You peer into the open cupboard. Instead of the mug you’ve just put away and the drab cupboard, all you can see is Marc is sitting by the counter. The faint morning sun streaming down his wide shoulders as he tips the mug to his lips and takes a sip. An echo of warmth tingles against your fingertip at the faded scene playing out in your memory. 

You lean up until you’re on your toes and take the mug, cradling it in your hands. “Do you think perhaps I could set it to make the coffee for Marc? I used to make him coffee in the mornings when we had breakfast together.”

Steven smiles at you, soft crinkles forming around his eyes. “Of course, love. I think Marc would like that a lot.” 

Buoyed by his encouragement, you grab the coffee from the top shelf, reciting the water-to-coffee ratio in your head—one scoop of coffee for each ounce of water. 

Reaching for the spoon you start scooping it out, smiling a little to yourself as you imagine Marc discovering the coffee you’ve made just for him. 

“Love, love!” Steven half-shouts, “What are you doing?”

You stop mid-scoop, look from Steven’s face, down at the mound of ground coffee in the filter, and then back up at him. Steven looks horrified, eyes wide with a mix of surprise and genuine concern. 

“Making... coffee...?” you answer hesitantly, “Is this not right? I’ve always done it like this. This is how Marc drinks it.”

“I'm pretty sure no one in their right mind drinks coffee like that,” Steven says, eyes still wide, though amusement is creeping into his voice now.

You stop and frown. 

You look back down at the packet of coffee beans as you think of Marc's fingers wrapped around the handle of the mug as he took it from you. The way he’d give you a small almost-smile, looking right at home as he finished the coffee you made him down to the last drop. 

“Oh.” 

You

I’ve made you some coffee using the delay brew setting. It should be ready when you get up.

Steven has informed me that my coffee is in fact not drinkable. If he's right, you might need to come back and teach me how to make coffee properly. 

It becomes another part of your nightly routine: prepping the coffee maker and setting out Marc's mug. You still sometimes have trouble remembering the proper (according to Steven!) water to coffee ratio, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Regardless of how much or little ground coffee you add, in the morning, without fail, you find the coffee maker empty, mug and carafe both propped up in the dishrack to dry.

You're standing at the counter one Saturday morning, tucking them both back into their proper places, when you get a text from your old mate Sam.

Sam

hey fam! guess what!

You

?

Sam

guess!!!

You

Guess… what?

Sam

🤨 nvm

You

Sorry, what?

Sam

really making me work for it huh

remember my mate karim?

You

No?

Sam

🐠🐠🐠 guy?

You

Oh yeah! ofc.

Sam

he just got in a one-finned goldfish like your bf was asking for. he still want it?

Steven gives you a curious tilt of his head as he reads out part of the conversation out loud when you show him the exchange. “Fish, fish, fish... guy?” 

“Yeah. He has a bunch of tanks in his cellar. It’s how we got,”—you gesture vaguely at the tank containing Gus II—“this one.”

“Oh, right. You did say.” 

His expression turns from confusion to a bright expression, like someone’s turned on a cartoon lightbulb behind his eyes. 

“I was just thinking that I did want to get Gus a friend after all,” he says smiling enthusiastically. “Right proper bit of good timing, that is!” 

Steven tilts his head to the other side, as his eyes flit across the screen like he’s rereading it, then his eyes narrow in confusion. “What does he mean by your boyfriend asking for a one-finned goldfish?”

You eye the fish as it circles the water gracefully, both fins on full display, and recall Marc's constipated expression as he had stood by the tank glaring at those very two fins. 

“Marc made a big fuss about wanting to find one identical to Gus,” you tell him, as you watch Gus II knock his head up against the glass again, “down to the single fin, and I guess my friend remembered.”

From across you, Steven's gaze is fixed on the tank with a slight frown on this face. He's observing the golden fish with a vacant look in his eyes like he's watching it but not seeing it.

“You all right, Steven?”

“Yeah, I'm just...” His eyes flicker across the length of the tank, then he turns back to face you, “What I don't understand is why Marc didn’t just leave Gus’ little fishy corpse floating in the tank.” 

He turns back around to face you, as he continues, “It certainly would’ve been easier. And a dead fish is more believable than one regrowing a fin, isn’t it? Pets die all the time. I might not have realised anything was off at all if he'd done that.”

It's the very same thing you’d told Marc the night he had come to you for help. 

You can still remember the way he had looked standing at your door, asking for your help, hair in an uncharacteristic disarray of curls. How besides himself he was with worry for Steven’s sake.   

“Marc didn't want you to be upset,” you say. 

Steven looks up at your words, eyes widening with surprise. 

“He knew how much Gus meant to you, and wanted to protect you from being hurt,” you continue, “That mattered to him more than anything else, I think.”

There’s a brief silence as Steven processes your words, then after a moment he lets out a quiet huff of laugh and shakes his head in disbelief. 

“It’s hard to imagine Marc behaving like a parent trying to get a replacement hamster from the shop,” Steven says, giving you a wry smile, “But that’s him, isn’t it?  Wanting to protect the people that matter to him at all costs. Even from things we don’t really need protecting from.”

Neither of you say anything for a few moments after that, as the sound of the Blue Planet rerun on the telly fills the silence left behind. You vaguely register Attenborough’s soothing narration in the background, but don’t take anything in when Steven eventually asks, “When do you think you’ll go meet your friend?” 

“He said he was free pretty much all day today, I was thinking of heading off soon, before traffic gets too bad in the afternoon.” 

Steven gets to his feet and walks over to his desk, picking up his jacket that's been slung over the back of the chair and threading his arms into the sleeves. Watching him, you half expect him to make the same assessment his grouchy alter did: Men who keep fishes in their cellar are dangerous serial killers. 

Instead, Steven flashes you a sweet and benign smile. 

“All right if I come along with you? I can keep you company, yeah? I know how much you hate the DLR,” he says, glancing at you for approval, and you give a quick nod.

“Besides,” he adds, eyes bright with enthusiastic wonder, like a kid who's heading off on a school trip, “I'm quite curious about the cellar aquarium. Sounds like quite the sight, and I’d like to see it with my own eyes."

You break into a smile of your own. Two men that couldn’t be further apart, and yet even with diametrically opposed reasoning, the end result is still somehow the same. 

------

It's just before noon when you reach the DLR station with Steven in tow. Thankfully the crowd is nowhere near as bad as the last time you made this trip. 

Still, when you enter the train, most seats are already taken. The only unoccupied spot is splattered with something unpleasant-looking, so you and Steven head down the carriage in the opposite direction. You’re lucky enough to score yourself a safety rail to hold onto just as the DLR starts its bumpy journey. 

As always, the train undulates like a boa constrictor that’s managed to get into the liquor cabinet. But this time you manage to keep your footing as the carriage lurches forward by gripping the railing for dear-fucking-life. 

Steven isn't quite as lucky. 

You barely catch the panicked “bugger” as he starts to lose his balance, about to tip over like a helpless tortoise, and you reach out without thinking, grabbing one of his flailing hands so he doesn’t fall.

“Are you all right there, Steven?” you ask, straining to hold your position as he uses you for leverage to steady himself, and then wrapping your arm around his waist once he regains his equilibrium. 

“Yeah…” he mumbles, blinking at you for a moment, a flush tinting his cheeks, “Yeah, I’m aces. Thanks for the rescue.” 

He smiles down at you, eyes crinkling in a way that makes your heart flimmer erratically, and wraps his hand around the same railing you’re holding onto, fingers warm where they overlap yours. 

“You’re welcome, but let’s stay like this until we get there just in case.” you say, wrapping your arm more firmly around him and snuggling into his chest. You can’t see his face but you can feel his head nod in approval.

Steven’s free hand comes up to settle over your back between your shoulders, holding you tight to him, the two of you steadying each other as the train keeps swaying forward. Even though his palm is resting over your coat, you swear you can feel his warmth through three layers of clothing.

You press your nose to the fabric of his jacket, inhaling the scent of him.  He smells like his soap, the clean linens of your shared bed, and beneath that, a hint of coffee. The last one familiar these days, lingering like smoke after an extinguished fire, and it always makes you think of Marc. Irrefutable proof that he still exists in the world, even if he only ventures out into it after you fall asleep.

It’s a bumpy ride, but eventually the train slows to a stop at ‘Canning Town’ station. Just like last time, you find yourself thinking that it's almost a shame your journey on the DLR wasn't longer. 

Unlike last time, a bright clear sun is shining down on you when you step out of the train, mitigating some of the November chill.

Steven’s hand curls over yours, tucking both into his pocket, and you’re glad for the added warmth as the two of you walk down the Docks, along the mismatch of newly built high-rise flats and small brick row-houses. 

As you reach the familiar council estate, you spot Sam and his friends waving towards you from across the street, and Steven waves back, like they're old friends already. He’s already taking a step forward to cross at the traffic light, when you suddenly remember that despite the familiarity this will be the first time Sam and Karim meet Steven. 

“Wait,” you hiss, flinging a hand out to grip his forearm, “They think you're Marc,” you warn, and Steven nods slowly with understanding on his face. 

“Right,” he says, flashing you a cheeky grin, “So, emotionally constipated, perpetually frowning, and just generally a complete prat? Got it.”

His fingers come to his forehead, slicking back his hair with a touch of dramatic flair. Then he furrows his brows theatrically, lips pulling downwards into an exaggerated imitation of Marc’s frown, and you have to hide your grin as you turn to walk.

Crossing the street, Steven is visibly holding himself back. He’s pulling himself upright, as he juts his chin up in a brusque greeting, while schooling his features and tampering down the smile that you know is twitching at his lips. It’s a very commendable effort on his part. 

But the moment you make it inside the house, and Steven catches sight of the hall lined with aquariums, his mock-frown falls away and his eyes widen with wonder. That uncharacteristic straight line of his lips, rounds with an audible, “wow” that slips out of him. Then he's all toothy smiles and excitement as he points to a particular colourful fish that glitters behind the glass of one of the numerous fish tanks. 

You watch as he waves at the fish, and then turns around to Karim to ask a half-dozen more animated questions that the man answers with gusto. 

Steven spends the whole time listening attentively as Karim gives a guided tour of his fish cellar, nodding along with undivided attentiveness as his eyes track the colourful fishes that are being introduced to him one by one.

The stark difference between Steven's and Marc’s behaviour doesn't go unnoticed. 

“Your boyfriend’s like a completely different person today,” Sam remarks. “He's so… ” 

He pauses mid-sentence, and hums consideringly as he observes Steven with an amused smile. 

“I get it now, what you said last time—a big softie.”

Down the row of tanks, Steven is pointing excitedly at a puffy looking fish. It must be a rare one, judging from how elated he is. Despite the fact that Steven is absolutely blowing your cover, you can't help but smile fondly at his obvious excitement and joy. 

“Yeah. Yeah, he really is,” you answer, as you feel a prickling warmth spread across your chest. 

“So tell me,” Sam says as he grips his jaw in his hand, scratching his beard like a ponderous professor, “Which one is the real him?”

You freeze at the question, not sure how you can even begin to answer that. 

Glancing over at Steven, you still see him wide-eyed and smiling, hovering over the very same goldfish tank that Marc was gruffly standing by as he was inspecting it studiously with a set frown for a replacement fish. 

You give Sam the only answer that rings true to you:

 “They both are.”

-----

Surely, you must be stuck in some kind of 80’s Sci-fi movie, because you seem to be trapped in a closed loop of deja-vus. 

You're standing in the middle of Steven's flat, once again with a plastic bag in hand as you scoop (what is this time, a one-finned) goldfish into the large fish tank. 

It lands with a distinct plop into the water, and then swims down with a pirouette around Gus II. 

Steven is standing next to you by the tank, so close you’re shoulder to shoulder, huddled together, hunched over the glass, close enough for your noses to leave fog on the surface as you observe the two fishes dance around each other to become acquainted. 

It all feels so similar that, when you feel his shoulder brush up against yours and that familiar pleasant tingle climbs up your back, you have to remind yourself that this time the person standing next to you is Steven, not Marc. 

Turning your head, you look over at Steven who's watching the fishes intently. When he notices you staring, he slowly turns to you and smiles, eyes crinkling softly, and the joy of it lights up your chest. 

You

We visited Sam and Karim again. 

Say hi to Gus III. He’s the one with one fin. 

Steven got very excited after seeing the fish cellar and is thinking of getting a second tank. 

If you don't come back, I'll let him. 

It's six pm and you’re in a hurry to get out of the office. Steven had texted earlier, asking if you wanted to try the new sushi place that opened up down the block tonight, and you are starving.

Exiting the elevator, you look around for Steven, surprised when you don’t immediately spot him. He almost always comes to pick you up now, even when you don’t have dinner plans. Perhaps he’s running late?

Susan must notice your confusion, because she catches your eye and waves you over.

“Over there, pet,” she says, pointing towards the front of the building, “Said he had to talk to someone.”

You follow her finger to see your wayward boyfriend standing with his back to you in the far corner of the reception area, phone held to his ear. The early dark outside has turned the wall of glass at the front of the building into an imperfect mirror, and you smile watching Steven gesture animatedly with his free hand as he talks to whoever’s on the other end.

“Cheers, Susan.” You give her a wave, heading off to let him know you’re done. Perhaps you can walk as he talks?

As you get closer, you can hear that there’s a plaintive tone to Steven’s murmuring, like he’s trying to plead his case to someone. You slow your approach, wondering who he’s talking to, but not wanting to interrupt in case it’s important.

“That’s not gonna happen,” he snaps suddenly, back going rigid, and you freeze in your tracks, because it’s not Steven’s voice, but a clipped, impatient American accent that you haven’t heard in forever. “There’s nothing to talk about. You’re both better off without me.”

His eyes in the mirror are narrowed and impatient. A scowl pressed between the firm line of his mouth as he glares at his own reflection.

“Marc,” you gasp his name without thought. Marc is here.

He jerks around at the sound of your voice, and for a split second, you catch sight of Marc’s eyes, wide and pained under furrowed brows, then they widen even further, brow smoothing out as he blinks several times in quick succession, looking apologetic and a little bit shellshocked. Even before he opens his mouth to speak, a part of you already knows. 

“Sorry, love,” Steven says in his thick South Londoner accent, and your heart sinks to your stomach. “Marc left, it's just me now.” 

He turns back to the window, and you bite down on your bottom lip, trying to tamp down the surge of disappointment and the ridiculous urge to burst into tears.

Watching Steven narrow his eyes at his reflection, you recalled what he’d said about mirrors. He hadn’t been on the phone at all, had he? Neither had Marc. They’d been communicating through the reflective surface of the glass. Talking to each other for the first time in months, and you had to go and ruin it by opening your big mouth and interrupting.

You wonder if Marc is still there in the glass, watching, but judging from the frustrated expression on Steven’s face you doubt it. He shakes his head in resignation before turning back to you, reaching over and gently tucks a lock of hair behind your ear.

“I’m sorry, love. I don’t think he’s going to come back,” he says, giving you an obviously-forced smile, “Shall we go get dinner?” 

“No, I... um...” You shake your head, forcing a smile that likely doesn’t look any more authentic than his, any excitement over trying a new place drowned out by the heavy weight of disappointment and regret that sits in your stomach like a stone, “I’m not all that hungry just now. Can we just go home?”

“Of course, love. Anything you want.”

If only that were true.

You

Steven made dinner tonight. You might have burn marks on your left hand. You better come back quick before he burns down the flat.

It’s another Saturday evening and you’re prepping the coffee maker to 'delay brew' another batch of coffee for Marc. You pause, bag of ground coffee in hand, before scooping it out. 

“So it’s one scoop per serving, right Steven?” you call out, just to double check, but there’s no answer, “Steven…?”

Turning, you find him bent over in front of the fish tank. In the reflection of the glass pane, you catch Steven’s distracted expression, but it takes you a few seconds to register that even though he’s staring at the tank, his eyes aren't really tracking the Gus twins. 

For a heartstopping moment you think maybe Marc is talking to him again, but then you take in the way his eyes linger on the upper corner of the glass and the postcards taped there. Postcards that are nominally from his mum, though you both know better now.

“Steven,” you call again, setting down the coffee and the measuring spoon, “Everything all right?” 

Steven startles, bolting upright like he’s snapping out of a trance. 

“Huh!? Oh. Yeah, yes. Sorry.” He gives you a sheepish smile as you come to join him in front of the tank. “Just looking at these.” 

Reaching out, he traces a finger over the edges of the postcard taped back-out to the glass surface.

“It’s a bit surreal, reading this again now that I know Marc sent it, not mum.”

There’s something bittersweet in his smile, and the way his eyes shade into mournfulness makes you want to pull him into a hug and never let go.  

“Paris is lovely,” he reads out from the card. “Wish I could take you! You’d love the museums here. Love you so much, Mum.”

Then he stops, and your heart breaks a little bit as he stares down at the handwritten message. 

You’re sad for Steven that words of love he had believed to be from his mum weren’t from her at all. You’re sad for Marc that he had to keep up this pretence, lonely and isolated in the far-off corners of the world, carrying the weight of the truth for both of them.

With a sigh, Steven straightens up, reaches over to carefully unpin a  postcard from the wooden edge of the bookcase next to the tank and reads that one too. 

“In Cairo. The pyramids reminded me of the amazing work you do at the museum. So proud of you!” 

He shakes his head in amusement, chuckling lightly as he reaches over to show it to you. 

“He even put a heart on it at the end,” he says, and you can’t help but smile at the image of Marc bent over some table, painstakingly signing off the card with a cartoon heart.

You watch as Steven carefully fits the pin back through the existing hole in the card and repins it to the wood before moving on to the one just below it. 

“Happy birthday from New York. Wish I could be with you to celebrate with a birthday cake. You deserve the best day! Love, mum.”

That one gets a sigh, a sad smile and a small shake of his head before Steven repins it with the same meticulous care. 

One by one, Steven gently detaches the postcards adorning the wooden shelves, over, under and on the sides of the tank, and reads each one aloud before returning it carefully to its place. 

There must be at least fifty of them filling the space in his flat, from one remote destination after another.

Each message is filled with love and care. Words of encouragement, spelling out how proud she is of him. How much she wants for him to be happy. How she's always there for him. That she's just a phone call away. That he's never alone. 

Then Steven goes quiet, head dipped, as he stares blankly at the postcard of Austria in his hand. 

“The notes were always so loving and supportive, they always made me feel like I was a little bit less alone, you know?” he finally says, breaking the silence, and the corners of his mouth pulls into a sad smile again.

“I think... I think it must’ve been what Marc wanted to hear from our mum growing up but never got to. He must've wanted to make sure that someone got to hear these things from her… even if it was all just a lie.”

Shifting your feet, you simply nod at him, not knowing what else to say. Their mum is a bit of an enigma to you. Before today, you’ve only ever heard of her from Steven’s perspective as a loving and attentive mum. 

But there’s no doubt, as you’re watching him now, seeing the pain etched into his face as he thinks of his mother, that the rosy image he’d painted previously is far from the full picture.

You recall that morning in the kitchen when you had first brought up the postcards to Marc. The way that Marc had hunched into himself, his usual confident stance crumbling before your eyes at the mere mention of their mother. The way he seemed to be trying to make himself invisible and wincing as if expecting a blow.

You know enough now about DID and the medical consensus on what causes it.

Steven doesn’t need to tell you much more than that, you can read between the lines well enough.

“Are you going to keep them, do you think?” you ask instead. 

His head pops up, eyes wide as he blinks up at you in surprise, clutching the postcard tightly to his chest as though you might try to take it from him.

"Yeah,” he says, voice rasping quietly, then nods firmly and repeats it with more certainty the second time, “Yeah, ‘course I am. Of course. They may not have been from my mum, but they're from someone who cares about me.” 

He pins the card back into place with reverent care, then lets his hands fall to his sides. 

“Just wish that Marc could’ve had that for himself too, you know?”

You move forward until you’re close enough to Steven that you can slide a hand down his arm, your fingers brushing up against his wrist, and he takes a half-step closer, until his shoulder is pressing against yours.

“It’s a bit silly, you know? There was no need to go out of his way like this. I would have been none the wiser,” Steven says, smiling even as there’s a glossy sheen behind his eyes.

You know exactly what Steven means, and he’s right. It is silly. It’s also kind and unexpected and unnecessary and entirely Marc. 

The easy option would have been to just leave a dead fish in the tank. It would have been even easier to not send handwritten postcards to him at all. In fact, the easiest option of all for Marc was to dump everything on Steven from the very beginning. It would have saved him a lot of headaches. 

There was never any need for Marc to take all of this upon himself, carrying every burden come their way in order to spare Steven any hardships. No need for him to shoulder the entire weight of their world by himself. He didn't have to struggle alone, surrounded by millions of strangers in every corner of the world. And yet, you can’t imagine him doing otherwise.

This is quintessentially Marc, and as infuriating as it can be, you can’t fault him for it. 

“Marc has his own ideas about protecting the people in his life,” you say, as you lace your fingers with Steven's, squeezing him tightly under your palm, “Even if it’s at the expense of his own well being.” 

The two of you stand there in silence, interrupted only by the quiet bubbling noise coming from the tank. Surrounded by postcards written by a man who's not here, but whose presence can be felt in every nook and cranny of your life together. 

Marc isn’t here, yet reminders of him are constant and inescapable. His absence is like an aching tooth that you can’t seem to keep from prodding with your tongue, a missing stair that you can’t stop tripping over.

He's everywhere you look. 

Every cluttered pile of books that Steven leaves behind him when you stay in on a Saturday night, every messy detail makes you think of how Marc would want to rip out his hair, itching to clean if he saw the mess. 

You're reminded of Marc on every crowded tube you take on your morning commute. Haunted by the phantom weight of his protective hand on the small of your back, the comforting pressure of Marc's arms wrapped around you to keep you steady. 

Every morning when you walk into your office and catch a faint whiff of coffee from your cubicle, that fissure in your chest cracks open each time as you’re transported to the memory of waking up to the sight of Marc sitting next to you, drinking the coffee you make him with a stoic face. 

Then there is the biggest reminder of all: the face of the man you love. 

It's etched in the dark brown of Steven’s eyes as he smiles up at you and calls you 'love'. In the sharp line of his nose as he presses the blunt tip to your cheekbone to kiss you good morning. 

Perhaps you ought to be able to ignore it and pretend that this is fine. 

After all, you love Steven, and it'd be easy enough to pretend that you and Steven have reached your happily ever after. That this—your life together, just him and you, the way you’ve been since he’s returned—is your new normal, and that all of it is fine. 

...But it's not fine. 

You miss Marc. 

You miss waking up to him lingering in the kitchen as he tidies up. Miss his half-smiles and wry jokes. Miss the comfort of his presence just by him being near you. 

Somewhere along the line, in those quiet mornings together, Marc carved out a space for himself inside you. With him gone, it’s left a gaping wound in the middle of your torso, and you are haemorrhaging out without him.

Marc is important to Steven. He’s important to you too, you can admit that now. And you need to admit it to Steven as well. 

You squeeze down firmly on Steven's hand, closing your eyes shut for a brief second as you take a deep breath to prepare yourself. 

"Steven,” you start, “we... um... we need to talk.” 

You cringe the moment the words leave your mouth, wishing you could take them back and try again. The last conversation you started this way didn’t start or end well and sent Steven into a tailspin. 

Two seconds in, and you’re already messing this up. That has got to be some kind of a record. 

To your surprise, Steven doesn't panic. Instead his expression softens, and he smiles indulgently at you. 

"Yes, I think that's a good idea, love. There's a bit of an elephant in the room, isn’t there? A Marc-shaped elephant, yeah?” 

His blunt cheekiness cuts through any lingering hesitance in you, and you nod.

“I miss him,” you admit, before trailing off, “I…”  

You don't know how to say this. 

There are no words in the dictionary that can adequately convey what you’re feeling. How you can love Steven so much, be so deliriously happy to be with him, but still feel like there are sharp jagged pieces cutting large holes into you because Marc isn't there. 

“I know,” Steven says, filling the silence for you, “You care about him quite a bit, don’t you?”

You search his eyes for a moment, trying to get a sense of his emotional reaction to guide you. 

There’s nothing but kindness and understanding  in his gaze. Those warm brown eyes that seem to see right through you and accept you just as you are, and it helps to steady you.

“It’s all right, love,” he continues softly and gives your hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze like he’s trying to emphasise to you that it truly is. “I care about Marc a great deal as well. The big grump grows on you, doesn’t he?”  

And that’s just Steven, isn’t it? Never shying away from a tough truth. 

You're so grateful to him for it.

You want to tell him how thankful you are to him for seeing you—for knowing you, even when you don't entirely know yourself. How safe you feel with him, even with this. How it’s his support that’s given you the courage to finally admit the truth to yourself... and to him as well.

“I think I...” 

You look down at your intertwined hands, his thumb petting the back of your knuckles. 

“I think I love him,” you finally say. 

It’s terrifying to admit out loud, but it’s a relief too.

You draw your eyes up to meet Steven’s, half-expecting to see hurt or pain blossoming, but there’s none.  You squeeze his palm gently in gratitude before you cup your hand over his soft cheek. 

“And I still love you as well. So much.”

“I thought that might be the case, love,” Steven says, and slides one hand into the pockets of his trousers, as he looks at you earnestly, “and that leaves you with a bit of a predicament, yeah?”

You nod. The fingers of your free hand are itching to fiddle with your wrist watch, so you curl them into a tight fist by your side. 

“I would never choose Marc over you, but I just– I–” you cut yourself off, shaking your head hopelessly because you’re not quite sure what you even want to suggest here. 

You’re so fucking nervous, nervous that you might be fucking up everything between you and Steven with this wishy-washy confession of yours. But before you spiral, Steven comes to your rescue.  

“So, I’m thinking, right,” Steven begins, “And– And stop me if this isn’t what you want, but what if–” 

He pauses, holding up both his hands in an invitation for you to interrupt at any time. 

“Look, nothing about our situation is normal. In fact, it’s rather abnormal, isn’t it?—and I reckon that means it has to be an inordinate solution.” 

Steven looks at you expectantly, but you have no idea what he’s trying to suggest, and it must show on your face because he continues, “So what if we all… um… well. You don’t have to choose, I guess is what I’m saying.”

Your mouth works, opening and closing as you struggle to get out any words in reply, and Steven presses on.

“Marc’s spent more than half his life shielding me from all the bad stuff that's come our way, trying to handle it all on his own. He doesn't believe that he deserves the good stuff. That he deserves love. But he does. Maybe more than anyone. So I think you should tell him how you feel, and we’ll see if we can't figure something out, all three of us.”

“You– You mean…”  you flounder, trying to find a delicate way to make sure he’s saying what you think he’s saying. But there is no such thing in these surreal circumstances. “You’re talking about my having a relationship with Marc as well as one with you? About… sharing me? …With him?”

He gives you a small awkward smile, as he shoves his fidgeting hands back down in his pockets like he’s suddenly grown self-conscious about how distracting they are. “Only if you’re okay with that, of course.”

“And you’re okay with that? You won't be jealous?”

“Jealous? …of Marc?” he begins incredulously, eyes popping wide open as if that option had never even occurred to him. Then he stops and really seems to ponder the question. 

“You know, I'm not. Maybe I should be, but… How can I be? After all, I’m a part of him, aren’t I? And he's part of me. The fact that you love him… Well, in some odd way it makes me feel like you... you just love all of me.”

Time seems to slow around you as you process what Steven’s just told you, because that’s it. That’s just what it is. 

You try to swallow down the lump that has suddenly formed in your throat, but you can’t. His words shift something inside you, the tangled knot of guilt and confusion and conflicted loyalties that have lived inside you for so long unravels, leaving behind a clearer understanding of your own complicated feelings for both Marc and Steven.

You love Steven.

You love Marc.

You love both of them and all of them, and it doesn’t have to compete with each other. 

Once again you just marvel at Steven. At his way of cutting through your confusion, situational complexities, and convoluted emotions to put into words the truth you’ve struggled to understand, even as you’ve lived through it and felt it with every inch of you.  All of it summarised in that simple sentiment.  

“I do. I really do, Steven. You and Marc. All of you.” You breathe out, the tension going out of you until your spine softens, fully relaxes for the first time in a long time. 

Steven is still smiling at you, his smile spreading wider and more assured the longer he looks at you, and it makes the tentative love and joy welling up in your chest overflow until you can barely stand upright. 

“You’re really all right with this?” you ask one last time, and you notice that your voice is a little bit shaky because you feel like you are vibrating out of your skin. 

“I wouldn’t have suggested it, if it wasn’t something I wanted, love,” Steven says, his voice dropping to a low, intimate timbre as he wraps his arm around the small of your back pressing you tight to him.  “But only if it’s something you want too.” 

“Yes, it... It is. Very much so,” you confirm, and you can’t hold back your ever-growing smile. 

“Well then,” Steven says, pressing a small kiss to the side of your head, “I guess all that's left now is to tell Marc and convince him to come back home.” 

You

Ratatouille is on channel 4 today and 

...And what? 

You pause to sprinkle fish food into the Gus twins’ tank, as you stare blankly at the drafted message, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Today is the first time you’ve woken up without Steven in bed with you since his return. It means Marc has gone off somewhere again. 

You chew on your inner cheek as you reread the half-finished message. It's a daily habit you have developed in Marc's absence. You text him throughout the day to share about frivolous ongoings in your life, the way you used to when you’d be sitting across him at breakfast. 

There’s never any response. The only proof you have that he hasn't changed his number or blocked yours is the two little ticks that eventually appear, indicating that he's read the messages.

Dragging your finger down the screen, you scroll up through the message log, embarrassed at the number of unanswered messages you’ve left.

He really is planning to ignore you and stay gone forever, isn't he?

Your thumb drags over to the delete button instead, painstakingly erasing your message. 

Deep down, you've always known these texts were just an excuse for you to hang onto the last tether you felt you had tying you to Marc, and you're sick of nattering on inanely, making cheeky jokes to camouflage what you really wanted to tell him.

It’s time to say what you mean. What you’ve always meant. The truth hidden between every line of every message you’ve sent him. 

You

I miss you

Please come back

You hit send before you can overthink it, then stare at the screen, blood rushing to your head as your heart starts to palpitate in your chest. A million thoughts race in your head, as you start to imagine Marc on the other end reading this. Will he be annoyed? Angry? Will he finally block your number so he doesn’t have to receive your spam messages at all hours of the day? 

You glance at the ottoman in front of you, about to set down the phone to keep it away from yourself, when from the corner of your eye you see that grey tick transforms into blue. 

Marc's read it. He’s read it.

Your heart drums painfully sharp tucked beneath your ribs. Your fingers grip the cold body of your phone. 

Marc's there. On the other side of the screen right now. A phone call away. 

That’s what Steven said wasn’t it? That all you two needed to do now, was to tell Marc how you feel and convince him to come home. 

That is, assuming he even wants to come home.  Maybe he just doesn’t feel the same about you. 

Still, your fingers slide open your contacts, scrolling down until you reach Marc's name and press call. 

It rings out, loud and oppressive. Louder still when you press it against your ear. 

Once.

You should’ve had a glass of wine before you did this.

Twice. 

He probably won't answer. Why would he? You shouldn't have even bothered. If he wanted to speak to you, he wouldn’t have been avoiding you in the first place. 

Three times. 

The monotonous ringing continues, and your heart seems to sink in your chest, dropping, heavy with disappointment into the pit of your stomach. He's not going to pick up.

Four. 

This is desperate and sad. You’re chasing after a man who keeps running from you. You're just going to leave yourself miserable. 

Five. 

This is so stupid. You should just hang up. 

Six–click. 

You jolt upright on the sofa. Every hair on the nape of your neck electrified. Legs tense and straining as you sit entirely still like you've encountered a deer in the forest and you're too afraid to move a muscle in case you might spook it away. 

Did the line disconnect? Or did he–

You yank the phone away from your ear to stare at the screen. It's blank and black save for Marc's name and a timer, numbers counting up to indicate the duration of the call. 

Marc picked up. Marc actually...

Your mouth is dry as you raise the phone to your ear again.

“He-hello? Marc?” 

There's no answer.  

“Marc? Are you there?” 

Still nothing. The other end of the line is dead quiet. Maybe it’s a bad connection.

“Can you hear me?” you try again. 

Maybe no one is there. Maybe Marc bumped it with his elbow. Maybe you’re just talking to yourself like a crazy woman. 

“Marc, I–” 

You lower the phone and check the screen again. The call is still going, but the silence on the line reveals nothing. You have no way of knowing if Marc is listening or not.

But if he is... 

If he is, this might be your best chance—perhaps your only chance—to speak to him. Compared to that, what does it matter if you feel a little bit silly? 

“So uhm... I-I don't know if you had a chance to read my message—the latest one, I mean. I know I've been sending you a lot of them. But if you're there? If you can hear me, Marc, I just– I mean it, you know? I miss you. Steven misses you too. We both do.”

It's still quiet.

Even if Marc is there on the other end of the line, it's quite obvious by now that he has no intention of answering you. Stubborn as he is, you know that no matter what you say, he's not going to acknowledge that he's there. 

If he’s even there.

You press on. 

“I don't know why you think you need to stay away, or why Steven and I wouldn't want you here. Because, yes, you're grumpy and your default setting is a resting bitch face, and yes, you can be a right arse sometimes, but…” You find yourself smiling, imagining the way his eyebrow would rise if you were saying this to his face.

“You've always taken care of Steven and... and of me too”. 

Your throat constricts with a thick lump that you try, but can’t seem to, swallow away. You think of all the small but many, many things Marc has done for you since he entered your life. The way he’s learned to prepare your tea just the way you like it. The way he always pulls your quilts to your shoulders while you’re asleep so you don’t freeze in the middle of the night. 

“I don't know if I've ever thanked you before. I guess I just– uhm. I want to thank you, you know? Thank you for cooking me breakfast every morning and for putting out my clothes for me so I didn’t have to search for them.” 

You think of the way he had held you while you were crying like a child on his living room floor. How firmly he’d cradled you in his arms, and how he didn’t let go, even when you got snot all over his shirt. 

“Thank you for comforting me when I was crying after everything with Steven.” There’s a stinging sensation behind your eyes, and you wipe at them with the back of your hand, trying to ignore that it comes away wet, as you continue to speak. 

“And for letting me stay over that night. I know you’re not usually a touchy-feely person, and it... It meant a lot to me.” 

You swear you can feel the phantom weight of his comforting hand on the small of your back, and you close your eyes as you imagine that he’s next to you. 

You think of all the ways he’s pushed himself for you. Hugging you when you were crying, cooking you breakfast when you were hungry, befriending you because you asked him to for Steven’s sake—how every step forward in your relationship has been because he was trying to meet someone else's needs: Steven’s. Yours. 

And now he’s removing himself from the picture, thinking he’s fulfilling another need. 

“I know I said I wanted a simple, normal life with Steven, but I didn't– That didn't mean I wanted you gone, Marc,” you continue, as you tug at your overlong sleeve and wipe at your wet cheeks. 

“You said you were going to fix everything, that we were better off without you, but how can anything be 'fixed' when I miss you so bloody much!? How can things be better without you here when I'm–” Your voice breaks, and you swallow around the thickness in your throat, trying to sniffle down the clump that won’t go away. 

“God, I hope you're listening, and I'm not just pouring my heart out to your back pocket.” 

You let out a wet laugh at the idea, and then inhale deeply, doing your best to steady your voice. 

“I'm– I’m in love with you, Marc.”

You're not sure if it's just your over-active imagination inventing things out of pure wish fulfilment, but you think perhaps you hear a quick intake of breath on the other end. 

“Steven knows. I still love him too, of course, but I told him how I feel about you, and he's okay with it. And if– well, if you ever wanted there to be something more between us, he'd be okay with that too. We don't have to be together that way if you don't want to, of course, but I just…” 

Your throat feels tight again, threatening to close up, and you have to stop for a moment, suck in a soggy breath and try to get yourself under control before you can continue. 

“I love you, Marc,” you say again, barely breathing for several seconds as you strain your ears, hoping to hear something, anything from the other line. But this time there's not even a hint of sound.

You desperately want to know what he’s thinking. Feeling. Is he shocked? Angry? Puzzled? What does he look like on the other end of the line? 

Are his brows furrowed into that pinched expression his face makes when he’s emotionally overwhelmed? If he were here, would he be looking at you with that same pained expression that night he put you in a taxi home? Or would he lean in and–

You don’t know. 

And you’d give up the whole world to know what Marc is feeling in this moment. Give anything to have him back here with you so you could see it for yourself. 

"Do you hear me, you stubborn, infuriating man?” you’re practically yelling now. “I love you! So there's not going to be any happily ever after for me unless you come back. You don’t have to love me the same way. It doesn't have to be anything you don't want it to be. But I need you here. Please. I miss you. Steven misses you. Please just come back.”

You close your eyes again, holding your breath. Hoping against hope that he’ll answer you or give you some sign that he’s heard you at the very least. But there’s nothing. 

And you have nothing more left to say to try to convince him. 

“Goodnight, Marc.”

Then you end the call. 

~ Continue ~

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow @astroboots-writes and turn on notifs 🤡💖🤡

[todayontumblr]

Tuesday June 6.

Ryan Gosling: A Commemoration of Canada's Prodigal Son.

There's no way around it: we love #ryan gosling. He has got what you might call the range. He has got what you might call chops. This man can act, and goodness, do we love his acting. Hunky heartthrob in the rain, child actor, anonymous stunt driver, coked-up stockbroker, old school Hollywood all-singin' all-dancin' struggling jazz pianist, astronaut, replicant, and now, Ken himself. He is a man of many, many talents, and though these times are troubling, we must count ourselves mighty lucky to bear witness to the gift that keeps on giving that is Gosling, Ryan, of London, Ontario, Canada.

We will wish you the very happiest of #ryan goslings this Tuesday, and invite you to join us in our daily countdown until his take on Ken is unleashed on the world next month: with Barbie, (2023).

And if you say no, we're not afraid to beach you off x

[hp-fanfic-archive]

A-Z AU Rec List

Saw this A-Z list of AU writing prompts and decided to make a rec list based on it! This has a little bit of everything, pairings wise, so hopefully there’s something for everyone.

A: Apocalypse AU Love In A Time Of The Zombie Apocalypse by rizzlewrites [dramione, E, 356k] After Voldemort, there was this. The clock is ticking to create a cure to the unimaginable horror that currently grips the world. Hermione finds herself unwillingly allied with the most hated man in Wizarding Britain. (also available as a podfic)

B: Bounty Hunter AU Bounty Hunter by SnippyandSnarky [drarry, M, 32k] Set after the 7th book. Voldemort is nearly defeated. A familiar bounty hunter is picking off Death Eaters one by one. (also available as a pdf or e-book file)

C: College AU Wannabe Your Lover by Maraudererasmut & shadow_prince [wolfstar, M, 15k] Somewhere in America, Fall of 1997 - Returning to University, James refused to room with Sirius in the wake of The Great Cheez-it Battle of '96. They must adjust to living with someone new, Mr. Potter worried they'd both get scurvy, James unsuccessfully continued trying to court one Lily Evans, Snape got what was coming to him, and Sirius was the most confused of them all.

D: Do-Over (Second Chance) AU Do It All Over Again (Series) by DracoWillHearAboutThis [drarry, E, 468k] All he wanted was a way out. A way to do it all over again, and to erase his mistakes. He stared at the crackling blue flames so hard they imprinted in his vision. At age eleven, Draco receives a letter from the future, which will make him change the path he has set out upon and lead him into a life he'd never dared to imagine. (also available as a podfic)

E: Emergency Responders AU Oh, We Lost Magic by nerakrose [wolfstar, jily, G, 4k] The year is 1985 and Sirius, Remus, James and Lily are working as paramedics in muggle London, living seemingly normal lives…except there's really an awful lot of weird things going on.

F: Fake Dating AU Distractions by morningsound15 [hermione/ginny, T, 86k] Ginny sighed and slumped back in her seat. “You’re letting him win. He’s winning the breakup!” “Everything you’re saying is ridiculous! You can’t win a breakup.” “Obviously you can, and Ron is doing it!” “You’re being childish. Not everything is about winning and losing.”

G: Ghost AU Another Day in the Sun by REwrites [wolfstar, T, 19k] Is it haunted? I suppose that depends on who is telling the story.

H: Historical Fiction AU Blood and Brimestone by calanthe_fic [drarry, E, 42k] The Inquisition claims it reforms and cleanses Prodigals of their demonic heritage, but Captain Harry Potter learns that the Church has lost its way and is worse by far than the devils in Hells Below. (also available as a pdf or e-book file)

I: Investigation AU Caught by Phiso [wolfstar, G, 4k] Sirius Black was the thief no one could catch – at least, not until he met his match in Detective Inspector Remus Lupin.

J: Jazz Club AU A Specter of The Night [+Podfic] by writer-or-whatever [wolfstar, T, 1k] Roaring 20s Wolfstar AU OR The one where Sirius turns up out of the blue as a Jazz singer and Remus is confused and still very much in love.

K: Knitting AU Charmed Wool by winnett [drarry, E, 11k] Draco works for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department (MMAD). Tracking down an illegal knitter of charmed jumpers takes him to County Cork where he never expected to find the missing Chosen One. (also available as a pdf or e-book file)

L: Lycanthropy AU seventeen moons by we_built_the_shadows_here [snily, G, 6k] “The scar is small, at least,” Pomfrey says, pulling the bandage snug around the cleaned wound. There’s a pity in her voice that makes Severus want to throw up again. “It will be easily covered.” Dumbledore catches him inspecting it, as if mesmerized. “You are lucky to have survived at all,” the Headmaster says. Severus does not say I don’t feel very lucky because it is stupid and obvious. Instead, he says unsteadily, “I want to press charges, sir.” Pomfrey stills, tightening the bandage to the point of discomfort. “Remus Lupin would be executed,” Dumbledore says. “The Ministry takes a dim view of werewolves who infect other wizards.”

M: Musician AU Bubblegum Blues by reachthetree [wolfstar, M, 5k] Remus actually looks down as she smiles, like a shy teenager in a first kiss scenario, and it gives Sirius deja vu. She’s lived this exact moment before. Only in another life. When Remus lifts the bass, Sirius sees a tattoo on the back of her upper arm, and drops her little notebook on the sticky floor. She’s only known one other person with a tattoo like that. But it can’t be… Can it?

N: No Voldemort AU Sing Me a (Christmas) Love Song by andromedablacc [James/Sirius, G, 1k] James is a famous Quidditch player, and once upon a time Sirius was famous in his own right.

O: Office AU Of Tinsel and Nice Starts by nerakrose [wolfstar, G, 2k] Mysterious clouds and strange coffee abounds. Office romance.

P: Photographer AU Rule of Thirds by bluepeony [wolfstar, G, 2k] Modern AU: Sirius Black, star of the university's football team, only wants one thing: a teensy-weensy, harmless little kiss.

Q: Quidditch Player AU our kiss is as the moon to draw by blackkat [lily/narcissa, T, 1k] “Problems, cousin?” Narcissa calls to Sirius, cool and sugar-sweet. She’s smirking, braid of pale hair coming loose, and Lily should absolutely be cheering for Gryffindor, but she can't help herself. As Narcissa turns into a sharp dive, snatching the Quaffle right out of James's hands as she passes, she whoops, clapping her hands together. “I think this is the part where I'm supposed to call you a traitor,” Remus observes from the seat beside her, as dry as dust, though he hasn’t even lifted his gaze from his book.

R: Receptionist AU They don't love you like I love you by moonlightgalleon [wolfstar, G, 5k] Hospital receptionist Remus Lupin usually invites superheroes as guests for the kids. That is, until he gets the unusual request of inviting villain The Canis.

S: Soulmate AU Amare Series by ABlackRaven [harry/cedric, T, 173k] Cedric feels drawn to protect Harry Potter. Whether this be from Dementors on a Quidditch pitch or the tasks of a life-threatening tournament, he's determined to help him. He can't help but worry about the younger boy. Eventually friendship takes root and potentially…something more? Harry feels drawn to Cedric, safe when he is near. He certainly has no shortage of dangers in his life, from an abusive home life to the growing threat of Voldemort. He cant help the guilt that he puts Cedric in danger by proximity. Eventually friendship takes root and potentially…could he hope for something more? And when the end of the third task goes horribly wrong, will either of them survive? A rewrite of Book 4 revolving around Harry and Cedric.

T: Time Travel AU Escaping the Paradox by Meri [snarry, E, 35k] After Harry is thrown back in time to 1971, he has several choices to make. (also available as a podfic)

U: Undercover AU The Chosen One & The Halfblood Prince by waitingondaisies [Harry & Severus, T, 93k] Severus Snape was discovered as a spy mere days before the start of the school year. Thankfully, Albus had been working on a vague contingency plan for this possibility. It had been inspired by the question, “What would it take for Severus Snape to see that he was wrong about Harry Potter?” The answer? Force Severus to go undercover as Alfonse “Eli” Hopkirk, a sixth year Gryffindor.

V: Vampire AU Immortal Claim by ladyofsilverdawn [snarry, E, 16k] Harry needs Snape's cooperation to solve a case, but navigating vampiric culture and Snape's powerful allure proves more challenging than he anticipates.

W: Western AU Hell and High Water by Krethes [susan bones/pansy parkinson, T, 7k] Pansy is the daughter of the leader of a notorious band of outlaws that's been running this dusty old town for as long as she can recall. Then one day a new sheriff rides into town with her pretty little niece at her side who keeps making pretty little eyes at Pansy and -- aw, hell. (also available as a podfic)

X: N/A

Y: Youtube AU real life has no appeal by orphan_account [wolfstar, G, 7k] In which Remus is Lily's roommate and Sirius, James and Peter break into places.

Z: Zombie AU Love In A Time Of The Zombie Apocalypse by rizzlewrites [dramione, E, 356k] After Voldemort, there was this. The clock is ticking to create a cure to the unimaginable horror that currently grips the world. Hermione finds herself unwillingly allied with the most hated man in Wizarding Britain. (also available as a podfic)

Yes, yes, I know. The first and last list items are the same, but there are only so many zombie and/or apocalypse AUs.

[invisibleicewands]

Michael Sheen narrates our brand-new show for The Snowman Tour

We are thrilled to announce that Michael Sheen has recorded the narration of The Bear, the Piano, the Dog and the Fiddle for us, ready for its world premiere on The Snowman Tour, 2024.

“I get to tell the story of The Bear, the Piano, the Dog and the Fiddle! It's something that I'm really excited to be a part of; the storytelling by David Litchfield is so rich, and the music that has been composed by Daniel Whibley is incredibly beautiful. To be able to contribute to such a lovely family experience this Christmas brings me a lot of joy.” Michael Sheen

Our Managing Director, Rachel Whibley, explains, "It’s been a joy collaborating with award-winning author-illustrator David Litchfield, award-winning composer (and Carrot Productions' very own Artistic Director) Daniel Whibley, and animator Kevin Francis to bring The Bear, the Piano, the Dog, and the Fiddle to life for our audiences.”

"We are hugely honoured that Michael Sheen agreed to narrate The Bear, the Piano, the Dog and the Fiddle!" Rachel enthuses. "He is a phenomenal actor and an all-round lovely human being, and it has been a privilege to collaborate with him on this project."

Michael recorded the narration last week in a London studio, and we are delighted to be able to share a sneak preview of his beautiful narration alongside the animation and music.

Michael Sheen

Michael is a multi-award-winning Welsh actor and RADA graduate known for his extensive work across film, TV and stage, as well as his charity work. His vast film credits include The Damned United, David Frost in Frost/Nixon, Tony Blair in The Queen, Lucian in the Underworld series, Aro in The Twilight Saga, Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris, and Apostle.

Michael’s numerous TV credits include The Special Relationship, Masters of Sex, for which he was also a producer, Good Omens, Prodigal Son, Quiz, and Staged - the hit lockdown comedy co-created with David Tennant. Sheen's acclaimed stage performances include Amadeus, Caligula, and Hamlet. Recently, he made his directorial debut with The Way and played Prince Andrew in A Very Royal Scandal. He created, co-directed, and performed in the ground-breaking three-day live event The Passion in Port Talbot for National Theatre Wales.

The Bear and the Piano - the book trilogy

The Bear, the Piano, the Dog and the Fiddle, published in 2018, is the second book in the trilogy created by the multi-award winning illustrator and author, David Litchfield. The original book,The Bear and the Piano, took the world by storm in 2016, winning numerous awards, including Waterstones Children’s Book Prize for the Best Illustrated Book of the year. The final book, The Bear, the Piano, and Little Bear’s Concert published in 2020, sees Bear’s international concert days behind him; now a father, his musical adventures continue closer to home. 

The Bear, the Piano, the Dog and the Fiddle - the story

Set in New Orleans with a new cast of animal musicians, this charming sequel is a story about friendship and perseverance. Hector, a fiddle player, and his dog, Hugo, are best friends. They have made music together through good times, bad times and even some crazy times. Hugo is Hector's biggest fan, and when Hector retires, Hugo secretly learns to play the fiddle himself. But when Hugo gets the chance to play and tour with Bear’s Big Band – an opportunity that Hector had always dreamed of – Hector’s jealousy gets the better of him. Will Hector be able to overcome his own disappointment and learn to be happy for his friend?

This heartfelt tale reminds us that there are many different kinds of success. It celebrates the joy and healing powers of music and friendship, and teaches that friendship, like good music, lasts forever.

David Litchfield - the author and illustrator

David is a multi-award winning illustrator and author. David first started to draw when he was very young, creating Star Wars and Indiana Jones ‘mash up’ comics for his older brother and sister. Since then his work has appeared in magazines, newspapers, books and on T-shirts. He has also exhibited his illustrations in both solo and group shows in the U.K, Europe and America. In addition to The Bear and the Piano trilogy, David’s author/illustrator picture books include Grandad’s Secret Giant, Lights On Cotton Rock, T, and Kid Christmas: Of The Claus Brothers Toyshop. David has illustrated books for authors Ross Montgomery, Gregory Maguire, David Almond and Smriti Halls; Miss Muffet, Or What Came After for Marilyn Singer and book covers for Kate Dicamillo, Neil Patrick Harris, Chloe Daykin and many more. David lives with his family in Bedfordshire, England.

“I am so excited that Carrot Productions are adapting my book 'The Bear, the Piano, the Dog & the Fiddle' for their amazing live performance. Seeing my first book 'The Bear and the Piano' come to life on stage in Carrot's previous shows was one of the highlights of my life and I cannot wait to see what these incredible musicians and storytellers achieve with this new book.” David Litchfield

Daniel Whibley - the composer

Daniel is a composer and arranger whose music is heard live each year by thousands of people across the world, featured on TV and all BBC Radio stations. He was commissioned by Aardman to produce orchestral arrangements for all four Wallace & Gromit films and additional material for Wallace & Gromit and Shaun the Sheep in Concert. He wrote music for the 2023 CBeebies Prom and Mr Tumble’s Special Adventure with the BBC Philharmonic. His Musical Story of the Gingerbread Man has had millions of views, and his 10-part CBeebies series, Musical Storyland, was recently nominated for a Royal Television Society award.

“I’ve relished working alongside animator Kevin Francis to create a brand new score for The Bear, the Piano, the Dog and the Fiddle. Expect some very virtuosic violin playing at the performances!” Daniel Whibley

The Snowman Tour 2024

Carrot Productions are excited to be staging not one, but two world premieres for the 2024 The Snowman Tour. Alongside the screening of The Snowman, we will premiere two films featuring two very special dogs - Hugo the violin-playing dog, and The Snowdog himself.

We will be touring to venues across the country this November and December with two different shows. Choose between:

The Snowman™withThe Snowman and the Snowdog or The Snowman™withThe Bear, the Piano, the Dog and the Fiddle

Our shows feature screenings of the films, accompanied live by full orchestra, together with some other festive musical delights, and even an appearance from the Snowman himself!

You can hear Michael Sheen's charming and evocative narration of The Bear, the Piano, the Dog and the Fiddle at venues including: Stockport, Oldham, Derby, Buxton, Guildford, Birmingham, Liverpool, York and Chester. See listings for details.

“It's been wonderful to collaborate with the creatives at Penguin and author-illustrator David Litchfield to bring these films to life for our audiences.” Rachel Whibley, Managing Director, Carrot Productions

[astralari]

i finished my drawing :) say hello to william marcus byron, better known as the prodigal astronomer!

[chalagoat]

My heart cannot take It! It IS too much.

[ingravinoveritas]

irvinis replied to your post “Favorite moment of Michael and David on Graham…”

@ingravinoveritas I love how David turns to Michael to once again explain to him in person that it was a minor scratch and he was fine. It's as if Michael is constantly worrying about his every injury or slightest inconvenience (he is.)

@irvinis Oh, I love this. I definitely do think Michael is so obvious in how much he worries about David, and Michael seemingly confirmed this when he talked about being the "attack dog" who goes and speaks on his and David's behalf:

And it becomes even sweeter when you think of David calling Michael his "emotional support pet" in 2021, which shows how how much they were leaning on each other even back then, and how that's likely much more the case now:

But there are so many other ways that Michael and David have shown how much they care for/worry about each other. I'm particularly thinking of when Michael had Covid in March 2021 and was in a bad way, all while in New York filming Prodigal Son. David and Georgia were checking in on him and AL on a daily basis. I can so easily imagine David and Michael video-calling and David trying to cheer Michael up any way he could.

That also makes me think of right now, with Michael being out from Nye for several performances this week due to being sick. Only this time, he's in London, which means David could be there checking in on him in person. Maybe making him a cup of tea, or holding Michael in his arms just to help him get to sleep/calm his mind down. (It could also explain why we haven't really heard/seen anything from David since the Oliviers, but that's entirely speculation, of course.)

I just love how there are so many of these little instances of Michael and David quietly caring and worrying about each other, both in and out of the public eye, and how even the public moments are not there for visibility or to sell something, but because Michael and David just genuinely love each other. How much I wish we could all find someone who cares about us like that...