#not to get too heavily into shipping discourse so early in the morning but

[that-ineffable-devil]

So, in Ep 5 we hear Edwin remark out loud "remarkably low compatability between Taurus and Aries" with interest before getting shocked by the two Dead Dragons.

I thought that was curious, because Edwin establishes immediately that he doesn't believe in astrology. And Monty establishes immediately that Edwin is a Capricorn. So, he's not looking for himself. It should be noted that this is right after Charles sends him out of the room after Crystal woke up screaming from a nightmare. It's not unlikely he's thinking of them.

So I went looking for Charles' and Crystal's birthdays--to no avail. Our Charles' birthday is definitively different from the Comic Charles, because our Charles died in 1989 and in the comics he wasn't born until January 1, 2000. I couldn't even find a DOB for even Comic Crystal.

So, I thought, let's look at some stereotypical Taurus and Aries traits, yeah?

Preface: My knowledge of astrology is limited, and I don't have time right now to do a deep dive, so this is gonna be surface readings only right now.

Taurus is an earth sign. They're flirty, patient, dependable, loyal, hardworking, and trustworthy. They're also prone to anger, jealous, and stubborn.

Aries is a fire sign, they're confident leaders, passionate, brave, and independent. They're also competitive, desire-driven, and impulsive.

Now, the thing about astrological descriptors is that they're usually pretty broad and there's often overlap. People are complex, multifaceted creatures. But we're looking at characters, written and acted with specific ideas and goals in mind.

With that in mind, we could reasonably argue that Charles is a Taurus--we see him displaying all the Taurus traits above. We could also argue that Crystal is an Aries--between pre- and post-amnesia Crystal, we also see her display all the Aries traits above.

So I wonder...was Edwin seeking solace in comparing the astrological likelihood of Charles and Crystal becoming a real couple?

[lisetteaman]

Sonder

Monday, December 17, 2001

A woman is in labor. She is young and heavily influenced by her parents’ unfolding resentment over her stupidly throwing her life away for a boy and becoming pregnant. He stands guard in the waiting room while his parents stare apathetically at the pages of a Time magazine that is ruminating on the Twin Towers. They sit, indifferent towards the current situation of their son having knocked up a teenager. Her parents barge into the waiting room and start an intense discourse in which each parent is screaming at the other, but no one is listening. Each forcefully playing his own disconnected word as if in a game of Scrabble, borrowing bits of the others’ anecdotes, while trying to see who can increase his score. Amongst all the squabbling, the young woman gives birth to a son, Jack.

Across the hall is a second woman in labor of identical age but antithetical descent. Her parents were extremely loving and unconditionally forgiving, but now deceased, while his are globe trotters who never stopped to watch him grow up. With neither involvement nor surveillance of an upper-hand, they wander into a territory much too young for a couple to embark upon and wind up with a kid, whom they name Olive.

Monday, December 17, 2018 Jack

5:30am His alarm goes off, and he hops into the shower. It’s the only part of his morning routine that he actually enjoys. He takes his showers in complete darkness, the lights off to further exemplify how much his heart craves to slip into the morning air with the steam and melt into the black sky just behind his skylight above his shower head. He looks up and sees the vapor condense to the cold glass of the window-pane. He draws a dick in the fog and goes back to playing with himself. Don’t be fooled: he’s a good kid, even with an immature and slightly inappropriate brain. Don’t blame him; blame his biological sex organ. There’s a pounding in his head. Nope, it’s his father on the other side of the door hammering him to hurry up. Time is always official business in his household. His parents are strict and conservative, of the affluent, conceited type. Jack has no say in this life. It was as though his parents put him in a box once he was born and slapped a label on it, saying: “elite, sophisticated aristocrat” and put no room for failure in with him. They had to. They needed to organize their life somehow, as their parents were hounding them to get their shit together if they wanted some semblance of a successful life. But proof be known, Jack’s parents are now exactly what they wanted to be: rich and famous. It is only fitting that they teach Jack the exact same way to live—with your head up your ass and your ego two sizes too big.

It’s about the hundredth time his father has started this conversation with him. It’s always about the law firm, and how Jack needs to keep his grades above everyone else’s in the class if he wants to get into Yale, like his father, and become the next business partner in the firm. “The board only wants to see Ivy League graduates, Jack…” Jack tunes him out and starts drifting into thoughts that are too conceptual for an early morning without coffee, but that’s how Jack likes it. He likes his brain and all the corners it takes him to. It just never seems tangible enough for Jack to get out of this barricaded city and plan the contours of his life—to go explore the world’s abyss for all it offers in releasing the fantasies that remain dormant inside his head. He’s a hopeless romantic. He has never loved anyone, but his heart, as fragile and malformed as it is, is too gentle and graceful to share with others. He protects it and its sentimental value.

6:45am Although Jack is mostly undisturbed by his parents’ lineage of condescension and economical influence, he does assume the role of a private school boy with wispy, blonde hair and a sophisticated veneer. His driver, Stewart, is parked outside to take Jack to Bradley Preparatory Academy. The limo turns and drives past the Lexington Avenue street subway. Jack turns his head and stares out the window at all the passersby in the subway street car, and thinks of how they all ride around town with their newspapers and their sweaty palms stuck to the subway car poles and their gum shoved under the seats, living in such frustration and haste. He turns his attention back and buries his head in his book, The Catcher in the Rye.

Olive

6:53am She sits smushed between two obese men in overly large, black wool coats, who are clearly failing in their attempt to hide their stress-induced eating habits. She looks at the kid sitting across from her take his gum out and stick it under the seat. She’s sweating and reaches her palm out for the pole to get up and stand somewhere else—not worth the body odor and loss in blood circulation. She hates this route. The Lexington Avenue stop, with all the men who aren’t wealthy enough to drive to work, but just arrogant enough to make her upper lip curl as they eye her up and down before disembarking the subway car. Most people take quick glances at Olive but are too skeptical to trust in how stunningly beautiful she naturally is. She dyes her curly, long hair pink and wears an excessive amount of black eyeliner. She has a septum nose ring in the shape of a butterfly and a pretty bold tattoo of the letter A on the side of her neck below her ear—her mother’s first initial, but some look at it and think of The Scarlet Letter. She’s on her way to work. Her parents passed away last year, and now she lives with her aunt in a tiny apartment in Queens. Her aunt made her a promise that she didn’t have to go to school this year as long as she got a job. So naturally, Olive picked a coffee shop in Midtown. “It’s where all the assholes are, Aunt Grace. The meatheads, the hoodlums, the tourists—they all congregate at my coffee shop.” Aunt Grace is not the biggest fan of having her 17-year-old niece travel right into the raucous of Time Square. She sees through Olive’s chill veneer—her hurt and big brain masked behind makeup and a stellar performance of “I don’t give a shit.” Olive is quintessentially brilliant. She was tested at a young age for an IQ score and found out she was in the top 2 percent of the world at her age. She refuses to get tested again, not for fear that she will have fallen behind, but for just the opposite—for fear that her score will be even more impressive and “they” will sit her in a think tank or ship her off to do long division somewhere until all of her brain cells die. She has read just about everything that has a spine or a library code, and yet, she is rarely amused by any of it. If Olive had it her way, she’d be a starving artist—hitchhiking her way to some rural landscape, finding earthly materials to paint with, and blogging her experiences with people from different cultures around the world.

3:45pm Olive usually walks down to Central Park when she gets off of work. Sometimes she runs, but it’s a cold day out and kind of gloomy. She loves these days—the days when the people seem to be more capricious than normal and she can find a nook somewhere she can sit and watch the melancholy mood dissipate into the grey air. It always seems quieter on these days, more people with their headphones in and their caps on, blinding their focus from the inherit craziness singing in the background. She remembers it’s her birthday. It’s been a whole year since her parents died. She dials her mom’s phone number and listens for the voicemail message: “Hi, you’ve reached Abagail, sorry I can’t come to the phone right now, probably doing something fantastical with Olive right now. I’ll call you back when I get a chance. P.S. if this is Grace, you know where to find me.” Olive is not a crier. She rarely shows her emotions, especially to the people around her. But right now, she sits alone on a park bench, bawling her eyes out, wishing time and memory flowed backwards. What a perfect moment to start questioning everything around her—how time keeps getting faster, how babies are being born but others are dying. How the world seems to be constantly growing, and yet, this city has bolted her down and she can’t escape to see what’s out there and who’s living as vivid and complex a life as she is. She starts getting stuck inside her head, trapping her beautiful, yet damaged mind inside. She feels swallowed in a sea of thoughts and tumbling emotions that are rising like a maverick. She can’t contain it anymore. She erupts—she opens her big mouth and screams. Silence. No one is around her. The world has just stopped—frozen in time and place. She turns her head to see if she can move. Nothing happens, no sounds, just silence. Then, wham! A cab flips over and smashes into a tree.

Jack

4:13pm Jack usually gets picked up by Stewart after school, but he decides to ditch his driver and catch a ride in a cab downtown to Central Park. The clouds are hanging especially low, blanketing the city in its sorrows—these are the kind of days he likes. His driver slams on the breaks. However, the car beside goes flying through the intersection, but it doesn’t make it through the red light in time. The cab is hit by a fast moving semi, is vaulted into the air, and strikes a tree upside down. Jack tells his driver to go ahead and turn around to take him back home. The road would be closed soon, and if he stayed at the park, there would be too much traffic to ever get back home in time for dinner. Dinner’s always at a hard 6:00pm, after indoor lacrosse practice, but he skipped today…didn’t have the heart for it.

Jack’s birthday has always weighed on him, but this year has been especially heavy. His parents have pressured him more, his friends are mostly heroin addicts, and the girl he has been inconveniently crushing on for the past three years is stuck like glue to the hot glow-up from sophomore year. He turns his head out the window and watches as the people dance about the street, always rushing—places to be, people to meet, busy lives to attend to. For the rest of the cab ride home, Jack ponders the irrevocable power of freedom and silently cries in the back of the cab. He wonders if there is a person out there that will make him dance.

Olive

11:34pm Olive walks through the front door. Grace jumps up from the kitchen table and runs to her. “Where have you been? Don’t you do that to me again!” Grace has tears in her eyes. She grabs Olive and holds her in her arms. Olive explains that there was an accident near the park, so she walked for a couple miles before calling a cab the rest of the way home. “Hun. You have to be careful. It’s a zoo out there this time of the year and I HATE the idea of you being alone, especially today.” She plays with Olive’s hair. Olive looks into her eyes and starts sobbing again. She can’t hold it back anymore. It’s been a year since she cried—that’s how tough Olive’s cover-up has become, that’s how much time she has spent packaging all of her emotions into a tiny box and burying them deep into a pit in her soul. No longer, she has freedom from her pain at that exact moment. It’s fleeting though. Olive snaps back to reality and pushes Aunt Grace off of her. She wipes her tears and tells Grace that she isn’t hungry and just wants to be alone, again…a ploy to start hiding her true self from those who get too close to her.

She lies flat on her back on her bed and stares at the ceiling. Her mom was a fantastic artist and used to paint with Olive all the time. When her parents passed, she went digging under their bed for the boxes of old school supplies and random crafts until she found these paintings. She had stapled them to the ceiling. Aunt Grace was against Olive putting holes in the ceiling, but it didn’t bother Olive one bit. “What’s it like up there, mom? Is it colorful and just all that you hoped it would be?” Olive has the particular feeling that no matter what she does, everything will always go wrong. It’s like everyone around her is just living such a normal and simple life, but she has these powers to see the future and know that something—her passions, her love life, her job, her cares, her worries—will always go wrong. She’s coped this past year in her own silent, painful way. She wears threaded friendship bracelets and rubber bands over her wrists to hide the pain from the naked eye, but what the eye can’t see is that she is secretly scabulous. She is proud of her scars, of the character and the meaning behind where they are and how they got there. She plays with them like autographs on her body that she doesn’t share with the world. They remind her of her identity and how she got to this particular place of hell in her life. They speak of her brilliancy, of her broken mind and damaged heart. She gets out her phone and dials her mom’s number again. She can hear it ring in the box that she keeps it in, tucked away on the top shelf of her closet. It’s her namesake, and she must never let anyone take it away from her. Aunt Grace doesn’t know she has it for fear she would rip it away from her on a forced path of closure and acceptance. But, Aunt Grace, how the FUCK ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO ACCEPT THAT YOUR MOTHER WAS FUCKING KILLED?

Aunt Grace knocks on the door, and Olive lets her in. Grace apologizes, but Olive knows it’s not her fault. She pats the bed for Grace to come and lie down with her. They stare at the ceiling while Aunt Grace tells old stories of Abagail and the crazy, stupid adventures they would have as kids. How Abagail fell in love so young and then had Olive.  How Olive was such a tiny baby, born 3 months early, yet grew up to a be such a feisty, resilient, and brilliant young woman. The world seems to be spinning slower tonight with Aunt Grace sharing her memories about Olive’s mother. This whole year has seemed, to Olive, to be growing faster in time, as though the moon has been gravitating farther from this earth, and so she was spinning faster and faster until now. Now, it finally stops. The moon returns, and there is a brief moment of clarity for Olive. “Aunt Grace, do you ever feel like you’re stuck in one body, occupying just one space and it will never change? That people around you will continue to live freely but you will essentially never grow up to understand the world and what it has to offer? That you’re just a gawky kid from Queens who has lived the same day over and over again and nothing about it will ever change… “And that maybe you’re supposed to meet someone who will change your world? That there is somebody perfect out there, just for you and you’re supposed to spend eternity together, because he is the cosmic balance to your failures?” Aunt Grace doesn’t have an answer for her. So for the remainder of her 17th birthday, they lie together, with Olive’s head resting on her aunt’s shoulder. Olive feels safe for the first time in what seems like ages. She likes it and holds on to that feeling for as long as she can.

Tuesday, December 18, 2018 Jack

10:00am There’s a school trip to the Met to see the new exhibit on Art and Conspiracy, how everything is connected—public policy and the expression of artists who explored the hidden operations of power and the symbiotic suspicions between government and its citizens. However, Jack’s class is comprised of kids who spend their time vacationing in the Hampton’s and whose parents are politically powerful in the Republican party. Therefore, they aren’t interested in artists who unveil how the government is hidden in webs of deceit.

Olive

9:00am Aunt Grace wakes Olive. “Let’s go to the art museum today. C’mon girly, call off work this one time. We didn’t get to do anything for your birthday yesterday, and it’s the perfect day to go. It’s raining and you looove the Met. You can’t deny it.” Olive smiles and already knows the answer. All Aunt Grace had to do was say the word “Met” and Olive would be snapping on her shoes and out the door.

10:00am They arrive with a huge crowd of prep boys from the Academy down the street. Olive looks at them with disgust. “Look at them with their perfect hair and pocket squares in their suit jackets, so precise and perfect. Their lives so plain and planned—destined for wealth and authoritative power.”

Jack

10:38am Jack is drawn to the stunning expression of freed meaning and colorful revelations. He approaches an especially extraordinary depiction of Gerald Ford being pulled by a puppeteer behind the stock mark exchange. It’s exactly how he feels. Someone is pulling on him, his heart, and he can’t see who. He walks towards the art piece. There’s a tall white wall separating the room into two sides. He leans his right shoulder against the wall as he looks at the picture. He stops and feels the wall with his hand.

10:41am The hopeless romantic questions, “Is it her?” The woman who is tugging on his heart and pulling him along. The woman who has been dragging him around the city, pushing him to think that there is more of the world out there than what his school has taught him and his parent have preached to him. More than the uniform thought that people live such boring, regular lives, but that there are people who claim a dynamic life of excitement, complication, and vividness. These thoughts come flooding in; he can’t imagine anything else but that there is someone with just as beautiful a heart and complex a mind as him. A woman who will flip him upside down and change his world.

Olive

10:41am She stands with a white wall on her left side as she stares up at two black and white paintings. One is an alien, and she knows that’s exactly how she feels. An out of body experience occurs. She is lifted up out of her body. She feels pulled along, with increasing thoughts that there is more to this world, to this universe than this one place that she has stayed all her life. There is more out there, a reason her parents were killed by a drunk driver. A reason they left this earth and flew into the sky. There is a person who lives at this exact moment who is drawing her in, her heart, her mind. Then…

The Meantime

10:42am Nothing. A moment of tangency flees from the mind; the simple sample size of the original thought that the people of this world stand still and their lives are of no real meaning, just random commotion, comes back into focus. Jack turns to his left and walks away. Olive turns right and tells Aunt Grace she should leave.

10:43am A failed occhiolism: they never became aware of the smallness of their perspectives, in which they could never draw a meaningful conclusion about their worlds, and how they could have crossed paths and added to the complexities of the world’s great culture. A moment so innocuous, but with a chance for it marking the diversion in a new era of life. Like they just missed their cue. Two people who share a parallel story, harmonizing in what could have been a wilder experiment if she just turned the corner and crossed his path. But life is an unrepeatable anecdote. A universal flaw that the epiphanies of Jack and Olive were imperceptive and fleeting, until nothing was left but the echo of what might have been.

[chrysaliseuro2018]

In Praise of the Malteser

A long held ambition for us is now being achieved. We have landed in Malta. This section will be a bit of a sum up as the hectic days and sociable pace of the first month of the trip has meant the blog has been somewhat tardy on the production front. Or perhaps we are just getting old. Some brevity and celerity is required. Neither being my long suits. Anyway we'll try. We had had an early start, 6.15am for the bus to pick us up and one of those round all the hotels jobs (we were the first ones on) followed by a flight from Cappadocia and then 6 hours or so at Istanbul airport. This meant that by the time we got to Valletta around 5.00pm we didn't fancy public transport. It must be said though that we were heavily saved by the Priority lounge at Istanbul which we were able to "lounge" around in (an Amex bonus) for at least 4 hours. A few nibblies, a couple of beers and a rose for Liz. Helps pass the time and coupled with wifi all you need really. Anyway we landed at Malta and the cab seemed the easiest option. Yet again we had a bit of a bizarre cab ride. It's a set fair so no prob on that front unlike Istanbul. However, the driver no sooner had we told him the address of our apartment started a loud (and I mean loud) phone conversation in what sounded like Arabic. He had the earplugs in so we could only hear one half of the conversation (that's actually 90% of the conversation as the yellee on the other end was not getting much of a word in). And so it proceeded for the 15 minutes of more drive in. There was no "where are you from?" no landmarks pointed out, just this raging cacophony. Obviously he was not happy with the person at the other end or Pharos that's normal discourse. Not the cabbie's job to be the face of the city but it's often the first face you really see or person that you have interaction with (let's forget customs) so perhaps municipalities need to put some work into schooling them. With our ears ringing we headed for our apartment which was just in the "restricted for vehicles" zone in Valletta. Keypad access to the apmt and we had the code, all worked well and it was great - bright, clean, virtually newly refurbished and very central. After settling in, we headed for a stroll around town. Plenty of English voices. Lovely 3/4 story older apartments with balconies, typically a sandstone colour but also painted in pastels. Not all in the best of nick but quite charming. We strolled around town for quite a while. It was pretty lively with restaurants opening onto the street. Many served fish but also basics such as pizzas and burgers. Catering very much for an English glut of visitors. We saw a restaurant that we quite liked the look of which served traditional Maltese dishes and breads but it was getting a little late to take full advantage of, so we booked for two days time and ate at a small bar opposite the restaurant sitting at a table in the street. It was very much a local bar with just a couple of tables outside and the small crowd there all seemed to be speaking Maltese. Owner was very friendly. Liz had a salad and me a sandwich so nothing too heavy but a nice rose for Liz and a couple of craft beers for me so all good. We went to bed pretty tired. Liz was not feeling 100% first thing the following day with a migraine so took a couple of tablets and I disappeared round town so she could sleep. Thankfully she felt better by late morning and in the afternoon we went to the national war museum which is in Fort St Elmo down by the harbour. Malta's history is fascinating. Founded by the Knights of St John it was laid siege to by the Turks in the 16th century - surviving that - just. Napoleon also decided to intervene there and famously it held out in the 2nd World War against blockades and air raids particularly by the Italians with the island eventually being awarded the George Cross medal for heroism by King George 6th. This museum, with the assistance of some very good graphics and videos, painted an interesting picture of the history of the island and its inhabitants. The difficulties of getting supplies through to the island in WW2 was a particularly gripping aspect with large naval escorts required for supply ships because German submarines were menacing and sinking many merchant ships. Naval vessels were also targeted by the submarines with many losses. The bravery of the merchant seaman and naval forces against an unseen but deadly enemy was inspiring. That night we ate at one of the many street cafes. A little draughty as the evening weather not quite as warm as we expected but comfortable enough to sit out. Liz had rabbit stew which was good and I had an octopus casserole which was very tasty. Service good and friendly and we did ask what the ingredients of the casserole were. Seemed to be a bit of everything on the herb front though tomato based. Must try to cook in Melbourne. Perhaps the highlight of the evening was watching the World Cup - Spain vs Portugal sitting on the steps outside a bar. Liz did very well as all seats were taken but she squeezed us onto a reserved table at which the reservers never turned up so we had a great view. 3-3 with Ronaldo scoring an equaliser around the 90 minute mark with a sensational free kick. Atmosphere was really good with supporters of both sides there but all really convivial. Next morning was admin with flights to be booked home. A painful process as we have changed our return date and options getting limited. We then headed off to the same bar as the previous night to watch the Socceroos play France in the World Cup. 2-1 loss unfortunately. Our admin as it turned out was poorly timed as the cathedral which we had planned to see that afternoon closed for the afternoon. We had also booked to see the Malta experience which is an IMAX type short movie with the background to Malta which also closed at 3.00pm so we missed that too. Ahh!! Traps for players and we kicked ourselves as we did want to see the Caravaggio in the Cathedral museum though we were able to just look in the door and see the wonderful interior of the cathedral itself. Malta still operates on British country town hours of the 1950s! It's basically closed for biz from pm Saturday through to Sunday, apart from restaurants and bars. We did though manage to go into the Grand Master's palace which until recently was the location of Malta's parliament. Specifically we visited 5 State Rooms which are still used for official purposes including greeting foreign ambassadors and delegations. Some wonderful and large tapestries hanging in one of the rooms picturing also sorts of exotic animals and scenes from Africa. The other rooms were pretty grand too. Touch of Windsor castle. The palace is still the official residence of the President of Malta. Also, by coincidence, the palace was hosting a small exhibition of Picasso drawings and Joan Miro paintings. Unusual stuff from Miro but worth a look. Pablo is, well, Pablo. I pressed on to look at the armoury (with the usual collection of arms and armour through the ages) while Liz went WINDOW SHOPPING. That night we dined in the restaurant we had spotted the first night which promised interesting local produce. Liz had a fish soup which was fine and I had the octopus casserole again which was not a patch on the previous night. Slow service too, so no tips handed out. C'est la vie, one of those days when not everything went right, especially the Socceroos losing!!, though the State Rooms were good. Last day in Valetta, tomorrow we take a car and head off around the island(s).

[okmeamithinknow]

The Sauced Snake

A.N.: This is the result of crippling writer’s block, and too much drama in one of my other fandoms. Apparently discourse makes me delve into crack ships. So here. Here’s my first foray into CoLu.

The linoleum tiles are cool. A cold inviting wasteland against the bare skin of his cheek as he lays face down against it. An enchanting seductress that lures him away from the stifling dizzying atmosphere of standing that is the rest of the kitchen. A groan floods the kitchen, like a wave across the floor, and the Poison Dragonslayer decides that if he could somehow become one with the chilled tiles he would. He’s going to marry the ground and it’s steadying presence.

“It’s nice to know I have some competition,” calls a soft voice from the archway of the kitchen. “Though I wish you would have warned me before you asked me to marry you.“

"Shh,” he says, cracking his good eye open to glare at the blonde as she treads lightly into the room. Her footsteps are soft, a light tiptoe against the floor, and she slides to the ground next to him, laying with one arm pillowing her head.

“What are you doing on the floor?” she whispers, voice hushed to not further agitate his sensitive hearing.

Lucy’s been home for hours now, having slipped out of the guildhall early, pleading exhaustion, and sleeping through what he knows is the leastgraceful entrance Cobra has ever made into their home. He remembers something about using one of his stronger poisons to melt the deadbolt.

And doorknob

And possibly the hinges.

Somehow he’d made it to the kitchen, only to have the world start spinning beneath his feet. The thud of his head hitting the floor must have been loud enough to wake her. Enough foiled kidnapping attempts had her stalking to the kitchen armed with her whip and keys, but the sight of her favorite dragonslayer shaped puddle finds her placing them on the counter on her way to join him on the floor. Cobra groans, and Lucy has to resist cooing at the sound.

“Mira,” he manages to say and Lucy doesn’t need his ability to read minds— souls he insists—to figure out what happened.

“Some great Poison Dragonslayer,” she says, her voice teasing, barely masking a laugh. “I thought you couldn’t get drunk, that the lacrima sees the alcohol as poison and metabolizes it too fast to for you to feel anything.”

His answer is a single finger barely lifted off from the floor and she giggles outright at the crude gesture. A quiet laugh, just barely more than a breath. Shirtless, face smushed against the floor, Cobra is definitely drunk. The most intoxicated that his fiancé has ever seen, and she can’t help but pity the hangover he’ll have in the morning.

“Demon figured it out.” His speech is a broken and slurred and Lucy wants to giggle at his hiccuping snort. “Mixed extra strength floor cleaner and vodka. Slows down lacrima. Makes Cobra reeeeeeeeeal drunk.”

Lucy does coo now. "You look worse than Natsu on a train,” she says and Cobra groans, mind spinning at the thought of those death machines, and his current state, and is it possible to fall down when he’s already on the floor? He breathes heavily in through his nose, trying to settle the roiling in his stomach. It doesn’t stop the saliva from pooling in his mouth or his stomach from cramping, but the soothing scent of lavender, of Lucy and the bubble bath she saves for those nights when she takes extra long baths, settles his stomach just enough to keep from vomiting.

“Erik,” Lucy whispers when she thinks he’s fallen asleep.

He hasn’t, but words are hard, and she smells nice and the floor is cool and not doing that spinning thing anymore. She brushes a hand over his bare back, and it finally dawns on him that he’s not wearing a shirt. Lost somewhere to the drinks and the night and it wasn’t one of his favorites, so maybe he’ll track it down in the morning if the ground hasn’t swallowed him. Maybe Gajeel grabbed it for him. At least he thinks Gajeel had been there. He remembers the vague scent of metal, but maybe that’s just the combination of bile and floor cleaner.

“Sweetie, you can’t spend the night on the floor, and I can’t lift you on my own.”

She’s right, Cobra’s inebriated brain tells him, and he presses his palms to the floor to heave himself up. Lucy scrambles up next to him, to help steady him in case his wobbling sends him careening back to the ground. When she’s sure he’s not about to fall, she grabs his hand, lacing her fingers with his, and leads him to their bedroom. Fortunately it’s a short walk, and she leaves him teetering in the doorway, ducking under his arm to slip back into the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

“I would help you undress,” she says a teasing tone lacing her voice, when she returns, “But you seem to have taken a page out of Gray’s book.”

Cobra looks down to see she’s right. He’s some how not only lost his shirt— and jacket he realizes— but also his pants. He rubs the hand not bracing himself against the doorway across his forehead, as the stark realization that he’s probably wandered halfway across Magnolia in his lucky pair of boxers hits him.

Shrugging, he takes the offered glass and downs it, knowing he’ll need it if tomorrow’s hangover is anything like the one’s Lucy nurses whenever Cana manages to talk her into drinking. He’ll consider himself lucky in the morning that a nasty hangover is the worst of his problems for getting Lucy pregnant before they got married. Erza’s less than casual threat to Cobra if he didn’t make good on his plans to marry the celestial mage when they’d announced the second part of their good news that night notwithstanding. While the couple was less than secretive about their relationship and they’d been engaged for several months, they’d yet to tell their closest friends about the engagement until that night.

 Not trusting himself to place the glass onto the table beside the bed, he hands it back to Lucy, who’s pulled back the blanket on his side of the bed. He manages to ooze onto the bed, and burrow under the covers.

"Do you need anything?” she says.

Cobra wants to shake his head no. Wants to, but can’t lest he make himself nauseous again. He manages a croaked no. Lucy crosses to her side of the bed, and climbs in, leaning on the stack of pillows propped up behind her. He shifts slowly, scooting closer to Lucy and pushing up the fabric of the t-shirt she’s chosen to wear to bed underneath her breasts, so that he can lay his head onto the exposed skin of her stomach. It’s still flat now, but won’t be for much longer.

“Told you you couldn’t get out of celebrating with the guild when we told them that we’re pregnant and that you asked me to marry you.” Lucy hums gently in reply, and brings a hand to his head, sifting fingers gently through sweat slicked hair.

“Fuck you, Bright Eyes,” he growls.

“I would,” she quips, “But whiskey dick isn’t a myth.”

He huffs a laugh, while Lucy continues to stroke her fingers through his hair. She doesn’t have to remind him that that’s the reason he’s in this mess in the first place, the pregnancy a result of an enthusiastic reunion after his last danger-filled solo mission, and while they’re neither one of them expected to become parents so soon, they were more than excited to meet the little blob now growing in Lucy’s uterus.

“Next time,” he says, “You’re getting drunk, and I’m the one getting pregnant, ‘k?”

Lucy hums and strokes a finger down his cheek. The soothing beat of her heart and the sound of her soul, it’s gentle trills and cadences lulls him to sleep.

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[mofoxwriting]

Fallen Sun Day 2

NaNoWriMo Day 2 writing below the Keep reading!! Read day 1 first!

Wolf sighed and watched Calsfer march off. There was no stopping him now that he was heated, and she knew that.

Calsfer’s fist knocked heavily on the door, not shy of his labored breathing. He stopped after a few seconds and stared at the door. Shuffling could be heard within. 

“What?” Alala yawned as she opened the door. She didn’t get the chance to open her eyes before the fish was pushed into her face. 

“This!” Calsfer barked.

“What the--” Alala took a step back before she glared at Calsfer. “Oi! It was a prank!”

“It’s disgusting!” Calsfer argued. “I have work to do, Alala. I don’t have time for this!”

“Ya really can’t take a joke, can ya?” Alala asked flatly as she watched Calsfer turn red. "C'mon Cal, can't ya smile for once?"

"You're a jerk, Alala! Why should I?" 

"'Cuz ya've aged ten years since ya got on this ship."

"And all thanks to you."

"Cal, take a break from all this serious matter."

"Take a break? And what? Let the ship sink? Yeah right. I would like to die on land at the very least."

"Geeze Cal, take a breath, would ya? We ain't gonna sink. Ain't no damage was done ta the ship."

"You... You know that was a double negative! What did you do?" 

Alala watched Calsfer as he became unreasonable. She sighed and crossed her arms as she let him stew in his frustration. "We got one of the railings damaged by a gunny. Can't even be fixed until we get ta port an replace it." She was calm in her tone, knowing it was best to appease him rather than push her luck.

"Then, the gods only know what else happened. Leave me alone and let me work!"

Alala friends as she watched Calsfer leave. She sighed one last time and pitched up the fish to take to the kitchens.

"Kale, is this still usable?" Alala asked as she entered the warm room. She set the fish in the counter and looked at the water spirit.

"I... I believe so. How... Where--"

"Nabbed it this morning ta mess with Cal. Might need a good scrub, but can't be that bad."

Kale was rooted to the floor as he processed how boldly Alala walked in. He watched her glance around the area, but she stayed relatively nonthreatening. "Thanks... Would you... You..."

"Nah, this is your favorite fish, ain't it? Makeup somethin' nice for yerself, on me."

Kale blinked at Alala, his pearly eyes wide. "Thank you, ma'am." 

Alala waved to him and happily strode out to the halls again, nearly running into Wolf.

"You really should stop antagonizing Calsfer, " Wolf began kindly. There was no disappointment in her voice, but it was etched into her face. "He is just doing his job."

"I know, but the poor boy is so uptight that he's more rigid than the mast. What's a little fun gonna hurt?"

"Alala, " Wolf's tone shifted. "No."

Alala sighed. "Sorry, Wolfie. I just think that after what, two an' a half years now, he'd lighten up."

"I think you should take everyone's suggestion and talk to him."

"He won't talk ta me! Never has!"

Wolf sighed. "I can't have a crew without discourse, can I?"

"We're pirates, Wolfie; we revel in discourse."

"That's a new word for you, Lala, " said a sleepy but sly voice. Both women looked over to an opening door where Bel stood. His soft green eyes flickered with his magic as he looked between the two. His messy black hair stood in all directions. While taller than Calsfer, he still was short when he stood next to Corrion. 

"What word?" Yawned Les as he too appeared in the doorway. He was much taller than Bel. His blond, nearly white hair was also a mess. Brown eyes met Bel's with a smile. Human though he was, he was not a force to be reckoned with. 

"Revel, " Bel quoted back to the other. "You know, I'll bet she's been reading."

"Lala, reading?" Les covered a chuckle. "Well, if she's been reading, I'll eat my boot."

"Real cute, " Alala smirked at the duo. "And looks like it's boot for breakfast, Les, I have been reading a bit. Figure I'll surprise the crew a bit with some fancy lingo."

Les guffawed at the statement and shook his head. "Whom are you attempting to impress, oh First Mate? What poor individual has captured your soul to invoke such a feat that you must undertake? Do their eyes truly meet yours, or are they merely a fantasy of yours? Do tell, oh maiden of blood, do tell."

"Don't be throwin' all that 'round just 'cuz I've been readin' a book, ya Silver Spoon. I'm bored. It's read or play puzzles, and I ain't got patience for puzzles."

"I see, I see" Les playfully tapped his fingers on his stubbled chin. "No hero of fate has swept you yet off of your feet, so the words of which you learn are for yourself."

"An you've got a lotta say about it. Ya can't just leave a cat to her business, can ya? I ain't tryin to bother you or Bel, there when you two sneak off."

"We aren't stopping you," Bel smirked at Alala, "we just don't think you would be interested."

"I don't wanna know." Alala frowned but couldn't keep the facade as the pair laughed. Her smile cracked over her face, and she chuckled along.

"Why are you all up so early-" Falcon opened his door, a yawn taking over his last word.

"The sun has been up for an hour, Falcon, we all slept in, " Wolf informed him.

Falcon was easily the tallest of the crew, having to dip his head in the hallway to stand. His hair was pale, a greenish tinge to it. His teal eyes were bleary as he tried to take in the faces around him. Freckles covered him so densely that his sun-pink skin was brown. It was near impossible to tell that he and Calsfer were half brothers. 

"Really?" Falcon asked. He tossed his hand back and beckoned at his sheet covered window. A rush of air pulled around those in the hallway, and the cloth was ripped from its hold, bathing the room and open door in bright sunlight. “Well, wouldn’t you know.”

“Good Gods! Warn someone before you go opening windows!” Bel said suddenly, shielding his eyes. Before he could lash out his own hand, wolf grabbed him, stopping him. The magic Beltran had summoned sparked from his fingertips and Alala winced as one of the wooden panels on the wall thrust sharply out of its binding, curving to hit the others. Luckily, it didn’t go far.

“Not in here, Bel,” Wolf said sternly, gently giving the mage his hand hack. “It’s too small of a space.”

Bel puffed a sigh and looked away. “Fine,” he said. “Fine, I’ll be good. But really, Falcon, you need to warn us!”

“Sorry, dude,” Falcon laughed nervously. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I am sure you will,” Bel muttered under his voice before slipping back into his room.

“He’s just a little cranky this morning,” Les assured. “He didn’t sleep well last night after the raid. I think his surge got to him more than he’s going to admit.”

Wolf nodded gently to Les. “Well, you’re the expert in cheering him up,” she said kindly. “You’ll know what to do better than us.”

“Captain, don’t say that,” Les said, though he flushed. “You’ve known Bel way longer than I have. I know you have some tricks to cheer him up.”

“I may, but you know just as many as I do. Now, be sure to let him know breakfast is in ten minutes, okay? Maybe a good meal will help.”

Les nodded and went back into the room with Bel, shutting the door behind him.

“Don’t tell Cal ‘bout this,” Alala said, staring that the panel. “Fal, you and I are fixin’ this right after chow, got it?”

“Yeah, got it,” Falcon nodded, though looked ashamed.

“It was a rough night for everyone,” Alala assured him. “I’m dreading when Corry wakes up. He’s going to catch something on fire.”

“I didn’t think we did that bad,” Falcon muttered. 

“Nah, we’ve done worse, but I don’t think any of us were expectin’ ta see so many guards out. I wonder what’s goin’ on to warrant it?”

“Don’t know,” Falcon shrugged and looked to Wolf.

“I am sure we’ll learn eventually,” Wolf said. “You two get cleaned up. I’ll see you in the mess room.”

The pair waved to Wolf as she walked off, continuing to discuss what the event was.

------

The mess room soon filled with the crew, including Corrion and Collie, who seemed the most upset with the night previous. Bel had calmed down and was happily creating parlor tricks from his fingertips, turning a few cards blue, green, and pink as he spun them, suspended in air. Les laughed, entertaining his tricks and egging him on. Kale had joined Wolf at a table, silently eating the fish Alala had caught. Alala was sitting at Wolf’s other side, observing. Calsfer and Falcon sat across from one another, Calsfer complaining about his morning thus far, while Falcon happily stuffed his face to avoid continuing the conversation. Perdido sat next to Calsfer though, and assured him as best as he could, though his efforts seemed to fall on deaf ears.

“How’s the fish?” Alala asked Kale as she saw him relax in the group.

“Oh! It is good,” Kale said, snapping up to look at her.

“Good,” Alala smiled. “Glad I could help ya out. Hey, any more memories come back yet?”

“Oh, no,” Kale admitted. “Not yet. I am sorry.”

“Sorry? Kale, it ain’t your fault. Ya can’t force ‘em.”

“But I haven’t recalled anything for a year now!”

“Then we’ll keep waitin.”

Kale sank back into himself, looking like he could cry.

“We will get through this, Kale, together,” Wolf assured to him kindly. “Until then, don’t beat yourself up over this.”