#my logic is not proper right now and neither is my english

[disasterinbound]

(remembers seeing the yosuke au blog's post about merfolk yosuke) Oh No

Like honestly when he moves out to inaba he's like "hey at least i wont be invited out to the pool or to the beach or something" (not that he doesn't reject those invites)

probably during the camping spiel he doesnt bring any swimming costumes cuz ya know. Gotta stay dry and theyre saved from morooka's puke! Hooray!!

Maybe he used to sing a lil bit back when he was more relaxed about it, and he might've accidentally nearly lured a small child into the deeper parts of the ocean, so now he's more strict on himself. He does miss singing, but it's better to blend in. Safer to (pretend to) be normal. For everyone. No more songs, no matter how much it hurts him because he'd rather hurt himself than to hurt someone else.

But perhaps he misses it too much, and it's like a part of himself that's locked away and the last connection to the sea that he so desperately wants, so he buys himself a pair of headphones. To at least be able to hear someone do what he cannot.

(And even in Inaba, it still is in use. Just for more reasons than for what it was bought for.)

And honestly yeah he REALLY would not be happy to go to the beach. Maybe he's excited to see Yu Rise in a swimsuit or something, but beyond that he's kind of terrified. Maybe because he doesn't know if he has enough willpower to prevent himself from jumping into the waves and swimming far away to another place where he isn't the plague of Inaba's shopping districts, where he's more than JUNES and people sweep past him cuz he's only a face in the crowd.

And also because. Yknow. If ya go to the beach he's expected to hop inside the water, and he absolutely can't do that.

Either ways, when they get to the beach, he's staying firmly on the sand. No water for this (mer)guy!

[msfbgraves]

But the only times he's intentionally rough with him is to keep him out of imminent danger. *** You like, can’t write this and leave us hanging 👀 jk, but it definitely got my attention. Could we get a scene where Daniel is oblivious to the danger and Terry nearly loses it or something? Because losing Daniel is a fate worse than death…

“What's going on?”

His Danny's earnest little frown. He doesn't often ask him that, little as he wants to know about business. The fact that's actually a boon most of the time has eluded Terry till now.

“Amanda called,” he says, looking about the terrace they're sitting on. “She said there may be rivals coming in.”

He takes it lightly. “Michael would know that,” he says. “If there were anything to warn me about, he would have told me.”

That sweet innocence. “Darlin'. How likely do you think it is, for your brother to come to my aid?”

Danny blinks. “Don't you know that's an insult or do you simply like doing it?”

He smiles. “Danny. Of course you love them, but that doesn't change the facts.”

His mate pouts. “And whose fault is that? It's not like they're not trying.”

Terry sits up. “Trying what?”

“They come round, don't they? Louie, Michael and Nessa? And my Ma? You only ever visit us when you can't not, and then you hardly talk.”

He shakes his head. “I don't speak Calabrian, or Sicilian or whatever it is you talk -”

“Terry, per Dio, neither do I! They'd speak English if you'd try it sometime!”

He smiles. “I think the Don would rather cuddle a viper.”

“Because you act as if he owes you something.”

He looks at him intently, but doesn't speak.

“You wanted money, you accepted marriage.”

“And what comes with it, Danny, love.”

“A whole lot of obligations, none of which you even try to honor.” He shakes his head. “Forget it.”

“No, no!” He reaches over the table for Danny's hands, and his mate lets him after a slight startle. “Why don't you talk to me like this anymore, mo cuishle?”

He looks away. “The food'll be here soon.”

He tries to make his voice as soft as possible. “Tell me?”

Suddenly his mate's eyes dart away, to a man walking very forcefully through the crowd, dressed as any other villager- Terry may have even seen this one around, smoking and drinking with his friends. Terry always gets the measure of other Alphas, force of habit – especially the women here are always armed, whether with a hunting rifle or one of those quick daggers. The men too are much opener about it than in NYC may be considered proper. Still, they play legions of games, Sicilians, but rarely about this. That's why none of them as ever approached him or Danny other than in a friendly spirit. This is not a friendly spirit.

He scans the terrain. Feck it, Danny wanted 'a good view', they're as far out as possible on here; in fact, few of the neighboring tables are even occupied.

He tightens his grip, pulls his mate up. “Inside, now,” he whispers, shielding him from view as much as he's able. That should clue at least some of the Alphas around in, but nobody moves. So much for that famed LaRusso protection!

“You're hurting-"

“Behind me!”

Why is nobody doing anything? He can see one or two younger women itching, but they're held back, even Danny is fighting, he will throw him over his shoulder, what the –

“LaRusso?” the stranger barks.

And then Danny does the stupidest thing he could ever do, and answers: “Certo, perché –?”

Strange thing is, the Alpha man seems to hesitate, which is the first logical thing about any of this so far. But then he tries to dart around Terry, straight for Daniel, and Jaysis, Mary and Joseph, Terry has been itching for a fight. Begging for one. And the man's a right eejit about it, but Daniel doesn't do anything Terry's taught him, why is he not hiding, where is his pistol, never mind, Terry slams the Italian right down. It's a fucking release is what it is, he could snap him like those grissini he's never seen the point of, but Danny's still here, someone could take him in the mêlee, “Back, get back!” he shouts, and Danny's terrified, he can smell it, and even that other Alpha reeks of desperation, as well he should, what is this, who does he work for, he puts a foot on the man's neck, reaches for his gun –

“Stop!” Daniel calls. “Terry!”

And he darts around for an instant, how could he not, and Daniel runs forward, so he has to kick him back, God forgive him, but why is he being so stupid...?

“Wait!” his mate calls again, as he clambers up (praise God someone caught him) and then: “Vitelli?”

And the other Alpha is making what little sound he can, and the crowd is smiling, what are they smiling about, and Daniel shouts that it's OK, and how could this ever be OK, and now the villagers are coming for him, and –

Daniel's hugging him from behind. “Sh, Terry,” he whispers. “Sh.”

And then his legs simply give out.

He still bodily cradles his mate away, but everyone is cheering, what are they cheering about, but his Danny, oh, his sweetheart, he's never letting go, and Daniel cuddles in, and he can feel his sweet boy's breath on his face for the first time in weeks and he thinks he's crying again. “Terry, you've done well, it's over, help me up, please?” And others are cheering that Alpha, and now helping them both and that man, Vitelli, is massaging his neck and looking at him as if to say: “Really?” but doesn't. And Daniel sticks out his hand and no way that is going to happen but he hears “it's good, he's with us” and no he's not. Luckily the man knows what's good for him because he doesn't move in, so Daniel bows and gives his name as “Daniele LaRusso,” which it feckin isn't but this seems to be the day Terry's having. “Il mio marito, Terry Silver,” and of course that man knows who he is because everyone here knows who he is and Terry really needs a drink right now. The cafe owner is clapping him and he accepts whatever drink is put in his hand. Daniel is grinning from ear to ear and rubbing his back and saying “He's quick, Michael,” and if that lowlife has anything to do with this...?

“My brother wants to court a local girl,” Daniel says. “And he's beta, so it's a bit more complicated, they need a sense of the family Alphas, but now, with you here, I think that's OK.”

“Huh?” It's not his most dignified reply, but Daniel is not making any sense.

“The Vitellis want to show that they're willing to defend their omegas, Terry, and they need to see what happens if someone threatens a LaRusso one. Specifically, what our Alphas would do. And there's many ways to test this, but this is the old fashioned way.”

He coughs. “I would have killed him!”

“I didn't think he'd move in tonight,” Daniel says. “I merely wanted to signal that we're available, so to speak, but it can happen at any time.”

“Doesn't negate my killing him!”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Daniel says. “Needed to distract you a bit. But don't worry, Vincenzo here will be the talk of the town, it takes a lot to take someone like you on.”

He touches his face. “I hurt you...”

A spasm goes through him. “Not tonight.” They're bringing more drinks, but Daniel shakes his head. “I think we'd better go inside,” he says.

And now Terry does sling him over his shoulder, to much cheering, and he carries him like that all the way to their front door. “Serves you right,” is the only reply he makes to Daniel's ever more frenzied protestations.

Inside, Daniel starts dragging out suitcases.

“Stop that,” Terry says. “You're hurt.”

Daniel shrugs. “Forget about it.”

“That's not an answer.”

He stands still, shrugs again. “You went kind of hard on that Vitelli,” he says. “Maybe that he's wanting retribution, and if that happens, we'd better not be here. So, Ireland?”

[legends-live-in-memories]

Cut You Down to Size

AYO its Day 1 of the MGI Trope Tussle! I’m representing Team Enemies-to-Lovers! Lets Get It!

Fics Masterlist

Damigami 5.5K words Oneshot, no warnings apply

Summary:

Alfred signs Damian up for his school's fencing club. There he meets a red clad demon with a sabre.

Day 1 prompt: My name is unimportant— you, tyrant, will die today by my blade.

without further ado:

This was stupid. Damian could not understand Pennyworth’s logic behind signing him up for his school’s fencing club. He was a trained assassin, studying under the world’s greatest swordsmen, and no one at his school would be able to keep up with him. He was miles ahead in terms of technique and experience. So why on earth would he subject himself to this asinine, idle waste of time on a Saturday?

“Remember, young master, it is important to your father that you enjoy hobbies more suitable for others your age. All your other siblings have activities to distract them from the eccentricities of their nighttime activities.” Right, that’s why. Pennyworth spoke as if he were reminding an imbecile how to not walk into oncoming traffic and his tone grated on Damian’s nerves. “Don’t pout, Master Damian, it is unbecoming. Besides, it would make your father proud if you were able to blend in with other teens.”

He most definitely was not pouting but he could agree that making his father proud and not compromising their identities were important. His weary sigh was the only answer he gave to Pennyworth before stepping out of the car and entering the school gym. He squared his shoulders and adjusted the gym bag before striding to the gathering of other students on the mats. They were all in varying degrees of proper white fencing gear, a sharp contrast to Damian’s black uniform. He stood off the side, waiting for the instructor and pointedly ignoring the stares of the other students. Their attention was meaningless and Damian hoped they wouldn’t turn his presence into some spectacle.

The minutes ticked by, and his patience withering away with it, before the gym’s double doors were booming open. In walked the club’s instructor followed by what looked like another school’s club and instructor trailing behind her. Damian counted at least ten students, white uniforms perfectly in place with their array of masks tucked under their arms. However, one of those students caught his eye. The striking red uniform stood out against everyone else’s and the square to their shoulders spoke of confidence not unlike his own. A small part of Damian wonders if any of that confidence was well earned but the larger part of him knew that regardless of how good they thought they were, they were still no match for him.

“Good afternoon, everyone!” The crisp voice of his instructor echoed in the now silent gym as she commanded everyone’s attention. She looked rather pleased with herself and continued to speak, addressing the Gotham students. “As you can see here, I have a visiting school’s club with me, so please join me in welcoming Francois Dupont’s fencing club, who have come all the way from Paris to practice with us.”

A half hearted applause was all the reaction she got and it was at that point that Damian tuned out the rest of her introduction. His mind had wandered to less menial things, waiting for his time to show his more than impressive skills.

He was brought out of his musings by the shrill of a whistle and was staring face to face to a rather short girl from the French club. She was looking up at him with wide blue eyes before darting away to look over the other students pairing up. Her eyes had focused on a tall blond and his Gotham partner and Damian swore he saw her swoon. Great, a scatter-brained lovesick fool was his first partner. Clearly the universe was punishing him for transgressions he was not privy to. Before he could pass further judgment on his partner, she peered back to him and spoke in soft English.

“Hi, my name is Marinette. Nice to meet you!” She tried to sound confident but her awkwardness betrayed her and the hunch in her shoulders were telling. Alfred had taught him some manners, however, so rather than ignore her as he was wont to do, he greeted her with his name and ended the conversation there. She looked ready to speak again but was cut off by another harsh blow from the whistle.

“Alright, everyone. This is just a warm-up match. Nothing too fancy and remember the rules.” The French instructor’s accent was thick and he spoke with equal robustness to match the Gotham instructor. The two made quite the pair.

He faced his partner again and put enough space between them. They both put on their masks and were poised at the ready. Her pose was amateurish but definitely better than the others he’s caught in his periphery. The cry of ‘en garde’ sounded and Damian did not hesitate to try and score a point. Emphasis on ‘try.’ While if this were a real duel Damian would have won with no hesitation, he found that he didn’t need to hold back as much as he would if she were some of his classmates. Her technique was still sloppy but at least she showed potential.

The warm-up ended with Damian scoring three points in succession but there were, admittedly, some close calls. Next, they were rotating partners and Damian was partnered off with the blond from earlier. This close, Damian faintly recognized his face and verbalized as such. The sheepish scratch behind the blond’s neck was unexpected as was the declaration that he was a fashion model back in Paris. Adrien Agreste the boy had said. Damian then chalked up his previous partner’s behaviour to nothing more than to a silly celebrity crush. No further thought was put into their dynamics as the call for positions was announced.

This duel went slightly differently than Damian had expected. Like his previous partner, Agreste was much better than first impressions would suggest. While his previous partner had poor technique with intuition to back her up, Agreste had acceptable technique with his own personal twist. Agreste backed each strike with an edge that spoke of more roguish practice. It was almost entertaining but still no match for Damian superior skills. Perhaps he could convince his father to send him to Paris for the summer if this was the kind of students the city produced. This duel ended in three points in Damian’s favour as well but he conceded a point to Agreste who got a lucky strike in. Both boys took off their masks and shook hands as a five minute break was called. As Damian turned to reach for his water bottle on the bench, Agreste approached him with a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“I saw your match with Marinette,” he spoke with nothing short of excitement and slight wonder. “She’s new to the club but she’s a quick learner. I’m glad she joined and she seemed to enjoy warming up with you! What do you think?”

Huh.

Maybe Agreste was the adoring fan in their dynamic. Any more brightly, and the boy’s green eyes would be sparkling like fireworks as he continued to wax poetics about the short girl. That of which got annoying pretty quickly.

Another whistle, that French coach was rather annoying with the damn thing, was blown and the students made their way back to the mats. A new rotation was called and Damian was finally paired with the red fencer who caught his eye earlier. In contrast to his previous partners, this one stared at him with poorly hidden, yet unprovoked, contempt. The furrow in her brows and slight downturn in her lips was a mirror to Damian’s own expression. The air between them was charged as they both assessed each other. Neither spoke but neither was paying detailed attention to the instructors. Issuing a silent challenge, Damian tilted his head back to stare the shorter girl down by the tip of his nose, smirking at her increasingly furrowed expression. He scoffed at her as the call for putting on their masks was issued.

“Damian,” he said at last, getting into the starting position.

“My name is unimportant— you, tyrant, will die today by my blade.”

Not even Damian’s brothers were that theatrical; his sister? Maybe. And perhaps Todd, but that’s irrelevant. Was she for real or was this a taunt that got lost in translation? Just who was she? From an outsider’s perspective, the two of them painted quite an interesting picture, posed in their black and red uniforms, a vision against the whites of their clubmates. The air was rich with their slowly growing disdain for each other. The instructor’s voice of ‘en garde’ was drowned out by their hurried movements.

It didn’t take long for Damian to deduce that his opponent was undoubtedly the best of the French group. Her moves were punctuated with needle-like precision and each attack was laced with slowly growing malice at the challenge. Damian didn’t have to hold back nearly as much as he had, once again, underestimated his opponent. There’s a lesson to be learned here but he would never give Pennyworth that satisfaction. The butler’s smug grin and echoed voice of ‘you are not nearly as infallible as you believe, Master Damian’ arose in his mind and the irritation at the notion was channelled directly into his current duel. He struck out with more aggression than he initially had intended to but, as it had put his opponent on the defensive, he wasn’t going to rear his anger in. Instead, he let it fuel his movements more, pushing his opponent off the mat as they danced across the floor.

This only spurred his nameless opponent on more as she matched him strike for strike in equal aggression. Damian wasn’t sure if it was due to his sudden tunnel vision but he could have sworn that the world narrowed to only the two of them, the clash of their weapons being the only sound he could hear. Time faded into nothing and all his focus was on parrying and attacking and lunging and parrying again in a vicious cycle. Points were earned back and forth but no time was called in between to award either of them. This wasn’t a match for points. This was war. A battle to the death issued by the red demon before him. She was no longer just a practice partner or an aggravating opponent. This was his enemy now. Damian would not fail. Damian Wayne doesn’t lose after all.

The shrill of a whistle had the two freezing in place. Giving himself a few seconds to collect himself, Damian felt as if he was coming out of a haze. He watched as the red fencer before him relaxed her posture and turned to face the French coach. Taking off his mask and catching his breath, he noticed that the two of them held the collective attention of the two clubs.

“Now THAT is fencing!” The French coach’s boisterous voice echoed in the gym and was accompanied by his harsh clapping. His two previous practice partners were equally as enthusiastic but subdued in their applause, sporting matching grins at the red fencer. Damian could only glare at the students, refusing to acknowledge his opponent.

The rest of practice went on as such for the next hour but none of the other French fencers captivated him like the first three. They must have had private tutors as they were obviously a cut above the rest. Practice ended without much fanfare and Damian found himself waiting for Pennyworth outside the school gates as the French class were loading their bus. He only caught the tail end of the slight murmurs of conversation but Damian caught the Agreste boy referring to the red fencer as Kagami. Hmm.

Pennyworth pulled up shortly after and once he was inside the vehicle, Pennyworth didn’t hesitate to question him about the experience.

“There was a visiting French club. They were lackluster and struggled to keep up with me even with me holding back.” He refused to look the old man in the eye, glancing a knowing smirk on his aged face. “Three of them showed promise. But I was still superior in every way.”

“Well then, I hope they didn’t tire you out completely. I believe we are expecting some of those same French students over for dinner this afternoon.”

“Pardon?” Damian could not be bothered to compose his irritation at Pennyworth’s brazen declaration. Why was he just learning about this now? “Any idea who exactly will be joining us?”

“I believe Madame Dupain-Cheng, Madame Tsurugi and Mister Agreste all agreed.” Agreste? The model boy. Damian was willing to bet that Dupain-Cheng was the short girl from the warm-up as the two seemed fond of each other. That would probably make Tsurugi his red opponent, Kagami. But that begs the question why they were invited to dinner. Schooling his expression and gaining some more composure, Damian addressed the butler again.

“Any reason why those students in particular?” Aiming for an aura of nonchalance, he continued. “It’s quite the coincidence as those were the three French students I mentioned showing promise. Why were they invited?”

Pennyworth saw right through him and casted a humoured glance at his reflection in the rearview mirror.

“Oh, I would say that Madame Tsurugi shows more than just promise, Master Damian. She is an Olympic hopeful after all.” That… That makes sense Damian supposes. It would definitely explain her confidence and skill. But she still irritated him.

“And what of the other two?”

“Those two would be Madame Tsurugi’s closest friends. Their club is here on a Wayne Foundation sponsorship and your father personally invited Madame Tsurugi to dinner.” Pennyworth paused as he turned into the manor gates. “She and her mother agreed to the invitation on the condition that the young lady’s friends be invited as well. I see they have left quite the impression on you.”

“They require further judgement,” and the conversation died there.

Ignoring the crowd of his siblings upon entering the manor, Damian went straight for his room to research more on his new rival and company.

After two hours of constant research, he was reluctant to admit that the three were rather accomplished in their own rights, and that he had completely misjudged them. Dupain-Cheng was a talented baker and designer and was indeed a fast learner, only officially being in the fencing club for two months. She was also in a new relationship with Agreste. That explains the sappiness and nauseating shower of compliments. Agreste himself was a budding pianist on top of his modelling and fencing prowess. He even featured in some gigs by a local popular band. Tsurugi was more than just an Olympic hopeful, coming from a famous line of fencers and kendo masters back in Japan. She has a roster of competitions won and is currently holding three world titles for her age group. He supposes that that’s quite impressive. But it still doesn’t supersede his training. Would it be improper to challenge her to another duel when she arrives? Probably.

Checking the time, he realized there was forty minutes until dinner and only ten until the three guests arrived. He freshened up his appearance and changed out of his fencing gear into more appropriate attire. He headed down to the foyer to wait with his siblings in greeting their guests. Cain stood next to him and gave him a quick once-over glance. She didn’t say anything but her giggles did not bode well for Damian.

The door was being held open as their three guests walked in and they all wore matching expressions of surprise as their gaze landed on Damian. They greeted his father and each of his siblings, exchanging quick hello’s before the Agreste boy regarded Damian.

“Hey! You’re that guy from the fencing club.” All eyes were on Damian in an instant, his siblings wearing various ranges of delight.

“Yes, he is that guy from the fencing club. Tell us everything,” Todd interjected. He swung a casual arm around Agreste and began herding them further into the manor towards the drawing room. Before Damian can begin to preserve his reputation, Todd and Agreste were already in deep conversation with random input from Dupain-Cheng and Grayson. Tsurugi hung back from the herd and was thanking his father for the invitation. Her calm, withdrawn voice was very different from the scorn she was showering him with during their duel. She caught him staring at her and just ignored him, brushing past him to follow quickly behind the others. He caught his father’s eye and regarded the man silently. Even when maintaining public appearances, his father never did anything without reason. So what was the value in inviting some French kids his company was sponsoring? Olympic grade or not, it was still uncharacteristically more involved than other other company sponsorships in the past.

What was his father’s angle here?

He hoped it didn’t involve playing nice with Tsurugi because her frigid disposition is more trouble than it’s worth. The karma is not lost on him.

Entering the drawing room, he walks into the middle of Agreste illustrating the nature of his duel against Tsurugi. He added unnecessary flourish, making the match seem more grandiose than it really was. He would deny any and all effort exerted as that was a sign of weakness. Damian was not weak.

“I’ll have you know,” he began, collecting their undivided attention, again. “The match with Tsurugi was child’s play. I only entertained her for so long because I thought she could provide some real competition. Clearly, I was mistaken,” he said, like a liar.

“I am more than just competition.” Tsurugi had stood from her place on the sofa to try and face him on even ground. She was still shorter than him but the intimidation was rolling off her in waves. “I will prove to you that I am a worthy opponent.”

That was an invitation for a rematch if Damian’s ever heard one. As he was about to accept the challenge, Pennyworth entered with an announcement of dinner, guiding everyone into the appropriate dining room. His siblings rushed for various seats, splitting up their guests and mixing them in with their chaos. The seating arrangement his siblings had orchestrated had him sitting directly across from the current bane of his existence. The two regarded each other silently, trapped in their own quiet bubble separate from the ruckus of the table.

The dinner was wonderful, as usual, and conversation was as normal as this family was capable of. Except for the intense staring contest he was engaged in with his enemy. She was civil, cordial even, with the rest of the family, sharing jokes with Cain and Thomas with no issue and handled Todd’s annoyance with grace but she couldn’t get a reign on her disdain for Damian. He faintly noticed her two friends exchange curious glances with each other. He paid them no mind; his attention lying elsewhere.

“So, Kagami,” Drake’s voice cut through the loud atmosphere, silencing the table. “You mentioned earlier that you will prove to Damian that you’re a worthy opponent. How do you plan to go about that?” He tried to go for casual but he failed and Damian knew he was doing it just to get a reaction out of him.

“A battle to the death of course,” she was quick with her reply and her tone had no hints of humor. She means every word of that statement. Equal expressions of shock were on his family’s faces, no one knowing what to say. A distasteful snort from the blond cut through the air.

“Kagami,” her friend, Dupain-Cheng, had cut in with a slight chuckle, “I don’t think they know you’re joking.”

“My apologies, then.” Her lips were curled in a faint smirk and then she said, “While I initially had all intentions to contest his false assessment, over the course of the dinner, I have concluded that he is someone not worth the effort.” She took a sip of her drink, completely ignoring the uproar of taunts and jeers his siblings threw his way.

Damian was not going to take that insult sitting down.

“That’s it, Tsurugi,” he rose from his seat, the scrape of the chair on the hardwood floors hushing the peanut gallery. “You wanted a duel, I’ll give you a duel. A clash of swords seems fitting, don’t you think?” He felt quite satisfied with himself, so much so he was completely ignorant to the whispers of his siblings with their guests. His attention was solely on the red demon.

“While I can’t persuade you both from not doing this,” his father’s tired voice was firm and imposing; he looked like he’s aged a few years since the start of the evening, “I must insist on using only the wooden practice swords you have. No real blades allowed. Am I understood?”

It wasn’t really a question as there was no room for refutation but Damian was grateful his father didn’t try to put a stop to the entire thing anyways. A challenge was issued and Damian was going to see it through.

After Pennyworth cleared the table and set about doing other chores, they made their way to the manor’s gym with the exclusion of his father. A mat was already laid out and he went to retrieve the practice swords. They were fashioned to mimic his katana and the familiar weight was comfortable in his grip. Tsurugi was surveying the wooden blade and assessing the balance of the handle before setting into a comfortable starting stance. They weren’t bound by fencing rules this time and he felt the lack of restrictions to be freeing. Grayson had declared himself ring master and was counting down to start them off. Drake was holding a camera, most likely recording, and Todd was conspiring with Dupain-Cheng and Thomas in the corner. Agreste and Cain were observing like normal people—Damian failed to see them silently exchange some cash— and he ignored them all to focus on the foe before him.

Grayson’s call for ‘go’ set them off like steam engines, their swords crashing into each other in heavy strikes. Using his advantageous size, Damian pushed back and swiped for her legs. She blocked the attack, sword intercepting his, swinging her back leg behind her to kick at his chest. He recoiled at the contact and the pressure of her boots before aiming a broad sweep over head, bringing his arms down in a wide arc. She blocks that as well, but was brought down to a knee, all her focus in holding her blade across the palm of hand. She pushes against his force and rolls under his blade, tucking herself into a ball before uncurling behind him. Her next strike is aimed for his back but Damian is quick on the defensive and knocks her blade away before stepping into her space. His shoulder clips her chin and he takes the opportunity to elbow her below her chest. He swings around to strike her down but she ducks and swipes at his legs. He jumps over the arc of her blade but isn’t prepared for the kick in his chest as he lands.

He steps back a couple paces to get air back in his lungs as Tsurugi gains her own bearings. They’re both breathing heavily and the gym is silent save for Todd’s inappropriate wolf-whistle. Ignoring him, as usual, he focuses back on his opponent. On the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders, her lean but firm arms holding the sword out pointing at him. Her short bob is in disarray and her brown eyes burn into him like molten lava. Her stare is intense and almost freezes him completely in place.

A second ticks by. Then another. The entire room feels like a stifled exhale, cautious not to disturb the fragile atmosphere. The energy is broken by a charge from Tsurugi as she strikes across his chest, colliding with his blade. Their swords are crossed and they both lean into the push, faces mere inches apart as they try to get the upper hand. Neither was budging, willing to submit to the other.

Damian found himself revelling in the intense focus of her gaze. Even growing up in the League, his mentors always held back, not wanting to accidentally kill their master’s heir. His siblings were no better, always underestimating him, never taking his challenges seriously. But Tsurugi? She matched him blow for blow without hesitation. Without fear and without judgement. The lack of threat of death hanging over him made the fight that much more enjoyable. If he were anymore focused on his own expression, he would have found a smile, not a smirk or a half-hearted grimace, but an honest-to-god smile. A grin even.

Tipping the fight in his favour, he aims a kick to Tsurugi’s knee, and turns out of their lock of swords. Feeling emboldened, he takes to taunting his opponent.

“You know, you are a lot better than I thought you would be,” he swings his sword around aimlessly, waiting for her to get up again. “But you’re still no match for me.”

Rather than respond, Tsurugi swipes up at him, both hands on her sword hilt, in a broad arc. Her body follows through with the motion, with her back leg sweeping the floor gently, her back to him by the end. Damian sees the opportunity and lunges to attack her now open back. He’s almost flushed against her with his sword about to press into the curve of her spine except his swing is intercepted by his opponent's block. She had anticipated his move and swung her arms over her head, carrying the blade behind her to protect her. Damian’s blood runs white hot with the shame of falling for her feint. Still held in this position, Tsurugi casts a smirk over her shoulder, head tilted back towards his chest. The position, with the exception of their swords, has them appearing to be in a dance, with his partner—no, opponent— ready to be spun out in a graceful turn.

“Are you sure?” her voice was rough with exertion and tainted with glee, “You seem to have failed to gain any substantial upperhand.” She kicks back into his shin and then steps out of his space, spinning under her arms, keeping her sword against his. Now facing him directly, Damian can see the fire shining in her brown eyes, ablaze with excitement and ferocity.

“Don’t think yourself so high and mighty,” he started to step to his right, trying to prepare for another attack but she matched him in moves and now they were slowly circling each other.

“Ironic coming from you, I’m sure.” Her tone was flat but her eyes glimmered with amusement. Her blade shifted ever so subtly, pointing further down Damian’s body, aimed directly for his stomach. Damian takes a chance and steps into her space, left arm gradually inching towards her sword hilt. Using his longer legs, he sweeps one under her stance, hooking his ankle around hers.

It happens in slow motion. Or at least, it felt like it did. He’s bringing his leg back towards himself, knocking her off center, balancing on an unsteady leg. He’s grabbed her sword hilt and is pushing her arms and the sword above her head while his own sword slides to place against her throat. He pushes further into her space, leaning over her and bending her back, almost chest to chest, nose to nose with his sword in the breath between them. Their precarious position cants them completely off balance and she’s fallen with him on top of her. Her arms are pinned firmly above her now, her grip on her sword long forgotten, and Damian’s weight is balanced on his knees, preserving any dignity he has left. They’re still so close to each other, the weight of his blade gingerly pressing into the lines of her neck. Her head is tilting back, a futile attempt to escape him and once she acknowledges that, Damian can feel the muscles in her arms relax beneath his vice-like grip. They’re staring at each other, and Damian finds himself not wanting to look away.

Oh.

Oh.

In his seven years of living with his father’s family, he never understood how his father could casually welcome thieves and assassins into his bed. How his brothers surrounded themselves with people equally dangerous. How his sister would challenge an opponent she knew she couldn’t beat. How they could all flirt with danger and not even question it. Now he understood. It was a heady rush, like a freefall without certainty of a parachute or a net. It was an addictive type of excitement to come face to face with someone who doesn’t look at him with fear but with equal competition. He could get used to this.

A click of a camera shutter and Pennyworth’s attention-grabbing ‘ahem’ brought him out of his own head. He saw Tsurugi blink herself out of a similar daze and look towards her friends. Finally registering their compromising position, Damian began to extract himself from her. Now standing, and trying to tidy his appearance, he tossed his wooden sword to the side and extended a hand out to the still lying girl.

“I win,” he says, and the taunt falls flat even to his own ears. He clears his throat and tries again. “You are a decent opponent. It was an honor to go against someone of your caliber.”

She accepts his offered hand and as he’s pulling her up, she takes the opportunity to pull him in closer.

“I admit defeat,” her eyes are still intense but softens as she continues speaking, “and there is clearly more I can learn from you. The club is in Gotham for two more weeks for the competition next week. I am willing to have you as my teacher if you accept.”

A pretty pink blush colours her cheeks and Damian can feel his face match hers in intensity. Before he could answer her, her blond friend interrupts them, cutting into their little bubble.

“That means she’s asking you on a date.” His hands are cupping his mouth like a megaphone and he stage whispers for all their captive audience to hear. “Say yes.”

His siblings are eyeing between him and the French teens like they’re spectating an interesting tennis match. Not given the chance to answer, again, Cain replies for him.

“He says yes. Next Friday, after school.” Her reply is curt but the curl of her lips illustrates her delight in the entire situation. His cheeks are even warmer now and he still hasn’t stepped out of Tsurugi’s space and were they always standing this close?

Looking back to Tsurugi he sees that her attention is still on the others and her face is graced with a gentle smile.

“I accept your offer,” her head swivels back to him as he speaks, and there is a slight glimmer to her eyes, hope dancing in pools of warm chocolate. “If your friend was right about your true intentions, then I accept that offer. There is a lot I could learn from you as well.”

“Yes, and I am also available on Friday if your sister is to be believed.” Her hushed voice is drowned out by the uproar of his siblings and he catches a glimpse of Dupain-Cheng jumping in place.

“I can’t believe he actually said yes.” Thomas.

“I can’t believe she’s actually into him,” Drake.

“I had good money on him making a fool of himself, shame.” Todd, who then gets elbowed by Grayson. He ignores them all, staring down at the increasingly embarrassed girl before him.

He goes to speak but a pink blur is knocking Tsurugi on the ground in a heap of limbs. They’re giggling and babbles about double dates filter through so he doesn’t worry too much and then a weight settles on his shoulder, surprising him. Agreste had somehow snuck up on him and was patting him in a false sense of comradery.

“Well that was an interesting turn of events. They grow up so fast,” he fake sniffles, wiping nonexistent tears from his eyes. Damian is not fond of the familiar theatrics. “I agree with your siblings, I didn't think you would agree. Especially with the looks of bloody murder you were giving us during practice today.”

He scoffs and lets the subtle accusation roll off his back. Agreste continues as if he weren’t interrupted.

“Clearly you two flirt the same way. Violently.” He’s cut off from speaking as Tsurugi had hit him with one of the discarded swords from her place on the floor.

“At least I don’t hesitate or dance around my intended target like a fool, like you two,” she was pouting but her voice held traces of humour and inside jokes that had Dupain-Cheng whining like a child and Agreste acting all sheepish.

“Yeah, okay, that’s fair but can you blame us?” Agreste went ignored as everyone devolved into laughter at their antics.

Damian chanced a glance at Tsurugi to see her very comfortable with Dupain-Cheng’s weight on top of her, laughing at Agreste’s expense. She must have felt his eyes on her and glance at him shyly, laughter dying to a small smile on her lips.

Damian thought to himself that Friday couldn’t come fast enough.

[casualpastelgay]

Title: Good Ending?

Pairing: Zen(Hyun Ryu) x Cherry (OC of @darkta)

Rating: General

Word Count: 1704

Type: Angst

Notes: I wrote this piece for @nostringsdetached! It was a collaboration piece with the owner of Cherry, @darkta! I don’t write angst very often, it was a very nice change for me. You can get the entire zine for no cost [here]!

~*~*~*~*~

“I’m home.” Cherry sighed as she opened the door to her apartment. A small twitter was the only response to Cherry’s announcement, but it nonetheless turned her dreary expression into a small smile.

Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor as she made her way over to her parrotlet’s cage. “Hi, Skittles.” She cooed to the little, sky-colored bird. Cherry inserted a finger between the bars of his cage and stroked his neck, which Skittles leaned into happily. “Work was tough today.” She murmured, idly twirling her fingers in Skittles’ cage as he begged for more attention. “You know what that’s like, right?” Cherry asked, earning a small sneeze in response from her companion.

Cherry giggled at her bird’s antics as she removed her fingers from the cage to open the artfully crafted door. She then let Skittles hop onto her finger then flitter up to settle in one of her large hoop earrings. “The manager was hard on me today.” Cherry spoke softly as she squatted down to remove her heels, careful not to stir Skittles from his resting spot.

She placed her shoes on the rack by the door to her apartment as she continued to relay her day to Skittles. “All of my designs were declined today, and on such short notice.” Cherry placed a kettle on the stove and picked an English breakfast blend teabag out of a rather large selection. She was sure the powerful black tea would cure her conscience of any doubts in her own abilities.

“The building process of the costumes was supposed to start last week; I can’t believe they had the nerve to ask for a redesign!” Cherry fiddled with the purple ribbons in her light auburn hair. “This is going to be so stressful for the whole team.”

The kettle sang as the water boiled, Cherry quickly picked up the kettle and poured it into an ornate teacup. It was one she had painted herself, she was very proud of it.

“You think we can do it, Skittles?” Cherry asked her parrotlet as she stirred her tea with a little silver spoon. Skittles pecked softly at her earlobe in response, like he was scolding her for doubting her skills. “Thank you for your honesty.” Cherry chided the bird lightly, raising the teacup to her lips and taking a dainty sip.

Once Cherry had finished her tea and returned Skittles to his cage, she padded towards her workspace. Fabric swatches and sketches adorned the walls of the small area, some spilling onto the floor. She tried to keep it tidy, but when she stared at her muse she sometimes couldn’t help but let her ideas overflow.

In the center of the room, he stood proudly, her muse. Or at least, what Cherry could create of him. Donned in an elegant white and gold suit was her prince, Zen. In reality, it was a mere mannequin. But with how bold and beautiful her suit design stood, it breathed life into the figure. It started as a small project, just sketching and dreaming, but in Cherry’s heart there was so much love for this man that a magic seemed to take form.

“Zen…” Cherry sighed, running her fingers along the golden trim of the suit’s sleeves, imagining his hands and the warmth they would hold. Her eyes traced up and down the mannequin, fingers quickly following as she fixed any tiny imperfections she noticed. With how long she had been working on the suit, there were little things to change or fix, but it had to be perfect. He was perfect.

A buzzing sound startled Cherry. She fished through her pocket for her phone, smiling to herself. Cherry had installed the pockets on this dress herself after agonizing over it for what seemed like ages. On her phone screen was a single notification, one from the app Mystic Messenger. It was Zen.

Her love, yes, was sadly a fictional creation. However, Zen had helped her through so much in her life that she barely minded. It would be lovely to see him, to touch him, to be held by him. But some things couldn’t be helped.

Cherry tapped on the notification to open the app, seeing that she’d unlocked a new chatroom. As she read, tears budded in her eyes.

“I wish I could be there to help you, but I still can’t cross over dimensions…”

“Oh Zen, if only you could. If only you could be here, standing in front of me.”

“I want to get to know you better… but it’s sad that all your answers are already determined.”

“If I could, there’s so much I would tell you. There’s so much I would do with you. There’s just so much…”

“I’ll always be here so that you can come see me whenever you want… use me.”

“Don’t hesitate to come find me…”

Cherry choked back a sob, a stray tear curling down her chin as she continued to read.

“I realized that our thoughts and feelings…”

The stray tear glistened like a glass heart, falling so delicately to crash into the screen of Cherry’s phone.

Heat suddenly coursed through her hand, causing Cherry to gasp and drop the phone to the floor. She stared down at Zen, his hand pressed up against the screen as he smiled at her through the cracks in the screen. Lights blinded Cherry, almost causing her to stumble backwards into a workbench, but she caught herself just in time. Time seemed like it stopped but was racing forward at the same time, it was nothing she had ever felt before. What was this sensation?

“Transcend dimensions.”

Cherry gaped as she heard a familiar voice, though this time… It wasn’t coming from her phone.

Her eyes slowly raised from her phone, now shattered on the floor, to the mannequin that stood before her. Though now, it wasn’t merely a mannequin.

“Zen?!” Cherry let out a strangled noise, half way between a gasp and a cry.

“Jagiya~” Zen breathed, a smile stretching across the face that hadn’t existed there moments before. He took a step towards her like he had never been trapped in a lifeless prison. Like he was real.

“Zen…?” Cherry said again, incredulous. Had she gone mad?

“Cherry,” Zen wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close to him.

The tears that had been stunned into stopping spilled over with new fervency as Cherry was held by her love, something all logic told her was something that would never happen. Could never happen.

Zen pressed a loving kiss to her forehead, stroking Cherry’s hair as she sobbed. “Shh, Jagi, I’m here.” Zen cooed, allowing his love to press her face into the princely suit she had made for him.

His heart beat, she could feel the heat of life in him. It all made no sense, could she allow herself to be convinced this was real? But it all did feel… So real. “How did you get here? How…” Cherry choked out, deep blue eyes meeting shimmering red.

“I’ve always been here.” Zen spoke softly, peppering soft kisses down Cherry’s cheek to clean her of tears. “I’ll always be here.”

Cherry hiccupped as her mind continued to attempt to process what had happened. Even if this wasn’t real, she could still allow herself to enjoy it. Right?

Zen stopped short of pressing his lips to her. No, no, he was taking things much too quickly. They hadn’t even been on a proper date yet. “Cherry?” He asked, releasing her and taking a step back.

“Yes?” Cherry asked, a timid blush creeping across her features as the handsome man slipped down to one knee.

“Would you care to join me on a date?” Zen held a hand out to Cherry, hoping with all the light in his heart that she would take it and come with him.

Cherry balked, fingers trembling as magnets seemed to draw her hand to his without her mind needing to process his words. “Of… Of course, Zen.”

Zen smiled when Cherry took his hand, leaning forward to press a kiss to her fingers. “Jagiya, thank you.” He rose to his feet, his own fingers intertwining with hers. Should he abandon this pretense? Just sweep her off her feet like he had yearned to for so long? Or was that too much for right now?

The blush on Cherry’s face deepened as her prince stared down at her, he seemed to be considering something. “Where do you want-“ Her question was cut off by a surprised yelp as Zen lifted her off her feet into a princess hold.

Cherry averted her wide eyes when Zen’s face was once again, so suddenly close to hers. “Sorry, Cherry, I have waited so long for this day.” Zen chuckled, pink caressing his own features. “All men are wolves, you know.”

“I trust you.” Cherry murmured, meeting Zen’s eyes for a moment before looking away again.

Zen blinked, taken aback for a moment by the honesty in his love’s words. “Then what are we waiting for?” He spun to face the front door of the apartment, still easily holding Cherry’s small figure in his arms.

Cherry stared wistfully into the smiling man’s handsome face as he strode towards the doorway, a faint skip in his step. All true meaning slipped away, all that mattered was him and her. He was overdressed to be outside, she wore no shoes; but still the door opened to a new life, a new path.

A familiar warmth spun through Cherry, like the heat of her phone before she dropped it. It seemed to resonate from Zen. A sparkling light blinded her for a second time, though she stared through it to meet Zen’s gaze. A weightless feeling surrounded her, like Zen had let her go but she still floated in the light. She could still feel him against her.

The couple seemed to evaporate there in the doorway, the light encasing Zen brighter than ten suns but as gentle as a lamb. Were they here? Were they there? Were they anywhere? Neither could tell, but since they were together, no reality mattered anymore. To Cherry and Zen, this was perfection.

Good Ending?

~*~*~*~*~

Want more? Visit my [masterpost]!

If you enjoyed, please also consider donating to my [ko-fi]!

[ddarker-dreams]

Malaise. Yan Fugo x Reader [Implied x Giorno]

word count: 6.3k warnings: implied sexual relations, angst later on notes: i wouldn’t say there’s super heavy yandereness going on here, but given the context i figured yandere would play out a bit differently. it’s more like slight yandere if anything ...

i.

Interacting with someone so close to your own age shouldn’t be this miserable. Bucciarati is far easier to converse with, it’s not even a close competition. He’s a pleasant conversationalist, humoring your ideas and offering valuable input. If you had it your way, you’d only be speaking to him and not… this bratty teenager who turned his nose up whenever you were around. As if your mere existence is the highest insult to his own. You’ll never forget how he looked from you to Bucciarati with a quirked eyebrow when you were introduced, the awkward encounter forever burned into your mind. 

You blow a strand of hair out of your face, nose scrunching up at the current dilemma. Bucciarati had asked, more like softly nudged you, to get along better with Fugo. You’ve been trying, ever since he introduced you two that fateful day. In the back of your head, you wonder if the same task was assigned to Fugo in private. Though seeing as he’s remaining nose deep into his book, sitting as far as humanly possible from you on this couch, you doubt it. The phrase “avoid like the plague”, doesn’t even scratch the surface of Fugo’s attitude towards you. He’d sooner embrace the Bubonic Plague than you, should prior encounters be recalled.

“Was there something you needed?” 

Speak of the devil. He must’ve seen fit to grace your presence with his most sacred articulation, filling the tense air with some much-needed conversation. The words aren’t malicious on a surface level, seemingly a reasonable inquiry considering you’ve been staring at him for a solid ten minutes. It’s how his voice is strained, knuckles whitening as he grips the book tighter, which gives him away. Fugo’s too easy to read at times, the same can’t be said when it comes to dealing with him. This might be the most difficult task Bucciarati ever assigned to you. 

“Need isn’t the word I’d use,” you decide to ignore the not-so-subtle irritation on his features, pushing your strained luck as far as it can go. Linguistics aside, you put your cards on the table. “But, I was hoping to get to know you better.” 

With the ball now on his side of the court, all you can do is wait, for whatever rebuttal Fugo decides to dish out. When Bucciarati isn’t around, Fugo’s preference is to act like you’re no more than a fly on the wall. Buzzing around his head and making it impossible to focus on anything that he does in his rare downtime. Honestly, he can’t comprehend why Bucciarati felt so desperate as to pluck you from whatever hole he found you in. You don’t even hold a candle to his own intellect, taking a naive, happy-go-lucky approach to life. Sure you’re a Stand user, and while it’s not a useless Stand, Fugo couldn’t picture you making the choices necessary in a fight to stay alive. The fact you haven’t been reduced to a bloodstain on the pavement is the only thing he finds impressive about you so far.

His eyebrow twitches at your pesky insistence, face settling into a grimace. “Am I right in assuming that if I don’t humor this pitiful attempt, you’ll continue to stare at me and disrupt my otherwise peaceful evening?” 

You place a finger to your cheek, considering the proposition, before nodding your head. “It looks like you’ve got a better understanding of things than I expected.” 

Fugo lets out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. So be it. He’ll wait until you fall asleep to finish his book, mentally noting the page number and setting it by his side. The act of surrender takes you off guard. You were fully anticipating a snarky one-liner, or for him to disregard you in some other way. Instead, he looks at you with disinterest, arms crossed over his weird swiss cheese shirt. You learned never to mention your inner critiques of his fashion sense, as it once earned a plate of parmesan being narrowly dodged at Libecco. Scary stuff.

“Now that I have your undivided attention,” Fugo winces at this like he heard nails on a chalkboard, “What do you like to do? Y’know, hobbies and stuff.” 

It’s as good a start as any. Finding out a person’s interests unravels the essence of who they are, what they believe is worth their time and effort. Fugo gives your question an unexpected amount of thought, probably sensing you’ll call him out for a lackluster answer. Which you would, of course. For all his stubbornness, he’s gotten good at reading you. Maybe you should try shaking things up a bit to rattle him, keep him on the edge of his seat… 

“Honestly, you couldn’t pick something more original…? I don’t know. I read, and I can appreciate a good movie.” 

You let out a hum of acknowledgment, considering his words. A very safe, Fugo-like answer. It didn’t take a seasoned detective to assume Fugo liked to read, but the movie detail is a new bit of information that you will take full advantage of. He strikes you as the type to be snobby about his tastes in movies. Most likely only watching them if they’re popular with critics and saying the general population has no appreciation for the fine arts, too busy consuming braindead action flicks instead of true cinema. Not that you have any intention of voicing this conclusion to him, seeing as you’re trying to worm your way into a friendship.

Fugo snaps his fingers in front of your face, bringing you back into unfortunate reality. Maybe that statement earlier this morning about you zoning out too much holds some merit. Before he can berate you as he’s taken an apparent liking to, you speak up. “That’s good and all, but I need specifics.” 

“Care to elaborate?” 

“With pleasure,” you lean forward, waving your hands enthusiastically to emphasize your point. You get the sense that Fugo regrets asking for clarification, but neither of you are willing to back down now. “How about this. If you could only watch one movie for the rest of your life, which would you pick?” 

“Is this some kind of job interview?” Fugo murmurs to himself, massaging his temples. You shrug your shoulders and offer a bright smile, and he knows sarcasm isn’t gonna cut it. “It’d need to be something interesting… maybe The Silence of the Lambs.” 

He somewhat defied your expectations, not listing some obscure black and white flick filmed on a Blackberry. Maybe you jumped the gun on your initial assessment of Fugo Pannacotta, and he isn’t as grandiloquent after all. This confrontation is going better than you ever anticipated, and you almost feel guilty for selling him too short.

That is, until he sees fit to present an unnecessary addition to his previous statement. “Was that bit of English too much for you?” 

So much for that. Once an asshole, always as an asshole. Shakespeare may have said something similar, but your reimagining is far more of a pinnacle in literary achievement. You deflate back into the couch, huffing at his indignant comment. Well, might as well burst his bubble now. It may be the only bubble Fugo has that you’re capable of the aforementioned bursting, so you’re going to savor every second of it. The entire reason you’ve never mentioned this facet of yourself is that you never viewed it as imperative. Bucciarati knew, you knew, that’s all that mattered. Until Fugo decided to dig under your skin and rub salt on the wound in one fell swoop. Figures he’d do that.

“Fugo.” 

“[First].”

“You know English is my first language, right?” Your voice is more of a deadpan than anything, tilting your head to the side as if it is the most logical conclusion. The hypothetical cogs in Fugo’s head begin turning. There was that time you stumbled over a Naples exclusive dish, sfogliatella, Bucciarati kindly offering the proper pronunciation after you stumbled on it. Or how you have the slightest of accents, sometimes referencing pop culture that goes beyond him. He always wondered why muttering “cazzimma” to you only earned a light reprimanding from Bucciarati, and never offended you as more common insults would. He just thought you were some type of misfortune idiot. Whoops. 

Not willing to throw in the towel yet, Fugo takes a posture of defense. This is a hill he’s willing to die on, you have to be playing some kind of cheap trick. “I don’t buy it.” 

“Should I start reciting the entire Star-Spangled Banner by heart, or talk about how much I love fast food and baseball? Did you think my Stand would be a bald eagle that shot out apple pie? If that’s the case, you’re fresh outta luck. I’m living in Naples for a reason.” you respond in fluent English, flexing your hypothetical muscles. Fugo recalls his English classes from years prior to roughly translate some of your words, scowling at the realization you’ve proven him wrong. By god do you wish you had your phone with you to snap a picture, print it out, frame it in every room of this apartment, make it your lock screen, and send it to Bucciarati. 

You’ll settle for drinking in the moment instead, Fugo muttering curses underneath his breath. Much to your surprise, from this moment forward, Fugo earned just an ounce of respect for you. Not that it says a lot, seeing as the cup of [First] respect was drier than the Sahara desert until recent times. 

It’s still a step in the right direction.

ii.

Neither of you says a word.

Coming down from your individual highs, you feel how your hair sticks to the sides of your perspiring face. Your bare chest heaving with every labored breath, Fugo in a similar state of disarray next to you. Now that it’s all said and done, you’re unable to look at him out of embarrassment. Instead, you seek solace in staring at your ceiling, thoughts scrambling to rationalize the previous events. 

It all started innocent enough. The two of you had been growing closer, becoming more comfortable in each other's presence. Even Narancia, who could be notoriously poor at picking up on subtleties, could sense your connection and even pointed it out. Until Fugo told him to knock it off (in far more vulgar language), saving you the shame of saying it yourself. You felt content with the state of things with Fugo, after months of getting him to come out of his shell with you. His words were still pointed, but not full of ill will. Even when three more additions were brought to your little group, Fugo remained the person you prefer the most. It might be wishful thinking, but you think he feels the same towards you. 

Tonight had been like all the ones that came before. The two of you sitting on the couch, talking about pointless endeavors. Mista and Narancia were out at the time, leaving you all on your lonesome. For such a sizable couch, you didn’t realize how close Fugo was sitting next to you. Your thighs practically touching, occasionally brushing over one another. To combat the summer heat and mediocre air conditioning in your apartment, you were wearing short shorts and a tank top. Seeing as everyone else could walk around shirtless at their discretion, no one ever made a point to call you out on the less than modest choice. Even if they felt the itching, you’d shut them up without a second thought.

Fugo found himself focusing less on the words coming out of your mouth, and more on your glossy lips. He could smell your strawberry chapstick, the choice so tempting he found it offensive. Mixed with the chocolate gelato that you stole from Mista’s “hidden” stash, Fugo was bewitched on a level that shouldn’t be possible. Your skin, slightly glistening from the summer heat, eyes full of passion as you explained why you hated pretentious movies. At a certain point, you must’ve noticed how Fugo stopped responding to your impassioned rant. All he could think about was how much he wanted to kiss you, to feel every inch of your body.

So he did. 

It was far from suave, an amateurish clashing of teeth and tongue. You let out a surprised noise at the unexpected events but melted into it. While the kiss didn’t go as smoothly as he pictured in his head, you seemed to savor every second of it. He still remembers how eagerly you responded to his every desperate touch, how you wrapped your arms around his neck and brought him even closer. The scent of your floral perfume and the sweet noises that left your lips almost made him drool, prompting him to go even further. Fugo’s brain almost shut down when you lowly whispered into his ear to come to your room, bodies soon falling onto your bed in a heated embrace. 

You feel sore, but it’s not so bad. 

Fugo’s the first to speak up after some painstaking thought, breaking the silence that’s resonated ever since he climbed off of you. “Are you… are you okay?” 

It’s so unlike him to be this unsure, not knowing what to do or say. His heart still pounds in his chest, cheeks flushed and lips bruised. Suppressed emotions came crashing down over him like a tidal wave, drowning him before he could make sense of it all. You didn’t push him away or seem offended by his advances as he’d feared you’d be. Instead, you accepted all of him. Allowing him to carry out his pent-up yearning for you, in a state of bliss by how you called his name out. 

Shameful as it may be, Fugo had envisioned this scenario in his head numerous times. He’d always hated himself for it, thinking he’s no better than a common pervert for the way he thought of you. All the ways he pictured you, in all the lascivious situations, only to see you bright and early for breakfast the next day. When you smiled and told him good morning, all he could do is look away in disgrace. Not that you ever knew about this, or that you ever needed to find out. 

You let out a carefree, light giggle at his serious inquiry. Fugo’s eyebrows scrunch together into a scowl at your sudden laughter, finally working up the courage to look at you again. Any frustration melts away like winter snow in the spring at how breathtaking you look, your skin iridescent and eyes softening. They aren’t softening just for anyone, it’s for him and him alone. Does he deserve to be the one you look at with all this adoration? And should he even bother with the self-deprecating thoughts, when losing himself with you is so much better?

“S-sorry, I’m not laughing at you, it’s just,” you cover your mouth with the back of your hand, the skin underneath your eyes tightening from the wide smile. “I never took you for the sappy, pillow talk type.” 

Fugo’s nostrils flare, huffing without any malice at your teasing. He doesn’t have the slightest idea of what he’s doing, improvising as he goes. Everything that happened, every shared touched you shared, felt so surreal. Cheesy as it may sound, it was like a dream come true. What is there to say after a passionate encounter like that? He’s still rushing to get his bearings, hating the sensation of being this out of control. How you make his stomach erupt into a swarm of butterflies with every action, from the simple fluttering of your eyelashes to the cute way your nose scrunches up when you’re concentrating on a task. Fugo knows what this could be, in the back of his head. A quiet, hard to push down voice tells him what he’s been dreading to hear. That he’s a fool, deep in the throes of love. 

It takes a few minutes for you to calm yourself down. Fugo’s observant, much to your chagrin, having picked up on your nervous tick of laughing when you’re unsure of what to do. It’d make sense, seeing how you just slept with your teammate who frequently called you an idiot a few months ago. You prop yourself up, bedsheets covering your bare chest. “I’m fine, thank you.”

He looks away, despising how your revealed skin makes his face flush a bright red. Even without looking at you, he can picture the knowing smile on your angelic face at his embarrassment. It’s the same smile you have when Narancia tells a particularly funny joke, when Mista goes on a silly tangent about his latest concerns, when Bucciarati says you’ve done a good job, or when Abbacchio chooses to sit down next to you when everyone else is being too annoying. Most importantly, it’s how you always look at Fugo, even when he didn’t think he deserved it. 

You poke his cheek, murmuring his name. Fugo’s violet hues flicker back to you at the unprecedented action, perplexed countenance betraying his inner thoughts. He knows he shouldn’t be thinking like this. That the occupation you two are involved in is too dangerous to sustain a relationship, and that death is a possibility every day. It’s too late for him to nip these feelings in the bud -- that opportunity passed long ago, as he let it -- but he can’t allow it go past the point it already has.

Fugo lets out an inaudible gasp when you make yourself comfortable against his bare chest. Here he is, being torn on the inside between desire and duty, and you’re snuggling up without a care in the world. It’s the stark contrast that separates you, the same one that has him so hopelessly enamored. You have no intentions on making this easy for him, do you? He knows the answer when he sees your eyelids closing, threatening to fall asleep. 

All is comfortably quiet until he hears your muffled voice speak up. “You didn’t push me away.” 

“Huh?” 

Fugo’s own response isn't the schooled, thought-out string of words you’ve come to expect. It’s a kneejerk reaction to a confusing observation, that he’s having trouble rationalizing in his head. While never the most forthcoming with his emotions, he was essentially ravishing you like a man possessed a few minutes prior. You can’t be that dense, can you? Scratch that, the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. Even if not many got to see that side of you, there are still insecurities that weigh heavily on your heart. In the same way he struggles with self-worth, you fight a similar battle. The thought tugs on his heart, lips set into a deep frown. Everyone’s got something to deal with.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Fugo responds in a harsher tone than he intended. When he feels you tense against his chest, he curses himself, intentionally softening his next set of words. “But, uh, do you really want me to stay? The others might be back soon.” 

You let out a hum of acknowledgment at his concerns, promptly waving them off. It’s not like Narancia and Mista are capable of sneaking into your shared residence, it’s ridiculously loud when they come home. “Just a few more minutes.” 

He expected an answer like that and still has trouble relaxing. Truth be told, Fugo would prefer to lay here with you forever. To see what you look like when you sleep, to feel the gentle rise and fall of your chest in sync with his own, to kiss your forehead and whisper goodnight. In an ideal world, that’s how it would be. Reality is a lot less forgiving, and there’s too much on the line. Being this close to someone else is vulnerable, painfully so. To hurt and be hurt, the opportunity now having the room to manifest. He knows all this, and he still can’t bring himself to mention the full force of his anxieties. Would you hate him? Think he was using you and then ditching you? 

Fugo decides to be selfish, more so than usual. While there’s no way to push down all of these emotions, looking at you puts him at ease. His fingers ghost over an area on your neck he learned was sensitive, almost smiling when you lean into the touch. The way he feels with you is addicting. From your quick wit that matches his own, never being afraid to challenge his positions, it’s like he found his match. While he’s always found you begrudgingly cute, even when he was colder to you, it’s evolved into something greater. More serious and heartfelt. It’s horrifying and exhilarating all at once.

“Does this mean we’re dating?” you ask what’s been troubling you, hearing how Fugo’s heartbeat ramps up in speed. It’s a rational conclusion, seeing how comfortable you two are with one another. You don’t know if what you feel is love, not just yet, but you want to give whatever this is a shot. Fugo’s hesitation says all you need to know, though you wish it isn’t like this. 

“I… I don’t know if I’m ready for that just yet.” Fugo answers honestly, the words so quiet you struggle to pick them up. It’d be a lie to say you’re not disappointed, though you don’t want to push him into anything he’s not ready for. Fugo has his own emotions to work through, and the last thing you need to do is jump into a relationship and ruin everything. So you lift yourself up, looking him deep in the eyes, Fugo blinking at the abrupt movement. 

“Then I’ll wait.” 

He doesn’t notice how close to crying he’s been this entire time. The world through his view goes blurry, a lump forming in the back of his throat. Fugo takes deep breaths to steady himself, and instead of berating him, you wipe away his tears with the pad of your thumb. Whispering reassurances into his ear, combing through his tousled hair with your fingers. Fugo wipes at his eyes furiously, cursing himself for breaking down in front of you of all people. He’s overwhelmed with gratitude when you decide not to comment on it further, to save him the embarrassment. Your words echo within his head like a holy mantra, a promise that he’ll hold onto. 

If there were ever a reality where you looked down at him with disdainful eyes, he’d hate himself. 

iii.

Wandering aimlessly isn’t the worst part.

No, that’d be letting himself off too easy. It’s not the sleepless nights, tossing and turning while his stomach churns, or even the tear-stained pillowcases. When walking around Naples, all he can do is submerge himself to the shadows. There’s shame in the act of hiding, and it’s all he’s come to know. Seeing the light of day feels too good for someone like him, someone who had been abandoned by everyone he cared about and was too cowardly to prevent it. It’s a suitable punishment to wallow in his own self-pity and loneliness, cursing his entire existence for the mistakes that haunt him every day. 

It’s always a mistake to come to this café. This is your favorite café, and on days like this, all he can do is watch from afar. There are times he stares at the spot you frequent for hours, waiting to see if you decide to stop by that day or not. In a way, it’s almost better when you don’t. He doesn’t get a taste of what he’s missing out on, a forbidden fruit that he’s too ashamed to reach for. Most of the time you come here alone, with your favorite pastry and coffee, scrolling on your phone or laptop before leaving. He’s seen you meet with Mista a few times, even Trish once, but it’s mostly Giorno who accompanies you. 

Today you’re on your lonesome, speaking to someone over the phone and then hanging it up with a smile. Fugo can’t help but wonder, who is it that makes you smile like that? As he sits from afar, drowning in his anguish, it’s what plagues him the most. That used to be the smile he saw on a daily basis, the one that made him fall head over heels in love. Now he’s too afraid to approach you, in fear of what you may say, or do. Even what you wouldn’t do would hurt. Would you look at him in pity, or curse him for his cowardly actions? Condemn him for not joining you on that boat, or ignore him all together?

Is it possible… that you’ve simply forgotten all about him? It has been almost two years since the worst day of his life. While he’s caught up in the past, you’ve moved into a brighter future. He doesn’t know how he feels anymore. Surely you deserve any happiness you can get after all the suffering you went through, but the thought of you being happy without him stings. It digs talons into Fugo’s heart, ripping it out of his chest. One of these days, he tells himself, he’ll work up the strength to speak to you. Even if it’s but a moment. 

Though some part of him knows he’ll never be able to face you. Not anymore.

v.

It’s early in the afternoon. Chatter from other patrons reverberates off the tastefully decorated walls, in a restaurant that Fugo’s been to numerous times. This particular visit is different than the ones years ago. Instead of the bustling atmosphere he’d grown used to, there are only two people at the table. Where laughter and lighthearted conversations before work used to occur, there’s nothing but silence save for some polite discussion. Fugo’s throat feels persistently dry, no matter how much water he gulps down. 

Giorno sits across from him, legs folded and nursing a glass of iced tea the waiter brought seconds prior. Maintaining eye contact with the revered Don of Passione is no simple task. It’s a daunting experience, regardless of Giorno’s insistence on no formalities being necessary when interacting with one another. Fugo holds immense respect for him, otherwise, he wouldn’t be willingly sitting here right now. Still, his mouth is set in a straight line, leg bouncing underneath the table. Respect isn’t enough to snuff out the uncomfortable memories that appear up in this room, suffocating him from the inside out. 

“Is there a reason I’m here?” The words come out more forcefully than he intended, Fugo’s eyes darting around his familiar surroundings, looking for something he won’t find. Someone he won’t find. He’s grateful to Giorno for his benevolence, as speaking this way to someone who’s technically his boss isn’t advisable. Someone as sharp as Fugo knows this better than most, but he also knows Giorno. While not understanding him entirely, his actions make logical sense in the grand scheme of things. 

Being in Giorno’s position means being busy. Every second of the day has to be taken advantage of, whether it be discussing with other mafioso about recent happenings or plans, making multiple phone calls, and plenty of other headache-inducing tasks. So it doesn’t make much sense to Fugo why Giorno called him this morning, asking to meet him in person for lunch. While the two aren’t on bad terms, he doesn’t feel deserving of the specially allotted time. And in his gut, he feels there’s a hidden justification for the meeting that he’s yet to uncover. A few unpleasant theories come to mind, but they only serve to unnerve Fugo further, so he stuffs them down. 

“I wasn’t sure of the best way to deal with Purple Haze. Your Stand… you’re already aware of the potential consequences it could’ve posed, so I won’t rehash it more than necessary,” Giorno begins to offer his insight into the matter, finally revealing the true reason Fugo was called out here today. “There were a variety of methods that could’ve been used, with varying degrees of success, but I took a gamble. Ultimately, she didn’t want you to suffer anymore.”

Fugo feels his heart drop, jaw slackening despite his best efforts. “Who… who do you mean?” 

At this, Giorno quirks an eyebrow up. As if to wordlessly say, you know who. 

“It might not be my place to delve into your past,” Giorno continues with a serious air, contrasted by his closed-mouth smile. Fugo never knows for certain what Giorno’s plotting behind that smile, and a part of him wants to remain oblivious. “But for you to overcome it, and in turn gain total control over Purple Haze, it must be addressed.”

He can guess where this is going, and he doesn’t like it. Giorno gives him a moment to consider the words, briefly glancing at his buzzing phone and then returning his attention back to Fugo. It’s a subtle change in body language, how Giorno’s shoulders stiffen just slightly as if he’s anticipating something. Fugo loosens the tie around his neck, the pair returning to tense silence. While the Don made valiant attempts in loosening him up, it only served to make Fugo more suspicious. All of his fears are confirmed when he overhears two voices from the room over, one of them sending his heart racing.

That’s… that you and Mista speaking to one another. He knows your voice better than he knows any other sound on the planet, even if it’s been years since he’s heard it up this close. Fugo still dreams of you, the way you used to stumble over certain Neapolitan lingo, or how wonderful it sounded when you graced his ears with a laugh. Now, he’s unsure of what to feel when hearing the muffled conversation between you and Mista. The sound grows closer, and with it, his dread. After rejoining Passione at Giorno’s behest, Fugo knew this reunion couldn’t be avoided. Nothing could prepare him for it. 

There’s a telltale gasp when you turn the corner, spotting the back of someone you haven’t seen since you were a teenager. Someone who you used to hold in high esteem, who practically fell off the face of the earth after betraying the old boss. While Mista had hastily given you the details on the car ride over, it still felt too surreal, like a cruel joke. There’s a lot that weighs down on your heart, like stones wrapped around your ankles, dragging you into the depths. The details Giorno gave you about Fugo’s whereabouts were purposefully vague, most likely in consideration of your past feelings. 

“Fugo…?” 

You’re by his side before he can even process it, bending down and wrapping his stiff shoulders into a warm embrace. He doesn’t reciprocate it or stop you, his thoughts not capable of rationalizing what’s going on. Fugo can’t bring himself to look up at your countenance, in fear of what he’ll see staring back at him. That you’re even hugging him means you must pity him, viewing him as a scared little boy who was too weak to do what was necessary. It’s the only explanation that makes sense to him, and why he can’t return your affections. While it’s no longer his place to desire anything from you, not after all his shortcomings, he silently prays. That there may be some part of you that still cares for him, in the same way he has loved you from afar. 

“I’m so glad you’ve come back.” you sniffle, emotions swirling and enveloping you. You lift your hand, using your finger to swipe away forming tears. That’s when Fugo sees it. It doesn’t hit him at first as one would expect. No, it’s a prickling sensation that starts from his chest and spreads throughout his body like a virus. His body feels ice cold, like a corpse clinging onto shreds of life, consumed from the inside out by sorrow. Nausea comes in waves, tempting him to flee from this heart-wrenching scene and never look back. Your hand falls back to your side, and Fugo’s eyes follow it with precision, unable to look away.

There’s a rose gold band on your ring finger. 

Of course. Looking at you here, it makes sense why this would happen. Your body has filled out, beauty like that of an angel. The ability to draw people in and befriend them like a glowing aura has always been your strong suit, it was warm enough to thaw the ice around Fugo’s heart. It’d be a fool’s prayer to beg God to keep you for himself, and still, he had tried. Now that leaves the burning question, who? Who was the person that erased himself from your mind, taking the place that was carved out specifically for him? He looks at your beaming face, searching for answers he won’t find outright. 

Your perfume is the same as it was before. Light and floral, but mixed with a hint of something new. Of someone new. It sickens him, the scent dizzying as it taunts him. Where has he smelled this before? It’s on the tip of his tongue, fizzling out before coming into fruition. The words you speak next are drowned out by Fugo’s throbbing head, too absorbed with dark thoughts to process them. He needs to know. He has to know. Fugo looks over your shoulder to Mista in search of answers, the gunslinger holding an uncharacteristically grim expression. They hold eye contact, Fugo staring at him with potent intensity. 

Give me a hint. Anything, please.

Not everyone gives Mista the credit he deserves for being observant. Fugo must’ve looked like he’d seen a ghost, Mista swallowing at the pale complexion and vacant eyes. Believing that his intentions weren’t clear enough, Fugo almost looks away. Before he gets the opportunity, Mista offers a slight inclination of the head. Fugo closes his eyes, all his strength going into holding himself together. Picking up the shards of glass that maintain his emotions, hands growing bloody in the process. It’s a subtle movement, though there’s no denying in what direction it went, as much as Fugo wished otherwise.

Towards Giorno. 

You move towards your seat, realizing Fugo must be going through a lot of emotions of his own. The last thing you need to do is suffocate him when it’s clear he’s processing the unfolding events. “I don’t know the last time you came here, but they recently added more desserts. I’m partial to the zeppole… it’s so light and fluffy.” 

Mista walks over, taking a seat next to the befuddled Fugo, and speaking up to ease the uncomfortable silence that resonates in the room. “I’m starving, haven’t had anything to eat all day. Let’s get the waiter over here.”

While he flags down a passing employee, Fugo’s eyes follow your form. The table is different than how it used to be. Abbacchio would be sipping on wine, no matter the time of day. Bucciarati wouldn’t always be sitting down for long, seeing as he had lots of work to do, but he always made time for a good meal. Narancia loved conversing with you, seeing as you had lots of knowledge of the English music he was so partial to. You always sat next to Fugo, who’d lightly reprimand Narancia for being more passionate about rap than his studies, or telling Mista to knock it off with the unappetizing conversations he loved to start. 

Now, you take the chair next to Giorno, who had pulled it out in kind when you walked over.

You said you’d wait for him, and Fugo fooled himself into believing that statement would last a lifetime. He always had regrets about not joining his team on the boat that day, too many to count. A new one has sprouted up like a weed, strangling his heart. If he had joined you, would it have been him you’d have married? Would it be him that you’d look at with that dazzling expression instead, the one that he had grown used to seeing? Now that he knows the full extent of the truth, Fugo wonders how he could have ever been so blind. Even Giorno -- who often smiled just for show -- had unmistakably lightened up as soon as you entered the room. 

This… This is Fugo’s despair.

The rest of lunch goes as smoothly as it can. He forces himself to speak when spoken to, Mista kindly filling the room with conversation to prevent any awkwardness. This can’t end fast enough. He needs to get out of here, to excuse him before he does something truly stupid. A serpent whispers temptations of evil into his ear, and he doesn’t want to tune them out. Not anymore. Now isn’t the time to pull any idiotic stunts, so he remains still as a statue. When all is said and done, Fugo can’t get up from the table to dismiss himself any faster. He pays the necessary respects to his Don, swiftly offering his goodbyes. With his back turned, he hears your voice call out to him in the darkness.

“I’ll see you later, right?” you ask in between bites of your dessert, the words meaning more for him than you. He doesn’t know. He’s not certain of anything anymore, even after making up his mind on returning to Passione. The situation has taken a turn for the worst, in a way he couldn’t stomach any longer. So for now, he’ll offer up an unconvincing response, not capable of looking back at you. 

At the reminder of all his failures.

“... Of course.” 

[myheartisbro-ken]

you mentioned in a comment on a supercorp fic (i feel like a stalker, yikes) that you got in contact with darren doyle and he gave you some tips on using kryptahniuo, the sentence structure, the krius thing, etc.. would you mind sharing them? because i feel like i've sucked all available resources dry, and as a huge kryptonian nerd, i'd really appreciate it! (ofc, feel free to ignore me and pretend like this never existed if i'm intruding or unknowingly acting like a jerk.)

Okay, soooo, this is all from 3 years ago and I don’t have the best way to make myself clear when talking to people, but I’m gonna put here the things that are relevant and cut out my cringey communication. This is also for anyone who writes and would like to know a lil bit more about the language, or just people who enjoy conlangs. The vocab is over at kryptonian.info, but this is a clearer explanation of some things I had a bit of trouble with.

It’s pretty long though, so strap in.

Here we go:

Me: I was kind of having a hard time trying to figure out what the present form of zhao would be since it already ends with an 'o' and the present suffix is 'odh', I wanted to say 'I love you' with zhao , and on your page I could only find the ukiem sentence. Would it be zhaodh? And how would the full sentence be? What about shovuh, would it be shovuhodh?

Doyle: Sweet! I'm glad to help (I only wish the writers of the show would help instead of butchering the grammar ... and pronunciation)

Ok ... give me a moment to work on this...

Ok ... /zhao/ ... this doesn't end in /o/ (as in go) it ends in /ao/ (as in cow) which is a different vowel. Even if it did, though, you would still go ahead and use the /odh/ suffix. Two vowels in a row in Kryptonian is going to be super rare (pun intended), but in those cases Kryptonian phonetics will use a slight "w" sound to separate the vowels.

So ... it would be /zhaoodh/which would be 3 characters in Kryptonian writing: zh + ao + odhSo, your sentences would be: /zhaoodh (khuhp) w rraop/ and /shovuhodh (khuhp) w rraop/The subject is optional

Also, this is a sentence that would likely be gendered (familiar and/or intimate speech)

So, "I (female) love you (male)." would be: /zhaoodh (khap) w rrup/

BUT

Let's talk about informal speech, because the I love you stuff gets weird ...

zhao and shovuh are primarily nouns, but at some point they got codified as type 1 verbs (taking suffixes)... and grammatically (especially formal writing) type 1 is kind of the "proper" way to use them. But in day-to-day speech, these usually get treated as type 2 verbs (no suffix)

I should back pedal briefly and say that all this applies to /ukiem/ (familial love) ... and actually to /:jev/ (n. happiness, joy) with /:jevodh/ meaning essentially "like" or "enjoy"

So anyway, the informal variant ends up as something like /zhao w rrup/ (you would almost never use the subject with the type 2 forms of these words) Total side topic ... (hope I'm not overwhelming you here) ...

Since type 2 verbs mark tense with a vowel change, there is an interesting result with /zhao/ ... since the past and future versions end up being /zha/ and /zhi/ respectively which also just happen to be the words for "yes" and "no" which also act as augmentative and diminutive markers...

It's a bit of a chicken and egg situation as it's unclear if the "will love/did love" meanings gave rise to the "yes/no" meanings or if the existing "yes/no" words guided the vowel shift as /zhao/ went from noun > v1 > v2

Me: Okay, first, in the verb section of your page you say that not using a suffix creates the potential form of the verb, yet there is a prefix, kai, for potential, so if someone were to ask 'can you do...' say, 'can you speak/say this' would it need the prefix and then the present suffix, or just not use either. Like, would it be 'ta-kai-ehworodh rraop w [thing]' or 'ta-kai-ehwor' or just 'ta-ehwor' or is all of that completely dumb and I totally misunderstood everything? (I'm also not sure when I should and shouldn't use the hyphen) And the second is simpler, I guess: going by 'us-kah' as like a petname for your child, would the same apply to a parent, such as saying 'jeju-te' in sort of the same way kids say 'mommy' and not just expressing relationship. And could that apply to a person's name as well? Like, idk if that works in english, but say you have a nickname for someone and then you say 'that's MY [nickname]', (I do that for my aunt in portuguese, which is why I'm asking)

Doyle: Dang ... the "suffixless form of the verb forms the potential" is actually a holdover from an idea when I first started making the language that eventually got abandoned. Thought I removed references to it, but I missed that I guess.

Hyphens are just there to help show the morpheme breaks when explaining the language. If you are just writing Kryptonian, then you wouldn't use them at all.

so /?takaieworodh rraop ki kryptahniuo/ would be correct

Ok ... the "familial-possessive-honorifics" ...

They kind of act like an honirific (Mr., Mrs., Sir, Ma'am, Señor, Señorita, San, Sama etc.)

They attach using the proper noun punctuation...

So ... Kal-El => /kal,ehl/

Mr. Kal-El => /kal,ehl,jran/

(I'm not related it Kal-El)

Let me start over on that last one

I am talking to you about Mr. Kal-El, I would say ...

* (neither of us is related to him): /kal,ehl,jran/

* (I am related to him, but you aren't): /kal,ehl,te/

* (we are both related to him): /kal,ehl,kah/

* (I am not related to him, but you are): /kal,ehl,ni/

* (Neither of us is related to him, but we are talking about someone who is related to him and that relationship is pertinent to the conversation): /kal,ehl,cheh/

So in that sense, these are honorifics ... they are more formal, not less

so ... us,kah for a child probably wouldn't end up being a pet name

and it means "our" child ... so even less likely in that sense (us,te would be "my child")

and it uses the less intimate gender-neutral form

wait ... scratch that ... /us/ is masculine (derp derp)

so, a more likely candidate for a pet name for your child would probably be /us kir/ (little boy) or /is kir/ little girl

you could also do something clever like /krius/ or /kriis/ (that second word would be pronounced "kree-yees") ... borrowing the "bright" prefix and applying it to the child noun

For Kryptonians that wouldn't have as much of the meaning that an English speaker would assign to "bright" (smart, clever, etc), but more of a sense of "joyful", "pleasant", "you-light-up-the-room" kind of sense.

An English equivalent to /krius/ would be something like when you refer to someone as "my little ray of sunshine"

getting back to your actual question ...  

/jeju,te/ and /ukr,te/ would also be more formal. Kids (especially older kids) would be expected to use this form in public when addressing parents

but at home it would probably be just /jeju/ and /ukr/

for the very youngest kids, /jeje/ would be "mommy", and /uku/ (or even /kuku/) would be "daddy" ... but, unlike some dialects of English (especially in the Southern states), those variants wouldn't last very long as kids would be encouraged to use /jeju/ and /ukr/ as their speech developed

So ... ummm ... I'm not sure if I've answered your actual question ... if I have, I may have indicated the opposite... Kryptonians would remove the "my" on a petname ... does that sound right ... hmmm ... thinking about it

Shoot ... I guess I don't really know how to give you a solid answer on that one. Pet names can be funny things, I think ... because even in English I can see formal titles being absorbed as "cute" ... like having a little fluffy dog that you pick up and in a cutesy voice call "Sir Snuggles"

so ... armed with the info for "normal" speech/grammar ... pick whatever feels right to you!

Me: The first I wanted to ask is if 'Awuhkhu zhadif khap w rrip' is correct for 'I'll never leave you'

And the second I tried to make it out, but the result looked weird so I was just very unsure about (while the other I'm a bit more confident about) so how would 'please don't leave me' be, cuz 'please don't' is a full prefix, right? so it'd be 'please don't' prefix + leave + present suffix and then the pronoun separately. By that logic it'd be 'sozhaoawuhkhodh khap' is that correct?

Now there's actually a third one that I don't even know where to begin (mostly because I didn't try too hard) but I wanted to know would you say the sentence 'she left me alone' or 'my mother left me alone'?

Doyle:

/.awuhkhu zhadif khap w rrip/ ... yep, that's correct!  

/sozhaoawuhkhodh khap/ ... yep, that's right too

or you might go with the future tense, especially if those two sentences are going together

/sozhaoawuhkhu khap/

actually ... whoops... /khap/ is the object of the sentence...

/sozhaoawuhkhu w khap/

Let's see for "she left me alone", I would use the malefactive and the past tense of "to go" (which I just realized wasn't in the dictionary - doh!).

So ... let's see... go+past-perf she w me mal.

hmmm... alone, though ...

cause/PST she be/PRS me w alone ki go/PST/PRG ... ?

/podh zhehd nahn khap w chahvymah ki rrosh/ (that last verb wouldn't take a suffix, derp) ... "She made me alone by going" ... hmmm...

You could always just use /podh zhehd nahn khap w chahvymah/ ... she cause me to be alone ... that's probably the closest to the English 

So that’s it, so much information that I thought it was actually a longer convo

[dennou-translations]

Kagerou Daze VIII: Chapter 8

Children Record -side No.7-

Please feel free to message me about possible corrections. If you can, consider supporting the creators by purchasing the official releases in Japanese or in English. In case anyone is feeling generous: Ko-fi | PayPal. ( ╹◡╹)っ’･*

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If “not forgetting” was the prerequisite for “having memories”, what was a “memory” once forgotten called?

I roamed my thoughts, not telling anyone about the “recollections” that I seemed dangerously close to losing.

The “goodbyes” that seemed to burn our chests, the miraculous “reunions”, the “future” that we’d reached our hands out to while readying ourselves for certain death – no matter how much we cherished them, it’d be a disappointment if we ended up forgetting everything.

“Forgetting” didn’t leave even loneliness behind. As if nothing had ever existed from the very beginning, the forgotten recollection would lose even the name “memory” and be gone without a trace. It was an utterly absurd story. No matter how dear our memories were to us, we couldn’t build a fence around them. We would fail to recall even the reasons to try remembering “memories” that were truly forgotten.

Right, we were there because we’d been “continuously forgetting”. By stepping over the dead bodies of memories that we couldn’t remember, we were moving forward one way or another.

That was the only thing I didn’t want to forget.

“He~y, you awake?” an insensitive voice echoed through the madder-red-dyed classroom.

Sitting in the last row next to the window and having been watching the slowly darkening diorama-like cityscape, I turned toward the owner of the voice. Illuminated by sunset glow, Ayano’s face was openly peeking at me from the seat in front of mine.

For starters, it was all too questionable that the concept of “sleep” would exist in this ambiguous world, where we were both alive and dead, so I wondered if she was joking.

No, that was suspicious. She didn’t seem to be thinking anything.

“There anyone who sleeps with their eyes closed?” as I asked rudely, I turned back to the cityscape out the window.

At the corner of my line of sight, Ayano shrank back a little. Seeing her that way, it looked to me like Ayano had started to get a slight inkling of things. I wasn’t trying to be mean to her or anything, but to be frank, I was irritated.

“C-Could it be... you’re angry at me for not going to you for advice?” Ayano asked with upturned eyes, stirring lightly in dread.

“About what?”

“Erm, like... I came over here by myself without asking for your opinion.” Hanging her head after saying so, Ayano flickeringly peeked at my complexion.

Well, she was mostly right.

At the very least, I didn’t hate her. She’d seemed friendly with me for some reason, and it hadn’t been just one or two times that I’d watched over her studies. Of course, given that we were a guy and a girl, I thought it was appropriate for each of us to keep a secret or two from one another. But even if that much was okay, as friends, I totally thought we had a relationship where one could rely on the other and be relied on whenever we were faced with great distress.

Still, this.

Hn, well~, there sure are things about her that I’ve never heard of from the Mekakushi-dan guys! Why, she went around on her own to investigate Clearing, and dear me, all her younger siblings had superhuman abilities, so she tried to enter Kagerou Daze alone after making up her mind – the more I dig, the more bargain sales I get of stuff I was never told before.

No, it wasn’t like I was vexed that she had kept it all a secret from me, or that I wanted to know Ayano through and through, or anything of the sort. Absolutely not. It’s just that, as her friend, I felt resentment at how she had done things in a reckless way without taking herself into consideration.

When I glanced at her, Ayano reacted to my gaze and her body shrank back uneasily.

Dammit... Acting like a little puppy...!

Trying to take advantage of my conscience would get her nowhere. Who knew how badly my heart had ached because of her during these two years?

Other men might end up easily forgiving you, but Shintarou-san isn’t the kind of skirt chaser who’d yield to that. Shintarou-san’s been severe lately.

“Well, things are the way they are. Even if I judge you at this point of the game, there’s no helping them.”

How regretful. Shintarou-san does wind up easily forgiving a girl when she fidgets at him.

Perhaps thinking that I was going to scold her or something, Ayano stared blankly at me for a bit, and then gave a faint smile, looking apologetic. “You’re as nice as ever. That’s why you ended up here, Shintarou.”

“Shaddap. You’re the same as me, aren’t you?” leaving my inward gags aside, I used rude language to dodge the embarrassing mood.

My bodily sense of time told me that it had been approximately one or two days ever since I was swallowed by Kagerou Daze. Still, in an environment where I could get neither sleepy nor hungry, there was probably not much meaning in relying on body sensations.

According to Haruka-senpai, there was a huge gap between here and outside regarding the flow of time. I had a rough idea of it from listening to Hibiya talk about how “the same day had repeated over and over”, and sure enough, there was no logic or reason to it. It indeed didn’t seem like I had been wrong about this being a world removed from common sense.

“But I was really surprised. To think Shintarou would be fighting together with everyone.”

“I was the last person who could’ve imagined something like that. Working my ass off to read deep into things for someone else’s sake just isn’t like me...”

“Nope, you’re wrong. I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt that it’d turn out like this. That Shintarou would do his best to protect everyone.” Ayano added, “That’s why I couldn’t tell you anything” at the end, shying out.

So she had expected that I’d fight.

Well, it wouldn’t not be inevitable that I’d get myself involved in this as long as Momo was an Ability User, but she shouldn’t know that Momo was an Ability User in the first place. If so, I couldn’t believe right off the bat that she had anticipated things would turn out like this, since I was “someone unrelated” to her in the end.

Hm. Wait a minute. Hahaan, don’t tell me...

“Could this be consolation for a ‘non-Ability-User’ like me?”

By some sort of karma, everyone I’d been involved with in high school had become an Ability User. Yet I was the only one who was still a newborn Bambi until now. I didn’t think hatefully of that, but I wondered if she didn’t think of me as inconvenient, since I was the sole person who hadn’t gotten his hands on an Ability out of our group of four friends.

Regardless, Ayano responded to my sarcasm-mixed words by shaking her head furiously. “I-I’m serious! I saw Shintarou fighting even in my dreams!”

“Hoh, what kinda dream was that?”

“Erm. One where Shintarou was standing coolly in front of everyone and flashily defeating the boss. You were wearing a bright red full-body unitard with the sunset on your back, saying, ‘Sorry for the wait! Here’s the unmatched super hero!’ and swinging an iron ball with a chain...”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait!! What sorta perverted bastard is that?!! That ain’t related to Abilities by a single millimeter, and actually, it didn’t become true at all, did it?!”

Halfway tending to trip, Ayano, who had been imagining me swinging around an iron ball, abruptly returned to reality. “That’s true. Gee, I wonder if it was in a different dream...”

“More like, just how often have you dreamed of me...?”

It was repulsive to think that I played an active role inside her brain clad in a transformation suit of sorts. Nevertheless, Ayano herself said something spine-chilling, like, “M-Might’ve been pretty often...” with her face turning red for some reason.

“B-But y’know, there are many Eye Abilities, so it’s not weird that there’s a power like sharing a future, is it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised no matter what comes up at this point, but are you the Ability User who can see this future?”

“No way! I’m totally not that!” resolutely denying it, Ayano made an X using her arms with a smack.

“Then isn’t this theory a bust?! Don’t try to justify the version of me that’s haunting your brain. First things first, take off the unitard!”

“Eeh?! If the unitard is off, the cool part is gone...”

“Eh, then wasn’t I unnecessary from the start?”

How tiring.

Aah, I was remembering it. You’d need a huge amount of effort to talk to her; about as much as when talking to Ene. It was a meaningless conversation, almost as if we were speaking just for the sake of “speaking”... Not knowing to settle her tone down even after dying made her a terrifying fellow.

But these aren’t pointless conversations like the ones of back then, I guess.

Precisely because she had died, she had played a major role in the fight of the outside world. As proof of this, she earlier had talked about what had been concerning her for a bit.

Praying that it wouldn’t be a fruitless conversation, I opened my mouth, “Just now, you said your Ability isn’t the power to see the future, right?”

“Ah, yup. I did.”

“Then, what Ability did you get?”

Silence.

“Aah, that’s right! I had to talk about it!!” Pushing the chair with a clatter, Ayano stood up all of a sudden with vehement vigor.

“Hyan!!” and I, exceptionally surprised by it, fell backward while letting out an uncanny cry. Splendidly hit the back of my head. If this weren’t the inside of Kagerou Daze, it would’ve been an accidental homicide.

“Uwaah! Sorry, sorry! Well, about the Abilities...”

“W-Wait a minute, your tempo is too fast; at least lemme fix up the chair.” I frantically got up from the floor, putting the chair back in place with a rattle.

Just trying to have a proper conversation with her was that exhausting. Most likely, by the time she finished introducing the topic, my soul would have eroded and disappeared.

“Well, then.”

“Yeah.”

We pulled ourselves together and re-started the conversation.

“I think it’s better for me to begin explaining from the time I came to this world... to Kagerou Daze.”

“Sure. Got any confidence that you can explain it decently?”

“N-Not much, but... I’ll do my best.”

That’s the spirit. Let’s hear it.

“See, it’s about the day... when I did that thing on the rooftop.”

“W-Wait a minute. Can’t you stop talking this way? It’s too lighthearted, kinda like—”

“Geez~, and here I’d finally come up with a good explanation! Be quiet and listen!” Ayano flat and moderately hit the desk.

She was mad at me. I listened in silence.

“Right after I entered Kagerou Daze... I met a girl named Azami.”

“Azami”. The originator who had birthed the Abilities and the first victim of Clearing’s plot.

I used to have no idea about what had happened to Azami herself after she transferred Abilities to people on the outside, but this meant that she had been staying in Kagerou Daze while retaining her consciousness. I couldn’t think that Ayano would lie on purpose. If they had met, then that was probably the case.

“She was really weak. Until that point, she’d been existing as a spiritual body with the power of Stirring, which she gave to Takane-san, but then it was gone too, so it seemed she was at her limit.”

“I... see. So Enomoto became Ene after that.”

“Yep, yep. My, how can I put it...? Takane-san got a-all bright after that, huh?” Ayano seemed to be choosing her words most carefully out of respect for our senior, but as expected, the strain at the edge of her lips didn’t fool anyone.

Rejoice, Enomoto; your dear junior saw it all.

Perhaps having noticed my grin, Ayano said, “L-Let’s leave that aside” and resumed the talk, tending to tumble. “After losing her physical and spiritual body, Azami had only one power left. That was the Ability I received,” saying so, Ayano pointed at the corner of her eye.

“The last one... I also didn’t know about this.”

The “Ten Abilities” cited in Azami’s diary were mostly referenced by name. However, no matter how many times I counted, there were only nine names in it. Those nine Abilities applied to the powers residing in the people outside. In other words, the one residing inside Ayano was the Tenth Ability, which hadn’t been listed in the diary.

Tapping with the finger that was aimed at herself, Ayano spoke with slightly wavering words, “This is a bit of a weird Ability. It’s got a nature that’s a little different from the other Abilities, so to say; it’s an Ability that sprouted from Azami’s ‘heart’, like... Would you understand if I say it’s a power created from the feeling of ‘wanting to convey’?”

“Nope, don’t get it at all.”

“Thought so.” Ayano exhaled a prolonged sigh with a “haah~”.

My, you sure are doing your best for someone so bad at explaining stuff.

“Ah, that’s right. Then wouldn’t it be better if I did it like this?”

One instant.

Almost as if shaded with sunset glow, Ayano’s dark brown hair was pregnant with a dense orange color. That was the activation of an Ability, which I had witnessed countless times. Still, the “sense of pressure” that seemed to be released from Ayano’s two eyes was nearly non-existent.

“Y’see, I think it’ll probably the easiest way for you to understand if I do it like this... Can you accept it?”

Ayano’s words and the movements of her lips incited a natural nod from me.

“Thank you. Then, I’ll ‘convey’ it to you, ‘kay?”

The color that appeared to be swaying inside her irises flared up all the more intensely. Unable even to blink, I simply surrendered my body to the persuasiveness of those orbs.

“Favoring Eyes.”

I was in a dark place. There was no right, left, up or down. It wasn’t cold or hot.

It was that kind of place.

“You’ll disappear, won’t you, Azami?” a voice rang throughout the complete darkness. Even if I chased for the voice’s owner, I couldn’t find her.

And there was one more voice. It came closer as if to nestle with me, word overlapping upon word, “Yeah. I am glad I could talk to someone like you in my last moments. More than anything, I am sorry for not having been able to do a single thing for you all until the very end. Truly, I am sorry...”

“I don’t want you to cry, ‘cause I’m also holding back from doing it.”

“I-I am not crying. It was just snot that came out. Besides... my ‘memory’ has already been delivered to your heart, right?”

“Yep, it has. Azami, I’ve definitely received your ‘memory’. That’s why I’m not lonely anymore.”

“Is that so? Then I am relieved. In the future, this ‘memory’ might be useful for something. The ‘memory’ is not me but the precious ‘feelings’ I had when I was alive.”

“Really, you’re right. I can understand your ‘memory’... as if it were my own. You’ve been doing your best to live on for such a very long time, huh, Azami?”

“Ugh... hic...”

“Aah, sorry. I didn’t say it out of thinking about making you cry.”

“That’s not it; that’s not it at all. It’s just... I’ve never even dreamed that someone would say something like this to me.”

“You’re a real crybaby, Azami. It’s okay; ‘cause I-I... surely won’t forget...

“What, but aren’t you also crying?”

“E-Ehehe. We’re together on this, huh?”

Silence.

“It is already time. Lastly... I will leave this with you.”

“Egh...”

“It is my ‘heart’... the power named ‘Favoring’. It is the power to convey ‘feelings’ and ‘memories’... Surely, if it’s you...”

“Hic... u-ueeh...”

“Welcome back. Did it get properly conveyed?”

“Yeah, it did.”

The color of the classroom dyed in scarlet was unfading, softly enveloping my consciousness as I was pulled back. It wasn’t like I’d been “shown” or “told” anything, yet a memory of Azami and Ayano’s encounter found itself inside my head as if it were logical.

“Shintarou, could it be you’re crying?”

“I ain’t crying. It’s just snot that came out.”

Ayano stared at my face for a bit, and perhaps realizing the meaning of those words, she gave me a shy smile.

I started thinking about Ayano.

The environment encircling her when she was still alive was wretched to the point of making me sick. To think that she had lost her precious mother, that her father – who used to be her only foundation – went through a transformation, and that her siblings and school seniors were taken as hostages. It wasn’t the kind of story that would only go as far as making your insides boil.

And so, Ayano had jumped from the rooftop, entering Kagerou Daze through cutting her own life short. Kano had made guesses about it; that as a result of linking her mother’s notes to Clearing’s plans, she had probably thought she could hinder Clearing’s plot of “gathering Abilities to make a Medusa” if she got her hands on one of the Ten Abilities.

Through my meeting with the Mekakushi-dan guys and connecting the pasts that each of them had talked about, I had arrived to the true motives behind Ayano’s actions. I had been accompanied by inevitable rage. That was why I’d sustained myself on that rage and fought. I’d been beating the hell of out this shitty world, which had been making people like them – who were living in desperation – into fools, pushing ridiculous absurdity onto them, and trying to rob them of even their future.

And the outcome of that fight was as one could see.

There wasn’t a single means of salvation, and neither was any miracle going to happen. The plan I’d come up with through milking my brains out also hadn’t served to save everybody. There was really nothing more worthless than the fact that, if there was just one thing I could do, it was to talk to my dead friends.

Nevertheless, even if I died, even if I rotted, there was one truth that I couldn’t escape from. Outside of Kagerou Daze, the Mekakushi-dan guys were even now fighting against the enemy. Just because I’d died, there was no way I alone could put an end to it on my own accord. And it seemed I wasn’t the only one thinking so.

Ayano and I looked into each other’s eyes, and as if confirming one another’s wills, we exchanged words.

“Must keep it up until the end, huh?”

“Yeah, it ain’t over yet.”

At Ayano’s unfaltering words, I was convinced of one thing. Most likely, she and I were imagining the exact same conclusion for this battle.

In the first place, this fight had pre-existing conditions thrust into it from the beginning. The enemy was an immortal Ability itself, and the only one who could control it – the Medusa – didn’t exist in this world. So long as the enemy was immortal, if Mary didn’t turn into a Medusa and make it powerless, the Ability Users would all be brutally killed, no matter how much they ran or tried to buy time. Still, for Mary to become a Medusa, she had to draw the Abilities out of the Ability Users.

In other words, from the very start, the development where all of us would survive didn’t exist in this battle.

It was a cruel story that nothing could be done about, but it was the “reality” of this struggle. As long as we couldn’t all survive together, we couldn’t puff out our chests and claim that “we won”. And, albeit being aware of these prerequisites, everyone from the Mekakushi-dan had thrown themselves into the fight.

If only we’d managed to figure everything out sooner, faster.

It was too late for being frustrated over that or anything else at this point. Because, right now, everything had come to the moment just before the end.

Still, there was only one thing. It was a mere possibility, but there was something left in our hands. It was liable to turn out as meaningless, but if we hadn’t fought, we would never have been able to get our hands on it. Just as there was no “victory” for us in this battle, as long as we had that thing, there was also no “defeat”.

After all, the goal we carried was not to “win”.

“I left just one thing behind on the other side,” saying so, I took a cellphone out of my jersey’s pocket, put it on the desk and tilted my neck at Ayano.

“A phone? I think it won’t connect with the other side, though...”

“If you think on ordinary terms, that’s how it’d be. Except, there’re guys who ‘ain’t normal’ on the other side.”

It didn’t even serve as an all-or-nothing, and it seemed suspicious that it’d be as much as a one-in-a-million chance; that was the kind of bet it was. And even if it became true, that didn’t mean it could knock down the enemy. Simply for the sake of grasping an “extension”, I’d entrusted one last wish to that girl.

“Even if you thought it out, you normally wouldn’t do something like that.” Perhaps having understood my anticipations, Ayano gave me a strained smile.

“I might’ve stopped being ‘normal’ too.”

Seen from the sidelines, me betting my own life not for the sake of surviving or fighting, but merely for “choosing”, probably came off as an abnormality. And so, I ruminated inside my mind for our clichéd purpose, which we had decided upon in that hideout.

Our child-like objective of “not giving up on the future no matter what”.

[puppypaw-wc]

okay it’s time for some rhythm ranting (i came up with that and i am so fucking proud of myself for it)-

so rhythm heaven megamix is the fourth rhythm heaven game, preceded by three other games (as you may guess): rhythm tengoku for the gameboy advance, released in 2006 in japan only, rhythm heaven for the ds, released in 2009, and rhythm heaven fever, released for the wii in 2011/2012 and for the wii u in 2016. as megamix’s name implies (esp it’s japanese/korean name, rhythm tengoku (in japan)/rhythm world (in korea) the best+), it’s a mix of lots of rhythm games from past games. not all of them, though, because the developers wanted to spite us by not putting bon odori in. /j oh and like people like dj school and shit and it’s not in it. people modded dj school in though, no i am not kidding, people literally modded in a full game and i don’t know how. i mean donk-donk and tambourine have also been modded in somewhat for remixes but anyways back to my point-

the rest of this’ll be under the cut tho-

so one of my main problems with megamix is some of the game choices. rhythm tengoku only had 25 unique, non-sequel rhythm games. out of those, nine were excluded. that’s almost half. for perspective, though, three of those games are bon odori, rap men, and toss boys, which basically need audio cues to be played. bon odori relies on it’s song, where you clap whenever they say “pan” and clap twice quickly when they say “panpa”, rap men relies on its audio and you do something different depending on three different kinds of cues, and for toss boys you need audio cues to know who it’s being tossed to. and logically, they’d likely want to translate the games, so given that they seemingly didn’t get that big of a budget for dubbing, they weren’t included... but quiz show was. what’s the problem with quiz show, you may ask? well rhythm heaven as a game is a rhythm game. quiz show literally doesn’t require rhythm. basically the host will press the button a certain number of times and in order to pass the game you just need to press it the same amount of times. that’s literally it. in megamix you get the game’s skill star if you press it to the same rhythm, but it’s still not required. it’s also dumb because you literally have to play it perfectly in order to pass it. all you need for a perfect is to press the button(s) the same amount of times. if you press a button the wrong number of times, the game ends once the number you were supposed to hit it is revealed. quiz show is literally pointless. the only times it’s used well are in remixes in tengoku. in remix 6, at least in silver, it uses the previously played game, the clappy trio, as a hint, with the host asking, “how many members are in the clappy trio?”, before hitting the buttons three times. in remix 4, the rhythm for both the quiz segments goes with the music. i mean on the last one he can add an extra press and it’s fucking bullshit but whatever. i’m not mad. but my point is that in megamix, they added a game that doesn’t require rhythm as opposed to a multitude of actually liked games from tengoku. there’s non-included games that don’t require audio cues, i should add. showtime, polyrhythm, tram and pauline, wizard’s waltz, and for fuck’s sake, thinking about it, the games that likely weren’t added because of audio cues wouldn’t HAVE to be dubbed. just do what the tengoku fan translation did and translate the on-screen subtitles but leave the audio in japanese. please just give us bon odori stop holding them hostage-

i talk about tengoku but i’m pretty sure rhds is the game with the most non-included minigames. ds was played sideways, almost purely using the touch screen with the exception of rockers 2 in the last set of games. it had a unique control scheme, with three types of controls: tapping, where you just tap the screen with the stylus or your finger; flicking, where you flick your stylus or finger like you’re making the end of a checkmark, according to “the secret of flicking” reading material thingie you can read when you unlock the cafe; and sliding, where you just. slide your finger. megamix only has tapping, and even then that’s only when you’re using simple tap mode and i don’t want to imagine how that handles games that use the b-button. as i mentioned, tengoku had almost half of its games missing. ds has twenty-five rhythm games if you include the credits game airboarder. ten of those weren’t included. that may not seem like a lot, but ds is most peoples’ favorite rhythm heaven game, and two of the most loved games in the fandom, dj school and love lab, are from rhds, and neither was included in megamix.

fever has the least cut games over all, with only five of its original rhythm games being cut. fever had twenty-nine original rhythm games, with one more (rhythm test) also appearing in its remix 10. the ones that didn’t make it in are tambourine, donk-donk, tap troupe, shrimp shuffle, and night walk. night walk’s exclusion was probably since gba night walk made it in and they didn’t know how to name them differently, bUT YOU DID IT WITH THE KARATE MAN GAMES??? DID WE REALLY NEED ALL OF THE KARATE MAN GAMES, A PREQUEL, AND A NEW GAME? THAT’S FIVE DIFFERENT KARATE MAN GAMES IN MEGAMIX. THAT’S TOO MANY TIMES TO PLAY THE SAME GAME. granted only three of those times are required to beat the game (prequel karate man, gba karate man/karate man returns!, and karate man senior), but my point still stands, they gave us literally every karate man game but not night walk or something. it’s especially dumb to me because they gave figure fighter both a prequel and its sequel because they looove figure fighter... instead of including shrimp shuffle, which really desperately needs to be included, please let me know what a frame-perfect input looks like so i don’t keep getting barelys that look fine because like all my inputs are barelys but they still break the perfect-

,,, onto another thing before i break something or kill someone.

so the dubbing for megamix is a little odd. as i said, the game likely didn’t have that big of a budget for dubbing, especially when compared to other games in the series. the prologues for games use the same three or four generic fonts despite the japanese version using the original fonts, the returning games that have lyrical songs just use the original version of the song with the exception of fan club 2, the two lyrical remixes weren’t dubbed (komeki no story, lush remix’s song, is simply instrumental with english audio, while in the japanese version it has lyrics. i’m a lady now, honeybee remix’s song, is in english regardless of audio), and lastly,,, the dubbing for the returning tengoku games where there’s vocals.

so in space dance, the whole game uses audio cues. there’s three of them in total: “turn right”, where you press the right d-pad button on “right”. note that when they say it it does not sound like they are saying turn right. at all. i’m not sure why, it’s not just the gba’s bad sound quality because well. bon odori exists. and also because it’s the same in megamix when you use the japanese audio. my immediate thought is accents but i don’t know if japanese accents are a thing. might just be because of the fact that japanese people tend to pronounce r’s as l’s? not sure though. “let’s sit down”, where you press the down d-pad button on “down”. it also doesn’t sound like they’re saying “let’s sit down”. and lastly, “pu-pu-pu-punch”, where you press the a-button on “punch”. in order to punch. because that’s a dance move. like seriously, space dance is fun but how is this a dance? um anyways, in the english version of megamix they changed it so it’s more clear what’s being said but the dubbing’s not the best. firstly, they changed “turn right” to “and pose” even though that is definitely not posing. it’s weird since. that’s the only one that was changed. i don’t know how to describe what they did to space dance and most of y’all probably don’t play rhythm heaven so you don’t understand, so here’s a perfect gameplay of space dance with japanese audio (it took time to find), and here’s one with english audio. ,,, okay so the english one’s of cosmic dance because i. forgot what exactly i was doing. and got distracted looking through the comments. so now i know that they still reused space gramps’ voice for cosmic girl in cosmic dance. which like. wut? you redubbed it but you. you still reused. you still reused space gramps’ voice for her? megamix dubbers are you okay? i’m kind of concerned.

the other game that has audio is purely japanese audio. marcher/marching orders. it’s a keep the beat game where you play as a squadmate following the sarge’s orders. the rhythm heaven wiki’s description for it is basically what i said but they’re better at describing things then me so.

“In this game, a rookie is undergoing marching training with her squadmates while following their Sarge's orders. The player controls the rookie at the end of the line. There are four commands that the Sarge will yell.

"Attention, March!"

"Attention, Halt!"

"Left-face, Turn!"

"Right-face, Turn!"

The player must perform these with proper timing along with the other squadmates. Just before the game ends, the squadmates will be moved offscreen, still marching as the game ends.”

in the japanese version, the commands he says are obviously different, though i. do not know what he is saying. so have my attempts at romanizing it.

“gento susume!” = “attention, march!”

“gento commoback!” = “attention, halt!”

“meski meek!” = one of them? i don’t really know which and it feels inconsistent, at least in marcher 2. i think it’s right-face turn but i’m not one hundred percent sure.

“meski peek!” = the other one. so i think left-face turn.

,,, yeah i don’t know japanese, sorry if this (as in literally any of this) is offensive to anyone that does. i’m just trying my best. the wiki doesn’t say what he says in the japanese version. unlike for other games.

now in the japanese version, the sarge has a somewhat deep voice. but in the english version... he doesn’t.

um here’s a perfect in tengoku and here’s one in megamix that i think has english audio since. it says it’s the english version in the description. but i’m not listening to it.

u h my last nitpick with megamix is the prequels. so prior to lush remix, almost all the games played are prequels, easier and shorter versions of the actual games. after lush remix is completed and the towers of lush woods are unlocked (i’m just taking this from the wiki, wtf is lush woods), all the games from then on are the original versions, with “2″ or something else stuck onto them for the games that had prequels. this makes it irritating to find certain games on the wiki because it’s just like “no i don’t want normal wii micro-row i want wii micro-row 2 rhythm heaven wiki please” or whatever. also the picks for games that have prequels are all over the place, and some of the prequels’ music doesn’t seem to fit and makes it feel like all the patterns in the prequels for games like rhythm tweezers and clappy trio are the exact same. is it the exact same? because if so then that’s cool (i suck at rhythm tweezers and clappy trio-) but also very boring. i get that they wanted to start people with something easy but some of the games that have prequels were already easy. karate man (gba) is literally the first game in tengoku but it still has a prequel. rhythm tweezers is the second game but it has a prequel. clappy trio’s the fifth and it has a prequel (granted it is kind of hard). fillbots is the third in ds and it has a prequel. air rally is relatively early on in fever. you get my point. and the weird thing is that in some cases at least, games that have prequels which remove stuff from the actual games don’t have practices for things in the actual version. for example, air rally’s prequel doesn’t have forthington (the cat) changing distances, except for the last one which he apparently always catches, but wii air rally obviously does. granted, the rhythm’s the exact same when he’s far away (for some reason? i don’t think that’s how it should work-),  but it should still have practice. oh and in air rally they just completely removed the clouds that semi-block the visuals later in the game. yeah i don’t know either. that seems to be the only instance of that occurance, though.

another prequel nitpick: so i love rhythm rally. like it is the best game in ds imho. it’s fun, it’s not that hard (it is kind of hard but i still have fun), though i do play on emulator, god knows how hard it is when you’re like me and don’t know how to consistently flick dear god send help- but u m in megamix rhythm rally has a prequel. which may not seem bad or anything until you learn something. megamix rhythm rally is the shortest game in the series. showtime from tengoku is seven seconds longer while munchy monk from ds is twelve seconds longer. rhythm rally’s prequel is thirty seconds long. thirty seconds. t h i r t y s e c o n d s . d,,, don’t paddlers literally have to play ping-pong to not get like. really sick? i don’t think thirty seconds is a long enough ping-pong game to avoid that- y’all’s planet is literally named ping-pong but you only play for thirty seconds. on top of a flower. okay wtf is with the scenery on this planet, it has a resident rhythm heaven void that we should be concerned about why are there so many voids, s p a c e i t s e l f , a giant flower, and a giant cake. two concerning things and two things that are weird but not concerning. seriously though why are there so many voids in the rhythm heaven world? someone should look into this, i’m concerned.

u h anyways that’s all. have a good day.

[vermilionskiinmorning]

𝕺𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝕷𝖔𝖞𝖆𝖑𝖙𝖞||TLK Fic|| FinanxOC||One

AN: So here’s the first proper installment! :D Enjoy some cookham squad banter in this one

||Masterlist||

Summary: Tove chose to surrender rather than be killed, after Sigfried was defeated at Beamfleot, giving herself up to the mercy of the Saxons. Thanks to Finan’s intervention, her life is indeed spared and she is brought into Uhtred’s service. With the sting of defeat fresh on her tongue and her new life fighting for the Saxons secured; Tove is left wondering what tricks the Gods have in store for her next.

Words: 2080

-----

Swearing her oath to Uhtred was a more straightforward decision than swearing to had been Njal. It had not been said, but Tove had felt reasonably sure of them. Swear or die. Perhaps there had been another had she not sworn, but Tove did not dwell on that possibility. The choice had been made.  Upon doing so, her bonds were cut, and she was brought to a healer -just like that.

They stayed at the battle site for two days while the less wounded were dealt with. Those having sustained more grievous injuries were deemed unfit to travel and would be left behind. The rest of them would return to Winchester. Tove suffered several injuries in the battle, which mostly amounted to some abrasions and bruises though the healer had looked worried at the sight of her black and blue ribs. Despite their concern, she had brushed it off with a declaration she would be sufficient to travel. So, on the day of departure, she took to the road with her new Lord.

As they traveled, there was quite a bit of gossip going around, and quickly Tove learned that half the reason for the battle was due to one man: Odda, the Elder who was a West Saxon Alderman now to be tried for treason. A strange thank you, she thought, considering the overwhelming victory his early march had granted the Saxons. The men explained that Odda had marched to Beamfleot against their King’s orders, for which the Alderman would likely die. Tove had frowned at this lackluster explanation and glanced up toward where the King rode at the front. She had yet to see him up close but could pick him out, even among the sea of mail and armor, by the crown atop his head.  Saxons were strange, she thought.

It turned out the journey to Winchester would be several days long. Lord Uhtred rode with them some of the time, but others he was summoned up to the front of their column -to his King’s side. She did not envy him. What kind of company could such a man be? Tove imagined a stuffy and severe creature with little capacity for laughter. In part, she was thankful for Uhtred’s preoccupation as it allowed her to become more acquainted with her new comrades.

“So Lady,” began the old priest Beocca.

“I am no Lady,” Tove cut in. “You may call me Tove.”

“Tove.” Beocca began again looking a tad put out. “Finan tells us you are recently arrived from Denmark? My wife Thyra is Danish as well.”

“A priest is married to a pagan?” Tove asked, somewhat confused.

Beocca chuckled. “No. She is saved and has found our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Tove frowned. “And…forsaken the Old Gods?”

“There is only one God, my child,” Beocca responded kindly.

“Beocca, surely ya needn’t be tryin to convert the Lady already,” Finan put in.

Though, Tove noted the cross that hung around the Irishman’s neck despite his feeble defense of her beliefs. She raised a hand to finger the hammer hanging around her own. It was said that Lord Uhtred was a pagan as well; Tove found it curious he surrounded himself with these Christians. Their God was angry and she did not understand him. However, he did seem to protect his followers when they most needed it, allowing the Saxons to keep the majority of their lands from Danish hands.

Silence hung in the air for a few moments, but Beocca no longer seemed interested in questioning Tove after Finan's interruption. She sent a small smile of thanks his way, which was returned with a cheeky grin.

“Don’t ya be worrying about the father or baby monk lass.”

Finan had brought his horse up to ride alongside her. As opposed to the priest, she would take his company any day; the Irishman exuded a cheerful sense of ease that Tove appreciated. It was even better that he seemed to have taken it upon himself to ensure she felt welcome.

“I find these Saxons quite odd,” Tove said finally then, dropping her voice added. “And their nailed God.”

“The Saxons aren’t so bad.” Finan chuckled. “You’ll fit right in with the Lord Uhtred and Sihtric here. They both share yer faith.”

Her grey eyes moved to the young Dane who rode along with them. They had met the previous day seated around a fire in the evening; she had spoken with him a little then but had almost forgotten him due to his prolonged silence. His father was a cruel Jarl who had killed Uhtred's adopted father and had whelped him as a bastard on a Saxon woman. Sihtric had not indicated what his faith was to her but had told her of his Christian wife, who waited in Winchester.

“They grow on you.” Sihtric put in. “And Uhtred’ll not ask for your conversion.”

“That is a relief,” Tove said.

The rest of the day was spent in companionable silence or idle chatter. Though Tove was not always entirely able to keep up with the conversation. She spent most of her time just listening; occasionally, Sihtric would translate things for her which was kind of him. Tove could not decide what she really felt about the group; they were sort of a band of misfits, it seemed -monk, an Irishman, a half Dane, a priest, and a Saxon born Dane as their Lord. And all of them serving the will of a Christian King in Wessex. Well, she supposed she was one of them now and would be doing his will now by proxy of the Lord Uhtred. She gave a sigh at the thought. There would be no swift return home with riches nor tales of adventure in her future. How quickly things can change.

When evening came, and they made camp along a stream. There were no tents, but they made a campfire which Tove aided in the building of. As was becoming a trend, they were all quite accomodating with her willingly sharing their rations, and someone fetched a spare bedroll for her. Overall, despite her reserved judgment on them, they seemed to wholly have adopted her into their ranks without much question. They trusted their Lord’s judgment unwaveringly.

With the fire crackling and the stars above, Tove thought she ought to have been able to fall asleep quickly, but it did not come. Eventually, she gave up on attempting to sleep. Hauling herself from her bedroll, Tove moved silently to take a seat on a log that had been dragged in front of the fire for a seat. Blankly she gazed into the fire, ignoring the figure seated across from her; setting a watch had made Tove scoff in amusement. To think her countrymen stupid enough to launch an attack after such a recent defeat? Inane.

Night sounds made nice background noise for a time as Tove fidgeted idly with dirt under her nails, but it was interrupted by a sigh that came from the figure across the fire. Sihtric was partially visible through the flicker of the flames. He had just given a great stretch and let the aforementioned sigh at its completion. When she looked up, Tove met his eyes.

“Trouble sleeping?” He asked in English.

Tove gave a short nod in response but said nothing. She wondered why he didn’t speak to her in Danish. When the others were around, English was the logical choice, but it was only the two of them.

“No one will come,” Tove stated in Danish when Sihtric did nothing to continue the conversation.

“Better not to chance it, though, wouldn’t you think?” He replied still in English, causing Tove to sigh.

“I suppose,” Tove conceded, though she still very much doubted there was anything to watch for.

“How are your injuries?” Shitric asked.

Touching her side lightly, Tove gave a slight grimace. There was a mild cut to her left shoulder where a blade had glanced off her, some scrapes on her face from being tossed to the ground, but the worst of it was the bruising on the left side of her rib cage. Everything had been so disorganized after the fire in the fort. At the surprising sight of the Saxon army, they hadn’t even been able to form up a cohesive shield wall in time to confront them. Much of the fighting had been chaos, and in an effort to protect her Lord from Finan's killing blow, Tove had launched herself towards them taking the Irishman's shield to her left side. The healer who'd examined her had only been confident the bones were not broken and said it would challenging to decern whether the ribs were simply bruised or possibly cracked.

Taking her hand away, Tove said, “I will live. I have had worse in the past. A shieldmaiden must be able to bear the same pains as a man.”

Sihtric gave a dubious nod. “Perhaps my wife will be able to give you a salve for it when we reach Winchester. Beocca's wife, Thyra, has been teaching her some healing.”

“I would be grateful,” said Tove.

They lapsed into silence again, listening to the crackling of the fire and sounds of the night around them.

“Have you any family?” Sihtric asked in Danish this time.

Somewhat taken off guard, Tove still smiled at the question.

“I do. A brother and two sisters,” she said airily as she thought of them. “Kåre, my twin, is an oaf of a man, though his wife Inga is sweet and too good for him; they adore each other. She was with child when I left. It may even be born by now. There are also my two young sisters Astrid and Sigrid…neither of which have a taste for battle. They are too gentle for this world. Though Sigrid’s head is full of hot air.”

Sihtric smiled at her descriptions.

“And Kåre stayed to see his child come into the world?” he asked.

“He did. Inga told him he need not if he wished to join me, but perhaps it is best that he did,” Tove replied.

Sihtric hummed absently in reply, his eyes on something behind her. “Perhaps.”

A sudden presence beside her caused Tove to jump a little. Finan had all but appeared out of the darkness to take the seat next to her. His steps so soundless she hardly could have heard him had she been paying attention, even in the stillness.

“Evenin’ kiddies!” Finan said merrily.

Tove looked at him, stunned.

“He does that,” said Sihtric inclining his head in Finan’s direction. Though, he was smirking at Tove’s shock.

“Oi, don’t ya be tellin secrets, Shitric,” Finan chortled, plopping down.

“It is a secret that you smell worse than a dwarf’s backside?” Sihtric responded, switching back to English without missing a beat.

“Ah, but did ya know that Sihtric had to wash himself -what was it five times? - before his wife would take him to bed on the night they wed?” Finan half-whispered conspiratorily to Tove.

Sihtric chucked a stale scrap of bread across the fire at Finan’s head, which he dodged easily with a wicked smirk on his lips.

“And even then, poor Ealhswith was overcome by yer stench was she not!”

“What of the whores in Winchester? They’ll not even see you fo-“ Sihtirc was cut off by Finan.

“Because they are far too heartbroken when I leave.”

By then, Tove was laughing lightly at their banter and the sense of familiarity it filled her with. It was not at all different than the usual talk of her former comrades. Men were the same everywhere she supposed and that fact made her smile. Sihtric simply gave a dramatic huff and rolled his eyes. He muttered a curse in Danish so low that neither of them could hear the words correctly.

“Yes, of course, it is,” Sihtric said in English with a slight shake of his head before turning to Tove. “Sorry, my friend, I must leave you with this imp as I am in much need of sleep.”

She waved him goodnight before he disappeared out of sight. Still chuckling, Finan slung an arm around Tove’s shoulder. Turning to him, she arched an eyebrow.

“I was not aware t’was an imp that spared my life upon the battlefield,” she teased.

“Nah, don’ listen to that fool,” Finan laughed. “He is only sore for not having gotten his beauty rest.”

Tove snorted.

[rusty-guitar-strings]

Sleep Schedule

or This Fic Switches from Fluff to Angst so Fast it Gave Me Whiplash and I’m the One Who Wrote It (Not Sponsored by Starbucks)

Summary: Someone can’t sleep. Two someones, actually, and neither of them want to do anything about it. They do want the other person to sleep though. How could this possibly be solved?

or

Logan has work to do. Remy has no work to do, but is staying up anyway, for some reason Logan can’t comprehend. Remy is hiding something. Logan intends to find out what.

Rating: G or T

Pairings: Losleep/Sleep Schedule (goin’ full RWBY on these ship names)

Word Count: 2,025

Warnings: cursing, playful arguing, two very slight sexual innuendos, use of an undesired name (not deadnaming but similar), crying, one mention of religion

Note: This was written on request/suggestion from @blinksinbewilderment. My first kind-of sort-of request. I do take them!! Anyway enjoy. Also I love Remy. (If you can find the nod to blink I crammed in there, you win a hat)

All-nighters were better when they weren’t ‘all-alone-nighters’ as Remy liked to call them. Luckily, Logan wasn’t currently dealing with loneliness. No, it was quite the opposite.

“Oi, Squid-nerd, check it.” Logan’s very important financing for props of an upcoming video was suddenly blocked by the Sleep aspect’s phone, which contained a meme of some sort. He squinted wearily and adjusted his glasses, leaning in to get a closer look. It appeared to be Winnie the Pooh (what was a ‘pooh’ anyway?) effectively mimicking Logan’s current expression. The top mentioned something about someone’s mom looking at memes, and it was all he could do not to sputter.

“That is not nearly as amusing as you seem to find it, Remigius, and it doesn’t- it’s not even accurate, I can’t- I’m not your mother, that’s impossible- stop laughing-“

Remy was rolling on the floor now, knees to his chest, absolutely weeping with laughter. He got far too giggly when he was sleep deprived, in addition to the sass, and it was as frustrating as it was endearing. “I can’t believe that worked! Girl, you are too much!” He shrieked and wiped his face, chest seizing with giggles.

“How do you expect anyone else to be asleep with all this pandemonium?” Logan couldn’t quite hide all the fondness from his voice. “Aren’t you supposed to be monitoring Thomas’ dream activity, anyhow?”

“Boring business,” the diva wheezed, waving Logan off dismissively. “Same old stuff, weird self-inserts he won’t even remember when he wakes up.”

“Remigi-“

“Remy.”

“Yes, fine, Remy. Your job is important, you should be taking every aspect of it seriously.” Logan lifted an eyebrow at him, managing to pull a serious enough expression for how late at night it was.

The figment in question was sitting up in the blink of an eye, grinning smugly. His shades obscured his eyes for the moment, but Logan knew they were gleaming with mischief.

“Ha. You said ‘Spec.’”

“Really? That’s what you went with?”

“The best jokes are unanticipated and take time to understand,” he stated matter-of-factly, in an infuriatingly accurate impression of Logic himself.

“You shut your mouth, sir.” Logan shoved a hand in Remy’s face in a feeble attempt to get him to stop.

Instead, he took Logan’s hand and, making eye contact over his shades for a split second, pressed a gentle kiss to the back of the side’s knuckles. “Like this?” He purred, lips curling into his usual smirk.

“That’s acceptable, yes.” Logan, determined not to be deterred from his signature stoic state, took back possession of his hand and patted Remy twice on the head before returning to his laptop. He bit the inside of his lip to avoid smiling at Remy’s obvious deflation. He continued his budgeting uninterrupted for a few blissful moments.

“Hey L, I have a proper- poorpro- a propsit-“

“Proposition?”

“Yes, a that. I have one of those for you.” Remy stared up at him through his shades, now kneeling next to Logan’s swivel chair. His arms were folded on one arm rest and he had his chin on them, successfully equating him to the puppies that Roman summoned so often.

“All right, Remig- Remy, what is it?”

“Get your ass in bed and go the fuck to sleep.”

“Profanity does not make one more appealing.” Logan didn’t stop typing. “And you should also be sleeping.”

“I don’t need sleep, honey, I am Sleep.” Remy stuck his tongue out teasingly.

“Falsehoods are not a good look on you, sweetie,” Logan deadpanned. Remy fell backward with a gasp.

“Who are you and what have you done with my Logan?” He demanded. At the end of his accusatory point, the side in question tried not to preen at the (admittedly over-dramatic) reaction to his outburst.

“I am still present.”

“Good. Go to sleep.”

“Why?” Logan waited patiently for his desired statement.

“Because you need it.”

That wasn’t quite it, so he tried again. “And why is that?” He asked evenly, adding Roman’s desperately important party poppers to the budget and scrawling a sticky note reminder to warn Virgil of the prince’s plans. The last thing they needed in a lighthearted video was an attack from him. Or on him. Logan added another sticky note directing future Logan to further explore Virgil’s role as anxiety, if he was the cause or effect, or if he could be both. He almost missed what Remy said, which would have been a disaster.

“Because sleep is important, Dumbo!”

“Ah ha!” Logan whirled in his chair triumphantly, the tip of his pen pointing directly at the figment’s nose. “So we are in agreement, then.”

Remy blinked in bewilderment. “What?”

“We both agree that you-“

“Stoppin’ ya right there, babes.” He waved a hand and conjured green tea in a Starbucks cup (not sponsored), a peculiar ability of his that Logan had yet to discover the reasoning behind. “I didn’t say nothin’ like that.”

“Why are you using double negatives? That is a disgusting misuse of the English language.” Logan, a certified nerd, gave Remy the dreaded Stare of Disappointment™️. Everyone in the Mindscape trembled in their figurative boots. But they were also asleep, so… figurative dream boots. Unless they weren’t wearing boots. They trembled in their figurative dream boots-or-other-footwear. Logan almost missed what Remy was saying for the third consecutive time.

“English is already disgusting, she doesn’t need my help.” He waved a hand. “End scene. Go to bed.”

“Roman appears to be rubbing off on you.” The creative side was the one to originate the habit of saying ‘end scene’ when he wanted to drop a conversation, and lately had begun to use it more and more seriously.

“Bitch, what did I say?” He pointed sternly at the bed, sitting with his legs crossed in the floor like toddler.

Logan tilted his chin upward defiantly. “Only if you sleep with me.” He was promptly hit in the face with a pillow.

“Ew! Nasty! No ma’am! Not in my good Christian household!” A multitude of other objects were thrown at him, luckily light and mostly harmless.

“Remigius, please- Remy! Let me rephrase, I did not intend to imply that we would, ah-“ he cleared his throat. “-have intercourse. If I am going to sleep, I want you to as well. Nothing more.” Logan adjusted his glasses awkwardly.

“Oh. Well, in that case, you’ve got a deal.” Remy looked around at the mess he’d made. “This looks like a problem for future me. I’m gonna get changed, see ya in a bit, boo.” He stood, winking. “Unless you want to join me.”

“No. I can change quite well on my own, thank you.” In a split second, Logan was wearing a science pun t-shirt (courtesy of Patton) and constellation pajama pants, and was idly removing his glasses to place them on his nightstand. He smirked to himself as Remy disappeared into the closet, complaining under his breath about how unfair his powers were and the fact that he had to change by hand.

About ten minutes later, Remy was in a tank top and shorts and his sunglasses still, lying next to Logan in bed and scrolling through his phone idly while the other attempted to sleep.

“Remy,” Logan whispered after a moment, harsh and sudden enough to make the figment jump and drop his phone. “Go to sleep.”

“Not until you do, wise guy.” He immediately regained a cool composure and reached for his device carefully.

“Are you always this hard-headed?” Logan sat up.

“Darling, have you met me?” Remy quirked an infuriatingly perfect eyebrow.

“Remigius-“

“Don’t call me that!” Sleep looked as stunned as Logan felt at his own outburst, then stiffened up and focused on his screen again instead. “Please.”

“Apologies. I wasn’t aware your proper name was a… sensitive… subject.” Logan rubbed one eye, staring downward. The other didn’t look up.

“It isn’t. I just don’t like how similar it is to… his.” He tapped his phone once with odd finality. “End scene.”

“I’m sorry, Remy, truly. I just believe that things should be called what they are, but I shouldn’t have applied that to-“

“End scene, Logan,” he persisted. “Please.” His voice broke a little, startling Logic, which was a rarity.

“Of course.” He fell silent and turned back to the blankets, rewinding the events in his mind and wondering what he’d done. It was unusual to see Sleep silent, still, and just… not causing general mischief. Where was the giggly figment he’d seen less than an hour ago? “Will you at least try and rest?”

“No rest for the wicked.” Remy smirked, typing something to someone, but it lacked the usual fire. “I meant what I said earlier. After you.”

“Remy…”

“It’s no biggie, Issac No-Fun. Go ahead and nod off, I’ll be here.”

“Rem-“

“I can hold down the fort, you know. My incredible humility prevents me from sharing my immense capability.”

“Remy. Look at me?”

“‘Course, I’d never complain about getting to- woah!” He jumped slightly when Logan took a light hold of his jaw, not daring to pull away.

“You mean that literally, don’t you?” Logan swallowed, all of his late nights or totally sleepless ones crashing back with a wave of a guilt to accompany them. “You are incapable of sleeping until everyone in the mind palace is no longer awake.”

Remy shrugged and opened his mouth, as if preparing a snarky comeback. Instead, what came out was, “It’s my job.”

Logan pushed Remy’s sunglasses up into his hair carefully, revealing dark, watery eyes shadowed by sleepless nights too numerous to count. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, “that you feel the need to use caffeine to stay awake.”

“I’m so goddamn tired, Logan,” the poorly named figment whispered, head falling forward to rest against Logan’s chest. “I can’t even take naps, it’s so fucking miserable…”

Logic softened, lifting his arms after a moment to wrap them around Remy. One hand cradled the back of his head as his body trembled against Logan’s and he let out a single, shuddering sob. “I know. We are- I am going to set a more steady sleep schedule. For all of us, including you. Would that be alright?”

Sleep nodded slightly against him, sitting up enough to try and rub his face. Logan lifted a tissue. “May I?” At another nod, he wiped Remy’s eyes, then handed it to him. “Blow. I will return with some water.” He pulled away slowly, then left the room after pausing to glance back.

Upon his return, Logan found Remy still sitting up smirking a little at something on his phone. He tried not to focus on how nice the figment’s eyes looked now that he could actually see them. He offered him the glass of water instead, then slid onto the bed next to him. “Drink at least half,” he advised.

Remy nodded, downed the water according to his orders, then wiped his mouth on the back of his arm. “Thanks, L.”

“No need. Lie back.”

“Dominant, are we?”

“Remy, lie back before I push you.”

“Okay, okay, I’m doing it. No need to get your tie in a twist.” He shifted to lay on his side, eyes still a bit teary. Logan reached out a hand to wipe them away gently. The tears. Remy’s eyes remained stationary. He tugged Remy’s shades from his hair and placed them on the nightstand next to his own glasses.

“Good. Relax, I am going to sleep so that you can. Please take advantage of it.” 

“I will.”

“Good.” Logan closed his eyes, lying down as well. He scooted a bit closer to Remy to wrap an arm over him from behind, no matter how it made his skin burn with heat. No one else was around to see.

“Night, babe,” Remy whispered, and that was the last thing Logan heard until morning.

The next day, the two would share knowing glances while going about their daily tasks. Logan would present his sleep schedule, Remy would deny everything that happened the previous night, and then eventually he would confess the nature of his powers. He would receive shock and some concern, and everyone would abide to Logan’s plan. And everything would be fine.

Everything would be fine.

[beanzybrandon]

High School! PRETTYMUCH — Austin Porter

A/N: this isn’t even important i’m just overly amused by the fact that you can see my writing slowly devolve as this goes on

like, proper capitalization and punctuation who?? we don’t know her

literally, if it wasn’t for grammarly there wouldn’t even be apostrophes pFFT

• LOOK • I'm not saying Austin Dale Porter is the biggest nerd to walk this planet but that is exactly what I'm saying • Everyone and their grandmother knows that he watches more anime than any healthy individual should, but his interests delve far beyond the realm of Japanese animation • He's also extremely fond of all sorts of games • Computer gaming? Yes • Console gaming? All the better • RPG fantasy games? Ohmanohman, now we're getting excited!! • Magic and monster intensive card games that bring on more anxiety and competition than they should? Say no more!! He's right there screaming with the best of them • Given his penchant for these types of activities, he's actually one of the founders for the schools’ gaming club which includes, but is not limited to, various types of electronic gaming, card games such as Magic: The Gathering and Pokemon, and tabletop games like Dungeons and Dragons • The thing that makes him the happiest is knowing that he's able to share his interests with like-minded individuals with whom he can share educated discussions and formulate genuine relationships • It's actually kind of interesting to see how much effort he places in the club. He cares so much about everyone who has joined and does his best to make sure that he listens to all the ideas and concerns that are presented to him. He does his best to ensure that each meeting is enjoyable and that special gatherings are well-planned and running smoothly • The club is lowkey like his baby and he's very proud of how wonderful things have turned out • Though a great deal of his time is spent focused on these types of activities that is not to say that they are his only priority • He's actually an active member of several other clubs, including robotics and the book club (mayhaps he made it a point to try and coax the president into incorporating manga into some of their group readings. it didn't exactly go the way he wanted it to, but it was a valiant effort indeed) • It's in the latter of these that Austin meets you • It's not uncommon for the group to get walk-ins throughout the semester, curious students wanting to sit in on a meeting to see how things flow or to pose whatever questions they may have • More often than not, those who wander past the doors of the senior-English teacher's classroom don't make a second appearance, but you and a few of your friends had proven to be part of the exception • The initial excitement he felt upon hearing that four students had come to join them melted into mild astonishment when his gaze came to rest upon you for the first time • If love at first sight is a thing, he was certain cupid had hit him with more than one expertly aimed arrow • If it were possible for it to do so, he was sure that his heart was about to beat out of his chest • He's a bit shy so he doesn't talk to you right away • If we're being completely honest, even doing so much as sparing a glance in your direction has his face flushing a shade of red he didn't even know existed • His friends have noticed what's going on by this point (in fact, the entirety of the club seems to have put two and two together...the exceptions being you, of course) and after some not too gentle coaxing, he's shuffling over to you and your friends, hands buried in the front pocket of his paint-stained hoodie • Seeing as though the giggle your friends let out upon seeing him was something you didn't quite understand, you chose to ignore it

• "Mind if I sit with you guys?" He asked, motioning toward the vacant chair beside you • You'd merely nod in response, shifting your own seat to the right some to accommodate his frame as he slipped between the chairs and sat himself down. A relieved smile would break out across his lips the moment the seat of his jeans met the rough plastic of the chair • "I'm Austin," he'd continue, offering his hand to everyone in the rough circle that had been formed. He seemed nice enough, and it wasn't long before all of you were chatting like you had known each other for years. Conversation flowed easily amongst everyone, and you found that you quite liked the adorably-awkward young man on your left • Time passed rather quickly, and before you could present the argument you had as to why Jonathan Joestar was the best JoJo in the JoJo's Bizarre Adventure universe (how ya'll ended up on the topic on anime is beyooooond me. It's totally not like it's some sort of mutual interest) the groups coordinator was standing, calling out that it was time for things to come to a close • "This discussion is far from over," you'd quip as you shoved your things back into your backpack, slinging it over your shoulder as it stood • "You're right," He'd answer, an amused lull clinging to his words. After a moment of two of silent deliberation, he'd hit you with a "You should give me your number. I've still gotta crush your argument and I don't think I can wait a week to do that." • And did you? • The only correct answer is yes • A cute boy with mutual interests and a great personality?? You'd be dumb not to

• The smile he offered you after tucking his phone back into the pocket was so sweet you could practically taste the honey on your tongue • You weren't really expecting him to reach out to you later that night, but he did, and sure enough, the argument the two of you had found yourselves in the midsts of earlier that afternoon kicked up, stronger than ever • The capabilities of fictional characters weren't the only thing you found yourselves discussing, though.   • As the night drew on, it became clear to see that you guys had more in common than you had anticipated • And goodness was he full of jokes • The better part of about five hours was spent wheezing into your pillow in a feeble attempt to keep from waking your family • You were insanely tired come the next morning, but that was okay with you • Because you made a new friend and couldn't remember the last time you had had so much fun just texting someone

• The progression of your relationship was a quick one. In a matter of months, the two of you had become the best of friends and were doing quite literally everything together. You were prettymuch (HAH) attached at the hip • By the time the year had come to a close, Austin was certain the feelings he held for you ran deeper than the fleeting crushes he had experienced thus far, and you were growing to realize that you liked him more than you let on • Had either of you mentioned this, though? • Of course not • Because high school is weird and what are emotions and literally how do you convey these things to other people without coming off weird or them looking at you like you ate their first born child • It's never really that intense, but that's what it fEELS LIKE and neither of you wanted to subject yourself to that type of humiliation • Or ruin the relationship that you had built

• the fact that your relationship had gone from being platonic to romantic at all was surprising • but not undesirable in the slightest • it had happened rather spontaneously. he had come over for your weekly movie-marathon, a bag of snacks in hand and a warm smile on his face • the night had followed the same pattern of those that had come before them, but the air that had fallen over the two of you as you huddled together on the couch was different • neither of you could quite describe what it felt like, just that it was odd and left you with a dry throat and a small knot in the pit of your stomach

• every so often, Austin would shift a bit closer, muttering something about being cold and you hogging all the blankets • which very well may have been true but?? You had laid claim to it first • After enough pestering, you'd let out an exasperated huff and throw your arm up, holding the blanket open • "Hurry up and get under it before I change my mind and let you freeze" • He wouldn't need to be told a second time

• honestly, he's not even watching the movie • he's pitching little glances in your direction every so often, gaze softening when it falls across your features • oh man • thisismorethanacrush.jpg • he's not exactly subtle about his staring, so it isn't long before you've caught him • uhoh.exe

• "why are you staring? is there something on my face?" • uHOH.EXE • ABORT MISSION • poor boy is broken though, he doesn't even know how to answer • "seriously, is there snot hanging out of my nose or something?" you'd ask, wiping fervently at your face with the sleeve of his your hoodie • nope, just beauty • but he doesn't say this • because his brain is BROKEN and all that's inside of his head right now is a pile of GOO • so what does he do instead? • the only thing any logical teenage boy would do, of course • he kisses you • and maybe it's his first kiss so it's rushed and unsure but it's a kiss all the same • and maybe, just maybe you kiss back • and then maybe dating doesn't seem like it would be so bad after all

• boyfriend Austin is honestly the softest thing in the world?? • like, being in love with someone is already a phenomenal feeling but sharing that type of relationship with your best friend is immensely better because you've already established a strong bond and you know each other better than anyone else • that doesn't mean he doesn't still love to learn more, though • if you thought he was interested in your hobbies before, you should see him now • he does his absolute best to learn about the things that intrigue you that way you're able to do more together •  has asked you to teach him how to do some of your favorite things on more than one occasion • it doesn't always turn out (you tried to show him how to bake a cake once and he had flour in his hair for at least three days afterward) great but he's making a genuine effort and the look that fills his eyes when he's working with you is easily the sweetest thing in the world • you being happy makes him happier than he knew possible • he loves showing you his favorite things, too!! • taught you how to skate, likes to paint and game with you whenever time allows

• 110% okay with you stealing his clothing • if we're being honest, he kind of encourages it?? his hoodies practically swallow you and he thinks it's the cutest thing in the world • he's also very fond of skinship • like, it doesn't matter what it is, he just wants to touch you. he loves how perfectly your hand fits in his, the warmth that rolls off of your body when you cuddle up to him, the way your lips feels against his

• spEAKING OF KISSES • they're this boys' biggest weakness?? • like, give him kisses and he will instantly become a pile of goo • he's especially fond of the sweet little kiss you press to the corner of his lips, or the ones he gets on his forehead and the tip of his nose when he has his head resting in your lap • he has no issue with pda whatsoever • he's not one of those dudes that try to shove his tongue down your throat in the middle of the hallway or anything like that, but he does like to show people that you're his • it's not even a possessive thing, he's just really happy to have you • his entire mentality is literally "lOOk aT mY pArtNer!" • "aRenT tHey So DOpE?!" • "iM DatIng LItErALLy The MosT aMaZInG PeRsOn In thE wOrlD!!" • kisses between classes • kisses after school • soft lil kisses just because • walks you to all your classes • carries your books despite you telling him it's cheesy and unnecessary • "it's cheesy but you love it" • you do love it, you can't even argue

• absolutely head over heels for you • and you for him • the likelihood of the relationship lasting until graduation is very high, and it's almost guaranteed you'll be together well into your young adult years • in short, you're the sweetest of high school sweethearts

[thelastmemeera]

Stop Freaking Out About Gödel: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Incompleteness Theorems

So when I was in college, I noticed something a bit concerning: a rather large portion of people involved in hard sciences were totally unfamiliar with even basic philosophy of science. For example, when I talked to other science majors I discovered that the majority of them seemingly didn’t know the difference between a theory and a law. The most frequent definition I got was that theories are still somewhat uncertain, whereas laws have been proven to be true and are more or less never wrong. This is incorrect – first of all, a scientific law can absolutely be wrong. Throughout history, even well-established scientific laws often end up being modified or thrown out entirely as new evidence comes to light. For instance, it turns out Newton’s Laws of Motion are only accurate for large objects moving slowly; things that are extremely small or moving close to the speed of light behave by entirely different rules. The actual difference between a theory and a law is that a law has to be a concise description of how something in nature behaves that can usually be stated in full in one or two sentences, or more ideally an equation. For example, the Second Law of Thermodynamics states that the entropy of an isolated system never decreases, or simply ∆S≥0. A theory, on the other hand, is an interconnected collection of ideas that attempts to explain a natural phenomenon or range of phenomena, and will make multiple falsifiable predictions. It’s possible for a scientist to devote their entire lives to improving humanity’s understanding of a single scientific theory – biology’s theory of evolution is a good example.

Now at this point you might be saying “So what? You’re just nitpicking at semantics.” I would argue that misunderstanding the theory/law distinction betrays a more fundamental lack of grasp on the scientific method. Once we start conceptualizing certain ideas, even implicitly, as infallible or otherwise not worth questioning anymore, we start veering away from the realm of science and into the realm of dogma. I have a strong suspicion that a lot of the weird STEM elitism that’s so prevalent these days is a result of widespread illiteracy as to what science itself is at a basic level – otherwise it would become obvious how ultimately inseparable hard science is from soft science, from philosophy, from art. I could go on about this for ten more pages but this isn’t really the topic I want to talk about right now. My essential point is that it’s very easy for people who are otherwise highly intelligent and highly competent in their field to lack proper understanding of its underlying philosophy.

The reason I bring this up is because I am about to argue that almost everyone is interpreting Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorems wildly inaccurately. More specifically, I’m aiming to demonstrate that the idea that a mathematical conjecture can be “true but unprovable” is tautologically false. This is a misconception that stems from confusion over what constitutes mathematical truth – which is actually a philosophy problem, not a math problem. If you want to be able to say anything at all about truth or falsehood in this context, first you’re going to need a coherent and precise definition for mathematics itself.

Let’s start by trying to answer a narrower question: what are numbers? In what manner can numbers be said to exist? Can you look at a number? Can you touch a number? I can draw the numeral “4” on a sheet of paper, but that’s not really the number four, it’s just an arbitrary symbol we chose to represent it. If tomorrow everyone decided that we were going to switch the numerals for four and five (such that “5” now means four and vice versa), nothing about how math works would change, it would just look slightly different on paper. So then a number definitely isn’t a physical object like a proton or a chair or a planet. Now at this point you could argue that perhaps numbers are a property that things in the real world can have – for example, if an H+ ion has a positive electric charge, most people would agree that its charge is something that that exists in the physical world despite the fact that it can’t exist independently from the ion. Analogously, you can count a group of apples and always get the same results; if there are four apples then there are four apples. You can even use arithmetic to make accurate predictions about how many apples there will be if you add more, remove some, or divide them into groups. So you could claim: therefore, numbers must be real i.e. they must somehow exist in the universe independent of human thought.

However, this line of argument fails pretty quickly once you consider the fact that the all the rules of arithmetic change relative to how you happen to be looking at the problem. For instance, suppose you’re trying to figure out how many people you can fit in an elevator. You’re inevitably going to end up using the natural numbers – we can all reasonably agree you can’t have a fraction of a person (you could cut a human being in half, but they would cease to meaningfully be a person at this point). You decide you can cram about eight people in before running out of room, but then realize you forgot to consider the elevator’s weight capacity. If it can safely lift about two tons, then you’re also going to have to measure the combined weight of everything it’s carrying in terms of fractions of tons. Suddenly the math you have to use changes from discrete to continuous, which is a really important difference; there’s no way to have between one and two people, but you can easily measure a weight between one and two tons (say 1.5 tons), and then if you want you theorize a possible weight that’s between one and the weight you just measured (say 1.25 tons), and so on and so on indefinitely. This is all fairly straightforward, but it presents a significant problem if you want to contend that these numbers exist independently of human cognition. Which set of rules is correct? If numbers objectively exist then it logically must follow that any given number either can be divided into arbitrarily smaller parts, or cannot be. Do negative numbers really exist? As far as we’re aware it’s impossible for an object to have negative mass, and you certainly can’t have a negative number of people. Do complex numbers exist?

Another problem: the number we get when we determine the mass of a given object will be different depending on what units of measure we’re using. If we switch from using kilograms to pound-masses, none of the physical properties of the object have changed, but we’re now measuring completely different numbers. This is because mass is an objective physical property, but numbers are simply a system we’ve come up with to help us describe this. An object inherently has mass, but does not inherently have two-ness or four-ness or the like. Mathematics, then, is not an objective reality but merely a human invention we sometimes use to describe objective reality, somewhat conceptually akin to a natural language like English or Mandarin. Once we grasp this, it becomes possible to define math in a precise and consistent matter (and hence mathematical truth). All mathematical systems can be ultimately be characterized in terms of sets of symbols, axioms, and rules of inference. Mathematics, therefore, is simply the study of axiomatic systems.

In this context, Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorems are less “existential crisis inducing mind-screw” and more “fairly intuitive idea that perhaps should have been obvious in retrospect.” The second incompleteness theorem can be approximately stated as: “for any consistent system F within which a certain amount of elementary arithmetic can be carried out, the consistency of F cannot be proved in F itself.” How could any system of axioms conceivably prove itself consistent? By the logical principle of explosion, we know that in any inconsistent system we can prove literally any proposition that the system can express, meaning an inconsistent system would necessarily be able to prove itself consistent according to its own rules. Therefore, it would be impossible for us to distinguish a hypothetical consistent math system that could somehow prove its own consistency versus an inconsistent system that could prove its own consistency due to some internal contradiction we haven’t yet discovered.

The first theorem states, roughly: “Any consistent formal system F within which a certain amount of elementary arithmetic can be carried out is incomplete; i.e., there are statements of the language of F which can neither be proved nor disproved in F.” Remember, math isn’t “about” anything, it’s a series of games in which you manipulate strings of symbols according to a set of made up rules. No axiomatic system is fundamentally any more real than any other; some of these systems we study because they help us describe things in the real world, some of these systems we study because they have interesting properties, and some of them we don’t study because they’re neither useful nor interesting (such as systems that have been proven to be inconsistent), but ultimately what determines what kind of math is used or not is simple pragmatism. Thus, the only meaningful way to define mathematical truth is such that a statement is true within the context of a given math system if and only if it can be proven with the axioms provided by said system. The idea that a proposition could be “true but unprovable” is equivalent to saying that a statement simultaneously both can be proven and cannot be proven. A mathematical theorem is just a string of symbols; if you can produce this string within a given formal system then it is true, if you can produce its negation then it is false, and if you can neither produce the string nor its negation then it is undecidable i.e. independent of the axiomatic system you’re currently using. The first incompleteness theorem demonstrates that all relevant formal mathematical systems will necessarily contain such undecidable statements, but we should no more be upset about this than we should be upset about the fact that there are possible positions on a chess board that can’t be arrived at through normal play. If the math system you’re using doesn’t end up having the properties you want it to have, then the solution is to make up a system that does have those properties (side note: this is why everyone should just accept the Generalized Continuum Hypothesis as an axiom and get on with our lives instead of being obnoxious about it). The idea of “completeness” was always impossible and never really meant anything – it’s time to stop mourning Gödel and embrace mathematics for what it really is.

[cescalr]

ME would like to suggest some fluffy willoughby/don

Don had invited Will over for Christmas.

Their year at Whitewater College, a boarding school purely for sixth-form students, had been fine. so much as any year after what happened at Slaughter could be fine. And it was fine because Clemise was in some other country, and Don had taken a few months, but he did get over their break-up. And it was fine because Don felt somewhat - he wouldn’t say traumatised by the events of that night, but… he wouldn’t say he didn’t feel in some way terrible about them, even now, if he reminisced too long on what happened.

But. That’s that, really. Don doesn’t dwell too much. You just got’t’deal with this sort’ve thing, y’know? Deal, and move forward.

Anyway. It’s Christmas. There’s no point bringing down the holiday cheer by thinking on that.

[Fic continued under break, or you can read it on Ao3; my profile is linked on my blog!! I’d put it here but tumblr is stupid and external links break tags.]

Don looked over from his place lying down to where Will was, still fast asleep on the mattress they’d set out for him. It was early morning, still – the light coming through the blinds in lines, brightening up parts of the room and, unfortunately, shining straight into Don’s eyes.

“Fuck,” Don muttered to himself, as he sat up in order to get away from the too-bright sunlight. “Too early. Shit.”

Well. Not that early; the sun didn’t rise until it was actually morning in winter, unlike the bullshit you got during summer – but still. Regardless, Don hadn’t been quiet enough, it seemed, because Will stirred.

After he blinked away sleep, Will seemed to register what day it was.

“Merry Christmas, Ducky,” He said, as he sat up. Don had tried to get him to use the proper bed and let Don sleep on the mattress instead, but Will had refused.

Truthfully, he wasn’t so bothered about that. It meant no springs digging into his back while he tried to sleep, after all.

“Merry Chris’mas,” Don replied, “Or, It would be, if y’d stop callin’ me Ducky.”

“We’ve had this argument for over a year, Ducky.” Will smiled. “You’re too late, it’s stuck.”

Don grumbled lightly and without heat as he scooted to the end of the bed then stood (so he didn’t end up standing on Will – Don’s bedroom isn’t very big), stretched and moved out of the room.

Once he was back from the bathroom, Will was dressed.

“Y’ever ‘eard of a ‘lazy day’?” Don asked, dryly. “Y’know… what Chris’mas is t’mos’ people?”

“I have,” Will said, plainly.

“Alrigh’ then,” Don rolled his eyes. “C’mon. Breakfast.”

They were home for Christmas, of course, but that didn’t mean the teens at Whitewater didn’t throw a week-long event – mostly drinking and partying in the art department’s basement, thrown by the drama club, because of course – in preparation.

“Donnie!” A girl, rather drunk, called out. “Blakey, Donnie! Over here!”

“Lauren,” Don replied. Will greeted in kind, and the two made their way through the crowd to the girl and the rest of the group.

“Neither of you are drunk yet, and it’s five somewhere!” She exclaimed, shoving two plastic cups of some alcoholic beverage into their hands. “Also, Danny got his sister to cough up the you-know-what, so we’ve got some brownies if you want any!”

“They only just arrived, Lauren, stop trying to get our friends addicted to pot,” Sam said, sighing, as he rolled his eyes. He was sat on a free stool, a book in one hand, and a water bottle gripped tightly and protectively in the other.

“Chill, Sam,” Lauren said, loud enough to be heard over the pounding of whatever EDM mess the ‘DJ’ had decided to play.

“I’ll chill when you stop trying to spike my drink, bestie,” Sam said, dryly.

“You know I love you!” Lauren sing-songed, then grinned. “Oh, my girl’s over there – Sammy, dear, show these lot where the food an’ shit is, yeah?” And with that, she was off – Don lost her in the crowd mere seconds after she’d entered it.

Sam rolled his eyes. “C’mon then,” Sam said, standing. “Food’s on the other side.”

As they walked, Don spotted various different people he’d met over his first year at Whitewater. There was Alex, Lillian, Sabrina, Derek – to name a few.

(Of course, there was Jesse, Zak, Michael – but… well, they didn’t really count as much. Though, Zak was talking with Alex; his cousin. Maybe he’d end up a better person in the new year? Only time would tell, Don supposed.)

“Y’ gotta have fun!” Lillian said, grinning. Sabrina slung her arms around their shoulders. “An’ us homosexuals have to stick together,” She added, swinging them around to face the drinks table instead of the buffet. “meaning - I need some money; buy my wares.”

“I recommend the ecstasy,” Lillian chimed in.

“You would,” Will said, smiling, as he carefully extracted himself from Sabrina’s grip. Don stepped away, and walked over to the table. “Five o’clock somewhere,” He said, shrugging.

“Right on,” Derek grinned, appearing out of nowhere. “I heard drugs.”

“Wanker,” Sabrina rolled her eyes. “I thought you were off with your mates?”

“And miss my main friendos?” He laughed, loudly. “No-way, broseph! I’m tryin’ t’ be a bit more sportsmanly, y’know? More of a team player.”

“They’re not gonna let you on the lacrosse team, Derek,” Lillian said, “Not after last time.”

Derek shrugged. “I can try,” He said, solemnly, and then was gone again.

“Jesus Christ,” Sabrina muttered, rubbing at her forehead. “Anyone else get a headache from his sheer presence?”

“I’m still trying to figure out his species,” Sam said. “I’ve figured Alien, but what kind…” He mused.

“Doesn’t matter,” Lillian dismissed. “Drink! Food! Illicit substances to fuel our various addictions, be they basic-bitch or hardcore asshat! Let’s go!”

Don rolled his eyes, and downed his drink.

And that had been the main theme of it.

So. Don had been home for a fair few days, now; Whitewater let you home for the week before, of, and after Christmas, and Don had made the most of it. It’d been a real long time since he’d seen what few mates he’d had back home – what with Slaughterhouse and then joining Whitewater after being cooped up at home for his mandated week-long ‘recovery’ period, after which he was supposedly supposed to be all better now, off you trot, and then the Christmas he’d spent at home with his mum as the actual ‘recovery’ period, according to her, and then another whole few months before summer, but then his mates had been out of the country, so then it was another couple months until now but - whatever. He’d hung out with what mates he had left, that first week, meaning Josh and Terri and James – Josh’s girlfriend and brother respectively. They played video games and smoked in the empty park and pretty much did exactly the same sort of shit they’d been doing when his mum had been wholly convinced that he was ‘depressed’.

Then Josh and Terri and James went off to Ireland for Christmas, and – Will came to stay. For Christmas week.

And then Will got a phone call, and now he was just going to stay until college started up again, and go back to Whitewater with Don. Logically. Practically.

Don – didn’t really need to ask.

Anyway.

“Ah hope you boys are ‘ungry,” His mum said, plating them and herself a full English. “Chris’mas is the only time ah bother, so you both better enjoy it!”

“Thanks, mum,” Don said, and she smiled and squeezed his shoulder lightly as she walked past. “Thank you,” Will said.

(“Thank you for having me over, M-“ Will started.

Babs’ smile dimmed. “Babs is fine, don’t you worry yourself with formality,” She said, warmly. “Come on in, it’s freezing!”)

“Eat up,” Babs encouraged. “You’re both growing boys, and we’ve presents to open!” She smiled, conspiratorially; they’d gone out Christmas shopping with her individually, and so she knew what they’d gotten each other, and appeared to be having the time of her life with this knowledge.

Don ate his breakfast.

“So. This one of the posh twats you replaced your old mates with, then, eh Don?”

“Josh,” Don greeted. “Bit of a dickhead but the right sort.” He told Will. “Will, Josh.” Don gestured.

“Willoughby Blake,” Will said, “And not too much of a twat, I wouldn’t say. You?”

“Josh Blythe, and I ain’t no dickhead to good people, y’ prat,” Josh said, scowling a little at Don. He fished a pack of smokes out of his pocket. “Fag?”

Will smirked. “Yes;” He said, “I also, do indeed, smoke.”

“Cool,” Josh said, tossing him one. “Terri’s my girl, now, by the way.” He told Don.

“Terri… Blythe?” Don cracked a smile. “That’s a bit awkward, innit?”

“Oi, sod off,” Josh flipped him the bird, then set about lighting his own cig. “Blythe’s a plenty common name.”

“I wonder why…” Will trailed off, leaning against the low stone wall.  

“Yeah yeah,” Josh rolled his eyes. “Nothin’ James hasn’t said yet.” He scowled slightly. “Fucken’ incest jokes… made by my own goddamn brother…”

“How’s everythin’ at St. Dunstan’s anyway?” Don asked, changing the topic.

“David’s still a right prat,” Josh said, thankful for the change in track. “Ah heard George is expectin’, but she could just have the flu. Maybe she’s dyin, ah don’ fucken’ kno’. We never talk, do we? Fucken – anyway, Muhammad got into that right fancy college, so he fucked off, along with his family, and jus’ about ev’ryone else ‘as gone t’ some other sixth-form. Yanno, ‘cept me, ma brother and Terri. There are some new arseholes, but they stick to each other.”

“Dunstan’s was always a shithole anyway,” Don said.

“Damn right,” Josh stood, dropped his cigarette to the floor and put it out with the heel of his trainer. “You gotten rusty at Halo since ya fucked off t’ the posh south or what?”

“I did better than you las’ week, y’ dick’ead,” Don said, dropping off of the wall. “C’mon. Y’ever played Halo, Will?”

“It’s fucking freezing.” Will said. “Why are we walking around the town centre?”

“’Cause we got nothin’ else t’do, obviously,” Don said, stomping through the snow. “An ah wan’t’ get an idea of wha’ ah wan’t’ get for my friends, you twat.”

“Should have done this earlier on, then,” Will said, glancing around. “Most places are closed.”

“’Course they’re fuckin’ closed, it’s a Sunday,” Don said, rolling his eyes. “Doesn’ mean there ain’t shit in the windows, y’ twat.”

“Of course,” Will said, glancing around again. “What’s that?” He pointed.

“Fuckin expensive piece of shit, that’s what tha’ is,” Don said, but he walked over to the shop Will was pointing at anway. “Never been inside – ah think they’d chase me off.” He said, dryly. “Smell the fuckin working class on me or some shit, like fuckin’ bloodhounds.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ducky,” Will said.

“There’s fuckin’ diamonds on those ten-thousand pound and up watches, Willoughby, I ain’t going anywhere near that shit.”

“Come on.” Will said, “It’s the only place that’s open.”

“The fuckin’ Macdonalds is open, Willoughby – oh, for fuck’s sake, fine.”

Don walked after Will, who’d already entered the store.

Don looked around, as he caught up with his friend.

“There’s perfectly fuckin’ good watches elsewhere, Will,” Don said. “What a fuckin waste of ten grand, Christ on a bike…”

“I’ve seen better watches,” Will agreed. “But we’re looking at the ones with price tags, which is stupid. Come on. They usually put the better things near the back.”

“The ones with – Willoughby,” Don said, “What –“

“Here we are.” Will said, satisfied.

The watches did not have diamonds on them, which was preferable – but they didn’t have price tags, which was worrying.

“Why the fuck would you look at the ones without price tags?” Don asked.

“Because you can look at them.” Will said, pointing to the fact that they weren’t hidden behind what seemed like five hundred layers of glass and security measures. “And they’re not particularly garish, are they Ducky?”

“No,” Don said, warily, squinting at the watches. “Ah guess not. But this is pointless, I’m – prob’ly jus’ goin’t’ get a watch where ah got my last one, I mean, it lasted a good while.”

“It lasted a year Ducky, that’s terrible,” Will said. “Mine broke the year before last, but I’d had it for nearly nine by that point, and it broke because I broke it.”

“Fuckin’ dumbass,” Don said. “Perfectly good fuckin’ watch.”

“I am aware of that, yes.” Will frowned at the watches. “Do you like any of them?” He asked.

“Can’t fuckin’ afford any of this shit, can I?” Don asked. “Humour me,” Will said.

Don rolled his eyes and huffed, but did take a proper look at each of the watches in turn.

“That one,” Don said, pointing at a simple black-leather and silver with a white clockface and normal, black numerals and clock hands. “Most normal fuckin’ watch here.”

“Man of simple tastes,” Will smiled. Don elbowed him. “Fuck off. Not all of us are fancy posh twats – hell, I think y’d like a pocket-watch, fuckin – I know you would, you’re like that.”

“Like what?” Will asked.

“A posh, sentimental git, obviously.” Don said. “C’mon, let’s go.” He said.

“My cover’s been blown,” Will said, smiling, and Don rolled his eyes. “Fuck off,” He said, good-naturedly, grinning as they left the store.

Previous Summer:

“How are ya this fine mornin’?”

Don glanced over at Terri. “Not bad,” He said. “You’ll be off t’ Ireland tomorrow, righ’?”

“Nail on the head,” Terri said, dropping down onto the floor beside him. “Josh’s scramblin’, try’na pack all his crap. James is off, prob’ly somewhere with George.”

“Thought she had the flu,” Don said.

(George nearly always ‘had the flu’.)

“Those bitches are getting fucking married, y’know tha’,” Terri snorted. “Or haven’t ya seen the loving couple? No fuckin’ flu or baby rumours are gonna keep ‘em off each other’s backs.”

“Guess not,” Don said. “Smoke?”

“Nah.” Terri waved a hand. “Try’na quit.”

Don snorted. “Bet Josh loved that.”

“He’s a dick’ead, but you knew tha’,” She laughed. “God. Love ‘im tho’.”

“Yeah.” Don said.

“You ‘ave a girl?” Terri glanced at him.

“Did,” Don said. “Clemsie.”

“Clemsie?” Terri shook her head. “Posh fuckin’ princess?”

“Don’t,” Don said, shortly. “She had to move country, with ‘er fam’ly. We broke up ‘cause o’ tha’.”

“Shit, Don, sorry.” Terri sighed. She clapped him on the shoulder, then leaned over to look him in the eye. “Still. Better to be friends than to lose everythin’ over a long-distance piece of shit relationship, righ’?”

Don thought of Meredith and Audrey, and winced.

“Definitely,” He said. “We video call. It’s – not that… we didn’ get t’be together very long. Tha’elps, ah guess.”

“Helps a lot.” Terri shook her head, then flopped back against the wall. “’Elps a fucking lot.”

“Yeah,” Don said.

“Y’make any friends at those posh schools o’ yours?” Terri asked. “Other than that Clemsie chick?”

“Kay, Will.” Don said. “Lauren, Sam, Sabrina, Lillian, Derek, Daniel-“

“See, fuckin’ knew you’d thrive there,” She said, shoving him in the shoulder and grinning. “Always though’ y’ deserved better than fuckin St Dunstan’s.”

“So do you lot,” Don protested. “It’s a shithole, nobody deserves that.”

“Victims of fuckin’ circumstance, the lot of us,” She said, slumping back. “But I mean it.” She turned her head and looked at him. “Y’ the best o’ all o’ us, y’ prat. Accept it. Well. I mean, Muhammad’s a medical fuckin’ genius, but that’s a whole different ballpark and he’s a hopeless twat mostly, so I don’t count him If I did, he’d be the best no question – but yanno. I’m comfortin’ you, ‘ere.”

“Thanks,” Don said, dryly.

“No problem.” She grinned, and shoved him lightly in the shoulder again. “C’mon. Dad recently fixed up an old foosball table o’ his fam’ly’s, an’ I wan’na see if you’re any better than Josh or his bro,” She clapped him on the shoulder. “An’ maybe you can tell me all ‘bout your new friends, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Don said. “Sure.”

“Terri?” Don asked.

“Yeah? Oh, Don,” She unlatched the door and opened it. “Come inside, it’s fucking cold. God, I hate winter,” She slammed the door shut behind him.

“Do you know anywhere I could get a pocket watch?” Don asked.

“At an affordable price? Yes, of course, never doubt me,” She spun on her heel. “Or, rather, never doubt my dad. Dad!” She yelled.

“Wha’?” A voice boomed back.

“Y’know where we could find a custom watchmaker’s that ain’t damn expensive?”

“Yeah. I’ll drive yeh. Say ‘hello’ t’ Don for meh!”

“How the fuck does he know?” Don shook his head.

“The man has magic, I swear to god. It fuckin’ annoys me I got mum’s genes in that matter.” Terri grumbled, and walked into the living room. She dropped onto the couch, and Don followed suit.

“Is this for that boy o’ yours?” Terri asked, grinning lazily as she leaned back on the couch.

“He’s – why d’y’ have t’put it like tha’?” Don leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.

“’Cause I like to make people question things,” She said, “Obviously.” Terri stood and moved into the kitchen, then returned with two cokes. “Here,” She tossed him a can. “It’s shit but mum’s addicted me to it, damn the woman.”

Terri dropped onto the beanbag. “Here’s to a very fuckin’ Merry Christmas, y’ prat,” She grinned as she lifted the can in imitation of a toast.

“Hear hear,” Don opened the drink and returned the toast.

“Dad’ll be done in a few minutes,” Terri said, “But – in all seriousness, is this your prezzie for Willoughby or what?”

“Yeah,” Don said. “Fuckin’ git’s as fancy and sentimental as it gets, so…”

“Y’ sentimental y’self, ya prat,” She said, fondly. “Which is why we’re goin’ the whole nine fuckin’ yards, ‘cause a custom one’s a better fuckin’ gift than any stock shit. Better quality, usually, too, ‘cause the maker actually cares about the fuckin' end product.”

“I’m not fuckin’ sentimental, much,” Don said.

“No, y’ just sappy, y’ fuckin prat,” Terri sunk down into the beanbag chair. “Don’ lie to me, Don, I’ve known ya for nearly our whole lives, mate. And I’m older, so I win.”

“If I’m sappy y’re twelve,” Don put the coke can down on the floor, unfinished.

“And proud of it,” She grinned at him. “Only way I can win arguments, I ain’t no good with words.”

“How’d you do in English?” Don asked.

Terri pursed her lips and sighed. “Fuckin failed it, didn’t ah?” She glowered at nothing. “Good fuckin’ thing I can drop out ah sixth form and jus’ go for a level four apprenticeship, huh? Or was it three…” She trailed off, frowning as she thought.

“Eh, whatever.” She chucked her empty coke can into the bin. “Score,” She grinned. “Anway,” Terri turned her attention back to Don. “You’re a total sap, I’ve got evidence. Point is, I’m strong-arming you to go the whole nine-fuckin’ yards, because even tho’ I can trust you to do it on yer own, without me you’ll totally get scammed out o’ your money.”

“Terri,” Don said, flatly.

“What? Who out’a the two of us knows trade, huh? Not you, y’git.” She grinned. “Also I wanna know exactly what inscription y’ put on the fuckin’ thing.”

“Fuck off,” Don said, leaning back onto the couch. “Thanks.”

“Mixed messages, there, oh Donald,” Terri grinned, and dodged the cushion he threw at her. She picked it up and put it under her head, her grin turning self-satisfied. “I always win,” She reminded him.

“No you don’t,” Don said. “Remember the trip to Wales, in year eight?”

“We never talk about the trip to Wales in year eight,” Terri said, automatically. “That’s the first rule of our friendship. Right above ‘we don’t talk about Alex Connors.’”

“Noted,” Don said, sitting up. “Which is above ‘there was never a Chase Johnson’.”

“See, he gets it,” Terri grinned at Don. “We keep each others' dirty little secrets, we get along.”

“Blackmail is the only reason we’re friends,” Don said, dryly.

“And don’t you forget it!” She grinned, laughing, and fell backwards onto the beanbag.

“You two. Got t’ get goin’ now.” Her dad said, suddenly appearing at the doorway. How the six-foot-five craftsman managed this had always been and always would remain a mystery.

Don’s started to believe the story that he killed a strange looking wasp that had holed up alone in it’s hive in the attic of a customer’s house and that’s what gave him his strange abilities a lot more since the events at Slaughterhouse.

After all – Meredith’s not dead, and neither is the dog. The dog which looks exactly like the one in the paintings… of a dog that had lived hundreds of years prior.

“We’re ready, come on,” Terri said, standing, and Don followed the two Blythes out of the house.

“Ah, Terri Blythe, it’s been a long time.”

“Heyo, Uncle Terrance,” Terri said, stepping up to the counter. “Ma friend ‘ere – Don, y’ remember? – needs to get a prezzie for his boy.”

“Terri,” Don said, sighing.

“What?” She looked at him. “Fuck off, you idiot. Ah’ve squinted at your act for a week, bitch, I know exactly how you feel about him. Or do we need to talk about Alex?”

“Fuck off,” Don said. “Hullo, Mr. Connolly.”

“Donald Wallace,” The man said, surprised, as he removed his glasses to quickly clean them, then replaced them on his face, mostly all the way down his nose, in order to squint at Don as if he wasn’t sure Don was actually what he was seeing. “My my, it’s been – how long?”

“’Bout a decade, Uncle Terry,” Terri said.

“Indeed.” The man replaced his lens cleaning cloth back into his pocket, like some old-timey handkerchief. “So what brings you both here?”

“Like ah said,” Terri stated, slowly, “He needs to get a present for his friend for Christmas.”

“My dear boy, it’s only four days away!” The elderly man said, agitated, as he went about retrieving various designs and sheets for pricings. “I can make it in that time, of course, and as always you will get the family discount – but you’ve left yourself very little time to plan!”

“Ah only came up with the idea yesterday.” Don winced.

“That’s even worse!” The man came to a stop, the desk that served as the counter piled high with various pieces of paper. “You’ll need to make the decision today, but you can ask for the inscription upon completion, thank the lord above,” The man narrowed his eyes at Don. “And next time, son, figure things out before the deadline!”

“Righ’,” Don said. “Will do.”

“Good.” The man sighed, relieved. “Now. Take a look,” He gestured to the pile, “And tell me which parts of which designs suit best. And remember – family and Christmas discount, so don’t say no for no good reason.”

Don nodded, somewhat awkwardly, as he started rifling through the papers. Terri wandered off, to browse through the clocks, which included watches - pocket and otherwise – lining the walls and displayed, lovingly, across tables.

“Eight years old,” The elderly man shook his head as he muttered. “And now – you’ll be graduating soon, I imagine?”

“There was an incident,” Don said, “At the firs’ sixth-form ah went t’. After tha’, we ‘ad t’ repeat lower sixth at a new place. So, uh. One more year.”

“I see,” The elderly man inspected a watch hung on the wall and frowned, then set about buffing out an invisible scuff mark. “Where did you go?”

“Slaughterhouse School,” Don said, and the man froze.

“In Slaughter,” The man – stated. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah.” Don said. “The School –“

“Blew up, yes, I heard.” The elderly man pursed his lips. “A right shamble. Still, at least you got out safely.” The man turned away from the watch on the wall, then cleaned his glasses – avoided eye contact. “… What really happened?”

Don looked blankly at him.

“I may be old, Donald, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know things.” Terrance squinted at him, then put his glasses back on. “Fracking doesn’t usually cause that sort of damage.”

“Well,” Don said. “They weren’ very –“

“Responsible Frackers, I know,” The man’s nostrils flared. “They give it a bad name, that company. No, what I mean is – stories spread. Legends… an old clockmaker hears things.” The man sighed, and looked at the pictures of his customers on the wall behind the counter.

In a few of them, there was a familiar dog.

“Big fuck off mole rats,” Don said. “We had to blow it up.”

“We?” The man’s head snapped over to Don. “How many people killed them?”

“… Dunno,” Don said. “Mr. ‘Ouseman killed one, mostly, then we beat it the rest o’ the way dead. Then – I used Will’s snuffbox to get another, an’ the lighter Will’d been bequeathed to blow up the school – usin’ the gas,” Don explained. “Clemsie killed a li’le one.”

“I see.” The man paused. “Well. I suppose we’ll see how that turns out eventually.”

“Wha’ d’y’ mean?” Don asked.

“Here.” The man said, instead, handing Don a stack of designs. “Find your friend a pocket watch. And think up an inscription, while you’re at it! Don’t leave that as last minute as you left this! I need to talk to my niece. If you’ll excuse me…” And with that, the old man had bustled him off and walked away, over to Terri who was poking a stuffed cat.

“Merlin died then?” Don heard.

“Not all pets can live forever,” The man sighed. “It’s a burden some must face alone.”

Don looked back up at the pictures.

1891

1912

1925

1956

1993

2001

2014…

Don frowned, then shrugged, and looked down at the designs.

Design 3048: Forever.

Design 246: Eternal.

Design 13: Infinite…

Don raised his eyebrows, then shrugged, and started picking out parts of the designs he thought Will might like.

Previous Summer:

“The Johnsons moved to America?”

“No Idea where they go’ the money either, mate,” James said, leaning back on the couch. Terri, from her place on a cushion on the floor, chuckled. “Inheritance, got’t’ be,” She said, as she dispatched of a few grunts. James nodded as he circle-strafed around a hunter.

“No wonder I ah’ven’ seen Mikey ‘round.” Don said.

“They didn’ tell nobody,” Terri scowled. “Fucken’ Lillian didn’ even bother tellin’ her bes’ friend, the wanker.”

“Lisa cry on your shoulder ‘bout it?” Don asked.

Terri grimaced as she picked up an energy sword, then started running around hitting elites with it. “Yes.” She said, glowering at the TV. “There was snot and everything. Fucken’ wan’ed t’ punch Lil’ for tha’.”

“Can imagine,” Don said.

“’Course y’ could, y’ sap,” James said, and Don elbowed him, which caused him to fail in circle-strafing and get shot.

“Bastard,” James said, elbowing Don back, and Terri laughed, finding an enemy-less corner so James could respawn.

 “Willoughby Blake,” Terri said. “Don kno’ yer ‘ere?”

“I have it under good authority that you’ve known him for a very long time,” Will said, “And I was wondering if you could distract him for a – short while, while I go get his Christmas present?”

“Fucken’ell, mate, what’s with posh bastards and waitin’ ‘til the las’ minute?” Terri grumbled, but she stepped inside, and left the door open. Will hesitated before following, and stayed at the door while she put on her boots. “Relax, y’ twit,” She waved a hand, before she started doing up the laces. “I don’ bite.”

“Alright,” Will said, and moved to lean against the wall.

“Da’, I’m off! Seeing the Wallaces!” Terri shouted, as she stood. Terri grabbed her coat off of the stairs, at the end of the bannister, and threw it on. “Fucken’ cold out, innit?” She said, as she walked out of the house. Will followed. “Yes,” He said. “Quite.”

“Post twat,” She said. “You be good to Don, y’ ‘ear meh?”

“I-“

“Don’ even,” Terri warned. “I ‘ate liars. Now go ge’im somethin’ fucken’ nice, and don’ le’im say ‘no’ ‘cause ya spent money on it, ya hear me?”

“Roger that.” Will said, “Ma’am.”

Terri snorted. “Ge’ the fuck out’t’ ‘ere, y’ posh bastard. An’ I expec’ somethin’ nice enough, too, for the good fucken’ advice ah give ya both, y’ blind twits.”

-

“Initiation’s simple, bitches.” Terri slammed a crate of beer onto the table. “Drink me under, an’ ah’ll respect ya fer life.”

“Y’ for real about this, Terri?” Don asked.

“Well, no, bu’ it’ll ‘elp,” Terri said. “Wha’, col’ feet already, Wallace?”

“No,” He rolled his eyes and gestured with the beer he’d already picked up. “Jus’ remember when Mikey drank you under the table?”

“Not my best momen’, bu’ I’m tryin’ t’ recover from tha’, ‘ere. Whoever ‘andles their drink bes’ wins.”

“Ah know who’s gonna fucken’ lose ‘ere, then.” Don said.

“Fuck off, Ducky,” Will said. Terri grinned.

“Fuck’s sake, Willoughby,” Don downed some of his drink.

“Don, Donald, Duck, Ducky. Ah ge’ it, tha’s cute,” Terri grinned, leaning back on her beanbag. She downed a beer, then slammed the empty can down on the floor. “Pacing’s for wimps,” She announced to the ceiling.

“If y’ say so,” Don said. “’S no’ fuckin’ cute.”

“I’m older, what I say goes, it’s cute,” Terri said. “Get me drunk enough, Blake, mate, an’ I’ll tell ya stories about ‘ow much of a sap ‘e is.”

“Fuck off,” Don said. “Or I’ll bring up Cha-“

“Two can play at tha’ game, Donald Wallace,” Terri said, interrupting, as she reached over for another can.

“I have to say, I am curious,” Will said, supressing a smile of amusement. He was onto his second can.

“Ah-ah,” Terri waved a hand at him. “Y’ get t’ know Don’s embarrassing shit, but ah jus’ met ya. Which means y’ don’ get t’ kno’ mine… problem ‘ere is if ya ‘ear Don’s from me, ‘e’ll tell ya about mine. So, yanno, that ain’ ‘appenin’.”

“Shame,” Don said, downing his drink. “Really.”

Lunchtime on Christmas Eve saw a small get-together, with the two Blythe families and the Wallaces.

“Lisa’s still fuckin’ angry at Lil’, an’ she’s over at her gran’s for the yearly fam’ly gatherin’, so she ain’ showin’ up this year. Jus’ us lot, Mrs. Wallace,” Terri said. The two families would be leaving later on, to be in Ireland for the next day. Cutting it a bit close – but then, that was the Blythes, for you. Both sets of them.

Babs smiled at the two sets of Blythes as she stood aside and let them in. “It’s Babs, Terri,” She reminded the girl, like she’d been doing for years. “Come on. Group photo – Don, grab the camera, I’ll go get Dad.”

“Mum-“ Don started, but she was already gone. He sighed, shook his head. “He’s fine where he is,” Don mumbled, but he went to go get the camera anyway.

“Ev’ryones ‘ere,” Don said to Will. “Terri, James, Josh, David; ah, Terri’s dad, an’ Mr. and Mrs. Blythe.”

“So all the Blythes, then,” Will said. “Christmas eve dinner?”

“Fucken’ lunch, mate,” Don said. “Dinner’s later.”

“Ah, but it’s breakfast, dinner, and supper or tea.” Will said.

“Fuck off,” Don said. “We’re doin’ a fuckin’ group photo. Mum’s gettin’ dad’s urn. Let’s go.”

Will nodded, and followed Don into the living room. It wasn’t too cramped, but it was a fair bit cramped. Babs placed the urn on the mantlepiece of the electric fire. “Ev’ry one, gather round, I’ll jus’ set up the camera.” She said, taking it from Don. “Found out a remote activation method, bloody handy,” She explained as she went. The Blythes used the urn as a dividing line, and made sure to leave enough space for the three remaining individuals. “C’mon,” Terri said, gesturing. Don walked over and stood next to his dad, and Will, being tall, went on the back row, between and behind Terri and Don. “There we go,” Mrs. Blythe muttered, then smiled at them. There was space on the other side of the urn for Don’s mum, though it was a bit of a squeeze, and as Babs set up the camera, she asked everyone to move a bit closer in, so they were all in frame, and posed properly. Babs then quickly squeezed into place, and they all smiled at the camera as the flash went off a few times.

“Great!” Babs smiled, and Mr. Blythe – Josh’s dad – clapped his hands. “What’s for Lunch, eh Babs?” He asked.

“Sunday roast,” She grinned. “Wen’ all out for it, so be grateful it’s not sandwiches. Le’s go eat!”

"Present time!" Babs said, clapping her hands once after she'd received confirmation that they'd finished eating. "I'm gon' go grab somethin' while you two start - go on, go on!" She gestured, herding them into the living room before absconding up the staircase. 

"Camera," Don said, knowingly, then flopped down onto the couch. 

Presents from their friends had been coming in since the Christmas holidays started - Don's not entirely sure how Lauren knew to send Will's here, or how or why she'd convinced Sam and the others to do the same, but he hadn't paid much attention to that. Will had brought ones that Clemsie and Smudger and Kay and Hargreaves and Wootton had sent - after all, if it does anything, living through what happened at Slaughterhouse at least makes you a permanent entry on the Christmas shopping list - and Don's had arrived last week. The various Blythes' presents were also under the tree, a couple joint presents; Josh's family got Don and Will and Babs one present each, so that made three presents from the four Blythes, and David got Don and Babs - the Wallaces - some chocolate, but Terri gave Don and Will and Babs a present each - so four from the two Blythes. 

Trying to figure out which bag of presents had been from which Blythe family had been somewhat futile. Thankfully, the individual presents were a bit more obvious. 

(Both families were - bad at tagging, still, though.)

"Alright, which first?" Will said. Don sat up, stood up, and walked over. "Let's get the Blythes over and done with," He said, "Can' fuckin' figure out which is which for them, an' it's bugging me."

"Indeed," Will said, picking up one that had 'Will' on it in sharpie. Don picked up his, and dropped back onto the couch. He opened it, and a note fell out - Terri's, then; she always wrote little notes that she stuck inside the packaging, instead of on it. 

Told him you like him yet, dickhead?

- T. 

Don resisted the urge to facepalm and hid the message amongst the wrapping paper. "Who's your from?" He asked. Will was struggling with an overly sellotaped lump of a present. He found a place he could rip it from, though, and quickly did so. "Terri," He said, frowning slightly at a message written on paper with, of course, sharpie. It bled through, but Don didn't try to read it via the back of the paper. Will scoffed, lightly, and dropped the message, which disappeared into the wrapping paper. "Your friend has an interesting sense of humour," Will said. 

"She's like tha'," Don said. "Always 'as been."

Don grinned at the copy of a Halo game he didn't yet have - a present that was as much for him as for her, likely since co-op was the only way she ever accepted anyone play Halo - and placed it down on the couch next to himself. "What'd she get you?" Don asked.

"A - puzzle box." Will frowned at it. He shook it, and there was something inside it, but how to get in there was - well, a puzzle. "... Interesting choice."

"She got me a cardboard box once," Don said. "And a coat hanger."

"Why?" Will blinked at him. "No' sure," Don shrugged. "She got 'er own boyfriend - b'fore they were t'gether, obviously - a keytar once. Tha' was mem'rable." 

"... Alright, then." Will said, for lack of a better response. Don wasn't sure what you could say to that, anyway. 

They made their way through the rest of the presents, and on the fifth Babs entered the room. 

"Candid." She said, grinning, and Don sighed. "Mul'iple, actu'ly."

"Mum," Don sighed, and she laughed. "Come on, Don, grab Dad, would you? ;E's still in the dinin' room." Well. The kitchen/diner, since it was one room with a table crammed in the corner. 

"Alright," Don said, standing. "Yeah, I'll get him."

Don left the room, and Babs sat down on the couch. 

"See, I've known Don for a very long time, bein' 'is mum an' all," Babs said. She turned and smiled at Will, "An' I knew 'e liked tha' Clemsie girl from the momen' 'e saw 'er - an' ah can tel when he's grown t' like someone, too."

Will didn't reply.

"My boy's go' a big 'eart, and 'e cares abou' you," Babs said, plainly. "An' I'm no' gon' warn y' abou' no' 'urtin' 'im, b'cause ah kno' y're no' the type," She said. "So jus' let y'self be 'appy, Will. Y're a good kid; y' deserve it."

Babs stood and set up the camera as Don entered the room. "Will, be a dear and take the photo, wou'd y' please?" Babs asked. "Don, bring y' father over 'ere." A few flashes later, the photos were taken. "Ah've got' go take a few presents round to our Jackie's," She said, "So ah'll be back soon enough. You two carry on with the presents, don' wait for me." And with that, Babs was gone. 

Don shook his head slightly, and moved to the tree. "Which next?" He asked.

"Ah - why not the Lawrences?" Will asked.

"Then the other 'slaugh'erians'" Don grinned. "Sure." Don tossed Will his present from Smudger - customary, generic; they hadn't really gotten to know each other, after all, Smudger and the rest of the group, since after the events of Slaughterhouse and everyone went home from that police station, well, the Lawrences moved country, so. Don put the riculously expensive chocolate - the same as what Will had gotten from the male Lawrence - aside, and then grabbed Clemsie's presents for them both. He handed Will his, then opened his own. 

Don, a letter read, Merry Christmas! It's been such a long time - we should all really meet up in the new year. Kay will be back in England in the summer, and we'll be visiting family then, so I could pull some strings. It'd be nice, to see everyone again. Staying friends after everything that happened - well. It feels like a good idea to me. 

I hope you and Will have had a good time at that new college - I keep getting letters from Wootton, bless him, about the place his mother sent him to this time. At least Hargreaves is keeping an eye on the poor boy; much like you, they were lucky enough to get sent to the same place. I'm pretty sure if they could, the Hargreaves would have adopted Wootton already, but - well. Given how often he's with his actual family, he might as well already be Isaac's little brother. 

We really should all speak more. It's not like we have phones and skype or email or anything... certainly, we have a lot better than letters. I mean. Really.

See you both in the new year!

Signed,

Clemsie. 

"Got a letter," Don said. "You?" "Yes," Will nodded. "Something about getting the gang back together, as it were."

"'S no' a bad idea," Don said. "Ah mean. We 'aven' spoken in around a year. Tha's a while."

"True," Will said. 

"Guess we'll see if Smudger's therapist thinks it's a good idea," Don said, because though they didn't all keep in much contact, they did say the important things occasionally - usually on gift-giving days. Really, they did need to keep in better contact.

Ah well. That'll be a new years resolution, then. 

Don turned to the present, which was a simple photo album. I heard you take photography, now, some paper masking-taped to the inside cover read. Here's a place to store it all. :)

Signed, Clemsie.

Signed, Smudger. 

"Huh." Don shrugged and put down the album. "Alright."

Will put down his present from Clemsie and ostensibly from Smudger - obviously the presents were from Clemsie, but Smudger had signed the notes masking-taped onto both, if not the letters. 

Don took the present from Kay Will handed over to him and opened it. 

Clemency's gotten it into her head we're going to catch up in the summer. I'll see what I can do, since I will be back in dreary old England, but in the meantime - I heard you take maths. 

You might want to train up your logic if that's the case, so I've given you a 'how to' book on chess, free of charge. I usually make people pay for this since I wrote it, but. We're friends, and it's Christmas, so.

Just try and fucking beat me next time we meet, I dare you, Wallace.

Signed,

Kay. 

Don shook his head and held up the book in response to Will's identical copy. They grinned, slightly, at each other, then reached for the next presents. Hargreaves sent them both identical copies of dungeons and dragons, which he'd presumably sent everyone, and Wootton had sent them fudge. After that, it was Babs' presents - a scarf for Will and a camera for Don (who attempted not to think about how much that cost; most of the Christmas shopping budget, probably) - and then it was time for the presents they'd gotten each other. 

"You first," Will said, handing over his present to Don. Don took it - internally thankful his present didn't go first, for a multitude of reasons - and opened it. 

After the cardboard box and the wrapping paper had been put aside, Don looked at the watch - repackaged, likely, so Don couldn't see the price just from looking at its original box. It's the one he'd pointed out as the one he'd liked best, simple and sleek and fucking expensive, probably, and completely out of his range. 

"Will-" Don started but - "Just take the present, Ducky," Will said. 

Don tried to read his expression, for a moment, but gave up and nodded, slowly. "Well? Go on then, Willoughby, open yours," Don said, gesturing, as he finished removing the protective wrap from the watch and put it on. 

Don waited as Will unwrapped the pocket watch, and waited as Will took a moment to look at it. 

"I..." "Just take the present, Duck," Don said. Will smiled at him, and Don smiled back. 

"There's an inscription," Don said, gesturing. "On th'back."

Will closed and turned over the pocket watch. 

Bequeathed. 

Don watched his face, quitely - Will's reaction was immediate. Many feelings were quickly telegraphed across his face, but Don only caught a few - wonder, surprise, but chief among all - 

Panic. 

Ah. Shit. 

Will stood and walked out. Don hesitated, but this was much less life-threatening than the last time he'd hesitated to go after Will - so, he went. It didn't feel much less nerve-wracking, though, but Don didn't focus on that part. 

Don had heard the front door close, and sure enough - when he opened it, Will was there, out on the cold, snow-covered pavement. 

"Y'kno', if y'ate the gift, y' can jus' tell meh - y' don' 'ave to leave the 'ouse y' dramatic git," Don said. It was cold, and he was still in his pyjamas, and the posh twit currently stood outside his house was probably the most interesting thing to have happened to his little council estate street in years, but at that moment Don didn't rightly care much what Mrs. Johnson saw from between her half-closed curtains, or what Clara-Anne Jenkins could spy on from behind her blinds.

"It isn't that I hate it - It's more - I -" Will stopped, mid-sentence, frustrated enough to start pacing, back and forth, crunching a short path into the snow.  "'S'more wha', Willoughby?"

Will didn't reply immediately, just let out a breath that clouded in the cold air. 

"It doesn't matter, Ducky." Will said.

"'Course it fuckin' matters, or y' wouldn' 'ave left th'fuckin' 'ouse." Don pointed out, reasonably. 

"Donald." 

"Willoughby." Don walked over, mindless of the cold and the snow, and frowned at the other eighteen-year-old. "I don' wan't' renact a fuckin' soap-opera, jus' tell me wha' the fuck is wrong."

"Nothing's - wrong," Will said. "I just - I didn't... No-one's ever thought I or... anything about me was worth remembering. Especially not - something like that. Something that..."

"Important?" Don asked, quietly. 

Will nodded. 

"Well. I do." Don said. "Fuckin' 'ell, Duck, o'course I do."

Will stared down at him, for just a moment - and then, carefully, a move you could almost call furtive - leaned forward, and pressed his lips (cold, chapped - but soft, softer than he'd have thought) to Don's. 

Somewhere far away, a door slammed shut, and Will moved back. 

Before he could get the wrong idea, Don caught Will's hand with his own. "Y' kno', Will, I kno' yer cold-blooded an' that, but I'm fuckin' freezin' out 'ere."

Will laughed. He let himself be led back inside the house. Don dropped his hand and closed the door, then turned to look at Will again. Before he could say anything, of course, the door opened. 

"Candid." Babs said, grinning. "Tha' was a beau'iful momen', really; one for the scrapbook."

Don sighed.

"First've all," Don said, "Mum, what the fuck, d'y' think y're doin'?"

Will grinned. "I, for one, think it's sweet. I should like our moments together to be captured."

"Ah, shut up, ya sentimental git." Don rolled his eyes. "Mum, 's weird, y' really don' need to."

"Actu'ly, Don, ah do," She said, frankly. "Mem'ries're precious thin's. Bes'to capture 'em so they're no' forgo'en." 

"Alrigh', alrigh'-" 

"Great!" Babs clapped her hands. "Now. Who wants lunch?"

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 6

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[Tag with all chapters up here.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: you know you’re a complete dick when two novices and a fake priest show at your doorstep to beat the crap out of you. (Art in this chapter is by Dara and @senoraluna!)

***

It didn’t take too long for things to settle into a routine.

Miguel had known no one would question the altar boy spending a lot of time with the parish priest – after all, they assumed he’d taken him under his wing to share teachings and whatnot; just the opposite of what was going on – but he had feared Héctor would say something about it. Along with the fact he was spending a lot of time with Padre Ju-- Father John, because now for some reason he wanted to learn English, it drastically reduced the amount of time they got to spend together.

And instead, he hadn’t said anything. They still met up often to play and sing, and Ernesto joined them – something the congregation had been surprised to find out at first, but hadn’t argued against – but Héctor’s mind seemed to be elsewhere. It was like he hadn’t even noticed how little time Miguel actually spent with him now, and it stung a bit… but it was for the best.

As long as that did mean he was thinking about Imelda, which he wasn’t entirely sure of.

“Are you sure he said nothing about her at all?”

“No, muchacho. If he had, I would have remembered to tell you. You ask something like four times a day,” Ernest muttered, flipping through the pages of the book. Miguel had to admit he was impressed by how good his memory was, how easily he memorized and repeated words he didn’t understand. It had taken Miguel a year as the altar boy to learn everything at heart; Ernesto was already almost there, and it had only been a couple of weeks.

“Not even in confession?”

“No. I’m pretty sure I would have recognized his voice, and plus no one I heard from lately confessed to anything nearly as saucy as wanting to bang a nun.”

Miguel blinked. “… Why would he want to shoot her?” he asked, and Ernesto gave a guffawing laugh.

“Hah! Sorry, kid, I forget-- er. I mean, no one has confessed to anything nearly as saucy as wishing to marry a nun. Though you wouldn’t believe the amount of chicken-stealing that goes on in this town.”

That made Miguel chuckle. “Confession should be a secret.”

“I’m not naming any names. I don’t get to see whoever is confessing, remember?”

“Still!”

“For the record, one of the sisters stole some candy that was meant for you at the orphanage.”

“What??”

“Do what you will with this information. I made her say twenty Hail Mary. If it helps, she felt bad.”

“As she should!” Miguel protested. It was pretty rare for them to get any candy at all; that someone would take it from them was a horrible injustice. Ernesto seemed to notice his scowl, and pushed the almost empty glass of wine over to him on the table. “Come on, have a sip. Won’t tell if you don’t.”

Well, that almost made up for the loss of candy. Miguel took the sip, held back a grimace – the taste was awful, but it wasn’t about that; it was about getting to say he drank it – and looked back down at the book. “At this rate, you’ll be able to say Mass next Sunday. The Easter one for sure!”

“Good. I’ve had it with Padre Culo Blanco’s bore fest. There are only so many times you can stand being told you’re going to hell before lunch time,” Ernesto scoffed, then shrugged. “He’s not bothering me, at least.”

“I heard Sister Sofía say that he’s avoiding you. He gets out real quick if he hears you coming.”

“… She mentioned as much to me as well, yes,” was the reply. “Maybe he’s afraid I’ll infect him with my lack of proper Catholicism, but works for me. He seems to have picked Héctor as his victim. I mean, pupil.”

“Héctor says he goes along because he wants to learn English.”

“Why would anyone?”

“Beats me,” Miguel said, then paused a moment before speaking again, unable to keep his concern out of his voice. “What if he told Pa-- Father John, and he’d telling him to stick to his vows?”

“Then it will be a pleasure to undo his holy work,” Ernesto muttered, and Miguel smiled a bit. It had been a real stroke of luck, getting an ally like him. A lot of people agreed that Héctor and Imelda should at least give it a try, but none of them was in the position of authority Ernesto held. “Is there any way you can get him to talk to you? He’s acting weird. I want to know if it’s about Imelda.”

“I’ll offer to lend an ear, since he looks troubled,” Ernesto said, and frowned. “What about this Imelda? I have only seen her from afar. So-- Sister Sofía says she’s been acting odd.

“I’m not sure,” Miguel admitted, unable to keep some disappointment from seeping into his voice. “She’s with the other nuns most of the time, and there are so many of us in the orphanage – I don’t really get to spend much time with her these days.”

“Did you use to?”

“Oh yes, before she became a novice! I played with her brothers. She was a bit stern, but really nice to me. I’m sure she’d be a good mamá,” he added, only to pause and blush when he realized he’d said too much. “I mean-- not that I need-- she’s not that much older than me...” he babbled, and shifted on his chair when Ernesto raised an eyebrow, “I mean… to any kids she and Héctor may have.”

“… You’re hoping they’ll get you out of the orphanage, huh?” Ernesto said quietly, and Miguel nodded. There was a sudden lump in his throat, and he tried to hold back some tears.

“It’s not that important. I really think they would be happy together. They can’t be my parents, you know? More like older siblings. They’re only… maybe twelve years older than me. I don’t need parents. I’ll be out in a few years anyway, and… it’s not that bad, it just isn’t...” Miguel sniffled, and reached up to wipe his eyes. “It’s not that bad,” he added, trying with some success to keep his voice firm. It wasn’t a lie. Most of the time it really wasn’t bad - it was just how things were. But sometimes, when he tried to imagine having what he never got… sometimes it hurt.

There was a pause, then a chuckle, and Ernesto reached to ruffle his hair. “Chin up, niño. We still have time to get them to see the light. I’ll get Héctor out of the clutches of the Holy Church and into the trap of holy matrimony if it’s the last thing I do.”

That caused Miguel to laugh a bit. He was already feeling a bit better. “Heh. Is it really a trap?”

“Oh, yes. A very tight snare, but hey, there are people who walk in it happily. As there are people who willingly take the vows. I’d do neither unless I had a rifle up my-- at my temple, but you know. Judge not, lest you be judged.”

A grin. “Spoken like a real priest.”

“Either you’re a good teacher, or Padre Juan is contagious,” Ernesto quipped with a laugh before finally looking down at the book. “All right, let’s see if I can remember this one...”

***

“… And these are the irregular verbs. You will need to memorize them, but other than that it’s pretty straightforward – far more logical than Spanish.”

For the seventeenth time since lunch, when he’d been subjected to not at all casual comments about Father John’s distaste for secular music - Héctor had to fight an overwhelming urge to roll his eyes. “I see,” he said instead, and smiled, teeth clenched. The man’s sermons were bad but God, he somehow managed to be even more condescending while teaching English – and the fact he didn’t seem to be aware of it made it even worse, somehow. “I’ll do my best to memorize them ahead of the next lesson.”

Father John smiled, as always entirely oblivious of how eager his pupil was to be out of there. “You are a very quick learner. I took more time than that to learn any Spanish, despite the fact I had heard it spoken by servants while growing up.”

God, give me patience. If you give me strength, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.

“I see,” Héctor said, his voice a bit tighter than he should have allowed it to be, and Padre Juan seemed to pick that up, because for once he actually had the good grace to look embarrassed.

“I… I meant nothing by it, I simply… I grew up fairly close to the border, and--” he trailed off, suddenly even more uncomfortable. Of course he would be: he’d all but admitted that he’d been born and raised on land stolen from Mexico. Fitting, that.

Despite the annoyance, Héctor couldn’t help but feel somewhat bad for him, so he decided to put him out of his misery with a smile and a quip. “You grew up in northern Mexico, you mean,” he said, and the anxious expression on that round, white face faded in a relieved smile.

“Heh. I suppose,” he said, and hesitated for a moment before reaching into a drawer at his small desk. He pulled out a small book that seemed close to falling apart, and handed it to him. “I kept forgetting to give this to you – it’s my dictionary, so that you can look up any word in English if you wish to. I no longer…” a pause, and he made a face. “I rarely need it now.”

… Well, now that was going to be useful, if he was ever to attempt translating that letter – given that he would be able to get his hands on it in the first place. Maybe he should speak to Sofía about it. “Oh, thank you. This will be… very helpful.”

Unaware of his thoughts, Father John Johnson smiled. “You’re quite welcome. You have a lot of potential – I am sure you’ll lead a congregation down the right path, one day.”

“Oh, I do hope so,” Héctor said, smiling back, but it was with a sudden sense of dread, a weight on his chest telling that maybe, just maybe, he actually did not. “But perhaps Padre Ernesto would benefit as well, you know? I could suggest he joins us here,” he added.

He’d meant it partly as an attempt to change subject, partly as a jest at Padre Ernesto’s expenses – unfair, how he was spared that guy’s company despite being the parish priest – and he wasn’t prepared for the reaction it got him: Padre Juan grew even paler, like he’d causally suggested he should put a rattlesnake down his shirt. He blinked, taken aback.

“Father John? Are you all right?”

The other man blinked, and nodded quickly. A neutral expression was back on his face, as quickly as it had slipped off. “I doubt Father Ernest would take on the offer,” he said, his voice somewhat stiff. “I… my apologies. My head spun for a moment. It might be best for me to rest.”

“Would you like to see a doctor?”

“No, thank you,” Father John replied, and smiled almost like he meant it. “I’ll be fine with a bit of rest. I apologize for the concern I caused.”

Héctor reassured him there was no need to apologize, but he was extremely relieved when he finally walked out of the door, holding the dictionary to his chest and with a rather confused frown.

Inside the room, John Johnson stared at the wooden door for a few moments, lost in thought – those awful, awful thoughts – before he locked it and walked up to the chest of drawers with heavy steps, unbuttoning the cassock. He bared his torso before kneeling and opening the bottom drawer, already uttering a prayer under the silent gaze of the crucifix on the wall.

The familiar weight of the whip in his hand was a cold, cold comfort.

*** 

With all messages placed – under a flower pot for the seamstress, at the Gonzalez crypt for the gravedigger, inside the box of offerings for Imelda or Sister Gisela or whatever the hell she wanted to be called now – his work for the day was done. He should return to his regular duties so that no one would suspect a thing, and he would… but first, there was something else he wanted to take care of.

Looking after a horse was time-consuming, smelly, and definitely an extra chore he did not need. Besides, what use did a parish priest have for such a fine horse? None, that was it. There were others, however, who could put it – Dante, Padre Ernesto called it – to a better use.

He had time; no one would look for him for another couple of hours. No one looked for him unless they needed something from him, after all. Ungrateful bastards, all of them.

Glancing around to ensure no one was there to see him, Gustavo walked silently behind the church and towards the stable.

*** 

He was not in a good state of mind to hold confession; John had no problem acknowledging it.

Beneath the cassock, his back throbbed horribly. He had prayed, he had cleansed himself, and then he’d been torn from his thoughts by a knock at his door and a request to hold confession that day - something on how Father Ernest’s horse had gone missing, and he’d gone looking for it. John could hardly believe the man had put a horse above his holy duty, but perhaps he should stop letting it surprise him. He’d sighed, and taken on the task.

Most confessions concerned minor sins, but this one - this woman - wasn’t seeking to confess as much as she was looking for advice, although what she had in mind had to be a sin.

“You wish to leave your marital home. Is that what you’re saying?”

“I… I must, Padre. For my safety. He was always a… a difficult man, but since his mother died… last night he lost his mind, and… he left marks, and I… I feared he wouldn’t stop until--”

John scoffed, causing her to trail off. Such weakness, such low moral fiber, trying to flee at the first sign of hardship! “Did you not take that man as your husband?”

“I did, but--”

“In sickness and in health, for richer or poorer? You took a sacred oath, binding you for life!”

There was a hiccupping sob. “He also promised to love and honor me, Padre. And he… he does not…” her voice broke, and for a few moments there were only tears.

Father John Johnson was not, contrary to popular belief, made of stone. The woman’s plight did stir something in his chest. He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath to keep his focus, and reached under his right sleeve. Across his forearm, there was a thin raised scar - the mark of the one and only attempt he had made to shield himself from rightful punishment, twelve years earlier; such insolence from his part, a boy thinking he knew better than a wise man he’d angered thought his failings. He traced it with his fingers, his mouth pulled into a tight line.

“Clearly, your failings caused anger.”

“No, I… I am sure I have many failings, Padre, but this time I had done nothing. He flew into a rage for no reason--”

“The anger of the head of a family is never without reason,” John all but snarled, causing the woman to fall silent. He regretted his harshness, but not his words. It was a simple fact - the head of the family had a duty to discipline. It was right. It was not out of cruelty, it couldn’t be.

It hadn’t been out of cruelty. John couldn’t stand to think otherwise.

He was right. He sought to correct me. “He meant to correct you, certainly,” he finally spoke again, his voice calm. On the other side of the confessional, the woman was weeping. A sign of guilt - he had wept, too - but he couldn’t stay indifferent to it. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “You need to ask God for guidance on how to better yourself.”

“I try,” the woman choked out. “I do, Padre! But nothing I do is enough, and I fear he may… one day, if he doesn’t stop-- I don’t fear death, but we have little children, I can’t leave them behind--”

“It is for the sake of those children that you need to mend what is broken. Your foolish idea to leave the marital home goes against the Bible - urge the younger women to love their husbands and children, to be self-controlled and pure, to be busy at home, to be kind, and to be subject to their husbands, so that no one will malign the word of God. And you’d turn your back to that? Taking the children from their father--” he paused, and something in his throat made it hard to force the next words out. “No child should leave their home, unless… unless forced.”

Father, I beg you. I’m trying-- I’ve been praying, I will overcome... I-if this is a test He put on my path, I am sure that with your guidance-- Mother, please, I’m sorry...!

His back burned now as it had burned then. John leaned against the side of the confessional, and the pressure made him feel faint - but it steeled his resolve, cleared his mind of doubt and misplaced pity. Through the haze of pain, his voice rang out firm. “You must endure.”

“I…” her voice faltered, so thin and pained. “It’s so hard, Padre.”

“The Lord puts hurdles in our path. Anyone can do their duty when it’s easy. But each step you take away from your place will take you farther away from God. Think of that, and pray to the Holy Virgin for guidance,” he added. He was meant to give absolution, now, but he did not. After all, that had hardly been a confession; she had asked for advice, had received it, and it was up to her to either follow it or defy God’s will. "Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, a shaky whisper - “for His mercy endures forever” - and then then the woman stood, and stepped away. No one else came to kneel at the confessional, but John sat in there for a long time afterwards, eyes shut, pressing his back against the wooden wall.

He needed to confess himself, too; he had gone too long without doing so, and he had sinned in thought; no amount of payer or self-inflicted penance could replace absolution from another priest. He wouldn’t be worthy of saying Mass or even receive the holy bread until he receive it… but there was one priest in that town who may confess him, one priest only, and he couldn’t confess it all to him. Father Ernest would know it was him; his accent would give him away the moment he he let out his voice spoke the unspeakable.

And John found the idea more unbearable than any punishment he could inflict upon himself.

***

In such dark times, it wasn’t so rare for somebody to break down on the steps of the church.

Especially when funerals were held, Imelda had seen it happening with widows and widowers, people burying their sister or brother. She had seen children mourning their parents and, most heartbreaking of all, parents mourning their children. Sometimes they wept quietly, sometimes they sobbed loudly. The woman sitting on the steps leading to the courtyard her children were playing in along with a few orphans - Fernanda Rodríguez, she recognized her as she stepped closer - was definitely trying to be silent, and utterly failing at it.

Thankfully, none of the children noticed - much less Fernanda’s own. Imelda and Sofía quickly ushered her inside, offered her a glass of water, and managed to calm her down enough to explain what had happened. Once she did explain, Imelda was ready to murder two men: her husband for reducing her in that state, and the gringo for telling her she had to endure.

“Let me go, Sofía, I just want to talk--”

“No you don’t,” she cut her off, holding her arm tighter. Her voice was a low hiss. “Sebastián Rodríguez wouldn’t be above trying to wring your neck, too. And Padre Juan--” she made a face. “Well. I’d like to see that, but he’s saying nothing most other priest wouldn’t.”

“No, that’s not true!” Héctor would never. “He--”

“Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord,” Sofía snapped. “For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church, his body, of which he--”

Imelda snarled, turning to glare at her. “What’s with the lesson? You agree with none of it.”

“But the Church does. You go confront the gringo, he writes of it to someone higher up, and--” Sofía began, only to suddenly pause… and then let go of her arm. “... Come to think of it, go right ahead. Might be the quickest way to ensure you never get to take the vo--”

“What-- Imeld-- I mean, Sister Gisela? Sister Sofía? What’s happening?”

Héctor’s confused voice caused Sofía to trail off, and Imelda turned. He was in the doorway, standing far closer than they’d been in some time, but Imelda was too furious to care.

“Rodríguez happened!” she spat, venom in her voice. “He decided to beat Fernanda, again! It’s like he tried to strangle her, and the gringo-- when she turned to the confessional for help, he told her to endure - that it was her fault! If he kills her, it will be on his head!”

Héctor blinked again, as though struggling to take in the words - then, slowly, his expression darkened. By the time she paused to draw breath, she was almost taken aback to see a fury that matched her own. Somewhere in the back of her mind, there was a cry of triumph.

Héctor would never!

“... Is Fernanda here?” Héctor asked, slowly. “Her children?”

“She’s in there - we let her have some time alone. Her children are playing outside.”

A nod. “Good,” Héctor muttered, and turned to march down the hallway, fists clenched.

“Héctor, wait!” Sofía called. “Get Padre Ernesto to talk to the gringo, he will have to listen--”

“He can deal with Padre Juan,” Héctor replied, marching out. “I’m paying a visit to Sebastián.”

As both Imelda and Sofía blinked, speechless, they could hear a familiar voice suddenly ringing out. “Oh, here you are! Where are you going in such a rush? About to waste more of your ti--”

“Get the hell out of my way, Gustavo!”

There was a surprised yelp, more steps, and then silence. Sofía turned to Imelda.

“I’m not saying he’s a man to marry,” she said. “But, if he survives, he is a man to marry.”

For once, Imelda had no retort.

***

It was just a horse.

The voice echoing in the back of his mind sounded aggravatingly like his father’s and, even worse, he knew it was telling the truth. Dante was just a horse; after what he had been through and what he had seen, in the barracks and in conflict - after all he’d had to get used to - the fact he had disappeared shouldn’t bother him that much. He may have stuck with him through thick and thin, carried him across a desert, made him laugh when he grew stubborn and had to be bribed with food - but he was just a horse.

And yet, he was his horse; the sight of that empty stable, with no sign of him anywhere, had far more than he liked to admit. Ernesto tried to tell himself that maybe he’d just wandered out, maybe the stable wasn’t shut properly. He really wanted to believe it, because it meant Dante may be back later, and that space aching cold in his chest would cease to be.

Meanwhile, he’d find Gustavo and grill him over what the hell happened, how could he let it happen, how come he couldn’t even close a fucking door right.

At least, that had been the intention - but, the moment Sofía rushed down the stairs to meet him, he coud tell there was something urgent going on. Namely that Brother Héctor had apparently decided to tempt his fate by confronting a guy who, according to her account, was the size of a bull and with a temper to match.

“... He’d break him over his knee, and Imelda won’t be able to keep it from happening!”

“Imeld-- the novice? She went with him?”

“Ran after him, really. Which I sort of hoped she’d do someday, but... not like this.”

“And I’m supposed to put a stop to whatever is about to happen?” Ernesto asked, but of course he already knew the answer, and he didn’t like it. Goddammit, he didn’t want to get into a fight. That hadn’t been part of the plan, never mind the fact there hadn’t really been any plan at all. He didn’t want any sort of trouble, but it seemed to be following him like an orphan dog. And speaking of orphans, hadn’t Miguel told him that damn town was a quiet place?

“Unless you want to hold a funeral or two, yes,” Sister Sofía was saying, as he knew she would.

Ernesto did his utmost to hold back a groan. Miguel wouldn’t like it at all, seeing the two lovebirds have a joint funeral rather than a wedding. Plus, of course he was supposed to get involved, being the parish priest and all. It was a damn mess and of course, of course Padre Juan was to blame. If he didn’t get his face smashed by the village blacksmith first, Ernesto would make sure to have words with that accursed gringo. “Fine. Fine. What’s the guy’s house?”

A nod. “It’s the house with the black gate, at the end of the main road and then on the left - it’s a bit isolated and the only house with a gate like that, you can’t go wrong,” she added. “I’ll stay here with Fernanda and her children.”

“Not coming for moral support?”

“You have my thoughts and prayers.”

“Gracias. That’s absolutely useless.”

“... And possibly something else, if you do come back in one piece.”

“That’s… slightly better.”

“Good. Now go do your holy duty. Or something.”

As he turned to run - another thing he hated doing; he could dance for hours, but running just about killed him - Ernesto thought, bitterly, that he could get there so much faster if only Dante wasn’t missing.

***

Later on, Héctor would laugh about what had happened, about Chicharrón's grumbles that he'd seriously miscalculated Rodríguez's size, and his odds to come out a winner. He'd say that he was right, he'd miscalculated, but of course that wasn't really it and Cheech had to know it, deep down. Héctor had known well that, if a fight broke out, he’d go down and would go down fast.

The thing was, he was too angry to care.

"SEBASTIÁN! I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE! OPEN THIS DOOR!"

It took some banging, and the door opened, letting out a string of profanities about being awakened at that ungodly hour - namely, eleven in the morning. Sebastián Rodriguez was as tall as Héctor but far wider, with the broad shoulders, deep chest and muscular arms that come with being a blacksmith. He’d been handsome, once, and maybe he still was, but it was hard to see it through the reddened skin, the bloodshot eyes and stubble covering sagging cheeks.

He looked all the world like an angry mastiff, and the thought Fernanda had been told to take her children and just return under his roof, at his mercy, made Héctor’s blood boil.

“Shut up!” he snapped, causing the man’s stream of curses to stop. Sebastián looked very confused for a moment, as though the fact someone - let alone a novice around half his weight - could scream at him had never crossed his mind, as unlikely as the sun rising from the West. Before he had time to process it, Héctor pushed him back, causing him to stumble back inside his living room - an impossible feat if he hadn’t been too stunned to react. “You’ve hit your wife for the last time, cabrón!”

The mention of his wife seemed to finally snap him out of his confusion, and he scowled. "What did that puta go around to say?" he growled. "The lying bruja, can't even keep a clean house. Did she run to the church? And what are you going to do, little priest?" his scowl turned into a very ugly smile, and he jabbed his middle finger painfully against Héctor's chest. "I'll tell you what I'll do. You go back and tell her that unless she wants me to give her a very good reason to cry, she will be back ten minutes ago and start getting my lunch rea--"

SMACK.

Héctor may not look like it, but he knew how to pack a punch: you don't spend your childhood in an orphanage and occasionally in the streets without learning a thing or two. He felt the blow all the way up to his shoulder, but he didn't care: all he could focus on was the grim satisfaction when Sebastián staggered back, holding a hand up to his nose, which was already gushing blood. There would be hell to pay, but oh, was it worth--

Retaliation came fast, faster than it could be expected from a guy that size. It hit him in the face, quite literally, before the sense of triumph had even faded. Suddenly there was blood on his tongue, his head bounced off the wall behind him, and the ground rushed up to meet him.

Héctor gasped, dazed; something small and hard fell out of his mouth along with a mouthful of blood. He tried to stand, but a sudden kick to his stomach sent him sprawling, knocking all air out of his lungs. He gasped, looking up to see Sebastián bringing up a booted foot.

"Pinche cabrón! I'll teach you to mind your own goddamn bus-- aaagh!"

Something flew through the air, hitting him straight on the already bloody nose. He let out a cry of pain, stepping back... and then froze, staring at something past Héctor like he couldn't believe his eyes.

"What the-- has the entire world gone mad?" he blurted out, once again too stunned to do anything but standing there, staring. Héctor groaned, turning to look up... and then froze, the expression on his bloodied face probably not too different from Sebastián’s. Standing above him in her white robes and headdress, a shoe in her hand and a scowl on her face, was Imelda.

No, no, no, what are you doing here? He's dangerous-- he won't hesitate--!

"Bastardo," Imelda spat, her voice so cold it sent chills down Héctor's spine. "You lay a hand on him, or your wife and children, or anyone else ever again, and you'll be very, very sorry.”

Sebastián blinked a couple of times and then, as Héctor had feared, the surprise gave way to something else - fury. His fists clenched, and Héctor made a supreme effort to stand up, if shakily, between the two of them. His ears buzzed, his face hurt, but he steadied himself.

"Imelda, go... go away."

"And let you get yourself turned into a wet spot on the floor?"

"I wasn't about to-- all right, maybe I was, but if you stay--"

"You just rushed here without any sort of plan, didn’t you?"

"Why, do you have one?"

"Well... no."

"See? You need to get out of he--."

"Not leaving you here, I'm no--"

"... Are you two done?" Sebastían asked in a low growl. “What the hell is even happening? Since when is it any of your business what a man does in his own damn house? You both get out of here this instant and send my wife back, or else--”

“Oh, señor Rodríguez! Buenos días. I was just looking for you!”

Both Héctor and Imelda turned to see Padre Ernesto walking in, a charming smile on his face that didn’t falter when he saw the blood on his face. Sebastián reached up to rub his head.

"Has the entire fucking Catholic church decided to meet in my house to tell me how to deal with my goddamn wife?" he blurted out. "Am I hallucinating this? First a novice punches me, then a nun throws a shoe at me, and now the parish priest shows up for a lecture?"

“Technically, she is also a novice,” Padre Ernesto said, still smiling, and reached to put a hand on Héctor’s shoulder. He gripped it more tightly than necessary. “My apologies for the intrusion. I believe it’s best for all of us if we return to the church, you return to… whatever you were doing, and we all forget this unpleasant incident, sí?”

“Fernanda is not coming back here,” Imelda snapped, and Héctor nodded in agreement.

"Not her, nor the children," he said, and glanced at Padre Ernesto. "Padre, please. You haven't seen what he did to her!"

"She's my wife!" Sebastián bellowed. "And I will do what I want with her until she learns!"

Padre Ernesto sighed, and let go of Héctor’s shoulder. "See, all of you said exactly what I feared you'd say," he muttered, turning to Sebastián. "Well, it seems there is only one way to solve this unfortunate mess," he added, getting himself a sneer.

"Oh? And what will you do, priest? Read a passage of the Bible, say a prayer, or--" he began, and never got to finish: Padre Ernesto was almost as tall as him, almost as broad, and moved just as fast. His fist collided with his face with a loud, satisfying crack, and this time the man didn't just stagger back: he fell like a sack of potatoes, howling curses and covering his face.

As he struggled to get back up under Héctor's stunned gaze, Padre Ernesto turned to them. The pleasant smile was still on his lips. "Ime-- Sister Gisela, I suppose? We never met properly."

Imelda raised an eyebrow, and a smile tugged her lips. “We have now. My pleasure.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Padre Ernesto replied, his voice so smooth, then he glanced at Héctor. In front of them, Sebastián was lifting himself up to his knees, sounding like a furious bull. “I don’t think the Lord’s message has quite sunk in. I might require your help, amigo.”

Slowly, Héctor smiled and cracked his knuckles. “Oh, my friend- you don’t even need to ask.”

*** 

“You mean, he just… left?”

“Yes. Awful, no? To leave town in such a rush, leaving behind a wife and children. But you know, he had this terrible bout of bad luck and clearly figured a change of air would do him good.”

“Bad… luck?”

“Oh, the worst luck,” Héctor said, turning to glance at Ernesto. “He fell down the stairs.”

“Into a door,” Ernesto added. “And just as he was getting up, he stepped on a rake.”

“Then stumbled back and fell on a chair.”

“And he was hit by a shoe.”

“That’s when he decided it was time to leave but imagine what rotten luck, a gust of wind slammed the front door right on his face.”

“Again.”

“I think it broke his nose.”

“Definitely broke his nose.”

“So he decided to just leave without taking anything.”

“Makes you wonder if he angered God. Can’t argue with His will.”

“We’ll be praying for him.”

“Huh? Oh, yes. Right. Intensely. May the Lord grant him peace and all that.”

“We let him know he’ll always be in our thoughts.”

“And that we’d look after his family very, very closely.”

“In case he returns.”

“He means, until he returns.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Good thing Ceci has offered Fernanda a job so she can keep supporting the kids, eh?”

Among the small crowd gathered outside the church, there were plenty of sceptical looks and some raised brows… but absolutely no protests. It looked like no one had really liked Rodríguez that much. Even so, of course someone just had to speak up.

“... And what happened to you?”

Ernesto and Héctor exchanged a glance. Ernesto probably didn’t look so good - he’d managed to fix his hair, but he was pretty sure his throbbing face would sport bruises for a while - and Héctor looked pretty awful, with an eye swollen shut, a bloodied nose and a split lip. Still, he grinned widely at him, showing off a gap where one of his front teeth had been knocked loose. Ernesto found himself responding with a grin of his own. Yes, he did like that guy.

“Well, it seems that bad luck is contagious. We tripped.”

“But nowhere as badly as poor señor Rodríguez did.”

“Now, can’t you see they need to get their injuries tended to?” Imelda suddenly spoke up. She’d been quiet for a while, having returned first - and without a scratch - to tell Sofía what had happened, and to keep people from knowing she’d been part of that awful string of bad luck. “Move along, let them get inside the church,” she was adding, and her gaze softened when she glanced at Héctor. “... I’ll see you at mass.”

“Of course,” Héctor replied, and Ernesto had to drag him up the steps before someone could notice the dumb, dreamy grin on his face.

*** 

“Oh, Father Ernest. I was wondering where you-- Father Ern-- Brother Hector! What in God’s name has happened to you?”

John’s voice came out as an undignified screech, but he couldn’t help it: he hadn’t expected to walk in the sacristy to find both men holding bloody towels, bruises blooming on their faces. He walked up to them in sudden alarm, entirely forgetting his own aching back, and the annoyance of having been left on his own to deal with confessions faded entirely.

“Were you… were you attacked? Good God, is there anything I can do to help?”

Father Ernest looked at him, and what would have been the most charming smile he’d ever seen, if not for the fact the fury beneath it was suddenly palpable, filling the whole room. It was then that he realized Brother Héctor was staring at him, too, his face an expressionless mask.

“There is something you can do to help, yes,” Father Ernest said, his voice smooth, and stepped forward. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word.”

“What is i--” John began, but he didn’t get to finish the sentence. Next thing he knew, a hand was around his throat and he was slammed against the wall with stunning force, turning his back into a mass of white-hot pain. He let out a strangled cry, unable to draw in enough breath to scream properly, and reached blindly to grasp Father Ernest’s wrist. Though a veil of tears, he could see him staring at him with something not too far away from disgust.

Oh God, oh my God, does he know? How could he…?

John tore his gaze away to glance at Brother Hector, to silently ask for help, but with growing dread he realized that no help would come from him: he looked as disgusted as Father Ernest.

“Listen here and listen close, Padre Juan,” Father Ernest all but snarled, staring at him right in the eyes. “Today’s confession of Fernanda Rodríguez was the last one you’ll ever do in this parish. You should count yourself lucky that we stepped in before she could follow your enlightened advice and go back home to that animal.”

… Wait, was that it? Despite the hand on his throat and the throbbing pain in his back, for  few moments relief was all he could feel… followed by mild surprise, and then anger. He had done nothing but his duty - how dare that man, that insult to Catholics everywhere, get his filthy hands on him and presume he could berate him for doing so? “What… what have you done?”

Father Ernest grinned. “What we had to,” he said. “Todo modo para buscar la voluntad divina.”

Hearing the words of his oder’s founder from him made John scowl. “This- this is not divine will!”

“So divine will is sending a woman back to a beast? Interesting.”

“I gave advice… aligned with the scriptures,” he wheezed. “If you ever even bothered to read-- a woman who fails to submit to her husband--”

“I don’t care,” Father Ernest growled, causing him to trail off. He was suddenly acutely aware of how close he was, how much stronger; it made his head spin, cold sweat on his brow. “Look what he did to us, cabrón! What do you think he’d have done to a woman the size of sparrow?”

“I-if she’d minded herself, as to not anger him--” John began, voice shaking, but a sudden tightening of the grip on his neck cut him off.

“Well, you mind yourself now, as to not anger me,” Father Ernest sneered. “You are a guest in this parish - my parish. I’m taking it back, and I suggest you remember that or leave. You’ll never even look at the confessionals again. Don’t bother with Mass this Sunday - I’ll take care of it. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

It was far from the first time John was threatened, and he should have reacted with defiance, told him he wasn’t surprised such a poor priest wouldn’t know what the scriptures said about man and wife; he should have threatened to write to the Archidiocesis to inform them of such insolence, and then followed through with it… but right there and then he could only think of how awfully close he was, and he suddenly feared that closeness more than his fury.

No no no no no. Please, no. Let me go.

Unaware of his desperate thoughts, Father Ernest was growling, “Have I, Padre Juan?”

“Y-yes!” John choked out. He was way, way past even thinking of correcting him on his name. It didn’t matter. He just needed out of there, away from him. “I won’t-- please, let me go!”

His broken voice caused the man to pause, looking down at him - and the tears of fear, pain and frustration in his eyes - for just a moment; then he snorted. “I have met cowards, but you beat them all,” he muttered, and let him go. Even more terrifyingly, he gave him a smooth smile the next moment, as though nothing happened. “Well, it’s all sorted, then. Thanks for hearing me out. You’re excused.”

“I--” John hesitated, back pulsing with pain, heart hammering in his chest, and thoughts in turmoil as he struggled to grasp what had just happened. He brought a hand to his neck. “You--”

You have made a mistake, he wanted to say. The Archidiocesis will know. The Archbishop will know. You’ll be sent away, or defrocked, you’ll regret this, you… you...

Words failed him, and he swallowed. His hand grasped the crucifix and he turned to look at Brother Hector, at the dried blood still on that blank face. A childish part of him screamed that it was unfair, it hadn’t been him to raise his hand on that woman. He’d never been violent or cruel, never harsher than required - never harsher to others than he was on himself. He was fair, and the farthest thing for a coward. He did what he had to do to serve God, even if it wasn’t easy.

Anyone can do their duty when it’s easy.

“I didn’t-- I wished harm to no one. The scriptures, I only advised--”

“I said you’re excused,” Father Ernest snapped, and that was it. Without even daring look in his general direction, trying to muster as much dignity as he could, John walked out of the sacristy as quick as possible - back to the safety of his room where his Bible, an old letter and his whip awaited, to help him get a hold of himself again. His back still hurt, but clearly not enough.

And once that was taken care of and his mind clearer, he’d think of his next move. He may not be wanted in that town, he may be hated by the clergy for some petty reason, but so was Christ and He did not turn back from his duty, so neither would he. He refused to leave a town in such desperate need for his help, in the hands of a priest who hardly deserved to be called such.

Father Ernest was not fit for his role, and he would need to go before he doomed the entire parish and corrupted even Brother Hector, the young man who showed so much promise. John had to protect him from such influence, and he would.

He had no power to remove a parish priest, of course, but someone else could. They would, once they knew what madness was going on in Santa Cecilia.

He just needed a pen, and paper.

***

[Back to Part 5]

[On to Part 7]

[dragonwlw]

The beauty of Two

My parents taught me to respect my mother tongue. My studies taught me that language we speak, and mother tongue especially, influence the way we see the world, the way we think, act. My attempts in translating my own poems taught me, once again, how precious the ability to express yourself is. There are many differences between English and my mother tongue. For me, the most difficult things when learning English were irregular verbs (I mean... really? Really?!?), spelling (Again, really? Logic much?), and in some cases the proper use of tenses. I would never say I speak it excellent, but I think I'm ok at it. After all, all those years must pay off, right? It is not the first time that I noticed the major differences between those two languages, my mother tongue and English, but now I see them from another perspective. I'm not a translator. My degree is neither my mother tongue's nor English literature. I'm just someone who wants to translate her own poetry. And one of the things I miss the most in English? The beauty of "two". Of "us" that is not 3, or 5, or 10, no. When I say "us", it can be so many people. When I use our word for it, it's clear that we are alone, no-one but you and me. And it's so beautiful that you know it, that there is only one word that tells you we are a pair. (Grammatically, it's duel, the addition to singular and plural.) Even more, you can tell it just from the form of the verb I use. I don't even have to write "us", because "we" are already a part of verb. And it shows. The beauty of two... You and me. Midva. I'm sure every language has many many treasures. No, actually, every language is a treasure. The duel is one of the gems of my language. They say learning foreign languages makes you rich. It certainly does. But we should never forget the treasures of mother tongues.

Alenka H., 2021 Read the full article

[yudesei]

~ Anime Review; Free! Dive to the Future ~

I haven’t done a review in a long time. Since I recently finished watching the third season of Free!, I decided to write a review for it. So here it is.

Name: Free! Dive to the Future

Episodes: 12

Genre(s): Sport (Swimming), Drama, Slice of Life

                                          ~ Spoiler warning ~

For a more spoiler-free version of this review, you can read it on MAL or anime-planet.

Story (8/10) 

Our protagonist has now started studying at the university. We get to follow him and several other characters with their respective problems. I’d say the main focus is identity - who you are as a person and what you want to be.

We get to see characters like Makoto trying to find his own path in life and Sousuke, who is concerned about a surgery that may or may not be the end of his career as a swimmer. Rei, Nagisa and Gou are studying their final year at Iwatobi. We get to see them with new recruits for the swim team.

These are only some of the sub-plots in this season.

“If these are the sub-plots, then what’s the main plot?” you ask?

To be frank, they should’ve just named it “Free! Two Lovers’ Promise” because about 65% of this season focuses on Haru and Ikuya’s romance friendship.

Although I’m overjoyed to see so much of Ikuya and seeing him (and Haru) develop as a character, it doesn’t give much time for the other characters and events. In the end, episode 11 and 12 feel a bit rushed, which is why I’m giving the story 8/10. The way the guys are trying to find their own identities and lifetime goals is not only inspiring but also touching.

Characters (7/10)

I’m very proud of Haru this season. Everyone who has watched the previous seasons or at least Starting Days are well aware of Haru only swimming free and nothing else.

In episode 7 and 8, we get to see Haru practice for- and participate in the individual medley just to keep his promise to Ikuya. Although Haru goes back to his ‘I only swim free’ way shortly afterwards, the fact that he stopped swimming only free for a moment shows how far Haru is willing to go for the people he cares about. And in episode 12, we find out that ever since Haru first got into the water, he has always swum free, which makes him participating in the individual medley even more special.

Makoto and Rei share a similar dilemma. Neither of them knows what they want to do with their lives. With some help from Nao, Makoto realizes that he wants to become a coach where he can help swimmers reach the top and encourage children to swim as well.

Rei on the other hands never got this realization. He does think about his future, but never mentions his options.

As for Nagisa, we don’t get to hear much from him at all, which is a bit disappointing. His ‘major’ development was in the first season and his character has been a bit flat since then. Yes, he has become a better swimmer and has a charming personality, but he hasn’t changed much, has he? Does he still want to become an astronaut or an adventurer?

Rin is doing fine. He’s still aiming to become the number one swimmer in the world and has gotten a coach.

Sousuke has an interesting scenario. His doctor suggests a surgery if he wants to continue swimming. The problem is that this surgery may or may not end his career. The problem is that we don’t get to see much about this.

Natsuya also gets some development. In the beginning of this season, he swims and participates in races just to get money. He uses the money to travel to another country in the world, races, wins money and then the cycle just repeats. As the story goes on, he eventually stops swimming just for the money and starts taking swimming seriously again.

Even Nitori - the only character who I couldn’t stand in the first two seasons - was okay in Dive to the Future. He didn’t do anything outstanding, but he didn’t annoy me either.

I’m also happy to see how much Ikuya has grown since childhood. Especially his swimming. I’m still surprised (in a good way) that he managed to beat both Haru and Nastuya in the individual medley.

Now for the newer characters. First we have Ikuya’s “best friend” - Hiyori (Seems a bit one-sided from Hiyori’s part). He and Nitori are the only two characters in Free! that I dislike. Like I said earlier, Nitori was much more bearable in this season. Hiyori wasn’t. In my opinion, Hiyori is a selfish, illogical, rude and manipulative control freak. In fact, he’s one of the characters to appear on my list of characters whose reasoning and ideas lack logic. He’s far too judgmental towards Haru and the others despite never meeting them, he makes decisions for Ikuya without Ikuya’s consent and goes out of his way to prevent Haru from talking to Ikuya. “Maybe he just doesn’t want Ikuya to get hurt again” Nope. After winning a race against Makoto, Hiyori clearly states that the reason why he won’t let Haru and the others approach Ikuya is because they’re too weak, not because he wants to protect Ikuya from getting hurt again. He also seems to be rather delusional as he considers himself as the little mermaid who saves the prince (Ikuya) from “sinking” (depression). Where did he get that idea from? According to Ikuya, he has been feeling like this for years. Hell, Hiyori (unintentionally) made Ikuya’s depression even worse. After Haru manages to make it past Hiyori and swims with Ikuya (which actually saves Ikuya from his depression), he does acknowledge that swimming with Haru was different than what he thought, but he never apologizes to neither Haru nor Ikuya for his behavior. His entire purpose in this season is to be a pain in the ass. That’s literally it.

Then we have Haru’s new “challengers” - the world record holder in freestyle Albert Wåhlander and the mysterious swimming prodigy Kaede Kinjou. Albert specifically enters the show with a bang as he completely crushed Haru in a race. Then he disappears until the very last scene of the season. The anime makes such a big deal about them (Especially Albert), but we never get to find out much about these two except that Albert has a coach named Ralph (Or is it Ralf?) and is a world record holder from Sweden. But Kaede? Nothing. Then only time we see him in action is in the very last episode where he easily beat Asahi and Hiyori in a race.

This category gets only 7/10. Hiyori single-handedly removed one point, one point off from the lack of development for Rei, Nagisa and Gou and lastly, one point off for showing close to nothing about Albert and Kaede.

Designs and animation (10/10)

As expected from Free!, it has beautiful animation. And somehow, the anime managed to make the guys even better looking.

Am I the only one who thought Nagisa looked a bit more…mature this season? He used to look younger and rather child-like compared to the other guys. Now he’s starting to look like a man. They grow up so fast…

I didn’t see any (major) flaws with the animation and the character designs look good. Even the clothes the characters wear for the ending look good. The hat Nagisa is wearing gets a bonus point.

Therefore, I’m giving this category a solid 10/10.

 Voice acting and music (10/10)

The ‘older’ voice actors were good, as always while the ‘new’ actors also did pretty well. Kudos to the voice actors of Ikuya, Albert and Hiyori.

Despite despising Hiyori, I think Ryouhei did a good job with portraying the character and making him sound like a real piece of shit. Especially the first five episodes.

After hearing Rin’s broken english despite living in Australia for years, I’m surprised Albert spoke perfect english. No stereotypical Nordic accent, no awkwardness. And if he has always lived in Sweden, I’ll be even more surprised.

The opening theme Heading to Over and ending theme Gold Evolution were both catchy and suited the anime. Though, I wish they could’ve “tossed the rock a bit further” with the opening theme as it resembles the opening themes of the previous seasons - Rage On and Dried Up Youthful Fame - a bit too much. Still, I must admit that I never skipped the opening or the ending of Dive to the Future. Actually, I listen to their full versions often.

Once again, I’m giving out a full score. 10/10 for the voice actors’ performances and the kick-ass music.

Ending (7/10)

As I’ve already stated, this season focuses a lot on the bond between Haru and Ikuya for the first 8 episodes. After episode 8, they’re rarely seen together, let alone talk to each other.

Why would the staff put so much time and effort into their relationship and then just be like “Their drama is over now, so let’s completely move on and make them interact as little as possible because Ikuya is completely irrelevant now”. Of course, I didn’t want Ikuya to get all of Haru’s interactions, as characters like Makoto and Rin are also important. However, I think it was rather disappointing and lame how they almost completely ignored Ikuya for the remaining episodes when they made a such big deal about him (and Haru) earlier. Most of his appearances in episodes 9-12 are just cameos with the only exception being his race against Natsuya. He doesn’t say much. He’s just standing there to show that he still exists.

I’m also a bit disappointed that the only characters who succeeded with their races were Rin and the Kirishima brothers. The others failed and the final race (100m freestyle) was left on a cliffhanger.

To be frank, if it hadn’t been for the character development of Haru, the Kirishima brothers and Makoto, I would’ve given this category a lower score. Most of the other characters’ developments stand still during the season. The only (other) characters who came close to a good development but slipped right before the finish line were Hiyori and Sousuke.

Either a new movie or season was confirmed at the end of episode 12. Hopefully, the newer characters (Hiyori, Iwatobi rookie-trio, Albert and Kaede) will get their proper developments.

Episode 11 and 12 felt a bit rushed. It was almost as if the staff was trying to test themselves regarding how many things they can make happen in just one episode. Because of this, it made episode 12 lack charm. Yes, there were meaningful moments. However, those moments were a bit less effective than intended, which is the result of what happens when you try to make too many things happen in a 20-minute episode.

For that, Dive to the Future gets only a 7 for its ending.

Summary (42/50 - Great)

Although a few things about this season left me a bit disappointed, it was overall a good season and I’m glad I watched it.

I don’t know whether their next project is a fourth season or a movie. Regardless, the bar has been set pretty high since I’m expecting the next movie/season to provide with everything Dive to the Future didn’t:

Goals in life for Rei, Nagisa and Gou

A continuation of Hiyori’s character development

Character developments for Albert and Kaede

Haru interacting with his parents

And most importantly; more Steve.

And that’s my review of the third season of Free!.

I’ll be looking forward to the next project.

Just two years left…

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Interested in watching Free! Dive to the Future? You can watch it and its two prequels on Crunchyroll!

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