#oh yeah I started my new job this week!!! I work for tram now

[dkettchen]

Learning C for work, and, even having learnt C++ syntax before, it is truly a humbling experience after having gotten so used to python over the past half year 💀

[bubbyleh]

Do I Know You? - Chapter 7

read this chapter on ao3! check out the rest of this series on tumblr!

Chapter 7: Redacted Version An idea of the truth.

- ○ -

Getting to know your long-lost sibling around thirty-nine years after they disappeared is certainly something. It’s difficult sometimes for Kleiner to reconcile the adult sitting across from him with the baby he knew so long ago, but he’s trying! And though Bubby isn’t really one to offer up much in the way of personal anecdotes, even hearing the odd story from five years ago from Coomer is nice.

At first, Kleiner told himself he wouldn’t press. He had no starry-eyed, idealized notion of Black Mesa in his head. The facility was fucked up beyond measure, and the thought of Bubby growing up surrounded by that? It was one he wanted to shove into a trash can in his mind.

But Bubby didn’t seem to want to talk about it, and Kleiner wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.

Slowly, though, that changed. The incidents were small initially, but Bubby began to open up slightly. Like how during one of their regular coffee meetings, Kleiner asked a bit about the conversation he’d overheard in Chemical Engineering.

“Oh, that,” Bubby grimaces. “That was Dr. Daniels. He’s been in charge of my project for as long as I can remember. He died not long after that night .”

“Good,” Kleiner says in response to that last fact, a statement that throws Bubby for a loop. They look unsure, avoiding Kleiner’s gaze for the briefest of moments and slouching forward. Suddenly, though, their eyes widen, and they sit right back up.

“Yeah, you’re right,” they finally say. “It is good.”

Bubby places their mug on the table, brow furrowing as they stare at the coffee, gently swishing. And something about it threatens to tear Kleiner’s heart apart. The wrongness of it all. Bubby shouldn’t have memories like that—of Dr. Daniels. They were supposed to grow up together, in a small house at the end of the street. Instead, they were in Kleiner’s admittedly cramped kitchen, trying to catch up on a lifetime of memories.

It’s unfair.

Kleiner takes a sip of his coffee.

“Bubby,” he manages to ask. “Have you ever thought about leaving Black Mesa?”

And Bubby frowns. “That’s… complicated.” They fiddle with the edge of their mug.

“How so?”

“Well,” Bubby sighs. “It’s not that I want to stay at Black Mesa, it’s more that… I don’t technically have a doctorate, you know. And I’m not qualified to do anything else. If I want a job, it’s gotta be here.”

Oh. Right. Actually, Kleiner hadn’t really thought about that, but it did make sense that Black Mesa wouldn’t be able to just hand Bubby a degree. Hell, it might actually be a bit of a warning sign if they could.

“But, also…” In the most simple of motions, Bubby smiles. “Harold’s here. You’re here, Isaac.” He brings his mug up to his mouth, but pauses to clarify, “You two are doing great work. I wouldn’t ask you to leave it, and I won’t leave either of you.”

Bubby’s clearly trying to keep their tone casual, but their words feel significant to Kleiner. They hold a weight to them; a promise.

- ○ -

The Hanukkah photo was the first step. It took a while, but the longer Bubby saw it and got used to it, the more he realized he was curious. The baby in that photo looks so happy to be with their brother, and it’s hard to imagine that that’s

him

. A little person whose family adored them. And maybe, if they see the rest of Kleiner’s photos, he’ll at least understand a bit about who that person could have been.

Isaac, of course, was thrilled by the prospect of sharing Bubby’s baby pictures. He’d promised to dig up as many as he could and bring them over, since Black Mesa’s singles dorms aren’t really great for receiving guests in. Once Harold had found out about the plan, though, he’d been eager to invite himself to the viewing. Actually, he’d been practically giddy about it.

Maybe they should be worried about that…

…

Oh this was a mistake.

Before they can really consider cancelling, though, there’s a knock at the door. And when Bubby opens the door to the sight of Kleiner holding a small cardboard box, it’s only then that he realizes that tonight is going to be extremely embarrassing.

- ○ -

“Oh, look at this one! He has to be less than an hour old, here!”

“My goodness, he’s adorable!”

Bubby has to resist every urge not to hide his red face behind his hands, because some poor part of his brain still really wants to see what he looked like as a baby. Unfortunately, Coomer does as well, and if they have to hear one more time about how they were the cutest thing to ever grace the planet, then they’re going to explode.

What’s even worse, though, is that Coomer brought out his own collection.

“You should see this one.” He slides a picture over to Kleiner. “They thought they were so cool!”

Bubby just barely catches a glance of a photo of himself when he was, what? Thirty-five? Thirty-six? Couldn’t have been too long after he started dating Coomer, actually.

“Wait a fucking second.” Bubby snatches the photo before Kleiner can get that good of a look. They do look younger, with a scowl on their face pointed somewhere offscreen. “I don’t remember you taking this.”

“Ah, well.” Finally, Coomer has the audacity to look at least a bit sheepish. “I made sure you weren’t looking.”

Bubby squints back down at the picture. “Why?”

“I thought you looked nice,” Coomer admits matter-of-factly.

And after a brief reprieve, Bubby’s flushed face returns in full force. This time, though, he draws his knees to his chest and buries his face in them.

“You two are killing me,” Bubby mumbles, holding the picture out for Isaac.

Kleiner plucks it from their hands. “You’re fine,” he insists.

“I will die, and it will be your fault.”

There’s a sound of papers shifting, followed by Kleiner muttering, “Hang on a moment…”

Bubby peeks out.

“I think that was it, actually,” Kleiner sighs. Almost instinctively, he reaches over and pats Bubby’s head, earning himself a glare. “You disappeared when you were around thirteen months. That’s not a lot of time…”

Kleiner’s eyes seem fixed on the photo of the newborn in his hand, though. He brushes it with his pointer finger, and in the back of Bubby’s mind, something clicks into place. They stand abruptly, much to their brother’s surprise.

“Fine,” Bubby states. “Give me a second.”

They loop around the couch, and after blindly fumbling under it for a moment, their hand finally finds purchase on what they were looking for. With a flourish, Bubby holds up their file, shaking off the dust that’s accumulated.

“Is that where you’ve been hiding that?” Coomer asks.

“Don’t worry, it’s getting a new hiding spot after tonight,” Bubby reveals. He settles back on the couch, clutching the file tightly. “Now, let me set the ground rules: This is a selective process, which means I reserve the right to withhold any picture I see fit.” He glares at the two of them. “No sneaking.”

Kleiner nods, and Coomer chimes in with “Understood!”

Bubby takes a deep breath before they open their file again. It’s been a while—a long while—since they last did, but everything is just as they left it. In fact, he thinks he might know where the first good picture is as he flips forwards slightly.

“Alright.” They undo the paperclip, slipping the photo to Kleiner. “This is me and Dr. Cynthia, one of the good ones. The notes say I was around fourteen months here.”

Dr. Cynthia had taken an immediate liking to Bubby, and judging by the picture, the feeling was mutual. She held him up to the camera with such a happy look on her face. Bubby’s struck with the thought that it was the first time in over a month that someone had loved him.

And Isaac has tears welling up in his eyes.

“No, shit,” Bubby struggles. “Don’t cry, fuck.” They pull Kleiner into a hug without really thinking.

Kleiner wipes away the few tears that escaped. “I’m fine, Bubby, seriously,” he says, but his voice sounds shaky. “It’s just… I didn’t get to see you grow up.”

Oh.

Crap.

“Okay, we don’t have to look at them anymore-” Bubby tries to put the file down.

“No wait!” Kleiner’s almost frantic as he grabs onto Bubby’s wrist. He takes a breath. “I want to see them.”

“You’re sure?”

Kleiner nods.

“Alright.” Bubby shakes his hand off them. “But we’re taking a break if you need it.”

- ○ -

Seeing the rest of Bubby’s childhood was certainly a mixed bag of emotions. They were such a cute little kid. There was a picture of them after they got their first pair of glasses, with a smile bright enough to light up a room. And then in their teenage years, their facial expressions gradually melted into “teen angst”. It was especially funny when Kleiner held up a picture of Bubby pouting when he was a baby, and they realized he was making the same face in both photographs.

Kleiner loved it, truly, but there was an underlying melancholy to it all. He should have seen this all himself. Bubby was taken away from their family, and for what?

That question sticks in their head. For what? Bubby’s clearly been skipping over large parts of their childhood, ignoring the bad parts and sharing the good. And that makes sense, of course, but…

Well, Kleiner read that first paper. Bubby was taken for augmentation and enhancement.

They did something to him.

“I’ll see you sometime next week,” Bubby promises as they see Kleiner out of their dorm. “Maybe we’ll do another dinner?”

“That would be nice,” Kleiner agrees. He’d stayed later than he meant to, but the trams would run for another hour or so. He has time for goodbyes.

“I’ll talk to you about it at work!” Harold calls from the seating area, where he’s still sorting the picture mess.

Bubby rolls their eyes, but they lean in, pulling Kleiner into another hug. “Thank you.”

Kleiner’s always happy about some genuine emotion from their sibling, but it’s a bit sudden. “Why are you thanking me?”

“I don’t know, really,” Bubby chuckles to himself. “Being my brother, I guess? Accepting me?”

“Like I wouldn’t welcome you back.” Kleiner returns the hug for a brief moment, before pulling back. “I’ll look at my schedule next week.”

Bubby waves his brother off. “Bye, Isaac.”

“Bye Bubby.”

And Isaac Kleiner decides. He is going to get his hands on that file.

[snow-lavender]

The Last Day of Unwellness

AKA, “Henrik questions his reality and the rules that govern it.”

Word Count: 2736

And another one! Thanks for reading if you do!

AO3 Link Here

Henrik rushed into his living room. “Shit, shit, shit!”. He peeled off his scrubs and threw a button up shirt on, kicking off his shoes as he went. Checking his watch, he saw that it was 8:07. Even after explaining to his superior, he’d still been forced to work an extra half-shift at the ER. It was only because of his co-worker’s pity that he was home at all. 

He rushed to his desktop, where the call was already ringing. He ran his hands through his hair, trying to smooth it down a bit, then accepted the call.

A young, grinning face filled the screen. “Papa! You’re late.” she scolded.

Henrik laughed. “Well then, you’ll have to visit soon to keep me in line.” He switched easily into French. “How are you, sweetheart?”

Natalie’s smile widened a bit. “Good! I got a 78 on my arithmetic test!”

“That’s wonderful! And such an improvement, I know you worked very hard at that.” Henrik’s eyes shone with pride. She’d been struggling a lot with the subject, seeing her succeed made his heart dance.

Natalie nodded. “You helped! I understood you much more than my teacher. Can you help me next time, too?”

“Of course. I’m your father, it’s my job to help you.  Ask your mama, and I’m sure she can set something up anytime.” Henrik leaned back in his chair. “And how is the drama club coming along?”

“Wonderfully!” Natalie started bouncing with excitement. “We’re going to choose a play next week. Everyone is super nice, and the teacher lets us change things and play around if we want!”

She talked for another half hour, gushing about her friends and recounting stories from class. Henrik stayed mostly quiet, nodding and gasping at appropriate times. He hung on every word, eager to know as much as he could about his daughter’s life. 

“And then Adam, you know, from last year, he talked about submarines, but he couldn’t remember-” Natalie was cut off by a chime from Henrik’s phone. 

Henrik sighed as he flicked away the notification. “I’m sorry to cut you off, but it’s getting late. You need to get some rest for tomorrow.” 

Natalie pouted. “It isn’t that late, Papa. I can deal with it.”

“Not on a school night. How about we compromise,” Henrik said. “We can talk again on Friday, and you can finish your story then.” 

“Okay…” She perked up for a second. “Have you gotten my gift yet? Mama said she mailed it this morning!”

Henrik chuckled. “It will take a little bit more time to get here. I promise, when I pick it up, you will be the first to know.” 

“Alright, if you promise.”

“Cross my heart.” He replied with a smile. “Can you put your mothers on? I need to speak with them. 

“Okay. Happy early birthday Papa. I love you.” Natalie said as she slid out of the computer chair. 

“I love you too, more than anything.” 

She left the room, and a moment later, two women walked in. “Henrik!” Liesel sat down, smiling. “How are you doing?”

“A little tired, but not bad. And you?”

“They hired an assistant librarian, so things are a lot easier now.”

Henrik nodded. “About time. They were working you to the bone. This is much healthier.” 

“See, Henrik agrees with me about that!” The other woman interrupted. “Listen to him, darling, he’s a doctor.”

“Good evening, Simone. I saw an advertisement for your latest line on the tram today.”

Liesel gasped. “All the way in Berlin?” She turned to Simone. “Dear, you didn’t tell me! That’s wonderful!” She smiled wide. “I knew your branching out would go well.” 

Simone laughed. “Yes, well, a certain woman has given me an… appreciation for the more average people.” She kissed Liesel on the cheek. “They complain much less, for one.” 

Liesel retaliated by kissing Simone on the nose. “I’ve already heard people talking about how nice it is to have high fashion be more accessible to them.”

Henrik felt a flash of envy in his gut, but pushed it down with a smile. “As have I. One of the ER nurses was very moved today, almost to the point of tears.” 

Simone looked rather moved herself. “Truly?”

“Truly. I think she was already a fan of your work, but still. It had such a large impact on her.”

Simone just stood there, smiling. It was nearly the most emotional Henrik had ever seen her. She shook her head after a moment. “Enough of that. This is a business call.”

Liesel snorted. “Only you would call this sort of thing a business call, dear.” She turned back to the screen. “Henrik, is everything taken care of on your end?”

“Everything is good here. Vacation days taken and tickets booked.” He smiled. “I assume you didn’t actually put Natalie’s gift in the post?”

“No, no, don’t worry.” Liesel assured. “And she doesn’t suspect a thing.”

“Thank you so much for coming up with this plan, both of you.”

“Of course! You only have so many birthdays left, you should take advantage of them.”

Henrik sent Liesel a look. “You’re older than I am.”

Liesel just laughed. Simone bent over. “Darling, the cake,” she whispered

“Oh! Yes, Henrik, what sort of cake do you want?”

Henrik shook his head. “Just being able to be there is enough. Don’t worry about anything else.” “Chocolate, then.”

“I will not object if there is a chocolate cake,” he relented. “But please, don’t overwork yourself.”

Liesel waved a hand. “I have the day off work, I’ll need something to do.”

Simone lent in and kissed her cheek. “I’ll be there to make sure she rests. We have a busy weekend ahead of us, don’t use everything now.” 

“Ah!” Henrik broke in. “I did tell Natalie that we’d have another conversation over the weekend. Just a fair warning, for excuses.”

“Well, you’re not wrong. You’ll have plenty of time to talk then.” Simone said. She checked her watch. “I’m very sorry to cut you off, Henri, but I have an emergency call with a house in LA in 10 minutes.”

“Of course, of course. Have a good night, the both of you. I’ll see you on Thursday.”

“Goodnight, Henrik. Sleep well.” Liesel said with a smile.

Henrik smiled back. “I’ll try.”

Both of them waved, and the call disconnected. Henrik leaned back in his chair, a grin still on his face. He knew he’d spend the next few days thinking of nothing but his departure. But he couldn’t help it. Spending time with his daughter, especially face to face, was a gift he rarely had. 

The smile dropped. He knew that this outcome was for the best, that this way made everyone happiest, himself included. But still, he felt small stirrings of discontent. He wanted to have these conversations every night, to hear the stories of the day and not just of the week. He wanted ...well, he wanted more. He wanted what he had had before. 

Henrik shook his head again, trying to rid it of these thoughts. Those wouldn’t help anyone. Best to move past them before he started stewing again. Personal growth, and all that.

He sniffed, frowning. He really needed to take a shower before his whole apartment smelled like an emergency room. Out of the chair he went.

Suddenly, he heard a zapping behind him. Henrik turned to see...something, floating in the centre of his study. It looked like a sort of orb made of green light, but his logical brain wouldn’t let him believe it. He definitely needed more sleep.

Henrik turned back around, starting to unbutton his shirt. He tried to weigh the pros and cons of showering versus going straight to bed. He could always just wash the sheets…

Before he could think any further, the light behind him flashed and his vision went white.

>=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=<

“Ah!”

Henrik fell backwards into a sofa. Not his sofa, just a sofa. He looked around in confusion. 

He, somehow, was in another living room. It seemed normal, some furniture, a television, a few boxes strewn about. It would be completely normal, if not for the fact that he’d been teleported here, an act that was scientifically impossible. 

From another room, he heard someone yell in English, “Where did you want this one, Marv?”

And another voice, slightly closer, “Just leave it in the hall for now! I’m going to add a few things to the bookshelf, be right there.”

A man entered the room, holding another box. Two more followed behind him.

Boxes, that is. Not men. There were floating boxes following him.

Henrik gaped. The other didn’t seem to notice him. He simply walked over to the bookshelf, thumbed through a box, and picked out some old looking tomes, placing them as he went. 

“Was zur hölle?”

“Aah!”

The other man yelped, dropping the book he was holding. The boxes fell to the floor. He grasped at his chest, leaning against the wall. “For fuck sake, warn a guy..next..time.” He spoke haltingly, finally noticing Henrik. “Oh. Hi?”

“Hello?” he replied hesitantly. “Who are you? Where am I?”

“Uh, yeah, shit. Hold on a second.” The other man walked to the door and leaned out. Henrik belatedly noticed that a porcelain mask was covering half his face. “Hey, Seán, Jackie, get in here! You were right!” He yelled. 

“Right about what?” a new voice yelled back.

“The sketch! Just come to the living room!”

Mask man turned back. “Sorry about that. I’m Marvin.”

“Henrik.” He stuck out a hand to shake, but Marvin didn’t take it. Instead, he continued speaking.

“So uh, sorry, but you’ve kind of caught us at an awkward time. Sorry for the mess.”

“Mess?” Henrik looked around. “I do not understand.”

“Oh, this room is fine, but just wait until you see upstairs.”

At that moment, two others walked in, one, a teenager, and the other, maybe six, seven years younger than Henrik. The older one spoke. “Um. Hi, I’m Seán. You might want to sit down, we’re gonna be here a while.”

>=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=<

The four of them were now sat in the kitchen, a few pizzas spread out on the table. Seán and Marvin were demonstrating magic for an enraptured Henrik, who was quickly amassing a pile of notes. 

“So each of you has a certain source to draw from?” he asked, not looking up.

“Sort of. Most people have one they work best with, and then talented magicians can get one or two extras that are a little harder to access.”

“Most?”

“Yeah, there are witches and wizards, not a gendered thing, by the way, and then there are mages.” Marvin explained, absentmindedly twisting plants through his fingers. “Like Seán.”

“And the difference is…”

“I can draw from all sources equally, but it’s a lot harder to get at them.” Seán spoke up through a mouthful of pizza. “And then there’s people in completely different categories, like Jackie.”

The teen waved from the counter. “I have superpowers!”

“I..okay, I am filing that away for later.” Henrik said. “...I do not understand any of this.”

Seán shrugged. “Neither do I, and I’ve been learning this stuff since I was three. World’s fucking weird. You seem to be coping pretty well, if you’re taking notes already.”

“This is my coping.” he replied, brandishing his papers. “If something is strange, I make myself understand it.” He looked over the four piles. “I haven’t even gotten into this whole character business.”

“Maybe you should take a break.” Marvin said. “Let your brain catch up, and have some pizza.” 

Henrik sighed. “Alright. But I want to be able to get back to this later. There must be some sort of explanation. If only..”

“If only what?”

“Well. I would like to be able to ask questions of you all the time, to clarify this situation. These situations, rather.” Henrik said. “But with the distance between here and Berlin, this is impossible, of course.”

Seán looked at him, confused. “Is this your roundabout way of asking to move in with us?” “Perhaps.” Henrik admitted. “After a while, of course. It seems like you are in the middle of moving someone already.” 

“I mean yeah, man, of course! We might have some trouble finding room for ya..” Seán looked around the kitchen. “Someone’s going to have to share rooms.” 

Marvin made a face. “I can’t. It’ll already be too crowded in there with all my supplies. Another person would be dangerous.”

“I’ve got the biggest room,” Seán said, “but I go to bed super late. Would that wake you up?”

“Likely not. And I would need a job here, which means strange ER hours. Would that wake you up?”

“Honestly, probably not. I sleep pretty deep.” Seán leaned back, stretching. “So that’s that, then. It’ll take more time to move, since you’re German, right?”

“More time compared to what?” Henrik asked.

“We’re Irish, we didn’t move countries.” Jackie piped up.

“Ah. Then yes. But not much, I expect I would be settled by the end of next month.”

“Cool. The couch is yours for the night, I gotta go work.” Seán stood up, putting the dishes in the sink. “Night, all.”

Marvin and Jackie waved back. Jackie opened his mouth, but Marvin shushed him. “No way. I know you have that test tomorrow, go to bed. I’ll deal with Henrik.” The teen humphed, but left without argument. Marvin turned back to Henrik, looking mildly uncomfortable. “You all good?”

“I will be,” he replied, “after some thought and a good night’s rest. I will need to leave early in the morning, I have somewhere to be.” Thank the lord he still had his wallet on his person.

“Okay, no problem.” Marvin motioned for Henrik to follow him into the living room, then threw him a pile of blankets. “Sleep well.” he said, then left.

Henrik stood for a moment longer. “You as well.” he said to the empty room. Then he kicked off his shoes and lay down on the sofa, settling in for the night.

>=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=<

“Papa?” Natalie gaped from the door.

“Surprise.” Henrik smiled, arms open. Natalie flew into them, grabbing his chest.

“What..you’re here!” she said, eyes wide.

Henrik laughed, lifting her up. “I’m here.”

Simone and Liesel also walked out, arm in arm. Liesel held a sloppily wrapped package. “Here you go,” she said to Natalie. “I kept it safe.”

“You knew!” she accused. Taking the gift, she walked back over to Henrik. “Mama and Mère helped me! But I did most of it.” Simone snorted. “She did.”

Henrik took it slowly. “Well, thank you! How on earth did you know I wanted a paper wrapped box for my birthday?” he joked.

“Papa! Just open it!”

“Alright, alright.” Henrik shifted and carefully unwrapped the box. He took out the tissue paper and froze. In the box was a pottery bowl. It was sloppy in some places, but fully functional. And painted over it...

Oh, painted over it was a recreation of the painting Henrik had made for Natalie’s nursery, over a decade ago. The colours were almost identical, the strokes nearly all the same. Henrik was absolutely speechless, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. 

Natalie was looking at him, concerned. “Is it okay?”

Henrik didn't reply. He just set down the box, dropped to his knees, and pulled Natalie into a tight hug. “I love it.” he whispered, trying not to cry. “And I love you, so very much.”

Natalie hugged back, then pulled away. “Come in, it’s almost dinner time! Mama made crepes.”

“I also made a chocolate cake, as promised.” Liesel added with a grin.

Natalie turned to her. “That’s what that was for? I thought it was for your book club.”

Henrik chuckled, wiping his face. “Of course I’ll come in, if you don’t mind me weeping all over your furniture.” He picked up the gift box.

Natalie grabbed his hand, pulling him into the house, and Simone and Liesel followed.

Needless to say, it was the best birthday Henrik had ever had.

[shalegas34]

ROAD TRIP - Part 1

Macquarie ascended the spotted oak staircase in his fully owned northern suburbs home, smearing trust fund kid privilege all over the rail along which he dragged his left hand. His right hand was grasping a wad of paper which was barely being held together by two overstretched staples in the corner.

“This Chinese woman has been caught with 10,000 undeclared US dollars,” a voice intoned from somewhere upstairs. Macquarie raised his head, but it wasn’t anything interesting. His partner Sydney was watching Border Security in their bedroom.

…Or not. Macquarie shrieked as he crashed into Sydney and almost fell back down the stairs. They had been lurking on the landing.

“Macquarie,” said Sydney. “Let’s go on a road trip.”

“No,” Macquarie whined. “Just because you don’t have anything to do doesn’t mean everybody has to give up on themselves. I have a debt contract to write for Westpac’s bond issue.”

Sydney folded their arms. “You’ll have to write me a debt contract if you spend any less time with me.” They waited until their stern glance finally made Macquarie’s lip tremble. The edge of their mouth twitched.

“Does that count as insider info? What you just told me?”

“What, the bond issue?” Macquarie laughed obnoxiously. “Trying to make money from bonds is like trying to currency-hedge a position in foreign equity.”

Sydney stared at him blankly, which was just the outcome he had been aiming for. Feeling masculine after the display of obscure knowledge, Macquarie sauntered into his own bedroom and set the contract down on his expensive warped oak desk.

Sydney sighed and returned to Border Security. They were supposed to be practising on a simulation as part of their air traffic controller training, but Border Security was always too mesmerising, like the weak and unexciting, but still addictive, soft drug of sub-prime-time TV. They already knew the Chinese woman would be fined for her undeclared currency, and the carpet from Afghanistan would contain heroin, and the old Vietnamese couple’s fried chicken wings would be seized and destroyed. Still they remained on the bed, eyes fixed to the screen.

“Yo.” Oops, three episodes had passed. Macquarie was at the door.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Sydney replied.

“Can you Ubereats some Chinese?”

“Fucks sake,” said Sydney. “You do it. You’re not the one living in someone else’s house because you couldn’t afford your mortgage.”

“I can’t decide what to get.”

“Get two serves of the plum sauce beef, seasonal veg, and fried rice.”

“Oh, yeah, I knew that. I love the plum sauce beef.” Macquarie whipped out his phone and went to leave. He shrieked and almost threw it into the air when All Star by Smash Mouth started blasting from its speakers.

“-BODY once told me, the world was going to roll me,” Sydney joined in. “Since when was that your ringtone?”

“It’s only for John,” Macquarie grumbled. “It gets everyone around me to shut up so I can leave whatever conversation I’m having.”

Macquarie answered the call and rearranged his face into a smiling professional’s customer service visage. Sydney rolled their eyes. John was Macquarie’s division director, and whatever words he uttered always took precedence in Macquarie’s ass-licking life. Sydney had no doubt he would have John’s job one day, but until then he had to avoid being demoted.

“What?” Macquarie yelled. Oh dear, it was bad news. Maybe the contracts had to be re-negotiated.

“What do you mean Westpac’s pulling out?!” Sydney raised an eyebrow: even worse.

“How else are they going to roll over their fucking debt? They’ve already left it stupidly late,” Macquarie snapped down the line.

“They’re not.” John’s voice was way too calm.

Macquarie began to laugh hysterically. “You mean a bank is actually going to pay its debt back? Woo hoo hoo. That’s a good one, John.”

“Something’s going on. They’re trying to deleverage.”

“You’re shitting me, right?”

“No, Macquarie, I am not ‘shitting’ you,” the old man replied. “I’m meeting with the board next week. You take the next few days off.”

“Hey,” said Macquarie. “I’ve got truckloads of friends at Westpac. Let me do a bit of digging.”

“I said, take the next few days off.”

“I’ll have the contract ready and signed before you even get in the doors of that boardroom.”

“If I see you at the office before next Monday, I’ll fax your real conveyance documents directly to the head of the ATO.”

Macquarie sighed and glanced at Sydney, the one he had moved house for, in order to be closer to the airport. He gave a sour farewell and hung up on John, at which point he realised he had hit the speakerphone button with his treacherous cheek.

Sydney cocked their head. “Road trip?”

---

“Now that was insider information, wasn’t it,” Sydney said, hunched over the steering wheel of their shitty car, flooring the accelerator. The ancient Holden Barina continued to wince up the ramp to the Hume Highway at 40kph.

“What?” Macquarie asked, his feet up on the dashboard, expensive sunglasses glinting in the sunlight, as some jackass in a 4WD overtook them in the left lane, horn blaring.

Sydney slammed the car into second gear and wound down the window. “Fuck you too,” they yelled. “That deleveraging thing about Westpac,” they then said to Macquarie without missing a beat.

“Yeah,” Macquarie said, combing his thick auburn hair and examining it in the sunshade mirror. The car had reached the highway and was now picking up speed on the flat. Their luggage slammed against the back of the boot as the Barina accelerated as hard as its tiny engine was capable of.

“Still think we should’ve put the stuff in the back seat,” Macquarie said.

“Yeah, and move it all again when we pick Aristocrat up in Melbourne. Are you going to short some Westpac shares?”

“Wow,” Macquarie said. “How do you know what shorting is?”

“I read your diary.”

A flash of fear creased Macquarie’s perfectly groomed face. Sydney snickered. “What kind of shit do you write in there? I don’t even know where you keep it. Come on, I’m not a total idiot.”

They were on their way to South Australia. This was chosen as it was one of the only states which Sydney had never visited. Both Aristocrat and Libby had jumped at the chance to tour the famous wine regions around Adelaide, an activity suggested by Macquarie.

“Please,” Sydney had said when he brought it up. “We live together. Don’t pretend you don’t just drink straight vodka and cry.”

After an uneventful journey to Melbourne (not counting the many renditions of Toto’s Africa by Macquarie, which had contributed to Sydney acquiring a migraine), they pulled up in the underground car park of Aristocrat’s fancy hotel. Sydney took in the soothing shade of cream painted on the walls, and the marble panelling around the lifts.

“This is nice,” they said, yawning.

“You should see the car park at the office,” Macquarie said pretentiously.

“How would you know what it looks like?” Sydney snapped, referencing his lack of a driver’s licence. Macquarie pretended this attack on his fragile masculinity hadn’t just taken place, and marched ahead to stab the call button for the lift.

“Oh my god!” Aristocrat yelled with a flamboyant wave from the front counter as they emerged on the restaurant floor.

“Stop sulking,” Sydney said, poking Macquarie in the ribs. “There’s only space for one drama queen on this trip.” They straightened up as Aristocrat came to a screeching halt before them, grabbing Macquarie and lifting him off his feet. Macquarie tried to protest, but Aristocrat’s whack on the back had left him winded.

Sydney shook Aristocrat’s hand next. “Please tell me you drive,” they said.

“Drive? Like, a car?” Aristocrat giggled. “I live in Brunswick, right off the tram line. Why pollute the earth unnecessarily?”

Sydney fell to their knees. “REEEEEEE,” they screamed.

Aristocrat’s brow furrowed in concern. “Did you just say ‘ree’ out loud?”

Sydney stood back up and smiled. “I’m good. Just needed to let it out.”

Aristocrat laughed nervously and looked to Macquarie for help. Macquarie was bent over his knees, regaining his breath.

“So, it’s been a long trip,” Sydney continued.

Aristocrat’s face lit up in a genuine smile. “I know just what you need to relax.”

“A room,” Sydney said, but unfortunately Aristocrat spoke at the same time and his voice was louder.

“Pokies.”

Macquarie looked up from his recovery position. Sydney rolled their eyes. “Please, he’s already addicted to his work and alcohol.”

“Hey, speaking of gambling,” Aristocrat said, winking to Macquarie. “Remember those credit default swaps I bought off you on Sydney’s mortgage?”

Macquarie groaned so hard the marble counter was almost crushed under the pressure wave. “How much do I owe you?”

Sydney stared at the two men in disbelief. “Hello? I am right here?”

They had lost interest in Sydney and were busy organising an electronic funds transfer. Sydney threw their arms up into the air and stormed off towards the gaming room. “Hey, come on, I went short on those CDS,” Macquarie yelled as a last-ditch attempt to salvage the situation.

Sydney sat themselves down at the pokies and inserted the obligatory one dollar. Even though they were basically de facto with Macquarie now, and consequently had millions of dollars at their disposal, Sydney was still a scrimping bogan-slash-student at heart.

Macquarie entered with two glasses of apology cider right as Sydney managed to win five bucks with a five cent bet.

“Wrong choice of reconciliation gift,” Sydney said, accepting the drink and downing about half the glass in one go. “You noobs are making me drive another eight hours tomorrow.”

“Five dollars?” Macquarie whined, looking at the screen. “That’s not fun.” He threw a fifty at the girl behind the counter, who proceeded to count out a stack of change.

“What are you doing?” Sydney hissed.

Macquarie drained his glass and giggled hysterically, shoving the whole fifty dollars into the machine. “Fuck off,” Sydney yelled, but it was no use. Macquarie proceeded to bet the entire balance, plus Sydney’s hard-earned five dollars.

“Oops,” he said, when he won nothing. Sydney mimed glassing him.

“Oh, there you are, good,” Aristocrat said jovially, waving a set of keys as he trotted over. “I got your room ready. Hey Jackie,” he greeted the girl behind the counter.

“Hey boss,” Jackie replied.

Macquarie was staring up at Sydney with puppy eyes. Sydney always found it ironic how the colour of his eyes exactly matched that of a hundred dollar note. They grabbed the keys off Aristocrat.

“Don’t want to finish your drink?” Aristocrat said, pointing. “I mean, enjoy it while you can. They have tiny glasses in South Australia.”

Sydney glared and walked off. Macquarie shrugged and finished the drink for them. “Should’ve got your driver’s licence, mate. We wouldn’t be in this situation if you had.”

---

“Ooh, it’s a manual,” Aristocrat said from the back seat, nodding in appreciation as Sydney threw the gears, swearing as yet another coffee-carrying hipster ran into the narrow city street in front of the car.

“Aye,” said Sydney. “And don’t talk to me again until we get out of the city, unless you have meth.”

“Hey, you were the one who wanted to do this road trip,” Macquarie whined. “Why are you complaining?”

Sydney turned to face Macquarie, dark bags under their eyes accentuated by the diminished light which snaked its way past the forest of buildings and through the grimy windscreen. “Don’t tell me you’ve never done shit which you regret.”

Macquarie pursed his lips in thought. “Well…”

“How about that ten million dollars you lost on the CDS?” Aristocrat piped up in the back, grinning.

“TEN MILLION?!” Sydney shrieked, slamming their foot on the accelerator and almost totalling a group of office workers.

“Don’t worry, we decided to divide by a thousand,” Macquarie grumbled. “Token of goodwill. We’re not animals, Sydney.”

The rest of the journey to Adelaide went quietly in comparison, with one minor incident during the lunch stop in Horsham. Macquarie and Aristocrat were drawing on the café placemats when Macquarie noticed a scribbled message by the edge of the table: “Call me! xx 042-517-350”.

“Sexy,” Macquarie said. “Imma do it.”

“You really are an asshole around your friends,” Sydney snapped irritably.

“No, he’s just an asshole in general,” Aristocrat corrected good-naturedly.

Sydney almost left them to fester there, but then Macquarie had very seriously offered to drive for a couple of hours down the highway, if Sydney quickly taught him how to change the gears in the backstreets of Horsham. Such a self-sacrificing proposition, unusual for Macquarie, had touched Sydney’s heart.

They crossed into SA around 1.30pm, which immediately became 1 o’clock. Aristocrat gasped loudly as they passed a lit-up petrol station outside Bordertown.

“What?” Sydney scowled. “It’s a petrol station, and it’s the same price as Melbourne.”

“They have electricity,” Aristocrat whispered, and he and Macquarie erupted into raucous laughter.

“You guys better tone that down once we pick Libby up,” Sydney warned. “You think I’ve been tough? Libby will punt you into orbit.”

“Who is Libby again?” Aristocrat asked.

Macquarie sighed. “She’s a steelworker from Whyalla. You know, that place with the Arrium plant, or Onesteel, or Liberty, whatever you want to call it.”

“Into orbit,” Sydney said again, and Macquarie shut his mouth.

“How do you guys know all these people?” Aristocrat filled the silence, raising a manicured eyebrow.

“He’s a banker, he knows everybody,” Sydney said with a roll of the eyes.

“Especially the bankrupt ones,” Macquarie couldn’t restrain himself from saying.

“I hope you have funeral insurance,” Sydney snapped.

Thankfully, they arrived at the long steep descent into Adelaide just before Sydney reached the edge of the long steep descent into madness.

“Aristocrat, you’re flying back, and we’re taking the Sturt Highway,” Sydney decided as they slammed on the brakes behind a bus.

“I think this lane is just for buses,” Aristocrat replied gently.

“Thank you,” Sydney screamed, making a dangerous lane change.

Less than thirty minutes later, Sydney had collapsed into a comatose state in their room at the Hilton. This left Macquarie and Aristocrat to brave the CBD and go meet Libby at the Malls Balls.

“Wow, there’s literally nothing here,” Macquarie said, as they passed at least four ‘For Lease’ signs on King William St.

“At least they don’t have lockout,” Aristocrat snickered.

“Is that the tallest building, the Westpac one? Lame,” Macquarie said, changing the subject. Even as he mentioned the name, Macquarie was stroking his chin in contemplation.

“What’s on your mind?” Aristocrat asked.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, so it involves insider information. Cool, I’ll back off. I know you’d get murdered in jail.”

Eventually, after consulting several passers by, they managed to locate the Malls Balls. Libby was leaning against said Balls, arms crossed in front of her chest.

“Damn,” Aristocrat hissed. “She could murder you.”

“Don’t worry, I deal with all kinds of people in my job,” Macquarie said confidently. He strode up to Libby, his hand outstretched.

“Hey Libby!” he said cheerfully. “How’s it going?”

“Where’s Sydney?” Libby replied.

“Sleeping,” Macquarie said.

Libby looked between the two men. “Did you boys make them drive the whole way here?”

“Um…” Macquarie looked shiftily at Aristocrat.

“Assholes,” said Libby, hoisting up her massive bag and forcing her way past, back towards King William St, leaving them to bitch in solitude as they hurried to keep up with her.

Sydney had awoken for a snack by the time the group got back to the hotel. “Rest up,” Libby said, throwing her bag into the adjacent room. “I’ll drive tomorrow.”

“Oh hey,” Sydney acknowledged. “Thanks.”

Libby had driven down from Whyalla earlier that day. Being somewhat familiar with Adelaide, she had intended to shout the group dinner somewhere on North Terrace. However, she couldn’t stand Macquarie and his pretentious behaviour, and was not about to fork out money just for him and his rich buddy.

That night, Macquarie tiptoed around the room so as not to wake Sydney, and they both woke up fresh the next morning, ready for a full itinerary of day drinking.

[tommyoboe]

PARIS - PART TWO.

What's that, stress isn't as high as it was before? Ooh, what is this?

Yeah, things have got easier here in the chaotic French capital. It is reassuring that the only stresses are ensuring the person you live with uses the right bins for their waste; speaking in French to a clothes store assistant, and shouting at constantly buffering Wifi whilst trying to watch the RNCM's excellent University Challenge performance back home.

Other inconveniences included a first French lesson where the tutor turned up for a grand total of ten out of a possible ninety minutes of tuition and being promised certain things for no money and having to pay money. Seems to be a bit of a theme here in France.

Deception.

Now, I think that's the rant over. I'll let you know if I think of anything else. Honestly, venting is healthy.

In grander news, I had my first two oboe lessons at the Conservatoire. Full of inspiration they were, willing me to think about commitment to music and expressing everything I desire. I also spent a grey Wednesday afternoon going through my real ambitions for the future (I started typing 'future' and it autocorrected to the 'FU' emoji, I don't know if that's a sign or...), and although most revolved around living in a cute house and going for pastries in Berlin with Cameron, I made the link between this and focussing my oboe playing on getting into orchestras and material that will help me achieve this. It's difficult with long-term ambitions, as they evolve, but to have more ideas than I did before is refreshing.

One of my aims for the last month was to be practising 3 hours a day and making reeds 1 and a half to 2 hours a day everyday. However, in recent days I have more and more realised the importance of keeping stress at bay, as well as good sleep and lifestyle to fuel excellent practice habits. 3 hours may not be a regular achievement right now, but a healthy and happy way of living, including mostly excellent practice, is. So that's nice.

Niceties in the last couple of weeks have included video calling family and Cameron, which has been delightful. It was deeply difficult not being with my boy for his birthday, but with his visit to Paris on the way, I am going to do all I can to provide some extended celebrations.

I have also visited some of Paris' most interesting neighbourhoods. A stroll through the Buttes-Chaumont Park made up one Tuesday afternoon. Last Saturday it was time for Rue Montorgueil, hailed as the best street in Paris by many for its melting pot of traditional French offerings and new innovations. This included Paris' best doughnut at Boneshaker Doughnuts, which, I can see why it has that unofficial title. The balance of lightness and flavour was something truly unrivalled. There is no doubt I will be making a return.

There was also the iconic Tuilleries Garden, full of majestic statues and a vivid rainbow of pristine flowers and greenery. Magnificent.

Being followed by patisserie at Bo & Mie, it was a good day.

Yesterday it was the turn of the 3rd arrondissement, full of adorable cobbled streets, edgy cafés and a divine apple tart from Poilâne Bakery. Simple things done well, what a great thing.

And to top it off, there was a SUCCULENT SHOP. I couldn't bring myself to go in, but I am almost certain I will be in the near future. Also, the plant in my room left by my host is looking a bit worse for wear, so it may have to be out with the old and in with the new!

I met up with some other exchange students to go to a lovely vibraphone/guitar jazz concert on Friday evening. It was nice just to let go; let passing thoughts come and go from my mind; let the music conjure up peaceful emotions, and let myself be inspired. Afterwards we attempted to go to a bar for drinks, and for some reason that didn't really work out so having lost everyone else, one of the students and I took three trams home and that was the end of that.

Yesterday I finally received my box of belongings from my mum, via her friend who lives just outside of Paris. She was lovely enough to come all the way to my apartment and drop it off. Of course, a cup of tea and some macaroons were awaiting as a huge thank you for all the help she has offered before and during this trip.

And today I have been a hermit, confining myself to the apartment while the rain has poured and poured. Mind you, it has brightened up now, just in time for the sunset, but I have got through two whole operas, this blog post and video calling my mum, so good job me.

Now it's time to make myself some terrific tea and get ready for Strictly. Oh yes, it's back.

Have a good evening, everyone.

[kookspierogis]

The Roommate Agreement- Original novel Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off

I completely and utterly hate life.

I’m sorry maybe I should start from the beginning. My name is Benjamin Rigel, I recently graduated from Melbourne Central high school and turn nineteen in a few days. Okay where was I? Oh, right, well I hate my life.

I know, it’s the most generic, basic thing a teenager (a legal adult in the eyes of the law mind you) to say in existence, but it is true. I thought I had it all. I run a hand through my hair in frustration, before pulling on my beloved grey beanie. See, my “girlfriend” is cheating on me. I use the term “girlfriend” very loosely.

I use it loosely because she hasn’t really been my girlfriend for months, not that I actually care anymore. I swear she brings home someone new every night, girl or guy it doesn’t matter. I can hear sounds coming out of the bedroom, our bedroom, where we sleep- as a couple. Bangs on the wall and screams of ecstasy that belong to my girlfriend and her partner, who obviously isn’t me. I scoff at the thought.

‘Of course it isn’t me, I’m just a boy to her, nothing more.’ It’s true of course, I’ve never been anything to her, and all I have and still currently been feeling for the past few months is bitter, sad, disappointment. All I can do is listen on, sad that I’m not the one sharing the bed, that I had genuinely thought that she was into me romantically, someone who cared for me.  Not everyone can have what they want. It doesn’t help that I had a reputation in school.

I fiddle with my beanie in guilt of the past, but it helps because it muffles her screaming her partners name out, which as stated before, is not mine. I put my headphones in, hoping to drown out the sounds from down the hall, pressing shuffle.

‘Is it still me that makes you sweat?

Am I who you think about in bed?

When the lights are dim and your hands are shaking as you're sliding off your dress?

Well, then think of what you did

And how I hope to God he was worth it

When the lights are dim and your heart is racing as your fingers touch your skin’

I walk over to the closet, which has a duffel bag filled with my stuff. Ironically I was going to live with her, believing that everything would okay, that she would love me the way I once loved her.

‘I've got more wit

A better kiss

A hotter touch a better fuck

Than any boy you'll ever meet’

Collecting my stuff, I decide to head home. To my mums apartment, in some classy neighborhood South-East of the city. Surely she would understand. She would hug me, say that everything would be all right and she would comfort me. But I can imagine the sad look on her face as I tell her that I want to finally leave this thing I call a relationship. She would look at me with a face that says ‘I told you so’, and not in a teasing way.

‘Sweetie you had me

Girl, I was it, look past the sweat

A better love deserving of

Exchanging body heat in the passenger seat

No, no, no, you know it will always just be me’

I gather what I can of my things, knowing I’ll have to make a round trip- and officially break things off. I let out another sigh, rubbing my eyes under my glasses from stress and fatigue, tired and sore eyes from the bright light of the TV playing in the living room.

‘Let's get these teen hearts beating

Faster, faster

So testosterone boys and harlequin girls

Will you dance to this beat

And hold a lover clo-’

I pause the music, changing it to the next song in hopes it won’t be related to my current relationship status, and head out the door, pulling up messages and type.

 Benny Boi- 01:06: I’ll be back sometime this week, don’t wait for me.

I pull on my MCHS jumper, slinging my duffel bag over my shoulder and walk out of the apartment, down the stairs and into the bustling life of the Melbourne CBD. As I step onto Flinders Lane I can hear her phone ping through the window, signaling that my message got to her, not that she would notice it over getting laid like there’s no tomorrow.

As per usual she doesn’t notice a thing.

 I turn and leave, walking up Russell street before turning onto Collins and jumping on the tram, heading to a quaint little bar on Meyers plane, off Little Collins street called ‘The Space Project’. I am a regular every second Wednesday with my friends from school, but I never come on a Sunday night- or Monday morning in my case, but tonight I need a drink and there is nowhere else I would go to get one. Think of it as liquid courage before I go see my mum.

 The glass door decorated with lights and a sign flashing brightly as if it was screaming ‘open!’ comes into view, and I walk faster, eager to get this night over with, knowing what my mum will think when I show up at her door at three or four in the morning. I push open the door, which always gets me by surprise with its weight, a faint bell rings as the door closes and I walk over to the bar, pulling out the wooden bar stool with a carving of some constellation- the word ‘cancer’ carved on the leg of the stool.  I wave my hand to signal the bartender and I focus of the small lights on the roof, not noticing the bartender arrive in front of me. I hear a cough and I shake my head out of my stupor, focusing on the guy in front of me. Except it isn’t a guy.

 A beautiful girl with her blonde hair in a half ponytail updo down to her shoulders, freckles dusting her cheeks like stars and big, brown, doe eyes inspects me, as if she judging my character and deciding whether to serve me alcohol or not at the same time, though she would have a hard time doing so because she was only about twenty centimetres taller than the bar itself, so about 5”4.

“You look like you’ve either had a real shitty night, or you’re plain drunk.” She states.

“Well you’re right about the first point,” I hold my hand out to her. “I’m Benjamin” She eyes me for a moment, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of my school jumper. The girl wearily take my hand and shakes it.

“I know who you are, we graduated in the same year, I’m Persephone. So I’m guessing you finally had enough of Anne-Lucine? She’s a real bitch you know, like the female version of Draco Malfoy-only worse.” I was about to defend Annie, but I have no reason to. I sigh at her, and Persephone looks at me with sympathy, knowing that her guess was correct. I give her a look, deciding whether or not to trust her, but if she can call Annie of all people a bitch, surely I can.

“She’s been cheating on me for months, I did confront her at one point about it but she didn’t stop, and I have decided that I need to let go of her.” Persephone smiles at me.

“Well good for you, at least you realised that it was toxic.” She disappears for a second before returning with two shots of tequila. I eye her and she chuckles lightly.

“On the house, but this is the only drink I’m having, because there is no way in hell a bartender can be drunk on the job.” I laugh before replying.

“Someone has to stay sober here.” Persephone lets out a sweet, genuine laugh. “So how did you end up working as a bartender?” I ask her.

“My aunt actually owns this place, so I’ve always grown up around watching people mix cocktails and drink to their heart's content.” Persephone has a starry look in her eyes, and I can see that she really enjoys her job.

“What about you, do you work?” I grin at the thought.

“I work at a vintage store.” Her eyes light up.

“The one on Little Bourke st?”

“That’s the one.” Persephone looks ecstatic.

“I love that store!” I can’t help smile at her enthusiasm, really happy that someone I now know is interested in what I do.  I feel my phone buzz in my pocket, and I pull it out to see.

 Annie-Lu - 01:47:  Where r u?

I let out a sigh and slip my phone back into my pocket,  not wanting to deal with Annie’s bullshit right now. I guess she’s finished with the other guy and wants to see me. Persephone gives me a look and I know I made the right decision to leave. I turn my attention back to the girl in front of me.

“So if we graduated in the same year, how come I never saw you?”

“Do you know Apollina, Eden and Brendon?”

“Sun goddess, garden of god and Brendon Urie? Yeah I know them, but I can’t quite put a face to those names.” I see Persephone smile at the nicknames.

“I was with them on the roof most of the time.” I think of MCHS, the multi level building in the heart of the city, and the garden roof on the top and let out a sound of recognition, nodding in understanding.

“I can see why, I used to go up there to study after school.” We chatter for a bit longer, talking about school as if we had never left, life and other shit, you know, sappy and sentimental crap. I look at the clock to see how much time has past (of course why else would anyone look at a clock, come on).  

 02:11, crap. I have no idea how I could’ve let time slip away from me so quickly, but I can feel the realisation of what I have just done sink in, and I realise that I have to go, because mum will definitely kill me if I show up later than three. I look back to Persephone, who has left momentarily to serve a customer- some woman with stretchers in her ears big enough to fit a hand through. The woman is given a glass of something and Persephone jumps back over to me.

“Look, I have to go, it’s late, but I will try to arrive here on early Monday mornings.” Persephone looks saddened by my statement, but pulls out a pen from under the counter, grabbing my hand in her firm but gentle grasp, writing something onto my hand (it’s her number, oh my god her number!) before letting go.

“Just in case you ever need someone to talk to who isn’t a bitch, and because I want to be your friend since I never got the chance before.” I smile gratefully as I stand, and she returns it, her brown eyes gleaming with a happiness I cannot describe.

“Thank you, Persephone, it was really nice to finally get all of that off my chest.”

“No problem. Talk to you soon, I hope.” and she leaves to serve another customer, giving me the cue to leave, pushing the heavy door open once more I set out towards Parliament station.

 I pull on my beanie over my headphones to keep my ears warm from the cool of the night and the cold chill of the station. I pace down the stairs and tap my myki, walking down the escalators before reaching the furthest platform. I close my eyes, realising how tired I actually am, before feeling the cold wind blow into the platform as the train arrives.

 As I travel South-East on the train, I can’t help but think over tonight. My decision to leave Anne-Lucine is a big one, as I’ve been with her since halfway through year ten, to end a three year relationship like that- a toxic one, well, things are going to change. And the look of disappointment on my mums face, that will just be the icing on the cake.

 I should explain who exactly my mum is, aside from being my mum of course. My mum, Yadira Rigel, is half Arabic and half Australian, and the nicest woman on this planet, which is a shame because those who are the kindest always have it the worst. My father- a Spanish man who immigrated to Australia, dumped and left her after a few years into their relationship, without ever knowing I existed in her stomach at the time. My mum refuses to let me meet him.

 On another note, she is my best friend, my confidant and I tell her absolutely everything, including my school and relationship life, and when I first told her about my relationship with Annie, she shook her head, clearly upset with my choice of person-as if she sensed bad vibes off Anne-Lucine.

‘Now arriving at: Hartwell’

I stand up a bit too quickly, making my head and vision spin out of control, a headache forming from the fatigue of staying up all night. I step off the train and into the dark night-well, morning, walking up the path through the park and into the apartment building.

 I press the button to the lift impatiently, tapping my foot in urgence- nervous at my mum’s reaction to my news, and elation at the fact that I am visiting my mum for the first time in a long while. Finally, the lift arrives and I step into it, pressing the button for level five and wait yet again, leaning against the cool mirror of the lift.

A ding signals my arrival and I step out, turning the corner. The golden letters of apartment 506 gleam on the door, the metal tastefully adding a pop of color to the grey-themed building, beckoning me to knock. I can hear the TV playing behind the door, meaning that mum is either awake watching something akin to Star Trek: Discovery or passed out on the couch (It’s probably the latter).

 I hesitate to knock the door. What is she going to think? Me showing up at her door at nearly three in the morning, in my highschool jumper and trackies, she’ll have no words. But this is my mama, I’m sure that she’ll understand. At last I gain the courage to knock on my mum’s door, just three knocks.

“Min Allaena!” I hear her shout in Arabic, clearly pissed. Whoops. The door swings open and I face my mum with a warm smile and a guilty look on my face. She just smiles at me.

“Hi mama.”

[my-dear-anonym]

Falling Through Time: Book 2

Masterpost

Jamilton Series Masterpost

Basking in Firelight

Part Forty-Six:

Just Getting Started

----

Warnings: None

----

Funny thing about being elected as the first presidents of a Nation that had presidents previously is the white house was already built. There wasn't a bunch of moving around as the capital was decided. There was no watching it get built. Hamilton thought it was great they didn't have to worry about moving. Jefferson found it slightly sad. He loved watching things become something great. But he could also see all the history just under the fresh coat of paint and that history is what made it so beautiful.

Of course, that's what they thought. When someone told Jefferson that the white house would undergo renovation to accommodate the massive increase in personnel, Jefferson wouldn't allow it. All that history, gone, just to make room for eight or so more people and their cabinets? Not gonna happen. Hamilton didn't see what was so wrong with it. Out with the old, in with the new. But if someone didn't think about making sure what was happening today could be remembered tomorrow, then how much history would be lost? How much history was already lost just because people thought that no one would ever forget? Far too much. Jefferson was bent on keeping that from happening. That's why in his past life he always made copies of every single one of his letters, it's why there's so much history surrounding the birth of The United States of America, it's because it got written down.

So Jefferson insisted that the White House be preserved and instead used his own money to construct a presidential manor. A new house for a new nation, right? The best part, he got to design it himself. As much as he wanted to avoid the look and build of a mansion, there was no helping it. His first idea had been to build little cabin type designs for each member and a central building for meeting with ambassadors or cabinets, to keep it humble and simple. But Jefferson realized how inconvenient that would be. Imagine all the running around. No, everything had to be centralized which meant that Jefferson would be stuck with a mansion design after all.

He could still do a lot with that.

In the meantime, they made the White House work. There were plenty of guest rooms. Jefferson didn't fully understand why the White wouldn't be suitable even without the renovations, but Hamilton insisted that it be either renovated or they moved. So Jefferson chose they move.

Hamilton was surprised by how easy being president was. There was nothing to do. Literally. He spent his time wandering the rooms. Jefferson had been saying there'd be so much stress, yet here they were, bored out of their minds. Where was Jefferson anyway? After a ten minute hunt, Hamilton found him sitting in the oval office, looking over paperwork. "Is that something we need to take care of?" Hamilton asked, excited that there was work for him to do.

"No, not for you anyway. These are the floor plans for the Presidential Manor."

"Oh, I forgot you were designing that yourself. Are you going to put in gardens?"

"Who in their right mind wouldn't?"

"Just asking, jeez." Hamilton looked around the office. "So, I thought you said this would be stressful and time-consuming."

Jefferson looked up at him. "Hamilton, the government just started up. You have to give it a few days. Last time was hectic because of all the issues that were glaringly obvious. In a couple days, Congress will put forward plans for commerce and laws that become evident as time passes. This time around there's no constant debate about slavery, thank God, and you and I don't have to fight over financial systems. That's not even your job anymore. I'm sure by the end of the week we'll be so swamped with paperwork that we won't be able to see the door. Besides, we can't get started until the rest of the elections are over. We still have to wait for our vice presidents."

"I bet the financial plan need reviewing. I should look it over."

"That's your treasurer's job, Hamilton. Now can you leave me alone so I can work on this, I'd like to have the plans finished before the flood of paper so we can actually get started on the Manor."

"I need something to do, I can't just sit around and twiddle my thumbs," Hamilton protested. "Who do you think is going to be Vice?"

"Well, Washington retired and went home. I'll bet Madison and Burr will be two of them."

"Yeah? What about the other two? I bet Lafayette could get a position."

"Can you imagine if Adams ended up being your vice?" Jefferson laughed.

"No-" Hamilton's eyes went wide. Jefferson was full on cackling. "Not going to happen. Nope. Nope."

"It's fully within the realm of possibility. You're in the same party, yeah? Very likely. At this point, I'd be surprised if it didn't."

"Yeah, well, you'll have to deal with fucking Burr. Remember how well that went the first time?"

"Shit."

"Yeah. So fuck off."

***

Ends up, they were pretty spot on for elections. Madison and Burr were Jefferson's vice presidents, Hamilton's was Adams, and to both Jefferson's and Hamilton's surprise and pleasure, Angelica was Hamilton's other vice.

Jefferson was right. Hamilton was swamped with work. Jefferson and Hamilton were running back and forth to each other's office every five seconds to get a signature or steal some important document or discuss something. Right now, they were dealing with the aftermath of the war. The nation was bankrupt thanks to the oligarchy and King George's taste for extravagance. There were small uprisings of Govey loyalists to deal with. King George disappeared and went into hiding as soon as the word spread if the Rebel victory. He still had to be found. Commerce had to be renegotiated and reestablished with other nations since the Eastern States was technically a new nation now, so all old treaties and agreements were void. That meant ambassadors had to be nominated and approved and then funded to be sent overseas. The infrastructure of the government had to be completely rebuilt from the ground up. That was the part of the government that dealt with building roads and cities and buildings. Keeping everything up and running. Electricity, power, gas, water, tram systems, licenses, everything. It all collapsed in the war and is nearly impossible to rebuild.

Unless you've got deep pockets. Deep, deep pockets. Something the government didn't have.

It didn't help that Jefferson and Hamilton argued over everything. Jefferson was constantly worried about Hamilton proposing another financial plan like the one before. Jefferson fought against it the first time because he predicted that from it would spring corporations that would grow powerful enough to slowly turn the Republican form of government into an aristocracy or monarchy. And was mostly right. Look around at the world around you. Corporations control everything. Jefferson bitterly regretted the day he and Madison traded it for the capital. But they would need a system for raising money and fast. If they didn't come up with anything soon, the nation could fall apart as it spiraled into depression.

Hamilton also wanted to use the military to squash the Govey resistance. Jefferson had to remind him daily that they were citizens and had every right to protest the government as long as they didn't endanger the nation and her people. Hamilton wasn't happy. He didn't like being slandered by the press. Every time something was published about him and his past affairs or supposed new ones or any awful slander people could come up with to rake his name through the mud, Hamilton was always right there with a sharp and barbed response, defending his honor. That's always been his weakness. The ones put against Jefferson went ignored. The people could say whatever they wanted, he wasn't going to dignify schoolyard taunts with a response.

"We should think of a flag redesign," Hamilton said one day, walking into Jefferson's office, plopping into a chair and kicking his feet onto the desk.

Jefferson eyed Hamilton's feet, debating whether or not to push them off and risk scattering his papers everywhere or leave them be. He really didn't feel like having re-sort his papers again, so he let them be. "A new flag?"

"Yeah. We're getting a new Manor, new government, new treaties, probably a new name when someone thinks of one. Why not a flag?"

"I suppose, but we already have so much to do," Jefferson sighed, looking at his desk and the tall stacks of files.

"So, we do what the old government did before the oligarchy was formed all those decades ago. Make it a contest. Anyone can participate. All the designs are sent in and we can decide from there."

"That's still a lot of work, Hamilton. Work we don't have time for."

"Nonsense. Pull a couple all-nighters and we'll be good. Just drink some coffee."

"Hamilton," Jefferson rubbed his face tiredly, "we've both already been up for three days straight. We literally walk into each other in the hallway and stand there confused about it for a minute until we realize we were heading to the other's office. I don't think our bodies can take much more sleepless nights."

"More coffee."

Jefferson hit his head against the desk. "Fine. Let's run it by Congress."

"Great!" Hamilton jumped to his feet, "I'll do that right away" he dashed out of the office, nearly running into the door on his way out.

Dear God, that man was going to be the death of Jefferson

----

[secret-captain-swan-blog]

Castle on the Hill

English Literature PhD student Emma Swan just needs money to pay for her last semester of grad school tuition. Killian Jones has always dreamed of opening a bookshop but has never been able to afford it. So when the small principality of Misthaven is looking for their lost princess, the pair decide that this might just be the perfect money making scheme.

A Multi-chapter Modern Day + Lost Princess (think Rapunzel/Anastasia-esque) + Book Lovers in a Coffee Shop AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 26189/ ?

Prologue (Part 1 + 2) // Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ch 3

Read on: Ao3

A million thanks to my cheerleader/coach/cinnamon roll @katie-dub for being my beta and telling me cute stories about 2-year-olds!

Unfortunately, the incident with Killian and the creepy guy forces her to avoid Mamie’s. She doesn’t know if she’ll run into him there and she is not ready to talk about what happened in that scarier-than-hell pawn shop, or whatever it was. Honestly, she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to.

Instead, she makes do with coffee made in the French press she finds in the apartment’s cupboard. It’s not great and certainly not as wonderful as Mamie’s, but well she’ll take what she can get.

She throws herself instead into university life to give herself proper distraction. As part of her fellowship with Misthaven University, she’s responsible for teaching a course to undergraduates. She finds out this week that she’s assigned to teach an Intro to American Lit class. She hasn’t really dealt extensively with American literature class, it’s certainly not her specialty. She imagines that they gave it to her just because she is American. Emma spends an afternoon sifting through books and trying to pick some novels selections for the semester. It’s hard to decide on a proper survey, weighing the options of a more traditional canon American reading list against a more diverse one.

The next day, she crafts the syllabus. It’s several hours in the library with a thermos of coffee and a bag of croissants and stroopwafel (dang, at least Misthaven has one thing right- the perfect intersection of food). The library in Misthaven is gorgeous. While most of the university buildings are more modern architecture, the library is older. Its rich wood and elegant windows makes her feel like she’s in a fairy tale. It’s the closest she’ll get, so she might as well enjoy it. She outlines the entire course, including details on papers and reading assignments. She realizes that classes in Europe might actually be different than they are in America, but she doesn’t really know how else to structure a class, so she goes for it.

On Friday morning, she finds herself in Professor Hood’s office for her advising meeting. He’s younger than she imagined, probably late thirties or early forties. His office is sunny and decorated with illustrations of various English folk stories and legends.

“How have you been settling in?” He asks her, as she slides down into a seat and he passes her a cup of tea.

He speaks with a crisp English accent, no trace of a Misthaven accent. She assumes he must be an implant like herself.

“I’m doing well,” she tells him.

“You’ve secured lodgings and all that?” He asks.

“Yeah, I’ve done an apartment swap,” she informs him.

“That’s great. Sometimes foreign students can have trouble with that kind of thing,” he tells her.

“No problems here.”

“And the culture shock isn’t too much?” He asks, “I know it was hard for me when I got here.”

Culture shock? She thinks. More like “worry for my life” shock . But she can’t tell this random professor about her brief dalliance with scamming the Queen. Or the creepy man in the pawn shop who might’ve tried to kill her. Or the stupidly attractive Misthaven guy who made her heart a little swoony.

Instead, she smiles sweetly and says, “It’s not terrible. I’ve been dreaming of visiting Misthaven for so long, so I think it’s mostly just excitement for now. I’m sure the culture shock will kick in soon enough.”

“Good to hear. If you ever need suggestions for places to go, let me know. I’ve been in Misthaven for a while, so I’ve found the expat troves.”

“How did you find yourself here?” She asks.

Emma is becoming increasingly curious about this guy. There aren’t a ton of expats in Misthaven, since the borders have only been open a few years. He’s not a visiting professor either. She wonders how this British man ended up with a secure place on the Misthaven staff.

“Love,” he says, blushing, “I was working on my undergrad at the University of Nottingham and I fell for a visiting student from Misthaven. I followed her here. Just after that, the Crown fell and we were trapped here. We made the best of it and got married. We needed something to be happy about.”

Emma likes stories, even personal ones. Suddenly she wants to know all of Professor Hood’s story. Besides, part of her research involves listening to stories of resistance and accounts from people who lived through the Dark Times. This seems to be a place to start.

“That’s so sweet,” Emma prods, gently, “What happened after that?”

He smiles, thinking of his wife then sighs, as he continues to spin his story. “It was a dark time for academia. There was a witch hunt here for people who had royal sympathies or who were opposed to Gold’s dictatorship. A lot of professors lost their jobs, most imprisoned, some worse.”

Emma can’t imagine living under such a harsh regime. Academia has always been her safe escape. This story is turning from sweet to scary in a matter of words.

“That’s horrible. Were you okay?” Emma asks.

He grimaces, painful memories stretched out across his face.

“Sorry,” Emma says quickly, “This is really personal. You don’t have to tell me these things if you are uncomfortable.”

He shakes his head, “It’s okay. I wanted to work with you for a reason, Emma. When I saw your proposal, I jumped at the chance to have our story told, the stories of many like us told. The work you are doing is rare and important.”

Emma nods and carefully slips her notebook out to start jotting down notes. Professor Hood takes a sip of his tea and then continues.

“Eventually my name went onto a black list and I was certain that I was bound for prison. My wife and I decided it was best for me to go into hiding. I spent three years living in a secret panel in my basement. It was maddening, but my wife, my Marian, she took exceptional care of me and never let me grow lonely.”

“That’s great of her,” Emma says. She wonders if she’ll get to meet this woman. From this story it sounds like they are a perfect match.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice melancholic, “we were both growing impatient. Things were getting worse and worse. Food was being rationed and we shared just her ration, so we were both constantly hungry. Oil was rationed as well and everything was always cold. I was worried I was going to spend my whole damn life freezing in that basement and Marian blamed herself for moving us here. So, we got involved in the resistance movement. She was in deeper than I was, since she could leave the house. She eventually ended up being part of the team that planned the final battle for the castle, the movement that ended the Dark Times in Misthaven.” He gulps, “but she met her end there.”

Emma’s mouth opens in shock. She’s read countless things about Misthaven resistance movements, but it’s different to hear it from someone who lived through it.

“Thanks for telling me that,” she says, not knowing if she should reach out in comfort, but she hardly knows him. Instead, she busies her hands taking notes. “I’m really sorry about your wife. That’s part of why I’ve come here, though. I want to understand resistance better from people who lived through it. I want to be able to argue how and why Blanche Neige used her books to encourage revolution.”

“Well, I can certainly help you find people to interview,” He says, “Those of us who remain from the resistance are still very close. We’d be happy to help you find people for your project.”

“Thanks so much,” she says, finishing her notes.

“What else do you need help with?” he asks.

“Well, I’m hoping to use the Misthaven U Folk and Fairytale collection to look at the stories she based her novels on,” Emma adds.

“That’s great idea. We have some rare collections that I can grant you access to.”

“Amazing,” Emma breathes, excited at the very notion of pouring over the old tomes.

“If you need help with anything else, let me know,” Professor Hood finishes.

“I will,” she promises, stacking up her notebooks as she feels the short meeting approaching it’s end.

“And will you send me your thesis so far?” He asks, “I don’t think I’ve actually been sent it yet- I’d love to give you feedback if you are up for it?”

“That’s great,” Emma says, earnestly, “All I want is for this thing to be the best it can be.”

“I look forward to reading it. Do you have plans for tonight?” he asks.

Emma’s feels her forehead wrinkle. Her new advisor is hitting on her? That’s definitely unprofessional, not mention that he’s far too old. And he just told her the story of his dead wife.

“Sorry,” he amends, seeing where her thoughts had turned, “Not like that. It’s just that they give out free opera house tickets to foreign students every Friday. They do really great performances there, operas and ballets, if you like that kind of thing. Even if you don’t, it’s a nice excuse for an evening out and the building is gorgeous.”

“Oh thanks for the tip,” Emma says. “I’ll think about it.”

She bids her goodbyes and gathers her stuff.

The Opera isn’t a bad idea. She’s still spooked from the events earlier this week and she’d rather not spend the night alone in her apartment. Plus, it might be a way to meet some other foreign students, since she is yet to make friends. Other than Killian, if you counted the 12 hours they were wary friends.

She stops by the foreign student office on her way to the tram and picks up a ticket for the performance that night. It’s an opera by Samuel Barber. She doesn’t know much about opera, so she hopes it’s alright.

When she gets off the tram in her neighborhood, she finds herself ducking into little clothing stores to window shop. This area has a lot of thrift shops and independent boutiques.

Emma won’t deny that she misses her old jean jacket. She’s upset that it was a casualty of that horrible night. There was something comforting about the worn jacket - it was a talisman of sorts, protecting her from harm. She weaves through racks at the thrift shop looking for a replacement. She fingers tan suede jackets, black corduroy ones, and a bright pink windbreaker.

A red jacket catches her eye and she slips it on. It feels right. After her last jacket was ripped from her shoulders, this one feels steady, like armor. It’s the kind of jacket that is perfect for a girl who has always had to do everything for herself.

She buys the thing, spending more than she had planned to. But hey, she got a free ticket to the opera. She can splurge on something .

It’s just past noon when she gets back to her apartment and she’s exhausted. Honestly, this week has been so fricken much. She needs to escape and not think about her grant applications or the creepy man in the pawn shop. She hasn’t been sleeping well, images of that night dancing before her eyes and make it hard for her to calm down. All Emma wants to do is relax. She tosses her opera ticket and new jacket onto the counter and heads over to her bookshelf.

Today she needs an old favorite, she picks up a Blanche Neige book. This is one of her favorites, Towering Hope , a twist on Rapunzel. It’s much more empowering than the traditional fairy tale. In this version, the savior of Misthaven is trapped in a castle. There is a hero, a dashing rapscallion of a thief, who comes to save her from the tower - but only so that she can use her powers to save the whole country and lead them all to freedom. Emma’s always liked this narrative because while the damsel gets rescued from the tower, she’s also the hero of the story. That’s what she loves about Blanche Neige, the way that her stories are always empowering, always about resisting, and yet still have the magic and charm of fairy tales.

The story is more than familiar, it’s like an old favorite song. She’s read it countless times. She’s analyzed it and wrote essays on it. Somewhere along the familiar pages and the softness of being curled up on the sunny sofa, Emma falls asleep.

When she awakes, the light is low and she finally feels rested for the first time that week. She can’t remember her dream, but she knows that there were traces of Towering Hope in it, but that the thief had Killian’s eyes. Stupid, attractive Killian. She wishes she could get him out of her head so she could move on from that night, that idiotic idea. But she can’t.

She pushes him out of her mind, for now at least. She has bigger things to do, like get ready for this opera.

Emma has never really owned the sort of things that one wears to an opera, but after rummaging in her closet for a bit, she picks out a plain black dress and a statement necklace. With a pair of heels and some red lipstick, she figures she can almost pull it off.

She quickly makes a mug of coffee with the French press, toasts a few slices of bread, and then she’s out the door. It’s a tram ride into town, just across the river to Old Town. The opera house sits along the water. It’s ornate, as an opera house should be, white with gold accents and a domed roof.

Outside, she finds a person carrying a sign that reads “Misthaven U Foreign Students” and she joins the crowd. There is a cluster of undergrad students speaking very quickly to each other in Korean, two girls chattering in what might be Norwegian, and a few more chattering in French. Emma was expecting to use this outing as an opportunity to make new friends, but she quickly realizes this might not be the case.

The group moves into the opera house and Emma shuffles along beside them. She squares her shoulders as she walks in. She doesn’t need friends. She’s always gotten through life on her own grit and perseverance. She’s going to enjoy the night even if she is by herself.

The opera house is lovely and certainly distracts her from her problems. There are gold and marble embellishments everywhere, fresh flowers, and velvet draping. Emma wants to look at all of it all at once, but the group is guided along to where their seats are.

Emma glances through her program as the curtain drops and then all at once she’s absorbed in the show.

And it’s weird. It’s really weird. An older woman is waiting for her lover, Anatole, to return to her - but his son does instead. And somehow she falls in love with him? But he impregnates her niece. Yeah, it’s super weird.

At the interval, Emma downs a glass of red wine because she knows that’s the only way she’ll make it through the rest. Plus, the broody plot lends itself to red wine.

By the end of the opera, three and half hours that feel like the longest of her life, the wine has made its way through her system. All she can think is that she has to pee. Like right now.

While the applause starts, she bolts out of her seat and dashes to the closest bathroom before the bows begin. As much as she should feel bad for not adding the applause, she really doesn’t because the opera was so strange.

As she exits the toilets, she washes her hands and pauses to fix her hair.

“So, what did you think?” asks a voice and Emma glances up to see the woman next to her.

Standing beside her at the mirror is a woman with short cropped hair and a nice pantsuit. Her face is lightly lined. She’s probably in her late forties, maybe early fifties. She has an elegant way of carrying herself that Emma envies. She’s always had atrocious posture.

Emma tries for something intellectual to say. This lady seems like the serious opera type.

“Well, it was certainly literary,” Emma manages, after all, she is really good at analyzing things. “The plot was wholly modernist, I think. Though I think anything with that many Oedipal allusions isn’t necessarily my cup of tea.”

“It’s okay, I won’t be offended if you say it sucked,” the woman says.

She has a clear, posh Misthaven accent to her English - with a hint of something that Emma can’t quite place. She’s the kind of woman you’d never expect to say the word “sucked.”

“Okay,” Emma laughs, “It did kinda suck.”

“Honestly, I think most operas in English tend to,” she explains, “Maybe go to an Italian, or even a French one, next time around.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” Emma says.

“Is it your first time at the opera?” asks the lady.

Emma nods, a little shyly. She’s an intellectual. She doesn’t like to admit not knowing things.

“Well, I hope it doesn’t deter you from coming back,” the lady says, “There are usually very nice shows on here. There is a very promising ballet planned for next Friday, if that interests you. It should be a bit better than this.”

Emma laughs, “yeah, maybe I’ll come back. I’m here for the next few months.”

“Here, I’ll make it easy for you,” the lady says, “I can arrange some free tickets for you.”

Geesh , Emma thinks, they must be desperate in this town to get people into the opera house if they are always giving out free tickets.

“That’ll be great,” Emma says, sounding more enthusiastic than she actually is. She’d feel bad disappointing this opera aficionado who seems so zealous about getting Emma interested in this place.

“I’ll leave two tickets next Friday at the door under your name,” she tells her, “What is it?”

“Emma, Emma Swan.”

The woman’s eyes widen and she shivers. Emma can feel her looking her up and down, before she meets her eyes, staring intensely.

“Sorry, is something wrong?” Emma asks.

The woman startles, “what? No, sorry. I’ll arrange the tickets for you, Emma.”

“Uh, thanks,” Emma replies feeling a little awkward.

The woman exits the bathroom with a final, closed mouthed smile. Emma turns back to the mirror and gazes at her reflection. What had the woman been looking for? What had she seen?

Killian has often dreamt of the night he fled the castle. The screams of the queen echoing through the castle. The feeling of air tearing through his lungs as he runs as fast as his short legs will take him to his gran’s cottage. The empty, hollow feeling as he watches Liam and a small bob of blonde hair disappear from sight. Killian knows that dream well.

So, when a new one begins, it startles him.

The night he returns from the pawn shop, his bones rattled, his hand still shaking from the altercation with stranger, the new dream begins.

He climbs in bed, thinking of Emma. For a moment, he had been sure that the man was going to kill her. The knife raised above her, the fierce look in her eyes replaced by terror - he thought that he’d led the girl to her demise. He hopes that creating a diversion was enough of an apology to her for the mess he dragged her into. He knows she probably won’t ever forgive him for the trouble he caused her, but he’ll miss the lass. He’s known her for a day and he’s already charmed by her quick mind and golden hair.

Her golden hair somehow fades into another’s.

He dreams that night of being a child in the palace. He dreams of the tiny apartment that he and Liam had in the basement. They shared a bed, Killian just small enough to fit under this brother’s shoulder.

He dreams of the royal library, where he discovered new books and would spend hours stretched out on the floor flicking through pages - gazing at pictures and attempting to read the words beside them.

He dreams of trays of rich food that his brother would bring him in the evenings. He’d explain they came from the king’s table, leftovers from the feast.

He dreams of a night when he snuck up the stairs to watch a ball. He remembers all the couples waltzing to the most beautiful music. He thinks of the elegant clothes, the smells of sweets, and the ornate decorations. Even for a young boy, he was very impressed.

He dreams of the family. The father with his blond hair and ponytail. The mother with her round face and long, dark hair. And the daughter, the princess - Emma.

Emma with her wispy gold locks, her dimpled chin, her doey green eyes. Emma with her infectious giggle and toothy smile. He remembers playing with her. She was smaller, first a baby that he’d sing songs to. Then she was toddling and cooing, chasing after him down palace corridors. She was three or four when she fled with Liam. He remembers that she was finally the age where they could play proper games together. He wonders if they would have been real friends when they grew older.

She’s everywhere in his dreams. He’s chasing her down hallways. She’s always one step out of reach.

He awakes with the image a different blond haired girl in his mind. One with longer legs, lovely curves, and a determined poise. Emma .

He tries to get her out of his mind. He throws himself into work at the bar, engaging with customers, making them laugh. He gets Ruby to distract him when he can, having her play dice with him when the bar is having low periods.

The rest of the time he has to himself he reads. He decides on a whim to reread the Blanche Neige series. They’ve been his favorite always, since he discovered them in the library as a teenager. He craves their easy comfort now. He loves the way that the words coax him, familiar like an old favorite song. Even now, in the sad nostalgia and strange dreams left in Emma’s wake, the books lull him and help him to forget his worries.

He manages to stay distracted through the weekend, the bar is busy enough then. It isn’t until the stillness of his Tuesday afternoon that he find himself at Mamie’s with a Blanche Neige book in hand. All he wants to do was to drink an americano and try to lose the dismally restless feeling he’s acquired since that night in the pawn shop.

So, his heart stops a little when he looks up and sees her. Emma.

Her hair is up in a high bun, square rim glasses balanced on her nose. She’s dressed in a black thingy, which Killian thinks might be called a romper, only because Ruby’s called it that before. She has a red leather jacket over it, the overall look seems to match her fierceness. Her laptop is in front of her, a stack of books to her side.

He doesn’t know what to do for a moment. Does he go talk to her? He wants to. He really wants to. He hasn’t stopped thinking about her, try as he may, and here she is right in front of him. He wants to apologize. He wants to make things right with her.

But then again, things left off so horribly between them. He wonders if it’s best to duck out the backdoor and pretend that he didn’t see her. That way he doesn’t have to confront how awkward their last moments together were.

Emma looks up and their eyes meet. She glances away and for a moment he thinks that she’s made the decision for him. She is going to ignore him. Then, she swallows and meets his eyes again. A tiny smile graces her lips, an invitation.

Killian leaves his coffee and book behind to go to her table.

A gentle blush rises in her cheeks and she tucks a strand of hair into her bun.

“Emma, look, I just wanted to say how sorry I am for how everything turned out,” He begins, looking down at his feet, scratching a hand behind his ear, “I never, ever meant to put you in danger.”

“Um, yeah, I’m not going to lie to you, last Tuesday was one of the scariest experiences of my life,” she babbles awkwardly, adorably. “And like, that’s really saying a lot considering my childhood.”

His eyes widen a bit as he takes in her accidental overshare. Just what has this poor girl gone through? He wants to know her secrets, her stories. But they are strangers, former business partners - it’s never going to happen.

“Anyway,” she continues, clearly not wanting to dwell on her admission. “It seemed like you were trying to help. I mean I know that you said the guy was creepy, but I think we were both blindsided by just how weird that got.”

Killian nods furiously. “You can say that again.”

“You got out okay?” she asks, lightly.

He nods again. “Yeah I was just behind you. I haven’t the seen the fiend since.”

“That’s good,” Emma says, “I honestly don’t know what I’d do.”

Killian sniffles and looks down again, thinking it’s probably best to start retreating back to his table and back to his americano. Things are always going to be weird between him and Emma. They can’t just go from the horrible night they experienced and expect to become anything like friends afterwards.

Then he sees the book on top of her stack, Towering Hope by Blanche Neige.

“You read Blanche Neige?” he blurts out,flushed with surprise. Those books are everything to him. They’re the reason he was able to rebuild his life after being a young offender. They’re the reason he was able to find hope.

And there is this girl who has already woven a little tendril around his heart sitting in front of him, reading the very same book.

“Um, actually,” she says, the blush returning to her cheeks. “I’m writing my PhD dissertation on Blanche Neige. I’m basing my career on her.”

“So, you’re something of a Blanche Neige expert?” he asks.

She snorts a laugh. “Not exactly. Not yet, at least. I’ve got to finish the dissertation. But yeah, no one’s written on her before. So maybe, one day.”

“Emma Swan, Blanche Neige expert,” he says, sliding into the seat opposite of her. “Wow, that’s sexy.”

She lets out a full laugh this time, tugging on her bun again.

“I take it you’re a fan?” She asks, curiosity lacing her voice.

“Right, well, you know that horrible childhood thing you talked about before?”

She purses her lips together, her forehead wrinkling again.

“Well, yes, I had one of those too. Quite miserable.” He rattles on, not ready to give details. “But Miss Blanche here, her books were the things that helped me through it.”

She nods, her voice soft, the moment suddenly intimate for the coffee shop setting. “I understand that. The way books can save you from the bad stuff.”

Killian nods and smiles, because Emma gets it. She’s probably the first person he’s ever met who gets it.

“Books are like a little bit of hope,” She adds.

“They are exactly that, Swan.” He nods.

“So what is your favorite?”

“Of Blanche Neige?” He muses, “Probably Never in this Land. ”

He thinks of the novel, a twist on Peter Pan where a modern Captain Hook has a change of heart, abandoning his life of crime and becoming a hero. He ends up sheltering three “darling” children in his house to keep them safe from the dictator.  Like all Blanche Neige, it’s a story about freedom, bravery, and resistance.

“Interesting choice,” she says, smiling.

He wonders if she sees through his choice. He wonders if she sees his previous life of crime. He wonders if she sees a villain in him.

But instead, it seems her thoughts are purely intellectual.

“It’s curiously the only Blanche Neige book that’s not based directly on a fairy tale. Well, that and The Yellow Bug. I can’t find the source material for that one, no matter how hard I look.”

“The Yellow Bug?” Killian muses.

He tries to place the tale. He recalls it a little, the story of an outsider who comes to town in a yellow VMW. She’s looking for her family, but never ends up finding them. Instead, she discovers she can talk to animals and uses the ability to help foil the uprising. In the story, the dictator keeps his soul in an egg which was taken from one of the animals and the heroine eventually finds a way to destroy the soul inside. In typical Blanche Neige fashion, she delivers the town from the dictator.

“You can see traces of the Goose Girl in it,” Emma explains, “In the plot line with the talking animals. And other traces of the Firebird in it, with the soul in the egg. But there are other bits that I can’t place. Blanche Neige usually draws from one source fable, so it doesn’t make sense that she’d mash up a few, or that she’d deviate from using a fairy tale.”

Killian opens his mouth in wonder at Emma. She really is the Blanche Neige expert. Listening to her talk in such detail about his favorite book with so much enthusiasm endears her further to him.

Only he notices one thing she doesn’t.

“I know the story,” Killian blurts.

“What?” Emma asks, surprise in her eyes.

“The source story,” he says, “I remember being told it as a child. It was called The Yellow Carriage. A stranger comes to town in a yellow carriage.”

“What do you mean?” Emma says, “I’ve done extensive research. I’ve looked through countless fairy tale databases.”

“I promise you,” He says emphatically, “I remember it from childhood. The Yellow Carriage.”

Emma gapes at him.

“Well, do you know where to find it?”

“I haven’t heard it since I was a child,” He admits, “I wouldn’t know the anthology it came from.”

Emma frowns. He doesn’t like the disappointment and unhappiness on her face.

“But listen, I’ll try my best to think back and see if I remember it. If I think of it, I’ll tell you.”

The frown abates from her face, “Thanks. It’s just that there is a whole chapter of my dissertation about the irregularities of The Yellow Bug and if there is a source for it - well, it changes things. I wouldn’t want to submit it with an error in it.”

“Listen, I’ve only listened to you talk about Blanche Neige for five minutes now, but I’ve never heard anyone as passionate and informed as you. Anyone reading your thesis or whatever will be able to tell,” He flatters.

She rolls her eyes. “That’s not really how academia works. People don’t care about enthusiasm, just precise analysis and fresh ideas.”

“That’s too bad,” he says, “Or else all your work would be done.”

A blush ghosts her cheeks again, before she admits, “well, that would save me a lot of trouble. The reason I’m so desperate for money is because I need to pay for another semester of grad school.”

“That’s why you agreed to my proposal?” He clarifies.

His heart melts a little for her. Emma, so sweet and studious that her ambition is not for a vacation or a large house or money to spend on clothes and jewels, but to learn, to read literature, to study Blanche Neige.

“I just really want to finish my PhD.” She nods. “And the money would have helped to pay back my student loans from undergrad as well.”

Killian feels a flair of anger at the expense of university education in America. In Misthaven, university fees are very minimal and heavily subsidized by the government. He wishes that Emma didn’t have to worry about fees and that she could enjoy her time here instead of focusing on finding funds.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” Killian says, sadly.

Emma gives a rueful smile. “It’s fine. I’m not sure anyone would have believed that I’m lost princess anyway. It was probably a stupid plan.”

“I would believe it,” Killian says, softly.

Her blonde hair, bright green eyes, and dimples - he would believe her to be the lost princess any day.

“Okay, Romeo.” Emma says with another eye roll. “Anyway, a student loan is better than a jail sentence. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I’m still sorry,” he says, “Let me make it up to you.”

She looks up and meets his eyes. Her fierce look falters for a minute and he sees something vulnerable in her gaze. There is loneliness there, hurt, and rejection.

There is a certain yearning there too.

Then she smiles good naturedly, “Well, I don’t really have any friends in Misthaven yet. So, you could buy me another cappuccino and we could talk about Blanche Neige for a little longer.”

Killian lets himself grin back at her. “Yeah, I’d like that a lot Emma.”

tagging some fans (people who i looked through their tags and found out they really liked it) // let me know if anyone wants to be added or subtracted:

@sambethe @kmomof4 @pocket-anon @hooked-mom @the-corsair-and-her-quill @kiwistreetswan@lenfazreads @princesseslikepirates @timeless-love-story

[friendlybutdefensive]

(Draft) magic backpack

(Draft) magic backpack

Meet Amaani, a young NB highschooler in Aybo city who lives an interesting life to say the least, they are not exactly accepted by their single mother, so that kinda makes them on their own in life.

The next events of Amaani’s life are life-changing.

Chapter 1 the need for a new backpack

A week before high school starts for Amaani, they aren’t ready one bit, they hope to get new supplies for school since everything they have is raggedy and run-down, their burnt dark orange backpack has stopped being functional, they were in desperate need of an upgrade. Unfortunately their financial situation isn’t very flexible, Amaani’s mother is rarely around the studio apartment so they have to pay for daily bills.

They asked their boss Pearl for some money to borrow to buy a basic dark grey backpack they saw at the mega-market chain Weivos. Pearl agreed to give Amaani money, as she acts as their unofficial mother.

Amaani heads to Weivos but they take a shortcut which caused the money to be lost along the bumpy road an Amaani unfortunately realized this too late, once they got to Weivos they kept staring at the basic dark-grey backpack in eyes of desire. It’s a shame they lost the money.

Chapter 2 the orange backpack

Wayfaring their way through the towering buildings and the sprinkled houses of Kybo city, Amaani stops at this run-down park with dead eucalyptus trees and stuck leaves on the cement pathways, they find a long wooden bench to sit at. They call their best friend Vez to tell him about their day, they tell let him know what happened, he tells them it's ok and they should meet him next day at his place, Amaani agrees and heads home, on their way they sense a strange energy in the air, it feels like static energy coming from a source, they follow this energy to a half broken garage door, and there it was, The Orange backpack, Amaani felt an instant connection they found it empty and since the garage was abandoned and signless, they hesitatingly took it and scurried on home.

Chapter 3 The first strange occurrences 

Amaani enters their home greeted by a cold uncomfortable  breeze,”Kaya? Come here girl” called Amaani for their pet bunny with the goldish brown fur, Kaya hops her way over to Amaani and jumps to be caught by them, they move their hand up and down on Kaya’s back as she snuggles closer to Amaani, “you missed me baby?” They say.

Amaani’s phone rings, it’s Vez, “hey bud, missed me so soon?” says Amaani,”kinda yeah, i'm coming over, is that ok?” replies Vez, “yeah sure thing, just bring some food ,it’s like a desert in here” returns Amaani while looking at their empty fridge, “please, you already know i’m bringing you a goddamn feast tonight” says Vez in an excited-exaggerated tone, Amaani asks “What’s the occasion?”, “when i get there you impatient clown!”. 17 minutes go by and Amaani is sitting on their damaged maroon couch, they hear knocking from the door, it’s Vez with 4 plastic bags full of takeout food.

 -Vez: “Guten tag nerd open up, i’ve got a shit ton of food and I don’t even know what’s in these bags.”

Amaani lets him in and says “What do you mean you don’t know what’s in them?! Did you steal them?”

 -Vez: “of course not, my neighbour Bret had a party and I helped him clean up and he gave me all this uneaten food his guests left.”

 -Amaani: “ok cool, enough talking, start eating but tell me what’s the occasion first”

 -Vez: “well my fellow homo’, You are looking at the newest driver for Ceegan’s limos.”

 -Amaani: ”OH MY GOD!! If you’re messing with me i’m gonna-”

 -Vez: “no no I’m serious, I got my first well paying job, next thing you know , I’m gonna be rolling in bread”

Amaani: “dude i’m so happy for you, congratulations!”

Amaani hugs Vez and he thanks them and they both start opening bags to see what’s for dinner, “I’m so hungry, I don't care what I'll eat” says Vez as he grabs ramen from a chinese to-go box, he starts eating it without looking what’s inside, he asks Amaani ”Is there Soy in this?” as his face starts to slowly swell up, he mutters “I can’t breathe”, he gestures for an EpiPen but Amaani can’t find it on him, For some reason she looks for it in the backpack and there it was, a fresh unused EpiPen, she uses it on him, Vez slowly begins to recover while Amaani looks around in confusion and asks themself “where was that EpiPen? and why did I directly search for it in that backpack? and more importantly why was it in the backpack?” Vez replies in short breath “I don’t know but thank you Amaani, you saved my life”

Amaani looks around in bewilderment as they realised that they pulled Vez from the grips of death, all because of that backpack. “It’s getting late, you should stay here, i’ll get you a blanket” They stated, still in a state of solid confusion.

Chapter 4 the search for an explanation 

As the new day begins, Vez wakes up Amaani and they both head to a nearby coffee shop called ‘sheen’s beans’ where they sit down and try to reflect on what happened the previous night.

Amaani knows that the backpack was empty when they got it, so where did that EpiPen come from? 

“Dude, I really think you should go back to where you found it, maybe you’ll find answers.” advised Vez. Amaani agreed but they are still very uncertain about that place, it had a very strange energy pulsing from it. Amaani asks sam if he’s coming with them, “can’t do buckeroo, I gotta work today….speaking of work, I should go right now” replied Vez, “Ok, well take care then.” cheerfully responded.

Vez jogs away to a nearby tram station and Amaani tries to search for answers by going to the abandoned garage they found the backpack in. It takes them a while to find it, but they eventually did, but to their surprise, it looks renovated and it somehow turned into a bicycle/skateboarding shop. “How the hell???” lightly quavered Amaani, They walk into the store and they are greeted by a cheerful employee, They ask them if today is the opening of this shop, the employee looks at Amaani with eyes of confusion and replies “I’m afraid not friend, we’ve been here for a few years now”, “huh? Ok well, have you ever seen this backpack before?” questions ammani while showing the employee the backpack, “Not really, we don’t sell that kind of backpack anymore ...man that looks really vintage” He replies while taking a closer look at the backpack in admiration, “That’s a classic model, I recommend you take care of it” he continued, Amaani thanked the employee and left the establishment in disorientation, They clearly remember the description and details of the place they found it in.

The search for an explanation lead to nothing, uncertainty and confoundedness are still the main emotions Amaani is experiencing. 

[pokefan531]

Yuki’s Story Chapter 76 - Phase’s Plan

Chapter 76 Yuki is at front of her house door outside, thinking how her parents will react on her day. Yuki: I know what to expect. Let's just move on and deal with this. She went inside her house and sees her parents, and her parents notices her. Mom: Hey Yuki! How was your day? Yuki is thinking on her head about why her mom isn't reacting angrily. Yuki: Hmm... Kinda rough. Mom: Rough? How rough? Yuki: Oh. Just a lot of school work I had to finish. Dad: Did you pass them? Yuki: Hopefully? She is wondering why her parents aren't yelling at her. Ryo comes downstairs and sees Yuki. Ryo: Yuki! You must come up! Yuki: All right. She runs upstairs and she and Ryo went to his room and sees Haruka. Yuki: Hey. Haruka: Yuki, we got some news. Ryo closes his own door. Ryo: Yuki, you must keep this a secret. Yuki: What? Ryo: I was the one who talked to your principle. I pretended to be Dad. Yuki: You?! How? Haruka: Your dad needed a favor from Ryo to check on his phone. Ryo: He wanted me to check if there is enough space since he has many photos there. He still does, but then it was ringing in the middle of it. Haruka: And before, your friends texted us about what happened to your school. We decided to help when the phone was ringing. Ryo: I still recognize the school's phone numbers. I decide to play Dad, and after that, I erased the history for that call. Yuki: Wow. Interesting. I didn't expect that, but good job. I thought they know already. Ryo: Be glad they didn't. You should find out why they got you in trouble. Yuki: I know I do. I know I can't go to school in the coming week, so I should be planning on the whole weekend. Haruka: Also, I texted your friends that we covered for you. Yuki: Thanks. Tram Phase are still together and planning things, despite us busting them on their last scheme. Ryo: You guys are gonna try a lot harder to inspect what they just did. Yuki: That's what I'm thinking. We gotta know everything about them. The next day at Saturday, Yuki is at Minoru's house with Ayano, Retasu, Takahashi, and Leon. Yuki: During my suspension, I do plan to go to my brother's college. That way, it will seem like I'm at school. Minoru: And what are we supposed to do? Yuki: At best, you guys will do everything to know everything about them. Not just watching what they do, but learn more about what they are up to. Leon: It sounds difficult. I can't believe they knock you out of school for a week. Yuki: And that's why I'm not giving up to figure out how they did that. Retasu: I don't want to be near them again. I don't want them to beat me up again. Ayano: Do they know about me? Yuki: I'm not sure. Ayano: I can see if I can take a peak at them. Minoru: So during your suspension, you are gonna find some information on each of Team Phase members? Yuki: Yes. If possible, and if I do find something like that, I will send it to all of you. Retasu: Cool. Yuki: So where did Rin go? Takahashi: She's out with Shirou on a date. Leon: Cool. Later in the evening, Yuki and Minoru are at the ice cream shop, getting ice cream. Yuki: Here is one for you. She gives one to him. Minoru: Thanks! Yuki: Now let's go to a place. She takes him to a field, and sit at the bench. Yuki: Does the ice cream taste good? Minoru: Yes. Wow, I can't believe Ryo covered for you. Yuki: Amazing brother. I have something to say. Minoru: What is it? Yuki: If you want some defense when I'm away, just be with any of our pals. I know I would always want to defend you for everything, but I know I won't be always with you at all times. Minoru: I know. I just don't want them to do something to me, and I just want to ask anyone to be with me. Yuki: Yeah. Also, there is nothing wrong to be by yourself. You should at least know how to handle the situation on your own too. Minoru: But I'm not strong like you. Yuki: I know, but your brains could think of something to protect yourself. Minoru: I see. Yuki: I know you are a smart person, and I do believe you are capable of not letting them to get to you. Minoru: Hmm... I know I won't always gonna have someone on my side, but I just want to be safe. Yuki: Don't worry. I used to think the same for you, but now I realize that you can be safe, whether you have someone with you or not. Team Phase are not always gonna have time to get to either of you. Minoru: Make sense. Yuki: And now my mission is to figure out everything about yesterday. Minoru: I believe we will find out about this. Yuki: Me too, Minoru. She kisses his cheek. Minoru blushed. Minoru: Sweet. What about lips? Yuki: Sure. They both kiss by their lips. They both get up. Yuki: You finish your ice cream? Minoru: Yes. Yuki: Let me take this out to the trash. Minoru gives her the empty stick, and she throws it to the trash. Minoru: Thanks Yuki. Yuki: No problem. At Monday morning, Yuki is at Ryo's car. Ryo: Trust me Yuki, once you go in our campus, you will see how it is like to become a young adult. Yuki: I always want to see how your place looks like. Ryo: Also, it has a game room, a lobby to see popular pop culture, several snack machines, and sometimes we have attractions on the outdoors. Yuki: Cool. I'll go check these places. Ryo: It's awesome. You don't get to wear uniform there anymore. They park at the reserved parking spot. Ryo: And here we are. He shows Yuki the campus. Yuki: Amazing! It's even bigger than my school. Ryo: Yep. Let's go in. They both went to the coffee shop. Ryo: They have this in few places on this campus. Yuki: Cool. Although, I don't like coffee, it is interesting. In the other place of the campus, he shows her the lobby. Ryo: This is the lobby. You will find a lot of people who are into the shows and games you play. Yuki: Wow. You said they have a game room here. Ryo: It's on the left hallway. You just open the first door on your right. Yuki: Thanks. Ryo: You could find a table anywhere here unless if you decide to look around. I gotta go find Haruka. Yuki: I'll stick here for a while. Ryo: All right. He left. Yuki: This place got even more interesting. In Fujiwara, Minoru talks to Ayano. Minoru: Well, class starts in ten minutes. Ayano: Ok. I wonder if they are here. Minoru: It seems like they don't use any of the students or club rooms anymore, but I know they meet somewhere. Ayano: You may be right. Minoru: Also, Yuki is already in Ryo's place right now. Ayano: Good. On the other side inside the building, Rin sees Kaname drinking the water fountain. Kaname leaves and heads to a room. Rin: Hmm. She's going to a musical room. In college, Yuki walks around the lobby and sees group of people having manga and half are My Hero Academia. Yuki: I collect these. It is an interesting series. Guy1: Cool! We just read the latest one. Yuki: I think several parts in the middle and the end are awesome. Girl1: Nice. Who are you? Yuki: I'm Yuki. Guy2: Nice to meet you, Yuki. Later in high school, on the first break, Minoru walks to the fountain. After drinking, he turns around and he sees Lila coming. Lila sees him and walks to him. Minoru is frighten a little. Lila: Minoru. Minoru: Um...What? Lila: After school, I want to talk to you. Minoru: What did you do to her? Lila: She deserved to get suspended. Minoru walks back a little. Lila: Look, I just want to ask you to meet me by after school at the room we used to have! Minoru: I don't trust you. Lila: I'm just asking a simple thing! Meet me. There will be non hurting, no harm, just a simple talk. Minoru: No. I mean, I know you got Yuki in trouble. Lila: We did. That doesn't mean I can't have a simple conversation with you guys. Minoru: Why? Lila: It is about you. Minoru walks back. Lila: You're such a scary cat! Stop walking back! I'm not doing anything! Lia comes up and pushes her while holding a baseball hat. Lia: You leave this guy alone! Lila: You don't know what I'm doing. She left. Lia: Are you all right? Minoru: Yeah, but she wasn't trying to hurt me or anything. She's just creepy, so thanks. Lia: No problem. Say, what is Yuki doing right now? Minoru: She's at her brother's college. Lia: Cool. A while later, he is having lunch with Rin, Oka, and Leon. Minoru tells them the story. Rin: Hmm. So that was it? Minoru: Yeah. Although, she didn't lay a finger on me. Leon: Good. Minoru: Although, I don't think she is trying to. She was just asking me to talk to her after school. I refused. Rin: Good. She doesn't need you or any of us. Minoru: I'm just wondering what happens if I don't. What is she gonna do? Will she get me into trouble? Leon: That is the possibility, but I suggest not to go. She is just tricking you to go, and she may be worse than we could think of. Oka: He's right. Minoru: But, I'm just worried. Rin: Even if she said she won't hurt you, don't. It's a trap. Minoru: You're right. I mean, I want to find clues about them. Leon: You could just find another way. Minoru: But what if she will do something worse if I don't? Rin: ...She did get Yuki suspended. I think that is a risky situation, Minoru. It's your choice. Oka: I still think you shouldn't. Yuki was the one who tried to stop them, so if you do nothing about it, she may not retaliate. Minoru: Hmm... A while later, Yuki is talking to the same random people in the lobby. Yuki:...And that's it. I loved that manga series. Yuki feels a vibration on her phone. Yuki: Excuse me for a sec. She walks to the table where Ryo is sitting. Yuki reads the message from Minoru from Lila. Yuki: Hmm. That's a hard decision. Ryo: What happened? Anything related in Fujiwara? Yuki: Yeah. Minoru just texted me about his story about Lila. She is trying to talk to him after school, but since she's just another creep, Minoru is not sure if he should do it. I mean, she set up my suspension, so I don't want her to get Minoru in trouble, but also I don't want that guy to get hurt. Ryo: Has she tried to? Yuki: As far as I know, she only hurt Retasu with the gangs and little on Rin. However, she tells him that she won't harm him either way. Ryo: I mean, I don't trust her. Yuki: Same here. If she really means it, it would be a relief. Ryo: So what is your answer? Yuki is thinking. Yuki: Well, going to Lila is risky, but not going may get him in trouble. I know Minoru's not as strong as me, and I told him to depend on himself. I would have to say yes. Ryo: You mean it? Yuki: Yeah. It would be the safest. I hope she means it. Yuki texted him. "Knowing all the risks on both decisions, I say go for it. You can do it." Later after school, Minoru is walking to the room, and Rin and Shirou is behind him. Rin: You're sure? I know Yuki said yes, but you're up for it? Minoru: Yeah. I'm nervous though. Shirou: Well, just be brave and go there. Minoru: I'll do my best. Rin: Bye! Minoru went inside the room and Rin and Shirou starts heading home. Rin: I honestly don't like this decision. It's odd that Yuki encourages him to go. Shirou: I mean, that's the best option for him. He at least won't get in trouble like what they did to Yuki. Rin: I know. I just hopes he comes out safely, for Yuki's relief. In the room, Minoru sees Lila at the seat. Lila: Hello, Minoru. Have a seat. Minoru looks at her.

Next Chapter: Minoru's Side Story Lila talks to Minoru about herself, and it leads Minoru to a lot of questions. Minoru had no idea why would Lila decide to be with Team Phase in the first place. Meanwhile, Yuki has some adventure on the next day and tries to do more research about Team Phase. What will both learn about them? Tune in next time!

[thisnorwegianlife]

This American Life

America.  This land, your land, my land. For 36 years I have called this place home.  In this American life, I have lived in a variety of places: born and raised in Idaho Falls, ID,  a couple of years in Kansas City, MO, before moving back to Idaho.  Left Idaho for a short stint in Lubbock, TX, before settling down for 11 years in eastern New Mexico, where I attended university and grad school.  I left my rural New Mexico for the hot mess that is Las Vegas, NV, when I was recruited by the US Forest Service out of grad school.  The seasonal jobs I have worked and research I’ve conducted as I attained my degrees have taken me to even more places in the US, even to our neighbors to the north and south: La Pine, OR, Eatonville, WA, Conklin, Alberta, Hidalgo, Mexico, and Milnesand, NM.  Between the travel I was afforded in those jobs and the many road trips I have taken in my life, I can boast that I have seen a great deal of the western United States.  In particular, I have traveled extensively through Washington, Oregon, California, Idaho, Utah, Nevada, Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico, and Wyoming.  Not bad for a spud that grew up on a potato farm in southeastern Idaho.

And yet, for all of the beautiful, humbling, awe-inspiring, and desolate places I have lived in, visited, and traveled through in my American life, I am about to leave it behind.  In exactly seven weeks, I will board a plane in Las Vegas that will take me far away to my new home in Lillestrøm, Norway.  That’s right- Norway.  Usually when I tell someone that I am moving to Norway, their reaction is something akin to “Norway, wow!  Isn’t that supposed to be one of the happiest countries in the world?  You’re so lucky!”  I smile and agree and tell people the story of why I am moving to Norway.  It goes something like this:

A little more than three and a half years ago, I befriended a man from Norway on an obscure social networking site.  I noticed that he was a fellow scientist and someone that I wanted to get to know better.  So we struck up a friendship and talked regularly via DM conversations on our beloved, obscure social network.  There came a time when I realized I had stronger than friendly feelings for this man and a sort of flirtation ensued.  And then, one day many months later, I confronted the reality that this was no longer a crush or a friendly flirtation: I loved this man.  So I told him.  And he smiled his biggest, most beautiful smile and told me that he loved me back.

From there, we were involved in the typical, painful long-distance relationship- nightly video dates on Google Hangout (back then it was G-chat or something, I think), gifts sent from afar, cutesy little love notes left to each other, pining, etc.  After nearly a year of this, he came to visit me for the first time in Las Vegas.  Completely and utterly freaked out doesn’t even to describe it (“what if we don’t have any physical chemistry?”), but it was clear from the beginning that our flesh and blood selves fit as seamlessly together as our online versions.  We had a beautiful time together and he returned to Norway and I returned to pining.

Pining.

Pining.

Pining.

Pining.  Start to get the picture?  Long distance relationships are really, incredibly tough.

Oh, we have had many times together since then: I went to Oslo for a couple weeks, he’s been here for probably 8 times now, and we recently traveled to Greece together.  We’ve been all over the place when he visits and each time is special and lovely and then he leaves.  Or I leave. Or we both leave.  Whatever, it sucks.

Pining.

Pining.

Pining.

Pining.  Last November, he came here and we took a trip to California.  On a chilly Thanksgiving morning in Yosemite National Park, on the Merced River, he proposed to me.  Later, we drove to San Francisco and I dropped off my documentation and application for a fiance residency permit at the Norwegian Consulate.  That was kind of the moment where it all sunk in for me: Oh my god, I am planning on leaving everything I have known and loved and hated and whatever, but my home.  I am planning on leaving my home.

My American life…I am about to leave it all behind.  I think, for some, the response “OMGNORWAY” is enough.  Or “It’s a western European country, it can’t be that different.” Or “Jesus, I would kill to live in Norway!”  Fine, it’s fine.  I understand the reactions, but I have visited and I understand that Norway really isn’t like the US.  IT REALLY ISN’T.  Oh sure, they like American tv and movies and music and fashion, but that is about where the similarities end.

Would you like to know some of the reasons I am scared about leaving my American life behind? <ol> <li>Amazon Prime/eBay/ModCloth/Etsy/Zappos/NewEgg/etc/</li> </ol> Cheap internet shopping with free (or cheap), fast shipping.  Near instant gratification without having to step in a single store.  I hate shopping in stores.  I hate being approached by clerks.  I hate being watched while I shop (which is not the same as cookies, so shut it).  I hate having to spend a penny more than is necessary.  I love an internet bargain.  Period.

Norway has 5 million people.  They don’t have an Amazon distribution center of their own.  They have to go through the UK.  The luxury of 2-day shipping is about to become a thing of the past.  Norway is expensive.  Oh, I am sure you have heard that before, but I am not sure you can really appreciate how expensive it is in Norway.  Going out to eat at McDonalds is a luxury.  A luxury, people.  No dollar or value menus to be found.  Going out to eat at a nice restaurant is almost cost prohibitive and something you would do very, very rarely.  Food at the grocery store, cosmetics, toiletries, linen, anything…more money than you would normally dream of paying for such things.  That is the reality of buying things in Norway.

Needless to say, my shopping habits are about to change dramatically and I am not terribly excited about that. <ol start="2"> <li>Kraft Dinner//Rotel &Velveeta/505 Salsa/Weinhard’s Cream Soda/Amy’s frozen burritos/In-n-Out Burger/etc/</li> </ol> My little guilty pleasures, my comfort foods, my go-to when I am hungry and I don’t want to properly cook something.  Norway has none of these things.  When I am down in the dumps and I want to feel better, I want Kraft macaroni and cheese or Rotel Queso.  It’s the only thing that will do.  After a long, exhausting day at work, I want tortilla chips and medium 505 salsa.  Weinhard’s Vanilla Cream Soda is quite possibly the best soda I’ve had in my life and I am not thrilled about giving it up. Amy’s frozen burritos are a staple of lazing living.  What will I do without them?  And In -n- Out?  I am a proper Las Vegan now.  I expect to enjoy the heavenly deliciousness of an In-n-Out burger at 2 am when I fancy one.

So much of my American life is about cheap, readily available conveniences.  And I am accustomed to those conveniences.  I rely on those conveniences.  So much so that sometimes I forget how to live without my little conveniences.  But I will have to and I will have to develop entirely new comfort foods. <ol start="3"> <li>Transportation</li> </ol> I am giving up my car.  The import taxes placed on cars in Norway are just way too high.  I love my car.  I love road tripping.  I love jumping in my car and traveling around the west.  I’ve slept in my car, I’ve watched movies in my car, I use it to go camping, it takes me to remote trailheads, it has hauled flooring and molding, and bookcases, and home improvement materials from Home Depot and Ikea, it has been a refuge when the only place I have to go for a good cry is my car.  But now it won’t be there.

Norway has a fabulous public transportation system.  They have passenger train routes all over the country.  They have express trains to Oslo, trams, and a subway in Oslo. Buses that are on time and that don’t suck.  Public transportation that is affordable.  I am not going to lie, I am pretty excited about that.  Excited that I’ll finally live in a place where you can walk to the store and a river greenbelt within a few minutes by foot. Excited that I’ll live ten minutes out of Oslo and have the convenience of trains running back and forth all day long.  And amazing network of hiking/x-country ski trails within and hop, skip, and a jump.

However, I will still miss my car.  We’ll probably buy one before too long, but it will be strange not being able to just jump in the car and set out for adventure. <ol start="4"> <li>Language</li> </ol> Oh yeah, did I neglect to mention that I don’t actually know Norwegian?  Pardon me.  I don’t speak or understand Norwegian.  That’s kind of a big deal when it comes to assimilating into the country, getting a job, knowing what your in-laws are saying about you.

Sure, most Norwegians under 60 can understand English and speak it to varying degrees.  It wasn’t a huge barrier when I was visiting the country.  But there is a big difference from being a tourist in Norway and being a resident of Norway.  The idea of a solo grocery store trip, my first train ride alone, applying for jobs terrifies me.  My fiance is my crutch, my beloved translator, but he has a job and I can’t always rely on him to be there to help me figure out road signs and what people are talking about.

I have to learn a new language at 36 and that is pretty damn intimidating. Norway is awesome when it comes to immigrants learning their language, though.  They have free, state-sponsored language classes that you can take in the day or evening.  They want you to learn the language and will help you succeed in that endeavor, which is really cool. Still, this will take time and I need to find employment before I have fully learned the language.  That scares the shit out of me.

Then there is just the fact that I will miss hearing my native tongue. Miss the luxury of eavesdropping without having a painful translation session in my head. Miss hearing people sing in English (as I often hear strangers doing on the streets of Las Vegas). Miss just being able to walk up to someone and say, “I think you dropped something” or “Do you know how I can find _____?” Culture Norwegians, like many Europeans, don’t exhibit social niceties the way Americans do.  They don’t smile at strangers on the street, hell, they often won’t even look at strangers on the street.  Forget small talk as you know it.  Norwegians are direct and they talk about the same subjects casually that Americans go out of their way to avoid. Sex, politics, religion?  Ya, you betcha.  Totally acceptable conversation topics.  They do not spare you difficult questions just because they barely know you.  It’s just not their thing.

Boobs, beavers, and wangs are on the front page of newspapers.  Sex is a favorite topic in the news.  Norwegians love tawdry subjects.  They don’t shy away from nudity.  Mind you, I am no prude, but I am just not prepared to see those sorts of things in the newspaper.

Norwegians, like Americans, are obsessed with reality tv.  I hate reality tv.  I am a little curious about the slow-tv movement Norway is cultivating. Cruising the coastline, watching logs split and burned, knitting, etc.  I kind of want to see what that’s all about.

Norway has royalty and a completely different political system than the US.  They have many political parties that don’t even remotely resemble Democrats or Republicans.  I know next to nothing about Norwegian politics and that is pretty intimidating to me, as well.  I am overjoyed, however, to be moving to a socialist country.

What this all adds up to is that my life is about to radically change.  I am following my happiness and that is the most important thing to me.  I am excited to start this new chapter and to live somewhere so different than what I have always know.  But I am also scared shitless about it. I am leaving behind my family, my friends, my homeland to be be with the one I love.  To put a stop to the endless waiting and pining and the sad goodbyes and to start a life beside the man I love so much. To say goodbye to this American life and say hello to this Norwegian life.

[harrison-abbott]

Uncle Paul Short Story

UNCLE PAUL

 I

 I’m packing the boxes away in my new flat. We’ve just moved in. My flatmate isn’t here yet, so it’s me alone trying to build a new place to stay. It’s good to change, and I’m looking forward to the new semester. My phone then rings in my pocket – it’s an unrecognised number.

    “Hello?” I answer.

    “Hello, there, I’m not sure if I’ve got the right number … Is this Polly?”

    “It is, yes.”

    “Hi Polly, it’s your Aunt Dell calling. I have some things to ask you … If that’s okay?”

    I don’t recognise the woman’s voice; I know that I’ve met my ‘Aunt’ Dell maybe twice in my life. By her staggering, nervous tone I anticipate that what she’s going to ask me won’t be fruitful.

    “Do you know that your Uncle Paul died?” She says.

    “Uncle Paul? … He died? How?”

    “He had a heart attack, last night.”

    “I’m so sorry … for your loss …” and I wonder if this sounds callous, because it seems like I care less about my own Uncle than a woman who has been his wife for barely three years – and it’s more callous because that’s exactly how it is. But Dell sounds broken, and I’m ready to listen.

    “I’m so sorry for calling you,” she says, “but I know that you study in the same city as John worked. And I just didn’t have any one else to ask of a favour …”

    “That’s okay, just ask away?”

    “I feel stupid for asking you – because I know that your Mother and your Uncle didn’t get on … But would you be able to come and help me move some things out of his flat? Just moving a few things of his into the car. It will only take a little while, and I’ll give you some money; I know what it’s like to be a poor student – haha!”

    “Eh, yes, sure I can do that … When can I come help?”

    “This evening? Around 6?”

    I look at the time: it’s 15:50.

    “Do you remember where he lives?” Dell says. I say no, I never visited him at his house. She gives me the address and I write it down on my hand. I’m about to ask if I’ll just give her a call if I get lost, but she hurriedly bids farewell and hangs up. Remaining standing in the flat, I marvel at how lives can change so instantly.

   II

      As I’m sitting in the tram on the way to Uncle Paul’s house, I think about him, and the family. Wow, I never would’ve thought Paul would die; he seemed too huge and rollicking for death. Everybody always seemed scared of him, but I wasn’t – at least not in my student years. They were scared because he was loud, clever, and used his acerbic tongue to hurt a lot of people. As he did with my Mother – and Dell was right – my Mother and Paul had some underlying feud not many people could understand. They’d barely spoken to each other for about a decade; my memories of Paul were fragmentary, from childhood Christmases, where something dramatic always seemed to happen. After a time, the infamous John disappeared.

   So when I moved to this city here to study, I was aware that Paul worked here as well. I knew that he lived alone; he’d had to move here to find work, thus had left Dell living elsewhere, but they were still together. He lectured at the other University – not my one. I never expected to see him; I just figured he wouldn’t want to see the daughter of his sister, who he seemed to hate. Until one random afternoon he called me up. Don’t even know how he got my number. Suddenly here was this man, who’d always been mythical in my mind, outpouring all these words. A real powerful talker; the phone-call lasted 25 minutes and I enjoyed it. He invited me out to dinner, and I accepted.

    We sat down to order in the restaurant and the first thing he did was mock me because I’m a vegetarian. Then when I asked for just water as a drink, he laughed out loud – not even because he was amused, he was just being mean. I was mildly offended, but not really. As soon as I started talking about books and music with him, he warmed to me. We knew all the same material; he respected my taste. Now and then he’d say something inflammatory about my mother or my brother, and I’d just ignore it because I didn’t have a response. I could see how intelligent he was, and also how rude he could be: those were the two main sides with Paul.

    He gave me a lift home afterwards. Soon as we got in the car he put on a CD of the blues-rock band Little Feat. He blasted the volume up and we zoomed down the main street with this music blaring. I would remember the song from then on, and it sounded terrific. I remembered his chain-cigarette-smoking, too, and his bizarre road-rage. I mean, the streets that week-day evening were silent, yet he’d get angry at the slightest thing. I was trying to direct him to where I lived and he’d be shaky, crazy over nothing. I finally said, “Okay just pull over here,” and he violently veered the car to the roadside. With a gruff handshake, we said bye. And I haven’t seen him since then: three years ago. And now he’s dead.

III

      I get off the tram and set toward Paul’s neighbourhood. It’s a fair hazy evening. I find the house easily – it’s modest and motionless; I wonder what Dell’s doing inside, or if she’s even there. As I say, I barely know her, and don’t know how she’ll react when I see her …

    Ringing the doorbell, she appears a second later (she’s obviously been waiting), and when I see her face there’s a controlled pain in her face. She tries to smile and she hugs me with a certain warmth. Once again I give my condolences. She’s small and thanks me but I can tell nothing’s going to comfort her for a long time.

    Inside the house, she makes me a cup of tea, and stands, watching me drink it, making conversation. I can tell she wants me to drink it fast so we can get to work with the packing, so I do, and ask her what the job is.

    “Oh, right, yeah. So we have to move a few boxes from his study … Because I knew they were important to him. Some of his writings. That okay?”

    “Yes let’s do it.”

    Paul’s office is a half of what you’d expect for a university lecturer. A litany of books hang by handsome shelves; stacks of papers ram a desk with shiny wood. The other half is almost childish, or forgotten, somehow; two defunct PCs sit in the corner; cigarette ends are stuffed myriad into ashtrays; unwashed glasses of wine, mugs of coffee linger wherever. He also has a great collection of music with hundreds of CDs.

    “I know he would have wanted the things from his desk … All of these papers,” Dell says, “So can you help me with these? And there are his journals on the shelves up there; I’m so small I can’t reach them – haha.”

    “No problem, let’s go.”

    I take my shoes off and use a chair to stand up and get the shelf journals. There are so many of them, and John has been an author within them so often; some from the 80s, 90s in faded yellow jackets. I put them in one of the cardboard boxes Dell has brought. They’re quite small – the boxes – and in fact there are only two. Dell fills the other one with the things from Paul’s desk. I begin to realise that Dell hasn’t needed any ‘manpower’ with asking me to come here and work boxes. It’s that her husband’s just died last night, and she needs somebody to be here with her. I’m guessing that they called her from the hospital and she came last night, and stayed over here in the house. Then the house must’ve been unbearable without Paul’s presence. She was close enough to him to know he would’ve wanted his journals and papers preserved. But not strong enough, after his departure, to move them away by herself.

    “Wow,” I say to her from the chair-top, “I didn’t know Paul published all this material.”

    “Yes, he was a very clever man …”

    I’d meant it as a compliment, but obviously it didn’t work. Dell hangs her head, with that same wince in her brows. I wonder what she’s thinking; about her own life? Or what she’s going to do next? She’s old herself, in her 60s – if indeed that’s old. Doesn’t have kids herself, I don’t even know if she has other family. Paul was married twice before Dell, and those women, alongside the children he bore with them, didn’t speak to him after separation. Maybe Dell’s just sad, and I shouldn’t judge. But I can’t think of anything else to say, and we pack the things up in silence.

    After I’ve finished moving the journals, I offer to help Dell at the desk, but she waves me away. I’m then left hovering in the room, so I wander towards the music collection, for something to occupy me. Looking over all Paul’s music, I witness the same joy and intrigue over each album I know: that wealth of art. There are collections here I’ve always wanted to own, and with horror I find myself thinking well if Paul’s dead now I can surely take them for me? but the thought vanishes with shame.

    The CDs are lined alphabetically, and I come to the letter L; tracing my finger through the spines I find an album called ‘Sailin’ Shoes’ by Little Feat. It’s the same album Paul put on when I was riding home with him years earlier. I stand looking at the spine, and I want to pull it out and just hold it, but I don’t.

    Dell proclaims that she’s finished packing. I elect to take the boxes down stairs: “No, no, Dell! Let me lift the boxes – I’m strong.” She smiles and accepts; the boxes are of course massively heavy but I pretend they aren’t. Dell leads me outside and opens the boot of her car, thanking me all the time.

    We stand awkwardly after I’ve put the second box in, with she fidgeting, holding her car-keys.

    “Thanks for your help, really – did you leave anything inside the house?”

    She’s wanting to head off, I catch on, so I say I have my coat inside; she waits by the front door and when I return, locks it. What will become of the rest of the house, who will come for the rest of the stuff? I’m unsure. Dell opens her car door and says she has to shoot. There is a brisk hug and cold kiss on the cheek. I tell her “see you soon” but I know that’s as likely as I’ll see Paul again soon. Dell whips into her car, then drives off. I wave foolishly on the pavement. I wonder whether she could’ve offered me a lift, but then, what exactly would I say to her during the car-ride …

    I make my way back to the main street to get the tram.

 IV

      It’s early evening as I ride back home. I text my flatmate with the day’s story; I want to talk to somebody about it, but she’s not answering. I don’t text my mother about it for obvious reasons; there’s a shame there in knowing that her brother has died before she knows.

     The soothing metallic sound of the tram is all there is, and I think about Paul. About his life. Why was he so mean, when he could be so intelligent?

    His father – my grandfather – used to beat him when he was a boy. Him and my grandmother, and my mother, too, but not so much my mother. He beat up Paul almost every day, I’m told. It usually happened in the mornings, for some reason, or at the dinner table: grandpa would just thrash him for the slightest thing. Mother would talk about it sometimes, very rarely. I asked her what she would do when the beatings took place, and she said she would go outside the house and scream. A little girl and she had that much moxie, or rather only terror and indignance. Then when the beatings kept going she went down to the local church finally and told the Minister about it. This was the 1950s wherein the dark secrets of urban households were overlooked or merely acknowledged. The Minister came to the house and spoke to grandfather about it. But I’m told it didn’t stop – the violence – until one day when Paul was 15 he fought back against his father. He was big by then, and I didn’t see the fight but apparently grandfather didn’t go near Paul again, at least not in that way.

    Then Paul became this renowned academic man. But lots of people wondered why he could be so unpleasant, many were afflicted by his meanness.

 V

      The flat is even more silent when I enter it. I put the radio on because it’s eerie and my mind needs company. Should probably unpack the rest of the boxes away before my flatmate gets back tomorrow. I enjoy the energy of unloading the stuff, putting it away: gives me something to focus on. But I find I’m getting angrier as I’m doing it, flustered: I keep dropping things. Then when I’m moving the plates into the kitchen cupboard, I drop one of them and it smashes on the floor.

    It’s time to do something else. I go into my room and open the window and look out across the city; the flat’s quite high up and it’s a glorious view. At my desk I stick some music on the laptop, but it’s not loud enough: I unpacked my speakers earlier. I find them and set them up. Then with the new volume, I think which song I’m going to play … And there it is: Little Feat of course! ‘Sailin’ Shoes’ – I press play and I jump up, whilst the theatre of noise relays.

    I watch out the window at the sky and how the sun’s ending light works against the dreary high-rise flats. This song is so good: Paul will never hear this song again. There’s a sound frankness of that. There is no ‘but’, or, ‘oh but he was a great man’: Paul’s gone and that’s it. He died in this ugly city, wherein the sky and things like music have only temporal distractions. That’s what Paul sought for his whole life, and what he never found

[my-dear-anonym]

Basking in Firelight-Jamilton Sequel-Part Forty Six

Masterpost

Part Forty-Six: Just Getting Started

Warnings below

----

Funny thing about being elected as the first presidents of a Nation that had presidents previously is the white house was already built. There wasn't a bunch of moving around as the capital was decided. There was no watching it get built. Hamilton thought it was great they didn't have to worry about moving. Jefferson found it slightly sad. He loved watching things become something great. But he could also see all the history just under the fresh coat of paint and that history is what made it so beautiful.

Of course, that's what they thought. When someone told Jefferson that the white house would undergo renovation to accommodate the massive increase in personnel, Jefferson wouldn't allow it. All that history, gone, just to make room for eight or so more people and their cabinets? Not gonna happen. Hamilton didn't see what was so wrong with it. Out with the old, in with the new. But if someone didn't think about making sure what was happening today could be remembered tomorrow, then how much history would be lost? How much history was already lost just because people thought that no one would ever forget? Far too much. Jefferson was bent on keeping that from happening. That's why in his past life he always made copies of every single one of his letters, it's why there's so much history surrounding the birth of The United States of America, it's because it got written down.

So Jefferson insisted that the White House be preserved and instead used his own money to construct a presidential manor. A new house for a new nation, right? The best part, he got to design it himself. As much as he wanted to avoid the look and build of a mansion, there was no helping it. His first idea had been to build little cabin type designs for each member and a central building for meeting with ambassadors or cabinets, to keep it humble and simple. But Jefferson realized how inconvenient that would be. Imagine all the running around. No, everything had to be centralized which meant that Jefferson would be stuck with a mansion design after all.

He could still do a lot with that.

In the meantime, they made the White House work. There were plenty of guest rooms. Jefferson didn't fully understand why the White wouldn't be suitable even without the renovations, but Hamilton insisted that it be either renovated or they moved. So Jefferson chose they move.

Hamilton was surprised by how easy being president was. There was nothing to do. Literally. He spent his time wandering the rooms. Jefferson had been saying there'd be so much stress, yet here they were, bored out of their minds. Where was Jefferson anyway? After a ten minute hunt, Hamilton found him sitting in the oval office, looking over paperwork. "Is that something we need to take care of?" Hamilton asked, excited that there was work for him to do.

"No, not for you anyway. These are the floor plans for the Presidential Manor."

"Oh, I forgot you were designing that yourself. Are you going to put in gardens?"

"Who in their right mind wouldn't?"

"Just asking, jeez." Hamilton looked around the office. "So, I thought you said this would be stressful and time-consuming."

Jefferson looked up at him.  "Hamilton, the government just started up. You have to give it a few days. Last time was hectic because of all the issues that were glaringly obvious. In a couple days, Congress will put forward plans for commerce and laws that become evident as time passes. This time around there's no constant debate about slavery, thank God, and you and I don't have to fight over financial systems. That's not even your job anymore. I'm sure by the end of the week we'll be so swamped with paperwork that we won't be able to see the door. Besides, we can't get started until the rest of the elections are over. We still have to wait for our vice presidents."

"I bet the financial plan need reviewing. I should look it over."

"That's your treasurer's job, Hamilton. Now can you leave me alone so I can work on this, I'd like to have the plans finished before the flood of paper so we can actually get started on the Manor."

"I need something to do, I can't just sit around and twiddle my thumbs," Hamilton protested. "Who do you think is going to be vice?"

"Well, Washington retired and went home. I'll bet Madison Burr will be two of them."

"Yeah? What about the other two? I bet Lafayette could get a position."

"Can you imagine if Adams ended up being your vice?" Jefferson laughed.

"No-" Hamilton's eyes went wide. Jefferson was full on cackling. "Not going to happen. Nope. Nope."

"It's fully within the realm of possibility. You're in the same party, yeah? Very likely. At this point, I'd be surprised if it didn't."

"Yeah, well, you'll have to deal with fucking Burr. Remember how well that went the first time?"

"Shit."

"Yeah. So fuck off."

***

Ends up, they were pretty spot on for elections. Madison and Burr were Jefferson's vice presidents, Hamilton's was Adams, and to both Jefferson's and Hamilton's surprise and pleasure, Angelica was Hamilton's other vice.

Jefferson was right. Hamilton was swamped with work. Jefferson and Hamilton were running back and forth to each other's office every five seconds to get a signature or steal some important document or discuss something. Right now, they were dealing with the aftermath of the war. The nation was bankrupt thanks to the oligarchy and King George's taste for extravagance. There were small uprisings of Govey loyalists to deal with. King George disappeared and went into hiding as soon as the word spread if the Rebel victory. He still had to be found. Commerce had to be renegotiated and reestablished with other nations since the Eastern States was technically a new nation now, so all old treaties and agreements were void. That meant ambassadors had to be nominated and approved and then funded to be sent overseas. The infrastructure of the government had to be completely rebuilt from the ground up. That was the part of the government that dealt with building roads and cities and buildings. Keeping everything up and running. Electricity, power, gas, water, tram systems, licenses, everything. It all collapsed in the war and is nearly impossible to rebuild.

Unless you've got deep pockets. Deep deep pockets. Something the government didn't have.

It didn't help that Jefferson and Hamilton argued over everything. Jefferson was constantly worried about Hamilton proposing another financial plan like the one before. Jefferson fought against it the first time because he predicted that from it would spring corporations that would grow powerful enough to slowly turn the Republican form of government into an aristocracy or monarchy. And was mostly right. Look around at the world around you. Corporations control everything. Jefferson bitterly regretted the day he and Madison traded it for the capital.  But they would need a system for raising money and fast. If they didn't come up with anything soon, the nation could fall apart as it spiraled into depression.

Hamilton also wanted to use the military to squash the Govey resistance. Jefferson had to remind him daily that they were citizens and had every right to protest the government as long as they didn't endanger the nation and her people. Hamilton wasn't happy. He didn't like being slandered by the press. Every time something was published about him and his past affairs or supposed new ones or any awful slander people could come up with to rake his name through the mud, Hamilton was always right there with a sharp and barbed response, defending his honor. That's always been his weakness. The ones put against Jefferson went ignored. The people could say whatever they wanted, he wasn't going to dignify schoolyard taunts with a response.

"We should think of a flag redesign," Hamilton said one day, walking into Jefferson's office, plopping into a chair and kicking his feet onto the desk.

Jefferson eyed Hamilton's feet, debating whether or not to push them off and risk scattering his papers everywhere or leave them be. He really didn't feel like having re-sort his papers again, so he let them be. "A new flag?"

"Yeah. We're getting a new Manor, new government, new treaties, probably a new name when someone thinks of one. Why not a flag?"

"I suppose, but we already have so much to do," Jefferson sighed, looking at his desk and the tall stacks of files.

"So, we do what the old government did before the oligarchy was formed all those decades ago. Make it a contest. Anyone can participate. All the designs are sent in and we can decide from there."

"That's still a lot of work, Hamilton. Work we don't have time for."

"Nonsense. Pull a couple all nighters and we'll be good. Just drink some coffee."

"Hamilton," Jefferson rubbed his face tiredly, "we've both already been up for three days straight. We literally walk into each other in the hallway and stand there confused about it for a minute until we realize we were heading to the other's office. I don't think our bodies can take much more sleepless nights."

"More coffee."

Jefferson hit his head against the desk. "Fine. Let's run it by Congress."

"Great!" Hamilton jumped to his feet, "I'll do that right away" he dashed out of the office, nearly running into the door on his way out.

Dear God, that man was going to be the death of Jefferson

----

Warnings: None?