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natasha-romanoff-deserved-better · 3 years ago

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The Day The Music Died

Summary:

“This’ll be the day that I die,” Yelena had sung those exact words in the car that day, and no lies were told.

Natasha never wanted to hear that song again.

Word Count: 3437

Also on Ao3 here

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Natasha stares at the bandages wrapped tightly around Clint’s left wrist, eyes locked in on the red spots where extra blood had been soaked up by the gauze. Clint’s tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, softly drumming along to the song playing from the radio as he maneuvers the car around a bend in the old back road.

“I can feel you staring.” He says, snapping Natasha out of her trance. Clint takes his eyes off the road for a second to catch her gaze. ��Nat, I’m fine. I promise.” It’s not going to change what happened, but he still tries. These types of missions were always hard on Natasha, and it’d only been made that much worse when one of the target’s bodyguards had managed to catch Clint’s forearm with a knife, dangerously close to critical veins. There had been a lot of blood and although Nat was easily able to stitch his skin back together, the close call had scared her - even if she refused to admit it out loud.

“I know you’re fine, idiot. It’s impossible to get rid of you.” She snorts and sends him a small smile. The radio cuts into a commercial, advertising their station and morning talk show before launching into another song.

A long, long time ago

I can still remember how that music

Used to make me smile

Natasha frowns at the song as an alarm bell begins to blare in the back of her head at the notes that drift out of the speakers. She furrows her eyebrows at it, a sinking feeling coming over her. Images from another time threaten to overtake her, and she’s too weak to stop them.

And I knew if I had my chance

That I could make those people dance

And maybe they'd be happy for a while

A blonde little girl, only five years old, prances around the front yard. She’s barefoot and wearing her pink sparkly sundress, hair pulled up into pigtails as she tries to catch a ladybug. Natasha watches from her perch among the tree branches. Mom Melina is kneeled on the ground as she works on the garden in front of the house, planting new flowers to replace the dead ones. She’s brought her portable stereo out, sitting it on the porch and playing at full volume. Natasha isn’t even aware of what song is playing until Yelena is running up to the porch, begging her to play it again. Mom Melina does. And then plays it again with an amused smile and quirked eyebrow when Yelena asks for a third time. Yelena cheers with joy as it starts again and rises to her tip toes as she begins to twirl and dance to the music.

Nobody knows what it is about the song that Yelena likes so much, but she loves it. She constantly asks for it, so much so that Melina loads it onto a cassette tape and keeps it in the car just for her. Natasha doesn’t quite understand what most of the lyrics are talking about, but she decides she doesn’t mind the song for Yelena. In a way, it fits- Yelena is the picture perfect little all american girl, apple pie personified.

Natasha’s frozen in her seat. She pleads with herself to move, to turn off the radio. She doesn’t want to hear this. She knows what verses are coming next, and her breathing catches in her throat as they start. These words hold no comfort for her anymore.

Bye Bye Miss American Pie

Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry

And them good ol boys were drinking whiskey and rye

Singin’ this’ll be the day that I die

This’ll be the day that I die

Her sister’s high-pitched voice singing the words, a beat behind as she moves her hands cheerfully, lost in the rhythm of the song. She’s buzzing with excitement- ready for her promised big adventure, too young and oblivious to notice their parent’s anxiety or her sister’s internal crisis happening in the seat next to her. Natasha can’t look at her sister, she doesn’t want her to see the panic she knows is written over her face. Instead, she keeps her eyes locked out the window, trying desperately to commit everything to memory. The red, white, and blue lights that light up the night, the football game where a band plays and people cheer, the abundance of restaurants where families are sat enjoying dinner. The normalness of it all makes her angry - how can all these people be so casual when her world is falling apart at the seams? Yelena begins to sing the verse about dying, and it takes everything within Natasha to not snap at her. She can’t bear to listen to her little sister singing about dying, so blissfully unaware of the possibility of the verse becoming true at any moment now. Natasha should say something to her, tell her to stop, tell her what was happening. But the lure of pretending one last time is too great for her to give away. She doesn’t say anything.

Did you write the book of love

A photo album, thick with pictures of them all sit on the shelf. It’s Natasha’s favorite thing in the house, and she often sneaks out of bed to stare at the photos. Realistically, she knows they’re all fake. But if she tries hard enough, thinks long enough, she swears she can recall the events. Thanksgiving had been fun; the food had been the best she’d ever tasted. Their summer vacation had been at the beach, and she swears she can feel the sun warming her face and the sand between her toes.

And do you have faith in God above

If the bible tells you so?

She and Clint had gone to a church once, as part of an undercover mission. She’d ended up having to walk out in the middle of the service. It had been too much. She could never believe in it, even if she wanted to. No loving God would ever create the horrors she had seen before her 13th birthday or give her a family purely to steal it all away so violently.

Can music save your mortal soul

And can you teach me how to dance real slow?

Natasha’s feet hit the ground, still en pointe, as she lands the perfect Grand Jete. She tosses her arms out in the landing pose and holds it for a second before excited clapping breaks her concentration. Yelena sits there, smiling wide as possible, clad in her own black leotard and pink tights. She’s in the younger classes, not as advanced as Natasha yet, but it doesn’t stop her from trying. Yelena scrambles to her feet, crossing the floor to stand next to her sister.

“Teach me, teach me!”

It’s a complicated step, and Natasha knows she’s not ready for it just yet. She doesn’t want her to get hurt.

“I’ll teach you when you’re older, okay?” Yelena nods, and turns to the mirror, copying Natasha’s arm positions.

Natasha tries to force another breath into her lungs, but it’s harder now, her throat and chest constricted. She squeezes her eyes closed, trying to block out the flashbacks that continue to assault her.

Now for ten years we’ve been on our own

And moss grows fat on a rolling stone

But that’s not how it used to be.

Fifteen years. It had been fifteen goddamn years since Natasha had seen her sister for the last time. She refuses to let herself think of what might have happened to her. It pains her to think of her baby sister, who had once been so full of life, in such a horrid place.

Natasha wraps her arms around herself, arms holding each other tightly. She digs her fingernails into her skin, attempting to give herself something else to focus on and ground her. It doesn’t work.

Bye Bye Miss American Pie

Drove my Chevy to the Levee but the Levee was dry

Them good ol boys were drinking whiskey and rye

And signing this will be the day that I die

This’ll be the day that I die

Natasha doesn’t know how long they’ve been stuffed into this shipping container, crowded against a hundred other little girls. They’re all dirty, all starving, all terrified. The scent of sweat and urine threatens to suffocate them, the air hot and heavy.

She has tugged Yelena into her lap, arms protectively crossed over her torso to hold her close- hasn’t let go of her since the second they were put into here for fear of losing her amongst the other girls. She’s so tiny, and Natasha doesn’t trust any of the others.

Yelena stirs, a small whimper falling from her lips. Natasha tries to shush her gently, but it doesn’t work, and her sister keeps squirming. Her cries are starting to grow in volume, and one of the girls next to them sends them a dirty look.

“Yelena, Yelena. I’m here. You’re with me.” It’s the only words of comfort Natasha can offer her. She wishes she could tell her they were okay, that she was safe, that they were going to be fine. Instead, all she can do is assure her that her older sister had her. Yelena had stopped calling out for her mom a while ago, after her calls went unanswered and she finally realized no one was coming to rescue them. Natasha shifts them around, turning her back towards the others and away from prying eyes. Natasha turns Yelena on her lap, so that Yelena is facing her. “Yelena, look at me.”

Yelena shakes her head, so Natasha gently cups both sides of her face, titling her face up so that she has no choice. Yelena doesn’t resist, just locks her tear-filled eyes onto Natasha.

“I’m scared,” Yelena sobs through hitching breaths as her body trembles.

Natasha clutches her tighter and brings her closer, so close their noses are almost touching. “Don’t cry, Lena. Just sing with me.” Yelena frowns at her in confusion, and Natasha starts to sing under her breath, quietly, so that Yelena is forced to quite herself down and focus to hear the words.

She starts with the chorus, the part that Yelena knows and likes the best. “Bye, Bye, Miss American pie,” Natasha sings. The corner of Yelena’s lips quirks up in recognition. Nat pauses, prompting Yelena to sing the next line herself.

Her voice quivers, but she sings it anyways. “Drove my chevy to the levee…” Natasha nods in encouragement and joins her for the next verse. “But the levee was dry.” They sing the next few lines together. They near the last two lines of the chorus though, and this time, Natasha can’t allow her to sister to sing the last line. They hurt too much, they’re too real.

So she interrupts Yelena, skipping forward past the “Day that I die” line and jumping right into the next verse. Yelena doesn’t even question it, just follows her sister’s lead and allows herself to be completely absorbed in the whispered song.

Natasha sings almost the entire song to her sister, doing her best to remember as many lyrics as she could, and then starts over. She keeps singing, over and over again, until her voice starts to crack, and Yelena’s eyes are slipping closed in exhaustion.

“Tasha?” Clint calls, picking up the tension in his partner. She doesn’t respond, just stays frozen in her seat, locked in her own little world. “Hey,” He calls, a bit louder this time. He takes one hand off the wheel and places it on her shoulder gently. “Nat. What’s going on?” She’s shaking.

Instead of answering, Natasha claps her hands over her ears and leans forward, bending at the waist so she can rest her head atop her knees. She’s shaking her head, muttering something under her breath.

We all got up to dance

Oh, but we never got the chance

“Teach me, teach me!”

“…When you’re older.”

Natasha never got the chance to teach Yelena that ballet move. She wonders just how many other promises to her baby sister she’s broken.

“I’m going to pull over, Nat, okay?” A male’s voice comes from somewhere close by. His hand moves from her shoulder onto her back, to rub small circles on it.

Do you recall what was revealed

The day the music died?

She had never felt so stupid. Standing on that airway strip, holding a gun out in front of her, blocking Yelena. She had let her fall into the lie, childishly believe that maybe, just maybe Dad Alexei loved them like he said he did. As Alexei kneels before them, showing no sympathy to his daughters tears, she realizes that had never been the case.

The chorus starts again, and she feels bile rise in her stomach. “Bye Bye Miss American Pie” Natasha remembers how she had stolen that gun from a solider, shoved her sister behind her and threatened to kill numerous grown men for touching her. How desperately she had clung to Yelena when they’d been ripped apart. She hadn’t been ready to give up her sister, not ready to say goodbye to the American dream lie they had built side by side. “Drove my Chevy to the Levee but the levee was dry” The memory of Yelena’s face during those few days had haunted Natasha’s dreams for years. It had frightened her- even more so than the men with oversized guns. She had never seen her sister, who laughed at everything and loved the world with everything in her, look so despondent. She had tried telling her jokes to pry some kind of smile out of her. It didn't work. “This’ll be the day that I die” Yelena had sung those exact words in the car that day, and no lies were told. That day, when dad Alexei handed them back to Russians soldiers, they had both died. Died only to be remade and ruthlessly forged into something new, nothing more than weapons of mass destruction and trained killers.

There’s cussing to her left that pulls her back halfway to the present. She’s in a car, and she’s covered in vomit that runs down her front and onto her chest and lap. Clint has a hand on her, and he’s telling her just a second, Nat.

“Clint?” She asks, still slightly confused. She can still feel the weight of a smaller body on top of her, feel the soft blonde curls against her chin.

“I’m here, Tasha. Hold on.”

Oh, and there we were all in one place

A generation lost in space

With no time to start again

Countless little girls standing in a straight line, blank expressions, awaiting their next commands. They’re all mirrors of each other, no identity left for any of them to cling onto. Natasha scans over each girl, searching for the blonde waves she knows so well. She can’t find her.

The song drags on as Clint navigates the car off the road, coming to stop. He jumps out and jogs around, flinging Natasha's door open. She doesn’t move, so he reaches in and unbuckles her before slipping his hands into her armpits and pulling her out of the car. She tumbles to the ground, falling onto her knees.

And as I watched him on the stage

My hands clenched in fists of rage

No angel born in hell

Could break that Satan’s spell

Natasha catches Dreykov’s eyes on them, and she tightens her hold on Yelena’s hand. Her sister makes a small noise - she’s going to have bruises with how tight Nat is holding her- but doesn’t pull her hand away. Natasha curls her free hand into a tight fist, ready to swing if need be.

Dreykov says something to the men with guns next to him and points a finger at them. The soldiers start moving forward, and Natasha backtracks, tries to back up but Yelena stumbles at the sudden change in direction.

I saw Satan laughing with delight

The day the music died

Natasha screams her sister's name, gripping onto her as tightly as she can. Soldiers have hands on them both, ripping them away from each other. Dreykov is standing several feet away, a tiny smile on his face. Yelena is shrieking, hands desperately trying to keep her grasp on Natasha with all the strength in her six-year-old frame.

They lose their grip on each other and are dragged apart. Yelena’s voice dies out as they carry away the only thing Natasha had left.

Bye Bye Miss American Pie -

“Turn it off!” Natasha pleads, before promptly vomiting even more onto the ground. Clint’s hands support her head, keeping her from falling. “Off, please. I can’t. Turn it--” Clint’s hands leave her for a second as he scrambles over her, reaching through the open passenger door and slamming the power button on the radio.

Natasha lets out a breath, thankful for the silence. With the song no longer playing, her head is beginning to clear, the painful images retreating somewhere she could lock them away again.

“All done?” Clint asks her. She spits out one last string of bile and nods her head, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as Clint helps her sit up and lean against his leg. He doesn’t rush her, just allows her to sit and try to regain control of her breathing as he combs his fingers through her hair.

When Natasha can finally think again, she frowns at herself in disgust. “Sorry,” She apologizes.

“You don’t need to apologize to me,” he tells her. Clint reaches over and opens the backdoor, grabbing his go bag and digging around until his fingers find one of his clean T-shirts. He yanks it out, closes the door. “Can I help you change, or do you want to do it yourself?”

He’s honestly not even sure if she could change herself right now, with how much she was still shaking, but he gives her the choice anyways. She shrugs her shoulders, her way of accepting help without actually having to accept. “Okay, arms up.” Natasha raises her arms, and Clint carefully tugs her shift off her by the collar, making sure the filthy outside never touched any of her skin. He crumples up the shirt into a ball and tucks it in a bag. He bunches up his shirt at the neck hole and slides it over her head before gently guiding her arms through. It takes a lot for his partner to get to this state, and his concern grows with every passing second that goes by and Natasha is still out of it. He fixes the shirt over her torso, making sure she’s completely covered and then sinks down to the ground, leaning his back against the wheel of the car. There’s a soft breeze in the air, the slight chill nipping at their skin a welcome distraction. “C’mere,” he says, and guides Natasha into his side. She tenses for a moment, but then lets her head drop onto his shoulder, allowing Clint to take her weight. He wraps an arm around her to hold her close.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha repeats, and this time Clint doesn’t say anything. He knows she’s not apologizing to him, but someone not in their presence. He doesn’t push it. She’ll tell him when she’s ready, on her own time. He has guesses though. Clint had an older brother, and he knows what a protective but burnt-out older sibling looks like. He’s seen the way her eyes linger on certain little girls in public before snapping back, caught the way she had once brushed her fingers over a fabric doll with pink hair on a store shelf, heard the way she is able to understand children’s speech without any effort. She’s never mentioned a younger sibling before, but sometimes in her sleep, she mumbles a girl’s name, her hands clenched in fists as if trying to hold on to her.

He presses a kiss to her temple, a silent promise. He won’t push her- He doesn’t need to know exactly what happened. He knows how to support her and how to take care of her when she needs it and for now, that’s enough.

Years later, Natasha will press her forehead to an adult Yelena’s, both panting from the fight, Yelena upside down and laying in the wreckage of the red room. Dreykov is finally dead, by Yelena’s hand. Yelena cracks a joke, and Natasha smiles. They’ll never again be those little girls they once were, but they’ve finally found each other.

#natasha romanoff #yelena belova #kid natasha romanoff #kid yelena belova #songfic #black widow 2021 #black widow fic #angst #natasha centric #marvel liho #mcu #mcu fanfic #Clint barton #he's here too #look i actually wrote something

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lazysublimeengineer · 3 years ago

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i tasted life

Title: i tasted life

Summary: He could say thousands of words laced in silky threads of affection and sweet encouragement. But he wasn’t made that way. Words were not his forte.

Character/s: Ryuuguugi "Draken" Ken, Hanagaki "Takemitchy" Takemichi, Kawaragi Senju

I tasted life

- Emily Dickinson

His jet-black jacket glistened sharply under the moonlight as they traversed back to their residences after that meeting with the Brahman. Takemichi was uncharacteristically silent as he stared straight ahead on the road. The normally bubbly and boisterous blond was reticent as he walked beside Draken who had his hands in both of his pockets. Takemichi was still processing the earlier events that had happened at that meeting which frankly looked like an underground fighting ground that reminded him of that unsanctioned street fighting led by Kiyomasa during their middle school years.

After the official announcement made by Senju about him now being a member of the Brahman, that’s when it finally hit him. He really was risking everything on the line including his life again to make Mikey’s future great and peaceful along with them. Nevertheless, Takemichi didn’t feel any anxiety or doubt within himself. He felt that he was doing the right thing and everything was falling into the right pieces.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling that wanted to crawl outside of his being.

“Oi. Takemitchy.”

Draken’s familiar deep and baritone voice jolted him out of his thoughts and looked up at him. Those sharp yet concerned obsidian irises were trained on him as if trying to decipher his innermost feelings and thoughts with that single gaze alone.

A warm feeling started to creep inside his chest and Takemichi resisted the urge to smile like an idiot in front of him.

“Yeah Draken-kun?” Takemichi gazed back at him curiously.

“You okay there? I can almost hear your loud, running thoughts you know.” He commented noncommittally but there was a tinge of concern beneath his nonchalant tone.

It made Takemichi chuckled slightly, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Ah, sorry about that Draken-kun. I got lost in my head again. Sometimes.” He smiled sheepishly at him.

It made Draken paused and just stared at Takemichi’s figure who was now walking past him. But the blond had noticed that he stopped walking and turned back to him.

“Draken-kun?”

Draken didn’t know what kind of face he was making but Takemichi looked at him with his tender, blue eyes that were devoid of malice and were just watching in genuine predilection and goodwill.

It made something inside of him break. He could say thousands of words laced in silky threads of affection and sweet encouragement. But he wasn’t made that way. Words were not his forte.

But what he lacked in words made up for the simplicity of his actions and for him that was enough.

He walked quietly towards Takemichi and stopped right in front of him. Before the other could react, his arms enveloped him in a firm yet gentle hug.

“You’re wearing that kind of face once again Takemitchy. For once, I gotta tell you to stop looking like that cause you’re not alone in this fight. Not anymore. We’ll save and bring Mikey back together. Understood?” His whisper was a gentle caress around Takemichi’s being that promised a brighter future and a dazzling ray of hope.

However, why did it feel different for Takemichi?

Why did it feel like a veil of a passing bell under the gloomy skies hung around them?

“Yeah…” Takemichi choked out a response, trying to swallow back his tears but his eyes glistened slowly. He could only return back his hug tightly as if he was afraid to let him go.

Takemichi couldn’t afford to break down and cry now even if he was on the verge of wailing like a lost kid. He promised himself that he wouldn’t lose his resolve and would just keep on fighting to make things better for all of them. Although he felt like his entire being was drowning away in quicksand, just being in Draken’s arms and firm grip seemed like a strong foundation that he can lean on.

“Thank you Draken-kun…” He whispered back and the other could only hug him back tighter in response.

“No. Thank you Takemitchy. For saving me and everyone. I’ll make sure that this will be your last mission for us.”

Takemichi’s heart quavered loudly inside his chest at his response and he wasn’t sure if it’s a good or a bad thing.

Takemichi inserted his keys into the keyhole of the front door of his house and turned on the knob. After his brief but lingering moment of respite with Draken on the road, exhaustion finally crept inside of him. All he wanted to do was to fall back on his bed and sleep the night away since he knew that he had to be prepared for the next day to come. He went inside and turned on the lights, flooding the living room with a brilliant spark of the white light.

The silence was deafening inside his house but it was nothing new.

He got used to living alone and greeting no one since his parents were busy with their own careers and lives to pay attention to him anyway.

The numbness inside his heart was growing but he chose to ignore it and just headed straight to his room upstairs when he paused all of a sudden, blinking a few times when he heard a noise.

A shiver ran down Takemichi’s spine before he steeled himself and continued making his way upstairs cautiously.

As he got nearer, he could hear someone singing. It’s like a song being played. Was the radio on?

A long, long time ago

I can still remember how that music

Used to make me smile

And I knew if I had my chance

That I could make those people dance

And maybe they'd be happy for a while

It was a smooth voice of a male singing an English song that Takemichi knew nothing about. But the tone of the song had a funny yet melancholic vibe to him for some strange reason.

He was now standing in front of his doorstep to his room.

But February made me shiver

With every paper I'd deliver

Bad news on the doorstep

I couldn't take one more step

I can't remember if I cried

When I read about his widowed bride

Something touched me deep inside

The day the music died

Takemichi swallowed thickly. His heart was hammering wildly inside his chest as his hand reached out to turn the knob of the door to open it and what greeted his line of sight made him froze and mind blanked out for a second.

So, bye-bye, Miss American Pie

Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry

And them good ol' boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye

Singin', "This'll be the day that I die

This'll be the day that I die"

In front of him was a phonograph, playing a vinyl.

And a blond male sitting in a chair with his wide eyes open and his mouth dripping with blood that went through his shirt and painted it a dark shade of crimson.

It was him.

He screamed and shot up from the bed all of a sudden. Takemichi looked around. He’s inside his own room and in his pajamas. There’s no phonograph that sounded like a death knell.

And there’s no dead doppelganger in front of him.

He was awakened from his nightmare which was dressed like a daydream.

“Hanagaki!” Senju hollered at him when he successfully tackled her on the ground and shielded her away from the bullets that the masked man shot in front of them.

“Are you alright Senju?” He asked worriedly.

“Eh?” Senju could only look up at him, still taken aback by what he did.

“I can’t let you die.” Takemichi said determinedly, staring at her intently which made the other gawk at him in silence, a slight blush marring her cheeks.

“Die Hanagaki!” The masked man screamed at them and shot at them again with his gun.

Takemichi could only close his eyes tightly as he waited for the bullets to land on his body.

But it never came.

“You good Takemitchy?” Draken drawled out as he glanced at him before approaching the masked men who grew fearful of him and dropped their guns, running away.

It made Takemichi opened his eyes and stared at Draken with wide eyes.

“Thank you so much Draken-kun…” There was gratefulness behind his voice.

Draken smiled wryly before he kicked the gun away. “They got the nerve to attack with such dangerous weapons.”

After Takemichi made sure that Senju’s completely okay, he went towards Draken’s spot and quickly leaned closer to his ear to whisper something.

“Let’s keep us it between us, but… Just now, I was able to foresee the future.”

It made Draken’s eyes wide for a fraction of a second.

“In that future, I saw Senju protecting me. I’ve prevented that outcome.” Takemichi continued to whisper seriously to him.

Meanwhile, Senju was looking at both of them with a curious yet perplexed expression on her face.

“What are you guys whispering about?” She asked.

“It’s all thanks to you Draken-kun. We’ve successfully changed one future!”

“Is that so…” Draken had a wistful smile on his face afterward. “Then I’m glad.”

“Hey, I think we gotta go! We’ll be in trouble if someone gets here!” Senju cut off their whisperings towards each other with a worried reminder.

Takemichi immediately sprang into action. “Ah, you’re right!”

They’re both running now when Takemichi noticed that Draken was just standing there and not doing anything.

“Draken-kun?” He paused and called out hesitantly.

His back was still turned to him when Draken spoke his words. “Takemichi… Please tell this to Mikey…”

“Huh?”

“Don’t cause too much trouble…”

“What are you talking about?! You tell him yourse-.”

He stopped midsentence when Draken crumpled down to the ground like a ragdoll.

Takemichi felt like a cold bucket of water was spilled on him as his eyes grew wide as saucers and stood frozen for a moment.

“I’ve done all I can do.” Draken murmured with a peaceful smile on his lips as his eyes watched dazedly on the raindrops that pelted on his body.

I started singin', bye-bye, Miss American Pie

Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry

Them good ol' boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye

Singin', "This'll be the day that I die

This'll be the day that I die"

(A/N: The day I own these characters is the day that my fanfic is the bestselling novel on the market which will never happen. Inspired by the events from chapter 221 of the manga. Senju lived. Mikey finally appeared. But at what cost? Also, I was listening to the song American Pie by Don Mclean when I was writing this fic and it fits since behind that upbeat yet lazy tone of the singer, the lyrics and the message of the song are quite tragic. Which honestly fits into the latest chapter of the manga. Lastly, where the hell is Wakasa? He only appeared for 2 chapters and I missed him already. I need to see him in the next chapter to free me from the angsty land of the latest chapter. Reviews are entertaining. So, let me hear them from you.)

#tokyorevengers #fanfiction #spoilers #manga spoilers for chapter 221 #doratake #drakenmichi #angst #character study #relationship study #takemichi hanagaki #draken #kawaragi senju #takemitchy #senju

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soyforramen · 4 years ago

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Blame @sullypants for this one since weird dreams are a common theme lately:

“Hey, Jug.”

Shaken by some unknown force, Jughead groaned and nestled further into his arms.

“C’mon, wake up,” Archie said, his voice coming from a universe away.

Sleep was a dense fog that settled in behind Jughead’s eyelids and he couldn’t muster the energy to push it away. He’d fallen asleep in school again, that much he could discern from the hard table beneath him. But at least the desk was a lot more comfortable than the janitor’s closet had been.

“Dude, let’s go,” Reggie said.

With a hard tug, Jughead was snapped awake. With a wide yawn he stretched out, his back giving a satisfyingly loud crack.

“What’s up?”

“School’s over, Rip Van Jones,” Reggie said. With a roll of his eyes, he ran a hand through his already slicked back hair. “The girls are waiting for us at Pop’s. Apparently we have to have a set list for Sunday and they wanted to go over it after school. Or at least we were supposed to before this knucklehead got us detention from Grundy again.”

Jughead blinked, convinced he’d heard Reggie wrong. Grundy was dead, murdered by the Black Hood. Even if she had come back to life, what was she doing around high schoolers?

“How was I supposed to know she meant a rhyme scheme from Donna Sweet and not Saweetie,” Archie muttered. “Besides, if we leave right now we still might make it before they ditch us.”

Wait, sweater vest. Why was Archie wearing a sweater vest? And was was Reggie acting so cordial?

Certain that this was another weird dream, Jughead reached for his Serpent’s jacket and found that the back of his chair was empty. Serpent’s jacket?

“I still think that we should ditch Jingle Jangle,” Reggie said as he headed out the door.

“What? It’s my best work,” Archie said as he followed him out.

With another yawn, Jughead picked up his books and followed them out into the cool autumn air. With a start, he realized that it was just a dream, a really weird dream to be exact. There was no biker gang that gave out jackets to kids like candy. He and Archie and Reggie had always been a strange sort of friends; and Grundy was never anything more than a septuagenarian determined to drive herself into an early grade by teaching high brow literature to idiot high schoolers.

On the way to Pop’s, Jughead ignored Archie and Reggie’s argument over some girl the next town over and worked to piece together the dream. It had all been so real that it wasn’t a wonder he’d been confused. Everything in Riverdale had been the same as it was now, except it was all off just enough to cast a dark shadow across their sleepy little town.

Hiram Lodge, a well known philanthropist and entrepreneur who tolerated his daughter’s friends was not a corrupt Wall-Street con-man looking to rule the world. The Coopers, an All American family, was not rife with dark secrets that would eventually tear them apart. The Blossom’s, while certainly devious and conniving in their own ways, were not ripped from the pages of a gothic horror novel.

And the Jones…

Jughead shuddered at the thought. Sure, they weren’t the perfect family. But they loved each other, took care of each other, and were as normal as they could be. That image of his family brought up a wave of guilt about how his subconscious had portrayed his parents.

(He couldn’t help but grin, however, at the idea that baby Jellybean could not only hold her own, but was a fan of Led Zeppelin. It was a nice touch. Maybe he’d roundup his mother’s old records tonight and he’d teach her to appreciate the finer things in life.)

But it wasn’t until they’d walked into Pop’s to find the girls seated at their regular booth that the realization that this Betty - sweet, caring, lovely Betty - wasn’t his that he felt a pang of longing for his dream world. Despite how horrific that dream had been, Betty was the golden lining in that dark world, a comfort meant only for him.

The feeling passed quickly when Betty’s eyes locked on Archie. Jughead couldn’t help but wonder, though, what if things had been different?

For the rest of the afternoon, the members of The Archie’s debated and argued over the set list, while Jughead did what he did best. While Archie was arguing for the merits of Sugar, Sugar, Jughead polished off three baskets of fries and a milkshake. When Veronica demanded to sing Bang-Shang-A-Lang solo, Jughead ate two and a half cheeseburgers and drank half a pot of coffee. As Reggie was arguing for… well, whatever it was he wanted, Jughead nursed a chocolate milkshake and a basket of fries (extra chili cheese, heavy on the onions and cheese, add bacon).

Occasionally he inserted his own opinion - no he would not let Reggie ruin another drum set just so he could show off to Ginger Lopez, nor was it feasible for Veronica to burst out, and ruin, his kick drum at the start of the show. But even as he played at normalcy, his mind kept coming back to that dream. Detention with Grundy could never be long enough to contain an entirely parallel universe, and yet it was the most realistic dream he’d ever had.

“Earth to Juggie,” Betty said as she waved her hand in front of his face. He blinked, his gaze centering on her, and she giggled. “Anything you’d like to share with the class?”

He glanced around and found that despite his attempts to stay present, he and Betty were the only two left.

“Veronica roped Archie into installing shelves for her,” Betty explained with an over exaggerated pout. She then pointed over to where Reggie was chatting a short, dark haired teen. “And Midge came in without Moose, so you know Reggie’s not going to miss that opportunity.”

Midge.

The world around Jughead spun and he felt lightheaded when he stood. He walked over to where the pair stood at the counter, and when Midge turned to him Jughead wrapped her in a tight hug, tears threatening to pour from his eyes.

“You alright there, needle nose?” Reggie asked, his eyes filled with concern.

Apparently Jughead hadn’t been able to play as normal as he’d thought.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he said, loosening his hold. He stared at Midge, still trying to comprehend why he felt so relieved that it was all just a dream. “I’m just… happy to see you is all.”

“I’m always happy to see you, Jughead,” Midge said. She placed the back of her hand across his forehead, the corners of her lips pinched. “But maybe you should let Betty take you home?”

Jughead nodded as the surreal threatened to overwhelm him. When he turned, he found Betty behind him, her arms full of their schoolbooks. She set a hand on his arm and gave an encouraging, if worried, smile. It was easy enough to let her lead him out of the diner. That way he could remind himself that the world where Midge had been slaughtered wasn’t real.

“Penny for your thoughts? Or maybe I should offer a nickel?” Betty asked. When he didn’t respond, she bumped her hip into his.

The contact, friendly, playing, concerned, burned his side. It brought up just how touchy they were in his dream world, along with false memories of things he’d never paid any attention to before (especially not about her). He shivered and quickened his step. Betty, ever the Teflon personality, matched his stride and slipped her arm through his.

“Just a strange dream,” he muttered, far too distracted by how much heat she gave out to come up with a good lie.

“Sounds like a pretty intense dream if you’re still thinking about it this much.”

And with that simple statement, the entire thing tumbled out of him. Nothing was left out, though Jughead did edit some of the more intimate moments they’d spent together in his dream. He was so wrapped up in making sure to include all the details - the corruption, the ever-burning ember of hope, the rocket - that he almost missed the fact that Betty had guided them through the town square three times as he divulged the dirty laundry about the underground boxing rings and Maple Club.

By the time they’d reached his house it was twilight and he was telling her about the prep school murders and fake FBI stings. His mother (his real mother, thankfully, and not the drug running mom that had run out on him) brought them out dinner just as he got to his own faked death.

And for the first time in his life, Jughead’s entire focus wasn’t on getting seconds (and thirds).

When he was finally done with his tale, Betty let out a long whistle. She pushed around the remaining bits of pie on her plate, lost in thought. Now that his head was empty of that bizarre dream, Jughead’s appetite came back with a vengeance. He leaned over and snatched the rest of her pie crust and popped it into his mouth.

“Well?” he prompted, curious to get her take on his dream.

“Do you think the fish Ms. Beezley served today was off?”

He rolled his eyes and grinned at her ability to lighten the mood. Jughead leaned back and set his elbows against the porch step behind him to look up at the sky. Betty set her plate down and sat down next to him, primly smoothing out her skirt before she spoke.

“Do you really think we …” she paused. “My mother? And your dad?”

Jughead groaned and ran a hand down his face. “I’d hate to think what Freud would say.”

“Well, he’d definitely agree it wasn’t a pipe,” she snickered. “Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something?”

“Convince Archie that Jingle-Jangle is a terrible song to play to middle schoolers?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

As the world turned around them, they sat in companionable silence. As curious as Jughead was to know what Betty really thought, it was these quiet moments with her that he felt truly at peace. Perhaps that’s what the dream had signified. With all the clamor and turmoil over senior year and applying for colleges, maybe his brain was trying to tell him to slow down and enjoy these little moments more.

Or maybe it was just a sign he shouldn’t shotgun a whole liter of soda before Grundy’s lecture on Dashiell Hammet.

“Walk me home?” Betty asked suddenly.

Without waiting for an answer, she hopped up and pulled Jughead to his feet, the same as they’d done a million times before. Only this time Betty tugged a little too hard and Jughead stumbled into her. He was about to apologize when he noticed the twinkle of mischief in her eyes. To hide his smile, he bent over and tucked his shoulder into her stomach. Betty shrieked as he lifted her up over her shoulder, precariously balancing the two of them as he picked up her books.

“Put me down Jones,” she said through her laughter, “or I’m telling Ethyl that you’d love to play D&D with her.”

“Dirty pool, Cooper,” he shot back as he casually sauntered down the block to her house. He ignored the faint whisper of the peaches and cream lotion she used on her skin and the breathless lilt of her voice. Because no matter how right it felt in the dream, they were only friends here. “And it’s G&G, remember?”

Once back on solid ground, Betty slipped her arm through his and they strolled along under the streetlights. Just another night in the neighborhood without a care in the world.

“Maybe it wouldn’t be all that bad,” she said almost absentmindedly. When she didn’t elaborate, Jughead’s heart gave a heavy, painful thump. “I could always use more help with the B&G.”

He snorted and reached up to scratch his forehead to ignore the sudden disappointment. “Toni does have some strong opinions about the gym’s new paint job.”

Betty stuck her tongue out at him, her face scrunched. Jughead almost tripped trying not to kiss the tip of her nose.

His mood darkened when they reached her house. Archie was on the front porch, napping, and the small seed of possibility withered into dust. But instead of running towards Archie, Betty paused next to him. Her teeth worked across her lip and she stared, unfocused at him. Her hand on Jughead’s arm tightened and she shifted almost imperceptibly towards him.

With a small nod, Betty stood up on her toes and kissed Jughead on the cheek. He flushed as the sun exploded in his chest.

“Meet me at Pop’s tomorrow after school. There’s a new French movie at the Bijou, and I’d hate it if Veronica saw it before me.”

He knew the smile on his face was just as goofy as the one’s he made fun of Archie for, but Jughead couldn’t help but wonder at this strange new turn. For once, he was excited to spend time alone with a girl. (He was always excited to spend time with Betty Cooper, but this time she wasn’t just Betty.)

His smile lasted all the way home and continued until he settled into bed. Just as he was falling asleep, his phone rang with a text from Betty.

‘Some of your dream sounded nice enough to try out in real life, don’t you think?’

To say that Jughead had trouble falling asleep for the first time was an understatement.

#bughead fanfiction #bughead appreciation week #thank you sully for letting me know we're all having weird dreams lately #and boom #this #trope 1: it was all just a dream #also i'm without anything but the most basic internet so i'll be a ghost in the machine again #but also i didn't want to do my art homework (which has nothing to do with art but ya know)#so #also thank you anon ;.; got me crying over here #i will answer you just when i have functioning internet

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bookstryingtostealyourheart · 6 years ago

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Birthday Kiss from the Bag Guy

A/N: Thank you everyone for your patience! I love writing these so much, I have just been so busy, busier than I have ever been! This one is a part of a challenge, that I am so happy to get to be a part of. I thought that it ended today, but I had been mistaken and it ended on the 25th! Thank god that @justauthoring is so understanding! Also; my favorite writer on here, so my friends go have a look at some of their awesome imagines/fics!!!! Funny thing, I wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be bad* or if it was really bag but I just went with it so here you go!!! It’s more of a silly and fun / wholesome short imagine.

Pairing: Carl Gallagher x Reader

Summary: You and Carl have been friends for a while, both of you being there for each other when the other person goes through some stuff, and Carl finds out you have never stayed at a hotel. Even he has done that! So he gets you a reservation for your birthday, to get you away from the stress of home.

Prompt: “Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bag guy”

“Did you bring your bathing suit?” Carl asks you, making you come out of your trance to send him a dirty look. Out of all things he could ask you, he asks you if you brought your bikini? Classic Carl...but you still have to love him. He did something so big for you. Frankly, you feel guilty. He is spending quite some money for this obviously, and you aren’t asking how he got it, but you will definitely have to do something big for his birthday.

“Did you bring yours?” You ask and he nods enthusiastically. Carl has had this planned out since the day it was somehow brought up that you have never stayed overnight at a hotel. He carries your bag up the steps of the large building. It was not the best looking hotel, but surely was expensive. “I can carry my bag Carl, it’s my birthday but I still have arms.” You push his shoulder slightly, opening the for him to enter.

“I am the bag guy from now on. Stop pushing the matter.” Carl sent a smirk your way as you approached the counter. The woman at the counter looked up at the two of you, no emotion recognizable. She must hate her job...

“Name?” She asks in a monotone voice and Carl gives you a grin. He always had something up his sleeve. He never failed to surprise you, ever.

“Y/N Gallagher. I talked to a Brittany on the phone, and she had said my arrangements were settled, I want to make sure that is true before we go in.” Carl says and then leans forward, whispering something into the woman's ear. It must have been something good, because she gave you a light smile.

“Yes, that is all set.” She turns to you, eyes soft and blue. “Happy birthday dear. You have a good friend here. Went all out for you.” She gave you a wink, which brings heat to your cheeks. Of course he had to come along and be extra somehow. Just like in the 9th grade, a boy was bullying you. That didn’t end well for that kid, he showed up at your place with Carl, Mickey, Lip, and Ian. That was already surprising, but when the kid started singing his apologies, Mickey and Carl both threateningly close to him, it showed he went all out. He made him write a -song- to apologize to you? Carl Gallagher everybody. You go to pick up your bag before Carl can get to them, but the lady raises an eyebrow. “You’re letting the birthday girl carry her own bags?” She asks and Carl practically rips the heavy bag from your grasp, still gentle enough for Carl.

“I keep trying to tell her, I am in charge of manual labor today. Right?” He asks and the lady laughs, handing you the key. You take the card in your hands, thanking her by habit.

“Yea, just let him be the bag guy.” She says and you shake your head as Carl gives a satisfied smirk, thanks the nice lady and heads for the elevator. Maybe you can’t judge a book by its cover, because she was nice. You enter the elevator, watching Carl click 6. 6th floor? You have a room on the top floor, but hopefully not a more expensive room. Gosh he needs to stop with this spoiling you. It is not something that any others really do, and you’re going to fall in love with this boy if he’s not careful. Carl has always been your soft spot, even when he was goofy and in love with tearing apart barbie dolls and lighting things on fire.

“Can we go to the pool first? I brought my cute bathing suit.” You teased and Carl nodded as the doors opened to reveal the hallway. There seemed to be about 12 rooms on this floor, give or take. That doesn’t seem like a lot, but you don’t think much of it as you find the room and swipe the card into the lock, hearing the satisfying click. You open the door to a room that smells like clean linens. It is dark, but you enter the room and find the switch, turning it on to gasp lightly.

“When they said they could do some interesting things for special occasions, they were right.” Carl says setting both yours and his bags on the bed. In front of the bed, on the other side of the room is a large table. It has balloons, a -very- large teddy bear, and a note that says to open the door to the mini fridge and freezer featured in the room. You sigh, overwhelmed but happy.

“You shouldn’t have.” You say, turning to look at the grinning idiot. He looked like a kid in a candy store, and he wasn’t even the one getting all the gifts.

“I really should have. Open the fridge. I needed Kev’s help for this one. Well I got Kev’s help with the whole thing...But I got it.” Carl orders and you do as you’re told. Thank god it wasn’t something like champagne, but just as good to you. Four Loko...the only alcohol you’d ever had. It knocked you on your ass the first time you’d drank it, but it was something you always preferred for drinking...not that you did it much anyways. You haven’t grown a liking to many other things. In the freezer, there was a little ice cream cake.

“Carl...what would I do without you?” You ask with a giggle, turning around with your arms extended for a hug. He took it without a second thought, giving you tight squeeze. He was a bit taller than you, so it was comfortable.

“For one, carry your own bags, but two...you’d probably die.” He said with a laugh. You giggled, parting from the hug. “Now go get changed, we have to go swim, then there is cake to eat!” Carl says grabbing his bag and heading into the bathroom, leaving you to change in the room. You grab your y/f/c bikini and look towards the bathroom door before slipping off your clothes, putting the bathing suit on, and slipping your t-shirt back over it. All of this in perfect time because Carl doesn’t give warning before swinging the door open and strutting out in his swim shorts and a tank top.

“I brought you a towel, figuring you’d forget one.” You say pulling out a pink towel and tossing it to him. He looks down at the towel before glancing back up to you.

“You’re lucky I love you.” He said swinging it over his shoulder, placing the key card in his wallet. “C’mon time is of the essence.” He slipped his hand through yours, pulling you through the door into the bright hallway once more. This time getting on the elevator, others got on with you. It was awkward because they were older, snooty looking. Since the pool was on the third floor, rather than the first, it was a faster trip.

“Wow...” You say looking at the large pool. There was no one else at the pool either, which was convenient because you can be as goofy and loud as you want now.

“I knew you’d like it.” Carl noted as you both stripped down to your bathing suits. Like clock work, as soon as you’d placed your shirt on a chair, Carl had successfully thrown you both into the water. You let out a slight squeal at the action, plunging into the cold water. Coming up to the surface, you shook your head, playful scowl playing upon your lips.

“Mean...” You comment as he shakes the water off his hair. You stood on your tip toes to comfortably be above the water, as you were in the part that went down into the deep end.

“Is there anything else that would make this birthday better?” Carl questioned, watching as you shook your head immediately. You did not want him doing -anything- else for you today, or for the next year even. “There isn’t anything else you haven’t done, or want to do? Like go up on the roof and scream random shit off at the city, or like go graffiti something, marking your territory forever?” He asks curiously and you shrug.

“I’m content. Hanging out with my best friend at a really nice hotel, swimming, eating cake and maybe watching a movie. You don’t need to get arrested for vandalism because it’s my birthday.” You say pointedly and he rolls his eyes. He is crazy, but the refreshing kind of crazy, and he’d never put you in harms way.

You and Carl spent about an hour in the pool, goofing off. You raced, which he of course won...and then you went into the hot tub for a few before heading back up to the room to shower and get situated. You’ve never been so relaxed in your life, and you’re going to miss this when you go home. “What movie do you wanna watch?” Carl asks plopping down onto the bed next to you. You were sharing a bed tonight, but you were happy he didn’t pay for a two bed room.

“It let me sign on to my netflix, so I think you should choose the movie. I’d choose something gushy and after all you’ve done, you can decide.” You say handing him the remote. He hates watching romance movies, and would much rather get comfortable with a horror...which is why you were surprised when he puts on one of your favorite comedy, that had quite some romance; American Pie Presents: Band Camp. “You’re kidding. I thought you’d pick something scary.” You poke him and he shrugs, leaning back into the pillows.

“It’s not a bad movie. If you wanna watch something scary, I can change it. But I am feeling this more.” He explains and you shake your head, pulling the blankets over yourself. The movie went by, not much moving involved. You got comfortable. When Carl shifts awkwardly during the kissing scene, you give him a raised brow.

“You don’t want to watch this, do you?” You pipe up and he is startled slightly, not thinking you’d notice his discomfort. He seemed uncomfortable. Not because he didn’t like the movie, but he was lost in his head.

“No! I do. I was just thinking. That’s all...” Carl said honestly, but you weren’t convinced. He is usually an open book, for the most part.

“About?” You ask, turning to face him. He thought, hesitantly.

“Something Lip said to me this morning. Just stuck in my head.” He shook his head, as if it would leave from the action. Lip is usually always good with his words, so you know it was probably advice. He is the most reasonable at most times with what is realistic.

“Then tell me about it, maybe you talking about it will help.” You push and he sighs. When he gets into these situations, it’s easier to just tell you. You will get it out of him at some point, why not get to the chase.

“Lip just said that I must care about you a lot to want to do this for you. He said he always thought we’d end up together.” He pauses, wording everything in his head first before continuing. “I don’t know.” You were catching the drift. You have thought about Carl like that before. He’s flirtatious with you, how could you not think about him like that. He was your first valentine, your date to everything, even if he wasn’t your actual ‘date’. You always said you were soulmates, but in a friends way.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” You ask jokingly, but there was some real curiosity behind the question. Carl bites his lip, deciding how he wants to answer that question.

“Would you ever think like that?” He asks vaguely, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know what he means. You blush as he turns to look at you, a look in his eye that was vulnerable. It made you nod, because you -have- thought that way. “Wait, really?”

“Of course I have, and do. You’re handsome, and flirty, and you do all these sweet things for me. You’re one of a kind Carl Gallagher. What other guy makes a girl’s bully sing his apology, puts laxatives in a teacher’s coffee who was unfair to me, and does all this for just my birthday?” You ask and he smiles. He has always been good to you. He knew that it seemed like he liked you, and he never put that thought out of the question, he just has never brought any light to the possible feelings. Carl scooted closer, close enough for you to feel his breath on your face.

“Happy birthday Y/N...” He says before cheekily pressing a kiss to your lips. It wasn’t a hungry or harsh kiss, it was content with being a peck. And when you both pulled away, it wasn’t awkward. You both turned back to the movie, contently coming together to cuddle. You did not need to talk more about that, it could wait until you were not on this getaway. You quickly fell asleep in the puffy pillows, and Carl’s arms.

“It was fun while it lasted.” You said with a giggle as you gave the room a once over. It was time to leave, but you wish you could just have one more day in paradise.

“Yea, but there’s always next year. We can do something bigger-”

“Or your birthday.” You point out and he gives a half shrug. You take the room key and you turn to the door.

“Hey! You forget you have bags?” He teases, but you don’t turn back, just exit the room, holding the door for him. He Trudged through, the teddy bear taking up the majority of the doorway.

“Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bag guy.”

#justauthorings14kspecial #Carl Gallagher #shameless #the gallaghers #carl gallagher imagine #carl gallagher fic #carl gallagher x reader #writing challenge

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sleepy-achilles · 2 years ago

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The Scottish Warrior and The Skeleton King- American Pie

My version of Clash at the Castle

-----

Drew stares at Tyson as he starts to sing. It takes Drews post match brain a few minutes to catch up with the song. American pie. Drew smiles softly and lowers his head.

He'd of loved this.

-four months ago-

Drew raises his head, resting it gently against the impalas old but trusty glass window. "This is actually pretty nice" drew admits turning his head to Leon who's laid next to him watching the sky. "I used to do it a lot in the valley. There was this perfect spot on the outside of town, it was a hill with a tree on top of it. Perfect place to lay and once I got this baby it was the perfect parking spot. Used to have the best view of the entire valley and the mansion. It was also at the border of the woods so you could see the outside world aswell." Leon explains sitting up. Drew can't fight his smile. He loves hearing about Leon's time in the valley. "I used to just escape there when things got too loud. When dad pushed me to much or cassie wanted to hate me. My papa found me there one day. Explained he used to come here when he first moved in. That he also found peace there." Leon adds. Drew sits up as Leon slides off the hood. "Where you going?" Drew asks. "Cmon now Mcintyre, some music is needed" Leon smirks.

Drew watches as Leon moves to the side of the car, leaning into the window and turning the radio all the way up. Drew chuckles as Leon walks back around, singing along loudly. He holds his hand out to drew, which drew gladly accepts and slides off the hood. "So bye-bye, Miss American Pie!Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dryAnd them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey 'n rye. Singin'," Leon cuts himself off to point at drew. "This'll be the day that I die" drew sings.

"This'll be the day that I die" Leon sings with a smirk.

-present day-

Drew lifts his head as the song continues. Even he can ignore the tear rolling down his face. Leon never came back to the hotel room after that night. Taker didn't share much with him, but cassie said her father thought Paul had something to do with it.

Tyson wraps an arm around drew and squeezes him close. "Cmon Cardiff!" He calls. Drew is quick to wipe his face and is about to join in when the mic is shoved in his face. He can't do it though. Especially when he hears that familiar voice. His eyes widen and he pulls from tysons hold and turns towards the walk way.

"Leon?" Drew asks shocked. Leon just smirks and climbs into the ring. "Miss me?" Leon asks. Drew quickly grabs the blonde and pulls him into a hug, lifting him slightly. "So fuckin much" drew whimpers as his tears start again. Leon cups his face and smiles. "I promised you, I'll always come back to you." Leon states, wiping drews eyes. "Its been four months" drew points out. "Minor details" Leon smirks before kissing drew.

The crowd starts to chant drews name. Leon pulls back and takes the mic from tyson. "Thanks" Leon smiles. Tyson just nods. "Address your people" Leon tells drew. "Leo-" "no. I heard them tonight. You lost and they still are chanting and screaming your name. Talk to them." Leon orders holding out the mic. Drew smiles and takes the mic.

Yeah, maybe he did lose tonight. But with his lover back and his people calling his name, he couldn't care less.

He was home.

That's all that mattered.

#wwe #the undertaker #leon michaels #drew mcintyre #drew x leon #leon x drew #tyson fury #the scottish warrior and the skeleton king fic #the scottish warrior and the skeleton king #oc character #the family of destruction #wwe clash at the castle

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rockrevoltmagazine · 3 years ago

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IBOTW: Bulletproof Messenger

Bulletproof Messenger’s Scott Martin sat down and answered a few questions about himself and the band. Also you can go over to their website(link at the bottom) and follow the tracker to the countdown of new music to be released

Why did you pick your band name?

Well, we used to be called Gone to Earth, and it never really meant anything…so we were throwing around ideas for a more meaningful name, and we were toying with the phrase “don’t shoot the messenger” (in reference to how bands/music carries a message) and it was pretty much an immediate “YES!” for all of us.

What’s the best and worst thing about playing clubs?

The best – they tend to be really intimate venues, where the separation from your audience isn’t very far at all. I love that feel to a show, and I think that’s really the way rock and roll was meant to be played and experienced. It’s a community affair, you know? It’s music for everyone in that room – we’re all singing it, playing it, believing it, and we’re all right there together, able to see and interact with each other.

How would you define the word “success”?

You know, it’s funny – over time, my definition of that term has most certainly changed. I used to think it meant selling a million records, being on endless arena tours, whatever and ever you picture when you picture the quintessential rock star. But honestly, success is really, truly, the fact that I get to make a living doing what I love (making music) each and every day. Everything that I dreamt of doing when I’d picked up the guitar as an angsty 15 year old kid has somehow happened, and for me, that’s about as successful as you can get.

What are your fondest musical memories? In your house? In your neighborhood or town?

Well, there’s always going to be this one from when I’d kinda first started playing. I was living in South Jersey when I started playing, and I had some friends who would always spend the weekend at their houses “down the shore”, at places on the Jersey Shore like Wildwood, Sea Isle, Ocean City, etc. So, my first summer of playing guitar, I went with my best friend Scott (another Scott, yes), and we went down to Ocean City, posted up on a boardwalk bench, and just started playing every cover song we could think of. People threw money in the case, took photos with us, and all through the evening just gathered around and listened to us. I remember us getting ready to pack up and this older gent was like “one more song!” and we were making our excuses about how it was time for us to be going, but he was insistent and said “What else in life do we have but to be entertained?!” Never forgot that line or that guy.

Why did you decide to play the genre or genres you do?

It all pretty much comes down to the guitar. I mean, you pick it up, start learning it, and then you start hearing music in a completely different way. You DO start listening to songs “like a guitarist”. And so your ear is constantly being surprised by new sounds, chords, structures, etc…and the ones you like, you learn, and work into your repertoire. It’s almost as if the music chooses you – you don’t really make a conscious choice. And so, if you keep listening, you keep learning, you keep expanding. I’ll play anything – because everything at this point has something musical in it where I hear it and go “yo, I HAVE to learn how to do that”.

Which instruments do you play?

I actually started out playing trumpet in grade school (and still do, from time to time, depending on the gig or the song I’m recording). Guitar came later, when I was about fifteen. Along the way I’ve also picked up a bunch of other instruments from my time working as a music teacher – things like the piano, the bass, the uke, trombone, drums, violin, voice, flute, etc. I’m not GREAT at all of them, but I can play ‘em.

Describe your first instrument/other instruments.

So, my first guitar ever was my Dad’s old Harmony Sovereign from the sixties. Awesome acoustic guitar, but at the time, it was in pretty beat up shape. The action was really high off the board, it was missing a saddle, and definitely was a challenge to play. But, that in of itself had value – I was tearing my fingers up over and over on that thing, and that kind of pretty much told me that I really WANTED to do this guitar playing thing. My second guitar was a Rickenbacker copy that my mother bought me for my 15th birthday. I loved that thing. That’s where guitar started getting interesting and where I started really getting good. Unfortunately, it was broken a few years later during a move, and never really played the same after that. But it was most certainly the guitar that really started it all for me.

Were you influenced by old records and tapes? Which ones?

Oh, absolutely. One of my earliest memories concerning records is this record player I had in our basement, and I had all of these records and 45s that belonged to my folks that I would put on. “Help” by the Beatles was one that I remember being pretty partial to. Don McLean’s “American Pie” was another song that I simply couldn’t get enough of. My parents had a lot of homemade mixtape cassettes, too – and I was always stealing The Eagles one. So, yeah, old music for me is really everything – man, I could wax endlessly on this.

Where do you usually gather songwriting inspiration? What is your usual songwriting process?

It can come in a few different forms. Sometimes, you’re walking down the street, and a phrase just pops into your head and hits you the right way, and you go “Yeah, that line is a dope hook, let’s see if we can make that into something”. Or a melody will come through – you know, like when you’re just walking down the street whistling or humming to yourself. And you go “ahhh, I like that one!” Then again – there’s a lot of walking down the street in my life as I live in NYC, so this may not be how it works with everyone. But also, sometimes, you start with just the music. I’ll pick up the guitar, start playing around with it, and it’s kind of like waiting for rain on a cloudy day…eventually something will just come and the skies open up. Some days, not so much. But every so often, you hit on a lick or a progression and think to yourself “now, THAT’S gonna be a song.”

What inspires you to do what you do?

I don’t really know how to explain this one well. Like, there just came a point where I felt like the world of music was so beautiful and interesting that I said to myself “I’m going to do this, I HAVE to do this” and it’s been my thing ever since. Yeah, since about 14 or so. With playing, it’s just a great, great feeling, especially if you’re connecting with other people. Humans are tribal beings when it comes down to it, and we like to connect with each other. We’ve had song and dance as long as we’ve had the ability to have some form of civilization. So when I’m playing, I’m tapping into that tens-of-thousands-of-years-old experience that’s in all of our DNA. And as far as writing…well, when you write a song, and suddenly you’re hearing what was once just an idea in your imagination playing back to you on the radio…well, that’s about as close to real magic as I think I’ll ever get.

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IBOTW: Bulletproof Messenger was originally published on RockRevolt Mag

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monabela · 7 years ago

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part uhm... I lost count. part five of the ghost stories that are not quite ghost stories! there are two more! this one’s song is American Pie by Don McLean, and it takes place in the early middle ages. I know, just... just roll with it.

The Dancing Flames

characters/pairings: Estonia (Eduard)/Lithuania (Tolys), Latvia (Raivis)

word count: 6561 summary: The musician drifts into the servant's life like a familiar melody, but the notes carry a secret that could be dangerous for both of them.

also on AO3

He was on the market when he heard it.

Lute playing, somewhere at the edge of the courtyard. A faint melody, unfamiliar yet nostalgic. Tolys stopped in his tracks and tilted his head to listen through the clamor of vendors, the rattling of wagon wheels and the sounds of animals.

More easily than he felt should have been possible, he could pinpoint it, and then he was powerless against the urge to find the source, the musician behind the tune.

Basket filled with food for his liege over his arm, Tolys worked his way through the teeming crowd of townsmen, farmers and servants of the court like him alike, and then there he was.

He looked like any other musician that had been to court, dressed in blues and greens and with feathers in his hat. Some children were at his feet, listening in silent rapture as he played. Tolys couldn’t blame them. He halted in the shadow of a stall selling dried meat to listen without being seen by the musician.

The music drifted gently, and the children sat more forward when the musician began to sing in a soft and pleasant voice. Although he wasn’t singing in a language Tolys understood, it was clear that he was telling a story.

When it ended, leaving Tolys feeling bereft and oddly sad and the children unusually quiet, the musician looked up from his small audience and his instrument. Tolys breathed in sharply when eyes the color of the sea found him, unerringly. He quickly slunk back and hurried to finish his round of the market, hoping he hadn’t wasted too much time dallying.

He found it impossible to tell.

Tolys would have liked to say that he forgot all about the mysterious musician, but in reality, he found it difficult to stop thinking about the encounter. Not when he was doing his work, of course, getting his liege food and armor and running down to the stables to check on his horse because he was convinced the actual stable boys wouldn’t take good care of her, but the thought of the mesmerizing music crossed his mind often when he tried to sleep at night, or when he waited by the castle kitchens in the morning.

The melody was still stuck in his head.

No one else seemed to have noticed the musician, though, and Tolys wasn’t supposed to talk to the only child who’d been there who lived in the castle, because the girl was high nobility, and he was just a servant. So he was left to wonder, for days.

And then there he was.

“My lords,” the steward was saying, “it pleases me to present to you a most celebrated musician from across the mountains. He is honored to play for the court tonight.”

The court in question applauded politely, and Tolys couldn’t see what was going on from the servants’ table, but he could hear everything. He could hear the first few gentle plucks at strings, the clearing of a throat, and then the strains of a lively melody accompanied by a familiar voice.

The musician. Tolys sat up straight on his bench to look, but the nobles were getting up, clapping enthusiastically and generally obscuring his view.

Again, he didn’t understand the language, but the song sparked something in seemingly not only him, because his fellow servants starting talking animatedly, smiling and gesturing, but still the music was clear through everything.

It had to be him. They did speak a different language across the mountains north of the peninsula, but Tolys was quite certain it wasn’t this one. He’d lived close to the mountains until he’d come to court to work there and had never heard any of the traders in his village speak this flowing tongue with each other. He should ask Raivis, who worked in the kitchens and whose family actually came from the other side of the mountains.

Looking over at the boy now, Tolys decided against it, because he looked genuinely happy for once and he didn’t want to disturb that. Perhaps, there would be a chance to speak to the musician himself.

The man played and played, undoubtedly telling a fantastic story in his beautiful language, and everyone was in a good mood when he eventually did stop and quietly slunk off. Even Raivis was humming the song under his breath, and Tolys smiled before getting up from the table and following the musician. He needed to know more about him, even if he wasn’t sure why.

The halls of the castle were empty but for a dog wandering through them, but there was music somewhere.

Tolys let it lead him to a small courtyard, and then there he was again.

The musician didn’t look up from his lute until the song was finished, but then the sea-green eyes were on Tolys. Like the sea, they were hard to read but soothing at the same time.

“You play beautifully,” Tolys told him. The man smiled.

“Thank you.” He put his instrument down on the bench next to himself. “Your lord has seen fit to offer me to play at the court this whole week.”

“He probably intends to keep you,” Tolys replied, and was surprised by the scathing tone in his own voice. That was something never to be displayed openly. The musician merely titled his head, squinting in his direction as if he were unclear.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I? I’m Tolys, I serve—”

“Yes, yes. Where are you from?”

“The north of the peninsula, a village. I’ve been here for five years.”

The musician nodded, picked his lute back up, and plucked some strings.

“Tolys. My name is Eduard.”

Tolys opened his mouth to ask something, although he wasn’t sure what that would be, but he closed it again when the separate tones from the lute resolved into a song he hadn’t heard in years. He sought support against the wall as Eduard played the melody of his childhood, the memory of his parents and the village he grew up in.

How did he know that song? It was specific to that one village, recounting the life of its founder. Had he visited? Had he guessed the place from Tolys’s speech, from his eyes?

The song was finished before Tolys could even start to put his thoughts in order, and he wished Eduard would stay, but the musician stood up and smiled at him.

“We’ll see each other again soon, I presume,” he said, and Tolys nodded, stepping aside to let him through and watching as he vanished into the shadows of the hall.

Very intriguing. He looked forward to the next time he’d hear him play.

As Eduard had said, he was back the next day. He played a soft song that moved people to tears and left Tolys breathless, but not enough to prevent him following the musician again, to that same courtyard.

This time, he sat quietly against a barrel to listen to a happier song, alternating closing his eyes and watching the sea green of Eduard’s. He seemed to be looking into a far distance Tolys couldn’t see, but that he could hear all the same. There were words, muttered under his breath. Tolys wasn’t sure if he understood them.

“This song,” he said when the last note had died away, “is it about home?”

Eduard smiled. “Yes.”

“Whose?”

He put his lute down and leaned forward with his hands on his knees, seemingly studying Tolys. He was still wearing blue, rather than the red of the court they’d have undoubtedly offered him during his stay.

“I don’t think it matters whose home,” he eventually said, and Tolys blinked, having almost forgotten he asked a question at all. “Music has power, you see. I can make people yearn for places they’ve never even heard of.”

Tolys nodded silently.

“Do you miss your home, Tolys?”

“Often,” he admitted. “Less when you play.”

Eduard smiled again. “Then you understand. There’s power in music, and in memories.”

“Like magic?”

“Yes,” he said. “Much like magic.”

Maybe, Tolys reflected, as Eduard played a short song and walked away, not so much like magic, but just magic. He felt as though that thought should scare him, but was certain Eduard did not have evil at heart or in mind.

Besides, he knew what the punishment for use of magic was, and had no desire to see the musician burn.

Although he did his best not to show it, Tolys felt nearly too exhausted for dinner the next day. His liege had worked him hard, ruthlessly, and his entire body ached. More than usual. It was lucky his duties didn’t extend into the evening, because he absolutely needed to listen to Eduard again.

Somewhere, he wondered if perhaps he was being played as well, not only like but by the lute and its own particular magic, by Eduard’s long, talented fingers, his voice.

If he were, he decided, he’d take it, because it felt better than anything.

As Eduard entered the great hall of the castle, still standing out like a sore thumb in his shades of blue, the musician searched the room and caught Tolys’s gaze. His mouth turned down at one corner and his eyes sparked with something almost dark. Tolys swallowed heavily. He wasn’t afraid, but did feel a wary anticipation creeping up.

And then he played, and sang in yet a different language. This one sounded similar to the language of the court, so that Tolys understood most of the words.

The melody was happy, but Eduard told the story of a cruel lord who mistreated his servants and was cut into pieces by the end of the tale.

At the servants’ table, it was quiet until the nobles started cheering enthusiastically and moving along to the music, at which point the servants felt it was safe to do the same.

Eduard grinned a warm grin in Tolys’s direction, maybe even at him. Tolys smiled back, and of course followed the musician to the courtyard after dinner, not a doubt in his mind.

In the courtyard, he found that Eduard had strapped his lute to his back already, and he bit the inside of his cheek.

“Are you going somewhere?” he asked by way of a greeting.

“I am,” Eduard said, then tilted his head invitingly. “Come with me. You look very tired.”

“I am.” Tolys followed him, a little warily, through the cold, drafty halls of the castle, up the stairs to the guest wing. He didn’t come here often, not unless his liege wanted a message delivered to guests, and even then Tolys wasn’t the usual messenger.

“Where are we going?” he asked, checking around for gossipy servants or grumpy nobles.

“Here,” Eduard replied, and opened the door to one of the rooms. He gestured Tolys inside, and Tolys hesitated for a moment before stepping across the threshold. It wouldn’t do for anyone to catch him dawdling in the hall like this.

Once inside, Eduard gestured at the bed opposite the lit fireplace.

“You need to rest.”

“I—” Tolys looked at the bed, which had an actual mattress and a pillow, and a blanket that looked comfortable. “I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?” Eduard asked, putting his lute away and taking his hat off. The fireplace crackled pleasantly. It had been getting colder again; the first night frost would undoubtedly present itself shortly.

“I can’t because that is your bed, my lord.”

“Please, none of that. It’s a guest bed. If you are my guest, aren’t you the one more entitled to sleep in it?”

He shook his head, in amusement as well as denial.

“I’m just a servant.”

“I’m just a musician,” Eduard countered. Tolys bit his lip.

“Are you?”

Eduard didn’t answer, but he reached for Tolys’s shoulder and gently led him to the bed, pushing him down to sit on the edge of it. It was so soft.

“You’re a peculiar man, Tolys.”

He laughed nervously. “Me? I’m a very normal man, honest.”

“I think you’d be surprised,” Eduard replied. “Now sleep. I’ll wake you if need be.”

Tolys wanted to protest more, because if his liege found out, losing his position at the court was the best possible scenario. However, Eduard began to hum a melody, a wordless lullaby, and he couldn’t help but give in to his exhaustion.

He woke to weak sunlight and an empty room.

There was some food and a piece of parchment on a table. On the parchment was drawn in charcoal a crude drawing of a figure eating. Tolys laughed. Eduard had assumed he couldn’t read. Of course.

To be fair, most servants couldn’t. Tolys was lucky, and he shook his head when he realized the other side of the parchment was an official contract about Eduard’s stay at the court. Only someone with riches would do something like this.

Eduard didn’t seem like one who did, at least not in a material sense. He obviously had a wealth of talent and some sort of charm that made Tolys trust him so implicitly.

The musician’s name was signed in letters that flowed like music. Tolys looked at it for a while, then sighed, ate some of the bread and an apple, and left to do his duties.

Eduard and his music were back again in the evening, this time with a warning song to a haunting melody that left the nobility shifting in their seats, but Raivis sat back down at the servants’ table with a confused sort of smile on his face and told Tolys that his lord just thanked him for his work. He’d never done that before.

“What was that song?” Tolys asked Eduard, later in the courtyard. He clasped his hands behind his back and watched the musician shift on his bench, lute on his lap.

“It was just a song,” the man answered. He fingered the strings, and Tolys resisted the overwhelming urge to drop the issue.

“It wasn’t, I think. Yesterday, you said there is power in music, and I have always believed that to be true, but never in such a…” He bit his cheek. “In such a literal way.”

Eduard looked up at him, and then down at him when he stood up, unfolding his long limbs.

“You’re right,” he said. “Come, I’ll show you something.”

“What?” Tolys asked, and the musician smiled.

“I promise you will like it.”

Apparently, Tolys couldn’t resist listening to Eduard even when there was no music to persuade him.

They went out, this time, leaving the castle through an exit by the kitchens – still busy, but they went unnoticed – and walking through the dusky town surrounding the high walls. Before long, they reached the edge of the forest that spanned much of the peninsula. Far in the distance, Tolys imagined he could hear the crashing of waves against the cliffs on the shore.

“I think this will do,” Eduard said. His hair was nearly white in the light of the nearly full moon, his eyes translucent. He looked how Tolys always imagined the fair folk from the legends would, and that made him take the smallest step back, because that was what they did, wasn’t it? Lure people away?

Eduard sat down on a stone, not noticing.

“There’s always power in music, no matter who makes it,” he was saying. “But, I… You’re one of a few who have noticed me so immediately. Noticed what was going on. So I think that maybe, you should know.”

“Should know what?” Tolys asked breathlessly, stepping closer again despite himself, kneeling on the mossy ground at Eduard’s feet as if he were a child. It was quite cold.

“Can I show you?”

They held each other’s gaze until Tolys nodded.

“Thank you,” Eduard said, then took a deep breath and began playing a light melody. It tinkled and leaped like a mountain brook in summer. A faint smile appeared on his face after a while, and he looked up and around, urging Tolys to do the same with a glance of those sea-green eyes.

He did, and gasped.

Flowers had sprung up among the cold moss as if it were spring instead of late autumn, bathing the edge of the forest in color, hues of blues and pinks and yellows. It was mesmerizing. Tolys looked back up at Eduard, who squinted at him again, so he scooted a little closer.

“How?” he asked. “How is this possible?”

The musician opened his mouth, frowned, and closed it again, seemingly lost for words even as he played on.

“Is it you or is it the lute?” Tolys asked.

“It’s… Mostly me,” he replied. “The lute helps. My mother made it. She could do what I do, too.”

Do what he does. It was amazing, how even nature would bend to his will, if only because Tolys was certain he was on Eduard’s good side.

“Eduard,” he said, “do you know what punishment awaits those who use magic here?”

He smiled. “It’s just music, Tolys.”

“I don’t think so. If I sang a song like the one you played at dinner, they would have me hanged, magic or no.”

“As far as anyone knows, it’s just music,” Eduard amended. And then, tilting his head, “Do you sing?”

“I… Used to, often. Not so much since I came here.”

The musician shifted, and so did the music, again to the song about Tolys’s village.

“Sing for me?” Eduard asked. There was no magic of persuasion behind it, Tolys was certain. “This is your language. The song of your home.”

Tolys swallowed. It was, but it made him nervous. Eduard played on, his fingers quick and skilled on the strings and his gaze on Tolys, at once soft and deep. Was this a test?

If it was, Tolys wouldn’t know what he was being tested for.

He started to hum, letting the words come back to him after so many years, and then let them out, singing under his breath at first, but louder when Eduard smiled brilliantly, eyes lighting up in the pale light. In the distance, the castle shone like a beacon, but the world around him and the musician was still and silent except for the music. The flowers moved in wind not felt.

When the song ended, they were both quiet for a long while, Tolys lost in memories and Eduard looking into the forest.

“Thank you, Tolys. You sing beautifully,” he said, eventually. “Perhaps we should head back. I don’t doubt you have much work in the morning.”

Tolys nodded, and they both stood wordlessly, brushing off their tunics and starting to walk back, through the narrow streets of the town to the castle. The silence was comfortable, full of the memory of music.

“Tolys?” Eduard asked when they had reached the hallway where their paths split.

“Yes?”

“What duties do you have tomorrow?”

He summed up, “I bring my liege breakfast, help clean his rooms when he goes hunting in the morning and I need to visit the smithy in the afternoon, and there are smaller things that always present themselves besides.”

With a smile and the lightest of touches to his shoulder, Eduard told him he might see him in town tomorrow, and before Tolys could reply to that, the musician had slunk off in that way of his, without a sound.

He used his left hand dominantly, Tolys realized, blinking into the shadows. People would think something of that. He didn’t believe in any of that talk, because he could use both hands equally well, but perhaps he should warn Eduard of the court’s superstitions regarding that. Anything that would cause the slightest amount of suspicion towards him was a bad thing. Tolys liked him alive.

Tolys liked him a lot.

And indeed, there he was on the market, luteless for once but smiling at Tolys from where he was leaning against a wall of the castle idly. Tolys shook his hair out of his face and smiled back, feeling his face heat for some reason and hoping it didn’t show. This wasn’t one of those illicit affairs the other servants sometimes had, with each other or townspeople or even nobility. This was just… A musician with a magical voice and a servant. Spending time together for no particular reason.

“Isn’t that that musician who’s been playing for the nobles?” Raivis asked. Tolys had met the boy on his way back from the smithy, and they had stuck together. He felt a little protective towards him.

“Yes,” he replied, trying to pull his face back into neutrality by biting his lip.

“He is very good,” Raivis said. “Maybe we should tell him, or do you think he wouldn’t appreciate that?”

“I’m sure he would,” Tolys said faintly, because Eduard was already walking over to them. Raivis visibly tightened his grip on his basket. Absently, Tolys patted the boy’s shoulder.

“Good afternoon,” Eduard greeted, nodding at Tolys and smiling at Raivis. “I don’t believe we have met.”

Raivis bowed his head and stuttered, “My name is Raivis, my lord. If I could just say, you play beautifully.”

Blinking, he replied, “Thank you, Raivis. Please call me Eduard.”

Tolys shook his head while Raivis stuttered some more. It would just confuse him. He worried about Raivis often, honestly. He was obviously a smart boy, but working in the castle didn’t do him any good. Tolys hated that he couldn’t do anything about it.

Then again… He watched Eduard’s light eyes flash with determination, and had the feeling the nobility was in for another warning tonight, or more yet. Who knew what that music could set into motion?

Eventually, Raivis trembled out of the way, and Eduard looked after him almost sadly.

“Is he always like that?” he asked Tolys.

“I fear so, yes.” He shook his head again. “He shouldn’t be here.”

Eduard nodded, but then turned his full attention to Tolys, smiling.

“It’s nice to see you in the daylight, Tolys.” He looked like he wanted to say something else, but closed his mouth again before he could, gaze skittering away.

“Likewise,” Tolys just replied. “Is there anything I can do for you? Have you seen the town?”

“Not with you,” Eduard replied, then opened and closed his mouth a few times again, and eventually bit his lip. It was endearing how out of his element he was without the lute, but Tolys decided he was happy to help him be more comfortable, so he smiled and told him he’d give him a tour.

They rounded the marketplace and walked down to the docks, where the air smelled like salt and fish and people were shouting in multiple languages at each other. The city was an important trading post, attracting not only people from all over the peninsula but also from farther away.

“Such as you, of course,” Tolys said to Eduard. “Have you been to many places before?”

“Yes, all across your peninsula,” he replied. “People’s love for music is more important than borders.”

Tolys raised his eyebrows at him, trying to convey skepticism, and the musician laughed.

“Yes, and I have effective methods of persuading them, I will admit that.” He sighed. “I’ve never talked about it with anyone, about what I do. Even in places where magic isn’t a crime, I don’t know how I would be looked upon if people were aware.”

Now walking back into the pungent alleys of the city, where Tolys had lived for a short while before joining the ranks of the servants and being assigned a room in the bowels of the castle alongside them, they encountered fewer and fewer people. They followed the slight slope up to the top of a small hill and looked out over the sea in the distance, the mouth of the river below even while the houses pressed in on them from both sides. The wind, at least, was fresh.

“I like you.” Tolys felt he needed to make it clear. “And I think that what you do, is…”

Eduard looked at him, stopping in his tracks, and he was lost for words. Magical? Of course it was. Mesmerizing? Amazing? That didn’t even cover half of it.

“I’m just a musician,” Eduard said under his breath. As if he were the one awed.

“You’re—”

“No, listen. You’ve worked, you’ve worked hard to get where you are. I just sing, and people do what I want them to, and it’s almost always been that way. I’m just a musician, but you, Tolys, you are…”

“I’m a servant,” he supplied, breathlessly caught in the man’s gaze.

“I think you’re a good man. Better than I am.”

Tolys grimaced. “Being good doesn’t get you much of anywhere.”

“Maybe it gets you where you need to be.” He put a hand on Tolys’s shoulder, sliding it to hold his neck, running a thumb across his jaw. Tolys lowered his gaze to the leather straps of the musician’s shoes, wound around his calves. Eduard was warm, but Tolys felt warmer yet, skin prickling.

He blinked when Eduard shuffled closer, looking back up at him and his beautiful eyes filling his vision. There was a twitch at the corner of the man’s mouth that Tolys’s gaze lingered on, fascinated.

“Listen,” Eduard said, “I’ll do what I can for Raivis.”

“Thank you. I worry about him, you know.”

He smiled. “You are a good man.”

He brought his other hand up to Tolys’s face as well, his right one, and, oh, that’s right, he needed to know – Tolys’s breath caught when he leaned into his space and touched their foreheads together, separated only by a thin layer of fair hair. The rim of Eduard’s hat pushed into Tolys’s hair, the feathers brushing the top of his head. His own hands flew up reflexively, fingers catching on the fastening of Eduard’s cloak when he rested them against his chest.

They stayed still for a short moment that seemed to last ages, there in the shadows of the rickety buildings.

“I think you aren’t so bad yourself,” Tolys eventually said into the scarce air between their faces. Eduard chuckled warmly, finally straightening. Tolys’s fingers slipped away from his chest.

“Thank you. Will I see you tonight?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Good. You… You better go, then, before your liege lord decides to keep you.”

He had a good point there, so Tolys nodded regretfully and sped to the castle, trying not to grin. They’d start thinking it was one of those illicit affairs.

Maybe it was.

That evening’s song was again in a language Tolys didn’t understand, but he remembered how his liege had not been angry when he returned quite late this afternoon and how Raivis was trembling less than ever before, and thought it probably didn’t matter much what the words actually were. It was the thought behind the music.

How could it be that no one but him seemed to notice the connection?

He asked Eduard, who shook his head.

“I don’t know. Anyone can notice, but there is often someone like you in any group of people I play for.”

Tolys breathed in sharply, and the musician looked at him with one eye.

“They don’t seek me out most of the time, and they’re often children besides. It’s never been like this before.”

“Like…” He tried to pronounce it as a question.

“Like…” Eduard drummed his long fingers on his lute. With everything he did, it was easy to forget that he was merely human too. “Like we could be… Something. If you feel that too, at least.”

Swallowing heavily, Tolys nodded. He was more than just intrigued by Eduard. Had dreamed not only of his voice but also of his eyes last night.

“I do, Eduard.”

The musician’s face lit up with a smile, breath coming out in a rush. It was a risk he’d taken by making that confession; although there weren’t any laws against two men, it was not something people always looked kindly upon, certainly not as one’s main relationship.

Then again, perhaps Eduard could have commanded him to forget through a mere song, if he’d have been one of those people.

He listened to Eduard play in his rooms that night, talked about everything and nothing with him, and sang softly at his request until the musician kissed him silent, seeming as surprised by the move as Tolys felt but smiling at it.

They fell asleep when the fire in the hearth was no more than glowing embers.

The room wasn’t empty this time when Tolys woke.

Eduard was flitting around in it, humming under his breath. He seemed to be in a good mood, smiling broadly at Tolys when he noticed he’d woken. Tolys smiled back.

They broke their fast together, and then Tolys hurried off to his work with a kiss goodbye. Raivis commented that he seemed happy.

“I am,” he said. “It’s been a good week.”

“It has, hasn’t it?” Raivis asked. “Where were you tonight? Is that why you’re so happy?”

He shrugged noncommittally. “I’ll tell you sometime.”

The boy actually smiled while nodding. Whatever Eduard had done to help him was working well. Tolys hoped he would stay around for a while after this week – after tomorrow, his seventh day playing for the court. Surely, the nobility wouldn’t mind. They seemed to be enjoying his music.

Of course they were.

That evening’s song was a happy tale about a knight and his deeds, which some of the servants as well as the nobles seemed to know, the ones more from the south of the peninsula. Tolys’s liege clapped along enthusiastically. It was almost endearing.

Afterwards, Tolys caught up with Eduard in the hallway to their courtyard – his route to it was faster, it seemed.

The musician smiled, and Tolys glanced around before kissing him, because it was hard to stop now.

“What was that song for?” he asked curiously.

“Sometimes, a song is just a song, even with me.”

“Really?”

He inclined his head. “It made people happy. That is the best part of what I do. Always has been.”

“I understand.” Tolys nodded. “Can I ask you something?”

“A favor?” Eduard asked, a crease appearing between his eyebrows.

“Not really. It’s a question. Something I wonder about.”

“Oh, yes. Of course, go ahead.” He sounded relieved.

“If the lute helps you… Do what you do, as you said, does that mean it might also help someone else?”

The musician drummed his fingers on the instrument in question, clasped under his right arm.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Why? Do you want to try?”

“No, I… I was thinking about Raivis. Of course, I wouldn’t ask you to give up your lute, but if you could teach him – something. Anything. Just music would be enough, I know he’s got talent. He’s young yet; he doesn’t have to live his life being unhappy here.”

“Neither do you, you know,” Eduard said softly. “You could come with me when I leave. Both of you, even.”

“I— We—” Tolys hadn’t even thought about the possibility. He didn’t have a bad life here at all, and everything was uncertain out there. Less so with the powers Eduard possessed, of course, but all the same…

“Think about it, if you want to. Talk to Raivis. You don’t have to tell him about the—” He made a vague gesture with his free hand, which made Tolys chuckle.

“I will, I will think about it,” he promised.

“Good,” Eduard said. He sighed, then smiled. “Good. Come.”

They went.

“Tolys,” Raivis was nearly whispering, “I don’t understand. Why would he want us to leave with him?”

Tolys floundered a bit, unsure how to explain anything, until understanding dawned rapidly on the boy’s face.

“You were with him those nights!”

“I…” He sighed. “Yes, I was, and Eduard knows I care about you. He’d want to teach you about music.”

“Really? But I’d never be as good as he is, certainly.”

“I don’t think anyone could be. But I know you have talent.”

Raivis shuffled his feet into the straw on the floor of the hallway, his head flopping from side to side.

“Isn’t today the last day he’ll play for the court? Eduard?”

Tolys nodded, biting the inside of his cheek.

“And he’s leaving tomorrow?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. We haven’t talked about that.”

Raivis smiled innocently. “Have you talked much at all?”

“Raivis!”

His smile widened to a grin, the likes of which Tolys had never seen on his pale face. Even if he was joking at his expense, it was good to see. Tolys shook his head fondly and told him to think about it and to tell him during dinner.

When the dinner in fact came, it seemed as though Eduard had saved his best for last. He swept the entire hall up in a wave of emotion with barely any help from his lute, just his voice carrying clearly across the large space, echoing off the walls and bringing color to the tapestries.

“Tolys,” Raivis whispered.

“Hm?” He didn’t take his eyes off Eduard. Couldn’t.

“Yes,” he said. Tolys smiled. Yes.

He tugged Raivis with him to follow when Eduard left the hall and went to the courtyard, where the musician smiled at both of them, and laughed breathlessly when Tolys kissed him, hard. Raivis was studiously looking down at the lute when he glanced over at him, clearing his throat.

“Well,” he said, “Raivis would like to come. Isn’t it?”

The boy nodded.

“Good,” Eduard said. And, looking at Tolys as he furrowed his brow, he whispered, “Is he aware of… Me?”

Tolys shook his head.

“Do you think… How do you think he’d react?”

“I think favorably. Have I told you his family is from across the mountains?”

Eduard smiled. “You haven’t. But that’s great.”

He turned to Raivis, who had now awkwardly clenched his thin fingers in the edge of his tunic and was shuffling his foot.

“Sorry,” Eduard said. “There is something you should know. Something I need to show you.”

“Oh?” He blinked. “Of course.”

The musician looked around the courtyard, which was mostly empty, pursed his lips, and gestured them both into the hallway and through it into another room. It was the council room, Tolys thought; there was a tapestry on the wall depicting many knights led by a previous lord. Eduard looked up at it, muttered some words as if trying to find the right ones, put his lute down against the heavy table dominating the space, and began to sing.

Raivis shot Tolys a confused look, but Tolys just shook his head and motioned for him to watch Eduard. He did, too, until his eye was drawn by movement.

The tapestry had come to life. The knights were stampeding across the fabric, soundlessly but with shining armor and leaving behind clouds of dust.

“Oh,” Raivis said, staring openmouthed. He sank down to his knees as if his legs wouldn’t hold him, next to Eduard’s lute, as the song ended. “That is magic.”

Eduard nodded.

“Do it again?” Raivis asked, and the musician smiled, and did. The knights, who had returned to their original positions, began to fight an incoming enemy this time; the words to the song were different, but the heavy melody was the same. It was almost as if he could hear the horses running, the armor clanging.

The armor clanging.

The bang as the door to the chamber was slammed open unceremoniously, cutting off the song.

No.

Raivis scrambled underneath the table with Eduard’s lute as Tolys’s liege lord and some of the knights spilled into the room, backing Tolys and Eduard up against the still tapestry.

“What is this?” his liege boomed, his eyes harder than ever before – and they often were. He was known as a ruthless man, and had earned that reputation.

“My liege, the musician was singing—”

“I heard. I saw, however, that he was performing magic.” His voice was now dangerously low. “Don’t imagine I haven’t noticed you running off evening after evening, Tolys. Don’t imagine I do not know what is going on between the walls of my home. Do not imagine that I will tolerate this.”

Eduard was breathing rapidly next to Tolys, but then he started singing, wordlessly pouring emotion into the room. Tolys’s liege blinked, opened and closed his mouth a few times.

Then, he shook his head, snarled, and slammed the musician into the tapestry behind him with one hand, knocking the breath out of him.

“Don’t play tricks on me!” he spat. Eduard turned his face away.

“Leave him alone!” Tolys shouted, rushing forward, but he was yanked back by one of the knights and held in a painful armored grip. He met Eduard’s eyes, and saw his own desperation reflected in them. There was nothing either of them could do. All Tolys could do was hope they’d be mild, although he knew that was feeble, and that they’d leave Raivis alone. No one had spotted him yet, it seemed.

“I assume,” Tolys’s liege was saying, “you are aware of the punishment we bestow on those who commit such foul atrocities here?”

“I am,” Eduard said, squaring his jaw, eyes not leaving Tolys’s.

“Don’t,” Tolys pleaded in turn, and his liege whirled on him, still holding Eduard up against the tapestry.

“You, I know, are aware of the punishment for treason.”

He was. Gods, he was.

“Put them in the dungeons. They’ll burn tomorrow.”

It was a long, cold night in the musty dungeons, and although Tolys and Eduard were put in the same cell, could hold each other, it provided little warmth.

“I’m so sorry,” Tolys told him, the words muffled against his shoulder.

“Don’t be. It has always been inevitable,” Eduard whispered into his hair. “It is what happened to my mother as well.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“So am I.”

Even Eduard’s soft singing could not open the door, and the morning dawned unfairly sunny and with cheers coming from the courtyard as they were led outside.

Each step felt like climbing a mountain; Tolys wasn’t honestly sure his legs would carry him any further when he saw the pyre. He didn’t hear anything as his liege read out the sentence, as if there had been any sort of trial, as he was roughly tugged up, his hands tied around a post. He could feel Eduard on the other side. Their fingers touched.

He didn’t hear anything when the torch came down to the wood and the flames started licking at it, but he felt Eduard, and he saw Raivis, among the crowd in travelling clothes and with the musician’s lute strapped to his back, before the smoke blinded him.

“Go,” he told the boy.

“Is it Raivis?” Eduard asked . It was the only thing he heard.

“Yes.”

The musician turned his hand over in its binds and entwined their fingers. Tolys closed his eyes.

Eduard started singing.

The flames danced ever higher, and Eduard sang on. Tolys listened, and did not feel – not the fire, not the smoke in his nose, not any pain. He just listened.

He’d listen forever, because he knew Eduard would keep singing.

Everything would listen.

#estliet #Hetalia #aph estonia #aph lithuania #nqgs #u: historical #u: human #fin #aph latvia #this got so much longer than I wanted it to be they didn't want to die #fair enough I guess but #w: 7500 #I can never write anything where est isn't somehow associated with music anymore it seems #I like it

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hamilkilo · 8 years ago

Text

The Little, Blue Hyundai Sonata

Prompt: AS REQUESTED BY ANON: “hamilsquad x reader where reader gets into a car accident and suffers brain damage and kinda resorts to a child like state and the hamilsquad have to try and take care of her”

Paring: Could be interpreted as Hamilsquad with some Laurens X Reader or Poly!Hamilsquad (Whichever sweetens your tea)

TW: Car accidents, swearing, loss of a loved one, abusive father figure, suicide attempt, reference to depression, suicidal thoughts, regression, trauma, panic attacks, nightmares, flashbacks, anxiety, breakdowns, refusing to eat, temper tantrums, mute, robbed, temporary character death, ambulances, vivid description of car accident/blood?

A/N: Thank you so much to the anon who requested this! I hope this is what you had in mind and I really hope you enjoy this! I hope this meets your standards! As always, thank you for all of your love and support! I love y'all! If you want me to tag something, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let me know! I want you to feel safe when reading my work! Please enjoy!

Word Count: 6140

You were fifteen when you got your first car. She was a blue, 2004 Hyundai Sonata, and you called her Sonya. Your father had driven her for a few years before you’d gotten her, and he took the new car. You didn’t mind though, you loved her. She had a few flaws like a busted air conditioner and cracked motor mounts-so she shook sometimes and rumbled when it was cold out-but you didn’t mind that. In fact, you loved her flaws. You found the rumbling of the engine soothing on the cold mornings. And Sonya had the fastest defrost you’d ever seen. You loved your car.

Sonya had seen it all. She saw you at your first job at Taco Bell. She saw the mental break downs and panic attacks that led up to your leave. You’d sit on the cloth seats as the engine rumbled low and cry, barely able to breathe.

She saw you get your driver’s license, and she was always there in the nick of time. You’d had several mishaps-you were really good at driving badly. Somehow, she always managed to keep you safe. Her breaks would work just in time, it seemed. As silly as it was, it almost felt like a partnership to you.

She saw your first kiss, too. She saw you lower your standards and French Charlie Lee in an abandoned church parking lot because you were afraid no one would love you. He moaned into your mouth across her console, and you froze up. After he left, you went straight to Peggy’s place and brushed your teeth. You went home after that and cried with your mom because that wasn’t anything like you’d been hoping.

Sonya saw you get robbed. Well, she was robbed. Some guy smashed her windows in and stood your backpack from the back seat. He stole your copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets with it. She also saw the return of it a month later when the police busted him.

Sonya watched you grow up beside her. She was always there-for the trips to school, the rehearsals, the crying, the screaming, and even the quiet monologues you’d give to the sky from the hood of her car-she saw it all. She was there when no one else was.

Then, your boys came along, and you drove Sonya less because you had no place you desired to go anymore. You’d carpool to work with Alex, go shopping with Laf, you never went alone it seemed, and the boys always insisted on driving. After they’d been with you for a few months, they’d tried to convince you to look for another, safer car. They called Sonya “a tin can” and said you’d be crushed like a sardine if you were ever in a wreck. Of course, you refused. Sonya was your car. You had a partnership with her; she kept you safe, and you kept her safe. And maybe, just a teensy, problematic part of you, wanted to be crushed like a sardine in an accident.

So you kept Sonya, and you drove the way you lived: fast and reckless. You blurred through backroads, jerked and jolted through stops, and you took corners fast enough that you could feel the weight shift… you’d never felt so close to flying before. You rode with your windows down, your hand out to feel the breeze on your skin. Your music was always loud and consuming. It was honestly a gift from God that you never got a ticket in the entire time you drove. Again, you were good at driving badly.

You had stayed late at work that night, finishing up a project that was due tomorrow. The boys wanted to stay up and wait for you, but after a rather long discussion, you had convinced them to go to bed-especially Alexander-and you were glad you did so because you left the office around midnight. It was all going to be worth it though. You were excited to see how your project panned out.

Your car was the only one left in the lot, and you grinned affectionately as you approached. You pressed unlock on the fob, and Sonya’s lights flashed. You got in, and the smell of Lavender Honey hit your senses immediately. Laf had picked that scent out last time you went shopping for an air freshener. You turned the engine over, and Sonya rattled to life, the growl of her engine loud and familiar. You plugged your phone into the aux chord and played your newest obsession, American Pie, over the speakers. You wanted to play it louder, but you couldn’t afford to pay off a ticket for disturbing the peace. It wasn’t too cold out that night, so you rolled your windows down and pulled out of the parking lot. The roads were desolate, and it green light after green light on your way home. You decided to take the back roads so you could crank your tunes and unwind a bit. Work had been stressful, so you decided to treat yourself.

You knew the back roads like the back of your hand. You knew every twist and jut. American Pie blasted out your window as you screamed the lyrics. You pulled to a stop before crossing the main road that intersected the back roads, and you glanced back and forth a few times. You didn’t see any lights coming your way, so you decided to go.

Sonya was there when you first started to hang around your boys. At first, it’d be a short car ride somewhere with one of them, just casual chatter. Then, it turned into longer car rides with the radio down and low voices. At some point, there were late night drives to the middle of nowhere just ‘cause and you’d hold hands on the gear shift. If she could talk, you were sure she’d approve. After all, she knew you just like you knew her.

Metal on metal. Tires screeching. Screaming. Music shorting out. More screaming. Popping noises. Metal groaning. Grinding. Sliding. Crunching. Screaming. Screaming. Screaming.

Sonya was there when you sat on her and begged the universe for death. She listened quietly as you sobbed and pleaded. You were tired of the pain… you’d had this discussion before. Then you’d wait for things to get better. You waited years. Half a decade. And nothing had changed. Your tank was near empty. She was also there when you wiped your tears, got back in, and drove home. You were eighteen.

Pain. Blinding. Searing. Screaming. Blood was dripping… splattering. You felt like you were suffocating. The smell of singed hair and burning flesh clawed at your senses Lungs were burning, crumpling, dying. Every nerve in your body was engulfed in flame.

Sonya was there when you cut too deep the first time. You didn’t know it, but you’d missed a spot on the side of the chair where your blood had spilled over that night. She was there when your sobbing mother stuffed you into her passenger seat and drove you to the hospital, despite her fears. You had begged her not to call an ambulance. Everyone would know if she did. You promised you could make it. In retrospect, It was a stupid call, but you’d made it to the emergency room.

“So bye bye, Miss American Pie… Drove my Chevy to the levy but the levy was dry… them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye… singing this’ll be the day that I die…”

Sonya was there when John Laurens first kissed you. He had always been the most affectionate one out of the bunch. You had parked on a backroad after a late night drive, and in the middle of saying something about the stars, he leaned in and kissed you. You had gripped the steering wheel tight in shock, but soon, your hands were in his hair, on his face, down his chest… he was all consuming, and Sonya knew you were happy again because you didn’t speed as fast on the way home.

You couldn’t tell where the metal shrapnel ended and your mangled body began. There was so much blood. Your head was spinning. It was too dark outside. You heard popping of metal settling, dripping of oil and blood. You had to get out of there… but oh, you couldn’t find your legs. Where were they? You couldn’t feel a damn thing but pain in every fiber. You couldn’t locate your legs. You began to panic. Where were they? Did you lose them? Where were you? Everything was disoriented, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you couldn’t find the stars. Blood was running up your forehead. Wait? Up? You must be upside down. But how? You were a sardine… you were trapped in the tin can. You tried to scream, but your voice was hoarse and your throats was raw. Panic strangled you. American Pie was still playing on loop, hauntingly cutting in and out, occasionally screeching. You had no idea how the aux chord stayed in place, but that was the least of your worries. You dug at the seatbelt, but it wouldn’t unlock. Your fingers were trembling, glistening with blood in the very little light available. Little black dots were filling your vision and you could feel your heartbeat, hammering. You began to claw at the seatbelt, desperate and afraid. You had to get out. There had to be a way out of this grave of carnage and warped metal. You didn’t want to die anymore! Things in your life had just gotten better! You weren’t ready yet! Your vision was going black, and you fought and clawed and cried, but to no avail.

Sonya was right by your side when your father screamed at you, calling you useless, pathetic, a disappointment. You had cried so hard and violently that night that you ruptured blood vessels in your eyes. You escaped to Sonya, with a quick lie that you were going to church, and you drove to an abandoned road, where you perched on the hood and swore at the sky. You trembled from the cold and the hurt that tore at you, but you kept screaming until you were hoarse. Then you lied back against her windshield and stared at the sky, wondering when you’d get to finally fly up to the stars.

She was there when your mother died, too. It was a sudden thing. She caught bronchitis. It wasn’t a big deal. You’d left with your father to go get dinner. When you came back, she was dead in the bed. You never recovered from that. You spent countless hours crying alone in your car. Then, you finally stopped crying. You liked to think that when you died, you’d leave an echo of yourself on the backroads, speeding with Sonya and blasting music. You’d blur down an old, forgotten road, and maybe the smell of Lavender Honey would linger after you’d pass. You were still looking for the blur of your mom. She had to be somewhere. But until you found her, you had Sonya. Sonya was a part of who you were. She was an anchor, a constant.

Sonya was there when you died on the roadside in her ribcage of tattered steel, and the paramedics had to bring you back several times. She watched them work, for what felt like hours, cutting away at the little tin can she was with the jaws of life. She was there when they loaded you up on the gurney into the back of the ambulance, unconscious, maybe even dead. Sonya didn’t know. She was just a little, blue, Hyundai Sonata, after all. Then, you were gone, and she was left, completely split in half by the collision caused by a drunk man doing over a hundred miles down the road with his headlights off. He had died on impact, but you weren’t so lucky.

When you came to, you were confused. You didn’t know where you were. Everything was bright and white… a chemical smell singed your nose and burned your lungs. Everything hurt, and you were crippled by fear. You looked around for anything that could be familiar, anything that could explain what was going on.

Your eyes settled on four men, passed out in the hospital chairs. You recognized them. This wasn’t Gilligan’s Island. You didn’t have amnesia. You stared at the boys, wanting to wake them up, but not wanting to put forth the effort to try and speak. So you stared at them. Then you fell back asleep.

When you woke back up, someone was holding your hand and weeping. They kept whispering things you didn’t understand, and every now and then, they’d kiss your face gently. As you became more awake, you recognized the quick, blurry French. This startled you. Laf had never been one to cry. Herc and John were more of the criers. John cried during Nemo, for crying out loud. Herc cried during Old Yeller, but that was expected. You did, too. Laf just shrugged it off. He said it was sad, sure, but he never cried. And then there was your big, strong Frenchman, weeping over you in a hospital. Whatever it was, it had to be bad. You glanced down and sighed in relief when you saw that you still had all of your limbs.

You looked down at him. He had buried his face in the crook of his arm, his hair in a very messy bun. His shoulders shook with sobs, and it pained you to see him like that. You pulled your hand from his, wincing at the fiery pain that coursed through you with each movement, and caressed the side of his face. He looked up at you with bleary eyes, then he cupped your hand to his face and scrunched his eyes closed. His usually carefully groomed facial hair was a bit out of control and his eyes were rimmed red.

“Mon ange,” he whispered, his voice cracking, “Je suis désolé. Je suis très, très, très désolé.”

He began to speak quickly in French, and you watched him, borderline alarmed, as he rambled on and clutched at your hand like a life line.

At some point, the others came back, and Herc pulled Laf into his arms as they both cried together. Your usually verbose Alex was completely silent, the bags under his eyes darker than usual. Laurens had collapsed on the side of your bed, arms draped around you, sobbing. You felt like you should be crying, too. But you couldn’t. You just watched. You felt a sense of cold and withdrawn. It wasn’t a big deal, really. You were still alive.

You got bored of watching them cry and searched for another source of entertainment. You spotted a pen and pad of paper on the table next to your beside, and you quickly scooped it up. Your muscles ached, but your boredom overcame pain. You began to sketch and color absentmindedly on the pad until they finally stopped crying.

“Y/N?” Hercules had whispered, and your hand paused in acknowledgement before you continued to color. “How do you feel?” You shrugged, still not looking up, and continued your work.

“Honey,” John tried this time, cupping your face. You still didn’t look up. You were busy. “Are you in any pain? Do I need to get a nurse?”

When you didn’t reply, John let go of your face and watched you, looking for a sign that you were there.

Even Lafayette tried. “Mon ange, please. We need to know that you are okay. We’re worried about you.”

About thirty seconds passed of silence so tense and tangible that it could be cut with a knife. Then, Alex exploded. “I can’t fucking do this!”

Without any such explanation, he stormed out of the room and slammed the door. John started crying again, but you just kept coloring. They didn’t try to talk to you for a while after that.

You were in the hospital for a week, and you hadn’t spoken a word. The psychologist had come by to evaluate you, but you merely ate soup and stared at her. She eventually explained that you were in a psychosis as a coping method from the accident. You figured she was wrong though, you just didn’t feel like talking. It required too much effort. So you colored on the pad.

The doctors had changed your bandages and sent you for X-rays and follow ups several times. You’d eaten an obscene amount of jello-which you didn’t even really like but were forced to consume-and you’d probably watched the same Friends episode they kept rerunning about ten times. You’d glance at the door every now and then, but Alex hadn’t been by. In contrast, John never left your side unless Herc physically carried him from the room and took him home to make sure he was taken care of. Usually, when that happened, Laf would stay with you, stroke your hair, and talk to you in French. Even though you didn’t tell him, he knew it comforted you and that you enjoyed it.

Eventually, Alex came to see you. He didn’t say very much. He apologized for being away and told you how much he loved you, but most of his visit was spent in silence as he just sat beside you and held your hand. You continued to color with your free one.

They finally released you to go home, and Herc wheeled you from the hospital. However, when he got to the car, panic seized your chest. Flashes came back. The metal. The screaming. The smell. You were trapped in the memories like a sardine in a tin can. You clawed at your hip, trying to get the seatbelt off. It wouldn’t come off. You couldn’t get it off.

“Y/N! Y/N!”

You felt something grab your hands, and you began to struggle, but the grip was too strong. You opened your eyes to see Herc holding your hands, crouched in front of you. You looked down at your hip. There was no seatbelt, just bloody, red lines in your flesh from where you’d clawed just a second ago. Blood was caked under your nails, but Herc didn’t seem to mind.

He held onto your hands as you trembled, wanting to cry, but unable to. The tears were stuck. They wouldn’t come out. “Y/N,” he murmured as he ran his hands up and down your arms. “It’s okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you, okay? You aren’t there anymore. You’re here with me, and I promise I’ll keep you safe. Okay? I promise.”

You shook your head, then looked down at your lap. You picked up the pen and started coloring again. Herc sighed and pulled out his phone. He dialed a number, and after a brief conversation, he wheeled you back into the hospital, much to your relief. That was, until the nurse came up beside you and gave you a shot. Within minutes, you were calmed down. They sedated you. Herc had explained it was for your own good, which he was probably right, but it still pissed you off. You fell asleep as they wheeled you back outside.

When you woke up again, you were in your bed, and Alex was wrapped around you. Everything ached, but waking up with him was nice. You’d missed this in the hospital. You’d missed him. You stayed there and stared at him, just watching him sleep. You felt like a total creep, but you loved the way he smiled softly as he dreamed. You found it cute how he would gently nuzzle into you every now and then. He was adorably affectionate in his sleep.

The door creaked open, and Laf peeked in, seeing you were awake. “Mon ange, you’re awake!” He whispered excitedly. Then, he beckoned to you, “Come eat! I’ve made waffles! Your favorite!”

You were indifferent about the waffles, but you were interested in coloring again, so you crawled out of bed. Alex reached out for you, but you were already gone. You followed Laf to the kitchen, where you grabbed your pad and pen and continued your work. He sat a plate down in front of you, but you completely ignored it. You didn’t feel like eating.

“Y/N?” Laf purred as he leaned his chin on his hand and watched you from his seat beside you. “Aren’t you going to eat?” You shrugged, still coloring. He didn’t say anything. He just watched you work as the waffles got cold.

Eventually, John came inside from a jog, and he greeted you with a kiss on the cheek. You didn’t even look up.

“John,” Laf murmured, “Elle ne mange pas.” You may not be speaking, but that didn’t make you deaf either. You knew he had told John you weren’t eating. You didn’t see the big deal. You had better stuff to do.

“Y/N? You need to eat,” John said softly beside you, but you ignored him. Why were they all so keen on interrupting you? You were trying to have a good time.

John sighed before he sat down and began to cut up your waffle. When he finished, he speared a piece and held it up to your lips, but you didn’t react. It was as if he wasn’t even there. Suddenly, the pad disappeared from beneath your hands, and your eyes snapped up to his.

“You can have this back when you’ve eaten,” he said sternly. All logic flew away. You lost it. You slammed your fist on the table in outrage, then you swept the plate to the floor. It shattered, sending waffle and syrup everywhere. You stood in the middle of the carnage, panting and shaking with rage and anxiety. You just wanted to color. Why couldn’t they just let you have that one fucking thing.

“Y/N! Don’t move!” Laf instructed as he rushed to get the broom, glass crunching under his shoes. He came back and began to sweep while you stared at the notebook John had in his hands. John was staring at you in shock.

“Hey, what happened? Is everyone okay?” Herc came into the kitchen, a pair of pajamas slung loosely on his hips, his chest bare. He had just come from the shower. He saw you standing in the middle of the broken glass and glanced at the other two for an explanation.

“She won’t eat,” John finally forced out, exasperated. “She threw a temper tantrum.” It pissed you off, the way he talked like you weren’t there, but you wouldn’t say that. You wouldn’t say anything. You might as well not even be there, after all.

Herc glanced at Lafayette, whose head was ducked as he swept. You had a hunch that he was hiding his emotions. Once he had cleared the glass, he put the broom away and didn’t come back. You probably really upset him. You didn’t really care.

“Y/N,” Herc tried as he sat you down st the table. You still stared at the notebook John clutched. “We’re just trying to help you.” You were still mad about the whole sedation thing, but that could be overlooked if you got back to coloring soon.

John sighed and handed you your pad, knowing he was only making things worse. You sighed happily and continued to color as the other two stared at you. They didn’t have to say it out loud for you to know what they were thinking. That car accident really messed you up. Maybe it did. You didn’t care.

A week had passed, maybe two or three… you weren’t sure. All you knew was that you were never alone. The first few days were rough. You’d had several melt downs, you threw things a lot, but they wouldn’t relent until you’d eaten something. You eventually realized it was easier to eat a few orange slices than to throw an entire tantrum. So you ate small portions of what they would put in front of you. Each day they’d rotate in and out. Each one keeping you to the same schedule. You’d wake up, eat a banana. You’d color, they’d watch you and try to talk with you. Eventually, it’d be lunch time, and they’d place a PB&J in front of you with some milk and apple slices, and you’d nibble on the sandwich, eat half the slices, and if you were in a particularly bad mood, you’d throw the glass of milk. Somehow, with all of your rage and aggression, the boys never once yelled at you or lost it on you for breaking all their stuff. They never screamed at you the way your father had. Then they’d lead you to the bed for a nap. You’d sleep until the boys came home. You’d eat dinner with them. You’d all sit together on the living room, you coloring, then doing their own thing… every day was the same thing.

You had nightmares a lot now, too. You’d bolt straight up in a sweat, usually screaming. That was the only time you’d ever use your voice. Even in your tantrums, you were quiet… but the nightmares… you couldn’t stop screaming. You’d wake them all up with your screams and crying, and they’d get you one of your prescribed sleeping pills. They’d hold you, whisper to you, comfort you’d until you fell back asleep. But the nightmares always came back.

Alex was watching you late one night. You always stayed up with him, afraid to go to sleep. Afraid of the nightmares. The boys understood this without you having to say a thing, and they left you beside a typing Alexander as you scribbled away on the pad.

“Y'know, you talk in your sleep,” he had said as he causally typed. Your coloring paused, but then you shrugged it off and kept going. He continued. “It’s the only time I get to hear your voice anymore, aside from when you’re screaming… Sometimes, if I’m really lucky, you’ll breathe my name in your sleep, soft, like a secret… and you’ll whisper about love, and death, and everything in between. Shit, I’m making this sound more poetic than it is. Sometimes, you mumble about penguins in space,” he laughed as his fingers hovered over the keys. “But when you whisper my name… oh,” he breathed, covering his face with his hands, “I think that you’re coming back to me.”

You didn’t say anything when his shoulders began to shake, and his breathing was a bit more jagged. You just let him cry on you, his laptop forgotten on the seat next to him. You just colored.

It had been maybe a month. You could tell that your boys were exhausted. You were a handful. You didn’t feel bad. You didn’t feel anything. You liked it that way. They’d spent all of their time and energy taking care of you. The feeding, cleaning, cooking… not to mention the emotional toll it took on them to see you this way. They were trying to be patient. They didn’t want to rush you. But it was hard when you wouldn’t even look at them, let alone speak to them. They were getting tired of sweeping up broken glass… but they loved you, so they kept doing it. They kept hoping that you could somehow come back from this. But as time dragged on, they began to wonder if you ever really would.

You got a phone call one day, out of the blue, from an unknown number. No one had called you when your boys explained your unwillingness to speak. John was out in the yard, gardening, and you didn’t want to disturb him. You answered the call, curious. You didn’t say anything, you just put it on speaker and put the phone on the table as you continued coloring.

“Y/N?” That was all it took. You dropped the pen. He wasn’t calling you. He couldn’t be. He hadn’t spoken to you since you’d left. Not a phone call, text, nothing. Why now? “Hello? Y/N, if you’re there, I want you to know that I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner. I know we didn’t leave things on good terms… I know that I screwed up…” his voice cracked, and you felt your chest clench. “But you’re still my daughter, okay? And I still love you. When I-when I heard that you had been in a car accident, I couldn’t breathe. It destroyed me. And I know I’ve been a shitty dad, and I know I should’ve called, and I’m sorry. Y/N, I’m so sorry…” he was sobbing on the other end. Something he’d only done at your mom’s funeral. “But I’m calling now, and I’m worried about you. I know how bad you were after your… after she… and I need to make sure that you’re taking care of yourself. You need to be eating, and drinking lots of fluids… and make sure you’re sleeping enough… Don’t forget to take your meds, okay?”

You didn’t say anything. Your chest was too tight. You couldn’t breathe. As much as you hated it, it felt so damn good to hear your father’s voice. That pissed you off, but you couldn’t say anything.

After you said nothing, he sighed, “I don’t expect you to ever speak to me again. I know I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry for that. There’s no fixing that. But I want you to know that I still love you, okay? I do, a lot. So hang in there, take care of yourself. Alright? Love you, Y/N. Bye.” The line went dead, and it felt like a balloon popped in your chest. Air rushed your lungs, and you could breathe again. Then you began sobbing. You cried for the first time since the accident. You looked down at the messy coloring, and your face flushed. How dare he call you and apologize! He thought a call would make up for his years of bullshit? He didn’t even bother to come fucking see you! You died on the side of that road, and he never even thought to come visit you! He couldn’t even be bothered to actually come down to make sure you took care of yourself. He just figured a shitty phone call would get the job done!

In a rage, you began to rip out the pieces of paper, tearing them to bits. The drawings were incoherent swirls and patterns anyway. It all meant nothing anyway. You ripped each page out, shredding it and screaming.

You felt hands on your shoulders and you were pulled into a chest. You stopped ripping the papers and began to sob as John held you.

“Y/N,” his voice caressed you, “Did something happen?”

Your body shook with sobs, and you finally managed to stutter out, “I just really fucking missed you, John.”

And like that, everything broke. You couldn’t keep it together. You wailed and clung to John like a child, who, admittedly, cried as well. You were finally coming back. You just sat on the floor, surrounded by bits of shredded paper, sobbing.

“I don’t know what to do, John,” you rambled, unable to shut up now, “I’m just so scared all the time. I don’t want to be like this anymore. I don’t want to be broken. And I don’t know how to be anything else right now. And I’m sorry that I’ve been such a burden-”

“Stop it,” he blubbered as he grabbed your face between his hands, “You aren’t a burden. Don’t say that. We love you, so taking care of you is in the job description. Okay? Don’t ever think of yourself as a burden.”

You started to cry harder. You didn’t feel like you deserved how kind he was being to you. “It’s just not fair. Everything was starting to get better. I was starting to get better. And then I had to go and fucking die. And now I’m back, but I’m in pieces, and none of it makes sense anymore, and I can’t breathe. I’m still trapped in that tin can, a sardine out of water. I don’t know how to escape. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to do anything!”

John pulled you against his chest and held you there, gently rocking you back and forth. “That’s okay, Y/N. It’s okay to be broken. It’s okay to not know what to do. And yeah, what happened wasn’t fucking fair, but we have to move forward. We have to rebuild. And if words of love were enough to take away every broken bone and scar on your soul, then I would utter every word I know to express to you how much you are loved… but I know that won’t fix it. It’s okay, though. You’re going to get there. I promise. You’re going to get to a place where you’re okay someday, and we’ll be there with you. But for now, it’s okay to be broken. It’s okay for you to be in pieces, just let me hold you here until you’re ready to put yourself back together. We’re not leaving you. Not now, not ever.”

And true to his word, he sat with you on the floor until you managed to cry yourself to sleep in his arms.

Sonya had always been there for you. It had been a while since you’d last seen her. But eventually, you were able to ride in the car without needing a sedative or a paper bag. It had been a few months since the incident. For some reason, the boys had saved the pieces of your totaled car at a junk yard. They knew how much you’d loved little, blue Sonya.

She was a disaster when you saw her your last time, just as you had been a disaster when she saw you her first time. She mirrored who you used to be. She was dented, scratched up, crushed, broken, and all around just a mess of scraps and jagged metal. Still, she was your baby.

The boys hadn’t said so, but you knew they had brought you here to say goodbye. You traced your fingers over her dented and warped hood, the place you used to sit. It was cold beneath your fingers. Usually, It was warm from the engine beneath it when you’d sit on it, but then again, you figured her engine couldn’t run anymore. The driver’s side door was completely gone, and the passenger side was caved in. She was split clean in two in the accident. You saw the gear shift where you had held hands on one of your first dates with the boys. You got flashbacks of who you used to be, where you’d gone, in Sonya. You’d been a lot of places. You’d flown to the sun and back with her.

But you didn’t want to fly anymore. You knew what it meant to fly too close to the sun and crash back to the earth. You couldn’t handle that again. And besides, you had nothing to search for anymore. You had nowhere else you wanted to be. You had your life here. You’d found love. You’d found the ability to move on. You’d found yourself again. You were on your way to being okay. No, scratch that. You were on your way to being happy. You didn’t need Sonya to fly anymore. And her, being the perfect partner in the relationship, understood that because she understood you. She had watched you grow up after all.

You walked back to the car where your boys were waiting, and Sonya sat in the junkyard. She’d seen it all. She was an old car, after all. But she had truly seen it all when she watched you drive away with your boys. She knew you were happy. Well. As much as a little, blue, Hyundai Sonata could know. And you were going to miss that rumble on the cold nights and driving with the windows down. You were going to miss the feeling of flying with the wind in your hair. You were going to miss Sonya. But when you glanced over your shoulder, you realized that it was just a pile of metal scraps; just the shell of the car you loved so dear. She had watched you grow up now, and she was so proud that you didn’t need her. You weren’t fifteen anymore, and you didn’t need to fly when you had your life on the ground. And just like that, she wasn’t your Sonya anymore. She was just a car in the junkyard.

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talhaghafoor2019-blog · 6 years ago

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Drake, Ariana Grande, Cardi B and the other songs to create the best Summer music playlist

On Spotify last weekend, it seemed as if the streaming service had given itself over entirely to presenting the music of a single artist.

That would be Drake, whose double album Scorpion was released on June 30.

Everywhere you looked, there was his handsome mug, the cover image of every single playlist on the world’s most popular streaming service.

That went for even the ones his songs weren’t featured on, such as “Best of British,” or \”Happy Pop Hits.” The promotion was a silly goof that online rageaholics are comparing to U2’s Songs of Innocence being inserted into all the world’s iTunes music folders in 2014 because, well, because people love to complain.

But the all-Drake all-the-time stunt underscores a truism: Scorpion is the unavoidable event release of the summer. The Toronto rapper’s album is uneven but still packed with hits. Scorpion has smashed streaming records left and right, garnering more that 435 million plays on Spotify, Apple Music, and other streaming services in its first three days of release. That is more than the previous record holder, Post-Malone’s Beerbongs & Bentleys, accumulated in a week.

Drake is included on the 24-song summer playlist assembled here, which you can play on Spotify by scrolling down to the bottom of the page.

But there’s more than Drizzy happening this summer: The tunes assembled include big pop hits in contention in that winner-take-all Song of the Summer competition that media outlets obsess over, but also breezy and brooding songs with a multiplicity of moods, because while hot and sticky seasonal pop songs are often joyful, they’re not always enough to chase away the summertime blues.

“I Like It,” Cardi B feat. Bad Bunny and J Balvin. If a single song of the summer had to be named, I’d go with this one, the second Billboard chart topper for the Bronx born rapper who dominated 2017 with “Bodak Yellow.” This collaboration with two reggaeton emcees effortlessly blends trap music beats with salsa. It’s further evidence of the indomitable spirit of the rapper born Belcalis Almanzar.

“Make Me Feel,” Janelle Monáe. The current single from the Atlanta R&B-pop-funk synthesist’s terrific new Dirty Computer is “I Like That.” “Make Me Feel,” however, is the superior summertime jam, a celebration of sexuality that takes pointers from Prince’s “Kiss.” She will play the Made in America festival on the Ben Franklin Parkway on Labor Day Weekend.

>> READ MORE: ‘I’m not America’s nightmare, I’m the American dream’: Janelle Monáe’s new kind of protest song

“Apes-,” The Carters. Beyoncé says the bad word on multiple occasions in this hard-banging celebration of high-powered entertainment couple bliss on Everything Is Love, which features art history lessons aplenty in its video filmed at Paris’ Louvre museum. Jay and Bey will be at Lincoln Financial Field on July 30.

>> READ MORE: Beyoncé and Jay-Z are a happy couple on ‘Everything Is Love.’ Is that good for their music?

“Short Court Style,” Natalie Prass. A delectable slice of bubble gum flavored throwback 1970s pop-funk is Richmond, Va., indie singer Prass’ impressive second album, The Future and the Past. Prass plays the Xponential festival in Camden on July 28.

“Boo’d Up,” Ella Mai. Summertime is the love song time. British singer Ella Mai first put out this celebration of going steady early last year, but it’s a success story that gathered stream and pop radio exposure into 2018.

��Slow Burn,” Kacey Musgraves. While still IDing herself as country singer, Kacey Musgraves has redirected her music in a ‘70s soft-rock direction, a smart strategy since country radio is too conservative to play her anyway. This superbly crafted tune stays on permanent simmer.

“Babe,” Sugarland feat. Taylor Swift. Wyomissing, Pa.’s own megastar Swift now rules a pure pop universe. She plays back-to-back nights at Lincoln Financial Field starting Friday. but she’s smartly kept her finger in the country pie by continuing to write hit songs for country pop acts such as reunited duo Sugarland.

“Let’s Take a Vacation,” Joshua Hedley. The Nashville crooner puts a warm-weather spin on Merle Haggard’s “If We Make It Though December,” on this cut from Mr. Jukebox, as he tries to convince his significant other that a summer time getaway will put some zip back in their failing relationship.

“Pretty Horses,” Dwight Yoakam. This is the best of two new lonesome and blue songs that the uncommonly dependable veteran songwriter recently debuted on his excellent new Sirius XM channel Dwight Yoakam & the Bakersfield Beat.

“Pet Cemetery,” Tierra Whack. A love song to her lost dog, this is one of the standout cuts on the North Philly rapper’s wondrous 15-songs-in-15-minutes album Whack World.

>> READ MORE: Welcome to Tierra Whack’s ‘Whack World’: The North Philly rapper only needs 15 minutes of your time

“Summer Games,” Drake. “Summer just started and we’re already done,” the Canadian rhymer, in sad and sensitive mode, raps on the 1980s synth driven summer bummer, sounding disappointed. It’s one of many Scorpion cuts, along with “After Dark” and “Nice For What” that would have made worthy addition to this list.

“No Tears Left to Cry,” Ariana Grande. The octave leaping singer has a new album called Sweetener due next month, and a frisky new single called “Bed” with Nicki Minaj. This, though, is the sad song with a sweet melody whose mournful tone feels like a response to the terror attack that killed 22 at a Grande show in England last year.

“Lucid Dreams,” Juice Wrld. Drake isn’t the only rapper who’s pouring his feelings out this summer. Juice Wrld is the suburban Chicago teen born Jared Higgins who specializes in feeling sorry for himself in song, thankfully with a modicum of self-awareness. “I take prescriptions to make me feel a-OK,” he rap-sings. “I know it’s all in my head.”

“Heat Wave,” Snail Mail. Baltimore teenager Lindsey Jordan explores her feelings with scalpel-sharp acuity and songwriting smarts on her debut, Lush, and this will mentally cool you down if you watch its ice hockey video. Jordan plays Union Transfer on Saturday.

“Nameless, Faceless,” Courtney Barnett. The Australian rock songwriter who is so good at precisely — and drolly — detailing thoughts of alienation and detachment on her new Tell Me How You Really Feel. Put down of the summer: “I could eat a bowl of alphabet soup and spit out better words than you.”

“If You Know You Know,” Pusha-T. There’s no self-pity on this hard-hitting highlight from Daytona, the Kanye West-produced return to form by the rapper who made his name with the street-wise Virginia hip-hop duo Clipse.

“Stay Woke,” Meek Mill feat Miguel. The appropriately serious-in-tone first song by the Philadelphia rapper since his release from prison in April. He spits with authority, and takes Grandmaster Flash’s classic “The Message” as a starting point. Look for Miguel to join him when they both play Made in America on Labor Day weekend.

“This Is America,” Childish Gambino. The song of the summer that speaks the most intensely to a bitterly divided nation in 2018 from Renaissance man Donald Glover.

“The Middle,” Zedd, Maren Morris, Grey. A collaboration between Russian-German deejay-producer, a Nashville country pop singer, and an L.A. EDM act is just the sort of Frankensteinian creation that contemporary pop mega-hits are made of. And this one is hard to resist.

“One Kiss,” Calvin Harris feat. Dua Lipa. This summer’s soaring firework celebration-ready dance track from Scottish deejay and Taylor Swift-ex Harris. This time with English songwriter and vocalist handling the vocal duties in a testimony about how a single peck on the lips can spell transcendence.

“A Song for Those You Miss All the Time,” Thin Lips. Speaking of Lips, this song by the Philly band fronted by Chrissy Tashjianis is by no means a happy one, but its gnarly guitar riff and catchy hook does deliver plenty of catharsis. Chosen Family is out July 27.

“Hey! Little Child,” Low Cut Connie. A ribald stomp from the raucous throwback Philly rocker’s Dirty Pictures (part 2), covering Big Star star Alex Chilton, who included it on his 1979 solo album Like Flies On Sherbert.

“I’m Your Man,” Spritualized. One man band Jason Pierce — a.k.a. J. Spaceman — is returning with And Nothing Hurt, his first album of new music since 2012 on Sept. 7. This and a second song, “A Perfect Miracle,” are marked by swelling orchestration and divine summertime sadness sentiment.

“Summer’s End,” John Prine. Before you know it, it’ll be gone. This highlight from the 71-year-old Prine’s superb better-than-it-has-any-right-to-be The Tree of Forgiveness is as beautiful and bittersweet as a late August sunset.

July 5, 2018 — 6:54 PM EDT

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gencottraux · 7 years ago

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I’m in a memoir mood today, so let’s spin the flashback wheel to the year 1972!

It’s late July, maybe early August. Richard Nixon is president and Watergate is just emerging as a scandal.

Gasoline averages 55 cents a gallon. The Munich Olympic terrorist attack has yet to happen (that will be in September). The average yearly income is $11,800 and the average cost of a new house is $27,550.

Fashion is interesting and colorful.

Food is weird.

David Bowie introduces his alter-ego, Ziggy Stardust.

ABBA is formed.

Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is published.

The top movie was The Godfather. M*A*S*H is a hit television show, although I am a Mary Tyler Moore Show girl.

Roberta Flack’s First Time Ever I Saw Your Face is the top song of the year, American Pie by Don McLean is number 3, and it is the song that I like better. We all like singing along to Harry Nilsson’s Coconut Song.

A portion of my family is on an extended one-way cross-country trip from Georgia to California.

I am the youngest. My mother, a widow with 4 children, has just married her second husband, Van, a twice-divorced alcoholic who doesn’t like children. Actually, he pretty much hates everything as far as I, at age almost 11, can tell. Cathy, our oldest sister, is not on the trip; she is in Georgia with her husband and new baby. I miss them dreadfully. Our family dog, Tripp, will be flown out later to join us in California. I also miss her dreadfully. Van took the 3 cats (Whiskers, Luke, and Christy) and the other dog, goofy Sunshine, to the pound. Somehow he spared Tripp, who is a year older than I am and has been around my entire life. She has periodic seizures; maybe even a seemingly heartless guy like Van knows you don’t take a senior dog with seizures away from her family.

This excerpt from the Little Shit memoir (Little Shit is the nickname I obtained that summer) is early in the trip, when are headed from Laurel, Mississippi to New Orleans, Louisiana.

To do this, we cross the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway, an almost 24 mile long bridge that is the world’s longest span over water. That is very long, especially when you are 10, and crammed in a car with two cranky siblings and two smoking adults, no air conditioning, and no end in sight to this miserable summer. Fun times!

Apologies to my sister Ellen for my somewhat exaggerated depiction of her moodiness and carsickness. But she did miss her boyfriend and she really hated that bridge!

We have a quiet breakfast at the Howard Johnson’s in Laurel, Mississippi. Ellen spent the previous night in our room in tears after saying goodbye to her boyfriend in Birmingham. It’s not like she’s never going to see him again. She’ll be back in Atlanta to finish high school soon enough, and he will be there for his second year at Emory. But she is inconsolable, refusing to eat dinner. I love the orange and turquoise theme but Ellen says it’s tacky. She consents to breakfast, but glares at Van between deep sighs. She fiddles with a cup of coffee, the weight of the world on her 16-year old shoulders. I go for the little boxes of cereal that you split open and pour the milk right in, bypassing the bowl. The snap, crackle and pop is the only noise at the table beside the sighs and the clinking of coffee cups on saucers.

“I can’t wait to see New Orleans,” Mom finally offers as conversation.

Steve mutters, “I can,” and Ellen just rolls her eyes.

We load the bags back onto the luggage rack. Steve crawls to the wayback, flashing me his “beat you” grin. I settle in beside Ellen in the back seat. At least I have my book if I can’t have my favorite spot.

“How can you read in the car?” Ellen looks at me like I’m from another planet. It’s as good a place to read as any.

Van has decreed that Mom is not going to drive on this trip, which is fine with her, and gets behind the wheel. She empties out the overflowing ashtray and settles in.

“We’ll be going over the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway. It’s the world’s longest bridge over water,” Van announces, like he’s reading from a travel brochure.

Uh oh. He doesn’t know yet that Ellen can get really carsick on bridges and curvy roads. I love Ellen, but I don’t want to be sitting next to her over that bridge.

“Can we have the radio for a while?” Ellen asks.

So far Van has been solidly anti-radio.

“If I hear that damned “lime in the coconut” song one more time, I’m going to spit, ” he says.

Ellen loves Carly Simon and Carole King but they don’t impress Van either. None of us want to listen to what Steve likes, bands with weird names like Jethro Tull, and of course the Allman Brothers, Georgia boys who Ellen’s boyfriend used to listen to before they were famous when they would play for free in Piedmont Park. So we settle for country music. Mom tries to get us to sing along like we used to, but Cathy was always the leader then and Ellen isn’t up to taking her place at the moment.

The bridge appears to be endless and hovers uncomfortably close to the water. I’m not afraid of bridges or heights, but the idea of Van swerving the overloaded station wagon off the bridge when he gets cigarette ashes on his pants or spills his drink makes me nervous. Van also probably doesn’t know that I can’t swim.

“My goodness, look at that!” exclaims Mom. It really is quite a sight, with no end on the horizon. Ellen clutches at my arm. I let her, even though I am not sure how it comforts her at all.

“You lie down; I’ll scoot over closer to the door,” I offer. The window is open for fresh air. If we go over, is it better for it to be up or down?

In my mind I see the swerve of the overloaded station wagon and it, with the 5 of us, dropping like a giant cannonball into the water. Do station wagons float? We have the windows cracked open all the time because of the cigarette smoke and the lack of air conditioning. Now I wonder, would it be better to have the windows tightly shut in the event of a water landing? I grab the crank and start turning it, the cool smooth metal feeling like my last chance to avoid a watery grave. I practice rolling the window up and down to see how fast I can do it if called on in an emergency.

“What the hell are you doing,” Van demands, his mouth pursed around his cigarette and looking at me in the rear view mirror.

I know better than to answer the question. I stop cranking the handle and slide down in the seat so I can’t see all of the beautiful blue, deadly water out there. But it’s much too hot to burrow, and Ellen is taking up more than her share of the space as she lies on her side and closes her eyes, trying to stem the carsickness. Steve is looking out the wayback at the cars behind us, and gazing at the water as it speeds away from him rather than toward him.

“Scoot over,” I whisper as I crawl over the seat back into the wayback with him. “Ellen’s going to puke on me!”

He swats at me, “Go away.”

“Mom!” I yell toward the front.

“Mom! Steve won’t let me in the back. Tell him to move over.” I am halfway over the back seat, head and shoulders in the wayback and the rest of me trying to catch up. Ellen, sweaty and clammy with carsickness, is swatting me away with a surprisingly strong hand from one side and Steve from the other. I hiss at Steve, “Let me in, she’s going to puke on me.”

“Dammit, Nancy,” snarls Van. “I am not pulling over on this bridge. Control your children.” Mom is obliviously singing with Donna Fargo that she’s the happiest girl in the whole USA.

Was my mother really oblivious? I honestly don’t know, but it seemed so at the time. And no, in 1972 not a lot of people bothered with seat belts. I climbed around in the car. Dear younger readers, cars did not have electric windows in the old days. You had to crank them. I can’t say for sure there was a Howard Johnson’s in Laurel, Mississippi, but I know we stayed at one somewhere along the way.

We did love the Coconut Song. You know the one, “put the lime in the coconut, you know you’ll feel better…

Here I am, 45 years later, on a hot day in California in August, drinking my favorite new icy drink, coconut water with lime. It does make me feel better!

Cheers!

A Bridge Over Troubled Water (A Very Long Bridge) I'm in a memoir mood today, so let's spin the flashback wheel to the year 1972!

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