#maybe its not all my fault and adolescence played a big roll

[theadventurek9]

Just a short video, but this means a lot. For those that have been following Ryker's journey know that he has been a very hard dog for me to figure out training wise. While he is very confident and stable in many ways, he is deeply anxious about training. He easily gets stressed and shuts down while trying to do a variety of training things.

Anything that is not easy luring with a very high ROR is stressful for him. Shaping has been out of the question for him. I've taken breaks, rewarded everything in a session, tried Nosework (he found that stressful), tried conditioning (he actually does like), tried games and so many different things to pinpoint why he is stressing out and how to help him understand that training is just a silly game when he does things and I give him things he wants. Food, toys, praise, play...any of it.

I've cried a lot over him. I've felt like a failure and a shit trainer who can't even get her own dog to enjoy training.

Yet today I was working on his various food markers with some easy eye contact and he started offering other behaviors. I rewarded everything he wanted to try and eventually it led into this little video. Just a simple back up with a hiked hind leg. This probably has come from the sidestep work we've been doing with conditioning but he offered it on his own, he built up from one step back up to targeting the desk leg and leg hike. I just free shaped what he wanted to offer.

His head is up, his tail is wagging and he kept giving me more and more. This is what I hope for. A dog that enjoyed a silly game of training with me. That he let his goofy side come out and just tried something. I started crying out of happiness for this dumb little behavior. Maybe he will eventually enjoy all training, like Aayla. Maybe I'll get multiple days in a row where I won't see signs of stress when I lay out the mats for training. Maybe he will not hide when I have to manage one of the other pets from interrupting our session.

[kitacco]

teenage talk.

pairing: gn!reader, nanami kento.

genre: angst.

summary: a silly game and abrupt thoughts.

cw: angst, suggestive (implied), age gap.

wordcount: 3.2k.

! part two. !

when you’re twenty, you’re eager to turn any circumstance into adventures. still young, yet oblivious of the real world, you and your friends’ only wishes were to party and play.

you weren’t as wild as your friends. but after leaving your parent’s house for college, and upon meeting your friends, you had decided to let go of anything holding you back. growing up with quite strict parents, constantly watching over you, you had grown into a reserved, introvert teenager. if somebody were to ask you, till this day you didn’t know how you ended up joining this group of crazy adolescents, but you were. and it was the most fun you’d ever had.

your friends were bold, completely shameless of their desires and goals. it was no surprise that the four of them were in that age where everything unattainable looked fun, and that’s how you found yourself sitting around a table in a pretty glamorous bar. the five of you knew exactly what you were doing on that bar that night.

“you think one of us would be able to pull an old guy?” all your friends’ eyes pop open, eyeing your friend sitting right behind you. you only open your mouth, taken aback, as she giggles. “i mean, of course not some grey haired man, no, i mean, some guy in his thirties probably? you know, those ones that seem to know just enough about life, and with money and experience.”

“you mean, a good in bed guy, that could may or may not be married?”

“if that’s your type, i’m not judging you,” the table laughs, but the idea doesn’t seem to entertain you as much as it does to them.

were you scared of the idea of a guy ten years older than you? absolutely. but not only that, you were also scared of the fact you did find it thrilling at some extent.

“should we try? whoever does it first gets free dinner for a month.”

and with that ridiculous reward, you find yourself seated by the staircase, casually looking at the business men and women sharing a few drinks.

you’re alone, just like the rest of your friends, each one of them around the place, trying to find that man.

you’re not trying, of course you’re not. you’re waiting, impatiently, for one of them to go complete the mission so the rest of you can go home and simply laugh about it tomorrow as an anecdote.

you never participated in these kinds of quests, at least not actively. compared to your friends, you weren’t really that intriguing, opting to always stay on the low (not like anybody would take a chance with you either). yet, that night, all your friends are watching when a tall, blonde man approaches your much smaller figure.

he’s quick to pull out a cigarette, and your heart slows its rapid beating. it probably wasn’t a good idea to walk out to the balcony of the bar, yet there you were, and that man, the only two standing by the rails and watching the people down the bar. you don’t realize you’re eyeing him until he extends a cigarette right in front of your eyes.

“no, thank you, i don’t smoke.”

you’re sure your face has turned red. why’d you tell him you didn’t smoke? with a simple no, thank you, he would’ve taken the hint.

he doesn’t seem to mind it, though, simply chuckling as he puffs the smoke.

“aren’t you too young to be here?”

you frown, turning to face him. his back is pressed against the rail, and you’re suddenly aware of the warm exceeding from his body.

“i’m twenty,” you answer, glancing at him.

he brings a hand up, shoulders raising too.

“my bad, you seem quite young.”

“aren’t you too old to be talking to young girls, then?”

“i’m twenty-seven.”

it’s three years less, you think, and the thought calms your nerves.

“so,” he starts again. “what brings such a young girl to a bar filled with old working people?”

“for some fun, i guess.”

“oh, some fun?” he searches for your eyes, but by the time the words leave your mouth, you realize what you said. “what kind of fun?”

you hesitate. would telling him the truth be a good idea? maybe. he’ll think you’re just a silly teenager and eventually he will leave, by that time one of your friends will have found the man they’re looking for and all of you will be walking back to your apartment. it was the perfect scenario.

“my friends want to see if they can get with a business man,” you mutter, and the man’s shoulders shake, laughing quietly.

you weren’t expecting it to sound that childish, but now that he laughed, you realized how immature the game was.

“you wanna get with a business man too?”

he’s looking straight at you, the cigarette long forgotten, and so is any hint of sense within you.

you can feel your friend’s eyes on you as you walk out of the bar, following the blonde man.

he assures you he didn’t have any drinks, and opens the door of his very luxurious car, driving to his place in silence.

he’s quick, and with adrenaline pumping through you, you find yourself gasping for air, tangled between grey silk sheets on a massive bed.

when you wake up, he’s not beside you.

you don’t know the time either, as you take a peak around the room and looking for your clothes and phone you had hoped were on the floor. the light coming through the thin curtains is enough for you to know is at least past eleven in the morning, and the loud noise of keys crashing against what you’d guess was ceramic and heels against the marble floor you remember from last night, the blonde man appears through the door.

wearing a grey suit, his hair no longer messy like the last time you had seen him in the middle of the night, dress shoes and your clothes in hands. he approaches you slowly, the heels of his shoes echoing. the noise of the street barely audible, yet still present. 

“good morning, had a good night?”

you smile, rolling your eyes. “sort of,” you respond.

he hums, placing the clothes on the bed right beside you. 

“i washed your clothes, and found your phone, it was at least forty missed calls.”

it takes a while, but after his comment, you realize what exactly you’ve done. there was no way out of the expecting looks you’ll get from your friends once you get home, that it almost, almost, makes you wish you could stay there for a little longer.

“thank you,” you answer finally, taking the phone in your hands.

you’re quick to dress up, at this point not really minding the possibility of him staring. you had already showered - he had helped you right before sleep. the man observes you, quietly, as if there was something he was waiting to say, or for you to say, you weren’t sure.

“so, you won the bet.”

“it wasn’t a bet, told ya’,” you mutter, glancing at him. he lifts his hands, smiling. “just a quest.”

“and what were the rewards’”

“free dinner for a month,” now that you hear yourself, all this trouble really was not worth the reward. but you already did it, and to be honest, you did not regret it a single bit. you only wished he didn’t either.

“i could invite you dinner, if you’d like.”

you chuckle, perplexed at his invitation, “sounds good to me.”

it’s silent for a while, maybe two or five minutes where you look at each other. it’s not like he’s intending to do something, nor are you. he doesn’t have anything to say, you don’t either. but, it feels nice. sharing a moment with him felt nice.

it was rushed, you knew it. this man was your first encounter with a real man. you hadn’t even dated guys while in university, your last boyfriend was back when you were 12 or something. you blamed it in the lack of experience, the desire to feel loved, or appreciated. it didn’t matter, for now, all that was in your mind was him.

“i’ll drive you home, is that okay?”

you nod, unable to form a sentence as he stands tall again, walking out of the door.

it’s no surprise, and as you expected, your friends were pressed against the big window of the principal room in the apartment. you had to admit you were at fault; after sending a text through the groupchat assuring them you were alive, you also added he was driving you home. you ignored their replies, having to turn your notifications off as your phone vibrated against your lap, the man eyeing it with humor on his face, probably guessing something was up involving your friends you talked so much about.

“here it is,” you inform, the car sofly coming to a stop. he’s quick to notice the girls that are quick to hide behind the curtains.

he laughs, “they sure are eager, aren’t they?”

“yeah, they’re probably shocked.”

“shocked, why?”

“i’m not really good with these things, normally,” you say, your voice turning small as he eyes you, tilting his head as he expects you to explain why you think that way.

“then, make sure you tell them all the details.”

your face heats up, pushing yourself out of the car. he watches you, quick to grab your bag and keys. “i can’t make any promises.”

as the both of you had concluded, your friends wasted not time sitting you on the couch and making you all kind of questions till the night approached. because of this, your phone was left by your bed, silently lighting up as the man had texted you around six, asking how things were going.

“who would’ve thought,” one of your friends exclaimed, leaning against the couch by your side.

“to be honest, i saw the guy approach you, and then talk to you, but i thought you’d turn him down.”

you chuckle. honestly, you couldn’t remember why you decided to entertain the conversation and followed him into his car. it’s not like you were complaining, that had been the best decision you’d made in a while. 

finally, you managed to convince the girls that you’re tired, excusing yourself from the interrogation. as much details as the man had asked you to tell, you couldn’t bring yourself to tell them exactly everything that you’d done, the embarrassment and memories taking a while to hit you, but once they did, you realized it was something you didn’t want to have a conversation about; they really didn’t need to know.

once in your room, you heard the footsteps of your friends following right behind, each one of them going to their rooms. picking up your phone, and blinded by the brightness of the screen, you saw the time, and the text awaiting you.

‘how about tomorrow’s night?’

your fingers typed fast and right after, you buried your phone under your pillow. 

the following day, already afternoon, you quietly got ready. you didn’t tell your friends you exchanged numbers, nor that he’d invited you for dinner, simply telling them you were going to a get together with your classmates. it’s not like that was a lie, to some extent, they were aware you attended those kind of events with your university and extracurriculars, therefore, they didn’t question it.

after reaching the lobby of your building, you could recognize the white car parked right outside.

“missed me much?” it’s the first thing you say as you climb inside the car, smiling.

“you caught me.”

the ride is silent, like the moments you two had shared. it’s not uncomfortable, it’s not nerve-wrecking nor unbearable, it’s like the both of you enjoyed the silence shared. the radio’s playing lowly, and in no time, he parks outside a rather striking restaurant you’d never even heard about. you guessed men like him had a little more experience when it came to these kind of places.

the restaurant wasn’t full, neither empty. low, sombre lights decorated the spacious place, and a quiet, sublime sound of chords accompanied the atmosphere. 

“reservation for nanami kento.”

you turn to watch him again, a little dumbfounded. that’s the first time you’ve heard his name.

following the waitress that walked you both over your table, seated by the grand windows that surrounded the restaurant, and with less light than the rest of the place, you took your seat in front of him.

“it’s the first time i heard your name.”

“oh, really?” he seems to be genuinely astounded. “i am sorry, i forgot to tell you my name.”

“how’d you forget something as important?” you laugh, taking a sip of your water.

“got my head over the moon, i guess.”

you observe him. you don’t try to understand what he says, and he doesn’t explain either, continuing with some small talk about your life.

the night goes by fast, faster than you’d wished, and to no surprise, you’re once again tangled between silk sheets, this time, both your hands wrapped around his arm, snuzzling to his warmth. the situation repeats itself at least three times a week for a month. your friends don’t ask you, and you don’t tell them either. only keeping it a secret between nanami and you.

you’re not surprised, you enjoy his company, and wish he does enjoy yours as well. you guess he does, since every friday night he’s phoning you, telling you he’s picking you up in twenty minutes, to which you’re always anticipating. awaiting the moment you get to wrap your arms around his neck and let him take over your body. not only that, after a month following the dynamic, he invites you out during the day as well, always buying you gifts or walking with you around gardens. when he embraces you, taking your lips without a sound but your breathing and beating of your heart against your chest, you smile, and let yourself fall.

stupidly, you have to add.

fall stupidly fast.

things don’t always go well, and you’re aware of that. relationships were hard enough, and whatever you two shared, was more complicated. wearing one of his shirts and with a hairband keeping the hair away from your face, you sit on the couch, thrown off by the look nanami is giving you.

“you would’ve wanted me to be married?”

“i didn’t say that,” you chuckle, but there’s no humor behind it, just complete confusion by the change of his tone. “i was just asking.”

“that’s messed up,” he mutters after a while, turning back to the movie you both were currently watching. 

it was late in the night, and after the both of you had your fun, you asked him if he’d want to watch a movie with you. you were starting a new semester the following week, so there was a possibility you wouldn’t be able to each other as often as you were currently. he complied, like he always did, but then, you got a little bored of the movie, and decided to let the night cloud your thoughts and get more personal with him. 

the question was absolutely innocent. he should’ve known. you simply admitted you were curious to know if he was married in the middle of that first night, driving on his car back to his place. it’s not like you were hoping for him to be having an affair with you; if that were the case you would’ve taken a step back and turned away. that’s why, once you got to his place, and confirmed he was single, you followed him. as simple as that.

nanami wasn’t drunk, maybe a little tipsy from the wine you were sharing, but not drunk. still, the question took him off guard, and the thought of you attempting to look for a married man made his blood boil a little.

“i bet your friends wanted you to fuck some married men,” he said in a whisper, but you heard him clearly.

“what? why’d you get angry all of a sudden?”

“why’d you say that then?” he stands tall, walking off to the kitchen.

you follow him though, confused as to why he was reacting that way. “i just thought we were sharing a little more about each other!”

“yeah, and you just admitted you wanted to ruin a marriage.”

“what? i never said that! why are you overreacting?”

“why are you so childish?” 

the proximity of his face to yours makes you stumble back, frowning. for the first time, he seems to be genuinely angry, but you’re unable to understand the cause. still, his comment doesn’t go over your head. “i’m childish?”

he continues his way to the counter, grabbing the glass of wine he’d left behind. he doesn’t respond nor looks at you, his shoulders dropping.

“answer me.”

“you want me to answer that? you literally slept with a random men for a kid’s game, isn’t that enough for an answer?”

“no, say it again,” you insist, heavy steps drawing near him. “say it to my face.”

you think he won’t say it, you expect him not to. you’re waiting for him to snap out of it and realize he’s making a big fuss out of a misunderstanding he’s brought upon you two. of course you’re waiting for him to apologize for it, that’s the reason why you like him, because he was mature, considered, he wasn’t like guys from your classes or from high school, no, he was better. in your eyes, he was better.

“you’re childish.”

there it is.

no, you weren’t expecting it. and there’s no doubt, as your hand collides with his cheek, you’re only confirming his thought. you don’t care, in that moment, you can only think of the fact you’d thrown yourself to a man that sees you as nothing but a teenager.

“yeah, you’re right,” you mutter. “i was childish to think you were more than a one night stand.”

pulling the shirt over your head and slipping inside your jeans, you grab your phone and lash out of his apartment. he doesn’t follow you, he doesn’t call your name, and you don’t look back for one last word; like you came in, you rush out.

your friends are quick to engulf you in a tight hug, whispering to your hair and telling you he wasn’t worth your tears. you don’t cry because of him, though.

doesn’t take you long to get over it, wondering what was exactly you were crying for. quietly seated by the window as your friends bid you goodnight. you’re left contemplating the lights outside, the same lights you’d contemplate by his window.

you guess that’s what being a teenager is all about.

heartbreaks, misunderstandings, one night stands, mistakes, regrets, isn’t that you’d longed for so long? he was right after all, wasn’t it foolish to believe you’d manage to stay any longer by his side? 

so, as another week ends, you find yourself leaning onto the same rails as a month ago. wearing the exact same outfit, you look around. it doesn’t take long, and like nanami did, a tall man approaches you.

and the cycle starts again.

[hopetofantasy]

Translated interview with Willem De Schryver

Also on my website: Behind wtFOCK - link in comments

The young stars of Streamz series 'Déjà-vu': 'You learn more on the internet than at school'

‘Déjà-vu’ is the name of the latest Flemish fiction series that’s rolling off the production line of ‘Streamz’. In addition to the traditional list of actors' names, Xenia Borremans (21) and Willem De Schryver (19) are featured as fresh blood in the credits. Two newcomers who shamelessly rival the established values.

Calling Willem De Schryver a newcomer is really failing the truth. He has more than 50,000 followers on Instagram and cannot cross the Ghent Korenmarkt without posing for a selfie. It’s the fault of ‘wtFOCK’, a youth series that mainly takes place online and is extremely popular with all those who saw the light of day after 2000. The chance that you’ve seen Xenia Borremans in action, is much smaller. Her only claim to fame for time being, is the horror short ‘De vijver’. And ofcourse, there’s her family name. Xenia is the only daughter of artist Michaël Borremans, but really wants to make a name for herself now.

How did you get into acting? Borremans: “Ever since I was a child, I wanted to act. There are piles of videos at home in which I try to recreate scenes from old films like ‘Some Like it Hot’. I also acted for ten years at ‘Kopergietery’ (children's theater company in Ghent). Acting was a dream, but I didn't dare to hope for that too much. There was always that little voice in the back of my mind that said, "You don’t only need talent but a lot of luck to make it." That was evident when I started to participate in castings. I often cried when I didn’t get a role.

I didn't dare to hope too much for ‘Déjà-vu’ either. Actually, I had no intention of auditioning at all. For fear of being rejected again. In the end, it’s my mom who pushed me to try. When they called me to say I had the part, it came as a complete surprise.”

De Schryver: “I can recognize myself in that story. I too was always performing plays at home. I did ‘Diction’ on Wednesday afternoons, but that wasn’t more than a hobby. When I no longer felt at home at school in secondary school, I took the step to go to the ‘Lemmensinstuut’ in Leuven. That was a revelation. Suddenly, I was allowed to be involved in theater day in, day out. I was happy to get up in the morning, when before, I often came home crying because I really didn't want to go to school anymore. It was obvious that after secondary school I would take the step to theater education at the ‘KASK’.” Borremans: “I also took the entrance exam at the ‘KASK’, but I wasn’t admitted. Maybe I'll try again next year. But maybe not. I’m not convinced that such an education is necessary. There are plenty of examples of actors and actresses who also made it without a diploma.” De Schryver: “In the classes I’m taking now, there isn’t only attention for acting, but also for making plays. I get building blocks to get started in the future. But, just like Xenia, I’m convinced that it can also be done without it.”

In ‘Déjà-vu’ you play the ideal son and the rebellious adolescent daughter, respectively. How deep did you have to dig for that role? De Schryver: “The role of Max is pretty close to my own personality, so that wasn’t too bad. I only had to practice playing hockey. (laughs) Although as far as I’m concerned, a role does not necessarily have to be written for me. For example, in ‘wtFOCK’ I play a bipolar, gay boy. That’s difficult and I had to do a lot of research for it. But when - like recently - you’re approached on the street by a boy who tells me that through my role he had learned to live with his own bipolarity, then the satisfaction is all the greater. ” Borremans: “I recognized myself super hard in Louise's character. I have done quite a lot of rebellion in my puberty years and just like Louise - who has a mother who makes a living as a radio host - I can be bothered too by the fact that one of my parents is famous.”

In what sense? Borremans: “I’m very proud of my dad, that's not the point. We have a very good relationship. He's my best friend. For real. But my family name isn’t always a gift. Many times in the past people have tried to contact me with the sole intention of getting closer to him. Even people I thought were friends, turned out to be solely interested in me because they were fans of my father's work. I also noticed that some teachers marked my grades more strictly just because I was ‘the daughter of’.” Did that influence you to choose acting and not, for example, drawing? Borremans: “I did drawing. In ‘Sint-Lucas’, just like my father. He did push me a bit in that direction. But I stopped when all the lessons suddenly had to be online due to corona. Dad thinks it's important to get a diploma. I attach less importance to that. I prefer to figure things out on my own. If you have the discipline to do self-study, then that’s in my opinion as valuable as any education. I’ve already learned a lot more on the internet than in school. My mom is part of that story, daddy still has some work to do in that aspect.”

You both had a supporting role on the set of ‘Déjà-vu’. How much pressure did it cause? De Schryver: “I did lie awake at night. Although it had a lot to do with the beginning of the shooting period, when I overslept. I cried when I arrived on the set. Such a gigantic production and it gets delayed, because a rookie like me, is late. In the end we hardly lost any time, but the nights after, I was wide awake in my bed waiting for the alarm to go off.” Borremans: “Willem arrived on the set, crying, but was professional enough to put himself in the shoes of Max a few minutes later. Pretty impressive.” De Schryver: “There really was no time to lose. The makeup artist just had about enough time to get rid of my red eyes, but that was it.” Borremans: “I’ve experienced something similar. During the shooting period, I met with a friend who turned out to have corona. Panic, of course. In the end, the shooting stopped for a week as a precaution. There were some tears then. You have a first major role and then something like that happens. Fortunately, it was handled very well on the set. Everyone came to tell me that it could’ve happened to them too.”

The corona crisis has been defining our lives for over a year now. How do you deal with this? De Schryver: “The first weeks, I didn't mind the lockdown. It gave me a chance to catch my breath. By the way, I still don't miss going out that much. Although that also has to do with ‘wtFOCK’. That show has a very fanatic fan base. And you notice. In any case, going out to a bar with friends was no longer possible without being approached or posing for selfies. When people have been drinking, a number of inhibitions also disappear. As soon as they recognize you, they’ll immediately hang onto you. It made me prefer to stay in the room even before the lockdown.” Borremans: “I’m now 21 years old. This may sound strange, but I’m kinda done with nightlife. Of course, I also want to be able to go out again and see people, but I notice that it’s more difficult for those who are younger. I get bored sometimes. But that also has its positive sides. It makes you do creative things. For example, I started to design and make clothes. Without the lockdown, that would’ve never occurred to me. I never read books either, now I do. Although, I would like for it to gradually return to normal. " De Schryver: “I mainly suffer from touch starvation. Actually hug people. I really miss that. But just like Xenia, I also think this is an interesting period. It makes you think. About yourself, about where you want to go in life.”

The Covid crisis also makes painfully clear how vulnerable creative professions are. Did that change your plans for the future? Borremans: “I was already looking for a plan B before this whole situation. Acting is and remains the big dream. But there are no guarantees. I’ll continue to go for it anyway, but I realize that I cannot assume that I’ll succeed in making acting my livelihood.” De Schryver: “We shouldn't be shy about that: the acting world is a tough world with a lot of competition. It’ll not be easy to make it and I know that there are still difficult moments to come. But I do not intend to suddenly follow other classes just to have something as a back-up. The corona crisis has made me realize even more how important acting is to me. I could never completely push it aside. This’s what I was made for. I just feel that.” Déjà-vu can be seen on Streamz. The series will be released on Play4 later this year.

[featherymalignancy]

CHAPTER TWO—In Vino Veritas: A Nessian Story

“In wine lies the truth”

Summary: Nesta Archeron is convinced she has everything she wants: a law degree from an ivy, a prestigious job, a gorgeous boyfriend, and excellent taste in wine. However, when she wanders into her local wine vendor and meets a handsome stranger unafraid to play her quick-witted games, she begins to wonder if the life she’s built is really the one she wants.

Cash Kahukore worked his entire adolescent life to become a sommelier, ignoring the slurs his mixed heritage have always earned him as he fought his way to the top. However, after five years abroad buying for Michelin star restaurants and dealing with rich white assholes, he’s grown bored with his life. When a gorgeous lawyer comes in to his uncle’s shop one afternoon, he immediately recognizes a worthy opponent in her. Undaunted by her sharp tongue and possessive boyfriend, he’s determined to be her friend, and—as time goes on and their circumstances change—possibly something more.

This a prequel to Navy Suits and Chelsea Boots that takes place three years before. If you love Elriel (and don’t mind finding out how this story ends) check it now.

And if you missed anything, check out the In Vino Veritas masterlist here!

Chapter Two: Ornellaia

A dinner party, Nesta repeated her herself as she drove. She’d had a dinner party. And it was true: she had had a dinner party. It wasn’t her fault that her friends had drank through half a case of the Cheval in a single evening. 

And it wasn’t as if she’d thrown the party just so she could have an excuse see Cassian again. It was just a coincidence. A...consequence of the dinner party. He couldn’t question her being back so soon when she had an explanation as logical as a dinner party.

Yes, this wasn’t about Cassian, she promised herself as she parked her car. This was about the dinner party. 

This in mind, Nesta only stole a quick glance in the mirror to make sure she didn’t look too harried before stepping out of the car. People had dinner parties all the time, she reminded herself as she strode to the door and threw it open. There was nothing strange about friends drinking wine at a dinner party.

She took a deep breath and stepped inside the Merchant of Vino to the tell-tale chime, her face smoothed of any telling emotion. A dinner party, she repeated to herself. A normal, boring dinner party.

Cash grinned when he saw her, and she straightened, adjusting the bag on her arm.

“There she is,” he said, straightening from where he’d been leaning over the bar organizing open bottles in the well. “Back so soon?”

“I had a dinner party,” she said breezily. “And my friends are big drinkers.”

He raised his eyebrows, and she tried to ignore how good he looked with his with his hair half-up and half-down. It was longer than she’d first thought, nearly brushing the collar of his T-shirt, and good lord did it suit him. 

He smirked and made to comment, either on her dinner party or her assessment of him, but she sidestepped any further questions by looking him up and down and offering, “didn’t have you pegged as a guy who wore joggers.”

She gestured to the fitted track pants he wore, and he laughed. 

“A consequence of too much time in England, I’m afraid,” he said, returning to his task. “You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become a chav.”

She bit back her assurance that they looked good on him, not wanting to muddy the waters. 

Still, she couldn’t help going a bit slack-jawed as he continued organizing. The way the dark cotton hugged his toned backside was one shade of grey off from being downright indecent, and God forgive her, Nesta was here for it. 

She glanced away as he straightened, pretending to be studying the new banquet table that now adorned the space. 

“This is beautiful,” she said, trailing around it to get a better look. When she noticed the elegant M insignia branded into one corner she turned, incredulous. 

“Is this a Macar?”

Given her love of beautiful and expensive things, Nesta made it her business to stay current on the hottest trends in food, fashion, and design, and right now, there was no one more adored in the design world than Azriel Macar. 

He owned a studio out of LA, and despite being under thirty, he was already the darling of the taste-making elite. He’d been compared to icons like Ray Eames and Mies Van der Rohe, and a Vanity Fair article Nesta’d recently read had hailed him “The Future of Furniture.” 

He was also—like any good icon—seemingly spotlight-adverse, and given how young and handsome he was, his elusiveness only seemed to add to his cache. Still, whether his talent or his brooding charm, his designs were white-hot, and owning an original had grown virtually impossible.

Cash looked up, smiling. 

“You have a good eye.”

“Where did you get this?” Nesta said, still admiring the way the table’s grain flowed in elegant patterns across its surface. “The last I heard, the waitlist for a piece was two years long, and even then it was only celebrities and hedgefund managers.”

Cash turned and smirked. 

“I have my ways.”

Nesta pursed her lips, and he laughed. 

“Az and I—go way back. He made me that special so I can finally start hosting tasting in here. I love Dev, but he wouldn’t know a good business opportunity if it slapped him on the ass and rode him to Hong Kong.”

Nesta was too surprised too laugh.

“You’re friends with Azriel Macar? Curiouser and curiouser.”

Cash laughed. 

“Don’t feed the legend, please. The last thing this world needs is Az with an ego. And I wouldn’t say friends, exactly. More like brothers. We’ve known each other forever.” Cash huffed another laugh. “Hell, I’ve known him since he was still Azriel Machlan.”

As soon as he said it, he winced.

“Fuck, please don’t repeat that. Az would be devastated if it got out.”

Nesta was dying to ask more questions, but hearing the slight desperation in his voice, she decided not to push. Instead she nodded and locked her lips, moving from the table to study a map of the Napa valley on the wall.

She could feel his gaze as he studied her in profile, and she couldn’t decide if she wanted to snap at him or bask a little longer under its warmth. 

After a beat she turned to face him, expecting him to look away. Men, she found, were generally adverse to maintaining direct eye contact with her. It’s their color, a male colleague had once explained. I swear, one look from you is cold enough to freeze my balls off.

Cash, however, didn’t blink. Feeling off-kilter, Nesta pursed her lips, though she refused to break contact.

“What?” She demanded. “Why are you staring at me?”

“Technically you’re also staring at me,” he said, and she could see his grin in the way his eyes crinkled. “Not that I blame you.”

Nesta rolled her eyes, finally breaking the connection.

“You’re insufferable.”

He chuckled.

“I’ve been called worse. I was just about to open a bottle from Tuscany one of my reps dropped off. Can I tempt you?”

His tone was light, but he couldn’t quite disguise the heat in his gaze as he glanced at her again. However, it faded just as quickly, and Nesta found herself wondering if she’d imagined it. 

“I told you I’m not a fan of the Old World stuff,” she said, even as she took a seat.

“I thought we’d gotten past that with the Cheval! You were in love and we both know it.”

He grinned, and she had to savagely fend off a flush. 

“Stopped watch is still right twice a day,” she sniffed. 

He gave a velvety laugh born low in his throat.

“You’re never going to make it easy, are you, Archeron?”

“Not my style.”

He bit his lip and grinned before pulling the band from his hair and re-tying it up and away from his face.

“Fine. Get your pencil out, then. I’m taking you to school.”

She rolled her eyes to keep from smiling. 

“Don’t hold your breath.”

He laughed, leaning over the counter slightly. She could smell the crisp scent of sage from the soap he used, and she tried to ignore how nice it was. 

“That’s rich, coming from the woman practically climaxed from one sip of a French red.”

She should be annoyed—insulted, even—but she found she couldn’t fend off a smile this time. He grinned at seeing her reaction, raising his brows.

“Looks like I know more about women than you thought.”

“Shut up and pour the damn wine.”

“Hang on,” he said, grabbing the bottle that had been sitting on counter and heading towards the back. 

“Where are you going?”

He smirked over his shoulder. 

“To get the big guns. I know what it takes to impress you.”

He reappeared with a different bottle, presenting it to her as if they were in a fine-dining restaurant. 

“2015 Ornellaia Bordeaux from Tuscany. This stuff is always amazing, but 2015 was the perfect harvest year. The fruit and balsamic notes come through with such clarity, and it’s incredibly silky on the tongue.”

He paused to glance up at her, expression slightly wicked. She rolled her eyes. 

“You know your tawdry innuendos are wasted on me.”

He laughed. 

“Sorry, force of habit. You ready?”

He pulled a wine key inlaid with turquoise from his back pocket and removed the cork in four elegant twists. 

“Show off,” she said, and he grinned. 

“Admit it, you’re impressed.”

“Maybe a little.”

“And slightly turned on?”

Something bright and effervescent bubbled in her stomach as he grinned at her. However, when she thought of Tomás would say if he could see her right now, the feeling curdled.

“You know I’m not afraid to slap you,” she said, finding with surprise she didn’t want to ruin the moment even though I knew she should be reestablishing  firm boundaries. 

“Don’t tempt me with a good time. Okay, in a perfect world we’d let this breathe a little more, but I’m going to assume you don’t have two hours to spare.”

He poured her a measure, and she held it up to admire the color before taking a sip. It was tannic and slightly sharp on the front end, but the mineral flavor quickly gave way to rich fruit and—just as he’d said—an incredibly smooth finish.

“That’s—“ she broke off, laughing as she admired her glass. “You really are good at this.”

He raised his eyebrows with a smirk.

“It’s almost like it’s my job.”

He took a sip and let his eyes flutter shut as he held it on his tongue, and it was beautiful in the way only pure enjoyment could be.

“In England, you were a somm?”

He nodded. 

“London.”

“Why did you leave?”

“When you love something, doing it for a living gets...tricky. I liked being able to teach people about wine, but there’s only so much rich douchbaggery a person can endure before the damage to their psyche is irreversible. Basically it was come back or turn into a douchebag myself.”

She gave an obliging nod.

“Seems prudent.”

“What about you?” he said, studying her with scrutiny. “I’m going to guess...lawyer.”

She rolled her eyes. 

“Don’t pretend you just pulled that out of thin air.”

He laughed.

“How else would I have known?”

Her heart thumped in her chest as she debated calling his bluff. If she was wrong, she’d look foolish, which is obviously hated doing. And if she was right...

“Maybe you asked your uncle about me. He knows I’m an attorney.”

Cash considered this before taking another thoughtful sip. 

“Would you be angry if I had?”

“Depends on what you wanted to know.”

He shrugged. 

“Nothing I hope you wouldn’t tell me yourself. Unless being a lawyer is a CIA cover, and you don’t like people looking too closely?”

She laughed. She wasn’t sure what to make of his admission or—more importantly—what she wanted it to mean.

“No intrigue, I’m afraid. I’m just a boring lawyer.”

He shrugged again, but he was smiling now, much of the tension melting from his shoulders.

“That’s exactly what a spy would say. And you did threaten to disembowel me with your shoe...be honest, am I on the right track?”

She leaned forward, dropping her voice. 

“Stop asking questions that could get you killed.”

He laughed. A big, genuine laugh that warmed her from the inside out. She’d often be called smart, or sharp-tongued, or witty, but no one had ever thought to tell her she was funny. No one but her sisters, and even then she worried they were just trying to make her feel better. Cash though—he didn’t know her. He had no reason to pretend. She knew it was girlish and naive to be charmed by that, but she found she couldn’t quite help it.

“Alright,” he said. “Enough messing around. Admit you love this wine so I can start my gloating.”

“I never said I loved it,” she said, taking another prim sip. 

Cash gave a look of theatrical dismay.

“You hate it. Fuck, I knew it. I’m so sorry, let me just—“

He reached for her glass as if to pour it out, and she quickly snatched it out of his reach.

“I never said I didn’t!” She clarified, batting his hand away.

“Such a lawyer’s response. C’mon, Archeron, don’t be stingy!”

“Fine,” she said, giving an imperious sniff. “I...like it.”

Cash grinned, leaning forward again. 

“Now admit you like me.”

She opened her mouth to choke out a retort before her phone began ringing. 

It was Tomás. 

She glanced at the glass Cash was refilling for her and debated letting it go to voicemail. She knew she couldn’t, though; it would just lead to more trouble. 

Flashing Cash an apologetic look, she picked it up.

“Carinho,” she said, flipping into Portuguese to avoid Cash’s overhearing. “How was your day?”

“Where are you, my love?” Tomás said. “I just got home and you’re not here.”

“I had to stay at work,” Nesta said, the lie slipping out before she could stop it. “I’m sorry.”

“You never mentioned that you’d be out late,” Tomas said, and Nesta could hear the annoyance in his voice. “I expected to see you when I got home. How much longer?”

Nesta glanced at her full glass and then at Cash, who’d gone about cleaning the worn bar top.

“An hour,” she said. 

“We agreed you’d stop doing this. Last night you were out with your sister until almost ten.”

She fought down a searing stab of frustration. It wasn’t often that Elain could get away to come see her, and Tomás always threw a fit when she went down to Palo Alto for more than a day. 

“I’ll be home as soon as I can,“ she said, gentling her tone. “I love you.”

“No later than eight, querida. I’m setting a timer.”

“I’ll see you then,” she said, ending the call before he could say anything more.

What was she doing? She knew what kind of mood Tomás would likely be in when she got home, and if he ever found out the truth, he would be livid. It was dangerous game, and one she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why she was still playing. 

Nesta put away her phone before looking up to find Cash watching her, eyes hard. 

“What?” She snapped, voice thinner than she would have liked. 

Cash’s frown softened, though his expression remained uncharacteristically grave.

“You don’t have to lie to him,” he said in a soft voice. “You aren’t doing anything wrong.”

Nesta felt her heart drop into her stomach.

 “You speak Portuguese.”

Cash frowned again as if deciding whether he wanted to press the issue. He eventually settled for shrugging.

“My mom was Brazilian. I was born in Forteleza and lived there until I was twelve.”

Nesta didn’t have to ask what had changed. She felt the familiar ache swelling in her chest, and she nodded, wishing she knew how to comfort him the way he’d comforted her. Instead she forged on. 

“Where did you go after that?”

“To live with my dad’s family in Hawai’i. He died before I was born, but my grandmother was there. I went to stay with her.”

“How long has your family lived there?”

He gave a puzzled frown. 

“What do you mean?”

Nesta felt her tongue fizzing the way it often did before she said something she terrible before she blurted, “Aren’t you Māori? I would have thought you family would have been in New Zealand.”

He gave a humorless laugh and crossed his arms. “Am I supposed to be charmed by the fact you know there’s a difference? Forgive me, I left your ‘Woke White Woman’ trophy at home.”

“I didn’t—“ she broke off, glancing down before looking back at him. “I’m sorry if that was insensitive. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

He considered this, expression still wary. 

“I’m not to give you a pat on the back for every brown-person cultural detail you manage to force into the conversation just so you can feel better about your white guilt.”

“I’m not asking you to,” she said. “But I am sorry. I—won’t do it again.”

“I won’t hold my breath on that,” he said. 

When he looked away, she dared to brush his forearm with the very tips of her fingers. 

“Cash, I’m sorry.”

His skin was warm and surprisingly soft, and she could feel the muscles beneath flex at her touch.

When he seemed to relax, she quickly let her hand drop.

“How did you even know?” He paused, narrowing his brows. “And if you mention either Jason Momoa or The Rock, I’m throwing you out.”

She opened her mouth to point out that neither of them was Māori before quickly shutting it, knowing it would only make things worse. She’d always had a pathological need to prove how much she knew, but after the rebuke she’d very fairly earned, she knew the conversation couldn’t withstand much more strain. 

“Your tattoos,” she said, fighting off the urge to tell him how beautiful they were. She didn’t think he’d be particularly charmed by that comment, either. 

He rolled his eyes at her response, though the tension seemed to have melted from his shoulders. 

“I’ll ignore the fetishistic implications of that, but only because I happen to enjoy the way you ogle me every time you think I’m not looking.” 

She made to object, but he was already forging ahead. 

“And to answer your question, yes, both my grandparents are from Waitomo. But my grandfather was a bad dude, so grandmother took her boys and moved to Hawai’i to get away from him. I know it killed her to leave, but she felt like she didn’t have her choice.”

He heaved a soft sigh.

“She made it work, though. She’s very proud of her culture, and she made sure we never forgot where we’d come from. Still,  she was always very respectful of my mother’s heritage as well. She insisted I keep up speaking Portuguese so I wouldn’t lose the language when I got older. I admit I don’t speak it very often anymore, but thanks to her, I’m still fluent.”

 “She sounds like an incredible woman,” Nesta said.

“She is,” Cash agreed, a grin forming as he paused. “Man, she would like you.”

Nesta flushed and looked away. She already felt guilty for lying to Tomás; she shouldn’t push it anymore than she already had. 

Cash seemed to note her unease because he leaned back, crossing his arms.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You said you had two sisters. What are they like?”

She considered this for a moment, and he laughed, shaking his head. 

“C’mon, Archeron. You owe me something after your little white knight routine.”

Nesta gave a begrudging nod and pulled out her phone to show him a recent picture.

“This is Elain. She’s my academic. Perfect score on her SAT and a full-ride to Stanford. She’s already looking at going to grad school at Yale. I swear, she’s going to change the face of scholarship one day.”

She paused to study the smile on Elain’s face in the photo before pointing to her youngest sister. 

“That’s Feyre. She’s my artist. She starting at Berkeley next month, and she’s definitely going to be famous; her work is incredible. She’s also my workhorse. I’ve never seen anyone put their shoulder to the wheel quite like she does. It’s so great to watch.”

She glanced up to find Cash studying her, all the contempt for her early indiscretion melted from his face. 

“Your folks died when you were young, then.”

Nesta shifted in her seat. “How did you know?”

“Because you talk about your sisters like they’re your kids.”

She glanced down into her glass before extending it for him to refill and beginning to speak. 

“I was sixteen when my parents died, but Ellie and Fey were still little; twelve and ten. My aunt and uncle were technically our legal guardians, but they were Sacramento. I didn’t want to uproot my sisters from their lives on top of everything else, so I convinced them I could handle it.”

She paused, watching the wine as it eddied in her glass. 

“The house was already paid off, and I had enough money from the life insurance payouts, so I just—made it work. I had loads of help from neighbors and family friends, and when it came time to go to college, I went to Stanford so I could still live at home with them. By the time I left for law school, Elain was in college herself, and Feyre was at art school in Boston, so I could still keep an eye on her.”

“Harvard.”

“Excuse me?”

Cash smiled. 

“I assume that was you way of making sure I knew you went to Harvard Law School.”

She curled her lip.

“I’d rather die.”

He laughed. 

“Yale, then.”

She shrugged, making him smile.

“I bet they idolize you.”

Nesta shrugged again.

“Elain, maybe. She was also the easy one. Feyre was a lot more headstrong. We mixed it up pretty hard when she was in high school. I got a call once that she’d been caught with weed in her dorm room, and I drove two hours up to Boston to yell at her in front of all her friends before I took her iPhone away. I think she hated me for a solid year after that.”

“How about now?”

Nesta smiled.

“Now we’re...good. She’s grown up a lot in the past two years, and she’s always been such a sweet, giving person. She’s still a little boy-crazier than I’d like, though.” She paused to give him an assessing look. “She would be all over a guy like you.”

Cash flashed a self-satisfied smirk, and she pursed her lips, pointing a finger in his direction. 

“Don’t even think about it.”

Cash snorted.

“High school seniors aren’t my type,” he said, eyes glittering as they flitted over her again.

She flushed, even as she wrestled the question of what his type actually was off her tongue. It was none of her business, and besides, she wasn’t sure she was ready to hear the answer.

“Still,” Cash said. “I bet we would get along. I was something of a renegade myself in my younger days.”

“I can only imagine. Though I don’t get the sense that your grandmother was one to suffer much bullshit from you.”

“She was not. One time in high school she caught me with a girl in my bed, and she dragged me buck-ass naked into the kitchen and lectured me for twenty minutes about respecting women and teenage parenthood. I had to just stand there with my junk in my hands while she screamed. I’m pretty sure everyone in the neighborhood heard her.”

Nesta couldn’t help it; she laughed. She laughed so hard that she had to set down her glass to keep from spilling on herself, and after a while Cash joined in.

“It wasn’t funny,” he said, still laughing. “I think she gave me a complex. I didn’t have sex again until I was like twenty!”

When she’s finally mastered herself, Nesta made to ask him for more stories before her phone started ringing again and her heart sank into her gut.

It was Tomás. Fuck, had it really been an hour already?

“I have to go,” she said hastily. “Thank you for the wine. It was excellent.”

“Take it with you,” he offered. 

She glanced down at the bottle then up at him, biting her lip.

“I can’t come home with that,” she admitted in a quiet voice, and his face tightened.

“Are you afraid of him?”

“Of course not,” she said automatically. “I just—he gets upset.”

Cash crossed his arms, and she was suddenly aware of how big he actually was. Normally that might have made her nervous, but with Cash... 

“What does he have to be upset about?” Cash demanded. “You’re allowed to have a life.”

“I have to go,” she said, ignoring his searing but plaintive expression. “I’ll—see you.”

“Nesta—“ Cash protested, but she was already hurrying to the door, redialing the phone and praying Tomás would be in an obliging mood when she got home. 

———————————————-

It had been three weeks since Nesta had come by the shop, and Cash was about ready to jump out of his skin. Honestly, it was getting sort of pathetic. He found himself perking up ever time the bell chimed, and getting quietly annoyed when he realized it wasn’t her.

He knew it was ridiculous for him to pine after a woman he barely knew, but he couldn’t help it. She was so damn smart, and her eyes, and that laugh—he’d gone weak-kneed when he’d first heard it, and now it was all he could think about. 

Fuck. Why did she have to a have a boyfriend, and why, on top of everything else, did he have to be a huge prick?

Cash groaned. He needed a drink. He was in the back room deliberating what he was in the mood for when the bell chimed, and he forced himself not to get excited. It was Saturday; so far as he could tell, Nesta only ever stopped by after work. However, his heart sped up when he glanced at the security monitor.

It was Nesta, wearing a trendy sweatshirt and a pair of yoga pants he swore might be the death of him. Goddamn did she have a gorgeous ass.  Hastily checking his reflection in one of the glass panels of the white cellar, he strolled into the front of the shop, smirking.

“Be honest,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Are you stalking me? 

Nesta pulled off her sunglasses and gave him a withering look, but there was no heat behind it.

“You wish,” she said, flicking her long braid over her shoulder. Cash tracked the gesture keenly, fascinated by the fluid grace in the way she moved.  

“Maybe I do,” he admitted. “Alright, what will it be today? I just got a Shiraz in from Brisbane yesterday that I think you’ll love.”

Truth be told, he’d ordered the Shiraz specifically to impress her. She didn’t need to know that, though.

“I’m actually looking for a German Riesling,” she said, setting down her bag and sitting on the new table. 

An image of fucking her on top of it flashed through his mind, and he cursed himself for being a swine before giving her a playful frown.

“Have you been body snatched?”

“Ha-ha,” she said, rolling her eyes.  “It’s not for me. My sister asked me to pick it up for her.”

Cash smirked, crossing his arms.

“A likely story.”

Nesta pulled out her phone and put it on speaker, and a second later a sweet, lilting voice spilled out.

“Hey Nes, it’s Ellie! Will you do me a huge favor? I’m meeting Gray’s parents for the first time tonight and I forgot to get his mom something. Can stop by that wine shop you always go to in North Beach and get me a bottle of nice Riesling? I promise to pay you back! Love youuuuu.”

“Who’s Gray?”

Nesta rolled her eyes.

“Graysen. He’s Elain’s idiotic boyfriend. Don’t even get me started.”

Cash was tempted to point out that Nesta wasn’t in any real position to be judging unworthy boyfriends, but he kept his mouth shut. He was too excited to see her to risk insulting her and having her leave.

“Fair enough. Alright, come to the back. I’ll see what we have.”

Nesta hesitated, glancing at the door marked “Employees Only”. 

“Devlon won’t mind?”

Cash laughed, warmed by her concern for shop protocol.

“Why would he? You’re not planning on robbing the place, are you?”

“I could be,” she said, sliding to her feet. “You don’t know.”

“I think I can take you if it comes to that.”

Nesta pursed her lips.

“Please. I could totally bring you to your knees if I wanted.”

Oh, that he didn’t doubt. In fact, he was in danger of her doing it right now. It had been one thing seeing her all dressed up for work; it was something else entirely to see her so casual. It felt—intimate, somehow, like he was getting a glimpse behind to curtain into who she was when no one else was looking. It was honestly intoxicating.

“I will take that under advisement,” he said, gesturing for her to go ahead of him.

She nodded and did as she was bid, her eyes widening when he took her into the back. 

“This is amazing,” she said. “I had no idea there was so much room back here!” She wandered in between crates and peered into cabinets, eyes alight with curiosity.

“Like you said,” he offered, trailing after her. “I’m full of secrets.”

She turned to flash him a little smirk over her shoulder, and he almost tripped over a crate. If he thought seeing her perched on the table was distracting, this was much, much worse. 

“This way,” he said, leading her to the chilled white cellar and holding open the glass door. 

She stepped inside and he followed behind her. The space was tighter than he’d ever realized, and she a lot shorter. He supposed he was used to seeing her in stilletos, or sitting down. In the Nike trainers she currently wore, she barely reached his shoulder. 

“Right,” he said, inching out from behind her to lean on the nearest case. He didn’t want to feel like he was towering over her. “First things first: let’s talk price point. If she’s a college student I’m going to assume she’s broke, so let’s start around twenty dollars. I wouldn’t say we can go much lower than that.”

Nesta smirked, folding her arms across her chest. 

“I’m thinking more like two hundred. Do you have anything in that range?”

Cash laughed. 

“I do, but maybe you should run that by your sister first. Or is this some sort of usury scheme where you put her on a payment plan and charge her fifteen percent interest?”

Nesta scoffed, studying her nails self-importantly.

“Graysen is completely average in all things but his dad’s money, but he’s still decided that makes him special. Unfortunately, Elain rarely allows me to dress him down on this score, so I take my shots where I can get them.”

She shrugged. 

“He’s expecting her to come with a twenty dollar bottle he can use it to mansplain what makes a real Riesling, so I’ll give her a two hundred dollar bottle instead. She’s a hero, he looks like an uneducated jackass in front of his own parents, and everyone wins.”

“Except Graysen,” Cash said, laughing.

Nesta flashed a tight smile. 

“Exactly. I can hardly think of a better use of my money.”

“Devious, but charming. Alright, I’ll play. Do you know what they’re serving for dinner?”

“No idea. I’ll call her.”

His heart thumped a little harder. She was obviously very protective of her sisters; it felt significant that she’d him in on their private affairs.

Elain answered on the second ring.

“Hi baby,” Nesta said, her voice gentler than Cash had ever heard it. “I’m at Merchant right now picking out a wine. Do you know what Graysen’s mom is serving for dinner?”

“I don’t know,” Elain said. “But Gray said that the usually drink the white before dinner. Does that help?”

Nesta glanced at Cash, and he nodded. 

“Is the younger guy working today?” Elain asked before Nesta could continue. “Claire went in there after the party because she loved that wine you had so much, and she said he’s insanely hot.”

Cash felt something warm pool in his low belly as Nesta grit her teeth, cheeks pinking.

“You’re on speaker, El.”

“Oh fuck!” Elain said, her voice still sing-song. “My bad. Tell him—“

“I have to go,” Nesta interrupted. “Text me when you’re close and I’ll meet you at the house.”

She hung up and made a great show of putting her phone back in her purse as Cash watched her, grinning.

“You told your sister I was hot?”

Her gaze snapped to him, eyes blazing. They were the most gorgeous artic blue, and he wanted to tip into them until her drowned. 

“Our friend Claire Beddor told my sister you were hot,” Nesta corrected archly. 

Her tone was sharp, but somehow he could tell it wasn’t directed at him. He didn’t dare hope it was because she was jealous. 

“Reddish hair?” Cash asked. “Yeah, I remember her. She was sort of making me glad I was behind the counter. She kept giving me a look like she wanted to have her wicked way with me.”

Nesta tried to keep frowning, but he could see the smile she was wrestling off her face. 

“Crazy’s not my type either,” he said. “Just in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” she snapped, frowning again. “Who you choose to philander with is your own affair.”

He laughed to hide his disappointment. 

“Philander?” He pressed instead. “Is that what you think I do?”

All the playfulness had bled from her expression when she turned to him again. In fact, she looked almost sad. 

“I don’t care what you do, Cash,�� she said quietly. “It’s none of my business.”

He felt his heart sink, even though he didn’t know why. He knew she had a boyfriend. They might flirt, but at the end of the day it was clear she wanted nothing more from him than that. He needed to accept it and move on. 

“Can we just pick something?” She said, voice softer now. “I’m getting chilly.”

“Of course,” he said, clearing his throat. “Alright, a riesling worthy of humiliation. Let me see.”

He scanned the case before pulling out a bottle and showing her. 

“This is a great one out of Austria. ‘97 vintage aged in their casks then bottled in 2014, so it’s had time to develop. It is honestly a perfect sipping wine. It has—and this is a technical term—a fuckton of sugar in it, but there’s enough acidity that it’s gorgeous and refreshing instead of saccharine. I’m not really one for riesling, but if I was, this is what I’d choose to drink. I promise this will blow them away. If you like this type of wine, there is literally nothing bad you could say about the Vinothek.”

She gave an approving nod before opening her mouth. He cut her off with a laugh. 

“And yes, Nesta, it’s suitably expensive.”

She gave a begrudging laugh as well. 

“Fine, I’m sold.” 

He nodded, leading her back to the tasting room. 

“You want to try it and see what I’m talking about? I don’t have this exact thing open, but I have something similar.”

She wrinkled her nose. 

“No, thank you. I’ll just take your word for it.”

“Right,” he said, turning to the computer to hide is disappointment. He really didn’t want this be over, but he’d run out of excuses to keep her there. 

“But I will try that Shiraz you mentioned.”

He grinned, turning back to face her. 

“I knew it,” he said. “I’ve won you over.”

“Hardly,” she sniffed. “But I have a theory that you’re only good with Old World wines. I want to see if I’m right.”

“Oh ye of little faith. Aren’t you tired of me proving you wrong?”

“Not yet,” she admitted, and there was something sincere in her tone that tugged at him. 

“Very well. It’s good for my ego, anyway. This,” he said, opening with bottle with ease and pouring her a measure, “honestly flirts with perfection. It’s dark and mysterious without being too heavy, and how they’ve managed to cram so many flavors in there without having them compete still boggles my mind. If you thought you liked the stuff Far Niente makes, you are going to die over this. It’s like Nickel and Nickel’s hotter, smarter, more polished older sister.”

Nesta took a sip, and Cash swore her eyes rolled back in her head. It was so hot he had to look away for a second. Nesta clearly had an educated palette, and watching her enjoy a wine the way it was meant to be enjoyed was so sexy he could hardly stand it. 

“Fuck,” she breathed, eyes still closed. “That might be better than sex.”

Oh sweet Jesus. Of all the things he’d expected her to say, that was not it. He fought not to groan as his jeans got a little tighter. 

“Sorry,” she said immediately, eyes fluttering open. “I didn’t—that was inappropriate. I just—“ she cleared her throat and down into her glass. “Yes, that is incredible.”

He smirked, forcing himself not to say any of the things he was thinking. She was clearly embarrassed, and much as he was dying to push the issue, he didn’t want her to clam up, or worse, leave altogether.

“Pleased you like it, despite knowing that you obviously would.”

He grinned, and she rolled her eyes, some of her characteristic vitriol limning her features. 

“Are you this insufferable with all your customers, or is it just me?”

“Most of my customers don’t make a point of trying to undermine my talent, so I find I rarely have cause to use it except with you.”

She snorted, taking another sip. 

“Please. Men like you need women like me.”

He couldn’t hold back a laugh. 

“Okay, I’ll bite: why do men like me need women like you?”

She arched brow at him, lips curving up in one corner to form an imperious smirk. It made her look both seductive and sinister, like villainess from a Disney movie. He wasn’t sure what it said about his taste in women, but he found it was really sort of turning him on.

“Because an unchecked male ego is like a landslide; it gathers speed quickly and leaves a mess in its wake. The world doesn’t have time to waste clearing your boulder-sized bullshit from the path of progress.”

Cash grinned, leaning his forearms on the counter. 

“Doesn’t that mean women like you also need men like me? You can’t keep a tongue sharp if you don’t have something rough to sharpen it against.”

She considered, eyes glittering. She was so beautiful it was almost hard to look at her.

“Women like me don’t need anything.”

“Everyone needs something, Archeron.”

She considered, eyes skating across his face. 

“I have everything I want,” she said in a soft voice. 

He studied her rigid posture and tight expression before quietly asking, “You sure about that, sweetheart?”

She looked away, huffing. He knew he’d hit a nerve about her shitty boyfriend, and he couldn’t decide if he felt validated or guilty. 

“You’re incorrigible,” she deflected, twirling her glass between elegant fingers. 

“And you,” he said, forcing himself to smile again. “Are a very worthy sparring partner. It’s highly entertaining, if slightly terrifying.”

At this she seemed to relax a little, drumming her long nails on the counter.

“You’re—adequate as well.”

He rolled his eyes. 

“I suppose that’s the best I can expect from you, so I’ll take it. Thank you.”

“Don’t be needy,” she said. “It’s not a flattering shade on you.”

“Ah,” he said. “So you admit that arrogance suits me better! I knew I’d catch you in a contradiction sooner or later.”

“Maybe you should have been a lawyer,” she sniped, but she was smiling now. “You seem to love arguing.”

“I wouldn’t have the colhões to go up against someone like you in court.”

She laughed this time, and his heartrate picked up. If he could, he’d bottle the sound and sell it. It would him a make a fortune, it was so lovely. 

“Alright,” she said, sliding off her stool. “I should go so I can meet Elain. Do you have a case of that Shiraz?”

“I do,” he said. “But only if you promise you won’t serve it at your next dinner party.”

She smirked. 

“Afraid my friend Claire will come after you again?”

“Honestly, yes.”

She laughed again, a little harder this time, and he couldn’t help grinning. However, when he wondered if her boyfriend ever made her laugh like that, he found his joy dimming a little. 

“And no freebies this time,” she called as he trailed into the back. “I’m not above tattling in your to Devlon.”

He laughed as he returned, grudgingly accepting her card and ringing her up. 

It wasn’t that he thought she needed the charity—though he did always feel guilty when a customer had a total with a comma in it—so much as he hated admitting their relationship was transactional. 

When she wasn’t paying, it was easier to pretend they were just friends, and that she’d come for his company as much as the wine. It was a lot harder to do when she was handing him an American Express Black Card. 

She didn’t object as he carried the case out to her car, watching him without comment as he heaved it into her trunk. And sure, maybe he’d been flexing more than was absolutely necessary, but when she was looking at him like that, he couldn’t help it. 

“Thank you,” she said. “For being complicit in my scheme to ruin a nineteen-year-old’s evening.”

He laughed.

“Happy to help...I think.”

“You are,” she said confidently, putting the Riesling in the passenger seat. “You loved it.”

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Of course I did.”

She looked a little alarmed as she swung back to face him. 

“Cassian—“

“Take care of yourself, Nes,” he said, knowing he needed to leave before he said something he couldn’t take back. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Yes,” she said, regaining her composure and giving him a terse smile. “I’ll see you.”

He listened to the sound of the engine as she started the car and drove away, and he prayed it wouldn’t be another three weeks before he saw her again. 

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Mimi's Guide to Definitely Not Being Kidnapped by Faeries - Part One

Go away, go away, go away.

That’s what I keep silently praying as I squeeze behind the trash cans lined up along our garden fence.  If it weren’t there, I wouldn’t have to take the pungent, much less scenic route to the back of the garden.  

If I just ignore it, make sure not to step in it, they’ll have to get bored with me eventually.  Hopefully move it somewhere not in my backyard?  Yeah, that would be ideal.

It wasn’t there yesterday morning.  I clearly remember walking through the very middle of the yard to go water my newly-planted carnations.  And I know it wasn’t there early last night, when I walked through the yard yet again to check on the tulips.

So you see, I had no reason to believe anything out of the ordinary would happen this morning.  I woke up at the crack of dawn (ugh, med school), stumbled downstairs, and practically sleepwalked into the kitchen.  After quickly making a cup of black coffee, I mumbled a “hello” in response to my atrociously cheery mother.  She was always more of a morning bird than my father (guess whose genes I got in that regard).

After the coffee restored me to partial functionality, I stepped outside into the warm morning mist to greet my plants (yes, I am a plant nerd. Make fun of me all you want).

And that was when I froze in my tracks - one footstep away from trampling through it.  

A faerie ring.

And I don’t mean a couple of cute mushrooms.  I mean a six-foot diameter, freakishly symmetrical ring of small mushroom, so small most people probably wouldn’t notice one if it were alone (I say most people - remember, I’m a plant nerd); all together, however, they were a sight to behold.

It was at that moment that Grandma Lucy’s voice echoed in my mind:

“Stay away from those ancient faerie circles.  One step inside, and you’ll be enthralled, never to see your home again.  Or at least, not for several hundred years.”

Yeah.  I think you can forgive me for being a bit wary.

Lucy isn’t my real grandmother, of course.  My biological grandmother passed away when I was eleven, and is still missing from the recesses of my memory.  I had only met her twice before my parents and I left South Sudan, and I had been far too young to remember anything.  She never failed to write me a birthday letter though, and sometimes I feel the pull of a life, of a family, that I’ve never known.  What would my life be like if we had never left South Sudan?  If we hadn’t moved to the monotonous suburbs of Des Moines, Iowa?  Sometimes I find it difficult to reconcile these two pieces of my life, the past and the present clumsily intertwining like clasped hands that don’t quite fit each other.

I do know that I wouldn’t trade Lucy for any other life.  She’s a sweet older lady who works at the local library that I occasionally visit.  I was never much of a reader, but I do enjoy checking out new cookbooks or gardening tips once in a while.  I think Lucy recognized a bit of a lost soul in me, because, from the first time I set foot in the library at age ten, she was there to help.  She talked to me about my passions and my dreams, those far-off ambitions that only little kids dare to express.  She helped me with schoolwork, talked me through my problems, and helped me realize when I had made mistakes (something I do quite often, but acknowledge far less).  It was her support that pushed me to reach for my goals, and culminated in my scholarship to medical school.  If I hadn’t had her for the past 16 years, who knows where I’d be.

And, incidentally, she’s where I get my basic knowledge of faerie tales from.  

So when I walk into the yard and discover a full-blown faerie ring, I do what any rational adult would do: I go out of my way to step carefully around it.  Which involves nearly falling into the garbage.  

Once I check on my plants, I take the same route back inside, a little more confidently this time.

It’s not that I believe I’ll take one step into the circle of whimsical mushrooms and get whisked away to a land of nightmares.  But you can only listen to Lucy’s stories so many times before they begin to make you a little paranoid.

Upon returning to the kitchen, I take a few deep breaths, resting against the door.

“Are you alright?” my father asks, one eyebrow raised from where he sits at the kitchen table.

I nod in assent so as not to give away my nerves through a shaking voice.  

Maybe I’m just imagining it.  Yeah.  That makes sense.  I’ll come back from class this afternoon and it’ll be gone.  Slightly reassured (but who am I kidding), I push myself off the wall and hike back upstairs to get dressed.

* * * * *

The glass door of the library swings closed behind me as I head straight for the desk.  Long gone are the days where I pretended to be remotely interested in browsing.  I pass a few other librarians who nod or wave when they recognize me before I reach Lucy.

“Lucy, you’ll never believe what I saw this morning.”

Lucy peers at me over her glasses while simultaneously scanning in a book.  “And good afternoon to you too, missy.  Cutting class, are we?”

I roll my eyes.  “You know I don’t have an afternoon class on Tuesdays, Lucy, you don’t have to make that joke every time.”

“Ah, but what else are forgetful old ladies for?”

I snort. “Anyway, I woke up this morning, half-dead as usual, and went out to the garden, again as usual.  But today, in my garden, I found…” I trail off in anticipation.  Lucy raises her brow, waiting.  “A faerie ring,” I finish.

I had some time to mull it over, and I decided the best way to deal with it is to act like it’s not a big deal.  I had probably imagined it, so why not play it off as a joke just to make sure?

Lucy’s eyes widen.  “A faerie ring? Are you sure, Mimi?”

I lift my hands palms-up in self-defense.  “Honest to God truth.  A perfectly symmetrical mushroom circle with at least a two-yard diameter.”  

“Hmm,” Lucy grunted.

“So?” I prompted, waiting for a fuller reaction.

“I say go for it,” she said matter-of-factly as she returned to scanning the books.

“Wait, what?”  I feel my face scrunch up in confusion.

“Honey, it’s a faerie ring.  That alone spells ‘adventure’.  And if there’s anything you need, it’s an adventure.”

I squint at her.  “Is that an insult?”

“It’s a fact,” she says as she continues with her work.  “All you ever think about are your studies.  And maybe your garden.  It’s a 95/5 percent split.  All I know is that you need a break.”

I sigh.  Maybe she’s right.  How is it that she can read me like a book?  

Maybe it has something to do with her being a librarian.  

Suppressing a groan at my horrible and utterly useless joke, I suddenly notice the look in her eye.  Doubt.  Indulgence.  Of course.  All of a sudden, I realize: she doesn’t believe me.  No, that’s not quite right - she doesn’t believe herself.  Those faerie tales she told me, back when I was just a child, were only fiction to her.  I can’t decide whether the fact relieves me or disappoints me.

I can’t help but think, however, that there’s a hint of sincerity among the mischievous twinkle in her eye when she looks up, leans towards me, and says, “So what are you waiting for?”

* * * * *

I arrive home completely out of sorts.  Sliding off my bike, I note the empty driveway; my parents must be working.  They own a small bakery right off the main road, not hugely successful but popular enough among locals to make a living.  I have fond memories of my adolescent years, helping them to bake muffins or to perfect (more often catastrophically fail at) a new recipe.  School takes up too much time to bake as a family these days.

After unlocking the door, I step inside, quickly shutting the door behind me.  It makes me scoff at myself, but there’s a pulsing sense of urgency in my bones to check the backyard.  I close my eyes and breathe before forcing myself to first deposit my bags upstairs.  I then slowly make my way back down the staircase, a stone forming in the pit of my stomach with each step I take.

Just one look, I tell myself, to prove it’s not there.  I approach the back door.  Steeling myself, I yank the door open.

And promptly slam it shut.

It’s. Still. There.

I want to scream.  I’m not quite sure what to do.  

I think about Lucy’s obvious disbelief.  What can a couple of mushrooms do anyway?  But then I think about what she said about me.  I never realized before how right she was.  Sometimes I’m so trapped in the same routine that I can’t breathe.  There has to be more to life than useless, unfulfilling ambitions.  Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy med school.  It’s what I want to do with my life.  I love the rush I get when I know I’m doing my best work, when I’m using my brain to the fullest of its abilities and helping people at the same time.  But sometimes it gets so…predictable.  

I think about the faerie ring again.  But, regardless of Lucy’s beliefs, I’m not sure if I’m confident enough in it harmlessness to walk into it quite yet.  

I look down and realize I’m pacing.  Stressing this much about such an inconsequential event can’t be healthy.  

I walk to the kitchen sink.  Washing dishes is how I destress.  It helps me take my mind off of what’s happening around me, and that can be just what I need to find a solution.  

I’ve only just picked up a dish and a sponge when I hear voices.  Angry ones.  And they’re coming from the kitchen window, which I realize now is open.

“It’s not my fault that the human won’t step in it!”

I stare at what appears to be thin air, looking for the person who spoke.  Suddenly a sharp movement catches my eye, and I look down.  I barely make out what appears to be two small humanesque figures in the grass.

“Well, it’s not mine either!  You were the one who said to put it here!”

I should be panicking right now.  Why am I not panicking?

Lucy said I should go for it.  My impulses take over.  I walk calmly towards the door.  Before my brain catches up with what my body is doing, I’ve already opened the door and stepped into the yard, still taking care to avoid the ring.  

What are you doing? my brain screams.

“What exactly is the problem?” My mouth forms the words without my brain’s approval.  

Both figures, standing in the middle of the ring, pivot sharply to face me.  Almost instantly, plumes of purple and gray smoke appear out of thin air, enveloping the creatures in its clutches.  Before my own eyes, the smoke swirls and expands, until it fades away to reveal two very human-sized figures - faeries? - in its wake.

My first thought is that they’re not what I imagined faeries would be.  They’re both extremely beautiful; that part at least is accurate to the legends.  The male’s beauty is classic fae, with sharp angles, glowing pale skin, and piercing blue eyes.  Are those horns that peek through his messy red hair?  It’s difficult to tell.  The female, however, contrasts sharply to him.  She stands several inches shorter than me, with a warm brown skin tone only marginally lighter than my own.  While he is all lines and angles, she is all curves.  From her body, to her flowy bohemian dress, to the purple hair cascading down her shoulder in natural curls, everything about her is swirling; and while her appearance differs drastically from written descriptions of the fae’s beauty, it doesn’t make her any less stunning.  In fact, she’s even more beautiful than the faeries I’ve read about.  

And that is the moment it hits me: either I’ve gone stark raving mad, or there are two faeries in my backyard.

With their predatory gazes fully focused on me.

[voltronisforquiznaks]

An Almost Perfect Morning

I started off trying to make this fluff, I swear. I really tried.

Here’s a 1.5k Klance one-shot about nervous Lance and super boyfriend Keith.

Lance’s pocket had never felt heavier.

He knew he wanted this. Out of the endless number of decisions he felt unsure of, this was the one he absolutely would never regret.

So then why was he so nervous?

They say there are an infinite amount of universes, each with a slightly different outcome than the last. Well, somehow Lance was watching them all play out inside of his head. Breakfast at their favorite cafe, a walk past the school where they met, a proposal under the tree where they shared their first kiss.

But what if he said no? What if Lance was a fool for even asking? What if he gets publicly shamed and the whole thing would be his fault...what if--

“Lance?” a warm voice brought him out of his thoughts, and back to the surface.

Lance looked to his left, and he was met with a pair of warm, grey eyes. They looked inviting, concerned…

Comforting.

“Were you listening to anything I was just saying?” Keith’s tone wasn’t accusatory at all, but Lance still felt his mouth become dry.

“Yeah, of course I was! We were talking about the…” Lance trailed off. Shit, there truly was no point in lying, but he was too far gone to stop now.

“The new movie coming out tomorrow! I don’t know babe, I mean we could totally just pirate it off this movie website I found-”

“Lance I was talking about my old friend, Shiro. He’s coming into the city tomorrow morning, remember?” Oh, did Lance remember.

Lance remembered strong, tall, beautiful Shiro, who Keith was totally crushing on throughout his adolescent years.

Muscular, popular, incredibly friendly Shiro.

“He’s...coming...tomorrow morning?” Shiiiiiiit.

“If that’s alright with you, I’ll ask again, I want to show him around. He hasn’t been back here since we were in school. Don’t you have work in the morning anyway?”

“No...I-uh. I actually took the day off. I was hoping we’d spend some time together?” Lance squeaked in the most pathetically small voice he had ever used. He felt like his windpipes were collapsing.

“That sounds great, can’t we do the day after tomorrow instead?” No, you idiot, I used my last vacation day until next year.

“I guess.” he pouted. That’s is, Lance felt hopeless. He would have to put the ring back into the drawer where its been living for the last month, itching to be taken out and worn.

But he guessed it would have to wait for another perfect morning. If it ever came.

Lance stood up suddenly, shaking off Keith’s hand which was resting comfortable on his thigh.

“Do we have any cereal left?” he headed toward the kitchen, sparing no glance to his confused and worried boyfriend.

“Uh, Lance, it’s 10:30 at night.” Lance ignored him, sifting through the shelves above the counter.

“Bitchin’, we got honey nut cheerios!”

Keith peeled himself off the couch and followed his boyfriend with silent footsteps. He snaked his thin arms around Lance’s waist, who immediately tensed up and froze. Keith frowned, placing his chin in the crook of Lance’s shoulder.

“What’s the matter, is it because of Shiro?”

“No! I mean...no-”

“So it is about Shiro”

“It’s not about him specifically I mean..I like the guy. I do.” Lance shrugged, finding a loss for words.

“Then what’s on your mind?” Each warm breath on Lance’s neck sent shivers down his spine, and straight into his pocket.

“I...I guess I’m not feeling all that well. I bet some food will help pick me up.” Lance turned his head ever so slightly, his boyfriend’s messy black hair now visible. His gaze was still so warm.

“-and maybe some sleep too.”

“Yeah...that sounds nice”

Lance stared at the darkened ceiling for what felt like hours. According to his phone clock however, it had been about 23 minutes.

He rolled over onto his side, the empty feeling in his stomach still incredibly overwhelming. His gaze fell on their shared dresser. A new tomb for a ring that would never see the light of day... unless Lance just…

Proposed.

Told Keith that he had never been so sure of anything in his life.

That he was ready to spend the rest of his life with him, and only him.

He wanted to show Keith how much he truly loved him.

And he couldn’t even do that.

With a heavy sigh, Lance rolled onto his stomach, planting his face into his pillow until he had to come up for air.

Despite the endless tossing and turning, Keith still laid motionless, deep in relaxing sleep like Lance should be. Not letting his mind get the better of him over something that wasn’t...even...that big of a deal.

Lance threw the blankets off of him, suddenly too hot to stand the fabric sticking to his sweaty skin. His shirt came off in one clean movement.

And suddenly he could breathe again.

He slid off the bed and onto the cool, hardwood floor, tempted to melt into the floorboards.

His mind continued to race, the thumping in his brain all stemming from one source. His feet carried him to the dresser, eyes burning holes through the wooden planks and straight into the velvet box. His hand grasped the handle in the dark, pulling the drawer open with more force than he intended. The wooden box fell to the floor with a bang and a crack, clothes spilling onto the floor and the small velvet box flying across the room.

“Lance? What the hell are you-”

“I’m alright, just fell on my way back from the bathroom.”

“You weren’t in the bathroom- you’ve been kicking and discarding clothing for the past twenty minutes.” Keith sat up in the bed. Even though the room was plunged into darkness, Lance could still see the outline of his boyfriend rubbing his eyes and stretching his arms. It was like he shone even in shadows.

“Oh...sorry I woke you”

“Lance what is up with you?” Keith asked again, irritation growing.

“It’s 2 in the morning…”

Lance’s eyes darted over to the corner of the room where the ring slid. His mouth opened and the confession poured out. “I really really love you” he stumbled over the words without his brain’s consent. Well, he thought. Here we go.

“Lance?”

“You are the most amazing and wonderful thing that has ever happened to my life. I-I know we didn’t exactly start off as this pair of star crossed lovers...but you just deserve someone who can show you how much he loves you every single day.”

“Lance you’re rambling again-”

“And I want that to be me. I want to be someone who you look at the same way I look at you. The whole world is unstable, and messy, and broken. But I look at you, and everything just becomes so still. Like the rest of the world could try to rock me, but we would just stay locked in place. I want to be that person for you. I want you to be able to count on me.”

“Lance, listen hon-”

“I just...I just w-want you to b-be…” He was losing his grip, he could already feel the pounding in his head get bigger, louder, stronger.

Then it stopped. In front of his eyes, barely a centimeter between their faces, were the eyes he could see no matter how dark his room was. Keith placed a hand on his shoulder, dispelling the thoughts like a gust of wind.

“You don’t need to prove yourself to me, Lance.” Keith began, eyes focused on Lance’s chest.

“I’ve never been very good at showing how much you mean to me...maybe that’s my fault. But I’m telling you now. You are my entire world. I could never think of you as anything less than that. Now, won’t you come back to bed?” He affectionately pushed a strand of hair from Lance’s sweaty forehead, “We have to get up early tomorrow.” and he smiled.

Lance could never understand how Keith could do that. Like some kind of...angel. Some badass angel that came to fight Lance’s demons and scare them away. It’s lame to say, but no part of that statement could ever be false.

“You’re right...I’ll go turn the fan on. No wonder this room is hot as hell.” Keith patted his shoulder one last time before letting go, and turned back to their bed. Lance made sure to swipe the ring back into his pocket on his way to the fan switch.

Lance lowered himself back onto the bed, lifting his feet onto the warm, plush mattress. It no longer felt hot and constricting.

So maybe he would have to wait a bit longer until he could ask him, but for the first time in a month, he didn’t mind the extra time.

He knew that it didn’t matter how long they waited. Even without the wedding band, they were incredibly, deeply, and truly in love.

And Lance went to sleep with no weight in his stomach.

And he dreamed, that night, he had flown with angels.

[holdyourbreathuntilyouseelight]

Camouflage

Summary: After waking up in the middle of the night after his reconciliation with Magnus, Alec contemplates where to go from here.

Rating: T

Genre/Tags: Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Healthy Communication, Good Parabatai Jace Herondale

Author: dylanobrienstyler

A/N: Title derived from the Selena Gomez song of the same name. Post 2x20. Found this from shortly after the season ended in my drabble - I don't think we'll be getting anything like it in the new season but who knows! Figured I'd post in case anyone else is as desperate for healthy communication between fictional characters as I am.

Can also be read on AO3.

Alec woke suddenly, the disorientation from coming out of deep slumber making it hard for his brain to catch up to his body's actions. His hand had slipped under the bed to pull out his spare seraph blade and his heart was pounding in his chest. He stumbled to his feet, glaring into the darkness as if waiting for an attack.

His eyes burned from the sudden forced opening, and he scrunched them shut as he shook his head to clear the fuzziness.

The automatic response of a soldier was to prepare for attack when his body was having such a visceral reaction, but now that he was breathing evenly, he caught on that the panic running through his veins did not belong to him.

Magnus hadn't stirred yet, Alec's swift movements also graceful in nature so they didn't jostle him, and he slipped out of the room just as quietly in an attempt to keep it that way. He knew Magnus had drained a lot of magical energy earlier, and he wanted him to get the rest he deserved.

Taking a deep breath, trying not to let his anxiety overwhelm him, Alec speed-dialed Jace's number once he located his phone. He knew now who the emotional outburst belonged to.

Jace answered after a couple rings, and Alec let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Hey."

"Hey." Alec replied, hovering awkwardly in the main living area of the loft, not really sure what he wanted to do with himself. "Everything okay? I felt… Well, are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Jace said, but it was missing its usual confidence, and Alec frowned.

"Jace… You may be able to hide what's going on from everyone else, but not from me. Please talk to me. Tell me what's going on."

He heard Jace exhale through his nose, but he didn't sound irritated. Just like he was gathering his strength.

"Look, it's not… it's not a big deal, okay? I just had a weird sort of… panic attack, I guess."

"Is this because of what happened at Lake Lyn?" Alec asked, making sure to keep his voice low so as not stir his sleeping boyfriend.

"I… Yes."

Alec felt a surge of relief mixed with defeat stem from their parabatai rune, and Alec knew this was about to be a much bigger conversation. Needing the cool air to clear his head, Alec stepped out onto the balcony. The rain catapulting from the clouds made the moisture stick to his skin and it helped calm his nerves.

"I know something more happened there. But I didn't want to press you in front of everyone else. Do you want to talk about it?"

Jace was quiet on the other end for the moment. "Just… don't blame her, okay? She… she was acting out of grief. She doesn't know enough about our world to know the consequences that might follow such a powerful thing…"

Clary. Although a constant pain in his side at times, he had grown to care for the redheaded girl, despite his better judgment. She had shown some outstanding strength and fit into the Shadowhunter role very quickly for someone who had grown up entirely mundane, and she became very important to the people he too cared for so it was inevitable that she be welcomed into his restrictive inner circle.

"What did she do?"

"When Valentine raised the Angel, he didn't get a chance to grant his wish. So Clary wished for me to come back to life."

The silence lingered between them, stretching on as Alec absorbed the impact of his confession.

"By the Angel." Alec breathed out, rubbing a hand over his furrowed brow. He knew he had felt Jace die. He felt the part of his soul coiled around the part of Jace's snap and die off in time with his brother. He saw the rune disappear from his skin. He lost the anchor that was the other Shadowhunter to his soul. He had had a part of Jace as a part of him for half of his life—the emptiness of being the sole inhabitant of his body was a crushing weight and he had felt it instantly.

Alec pushed aside his own feelings from earlier in the day, the utter despair he felt losing his parabatai, and focused on the living, breathing one he had on the phone.

"What's happening to you now?"

"I don't know. It's like…" He paused, searching for words to explain something indescribable. "It feels like there's something in my body trying to get out. Or take over. I don't know. I don't know how to even figure out what it is. I don't know anyone else who has come back from the dead and didn't end up demonic or worse."

Alec closed his eyes, leaning onto the railing with his forearms. "We'll figure this out, Jace. I promise. I'm not losing you again."

"I'm sorry. I can only imagine how you felt."

Alec shook his head, despite Jace not being able to see him. "It doesn't matter now. You're alive. We can handle everything else, together."

A calmness swept through his veins, and Alec smiled as he realized he had said the right thing. The relief and freedom from guilt made it clear that Jace had been itching to tell someone about everything, and that their conversation had been good for both of them.

"Thanks, Alec. I should let you go. Aren't you at Magnus'?"

Alec's brows came together. "How did you know?"

When he had asked Magnus to talk at the Hunter's Moon during the celebration party, he hadn't been sure how the conversation would go, so he hadn't told anyone where he was going since it may have been a quick exchange. But he was pleasantly surprised to find Magnus on the same page as him, eager to move forward and be better, as a couple again.

"I can feel you too, remember? You're always more relaxed when you're with him. That's why when you don't come to the Institute to sleep or when you're missing at any point, I don't worry. You feel more... at home when you're with him."

The corner of Alec's lips turned upwards. Magnus' place was home, but even more so was the man himself.

"But I don't think things in paradise are back to how they were yet. You've felt more jittery than usual the past few hours, and that's not like you. Ever."

Alec licked his lips, mulling over how to explain his feelings when he wasn't good at confronting them let alone confessing them. But with Jace, it was a little easier. Especially since he couldn't exactly hide much from him.

Long-time adolescent crush notwithstanding.

"I… I'm afraid I'm going to screw things up again." Alec admitted. "I'm just hyperaware of every move I make, everything I say… And all I can think is that the clock is just counting down until I ruin everything. Again."

He was glad Jace couldn't see him. The rain wasn't the only thing wetting his cheeks now, and he hated his tear ducts for betraying him. At least he had managed to keep his voice steady, even if Jace could probably feel the squeezing pain of his fear.

"Alec…" Jace's voice was gentle now. "You and Magnus love each other. You're meant to be together. And not everything is your fault—you had some difficult choices to make and so did he. What matters is that you choose each other now, and that you talk to each other. You shouldn't be bottling this anxiety—you should be telling him about it. Maybe he feels the same way."

"Well that's impossible to know with him since he's always trying to play it cool."

He meant for his voice to sound more irritated than it did.

Jace chuckled, clearly noting the affection in his voice. "Alec, talk to Magnus. Tell him how you're feeling. You know I'm not one for feelings and especially talking about them at length, but look, you two have something special. And if you and me talking right now proves anything, it's that sometimes it really does help getting everything out in the open, even if the unknown still hangs in the balance."

"You're right." Alec sighed.

"When am I not?"

Jace sounded much more like himself now at least, and Alec rolled his eyes. "I also hate you."

"Sure, sure. Tell that to my parabatai rune."

"Now I'm thinking I should've picked Izzy."

Jace laughed, a sound Alec hadn't realized until then that he hadn't heard in a while. "Go. Talk to your man. And you know I'm here for you when you need it."

"Right back at you. G'night."

"Night."

The call ended and Alec slipped his phone into the waistband of his pajama pants.

He let the damp wind roll over him, eyes closed as he let the familiar sounds of the city soothe his overactive brain.

"Alexander?"

Alec turned around quickly to find Magnus hovering in the doorway, eyes watching him carefully.

He wondered how long he had been there.

"Hey. I hope I didn't wake you."

"You didn't. Is everything okay?"

Alec opened his mouth to say one thing but closed it as he realized he should be saying the opposite. Jace's advice nagged him, and he wondered how to approach the topic.

Magnus joined him on the terrace and reached out for his hand. Alec immediately intertwined their fingers, feeling himself calm instantly at his touch.

It was easy to forget everything when Magnus was nearby, but he knew he had to grow up and push through the awkwardness to get them to the place he wanted them to be. He didn't want to walk on eggshells anymore.

"Something's troubling you. Please tell me what I can do." Magnus told him, his free hand pushing back Alec's damp hair.

Alec exhaled. "Well, I woke up because Jace had some sort of weird panic attack. I just wanted to make sure he was okay. He's fine—it was just residual from everything that happened earlier."

Magnus nodded, but Alec pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Sorry. No. That's not entirely true." He sighed. "Jace told me that Clary was granted a wish from Raziel, and that it was to bring Jace back to life. And now he's having weird side effects; the consequences of such a powerful force touching him I guess."

Magnus' eyes were round. "Wow."

Alec nodded, but his eyes found the balcony floor, his strength wavering.

Magnus' hand stroking his cheek forced his gaze back to his boyfriend, and Alec found Magnus watching him warily.

"You know, when I said we shouldn't have secrets, I didn't mean you had to tell me everyone else's too. I'm glad you told me about Jace, it explains a lot and affects the future, but I don't want you to feel like I've trapped you in some sort of secret-bearing contract."

Alec looked away. He knew he needed to speak up, but he didn't know how to do so without messing things up or coming off the wrong way. Words had never been his strong suit. "Honestly, Magnus, I… I don't know how to act around you anymore. I'm so afraid I'm going to say the wrong thing, or do something stupid, and I'm going to upset you or even lose you all together all over again…"

It was his voice that betrayed him this time, trembling as he rambled on, and Magnus cupped his face in his hands, shushing him.

"Is this why you've been so quiet all night? I just assumed the day had wiped us both out."

Alec reached a hand up to cover one of Magnus' gently. "Look, I meant what I said tonight. I don't think I can live without you. And I have had to try recently, and it hurt. It hurt more than I knew it was possible to hurt. And I can't do it again. I nearly lost Jace today, a part of me, and Max nearly died after Jonathan's attack and if I was to lose you from my life… or try to go back to the way things have been since we've been apart…"

Magnus wrapped his arms around his waist, pulling Alec into a tight embrace. "I'm sorry for the way I treated you in our time apart. I had to put up so many walls to keep myself in check around you. I spent all of my energy when we were near each other trying to hold myself together, trying to act indifferent and cold and whatever it took to keep you at arm's length. If you came too close, if you were too soft with me… I know I would've broken. I'm sorry that hurting you to force you to be distant with me was the only way I could handle being near you. It wasn't fair. I know why you made the choices you did, but I still felt like I came second when I've always put you first."

Alec nodded, nuzzling his face into Magnus' shoulder. "I know. I know I hurt you, and I understand why you felt so betrayed. It ate at me constantly, keeping it from you, even if it wasn't for long. I tried to think like a leader, tried to put the Shadow World ahead of my own personal investments, but it wasn't fair of me either. You deserved to know. And I trust you. I just… as High Warlock of Brooklyn, I didn't want to put you in a position where you had to choose between your people and me. And, well, clearly that's what ended up happening regardless."

Magnus sighed as they pulled apart. "Well, it's clear we have some things we need to work on, both separately and together. Trust is important. And communication. But with that comes trusting that I'm still going to love you even if you do make a mistake or say the wrong thing."

Alec smiled, lips upturned just a little. "That goes both ways. Even though we both know I'm the usual culprit."

Magnus kissed him chastely. "I'm not perfect, Alexander."

Alec lit up at that, mischievous smile gracing his face. "I don't know…" he sing-songed, letting his eyes run the length of his boyfriend. "I beg to differ."

Magnus chuckled at the compliment, thinking he was clearly a bad influence on the Shadowhunter, and he wrapped his arms around Alec's waist. "What do you say we go to bed? After some sleep, I'm feeling a lot more energized..."

"Hmm… I think I can have you eating your words soon." Alec teased, brushing his lips along Magnus' neck and up behind his ear. As expected, Magnus shivered and pulled him closer.

"Well, look who's not playing fair…"

"Who said anything about fair?"

Magnus dragged him back to their bedroom, happy to make up for lost time.

And when Jace fell asleep later that night, he couldn't help but be eased into happier dreams, his parabatai rune emitting the soft, warm feeling of finally being home.

[saferincages]

a couple of weeks ago, a friend showed me this amazing post (where the photos are far better than mine, which just didn’t want to turn out at all) of @the-far-bright-center‘s beautiful, sparkly Force Ghost Anakin, and it brought me such joy (I was maybe giggling excessively...), and today he arrived in the mail as a surprise gift! 💖

I want to take a moment to appreciate this bio, and the “weapon of choice” being loyalty and love, because it is. a lot.

this could be a very silly post (okay, it already is), but it actually gives me an opportunity to talk about something that I’ve never had a chance or reason to discuss before without some frame of context, so here is an unbelievably overemotional story (one of many regarding Star Wars’ history and special place in my life, I could write a series of these focused of specific themes and characters in all honesty) that no one really needs, but that I feel compelled to write anyway.

I’ve written before about my first experience seeing Revenge of the Sith (most recently here), so I apologize for retreading a certain amount of ground, but it’s important to know what the state of my life was at that time, which was a frightening, burned out shambles. ROTS premiered in May 2005, I believe I had just completed the physical therapy I’d been undergoing since the car accident we had that February. I was extraordinarily ill, and no one knew why (diagnoses were forthcoming), I was rapidly losing weight, and at the time, the scariest thing for me, was that I had no choice but to withdraw from school. Academia, which was such a constant for me, wasn’t even going to be on the horizon. I was, in short, not okay. I felt almost hollow in that uncertainty.

That midnight premiere was incredible, exciting, emotionally fraught, and I remember the weight and the sorrow of it hitting me in a very profound way when we got home, at which point I crawled into my bed and sobbed. I saw it several times that summer, but the final time (which is also a story a couple of my friends know, but I don’t think I’ve posted about it publicly?) was on my birthday that September. It is a crystalline memory. I can recall everything about that day, even what we ate (the cinnamon rolls my mom made for breakfast, the vanilla chai tea I had at Borders that afternoon), because it was the last birthday I had when certain things were not yet permanent, when I was still in the misty place between before and after. By then, the film had moved to our local little budget theatre, and seeing it that way, with a handful of other people rather than with a big, enthusiastic crowd, lent it an intimacy and poignancy which struck me on a wholly different level. (That was also the night Supernatural premiered, which is an aside, but don’t doubt for a moment that the events are inextricably emotionally connected for me.) September, and I should have been in school, but I wasn’t. I had no idea at that point that I never would be again, but I was frightened, and sad, and deeply angry. Anger isn’t a feeling I’d had a lot of experience with, I was a sweet, shy, overly sensitive, naive child (and teenager), but I didn’t often deal with anger, and then I usually sublimated anger with grief and guilt instead (and those things were warring in me, too, and of course I still carry them), but the anger at the unfairness of it all, at how cruel it was that this had happened to me, at how much I hated my own body for turning against me, how I irrationally hated myself for not being better or stronger or able to fight it, was consuming and yet almost childish, as though being ill was causing a perpetual temper tantrum in my mind.

My touchstone in the prequels was always Padmé, and she deserves her own post, but she was so inspiring to me, her compassion and her goodness and her belief in justice, her loving nature and her femininity and her tender heart being strengths, and never undermining her bright spirit, her keen mind, her ability to lead, her powers being her forgiveness and empathy and kindness. I love her so much and she had (and continues to have) such meaning for me. 

It took me by surprise when the aching heart of my identification in ROTS plunged more towards Anakin. I loved him too, and I had a lot of varied, complicated feelings about him already, about his gentleness and his trauma, about the immensity of his capacities and his contrasts, but this was the fall, the dark hour of the story, the nadir of everyone’s suffering, and so much happens at his hand, because of his tragic choices. When I was reading the novelization, I didn’t know what to do with the fact that I understood certain aspects of his struggling in such a harrowing way, and seeing it playing out made that even more acute. Those choices he makes out of desperate fear aren’t rooted in evil, they’re driven by the chasm of grief and terror of loss, and they’re mixed with disillusionment and disappointment and frustration. Up until the moment when he walks into the Jedi Temple, when we really see him cross a line he cannot return from, hope for a course correction seems possible. Even knowing what’s coming, it’s like...just turn back. You can still fix this. It ripped my heart out because of course he wouldn’t, he couldn’t. There’s the scene where he’s denied the title of Master, and his outburst at the council (“this is outrageous! it’s unfair!”) is tinged with an adolescent level of upset, but...of course it is. He’s still so young and he wants to trust them, it’s not ambition causing that fury, it’s desperation for inclusion, for some measure of respect, and he keeps being refused. It’s a strange analogy because the things holding me back had nothing to do with a council of old men deciding my fate, all my hindrances were physically trapping me in my own body, the jury denying me the ability to move ahead was my own failing immune system, but I understood his rage, because I wanted someone I could yell at. The person I was so terrified of not being able to save, of having to watch die, wasn’t my beloved, it was...me, the girl I was, the girl I dreamed of becoming. I’ve talked so many times about feeling like I let her down, like I’m the ghost of her, the revenant walking around in a shape that vaguely resembles her, but at that point, she wasn’t gone yet, she was just rapidly slipping away. I didn’t know what to do to save myself. People would say it wasn’t my fault, to let it go (which felt a lot like being told the useless “mourn them do not, miss them do not”), that I was still here, I didn’t ask to get sick, and I knew, logically, that was true, but emotionally all I felt was that crushing guilt and despair (all of this remains a lingering struggle). I didn’t want to be powerless. I would have clung to something that offered me a way out. I knew where Anakin, conflicted and misguided as he was, was coming from, and it eroded everything that made him good and heroic and kind, so the only power I had left was to fight against it and keep the anger at bay.

This is such a specifically personal thing that I won’t get into the analysis of what happens in regards to his descent (which I also expounded upon in that other post anyway), but every time it happened, the same muscle memory seemed to take hold of me, my hands would shake and I’d press them together, my chest would pound, I’d bite my lip to try not to cry. I have this overwhelming fear of fire, so Mustafar was its own nightmare, and I’ve literally only watched the immolation scene once (that first time, at the midnight showing), otherwise I close my eyes tightly shut. I don’t even like seeing gifs of it. But because of what I was going through at the time, what I’ve gone through since, the physical aspects of him so painfully and horrifically losing himself, being so stripped of his humanity that hardly anyone ever looks at or acknowledges him as a person again (until Luke) held its own terror (it’s such an awful metaphor when it’s examined, and it’s that re-enslavement, he did not choose that reconstruction) because I didn’t understand what was happening to me physically, and because so many people were questioning the veracity of my pain and my incapacitating illness, were treating me as somehow less (ableism wasn’t even a word in my vocabulary yet, I just thought maybe everyone had a point and I didn’t deserve the space to be heard or understood, since so much of what I was going through was invisible). I genuinely felt like my personhood and my agency was being taken away. I didn’t have school, I was quickly isolated from everyone else and kept in the (comforting yet confining) cage of my room, I didn’t know who I was supposed to be anymore, and I didn’t know what to do if no one would listen or believe me (my mom aside). The torture Anakin is put through in that conversion to Darth Vader is unimaginable and I don’t want to dwell on it, but there’s a passage from the novelization that goes in part: “The first dawn of light in your universe brings pain. The light burns you. It will always burn you...You can hear yourself breathing. It comes hard, and harsh, and it scrapes nerves already raw, but you cannot stop it. You can never stop it. You cannot even slow it down...now your self is all you will ever have...and within your furnace heart, you burn in your own flame.” It’s such a wrenching description that some part of me separated it out from the villainous aspect, because the rest of it felt true. My nerves were raw and burned with sensation, touch and too much strain hurt, but my heart persistently, stubbornly kept beating, and I was left sifting through the alternating aspects of its passions (both the transcendent and the desolate).

This isn’t at all “excuse or justify the things Vader did” (since, again, this isn’t actual analysis, it’s sentimental personal nonsense), because of course I do not and never would, but the depth of empathy I had for Anakin, as a person and as a lost soul (and a lost future), and the way that left an imprint on me right at the onset of my illness became indelible.

There’s a point to this, I promise.

George Lucas did re-editing and reworkings of the original trilogy and I’ve never minded any of it, because they were his to edit and fix up if he wanted to do so, and little extra CG snippets of planets and creatures only expands the universe in my mind. That said, I realize adding Hayden’s Anakin at the end of Return of the Jedi was divisive, even upsetting for some, but for me it was everything. I’ve hesitated to ever reblog gifs of the scene because I felt like I had to justify or explain why I hold it so dear before I did, so this is my chance to do that. 

As a child, I never felt really connected to the fleeting glimpse of Sebastian Shaw (my mom actually remembers me asking why he was so “old,” apparently I reasoned at the time that Anakin should have been younger, I think because I imagined him then as more of a dashing hero, based on Obi-Wan’s description in A New Hope). Anakin never lived as that image of a more middle aged man, that was never who he was within Vader’s suit, and there was always an evincive resonance that I was seeking. Once Attack of the Clones came along, Hayden was my Anakin, he was the embodiment of that character, and I loved him, and I loved his performance (and saw so much nuance and layering in it despite what was often said). Yet one of the last images we witness of him is burning on that scorched lava shore. It’s devastating. 

Luke’s unwavering faith that some glimmer of his father still exists, that goodness can’t ever be entirely erased, that love will overcome, that throwing aside his weapon is an act of bravery and grace, is the moment when Anakin is finally released from that. “He takes the ounce of good still left in him and destroys the Emperor out of compassion for his son.” Balance is restored, and redemption is very small and quiet, not a washing away of violence, but a ceasing of it. It’s the hope that we can always find salvation, that we can still choose to act in love.

When Luke turns around and sees those spirits watching over him, benevolent and glowing and one with the Force, Anakin is his beautiful self again, as the description on this little package says, restored to the “hopeful young Jedi he once was.” The first time I saw that edit of the film, I wept. That was the connection I’d been looking for, the understanding that we’re never wasted, that our souls endure and are mended, that we can choose light, no matter how lost we feel we are, that love can persevere and illuminate even the longest night. It reminded me that I wasn’t only my body, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how it felt like it was collapsing on me, no matter how often I felt like I was failing to be the person I thought I would be, my body could never capture the entirety of who I was, or am. My spirit could still shine, my heart could still be soft.

Anakin says to Padmé in AOTC, “Compassion, which I would define as unconditional love, is essential to a Jedi's life, so you might say we are encouraged to love.” It’s one of my favorite scenes because it’s so sincere, and yet so richly layered in its meaning. And in the end, this is fulfilled, this belief is proven right.

People may think the idea of the Force is hokey, but because of the way I was brought up, and the intense theological discussions that used to be framed around it (particularly by my dad, we used to do this over e-mail back in the olden days of dial-up, I wish I had those conversations saved), it was a really important, formative concept for me. The Force is connectivity, it’s like a variant of the belief in Tikkun olam that parts of the vessels of the divine used to shape the world shattered, and their shards became sparks of light trapped within the material of creation, and thus exist and persist in all of us, in all the diverse and breathtaking life around us, and that we should respect and cherish that life. “The best expression of the Force is not a lightsaber fight or other combat techniques. It’s really about your connection to life, to everything around you, and your ability or willingness to let go, to find peace, and ultimately become a selfless part of existence...in the end there is no power that aids [Luke], except the power of compassion and love; the act of forgiveness and apparent self-sacrifice is what saves his father from the dark side.” 

It’s the idea that there’s something eternal within all living things, something powerful and connected that binds us together, that means we affect one another, and that we make choices as to whether those influences are for the better (or not). That we can decide to increase the power of light and warm energy in the universe. The idea that we’re not limited to our physical selves, that we’re luminous, radiant, possible beings. That we can reach out in love and compassion to heal the world, even if it’s only in small ways, even if we’re the only ones who see it exist, who know it happens, and still the summation of that additional light can radiate everywhere.

[nautilusopus]

The Number I

Chapter 8: Cloud Has Another Longer Conversation

Between the really long conversations about life in general and the gratuitous violence and swearing and the out of sequence nonsense, I think I've pretty much turned into Quentin Tarantino by this point. All I need now is the foot fetish.

Alternate title for this chapter: Cloud Has No Fucking Life Skills And Would Probably Have Died By Now If It Weren't For Avalanche.

Thank you to @auncyen, @cateringisalie, @fury-brand, and @limbostratus for spotting all the times where I had someone get up from a chair four times without ever actually sitting back down in between. It's chairs all the way down.

Four years after meteor-fall and Cloud Strife still isn’t himself. The thing that haunts him comes always at the same time… and when it does, on a distant far-off world, a needle moves. Twisty AU. Contains graphic depictions of violence

There was an incessant scratching at the entrance of Seventh Heaven. It migrated to the windows, gradually increasing in volume, before going back to the front door. It wasn't until it was accompanied by an indignant, "Really!" that Cloud actually acknowledged the noise and allowed Nanaki inside.

"The back door was unlocked. You know that," said Cloud, who'd been sitting in the empty dining room in a booth and took his seat there again.

"And what's wrong with me going in the front door?" replied Nanaki, hopping up onto the table and allowing himself to sprawl out on it.

"The claw marks, mostly," said Cloud. "I'm gonna have to sand those out now."

"I thought you enjoyed fixing things."

"Sanding off claw marks isn't fixing things," said Cloud, but began giving him an ear scratch by way of a greeting anyway.

"How's your arm?" he asked, leisurely stretching out to allow Cloud better access to his neck.

"It's fine. Marlene thinks it's neat."

"You showed her?"

"She asked. She wanted to know if I was gonna get a prosthesis."

"Is she here now?"

Cloud nodded. "Yuffie's volunteered to keep her upstairs while we're... talking."

It was late afternoon, and the bar had been closed early due to "a family emergency". Said family emergency had been waiting for everyone to show up, his anxiety gradually mounting as more and more arrived. Jessie had been the first to arrive, and hadn't made eye contact with him as she walked past him and upstairs to visit Marlene. Cid had been next, having the easiest access to an airship and not being beholden to anyone in particular about it. Nanaki had arrived just now and had been receiving appreciative head pats for the last ten minutes. So that just left --

"Here she comes," said Nanaki as soon as they noticed the frantic footsteps and the panicked swearing outside, before the door was pulled open with just a bit too much force.

"You're alright?" asked Tifa, dumping her bag on the floor next to the table and hurrying over to him. From the way she had asked it the question seemed less a status update and more marvelling that he wasn't rolling on the floor frothing at the mouth.

"Yeah. Fine. Easy on the ribs," he said as she went in for a hug. As they pulled apart he noticed she looked about as bad as Barret had on the first night back from the hospital, the bags under her eyes prominent.

"Who's left?" she asked. Nanaki stretched himself and then hopped down off the table.

"You're the last one," he said. "I'll go gather the others." He slunk off to the back without another word, leaving them both alone together.

"...How was your trip?" asked Cloud eventually.

"Fine. Sort of cold, I guess."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I got to shoo off a dragon. Adolescent bull. Really cranky." She sat herself down in the booth across from him. "Reminded me of you."

Cloud rolled his eyes. "I'm not cranky."

"You're almost 100% crank. Barret says you're banned from Edge Medical now."

"Not a big deal. Yuffie's good at healing, and I'll take care of whatever she --" He paused. "Wait, he called you?"

"Yes. A few hours ago when I landed."

He frowned. "What else did he say?"

"That you weren't immediately dying and that I could come straight home instead of visiting you in the ICU," said Tifa. "You scared the shit out of me, Cloud, you can't just... call me and say something like that and hang up without explaining. I thought you might've..."

"Might've what?"

"...I don't know. Had a really bad episode. Maybe... maybe you might've hurt yourself."

"I wasn't going to -- is that what everyone thinks of me?" said Cloud, his voice rising in anger.

"We're worried about you!" she said, matching his tone. "We're worried about you, and we have every right to be! You said to come home, we all came home! You can't just turn around and try and brush off the fact that you called me up at three in the morning crying your eyes out now that we're actually here!"

Cloud took a deep breath and looked away uncomfortably. "...Is this about the stigma?" he sighed.

"Other way around. The stigma is about this. You can't just --"

"But I'm fine now, so what does it matter?!" His hands were gripping the table now, digging into the wood slightly. "Why can't it just be okay that I'm fine now?! Why can't you all just appreciate --"

"Don't none of y'all get the party started without us," came a voice from the doorway as Cid leaned against it with a wry look on his face. They turned to look at them, Cloud going a bit pink. "No, go ahead, don't mind us."

Cloud unclenched his hands from the table and picked a splinter out of his thumb. Tifa sat back down, having apparently stood up at some point without either one of them noticing.

Cid detached himself from the doorframe and took his place at a table, with everyone else sans Yuffie following behind him. Jessie sat the furthest away from the group and refused to look at Cloud. He suddenly felt very tired.

Nanaki hopped back up onto the table and gave him an insufferably smug look (at least, as smug as someone with a muzzle could look) upon seeing what Cloud had done to the table. Cloud made a face at him when he wasn't looking, and then turned back to Reeve, who cleared his throat and began to speak.

"Alright, everyone's here. As nice as it'd be for this to be a big family reunion for its own sake, this is... an emergency meeting for an issue that we're going to deal with now before it becomes too big. Cloud?"

Cloud took a moment to steel himself before getting to his feet. It had been years since he had played the part of leader. It should be easy enough.

You're not having a crisis, and they're not here because they have to deal with that crisis, he told himself. You're noticing warning signs, and they're here to help pinpoint what they mean. It's just another mission, and after this we're gonna find someone and kill them and that'll make it all stop.

In theory, anyway.

He relayed the whole story quickly and quietly, about the shadows in the morning, the bike crash, the roof... and eventually, under Cid's suspicious prodding, the kitchen, with Jessie. Everyone immediately turned to her. Jessie swallowed.

"You kept that a secret?" said Reeve incredulously. "Jessie, this is something we needed to know about."

"He didn't want you to know, and he asked, and it was his business, and I thought --" She had bent nearly double, rocking herself.

"It's not her fault," Cloud said quickly. "I shouldn't have asked that. I'm sorry."

"Why did you ask her that, Cloud?" said Tifa, peering closely at him. Cloud looked away and said nothing.

"...Whatever the case, it's something we have to deal with now." Reeve pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm gonna have to tell people about this."

"The WRO?" asked Cloud. Reeve shook his head.

"Higher than that. This is now a federal problem."

Cloud jumped to his feet. "What? Why?"

"If my understanding of the situation is correct, there's a sizeable risk that --"

"What he means is you're dangerous," said Cid, glaring at Reeve, who sighed heavily.

"...Alright, yeah, that's what I mean," he said resignedly. "Even if this isn't Jenova -- which I'm not convinced of -- you have lost control of your actions to an outside force four times so far, and we don't know any way to stop it. This time it was just a car accident. Next time we might not be so lucky."

"'Just' a car accident?" interjected Barret.

Reeve leveled his gaze at him. "Given the scale of what we know Cloud is capable of, yes. Just a car accident."

"I haven't --it hasn't made me attack anyone." The inside of Cloud's mouth was dry.

"Neither did Sephiroth. Not right away," said Nanaki, who was now sniffing him curiously. "Perhaps whatever this entity is is simply testing the waters."

Tifa spoke up again. "...Can you hear Jenova saying anything about this?" she suggested. Everyone turned to look at her now. "You can hear Her. Understand some of what She wants, right? As long as you have it under control, it's a resource, just like before."

Cid looked at her incredulously. "You're actually suggesting he --"

"She can't do anything to him. Not with all of us here." She looked at Cloud again. She looked incredibly nervous, but she kept talking anyway. "Do you think you could do it?"

He considered this for a moment. Jenova didn't have as much power over him as She once did, true, but the damage to his psyche had been done years ago, and he was potentially clay in Her hands if he wasn't careful.

"...I think I could, yeah."

"It's a lot to ask," she added. "You don't have to if you don't want to."

He shook his head. "I want to. I can handle Jenova better than I can handle... whatever-it-is."

Tifa nodded and placed a hand on his arm. "I'll spot you. Fifteen minutes and I'm gonna cut you off."

He sat back down and tried to pretend everyone wasn't staring intently at him, and that Barret's arm hadn't just shifted back into a gatling gun, and that Jessie hadn’t just shut down again. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

He barely had to reach for Her before She snagged him and pulled him away. It was dark here, but he knew that it was far from empty. A million million voices scratched at the fragile scrap of self he had left. He had nothing left to fight against them with -- what little he might've had before, five years alone in Nibelheim had destroyed what was left of it. Rather than wasting energy trying to maintain himself against Her, he allowed Her to overtake him, gathering as much of Her voice into himself as he could while he still had the presence of mind to.

Eventually, his will crumbled entirely, and he was awash in that deep space for a second, or an hour, or a century. Part of the music, and the depth. Part of Mother.

He was suddenly jarred back to reality and found himself slumped in the booth with an aching jaw. He stared at the ceiling for a while with vivid green, inhuman eyes as who he was slowly began to put itself back together. Everything felt distant.

"...you hear anything?" That must have been Tifa. Maybe she had punched him.

He nodded numbly. "Heard Mother."

"What did She want?"

"She wants out. She wants to be whole."

There was a motion across the room, which got him to notice Cid. He was here now too. That was nice.

"Anything we don't already know?" he asked. Cloud turned his head and fixed his eyes on Cid and earned a small shudder from the latter. He couldn’t seem to make his eyes focus on anything.

"She wants out. She wants to be whole. She's waited to be whole. Her children will make Her whole."

Cid rolled his eyes. "This was a waste of twenty minutes."

"Her children will make Her whole. Her children will bring Her Reunion."

"Well, looks like he's checked out for the day," he heard Reeve say as Barret retracted the gun back into a hand. "We may as well consider our options and call in what reinforcements we have."

Cloud felt a wet nose press into his arm. Nanaki. It was his friend Nanaki. "Is he going to be alright?"

"I'll take care of it," said Tifa, who moved somewhere he couldn't see and carefully picked him up with a grunt. "Maybe he'll mention something else."

Words kept happening from his mouth on the way up the stairs. He could hear them discussing them in the dining room. Reunion, children, whole. Their words and Her words that weren't words, not the way humans knew them, and his words, the ones in between the two, kept blending together all the way to his room as Tifa set him down on his bed and sat down next to him, squeezing his good hand.

After a moment it occurred to him that perhaps he was supposed to squeeze back, but for some reason he couldn't really move. Mother hadn't given those parts of him back yet. Still, there it was. The thought was strangely comforting even though it wasn't a part of them.

She was saying words now, to him. Tifa, not Mother. He tried to respond, but the words he wanted to make himself wouldn't stick together long enough for them to be said. There were only Mother's words now. Tifa kept talking, though, so he had another chance, and another, and another. Eventually, he managed one.

"Sorry."

There was a pause in her speech, and she said something back. "Me too."

"Didn't mean to yell."

"I know. I'm sorry I didn't trust you."

It was another few minutes before he managed more: "Didn't want anyone to worry."

"We're gonna worry about you. That's something we chose to do anyway. That's part of how having a family works."

"Don't leave."

"I won't."

After what felt like another eternity, Cloud finally managed to make his fingers contract. About time. She might've left.

Tifa let out a sharp hiss of pain as he very nearly broke her hand, and he loosened his grip and turned to look at her properly. It was easier to write his own words in now.

"You get anything good from that?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Same old crap as usual. Bit weird that She's mentioning children again, considering they're all dead."

"You think there's more? Remnants, maybe? Another experiment that got out?"

"Nanaki thinks there could be. I think he's wrong. There's nothing left, right? You checked about a hundred times after... after the stigma." She clenched her fingers nervously.

He nodded. "Nothing. Not even any samples."

"Well... no news is good news, right?"

"Right."

She leaned up against him, careful not to bump his arm. Another thing he'd missed. At least it was easy enough to convince Tifa to sit with him. Half the time he couldn't work up the nerve with anyone else. They could say yes if he asked. But they could also say no, and that would hurt almost as much as if he never asked at all and just went about his business not being lonely all the time like an adult was supposed to be.

Tifa didn't want to say anything, obviously, but a quick look out the window told him it was already night. He must have been sitting on his bed with Mother -- Jenova, for hours. Maybe five or six. It had gotten worse again. 

The worst part of it all was that even after all this time, it wasn't really unpleasant. In fact, it felt wonderful to be "whole". It was as though he'd been choking, and he was finally permitted to breathe, this basic function of his mind and body that he denied himself so he could keep his individuality. The fact that one day he might not want to refuse was yet another thing he was terrified of.

He curled up against Tifa a bit closer. She'd have to bail him out if that day ever came. He hoped she would want to. 

"So... why fire?" came the question after several moments of silence.

Cloud looked up at Tifa from a bit of skin he'd been picking at on his left wrist with his teeth, confused by the question. "You must've mastered about ten spells by now," she clarified, "and fire's always your go-to. Why?"

"It... it's easy to use," he said. He reached through to the Planet on a path he now knew by heart, gently coaxing a small flame into existence and staring at it as it ran through his fingers, as though it would look different now that he was considering it properly. "It's pretty similar to what I can do innately. Does big explosions just as well as quiet arsons. It's got a lot of useful non-combat applications, too."

Tifa shook her head. "No, I know, just... it doesn't bother you, in fights?" There was another period of silence. 

"The smell, I mean," she added quietly.

He looked up from the fire at Tifa again, who was staring at it with a distant expression on her face. "We were both at Nibelheim," said Tifa. "If -- if you saw anything close to what I saw... smelled it... I don't know how you stand it."

The flame in his hand flickered and went out. He knew exactly what Tifa was talking about: had stepped over the mangled bodies in the streets and sprinted frantically to their cabin; had run back in for his mother, maimed and screaming as the flames claimed her; had to be dragged back out by Tifa's sensei when he succumbed to the smoke, too lethargic to do anything but watch her burn. The mako had seared away many things from that day that he'd had to win back, but the scent of charred flesh and burning hair had not been one of them.

Eventually he spoke up, still staring at his empty hand. "I, er... I sort of got used to it. From before Nibelheim."

Tifa frowned, fixing her gaze on him. "Before?"

"Nibelheim was only unique because it wasn't planned and they didn't have a coverup story ready to go," he said, failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I worked for Shinra for two years before that. It's what they do."

Tifa was quiet. Cloud continued, the words coming easier the longer he talked. He didn't know if she actually wanted to hear it or not, but he was loath to interrupt a clear memory, especially if he managed to recover something else. "Three houses in the Sector 1 slums, I remember doing. And in Wutai, when they were cleaning up after the war... whole villages, along the southern half of the main island. Little villages, even smaller than Nibelheim."

He leaned back against the wall, staring out the window. "They weren't in the news. Nobody cared about those villages. Nobody cared about Gongaga, or Corel... and nobody really cared about Nibelheim, either." He glanced nervously at her. She was looking at him. He held his ground. "I never felt like that smell was a part of Nibelheim. It was just... a part of fighting, I guess. Had been for a while."

She looked at him for a while, then nodded. "It was tricky for me, at first. Almost wasn't let in to Avalanche at all. They took me on the first bombing mission, and after it went off things got a little... intense for me. So they stopped taking me."

"You came with me for the run on Sector 5," said Cloud.

She nodded. "Yeah. And that was the first bomb run I'd been on in years since then. I volunteered, and I guess Barret was too surprised to say no."

"Why'd you volunteer?" asked Cloud, and while she didn't smile, he saw Tifa's expression soften a bit.

"Had to keep an eye on you, Mr. Soldier First Class," she replied. Cloud let out a quiet huff of laughter. "After the bomb went off, it was a little easier this time, since it had been so long, and I thought maybe I'd started moving past it... before Sector 7, anyway."

There was another period of silence as Tifa quietly clenched and unclenched her hands. She didn't really have any mastered spells that she could cast in such close quarters -- it was rather like cracking one's knuckles, something Tifa found thoroughly unappealing.

"I thought maybe Barret dealt with it easier," she said, "but then I remembered Corel. I don't know how he does it."

"Maybe he's not bothered by stuff like that. Maybe he's got different stuff that gets to him," said Cloud eventually.

"He's right in the other room. You could ask him," said Tifa.

"No point," said Cloud. He'd rekindled another flame, smaller this time, and wove it between his fingers like a pen. "He'd tell me to stop asking. He's probably only afraid for Marlene's sake. I can't really picture anything getting to Barret like that, can you?"

Tifa shrugged. "Well, let's check." She raised her voice. "Barret, can you come back in here for a moment?"

She reached out to his flame as Barret stepped in through the door, scooping it out of Cloud's hand and sculpting it with her own mastered spell, Flare, and it violently flashed out of existence in midair with a deafening crack, causing Barret to jump and yell a string of words that prompted a loud, ugly laugh from Cid in the next room.

"Is that all you called me in here for?" he said, clearly unamused.

"Yes, and you've been a big help," replied Tifa politely as Cloud struggled to keep a straight face. "Really," she added, as Barret's scowl deepened.

"I'll let everyone know he's awake. Good to know y'all are taking this seriously," he said, and closed the door to Cloud's room again.

"Loud noises," said Tifa after Cloud allowed himself a brief chuckle. The strange static aftermath of a magic discharge hung heavy in the air. "See? He has a gun for an arm and you can still startle him."

"I guess so," said Cloud after a moment. "It's... maybe he's got something else that it means to him."

"Yeah, maybe..." said Tifa. There was another moment of silence as the unspoken thought passed between the both of them; who had Barret watched burn before Corel?

"...He probably wouldn't tell us what it was, though," said Tifa eventually. "But maybe when all this is over, we should ask anyway."

Cloud nodded. "Maybe we should."

There was a knock on the door. “Are you okay? I heard something loud.”

Cloud quietly swore under his breath. He’d forgotten about Marlene.

“We’re fine,” said Tifa, opening the door. “Is Yuffie still with you?”

“She went downstairs for drinks.” She looked nervously at Cloud, whose eyes probably still weren’t quite right. “...Can you come make me a float?”

“Yeah, alright,” replied Tifa after a moment. She turned back to Cloud briefly. “You’re okay here, right?”

He nodded. “Gonna stretch my legs a little, actually. Everything still feels weird.”

He watched as Tifa went off with Marlene, then let himself downstairs as well to find Cid and Reeve still talking in the dining room.

“Do we have a plan yet?” said Cloud uneasily, pulling up a chair. It was so much easier when they could just go stab whatever the problem was.

Reeve shook his head. "Not a lot we can do for now. The WRO is a volunteer group. It'll take time to get a response from anyone with any real power."

"I thought you were in charge?" asked Cloud.

Reeve shook his head. "I'm in charge of a large relief organisation that doesn't have any real authority over any particular sovereign nation or city-state. Edge wants to be one of those city-states. I can apply for a leadership position just like anyone else, but..."

"I thought you'd be a shoo-in. You're pretty much the only politician left alive, right?"

"Not necessarily. And people... don't really like former Shinra staff, as I'm sure you've noticed by now. The WRO's come under a lot of fire over the years for having my name attached to it."

"You're trustworthy, though. You --"

"-- helped you kill every other member of Shinra in what was unarguably a coup, even if it was a coup for the right reasons." Reeve sighed, watching Tifa disappear up the steps with Marlene holding a root beer float. "I knew I'd have to get out of this game eventually. If I'm not a part of the process anymore, now is as good a time as any."

"...Well, if I was allowed to vote, I'd vote for you," he said eventually. He got up from his chair and walked behind the bar, doing his best to make drinks with just one hand. "If you're voting on anything, anyway. Is this a vote?"

"It's a vote, yes. And your support's appreciated," said Reeve, then looked over at Cid sharply. "You're not supposed to be smoking in here," he said in response to the lit cigarette he now had between his fingers. Cid held up another finger on the hand he wasn't using and took another drag.

"Tifa's gonna put that thing out on your face," warned Cloud through his teeth as he bit the cap off an opened bottle of brandy they had in the fridge.

"Just like she's not gonna mind you're pouring yourself a drink," returned Cid, gesturing to the third cocktail he'd been making. Cloud waved him off.

"She doesn't care if I drink. It's not like there's a rule against it."

"You can't have booze with pain meds, Strife," drawled Cid. "They shoulda told you that on the way out of the hospital."

"They told me a lot of stuff," he replied offhandedly, slowly screwing the cap back on after topping the glasses off. "Doctors say shit all the time, and it's never important."

"Actually, that's not quite --" began Reeve before he was interrupted for the fifth time that night.

"You're gonna put yourself in another coma and we just got you out the last one, dumbass."

"I've had worse," said Cloud, and went back to his seat with his drink.

"I hate it when you do that, you know," said Reeve. "You can't just shut down every conversation about your health."

"Can and will." He took a sip of his drink, and Reeve just shook his head and echoed Cid's "dumbass” sentiment but let the conversation drop anyway.

"What, we don't get any?" asked Cid, then stopped as he noticed the two glasses float over and set themselves down in front of each of them. Cid snatched his up and gestured pointedly at Cloud with it. "I thought you said you were gonna stop doing this shit."

"I have one hand, Cid."

"So take trips," said Reeve, now also frowning. "It's one thing if it's an emergency. Casual use of this kind of thing is gonna make this a lot harder to deal with. Especially now."

"It's convenient and it's not hurting anything."

Cid narrowed his eyes. "If someone sees you doing that --"

"Look, just... everyone already saw my eyes, probably. Barret told me about the arm, and I got spotted on the roof. Damage done. The mobs'll probably be here in a day or two," said Cloud, his face falling a bit as what he was saying suddenly hit him. People knew now. Someone would have told someone else. Everyone would know that there was something living in Seventh Heaven that wasn't human.

"So it's not like it matters," he finished quietly after a moment. He took another few large swallows of his drink.

"...You can stay at my place for if you want, 'til things blow over," said Cid, taking a swig of his own drink. "Couch is yours for as long as you need it."

Cloud nodded. "Thank you." It still sounded insincere. "I can..." Pay him? Fix something for him? Give bad relationship advice? Cid could do all that himself.

"You can make me drinks," said Cid. "'Cause this is damn good and the bar back home is shit."

"I didn't come up with it. It's Tifa's recipe," he said, shifting in his chair. Cid shrugged and took another drink anyway.

"You have as much right to be here as anyone else," added Reeve. "You don't need to move unless you want to.

"Dumb fuckin' assholes'll never know what you did for 'em anyway." Cid drained his glass and Cloud moved it back into the kitchen and into the sink with a small jerk of his wrist, just to bother him.

"You goddamn smartass --"

"Is Cid smoking in there?" came a voice from the doorway. Jessie had come back out of the back room. "Tifa's gonna kill you."

"Not if you don't tell her," he said, flicking some ash off his cigarette.

"I won't have to. That stuff smells. You know that, right?" She let herself into the kitchen, then turned to see Cloud drinking and scowled at him. "Sure, why not? Let's have you run the dishwasher and use the oven while we're trying to think of more ways to piss Tifa off." Cloud's face went furiously red.

"It was one time --"

"It was four times for the first and six for the second and you know it."

"He's been doing not-magic, too."

"Reeve!"

"Gods, I was joking. Anything else?"

Cloud stood up again. "If I make you one too, will you shove off?"

She shrugged. "I guess so. Make sure it has an olive on a toothpick."

Cloud slunk off behind the bar as they continued talking. It had been easy enough to take the compliment from Cid, but really he hadn't done anything for them. Well, perhaps that wasn't strictly true. They'd taken out Shinra together, killed Sephiroth together. He'd helped dig through the rubble of Midgar for survivors, too. He'd been one of the few people on-site with any sort of first aid training and mastered White magic, and definitely the only one capable of lifting massive chunks of downed buildings off civilians. But he'd had help with that too. He wasn't the strongest healer in their family, let alone in that volunteer group. And he'd helped dispose of the bodies. But Cid probably wouldn't bring that up to try and lighten the mood. The man wasn't that tactless.

Cloud knew exactly what Cid had been talking about, and that was something Cloud was absolutely sure he hadn't done. He couldn't have. No one, not even the man that killed Sephiroth, could do something like that, could they?

It was, by definition, impossible. Magic had rules.

There was nothing he could do about them being convinced it was him, though. If it was something they thought he'd done, he'd let them keep giving him credit for it. Another lie onto the rapidly growing pile, but it wasn't like he had a lot of purchase in this group as it was. He needed every edge he could get.

After getting Jessie her drink (and hovering it over to her while looking Reeve dead in the eye), he went back upstairs to check on the rest of his belongings. His sunglasses were smashed. The temporary ones he'd been given by the hospital wouldn't stay on his face because they were too big, and not because he was too small. He'd have to send someone out to get new ones, not that it would matter much anymore. His phone was badly scuffed, but still seemed to work alright. His wallet only had eighty gil in cash and a couple condoms in it in the first place, and both were still there. He made a mental note to put something else in it with his phone number on it in case it got lost, since it wasn't like he had an ID. His radio was back to producing nothing but static.

Guess I can't give this back to her now, he mused, and began to leave his room.

He stepped out the door, and the static faded into music again. He froze, and then went back inside. The music lapsed back into static.

He glared at the radio and snatched it off his desk, then jogged back downstairs with it. He dropped it unceremoniously into Jessie's lap and hauled himself up to sit on the bar a small distance away.

"Can you fix that thing for me?" he asked. Jessie looked at him strangely. The radio was playing music again.

"Seems fine to me," she said, shrugging. She tossed it back over to him, and as he snatched it out of the air, the music shut off again. Cloud stared at the radio, and now Reeve was staring too. He quickly switched it off.

"Yeah, probably. I'll deal with it later," muttered Cloud, and finished off the rest of his drink in one go, just in time for Barret to walk in and scowl at him.

"...What?"

"Did you listen to a damn word the doctor told you?"

"Nah. Are you gonna ride me about the booze too?"

"Your dumb ass is gonna wind up with another seizure."

"I don't do seizures anymore." At least, he was pretty sure. It had been years since the last one, and there was almost nothing left to set them off anymore.

"There's a difference between your episodes and poisoning yourself. And Yuffie can't heal either one, so you'd better --"

"What am I not doing?" Yuffie had peeked her head into the room curiously, then frowned when she noticed Cloud with his empty glass, and she gestured with her own. "Can I have one?"

"You sure can," said Cloud, giving the smallest smirk. "Barret, do you want one?"

Barret grunted, which was probably the most graceful "yes" he was gonna get out of him for the time being.

"What are we getting?" said Nanaki as he trotted into the room after her.

"Cloud's making drinks," said Yuffie. "You want any?"

Nanaki cocked his head to the side, then shook it. "I'll have a sip of someone else's. I don't know if I would like alcohol."

"Is he above drinking age?" objected Jessie.

"I'm fifty-two. Is that sufficient?"

"Isn't that like... twelve for you?" said Yuffie.

Nanaki's tail bristled, and the fire on the end of it sparked briefly. "Fifteen at least! And it's fifty-two!"

"I'm making two drinks," said Cloud decisively. "And one of you better share."

Might as well ask Tifa if she wants one too, he thought. And as the notion occurred to him, she came walking down the steps, her mouth drawn in a thin line. He braced for the inevitable conversation but pressed onward anyway.

"Hey, Teef, do you want... Tifa?"

Instead of also lecturing him about why he shouldn't be allowed to have a nice drink to take the edge off things, or even making Cid put out his cigarette, Tifa walked right past him without looking at anyone and out the front door.

"Tifa?"

Tifa was already off down the street. Cloud looked guiltily at his empty glass. Maybe he shouldn't have been drinking.

Marlene peeked down from the top of the stairs after her, looking a bit guilty. "...Did she leave? Was it something I said?"

Barret set his drink down and shifted enough to allow her into the booth next to him. "What's wrong, baby girl?"

"I made Tifa mad."

"I promise you didn't," said Barret. "Tifa couldn't be mad at you."

"I found a box under her bed, and it made her mad."

Cloud quickly shot Barret a significant look. After a moment a look of comprehension settled onto his face and he turned back to Marlene again.

"She's not mad at you, baby. She was worried you'd get hurt. There was a gun in there."

"Tifa owns a gun?" The skepticism was clear in her voice.

Barret nodded. "It's a gun. You remember back when Shinra was around, and we had to fight them?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, we had to buy a lotta weapons to fight them. We still have some of 'em around, just in case something else bad happens."

"Like your arm?"

"Like my arm."

"So why was she mad? You aren't shooting everyone." Marlene tapped the back of his metal hand, which looked for all the world like another prosthesis, albeit a very fancy one. Reeve had called in a couple favours after his original gun had been crushed when the Highwind crashed and he’d been pinned by rubble.

"She wasn't mad," said Barret wearily, clearly regretting this particular story already. "Guns aren't safe to touch if you don't know how to use 'em. It could go off and hurt you."

"...So, can you teach me how to use a gun?” asked Marlene. “So Tifa won't be mad."

"Look, why don't we go see Tifa, and she'll tell you she ain't mad," said Barret. "Alright?"

"I'll get her," said Cloud, heading for the door. He'd been anxious to anyway.

"Glasses," said Nanaki rather firmly.

Cloud grunted and stepped back from the door again. "Someone's not getting a drink."

"If you'll recall, I didn't ask for one."

"I'll go get her," said Barret. "You too," he added to Nanaki. "Gonna need someone with a nose on 'em to find out where she went."

"What about Marlene?" asked Cloud. It was almost definitely past her bedtime. Marlene looked at Cloud hopefully.

"...I'm making an exception just this once, 'til we clear this up," said Barret uneasily as Marlene's face lit up. "Keep an eye on her." He knelt and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. "Be back soon, baby girl."

"Thank you!" squealed Marlene, the earlier conflict all but forgotten at the prospect of staying up late with everyone else. The minute Barret and Nanaki were out the door, she rounded on Cloud.

"I wanna do an arm-wrestle contest!" she said. Cloud shrugged, then winced at the action. His shoulders were definitely not up for shrugging for the time being.

"Alright, but go easy on me," he said. "I've gotta use my bad arm." Marlene immediately ran off to get paper to write up tournament brackets and scores on.

Cloud had no idea what time it was, and the alcohol was making him a bit dizzy, now that he really thought about it. Marlene pinned his arm five times, and then had to stop because one of those pins (the one where he'd decided to give her a bit of a challenge and she'd responded with using both hands and shoving his arm at an angle) actually managed to elicit a genuine cry of pain from him as it twisted a muscle he didn't know was still sore. Yuffie got out a deck of playing cards and did a few witch's tricks, since she was always good at the sleight of hand stuff, then began trying to teach Marlene how to do one of the easier ones. Reeve went upstairs to take a phone call. Cloud went out back to his bike and removed his swords, just in case. Cid took off his shirt to compare scars and wound up falling asleep in his chair. Jessie fiddled with the portable radio, trying to find that third station that was rumoured to have started up lately.

Through it all, Cloud kept glancing anxiously back at the door to the Seventh Heaven, because he could have sworn that on the way out there had been something clutched tightly in Tifa's fist.

[selenatorsphilippines]

Selena Gomez on Instagram Fatigue, Good Mental Health, and Stepping Back From the Limelight

On an unusually wet and windy evening in Los Angeles, Selena Gomez shows up at my door with a heavy bag of groceries. We’ve decided that tonight’s dinner will be a sort of tribute to the after-church Sunday barbecues she remembers from her Texan childhood. I already have chicken simmering in green salsa, poblano peppers blackening on the flames of the stove, and red cabbage wilting in a puddle of lime juice. All we need are Gomez’s famous cheesy potatoes—so bad they’re good, she promises. She sets down her Givenchy purse and brings up, in gaudy succession, a frozen package of Giant Eagle Potatoes O’Brien, a can of Campbell’s Cream of Chicken soup, a bag of shredded “Mexican cheese,” and a squat plastic canister of French’s Crispy Fried Onions.

“I bet you didn’t think we were going to get this real,” she says, and when I tell her that real isn’t the first word that springs to mind when faced with these ingredients, she responds with the booming battle-ax laugh that offers a foretaste of Gomez’s many enchanting incongruities.

But real is precisely what I was expecting from the 24-year-old Selena, just as her 110 million Instagram followers (Selenators, as they’re known) have come to expect it. Of course, celebrity’s old codes are long gone, MGM’s untouchable eggshell glamour having given way to the “They’re Just Like Us!” era of documented trips to the gas station and cellulite captured by telephoto lenses. But Gomez and her ilk have gone further still, using their smartphones to generate a stardom that seems to say not merely “I’m just like you” but “I am you.”

“People so badly wanted me to be authentic,” she says, laying a tortilla in sizzling oil, “and when that happened, finally, it was a huge release. I’m not different from what I put out there. I’ve been very vulnerable with my fans, and sometimes I say things I shouldn’t. But I have to be honest with them. I feel that’s a huge part of why I’m where I am.” Gomez traces her shift toward the unfiltered back to a song she released in 2014 called “The Heart Wants What It Wants,” a ballad about loving a guy she knows is bad news. The title derives from a letter written by Emily Dickinson, though Woody Allen reintroduced the phrase when he used it to describe his relationship with Soon-Yi Previn. We can assume that Gomez is referring here to Justin Bieber, with whom she ended a three-year relationship at around the time the song debuted.

If you are over 30 and find yourself somewhat mystified by Gomez’s fame, unable to attach it to any art object—apart from several inescapable pop songs and a cameo in The Big Short in which, as herself, she explains synthetic collateralized debt obligations—then you might wish to watch the video for “The Heart Wants What It Wants.” (You will be late to the party; it received more than nine million views in the first 24 hours following its release.) Before the music begins, we hear Gomez’s voice as if from a recorded psychotherapy session, ruminating over a betrayal. “Feeling so confident, feeling so great about myself,” she says, her voice breaking, “and then it’d just be completely shattered by one thing. By something so stupid.” Sobs. “But then you make me feel crazy. You make me feel like it’s my fault.” Is this acting? Is it a HIPAA violation? Either way, there is magic in the way it makes you feel as if you’ve just shared in her suffering. Pay dirt for a Selenator.

Gomez queues up a playlist—Dolly Parton, Kenny Rogers—and back in the kitchen, there is a chile relleno casserole to assemble, green enchiladas to roll, and her cheesy potatoes to mix together. As I slip an apron over her mane of chocolate-brown hair, for which Pantene has paid her millions, and tie it around her tiny waist, I wonder whether her legions have felt for years the same sharp pang of protectiveness that I’m feeling at present. Even as she projects strength and self-assuredness, Gomez is not stingy with frailty. “I’ve cried onstage more times than I can count, and I’m not a cute crier,” she says. Last summer, after the North American and Asian legs of her “Revival” tour, with more than 30 concerts remaining, she abruptly shut things down and checked into a psychiatric facility in Tennessee. (This was the second time Gomez had canceled a tour to enter into treatment; in January 2014, shortly after being diagnosed with lupus, she spent two weeks at the Meadows, the Arizona center that has welcomed Tiger Woods, Rush Limbaugh, and Kate Moss.) The cause, she says, was not an addiction or an eating disorder or burnout, exactly.

“Tours are a really lonely place for me,” she explains. “My self-esteem was shot. I was depressed, anxious. I started to have panic attacks right before getting onstage, or right after leaving the stage. Basically I felt I wasn’t good enough, wasn’t capable. I felt I wasn’t giving my fans anything, and they could see it—which, I think, was a complete distortion. I was so used to performing for kids. At concerts I used to make the entire crowd raise up their pinkies and make a pinky promise never to allow anybody to make them feel that they weren’t good enough. Suddenly I have kids smoking and drinking at my shows, people in their 20s, 30s, and I’m looking into their eyes, and I don’t know what to say. I couldn’t say, ‘Everybody, let’s pinky-promise that you’re beautiful!’ It doesn’t work that way, and I know it because I’m dealing with the same shit they’re dealing with. What I wanted to say is that life is so stressful, and I get the desire to just escape it. But I wasn’t figuring my own stuff out, so I felt I had no wisdom to share. And so maybe I thought everybody out there was thinking, This is a waste of time.”

On August 15, Gomez uploaded a photo of almost baroque drama: her body collapsed on the stage, bathed in beatific light. Whether this was agony or ecstasy, it drew more than a million comments from fans (who have handles like “selena_is_my_life_forever”). It would be her last Instagram post for more than three months. She flew to Tennessee, surrendered her cell phone, and joined a handful of other young women in a program that included individual therapy, group therapy, even equine therapy. “You have no idea how incredible it felt to just be with six girls,” she says, “real people who couldn’t give two shits about who I was, who were fighting for their lives. It was one of the hardest things I’ve done, but it was the best thing I’ve done.” She stayed for 90 days, making her first post-treatment appearance last November at the American Music Awards, where she collected the trophy for Favorite Pop/Rock Female Artist and gave a tearful speech about her struggles; it quickly went viral.

In the tearoom at the Peninsula Beverly Hills hotel, little girls in pinafores and pink high-tops sit on heavily tasseled sofas and drink sparkling apple juice out of champagne flutes. One by one they approach our table, shyness replaced by rapturous giggles as Gomez praises their pretty dresses and invites them to sit with her for a picture. Her seemingly infinite patience with these intrusions is something between a habit and a principle. “Somebody I used to hang out with would always get very frustrated with me,” she says, presumably referring to Bieber, whose name she will not utter. “But I have a hard time saying no to children.”

Donna Gigliotti, who produced The Fundamentals of Caring, a 2016 drama in which Gomez plays the love interest of a boy with muscular dystrophy, recalls the throngs of children ready to engulf her outside the set even in rural Georgia. “They love her because she is so generous and so authentic,” Gigliotti says. “I admit that I didn’t quite understand her huge fan base at first. Now I see her as a sort of third-generation feminist. She’s adorable and flirty and funny, but she’s also kind of kick-ass. I think her young fans go wild for that combination.”

“There’s a vulnerability about Selena,” says Paul Rudd, her costar in The Fundamentals of Caring. “She’s never trying to sell herself or impress anyone. She doesn’t put on airs, and she was a good sport about really long days in sometimes uncomfortable conditions. You’d never know she was so famous by the way she behaved, which, I think, is a huge key to her appeal.”

Doll-like and startled in pictures but almost breathtakingly at ease in person, Gomez was once described by her good friend Taylor Swiftas “both 40 years old and seven years old.” She grew up in Grand Prairie, Texas, raised by a single mother who was sixteen when she was born. Gomez remembers being asked to feel between the cushions in the car for change so that they could buy Styrofoam cups of ramen. But at age seven, after a few years on the pageant circuit, she landed a role on the children’s show Barney & Friends, which shot in Dallas and recruited talent locally. By twelve she was one of Disney’s young players, plucked out of thousands of hopefuls. At thirteen she moved to Los Angeles with her mother and stepfather, and the following year Disney gave her the lead in Wizards of Waverly Place, a sitcom about a family of wizards who own a downtown Manhattan restaurant. The show was a hit, and Disney did what Disney does, fanning Gomez’s talent across music and movies, with her mother, Mandy Teefey, continuing to act as her manager. (Gomez hired a Hollywood management firm in 2014, after her first mental-health crisis, but she continues to develop projects with her mother and prizes her opinion above all others.) “I worked with Disney for four years,” Gomez says. “It’s a very controlled machine. They know what they represent, and there was, 100 percent, a way to go about things.”

No child star enjoys easy passage through the morass of adolescence, and Gomez struggled to shed her blandly perky Wizards persona. “For a guy there’s a way to rebel that can work for you,” she believes. “But for a woman, that can backfire. It’s hard not to be a cliché, the child star gone wrong. I did respect my fans and what I had, but I was also figuring out what I was passionate about and how far I was willing to go.” The first thing she did post-Disney was Harmony Korine’s darkly lurid Spring Breakers, a 2013 film about four college girls on a rampage of sex, drugs, and murder. (Gomez played Faith, the one who can’t quite stomach it all and heads back early.) “My mom wanted me to work with a director who would really push me,” she recalls. “I watched Kids, Trash Humpers, Gummo, and I was like, Mom, are you crazy? But it was fun to imagine how you might behave if you were set free of whatever was holding you captive. I’m a late bloomer. I grew up around adults, but in terms of getting out, having friends—at times I really didn’t know anything but my job.”

In retrospect, Gomez’s childhood successes were always tinged with sadness. “My mom gave up her whole life for me,” she explains. “Where we’re from, you don’t really leave. So when I started gaining all this success, there was a guilt that came with it. I thought, Do I deserve this?” Though she has been in several other films since Spring Breakers, Gomez has enjoyed greater success as a musician. And yet the musician’s life exhausts her. On film sets she is buffered by the ensemble and can retreat into her character, but in a concert, all eyes fix upon her. “It’s weird,” she says, “to get up onstage and have everybody know where you were last night.”

With the tour and treatment behind her, lately Gomez is feeling unusually relaxed. The Netflix miniseries 13 Reasons Why, which she executive-produced, airs this month, and it addresses several issues dear to her, among them teen suicide and the pressures of social media. Eight years ago, Gomez and her mother reached out to Jay Asher, who wrote the novel from which the series has been adapted. Its title refers to the thirteen reasons why its protagonist, Hannah Baker, chose to take her life. “I didn’t know much about Selena back then,” Asher remembers. “I think I watched Princess Protection Program to prepare. She explained to me how deeply she connected to the book, which is really about how there’s no way to know what people deal with. In that very first meeting we talked about Twitter, and I remember her telling me that there’s this idea that celebrities aren’t supposed to notice or care about what’s being said about them. But she can’t help but care.”

Gomez has also been in the recording studio off and on, and in February she released “It Ain’t Me,” a song cut last November, produced by the Norwegian DJ Kygo. It’s both a dance-floor anthem and a polemic against dependency and enmeshment. (“Who’s gonna walk you through the dark side of the morning?” she sings. “It ain’t me.” A few years back, it might well have been Gomez.) She is collaborating with Coach on a line of accessories, out this fall, and Stuart Vevers, the house’s creative director, recently met with her in Los Angeles for a bit of brainstorming. “There’s a very warm and inclusive way that Selena has with her fans,” Vevers says. “That’s the nature of her power. What fashion house wouldn’t want to tap into that?”

There are no movies in the works and no time pressure from her record label. “For a change,” she says, “it feels like I don’t have to be holding my breath and waiting for somebody to judge a piece of work that I’m doing. I’m not eager to chase a moment. I don’t think there’s a moment for me to chase.” Gomez currently lives in an Airbnb in the Valley and honestly doesn’t get out much, except for long drives with her girlfriends: a realtor, a techie, some folks from church. “I think seventeen people have my phone number right now,” she says. “Maybe two are famous.” She is taking Spanish, which she spoke fluently as a little girl but lost, in the hope of recording some Spanish-language music in the future. She sees her shrink five days a week and has become a passionate advocate of Dialectical Behavior Therapy, a technique developed to treat borderline personality disorder that is now used more broadly, with its emphasis on improving communication, regulating emotions, and incorporating mindfulness practices. “DBT has completely changed my life,” she says. “I wish more people would talk about therapy. We girls, we’re taught to be almost too resilient, to be strong and sexy and cool and laid-back, the girl who’s down. We also need to feel allowed to fall apart.”

She has hardly been posting on Instagram. In fact, the app is no longer on her phone, and she doesn’t even have the password to her own account. (It’s now in the possession of her assistant.) She sometimes fantasizes about disappearing from social media altogether. “As soon as I became the most followed person on Instagram, I sort of freaked out,” Gomez says. “It had become so consuming to me. It’s what I woke up to and went to sleep to. I was an addict, and it felt like I was seeing things I didn’t want to see, like it was putting things in my head that I didn’t want to care about. I always end up feeling like shit when I look at Instagram. Which is why I’m kind of under the radar, ghosting it a bit.”

Well, not entirely under the radar. A few days after we met, Gomez flew to Italy with her new beau, The Weeknd, and the paparazzi did not fail to notice. (Neither did The Weeknd’s ex, the model Bella Hadid, who took to social media and promptly unfollowed Gomez.) When I ask Gomez about the romance, she tells me that everything she has said about her relationships in the past has come back to bite her, and that she will never do it again.

“Oh, Mylanta!” she wails, watching her cheesy potatoes travel around the table, a whiff of the simpler joys of home. “Look, I love what I do, and I’m aware of how lucky I am, but—how can I say this without sounding weird? I just really can’t wait for people to forget about me.”

Source: Vogue

[occupyscifi]

Memory Mods

Before leaving for the meeting Johnny Amani mainlined some Abandoned Father Issues with a quick kick of Moody Adolescence, topped off with a chunk of Teenage Quest to get him in the right mood.

“oh yeah” he nodded as the memories came back to him, washing away the previous evening’s Happy Boyhood and Teenage Country Farm memories. In a few moments all recollection of his smiling parents, supportive siblings and that time with the girl from the farm down the road faded. In their place there grew memories of restlessness, of ambition and other people letting him down. In the bathroom mirror he felt his face get more serious. His eyes narrow slightly. His father’s eyes, and damn that man for pushing him to the brink. Well today he’d show him. Today he’d brave the things his father had never dared. He could look his father in the eye without getting called a pussy.

The meeting was taking place in the former palace of a Silicon Valley firm that had been requisitioned during the revolution and turned into community buildings. Now the great silver torus rang not with the sounds of data acquisition nor the cries of tormented coders but instead with communal civic startups and privacy therapy centres.

Johnny breezed in through the entrance, nodding at the blond wood and the blandly cloned trees whose wood still bore the imprint of the long gone branding that had been encoded into its genetic structure. He felt like a Jobs or a Bezos, ready to take on the world and hold it in the palm of his hand. With that thought in mind he manfully strode into the smoked glass cubicle of the meeting room, all the other attendees looking up at him as he took his place on the smart plastic chair.

“Okay” he said as he felt his buttocks firmly gripped by the chair “lets do this” he looked around the room at the rest of them, feeling them bow before his authority “My name in Johnny Amani, and I’m a false memory addict. Welcome to the first meeting of memory addon addicts anonymous”

“Its not the fault of technology” Johnny explained once they had gone around the room and they had all introduced themselves (back at the first meeting. He’d been maudlin, having been mainlining some lost first love he’d downloaded on the darknet) “FakeMem technology had a noble start” he looked at the small group of fellow addicts, knowing almost instinctively what their addictions were. Pria, the teenage girl in the corner was lost in kiddie fantasy land, revelling in memories of secret worlds through ordinary wardrobes and aliens coming to collect her to fly their last starfighters. Elena, the corporate bitch on his left and his current closest girlpal, could just as easily been tattooed with the same Daddy issues memories that Johnny had dosed himself with “memory rewrite technology was developed back before the revolution to help PTSD cases – a branch of Google dreamed it up, tried to sell it to the Pentagon for soldiers who’d left their sanity down Mexico way. But of course by then Uncle Sam wasn’t buying anything. So they instead went all philanthropic. California was awash with refugees from both sides of the war. Kids who’d seen things no human being- let alone a child- should see. The engineers figured it was simple. PTSD is all about memory, you see something that fucks you up, your brain can’t handle it. It plays it out on repeat, forever. It can’t get past it, like a stuck record” he paused for dramatic effect “so if you replace the memory then you get rid of the trauma. Course it ended up being used for evil means – Mcluhn’s maxim still applies” Johnny nodded at the wall where the late, great prophet of the revolution’s most famous phrase hung on the wall. Under a picture of a plump middle aged woman the words went ‘any sufficiently advanced technology will first be used for liberation, but then inevitably for repression and control. Often by the same people’. Johnny bobbed his head in respect to Mcluhn’s wisdom “which we saw in the revolution when the Silicon Valley oligarchs realised they couldn’t just charm their way out of trouble so they tried to make us forget. Had whole cities where overnight people got their entire lives turned upside down. Woke up not knowing what memories were real and which were not. Evil times” he shook his head, he’d just been fresh out of college in the Midwest when the silicon valley appligarchy had been overthrown so he’d been sheltered from the worst of it. Even so the town right next to his had been hit by a wartime era fearbomb and it had taken years for the residents to restore their real memories from social media backups and simulated approximations “but this is not about all that. It’s about us. Because we’re not frightened little refugees, nor are we Navy SEALs who saw too many heads explode down in Juarez” he looked around at them all “we’re addicts. We’re addicted to changing our memories because either we get a buzz off of feeling like we’re someone else or otherwise we’re too terrified to face reality with just our own boring memories for company”

“I’m Pria” the teenage girl had stood up first. Brave of her, Johnny though, but a cynical part of him knew that her bravery came not from within but from false memories of that time when she was twelve and she’d faced down an army of orks with nothing but her mage skills for survival. Course he only knew that because he’d done the same. Got fired from his job because of it – not for being an addict but for flipping out when a co-worker had laughed at him checking all the cupboards in a board room for secret passages to other worlds “and I’ve been using false memories since I was about ten years old” the girl gulped, wearing the faraway expression that meant she was refusing to meet anyone else’s eye. The room was good for that, the glass was only smoked on one side so from the other you could look out over the centre of the torus, down to where once cadres of Silicon Valley brodudes had set forth to conquer the world in the name of big data “I don’t even know why I started. I used to think it was cause I got bullied, then I checked my downloads and I realised that the whole bullying thing was a FakeMem too. I must have just been lonely, so I started taking them. I started with a few light ones. You know, the meet a celeb memories. A couple of Shanghai Disney world rides. My dad wasn’t always there so he used to share a few from his travels, so we could both pretend we’d been together” her voice quavered slightly “maybe that’s why I got too deep” she glanced at Johnny “but I don’t wanna act like I blame my dad. I got myself addicted. I didn’t want to be me, I think, it was easier to be Princess Peach or Empress of the Porcelain people. Better than being boring old Pria Park who went to the local high school and didn’t have a single experience different from anyone else I’d ever met”

With that she abruptly sat down. Johnny started the applause, nodding bullishly at her admissions “excellent. Remember, there’s no judgement here. We’ve all done things we regret, things we want to forget. Hell, that’s half the reason we became addicts” he looked suddenly serious “but because of that there isn’t a quick fix. The only way we can get past our addiction is to recognise what it is, to work together to support each other. To remember that our addiction isn’t some harmless fun” he looked around soberly at all of them “most of us have had so many mods we can’t even tell our real memories from the fake ones. We’ve squandered reality chasing some impossible dream. We need to stop looking to some bolt from the blue remedy. There isn’t something we can download into our brains that will magically fix us. There isn’t some brand new mod that will bring everything back and make us better again. We only have each other”

 “You know there’s an erase doing the round” Elena cornered Johnny, waiting till everyone else was gone and doing so on the pretext of cleaning up the coffee cups and wiping down the non digital whiteboard of its inspirational slogans. Only when the room had emptied had she sidled up to Johnny and whispered in his ear.

“didn’t you listen to my inspiring and not at all plagiarised speech?” said Johnny dismissively as he reset the room, wiping the machine memory of the defiantly non networked software that monitored the office. Revolution protocols stated that it was illegal to store any digital information of any user without express permission and even then to make sure it was not accessible by anyone with any commercial purpose “there isn’t some quick fix download. Its fantasy” he looked her in the eye, her façade of corporate bitch almost totally vanished. Now he saw the anxiety and insecurity that had lead to her addiction. The worst part was knowing that his own face mirrored that too “memory isn’t archaeology. You can’t just peel back the layers looking for what was originally there. Human memory is organic. When you change a memory you are literally moving the brain cells around. You change their alignment. They make new connections and the old ones are broken. There isn’t an erase function for that”

“This time its different” said Alma “look, I’m not going to get into a technical discussion but it seems like its more of a reconstruction than an erasure. Because you know that when you implant a new FakeMem it overrides the old one, but to do so you need to understand the old state. So it already maps your brain, right?”

“Sure” said Johnny, whose technical knowledge was probably less than Elena’s but wasn’t about to admit it. Perhaps had he not been stuffed to the gills with father resentment memories he might have not been indulging some alpha male bullshit but that was an argument for another day.

“So all you’d have to do to roll back the memories would be to establish the right trail. If’ you’ve got a record of the mods you’ve added then you should be able to follow them back and restore the original”

“Sounds like this software is pretty heavy duty” said Johnny “and also pretty fucking illegal. To go through a download record like that would violate, like, a dozen Revolution protocols. In fact it probably qualifies as a bioweapon in itself. Could probably be Gitmoed because of it”

“I’ll take that as a no then” said Elena turning to leave “cause I’m gonna download it in, like, two hours time”

“Oh no” said johnny quickly, leaping to intercept her “I just said it was seriously illegal. I didn’t say I wasn’t interested”

“in that case meet me here” Elena scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to him. Her handwriting was almost illegible, side effects of growing up before the revolution when every piece of information was sent via machine “at 4pm. Its gonna  be a blast”

“sure” said Johnny, already having moved beyond second thoughts into third and fourth thoughts. Did he really want to do this? He sighed as Elena exited the room “guess I’m going to have to call my sponsor”

 “so let me get this straight, another FM junkie wants you to download something that’s going to definitely roll back you mods and free you of your addiction?” “yup” said Johnny. They were sitting across the street from the former silicon valley campus in a café that had been liberated for the people but was otherwise unchanged from its days feeding the libertarian messiahs and the big data pushers of silicon valley. There were even still the posters on the wall of the last generation of Silicon Valley billionaires. Anywhere else in America those posters would have been torn down, but there was still an ambivalent relationship to the survivors living in the valley itself. Most of them had been hardcore privacy crusaders but there wasn’t one of them that hadn’t been raised on stories of the tech entrepreneurs, the men and other men who had taken a bunch of numbers and made a billion dollars out of them. Indeed the man sitting opposite Johnny was a typical example “that’s just what I’m gonna do Greg” “dude, that’s fucked up” said Gred Deen. Back in the revolution he’d on the frontline, former coder turned poacher, white hatting for the good guys when his former employers at Google had taken the ‘don’t’ out of their famous slogan. He’d met Johnny when the pair of them were in rehab, Greg could remember nothing of his life before the revolution, because for the five years after it he’d modded his memories so heavily his synapses were permanently screwed. Now he worked as a barista at the coffee bar, body occasionally wracked by flashbacks to memories that may or may not have been his own “you understand that, right? I mean that’s junkie talk. That one final big hit will set you straight? That’s not how it works. Hell, if I thought I could get back my real memories that way then I’d sign on the dotted line, but the fact is that it doesn’t work. I got out of being a junkie the hard way, same as you need to”

“but I want the real me back” said Johnny pitifully, pulling at his shirt “not this macho bullshit guy I am today, nor the sensitive well rounded guy I pretended to be yesterday. The real me”

“not sure any of us would know that even if we had our memories” he shook his head as he poured out cups of GM’d java guaranteed to wake up even the sleepiest of heads “I mean, you know what life was like before the rev, right?”

“I got too many memories man, you know that”

“back then people had their public selves – all that social media profile shit. Then they had their sensitive inner selves they’d only reveal in messages to their nearest and dearest. Were either of those the real them? Hard to know. You could watch someone’s livefeed for hours and you don’t know if it was the real them or not. People act differently depending on who they think is watching”

“I looked up my social media feed a couple of years ago” confessed Johnny, dropping his voice to a whisper. It didn’t do to talk about things like that. Even before the revolution social media had been a warzone. After the revolution a general amnesty had been predicated on the notion that any every trace of data harvested in those years should be destroyed. Some people had grumbled that this let the perpetrators of the Twitter massacre of Osaka and the snapchat murders off the hook but it was generally agreed that peace relied somewhat on amnesia. An irony which Gregg and Johnny could well appreciate.

“and?” asked Gregg carefully, his hands shaking minutely

“I didn’t find anything”

“nor should you man”

“no, but really. There was nothing. I mean, I used some back channels that would get me in trouble if certain people knew. But I was desperate. I was using several times a day back then. I’d have done anything. I thought if I could find….”

“good job you didn’t” rumbled Gregg menacingly “people know you’ve got that kind of data then they think you’re with the tech underground….”

“you really believe that even exists?” said Johnny “come on, its just rumours. If any of the silicon valley execs survived the last days of the rev then they’re hiding pretty deep. Hardly think they’re plotting some kind of takeover. People would never stand for it”

“never know” said Gregg “you didn’t know these people like I did….”

“I didn’t think you remembered” said Johnny accusingly

“don’t need to. I kept diaries. Stories that would make your hair curl. These were people who got to where they were by hacking society. Disruption, that was their big deal. They didn’t see the world like we do. Where you consider other people’s feelings and point of view. There was one thing they cared about. Power. Sometimes that came from money and other times it came from having so much dirt on people they could play ‘em like a harp. These people don’t just vanish” Gregg looked up to where several customers were waiting “like I say. Don’t try to dig up the past. If you fail you’ll just keep on being a junkie and if you succeed, well you might just wish you failed”

 Elena was waiting impatiently outside the hotel. It had the slightly melted pastel look of cheaply 3D printed walls and the fixtures inside recalled both the enthusiasm of the immediate post rev world as well as its terrible design choices.

“You got it then?” asked Johnny, still not sure if he was doing the right thing. He’d changed his mind five times since speaking with Greg and nearly turned around and headed home. But he needed to know, either because life is a journey towards truth or else as Greg said he was just a junkie needing a fix.

“course” said Elena, the last of her corporate bitch memory mod fading like old hair dye. Together they strode into the dilapidated hotel, the automatic credit readers long having been ripped out and replaced by a small armoured booth where a revolution veteran sat starting into space. They paid cash with the certainty that the veteran wouldn’t remember who they were. Odds on she wasn’t sure if they were real in the first place.

“are you ready?” asked Elena as she prepped the EEG machine and laid the electrodes across Johnny’s head. He could hear the apprehension vying with the excitement in her voice.

“no” said Johnny truthfully “ I mean, shit. What if we don’t like who we are? Cause chances are we were not good people. Otherwise why would have modded our memories in the first place?”

“we’ll never know unless we give it a try” said Elena, adjusting the electrodes on her own head “ready when you are”

“Listen if it turns out that the revolution was a fake and that we really live in google verse or Apple gulag then I’ll never forgive you” Johnny looked at Elena fiercely.

“Yeah, that would be awful” she said “not least cause there’s already, like, a dozen conspiracy theories that say exactly that” she smiled “probably find that actually we were just assholes instead. But I’d like to be my own asshole, if that makes sense”

“Hey, I don’t need memories to tell me I’m an idiot” said Johnny as Elena tapped a code into the machine “I see that every morning when I wake up”

“See you on the flip side” said Elena as the machine counted down from ten “lets hope we weren’t too bad people”

With that there was a burst of light. With most memory mods the effect came on slowly, the memories trickling through like coloured syrup through water. With this one however Johnny staggered under the weight of it. Echoes of past memory mods imploded in his mind as the program traced back through a decade of mod addiction. A burst of Happy Childhood suddenly overwritten by Growing up Gangsta. The light notes of Teenage Adventurer melded  with High School Hero. He could feel his neurons requiring themselves. The false memories being replaced by those he had gathered himself through eyes and ear, processed by his own mind. Suddenly it was there. Reality. And at the same time he finally realised why he had become an addict in the first place. And he realised that Greg was full of shit. Not only had that fucker clearly had his memory working, but that he had known full well who Johnny really was.

“Oh shit” he said, opening his eyes to see by the expression on her face that Elena was having the same realisation as him. He ripped the smooth electrodes off his head, holding it like it was bout to explode or send him mad, which effectively it had done. “Oh shit, shit shit. The fuck have we done?”

“Well I don’t know about you” said Elena, or as he realised now former CEO of Google and warcriminal responsible for the privacy deaths of millions, Mia Ramsey “but I’m gonna download as many memory mods as I can till I forget this ever happened”

“Oh yeah” said Johnny, or rather Facebook chief security officer Alan Khan. AKA the man responsible for the fear bombing of three cities and the subsequence suicide spike that had seen ten thousand people take their own lives “I guess there are worse things than being an asshole after all”